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whorekneecentral · 5 months

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Winter Wonderland

Toto Wolff x Fem!Reader

Warnings: toto would do anything for reader, some friendly teasing, alcohol and the consumption of, a bit of an age gap (reader's late 20s/early 30s), handsy toto, the two of you are kinda drunk, daddy kink, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slight edging, penetrative sex (p in v), creampie.

Word Count: 1,772

Author's Note: this one goes out to all the dilf lovers.

merry smutmas series

Your husband skips out on Christmas every year due to work but this year, he ends up in London. You make it your mission to introduce him to some holiday fun.

Toto had one last work engagement to do this week before he's officially off for the holidays and it took him to London. So by extension, you made it to London as well.

Your husband had left you in the hotel, promising you that he'll be back in a few hours after doing his final work meeting before he was on holiday break.

When he returns, he finds you in the same spot he left you, on the couch. "Babe, have you not gotten up all day?"He asks, shrugging his coat off.

"I did, I ordered room service so I had to get it from the door," you tell him, eyes glued to the TV.

Toto laughs, making his way over to sit next to you. You lean into the man, his arms wrapped around you and you can still feel the chill on his skin despite him wearing a coat when he was outside. It takes him a second to realize that you weren't in your pyjamas, but you were dressed as if you were going out.

The man looks at you with raised eyebrows, there's a hint of a smile on your face. "I know that look, what are you up to?" He asked.

"Okay I know you're probably tired but we leave for home tomorrow and I really wanna go!"

"Go where?"

"Hyde park," you tell him, showing him the pictures of their winter wonderland on your phone. "I saw the ad already for their winter wonderland today and then I looked it up and I fell into a loophole, so now we have tickets." You smiled sweetly at him - if there was one thing more important to Toto than work, it was you and your happiness.

"Are you serious, y/n?"

"Yes, now come on," you get up, trying to pull him up. Toto huffs, "I have emails to answer." He reluctantly follows you to the door.

"The emails will still be here when you get back," you handed him his coat before putting your own on. "Let's go."

Toto drives, of course - not like he ever lets you drive anyways. The first half hour was just the two of you trying to find your way around, it was a lot more packed than you were expecting but to be fair it was a week until Christmas, so it was to be expected you suppose.

You grab his hand and pull him towards what seems to be a circus tent. Toto looks at you a bit unsure for a moment, "is this.. an actual circus?" He followed you in and his question was answered; it was.

He sits next to you in the back row, the two of you waiting for the show to start. "Are you 5? Why are we at the circus ?"

"I mean, in comparison to you, I basically am." You smiled and he chuckled, his hand in yours as you two watched the show.

He would never admit it to you but he enjoyed doing things like this with you, it was nice to see that you kept a bit of your childishness alive.

After the circus, you made your way around the park once more, taking a million photos and trying out all the games until Toto was lugging around a big bag with stuffed animals.

"Do you think that's enough?" He asks, walking towards the car. You shrugged, "I guess but I'm hungry now."

"Dinner then?" He suggests, nodding to the busy street. You're not, fingers interlocking with your husband as you walk down the street towards no actual destination in mind. You were just hoping to stumble upon a place that wasn't too busy.

And eventually you did, a little restaurant tucked away between all the madness. You and Toto sat at a table by the window, the table covered in junk food and a bottle of cheap wine.

"Did you have fun tonight ?" You asked your husband, popping a fry into your mouth. He shrugs, taking a sip of wine. You can't help but roll your eyes, "you totally did! Don't lie."

Toto laughs, a grin on his face. "Yeah, okay. I did have a little fun, but maybe next time find an indoor activity?"

"Nope," you popped the P, "as your wife, it's my job to make your life unnecessarily complicated, just for fun."

He rolls his eyes, taking some fries off your plate. "You'll be the death of me."

You two ended up topping off the bottle of wine, Toto pays the bill and his fingers interlock with yours as you walk back to the car. The streets have calmed by now, but there's a few people walking around on their way to wherever.

Your husband pulls you into his side, your arm wrapped around his torso as you make it back to the car. The man has you leaning on the hood, his cold hands cupping your cheeks before he kisses you. His hands wander and you blush, stopping him.

"Not here."

"Don't tell me you're getting shy on me." He kisses along your cheek, the tip of his nose cold as it rubs against your skin.

You giggled, giving him a slight shove off of you. "We're in the middle of the street, it's more like stopping you from getting arrested for public indecency."

He laughs, opening the car door for you and letting you get in. Toto's hand rests on your thigh the entire drive back to the hotel and he can barely keep his hands off of you to make it up to the room.

His lips on your neck, arms wrapped around you from behind, the two of you giggling as you attempt to open the door.

"It's not opening," you grumbled, trying to unlock the door.

Toto pulls on the handle a bit, pressing the key to it. "Finally," he says when the lock clicks, "let me unwrap my gift."

You giggled, rolling your eyes at your husband's cheesy use of the words, but you let him drag you into the room and drop you on the bed.

He's careful, even though he's drunk - his movements are exact as he undoes the buttons on your shirt, tossing it into the pile of clothes that's developing on the floor.

"Move your legs, baby." He whispers, moving them up to rest on the edge of the bed as he drops himself down onto his knees. You’ve propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him and Toto drags his fingers up your thigh, moving to your clothed pussy.

“I like this,” he tells you, fingers rubbing over the red lace that covered your cunt.

You smile, “I know. Wore it just for you, daddy." The name makes the man smile.

Toto can feel your eyes on him, he reaches for the red lace you’re wrapped up in and tugs it down your legs, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of your clothes. He shifts to lay on his stomach between your legs, leaving a trail of kisses as he works his way up to your cunt.

Your eyes meet his, he knows you’re looking. He wants you to look at him.

Your hips buck when you feel his tongue against your clit, your hand gripping on his hair. He knew you like the back of his hand, gripping your thighs to keep them in place as his tongue lapped your clit. Your hips buck, your way of saying you want more.

Two fingers pushing into you, he glances up to see your head tossed back onto the pillows, eyes fluttering shut and your free hand groping your tit.

Between his fingers and his tongue, your orgasm was teetering on the edge; he knew that much.

He's sick and twisted and pulls his hands away, the sticky fingers wiped on your inner thighs. A whimper leaves your lips at the loss of fullness.

"I hate you," you grumbled, your husband smiles as he kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. "You love me."

"Sometimes."

He smiles, standing up to undo his pants. Toto pulls you back to the edge of the bed, one of your legs hitch on his hip as his hand wanders.

Your eyes fixed on his hand that was moving down your chest at the moment. Toto's lips follow his fingers, kissing and leaving little marks as he goes along his way. His tongue brushes over your nipple, your back arches involuntarily; your body betrays you.

Your eyes find his and his hand rubbing along your thigh before pulling you toward the edge of the bed a little more before he pushes into you. The other ankle is over his shoulder now.

He fucks you the way he knows you like it; rough.

You were a sight to see; back arched off the bed, hair sprawled out in perfect curls, eyes closed and your head tilted back, his name tumbling from your lips for what felt like the millionth time.

He’s never seen a prettiest sight.

He feels you clench around him, the hand on his shoulder digs in, your nails leaving behind their own set of marks. His hand reaches between the two of you, his fingers finding your clit once again.

“Oh my god,” your hips bucked, his fingers matching the pace of his hips, your body rocking back and forth to get the most out of him.

“C’mon pretty girl, want you to cum for me.” he says, knowing it won't be long more, especially not after him leaving you on the edge earlier.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut and he reaches you with his other hand, holding your jaw and pulling you up a little, your elbows holding up the weight of your body.

"Open your eyes, baby, look at me." He whispers, kissing you softly.

A few more sloppy thrusts and between that and his fingers, you’re over the edge. He kisses you, muffling the noise you were making. The wetness wrapping around his cock, and with a few sloppy thrusts, he follows behind you.

It takes you a second to gather yourself and register that your husband has collapsed on top of you. Your hands rubbing over his back.

"You okay?" you asked him quietly and the man nodded, moving so you two could lay comfortably.

Your leg draped over his, his arm wrapped over your shoulder. You catch him staring at you and you smile, nodding. "What?"

"We should come to London every year."

"Yeah," you nod, resting your head on his chest. "I'd like that."

---

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#merry smutmas xoxo #toto wolff #toto wolff smut #toto wolff x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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copperbadge · 9 months

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One: When I was in grad school, @villainny introduced me to Suzy Eddie Izzard, and sent me a couple of her stand-up albums on cassette. I'm not gonna say they were the only thing that got me through grad school, but those four cassette tapes were certainly contributors to my survival. Tangential but important to know: in grad school, because I was living on my teaching stipend, my food budget was $20/week.

Two: I don't normally make new year's resolutions but at the end of 2019 I resolved to see more live theatre and shows, especially stand-up. (Man plans, G-d laughs.) Eventually I did get out to some stand-up shows; in the past two years I've seen Trevor Noah and Mike Birbiglia, I went to a reading by Patrick Hines, I saw a few live podcast shows. And I realized that I really didn't get much out of them if I wasn't near the front; in the cheap seats, I might as well have been watching a filmed special. But I'm fortunate in that I now earn a pretty good wage and have relatively few expenses, and can buy a good seat if I really want to see the performer. I see very few live shows these days but when I do I get a really good seat for someone I really want to see.

Three: Suzy Eddie Izzard is coming to Chicago in October for ONE NIGHT. And I thought, if I can get a ticket in the first ten rows or so...

So I'm not bragging per se, but I am proud of the fact that I could afford to drop four months' grad school food budget on a third-row ticket to see Suzy Izzard. Come on, 22-year-old-Sam! I'm taking you to a show, bud!

#suzy izzard #live performance #you've come a long way bb

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octuscle · 1 month

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Fun on the not so fair ground

Where Darren was, Darren wasn't there because he was particularly clever or hard-working or charming. No one knew exactly how Darren had made it to division manager. And how he had remained division manager despite dissatisfied colleagues and customers. No one liked the arrogant, smug asshole. He was moody, incompetent… But he was divisional manager and because of some skeleton he had in the closet with some board member, he remained divisional manager.

One of Darren's most striking characteristics was his stinginess. And his resentment. He was annoyed that he hadn't won any tickets for the rollercoaster or the Ferris wheel in the lottery organized by the HR department for the company outing to the fair. But he was all the more delighted to win a ticket for the ghost train. Everyone else had always won two tickets. He suspected that the ghost train was so expensive that there was only one ticket for it. And he had it.

For Darren, going to the fair was more of a chore. Having to deal with his colleagues in the evening was an imposition. But since he had won the ticket, he had to go. And he especially had to go on the ghost train. His colleagues wished him a lot of fun, the meeting was in a beer tent in half an hour. Darren joined the short queue. The ticket taker looked at his ticket. "Oh, the special tour!" he said with a grin. His eyes just lit up red for a moment. Must be some kind of special effect, Darren thought to himself. The bar on his gondola closed. The ride started.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be frightened on something like this. Darren was happy when the ride was over and the bar opened again. He walked towards the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of him. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Lame, boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Darren stood in front of a picture with the caption "Your greatest horror". Well. Biggest horror. It showed a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Darren wasn't afraid of people like that. He ignored people like that. There was a mirror next to the picture. It was captioned 'Your future'. Darren saw a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and clearly no future. Fuck! He grabbed his face and the reflection did the same. His skin, which had just been flawless for a man in his late 30s, was blemished. As if from too much alcohol and nicotine. And too little care. Maybe it was the remnants of acne, because the man in the mirror was younger than Darren. Maybe in his early 20s. Badly shaved. His hair styled in a preppy undercut. And he stank. That couldn't have come from his reflection. The jacket was made of cheap, badly tanned leather. Sweat. Cheap deodorant. Nicotine. His fingers smelled like those of a chain smoker. And his teeth were yellow like a chain smoker's. In a panic, Darren looked for the exit. He found himself behind the ghost train. There was a "Staff only" sign above the exit. Darren tried to open the door. He rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff room. The man asked if he wanted to apply for the position of young man to travel with the fair. Darren ran away in a panic.

Where to now? To the beer tent? What would his colleagues say? They wouldn't recognize him. He tried anyway. The bouncer turned him away. For invited guests only. Darren had an invitation. He used to have an invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Now he had an almost empty pack of filterless cigarettes and a battered Zippo. His wallet hung on a chain from his torn jeans. With a bit of cash. A ten-ride bus pass that was almost used up. And a driver's license. For big trucks and tractor-trailers. Bloody hell! He still had to be on this ghost train. It was better than he thought. But he didn't feel like it anymore. He wanted a shower and then to get into his silk pyjamas. But his car key was gone. And where his car had been, there was now a completely different one. He had to walk, Darren had no idea how he was going to get home on the bus and he didn't have the money for a cab.

He had been walking for almost half an hour when he finally got home. In the dark windows of his elegant old apartment on the mezzanine floor, the "For Sale" signs were covered with "Sold". The. Is. A. Cursed. Nightmare! Darren no longer had a key for anything. Not for this apartment that used to be his, not for a missing car, not for his office. He had no cell phone, he had the few things he had on his person. A nightmare! His worst nightmare! His biggest horror! Darren climbed over the fence. It was surprisingly easy. His new body was athletic. He had already noticed that on the way here. There was a Victorian summer house at the back of the garden that belonged to his apartment. And he always hid a key there. Under a flower pot. A flowerpot that no longer existed. Everything on the porch of the garden shed was an army duffel bag. With a rucksack in it, a tracksuit, underwear. Everything wasn't quite clean anymore. But it was obviously his. Darren picked up the duffel bag, walked over to the fence, threw the duffel bag over and climbed in after it. A policeman shouted "Freeze!" And Darren ran for his life.

It had taken him three quarters of an hour to get back to the fair with his duffel bag. No idea why he had come back here. A few drunks staggered out of the beer tents. Darren didn't recognize any of them as colleagues. Most of the rides were just closing. "Son, can you give me a hand?" Shouted an older gentleman struggling on the bumper cars. "A few dollars, a bowl of soup, and by the look of you, you could use a place to sleep." Darren took a deep breath, grabbed his duffel bag and helped the man push the bumper cars together and lock them up.

The first few days were hell. Darren wasn't used to physical labor, even though his body was. The little money he earned was enough for cigarettes and pre-paid cards for a cell phone. And the guys he had to share the trailer with snarled and stank. But Darren probably snarled too. And he certainly did stink. The only thing he enjoyed was sex. Plenty of sex. Apparently there were lots of girls and boys, young and old, who liked the fairground rebel type. Darren had stopped counting how many cocks he had sucked between the frames of the rollercoaster, how many asses and pussies he had fucked. Sometimes for free. Sometimes for a handful of dollars. He could put that money to good use. A buddy had a booth at the fair where he did tattoos. Real works of art. Of course Darren got a special price. But even among the bros here at the fair, nothing was for free. The first few days went by. The first weeks went by. Darren, who everyone had long since just called Daz, had gained routine in building and dismantling "his" rollercoaster. The other guys who helped out here were runaways, vagrants… They were usually gone again after a few days. Not Daz. This was his home. This was his family. He loved his job. And he was damn good at it.

When Daz took over the management of the small fairground company with a rollercoaster, a bumper car and a lottery booth a few years later, nobody was surprised. Daz belonged here. Always in a good mood, always ready to help. And always horny!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #tank top #age reduction #leather tf #white to blue collar tf #ai image

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autisticlancemcclain · 4 months

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Keith presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and exhales deeply. He lets all the air trickle out of his lungs until his chest feels concave, until spots dance behind his closed eyelids, until his lips start to go numb. Then he lets go and lets the air get sucked back into him like a vacuum.

“One more try,” he whispers to himself, conscious of Lance sleeping — finally — beside him. “One, and then we move on.”

He swipes the touchpad on his computer to wake it back up, dragging the blinking curser over the rarely-used blue ‘10’ under the Google logo. The page loads, and loads, and loads, and finally spits out the next few results.

Most of them he’s already seen before. Dozens of times. BARGAIN BALLET TICKET SUBSCRIPTION, reads one link, CLICK HERE FOR 20% OFF YOUR FIRST MONTH. Another reads, Rush Ticket Prices — Buy Now!

He’s been there. Clicked that. Priced it out. Looked at the worst possible, next-to-the-washrooms, garbage seats. Nothing. Not a single ticket within their limited budget — or even close to it.

Completely out of the realm of possibility even if they hadn’t agreed on a price limit for their Christmas gifts.

He keeps scrolling down a few pages that all advertise the same thing — a disgustingly costly subscription here, bargain-but-not-really tickets there, more scammy resell ads than one would believe possible. Even, notably, a still-active link from 1997 that Keith peruses for clicks and does not actually count towards his one-more-try limit. (It even tries to accept his Paypal, which is crazy and means that someone updated the site to accept modern payment for a show that is no longer running. Keith is so amused by the pure audacity that he has to fight the urge to buy one. Wild thing, ADHD.)

Just as he’s about to give up and buy his boyfriend yet another plant this year, a link catches his attention. It’s the very last result on page 13, with no description, no punctuation, hell, hardly even a sentence of text. Nutcracker ticket sales, it reads, for a website called ‘FeuillesBrillantAcademie.org’.

Keith shrugs. Might as well. Not like anything else has been promising.

He clicks the link and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The ugliest website he’s ever seen literally assaults his eyes — a bright blue and a neon purple, clashing in the worst possible way. It takes at least four solid seconds for his eyes to unblur enough to recognise the screen in front of him as having words rather than a solid wall of Bright And Bad. Even then, he has to squint, glasses practically touching his eyeballs.

Feuilles Brillant Academy is pleased to present the final performance of the hard-working dancers this season, is what he can finally make out. The show begins at 7 p.m. on December 23rd, tickets for $20 per person. In-person payment not accepted. Please pay via e-transfer using the link below. Call out administrative office if there are any difficulties.

Keith stares at the page for as long as his eyes can handle, then he looks up at the ceiling. (Where, he may add, he can still see the screen perfectly, because the damn thing has been burnt onto his retinae. He will never mock Matt for his web design degree again. Well, probably.)

This seems…too good to be true.

It’s outrageously cheap, for one. Keith has been looking for literal days and the cheapest he’s managed to find is $50 per person, for bad rush tickets. $20 is bonkers. For two, this is a perfect time, and nearby, as well. And there are still tickets left. Somehow.

Something is amiss.

Keith’s first thought is that it’s a prank page. But the page is buried so deeply — page thirteen of Google. The hidden archives, basically. If this is someone’s prank, it’s garbage. His second thought is that the link is a virus, which, while possible, is still kind of unlikely for the same reasons. Why on Earth would someone post something nefarious so obscurely? It doesn’t make sense. This might be one of those rare times when something isn’t too good to be true, it’s just good.

Then again. Keith just got his laptop back from the last time he fucked around and well and truly Found Out.

Time to get a second opinion.

Despite the disgustingly late hour, the phone picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, stinky,” says Pidge. Keith can hear the smile in her voice as clearly as the explosions and gunfire of Call of Duty in the background.

“Asshole.”

“Turd for brains.”

“Skidmark.”

“Rotting splatter of parking lot vomit at three in the afternoon in Arizona during high summer.”

“…Pidge, that’s disgusting.”

She snickers. “I win.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Keith freezes as Lance stirs next to him, curling his arm around Keith’s bent leg and muttering something in Spanish too fast for him to understand. Keith smiles, tucking a stray curl back under his fluffy frog-eye hairband, lingering over the scar on his temple from a skateboarding accident when they were fifteen. “I need your help.”

“Well, obviously. You’re calling me at three thirty four in the morning. Usually you’re in bed by nine because secretly you look up to Adam and emulate his habits.”

Keith flushes. “I don’t remember ordering a psych analysis, fucker.”

“Consider it a bonus! Tell Auntie Pidge about your troubles.” He can practically see the face she makes immediately after, and snorts. “Ignore that. My mouth is not attached to my brain. Carry on.”

“I need you to check out a link,” Keith says, choosing to be merciful. “It’s pretty buried and obscure, but honestly I think it’s fine —”

“Yeah, last time you thought a link was fine you fucked your shit up so bad I had to download another virus to cancel it out. I’ve never had to do that before. You fucked your laptop up so bad I’d actually never seen that kind of damage before, Kogane. And I do this for a living.”

Keith pouts. “No, you commit cyber crimes for a living.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m an angel and have never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. I am a law abiding citizen. Send over the link.”

Switching his phone to rest between his ear and shoulder, Keith does. “I need to know if the link does what it says it does.”

Pidge hums. He can hear the ding of her laptop as his e-mail goes through, and then the sounds of her clicking as she inspects the website, running it through her various programs that Keith cannot fathom for the life of him.

“What did you say you were looking for, again?”

Keith closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it thunk gently on the thin wall under the big window, in the corner of the apartment where they’ve shoved their bed. He lets his eyes go blurry, lets the stars they stuck on the ceiling before they did anything else turn into bright green dots. They’re real constellations. The two of them spent hours on them; Lance on Keith’s shoulders, tripping and shouting and laughing.

“I need tickets,” Keith says quietly. He turns his gaze slowly to Lance, who is sleeping soundly again, who has bags under his eyes, whose hands twitch every few seconds, who frowns deeply. “And we can’t — these are the only ones I could find. That I can even pretend to afford. I need it to be —” He swallows. “I need you to tell me they’re real.”

Pidge is quiet for a moment. The only sound is her breathing, her nail tapping slowly on the edge of her screen.

“The link is exactly what it says it is.”

Keith sits up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man.”

Keith bites back a cheer so he doesn’t wake Lance up. Hell yeah! This is perfect! Exactly what they needed! Just — a little bit of luck. A little bit.

“Thank you, Pidge,” he gushes, hurrying to punch in his information. “Seriously.”

Pidge huffs fondly. “Okay, dweebus. Gross. Go be all affectionate somewhere else.” She pauses. “Take a picture when you tell him.”

Keith smiles. “I will.”

———

It takes every inch of Keith’s willpower to keep his mouth shut for a whole three weeks.

“I Know you are hiding something, Kogane,” Lance says while walking home from classes, while curling up into him as they watch TV, while cooking, while showering. “I see it in your face.”

“It’s nearly Christmas, you dweebus,” Keith says every time, and every time he softens it with an exaggerated kiss to Lance’s cheek, one to make him laugh despite himself and shove Keith’s face away. “Of course I’m hiding something.”

But it’s eating at them both. Lance’s blatant curiously makes it that much harder for Keith to keep things hidden, to stash the tickets between the pages of his corniest romance novel that Lance won’t touch with a ten foot pole. To wait, and wait, and wait, as they set up the three-foot high discounted Christmas tree and Lance changes their sheets to the flannel ones his mother gave them.

But the days pass. Finals come and go and so does the time. And finally, finally, it comes time to crawl onto the creaky mattress, knees on either side of Lance, nose kisses down his neck, and murmur, “We’ve got plans today.”

Lance groans. “No we do not.”

Keith smiles widely. He knows Lance can feel it, because he scowls harder, trying to hide his own fondness even as he melts into Keith’s affections.

“Yes, we do. I know. I planned them.”

“Well, then, un-plan them,” Lance grouches. He turns over so he’s facing Keith, now, trying hard to glare up at him, but late afternoon sunlight bleeds into his dark brown eyes and makes them shine golden, and they are as warm and bright as the rest of him, and his hands slide up Keith’s chest, over his shoulders, brushing through his hair, to rest on his cheeks. “Come nap with me.”

Keith turns his head to press a kiss to Lance’s palm, keeping his mouth there. Lance rolls his eyes, and can no longer hide his smile. “Later. I made plans. Dress up, I’m gonna pick us up some food for the way. We’ll leave in forty minutes.”

“Ugh.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, baby. I can see you eyeing the closet.”

“Shut up and get me a burrito.” He soothes the bite of his words by pulling Keith’s face closer to his, pressing their lips together softly. “Please.”

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s whipped, and Lance knows it, because he grins, pleased, and pulls Keith even closer, kisses him stronger. It takes Keith a good five minutes to muster up the willpower to pull away, and Lance knows it, smirking.

He finally manages to yank himself away, stumbling backwards towards the kitchenette of their studio. Lance pouts at him.

“Menace,” Keith says sternly, deliberately turning away as he pulls on his boots and coat. He ignores his boyfriend’s grumbling and finally makes it out the door, hustling to their favourite bodega and hoping it isn’t too crowded.

Thirty-seven minutes later, burritos secured, Keith is shoving his frozen fingers around the door handle to jimmy it open. The bodega was indeed crowded and they are indeed late. The show starts in an hour. From what Keith remembers from Lance’s recitals — and he has been to many — people who are late are people who miss the show. The ballet does not fuck around with tardiness and disruptions; if you’re late, that’s tough shit for you. Plan better.

“You’re going to eat shit,” Lance says, amused, the fourth time Keith power walks right over black ice and nearly actually dies. “Slow down, babe.”

Keith does not.

“Can’t,” he huffs, keeping a half-eye on the pavement. A tourist walks into him, shoving him into Lance, who takes the opportunity to slide his hand into Keith’s back pocket and wink at him when his cheeks colour.

“Why can’t we slow down? Where are we going?”

“It’s like you don’t know what surprise means.”

“I do know. I also know that if I annoy anyone long enough they’ll snap so I’ll shut up.”

“Nah. I like it when you talk.”

He’d meant it as somewhat of a comeback, as a jab back to Lance’s teasing. But suddenly Lance stops, spine going rigid, something like shock flirting across his face for half a millisecond before he blinks it away and moves again. It happens so fast that Keith would almost be convinced he’d imagined it, except Lance’s cheeks are crimson.

Keith smiles. “Lance.”

“Shut up.”

“Babydoll.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m barely sayin’ anything, baby.”

“You are so fuckin — gay, you know that? God. Who fuckin — who says shit like that? Who on this Earth?”

Keith laughs, bending down to kiss right below Lance’s ear, to feel his flushed skin warm to frozen tip of his nose.

“You are so easily flattered.”

“Easily flatter this dick. How about that. Fuckin. Jerk.”

He lets Lance grouch at him, pleased and embarrassed about it, as he pulls them along the overcrowded streets. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes ‘til the show starts, thirteen minutes ‘til they get there. Hopefully.

“Are we almost there? It’s cold and these shoes are pinchy.”

“I told you to wear comfortable shoes!”

“You told me to dress up! I can do one of those things, Akira!”

At the seven minute mark Keith starts running. Lance, surprisingly, doesn’t complain — a grin pulls at his sharp features, actually, and he wraps their hands together and runs faster, despite not knowing where they’re going. Every time they bump into someone in a suit he laughs. He laughs harder when they curse at him. Keith has to fight to keep his head in the game, to keep running, to not stop where he’s standing and watch Lance laugh for hours and hours and hours. It’s been too long.

He nearly pulls Lance’s arm out of his socket when he stops then abruptly, shouting “Here! Here! We’re here!” and pulling him inside a well-kept brownstone.

“Where’s…here?” Lance wonders, taking in the well-salted walkway and pretty red-and-green decorations all over the aged brick.

Keith doesn’t answer. “Close your eyes.”

Lance narrows his eyes. Keith makes his expression as wide and pleading as possible, and in seconds Lance caves, much to Keith’s satisfaction.

“You’re a pain in my neck.”

Keith kisses him quickly and chastely. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let me walk into anything.”

Satisfied that Lance won’t peek, Keith shuffles them over to the box office, holding out their tickets. The stewardess smiles at him, scanning them, eyes twinkling at Keith wordless plea for her to keep the secret, and gestures towards a grand set of doors.

“Up the stairs, to your left, seat and row on your ticket,” she murmurs. “Enjoy the show.”

Keith nods his thanks and rushes them off.

“This sounds very fancy,” Lance observes as their shoes click on the — literally marble, how the hell were these tickets $20 — floors. “Dangerously so.”

Keith shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“…Not to be. A bummer. But please tell me you remembered our budget, Keith.”

“I did, Lance. I swear.”

Lance relaxes into him, and Keith realises for the first time how tense he was. He winces to himself. He probably could have made things a tad less stressful and still kept the surprise. He’ll remember that for next year.

“Okay, good. I trust you.”

They barely make it to their seats in time. Keith’s butt barely makes contact with the cushioned chair before the lights dim and the orchestra starts tuning, the rest of the audience lapsing into almost immediate silence.

Lance inhales sharply. “Keith…?”

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

Lance does, and they’re wide, and his mouth drops open, slightly, and for a moment he just stares, frozen, at the stage and the lights and the set, the familiar set, as the dim light casts shadows onto his face. The orchestra’s tuning note reaches its satisfying peak, harmonizing as one sound, and Keith’s full attention is on the lines of Lance’s face, the set of his jaw, the curves of his cheekbones.

“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly.

Before he can say anything else, before Lance can say anything else, the familiar sound of pointe shoes tapping delicately across the stage steals Keith’s attention. He turns his eyes to the stage, watching the dancers strut on the stage, and — stops.

He leans forward, squinting.

What?

Keith is…very familiar with the Nutcracker. He’s grown up alongside Lance’s family since he was eight years old. He’s been to more recitals than he can count. He’s been dragged to more performances than he can ever remember. Lance has lived and breathed and loved ballet his whole damn life, for the entire time Keith has known him, and that love bled well outside of the studio, has lasted even after he aged out of the program last year. Keith knows how the Nutcracker begins, and nothing about the program said this one was supposed to be any different.

Half of the dancers walking onstage are significantly shorter than they should be.

Now he knows damn well that there are kids in the Nutcracker. The main character is a kid. That’s the whole deal.

But there is not one adult on that stage right now. Hell, not even a teenager.

Keith looks down at the ticket — Feuilles Brillant Academy. He looks back at the stage. He looks at the other audience members — lots and lots of people with camcorders. And other small children.

Keith sinks into his chair, head in his hands.

His dumb ass bough a ticket to a children’s ballet recital.

Lord above.

“Lance, I am so sorry,” he whispers, “I was so caught up in the ticket being in budget I didn’t bother actually, like, looking deeper into things, this is totally — Lance?”

Keith leans forward in alarm, hands immediately falling on Lance’s knee, on his back. His shoulders shake and his hands are pressed to his eyes.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” Keith says desperately, embarrassment replaced with panic. Everything feels like it’s crashing down around him, as dramatic as that is. He’d been so excited for this. Now it’s a whole mess. “I didn’t mean to — fuck things up, shit, we can leave.”

Lance shakes his head. Blindly, he reaches over the grasps Keith’s hand, holding tightly. His own hand is damp from his tears.

“No, no, it’s — perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I —”

His chin trembles, and more tears spill over his cheeks. As the music swells along to the climax of the first dance, Lance lifts the armrest separating their seats, half crawling over Keith until his head is tucked in the crook of Keith’s neck, arms folded between their chests, hands clutching at the fabric of his sweater. His voice is wet with tears and soaked in an emotion Keith can’t quite name, an almost — relief.

“It’s been so long. I didn’t want to — I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this again. I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”

Keith lets a huge, relieved exhale, sagging forward. He wraps himself more comfortably around Lance’s frame, squeezing him back, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple.

Growing up has been…hard. For the both of them.

They’d been told by everyone who knew them that they were being stupid and reckless. Keith has been promised that they won’t last more than two years by almost every grownup he’s ever known. Even his own brother had sighed his trepidation when Keith told him, stubborn and bold-faced, that he was moving in with Lance, that they were going to start their lives together the second they pulled off their caps and gowns, that they were ready for the next step. That they were eighteen and ready to face the world.

“Sacrifices,” Shiro had warned, “are going to be half your life now. It’s not that I think you can’t, Keith. I just. There’s a reason people don’t move in with their highschool sweetheart they summer after they graduate. Katy Perry wrote a whole song about it. It’s a banger.”

Keith hates it when his brother is right, and this time he was right about so many things in consecutive order. Living on your own is hard. Learning to live with someone else is harder. Doing it in a city far away from home, while balancing school and work and rent and groceries, is the hardest.

“I miss dance,” Lance croaks, and Keith closes his eyes and breathes deeply and holds Lance tighter.

He knows Lance misses dance. He knows that he hasn’t so much as listened to a ballet since they moved to New York, unless it’s in the dead of night, and he thinks Keith is asleep, and he puts in his headphones and moves their furniture as silently as he can to the edges of their tiny ass studio apartment and laces up his falling-to-pieces pointe shoes and dances like the very act of it is tearing him apart, and cries the whole time. And then stashes his shoes in the bottom of his gym bag and crawls back into bed and pretends again in the morning that he left his pointes back in Arizona. And Keith looks away and lets him because school is already twenty thousand a year and in no shape or form can they afford that and money to rent a studio.

But Keith can give him this. For a little bit, maybe, even if it’s little kids with handmade costumes pirouetting across a stage.

“I know, bluebell.”

Lance exhales, shaky, breath ghosting across Keith’s collarbones, and finally turns back towards the stage, keeping tucked under Keith’s chin. The kids dancing as the Snow Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are — three years old, maybe. At most four. They keep twirling right into each other like clumsy little bumblebees. It’s maybe the cutest thing Keith has ever seen in his entire life, and what’s better is the tiny smile that graces Lance’s face, despite the tears, growing bigger every time one of them wobbles back up to their feet and prances on, oblivious.

They watch the rest of the play in silence, Lance hands entwining with his sometime around the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy and holding fast. They stand and clap as loudly as the gathered parents, louder even, at curtain call, as each kid jumps and twirls across the stage to thrown roses and cheering. It’s adorable.

They’re among the first to walk out, because the majority of the crowd surges towards backstage to collect their kid, so the walk is blessedly unrushed. They take their time, observing the pictures of grinning ballerinas that line the walls and numerous awards on endless shelves. Keith is filled with a deep and strong longing, a strange feeling of coming home — years of waiting on plastic chairs for Lance to finish solo practice when they were thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Of taking his boots off at the door and quietly sneaking in the back of the studio, ducking away from other dancers’ boring stares, to watch Lance shine under the studio lights, reflected a thousand times by mirrored walls. Of the smell of lemon cleaner and polished hardwood floors and satin.

He notices a poster on the wall, among dozens of drawings and pictures of intricate sets, and freezes.

“Lance,” he says, tilting his head, “look.”

At the end of a hallway, right next to a door, is a hand-painted banner, reading: WE’LL MISS YOU, MISS RAULA! HAPPY RETIREMENT!

He squeezes Lance’s hand. “I bet they’re looking for a replacement.”

Lance stares at the poster for a long time. “You think?”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to shoot them an e-mail.”

Smiling, Lance stops them in the hallway, puts his hands on Keith’s shoulders, stands on his tiptoes, and kisses him, long and sweet and loving.

“I’m already in a pretty tight spot now,” he murmurs, still standing so close to Keith and smelling so sweet that he has trouble focusing on his words, “‘cause this is already kind of the best Christmas gift ever. If that ends up being true I’m never topping you again.”

Keith laughs, suddenly, not expecting the turn, and Lance grins, pulling Keith down to him and kissing him again. It’s less of a kiss and more of a press of smiles, a clack of teeth, a shared laugh.

“I love you, Lance. Merry Christmas. I will be the Gift Giving King forever.”

“Shut up, goober.” He lifts Keith’s arm, tucking himself under it as they walk back out into the snowy December night. “I love you too.”

———

based on this post (third slide)

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asolareclipses · 18 days

Text

(Previous Part)

Taking a bus halfway across Maine was not on Nicos bucket list. Yet, there he was in a stuffy bus that looked, and smelled, like it had been made back in the 20’s—which Nico would know, he was there. Next to him Leo sat anything but still, his fingers drumming against the arm rests and occasionally grabbing things from his tool belt to tinker with. Sometimes he looked like a toddler hyped up on too much sugar. His constant movement comforted Nico though, it was a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Of course he was still mad at Leo for ruining his genius plan to face a goddess alone, or at least he was trying to convince himself he was mad.

“Dude, this bus needs so much work.” Leo said, as he held up his freshly made penguin that consisted of various screws. “I’m not sure how they got it to last this long, it’s like beyond messed up.”

“Probably why the tickets were so cheap,” Nico replied as he watched the screw penguin’s head bobble around.

“I give it about an hour before it breaks down,” Leo suddenly paused, titling his head as if he were hearing something. “Scratch that she’s going down now.”

As soon as he said that the bus sputtered, losing speed as the driver pulled over to the side of the road.

“Sorry everyone, we seem to be having some problems.” The bus driver grumpily announced, he acted as if this were a regular occasion.

“It’s my time to shine,” Leo grinned as he stood up from the seat. “Don’t worry mortals, Leo’s got this all under control.”

“Please ignore him,” Nico gave the few confused passengers a smile as he pushed Leo towards the door. “You can just call people mortals.”

“Oops,” Leo shrugged as he hopped down from the last bus step onto the pavement. “Anyways let’s see what’s up with this bad boy.”

Nico rolled his eyes as Leo popped open the hood of the bus to reveal the engine. The driver appeared shocked, as Leo shouldn’t have been able to just open it without releasing the latch.

“Hey kid, what do you think you’re doing?” The driver called out as he slowly made his way out of the bus.

“Just fixing up some stuff, don’t mind me.” Leo didn’t even look up as he pulled some tools out of his belt.

Nico was about to try and mediate the situation when he realized something was wrong. Back in the bus he hadn’t noticed it due to the overpowering musk of age, but the driver was most definitely a monster.

By the change of expression on the drivers face, Nico saw that he too realized they weren’t just regular mortals. Leo was, of course, oblivious to this.

“Looks like I have a rat problem,” The bus driver snarled in their direction.

“Nope, not rats, just a really rusted battery.” Leo offhandedly replied.

“Leo, he’s not talking about the bus.” Nico nudged him, as the mist around the driver began to evaporate, morphing his two eyes into one.

“Then what is he-holy smokes!” Leo dropped his wrench in surprise as he saw the undercover cyclopes be revealed.

“Should’ve known you demigods would’ve snuck in here sooner or later,” The driver clenched his bulky fists as if preparing himself to attack.

Nico scanned the area for any makeshift weapon, he was really regretting leaving his sword behind.

“Hey buddy,” Leo raised his hands in attempt to reason, “I’ll fix your bus for free, how about you don’t kill us?”

“Killing you is much better than driving this piece of junk,” His eye was focused on Nico as he spoke. “Especially you, you reek of the underworld.”

“And you reek of spoiled eggs,” Nico snapped back, “at least I have an excuse, what’s yours?”

The cyclopes didn’t like that, which was made apparent by him grabbing a chunk of dirt and lobbing it towards them.

“Hit the deck!” Leo called, which didn’t really apply to them as there was no ‘deck’ but Nico didn’t point that out. Instead, he dropped to the floor as the piece of earth sailed past their heads.

“Leo, does your tool belt supply weapons?” Nico asked while the cyclopes reloaded on dirt.

Leo rummaged for a moment before pulling out a weird hatchet-hammer tool, which later Nico found out was a drywall hammer. “How’s this?”

“Good enough,” Nico said as he grabbed the hammer thing.

Another mound of dirt flew towards them but it was blasted to dust when Leo shot a ball of fire towards it. “Take that dirt boy!” He screamed.

Using Leo as a distraction Nico bolted off to the side, running around the bus so that he ended up behind the cyclopes. Unfortunately the cyclopes seemed to have predicted this as he quickly spun around, his arm slamming into Nico resulting in him being thrown into the side of the bus.

Before the cyclopes could do anymore damage Leo screamed, “Take this dirt face!” Then a wrench bounced off the back of the cyclopes’s head.

A flash of rage appeared on the cyclopes’s face as he turned towards Leo, grabbing an extra large chunk of dirt. “Oh you’re going to regret that.”

“I am?” Leo asked with a grin.

The cyclopes had forgotten about Nico leaving him the perfect opportunity, “I will crush you-” The cyclopes stopped mid sentence as Nico stabbed the hatchet into his back. Then with a look of shock, he erupted into dust.

“Nice!” Leo called out.

“Yeah..” Nico winced as he looked down at his arm, the bandages had been soaked through with blood after the hard hit he took.

“Dude, ouch.” Leo’s smile dropped as his eyes moved over the once white gauze.

“It’s fine,” Nico sighed looking back towards the bus, “more importantly. What are we going to do now?”

Leo seemed to realize they were now faced with a bus full of angry commuters, with no bus driver, and still had about 150 miles to go. “Right, looks like we’re taking a ride on the Leo express!”

—

Leo knew how to drive, mostly.

While he’d never taken the time to get an official license, he knew machines better than anyone. A bus was certainly easier to handle than a giant flying ship.

Fixing the engine was also a piece of cake.

The difficult part was the passengers, turns out they weren’t thrilled by the sudden staff change.

“There’s no way we can just let a 15 year old drive!”

“Hey!” Leo snapped at the lady who looked like she was about to demand to speak to his supervisor. “I’ll have you know i’m 18!”

“Do you even have a license?”

“Now now, everyone calm down. Listen, i’m a trained professional.” Leo shrugged with his palms up, “I mean, do you want to stay on the side of the road forever?”

The bus went quiet with defeat.

“Right, well then sit down, get comfortable, because the Leo train is leaving the station!” Leo didn’t get the cheers and applause he expected from that statement, just a few groans and unpleasant mutters.

Soon, the bus was driving smoothly across the roads and Leo barely had to pay attention as he’d fixed up a temporary autopilot gadget. Beside him, Nico winced as he removed the bandages from his scratches. Somehow the wound looked worse.

“Dude, that looks really bad,” Leo frowned as he pulled out more bandages from his tool belt.

“It’s fine,” Nico mumbled, not even looking up at Leo.

“Yeah you keep saying that but I’ve yet to start believing it.”

Nico wrapped the bandages carefully around his arm, gritting his teeth as he tried to hide the pain. “It’s just a scratch, i’ve seen worse.”

That didn’t comfort Leo, in fact in made him feel worse. Of course, it’s only expected that a demigod face some pretty rough injuries here and there—Leo himself had seen quite a few. But Nico’s insistence on ignoring his pain made Leo worried that if it were to be serious, he’d never know.

Despite that, he knew arguing would just make Nico more annoyed, so he tried to liven up the atmosphere. “You know, if we were in an episode of the Magic School Bus right now you’d be Arnold.”

“What the Hades is the Magic School Bus?” Nico looked at Leo as if he were crazy.

Leo threw his head back in exasperation, “You’ve got to be joking! You don’t know the Frizz?”

“The what?”

“That’s it, i’m making a list of all the things you need to watch when we get back to camp.”

“Whatever,” Nico rolled his eyes, “as long as you don’t put Twilight on there i’m happy.”

“Hold up, Twilight?” Leo tried and failed to hold back a smile.

“Yeah, Will told me it was iconic, or whatever.” Nico paused as if remembering something unpleasant, “If iconic means torturous, then it surely was.”

Leo burst into laughter at the thought of Nico actually watching Twilight, “Dont worry, we will not be watching any vampire shows.”

The rest of the ride was spent with Leo determining what things Nico had and hadn’t watched. Turns out Will had caught him up on quite a lot, but Leo still developed a lengthy list of things he would bless Nico with. In a way Nico’s unawareness of modern culture reminded him of Jason, due to his upbringing by wolves he was a bit out of the loop when it came to many popular things. Leo figured he’d do a “modern culture” class at camp, maybe invite Hazel. The idea made him smile, it was something to look forward to.

Eventually, they made it to the bus station, where he and Nico quickly snuck away to avoid suspicion. To their luck no one at the station had realized what happened until they were long gone.

Not to their luck, they still had a five mile walk ahead of them.

They spent a large part of the walk in silence, as it was hard to focus on anything other than the heat. Eventually, Leo got bored and tried to think about anything else, his mind wandering back to their previous conversation.

“I’m really wishing I had a magic school bus right about now,” Leo whined as he trudged forward. The warm air was now unpleasant as the sun beamed down upon him.

“And i’m really wishing I left you back at camp.”

“Hey!” Leo glared at Nico who bit back a smile, “You’re lucky! I blessed you with my company.”

Nico scoffed, “Right, blessed, that’s the word I was looking for.”

“Why does this place have to be out in the middle of nowhere?” Leo asked as he peered into the distance in hopes of seeing the outline of the school.

“Guess they didn’t want any kids running off,” Nico shrugged. “Honestly I don’t remember much about it, I was only there for like a year?” He seemed to think about it for a moment before giving up.

“That was after the casino?” Leo asked, he decided to take this as a chance to ask more about Nico’s past. It was the one topic Nico avoided, or maybe Leo was the one who avoided it, after all he knew how much old memories could hurt.

“Yeah, time felt so messed up back then. I mean it was like seventy years? But then suddenly i’m in the 20th century at some school in a state i’d never heard of before.” Nico sighed, “Not sure how I wasn’t more confused, it just felt normal, or whatever I thought normal was.”

Leo nodded, he was afraid to speak, careful to not scare Nico away.

“You don’t have to be so on edge,” Nico turned to look at him, almost as if he’d read his mind.

“I’m not...” Leo paused, “It’s just you’ve never talked in depth about this stuff with me before.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t talked about it with anyone until Will. But Mr. D says ‘talking is good,’ so might as well take his advice for once.”

The idea of Mr. D being a therapist threw Leo for a loop but he didn’t say anything about it, “Yeah, I guess I never really told anyone about all my stuff until Jason.”

Nico suddenly smirked, “You too seem pretty close.”

Leo’s face flushed red as he avoided Nico’s eyes, “What? No-I mean, of course we’re close, we’re best friends. Totally platonic best friends.”

“Right, and I totally believe you.” Nico rolled his eyes with a grin. There was a peaceful silence for a split second before Nico’s smile faded. Now, in the distance the outline of a large school could be seen.

Nico sighed, a hesitant look flashing across his face before he spoke, “We’re here. Welcome to Westover.”

Part Six

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