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nico-di-genova · 1 month

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In My Mind, You are Safe

A/N: What was meant to be a one chapter drabble has spiraled out of my control and now become a fic that requires timelines and setting. Anyway, enjoy part 2 from Lawrence's POV. Registered AO3 Users can read here, if they want! :)

Lawrence thought the worst sound he could hear was that of his son’s tears – the frightened sobs when he called after his bike accident and apologized first before even explaining what had happened. He thought it would be the hitch in Lance’s breath when he asked what to do, what he should do. In reality, the worst sound is the absence of it.

He finds himself missing the simplicity of two broken wrists. Now, Lance has broken ribs, a fractured skull, a jagged line of angry red stitching that runs from lower sternum to his hip. It all makes a broken toe look juvenile. Lawrence feels stupid for even panicking over hairline fractures and a two-week recovery time. He feel stupid for putting a six year old in an unpredictable machine in the first place and letting him grow an appetite for it.

Lance’s mother pushed for golfing, tennis, swimming even at one point. Lawrence should have listened.

Lance still cannot breathe on his own, and Lawrence is already forgetting the natural sound of it – instead he has grown familiar with the steady beep of a heart monitor and the snoring habits of Fernando Alonso.

The man is curled over in a chair he is two days away from establishing residency in, head resting alongside Lance’s bruised thigh, finger looped through his son’s limp pinkie. It is a sight that Lawrence wishes wasn’t familiar. A sight that forces him to confront the truth of their relationship, not that they were doing a phenomenal job at hiding it in the first place.

Lance only smiles, genuinely smiles, at things he cares about – that he’s deemed worthy of expending the energy on. Chloe’s dog, Chloe, his mother, good food, the first snow fall in Montreal that promises decent skiing and now apparently Formula 1 veteran, Fernando Alonso. Lawrence knows his son, knows he is a bad liar because his tell is written in the very core of him. He’s spent too many years and too many billions trying to make Lance smile the way Fernando has so easily managed it.

But now Lance smiles at nothing, and Lawrence finds he doesn’t mind if Fernando beats him to it. He just wants his son back.

“His, um, his eyebrows. I think they twitched today,” he tells the nurse when he comes to check Lance’s vitals.

“They could have,” the nurse says, not dismissive, but not validating to Lawrence’s optimism either. He lifts Lance’s sheets to inspect the healing along Lance’s stomach and disturbs Fernando from his sleep in the process. Bandages and gauze are peeled away with careful fingers and then there is the sight of Lance’s mutilated abdomen, just as gruesome as the night they first wheeled him out of surgery. Pink skin, still raw and angry and raised against the stitching holding him together. Skin yellowing around the cut, only marginally better than the dark bruising that was once there. It is the visible reminder that the steering column of Lance’s car, a car Lawrence had given him and deemed safe, nearly took him away for good.

“His neurological activity has been improving since we took him off the sedatives,” the nurse says, when he glances at Lawrence and seems to see the guilt. It is meant as a piece of good fortune, instead it reminds Lawrence of the medically induced coma they are working to ease Lance out of. The coma he was in to prevent seizures caused by the swelling on his brain. Because he’d hit the wall at a top speed of nearly 200 KPH and his helmet had done an admirable job of keeping him together but could only manage so much.

“So when can the tube be removed?” Fernando asks, wiping at the sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes. He looks annoyed to be woken, like he was having a particularly wonderful dream. Lawrence envies his ability to sleep at all.

“We’re not there yet.”

Fernando grumbles something in Spanish. The nurse, unfortunately, is fluent, “If you want him to keep breathing, then yes.”

“Is choking him. He would hate it.”

“Well, he’s not really in a position to make requests.”

A strange position for both Lance and Lawrence to be in. The first instance where money does not hold sway, other than affording Lance the luxury of a private suite and all the comforts that can be provided while he remains unconscious and unmoving. It also secures a lounge that neither Fernando nor Lawrence have made much use of. Other than to make cheap cups of coffee from the Keurig and complain about the taste.

“Breakfast?” Fernando asks, once the nurse deems Lance safe and unchanged, leaving both men to sit awkwardly with Lance being the divide between them.

Lawrence shrugs, “Sure.”

“Shit coffee?”

“Is there anything else?

“Shit tea I think.”

Lawrence laughs, dry and humorless, “Coffee’s fine.”

If you put enough milk in it, it’s almost drinkable. But Lawrence doesn’t actually care about the taste, it’s more the caffeine he needs – or, more accurately, the sleep he is fighting. There is a fear in him that if he closes his eyes Lance will somehow stop breathing for good in his absence. Like he’s only still here because Lawrence’s unwavering control is willing him to be, and not the ventilator.

“You sleep yet?” Fernando asks when he returns with two steaming styrofoam cups of joe, offering one to Lawrence with the milk already added. Fourteen days is a long time to get to know someone when you’re both tied to an unconscious twenty-five year old.

Lawrence shakes his head and sips from the coffee gratefully, it’s clear he’s been here too long because the sludge has begun to go down easier. “No, not yet. Didn’t want him to wake up alone.”

It’s clear from Lance’s condition that he will not be alert anytime soon, but Lawrence doesn’t want to risk it. He hadn’t been there after Spain, had only gotten to the hospital two days later when Lance was already post-op and loopy from the pain meds.

“Hi dad,” he’d slurred, “I’m all good now.” He’d proceeded to try to give Lawrence two thumbs up, but the casts they’d cemented his wrists in were clunky and his body uncoordinated. Lawrence had spent the flight speaking with Lance’s doctor, discussing everything from cost to recovery plan. Everything had been clinical and controlled until he was faced with the sight of Lance, disheveled and clad in a hospital gown half hanging off one shoulder, that made it all hit him like a freight truck.

He can’t miss being here when Lance wakes up, not again. He had his assistant bring him his laptop and any pressing work, has Fernando bring him coffee, has his wife bring him changes of clothes and the occasional cup of decent espresso, and he sometimes dozes off in the straight-backed chair, but waking up with a crick in his neck and pain in his back is enough to keep him fighting against it. He knows it’s all starting to take a toll though. When he goes to the bathroom he is faced with the sight of a man who sits just outside of death’s door, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. Sometimes he thinks Lance might be waiting there with him, it’s not always easy to chalk that up to sleep deprivation.

“I will watch him,” Fernando says, sipping from his coffee, “Wake you up if anything changes.”

“No, no. I’m okay.”

“You will end up in a hospital bed beside him soon,” Fernando shrugs, like he’s unbothered by the thought, “If you do not rest.”

He’s right, Lawrence knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Besides, he is not the only one who has found it impossible to leave Lance’s side. It’s race day in Hungary and Fernando isn’t in a car. Both of the Aston drivers have been replaced by their reserves, morale in the garage has reached an all-time low. Fernando isn’t in the headspace to race though, so Lawrence doesn’t press it. He doesn’t need two drivers on life support.

“I’m okay for now.”

Fernando shrugs again, and then drops it. He is not the sort to hold someone’s hand and coax them into doing something. Lawrence thinks that’s maybe why Lance might like him. His son has always been stubborn, always pushed against those who try to guide him, or those who try to tell him he’s somewhere he does not belong. Lawrence has learned he performs best under pressure, when he has something to prove, which was why he had wanted Fernando as their second driver to begin with. The downside to Lance’s unwavering drive is that he often ignored the limit, pushed where he shouldn’t, took risks that were unneeded, and then ended up paying the price for his mistakes.

Silverstone wasn’t Lance’s first crash, it was just the first where he hadn’t managed to get out on his own. At first Lawrence hadn’t been all too worried. In the small span of time where he’d known Lance had gone off, but the cameras hadn’t found him yet, he’d been disappointed, frustrated because they both, Lance and Fernando, had been doing so well. Fernando was pushing, ignoring team orders, but Lance was responding, defending, winning. It had felt, at first, like a confirmation of all that Lawrence knew to be true. That Lance was good, great even, he just needed a fire lit under his ass and something to work for.

And then the cameras found him.

‘Stroll is in the wall!’

‘Lance? Lance are you alright? Lance. Respond. Confirm you’re alright.’

The silence had stretched on, the crackle in Lawrence’s headphones sending a chill down his spine. Lance’s race engineer had radioed him again and again, but each time the empty crackle only seemed to grow in length.

‘Lance, confirm you are alright. Confirm.’ It stopped becoming a question, but a hopeful demand.

Lawrence had watched as Fernando stumbled out of his own car, barely waiting until the vehicle had stopped moving before he was sprinting across the gravel toward where Lance’s car was crumpled against the wall. There was smoke, flames breaking out at the rear end. He turned away when Fernando pulled Lance from the wreckage, had seen the flash of blood spreading rapidly across the green of Lance’s suit and knew there would be no response.

He hasn’t thanked Fernando for saving his son, hasn’t forgiven him for the crash either. They speak around it in the same way they speak around Fernando’s finger around Lance’s pinkie. It is becoming harder as the days stretch on, harder to ignore the desperate way Fernando looks at Lance sometimes, like he is willing him back into consciousness with the same force he pulled him from the car with.

“His mother is coming by today,” he says instead, pointedly ignoring how Fernando is sipping from his coffee with one hand and holding Lance with the other.

“How long?”

“She hasn’t said, probably no more than an hour.”

Claire can’t stand to see Lance like this. Singapore had been bad enough for her, this has been her worst nightmare. She visits Lance in short bursts, where she can ensure he is still breathing, even if it’s not of his own will yet. They don’t speak, in the same way he and Fernando hardly do, too much tension that threatens to boil over and they don’t want any of it to land on Lance. People in comas can sometimes hear what’s going on around them, at least that is what Lawrence has been told, so they all play nice in hopes it will mean the kid will come back to them faster.

Claire visits, Fernando leaves. Claire leaves, Fernando returns. Lawrence sits immovable through it all and Lance remains unchanged. A system.

“I will go, text me when I can come back?”

Lawrence nods. He ignores the way Fernando casts one last look at Lance, the longing, the worry, the guilt that is imbedded there. He is mad at Fernando in the same way he is mad at himself, he blames Fernando for causing the crash, blames himself for putting Lance in the car, like they were both responsible for Lance being here in the first place. But Lance has broken two wrists biking, ruptured his eardrum wakeboarding, sprained his ankle snowboarding, and he’d returned to all of those sports without pause afterward. If time could be reversed, neither he nor Fernando could have kept Lance out of that car. Because Lance is stubborn, it’s who he is. He doesn’t give up, even when the odds are stacked against him, and that’s how Lawrence knows he will wake up. He has unwavering faith.

———————————-

“We should have cards,” Fernando says, two days later, when they’re both sitting in silence watching the third rerun of Jumanji on the tv. “Or that game, the hippo one, something to do.”

“Hungry hippos?” “That one, yes.”

Lawrence knows it, knows Lance and Chloe used to play it because he can still remember the chaotic noise of it – Lance’s frustrated yells when he lost. It used to give him a headache.

The sparsely used lounge, it turns out, has a deck of cards stored in a cabinet. Lawrence finds it when he’s searching for spare sugar for his third cup of coffee that day, since they’d exhausted the packets stocked at the coffee bar.

“Do you have a 2?” Fernando asks, leaning forward in his chair, propping his chin on one hand and his large collection of cards in the other.

“Go fish.”

Fernando groans, reaches out to grab a card from where they’ve balanced them on Lance’s knee. There’s four threes spread across his thigh and four sixes along his calf, both of them are Lawrence’s wins.

“You have a four?”

Annoyed, Fernando resignedly passes the card over Lance’s body.

—————————

On day seventeen, Lawrence sleeps. It is not entirely his choice, but rather his body’s refusal to operate any further without rest. He stands to go to the bathroom, and when he does the room spins. Fernando catches him, guides him to the couch in the lounge.

When he wakes up there’s a blanket thrown over him and a stiff pillow beneath his head. It is dark out, Lawrence is thrown by the lack of light because it had been distinctly morning when he had gone to pee. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to wipe the sleep from his eyes and blink until the room comes into focus.

Distantly, he can still hear the steady beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, the sounds that reassure him Lance did not give up while Lawrence slept soundly. It is only comforting for a moment, until he remembers the dream he had in which Lance was screaming for help and Lawrence could not reach him. The way he kept trying to claw his way through debris and rubble to reach his son, but the screams only seemed to grow further and further away until they tapered off into whimpers and then into the crushing sound of silence.

He stumbles from the couch, pulling the twisted blanket from his body as he goes, and only breathes when Lance is in his sight once more.

In the dark, the shadows of his face seems more prominent, the paleness of his skin more ghostly. Lance doesn’t tan, he goes from white to burned in the span of a few hours, but he is not normally the color of a piece of paper either. It’s eerie, discomforting, makes Lawrence think of his choked off screams from the dream.

Fernando seems to have also lost his battle with sleep, the man is passed out once more with his head pillowed on Lance’s bed. His hand rests around Lance’s wrist, an upgrade from the pinkie, fingers resting along the kid’s pulse point.

Lawrence, for the first time, truly tries to take stock of his son’s injuries. He studies the bruising on his face, the swelling that has gone down and been replaced with bruised eyes and tender skin. The yellowing marks around his neck that continue below the line of his hospital gown. The two splinted fingers of his right hand that Fernando has been so careful to avoid. It’s better than it had been, easier to look at, but still makes Lawrence taste bile at the back of his throat.

‘He’s lucky to have survived at all,’ he’d overheard one of the nurses say while Lance was still confined to the ICU. He’d been on the phone with Claire and had to physically hold himself back from saying something nasty. But he supposes, now that he really looks at Lance, they hadn’t been wrong. A skull fracture, major blunt force trauma, the g-forces he’d sustained to his body in the crash, it is a miracle he’s even still here.

Lawrence feels suddenly grateful, to God, or to Fernando, he isn’t sure which.

“Lance?” he whispers, like the boy will suddenly open his eyes. Like he’s a child asleep in his bed and Lawrence can rouse him with a gentle shake to his shoulder and a kiss to his temple. Like it’s an early morning where he can pull a groggy Lance from his bed and bring him to the track before the dew has even dried from the grass, watch him do laps in a kart that still sits on the side of too big for him.

Lance doesn’t wake up, but Lawrence is almost positive he sees his finger’s twitch, curling instinctively in his sleep. He doesn’t miss that it’s fingers from the hand Fernando is clinging to, the same pinkie the Spaniard had made his lifeline.

———————————

The next morning he proposes Fernando return to racing. Media day starts in Belgium tomorrow and they could have Fernando there in time if he left within the hour.

“No,” Fernando states, not even considering, not even bothering to have emotion in his voice.

Lawrence grinds his teeth, “We can’t keep making excuses, Fernando. There’s money tied-up in this, my money. You have a contract-.”

“And? Fuck your money. I do not care about your money, or the sponsors. Have Felipe race the rest of the season. I will not go.”

Lawrence is standing at the foot of Lance’s bed, arms crossed, anger beginning to course through him. Fernando, relaxed in his chair, with his hand around his son’s wrist looks right at home. Lawrence thinks of those same hands pulling Lance from his burning car, those hands pressing forcefully to Lance’s wound, blood coating his gloves and soaking through to his fingers. He thinks of Lance holding those hands, kissing them, knowing them because Lance has idolized Fernando since he was a child and Lawrence knows the look he gives Fernando now is not that of an awed fan but that of someone who has grown into something more.

“What are you,” Lawrence finds himself blurting out, asking not because he really wants to know, but because he needs to, “to him, what are you?”

Fernando looks at him, blinks, shrugs, “I do not know.”

The resigned honesty of it makes him even angrier.

“But more than teammates?” He demands, “More than a mentor? I know my son, Fernando, do not lie to me.” Lance once dated a girl who he was convinced he was going to marry. Took her to races, to dinners, to birthdays and parties and every family event he could conceivably sneak her into. He’d looked at her with the same wide-eyed wonder Lawrence sometimes caught him looking at Fernando with, like he couldn’t believe they would settle for someone like him. Like he was only worth settling for.

“More, yes,” Fernando concedes, but doesn’t expand.

“He loves you, I think,” Lawrence says, because he has never seen Lance look at anyone, since that girl, the way he looks at the man.

Fernando finally looks sad then, face falling, eyes filling with that familiar guilt.

“I know.”

“He’s almost half your age.”

“I know,” the guilt deepens. He finally drops Lance’s wrist, pulls away and keeps his hands curled in his lap, like he realizes this is finally the moment Lawrence stops ignoring the truth of them.

Lawrence thinks about asking him to leave, knows he could force him to go to Belgium if he wanted, bring out terms like ‘breach of contract’ and ‘lawsuit’, but Lawrence is not a cruel man, especially not where Lance is concerned. He allowed that girl into their lives, into his own birthday party that was meant only to be for close family, all because Lance had asked. And when they’d broken up, he’d put Lance back together – let him cry and scream and throw the belongings of his room around until there was no more energy left in the kid and then he’d sat Lance down and told him it would all be okay. He kept saying that. Through Formula 3 when Lance would win and still not feel like it was enough because the other boys would say he bought the trophy. When he hit Formula 1 and would go to his driver’s room instead of the media pen after a race because the tears wouldn’t stop flowing and his own frustration at himself became too much. Lawrence would be there, he would always be there. But Fernando was here now too, and he guessed that counted for something.

He uncrosses his arms, drops the fight because he’s tired and the room is too small for such arguments, “You stay now, and you better mean it.”

Fernando swallows, nods, “Okay.”

Felipe and Stoffel race in Spa on Sunday.

——————————

By week four, Lawrence is beginning to lose it. He’s become immune to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the bland taste of the cafeteria food, the beeping of machinery that keeps Lance alive. It all becomes background noise, until he’s numb to it all, just existing. The coffee doesn’t taste bad anymore, it tastes like nothing at all.

He watches Jumanji for the sixth time and finds that the film is growing on him.

Fernando has not left.

“So how did it start?” Lawrence asks one night. He’s twirling hospital spaghetti on a fork, picking at hamburger meat listlessly with the metal prongs.

Fernando slurps one of the noodles, “Me and him?” he asks, pointing to Lance with his own silverware.

Lawrence nods. He has gone past avoiding the topic to wanting to understand it.

“Um,” Fernando starts, “Bahrain, I think.”

“This year?”

“No, uh, last.”

So when Fernando had sang Lance’s praises to the cameras. Lawrence had assumed that was all for show. He’d been warned of the drivers poor sportsmanship, his un-teammate-like behavior.

“So you weren’t trying to impress me?”

“No I was,” Fernando admits, “wanted you to think you had gotten your money’s worth at first.”

Fernando had not come cheap, but he still wasn’t as much as Newey was shaping up to be. He’d taken a good chunk from Lawrence, but not enough that he would seem like a bad investment so early on. He maybe had been laying the groundwork for a contract extension, if the car proved to be a challenger.

“So when did it-?”

“Become serious? Summer break.”

Lawrence thinks he remembers that, Lance mentioning something about a yacht, his voice lilting with obvious joy over the phone. You could hear when Lance smiled, his voice changing with the shape of it. They’d had lunch a few days later and there was an obvious mark on Lance’s neck, something he kept trying to hide with a hand when he would lean an elbow on the table and rest his neck against his palm. Lawrence didn’t care to know about his son’s sex life, in the same way he cared little about Chloe’s, he cared only that both of his kids were happy. And at the time, Lance had seemed to be. He hadn’t questioned it past that, even when he'd seen Fernando’s name pop up as a text notification on Lance’s phone and seen the way Lance blushed over his salmon and orzo.

“And you’ve talked about it, you and him? About the future? He’s young, Fernando. He can make his own choices, yes, but I don’t know if he’s thinking in the long-term yet, not really.”

He doesn’t meant to imply Fernando is old, but they’ve both been twenty-five, both known how it seems like you are weathered and just beginning all at once. Like you have the answers, you just haven’t figured out where to apply them yet.

Fernando bites at another noodle, “Yes, we have talked. Some. But it’s not- we are not- I don’t know.”

“Serious?”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re here. You don’t have to be.”

“It’s serious enough for this. I need to be here, when he wakes up, not racing circles. I would be no good in the car right now. My head is-“ he motions vaguely in the air with his fork, a piece of tomato soaked hamburger falls off of it and plops onto the white linens of Lance’s sheets. Lawrence understands that. Can respect it even. He also maybe isn’t the one to judge a relationship. Not with a divorce under his belt and his own wife younger than him. He just has the inherent need to make sure Lance is safe, cared for. He’s had the same need since he first held Chloe in his arms and realized what it was to be a father.

Fernando picks up the hamburger, drops if back onto his own plate, but the red stain it leaves behind stays.

————————

Twenty-nine days after Lance’s crash Lawrence is returning from making his daily Keurig coffee, stirring the milk into the sludge with a stir stick when he looks up to see Lance blinking back at him.

The cup falls from his hands, splatters against the linoleum and spreads in a puddle across the floor. Specks of it land on his dress pants, some of it on his hands, he hardly notices the burn of it. Lance, bleary-eyed and groggy stares at him, blinks slowly.

“Lance,” Lawrence sobs. Lance’s eyebrows furrow, the movement so startling because he has been without any for so long that Lawrence cannot help the strangled sound that escapes him. The noise pulls Fernando from his sleep, he lifts his head from the bed and looks from Lawrence to Lance before letting out a cry of his own.

Lance lifts a lethargic hand to the tubing at his mouth, tries to pull it out with muddled fingers.

“Aye, no,” Fernando panics, pulling Lance’s finger away and trapping them in his own grip, “We’ll get someone, we take it out now, yes?”

Lance nods, makes a choked sound around the polyvinyl. His fingers curl around Fernando’s hand, gripping, responding to the touch. Lawrence can’t stop looking at the movement as he stumbles for the call button beside Lance’s bed. He can’t stop shaking. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Fernando soothes, brushing Lance’s hair back from his forehead in an intimately calming gesture.

Lance’s panicked breathing through his nose worsens. He looks from Fernando to Lawrence with ever-widening eyes.

“You’re okay, son,” Lawrence tries, kneeling beside Lance’s bed and pressing a firm hand to his shoulder when Lance tries to rise against the wires and tubing keeping him down.

The coffee soaks into the knee of his pants. Lance chokes again.

“You’re okay,” they both repeat, hoping that it will be true.

#strollonso #strollonso fic #probably so many medical inaccuracies but whatever ya know #google was my friend but also probably lied to me at points #lance stroll #fernando alonso #my fic

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thatredheadwriter · 2 years

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Stay Here

din djarin x reader

This started cause I was listening to Lana Del Rey and Hozier and it made me horny, so please enjoy smutty husband/Mand’alor Din (with breeding kink 👀). This one’s around 1.5k words.

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Din Djarin of the Mandalorian. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

husband!Din

Kinda domestic fluffy moment (it’s very tiny, this is mostly smut)

I really went for the mando’a here, huh (translations at the top)

pleasure dom!Din

kinda service sub!reader

Very eager reader

Breeding kink

unprotected PIV (see above)

talk of pregnancy

Mention of anal

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

Mando’a Translations:

Su cuy’gar…………………….hello; literally “you’re still alive”

cyar’ika…………………………darling, sweetheart

mesh’la…………………………beautiful

riduur……………………………partner, spouse, husband/wife

cabur……………………………protector

You’re in the kitchen when he comes in, tired and frustrated from a day of meetings and consular briefings. Din was the best kind of ruler, a reluctant one. He didn’t want power, didn’t need it. It was years of doing what was best for his people and following the code without hesitation that had led him to this.

Despite his reluctance, you both appreciated the change in pace. The new capital Sundari was bustling with activity and made a much better place to raise Grogu than the seat of his starfighter. In fact, you’d just gotten him down for the night, a sure feat without Din’s help, even with promises of sweets at breakfast and clumsy lullabies you’d been learning in mando’a.

Cold beskar presses into your back as your husband wraps his arms around you, still-gloved hands slipping under your shirt and sending a shiver down your spine.

“Su cuy’gar,” you chuckle, stirring the pot in front of you and letting Din take his fill of you. It surprised you at first, how affectionate he could be, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. “How was your day?”

“Lousy,” he grunts. One of his hands slides up to cup your breast, making you inhale sharply. “Where’s the kid?”

“Asleep. Took me ages, he wanted you,” you try to sound stern but your words come out as breathy and it takes all your resolve not to whimper as he pinches and twists your nipple. You clear your throat, “Dinner is ready.”

His voice is husky through the vocoder as he spins you to face him, “It’ll keep.”

Without fanfare, Din crouches and hauls you over his shoulder, long legs carrying you off towards your shared bedroom. There was no question that his favorite part about having a home was having a proper bed to fuck you in. He palms your ass as you get nearer, two fingers coming to rub over your clothed slit. Even through the layers, he can feel the dampness and you hear a dark chuckle from under his helmet.

You bounce when he drops you onto the bed, the black of his visor trailing down your form like he’s drinking you in. Hoping he’ll remove a few layers of his own, you strip off your shirt, exposing your top half to the cool air of the bedroom. You can practically see his brain shortcircuiting as he takes in the way your nipples pebble almost instantly, so sensitive and ready for his touch.

He moves for the control panel by the door, shutting it and dimming the lights so you can just barely make out his form in the darkness. You smile softly. Din wasn’t shy, but he was still getting used to allowing you to see him. Before taking your marriage vows, it was pitch black or blindfolds anytime he removed his helmet. Now you were treated to the strong profile of his face as he removed his helmet, setting it aside. You greedily took in the strong line of his jaw, fuzzy with scruff, and the curve of his nose–the same one that always teased your clit so beautifully whenever he drank his fill of you.

His armor glints as he removes it piece by piece, unwrapping himself for you. It’s not lost on you how special this is. As a Mandalorian, this privilege of seeing him bare, vulnerable, was reserved only for you. The ruler of all Mandalore, stripping himself bare for you. It’s too much. Din is barely out of his flight suit before you were on him like a feral loth cat, pushing him back towards the bed.

“Need my riduur, my Mand’alor,” you purr, standing at the foot of the bed and stripping off the rest of your clothes for him.

You crawl onto the bed, trying to decide where to start. Your heart skips a beat as you take in your husband lying in your marriage bed, naked and waiting for you. His skin shudders as your fingers trail his chest reverently, moving down lower and lower towards his leaking cock. A string of curses breaks the silence and you finally grant him mercy, wrapping your hand around his girth and pumping a few times before moving to hover overtop of him.

Din loves it when you ride him. He loves being able to see your body on top of his, feel your presence crushing the darkness and doubt out of his soul. He loves seeing your tits bounce and he lives for the way your mouth falls open in that silent cry as you sink down on top of him.

It takes every ounce of restraint in his body not to just flip you over, push you into the mattress, and pull the pleasure from you. But he waits for you to move, to give yourself over to him and build your pleasure little by little.

“Always so tight for me, cyar’ika,” he groans as you roll your hips against him.

“Just ‘cause you’re so big.”

Din huffs a laugh underneath you, hips bucking up into your softness forcing a depraved mewl from your lips. His hands squeeze your ass, kneading the flesh and pulling your cheeks apart.

“Next time I’ll fuck your ass. Then you can tell me how big I am,” his filthy growl steals your breath away and you clench hard around him at the promise, making him gasp underneath you.

Din is patient, but you’re not. You need this. Not just your pleasure, but his. You need to make him cum, you need to feel him release inside you, to claim you as his.

You’re riding him for all it’s worth, and it’s just not enough. But it’s like he can read your mind. Din shifts beneath you, and your hands plant down onto his chest just as he uses his new leverage to fuck up into you, stealing your breath away with the force of his thrusts.

“I’m going to fill you up, cyar’ika,” he grunts, fingers digging hard into the meat of your hips to hold you in place as he impales you on his cock over and over again. “Watch you grow with my child.”

“Din, please,” you whine, nails digging into the firm muscle of his chest. You don’t even know what you’re asking for at this point, willing to take whatever Din will give you. Your brain is gone and the world has melted away. There’s only Din, your riduur, your cabur, your Mand’alor.

“I know, mesh’la,” he cradles you close as your arms give out, his hips never slowing as he ruts up into you at a furious pace. One hand tangles in your hair and pulls you in for a teeth-clashing, breath-stealing kiss and it’s the sting at the root of your hair that pushes you over that edge.

Din swallows your sounds and you shake with pleasure and he slows his pace for a moment to give you time to ride through your high. When you finally go limp against him, head dropping to his chest, his hips start again as he chases his own release.

Your limbs feel like jelly, but you slip your hands up to thread through his sweaty curls and scratch at his scalp gently. “Fill me, riduur,” you urge. It’s just seconds later that you feel him swell and twitch inside you, hot ropes painting your walls as he fucks through his high.

When he’s finished you both lie there for a moment, breathing in tandem, Din’s length still seated deep inside you. You start to get up, but your husband has other plans. He maneuvers you easily until you’re lying on the mattress, tucked into his side with his arm wrapped around your waist like a beskar vice. The loss of him inside you makes you whimper and he presses a kiss to your temple.

“Stay here, just a bit longer.” There’s a rustling sound behind you and then Din’s pushing a pillow under your ass, elevating your hips. When you look over your shoulder to face him, he looks almost sheepish. “I want it to take, cyar’ika.”

You can’t help but pull him into a giddy kiss, one he readily returns.

“Fine, I’ll stay. But you should go get some dinner before it burns. And check on our son,” you give his shoulder a shove and wave him off before he can protest, knowing he’ll be back in less than five minutes.

As you watch him pull on his underthings, your heart fluttered in appreciation of the man in front of you–an attentive husband, amazing father, strong leader, but most importantly a good man. You couldn’t wait to tell him that your cycle was already late.

#din djarin #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x reader smut #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian smut #mando x reader #mando x reader smut #dom!din djarin #dom!din djarin x reader #dom!din djarin x reader smut #dom!din djarin x sub!reader #dom!din djarin x sub!reader smut #sub!reader #pedro boys

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lavendarr00 · 3 months

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My honor mode run with my durge, Abel, took a very depressing and dark turn. And I have a lot of thoughts about it. It's a longer read and gets sappy at the end haha but I'm so emotional about this I needed to write it down !! 😭

major TW for death and suicide

Abel lost against Orin (I am SO pissed at myself for losing since I usually get her within 2 rounds on tactician. I was not ready for her legendary action haha) and because of that, Bhaal will cause Abel to go mad as soon as the tadpole is gone. Abel knows this - everyone at camp does. But they don't know yet what he plans to do about it.

Abel is romanced to Shadowheart. They are adorable. Abel has this golden retriever energy about him that has been such a light for SH. They forged a strong bond right away as neither remembers their past so they became each others confidant and advocate even before romantic feelings started to bud up (which didn't take long - it was pretty much love at first sight for Abel). Abel is a resist durge and has been fighting back his urges fiercely since day 1. He has such a soft heart and struggles a lot with carrying the burden of his past atrocities. He never wants to harm an innocent again. But Bhaal will control him, corrupt him, and will turn him back into a killing machine. He cannot let that happen. He cannot see harm come to SH or any of his friends nor could he live with them seeing him at his worst like that. He knows what he needs to do as soon as a the brain falls - he needs to kill himself.

Sleepless night after sleepless night was spent thinking of any way he could evade Bhaal. He even went to Withers who unsurprisingly didn't have anything useful to say. Realizing that this is his only path, he accepts his fate and commits the little time he has left to saving the city and his friends. And commits to being himself as much as he can not letting his plans cast a shadow over the precious little time he has with everyone. Savoring every second with the family he found not even a couple months ago.

The night before the confrontation with the brain, Abel tells Shadowheart of his plans. Shock, anger, despair, then grief for a future they once hoped for that cannot be. Shadowheart pushed back at first asking Abel if there is any other way and frantically racking her mind for alternatives. But she too came to the same realization as Abel. He then tells her everything he needs to: his gratitude to her for supporting him in his fight against the urges, sticking by his side even after that one night in the shadow lands when he tried to kill her, loving him despite his scars and past, and making him the happiest he has been his whole life even if it is was only a short while. He tells her to continue living in the light. To promise him that she will live long and well. And to get that cottage outside of the city she has been pining for.

That night was spent with each other. And when morning came, they steeled themselves for the battle ahead and what follows. Ready because they still have each other. And that's all that matters now.

A year after the defeat of the brain and Shadowheart brings flowers to the memorial the city erected in honor of Abel. And only a 20 minute walk from Shadowheart's cottage which was made possible by Wyll's influence in the city. As she lays the flowers down at the foot of the memorial she smiles and remembers the first time he gave her flowers - her favorite night orchids. Back then when darkness was all she knew, Abel was the spark of life, love, and hope that she had gone without for so long. The spark she needed to dispel herself the dogmatic darkness that plagued her. Her life is her own now and it is full of light, love, and hope. She is fulfilling her promise to him and prays that his spirit may know that and be at peace.

Okay that's all haha. I'm no writer so thanks for suffering through that if you have read this far. I just needed to write this because I was SO close to just ending my honor mode run then and there after Abel lost because I was so disheartened. I cried haha. Taking the bad outcome of the fight and finding a beautiful yet tragic story in it is what is keeping me going. Might delete later idk.

Now let's see if I even make it to the brain! lmao

EDIT: Not only did I make it to the brain, I defeated it! I beat my first honor mode run! But victory was bitter sweet.

RIP Abel, Laezel, and Karlach 🤍

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hum-suffer · 5 months

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I'm Yours 2

Ishan has always been a light sleeper. His mother was proud of him and his dad, a man who craved snacks at midnight, bemoaned his habits.

So when he wakes up on Sunday morning with a fresh gajra tied on his wrist, for a moment, he wonders if this is a hallucination or a dream. He blinks and pinches his thigh, the sharp sting reminding him that it's reality. He frowns, and touches the gajra. It's real.

Ishan takes a deep breath.

"Let's bathe first and then deal with this," he says to himself. Another beat passes as he reconsiders his promise to himself. "Maybe have some tea first."

____________________________________________________

He's so fucking glad that he had the tea first.

The moment he was more awake, he was panicking.

Someone fucking broke into his house? His house? His ancestral, beloved house that had marble flooring which made clancking sounds everytime he walked? Ishan cracks his neck and takes another fortifying breath, staring at the discarded gajra on the dining table. It feels very audacious. And flattering.

The thought is horrifying and for a moment, Ishan imagines his grandfather shaking his head at the bloody idiocy Ishan possesses. Wryly, he says outloud,"I'm a very good source of entertainment, aren't I, Dadaji?"

The house obviously remains silent. In a surprising turn, the loneliness he often feels seeps right back in.

He glances at the gajra again. "Hey, at least, someone alive gets entertainment from me."

He knows he should report this. But for now, he doesn't want to care. It's a bloody Sunday and he will be damned if something ruins his Sunday, even if it's a stalker/admirer.

A message pops on his phone just as he's about to wash his cup. 'Did you like the gajra, love?'

'don't have the hair for it, dude.'

He probably shouldn't antagonise a probable sociopath.

But hey, what is life, if not had decisions taken in the spirit of loneliness?

____________________________________________________

When he's more settled, in the evening, Ishan goes out for a walk. His body aches in protest and the ink marks on his fingers dictate his profession to anyone who cares to see.

End of semester season is horrible, but more so when he already has to plan so much. Tomorrow's the seminar for something techy— Ishan doesn't know, he's the Hindi teacher, and he'd rather prefer not to know. Those things just rot his brain and he hates the seminars more than students, probably, but he'd do just about anything to take some load off of Virat bhaiya. Jaddu almost always lightens the mood at seminars, and he's back from his holiday to Jamnagar, and Ishan is counting on him to be the better part.

Apart from Shubhman, that is.

Ishan cannot get over his silly little crush, no matter how hard he tries and he hates it. That's a celebrity. A good looking, smart philanthropist who also owns a registered firm.

Ishan doesn't know the name of the firm, he realises with a groan. He gets his phone out, shoots a quick text to Shreyas to prepare the introduction speech for Shubhman.

The admirer, has sent him another message.

'Do you have any favourite colour?'

'yes, it's the shade stfu of the colour mind your business.'

'Lol. Really, tho. Don't make me dissect your wardrobe and make a guess, love'

Ishan's eyes narrow. He's not going to be ordered around by this bullshiter.

'Be my guest, love'

'i'm gonna overlook the rudeness for that endearment'

'Im gonna kill u'. Ishan doesn't even realise he's smiling until he casts a random glance at the windows of parked car. He controls his smile instantly.

'your looks already have'

Ishan scoffs at the blatantly cheesy line. Ew. 'Stay dead.'

____________________________________________________

'You have an awful amt of blue clothes'

The message greets Ishan early in the morning, and so does the smell of jasmines. He looks down and there it is— a gajra tied on his wrist.

The pounding headache that he already has becomes more pronounced as he passes through the motions of his schedule, the message a background chatter in his head until he has the cup of tea in his hands.

So.

That happened.

Yesterday's gajra and today's gajra, side by side, stare at Ishan. Ishan gulps. He should not have done that— any of that.

"Kya kar Raha hai tu," he mutters to himself as his thumb hovers over the block button. Why is he hesitating?

(Maybe because he doesn't care of he's dead or alive. Maybe because he wants the attention. Maybe because the idea of being so desired makes him warm. Maybe because someone only focusing on him makes him feel cherished.

Ishan doesn't dissect these ideas.)

He blocks the number and reports it for good measure.

He's already almost late— the quest to find his beloved oversized blue silk shirt had taken too much time. He's probably left it back home, maybe. He doesn't remember taking it there but he's always been clumsy so who knows? He'll continue the quest later.

The smell of jasmines cling to his nose even after he's deliberately choosen a woodsy perfume.

____________________________________________________

Shubhman is at perfect time.

Avesh, the admin staff manager, came almost running to Ishan when Shubhman, bless him, called in advance to say that he'll be at the college withing fifteen minutes.

If Shubhman keeps this up, Ishan will do something embarassing— like quoting Hannibal or something. The sheer appreciation Ishan feels for the man is beyond words.

As always, Rohit bhaiya had forgotten the matchsticks somewhere but Jas had come through and Ishan is now running around only making sure the height of the mic and the placement of flowers.

Siraj drags him forcefully to the gate of the faculty, to greet Shubhman. A volunteer student clicks photos as Virat Bhai hugs Shubhman, who always appears star struck at the attention from their resident King. Rohit bhaiya squeezes Shubhman in a tight hug and the smile Shubhman has on his face is blinding.

(Ishan wishes someone was as happy to see him. His colleagues are always fun, but they have lives— Ishan doesn't.)

When Shubhman turns to him, Ishan can't help but stare. He's wearing a navy blazer over a white shirt and dark blue jeans. His eyes, they're dark and intense. Ishan feels frozen.

"Ishan." His voice sounds so fucking good. He steps forward and before Ishan can hold his hand out for a handshake, Shubhman steps in his personal space and gives him a side hug.

Ishan breathes in, to calm his heart, and catches a distantly familiar scent from Shubhman. It's probably a kind of perfume Ishan knows, he's obsessed with scents.

"Shubhman. It's a pleasure to meet you again."

What the FUCK is he saying. Ishan wants to dig a hole in some lonely ground and bury himself. A pleasure to meet him? Could he be anymore obvious?

"Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."

____________________________________________________

The seminar goes on for two hours, perfectly adhering to the scheduled time and Shubhman has prepared enough to be also able to do a QnA. Ishan will marry him.

The students rush out of the seminar hall without a second thought, all of them sleepy and wanting to enjoy the rest of their day after the cancellation of their classes.

Ishan hums to himself as he wraps up the extra papers and wires, the bag for Shubhman ready to take. "Tulsi, reusable pen, certificate." He counts everything outloud and puts the bag aside. Someone lifts it up instantly. Ishan whips around, seeing Shubhman standing there grinning at him.

"Hello, there."

"Hi, Shubhman. How long have you been standing here?"

"Just long enough to hear that aap Mumbai aa sakte hai."

Ishan feels his face heat up instantly and shakes his head. Shubhman laughs. "Come on, I feel like we should close this hall before someone closes us inside it."

Would it really be so bad?

Oh god, when did he turn into a desperate teenager?

Ishan follows Shubhman out, talking about measley things like movies and songs, to see him off and help him settle with the gifts but they're met with Virat bhaiya and Rohit bhaiya standing at the gate of the faculty and a thundering rain.

Fuck.

They both despise the rain. Ishan does too, to be honest. Almost everyone at the college hates it. Mostly, because after rain, their usually pristine college roads turn into water holding corners at some areas and the greenery in their college always allows for mosquitoes after a good rain.

Virat bhaiya shakes his head,"Unnatural rains, at the time of diwali no less! Kya zindagi hai yaar."

"Why are you being dramatic?" Ishan asks with a groan,"I have to go back on my bike! I'm already applying for sick leave for tomorrow, Rohit bhaiya."

Before Rohit bhaiya can say anything, though, Shubhman frowns at him. "But why do you want to get soaked? I have my car, I'll drop you off at your place."

"Absolutely not, I'm not going to impose on you like that. And what about my bike?"

"I'll send Rutu or someone with it tomorrow to pick you up, bhai." Rohit bhaiya says. "Don't get sick uselessly! Shubhman is right, you don't need to get soaked for nothing."

Shubhman nods along,"And it's not imposing if I offered. Come on, let me do my good deed for the week."

Ishan looks helplessly at Virat bhaiya. He lifts his chin and gives him a reassuring look.

"Okay."

____________________________________________________

Tagging: @mayakimayahai @kyayaarkiraa @ispeakmorelanguagesthanyou @onthecloudseven @khwxbeeda @ek-ladki-bheegi-bhagi-si @fortunatelycrazyyouth @ishkrisq

#desiblr #suffer ye suhana nahi #desi tumblr #ishman #shubhish #shubhman gill #ishan kishan

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mvltisstuff · 11 months

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dreaming of you - e.b

summary: what if the lightning strike killed buck, and y/n and the 118 were left to pick up the pieces?

evan buckley x reader

prepared to make ppl sad!!! this is one of my favorite pieces, i hope you enjoy <3

y/n’s hand was being gripped by maddies, staring at the useless ring on her finger. the one that had become so agonizing in the snap of a finger. they sat in the pews together, surrounded by his family and her own. the 118. her eyes were glued to the wooden box at the front of the church.

the second that intubation entered bucks mouth, everyone knew it wasn’t coming back out, unless it was to finish him off. the lightning strike had hit him at the perfect time, stopping his heart and doing irreparable damage to his brain cells. she knew his exact condition. she repeated it in her head over and over again until it was engraved in her mind like an oath. she swore to marry him, she swore that she would walk down the isle and meet him at the end. all of those promises had been demolished as a result of the storm.

she was completely numb, like she had novacane all over her body. she felt nothing from the monitor connected to buck had made a deafening beep, that failed to cease. buck was her lifeline, her source of energy and he was gone. he was dead, and there was nothing she could do. she felt like god was laughing at her. making a mockery of her by taking him away from her.

whenever someone hears about the five stages of grief, it’s often in a tv show or somewhere in the media. everyone forgets about it up until the moment of loss. there is no possible way to prepare yourself for the reality that is a smack across the face from heaven.

stage one • denial

bucks side of the bed was cold like the winter breeze in the morning. it was painful to touch, feeling like a sting in the heart. y/n couldn’t stop herself from reaching over to place her hand on him, until her hand confronted the empty sheets below her hand. every single day, she came home from that current distraction to see him, and would spend minutes searching for him. minutes, only to realize that he died.

death is a wild thing. a sick and twisted, but inevitable thing. from the moment a person is born, they’re dying. you cannot prevent death. everyone has different definitions to death.

death

/deTH/

noun

1. the state of being dead

2. the permanent ending of vital processes

3. the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

eventually, y/n removed his pillows in avoidance of any reminder of buck. she was practically in hiding from her fiancés state like a wanted person.

stage two • anger

y/n was forced to look in the mirror every day. she had to go to work and look presentable. the only thing she felt was rage. rage for everyone who let this happen. when a person doesn’t have control in their life, stress and fear arise. she couldn’t control what happened to buck. she couldn’t have stopped him from climbing up that ladder. some resentful part of herself wanted it to be her. pissed, she scowls at herself for even falling in love with him.

her life was becoming overcomplicated with the bitterness she had from bucks death. she silently cursed the doctors, when she knew deep down that they did their very best. not everyone can be saved. she swore to the skies, yelping out in agony from the loss of her love.

step three • bargaining

sitting on the dewy grass in front of the headstone, y/n picked the wilting petals off a flower that had grown next to him. she zoned off into a reenactment of the night. buck climbed onto the ladder. the thunder roared. the hoses were turned on. the lightning came down. the lightning brought buck with it.

she wanted to reverse time like a record. she wanted to run up on that ladder and take the strike. she wanted to take the power of electricity and move the strike off his strong, but fragile body. she begged someone, anyone, to turn back the calendar and bring her back to that day. to halt him from speeding up the ladder with his sweet grin and motivated personality. it had been stolen from her grasp before she could even react and scream his name.

some might call it selfish, but she even asked them to take her and bring him back. he was so beyond loved in this world, and he had so much left to do. the fact that she had to give it up and sign the papers was the worst part of it all. she wanted to sneak into the hospital files and erase her stupid signature. the ink that took her best friend away.

step four • depression

chores.

everything in life became a chore. waking up was exhausting. when y/n opened her eyes, she was disappointed, like someone had broken bad news to her. she had been taking time off work, not being able to shake her foggy mind of his face. she stopped getting dressed in the morning. she wore sweatpants and baggy shirts all day. y/n had abandoned herself trying to give her life back to buck. she wanted to live her life for him, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the house.

the dinners and gifts had been nonstop to her house, being left on her doorstep or knocking to hand it directly. she had been checked on by hen, who was bombarded with the scent of whiskey. she swore she didn’t drink that much too often, just enough to take a little bit of the torment away. the 118 helped her constantly by cleaning her house, putting away gift baskets. she couldn’t bring herself to push away from them. the greatest people in bucks life were the 118. they allowed him to make a home there, and he would despise it if she distanced herself.

stage five • acceptance

beating avoidance is a huge step to accepting someone dying. bucks drawers had been stocked full of his items, his products were spread out on the bathroom counter. his favorite coffee was in the cabinet and his shoes were still by the door.

y/n finally decided to stop the affliction of cleaning his belongings out. she forced herself out of bed and swiped all of his things into a box to bring to the shelters. somehow, she managed to bring the clothes out and take in his refreshing scent. they forever smelt like him the same way her house would be intoxicated with it. no air freshener could cover up the torturing aroma.

she refolded all of the clothes the same way he would’ve liked, placing them on the bed, and into a box. there were so many things that she couldn’t bring herself to donate. his jewelry, his books, his coffee. some part of her was ready to face the reality.

her bare feet stepped onto the balcony, glaring at the orange and yellow sky with hints of pink. buck loved sunsets, and a part of her knew he had put that there for her. you always hear that they’re watching over you, but it sure didn’t feel like it. you want to think that, and maybe it’s a placebo effect. it wasn’t until y/n imagined herself back at the beach with buck, watching the sun cascade below the horizon, that she realized it was true.

the way the color reflected in her eyes reminded her of the way bucks blue eyes shined. the way his perfect teeth had glimmered in the light and even any time he smiled. buck woke up for her every day with a smile on his face. it will never make sense how someone can be so loving to the world around him. it will never make sense how that was stripped from the earth.

death is something that no one can answer. why does it happen and how can you face it? there is no facing death. you will never win. its like a game of pinball, no matter how many shots you take, you lose in the end. the arena falls down around you and the world you thought you knew so well changes completely. you don’t get rid of death and you don’t beat it. you learn to cope with the damage. losing someone is not for the weak or the strong. it’s not for the civilians and not for the superheroes. live for the dead, and portray their strength through you.

y/n’s heart beats for buck. she woke up for him and went to bed with him. she came out of every burning building to be with him and she would fight every single war to have him. there is no changing what’s within her, and he is a part of her now. and that is something death will never be able to take away.

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skinks · 7 months

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It’s not reaching to read strong ass themes about autonomy and personhood into titanfall’s 5 hour campaign, and even if it were reaching I would still be having just as much fun jamming all my favourite themes into its gears. The neural link alone is ripe fodder. What does it mean to bond mentally to a synthetic consciousness, let alone one that is programmed to the point of destruction to protect you. To be kept inside its body but to have control of its body transferred to you at the robot’s decision. BT says “Cooper is my pilot,” so by extension this makes BT into Cooper’s titan.

BT’s first protocol is to link to the pilot - in essence, he cannot function unless he is possessed by a human, both in the physical and metaphorical sense. They’re inside each other’s minds and bodies and yet they retain distinct selfhood. Are a titan’s protocols and programming any different from having strong guiding morals? Is the electricity that comprises the consciousness of an organic brain any more significant than the electricity that makes up a datacore? If a robot can learn its decision-making principles through a direct link with its human’s neurons, would it not follow that the robot develops a decision-making matrix that resembles human free will. What if the human in question has grown up through war and has volunteered his own body and personhood to a war for freedom. Aren’t both of their bodies used for the same purpose? Aren’t their identities the same? Their morals?

Plus the entire story is about trust. BT says it over and over, trust me, trust me. To trust something is to have confidence that it will follow through on the promises it gives, like trusting a bridge won’t collapse because you have confidence in its strength. To love someone is to accept they have free will and to help them make the best decisions for themselves, because you can’t control them. When Cooper climbs into the injection mechanism with BT he has to know the dropship rendezvous isn’t coming, he isn’t stupid, and he tells BT he “isn’t going anywhere,” aka, without him. He understands the decision BT has made, and he goes along willingly. Cooper trusts him. He accepts the presence of BT’s free will, because he can’t control what BT does immediately after this. BT overrides the pilot control of his own body, of his own volition, his own free will, because he can’t let Cooper make the wrong decision for himself, even if it was a decision Cooper was making out of love and loyalty. Ergo he loves the robot and the robot loves him

#titanfall 2 #bt-7274 #jack cooper #I’m blair witching in a corner as I say all of this btw

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sillypiratelife · 4 months

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The more I think about it, the more insane the first Mihawk and Zoro encounter is.

Mihawk adopted Zoro right in front of Zeff and went directly to tell Shanks about it???

No, but seriously. There's no way Zeff didn't feel a bit invested in the chaos. He saw Zoro giving his all for his dream and he knew that's how Sanji was too, it's just that Sanji gave up for some reason guilt. It was not only Luffy who convinced Zeff that he needed to kick Sanji out of the Baratie and sent him sailing with those idiots, but also freaking Zoro.

Zoro addressing Luffy as the pirate king in front of everyone??

Fever whenever I think of how you could say Mihawk proclaimed Zoro as Luffy's first mate on the spot. He really said "you two came in the same pack. good". It's like? Oh look, the kid I just adopted is besties with the kid of one of my friends. How convenient.

Mihawk's tiny baby knife. It reminds me of the knife Luffy cut his cheek with when he wanted to prove to Shanks that he was ready to sail with him. Except both Zoro and Luffy gained their mentors' respect, meaning that Shank left Luffy with a hat that identified him from there on, while Mihawk left Zoro with a giant scar all across his chest as the promise Zoro must fulfill to Mihawk.

The fact Mihawk identified Luffy from Shank's stories and he judged Luffy also based on his compatibility with Zoro??????? Sure, only the pirate king would be worthy of having the greatest swordsman in his crew.

Sanji. Sanji's reaction to the whole thing. The desperation in his voice. I still can't believe it was the way Sanji was truly introduced to Zoro. Of course they are not normal about each other. Sanji was screaming for Zoro to give up so he wouldn't die and Zoro was asking for death so he wouldn't be defeated.

"Why are the fighting all the time?" MAYBE BECAUSE THEY STAND DIRECTLY ON TWO OPPOSITE SIDES IN THAT MATTER???

There were already two swordsmen following Zoro?? Calling him big brother?? There were five young men around Zoro's age there and he absolutely didn't disappoint in guiding by example? It was a Zoro masterclass on how to be a strawhat. What a time to be alive.

I just love that everyone was losing their mind over Mihawk and his powers and Zoro just. Jumped to face him. Mihawk told him YOU ARE A KID and Zoro proceeded to impress Mihawk so hard, the man became a fan. It's? Simply?? Idk, idk!

Sanji's family remembers Zoro and Luffy like that. Do you understand what that means? Ussop was kinda there and Nami didn't make the best of first impressions, but Luffy and Zoro made a total show. At that point, Zeff was the kind of dad who almost forced his kid to befriend the other kids he thinks that will be a good influence.

Which again. Insane.

Luffy ready to throw hands over Zoro did not surprise me. The intensity of his panic? The hurt on the way he screamed Zoro's name? He was sweating, using all his willpower to control himself and not interrupt Zoro's fight, he was cursing Mihawk and going wild and— I cannot breathe whenever I remember how Luffy met Zoro, how their friendship started. No one else knows that Zoro was on a Marine base CRUCIFIED. Some freaking pulling this Jesus out of the cross and taking him with me to see the world shit going on here.

The whole Zoro basically crucified image and the whole cross imagery with Mihawk and— I'm not going that route today, sorry.

THE VOW. THE VOW. THE VOOOOOOOOW.

WERE YOU WORRIED ABOUT ME?

AND HE WAS.

The way Sanji calls back to the vow when he criticizes Zoro in Alabasta for being worried about Luffy losing. The Zoro Sanji knows is the one who raised his arm and called Luffy the pirate king, the one who vowed to never lose again to not worry Luffy. Sanji was not happy to see Zoro so out of himself and in a weird (their) way, he was reassuring Zoro. Ugh. My brain hurts.

But then again, Zoro was acting exactly how Luffy acted before. The first fight of Luffy vs Crocodile is clearly paralleling the Zoro vs Mihawk first encounter. I'll need a therapist after this.

I'm just now reading the version of the manga and not the anime and wjdnkdbfjej I just—

The end(?)

#shan blogs about one piece!#one piece anime #roronoa zoro #monkey d. luffy #black leg sanji #dracule mihawk

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stvnszlr · 3 months

Note

HI! Here to beg u for Steven adhd headcanons

Pls i promise i'll be good this year.

oh my goodness … so um this is something i am like way too passionate about !! im going to seem like the craziest crazy person EVER by sharing this cuz i wrote .… a lot but u guys gotta stick with me okay you’ll see the vision

THANK YOU for asking this btw ! this is one of the things that makes me relate to steven the most ,,>_<,, and i will literally talk abt it anytime

☆ steven adhd hc’s / reasons why i think it’s possible he has adhd ! ☆ ( coming from someone who has a severe combined type adhd diagnosis )

please note this is all just speculation !! i’ve noticed some connections between his behavior / things he’s spoken about and adhd symptoms , but i am certainly no doctor and the only one who can truly determine any of this is steven himself . these observations are mostly just for my comfort as a neurodivergent person :)

ohhh stevie is a BIG stimmer :) he taps on everything in sight , he also hums a lot and likes to move his body ! bouncing , jumping , flapping , shaking , jiggling , playing with his hair ( i have video evidence sue me >:( )

people often describe him as “twitchy” , randomly making odd movements or sounds that can surprise and confuse those around him

vocal stims , dude . like my man is a parrot he’ll repeat random phrases over and over without thinking about it , just going about his day mumbling the most obscure sentences without even realizing

i’ve also noticed from watching videos he has a big BIG tendency to repeat things other people say !! i think that’s a combo of vocal stimming and also struggling to fit in when making conversation

he has literally confessed to having sensory issues related to taste and texture ??!?!? so i imagine he has them with other things too it’s mostly touch or sound related things that really get to him and can cause overwhelm but honestly anything that catches him at the right time will have him retreating inside himself and blocking everything out , unable to respond cuz he can’t think or listen

also seems to struggle with clothes touching his body ! he is always in loose tank tops and wears a lot of cropped pants / shorts , and has never really worn a lot of accessories unlike his bandmates . this could definitely be attributed to sensory issues , especially hating the feeling of wearing jewelry ( rings especially ) and also makeup on his face

drums !!! poppy loves drumming , it is SUCH a good stimulant for his brain cuz it works muscle memory , gives a dopamine rush , and combines both creative thought with an athletic activity

hyperfixations oh my god he is so bad . so so bad . he’ll pick up something for like a few weeks and dedicate EVERYTHING to it just to never pick it up again

very typical hyperactive type adhd , trouble focusing and sitting still OH MY GOD this man cannot sit normally for the life of him

um hyperfocus also !! drums is prolly his biggest one but if it’s something he’s super tuned into he can just . sit there and mindlessly work on it for HOURS before someone notices and is like hello take a break ??

didn’t like school cuz he always felt like he wasn’t smart , he was actually really interested by some subjects but just couldn’t keep up as a student :/ he also started getting into skating and music which were much better dopamine activities than school so he kinda just . quit ?

part of why his mom kicked him out so young , he was impulsive and reckless and very VERY high energy , easily irritated and his emotions had no filter / couldn’t control them or his actions based on them

this poor kid is so forgetful . he really cannot remember shit and it gets him in trouble a lot ! he’s gotta be reminded by the guys about EVERYTHING and it annoys them to no end , and steven always feels bad cause he wishes he could remember , but for some reason he forgets every time !

it’s where his irritability comes from too , he sometimes flips like a switch and can get really defensive and aggressive . he’ll lash out and turn really angry — not in a super serious way , but it’s the reason he gets in so many little fights with all the other guys , especially axl .

this is also tied in with the rlly strong sense of justice that neurodivergent people feel !! the reason he’d stand up and talk back when everyone else could just let it go

easier to fall into addiction and harder to get out of it . places a vice on his brain , trapping him in dependency on the drugs and making it so much more difficult to quit — why it took him so much longer to get sober than any of the others , even after all his health scares

drugs are also a coping mechanism for sensory issues and that awful , isolating feeling of being built just slightly different than everyone else

UM ???? LIKE EVERYTHING ABOUT STEVEN POST GNR + LEAVING THE BAND IS JUST SCREAMING RSD ??? like the abandonment issues built up from his childhood ON TOP of being insanely sensitive to disappointing others / feeling unwanted ?? yeah i fucking understand why he couldn’t let go of it for almost twenty years of his life that’s like the worst possible thing to go through as someone hypersensitive to feelings of rejection bro . oh my god .

rsd also attributes to him being really eager to please especially with friends , and trying to talk himself up and seem cool and on their level and worth keeping around :(

i do also think it is likely that he learned to mask a LOT of his symptoms , of course not all of them ( as we can pretty obviously see in like . any video ever taken of him ) but a lot of the less socially acceptable ones he naturally forced himself to hide :(

#thanks for listening to my yapping #i am begging this man to take the brown scales test he would be off the charts #steven adler #saz speaks #saz requests !#guns n roses #gnr #steven gnr #steven adler adhd #guns n roses headcannons #steven adler imagine #adhd #neurodivergent

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magpiemoon6 · 6 months

Text

Extraction point

Simon Riley x Y/N

Sad fluff !!!

Warnings: PTSD, depression, mental health issues

( I'm sorry if there is any writing mistakes I'll fix them tomorrow)

Reminder people, you are loved and deserve happiness always <3

A thousand tones feel like it’s on my chest, I cannot breathe. Like the world has chosen this exact moment to swallow me up in my pain and stress. My mind betrays me and falls in its own trap of self-doubt. I’m so far behind where I’m meant to be and the guilt of not living up to my own expectations for my inner child is eating me up. And in this moment every single mistake or failure seems to pile up in my head. I’m drowning even though I’m on land.

But he seems to be a light in my darkness, I need Simon, and before the guilt stops me, I reach for my phone under the pile of covers and duvets. Searching through the stuffy warmth till my hand claps the cold object. Pulling it to my chest, my eyes are swollen from crying and my nose is entirely blocked from my crying till my vision goes blurry.

I search for his name in my phone, I just want to hear his phone, the warmth of his voice is like a drug and the euphoria should shield me from my pit.

Si <3

“Hey, are you free a second? If not no worries x”

I feel so wrong for relying on him, but I promised Simon, that if it gets bad, we won’t shut each other out not again. That we can be each other’s extraction point.

Buzzing snaps me out of my brain unravelling in my hands. He’s calling and my heart drops because if he hears I’ve been crying he will come running and I can’t do that to him. Clearing my throat, I click to answer.

“Hello lovie” Simon says, and it feels like the flood gates are getting harder to hold shut, I just want him here and I’m so fucking selfish for that.

“Hey baby, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have texted you” I respond, I don’t want him to panic so I’m praying that my voice sounds calm, and my breathing is even enough he won’t realise.

“What happened? Tell me please y/n? I’m here” I can hear the anxiousness in his voice creep in, shit he knows and when he says that everything in me that was protecting him from my pain breaks from his kindness.

I’m crying again silent tears and my breathing stops trying helplessly to hold it in.

“I’m fine, I’m fine Simon, it’s stupid I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’m a big girl I just needed to hear your voice,” my voice is breaking as I say it, my grip on my phone is too tight. I need to let go. But I cant.

“Y/n?” the softness in his tone is so different from his voice yet hearing him say my name gives me more comfort than the dozens of duvets on top of me.

“Yes Simon?” I need to get control of my sadness, it kills me knowing he has to hear me like this.

“It’s going to be okay love” and that makes me sob harder, holding the phone away from myself so he is saved from my pain.

“Okay, thank you. Bye Si” and that’s all I can say because if I say anything else it will involve me pathetically asking him over and he deserves better than the mess I am in this moment.

So now I’m sat here in my cold dark room alone. Submerged in my pain. I’m so tired of this, I want to be better, to get better and no more need for meds and therapy and other people to hold me together. I feel pathetic as if I’m dragging on everyone’s life. I want to live without all my sadness.

I’m too sucked into my own depression to hear the door of my flat opening and shutting. Too distracted to recognize the footsteps moving towards my room.

Simon opens the door, and I don’t know how to cope with my emotions. My heart practically burst knowing he came over, giving me some hope that maybe I am worthy of his love. But then he has to see my darkness, the hypocrite I am knowing I’ve seen him where I am and gave him all my love I possibly could.

“Hey love,” he’s quiet even for him, moving through the room like he is terrified he may break something or me.

“You didn’t have too” the guilt stays heavy on my shoulders.

Knowing he is staring at me, someone who is normally so full of light now covered in darkness that fills the room and holds it down. He begins to move onto the bed gently, moving himself silently under the covers with me. My heart hurts. Loving him gives me air in my lungs, everything about him gives me hope and love. I could stare at him for a thousand years and still not get enough.

“Y/n, I love you, okay? I will be here if I’m dead or alive, a million miles away or next door.” Pulling me into his chest, the heat of his body makes the blankets feel cold.

I cant stop crying even if I wanted too, pushing my face into his chest and curling into him, I let him hold me and begin to pull away all the darkness that doesn’t seem to drown me as much now. I feel him large hand begin to gently stroke my hair, moving through it as he soothes soul with his love.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble into his chest, this makes his hand stop its rhythmic pattern of brushing through my hair. Tilting my head to his eyes.

He stares back and I fall in love all over again, those honey eyes are only filled with compassion and understanding. Before him my loneliness was my company, and everything was always so violent. But with him now I’m learning to live without violence and less loneliness.

“What’s our promise?” he asks me, still holding me tightly letting my pain wash away his love flooding me and bring me back to the now.

“That we will always be each other’s extraction point,” the quote we made up before we even started dating. The quote that we held onto before we knew our love wasn’t one sided.

“Exactly,” he says and goes back to stroking my hair and listening to my hiccupping breathing, never judging just existing with me.

“Thank you, I love you” and I mean it, the same way I know he does too. Our darkness still haunts us both, but we have learnt to comfort each other and hold out the light when we need it.

“I love you too”.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #fluff #sad fluff #call of duty #writing #mental health

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juliacoller · 10 months

Text

Ghoul and Ghoulettes Smut HC's

I absolutely needed to throw all of my ideas out there, and this isn't even all of them

Warnings: breeding kink, biting, nipple play, choking, dacryphilia, puppy!Mountain, size kink, praise kink, body worship, foot fetish, roughhhh sex, feminization, strap on play, and oral (female and male recieving)

Word Count: 2,334 words

Swiss:

He absolutely has a breeding kink

Loves to bite on his partner, leaving marks just from scraping his fangs over their skin

Could spend hours just sucking on his partner's nipples, loving the way they squirm and whimper as he licks and laps at their rosy buds

Speaking of whimpering, he absolutely loves a noisy partner, as he himself cannot shut up during sex. He loves being vocal, moaning, groaning, whimpering, and especially crying

"Gotta cum in you"

"One more for me, baby"

"Gonna let me knot you?"

"Gotta fuck you so good"

"Such a messy boy/girl/baby"

Loves to watch his partner cry from pleasure, so overwhelmed that all they can do is sob and beg

Wants to watch mascara and tears stream down their face, trace the lines, and lick the tears off of them

Get a hand around his throat and he's immediately gone, stare into his eyes and threaten him with a real sweet promise and he will be putty in your hands

He's willing to get on his knees for anyone he finds worthy, nearly kissing the ground they walk on. He will go to embarrassing lengths to worship their partner

Sidenote: We all know that all of the ghouls are in intimate relationships with each other aka... they fuck

To continue on that: Swiss absolutely LOVES sex with Cumulus, something about how plush her thighs are around his face, the squish of her tummy against his as he fucks into her, and the jiggle of her tits as she viscously rides him. He just has something for the way her body envelopes him and reacts to each movement he makes.

Aether:

Aether likes to be reminded that he is bigger than his partner (if true), likes having them under him, watching them drown in his presence

Def hard dom vibes, will do anything for his partner to service them but will not take any brattiness, he won't be asking them to do anything, he will be forcing them to obey

Will fuck the brattiness out of anyone, he once got Dew to stop bitching about how bad his fingers hurt from practice by giving them something else to do

Likes to have his nipples played with, I HC that he got them pierced at some point when they were on the road. He saw just how much Dew loves having the jewelry played with and had to know what it was about.

Please touch his nips.

Wants to put his hands to use, will use them to jack off any of the other ghouls before a ritual, or sink them so deep into his bandmates until they are whimpering and sobbing into his shoulder

He misses touring with the Ghost Project but doesn't shy away from sending videos to his pack mates, reminding them of just how much he misses fucking them

Phantom:

He has a ginormous praise kink, with him being so new and unsure of everything it can be overwhelming, but the moment Swiss opens his mouth to say, "Pretty boy really does have some talent" at their first rehearsal, Phantom can't get it out of his brain until later that night as he whimpers and moans in the shower

He's so bendy??

Likes when his partner forces him into different positions, wants his partner to shove his knees above his head as they hold him and fuck him into the bed

When he first gets involved with the other ghouls, he is almost always the bottom, a bit too shy to be bratty or take control of a space, but once he gets a bit more comfortable he works his way up to topping Sodo, but having to rely on (to Sodo's excitement) his quintessence a bit much

He tends to be a bit quiet in his day-to-day life but is very expressive in his body language, his eyebrows are always responding and his posture is a giveaway of his emotions

His quietness does translate to his loudness during sex, he's normally quiet and tries to swallow his noises as much as he can, but when his partner gets him too worked up he can let out little whimpers and groans that are soooooo meek, but it definitely gives his partner a sense of achievement

He likes his hair being played with, tugging, braiding, brushing, just about anything will make his heart tug simply because his partner wants to play with his hair

Sodo:

He's a brat...

What more do you want me to say?

He wants to get pissed off and have someone put him in his place, force his face into the bed as they pound him from behind, tell him that he's dramatic and ridiculous, degrade him and remind him of just how rude he can be, but he is never, ever, left to feel alone or unwanted.

Sodo has some separation issues, fearful that his pack will leave him to be alone, that they will ostracize him, that one day they will get sick of his antics.

Due to these fears, he needs reassurance. He loves his rough sex, loves when his fellow ghouls degrade him, but he needs the aftercare after.

Like Sodo wants to lay in bed or in the bath and cuddle until he falls asleep, he doesn't ask for much but he just wants to be held and reassured.

He's kinda like a kitten after sex, he just makes little mewling and purring sounds and squishes his face up against his partner

Enough kitty dew, Sodo will do just about anything and everything with his partner

Want him to choke you? He's there in a second

Want him to cry when you fuck him? Don't even have to ask

All to say, Sodo is pretty much all game for anything his partner wants. But, I think that comes from the people pleaser in him.

Rain:

He's babygirl.

He wants to be rammed into the bed while being called pretty

Put him in some frilly lingerie and embarrass him and he'll be blushing like crazy

When he blushes, it's not only his cheeks. His chest erupts in blooms of red and pink, his ears get red like cherries, and his neck becomes a beautiful light pink.

He wants to get all hot and embarrassed in front of his partner, he wants tears to flow from his cheeks, and he especially wants them to lick said tears off of his cheeks when their done

Loves to have sex in water, sign him up for shower sex any time

He wants to be in touch with his element while his partner sucks his soul out of him, or while he shoves them against the wall and desperately fucks them

He likes to have sex in the lake that is near the Abbey, on the bank or while in the water, wants to just be in his element and in his partner

Isn't afraid of domming sometimes, he will put someone in their place and fuck them until they're crying desperate

He is very clumsy

He tends to get a lot of bruises, he wants to look at them and see how the blue, purple, and yellow stain his skin

He especially likes when his partner pushes their thumb into the bruises, a cry erupting from deep in his chest

Wants the pain to intervene with his pleasure, sting through just as he feels good

He falls a lot, he has a hard time with his exceptionally long limbs, this translates into his sex quite often

He's bendy, tied up like a human pretzel, and he wants to be treated as such. He likes pulling his knees up and holding the backs of his knees, he especially likes when Aether pushes him back, up, and over so that his knees are over his head and pushing into the bed.

Please... he's the definition of Babygirl

Mountain:

He's just so biggggg

He looms over his partner, and it comforts him to know that

His hands especially are big, can wrap them around his partner's neck and they easily cover the entire front

He likes to shove his hands in his partner's mouth, make them gag and swallow around his fingers and see the way tears prick in the corner of their eyes just from the mere size of his hands

His large size also translates to his cock, and boy does he love to watch the way his partner's body swallows him and eagerly takes him

He has a foot fetish, sorry

He loves to give foot rubs, using the excuse that he just wants to "relieve some stress" for his partner, but they both know how much it affects him

Their foot in his lap and hands, his cock is twitching in his pants, saliva is pooling in his mouth

It's not long before he's drooling over them and kissing up their legs, begging to be inside of them

He likes to be called things like, "pretty boy", "beautiful", and "little thing"

Make him feel pretty, he's so big and he's always equated with being so masculine, he wants to be someone's little toy

As much as he loves being the dominant one, he wants to be humiliated, wants to submit to someone

He wants to sob and scream for his partner, bow to their feet and worship the ground they walk on

He wants them to tell him just how bad he's been, shove his face into the ground and watch his tears dampen the carpet

I also am a firm puppy!Mountain believer.

Cumulus:

She's so soft, and everyone knows it and wants to benefit from it\

She loves when she gets to dom her partner

Likes watching tears flow down their face, especially likes when they wear mascara or eyeliner, the streams of black only encouraging her more

Likes when she gets to shove her partner's head between her thighs, not only does she enjoy the blinding pleasure they give her, but she likes that she gets to see their eyes roll back, hair get all jostled from her fingers, and tongue lapping so deliciously at her folds

She wants to see bruises on her thighs from her partner gripping her too tight

Please squish your face in her tummy and thighs, she's so soft and comfy, it's a real turn on for her if you squeeze and love these places on her

She def has a strap and uses it frequently

The boys in the pack beg for her to use it on them, hearing stories from Dew about just how rough she was on him, he couldn't walk for quite some time after

Cirrus and Sunny are very familiar with her strap and beg for it quite often

She is waiting to fucking Rora with her strap, too nervous to break her down too quick

Cirrus:

She's mommy. She expects to be called such.

She likes standing above her partner, making them feel small under her stare, shrinking into their own embarrassment

She wants to ride her partner and pretend that it isn't affecting her at all, stare in their eyes and see the tears as they form

Her fingers are dexterous, nimble, and lithe

She wants to shove her fingers in every place possible

Shoving her fingers into her partner's mouth, forcing them to swallow and gag around them, she wants them to swirl their tongue around her digits and sob as she deprives them of all sensations besides her fingers in their mouth

Shoving their fingers in their hole, watching them sob and writhe around her, their hole squeezing on her fingers

Although she wants to stretch her partner out, she doesn't plan on utilizing their hole, she wants them to impale her

She'll leave them leaking and stretched, only for her to sink onto their cock/strap

She is desperate to leave marks on her partner, scratching and sucking all over their skin. Going as far as drawing blood after digging her nails in too far

Cirrus wants to look at the marks afterwards, run her hands over the cuts and bruises with care, pressing kisses to all of the parts of their skin that are still sensitive

Aurora:

She's such a princess

Which also means she's a pillow princess, she loves when her partner takes care of her, she feels like it's proof of their dedication for her

She wants her partner to tell her how pretty she is as she lays there and takes whatever they give her, little tears pricking her eyes as she gets so incredibly overwhelmed with pleasure

She wants to be overstimulated and overwhelmed, she will take whatever her partner gives her, even if that means her body is writhing and begging for them to stop

She likes when her partner gives her hickeys all over her body, she likes when she can look at the purple blooms all across her beautiful skin

She especially likes when her partner rubs their hands all over her when she's sore after sex, pressing their fingers into the bruises forcing a small moan to leave her lips

She wants to be called such lovely names, make her feel pretty

"Princess" and "Pretty Girl"

She will also become a bit bratty if she is called anything different, when her partner calls her "messy girl" when she's got a bit of their cum dripping out of her mouth she immediately pouts and becomes a bit more resilient

She's just so soft and pretty

The pack is so gentle with her, but she snapped at Mountain one day and begged him to absolutely wreck her, that she's "not made of glass, now please fuck me"

She ended up sobbing as he folded her in half and fucked her within an inch of her life

After that, the pack was a little less gentle with her and realized that she can take more than they originally thought

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possumbylight · 1 year

Text

Lonely Rite

A/N: this is my first time posting my writing on tumblr despite posting on ao3 a bit recently so i wanted to start cross posting my stuff in case anybody here wants to read it too thanks for stoppin by ;)

Summary: She can’t sleep while her husband is away on a two-week business trip. so she turns to the next best thing, even if it is ten feet taller than her and made of stone.

Warnings: None! it’s fluff, and i don’t think there’s any language (if there is it’s super mild), and there’s one teeny itty bitty suggestive line at the end but it is so so mild i swear

Pairings: Zhongli/Reader, Hu Tao and Childe as pals along the way

The driving rain was her only warmth, though it slowly chilled her the longer the evening drew on. It was impractical to risk exposure to the element, but all practicality had dwindled over the past two weeks like a waning flame that finally evaporated into smoke when she had first stepped into the storm.

For two weeks, she had fought to find interest anywhere other than the nagging thoughts in her brain, seeking company from just about anyone who would humor her for even a moment. She was not usually one to stop to converse with street-side merchants for no reason but friendly chitchat-- that was more her husband’s domain, after all-- but everyone from the perfume seller to the old kite-maker to the shaky fishmonger by the docks had entertained her insatiable need to kill time.

She was running out of topics of conversation. The weather could only get her so far, and she was loath to discuss the death of Rex Lapis, given that she was not good at keeping secrets.

When she failed to sleep for the nth time since her husband’s departure, she grew sick of her ordeal, sick of the inside of her house, and sick of the empty bed that was far too big for her alone. She knew precisely where she was headed when she opened her front door, and even the bite of the stinging rain could stop her from completing her mission. It was, undoubtedly, a drastic measure, but she had put up far too long with drastic times.

Two weeks prior.

“I will not be away long, dearest,” her husband promised, though his own eyes were laced with a distinct sorrow that even his unending wisdom could not mask. “I will write when I can. Will you write to me, as well?”

“If I don’t, will you come home sooner?”

He laughed. She would miss the sound.

“I will return as soon as my job is complete.”

“And you’re sure I can’t come with you?”

“I fear your boss at the book house would not appreciate your sudden departure,” he argued, frustratingly practical to the extent that it made her pout. It wasn’t fair that he always made such good points. She deserved to be impractical every now and again, but her husband always made far too much sense. “And I could hardly put you in such danger. I fear that the days ahead will be harsh. You should not be subjected to such hostilities.”

“And you should?”

“I have survived far worse.”

“Yes, but you can’t exactly hurl mountainsides anymore, can you?” She muttered under her breath, folding her arms like a cross child, if only so that he would dote upon her.

“While it is true that I cannot control the earth as I could in my youth, you underestimate my resolve. I am no feeble old man, my love. I will return to you safely, as I always have, as I always will.”

Eventually, she had been convinced, though hardly happy about it. She may have been a lowly bookstore clerk with a penchant for adventure novels, but she was also a seasoned adventurer herself. Who better to judge such subject matter than one who has experienced it firsthand?

Y/n could have easily boarded the boat with her husband and traveled to Inazuma to fulfill whatever harebrained request had been made of him. Why some random Inazuman citizen had any authority to commission a funeral parlor consultant from Liyue, she did not know, but if she ever met the doushin who had sent for her husband to cross the sea under such treacherous conditions, she would not be kind.

But despite her dramatics, she woke up the next day, rubbed her eyes of sleep all by herself, made tea all by herself, and made the walk to work all by herself, feeling all the while that the sun was a little dimmer without her companion to help guide her step.

She felt desperate. She felt pathetic, like some poor little lost puppy, following her husband around and giving him big moony eyes every time he so much as cleared his throat to speak, but before she had met him, she had been lonely for some time. She was quiet by nature, and when she had packed her life up and moved to Liyue on a whim, it hadn’t been long before she realized that her only friends were coworkers and books.

Meeting him amongst the shelves was a dream, and falling in love with him was a fresh adventure every day.

As she stepped behind the desk at the Wanwen Bookhouse, she remembered exactly where he had stood when she had first met him.

She didn’t want to bother him—most who wandered onto the top level of Wanwen Bookhouse enjoyed the quiet. The Liyue sun was good to them, pleasantly wandering across the spines of books but not so harsh that it bore down on the patrons as they leisurely paced through the shelves. She tended to let her visitors experience the shop at their own pace until they signaled a need of her.

This man, however, looked so remarkably pensive that she could not help but ask. His one hand pressed lightly to his chin and the other tucked behind his back, the only part of him that proved him not to be an elegant statue was his hair, bristling at the ends as the wind flitted through the pages around him.

“Can I help you find something today?” she asked him, approaching as though opening her hand toward a timid animal. “You look awfully deep in thought.”

He took his time responding, but his kind smile was enough to assure her that she had not overstepped. When he did speak, his voice, sturdy as stone and smooth like honey, warmed her.

“I am glad you asked. If I might take a moment of your time, I have several questions regarding this series.”

“I’d be happy to answer, sir.”

He took a single book into his gloved hands, cradling it gently yet weighing it as though assessing its contents through feel alone, as if it would somehow whisper to him the precise questions he ought to ask of her. She took his brief distraction to watch him unabashedly. The people of Liyue were pretty, certainly, but this man had eyes made of precious stone a face of ageless beauty. The way he carried himself alone was enough to make her feel only two inches tall, but the ease with which he spoke to her and the care of his words calmed her.

“I am curious about the author. Zhang Jianning is a name I have yet to encounter. Do you know of his history?”

She nodded, a quiet smile rising on her face. Thankfully, the man had asked her about a beloved adventure series, one which she was immensely fond of. If there was any single employee at the Wanwen Bookhouse who could best answer his questions, it was her.

“Zhang Jianning is actually a pen name. Call of the Ocean Void was actually written by a woman, who used the name of her husband so that she could publish her works.”

“Fascinating,” he replied, and she sensed that he meant it. Sometimes, a customer would ask her for a recommendation, and she would get overexcited at the prospect and accidentally bore the patron into pitying her, nodding along though they had stopped caring long ago. It wasn’t often, after all, that she got to talk to people about a subject she loved so dearly, so when someone asked a question, she really let herself go.

“Her name was actually Zhang Ting, and her work was revolutionary at the time. The genre was flooded with a whole lot of men telling the same stories, and when Ting published the first book of her series, it was an instant success. She revealed her true name when she finished the last installment of the series, and then published everything afterwards under her own name. But instead of changing newly published editions of Call of the Ocean Void, she kept them under her husband’s name as thanks to him.”

“That is a wonderful tale,” the man complimented her, and she flushed at the praise. It wasn’t every day that she had tall, handsome men praising her for her ability to ramble about her favorite books. “Do you enjoy this series yourself?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You are obviously quite interested in its history. Do you enjoy the content, as well?”

“It’s one of my favorites,” she explained as her fingers brushed across the book spines, coming to rest on one particular novel. “The fourth book is my favorite. It’s—well, I won’t tell you, in case you decide you’d like to read it. Do you like adventure novels?”

“I often find myself consuming solely non-fictional accounts and entirely neglecting fiction, but I have recently become quite appreciative of the thrill of adventure.”

Y/n had helped him purchase the book, and within a few days, he had returned for the next book in the series. By the fourth book, he decided that he would buy all of them at once, and she, though pleased by the idea that she had sparked his interest in a beloved series, lamented that she would no longer be encountering the man who was turning out to be her favorite customer.

As she carefully jotted down the details of his newest purchase for her records, he cleared his throat, and for the first time, she witnessed a slight discomfort in his stance.

“Miss Y/n, I wonder if you have ever taken the time to listen to the local storytellers? I find that Tian is quite skilled in his art.”

“Mr. Tian is the storyteller at Third-Round Knockout, right? I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Then, perhaps you would be interested in accompanying me tomorrow evening.”

“To… to listen to the storyteller?”

“Yes, if you would like. If you have other matters to attend, I understand.”

“No, I would like that.”

Y/n sighed sweetly at the memory, cursing her past self for being so oblivious and so cowardly. If she had accepted that their first trip to the storyteller had been their first date, then perhaps they could have moved on with the whole relationship with considerably more efficiency than they did, dawdling and pining for at least a year.

Despite the memories that lived amongst all of the shelves, she completed her job as efficiently as she could without daydreaming.

Eleven Days Prior.

Several days later, and she was desperate enough to wander into the halls of the Northland Bank, seeking the company of the man who had attempted to drown the entire city with her inside it, and yet, somehow became a friend to both her and her husband. Tartaglia, if rumor was to be believed, had killed her husband, but she only rolled her eyes at such tall tales. The bloodthirsty Eleventh Harbinger would never kill without a proper fight, and despite his grandstanding, a row with Morax was not a fight Tartaglia could reasonably win.

“I’m here to see Childe,” she muttered to the baffled attendant behind the counter. Usually when she made visits to the Northland Bank, she was accompanied by her husband, whose stately presence made up for the fact that the two of them were seemingly nobodies come to call on a high and mighty harbinger. Now all by herself, she was just a shy little civilian who no doubt appeared visibly unnerved by the hollow and clean halls of the bank.

“Lord Tartaglia does not take meetings without an appointment,” came the steady reply. The guards eyed her warily. “What is your name?”

“Y/n. I don’t have an appointment, though.”

“Then I’m afraid you will have to return once you have made the appropriate preparations.”

“Oh. Sorry, then, I—”

“Y/n! There you are, comrade.” If the voice wasn’t unmistakable, the fiery head of hair that bobbed down the stairs was a clear tell from a mile away. As soon as his boots hit the expensive marble floor, all heads in the room bowed in reverence. Y/n felt a swell of pride in her chest. “Don’t tell me that Levin was giving you a hard time.”

“He was just making sure I wasn’t coming to assassinate you, I suppose.”

“And? Are you?”

“Don’t sound so excited about it, Childe. I’m a decent adventurer, but I would be far too easy of a fight for you.”

“Yes, I fear that you would be,” he uttered, though his voice was still riddled with the humor that made his threats so chilling—the ease with which he spoke of conquest and battle, followed by a cheery laugh, made talking with him unnerving at times. It was only because he was a dazzling conversationalist and a loyal friend that she and her husband were able to skillfully repress Tartaglia’s rocky past.

“So why do you still look like you want to try it?”

“Ah, because after I’ve successfully gotten you out of the way, then your lover would have no choice but to fight me. Where is Mr. Zhongli, by the way? I’m surprised he’s left you to roam the streets alone.”

Her face scrunched so pitifully that Childe nearly laughed, had it not been for the unutterable sadness that filled her eyes.

“He’s in Inazuma,” she whined, trekking with heavy step up the stairs behind him. “Some stupid doushin asked for his expertise on a case or something.”

“Inazuma. That’s awfully far. How long will he be gone?”

“Two weeks.”

“Aw, poor little thing. You look like someone’s knocked the wind right out of your sails. But, if you’re lonely, we could always go outside the city and find some treasure hoarders to knock around a bit.”

She pondered the idea longer than she was proud of.

“Ask again in a few days,” she finally sighed. “I might get bored enough to take you up on that.”

One Week Prior.

She had, several days later, taken up Tartaglia on his offer to go adventuring, and even though he had been more than happy to take care of any enemy that passed their way, y/n still ended up aching in the joints and riddled with little cuts and bruises all over every inch of skin that had been exposed during their journey.

So, she hobbled up the long and arduous path to Bubu Pharmacy, praying to all the archons that the tall stairs would miraculously shorten to make her journey less painful.

“How am I supposed to pray to Rex Lapis for the earth to bend to my will,” she muttered bitterly as she heaved another step upward, “when he’s out of town on a business trip?”

“Good afternoon, y/n! You’re looking a little worse for wear. Might I inquire as to why you’re so beaten up?”

Hu Tao skidded to a halt beside her, and somewhere, Qiqi let out a relieved sigh that the director had been momentarily sidetracked by another potential client.

“I went out adventuring yesterday, to pass the time.”

“To pass the time, or to pass away? You know, I have been designing an attractive pair of couple’s coffins for you and Mr. Zhongli, but if you go ahead and die now, you’ll get a significant discount.”

“I don’t plan on dying right now, but thank you,” y/n muttered, somewhat gratefully. She had been quite sure at the bottom of the stairs that she would survive to the top, but somewhere around the middle, her faith in herself wavered.

“Let me know if you change your mind. Have you heard from Mr. Zhongli since he’s been gone?”

“Mm, he sent me a couple letters. The weather’s been rough in Inazuma lately. Apparently, their stormy season is particularly trying.”

Y/n grimaced as she recalled her husband’s wording, and the way she knew he was masking some of the peril he had experienced. No doubt, he was trying his best to keep her from worrying so much that she hopped on the next boat out of town and tried to fight the Raiden Shogun in his honor.

My dearest y/n,

I write to inform you that I have safely landed in Inazuma’s port at Ritou. The maple trees are rich with color, and the air is clean, when the storms have subsided. Ritou is lined with quaint little markets, and I have found the time to pick up a few souvenirs you will no doubt find interesting.

I did remember my wallet, this time.

The famed Yae Publishing House is my next prospect, and I intend to visit as soon as I have reasonable time. Perhaps if I find a suitable novel, I can read it aloud to you when I return. Though, I miss your voice so much I may request that you read it aloud to me, at least for a night. I could never fully give up the sight of you curled up at my side, dozing off to sleep at the sound of my voice.

I hope you are faring well in my absence. I know how reluctant you were to leave me by the docks, and it pained me just as much to watch as you faded into the distance. I could see the tears in your eyes, and my heart begged me to beseech the captain to turn the boat around just so that I could comfort you.

I digress—I do not wish to make you feel lonely.

Inazuma is a beautiful nation, despite its weather becoming volatile at times. There is no need to worry, however, as my lodging during my journey provides me a sturdy roof. I doubt, as well, that this nation’s archon would be so quick to strike me down with her lightning.

Rest assured that the Shogun’s thunder is a terror I have survived many a time.

I hope to bring you here someday, during a season in which the weather is far more temperate. The Sakura trees surrounding the Grand Narukami Shrine are loveliest at the peak of their blooms, and I believe you would enjoy the long and winding walk to the mountain’s peak. The pathway is paved with stone, and the red of the wooden terraces is rich against the pale blue of the sky.

Nothing compares, however, to the way you shine under the Liyue sun. I hope the sun shines on the day I return to you, darling, but even if it does not, I will be equally overjoyed to see you.

All my love,

Zhongli

Y/n hoped that Hu Tao couldn’t read the way her lip barely trembled at the thought of the poetic letter. She wished, after all the beautiful books she had read, of all the brilliant and descriptive words she knew, that she could write nearly as well as Zhongli. He always went on about how he loved the way her words sounded on her tongue or on the page, but she knew that she was hardly impressive compared to him.

She swooned when he so much as asked her to pass the sugar bowl.

Hu Tao, despite having offered y/n a comfortable means of transport to the afterlife, helped her up the stairs until Dr. Baizhu could properly prescribe a salve that would hopefully heal all of her wounds by the time her husband arrived, though she wasn’t opposed to the idea of her beloved doting on her as he cooed at how pitiful her wounds looked.

Perhaps she would skip a few applications and let Zhongli give her a massage, for good measure.

Four Days Prior.

She stared down the incense burner with an intense passion, as though lighting the embers with her very eyes. Of course, she could write letters to her husband, but it wasn’t fast enough. It wasn’t nearly as comforting as talking to him in person, and even though he wasn’t nearly as involved in Liyue’s affairs as before, he was still at least semi-divine, so she was willing to stake her chances that he might hear her should she direct all her wishes to Rex Lapis’s little effigy that sat atop the stone burner instead of waiting for Zhongli to reply.

She spoke to him with little regard for the other supplicants milling about the terrace—if anyone should hear her, they would likely think her some enthusiast of the former Geo Archon, mourning his loss and pining for his return.

“I miss you,” she spoke as the fragrance began warming the air around her. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I miss you so much it hurts.”

Waiting on a sign was silly, but she still hoped beyond hope that the smoke might give her some kind of signal. When nothing happened, she addressed him again, this time listing all of the names she could remember, just in case. The earth might not respond to Zhongli, but it would certainly recognize Morax.

“Zhongli. Rex Lapis. Lord of Geo. Morax. If you can hear me, you should say something now so I don’t look like a buffoon talking to a dead god.”

It could have been her eyes playing tricks on her—her sleep schedule had been wretched in her husband’s absence—but the smoke gave a slight hitch to the left as it rose.

“Yes, I know you’re not actually dead, but no one else knows that. What’s the point of marrying a former god if he can’t hear you when you pray to him?”

She sighed, sitting down on the sun-soaked pavement with her legs crossed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snippy. I just forgot how lonely I was before I met you. Now that we spend so much time with each other, it’s hard to be away from you for this long without going mad. I’m starting to doubt that you can hear me at this point, but if you can, please try to cut your trip short. I don’t know if I’ll last four more days.”

For the next hour, she sat in the sun and mumbled sweet supplications to Rex Lapis, hoping that at least one of them would reach his ears.

He had told her of his identity the night he asked her to marry him. It was a prerequisite, he said. Before he asked her the all-important question, he had to ensure that she was comfortable with all of him—his past, present and future selves.

“Y/n, if we are to proceed with this relationship, I must inform you of something which might alter the course of your feelings towards me. I… have not always been a funeral parlor consultant.”

She expected that perhaps he had been wild in his youth, running with treasure hoarders or engaging in the shady trade that always littered the lower docks. Never could she have imagined that his prior job had been Geo Archon, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. He had, more times than she could count, corrected arrogant historians on minute details, filling in narrative holes with all sorts of odd accounts that somehow lined up entirely with historical fact.

Besides that, there was one occasion on which Tartaglia had referred to Zhongli as, “the guy who sealed up Osial in the first place,” which y/n had written off as some strange inside joke between the two.

The night he had revealed the truth to her, it had taken her several hours of questioning, which he had valiantly endured, to adjust to the new information, though her heart never thought twice about her decision to agree to his proposal. When he finally asked the question, she responded so immediately that it shocked him.

“Darling, I am overjoyed to hear this, but I must ask if you are sure. This is quite a lot to take in at once. If you require a few days’ thought, I would understand.”

“I know my answer now. I love you—every bit of you, even the parts that are complicated. I don’t mind what other names you’ve been called in the past, or other lives you’ve lived. You’re my Zhongli now, and you’ll be my Zhongli forever, if you’d like.”

“That is more than I could ever ask.”

When she agreed to marry him, she never pictured herself awaiting his return by sitting cross-legged before his draconic visage, muttering under her breath for only the cool stone to hear. It was worth it, however, to feel that he was so close even when he was so far away. No one else in the harbor could claim that their lover’s figure sat handsomely etched in stone in statues overlooking the city. She was the only one who could confirm whether Rex Lapis at all resembled his statues.

And she was quite smug about that, as well.

One hour prior.

He begged his heart not to expect the sight of her at the docks, her figure swaying amongst the silhouetted crowd as his ship crested the horizon and set for the docks. He had not discussed his arrival time with her, as he did not know it himself, and thus, it would be impractical for him to assume that she lingered at the docks for his return.

Even still, when he saw that the docks were empty at such late hours of the night, his heart stung with the pang of loneliness that would have to last just a bit longer.

He filled his mind instead with visions of her swaddled in blankets, chest rising with steady breath as she dreamed peacefully. When he finally arrived home, he could finally remove his business clothes, let loose his hair, and participate in that sweet domestic ritual of curling up in bed beside his wife, wishing to see her eyes but hating to wake her.

When he opened the bedroom door to find the house entirely empty, he fought to keep himself level. Surely, there was a reasonable answer for this. She had written him hardly a day prior, so he assumed her to be still in good health. Perhaps, even, she had overexerted herself in filling his absence, attending some late-night party from which she would eventually crawl home, exhausted and socially spent.

He doubted this. She had begun to appreciate light conversation more since the start of their relationship, but she was hardly the type to stay out past bedtime to engage in any social activities.

He searched the whole house one more time, thoroughly exhausting all his options until he was left with only the impractical—his wife could hardly fit in the vase by the fireplace, but he had to be sure of this. Compiling a list of her most frequent haunts, he took to the streets, not caring a single bit that the gray clouds had pooled all in one adumbral mass above the harbor, pouring rain that startled the seas with its force.

The Wanwen Bookhouse was, of course, closed at such a late hour, its wares sheltered in billowing tarps that pushed and pulled loudly in the strong winds. He thought she may be there, too, drenching herself to the bone as she fought to keep the pages of her favorite books safe, but she was not hiding amongst the shelves.

The Terrace was empty, save for the dimming light of the glaze lilies, closing their buds to the storm that threatened to pull their stalks from the earth. The incense that had once burned in the public altar was dampened entirely. Just as he was about to head for his next destination, however, the dome of a single lavender umbrella cut through the driving rain.

“Mr. Zhongli, I am surprised to find you here at this hour,” Keqing spoke in measured tone, as though it was perfectly normal for her to be there at that hour. “You’re soaking wet. Might I offer you an umbrella from my office for your journey home?”

“Forgive me, Lady Keqing, I do not mean to be abrupt, but I cannot seem to find my wife.”

“Quite alright, Mr. Zhongli. I assumed she had met you at the docks. I haven’t seen her since yesterday, but if I do, I will be sure to let her know that you’re looking for her.”

“Thank you, Lady Yuheng.”

He was gone long before he could acknowledge the quiet wave of farewell she gave. His next destination—and he prayed this to be wrong—was the pharmacy, where a single lamp flickered in the front office.

“Good evening. Or… is it now morning? Qiqi… does not own a watch.”

“Qiqi, have you seen my wife?” he questioned hurriedly, forgetting in his haste that the smallest of the pharmacy employees was also the slowest.

“Your… wife? You are Mr. Zhongli. Qiqi wrote down your name, because you always compliment Qiqi on the selection of violetgrass. Should Qiqi call for Dr. Baizhu?”

“No, thank you, Qiqi.”

A wasted venture, but one that took him to one of the last locations on his list, and the one place he would find someone who might truly have information. The Northland Bank was, after all, open at all hours of the day and night.

“Enjoying the rain, Zhongli? You don’t seem like the type to go out without an umbrella. I’d be happy to lend a few mora, if you need to procure a new one.”

“Thank you, Childe, but I fear an umbrella would be of no use to me at this point. Pardon me, but I do not have time to speak with you just now, I—”

“No time to speak?” Tartaglia asked him with a strange sort of glimmer in his eye that caught in the moonlight. “That’s odd. It’s rare that you don’t have a story to tell me, though, I suppose it makes sense. You wouldn’t go out in the rain and get soaked for no reason. Tell me, Zhongli, what’s your mission today? You look awfully determined.”

Zhongli sighed. Childe was, by some odd event, a friend to him, and though the two had spent hours exchanging stories, Zhongli was in no mood to humor his friend’s conversation, however amicable. As the hour drew on, his worry grew until it sat heavy right in the center of his chest.

“I have been looking for my wife, to no avail. I am aware that she is capable, but I am beginning to worry.”

“Y/n has certainly been lonely since you left on your little adventure. She’s stopped by the bank on more than one occasion, just to chat. The first time it happened, I thought something must be wrong. I’m not used to seeing one of you without the other at this point.”

“Childe, have you seen her today?”

“I haven’t. But, I might have an idea of where she may be.”

“I would be incredibly grateful for any information you are willing to spare.”

“She’s with you, of course,” Childe answered with a laugh, as though it should be obvious. When Zhongli’s brow furrowed, the younger man’s smile only grew. “I did say that I hardly see one of you without the other, didn’t I? So where else would she be, than with you?”

Childe lifted one long arm to point upwards towards the horizon, dotted with brightening stars that grew as the sun dissipated behind the harbor’s wavering border. Rising tall, just above the rolling hills beyond the city’s gates, stood a singular, familiar figure, glowing faint blue against the darkening sky.

“I see,” Zhongli whispered. The waver in his tone faded into a fondness that untied the great knot of worry that had tangled his heart. It was silly, of course—he should have been upset that his most beloved had ventured out into the rain on such a wild and sentimental hare, but he could not bring himself to feel even the slightest bit of resentment towards her.

He had left her alone for two weeks. It was only reasonable that she should seek comfort in the next best thing. He hardly took time to thank Tartaglia before rushing towards the hillside, following the faint glow of the Statue of the Seven.

As he approached the statue, he saw her, shadowed by stone and sky, huddled into an uncomfortable mass on the statue’s lap. He fended off the passing sting of jealousy—it was his lap, but it wasn’t.

He hardly had trouble making his way up to the top, though as he did, he could not help but wonder how she had climbed there, and in the rain, of all things, but he thought to ask her later. There were far more pressing issues on his mind.

“Darling, wake up,” he cooed, brushing his fingers across the side of her face and warmed at the precious sight of her squirming and mumbling sleepily. “We need to get you out of this rain. You’ll fall ill in this cold.”

“Zhongli,” she whispered, as though in the midst of a sweet dream. “Get home, already. I can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

“I’m sorry, dearest. I am here now. Come—let me take you home.”

“Mmhmm. Okay. Carry me?”

“Of course. Hold on tight.”

“You’re really home?”

“Yes, my love, I am truly home.”

“Oh, no,” she whined, burying her head into his chest. “I’m sorry. You must be tired, and here I’m making you carry me. You can put me down, I can walk on my own.”

“Nonsense. How long have you been curled up against nothing but unyielding stone? It is my pleasure to carry you home, dear.”

She hummed happily as he crossed the threshold of their house, the amber glow of the kitchen lamp flushing their cheeks red with warmth as they sought shelter from the cold rain. Once she was on her own two feet, she quickly returned to the cradle of his arms, hiding herself away against him as though he would disappear if she did not hold him close enough.

“I must seem pathetic,” she whimpered, and he only laughed in response. The gracious rumble in his chest was enough to give her a smile of her own.

“Of course not. Should it be of interest to you, I found it difficult to sleep apart from you as well. The only way I found myself able to close my eyes at all was because I kept something of yours with me.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“Oh, I—” he stammered, uncharacteristically flustered at the sudden turn of the conversation that placed all attention on him. “I borrowed a shirt of yours.”

“My green shirt? The one with the pocket on the front? So that’s where it’s been.”

“I apologize if you missed it.”

“I missed it a little, but not as much as I missed you.”

“That is good to hear,” he sighed. He pressed his lips quietly to her forehead, letting himself enjoy the weight of her in his arms before he went to move again, this time taking her by the hand and leading her towards the bedroom. “Come now, darling. We should rid ourselves of these clothes before we both fall ill.”

“Oh?”

“What an odd look in your eyes, dear. I am merely suggesting that you should not remain in wet clothes for very long, for your health.”

“You’re not suggesting anything else?”

He did not respond, but the twitch of his mouth gave him away, and she grasped his hand, eager to follow wherever he may lead.

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #zhongli imagine #zhongli fluff #genshin impact imagine #god i am shit at writing specific tags so i hope these work #also if you read this far thanks for reading and i love you

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bryndeavour · 3 months

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I cannot express enough how much you need to take the part of your brain that NEEDS engagement on fic (kudos - comments - immediate satisfaction upon posting) and you need to sit it in a room in your brain and let it chill. Being seen and engaged is super important! But you can't control the world around you - all you can control is yourself and letting OTHER people dictate your relationship with your fanning and your media is NOT okay. I cannot express this enough - when you write unpopular pairings, crack pairings, or just minority pairings in any fandom. I cannot express enough that this also happens with popular pairings, especially when there's a high volume of content. I cannot express this enough when you write fic in a big fandom - your fic will get lost in the sea of fic. I cannot express this enough in a SMALL fandom - your audience is smaller and you have no control over peoples time or how they spend it.

What I can say is the same old adage - write things that you are happy to put out in the world - BUT I WOULD LIKE TO ALSO ADD that you can seek out a small group of friends who can give you support. Even if its ONE friend. You literally just have to make the tiniest of efforts- Stop sending ANONS to people about fic meta and support- SEND THEM WITH YOUR NAME ATTACHED. This is already an anonymous website everyone. If you see someone talk about a discord - ask how you can join it. Whether it's small or large - as long as they have a writing channel you can mute the whole thing and only engage there if you want. If you have 3 people on tumblr who support you, chat with you, like your posts, or post about that thing you like - MAKE YOUR OWN CHAT WITH THEM. Its so so important to get friendly hype - especially when you don't feel represented or supported by the fandom at large.

I promise you that there are people EXTREMELY grateful for your fic. I promise you that if they don't get to it today or tomorrow that they WILL get to it eventually and they WILL be so happy to see the story or pairing that's rare show up for them. Stop living in the 'fandom only exists for 3 months' mentality - fandoms PERSIST beyond the trends. In a year someone is just getting around to that game - in 10 years someone is going to pick up that TV show to try it out and get obsessed with it - and that sounds soooo long but hey let me tell you, I have fandom blogs that are old enough to drink and rent cars. People on this damn webbed site pull up my posts to reblog from 5 years ago.

I promise your circle of 1 friend will grow to 3 to 5 to 15. Just hold onto these things you love. Keep putting them out there even when it feels like no one is listening, BELIEVE YOUR FRIENDS HYPE AND BELIEVE YOUR OWN HYPE. If you can sell if hard enough - you will sell people on it. Don't just STOP cause people don't reply or agree - that doesn't do anything but STOP the cool ass things from existing at all (and then no one gets any cool things and that just sucks).

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asaka-lucy-dr-rc · 28 days

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My headcanon in the post-DR3 world

I'm preparing a short manga for Nagito's birthday, but I thought it might not make sense without my headcanon explanation, so I put it together here.

*I set this post to reblog prohibit because this is basically an explanation of my manga.

*This post is already a bit long, but I actually have a lot more headcanons, so maybe I'll add some of them from time to time.

⚠️Contains Spoilers!

■ The situation of Hinata and Class 77-B after the DR3 Hope Arc:

Hinata and Class 77-B (from now on, I will be writing Hinata's team) are set up as a separate organization from the Future Foundation, traveling around the world by ship to eliminate the remnants of despair and restore the world. (This means everyone did not return to Jabberwock Island, but continued their journey directly on the ship they used to leave Jabberwock Island).

The reason they did not return to Jabberwock Island is because it is land owned by the Future Foundation. Since the killing spree at the Future Foundation was allegedly masterminded by Hinata's team, they cannot return there.

However, the world is not an environment in which they can live without the support of the Future Foundation, so they are actually connected to members like Naegi and others who know the truth.

Naegi and his team have the critical project of rebuilding Hope's Peak Academy, so they basically stay in Japan most of the time and cannot immediately address problems that occur outside of Japan. Therefore, Hinata's team mainly deal with problems outside of Japan. (Basically, they communicate with each other through telecommunications using a specially prepared line.)

Basically, Hajime Hinata's presence is kept secret (not strictly, but the people around him realize that it would be better if he did not appear in public as much as possible), so once Hinata's team have temporarily dealt with the problem, they will leave the area and the Future Foundation will take care of the follow-up. (The Future Foundation employees who do not know the truth simply perceive that another unit of their organization took care of the problem before them. They do not know that it was Hinata's team who took care of it.)

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■ Additional information about post-3 Hajime Hinata:

He made two promises to everyone on his team.

Not using Izuru Kamukura's talents against teammates. Because he could control the will of his teammates if he wanted to, so he promises not to use Kamukura's talents against his teammates except in emergency situations, whether good or bad.

Never be alone. (Always be with someone.) He can use Kamukura's talents, but between after SDR2 and the 3rd Hope Arc, he used his talents so much that he once became "void" as a result of overusing his talents. The state called “void" is also one of my head canons. This occurs as a reaction to overworking his brain. Once this happens, all of his senses will be shut down for a while, and he won't be able to move at all. Recovery time varies from case to case, but usually ranges from 3 to 7 days. The heart and other minimal organs will still work, but he will not be able to eat or do anything else, so he will die if he has no way to eat and excrete. To prevent him from getting into this very dangerous situation, he cannot use his talents excessively, and people around him do not allow it, and this rule was put in place to deal with him in case he becomes void. To enforce this rule, Komaeda accompanies Hinata as a watcher; when Hinata is in his room, the Observer AI (Chiaki Nanami) watches Hinata.

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■ Post-3 Nagito Komaeda:

He is supposed to be Hajime's watcher, so his role is basically to be at Hajime's side. The reason he was put in the role of watching over Hinata was because Hinata's teammates thought he would have a high chance of survival even in a critical situation thanks to his talent. Another reason is the problem of not being able to deal with anyone but Hinata.

The only thing he has to do is to make sure that Hinata is not left alone, so he may not be with Hinata if someone else accompanies him.

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■ Observer AI (Chiaki Nanami) :

After Hajime awoke from the NWP, he used one of Kamukura's talents, the Ultimate Programmer talent, to restore the NWP's Observer AI, because as a result of using Kamukura's talents to predict the future, he found that he alone would not be able to do enough to take care of his returning friends. The restored Observer AI provided mental care for those who returned. After everyone's mental health was restored to some degree, she remained aboard the ship as one of the companions. (One of her roles is to monitor Hinata during bedtime.)

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■ Izuru Kamukura:

In my headcanon, his ego exists as a separate entity from Hajime Hinata even in post-3, but it basically does not appear on the surface. He may appear on the surface when needed, but almost never, as it would cause Hinata's brain to become overloaded.

Hinata can talk to him. Technically speaking, it can only predict what Kamukura is likely to say using Kamukura's talents. However, the accuracy of the predictions is so high that the results are equivalent to having a conversation with Kamukura. Due to this fact, Hinata will get tired if he talks to Kamukura a lot.

#my headcanon #post-dr3

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kingkatsuki · 2 years

Note

Bakugou sometimes needs help. His first time is one of those times, he offers his humility and pride to you up on a silver platter. His cock is so hard that he doesn't even have the ability to act bratty, instead he whines and bucks as you climb on top of him and grind your hips, promising in little whispers as you bite his scarred and tanned skin that you will take care of him. You promise you will show him what it feel likes, how it works, that you will rewire his brain to see only neon bright instead of that black and white. Your pretty delicate fingers wrap around his throat as you sink deep onto his dick, seating yourself where you have always belonged. The stretch is near painful, tears pricking your eyes as his hips hump up natural and sloppy. He babbles incoherently as his throat flexes in your gentle grasp and you both know he is going to cum but that doesn't matter. Because you both also know that you will continue to fuck him until he's numb and begging you to stop, and until you are spilling his cum over his thighs and yours. -Ram

Ram I am going to scream, biting my fist and tearing my hair out😩

He’s so fucking perfect I stg.

Just the thought of Bakugou spending years of his life working his frustrations out himself, perfectly content with a cold shower or on days where he’s particularly pent up he’ll wrap a palm around his cock and fist himself until the tension leaves his body, watching spurts of his milky cum run down the plug while he takes his morning shower.

It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s enough to stop him from snapping at random civilians or his own agency. And it serves him well into his thirties, convincing himself that he doesn’t need anyone else. That he can take care of himself—

But when he meets you for the first time he can’t control himself, you do something to him that he’s never felt before. A unique throb swirling inside his pelvis, different to the way he feels whenever he watches porn or watches the women dancing at the strip clubs Denki and Sero force him into. It’s an ache inside him that he cannot satiate with just his fist— purchasing toys online that he thinks will step up the ante and alleviate the tension that continues to build inside him.

But as much as he tries, fucking himself into the clear fleshlight as he spills more of his creamy seed inside— his balls still throb with desire. His brows furrowed as he pictures your warm, wet cunt instead.

It’s futile, no matter how hard he tries to push the distraction of you to the back of his mind, he can’t escape the thought of you. His cock chubbing beneath his slacks whenever he smells the sweet scent of you, throbbing when you give him that pretty smile.

You’re a hindrance to his work, his rating suffering when he fails to apprehend the petty thieves or villains that he’s sent out to capture. Even more bricked up than before as everyone around him begs him to sort himself out, to fix it.

And so he does, finding himself beneath you as you look down at him with that same pretty look on your face. The black patent heels still on your feet as he imagines you stepping on his chest, leaving marks so he can keep reminders of this later.

Groaning when he finally feels the warmth of your wet cunt sinking down on him, feeling nothing like the toys he’d bought to try and replicate you. Nothing, absolutely nothing can compare to the real thing.

You allow him a few moments to be submissive, to have someone take care of him for once, to look after him. But now he has an even bigger problem, because he’s become completely and utterly addicted to you.

#jo thirsts #thirst posts #Bakugou thirst

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neutron-stars-collision · 3 months

Text

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 5 - Canary Wharf Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 4 Summary: The premiere of Don Quixote is here and you're very much not fine. Luckily, Neil know how to deal with that. Or does he? Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, a decisive step into E-rated content at the very end :) Author's Notes: Apparently this new chapter is whole novel of 14.4k words because I cannot control myself whatsoever 🤷🏻‍♀️ And it's not even all of what was planned in the outline, so excuse the rather rude cliffhanger there. I promise though, a detailed continuation is coming ;) This chapter opens up the section of this fic that haunts my waking hours and sleepless nights so... brace yourselves ✨ As always, they're still very stupid and very into each other. And, as always, I only have an illusion of control over them. Without further ado - I hope you enjoy this nonsense and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Every strike of the clock hand, bringing you mercilessly closer to the 6 pm curtain call, felt like a miniature heart attack, tightening the deadly loop around your stumbling heart. After you had stumbled back into the apartment close to 1 am after that fateful rendezvous at the studio, you foolishly hoped to get some sleep. But no such grace was deemed deserved for you.

Instead, you tossed and turned until 5 am before giving up entirely and focusing the restless energy on breaking in the pointe shoes for the evening and not messaging Neil. In that exact order.

You only succeeded at that first task.

When there was nothing left to do but show up at the Opera House later that afternoon, and the watch still proved the time did not want to willingly hurry the fuck up, you left the house with just enough minutes to spare to hop on the Jubilee line train as on every Wednesday morning. As if you had somewhere to be.

You drowned out the reasonable part of your brain, which helpfully reminded you how stupid this was, with a Don Quixote score blasting at full volume through your headphones and hurried through the walk with the usual brisque pace. You were not keen to admit that meeting Neil would offer peace of mind that nothing else seemed to provide. Or that ever since the night before, you could hardly get rid of him from your thoughts for longer than fifteen minutes at best.

Most importantly, perhaps, you did not want to think about the fact that whatever was happening between you had an expiration date. It always did. The only question was when and how far it would go before fate came knocking.

You only paused the music and took off the headphones when you stepped aboard the train and spotted Neil. He did not notice you, entirely engrossed by staring out the window, his pair of headphones perched atop his head. With the backdrop noise of beeping train doors closing behind your back, you allowed yourself another long look. Mostly admiring the fluffy golden strands falling over his eyes and the elegant curve of his profile, so striking in the harsh light of the overhead blinking fluorescents. A pathetic, dreamy sigh had to be swallowed for the sake of your dwindling pride as you crossed the remaining space and leaned over the empty seat next to Neil to give his head a light pat. He flinched, instantly taking off his headphones and turning towards you with wide eyes, poised to flee. You shot him an apologetic look, softened with another one of those fond smiles Neil seemed to have an ease of bringing out on your face.

“Why are you here?” the question was placed with that tint of a shocked gasp still present.

The confusion marred his features as Neil’s eyes wandered over your face as if not yet believing you were there.

“Ouch, I was hoping for a warmer welcome,” you shot him your best faux wounded look, following it with an arched eyebrow and a meaningful glance with an addition, “All things considered,”

It was impossible to stop the sudden influx of memories from flashing before your eyes as your brain helpfully offered highlights from the night before. How it felt to have Neil kiss your neck with all the devotion of a classical scholar. What it was like to be wanted by him.

If his responding blush was anything to go by, you were not the only one bombarded by memories. Neil dropped your gaze and swallowed hard, already making room for you to join him in the vacant seat. Only once you were sat snugly next to him, he raised his head again and spoke:

“You know what I mean. It’s early, and I-” he shook his head and reached out to grasp your hand, giving it a light squeeze, “Sorry,” it was paired with an innocent smile, the light of it making his blue eyes sparkle.

After that, there was no choice but to forgive him. Not that there was anything to forgive.

“You’re excused, sweetheart,” you returned the squeeze and enlaced your fingers, pressing your hands palm to palm. The skin contact was almost soothing, validating the very reasons why you had come there in the first place, “Answering your question: generalised anxiety disorder, stress, insomnia. You name it,” unsuccessfully shrugging off the unease, you broke the eye contact to stare at the stray eyelash, dotting his cheek. Without thinking, you reached out to brush it away, earning yourself another bloom of pink on his face and a wonderous gasp. It was a good enough encouragement to say what might yet be the most revealing truth of all, “I could barely stand still, so I figured I might as well get on the train and bother you,” by the end of the admission, you have dropped your gaze to the floor.

That was much better than seeing in real-time the effect of your confession on Neil. That plain understanding in the blue eyes always made you feel a little too seen. A little too transparent.

The weight of his hand within yours offered enough comfort for now. You could feel him trace small circles at the back of your palm, soothing and anchoring you in the present moment.

“I’d happily be bothered by you,” the hint of a smile in Neil’s voice acted like bait, drawing you out of the hiding.

You raised your head with caution, only allowing yourself to relax once you spotted a harmless grin on his face.

“Good,” you let go of his hand with reluctance, trying hard not to let yourself dwell too much on that flash of something close to disappointment on Neil’s face.

Sometimes, you still fooled yourself that those attempts at minimising the intimacy level could change things. That it could somehow make you more immune to his charms or less likely to get used to something that could never be permanent.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” the question offered a needed reprieve from the mess in your head.

As did the earnestness in Neil’s eyes, the desire to hear the answer and interest in what you had to say. Even if the mere reminder about the pre-premiere tightened the knot in your stomach and made you nauseous. You took a fortifying breath and sighed. The sound acted like the perfect preamble:

“God, yeah… It’s like, realistically, I know it’ll be fine. Probably. But I’m just freaking out” another frustrated groan resounded between you as you threw your restless hands and let them fall weightless in your lap.

The tapping foot was much more difficult to wrestle into obedience. So much so that you only stilted when you felt the heavy weight of Neil’s hand touching your knee with a dose of care. You glanced at him, aware of the deer-in-headlights look painted on your face. But, as usual, there were no cheeky puns to lighten the mood.

“It’ll be better than fine,” Neil squeezed your knee before lifting his hand and placing it back in his lap.

You tried not to ponder the devoid feeling left behind as the warmth of his touch faded from your skin. Instead, you turned towards him with an arched eyebrow and a provocative tone, hiding the insecurities:

“And how do you know that?” there it was again, that same desire for someone else to validate the fears and tell you what you have always suspected.

That you were not good enough for this. For anything at all. That it was best you stopped trying. That the only talent you possessed was talking shit and pretending to be someone you were not.

The depths of affection in Neil’s eyes did not seem to offer that type of honesty, however.

“Because you’re better than fine” the conviction in his voice tugged at the remains of sanity in your head as Neil mirrored your position and continued, the heated tone only growing stronger “You’re brilliant. Breathtakingly amazing and fucking incredible” you knew that battle was lost the moment you met his gaze, for now it was impossible to look away. You had been caught back in his orbit, as always, unable to move as Neil delivered the final sentiment, “And because I’m ninety per cent sure your brain is being a lying little bitch. Nothing more” then, just as you had begun to hope you could maybe look away from him or wake up from the spell, Neil leaned in to place a peck on your forehead.

Quick as lightning. It still made your heart pound with renewed energy. Still made you freeze with the wide-eyed look pasted onto your face. Still made you blush like an idiot.

Only after what felt like a solid five minutes you managed to shake it off, working hard to get past the blue screen of death in your brain and twist your lips into a sardonic smirk:

“You should become a PT,” the sparks in Neil’s eyes felt like instant gratification for the attempt at a joke, “People would pay a fortune for pep talks like this,” you hoped he would notice the gratitude shining through the mask you had put up.

That Neil would know just how much it meant.

“That’s more like it,” the answering grin told you that perhaps he did know.

Ever so carefully, he knocked your chin with his knuckles and shot you a wink, offering an out from the conversation you had hoped would show up.

You did not waste a chance like that.

“Are you coming on Friday?” it was another question you just had to ask.

Because, yes, he had technically said yes. Even accepted the PDF of a ticket you had sent him a few days before. But that didn’t mean anything. As far as you were concerned, Neil could still decide he had better things to do than attend a ballet performance on a Friday evening.

You did not dare look at him until you heard a reply.

“Obviously,” chancing a glance, you noticed the minor look of offence slowly transforming into a deadly smirk. Always too easily drawn in, you could feel its power of destruction as Neil added, “I’m even going to wear a suit. With a tie,” the pointed look following the sentence was meant only for you.

And was yours to interpret. There was heat there, blazing up his irises and making it too easy to drown in the blue. You watched as Neil glanced at your mouth, at how your teeth worried at the tender skin. You briefly wondered whether he wanted to know how it would taste on his tongue. You briefly considered asking him to try it.

Except that you didn’t. Because you did not think you had the right. Not yet.

Instead, you let out a low whistle and allowed your eyes to show exactly how this little bit of information made you feel.

“Damn… And you expect me to act normal?” the deadpan look could not erase the want easily seen on your face.

Even with just your imagination to rely upon, you knew the effect would be deadly. That seeing Neil on Friday might crumble your resolve into ashes and kickstart a chain of events you had tried to delay as long as possible. It would be a lie to say you were not anticipating it.

Neil only smiled, undeniably pleased about the effect of his words and your inability to pretend that you were unbothered. He leaned in closer, just enough so you would have no choice but to catch the smell of his intoxicating cologne, and replied:

“During the show? Sure,” the breath got caught in your throat, awaiting the second part of that answer as you stared back at him. The perfect pause executed with a flourish only Neil could be capable of, “After?” only half-aware of what was happening outside his blue eyes, you felt Neil’s hand cup your cheek. You stared as he carefully stroked your feverish skin and delivered the punchline, “We’ll see,” his touch was gone just as fast as you had felt it.

Yet the sentiment sent along with it would remain for much longer. You were sure of it.

“I’m holding you to that,” you held his gaze for a beat, cementing the hope that perhaps this time, those words would end up as something much more substantial than that – than words.

The responding nod was all you could hope for. And more. It opened a space for a comfortable silence, which settled over you like a blanket of ease. It soothed the nerves plaguing you since the moment you tried going to sleep.

After two stops, you broke the silence with a sudden thought:

“Actually, I’ve got an adjacent question that I’ve realised I never asked,” dropping the lead, you chanced a look at Neil.

As if sensing your gaze, he offered you a smile.

“Shoot, sweetheart,” the nickname rolled off his mouth with ease as if he was meant to call you that.

As if it came naturally. You still held a soft spot for ‘Cupid’, but this was something else. Something different.

“What station do you get off at?” ignoring the thoughts, you raised your head to stare at the Jubilee line graphic above the door on the opposite side of the carriage.

It was tricky to guess as you only knew Neil went further down the line than you, further than Southwark. The desire to know has been sparked by the same thing as usual. The sudden realisation that while you knew so much about him – the details of his childhood, the way he took coffee and how much he doubted his importance on the daily (idiot) – you did not know something that simple. It itched and scratched at your conscience almost as much as the mystery of his occupation did. And you felt this would be much easier to get out of Neil.

“Really deep, existential questions, I see,” his chuckle brightened your horizons, effortlessly getting rid of the sudden melancholy, “Canary Wharf,” you turned to him just as Neil offered the information.

Oh. Right. It was impossible not to perk up, lightening up like a dog that just got thrown a treat after hours of perceived starvation. Isle of Dogs painted a picture that fit what you thought of Neil. Except that it also didn’t.

The high-rise buildings and men in suits chasing after the colourful plastic bills. That wasn’t him. But the elegance, the perchance for dreamers to wander into the district searching for their salvation. Yeah, that seemed just about right.

“Ooh, fancy,” the cheeky smile had to do in place of a different comment. You immediately followed it with a question that needed courage to be asked: “Can I accompany you there?”

That was the crux of the issue. The fact upon which the fate of your soul was hanging. Not to be dramatic, that is.

“You know I can’t deny you anything if I tried,” Neil’s reply was strengthened by the look in his eyes, yet again boring into the depths of your soul in search of something he seemed desperate to find.

The soft smile painted upon his lips was hard to ignore, immediately drawing yours from its hiding place. The weight had been lifted off your shoulders, even if just by a fraction.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you met his gaze for once not scared of what you could find there.

All that mattered was the promise held within the unspoken. Now, Friday evening had an importance that went beyond the curtain call and final bows at the end. Now, you could hardly wait for the night to come.

The rest of the journey passed in peace, filled with light conversations and laughter that you hoped would stay with you for a while after you had parted. That it would be enough to keep the fears at bay during the upcoming evening.

Just as you had discussed, when the PA system called in Canary Wharf, and the view outside got transformed into the steely, brutalist sci-fi wet dream that the station was, Neil shot you a quick smile, grabbed your hand and got up from the seat, urging you to follow his steps. You did what he asked, stuck in a daze that only faded when the first rays of sunlight hit your face on the escalator to the ground level. You did not want to say goodbye. As much as it was obvious to you, it was still something you did not want to admit. Not out loud, anyway.

Instead, you tightened the hold on Neil’s hand and pulled him to a stop as soon as you were both standing in the ticket hall, far from the crowds. His questioning gaze was full of fondness. It fuelled the bravery you desperately sought as you placed your free hand on his shoulder and rose on your tiptoes to close the remaining gap. Pressing a tender kiss to his lips was the easiest of fates as you sighed into his mouth and allowed yourself to soften in the embrace Neil willingly reciprocated with only a second of delay. He let go of your hand to place both his palms around your waist, pulling you closer. Without you needing to be the forward one, Neil deepened the kiss with a quiet gasp, betraying the need underlining his moves.

Yet again, the kiss felt ground-breaking. Almost revolutionary in a way you could hardly describe. But, above all else, it felt important.

It was disappointing to discover that you both still needed oxygen after a kiss like that. With reluctance, you pulled back and took half a step away. Your hand stayed clasped over his shoulder, maintaining the precious contact and giving you an excuse to stay close. That first hesitancy to let go was sweetened by the look on Neil’s face, the dazed haze clouding his gaze. Despite the sudden nerves, the multiplying questions about whether you had not just fucked it all up beyond repair, you could not help but smile in the face of his puzzlement.

It took Neil an additional minute to squeeze your waist lightly and ask the question with all the innocence of a confused blonde puppy:

“Is this something that we do now?” his unfairly long eyelashes bated, the blue of his eyes flickering in and out from view in the emphasis of his befuddlement.

You did your best to ignore the pounding heart in favour of owning up to the rash decisions. The truth was you had no clue whether you did that now. It was never discussed. But, considering the implications of half the conversations you have had since the first meeting, it did not seem entirely out of place. Kinda.

So, instead of running away like the cowardice suggested, you shrugged and met his wandering gaze with something resembling composure:

“That’s up to you,” it was something you were sure of.

Something you tried to stick to when in doubt. Only this was the first time you brought it up and stated the rules of the play so Neil would be in on the secret. That haze in his eyes had faded by now, leaving watchful curiosity in its place.

“Why?” the caution in his tone made you swallow past the rising uncertainty and press forward.

Just fucking say it. You took a deep breath and dove in.

“Because I know what I want, but I don’t want that to determine what happens to us” the sentence felt clunky and graceless, but the understanding dawned in his eyes all the same.

Neil studied you in silence for what felt like ages before he placed another question. This one was devoid of confusion:

“And what do you want?” it was the simplest of questions anyone could ask.

But also one that you did not feel the need to answer. He knew it already. You offered him a signature cheeky grin and leaned in again to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Bye, Neil,” you let go of him with the farewell replacing your careful touch. This time, you did not want to look back, so you let the addition carry on the wind as you started walking away, “I’ll text you later,”

***

The pre-premiere night was a relative success. By that, you mostly meant that no one died; you managed to step onto the stage and more or less performed the choreography without fuck ups. None of these things meant that the anxiety had somehow disappeared before Friday evening and the official opening night. It was still present, making you jittery with nerves. Still, lowkey made you wonder what would happen if you bailed and made the second Cupid take up your share of shows.

Because the fact that you were given both openings did not escape your attention. You were painfully aware of the responsibility weighing down your shoulders. The heaviness settled in your bones as you went through the motions of the Friday morning. The only light in the tunnel came from Neil’s texts, reassuring and distracting, as always. You did your best not to dwell too much on what could happen after the show. In this case, your best was hardly enough.

By the time the clock struck 4 pm, you had just finished the final on-stage rehearsal. The sweat trickled down your temples as you escaped the company for a moment of peace. The silence was found in the backrooms, the dusty corridors not yet filled with stagehands, prop masters or assistants. But it wasn’t long now.

You slid down the wall into sitting and sighed. The restless mind already going through the itinerary:

4:25 pm – light lunch

4:50 pm – costume change

5:30 - in-costume rehearsal (short)

6:00 – make-up and hair

6:30 – be ready

7:00 – fucking showtime.

The schedule was simple; it offered no space for doubts. But doubts still came because that was a first. A first role of such a calibre. The first time you desperately wanted it to go well while also fearing that it never would.

And then, there was also that part concerning your addition to the guest list. That one ticket you had requested and a top-tier seat reserved in one of the red velvet boxes. That pair of eyes you wanted to impress the most despite logic and sense. With a tired sigh, you unlocked the phone and started typing a message:

/ 🏹, 4:07 pm/ I genuinely don’t think I’ll make it till curtain call.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ You better survive. I’ve got plans, you know.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ And before you try it – those plans require your presence, Cupid.

/✝️, 4:10 pm/ So get your shit together, sweetheart.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ See, you did it again! Pep talks guru in the making.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ I’ll try, no promises, however.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ Are you actually going to wear a suit?

/✝️, 4:13 pm/ Yes. I’m getting ready as we speak.

/✝️, 4:15 pm/ And considering how brave you are, I’m going to be very generous right now.

What? You stared at the last message until the screen on your phone turned black. A thousand possibilities knocked around your head, leaving nothing but confusion in their wake. Because while the brief conversation already did what you expected it to, leaving you just a little calmer, that was not an outcome you expected. It was not anything you expected.

When your phone flashed with the notification of a new message, you lurched forward to unlock it with enough haste to mess up the code twice before finally typing it correctly. The messaging app opened first, already foreseeing your needs. Yet nothing, no conscious thought or expectation, prepared you for the sight. For the one photo without a word of caption. A photo of Neil, standing in what appeared to be his bedroom, judging by the background, sans a shirt.

The trademark smirk on his face, the eyes staring at the phone screen, undoubtedly fully aware of the effect this would have on you. And he wasn’t wrong.

You stared, feeling your face heat up. Gaze shamelessly wandered over the planes of his chest and stomach, displayed in the photo for your perusal. You could already feel yourself going crazy, could feel the arousal pool in between your legs. All because of a photo. Just a photo.

You could try arguing with yourself that this was some anomaly. That you were acting up due to stress and tension, only that you knew it was none of those things. It was just Neil. Neil, and his seemingly perfect body you desperately wanted to get your hands on. And mouth, too.

Fuck. You groaned for the third time within the last fifteen minutes and lightly bumped your head into the wall behind you. Now, a trip to the bathroom before lunch was not only recommended but also mandatory. Slowly, you got up and stared at the screen.

It would be rude not to respond. Or so you dared think.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ Thank you.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ And fuck you.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ You never know, you might.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ Good luck and give them hell.

***

In the last few months, Neil has pretty much gotten used to that constant feeling of confusion. To the fact that if his brain could transmit one thought to him, it would be a question. What the fuck? Just so. Just that.

Some days, like on that particular Friday evening, the question would perhaps gain two more words. Precisely: What the fuck are you doing? He did not know. Apart from the fact that, somehow, at some vague point, the friendship with Cupid transformed into something else. Something that had him going insane, sending her photos without a shirt on and potentially letting himself be led into some sort of an arrangement. A situationship that would most likely involve sex, but not love. Not feelings. That much was clear from the start. And that was fine. It really was. Neil didn’t love her; he only… liked her. A lot. And he wanted her.

A lot.

Enough so to ask no questions and agree to whatever fate offered him. It would be fine. And, perhaps most importantly, he already had a friendship out of it, which… was always good. Worth it. Probably.

Neil shook his head against the idiotic thoughts and picked up the pace as he left the station and hurried towards the opera house. The thin coat did nothing against the biting wind, so he attempted to undo the damage by tightening the olive scarf around his neck. Although there was still time left till curtain call, Neil could hardly slow down the pace. The strange sense of anticipation would not let that happen. Oh, so carefully, he adjusted the loose hold over the bouquet of roses. A dozen flowers, equally split between pink and red ones. While Neil knew she would still appreciate him showing up without the bouquet, coming empty-handed seemed wrong.

And then, there was the whole bit about coming to see her after the show. The instructions were relatively simple: leave the main building and walk around the side to Stage Door. There, drop her name to a scary usher, asking for permission to come backstage. It’ll be fine. She said. Neil wasn’t sure it would be fine.

But whatever. For that, he definitely needed flowers.

Only once the glass, grand front of the Royal Opera House appeared in his view, it was easier to breathe. To assure himself that he arrived right on time. Ahead of it, even. Following the stream of elegant theatregoers, Neil liked to tell himself that he fit in. That the attempt at looking like he belonged was successful. In truth, he had twice considered changing out of the suit and only followed the plan because of the very vivid memory of Cupid and the teeth worrying at the fragile skin of her lips that he had come to love kissing. She was worth the pain.

The reality of the evening only dawned once Neil had managed to find the correct box and his seat, a fortifying glass of Prosecco sparkling in the glass flute held in his hand. The ballet programme, acquired at the price of a small donation, opened in his lap. The cast list had snatched his attention first as his eyes unconsciously scanned the character list for the one that mattered the most. His gaze stopped at her name, the betraying finger coming up to trace the letters like the idiot that Neil is.

With a sigh of frustration, he turned the page, revealing a photograph. A still from the ballet itself. Most importantly, a still portraying Cupid in the garden of the Nyads, the painted trees behind her back making up the scene. Except that Neil could barely look away from her to register anything or anyone else in the photo. She was ethereal, the white costume looking ablaze in the cold light of the scene. Feeling his pulse pick up again, Neil snapped the programme shut with a decisive move and dropped it on the tiny shelf by the box edge.

One last time, he checked whether the roses were still alive (thankfully) and took out the phone from his pocket. There were no new messages, but he opened the conversation with her all the same. Without letting himself think about it too long, Neil typed out a simple text:

/✝️, 6:55 pm/ I’ll see you after the show. Good luck, sunshine.

He hit send and exited the app without a second thought. Cupid would see it after, but that hardly mattered. Neil made sure his phone was on mute before he pocketed it again, and turned his gaze towards the stage. The curtain was still down, the red material heavy and embroidered with golden thread. It fitted in with the grand interior of the opera house, the splendour of every spot he laid his gaze upon. Including the dome ceiling with a crystal chandelier hanging down. Neil no longer wondered why Cupid seemed so terrified of this evening, why the weight on her shoulders was so intense. Even the theatre itself was scary in its grandeur.

Before he could follow that line of thought, the door behind clicked open, and a flurry of voices rushed in, followed by the patrons themselves. An elegant, older couple shot him a friendly smile as they took the remaining seats in the box and settled in for the evening. A second bell rang out in the auditorium as theatregoers filled the seats. The night was sold out, as the billing in the foyer informed him. That, too, only made sympathy for her fears stronger. A quick, insane thought crossed his mind that Neil wished he could hug her. Wished he had more reassurance to offer than platitudes in texts that never provided true comfort. But it hardly mattered.

Neil downed the remaining prosecco with the third bell and leaned back in the seat. Fucking showtime.

***

By the end of Act 1, his hands were shaking. He dug his sweaty palms into the armrests and closed his eyes against the bustle of patrons getting up from their seats. And that was before the scene.

Because, sure, Neil knew Cupid would be present during some of the group scenes in the other two acts because she had told him so. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Seeing her right there on the stage, being just as incredible, stunning, and brilliant as he knew she was, was something else entirely. Cupid shone like a beacon, drawing his attention no matter what. Hell, half the time she was present in the scene, Neil was not sure he even registered what was happening. Talk about tunnel vision or whatever.

He had a feeling it would get only worse when her moment came. The solo that started it all. So, while the saner patrons visited the toilets and mingled in the bar, Neil sat frozen through the intermission, staring at the red curtain and hoping the twenty minutes would pass quickly. It was not even something he could explain, not an emotion he had been familiar with before. Sure, there had been crushes. Both fleeting, childish things and passion that made him believe love existed if he could feel so much for another person. But this was neither of those things.

It was endless admiration combined with enough fascination and passion to make Neil want to do stupid things. Like taking her home after and fulfilling all the flirtations he had indulged in since they met. Like placing his hands back on her waist and discovering what it’s like to touch her bare skin. Like hearing her- Yeah, that.

It was exhilarating to remember that an ending to the night of this kind was not necessarily out of the picture. Quite on the contrary.

As the curtain rose for the second act and the events of the plot got him, Don Quixote, and Sancho Panza closer to the Garden and Cupid in all her glory, Neil knew he was fucked. Utterly, hopelessly fucked.

Then, she stepped out. All in white save for the embroidered garland of blue flowers on the bodice and the skirt. She danced each step with grace and confidence Neil never once doubted she possessed. It made the breath catch in his throat and his heart stumble. She was perfect. She leapt and turned with each note, just as in that video she showed him at the start. The joy filled every cell of her body, visible in how she danced. The cheeky smile gracing her lips was a sight Neil was used to, yet still, it made him blush. Even from his vantage point, he could tell no one else could look away from her. From the force of her beauty, knocking down everyone within striking distance. Like the goddess she was.

The minute was over before he was aware of it, staring as Cupid completed the final set of leaps. She landed in the set pose and froze. The music was soon replaced with thunderous clapping. The heart palpitations in Neil’s chest had been replaced by glee, a stupid grin present on his face on its own accord. There it was again, that pride flaring up in his heart as he watched Cupid smile.

Yeah, he was decidedly fucked. And there was still the third act left. Terrifyingly aware of the company, Neil swallowed hard and dug his fingers into the armrests again. He briefly wondered whether the cubicle walls in the toilets were sanitary enough so he could faceplant into one during the second intermission. He quickly concluded that it hardly mattered. A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do. Or something.

***

The applause was a sound you could get used to. It filled every cavern of your soul and made you forget about the burning in your muscles and the tiredness that made you feel you were close to fainting. All of that vanished when the orchestra finished the final notes of the score, and the principal dancers stepped in, bowing to the crowds. Even from your spot at the back, you could see the patrons rise from their seats and applaud the dancers with faces full of awe. The feeling got stronger once it was your turn to bow before the audience, legs shaking from exertion and a wide grin impossible to wipe off.

Because, somehow, you actually did it. Survived. Thrived, even. Everything went better than you hoped. Better than you dared dream. The conviction, anchored in your heart with that first dose of thunderous applause after you finished the Cupid variation, began to grow roots. It did not vanish as soon as the curtain fell, and you had all begun to disperse, half-limping from exhaustion towards the dressing rooms. It stayed as you chatted and laughed with the girls, letting the costume assistants help you out of the corset.

Perhaps, most importantly, the exhilaration stayed because you could still remember the text you saw right before scene one. A short, good luck message also showed you were wrong to doubt him. Neil showed up. He was in the audience, watching you excel at the role and perform like never before. That thought alone made you smile.

You got as far as changing into the black dress, perfect for both the celebratory banquet after the premiere and whatever else the night would have in store before the commotion at the door to the dressing room made you pause taking off the stage makeup. You looked up just in time to see Carol, the costume assistant, call your name from the doorway:

“You’ve got company, sweetie” the smirk present on her face was unnerving, almost making the horror drown out the joy you felt at that one sentence, “A handsome boy asked Derek about you,” she added, the smile only widening, highlighting the conclusion you would have easily reached yourself by now.

As you felt the eyes of half a dozen girls turn in your direction, you knew you had fucked it. Inviting Neil backstage felt like a good idea until this moment. Until the reminder that you were not going to be alone. Not with the eager, bright gazes of corps du ballet following your every move like a little clan of hyenas. Swallowing past the frown, you let the used makeup wipe fall onto the dressing table as you stood up. In haste, almost knocking over the stool.

“I was waiting for him, actually” you crossed the space, hiding the sudden nerves with an over-confident grin.

For whatever reason, the shyness had returned. It sped up the beat of your heart as you waited for Carol to turn towards the corridor she came from and fetch Neil. Ignoring the desire to leap into the hallway like an idiot, you rooted your feet in the floor and stared down. Right until you heard Carol come back. This time, she was not alone. You leaned out the doorway, your gaze finding Neil with ease. He stood out among the crowd of dancers, dressed in a dark grey suit with a burgundy tie. It was impossible not to let your jaw hang open as your eyes took him in. The expensive suit jacket fitted perfectly. Beneath, you could make out the matching vest as if a two-piece wasn’t enough.

Annoyed by the lack of flaws to pick out, your gaze flicked up to his face. Just in time to see the familiar smirk telling you all you needed to know about where Neil was. But there was no time to dwell on it.

“You’re in luck, Sir” you could see curiosity in Carol’s gaze as she patted Neil’s arm and threw you a look that promised serious questioning next time. Which would be tomorrow. Fuck “I’ll leave you two to it” throwing you a goddamn wink, she turned away and started walking back down the corridor.

“Thanks, Carol” your gratitude got half choked up by the wave of annoyance, but you smothered it to ashes and turned to Neil with a shy smile, “Hi,”

It was nearly impossible not to be dazed by his beauty, even after only two days apart. His blue eyes looked back at you with enough affection to make you quiver. The hard lights of the backstage caught the gold in his hair, making it look almost ablaze. You blinked against the striking picture, but the brief respite did nothing. Neil still looked too good to be true. Which was why you knew that the moment the girls saw him, all hell would unleash. You steeled your spine against the assault and gently steered him towards the room you had just left. He went willingly.

“Hello” at a moment unknown to you, Neil has placed his arm around your shoulder. He went as far as coupling the greeting with a brief squeeze of your bicep before the touch disappeared, and he came to a standstill next to you, “There’s a lot of staring happening right now,” the remark was whispered, yet it roared in the pin-drop silence of the dressing room.

It took no genius on your side to understand what Neil meant even before you raised your head and faced six equally shocked faces of the ballerinas in various stages of grief.

“I know, I’m sorry,” aware that acting on the desire to hold his hand would only backfire, you glared at the girls with a warning, “They can’t behave” you hoped it would convey enough annoyance to make them snap out of it.

Whatever it even was. Because they had seen the men (and women) you have been with. They knew your shtick. And yet.

“Not our fault you haven’t told us you’re going to have a handsome fellow over” Jemima, the only one not to break the stare under your glare, raised her eyebrow in an accusation.

She was always the feisty one. It was a characteristic you admired in her just as much as you disdained it. Especially now, with Neil��s awkwardness coming off in waves and your sudden desire to disappear growing stronger by the minute.

“Would that change anything?” you countered her allegation with a cold question.

Or, at least, you sure hoped your cool was still intact. The reasons for the embarrassment and shyness were impossible to understand. Not without internal analysis you did not want nor could undergo with the audience present. The soul-searching had to wait. Indefinitely.

“Only that we’d bother you about him earlier,” especially now when no remorse was to be found from the girls.

Rolling your eyes skywards, you muttered:

“Figures,” a sigh had to do as a preamble as you risked taking hold of his hand and squeezing it quickly, “This is Neil, guys. Be nice” one glance at Neil, at the silent panic, was enough to make you add “And stop staring” when he squeezed back, you briefly felt victorious.

Very briefly.

“Easier said than done, babe” Jemima shot you an overconfident wink and took those two paces to walk up to Neil. Her dark eyes piercing and inquisitive “Has anyone told you that you’re stunning, Neil?” she studied him, gaze treading the path over his features that you were overly familiar with.

A strange stab of insecurity at the centre of your heart threw you off the kilter. That was… strange. Unprecedented. Unacceptable.

“Once or twice,” Neil’s reply was the necessary anchor to bring you back from the depths of worrying thoughts.

As was the growing horror on his face. You had to step in.

“Jesus Ch-” choking past the litany of curses, you used the hold over his hand to drag Neil to your dressing table. You could still feel their stares but hoped they would get the hint, “You actually came” unable to keep the wonder out of your voice, you allowed yourself to look at Neil for the first time since the mess started.

He seemed more relaxed now that you have gotten rid of the onlookers. In his gaze, you could only see conviction, as if you never should have doubted him. And you didn’t! Just… needed to see it to believe it. Or something along those lines.

“Of course. These are for you” only now you noticed the bouquet of roses as Neil held it out to you with a smile. Yet it was difficult to pay attention to the flowers when he continued, “You were incredible, Cupid. Blew them all away. Just like I knew you would,” you could feel your cheeks heat up at the attention and the praise.

It was one thing to feel it but another to have someone lay it upon you. Especially Neil.

Neil, with his bright blue eyes and beautiful smile, that always felt like a benediction of sorts.

“Thanks” gingerly, you put down the bouquet on the dressing table and offered him a shy smile, “It’s still sinking in, but I think it was good. It certainly felt good” the promise to elaborate on your feelings was there; implied, and ready for Neil to take on. He did it with an understanding nod, allowing you to switch the topic with minimal clumsiness, “Anyways, I’m just going to finish here, and then I should show up at this banquet thingy upstairs for fifteen minutes, and I’m done” your restless hands played out their choreography, gesturing towards your half wiped off stage makeup and the hair that desperately needed an out from the tight bun.

You hoped the gestures would compensate for the awkwardness you could still feel. For the doubts that kept springing back up like freshly sown flowers in a fertile ground. Except that they didn’t.

“Sounds good” now that you were back at the table, you could see Neil in the mirror reflection.

He nodded, seemingly at ease with the situation and the scenario you had just painted for him. But-

“Unless you’ve got plans and I’ve just-” your anxious voice jumped into action when you let down your guard, voicing all that would not shut up inside your head.

Because you have never talked about his plans. You have never discussed the technicalities of what would be happening after the premiere. Not really. For all you knew, Neil might have just stopped by to say goodbye.

Before you could spiral further, you felt a careful touch at the nape of your neck. Gentle fingers brushing the tender skin and bringing out the shivers. You raised your head to see Neil looking back at you with a soft smile on his face:

“I’m only yours tonight” his hand skimmed lower, ghostly touch brushing over the shoulder blade.

It was gone before you blinked. But the sensation stayed, making you push the uncertainties to the back of your head and lock them away. For now, they were irrelevant.

The flowers, the suit, the photo – it all seemed like maybe tonight you could get what you really wanted. And what you wanted-

“Is that a promise?” picking up the fresh cotton bud, you bated your eyelashes at Neil.

Hoping (praying) he would ignore the crisis that unfolded before his eyes seconds before.

“We’ll see” Neil only smirked as he leaned against the wall closest to your dressing table and crossed his arms over his chest.

All yours, apparently.

***

It turned out that the key to getting more attention when entering the banquet at the Royal Opera House was to have Neil by your side. You could feel the gazes of fellow dancers and their plus ones follow you as you breezed through the hall, rushing towards the table filled with champagne flutes. You did not need to glance behind to know Neil was following you like a shadow. Once a pair of glasses was secured, you turned to him with a victorious smile and wordlessly motioned towards one of the high tables by the wall. It looked like the perfect place to linger until the speeches had been said and toasts raised. After that, you were good to go.

Once that first incomprehensible crisis was over, and you continued with the dressing table tasks, with the addition of Neil’s presence and comments, the strange anxiety has almost dispersed. Its place was taken by the anticipation of what would happen next. It was reflected in Neil’s gaze, the bright blue eyes watching with something akin to enchantment. Almost as if he could not and did not want to look away. It felt empowering in ways you could barely understand.

Now, as you set down both glasses and leaned on the table with a smile, Neil was ready. He mirrored your relaxed pose with ease. The tips of his black oxfords touched your shoes.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” the question was brought forward with a nervous chuckle and a cursory look around the room.

You could see the remains of restless energy in his movements. How his gaze skimmed through the crowd, searching for reasons why he did not belong. You knew the feeling too well. Tapping your shoe against his to capture the attention, you shot Neil a reassuring smile:

“Perfectly sure. You fit right in” without letting yourself think about it, you shuffled around the high table to stand right next to Neil.

Your shoulders were touching. When you turned to face him, you were struck breathless at the proximity. Up this close, Neil’s eyes felt boundless.

“Is that- Are you just complimenting me?” the baffled pout of his was something else to wonder at.

Something else to ignore if you did not want to make a spectacle in the middle of the banquet hall. Which you didn’t.

Instead, you focused on the disbelief you could see in his eyes, that familiar shade of shyness and insecurity telling you that despite his inherent coolness, Neil was anything but. Nudging your hip against his, you leaned in close:

“I’m also saying that you look very hot right now” your tone dropped to the seductive timbre that, while unnecessary, had a history of making Neil blush.

It was not different this time. You looked up in time to see the pink hue tint on his cheeks as Neil swallowed hard. He glanced at your mouth, clearly weighing the options like you just did. He must have come to the same conclusion, for he looked up again, nervous tongue swiping over the dry lips. Making you itch for a hit.

“How very?” he asked, quietly enough that you had to invade his personal space to hear the question.

Once you got that close, you did not want to increase the distance again. So, you stayed, eyes peering into Neil’s as you rested your chin on his shoulder and whispered the reply into his ear:

“Very” the curious stares of fellow banqueters hardly mattered as you pressed your hand to his suit lapel, “The suit was a top-notch choice. And now that I know what you look like without that shirt… Yeah, very hot” you waited until Neil was brave enough to face you to shoot him a wink.

By now, the picture was burned onto your eyelids. Yet, without a doubt, the photo never held a candle to the real thing. You were sure the hunger for it was clear as day on your face as Neil studied it for a long moment. That same thoughtful look in his eyes always made you feel half a step closer to insanity. Because it was impossible to tell what he thought then.

Remembering your daring gesture, you raised your hand from where it stayed pressed to his chest and folded your palms on the tabletop. For good measure, you took half a step away from him as well. Just so you did not tempt fate. A quick gulp from the champagne flute was also in order.

“So, I take it you liked the photo?” the innocence of Neil’s question made it clear that you were not allowed to let go of the conversation yet.

Not that you minded it. This sort of chat offered an easy space to share all that plagued your mind and soul, consensually and without a dose of awkwardness. Because he asked. And if he asked, then he was bound to know. Slowly, you turned your face again to look at Neil. He was one step ahead, the blue gaze already boring into yours. The hard edge of it softened by a cheeky smile.

“Oh, I did. I just wish you’d sent it earlier when I would have had time to process it in peace” aware that the words would do their job, you returned Neil’s smirk and took another swig from the glass.

If only so that you had something to do until he reacted to your confession. Your eyes scouted the horizon, taking note of the arriving dancers and the ballet directory gathering by the platform. It was not long now before the official part began.

It wasn’t long till you could leave.

“Process it how, exactly?” when your gaze returned to Neil, you found him just as expected.

Blue eyes wide, the magnificent jaw hanging open as his brain evidently pushed at him numerous versions of what your answer could imply. That would explain the dark blush creeping over his cheeks. And, for a beat, you considered it. Considered showing your cards and telling him exactly how he made you feel daily.

But where would be fun with that?

“Ladies don’t disclose their secrets,” you mimicked locking your lips shut with a key and rose on your toes to press a quick peck to Neil’s cheek.

When you leaned back again, he nodded:

“Noted” you could see the questions multiply in his gaze, but Neil seemingly pushed them all back, for when he spoke again, that topic was over, “What do you want to do after this?”

That was a question you needed no time to answer.

“A walk around Soho sounds nice” by now, your post-performance walks were a tradition.

A chance to breathe and decompress after the rollercoaster of preparations followed by the ballet. A chance to remind yourself that it was real. That you were real. Although, usually, you were alone, the concept of having Neil as a companion did not seem off-putting.

Quite the contrary.

“Got you,” his reply offered a chance to breathe out and relax by a fraction.

You shot Neil a grateful smile just as the commotion by the stage caught your attention. It was finally starting.

“Great, now shush” on its own accord, your hand found his on the tabletop and squeezed it once.

When Neil returned the squeeze, you grinned and buried the smile in the champagne glass.

***

The chilly autumn air cooled your cheeks as you adjusted the scarf around your neck, turned the corner of Long Acre Street and glanced at Neil. On the horizon, you could just about make out the Seven Dials pillar, marking the gateway into Soho. Although it was well past 11 pm, you knew that the streets would be full of people. With each step, the tension of the evening melted away, now only anchored by the tiredness set deep in your bones. You would still need a long sleep and a relaxing Saturday to manage tomorrow’s performance. But that, like most things, had to wait.

For now, all that mattered were the golden reflections in Neil’s hair and the tune he hummed as he matched your leisurely pace. Whatever would happen after the walk was very much undecided, so you made sure to banish the uncertainties to the back of your head and focus on the present. For the first time since leaving the opera house, you broke the comfortable silence:

“So… Be honest and tell me what you thought” that infuriating hesitation in your voice was hard to get rid of.

It tinted the sentence with unease and worry, making it abundantly clear that despite your attempts at nonchalance, you were everything but. Worst of all, you knew Neil would pick up on it instantly, too. He was good at reading you like that.

Lost in your head again, you never noticed you had been wringing your hands until you felt his touch, gently stopping the anxious gestures. Your head shot up just in time to see the small smile grace his lips as Neil looked away again and replied:

“I meant what I said earlier. You were incredible. And although my knowledge of ballet comes from Black Swan almost exclusively… Yeah, so fucking cool, Cupid” his eyes were full of admiration you could hear in the praise.

It made your cheeks heat up as the wave of bashfulness threatened to overtake any other part of your being. You swallowed hard against it, briefly tracing the cracks in the pavement to buy some time. Soon, you did what you always do.

“Well, I sure wish there was more gay sex with Mila Kunis at work” Neil’s loud laughter at your attempt at a joke made you grin despite the sudden shyness, “But thank you. As much as I was terrified, it’s all kind of disappeared before I came on for my bit. And then I just tried to do the best I could” shrugging, you allowed yourself a moment to relish in the rare feeling of pride.

That did not happen often. And when compliments came, they hardly held any substance to them. Unlike this, where you could tell Neil meant and believed what he said. The surge of affection was hard to deny, even if you tried to bury it beneath a shrug and a noncommittal smile. It burned through your chest like an ember. It was only a matter of time before it would catch fire.

“You were stellar. I couldn’t look away from you” mindless of your crisis, Neil kept speaking, “Not for a moment” once you made the mistake of turning to glance at him, the softness of his gaze felt like a trigger you did not know you had been waiting for.

Stopping in the middle of the pavement was the easiest part. You reached out towards Neil and grabbed his hand, making him stop as well. The surprise on his face was evident as he closed the space between you and asked:

“Everything alright?” the genuine worry was all but a metaphorical nail to the coffin.

It softened the edges of your raging soul and made you take the decisive step to cup his face between your palms and press your mouth to his. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Neil pulled you closer with his hands on your waist, instantly returning the kiss with equal ferocity. You could imagine the picture you painted to the outside souls. The all-consuming desire was written in every gesture and move. The inability to separate until you had to. The easy conclusions anyone would draw at the sight of you.

The conclusions which at any other time would terrify you.

But none of that mattered when you broke the kiss with the taste of Neil’s gasp on your tongue and caught his dreamy gaze. The long eyelashes fluttered as he slowly came to. The pink cheeks and glossy lips were something you could never quite get over. So, instead of surrendering to the foolish wants and stupid desires, you whispered the only other thing that made sense:

“Thank you” sliding your hand down the length of his arm to entangle your fingers together, you offered Neil a smile.

Grinning, he tugged at your joined hands to resume the walk. With the background of Wonderwall playing inside the pub you passed, he spoke:

“My pleasure. Now I expect to be given tickets to every premiere” the cockiness in his tone was a welcomed change.

It helped to close the door on the inconvenient softness and put your focus back on what mattered. Like the support and friendship of someone who seemed genuinely interested in you. That, too, was out of the ordinary for the relationships with men you wanted to fuck.

Not to be crude or anything.

“I’ll think about it,” you quipped, mind already venturing onto the prospects, mulling over what could happen after ‘Don Quixote’. Not without anxiety, “Next there’s this tiny, teeny off-chance they cast me in The Nutcracker… and that’s a really big deal” even saying the words you had thought of before was enough to make your heart rate speed up.

Because that was a possibility. An idea bolstered by the whispers among the girls and the ballet repertoire announced at the beginning of the winter season. But as much as it was possible, you did not dare hope. Not after the disappointments of the past.

“Like crippling anxiety kinda big deal?” as always, Neil had struck the goldmine without trying.

His talent at seeing through your bullshit and all that you tried to leave unsaid was terrifying. Hardly anyone was capable of that. And historically, those that did were most likely to become someone you could not get rid of. Not even if you tried. That, like many things, was a reason to push against the alarms in your head and offer Neil a grin so bright it looked plastic fake.

“Precisely that,” you nodded, mindlessly synching your pace to Neil’s and raising your head to look around the streets.

The warm streetlights cast a cosy glow around the alleys and shop windows, occasionally replaced with a neon or two, ablaze in the night. A million different songs could be heard from the windows and doorways of the pubs and clubs you passed. The chaos of the area was almost peaceful to you in its disarray. The beautiful mess that had no place in your daily world, in the carefully styled ballet buns and perfectly positioned pointe shoes. It was the antithesis of everything you lived and breathed, yet somehow more true to your nature than order could ever be.

The wonder must have shown on your face, for Neil broke the silence with a question:

“Why Soho?” the curiosity was impossible to ignore.

But when so often it would spark your annoyance and inspire the inherent desire to remain a mystery to all but yourself, here and now, it was almost welcomed. Because it came from someone who gave a fuck.

“Because it makes me feel the most at home, I guess. It’s like life can be shit and awful, but as soon as I get here and lose myself between those streets, nothing matters anymore” the weight of the words hung between you as your finger caressed the back of Neil’s hand, unconsciously drawing patterns. Only when the heaviness and sincerity began to feel too stifling, you added, “It must be that unique appeal of queerness, bondage and flashy lights. All at once” as if on a cue, you looked to the right to see one of the many sex shops scattered across Soho.

A classy, black leather harness lured the interested parties from the shop window. A giggle arose in your throat and spilt outward, tinting the night with a new shade of unforgettability. The feeling increased when you turned to see Neil’s grin:

“Must be” the joy in his face blinded you to everything else.

The comfortable silence stretched as you walked around Soho Square. Within the dimly lit park, you could make out the statue of King Charles II. That late at night, the iron gates were closed, leaving you to trace the perimeter of the square. The red brick tower of St Patrick’s watchfully traced your steps as you passed through the common and continued down one of many busy streets.

The wistful silence felt inspiring in ways you could hardly explain. Before you knew what you were doing, the question was out of your mouth:

“Can I ask you another inappropriate question?” at this point, the opener was a tradition.

It always got a smile out of Neil, so you did not consider ditching it.

“Shoot,” he squeezed your hand and peeked inside the pub you passed.

This one’s choice of music was not any less predictable. With the sounds of Mr Brightside, you asked:

“What are you most afraid of?” the origin of a question was hard to trace.

You only knew that it had been waiting for the right moment for quite a while. Perhaps it was because you barely had anyone else to talk about things like these that most people would rather stay unsaid. Perhaps it was that you were tired of ignoring the complex subjects and shutting the door on the uncomfortable.

Perhaps it was just that you wanted to know Neil better.

“Damn, that’s inappropriate indeed,” his low whistle told you even that sort of question was not too close for comfort.

You were yet to find the limit, which was both an exciting prospect and a terrifying concept.

“You know me,” you shrugged, hoping that gesture alone would help you ignore the implications of the sentence.

Yet the look Neil shot you as you risked a glance at him rendered the attempt useless.

“I do know you” the simple confirmation felt like a punch to the face, but you had no time to react. Neil followed the thought with the answer you had asked for, “Okay… It used to be something like being forgotten or not achieving my dreams, but now, I think it’s just that I’m scared of waking up one day and realising that I’ve nothing to live for. It’s that fear of failure, combined with the real chance of no one ever loving me for who I am” each of his words felt like that pinprick of pain in the molecules of your existence. As did the tiredness in his voice, almost emotionless except for the resignation you were well familiar with. It was the same tone of someone so used to the reality of their situation that it hardly made them feel anything anymore. It was a tone you knew well, “Fuck, that sounds depressing” sighing upon the conclusion, Neil slowed down your pace to look at the display of an indie boutique.

You knew that tactic. Understood that it was just a part of the ploy to shift the subject away from his troubles. But, in the light of all he said, you could not stay silent. You stepped close enough to show your intent in the movement and said what you knew was obvious:

“I think people would be stupid not to love you” despite your history with love, you knew that much.

If love existed, Neil was more than worth the pain of it. And anyone who was blind to it was not worth him.

Slowly, he turned to face you. The impassive face let you know that this time Neil would not be willing to get into the polemics over something he did not believe in. Instead, you got a neutral smile and a tender touch, brushing the stray lock of hair behind your ear:

“I wish, sweetheart” the mournful edge to his smile felt unsettling in a way you desperately wanted to ignore. As if sensing your discomfort, he quickly transformed it into a sardonic grin, “There’s also the fear of the world ending, but that’s just millennial quirks, I guess” before you could react to the mood shift, the invisible mic was extended towards you “Anyway, your turn,”

While you always knew that opening this topic would mean you would also have to bear your soul to Neil, the moment it came, you found yourself struggling for words. The truths were there, but they did not want to be released into the night like this. Without a promise that nothing would change after.

Wordlessly, you extended your hand to Neil and waited for him to take it before resuming the walk. It took you another two or three minutes of silence to start speaking:

“It was always the fear of growing old. And I don’t mean like a teenager shaking at the prospect of being thirty someday. I mean me right now, scared out of my mind for the day I realise I’m old. Because there’s no future for ballerinas past forty, if even that” once the words came, it was hard to stop them. They flowed, empowered by years of awful thoughts you could not permanently get rid of and the paralysing knowledge that they were correct. That this was the future awaiting you, “And I know that for all my talk of not needing other people for anything else than a good time, it’s going to bite me in the ass. When that youth fades, I’ll be a below-average woman who doesn’t have anything to offer” the conclusions came upon a weary sigh, with the burdens not at all lessened but only voiced.

For the first time ever, possibly.

The warmth of Neil’s hand in yours was a spark of comfort, urging you to let go of the thoughts and keep walking. You knew that if you stopped, there would be nothing to pick up from the pieces you would become.

“I don’t think you’re below average” although you did not dare look at him, you could feel Neil’s gaze on you.

Those knowing blue eyes wandered over your features like a tender touch you never deemed yourself worthy of. Although seemingly nonconsequential, his protest was not something you could brush over. It reverberated in your head until you felt like you had to shake it out with another pointless shrug:

“The point still stands, though” unsurprisingly, it was the shame that followed, forcing you to look his way and whisper a needed apology, “Anyway, I’m so sorry I asked that. I don’t know what overcame me,”

The most accurate guess would be the demons of hell or your lack of self-preservation.

“It’s okay. I want to know you more, and what better way to do that than through questions you’d ask at a sleepover in Year 9,” the judgement was not present on Neil’s face as he offered you a hand squeeze and a bright smile.

It almost looked like he was back to normal, having put the strange conversation behind you. You sure hoped that was the case.

“True” returning his smile with a degree of hesitation, you took the phone from your pocket to check the time. It was late, almost midnight, and you still had to get home. That sobering thought helped you decide the best course of events, “Should we get on the tube at Oxford Circus? We could then change at Baker Street,”

To deny that you hoped you would not get off at St. John’s Wood alone would be to lie, so you stayed quiet. The idea was slowly simmering in your mind, hoping to come to fruition through luck or the powers that be.

“Sounds good” Neil nodded, already picking up the pace to lead you towards the mentioned station. After a beat, he asked, “Cupid?”

“Hmm?” too occupied with your thoughts, you only made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re worth more than you know” that fondness in his voice was old news by now.

Yet it still punched the air out of your guts, like always. It still made you swallow hard against the inconvenient revelations and focus on what mattered the most.

Which, in this case, was to get Neil to come home with you. Easy.

***

It was impossible to tell which one was the deciding moment. When the course had been set, except that sometime between getting on the Bakerloo at the Oxford Circus and St. John’s Wood, the dice had been cast. Metaphorically, that is.

Somewhere between Baker Street and your station, with your lips formed into an almost permanent smile, you turned to Neil. Noticing the creases around his beautiful eyes and the fond grin on his face, you chanced an invitation that had been rattling around your brain for hours and days:

“Do you want to come to mine for a glass of wine?” miraculously, the tremors did appear in your voice.

As soon as Neil registered the question, you could see something in his eyes shift. Without a doubt, he understood where it was going. Or where you hoped it would go. He glanced at your mouth, almost as if on an unconscious instinct. Your hand resting in his loose hold on your lap twitched, making him tighten the grasp. The silenced stretched, thick, and substantial in the empty carriage. Empty save for the two of you.

It felt like aeons later when Neil finally met your gaze again and offered you a lazy smile.

“I’d love to,” that wolfish glint in his eyes told you he knew what you had been thinking.

It also assured you that this, like many things, was something you shared.

That awareness did nothing to eliminate the giddiness set in your bones, which only grew in strength as you led Neil through the streets of St. John’s towards the outskirts of Maida Vale. Once you arrived at your apartment and somehow opened the door without dropping your keys (a feat indeed), that giddy feeling transformed into nervousness coursing in your veins. It stayed as you opened the door, letting Neil through and following behind him. It was always a strange feeling to let someone else into your world, into that private space, so separate from the grandness of ROH. Unconsciously, you always expected critique or worse – ridicule.

But none came as you walked past Neil in the hallway and took off your shoes with caution. His eyes roamed over the walls and the furniture with interest, taking in every feature with curiosity. Trying the hardest to discard the awkwardness, you walked down the hall towards the living room and the kitchen, knowing he would follow. It was once you had welcomed Neil into the living space that you could no longer maintain the suffocating silence:

“I know it’s not Buckingham Palace, but…” gesturing weakly towards the room at large, you shot him a tight smile.

It was almost as if Neil going off the script and not being a judgmental guest threw you off to the point where you had trouble acting normally. It must have been visible in your body language, for he grinned and replied:

“No, it’s cosy” another broad look around the living room must have satisfied him as Neil took off his coat and scarf and draped them over the highchair by the breakfast bar, “Fits you,” meeting your gaze, he winked.

Instant warmth spread over your body, replacing the uncertainty with something different. Something dangerous.

“Whatever that means” returning his grin, you stalked into the kitchen and threw open the cupboard doors with a simple question, “Red or white wine?”

Settling the two wine glasses on the countertop, you turned to Neil. Only to find him browsing the bookshelves lining your walls between the windows.

“Red. Thanks” he put down the book he had been inspecting and turned to gaze through the windows down the street below, glancing your way in between.

Procuring the bottle of semi-dry Primitivo from the shelf, you recovered the corkscrew from one of the messy drawers. Only when that was done, and the wine could breathe a little (impressing the snobbish people on TV), you turned back to Neil. He was still perusing the bookcase, clearly doing his best to accommodate your strange shyness. Lucky for him, the worst had passed.

“You can have a look around. Just you know, don’t peek into my bedside drawers or go through my underwear” when Neil glanced at you with a scandalous gasp, hand clutching at his chest, you smirked.

That was familiar. Safe. A trustworthy dynamic to settle upon when looking for pointers for whatever would come next.

“As if I would,” the affronted look on his face made you giggle as Neil finished the living room tour and joined you in the kitchen, “Though now my curiosity has piqued. What do you keep in the bedside drawer?”

Sure, you could give him the answer he so desperately sought. But that would’ve been too easy.

“Maybe one day you’ll see” shrugging off his advances, you winked, hoping it would show how much you meant it.

Admittedly, if everything went how you wanted it to, you hoped that vague one day would come. For some reason, when staring at his broad back as Neil picked up your invitation and walked down the hall towards the bedroom, you knew he could never disappoint you. Not in that way. Somehow, it felt like once you crossed that line, which was constantly getting closer, it would be impossible to go back. And in a good way, too. In a way that would make you want to keep going back, again and again. Neil already was like a special kind of drug for you. Nothing could change that.

When he completed the self-guided tour, you were waiting on the sofa with a carefully chosen soundtrack running in the background and two glasses of red wine. As always, it was not difficult to keep the conversations running, ranging from topics such as how you became a ballerina to how the fuck did Neil manage to make his hair look so goddamn soft all the time.

For the sake of the argument you tried to make, you shifted across the cushions closer to Neil and buried your fingers in his dirty-blonde tresses. It did not escape your attention that as soon as you started intently combing through the strands and lightly pulling at them Neil closed his eyes with a telling exhale. Or that his body tensed, betraying wants and needs he probably tried to keep secret. Willing to spare him some shame (for now), you focused on the silkiness of his locks, staring as the colour reflected the warm lighting of the room.

“I seriously need tips on conditioners” with reluctance, you let go after something close to a minute and leaned back.

Just a fraction. Now that you had lessened the distance, you did not want to leave his side again. Without even trying to be exceptionally smooth, you lounged towards your old spot to move the wine glass and settled back against the cushions. The warmth of his body radiated across the minimal space. Some time ago, probably midway through the second glass, Neil has ditched the suit jacket. The vest underneath only did his body more favours, making it impossible for you to stop staring for most of the evening.

“Will do,” Neil nodded, seemingly having recovered his composure. He took another swig from the glass and regarded you with curiosity in his eyes, “Does that do it for you?”

You did not need to ask for clarification. Not with the way you had always seemed particularly fixated on his hair. Or how your hands always betrayed you when you kissed, taking every opportunity to touch them again. With that sort of transparency, you might as well embrace it.

“Definitely” offering him a shameless smile, you picked up the wine glass to down the remains.

That pleasant alcoholic buzz in your head smoothed out the edges of your vision and drowned out the remaining anxiety. Until all you could feel was warmth and contentment.

Only sometime later, after discussing the intricacies of your home lives growing up and the likelihood of you meeting Neil’s work friends (and getting along with them), the mood began to shift. It was hard to tell at first, smoothly falling into your usual dynamic. It was that sudden desire to lean your head over his shoulder and Neil’s inexplicable tendency to touch your knee with every other gesture during a particularly complex story.

One of those was just ending, with Neil describing in detail that one time as a teenager when he accidentally dyed his hair seaweed green when that uninvited voice inside your head would not keep quiet any longer.

“Can I tell you something?” blurting out the question was the easiest part, although its placement at the end of his story was clumsy.

The abruptness made Neil start, his hand hovering right over your thigh twitched. The blue eyes met yours with curiosity shining through.

“Always,” the dusting of pink along his cheekbones confirmed that you were not the only one feeling the effects of that bottle of Primitivo, now empty on the coffee table.

“I’m so glad you came tonight. And that you stayed, too” the earnestness in your voice was something you did not want to get rid of.

It strengthened the sentiment, showing that you meant it more than anything. Although the gratitude was there from the moment Neil stepped into the dressing room, it only increased with every passing hour. Because as he sat there, listening to your bullshit, one understanding came to the forefront of your mind. Something obvious, yet not at all. No one has ever taken their time like this. No one at all.

“Of course, I’ve told you I had fun. I’m beginning to see how incredible it is what you guys do on the stage” the sparks in his eyes drew you in like a moth to a flame as Neil added, “All of those years of practice and perfect technique. I could never” the admiration was another fatal blow to the remains of your composure.

It shone through his words, making it abundantly clear that Neil meant what he said, too. The fuzziness in your head got stronger the moment you tried to comprehend it. Shaking it off with a shrug, you shifted in the seat and leaned away from him enough so you could breathe. Or, at least, get an illusion of clarity back.

“Well, it is tough, I won’t lie” as always, your mouth kept on running before you could get a hold of your tongue, spilling all the facts and observations you had kept to yourself, “But that’s the thing. You came, and you actually watched, and now you’re here, listening to me waffle on about ballet and pointe shoes and all that bullshit, when you could just… I don’t know, leave?” the groan of frustration tore at your vocal cords as you finished the rant on a particularly bitter note “Or you could do what everyone else had when I dared invite them to one of my shows,”

Even the memory of it stung, making you drop your gaze to the drying burgundy spot on the table. In all your naivety, you hoped that would be it. That another topic would come up and make you forget about it.

But Neil had other plans. Not that you blamed him for it.

“Which is?” his question was the epitome of carefulness, with even the tone of his voice doing everything in his might not to startle you and make you clam up amidst the rare moment of extreme sincerity.

It when then and there that you decided Neil was worth a little discomfort.

“Spend the ballet on their phone, tune me out afterwards and only wait as far as coming here or going to theirs to ask me to be a good girl and suck them off” rolling your eyes against the reminder, your fingers restlessly picked at the loose thread in the hem of your dress. The ghost of that familiar dissatisfaction burned through your system almost as if it had just happened, “Because apparently I’m such a turn-on in those tights it’s impossible to pay attention” the attempt at an impression of that compliment never quite landed because of the venom in your voice.

The warmth of Neil’s hand enveloped yours as he stopped your anxious fiddling. You risked looking back up at him and instantly were struck by the heat in his gaze. It sparked something buried beneath the annoyance and incomprehensible feelings. Something you should have never ignored.

“It’s definitely a turn-on, but so is this” unaware of your ongoing spiral, Neil’s hand slid to your knee and squeezed it, “Hearing you talk about things that matter to you” the heat from his touch seeped through your skin, emphasizing the growing derealisation.

Because how could this be real? How could he be real? Neil, with his beautiful blue eyes and the ability to say the right thing when you needed it most. The breath hitched in your throat as you swallowed hard and channelled the storm inside your soul into words:

“Not according to most men” if asked about it later, you knew you would barely recollect what you said, having surrendered into the inherent ability to bullshit your way into everything ever, “And then they never even try to make me feel good. Well, they do, but not… selflessly” you could tell Neil caught the meaning with the way his eyes widened “When after every show I do all I want is for someone to take care of me” you did not get much time to wallow in the misery.

Not with the way Neil took approximately ten seconds to decide before his gaze turned back to you with breath-taking focus. His palm moved inward from your knee to slide between your thighs. The warmth of it encircled your leg as he leaned in close, nosing at your pulse point without a shadow of hesitation. Your abrupt gasp rang in the sudden silence, legs already parting to let him in without the conscious thought taking part in the action.

All the thoughts you could have had perished from your head as Neil pressed a kiss to the side of your neck and whispered against your skin:

“Like this?” the tenderness of his touch was overwhelming in the best of ways.

It took over your senses as he hitched up your dress and continued the slow journey up your thighs to the space between your legs. You could feel the arousal seeping into your underwear, making the material cling to your skin. It would be so easy to let him do whatever he wanted. Only-

“Yeah, but- Do you want to?” the breathlessness of your voice was bound to be an embarrassing memory.

But only once you had recovered the sanity, which was nowhere to be found. Still, you had to ask. There was no question about what you wanted. Not with the need coursing in your veins, begging you to stop fretting and just let go. Begging you to act like you always did.

But Neil was not like anyone you had ever been with. And that meant you cared. Too much, probably.

Leaning back far enough to meet your gaze, Neil tipped your chin so you were forced to look at him and smiled. The hungry determination was still there, only now interlaced with subtle reassurance. For your sake.

“Oh, trust me, I want to” without giving you time to reply, he kissed you quickly and stood up from the sofa, dropping to his knees before you without a word of warning, “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks” that devilish grin tugged at your insides as tilted his head, silently asking for permission.

Permission to change your relationship forever. You took a deep breath, already aware of the mess between your thighs and the insanity in your eyes.

You nodded, saving the voice for later.

Somehow, you knew soon enough you’d need it. Neil grinned like Lucifer himself. You were certainly fucked.

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