#corgi socks

[katbug666]

sure am wishing i had a foot stool... 🥹

[thechildisgone]

everything i won lmaoo and prissy checking things out

[sockdreams]

Creep out your neighbors and amuse your friends with these weird/fun/kinda-psycho socks. Also the ones above them are super soft and nice. So you’ve got lots to choose from in this sale, which runs now thru new year’s day. 

1. All Clearance items are 30% off.

2. The Stockings Stuffers and Winter Holiday collections are 20% off. 

As always, free & fast shipping in the US.

[goodlucksock]

Why do cowboys spend so much to buy a corgi? To get a long little doggy.

Corgi designs at GoodLuckSock.com

[psalmdivine]

Annie chilling this afternoon with City kitty-Kitty cat

[purple-babygirl]

don't call me daddy V

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x little!f!reader

Word count: 4,660

Summary : In a world where littles are openly themselves, they volunteer to help and be helped by willing caregivers. In spite of himself, Bucky finds himself stuck with one and to keep the nagging away, he has to learn how to be around her with everything that that entails.

Warnings: crying, age regression, fluff, a little angst

A/N: i would like to give credits for this part and its idea to🦊nonnie because without her ask there might've not been a fifth part to this story. Having said that, i'm thinking this should be the last part of the story because i am out of scenario your girl is empty. but anyway, please enjoy this one and have a tight hug xx💜💜

~

When they arrived back at her house, she was asleep in the passenger's seat.

Bucky didn’t want to wake her up. He knew she barely got any sleep last night because of the mean cough she was suffering from and so he carefully carried her inside without a word.

His heart kept speeding up every time he would remember what she called him after taking her shot as he slipped her feet out of her shoes and socks and tucked her in her bed.

He frankly had no idea what he would do if she was to wake up little and if he was ready to be a good daddy to her. What if he messed up again? He seemed to be a pro at that.

Luckily, when she woke up later that night, she was her big self again and didn’t seem to have any recollection of calling Bucky daddy, or if she did, she didn’t mention it.

Bucky gave her her cough syrup and the rest of the meds, helping her go back to sleep as he presumed his place on the floor by her bed.

In a way he couldn’t explain, even her coughs were more comfort than the silence at his house, and definitely more comfort than his nightmares.

It was 12 days of little sleep, a lot of crying, meds, movies and sleepovers until she was fully cured again, and even though Bucky hated that she was sick, those seemed to have been some of the best days he’s ever gotten to live since he’s come back to himself.

He got to laugh with someone, care for someone, comfort someone and enjoy the company of someone. And not just anyone; it was her.

But something was missing still.

Bucky wanted her to call him daddy. More than anything and from the bottom of his heart, he wanted to deserve that name, that role.

What Bucky had noticed in the days he’d stayed at her place was that she had no family pictures at all.

She had framed pictures of friends, of herself, of Corgi, but none of family members.

It didn’t come as a surprise because she’d mentioned it to him before, and he just knew that if he wanted to be her caregiver, her daddy, Bucky had to prove to her that he was nothing like those who’d hurt her. He had to prove himself worthy of taking care of her; set himself apart from them.

And to do that, he had to know more.

“I see no family pictures anywhere,” Bucky spoke as he helped her plant the new tulips she had in place.

“Yeah, we’re not close.” She shrugged, hand stuttering just the tiniest bit in their movements.

“Can I ask why?”

She sighed, “why?”

“I’m trying to learn from the mistakes of others.”

She laughed, “really?”

“Really.”

Oh, this wasn’t a joke?

“You know you don’t have to do that anymore, right?” She couldn’t understand why he would want to try again when the report was handed and he was let off the hook.

“I want to. I really want to.” Bucky wished his gloved hands weren’t muddy as they were so he could touch her face.

He found himself craving physical contact around her more often than not.

“You finally believe in the power of the program?” She teased, keeping her focus on the flowers she was rooting.

“No, I couldn’t care less about the institution and its programs.”

“Not even Mrs. Morrison?” She joked again.

“I’m serious, doll.”

“Why then?” She dropped the bulbs, deciding to face Bucky.

“I want it because it’s you I’ll be daddy to.”

“They never loved me for who I was.” She answered his previous question and Bucky felt a pang at his chest.

He had made her feel the same way.

He remained silent, not wanting to interrupt her in fear that she might stop.

“I always had to be a certain way, say certain things, act a certain way. Do what we say and then we’ll see if we can love you.”

Bucky might’ve been speechless, but his eyes spoke a million words, begging hers for forgiveness for his ignorant mistakes.

“That’s why it hurt so much when you showed me you didn’t accept the little version of me.”

“I’m so sorry-”

She shook her head, stopping him.

“I’ve been rejected for too long, Bucky, too many times. It took me a good while to finally believe that I was worth loving despite my quirks, ugly parts and possible mistakes. Took too long to teach myself that it didn’t matter if I cried all the time, was too clingy or too talkative; I was still lovable.” She pointed to her chest as she finished her words.

Bucky took his gloves off, pulling her in for a hug, unable to stop himself anymore. He had no words, only anger and remorse raging inside his chest.

“It takes you a while to unlearn stuff you’ve been taught your whole life by the people who were supposed to love you the most.” She whispered into his shirt.

“Doll, I’m so sorry,” Bucky whispered back.

“It’s okay.” She looked up at him, “I appreciate you, Bucky, I really do, but I don’t think I’m ready to lose everything I’ve built inside me if you decide in the middle of it that you weren’t fully ready to take on such a responsibility. I forgive you. I promise. But I don’t trust you enough to give up full control of myself and my life to you again. I’m sorry.” She pulled away from the hug, giving Bucky the option to walk away.

“Don’t be. I understand.” He remained in place.

“Are you gonna disappear now?” She wondered with a sad smile.

“No, you’re not getting rid of me so easily.” Bucky returned the smile, putting his gloves back on.

She smiled gratefully, “I don’t wanna lose you either. You’re such a great friend. And I owe you forever for taking care of me those past few days.”

“What if I prove myself to you though?” Bucky asked, dipping a tulip bulb in the soil.

“What?” She tilted her head in confusion.

“What if I show you how serious I am about this and prove myself worthy of you?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to do that. I know you have a life, responsibilities-”

“I want to do it. There’s nothing more important to me right now than this. And you.”

“If you’re doing this just because you can’t accept that you failed the program-”

“I swear on my ma’s soul, I want to do this. Because of you, doll. For you and with you.”

The words died on her tongue as she watched his sincere eyes implore hers.

“Would you give me a chance to prove myself to you? Please?”

“Okay, Bucky.” She swallowed, “one chance.”

“That’s all I need.” Bucky smiled.

She was not sick anymore and he didn’t have a reason to stick around. He also didn’t want to push her on the matter of regressing, so, respectful of her boundaries, he left.

~

After their conversation in the garden, Bucky had to go home.

His heart was heavy when he entered his empty apartment to nothing and no one. Being alone in here wasn’t something he enjoyed anymore.

It has been 2 days of intense research that Bucky has conducted on age regression and partners in little space when she texted him that night.

“Mr. Barnes, can you please come over?”

He wasn’t particularly happy about the fact that he was Mr. Barnes again, but he certainly was happy that she thought to text him when little. This was an improvement and it counted to Bucky.

“Will be right there, doll.” He texted back, running to his motorcycle.

~

Bucky took in a deep breath before knocking at her door, ready to prove himself a suitable daddy.

She opened with teary eyes, making Bucky’s heart sink.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Bucky asked as he stepped inside.

“I can’t open the pickle jar and now my hands hurt,” she cried, showing him the insides of her palms and how red they were from trying so hard to twist the cap on the glass jar.

She was indeed a little worried that Bucky might find this stupid, that he might yell at her or get upset because she was crying over something minimal in his eyes.

But that wasn’t the case at all. The man was just thankful that she was alright.

“Oh, doll,” Bucky sighed in relief, glad that she wasn’t actually hurt.

Until he remembered that this was a big deal to her. Her hands hurt and she was frustrated because the cap wouldn’t budge.

Moments like these definitely required a daddy.

“I thought Mr. Barnes could help,” she sniffled, her hand wiping under her nose, “metal arm.” She touched his gloved hand.

Bucky chuckled, taking the pickle jar out of her hand, “what if I can do it without the metal arm? What would you give me in return?”

“The biggest pickle?” She offered, wiping her tears away from her eyes, her crying stopping at once.

Bucky laughed at her innocence, “no, I want something else, doll.”

She tilted her head expectantly.

What could Mr. Barnes possibly want? Did he want the whole jar? Would he at least leave her one pickle? She was craving pickles-

“I want you to start calling me Bucky again. No more Mr. Barnes. Can you do that for me, doll?”

Oh, that was something she could do.

“Only if you can open the jar with your not metal hand,” she challenged, her little mind amazed by the idea because look at her hand! It had red marks all over when she tried opening that jar.

“You got it,” Bucky said, easily twisting the cap on the jar open, making her mouth open with it.

“Woah,” she whispered as Bucky handed her the jar with a laugh.

“You’re welcome, doll.” He smiled, watching her chew on a crunchy pickle.

“Thank you, Bucky.” She smiled back, offering him a big pickle.

Bucky’s nerves tingled, knowing he was one step closer to her and his desired title.

~

Moving forward, Bucky learned to distinguish between her big self and little self through texts.

Her little self would always talk about him and herself in third person.

Plus, her big self always needed help with bigger things like needing Bucky to fix her sink or look at her car, knowing he might burn down the city if she went back to asking Adam for help with those things.

Her little self, on the other hand, would need help with the lighter things, the sweeter things. She would call asking for help with Corgi, something too high on a shelf or even just wanting Bucky’s company.

Tonight was one of those nights.

It was thundering more than usual and Bucky had wanted to go and be with her, but he didn’t want to invade her privacy.

But then she called and her scared voice saying his name had Bucky moving even before she uttered the words.

He was proud that she now knew that he was just only one call away; that he would come running whenever she needed. She could finally count on him to be there for her and he couldn’t be more contented.

He knew that consistency was important in relationships, especially one where she was little.

“Hey, doll, it’s okay. It’s just a little thunder,” Bucky cooed, rubbing her back as she let him inside.

“I’m not scared anymore now that Bucky is here.” She smiled, her breathing visibly slowing down.

“Well, I’m staying the night so you have nothing to worry about,” he chuckled, following her to the bedroom.

“Bucky covered his motorcycle?” she asked, worried his vehicle would get ruined.

“Leave that for now, we’ll hose it down together tomorrow when it’s sunny.”

“Corgi loves the hose,” she spoke out the first thought that came to her mind and Bucky loved it, laughing heartily at her comment.

The dog’s ears perked at the sound of his name, jumping at Bucky’s feet as soon as he entered the bedroom, waiting for his share of pets.

He bent down to give the dog some love when he heard her sigh.

“Corgi loves Bucky too.” She smiled shyly, internally wishing her name was Corgi.

“Bucky loves Corgi right back,” Bucky whispered, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

She only smiled bigger, running to her bed and getting under the covers.

When Bucky got down to sleep on the floor that night, however, she slipped off her bed and right next to him.

“Doll, the floor is too cold for you. Sleep on your bed, come on.” Bucky sat up, wanting to help her up on the bed again but she wouldn’t move.

“Wanna be next to Bucky,” she said with a pout.

“But-”

“I know Bucky can’t sleep on beds. It’s okay. Doll will sleep here,” she told him, squeezing Wolfie in her arms.

Bucky’s heart fluttered and it made his mind light up with an idea only a true daddy would have.

“Do you wanna build a fort?” He suggested and her face instantly beamed with a smile as she nodded.

Of course she did!

That night as Bucky gathered all of her soft blankets to make her a floor mattress inside a fort full of fluffy pillows, he knew he was smitten.

This girl had him head over heels for her and there was nothing in the world that he wouldn’t do just to see her smile.

“Can Bucky please tell me a story?”

“Sure, doll. Do you have any books I can read to you from?”

“I have books that big me likes but I don’t want those.”

“What would you like then?”

“I want a story that is Bucky’s. Tell me a story you didn’t tell anyone at the institution.”

Oh, she was jealous. The thought made Bucky smile as he pulled the covers up to her neck to make sure she was warm down on the floor.

“Okay, you ready?” Bucky asked, dimming the lights in her room.

She made herself comfortable under the covers, big eyes watching Bucky’s handsome grin as the cozy atmosphere he’s created comforted her through the storm, “ready.”

“Once upon a time, there was a small idiot who picked up fights with boys much bigger than himself. His name was Steve…”

Bucky fell asleep with his hand stroking her hair, watching her soft breaths leave her chest that night without abruptly waking up in the middle of it for the first time in forever.

~

Bucky didn’t know what it was like to be her, but he was going to do his best to put himself in her shoes like she’d previously tried.

She deserved to be fully and entirely understood.

He witnessed a glimpse of her feelings towards the concept of family a couple of times when they would watch movies like The Lion King or Lilo and Stitch.

She didn’t seem to be affected by the death of Mufasa even though he knew her to be a very sensitive little. She was sad for Simba, of course, but not for Mufasa’s demise. Similarly with Lilo and Stitch, she didn’t care much about the concept of the family.

There was an actual barrier separating her from experiencing any positive feelings that came with the idea of family. Because she had none to associate with hers.

With some more research, Bucky managed to find a few animated movies that didn’t seem to revolve around the idea of family love and how family was everything and whatnot.

One of those movies was The Willoughbys. The movie depicted how neglecting some parents can be and that 2 people loving each other and getting married didn’t necessarily mean they would love their children too.

It was a very unique movie and Bucky was actually happy they could make such movies nowadays.

When the song I Choose You started playing in the movie, Bucky felt her small hand squeezing into a fist.

He silently wrapped his hand around hers, offering quiet comfort and support.

“Bucky chooses you, doll. Wholeheartedly.” Bucky reassured, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

He looked down to see tears in her innocent eyes as she showed her feelings for the first time during one of their movie nights.

“Bucky chooses me?” she croaked, lip trembling as she cried.

“I choose Bucky, too.” She pulled him down by one cheek to leave a kiss on the other.

Bucky froze.

It was the first time she’s kissed him since he applied that cream on her burnt hand back at his house. She did it on her own, too.

“And I choose Corgi,” she said, running her fingers through the hair of the puppy sleeping soundly on her lap.

“That’s right, and Corgi chooses you. Family doesn’t have to be the ones you were born with, doll,” Bucky told her as he wiped her tears away, “you can choose the family you want for yourself”.

“Thank you, Bucky.” She hugged him tight, afraid he might not be real and that this moment is all made up.

“You’re welcome, doll.” Bucky kissed the side of her head as they pulled away.

“Can I choose Adam, too?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper as she gauged Bucky’s reaction.

She could actually hear his chest rumble with a low “argh” before he nodded despite himself, making her giggle.

“Don’t worry. I only have one Bucky.” She reassured, slinging her arm around Bucky’s metal one.

One daddy, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t. She was still scared.

~

Bucky knew that she needed her own independent time alone sometimes even when little, and he would allow her just that, texting throughout the day just to make sure she was okay, reminding her to drink water and take care of herself.

But there was one particularly hard weekend when she felt real down about some of her plants dying as the storm took them out of the ground.

When she opened the door she was clearly disheveled, hair all messy and looking like it hadn’t been brushed all week.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky spoke gently as he closed the door behind him.

She quickly ran into his arms, needing the comfort more than anything, “my plants are dead and Corgi peed on my new carpet and my hair doesn’t smell like shampoo anymore and I’m-”

Damn. She was spiraling. She just slipped out of his hug and on the floor. Oh no.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here now and I got you, okay?” Bucky tried his best to reassure her, getting on his knees before her to look into her eyes.

“Okay,” she hiccupped, nodding even though she wasn’t fully convinced.

“What happened to the plants?” Bucky wanted to handle her concerns one at a time.

“My apple trees were pulled out of place because of the storm,” she started sobbing again as she remembered what had happened to her hard word.

“Okay, okay, tell you what, I’ll put them back in place, okay?”

“Really?” She sniffed.

“Really.” Bucky smiled kindly.

“Okay.” She nodded, trying to control her breathing.

“And we’ll throw the new carpet in the washing machine, and keep Corgi in his playpen with pee pads,” Bucky gave her the steps of how the day was going to go, leading her by the hand to where Corgi was.

“Okay.” She nodded again, her tears ceasing.

“And while the carpet is being washed, I’ll help you wash your hair. Does that sound okay?” Bucky asked her permission, wanting to make sure she was completely comfortable.

“Yes.” She was finally smiling again as well.

“Okay, let’s get you in here,” Bucky told the puppy before placing him inside his playpen.

He spread a few sheets on which the dog could pee if needed before collecting the affected mat.

“Let’s take this to the washing machine,” Bucky voiced his movements, wanting to put her at ease as he kept her hand in his and walked with her to the bathroom.

“In you go.” Bucky threw the rug inside the washing machine along with some detergent.

“Now what do we do?” He asked her, wanting to keep her out of her head.

“Wash doll’s hair?” She asked with half a smile.

“That’s right, get in there.” Bucky tilted his head towards the bathtub with a smile.

~

And for some reason, it was different this time. He didn’t feel all weird seeing her naked. Maybe it was because he knew her better this time and was familiar with her in more ways than one that such intimacy didn’t startle him.

He wasn’t sure, but Bucky wasn’t complaining, only grateful as she closed her sweet eyes and trusted him to wash her hair for her.

“Alright, show me how it’s done,” Bucky encouraged, instructing her to whip her hair to the front so he could wrap the towel around it.

She did as told with a giggle, dangling her hair before her and letting Bucky wrap it up the best he could.

“Off to the couch.” Bucky chuckled as he watched her skip in her cashmere bathrobe to her couch.

Later after Bucky has brushed her hair for her, he helped her get dressed and they went outside together to replant the fallen apple saplings the wind had knocked down just like he'd promised.

The smile on her face was new and unmatched as she watched Bucky handle her plants with care.

“Thank you, Bucky.” She hugged him close, hardly wanting to let go as they stood in the middle of her garden.

Bucky was now rooted in her heart just like the plants in her garden were in their soil.

She didn’t think she could be away from him anymore. She didn’t want to be away from him anymore.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” she whispered timidly as they started walking back to the house.

“What do you want on your piz- what did you say?” Bucky stopped in his tracks.

“I’m hungry.” She bit her lip and looked away quickly, hesitant now that his eyes were on her.

“Before that, doll.” Bucky brought her eyes back to his by her chin.

“D-daddy?”

Bucky smiled a smile that reached his eyes as they lit up with gratitude. He couldn’t believe he was finally hearing that word.

“Daddy’s thinking pizza, doll. Sound okay?”

Her face glowed up with her own smile as she witnessed Bucky, with full commitment, refer to himself as daddy.

She nodded, knowing this was going to be the most delicious pizza she was ever going to eat.

~

“What is daddy thinking?” She asked when she noticed his eyes on her, slipping a loose strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear.

“Just thinking about all the things you make me feel, doll.” He smiled, turning his face to kiss her hand before it left his face.

Her face started heating up as she retracted her hand, tingles spreading all over her, “things like what?”

“You make me feel like there’s still good in this world. Like I’m worth patience and kindness and maybe even… love,” Bucky voiced his feelings, eyes dreamy as they watched her pretend to be focused on organizing her stuffies’ seats on the floor.

“You are, daddy,” she replied sincerely, hurting inside that Bucky might doubt this even a little.

“I can’t believe I was so horrible to you, doll.” Bucky’s sigh came out hot from his chest, holding so much regret.

“That’s in the past, daddy. Doll doesn’t think about it no more.” She smiled, her littler hand covering his own lovingly before giving a soothing squeeze.

“You’re just perfect, aren’t you?” Bucky held her hand up and gave the back of it a noisy kiss.

She laughed, face heating up more at the sweet attention, “no body’s perfect, remember?”

Bucky tried to continue laughing with her but he was still kicking himself for what he did to her during her visit to his house.

“How did you even tolerate me back then, doll? I was the worst.” Bucky covered his face with his hands as he threw his head back, laying on his back on the floor full of shame.

“That’s not true. You just misunderstood me and that happens!” She was quick to defend him, refusing the idea that he would even criticize himself, “daddy is the best.”

“I know, but it still gave me no right to treat you the way I did.” Bucky’s eyes teared up at the memories of his very mean words and actions, “I made you cry a lot.” He struggled to forgive himself for that one.

“Daddy, I forgave you, I swear,” she promised, her hands cradling his full cheeks.

She felt like her heart might stop from sadness if Bucky was to cry right now.

“I’m really sorry. I’m really really sorry, doll.” Bucky’s eyes were sincere, holding so much emotion in them that she felt her own begin to fill up with tears.

“Daddy, you don’t need to apologize no more,” she whispered, doing her best to hold back tears.

“You have made me the luckiest man on earth by accepting me as your caregiver, your daddy, and you’ve taught me so much, doll.” Bucky actually started crying, a lot of held-inside feelings coming out at once.

“Daddy.” Her thumb wiped under his eyes gently as she felt her own tears roll down, “don’t say stuff like that”.

“But I need to. Because you did. You taught me unconditional love and acceptance. You taught me what it means to live again. Doll, your patience with my terribleness has taught me that maybe I’m not a hopeless case after all, and that this shell of a man with a metal arm might be capable of things he thought have been wiped from his memory long ago.”

“Daddy, please stop crying,” she sobbed, pressing her forehead to his chin as her attempts at wiping his tears away have proven to be futile.

“I love you so much, doll. I love you with every old bit of me and if you’ll have me…”

“Daddy?” she raised her head, eyes on Bucky’s face, trying to read his expression.

Could Bucky really be asking what she thought he was asking?

“Doll, I want you to be my baby for more than just a few days. Would you give me that honor? Would you let me be your daddy for real?”

“Daddy, are you sure?” she nervously bit her lip.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything before.” Bucky promised.

She nodded frantically, afraid the offer might disappear if she took too long to respond, “yes.”

“Thank you, doll.” Bucky breathed as he pulled her to him, strong arms engulfing her in a protective hug.

“Daddy will not regret it later?” her eyes watched him, a small hint of doubt still tainting her trust.

“Do you like the moon, doll?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head, not understanding the relation between her question and Bucky’s answer.

“You know how our sky only has one moon?”

She nodded.

“My heart is just like that. It can only have one doll no matter how much time passes.”

“Oh.” She sniffled, trying to hold the tears in.

“I love you, doll.” Bucky gave her hair a long kiss.

“I love you, daddy.” She kissed his chest, her arms tightening their hold around him as best as she could, never wanting to be away from him again.

And she wasn’t going to be. Bucky was an idiot who let her go once; never again was he going to make that mistake.

He was blessed with her now and he was going to spend every day of his life proving he was worthy of this blessing.

~

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[soulc-hilde]

Twiddledee, Twiddledum

Pairing: Eminem x afab!reader

Synopsis: You’ve never been the most sociable person, missing countless of romantic possibilities until an accritically acclaimed rapper decides that you’re the one for him. Of course, the mean girl who lives for theatrics doesn’t agree. 

Based off of this request

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Baby, you’ve been telling me for months about how great of man you’re with, but how come I’ve never seen him before?” Your mother practically whines through the phone call. 

You scoff, shaking your head. Because your other child is a hoe and three quarters. Despite her conscience, you decided to play it safe with your words. “We’ve just been busy, mama. Ya know, if there’s one thing about workaholics, we attract one another.” 

“Child, you may be grown, but I ain’t stupid,” the woman snorts. “Besides, you’re a bad liar. If you’re ashamed of us… I’ll cuss your ass out, but I won’t judge. Your father still believes that wearing socks with his sandals is a practical fashion statement. That’s enough shame to last a lifetime.”

You laugh, nostalgic moments of your family’s arguments over the man’s fashion choices. “That man could bring shame upon a village and he still wouldn’t care,” the two of you laugh. They settle down for a moment. “You do know that we tend to find love that reminds us of home or our loved ones, right? I bet you, that boy you’re with is just like yo’ daddy.”

You freeze for a second, thinking about whether the statement was the slightest bit true. 

“Oh my God,” Hailie gasps, eyes wide as she glares up the stairs. “Dad, no. Absolutely not!”

Stevie and Alaina lean over, trying to see what traumatized their sister. Immediately, their eyes widen, jaws dropping like never before. Their father, goofy as can be yet aggravating as hell, was dressed like the Boy Wonder in a tight costume and a fat blonde wig that contrasted heavily against his dark brown beard.

“What?” He shrugs, gesturing down at the outfit. “You don’t like the look? I was thinkin’ about tryin’ some’ new.” 

Stevie shakes their head, face turning as red as the vest of his costume. “No, you… you can’t. This should be illegal. How did we even get here?!” 

Alaina just laughs, flying back against the couch without a care if she’d smash her head into the frame. Walking around the corner, sipping on a homemade Pepsi slushie, you choke at the sight. Distressed, was the way Hailie described your reaction. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the bullshit that would arise on the once fine Tuesday evening. 

It was only fucking Tuesday. And this motherfucker actually went outside and walked the neighborhood in this shit. Not even your poor Corgi, Parlay, wanted to be caught dead beside this man. 

“Parlay,” he scolds, “come on, man. You gotta take a shit? You better do it now cause you sure as hell ain’t doin’ it in my house.” The dog huffs and whins, tossing and turning on his back, paws covering his eyes. 

You lean out of the living room window, smiling. “Stop stressing him out and maybe he wouldn’t be constipated. Crazy son of a bitch.” 

Oh, good times. Good times. Shit, your mother’s right. He was damn near the mirrored image of your just as comedic father. 

You simply sigh into the receiver, chuckling at the thought. “So, dinner?” Your mother questions, a smile so strong it could be heard through her words. Damn, snake. “Yeah, yeah. I can see about dinner. I’ll ask him first, so we can find a good time and I’ll text you.”

“Yes! I’ll be waiting, now! Kisses,” she hangs up with a quick air kiss to the phone. 

You toss the phone to the other side of the couch, forcing a throw pillow over her face in hopes you’d strangle to death. Marshall walks past, eyes widening at the sight, unsure if you were just being dramatic as per usual or if you needed to talk. 

He takes quick, hesitant steps your way. His strong hand quickly taps the tips of his digits against your neck. You scrunch, catching his fingers in the process, with a yelp. “Ow, Mars,” you wince, “what the hell, man?” 

He removes the pillow, meeting your squinting eyes with a shrug. “Hey, not my fault, you search for death on a regular basis. I still don’t know when you’re serious, sometimes.” 

The man plops beside you, sliding the phone over under your legs. “What’s going on, mama?” He pats your thighs. “My mother wants to meet you, have a nice little family dinner,” you easily open-up.

Between you and Marshall, nothing was complicated. You both found it easy to converse and open to one another, after he felt confident that you weren’t in search of his wealth that is. All of your insecurities, your fears – anything on your minds, was like an encrypted cope that only the two of you could decipher. His kids would constantly compliment your partnership, happy their father has found the beauty in love. 

“Okay, nothin’ wrong with that,” he shrugs. “You don’t avoid talking about your parents, so they can’t be that bad in your eyes.” 

“And they’re not. They’re not the cause behind my worry, it’s my sister,” you nearly growl at the thought of her. 

Growing up, you two were only a few months apart yet you two were polar opposites. While she basked in the praise for everything she did. From the way she talked down to the way she dressed, it was like experiencing Regina George before the Mean Girls movie. Now that you think about it, maybe she inspired the character. 

Outside of her appearance, she began to fraternize with boys a little too much. Sneaking uninvited guests in and out of their house when their parents were gone, knowing her little sister felt incredibly uncomfortable. You could never forget the night she stormed into your room with a boy, invading your privacy as they bounced onto your bed.

“Did you know that she’s a virgin,” your sister laughs, steadily watching your face. “It’s so bad that she gets disgusted by the idea of having sex.” The two laugh, finding humor in the fact that their abrasiveness and ignorance. 

“I don’t get disgusted about sex, idiot,” you hiss, shaking with anger. “I get pissed off when your slutty, disease having ass disrespects my personal space and our parents. So, yeah, I’m gonna get mad.” 

“Aw, poor baby’s gonna cry,” she laughs, hoping to cover the impact of the insult. The boy laughs as well, “maybe she just needs a little action. Really give her something to cry –” 

Irrationally, you swing at his face, smashing the old cd player against his cheek. His body rolls off the bed, shaking the ground on impact. Your sister glares up at you, eyes trembling with fear. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

“Like a fucking patient,” you holler back, snatching her hair, pulling her off the bed. “Let me go, you crazy bitch!” She screams as you drag her down the stairs, silently hoping you’d cause even greater damage.

Since then, things have been different. Well, for one, word got out that you were a crazy, temperamental bitch so no one really got in your way which meant that your sister couldn’t mention bringing a boy home without him pissing his pants. And two, the girl stopped fucking with you. 

Once you graduated high school and went about your adult lives, you simply told your parents one thing. One rule: ‘I never want to hear a single update about that woman.’ Of course, they had their questions and opposals, but after a while, they began to understand that something happened and it was up to you two to figure it out. Which you never will. 

“What about her?” He asks. “That bitch is the reason why I look at sex with disgust, why I felt so uncomfortable with the idea of letting anyone so close and personal,” you huff. 

“She’s even went out of her way in the past to publicly humiliate me because I’d rather pick up a book than wonder who I can fuck for how ever much time.” Marshall’s eyebrows raise, “and that’s a problem, why?” You deadpan, receiving a shrug. “Just askin’, ya know, I used to act similarly in the past.”

You nod, “true, but I can bet that you’ve never gone so far that you’d humiliate and force it onto someone who’s just not comfortable with it.” He nods, “hell no. I couldn’t imagine doing that to anybody.” 

“Well, she had no problem doing that to her little sister. Bitch, had the damn nerve to act offended when I started lashing out.” Marshall snorts, “you do have an insane temper, babe. I thought I was bad, but you take the cake, boo.”

You lightly kick him in the side, rolling your eyes, amused. “Shut up.” He nods, “my bad. My bad. So, the dinner. Do you wanna go, take the risk of your sister being there? Or do you wanna just stay home?”

“We can go,” you shrug. “It’s not right that I got to meet all of your loved ones, but you’re just a stranger to mine.” He nods, “well then, we have a dinner to attend. I’m free this Friday night, okay.” You simply nod, turning your attention to the television. 

– Friday Night – 

The plans for dinner weren’t too fancy, instead it was just a casual steakhouse they were attending. Reaching the restaurant, you two step inside, eyes searching for the booth your mother described to you. 

‘Big and in the far corner,’ she texted. So descriptive mother, she could be a writer with those words. Finally, your eyes fall onto hers. The woman waves, enthusiastically causing her husband to turn around quickly, nearly giving himself whiplash.

“Let’s get this shit started,” you sigh, stepping forward. Marshall pecks you on the head, holding your hand in a gentle caress. 

The two of you reach the table as your parents stand, waiting to introduce themselves. “Mom, dad,” you smile, “this is Marshall. My boyfriend.” He steps forward, shaking your father’s hand before pulling your mother in for a quick hug. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Your mother nearly squeals, “oh, you’re so handsome! I’m so happy to finally meet you.” Your father nods, “our baby kept you hidden real good, but she’s told us somethings.” Marshall chuckles, “hopefully, all good things.”

“Of course,” your father leans forward, “it’s good to know that a man with humor has captured her little heart. We were afraid some average pain in the ass was gonna weave his way in.” 

“Dad,” you groan, slipping into one side of the booth when you feel a lump brush against your hip. You look down to see a fake snake skin purse. 

Your face scrunches with disgust, looking at your parents, “please tell me you didn’t get me a gift? Besides, you guys know I hate purses. Especially poorly designed ones.” You grimace, raising the bag by its strap. 

“Uh, about that, lovey,” your mother stutters when a shrill voice cuts in. “Oh my God, no way!” They scream, rushing for the table. You look up, eyes widening at the sight of the monster from under your bed hugging your boyfriend, legs wrapping around his waist.

Marshall coughs on his saliva, eyes widening at the invasion of space. “Get the hell off your sister’s boyfriend, what the hell is wrong with you?” Your mother scolds. 

“Yeah, sure. Eminem is that bastard’s boyfriend, anywhosers.” She drops down, coming to a stop at the dark look that overcame your features. It’s been years since the two of you have talked, much less stand in the same space. It’s obvious time took its toll on the both of you. 

She struggled to keep up with the trending makeup looks and fashion of the decade while you confidently dressed in your casual yet chic black wardrobe of button-ups, jeans, and boots – the sole color you owned being the accessories that fit your mood and simple makeup that worked with your features rather than fight against them. Not to forget the well sculpted figure that filled out said clothes. 

“I see you’ve gotten quite… big,” she scoffs. You smirk, “I see you like the drunkie aesthetic. You do realize the whole concealer for lipstick and clumpy mascara is an old trend of the past, right?” She huffs, “well, it’s back.”

You nod, “yeah. For drunkies.” She rolls her eyes. Quickly, your mother steps in, a gentle hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “This is your sister’s boyfriend, Marshall, she’s been telling us about. You’ll act –” 

“How much is she paying you?” Your sister leans in, “I know it’s not in sex, but it’s gotta be something appealing.” 

“Accordingly as if you were raised with manners and some damn sense or do I gotta knock it into you?” The older woman finishes, a scowl dressing her naturally sweet demeanor. 

Marshall clears his throat, shuffling to your side. “She’s not paying me anything. We started dating like 7 months ago and enjoy being together.” Your father gently guides your mother back to her side of the booth, sliding in beside her. 

“Let’s just continue our dinner,” he glares at his eldest, “respectfully.” You nod, sliding further in so Marshall could get beside you. “Of course, pops,” you snatch the woman’s purse and swing it onto the empty table behind you. “Unfortunately, this table is at capacity, you can sit in the back like a good dog.”

“Bitch,” she grumbles, snatching the bag off the floor. Your eyebrows raise, “I literally just called you that. Don’t tell me your hearing’s going out?” The older man sighs, pinching his nose bridge, “girls, please!” 

He opens his eyes, slowly, focusing on Marshall. “Marshall, please, tell us about yourself. We’d like to know the man who warmed our little girl’s heart.” The rapper nods, “yes, sir.”

As Marshall began talking, trying his hardest not to ramble on about your first meeting, your sister slides in beside him. Ignoring your glare, she set her purse between her hip and his, taking that as her moment to squeeze his thigh. Jolting, he side-eyes her, a flare of irritation taking in her actions like a fuel to his flame. 

He was already irritated that your sister had a history of putting you in such bad positions, but to be here in public and continue to try and humiliate you in your grown ages was infuriating. As begins to hype up your parents for the way they raised you, she goes for another squeeze a bit closer to his groin when he finally snaps.

“Genuinely, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He glares, body completely turned to face her. “You lack that much respect for yourself and your family that you just can’t keep your hands to yourself?” 

Your eyebrows raise, looking over his shoulder at the now flustered woman. “Wha– What? I didn’t do shit to you. You’re the one over here pathetically gushing over her when you’re copping a feel on me. I knew you were a pervert Eminem, but for fuck’s sake man, I thought being sober changed you.” 

You glare at your mother, her own matching yours like a mirror. In your family, your mother was known as the ultimate crashout. Granted, she’s gotten a bit softer in her older age, but that was fit and appeared physically younger than her mental. If needed, she can and is always ready to throw down. 

She slams her palm down onto the wooden table, the glasses clinking with the quake as your face silently stares upwards, lips mouthing a silent prayer. “Girl, when I tell you,” she snarls, pointing a manicured finger your sister’s way. “You need to tighten up, I mean that shit.”

“What– Mama,” she gawks.Your mother’s lips curl in anger, “tighten the fuck up. In your grown ass age, acting like some gahtdamn hussie. Now, I told you, when we do this dinner, it’s about your sister and her man. I ain’t about you, ain’t shit about you.”

“Now, I’m here to tell you,” she leans forward, “either you tighten up, sit in silence, and act like you got some damn sense, take your ass home, or you can go toe-to-toe with me or your sister. Choose wisely.” Both Marshall and your sister turn stiff, eyes widening with fear.

Apple really doesn’t fall too far from the tree, huh? He holds back his amusement, watching your sister stumble over her thoughts. She glances your way only to be met with a familiar glare that brings on memories she tried to forget. 

“I’ll fuck you up,” your accent comes out thick as your mother’s, emphasizing the ‘fuck’ slowly yet strong enough for her to get your point across.  

She nods, sliding out the booth. “I’m, uh, I’m actually getting kind of tired. I’ll talk to you guys later, yeah? It was nice meeting you, Mr. Mathers.” Holding her purse to her chest, she speed walks out down the aisle for the front entrance. 

Seconds after, your waitress set down your plates. Your father cuts into his rib-eye, enjoying the juicy fat that explodes with flavor on his tongue. He looks up, meeting Marshall’s shocked gaze. Bouncing his knife between you and your mother, cheerfully speaking about something completely different as if y’all didn’t just threaten your sister. 

“Twiddledee, Twiddledumb,” he simply says before going back to his food. Marshall laughs, shaking his head as he cuts into his sirloin. What the hell did he get himself into?

Sorry for the tardiness, I got off work and my legs felt so fucking swollen for some reason, it hurts. I was debating if I wanna sleep first, but I knew that if I did, I was not gonna wake up again.

If I haven't got to your request yet, I'm most likely at work. So, if you guys want to, you can request through someone else if I don't respond some time after 8pm EDT. I'm really sorry, but my legs sting so bad.

Anyways, enjoy!! 💚

Eminem Taglist: @evasmlp

[queereads-bracket]

WINNER: Queer Fantasy Books Bracket

Monstrous Regiment (Discworld) by Terry Pratchett

Polly Perks joins the Discworld army to find her brother Paul. "Ozzer" cuts off her blonde braids, dons male garb, belches, scratches, and masters macho habits - aided by well-placed pair of socks. The legendary and seemingly ageless Sergeant Jackrum accepts her plus a vampire, troll, zombie, religious fanatic, and two close "friends". The best man for the job may be a woman.

Fantasy, humor, war, secondary (disc)world

Runners-up:

🥈 Nimona by ND Stevenson 🥉 The Locked Tomb series by Tamsyn Muir 🥉 Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard series by Rick Riordan

View the spreadsheet of all books from this bracket here

View the full seeded matchup here

NOTES AND INFO FOR INTERESTED NEW MONSTROUS REGIMENT READERS

(Discworld scholars, please feel free to add your wisdom!)

Monstrous Regiment is part of the wider Discworld series but is largely standalone in terms of the story and main characters. While there are some appearances by characters from other Discworld series or references, overall Monstrous Regiment is not strongly connected to any particular subseries within Discworld

NOTE ON EDITIONS:

Some US editions made two notable editorial changes to the original text: changing one instance of him to her and changing one in uniform to in female uniform. There is more detail about this on reddit/tumblr posts here and here (note: also contains plot spoilers)

The less-spoilery tldr: If you want to read Pratchett's original text, look for the Doubleday, Corgi, or Random House editions, and avoid the Harper Collins/Harper Torch editions

Discworld connoisseurs, please feel free to chime in with any additional thoughts or info! Enthusiasm always welcome

[dirtyvulture]

Super J - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Superpowered!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: The adventures of Jacob the super corgi continue. 

Word count: 3253

AN: Reader has a penis, no pronouns used. Short smut scene at the end. :)

Thank you for all the support on Part 1 (read here)! And special shoutout to the 🍬 anon for brainstorming this one with me.

You had never had a dog of your own before, so you are constantly showering Jacob with affection and treats to the point that Natasha worries she’s being left out of your relationship. You take Jacob with you on your daily run, surprised at how well the stubby-legged corgi can keep up with (at one point even surging ahead after a cat and managing to drag you down three blocks).

Jacob attracts a lot of attention, even more than you do, and many people stop to ask if they can pet him or take a picture of him. One time, Natasha joins you two, but becomes infuriated when girls stop under the pretense of meeting Jacob, only to then turn and flirt with you instead. But you only have eyes for your girlfriend, with enough love to spare for your corgi too, and your life moves on without hiccup.

Kate and Yelena refuse to watch Jacob after the so-called incident on his first night at the Tower, so on the days that you can’t care for him, you usually ask Thor, Steve, or Clint to help. But eventually, Kate cannot resist the charms of your adorable little corgi and begins to warm up to him again. 

She plays ball with him in the garden, laughing at the way Jacob turns into a furious black blur when he chases after the tennis ball she stabbed one of her arrows through. This allows her to launch the tennis ball at greater speeds than even you can throw and to a distance where she’s certain the corgi will become tired after two or three rounds, but he seems to have limitless energy.

Jacob comes tearing out of the bushes, the shaft of the arrow gripped in his mouth, when Kate’s cellphone begins to vibrate. She slings her bow over her shoulder to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Kate, it’s Agent Hill. Are you at the Tower?”

“Yeah, I’m in the back playing with Jacob.”

“Are you free for a mission? We’ll need you to be ready at the Quinjet in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, yes, of course. What’s up?”

Meanwhile, Jacob drops the arrow at Kate’s feet, sitting down and looking up at her expectantly, waiting for her to shoot it out for him to chase again. But Kate is completely ignoring him now, turning away and grabbing her quiver of arrows off the grass. Jacob watches as she starts running back towards the Tower, leaving him alone in the garden.

He looks at his tennis ball pierced by Kate’s arrow and picks it back up with a frustrated sigh, then trots into the Tower after her.

***********************************************************************

“Where are my Widow Bites?” Natasha groans, throwing underwear and socks across the room.

“Right here,” you respond, pointing to them sitting on her nightstand.

“Thank you,” she says, snatching them up and slipping them onto her wrists. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.” You grunt as you shove your foot into your boot, lacing it on sloppily but not having enough time to care. Maria had called while you two were busy in an intimate act, but the details of the emergency mission were enough to cause you both to untangle yourselves and dress up immediately.

“Where’s Jacob?” Natasha asks.

“I think Kate took him outside.”

“Isn’t she coming with us?”

“I’ll text Clint to watch him while we’re gone. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

You grab Natasha’s hand and teleport the both of you to the roof, still barely making it on time. Kate is already there, standing outside the ramp of the Quinjet with a full quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder.

“Hi, Kate,” you greet.

“Let’s go!” Natasha snaps, having no patience for formalities. You and Kate hurry after her onto the plane, finding your places as Natasha punches in the coordinates and within seconds has the Quinjet in the air. “We’ll be there in thirty minutes. Get ready to handle business as soon as we land, we don’t have any time to waste.”

“Yes, Agent Romanoff,” Kate says, while you want to swoon at the way Natasha sounds so authoritative and demanding. But now is not the time nor the place, so you have to keep it in your pants until the mission is over. 

As the three of you settle in for the flight, mentally preparing yourselves for the battlefield you’ll be depositing yourselves on, a rustling noise from the back of the Quinjet catches Kate’s attention. At first she dismisses it, thinking it is an unsecured object sliding around, but then she hears a familiar clang and gets up to investigate.

She pokes her head into the back corner of the Quinjet, seemingly finding nothing, but when she returns to her seat, she sees two brown eyes staring at her from under the row of seats in the back.

“AHHHH!” Kate screams, falling to the floor and you and Natasha turn to look at her.

Jacob the corgi bounds out of his hiding spot, dragging the arrow with the tennis ball. His stumpy tail wags happily and when he spots you and Natasha in the front, he drops his toy and runs over.

“Jacob? What are you doing here?” you ask as Jacob tries to jump into your lap.

“Kate…” Natasha growls.

“I left him in the garden!” Kate says.

“You left him?”

“No, I mean…Agent Hill called me when I was outside playing with him, so I just came back inside and…didn’t really pay attention to where he was,” Kate explains lamely. 

“He must have snuck on before any of us got here,” you say, stroking the corgi behind his ears. “Maybe because he knew where we were all gonna be–”

“The dog does not understand English,” Natasha interrupts. “And now what are we supposed to do with him?”

“I’ll teleport him back to the Tower!” you say, standing and tucking Jacob under your arm like a football. He barks unhappily at the position. 

“No, no, wait!” both Kate and Natasha say at the same time.

“Have you ever teleported with an animal before?” Kate asks.

“You don’t know what that could do to Jacob,” Natasha adds.

“Oh. I guess that’s true.” You look down at Jacob, who you swear is frowning at you with disappointment at the idea of threatening his life. You put him on the floor and he runs back to grab his tennis-ball-arrow-thing and bring it over. “But it’s too late for us to turn around now.”

“Kate, you’ll have to stay with him,” Natasha finally says.

“Stay? But you need me for the mission!” Kate protests.

“It’s your fault he’s here,” Natasha says. “So you’re responsible for him now.”

“But he’s your dog!”

“This is not up for discussion.”

“Fine.” Kate grumbles as she sits down in her seat. She’s already thinking of a way out of this, refusing to be left behind on a Class 1 emergency mission because of a stowaway corgi. Jacob seems to sense that he’s caused some kind of disruption, because he wiggles out of your grip and pads over to Kate, butting her leg with his nose and smiling up at her. Nobody can stay mad at that face for long, and Kate grudgingly pets him for the rest of the journey.

Natasha lands the Quinjet in an open, snowy field. 

“Stay here,” she says to Kate and Jacob.

“We’ll be back soon,” you add, waiting for the ramp to lower.

“Are you sure I can’t come–”

“Yes,” both of you say in unison before disappearing out of the jet. 

“Goddamn it,” Kate mutters, flopping in her seat and glaring at Jacob, who is now chewing a hole in his tennis ball. She watches him for a few minutes, torn between leaving him in the Quinjet herself and joining you two, but then her mind flashes back to her first encounter with Jacob when he grew to ten times his size and almost crushed her, Yelena, and Fanny to death. Nothing similar had happened since, and you and Natasha still didn’t believe that your dog had superpowers, but now sitting here in an enclosed space with a corgi who could activate like the Hulk, Kate realizes she might be in more danger than you and Natasha.

But she’s so busy considering all the scenarios that she doesn’t notice Jacob abandon his tennis ball, moseying over to the front of the Quinjet and pushing at the buttons on the dashboard with his nose. Suddenly, the ramp lower itself again and before Kate can figure out what’s going on, a black blur darts by her feet and leaps into the snow.

“Jacob! Get back here!” Kate shouts, running out of the plane after him. 

Jacob is so short that all Kate can see of him are the black tips of his ears, but he appears and disappears in the snow, hopping around like a deer. 

“Jacob!” Kate calls again, but either he can’t hear her or simply refuses to respond, bounding further and further away every second. Kate has no choice but to follow him, even more afraid of what Natasha will do to her if she finds out that she not only let her dog out in enemy territory, but left him to completely fend for himself.

Despite her longer legs, Kate is clumsy and unfamiliar with the terrain, nearly twisting her ankle multiple times as she runs after Jacob. She hears shouting and gunshots in the distance, her stomach twisting when she realizes how close you and Natasha must be, and she can’t imagine what would happen if Jacob ran into the middle of a battlefield. She does her best to keep the corgi in sight, but eventually he outpaces her and Kate doesn’t know where he is anymore.

Her heart beating in her throat, she finally considers calling you, but then she hears your voices nearby and starts running towards them until her legs are on fire.

***********************************************************************

It was an ambush. 

The second you and Natasha broke out through a grouping of trees, gunfire rained down on you and the two of you took shelter behind a large rock. 

“They wasted no time,” you comment, inserting a fresh magazine into your handgun and racking the slide. 

“They were expecting us,” Natasha responds, peeking out and firing off a few shots of her own.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left Bishop on the Quinjet. We could probably use her long distance help right about now,” you say, speaking as casually as if the two of you were on a dinner date and not being gunned down by dozens of trained soldiers.

“We can’t let them close in,” Natasha says. “I’ll create a distraction and you try to gain some ground on them.”

“Wait, Nat–” You try to stop her, not wanting her to put herself in danger, but it’s too late. She sprints across the clearing, taking the attention of gunfire with her. “NAT!” you shout, although she can’t hear you. Shaking your head, you steel your nerves and leave your spot of cover, shooting at every soldier whose helmet you see poking out from behind trees or around bushes. There seems to be a never-ending supply of them and you don’t even know if you’ll have enough bullets for all of them.

Natasha throws herself onto the ground, rolling behind a log as gunfire spits up rocks and twigs that cut her face and hands. She cusses to herself while checking her magazine. The pressure on her is relentless, and she doesn’t even think she’ll have a moment to fire back.

But just as she has that thought, the drumming of bullets halts and she pops up, firing away. She hears the first bang of return fire before she feels the heat lance across her side, causing her to double over, gasping for air. Instinctively, she reaches for her ribs, pulling her hand away sticky with blood.

“Nat!” you scream.

Natasha’s legs buckle under her and she falls to the ground, although luckily behind the cover of the log. You race towards her with no regard for your safety anymore.

“Nat! Nat!” you continue to yell. 

“GRRRRRRRR!” 

The ground shakes with a tremendous roar that causes you to drop to your stomach and curl up. From behind you, something gigantic leaps into the clearing. It’s a enormous black animal, with familiar pointed ears and white paws–

“Jacob?” You gape in absolute shock as your corgi, who is now the size of a house, attacks the soldiers with frightening intensity. Seconds later, Kate Bishop in her purple uniform, huffing and puffing with her quiver rattling on her back, arrives. “Is that Jacob?” you scream at her and she only nods, trying to catch her breath.

You turn back and crawl towards Natasha, throwing your body over hers as Jacob goes crazy, tearing the soldiers apart and kicking up sandstorms of dirt. Natasha clutches onto your shoulders tightly, hiding her face in your neck from the dust clouds. Kate finally summons the strength to help, her arrows flying around to take out the remaining soldiers with an efficiency that would make Clint proud. You stay over Natasha until the noise has died down and Kate runs over to you two.

“Are you guys okay?” she asks.

“Nat?” You shift off your girlfriend, who only groans in response, clutching her bleeding side.

“We need to get back to the Quinjet,” you say, your only concern now to get Natasha to safety. 

“We’re kind of far…” Kate says unhelpfully.

“Where’s Jacob?” You’re not even phased that your corgi seems to have a superpower like yourself. Either that, or he swallowed a Pym Particle when no one was looking. 

“Uh…” 

Jacob barks, much deeper than you’ve heard before, and the ground shakes as he bounds over. If you were standing, you don’t think you would’ve even come up to his shoulder.

“We can…probably ride him back to the Quinjet,” Kate offers, which is probably the most sensible thing you’ve heard all day. 

“Is that a bear?” Natasha says out of nowhere, sitting up and wincing as she holds her side.

“No, that’s Jacob,” Kate answers.

Natasha squints at you. “Did you change his kibble?”

“What? No.”

“Yelena and I told you on day one that he could grow like this!” Kate says, almost stamping her foot in frustration at both of your poor memories. “Now do you believe us?”

“I just got shot,” Natasha says, closing her eyes and laying back down. “This could all be a dream as far as I’m concerned.”

“Natasha!”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” You scoop up your girlfriend and carry her over to Jacob, who flattens himself against the ground so you and Kate can climb on. He trots back to the Quinjet without being prompted and shrinks back to his original size when he arrives.

“That’s a good boy,” you tell him with a pat on the head before you carry Natasha onto the Quinjet.

***********************************************************************

It turns out, Natasha was merely grazed by the bullet, so she didn’t need to stay overnight in the medical bay. Kate offers to let Jacob stay in her room that night, which surprises you, but you can sense that her and the corgi have bonded after the day’s events, so you don’t object. You tell Jacob good night and promise to cook him the biggest steak you can find tomorrow, and he licks your hand, trotting down the hall with Kate. 

You go with Natasha back to your room.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” you ask. 

“Will you join me?” she asks.

“Of course.”

You walk into the master bathroom, plugging the tub and running the water at a warm but not hot temperature. You’re still sweaty and grimy yourself from the mission and you think Natasha will appreciate the non-scalding temperature of the water. You grab the soap and shampoo from the shower and put it on the edge of the tub, then call Natasha in.

The two of you undress each other carefully. Natasha has a waterproof bandage covering her side and a few other scratches and bruises from the mission. You have some of your own, but they’re nowhere near the same severity as hers. You can tell she’s tired from how slow she moves and you kiss her head before you help her into the tub. You slip in behind her, the water the perfect temperature against your skin and you lean back against the edge, Natasha sitting between your legs. 

“This is nice,” she mumbles, resting against you and closing her eyes.

You soak a washcloth in the water and lather it up with soap, gently brushing it across Natasha’s shoulders and down her arms. She turns around so you can wash her front, and then she takes the cloth from you and washes you with it. You love spending time with her like this, sharing such a simple but intimate activity together. After you wash your hairs and drain the tub of all the soap and shampoo, you move to get out, but Natasha grabs onto your hand and asks you to stay for a little longer. You fill the tub again with fresh water and sit back down, facing her this time. 

Her hands rests on your thighs under the water and you feel her squeeze them before trailing up to cup between your legs. 

“Nat?” you ask, but she leans forward to silence you with a kiss. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, stroking you softly.

“Yes,” you respond with a shuddering breath, tilting your head back against the edge of the tub. Natasha knows her way around your body better than you do at this point; she knows how to get you worked up in minutes, or how to draw out the pleasure until you’re literally putty in her hands.  

“Good. Just relax for me, baby.”

“I can do that.” You close your eyes as Natasha touches you, moaning when her hands slide up and down your shaft with the perfect amount of pressure. She trails kisses down your jaw, pausing to suck on your neck as she builds you up to release. 

It doesn’t take long until you’re throbbing in her hands. “Fuck, Nat. I…I’m close,” you pant. She squeezes just under your head, effectively stopping you from blowing and you open your eyes again, just in time to see her lifting herself onto your cock, slipping you into her and the combination from the water and the warmth of her walls makes you moan in satisfaction.  

Natasha holds onto your shoulders as she moves her hips and water splashes out of the tub in waves. You cup her bottom, tilting your head up to silently ask for a kiss that she obliges to, sealing her lips with yours while she rides you. You love this woman so much, you feel like you’ll never be able to show her or put it in words. But when she rests her forehead against yours, you know that she knows. 

Your body goes still when you finally cum, your abs flexing into a washboard and Natasha purposely tilts her hips up so she can rub her clit against them, reaching her own high seconds after yours. She rests her head against your chest and you wrap your strong arms tightly around her, a silent reminder of how much you love her and how you’ll never let anything happen to her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Aww, I love Super J. :) And Nat and R’s relationship.

Please like, comment, and reblog! Follow for more content.

[katbug666]

so... what's the general consensus on george the corgi? 🐶

[thefrogman]

The corgi Facebook pages used to be such a bastion of unproblematic joy. But recently they have been inundated with sock puppet accounts posting A.I. schlock.

Some of it I can understand why people find it cute.

Some of it just seems unnecessary.

And most of it is just fuckin' weird.

A few of these pages ban it when they can. Some seem fine with it. And sadly these posts still get quite a bit of engagement from folks who probably don't understand the issue. There are a lot of elderly corgi lovers who like the cute thing in front of their eyeballs and give it a heart.

I don't know if this post will make a difference. I'm going to see how it goes and then consider posting it on a few other pages facing this problem.

I know this is probably small potatoes compared to all of the other havoc A.I. seems to be creating, but it really is sad when a pure thing gets corrupted.

[miss---lu]

Puppy Love

Pietro comes back from a mission to find he has a new roommate.

Pietro was simply exhausted. He had gone a while without sleep and had just returned from a mission. He wanted to just go to bed and sleep for a long time, but he couldn’t.

Not yet anyway.

Pietro opened the door to his apartment and saw newspapers thrown on the floor. There also seemed to be some chewed up socks scattered.

Pietro tried to think of what could cause it, but he was coming up blank. He made his way to your shared bedroom and saw the culprit in the bed.

You were laying under the covers asleep, with a puppy curled up in your side. The puppy was a little corgis who had a lot of baby chub. His little legs jerked and Pietro could only assume he was dreaming of running. Pietro could relate to that.

Pietro pulled off his shirt and exchanged his pants for pajama bottoms. He quietly made his way to the bed and peeled back the covers. He snuggled into the cushions and felt you start to stir.

He cursed slightly as you turned to face him. “Pietro? Is that you?”

He mumbled a soft “of course my darling.”

You gave him a sleepy smile as you brought your hand to his face. You gently scratched behind his ear which earned a laugh.

“My darling, I’m not a puppy. Unlike this little guy here. Care to explain?”

You yawned as you went to pet the sleeping pup. “While you were gone I found this old cardboard box in an alley with this little guy inside. The box was abandoned and said for sale on it. I felt so bad and just had to take him in.”

Pietro’s heart did a flip when he heard about what you had done. One of the things he liked most about you was your big heart. He carefully started to scratch the little guy’s ears and smiled. He was awfully cute.

“What’s his name darling?”

“Well he only seems to respond to Bear. I said something about the bears in that painting on our wall and his ears perked up. He seems to like it.”

Pietro smiled as he started to scratch the puppy’s stomach. “Hi Bear. You’re very cute.”

Bear wagged his tail softly as he snuggled into your side once again.

[angelbaby-fics]

Hi! I was wondering if you would be up to writing a Cg! Steddie x Little! Reader that loves corgis? Maybe they get the reader a baby corgi? I don't know what exactly your request rules are but if possible, I would prefer she/her pronouns.

P.S: I absolutely love your writing! It's amazing!

(I'm going anonymous but you can call me Sora)

ah this is so cute!! i actually saw not one but THREE corgis on my walk the other day and i thought about this in my inbox!! 💕 152 words

any time you visited the dog park, you kept your eyes peeled for one. every time you read a book about dogs, you scanned the pages to see if there was one dedicated to them. every stuffie and sticker you'd acquired in the past six months had been corgis, corgis, corgis, of all colors and sizes. you even had a pair of socks with rainbow corgi unicorns on them! one day you and steve came home to your apartment to find eddie waiting on the couch with a big wriggling box next to him. you knew what must be inside, but you just couldn't believe it. after months of talking their ears off about your favorite puppies, could your daddies actually have gotten you one? you didn't have to wonder for long, because before you knew it, your new best friend was bounding out of the box and into your loving arms.

you're invited to my summer tea party! this event has ended, but thank you for participating!

[dooareyastudy]

thank u for tagging me @lizziestudieshistory this was fun !! :)

[neutron-stars-collision]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 3 - Canning Town Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 2 Summary: Flirting, Leicester Square station mixtape, flowers and breakdowns in the cantina. Or another chapter of an unlikely liaison. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language and imagery and more outrageous flirting. Author's Notes: Chapter a month might just be the new deal here, apologies. And this one's long, by which I mean over 11k 💁🏻‍♀️ It also seems like now that I've started, I can't stay away from Neil's POV so... yeah. Look out for a cheeky cameo too 😉 Other than that, I can assure you this is just as chaotic and ridiculous as the last chapter. These two are in full control, I'm just a mere scribe, doing my best. Hopefully it works. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Incorporating Neil into your daily (and weekly) life was easy. Almost terrifyingly so if you did as much as stop and think about it. Perhaps the self-preservation rooted deep within forbade you to reflect on it. Which, in hindsight, was a good thing.

After that first victory of obtaining Neil’s number, you did not hold back from texting and bombarding him with daily nonsensical memes that could have driven a different man to madness. Neil, however, took it in his stride. It was rare not to get a reply from him after longer than an hour. And that boosted your courage like nothing else.

Some days, the conversations went like this:

/ 🏹, 12:07 pm/ Show me what socks are you wearing.

/✝️, 12:13 pm/ Jesus, that’s forward.

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ That’s basically my second name. So?

/ 🏹, 12:14 pm/ I swear I won’t sell the pic on OF.

/✝️, 12:20 pm/ Well, if you do, then at least share the earnings with me.

Although you started the ridiculous conversation, when the next text came, consisting of a single image of a socked ankle bared by the familiar hand pulling up the pant leg, you nearly dropped the coffee cup in the middle of the Covent Garden. It was just an ordinary Tuesday lunchtime, with the square bustling with sound and movement. Using the rare sunny September day, you escaped the confines of the Royal Opera House to have your coffee break on the kerb. Thanks to the dwindling sense of coherence, you did not drop said coffee when you opened the photo. The socks you had asked for were black with a grey argyle pattern. But that was where the normalcy ended, for the rhombuses were filled with corgi heads. The brown-beige dogs stared at you through the screen with their beady eyes and were the reason for your hysterical laughter.

The overprotective mother tending to her children close by shot you a dirty look. Well, fuck her.

/ 🏹, 12:23 pm/ Neil, you’re too cute. Way too cute.

/✝️, 12:32 pm/ It’s what every guy wants to hear. Thanks, Cupid.

/ 🏹, 12:34 pm/ I never said you’re not hot, though. Which you very much are. So much that I thought of you when…

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ Yeah, don’t finish that sentence. Please.

/✝️, 12:35 pm/ I’d rather maintain my innocence.

/ 🏹, 12:36 pm/ As you wish 😘

That was not a lie. It was a result of yet another tiring day and an early night in bed when it was too early to sleep. So, you chose to fill the time like most women would, letting your thoughts drift to images and scenarios that always did the trick as your hand delved between your thighs. When you realised who you had been thinking of, the tension was so close to bursting that you did not try to shift the attention. When you came, the guilt was nowhere to be found.

After all, it was not a sin to think of pretty boys when taking the edge off. As soon as you realised that Neil did not take the flirty line seriously, that feeling of potentially having done something wrong became non-existent. It was fine. It was all fine.

Other times, especially during those Wednesday mornings on the Tube, your conversations looked more like this:

“I’ve got an invasive question…” changing the subject during your weekly chats was easy, for as soon as you set a weighty gaze on Neil, he sobered up too.

The endless questions did not seem to bother him either. Your boundless curiosity was particularly grateful for that.

“As long as you’re not going to ask me what underwear I’m wearing, I think we’re fine,” the poker face was only disturbed by Neil’s twitching lips, and the sparks danced in his eyes as he inclined his head in your direction, blessing you with the golden strands, “Shoot,”

Every time, you took a deep breath, silently gathering the courage to ask, and then let the question fall from your lips without a pause:

“When was the last time you’ve been in love?” the curiosity was all it was.

Yet still, Neil’s widening eyes made you consider that perhaps something else was underlining that desire to know. And that this question was different than others you had asked. Different from “Dogs or cats?” “Typical coffee order?” and “Any hidden talents?”. But it was too late to take it back.

“Oof, you weren’t joking” Neil seemed to shake it off quickly, only briefly offering you a glare before looking down to find the needed words, “Probably two-ish years ago…?” you were sure you had imagined the broken edge in his voice as Neil swallowed hard and continued “It was a disaster. She didn’t- Let’s just say I went in too hard and too fast, and she got scared. Pretty much ghosted me after a half-assed excuse” when he raised his head and meet your gaze, you could see the depths of hurt in his eyes.

Your heart felt pathetically hollow, but you smothered the feeling to nothing but an uncomfortable sting.

“Ouch,” a wince was easy enough to muster, and you followed it with an apology, “Sorry,” Neil’s crestfallen look was an inspiration for you to place your hand on his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze “I know that it doesn’t help, but it’s her, not you” you knew the light statement was the right way to go when Neil cracked a wry smile and gave your other wrist a tap.

“Thanks,” it was evident enough to realise that Neil was eager to drop the subject. It was clearer still that you were going to be the next target, “I won’t ask you the same since I know better, but… Do you really think no one could change your view on love?” yet when the question fell in the space between you, it was not what you had expected.

The surprise must have painted on your face, for Neil looked a second away from taking it back. You stopped him from doing that the only way you could think of – by extending your hand in what was universally thought of as a ‘hold up’ motion. It was not that you did not want to answer. And it was not the first time someone had asked either.

But it was not something you were keen on inspecting and tearing apart to offer an honest answer. It was a fact, pure and simple. A fact that you would believe in till the day you died. There was no place for love in your life, and there would never be. Full stop.

“Yeah, I do,” you met Neil’s waiting gaze and offered him a weak shrug. The strange disappointment in his gaze made no sense, so you chose to ignore it to shift your attention to the world outside the carriage as it arrived at the next station. The belief in your next words was as tangible as anything else you could conceive, “It would take a miracle”.

He did not ask that question again.

Those Wednesday morning conversations also became a source of information, which you had stowed securely in the compartment of your brain labelled ‘Neil’. After almost two months of acquittance, you knew that he was born and raised a Londoner (from Richmond, the posh fuck [affectionate]), was decidedly a dog person and had a chocolate Labrador growing up (a girl named Daisy), listened to alt-rock and 80s music and was what he described as a hopeless romantic. You still did not know what he did for work, only that he was decidedly not a tattooist, literary agent, paramedic, jockey, art critic, dressmaker, choreographer, or bus driver. Whether he was truly not just a priest undercover was still up for debate.

***

Only when you fled the confines of the ordinary tiny London flat kitchen and felt the night breeze of the city on your skin, left bare from the jacket you did not yet put on, had the question of the ages pop into your head. What the fuck? There was no answer. You shook your head against the memories of what had just conspired and stopped on the pavement to put on and fasten the jacket. Even annoyed, you could still feel the biting cold begin to settle in your bones.

You never expected to bump into Liam. Never in a million years would you have considered that those two friends you shared would extend the invitation to that man out of all people. And you certainly did not expect him to come.

Although, as he had unhelpfully explained himself, he only showed up because of the chance you would be there. The audacity made you shake your head vehemently, without a doubt attracting a glare or two from those who remained sober at this hour. In Soho on Saturday night, that was unlikely.

You walked through the cobbled streets with the neon lights lighting your path without an aim or a map. The only objective was to stomp the frustration into the cracked pavement and end up home. Somehow. Specifics were to be determined later.

Sure, rushing out of your mate’s flat like a lightning bolt could be seen as impulsive. But Liam offered you no choice. The pleasant buzz of alcohol did nothing to stop the embarrassment, which grew worse by the minute. The long walk in an unknown direction was a sad but acceptable consequence. Or so you aimed to maintain.

By the time you had seriously begun to consider using the dwindling phone battery to order an Uber and save you from the penance of someone else’s transgressions, the red circle with a navy blue bar appeared on the horizon. Salvation, at last. You picked up the pace, eager to get out of the cold and that one step closer to home. This close to Leicester Square and the theatres just having closed their doors on the last patrons, the bustle seemed quieter somehow, more subdued. It was a blessing for your budding headache and a threat to the thoughts eager to appear with nothing suppressing them.

You crossed the road and descended the staircase with a sigh. The heat of the station enveloped you like a hug as you passed the ticketing gates and spent an unnecessarily long time staring at the Tube map. When the logic kicked in, at last, you rushed over to the correct platform.

Only to regret it as soon as the timing screen came into view. Heathrow Airport 25 mins. The polite PSA text below informed you the line was experiencing delays. No biggie. They were sorry. The usual shit. A curse litany lodged in your throat as your eyes roamed over the platform.

All the noise in your head faded to nothing when your gaze settled on that familiar blonde head of hair. He was sitting in one of the few chairs with his head bowed over his knees in a position so exemplary for a Saturday night in the glorious London town. You skimmed over his body, taking note of the casual jeans and a t-shirt, peeking from beneath the unbuttoned jacket.

Before you knew it, your legs had started carrying you in his direction, a goofy smile present on your face. The improbability of it happening made everything easier. Because what were the odds?

Instead of counting them, you approached Neil, still so blissfully unaware of your presence and delivered an opening line:

“Hello, Father,” the joke did not yet get old, and you still got the kick out of it.

Especially when Neil raised his head fast enough to give himself a whiplash and gasped from shock.

“Jesus- Oh, what the fuck?” clutching at his heaving chest with all the drama he could muster, Neil offered you a look so full of surprise you knew he did not expect this to happen either.

The only weekend plans you had discussed over texts were that you had a party to go to, and he was likely to go out with his workmates at some point. But that was it. Zero specifics, no need to share them because there was no need for either of you to know the details. And yet.

“Is that how you should greet a lady?” playing on his theatrical reaction, you feign a shocked expression.

It was clear you would fail at any attempts of annoyance. Your cheeks were already aching with that kind of wide, manic grin only Neil seemed to cause. You could see his eyes skim over your figure, taking in your clothes with that sort of precision only he seemed capable of. Finally, satisfied with what he saw, Neil raised his head to meet your gaze again and got up to bow lowly at your feet:

“Apologies, m’lady,” before you knew what he was doing, he took hold of your hand and kissed your knuckles. A move so fast you almost thought you had imagined it if not for the fading sensation of his lips still ghosting your skin, “What are you doing here?” with his hand lightly touching your elbow, Neil steered you towards the seats.

Only now, with the surprises fading into the background, you took note of the empty platform. It was just the two of you sitting on the creaky plastic chairs. You shifted an inch closer to Neil, seeking the warmth radiating off his body and replied:

“As I’ve mentioned, I had an invitation to this flat party in Soho… And I went, but then, and you’ll never believe that happened-” recounting the improbable story felt good, and you took pleasure in the attention Neil gave your every word.

“Let me guess… Liam showed up?” his interjection followed your dramatic pause flawlessly.

Of course, he got it. Of course, he guessed. You shook your head at his eager smile, aware of the glee in your eyes:

“Damn, you’re good” your low approving whistle reverberated in the space. Most shockingly, there was a certain level of joy in sharing the story, even as your skin crawled with the embarrassment of what transpired, “Yeah, and it turns out that getting blocked did not make him smarter. It became a whole thing, along with him getting down on his knees in the middle of a kitchen and proclaiming his undying love to me,” you wondered if Liam was still there, kneeling on the tiled floor and waiting for your return.

Partially, you hoped that was the case.

Throwing you out of the strange ruminations, Neil shook his head and offered you a serious look:

“Blimey,” his tsk almost got lost in the PA announcement, crackling from the speakers. When it ended, Neil met your gaze with a sympathetic smile, “No wonder you ran away,” his knee nudged yours, triggering something you would not understand even in months.

Sitting upright, you nodded fervently:

“I had to” the emotions you did not know were present poured out from your lips as the next words fell in the space between you, “And like- He doesn’t even know me? He never saw me on the stage, and he thinks that making me cum a couple of times is enough?” a frustrated growl tore from your chest as you finished the tirade with a tired sigh and simple punchline, “Bullshit,”

There was no time or willingness to take apart where all that anger came from or why it was suddenly so important Neil understood your reasons. It just was. Later it was easily blamed on the alcohol still present in your veins. For now, you met his gaze and shrugged, answering the questions he seemed too shy to ask.

“With that, I must agree. It’s bullshit” nudging you with his shoulder, Neil smiled, brightening the clouds that still seemed to hang over your mind.

You shot him a brilliant grin, brushing away the concerns with terrifying ease. They had to wait, ideally forever.

“Thanks, babe” sugar coated your smile as you allowed yourself to gaze, taking note of the blush spreading on his cheeks. Although you would never admit it out loud, the blue of his eyes was slowly becoming your favourite shade of the colour. It was that thought that triggered your next confession, “Admittedly, meeting you here is a highlight of the night,” you watched as his eyes grew wider, evidently not expecting to hear something that honest. The moment stretched for what felt like ages until you found the strength to look away, focusing on the timing screen and the issues it posed, “Though, those delays are bullshit, too” your eye-roll elicited an instant laugh, which only added warmth to the kindling sparks in your chest.

“Mhmm,” Neil’s hum acted like an anchor, tying you to reality.

It was a better place to get lost in than the chaos raging in your head. You chose to stick by it, following the easy way out with a simple question:

“How come you’re here?” you turned towards Neil, hoping to block the platform and the world beyond from view.

Even if just figuratively and for a short while. If the answering bright smile was anything to go by, Neil was happy to humour you:

“I’ve been out for drinks at a pub, but then our crowd isn’t very… boisterous, so we all went our separate ways, and here I am,” he signed off the summary with an explanatory shrug, but you should have kept your guard up. Once his gaze settled on you with an intensity of intent, a pathetic instinct kickstarted your heart with all the subtlety of trainwreck, “Bored as fuck until you’ve shown up” the joy in that simple sentiment was enough to make your cheeks heat up.

Of its own volition, your brain provided the fresh memory of how Liam’s attention in that cursed kitchen had made you feel. How running away was the only option you saw then. It was different now; the quiet focus of the man sitting next to you was a welcomed change. A company you were happy to keep. For however long you were allowed.

“How long do you think till it’s-” ignoring the shyness that did not seem happy to be buried in Neil’s company, you changed the subject with all the grace of an elephant.

It was evident in how you stuttered, quickly abandoning the idea of finishing the sentence and letting it trail off into the quiet. It was too early to raise your head from the depths of shame it was drowning in. It was all a little too much.

“Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour… or never,” Neil’s voice gained a cheeky edge as if conscious of your minor crisis and happy to offer a distraction.

You risked a peek at his face, finding the signature smirk gracing his face. That expression never failed to feel like a sharpened knife piercing through the walls of your uncertainty. It complimented his face too well, dragging the attention to Neil’s sharp features and his remarkable eyes that always felt like they could see right through your bullshit and the pretending. It was terrifying.

It was then, in the light of his frightening beauty, that you decided what to do next. What was necessary to keep you (moderately) sane. One look at your tote bag lying on your lap offered inspiration:

“Fab,” your dry comment elicited Neil’s laugh and sealed the deal on what you wanted to do next. There was no backing out. You straightened your spine and swivelled on the seat to face him fully. When your knees touched him, Neil’s eyes widened almost comically. But that was only the beginning of the wild ride for him, you were sure of it, “Well, then… Dance with me,” the delivery of that line required a special nonchalance.

One that required you to hold Neil’s gaze long after you had finished speaking, and the words had only just dawned on him. Once they did, his eyes got comically large, and his lips parted on what could only be a mute expression of horror. A giggle got trapped in your throat, but you fought valiantly against it. For now.

“Pardon?” Neil’s choked-out question came after sequenced opening and closing his mouth with nothing coming up.

Your poker face was tearing at the seams. Foolishly.

“Dance with me, Neil,” repeating the request (order?), you extended your hand towards him, signing off the invitation for what it was.

The shock was still present on his face. Despite that, Neil slipped his palm, warm and fitting perfectly, into yours. You could tell that it was not entirely conscious on his part.

You sure did not mind it, though.

“I might have had a drink or two, but I didn’t think I was drunk enough to be hearing things,” Neil’s incredulity bled into his tone as he stared you down as if hoping the sheer disbelief would be enough to deter you.

Tough luck.

“Come on,” squeezing his hand, you switched the tactic with a question, “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” there was no judgment in your gaze, and you hoped Neil knew that.

If asked, you could not explain why that was something you wanted to do with him, there and then of all places. But it still felt important. Urgent, even.

The no-bullshit look you got in return almost made you burst into laughter.

“You’ll see me dance,” Neil deadpanned as if it was clear.

As if that was the peak horror that could befall him at your hands. Using the lifeline of your joined palms, you rubbed your thumb over the tender skin of his hand, hoping to let that act as a reassurance. That was a nonsensical fear to have.

Who gave you, a mediocre ballerina, the right to judge? Absolutely no one.

“And?” you offered Neil a brilliant grin, doing your best not to think about how right it felt to have his hand resting in yours.

That question seemed to catch his attention, pulling him back from the precipice of self-doubt. You watched as Neil pondered the answer, staring at you with that bright-eyed, anxious expression, complete with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip. He picked at the worried, fragile skin, and you did not think about soothing the damage with your tongue. Not at all.

“I don’t know… You’ll leave and block me?” when he finally found a plausible answer, it was the last thing you expected Neil to say.

Despite the seriousness on his face, you could not hold back the laugh that spilt from your lips. What an idiot [affectionate]. The adorable pout in his bottom lip was responsible for the recklessness you chose to implement.

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned in and used your free hand to cup his face, eradicating the remains of the gap between you. As your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, Neil gasped, barely disguising the sound with a cough. The grin spread over your face as you spoke:

“It takes a little more than that for me to block you,” that was true; you could barely fathom blocking Neil, least of all because of such a trivial reason. It was only after a beat that the second meaning of what he said sunk in. The meaning you expected Neil did not exactly consider slipping out like that. You grabbed it with both hands and a knowing smile, “Also… you enjoy talking to me that much?”

The jackpot shot came with a furious blush on his cheeks and an embarrassed scoff as Neil turned away from your watchful gaze. Your hands stayed linked. That, too, was an adorable reaction. It made that pleasant warmth in your chest burner brighter, though you refused to inspect it too closely.

Before you could consider pushing him for a reply further, Neil jumped up from the creaky seat and pulled you to standing using your tight handhold. The fake pep was visible from miles away, especially in that manic grin that almost seemed too wide on his face. But you did not have the time to question it.

“Okay, let’s just dance,” Neil tugged at your hand impatiently.

He did not seem capable of standing still, hopping from one leg to another. If that was a sign of what was coming, you knew you were not ready. Your eyes narrowed in what you hoped was a mildly threatening look:

“That’s a deflection tactic,” still, you took a step closer to him, finally putting that handhold to use.

“Yes, it is,” Neil nodded as his arms opened in a shrug.

That was your answer. You could only cement it with a smile as you allowed him to pull you closer, almost into his open arms, except-

“Wait, we need music,” remembering that crucial missing piece, you let go of his hand and darted back to the tote abandoned by the seats.

“No shit,” Neil’s dry comment was accompanied by the scuffling of his shoes over the cracked tiles.

You grinned, triumphantly holding out the speaker you had fished from the bag. That was the only pro you could think of that came from your earlier practice, and no time in between that and the disastrous party.

“Lucky for you, I came prepared,” you showcased it like a spoil of war and turned the speaker on, awaiting the sound confirming it had connected to your phone. When it came, you ceremoniously placed the device on the vacated seat and pressed play on your phone. Only once the music was playing, you turned back towards Neil with a flourish, “Voila,”

It took him an additional second to identify the song, the synthesizer filling the empty platform with a special kind of vibe. When the proper beat kicked in, you started shimmying your hips and shoulders to the rhythm, awaiting Neil’s reaction. You were not disappointed when he gaped at you with joy barely disguised underneath a frown:

“Really?” still, his foot started tapping with the singer’s voice.

Shrugging, you spun around him, feeling the music fill your body like it always did. You always felt the most alive when dancing. When your feet were following the choreography, and head was deliciously empty of everything but the musical notes and lyrics.

When you stopped to meet Neil’s gaze, you found him staring back in awe.

“What? It’s not me; it’s the holy spirit of the shuffle,” the song started heading towards the chorus, so you added the hand movements, orbiting around Neil and hoping to pull him along, “Can’t argue with it,”

‘Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me

Don't. Don't you want me?

You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me’

It was an all-time favourite. A bop you did not have the heart to resist whenever it came on. Now was not any different. Your lips started whispering the words as your body moved through the space, overcome with the feeling of dancing. At that moment, you were grateful for the sensible footwear your past self had chosen that morning. Sure, dancing in high heels was possible, but the Converse made for a much better choice. They slid along the cracked tiles without resistance, allowing you to double the efforts.

It did not matter that you had an audience. Or that it was a particularly attentive one, for you never once felt Neil look away. He was still staring, standing almost stock-still, save for how his feet tapped out the beat. That had to change.

‘Don't you want me, baby?

Don't you want me? Oh!’

You stopped, chest heaving and limbs still too giddy with the effort. You met Neil’s unwavering gaze over the space and mouthed the chorus, aware of the interpretations he could easily reach. That was fine, nothing you were opposed to. In a way, him noticing half your actions did have a tentative hope behind them would have saved you time. And words. But that was a thought for another time.

Once you heard the female vocals come in, you reached out towards him, yet again presenting Neil with your open hand. Yet again, he did not hesitate, letting you pull him close. When the distance had been eradicated, Neil placed his hand on your waist with an experimental level of timidity. As if he was still fully expecting the move to backfire. Silly goose. Your hand ventured up his chest to his shoulder as you steeled your frame into what was expected of ballroom dancing. The habits were hard to shake off, after all.

Despite the booming synthesizers and grooving rhythm, you let him lead you into a slow dance. With each step, Neil’s confidence seemed to grow, for his grip became firmer as he splayed his hand over the small of your back and pulled you closer. It did not matter that his technique would bring your snobbish teachers from ballet study to tears. What mattered was that you felt safe within his embrace, never shying away from Neil’s gaze as it stayed trained on your face. What also mattered was that the genuine smile was fixed on your face. Especially when the song was slowly ending, and Neil was not letting go. What a novelty that was. You worried that once you tasted it, it would be impossible to let go. To forget this careless feeling, encapsulated within a simple, tender hold and open, beautiful eyes.

“That was hardly a song for slow dancing,” when Neil spoke, the remark came upon a hesitant smile, so at odds with how sure his hand was within yours.

“We made do, didn’t we?” you could only offer him a smile, aware of the wobbly edges of your voice and the yearning of your treacherous heart.

Even with years of practice, it sometimes wanted what it could not get. Affection, namely. Or the tenderness that meant something, rather than the mindless touch of a loveless fuck. You hoped one day those two would disappear, leaving you perfectly satisfied with what you had.

As if aware of your dangerous thoughts, the song switch came at a perfect moment. The last beats of The Human League died down, replaced with an equally cheesy rhythm. If not worse. Neil’s reaction was instant. He stopped dancing abruptly, making you nearly miss stepping on his foot. Your eyes darted to his face as curiosity soared in your chest. The barely masked joy you found there only made that warmth in your heart feel like tongues of fire. You disentangled from the embrace to place your hand on his chest and push him back lightly:

“Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you’ve got,” you completed the encouragement with a wink and stepped back to give him space.

The hesitation stage lasted much less this time. Neil stared at you, evidently weighing the pros and cons of giving in, but as soon as Falco opened the song with the lines in German, he had made up his mind. It was your turn to be dumbfounded as you watched Neil thrash to the music, almost keeping up with the beat. He slid across the tiles, barely managing not to slip as Falco went on about Mozart and his flair.

‘Er war ein Virtuose, war ein Rockidol

Und alles rief: Come on and rock me Amadeus’

It was easy to say Neil got lost in the music as his lean body twisted and turned, claiming the space he was allowed to occupy. There was grace in his movement, as well as carelessness, perfectly balancing the dance into an ideal mixture. A rare spark of envy kindled in your chest as you did your best to ignore the question of what it must feel like to be this free. During the poor attempt at moonwalking as he circled you, you could no longer hold back the laugh. Neil’s hands weaved through the air as he threw his head back to shout the hook along with the singer. With each call of Amadeus’ name, the affection in your chest grew, becoming increasingly lethal. A show of that kind displayed not only his trust but also what kind of a man Neil could be if he got rid of his shyness and inhibitions. It was something you doubt you could ever forget.

And that could be a problem.

When the song drew to a close, and Neil’s heaving breaths alerted you that he was probably worn out with exertion, he stopped. The reverberating beats sunk into the background as you met his gaze, aware of the silly softness you could not eradicate from your eyes. Neil looked manic, his pupils dilated and irises sparkling. He was breathing hard, the exhaustion making him shrug off the jean jacket with impatience, so far that Neil did not bat an eyelid when the article landed on the dirty floor. The reveal of an old, worn-out t-shirt underneath that hugged his broad shoulders and biceps just right made your jaw fall slack.

That, too, could be a problem.

Despite the common sense screaming at you to look away, you stared on, aware of Neil gazing right back. A wiser person would have shaken awake in time to switch off the music and call this quits before any further damage could be done. But you were never the wiser person.

You looked on as the song switched into a different era of music, and gentle, cheesy chords of piano and percussion filled the platform with a ballad almost everyone knew. Neil was not any different. You noticed the change in his eyes, switching from playfulness to mild seriousness. As if he, too, knew your fates were being decided at that exact moment.

However, the results of those decisions would not be noticeable until much later.

Using Elvis’ crooning as a backup to help drown your thoughts, you reached out your hand towards Neil, repeating the invitation. It was up to him whether he wanted to take it. Just like everything else in your friendship. The eager hope was hard to nip in the bud. It itched and ached until you could hardly stand still, awaiting the sentencing for what felt like hours. At last, Neil closed the gap and took your proffered hand with an impassive look.

The second time bore all the experience of the first, making it easier to fall in place without hesitation. Neil clasped your hand in his and let his other arm wind around your waist, pulling you close. Much closer than before. Your hand found its way to his shoulder, curious fingers stroking the expanse of his neck, revealed by the t-shirt collar. You did your best not to notice the goosebumps rising on his skin. It was impossible to tell which of you moved first, leading into the gentle sway. Only once you started waltzing around the empty platform, it was impossible to stop.

‘Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?’

Halfway through the song, you tilted your head back from where your gaze had been trained on the expanse of his chest and met Neil’s waiting gaze. The shock passing through your system felt like a fatal blow. There was no denying the fact that this was a first. The first time you had ever danced like that with someone, motivated by nothing else but the desire to do it. There was also no denying the fact Neil’s watchful eyes and the soft strokes of his fingers, running along the expanse of your waist down to your hip, felt like nothing else you could have ever experienced before or after. It was well past your usual flirty chats and casual innuendos. Well past the daily playfulness of whatever it was blooming between you. It was well past the worn-out tracks and lived-in spaces.

Absolutely fucking terrifying.

‘Take my hand,

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help falling in love with you

For I can't help falling in love with you’

It was impossible to say what had tipped the scales right then. Whether it was the song lyrics, drawing attention to all those things you would rather ignore till the end of time or the unwavering eye contact you had maintained as you spun across the space with grace that had not been there previously. Or whether it was due to how Neil held you steadily, all the while allowing himself to stare, eyes roaming over your face in a meticulous study. But perhaps it was just a trick of fate, a sudden loss of reason and logic that made you tip forward and give in to the gravitational pull of his orbit. Perhaps Neil was guilty of the same thing.

Before you knew what had failed and why, you were close enough to feel the gasp of his breath fan across your face. The air ghosted your lips as your nose brushed against Neil’s, and the time slowed to a crawling speed. There was no denying the fact that you wanted it. The want hummed underneath your skin and made it hard to think clearly.

You only knew that Neil closed his eyes, and his sharp intake of breath hit your lips, making you tilt forward. Making it oh so easy to let go and-

“This is Piccadilly Line service towards the Heathrow Airport,” the PA system crackled to life, forcing you to separate as if burned.

You blinked awake, barely noticing the train slowing at the platform and the music still playing from your speaker. One glance at Neil told you all feelings were very much mutual. It was a close call. So close you could almost feel the kiss that never happened. An uncertain smile played upon your lips as you turned off the music and jumped aboard the train. You could only hope the King of the Rock’N’Roll himself was wrong about this one.

***

It was a well-known truth that a pretty boy could make you a little stupid. Stupid enough to do things that, under normal circumstances, would be off the table. But all it took was a flash of blue eyes and a charming smile, and boom, logic gone, reason decimated. Usually, there was a price to pay for that.

But the potential costs meant nothing in the face of the revelations the Saturday night brought. Namely, the kiss that never happened but you could easily dream of. Which you did, just to brighten up the restless sleep. Needless to say, that night unlocked some things. Things that perhaps were best left untouched. But hindsight was a gift you did not yet possess.

Instead, you battled with a single idea that was difficult to eradicate. Sure, that night, or how it had almost ended, was never mentioned again. As early as the next day Neil reached out to you and set the tone you were happy to follow. But the memory remained, nagging at your brain for a week and not once letting go. It was a seed that planted another thought. The thought that nothing was preventing you from reaching out for more. That there was no script to follow with Neil. That idea was like a brainworm making a home inside your skull.

Because, yes, you were known to be a little stupid for attractive boys. And Neil was potentially the most beautiful man you have ever met. That proved to be a problem.

Exactly a week after that Saturday, you caved in. The autumn breeze was hitting your face and tangling your hair as you stared at the Thames. There was no better place to start a catastrophic chain of events than the Blackfriars Bridge. Or so you told yourself. You took out the phone to stare at the messages and opened the text conversation with Neil. It took an additional fortifying breath to start typing out the proposition and start the exchange.

/ 🏹, 5:39 pm/ So, I figured, since we already broke the rules on our hangouts last Saturday

/ 🏹, 5:40 pm/ Would you like to grab coffee tomorrow?

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ That’s unexpected.

/✝️, 5:45 pm/ Why the sudden change of heart?

/ 🏹, 5:46 pm/ I liked your moves.

/✝️, 5:47 pm/ I’m pretty sure no one’s ever said that to me.

/ 🏹, 5:49 pm/ Maybe they just weren’t looking. I knew I was.

/✝️, 5:51 pm/ Okay, yeah. I’d like that.

/✝️, 5:52 pm/ Any labels I should be aware of?

/ 🏹, 5:52 pm/ Nah, fuck the labels.

/ 🏹, 5:53 pm/ Unless you want to bring me flowers. Then let’s call it a date.

/✝️, 5:55 pm/ Then it’s a date 😘

You stared at the phone long after the screen went dark. Along with the buzzing joy and anticipation of what tomorrow would bring, there was also an eternal question. The question you had avoided pretty damn well so far. What the fuck have you done?

***

By the time you were meeting Neil in a café (chosen because of its perfect location between St. John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage), those nerves of anticipation had transformed into anxiety. The worst was that you did not even know what you were so nervous about. A date (that was not really a date) was nothing new. You have done it many times before, usually to great results. But suddenly, when Neil was inserted into the equation, all that you got was uncertainty. And a strong fear of fucking it up. It did not make for a good mix.

Part of it dissipated once you turned the street corner and saw him waiting in front of the café, a bouquet in hand, despite your line being nothing more than a throwaway joke. An affectionate smile was impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you may have tried. It stayed as you closed the remaining distance and met Neil’s gaze. Then it got transformed into a stupid grin as your eyes scanned him head to toe (hair just as messy as always, leather and jeans completed with sneakers – in other words: fucking hot). Once that foolery was complete, you could shift your attention to the flowers, now held out in your direction like a sheepish offering.

It was a colourful bouquet of wildflowers, freshly bloomed and coming from a florist rather than Sainsbury’s. The thoughtfulness was enough to make you blush. Before you could delve into an embarrassing attempt at cover-up, Neil broke the silence:

“You haven’t specified what kind of flowers,” his shyness was easily seen from the fidgeting hands and eyes unwilling to stay on your face longer than necessary.

That was your cue to get yourself together and accept the bouquet with a courtesy. That, too, was just a trick to drag that shy smile onto his face. It worked.

“Those are perfect, thank you,” with another smile, you turned towards the entrance and went in as Neil held the door. It was a cosy café with only a few tables and a bar-service ordering. You motioned towards the smiling server behind the counter with a question, “Wanna go order coffee?”

You did not expect in response to your innocent ask for Neil to come to a strange stand-still in the middle of the entryway and measure you with a look that spoke volumes about him having something to say and no way of expressing it. You raised your eyebrow, urging the words to come out and save you from death by perplexation.

After a beat, Neil seemingly found the ability to speak again and stumbled through a sentence:

“I’ve got… uh… a thing,” the emphasis on the final word was accompanied by an awkward shift, his hand automatically reaching up to comb through his hair and messing it up even more.

That did not help. At all. You blinked, aware of the comedy role you had just been awarded without warning. You were vaguely conscious of the server’s gaze, undoubtedly staring at the spectacle presented with fascination.

“Jesus, what thing?” when Neil did not elaborate, you prodded with another question, gaining a slightly hysterical edge.

It was probably that tone which made the most impact. Neil seemed to wake up, his hands gesturing as he attempted to explain:

“A thing about figuring out people’s drink order,” he shrugged, almost as if already embarrassed by ever bringing it up; that would not do, “Like a-”

“A kink?” you interrupted his explanation with a devilish grin, knowing that it would do the job.

That and the teasing, of course.

The reaction was instantaneous. Where previously there had been mild shyness and uncertainty, the furious blush had bloomed. Neil looked horrified as he took a step in your direction as if considering sealing your mouth shut before finally admitting defeat. What you got instead was a glare and an affronted reply:

“What? No! More like talent, I guess,” Neil shrugged, visibly battling the dilemma you were not privy to. You decided to help him the best way you knew how – by reaching out and squeezing his hand. Once. Just once. It was enough to do the job and make your fingers itch with an inexplicable desire to prolong the contact. Luckily, it disappeared when Neil recovered from his internal crisis and gestured towards the counter, “May I?”

You could only nod, happy that whatever had just transpired was past you. Not that it was not fun, but because of the audience that did not deserve to see what had happened. Whatever it was.

“You’ve got me intrigued, so now you have to,” shrugging upon Neil’s hesitant smile, you ventured inside the café, scouting for a perfect table.

Soon enough, the ideal booth had been located and taken as you awaited Neil’s return. You did not have to wait long, for as soon as you settled and placed your coat on the backrest, he sat in the chair in front. That sheepish smile was still in place, so you tried to bring back his confidence with dumb chitchat until you were interrupted by the server approaching your table. It worked. As you both fell quiet, Neil was visibly fighting a grin threatening to transform his face. The pride surged in your veins without respect towards your sense of humility.

The woman shot you both a bright smile as she set neared the table and put a steaming porcelain cup in front of Neil:

“Flat White for you, sir, and for your girlfriend-” you never got to hear the end of that sentence as Neil’s horrified expression and a loud interruption stole your attention.

“Oh, we’re not-” your laughter was almost enough to drown out his protest.

Almost because the server still looked extremely apologetic as she placed a larger cup in front of you with a clink.

“-Caramel Macchiato,” you waved off the atonement she seemed ready to launch and smiled, the curiosity at his choice already occupying your mind.

“Thank you,” as soon as the woman was out of earshot, you turned your cheeky smile onto Neil and covered his hand resting on the table with your palm, “Are you ashamed of me, my darling?” your favourite blush spread upon his cheeks, widening your grin in the process.

A blunder like that was not something you would ever lose sleep over. Even less so, considering that you were there with Neil. Even with your deep-rooted dislike over anything that had to do with relationships and the complications they lead to, you could not possibly be angry over being perceived as belonging to Neil. If anything, it was flattering.

“Stop it,” he shook off your hand, way too gently, and shook his head as if desperate to clear it, “I just didn’t-” after a beat, he dropped your gaze, giving up the fight, “It doesn’t matter, sorry” although you would do anything to understand the thought processes unfolding behind those slightly vacant blue eyes, you were not given a chance. Instead, he took a fortifying sip of coffee and looked at your cup, (not so) swiftly changing the topic “So… how did I do?” the anticipation in that gaze offered no space for a bargain.

You glanced at the beverage in front of you and slowly raised it to get a tentative taste. The warm liquid slightly burned your tongue, but before you could mourn the damage, the caffeine and creamy caramel filled your mouth with pleasurable goodness. It was a top-notch choice, making you follow that first sip with another almost without a break. Burned tongue be damned.

“Very good, actually,” raising your head, you met Neil’s proud smile. It was a much better look than the embarrassed expression from earlier, motivating you to add, “Maybe you should try getting into BGT with that talent,” you winked at him, even if to prolong the blush, which had begun to fade.

But also because it was fun to compliment him, considering that you meant every word and because of your suspicions that Neil did not get them often. That alone was a travesty, in your opinion.

“Very funny,” rolling his eyes at you with a happy smile tucked in the corner of his lips, Neil looked even better.

It was easy enough a conclusion that lightness and happiness were a good look on him. Especially when you were the cause. You tried not to let that go into your head, but… Well.

“I know,” you matched his smile with a smirk of your own, “Hysterical,” with the perfect pause to take another sip of the glorious coffee, you shifted the topic, “How was the week at the clergy?”

Without Neil’s continuous amused reactions to the same old joke, you would have dropped it by now. But how could you if it still got a laugh out of him each time? You couldn’t let opportunities like that slip by. No chance.

This time, Neil hid the joyous huff of laughter in the coffee cup as he pondered the answer.

“It’s been good. Fine,” a noncommittal shrug offered no room for guessing what it was that he did, which was still a mystery, but you counted wins where you could find them, “A bit busy, but what can you do. I might have a work trip coming up soon, so…” it was only when the second part of his reply was processed by your brain, currently preoccupied with staring at Neil’s mouth (which was a very normal state of mind to have), that you perked up.

That was important information. For two contrasting reasons. One was that whatever Neil did for work involved work trips, and that narrowed down the field, albeit barely. Two was that it would mean he would not be around every Wednesday, ready to meet you. That second deduction took hold of your heart with the icy grasp of disappointment.

“So, no more Wednesday meetups?” it was impossible to keep the sadness out of your tone as you settled a wary gaze on Neil.

Sure, it was survivable. But where would be the fun in it?

It was not fun to see that same apprehension creep into Neil’s eyes.

“Yeah, but only like… for a few weeks,” from his sudden dislike of eye contact, you guessed that the estimation might have been an understatement. Though you did hope he was not lying. The pitiful look must have been still present on your face, for Neil followed the statement with reassurance, “I’m sure you’ll survive without me,” he hesitated for a millisecond before returning your previous gesture and giving your hand a comforting pat.

You did not move it away, the pleasant warmth and weight of his palm seeping through your skin and soothing the sudden spell of sadness. It was difficult not to let that inexplicable feeling lead you into the deep end as it was not something you understood. It settled in the darkest cavern of your heart and accompanied its beat with its foreboding presence. There was no choice but to push past it.

“I don’t know, I’m going to miss you,” the confession felt dangerously light on your tongue as you registered Neil’s reaction. His beautiful eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and he quickly dropped your gaze, choosing to stare at the table instead. The only sign that you were heard was how his thumb stroked your hand repeatedly, “I hope you’ll be back before the premiere,” using the only way you knew of lightening the conversation, you made sure to slip in a playful tone.

Ever since the day you had shared joyous news with Neil, he often asked about the preparations for the ballet. He seemed genuinely interested in the process, the rehearsals, and your impressions at every stage.

When you innocently hinted at a costume fitting in your texts Neil immediately asked for a picture. You complied, gleefully posing in the dressing room mirror wearing the whole get-up, complete with pointe shoes, tights, and a white ballet tutu with the accents of blue flower petals. All in all, you had the right to believe that Neil would be interested in coming to see the ballet when it premiered. You had that covered.

“I’ll do my best,” his hopeful smile was enough to distract you, for soon Neil followed it with a question, “Do I get an invite?”

The cheeky smile was back in full force, almost wiping you off the surface of the Earth. More of that, please. Feeling brave, you slowly tangled your fingers with his to raise your joined hands from the tabletop and squeezed his palm. It was a silly question to ask. You had to make sure Neil knew that.

“Well, duh,” you started with an eye roll, taking pleasure from the feel of his hand holding yours, “I’m going to need a personal cheerleader for when I fail big time,” it was a rare thing to hear you admit the fear and anxieties out loud.

Most of the time, they only existed in your mind, never expressed. And especially not in a conversation because that fear of someone else confirming all you feared was overwhelming. It was better to appear invincible to the world than to let them know your weaknesses. Somehow this logic did not want to apply itself to Neil. No, he has heard it all. And yet, he did not seem keen on confirming you were right to doubt yourself.

“That’s not going to happen. You’ll be the perfect Cupid,” punctuating the encouragement with a squeeze of the hand, Neil shot you a brilliant grin.

The nickname was growing on you. It was also the cause of a few silly smiles during the rehearsals when you were addressed with your character role. That was alright, too.

Now, with the force of his beautiful smile shining upon you like a rare beacon of hope, you tried your hardest not to let the praise consume you whole. Instead, you turned to the faithful vice of sarcasm as you let go of his hand and settled your chin on your folded palms. Eyelashes and doe eyes in full force. Naturally.

“Wow, my charms must be working if you’re this blindsided,” curling the corner of your mouth in a smirk, your eyes roamed over his face in familiar patterns.

It was refreshing to remember why you invited him out in the first place. Why you have decided to break the unwritten role and step on the line you both had been tiptoeing from day one. Why nothing was holding you back from reaching for what you wanted.

This time, Neil did not turn away from your taxing gaze and met it head-on. Almost as if permitting you to proceed with whatever you desired.

“You’ve no idea, sweetheart,” mirroring your tentative smirk, Neil offered you a wink and picked up the coffee cup.

You were certainly not going to eschew a chance like that.

***

As far as first dates (could he even call it that?) went, meeting up for coffee and letting the conversations run without a disaster somewhere in between was rare. Even rarer still considering that Neil did not know how he got to this point and whether it was not all a dream. The jury was out on that. Even though Sunday was now two days ago, the meeting was still fresh in his mind, posing a thousand questions.

Because he really did not know how he got that place. The only certainty was that sometime between the surprising Saturday night meeting at Leicester Square station and the day after, Cupid made up her mind and chose to strike. Alternatively, she decided to act considering the realisations he was not privy to. Sure, that night at the station almost ended with a kiss. He knew that. He was there. But it did not offer answers as towards why an almost kiss made her behave in contrast to what Neil thought he understood about her.

Because a date was definitely a step above flirting. And it was hard to understand what that meant. If anything at all.

Now, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Neil stared out the window of the HQ cafeteria and tried his hardest not to think about it (her) for a change. It was not going well, as one could expect. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Ives was staring. Those piercing blue eyes (bluer than his, which has once or twice been proved during a night out as those things usually are) have been glancing his way instead of focusing on the sandwich on his plate. What a prick (affectionate). After what felt like a fiftieth glance, Neil dropped the napkin onto his place with force and turned towards Ives with a glare. The patience has worn out.

“Oh, just spit it out,” Neil hissed the words with ire.

The grin spreading upon Ives’ lips did not help a bit. The soldier leaned forward, abandoning his food and setting the perceptive eyes upon his friend. Mercilessly. With years of friendship, Neil knew this was not ending well.

“I haven’t said a word,” the man shrugged; a picture-perfect nonchalance.

If only.

“But you’ve been staring,” Neil’s attempt at covering up the tension with a bored tone failed.

He knew that as soon as he saw Ives’ unimpressed smile. There were no doubts about where this conversation was heading. It was the interrogation Neil had feared from day one. It was only a matter of time. Damn it.

“Go ask Henrik. Maybe he can help you gauge my eyes,” in moments like this, Ives’ cockney accent came out in full force, tearing at the shreds of patience Neil seemed to have.

Despite himself, he cracked a smile at the comeback.

“Doubtful,” quickly hiding it in the sip of tea, Neil muttered a quip of his own.

While Henrik, the team’s medic, was a peculiar man, it was improbable he would be into that kind of thing. Unfortunately.

“Eh, I wouldn’t put it past him,” before he could hope this was the end of the conversation, Ives levelled him with another no-bullshit look and delivered the sentence in four simple words, “Mate, spit it out,”

If only it were that easy. For one, Neil did not even know what there was to tell. Sure, he has met a girl. He was probably thinking too much about said girl daily. But that was it. The end of the story. Pathetic, as per usual.

“I’d rather not,” as the last resort of keeping his dignity intact, Neil averted his gaze and fixed his stare on the dirty floor of the cantina.

A solitary potato chip was lying there, attracting attention. For one, maddening second, his brain tried to concoct an elaborate metaphor in which he was like that lonely, forgotten chip on the ground.

Thankfully, the idea was soon dispersed by his irreplicable companion and his booming voice, cutting through the idiotic thoughts:

“I beg to differ,” the hint of reassurance in Ives’ voice was responsible for luring Neil into listening, just as the soldier delivered the question, “What’s her name? His name? Their name?”

Admittedly, the inclusive way of asking was a nice touch from someone who frequently lacked decorum. Or, more accurately, did not bother with it. It was that addition that made Neil crack, with the final resolve crumbling as he tried to protest:

“There’s no- Cupid,” giving out a tired sigh, Neil finally raised his head and repeated the nickname with something ridiculously close to the softness of affection, “I call her Cupid,”

It made no sense. He knew that. But it did not help that whenever he thought of her, that stupid, embarrassing part of his heart was roused awake from periodical slumber. So much for being reasonable.

As soon as Ives whistled lowly and that familiar sardonic grin appeared on his face, Neil knew it was a mistake.

“Kinky,” his murderous glare got ignored in favour of another pressing question, “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Lucky was definitely an overstatement if you asked Neil. But he did not fancy getting into the specifics of the relationships yet. Instead, he happily let himself delve back into memories of that first meeting. He still could not find other apt ways to describe it than a strike of fate. Dramatic? Sure, that was his second name.

He did doubt that Ives would appreciate the insane poetic ruminations, however.

“I’ve met her at the Tube, and she’s a ballerina… Pretty fucking cool, at that” that was a non-negotiable fact. Period.

Yet from the way his friend stared at him, Neil could easily deduct that here, too, he sounded like the insane idiot that he was. An idiot that finds friends on the Tube and lets that develop into something else. Something he tried very hard not to define. It was going splendidly well. Of course.

“Uh oh,” as if reading his mind, Ives, the prick, pasted on a silly grin and bated his eyelashes down at him, continuing the interrogation, “Is that a crush I’m sensing?”

Fuck. That was, indeed, a mistake.

Not that there was a crush because there absolutely wasn’t anything of that sort. Idiot, he might have been, but not… No. No. Which is exactly why Neil had to pause to cover his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. Conveniently ignoring Ives and his bullshit assumptions.

Only once he felt like the annoyance had simmered to an acceptable white noise, Neil dropped the hands covering his face and met his destiny in the form of an infuriating sardonic smile.

“No, she’s just… I’m fascinated, okay? I’ve never met anyone like her before, and we’ve got a good thing going with weekly chats and… stuff,” running out of steam, Neil let the last word trail off into silence.

He knew what it all sounded like. He did. Except that there was no better way of describing it (them) to the outside world. And he was certainly not keen on showing Ives the texts. Not after the last conversation this morning, which involved more innuendos and another rendition of What socks are you wearing? - his favourite game. Truly. What made the exchange more incriminating, however, was the fact that Cupid’s current socks brandished an image of an adorable pug with a caption: “Send dog pics”. Yeah, that. That was a theme he was so far happy to ignore. Kind of.

“Did you kiss her yet?” another ridiculous question acted like a wake-up call as Neil felt the loathed, crimson blush fill his cheeks.

“What is this? Middle school?” another outburst got met with a stoically blank face, not helping to ease the shame of being so goddamn transparent “No, I didn’t,” I wish, “We danced” offering the alternative lowkey felt like self-sacrifice.

Not because Neil was embarrassed of what had happened that Saturday night but because it stayed a secret to anyone who was not him or Cupid. At least, that is what she told him, much to inexplicable surprise, which he could not and would not try to understand.

“I never knew you dance,” the soldier’s remark, as always, missed the mark.

Annoyance at the whole world, at this rate, rose at a steady pace. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that Neil was frustrated at the circumstances of the relationship with the woman in question, but it was too soon for self-realisation to do its work.

“Of course, I do,” instead, it was the distant feel of pity that nagged at the edges of his soul as Neil allowed the dismissive reflection to be voiced without the veil of fake pep, “Anyway, none of it matters. She’s not into relationships, so…” he shrugged, aware of the pitiful picture.

In a way, it was easier to know that about her ahead of time. It was perfect information to push at his brain and heart whenever they got too comfortable with the situation. To remind them (and himself) that it was not going anywhere, and it never would.

But, for some infuriating reason, the heart tended to be a stubborn beast holding no regard for facts. Not that heart had anything to do with this just yet. Of course not. Neil just… liked her. As a human being likes another human being. Platonically.

“Surely, your roguish charm will convince her otherwise,” as expected, Ives looked as if he was trying very hard not to feel sorry for him and was failing.

The reassurance hardly worked if Neil was being honest. The existence of said roguish charm was highly debatable. But who was he to argue?

“Nah, it’s fine. I can be just friends with her” manifesting much, or whatever. It was a blessing to have a different topic to switch to, “Anyway, I’m not going to see her for the next couple of weeks since we’re leaving,” another attempt at a nonchalant shrug got lost in the heaviness Neil could not shake off if he tried.

Going off on a mission right now, in the middle of it all, was far from ideal. Neil liked his job, loved it even, but then, some operations felt like a drag from the moment they appeared on his desk. That was one of them.

“Yeah, Lisbon is on,” from the tiredness written all over Ives’ face, Neil could tell the lack of enthusiasm was shared, “Two weeks, but it might be longer,”

“Great,” sarcasm dripped from the word as Neil glanced at his friend and asked, “We’re going to bunk together?”

It was only half a joke. Because only the company made the perspective of that mission seem a little less daunting.

“You wish, love,” the answering grin on Ives’ face was the perfect punchline to the dramatic conversation. The soldier got up from the table with another quip, “You know I’m not into blondes,” he walked away without another glance, yet the laugh he elicited from Neil could be heard in the room above the cantina.