#LIKE THE DEADLINES ARE IMMINENT

[sp4cepunisher]

explain to me why i still have one and a half essays due, but i’ve already started writing my next ellie work + have agreed to play in a fucking volleyball match tomorrow?

like, i set myself up for this shit every time...

[hacoverc0sine]

H...hello!

[extemporaneousmusings]

3/11/22

Pictured: my little leafless persimmon tree // the literal fruits of my labor! Also a stupid amount of Old Bay…iykyk

Today I:

-picked the very last ripe persimmons

-continued to not spiral, even while thinking about the big remaining problems with my first two chapters. I am working through it! I am identifying issues and getting feedback!! It will be ok!!!

[6ebe]

Me reading journals abt social contract theory and feudalism at 2am to one-up r/asoiaf users but only in my head while I still have 2/3 of my research methods exam due is very funny behaviour

[exopelagic]

Summer always feels so nostalgic and I’m never sure if that’s a good thing. Like I don’t have anything to be nostalgic about with summer it’s just the feeling of time stretching out behind me and like?? It puts me in such a weird mood why does summer give you emotions

[bumbelbee]

oughh i wanna see spiderverse it sounds so cool

[fans4wga]

"The studios thought they could handle a strike. They might end up sparking a revolution"

by Mary McNamara

"If you want to start a revolution, tell your workers you’d rather see them lose their homes than offer them fair wages. Then lecture them about how their “unrealistic” demands are “disruptive” to the industry, not to mention disturbing your revels at Versailles, er, Sun Valley.

Honestly, watching the studios turn one strike into two makes you wonder whether any of their executives have ever seen a movie or watched a television show. Scenes of rich overlords sipping Champagne and acting irritated while the crowd howls for bread rarely end well for the Champagne sippers.

This spring, it sometimes seemed like the Hollywood studios represented by the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers were actively itching for a writers’ strike. Speculations about why, exactly, ran the gamut: Perhaps it would save a little money in the short run and show the Writers Guild of America (perceived as cocky after its recent ability to force agents out of the packaging business) who’s boss.

More obviously, it might secure the least costly compromise on issues like residuals payments and transparency about viewership.

But the 20,000 members of the WGA are not the only people who, having had their lives and livelihoods upended by the streaming model, want fair pay and assurances about the use of artificial intelligence, among other sticking points. The 160,000 members of the Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists share many of the writers’ concerns. And recent unforced errors by studio executives, named and anonymous, have suddenly transformed a fight the studios were spoiling for into a public relations war they cannot win.

Even as SAG-AFTRA representatives were seeing a majority of their demands rejected despite a nearly unanimous strike vote, a Deadline story quoted unnamed executives detailing a strategy to bleed striking writers until they come crawling back.

Days later, when an actors’ strike seemed imminent, Disney Chief Executive Bob Iger took time away from the Sun Valley Conference in Idaho not to offer compromise but to lecture. He told CNBC’s David Faber that the unions’ refusal to help out the studios by taking a lesser deal is “very disturbing to me.”

“There’s a level of expectation that they have that is just not realistic,” Iger said. “And they are adding to the set of the challenges that this business is already facing that is, quite frankly, very disruptive.”

If Iger thought his attempt to exec-splain the situation would make actors think twice about walking out, he was very much mistaken. Instead, he handed SAG-AFTRA President Fran Drescher the perfect opportunity for the kind of speech usually shouted atop the barricades.

“We are the victims here,” she said Thursday, marking the start of the actors’ strike. “We are being victimized by a very greedy entity. I am shocked by the way the people that we have been in business with are treating us. I cannot believe it, quite frankly: How far apart we are on so many things. How they plead poverty, that they’re losing money left and right, when giving hundreds of millions of dollars to their CEOs. It is disgusting. Shame on them. They stand on the wrong side of history at this very moment.”

Cue the cascading strings of “Les Mis,” bolstered by images of the most famous people on the planet walking out in solidarity: the cast of “Oppenheimer” leaving the film’s London premiere; the writers and cast of “The X-Files” reuniting on the picket line.

A few days later, Barry Diller, chairman and senior executive of IAC and Expedia Group and a former Hollywood studio chief, suggested that studio executives and top-earning actors take a 25% pay cut to bring a quick end to the strikes and help prevent “the collapse of the entire industry.”

When Diller is telling executives to take a pay cut to avoid destroying their industry, it is no longer a strike, or even two strikes. It is a last-ditch attempt to prevent le déluge.

Yes, during the 2007-08 writers’ strike, picketers yelled noncomplimentary things at executives as they entered their respective lots. (“What you earnin’, Chernin?” was popular at Fox, where Peter Chernin was chairman and chief executive.) But that was before social media made everything more immediate, incendiary and personal. (Even if they have never seen a movie or TV show, one would think that people heading up media companies would understand how media actually work.)

Even at the most heated moments of the last writers’ strike, executives like Chernin and Iger were seen as people who could be reasoned with — in part because most of the executives were running studios, not conglomerations, but mostly because the pay gap between executives and workers, in Hollywood and across the country, had not yet widened to the reprehensible chasm it has since.

Now, the massive eight- and nine-figure salaries of studio heads alongside photos of pitiably small residual checks are paraded across legacy and social media like historical illustrations of monarchs growing fat as their people starve. Proof that, no matter how loudly the studios claim otherwise, there is plenty of money to go around.

Topping that list is Warner Bros. Discovery Chief Executive Davd Zaslav. Having re-named HBO Max just Max and made cuts to the beloved Turner Classic Movies, among other unpopular moves, Zaslav has become a symbol of the cold-hearted, highly compensated executive that the writers and actors are railing against.

The ferocious criticism of individual executives’ salaries has placed Hollywood’s labor conflict at the center of the conversation about growing wealth disparities in the U.S., which stokes, if not causes, much of this country’s political divisions. It also strengthens the solidarity among the WGA and SAG-AFTRA and with other groups, from hotel workers to UPS employees, in the midst of disputes during what’s been called a “hot labor summer.”

Unfortunately, the heightened antagonism between studio executives and union members also appears to leave little room for the kind of one-on-one negotiation that helped end the 2007-08 writers’ strike. Iger’s provocative statement, and the backlash it provoked, would seem to eliminate him as a potential elder statesman who could work with both sides to help broker a deal.

Absent Diller and his “cut your damn salaries” plan, there are few Hollywood figures with the kind of experience, reputation and relationships to fill the vacuum.

At this point, the only real solution has been offered by actor Mark Ruffalo, who recently suggested that workers seize the means of production by getting back into the indie business, which is difficult to imagine and not much help for those working in television.

It’s the AMPTP that needs to heed Iger’s admonishment. At a time when the entertainment industry is going through so much disruption, two strikes is the last thing anyone needs, especially when the solution is so simple. If the studios don’t want a full-blown revolution on their hands, they’d be smart to give members of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA contracts they can live with."

[virtualdoom]

heeeeeey guys happy new year! i have been soooo busy lately

[the-mighty-glow-cloud]

"you should consider working more than just 9-5" no <3

[mindfulstudyquest]

here's the reason you procrastinate

based on Fuschia Sirois' research

everyone procrastinate at some point. research suggests that almost 1 in 4 people procrastinate on a fairly regular basis, and the rates are even higher among college and university students ( 50% of them procrastinate regularly and about 85-90% do so occasionally ).

because procrastination is so common we tend not to put too much thought into it, in the end what is the problem? it's just delay.

well, it's not. actually procrastination is harmful delay ( so defined by the researchers ); it is a form of delay which is:

voluntary

unnecessary

involves important tasks which you intended to do

people often underestimate the consequences of procrastination and how debilitating and harmful it can be. if you delay dealing with ( for example ) your academic works, of course you can expect some negative results in that area, but what about the collateral consequences of it?

research has shown that people who have problems with procrastination have low physical and mental health and practice less healthy behaviors. they deal with depression, stress and anxiety.

just think about the enormous amount of stress that procrastination brings: first of all, constantly chasing deadlines. deadlines can nag anyone, even those who don't struggle with delaying, but then it ends, the job is turned in, and everything goes back to normal. for procastinators this is not the case, they will keep putting off important things and will constantly end up with an imminent deadline.

so, if it's so harmful for your health, why do people do it? some people think it's about laziness or poor time managment, but actually:

laziness isn't procrastination. if you're lazy you don't have the energy to do anything, instead procrastinators are always busy with a thousand non-essential tasks to do, in fact they avoid doing one specific task, not every task ( for example if i need to study, but i'm procrastinating it, i end up cleaning my room )

poor time managment it's actually a symptom of procrastination, not a cause.

from a psychological perspective the origins of procrastination are rooted in negative emotions and the urge to cope with them through avoidance. so actually procrastination is about poor mood managment, not poor time managment.

procrastination starts when we have a task that's unpleasant, but we have to do it. and we use procrastination then as a way to get relief from those negative emotions associated with the task, so basically it's not even about avoiding the task, but it's about avoid the negative emotions that we associate with the task.

we need to avoid stress and aversive feeling that come with the task, especially when we don't feel like we can manage those negative emotions at the moment. so we take the task, we put it aside, and it's instant relief. it's fast, it's easy and it works for a little while, then that sense of shame, guilt and self-blame starts to kick in.

so why do we keep procrastinating? for that sense of relief, because that made us feel rewarded and we tend to repeat behaviors that rewarded us. this can easily lead to a cycle of procrastination.

however, the negative thoughts that we have ( "why didn't i start earlier?", "i'm letting myself down" etc. ) don't actually make us take action. they just add layers of layers on pre-existing negativity.

so how do you get out of the procastination cycle?

go back to valuing your task, if it's so important that you do it, remind yourself why you are doing it

remember that we tend to overestimate the discomfort that a given challenge will bring us. probably your task isn't even that time-consuming, unpleasant and frustrating

be compassionate and and forgive yourself, it's an effective strategy to reduce the negative emotions associated with the task. you are not the first nor the last person to procrastinate, we are all human and we all make mistakes. research has shown that doing so reduces the risk of procastination.

hope you enjoyed this little explanation, here's my sources: https://youtu.be/xTEPNxx0MsA

[neuralnetsprettypatterns]

Pinned Post

Hi there! I'm Neural Nets. I make kink content. I specialize in audio content about mind control. I also produce video, make games, and create experimental content for personal massagers.

If I have a kinky vision, I aim to make it real. I learn the tools I need for them.

I made the first content for "bimboization" over a decade ago. It was supposed to be private. It got leaked and cycled into thousands of spicy video dishes. I left the scene and returned to find it EVERYWHERE. That was fucking surreal.

My content is much better now. I learned the tools to make the horny impulses real.

Some of my content is free. You can find free things here, on Discord, on Reddit, on Soundgasm, and on Spotify. My media presence is a bit scattered because of bans and illness, but it's there.

The real archive is on Patreon. That costs money. It doesn't cost very MUCH money, and I think it's well worth it. That's your call, though.

I am definitely over 30. I don't disclose my exact age because hacking. "Over 30" should be enough. If you're hoping I run for US Senate, I appreciate your optimism and mourn its imminent passing.

FAQ:

Do you answer asks?

Yes! I turned off anonymous asks here. Trolls should commit to the bit. That said, I appreciate asks and I answer all of them if they're in good faith.

2. Do you answer DMs?

I leave my DMs on here. I wrestled with that decision.

They're on for: a. people I've known for a while or b. people contacting me about projects, like VAs and spicemakers

Any other questions go to asks.

3. How do I voice act in a Neural Nets production?

You contact me. You'll need to provide a voice sample.

If I cast you, I'll direct you to the casting spreadsheet. It has deadlines. If people miss deadlines, their parts get recast. I can direct, but I can't micromanage your time.

Sometimes, people are very underconfident in their voices, and it makes them feel bad. If that's you, I empathize. I'd be happy to answer questions and give advice! I shouldn't direct you, though. I don't want to unwittingly hurt people by directing.

4. Do you believe your content?

I believe in equality and radical honesty. I unequivocally believe in consent. I wish political and economic systems did too.

I have dark impulses. I like some schtick and some kayfabe. I like trickery and manipulation - in consensual kink.

All my content addresses things that turn me on, but my ethics trump my desire for a host of braintrained pleasers.

5. Do you do AI stuff?

Not really. I've tried machine learning tools. Porn is the cutting edge of new tech, after all.

I like automated tools to generate effects. Purely generated stuff, like image generation? Overall, meh. People make me horny. Mechanized people can make me horny. Machines, by themselves, don't make me horny.

6. Aren't you evil?

No. Some people are bad at reality testing. Some people chase clout. I naively engaged them initially. That was a mistake.

If anyone has beef, they failed to contact me privately. That's the damning mark of clout chasing.

I'm flawed and human, but I'm neither your hero nor your villain.

7. Aren't you dead?

No. In late 2022, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It's partially genetic, so I sorta saw this coming. That was my worst lifelong fear, and it happened.

Fortunately, though, we caught it early and they have banger drugs for it now. Monoclonal antibodies destroyed the misbehaving parts of my immune system. I'm in NEDA, which is like remission.I recovered compromised motor skills through a year of totally brutal and partially self administered physiotherapy. I ate a lot of pavement, so it's a good thing I used to skate.

If you saw me now, you probably wouldn't clock anything. Lucky.

I am annoyed at people who mass reported my last blog shortly after I came out as sick. It takes a special kind of miserable to delight in that. Regardless, I'm back and that's not my problem.

I missed this platform, as completely broken and dysfunctional as it is.

I am glad to be back, and I'm here for any asks.

[hailperseusjackson]

i still don’t like the change of them going past the solstice deadline (especially since the “war” did feel imminent at all, just an unnecessary change overall).

however… That said. poseidon stopping zeus’ bolt with his bare hands and then surrendering, all for percy…. insanity. Feeling completely bonkers about it actually, someone sedate me

[nostalgebraist]

@oakfern replied to your post “it's going to be fun to watch the realization...”:

i feel like this is going to play out very similarly to voice assistants. there was a huge boom in ASR research, the products got a lot of hype, and they actually sold decently (at least alexa did). but 10 years on, they've been a massive failure, costing way more than they ever made back. even if ppl do think chatbot search engines are exciting and cool, it's not going to bring in more users or sell more products, and in the end it will just be a financial loss

​(Responding to this a week late)

I don't know much about the history of voice assistants. Are there any articles you recommend on the topic? Sounds interesting.

ETA: Iater, I found and read this article from Nov 2022, which reports that Alexa and co. still can't turn a profit after many years of trying.

But anyway, yeah... this is why I don't have a strong sense of how widespread/popular these "generative AI" products will be a year or two from now. Or even five years from now.

(Ten years from now? Maybe we can trust the verdict will be in at that point... but the tech landscape of 2033 is going to be so different from ours that the question "did 'generative AI' take off or not?" will no doubt sound quaint and irrelevant.)

Remember when self-driving cars were supposed to be right around the corner? Lots of people took this imminent self-driving future seriously.

And I looked at it, and thought "I don't get it, this problem seems way harder than people are giving it credit for. And these companies show no signs of having discovered some clever proprietary way forward." If people asked me about it, that's what I would say.

But even if I was sure that self-driving cars wouldn't arrive on schedule, that didn't give me much insight into the fate of "self-driving cars," the tech sector meme. It wasn't like there was some specific deadline, and when we crossed it everyone was going to look up and say "oh, I guess that didn't work, time to stop investing."

The influx of capital -- and everything downstream from it, the trusting news stories, the prominence of the "self-driving car future" in the public mind, the seriousness which it was talked about -- these things went on, heedless of anything except their own mysterious internal logic.

They went on until . . . what? The pandemic, probably? I actually still don't know.

Something definitely happened:

In 2018 analysts put the market value of Waymo LLC, then a subsidiary of Alphabet Inc., at $175 billion. Its most recent funding round gave the company an estimated valuation of $30 billion, roughly the same as Cruise. Aurora Innovation Inc., a startup co-founded by Chris Urmson, Google’s former autonomous-vehicle chief, has lost more than 85% since last year [i.e. 2021] and is now worth less than $3 billion. This September a leaked memo from Urmson summed up Aurora’s cash-flow struggles and suggested it might have to sell out to a larger company. Many of the industry’s most promising efforts have met the same fate in recent years, including Drive.ai, Voyage, Zoox, and Uber’s self-driving division. “Long term, I think we will have autonomous vehicles that you and I can buy,” says Mike Ramsey, an analyst at market researcher Gartner Inc. “But we’re going to be old.”

Whatever killed the "self-driving car" meme, though, it wasn't some newly definitive article of proof that the underlying ideas were flawed. The ideas never made sense in the first place. The phenomenon was not really about the ideas making sense.

Some investors -- with enough capital, between them, to exert noticable distortionary effects on entire business sectors -- decided that "self-driving cars" were, like, A Thing now. And so they were, for a number of years. Huge numbers of people worked very hard trying to make "self-driving cars" into a viable product. They were paid very well to do. Talent was diverted away from other projects, en masse, into this effort. This went on as long as the investors felt like sustaining it, and they were in no danger of running out of money.

Often the "tech sector" feels less like a product of free-market incentives than it does like a massive, weird, and opaque public works product, orchestrated by eccentrics like Masayoshi Son, and ultimately organized according to the aesthetic proclivities and changing moods of its architects, not for the purpose of "doing business" in the conventional sense.

Gig economy delivery apps (Uber Eats, Doordash, etc.) have been ubiquitous for years, and have reported huge losses in every one of those years.

This entertaining post from 2020 about "pizza arbitrage" asks:

Which brings us to the question - what is the point of all this? These platforms are all losing money. Just think of all the meetings and lines of code and phone calls to make all of these nefarious things happen which just continue to bleed money. Why go through all this trouble?

Grubhub just lost $33 million on $360 million of revenue in Q1.

Doordash reportedly lost an insane $450 million off $900 million in revenue in 2019 (which does make me wonder if my dream of a decentralized network of pizza arbitrageurs does exist).

Uber Eats is Uber's "most profitable division” 😂😂. Uber Eats lost $461 million in Q4 2019 off of revenue of $734 million. Sometimes I need to write this out to remind myself. Uber Eats spent $1.2 billion to make $734 million. In one quarter.

And now, in February 2023?

DoorDash's total orders grew 27% to 467 million in the fourth quarter. That beat Wall Street’s forecast of 459 million, according to analysts polled by FactSet. Fourth quarter revenue jumped 40% to $1.82 billion, also ahead of analysts’ forecast of $1.77 billion.

But profits remain elusive for the 10-year-old company. DoorDash said its net loss widened to $640 million, or $1.65 per share, in the fourth quarter as it expanded into new categories and integrated Wolt into its operations.

Do their investors really believe these companies are going somewhere, and just taking their time to get there? Or is this more like a subsidy? The lost money (a predictable loss in the long term) merely the price paid for a desired good -- for an intoxicating exercise of godlike power, for the chance to reshape reality to one's whims on a large scale -- collapsing the usual boundary between self and outside, dream and reality? "The gig economy is A Thing, now," you say, and wave your hand -- and so it is.

Some people would pay a lot of money to be a god, I would think.

Anyway, "generative AI" is A Thing now. It wasn't A Thing a year ago, but now it is. How long will it remain one? The best I can say is: as long as the gods are feeling it.

[clarks-letterman]

Steve Harrington x Male reader — So like, your boyfriends, which is a surprise in itself cause like steve didn’t think he’d fall for a guy, but you find yourselfs in the back of “family video” fucking, STEVE IS BLOWING YOUR BACK OUT- this could include (before hand) and assemble of touching, shy chaste kisses and sarcastic (but cute comments) which leads to steve punishing your sorry ass in the back (riding him-) 🫣

yasss lemme put u on somethin' (also sorry for this being late, writer's block do be kicking my ass into next tuesday)

a/n — this has some crackfic to it, but to be fair, Stranger Things is full of crackfic humor sooooo

warnings — 18+! Smut, Steve blowing your back out with his massive-

words — 1.84k

summary — check the request!

~~~

The slowly repeated clack of one sole computer key bringing down the equally slowly refreshing digital screen set the tone for the imminently stale afternoon: utter boredom. Each name flickered on the digitizer as your eyes trailed along the lines of information, checking one vital row running down the screen in solid green lettering—the account holders of Family Video's current rentals and if they were overdue to return any of them. 

Surprisingly, the lessees renting videos from the store managed to indemnify everything on time, making your job a slog since everyone was responsible when presented with a deadline. You were looking for people who refused to return what they borrowed for whatever arbitrary reason they listed and calling to convince them to remit the fines.

What was less of a surprise was that it didn't bring much joy to scroll through the hundreds of names of the residents of Hawkins that all had an account at this here neon-consumed video store. There were far too many people to actually get through the list in one day, let alone the last couple hours of your shift. 

It could have gone faster if two people were plowing through the list, but Steve, on the other hand, seemed to be having a blast restocking the final few shelves in the store with different videotapes. You gave your eyes a break from the straining blue light by looking over to check on his progress, praying that he was nearly done furnishing the shelves to help you with this, to which he was still hunched over, placing cheesy romance movies of all kinds along the bottom row. 

You were about to get back to the grind of checking for overdue rentals when something from earlier in your shift urged you to connect the mental dots that formed in your brain. Your shift rotation started at noon, and you had arrived only to dash to the back to check for any new shipments as a new feature film had finally hit video, and you had no plans to miss out on being the first to own a copy. Not only did you love the movie, but you wanted to get it for you and Steve to watch together. Regardless, nothing new had arrived, and the back room was full of boxes containing dozens of restocks for every movie you could think of, along with their corresponding promotional posters. 

Returning to the front area of the store, you found Robin and Steve chatting in between the shelves for romance and comedy as Steve filled the bottom ledge with a few boxed films before inconspicuously pulling them off of it and placing them back into the cardboard box they shipped in. That would mean that Steve had been purposefully cycling through the same work all day, avoiding the worst tasks required by the job's standards.

You turned on your chair, smugly leaning over the forest-shaded counter with your arms easily sliding into place over the other to give you an equally derisive look to match. In a jeering tone, you teased your co-worker, "Didn't you already stock that area, Harrington?"

He turned to look at you, the harsh neon-orange lighting of the display shaming the half of him facing away from you as it competed with the golden glow from the front windows. He hung his head in defeat, admitting under a low mumble, "Yeah."

You pressed on, "Then why are you doing it again?"

Steve returned to placing each tape on the shelf, "To memorize the titles."

"I thought you didn't like romance movies? You always said that your hair had 'more charm than a prince on the screen.'"

"And I thought I didn't like guys, but here we are."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, what's up? Did King Steve finally lose the title of employee of the month? Or run out of Faberge products this morning?" He finished stocking the shelf for what you guessed was for the second time that day, and your eyes followed as he stood and paced over to the check-out counter with a vexing look on his face. 

"Don't disrespect the hair," Steve spoke, setting down the vacant box in his hands and pointing a single finger to his carefully cared-for hair. 

You were leaning far enough over the counter to stretch your arm out to the nape of Steve's neck, ushering it further northbound into the mess of his dewy yet soft hair and pulling him closer to you until he was a short breath away, "What's the real reason, Steve?" 

“Do I really have to say it?" Steve uttered quietly with a hint of snark and raised his shoulders in defense, letting them fall as he admitted how he felt, "I’m bored at work.”

You waved what he said off as you spoke, distancing yourself from him as you casually fell back into the stool near the computer, “With me around? Never.”

A glint of something more rose to the gloss of Steve's eyes, reflecting in the neon lighting lining the walls—an idea had come to him, but you didn't know what it could be. “You’re right—hey, uh, can you help me with a new shipment in the back?”

Your brows knitted together faster than a grandma determined to make the itchiest Christmas sweater imaginable. Somehow, both seemed unpleasant on you as you spoke, "But I didn't see anything earlier."

He neared the entrance to the storage room, turning on his heel and letting his back softly press against the door, "I know, but there's something else you could help me unpack."

"Steve Harrington, you are insane," You mused while shooting up and rounding the shaded counter, closing in on Steve as he backed into the door of the supply closet, a hand of his embracing the small of your back as the other reached for the handle. He flung the door open and pulled you into the small room meant for new shipments and stock, not bothering to shut it. Guiding you to a few stray and scarcely stocked shelves next to the door, Steve reached down to fish out a condom from the pocket of his flares before carelessly throwing it onto the rack behind you and attacking your neck with aggressive kisses.

You turned your head to give him better access, leaving the open door in plain sight. Keeping the room visible was risky, for one thing. No one would be at the counter to ring someone up, and anyone with a curious eye could stumble into the room and see what was happening. But it was a slow day, and Steve was anything but slow when it came to getting his hands on you. He parted from your supple neck, and within seconds, you had rid each other of the dark green vests and underlying shirts, leaving the both of you exposed from the waist up. 

You pulled him in for a quick buss as your hands traversed his bushy chest and along the line of hair trailing down his abdomen until you reached the buckle of his pants. Loosening Steve's flares—which grew increasingly tighter with each second of contact that passed—proved to be an easy task, and with that, his boxers went down with the rough denim and bunched at his ankles.

There was a brief moment where you eyed his cock and realized that Steve's glory days could be traced back to the thing between his legs; being a massive dick in high school really reflected what he was packing his pants, and what he sported was a heavy hitter—just like him on the baseball team, as he could make you see the same stars he aimed to hit every home run to at each game. From the tip of his thick slugger to his sagging baseballs, Steve Harrington was perfect.

"Let me see that ass," Steve ordered, flipping you around so that your hands rested on the cold shelves behind you as he shoved down your pants.

He stretched a hand past you to reach for the rubber idly waiting on the shelf, his hand disappearing out of view. Only the sounds following it could inform you of what was happening from behind, being a tear of the packaging and a slight hiss of air before the soft crinkle of the rubber unfurling down his length.

"Guess extra-large isn't enough," Steve remarked, admiring how the lubed elastic barely managed to reach the base of his cock, the dark hair surrounding it meeting the taut ring at the bottom.

You turned your head, looking back to him, "Really? I guess you can't read because that says it's small." 

He took a step forward, his hand cupping the folds of your ass, "You wish it was." 

Steve removed one hand to get a hold of his girth, slipping himself past your cheeks with ease and towards your hole. A sudden jolt of sharp pain from your back-end sent you forward, going limp against the rack of shelves you leaned on for support, the palm of your hand coming down atop the surface of the metal with one hard smack and an ensuing moan. For as big as Steve was, you were surprised that his previous endeavors in the bedroom hadn't left your ass used to his thickness.

He pumped inch after inch into your ass, watching as your hole stretched wide for his shaft, which was a far cry from the tip of his cock, needing much more courage to take the further he went. While his impressive size clouded your mind, your own pleasure trudged through the fog, searching for something to take hold of. Steve didn't waste any time burying himself into you, though, and a hand took hold of your cock, stroking it with a single hand. His other hand, however, claimed the spot next to yours on the shelf, using it for stability as his movements inside you became greedy.

Steve repeatedly buried himself deep into you, addicted to the sounds of his skin smacking against yours when he bottomed out with each swing of his hips. It seemed like each one was a tick to count the moments building to the mounting climax inside him, and his increasingly louder noises only proved that theory. Minutes passed, and you started to feel the same.

Like rewinding a watched video tape, Steve was sick of being stuck at the end and holding off for his own pleasure. With a few final thrusts, he spilled himself out inside the rubber confines and kept pumping your shaft until you did the same. Your load splashed over the empty shelf sitting inches below your crotch, meeting your knees as they buckled against it.

Steve was quick to pull himself out of you, shucking off the condom filled with his load, placing it on the shelf, and was standing in the empty stock room. You shifted around to face him, "What are you doing, Harrington?"

"I just—" He paused, "—can't believe that really happened."

[thearchercore]

After reading your essays about Charles and PR, I have a bit of a rant when it comes to Charles’ image rn, and how (I believe) him and RBR are working together. I mean, it could be very likely considering his and RBR’s posts.

Let’s have a bit of a look at the 3 accounts that are posting Charles almost all the time rn. Ferrari, Charles himself and Red Bull. Ferrari’s posts are 1. Not much, considering he is their driver, and 3. Are either way too polished or just a thirst trap. Considering that Ferrari is his team, they aren’t posting Charles much, since the beginning of the year. And they haven’t changed their tactics, their posts are too polished, too stuffy if you could say, with the inly non-stuffy one being a pic of Charles falling while playing Football and Skiing, and even that doesn’t look authentic or like they’re really pleased about it.

Now, let’s see Charles. Since the beginning of 2024, there has been a shift in Charles’ social media, it isn’t all theist traps, or any of that shit. I mean, yeah he had a few posts that showed his adventurous fun side of his personality, but they were very limited compared to his curated posts, the posts that are what we could consider “safe” and “according to Ferrari’s agenda” kind of. But since ten beginning of the year, there is only one post which falling in this category, which is a post made by his sponsor, APM Monaco, for a shoot. The rest are, charles is drunk, relatable in LA, being goofy while skiing. Almost as if Charles is trying to detach himself from the Ferrari image if that PR robot who only has looks.

Now onto the last side of this, Red Bull. RBR have always been known as fun, spontaneous, almost chaotic. I mean, their slogan is and always have been and always will be Red Bull Gives You Wings. They have been the ones who never restricted their drivers, Max, Checo and Daniel can post whatever they want. But lets be real, I don’t think Max and Checo use their Socials much (with the chance of Max having a private account which we all knew from his twitch saga 😂, but its mire because Max is a private person).

Back to Charles, Red Bull is posting Charles in a way that shows that he’s a beast on track, only him can battle Max, but also in a way that shows the fun aide, the sticker war?? And I believe RBR and Charles are working together in that sense, RBR showing the dynamic between both, as well as highlight the fact that the ones with the most battles with Max that are the most entertaining is Charles, while Charles is detaching himself from that stuffy Ferrari thirst trap-y agenda into the more fun loving, spontaneous person.

And I think they’re doing that in order to prepare for something. Like Charles to RBR announcement when bestie??

yeah, something may be going on behind the scenes! i mentioned charles' rebrand from ferrari-focused posts to more individual approach here and the recent change of posting patterns (ft. posting charles) on the RBR socials here

i got a bit caught by surprise on thursday -- a day where ferrari is known to post contract announcements -- in the morning f1 posted joint post with ferrari about charles' monza win, then posted a pic with charles' monza helmet quote "one team one dream" (which was rumoured to be his OG renewal helmet, renewal got obviously postponed). all posts lead me and my friends to believe that an announcement is imminent and i patiently waited for the charles renewal announcement to drop.

nothing happened.

the same day, however, we got a new article that updated that carlos' negotiations for a new contract aren't working out the way they wanted. apparently ferrari only wants to give carlos a one year long contract, carlos wants a multi-year contract. that once again delayed the contract renewal announcement.

remember that fred mentioned he wanted to have the contracts locked by christmas so they're ready by january.

also seems like carlos' deadline for contract is the testing in bahrain. they want to announce before the testing starts.

there were also rumours that because of that, ferrari is eyeing alex albon as a possible second driver.

again, it's all quite messy and not fully confirmed but just the delayed timeline shows how many complications ferrari may be facing right now.

is red bull part of the game? maybe, maybe not. we can't tell, we can only follow their social pattern and see how they move in the future.

[neutron-stars-collision]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 4 - North Greenwich Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 3 Summary: Neil's brief disappearance does nothing to extinguish the sparks. As he returns, you make a series of discoveries about each other and grow ever so much closer. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, ridiculous amounts of flirting as per usual. Buckle up bc we're amping the pace a little... ;) Author's Notes: Well... that was a long break between the chapters 🙈 My apologies, turns out that having a job takes away the little joys in life like writing silly stories. Anyways, here we are, at last. With another 10.7k. And this one's packed with many good, fun things ;))) Some of those scenes had been months in the making (if not years, considering I first mentioned this AU to Shet in like 2021? I think?). So, yeah. They had it long time coming. More cameos, more nonsensical POV changes and, above all, more certified idiocy by them two kids. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

What Neil’s departure from London did not do was change the way things worked between you. Although you only had meagre information about his whereabouts (such as that he was within the same time zone but in a different country), there was no sense of a breach building in the space of that strange yet solid connection. With the anxieties surrounding the imminent ‘Don Quixote’ premiere keeping your blood pressure high daily, you more than enjoyed being able to pick up your phone and message him whenever possible.

He did not always respond immediately, but it was not a must. What mattered was that Neil eventually got back to you. Never disclosing any information about his work trip, apart from the fact that it was warm there even in mid-October, he still made the effort to keep up with your antics. In that sense, the insanity of the date you had risked changed absolutely nothing.

But it also changed everything.

It was as if your free will chose to conspire with the soul’s desires to get what they wanted. Namely – Neil. Because as soon as you had even begun considering breaching the line separating friendship from every other kind of relationship, your brain decided it was done.

Being his girlfriend was not on the list of priorities or wants, but getting in his pants definitely was. It was almost freeing to admit.

The only question left after all that soul-searching was whether Neil wanted you like that, too. Sometimes there were no doubts about that, either.

Almost a week in, with the ballet previews looming on the horizon and no chance of sleep anytime soon, you huffed an annoyed sigh and picked up the phone from your bedside table. Bleary eyes registered the hour (five past midnight) as you opened apps randomly, already giving up on the promise of sleep. It took you another few minutes to make up your mind, open the texts and stare at the conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours since the last exchange concerning the warmth of the climate wherever he was. You had been (fruitlessly) trying to make Neil send you a picture. Of himself. Not necessarily without clothes, but that was the dream. And a girl was allowed to dream, right?

Squinting at the screen, you hesitated for another millisecond before typing out the simple question:

/ 🏹, 00:15 am/ Are you missing me yet?

Neil did not make you wait for long.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ Obviously.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ I’m barely coping here, sunshine.

/ 🏹, 00:29 am/ Gee, you’re making it too easy.

/✝️, 00:30 am/ Making what too easy?

/ 🏹, 00:33 am/ Missing you.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ See, I thought my cheeky line would get a lukewarm response, so I was prepared to tease you further.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ And now I’ve no quips to offer.

/✝️, 00:39 am/ Apologies. I’ll do better next time.

/ 🏹, 00:40 am/ I’ll make sure of that.

/✝️, 00:42 am/ And what punishment do you propose?

/ 🏹, 00:43 am/ I’ve always wondered what you’d sound like if you begged.

/✝️, 00:44 am/ It could probably be arranged.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ I’ve no qualms about getting on my knees for a beautiful woman.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ But that would hardly be a punishment.

/ 🏹, 00:48 am/ Yeah, but if I let you have that and then left you… on your knees, so painfully hard with no release… How would that feel?

/✝️, 00:51 am/ You win this one.

/✝️, 00:52 am/ And yes, I’m blushing. Fiercely.

/ 🏹, 00:59 am/ Good, I was hoping you are. Goodnight, Neil.

As you hit send on the last message, your head hit the pillows with an audible ‘oof’. Your cheeks burned; the blush invisible in the dark yet still very much there. That was the problem with Neil and your chats. It was impossible to say when they would turn in that direction. When you would both lose control and follow a line of conversation that probably never should have happened. Not that you were complaining.

It was good to know what you could expect from Neil. If things happened the way you wished, they would. Admittedly, he’d look good on his knees. That was a fact.

That night you only got five hours of sleep, but who counted it anyway. What mattered was that you had some excellent dreams. Dreams that you hoped would end up prophetic.

On other days, your conversations were a little more serious. Like that early afternoon when you just finished the final in-costume run of the Cupid variation and exited the ROH to wander the streets of Soho. Whenever you felt close to losing your sanity, the walk around those familiar spots always did the trick. It was easier to breathe, to hope that you would not fuck it all up when the curtain call came. To believe that imposter syndrome was nothing more than a vile bitch.

Sighing against the thoughts muddling your brain, you took out the phone and immediately noticed the new message:

/✝️, 1:49 pm/ How’s the garden of the Dryads coming along?

/✝️, 1:50 pm/ It probably goes without saying that you’re my favourite ballerina.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ Damn, that’s high praise. Especially considering that I’m the only ballerina you know.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ I think the garden is coming along nicely. Not so sure about Cupid, tho.

/✝️, 2:08 pm/ I call bullshit on that.

/✝️, 2:09 pm/ I just know that you’re brilliant.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ Doubt, she said.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ ‘Cause like… How do you deal with the overwhelming weight of expectations?

/✝️, 2:18 pm/ I mean, I panic and lose it instantly, but generally speaking, I think you just sort of… ignore it and trust you are good enough.

/✝️, 2:19 pm/ I know that you are, Cupid. This role was made for you.

/ 🏹, 2:22 pm/ Elaborate, please. I need my ego stroked.

/✝️, 2:23 pm/ Well, she sorts of saunters onto the stage and has a minute to dazzle everyone, yeah?

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ Which is exactly what you did to me.

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ You’ve got this.

/ 🏹, 2:26 pm/ God, you’re irreconcilable. Better come back so I can force you to sit through this.

/✝️, 2:27 pm/ Working on it as we speak.

A smile painted itself on your face with an inerasable stroke of brush. Neil’s constant support and cheerleading were a welcome surprise. Sometimes, your meeting almost felt like a divine intervention. That is if you believed in such things. Because the odds of gaining both a fascinating man to pursue and a friend were quite low. And yet.

As you looped your steps back towards Covent Garden, you made the mental note to visit the box office and add a request for the guest list. It was a rare enough event to have someone you could invite to the performance. And have the right to believe they would come. You were not going to squander that sort of chance.

***

The whirring ceiling fan was starting to get on his nerves with its endless sputtering. And it was not even working, as far as Neil was concerned. The sweat still clung to his skin and trickled down his back to a point where he seriously contemplated ditching the shirt. And that rarely happened. Especially not on the job, with the whole squad confined to a medium-sized safehouse.

The bustle of the city streamed through the windows, cracked open so they could let in fresh air while still having a chance of keeping them safe from snipers and the like. Granted, one could never be fully prepared for an inverted shot, but it was worth trying not to get killed. Especially during a mission that technically was just a recon. Though Neil knew better than to believe The Protagonist when the man claimed something was perfectly safe. He meant well, sure. But despite the appearances, he did not know everything.

So, the windows cracked open three inches had to do. Neil sighed, annoyance digging deep beneath his skin to stay there for a little longer. It was another one of those boring, yet technically productive afternoons in the safehouse. Today, the task was to plan a hypothetical pincer movement. Just in case, they said. Well, Neil sure did hope the case never came to be.

He glanced at the blacked-out screen of his phone, the muscle memory betraying him as he picked up the device almost mindlessly and opened the conversation with Cupid. It had been a few hours since the last chat, which was pretty usual. They did not need to talk all the time. Neil knew that. He also knew that it was probably better they did not talk constantly. Considering that 3 out of 5 conversations always ended up dirty, up to the point where he was blushing like an idiot. And, sometimes disappeared in the bathroom to deal with some troublesome effects of those chats.

Yes, considering all that, Neil knew it was best they took some breaks. But also-

“Blondie, can you give us a hand with this?” the yell from further inside the apartment acted like a bucket of cold water tipped over his head unceremoniously.

Neil whipped his head up, glaring at the open doorway. Unfortunately, being referred to as ‘blondie’ was becoming more frequent. The petulant nature urged him to ignore it, but he knew that was hardly the last one. With another long-suffering sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair and called back:

“I said I’m coming,” granted, that was over fifteen minutes ago, but everyone could get distracted. Right? “Would it hurt you to ask nicer?” he stalked down the corridor toward the living area with an arched eyebrow.

It was not surprising to meet a mirroring expression on the faces of Ives, Wheeler, and Jeremy sitting in a trifecta of judgment. Neil had no doubts about his place in that makeshift courtroom.

“Yes, when you’re slacking,” Wheeler dropped the disapproving glare with all the air of nonchalance and pointedly glanced at the table covered with maps and blueprints.

Neil had no choice but to sit down in the remaining chair and offer an apologetic pout to anyone willing to hear him out:

“I’m not slacking. I’m just-” whatever excuse he could whip out on a whim got interrupted prematurely.

“Otherwise occupied with your girlfriend. Yes, we know,” Wheeler raised her head once more with a dismissive wave of hand, making Neil consider the possibility that she was close to losing it right there and then.

That possibility was always worrisome, for no anger could compare to that of his friend. Especially when she was pissed off.

But that careful consideration was nothing in the face of the two realisations brought forward by that simple assumption. Firstly - Cupid was decidedly not his girlfriend. Secondly – fucking Ives.

Neil glared at the man in question, hoping his eyes would reveal the murderous intents hidden underneath as his clarifying statement broke the awkward silence:

“She’s not-” he never finished that sentence (perhaps for the better), for the harsh sound of his ringtone filled the room with cacophonic clamour. Neil scrambled to pick up the phone without as much as glancing at the screen, “Hello?” the tentative opener sounded ridiculous even to his ears.

Soon, it was clear he should have checked the caller before picking up.

“Hi, Neil,” Cupid’s silky tone caressed his ear through the device.

Neil knew she did that purposefully, solely inspired to make the idiot inside him blush and giggle like a loser. Make no mistake; Neil was certainly a loser. And an idiot.

Once he felt the shock pass enough to ensure he would not drop the phone he repeated the greeting.

“Umm, hi,” from the corner of his eye, Neil could see the accompanying trio stare at him without trying to be covert about it. Absolute assholes “You’ve never called me before” trust him to state the obvious.

For a second, Neil considered faceplanting onto the table. Equally, the idea of jumping out of the window sounded appealing. The thoughts of potential demise were interrupted by Cupid’s reply:

“I know. I just thought it might be fun to spice things up,” she was definitely enjoying this and the damage she has caused. It was audible in the lightness of her voice, the vowels curled by a cheeky smile he could hear as she asked, “How’s your day?”

No longer happy to ignore his audience, Neil turned towards them with another glare. All three stared back, with Ives going as far as shooting him a knowing smile.

“It’s fine, except for my team being desperate to berate me,” Neil directed the venom in his voice at the trio as Wheeler casually got up from the table and put the kettle on.

The light chuckle from the phone almost made him feel better about it.

“That’s rude,” her remark contrasted with the laughter he could hear in her voice. Yet it was too late to raise the alarm or prepare for what would follow, “Would it be better if I reminded you what a good boy you are?” as soon as Cupid finished the question, Neil felt the full-body reaction she wanted.

A shudder ran through his spine as his face flushed pink. On a last conscious thought, Neil leapt up from the chair and paced towards the window, hiding from the group. A half-swallowed groan broke through his mouth as he tightened his fist, hopelessly trying to forget how those two words sounded on her lips. It was pathetic.

The more tragic outcome was that now Cupid had even more blackmailing material in her arsenal.

“Jesus Christ, you’re evil,” Neil knew he still sounded wrecked.

There was no way of hiding that. Of making her forget this had just happened and the conclusions she could draw from it. Neil barely resisted the urge to smash his head into the window.

“Oh, so it would help,” as expected, Cupid sounded delighted by what had transpired. The cheeky smile he liked way too much was undoubtedly present on her face as she added, “Not so dully noted” may he rest in pieces, apparently, “When are you coming back?” the question sounded almost out of place.

Yet even in his muddled mind, Neil knew it was genuine. That she wanted to know. If that fact meant anything at all, he did not know. And he tried his hardest not to think about it too much.

“Why? You miss me?” ignoring the chorus of ‘awws’ behind his back, Neil allowed himself to ask.

Even if only for emotional validation. Because while she has hinted at it before, Neil was never tired of being reminded. The whole thing with her might have been hopeless, but it did not change how he worked. How his heart ticked and what beat it chose. Tragically, romanticism was tricky to get rid of. Neil experienced that first-hand.

“You know that I do,” Cupid did not mind humouring his whims as she offered a simple admission without a fight.

With all his predictability, Neil could not hold back the idiotic grin from making an appearance. Sure, it had no future, but that did not make him less eager to play along. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Famous last words and all. Probably.

“I should be back in a week. More or less,” that was the hope, anyway.

The few stray thoughts that had somehow escaped the web spun by Cupid, and her attention reminded him about the work still left to be done. Like the fucking pincer movement plan. With threebastards taunting him mercilessly. So much fun.

“Fab. I got you a great seat for the premiere, so… You know what to do,” the hopeful note in her voice was worth the future pain.

He had no doubts about it. The fact was that Neil was looking forward to the ballet. The hazy memories of seeing ‘Swan Lake’, aged six, hardly compared to the Royal Ballet company. It was a good enough reason to attend. The other excellent reason was Cupid herself, but that was best unsaid. And unthought. Somehow.

“Got you,” ignoring the ridiculous thoughts, Neil offered her a smile she could not see and a silent prayer cast into the heavens that he was not lying unknowingly.

“I know you do. You’re a good boy, Neil,” Cupid’s strike came with no warning.

Yet again, she dropped her tone a notch and whispered the damned two words with a breathy sigh. The metaphorical nail to the coffin this time was how she said his name, almost caressing the letters. And yes, this time it worked, too.

Neil had the mind to faceplant into the window and groan with frustration. The inescapable blush warmed up his cheeks as his body shivered. Some… particular parts of his physique also showed interest in what was happening, eternally oh so eager to betray his wish to stay unbothered.

“For fuck’s-” the choked curse got swallowed by the mightiest effort on his side as Neil took a steadying breath and asked, “Why?”

As if happy to punish him, Cupid laughed.

“Because it’s fun,” the unspoken duh made him both more annoyed and more bewitched by her, “I’ll let you work now, but…” as did the carrot dangled in front of his face like the sweetest of baits.

Always the idiot, Neil could not possibly ignore it.

“Yeah?” he could hear her take a deep breath as if steeling herself for a difficult admission.

“I’m glad we’ve met,” Cupid whispered the confession without as much as a pause between the words.

“Me too,” his reply got lost in the static as she hung up.

Letting out the breath he did not know he was holding, Neil lowered the phone onto the windowsill and stared at the city outside. Well then. The call would take a while to process; that was unquestionable.

“Aw, aren’t you two cute?” Ives’ teasing threw Neil out of that pleasantly fuzzy mind space with all the grace of an elephant.

He turned around with the glower at the ready. This time, he could not bite back the curse:

“Shut the fuck up,” on an afterthought, Neil added, “Please,” noticing the soldier open his mouth for a quip, he dropped his tone to a warning timbre. That called for a final caution, “Unless you want to start looking for a new physicist,” his glare slipped over the trio before Neil settled at the table and unfolded the blueprints without another word.

***

When that awaited text from Neil came, bearing the information that he was back in London and happy to meet you whenever you did not jump for joy. Definitely not. What you did do was grin and discuss the possible rendezvous immediately. When that Tuesday afternoon arrived, with the glory of a decent rehearsal and a good coffee in your paper cup, you happily bypassed the crowds at Green Park and skipped the steps down to the correct platform.

That twenty-minute walk to the station was a blessing, just as much as a curse. When Neil proposed the time you could meet on the train, you did not correct him about your location that day. Or that grabbing the Jubilee line would be entirely off the quickest route back home. You just accepted the time and place and ignored the voice at the back of your head reminding you that this was not how you usually behaved.

It could go fuck itself.

Once you settled on the platform, one glance at the watch told you the next train would be the right one. The strange giddiness sparked in your veins, but you blamed it on the three-week gap between the meetings. It was just that, nothing more. Obviously.

The autopilot carried you through the motions until you had boarded the carriage and came face to face with the cause of all this idiocy. Neil smiled, instantly clocking you before you had even placed both feet inside. It was impossible to keep your face neutral, returning the grin and manoeuvring around the commuters to sit next to him on the three plastic chairs facing the sliding doors.

Then, as if seized by insanity, you propelled your body forward with the arms coming up around Neil’s neck to embrace him tightly. His freeze took approximately twenty seconds to thaw as he returned the hug with equal strength. You could feel the warmth of his breath hitting the crook of your neck and making you fight back a shiver that would not do. Instead, you let yourself breathe him in, rest in the moment that was potentially a mistake. Still, you were not going to treat it like one. Not when the warmth of his hands seeped through the clothes as they rested on your waist.

When the lurch of the train reminded you of reality and all its flaws, you ruefully disentangled from Neil and met his wary gaze. His blue eyes scanned your face as if looking for clues towards the reasons for the madness you just allowed yourself. When that offered no answers, Neil broke the silence with a careful observation:

“I didn’t know that we’re doing hugs,” his impassive face offered no clues either, triggering a wave of uncertainty you had to smother.

Because what if you went too far? What if that was not what Neil wanted?

“We are now,” the confidence was missing from the statement, making you add a crucial question, “Is that okay?” you could hear the insecurity in your voice, betraying the worries.

They disappeared the moment Neil flashed you a smile, his hand lightly patting your knee as a complement to the simple reassurance:

“Sure is,” lowering his gaze to catch yours, Neil winked.

Thank fuck. It surely made life much easier. Or the plans you might or might have not made regarding him. Now that the crisis had passed, you shifted in the seat to find a more comfortable position and allowed yourself a selfish look, measuring him up as usual. The slight tan line revealed by the rolled-up sleeves confirmed what you did know about his disappearance. The minor tiredness in how he carried his body strengthened your guesses. The rest of him blinded you as always.

Especially the three buttons left undone, revealing a strip of his chest. And inspiring ungodly thoughts in your head. Ignoring that what could not be addressed. Especially not right now in a carriage full of people. You switched your attention to the other crucial topic. Everything was better than being arrested for public indecency. At least you did hope so.

“How was the trip?” you noted the shift in Neil’s posture.

How he strengthened in the seat, the mask back in place. Although his mystery had fallen into the background over the acceleration of your dynamic, it was still very much present. You had to figure him out. Had to crack the case. Even if it killed you.

For now, though, simply asking mundane questions had to be enough.

“Well… it was fine. The usual” the answer did not help much, however.

Neil looked as if he knew how enigmatic it sounded but could not do anything about it. Upon your questioning look, he only shrugged and offered no further details. This time, you could not let the moment pass without a comment. You rolled your eyes, a frustrated huff interrupting the silence with petulance:

“God, you couldn’t be any less mysterious if you tried,” although anger was not one of the present emotions, you knew Neil would understand the message as you glared at him without heat.

He winced as if admitting to the guilt you hinted at and turned to you with a more open expression on his face:

“Sorry, it’s uh… maybe one day,” Neil met your gaze meaningfully, making you keener to believe him.

You held his gaze for a beat, even if only to have an excuse to look into his eyes and see Neil without the veil of pretence. It was easy to hope one day he would tell you more. That there was one day, somewhere along the line, waiting for you. That whatever was happening would not burn to a cinder in two weeks and leave you bereft. As things like this tended to do.

“I’ll hold you to that,” before breaking the eye contact, you reached for his hand.

It was another insane reflex that was difficult to explain, even to yourself. Yet, still, Neil went willingly. His long fingers tangled with yours without resistance and allowed you to rest your joined palms between the seats, almost like a beacon to whoever was curious about your meeting. And you could see the nosy stares, the inquisitive grandmas eager to judge and label everything and everyone existing within their vicinity.

You used the warmth of your connected hands to anchor you in the present as Neil asked:

“How’s the imposter syndrome? Did it fuck off at last?” the softness in his eyes could undoubtedly be fatal.

As was the way he knew what to ask and hit the jackpot without even trying. Because, of course, the feeling of not being good enough did not disappear. Of course, you still got up every morning with the vague desire to approach the ballet director and tell her you are giving up. That you cannot do this. It almost seemed like Neil could sense your thoughts.

Which was both terrifying and appealing, if you were to be honest. It would make your job easier if he knew exactly what you were thinking. About him.

“I wish,” the suffering sigh was a cheap trick, but viable in your books, “I still think I’m going to embarrass myself, but well,” not willing to give up the comfortable weight of his hand in yours, you offered Neil a one-sided shrug “Can’t exactly capitulate now” the desperate edge to that sentence did not escape his attention.

Sure, you would not actually give up, but that did not mean you were not half-heartedly wishing it happened anyway. Ideally, in the form of someone else doing the job for you. Pathetic, innit?

Neil squeezed your hand, capturing your attention without needing to try at all. The frown was still present on your face, its force turning the corners of your mouth downwards. As always, Neil seemed to see through all that you were not saying. He met your gaze (which was a feat considering you were happy to look anywhere but at him) and spoke:

“I wouldn’t let you,” there was an edge to his voice, a steely resolve that told you the conversation was gaining another layer.

A different destination to the one you had expected at first. Although, with how your chats recently played out, it was to be anticipated. Probably.

Without giving yourself the time to overthink, you leaned closer to Neil and placed a hand on his thigh. You could see his eyes widen upon the move, the pupils blowing up in the quickest form of flattery a man could give you. Sharpening your smile to the perfectly saccharine variant, you delivered the prepared lines:

“Oh yeah?” his thigh muscles tensed underneath your hand as Neil’s mouth fell agape without him being fully in control of the reaction. It was adorable. And an ideally ripe ground to lay the final strike, “You’d force me? Have your way with me?” the sparks in his eyes were a pretty addition to the already gorgeous picture.

At that moment, you knew that you had missed this. No texting could ever replace the real thing. The back and forth with the arresting strength of his eye contact and the unpredictable suspense of what would come next. Like the sudden softening of Neil’s features and an unexpectedly tentative counter to your bold questions:

“If you’d let me,” he swallowed hard as if desperately trying to get rid of the thoughts in his head and simultaneously unable to shake them off.

As if ripping the thread connecting him to you and shortening it at an alarming rate was causing Neil physical pain. The revelation acted like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your palm. It was difficult to shrug it off as if it was nothing. It nagged and prodded until you could do nothing but stare dumbly at him, feeling every passing second like a wasted beat of time you would never get back.

Before you could get your shit together in any way, it was too late. Neil had already jumped to conclusions, as you worried he might. His brows furrowed as his teeth nibbled on the chapped bottom lip in a familiar nervous tic. Slowly, as if navigating a mined battlefield, he shifted in the seat, widening the space between you by a fraction. You noticed it anyway.

“You don’t mind that this sort of thing keeps happening?” the question was completed with a vague gesture, slashing the air between you awkwardly.

The inflexion offered no space for doubt. Neil concluded that you very much did mind. That somehow you were not an active and eager participant in the heavy flirting and mutual teasing. Neil was an idiot.

And you had to put that point across instantly.

“Why would I mind?” without thinking, you let your fingers repeatedly stroke his forearm as you leaned back into his orbit to confess what ought to have been obvious, “I mean every word I say to you. Including all that post-Watershed talk” it was delightful to see your favourite smile disrupt his frown.

At the same time, it was nice to have it out in the open, no longer unsaid and implied. Because you did mean it. And you did want it. Whatever Neil would offer, be it a friendship or more. The choice was his.

You could pinpoint when the weight lifted off his shoulders and let him breathe deeper. You stared as Neil absorbed and processed the information, his blue eyes showing a spectrum of emotions. Some were unreadable. Other more obvious, like the devilish sparks that always guaranteed the conversation would take a curious turn. Or the cautious hope, making him look so much younger and innocent. Your unoccupied hand itched with the desire to brush his golden locks from his forehead, so you tightened it into a fist hidden in the coat pocket.

Just like you hid everything that had no place in your life.

At the periphery of your attention, you could register the called stations. Or the fact that your stop was mercilessly getting closer. Only one question could make you forget the reality altogether:

“So, what would you do if I kissed you?” when Neil asked, you were glad you had never forced yourself to look away from him.

That hesitant hope was still there, lightening up his eyes. You let it pull you in, as there was no need to search your heart for an answer. It was fair to assume Neil knew that, too. The question was only a preliminary. But it was still admirable he asked. People rarely did.

You shrugged, highlighting the evident conclusion he hopefully had already reached. It would have been easy to close the gap and let that be the answer. Too easy. It was enough that you could hardly ever look away from him, constantly drawn and arrested by his eyes.

Forcing yourself to break the spell, you met his gaze and offered him an impassive smile. If only to keep up the façade for a little longer.

“There’s only one way to find out, Neil,” you hoped that was enough, that he would understand the ball was back in his court to do as he pleased.

You also hoped Neil came to the right solution. Sadly, that did not seem to come to be just yet. One glance outside the window alarmed you about the surroundings and that you were arriving at your station. The frown twisted your mouth downwards as you risked a glance at Neil. The disappointment in his eyes told you he already caught up.

Two choices were waiting at your disposal. You could either stay, miss your stop to find out what would happen next. Or you could choose cowardice and leave the carriage, delaying the fateful moment a little longer. Definitely not forever.

It was hard to say why you chose the second option. Why you stood up without as much as a look at Neil and feigned a cheery farewell that felt foreign on your tongue. Later, you were keen to pretend it was just the influence of the moment. A sudden spell of insanity.

“Oops, that’s me. See you soon,” it was a miracle that you did not trip in the haste to get out.

You barely registered the surroundings as you bolted towards the sliding door and stepped onto the platform, missing the gap by mere millimetres. It was pure luck that you did not walk into any poor soul as you attempted to get away from the train as fast as possible.

You did not get the time to flee. All because you did not consider one thing – Neil had a choice, too.

When you felt a hand take yours and pull you back, there was that split second of panic. Your disoriented mind rapidly flicked through at least ten different disastrous scenarios, starting at a random appearance of Liam and ending at a violent assault you were about to be subjected to. Only then, at the very end, your brain pushed forward another observation. There was something familiar about that handhold.

Before you had a second to follow that thought, the interrupter pulled at your hand, making you whirl around to face them. Your widened gaze fell upon the undone tortoiseshell shirt buttons and wandered up the neck to land on Neil’s blue eyes, patiently staring back at you. It took you another second to understand what happened. And another one to begin processing what it could mean. Why he did it.

Without being aware of the movement of your body, you stepped closer to Neil, tightening the bubble you both had created in the middle of the platform. People bypassed you as they rushed to the train with the beeping doors hastening their steps. But that hardly mattered. It was just white noise. Unimportant and ignorable.

Unlike Neil, who closed the gap between your bodies to mere millimetres, and wordlessly repeated the question from before. The answer did not change. You offered him a tiny nod, not feeling the need to speak. The surrealism of the moment could not be labelled anyhow.

From the second you had tasted Neil’s lips, you knew it would not be something you could forget. That the feel of him would burn into the cortex of your brain and stay there to haunt you for eternity. You were right.

Your eyes snapped shut as soon as he closed the distance and covered your mouth with his in a soft kiss. His gentle and pliant lips caressed yours attentively without effort, making you cling even closer to him. Your arms came around Neil’s neck as your fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. It took another second, a blissful beat of existence, to make you kiss him back. Just as carefully. Just like you never kissed anyone before.

Neil’s relief came through in a short gasp, let out into your opening mouth, and the warm weight of his palms came up to rest on your waist beneath the open coat. Following the logic you did not understand, you tilted your head and allowed his prying tongue to lick into your mouth. The liquid heat traversed your veins, warming up your skin as Neil took his time to map out the inside of your mouth. Suddenly, the instant connection you felt made sense. Things clicked into place as you breathed the taste of him and breathed out the uncertainty. It felt right. Good. Unforgettable, even.

It felt like no first kisses and endless one-night stands ever did. And that made no sense.

Soon, that first kiss evolved into another and then the next. The platform, the people and the noise faded into the background as you swapped kisses, barely interrupted by quiet groans and swallowed gasps. On its own accord, your hand ventured up to tangle in his hair, grabbing a fistful of the golden locks and tugging in time with a particularly hungry nip taken out of Neil’s bottom lip. The reward of a barely stifled moan was more than worth it.

As was how Neil held you close and returned your kisses with equal zeal. He matched your energy and pushed you further until the remaining part of your conscience worried about being arrested for public indecency.

When the burn of your lungs excelled that of your soul, you placed a palm over the centre of his chest and pushed Neil back. Just a fraction. Just to catch your breath. His answering whine felt like another spark of pride, making your eyes glow with self-satisfaction. That was better than any other form of gratification you could think of.

When you finally forced yourself to blink your eyes open and look at Neil, you were met with kiss-bruised lips and darkened blue eyes, showing nothing else but hunger. At least ten increasingly ridiculous religious metaphors battled for leadership in your mind, but you pushed them all aside. The most accurate comment went to two simple words, pushed forward by the strength of your soul’s crudeness. Fucking hell. In the best of meanings, that is.

Following deeply rooted instincts, your tongue darted out to thoroughly trace the expanse of your bottom lip. And get remains of his taste, that you had already started missing. As far as kisses had gone, this one was pretty damn spectacular.

Neil seemed frozen, his eyes fixed on your mouth as if that was the only thing he could do. Admittedly, it was adorable. Yet, still, you decided to break the spell, the only way you could think of:

“I think your train has left,” you glanced over his shoulder, noting the expectedly empty platform.

Only now, when the haze of the kiss (or rather a whole make-out session) had begun to lift, you could understand what had transpired. And that Neil was keen to delay his return home for the price of a kiss. Or for the hope of a kiss, for clearly, he did not think he would get that far. Idiot.

You could see it now, back on his face. The slight disorientation and confusion suggested Neil could barely believe that what just happened was real. He blinked twice, then again, as if forcing himself to wake up and met your gaze with wide eyes. Without thinking, you allowed the hand you had pressed flat to his chest to venture up, stopping when your fingers started grazing over his neck. That was the trigger Neil needed to return to reality. He seized your adventurous fingers in a loose hold and placed your joined hands back over his heart. You could feel it racing.

“I’ll wait for the next one,” Neil offered you a half-smile, the uncertainty shining through the tentative joy in his eyes.

It was not something you were used to. Usually, after a kiss like that (never even preceded with a question, because who the fuck still asked for kisses?), you only ever got smugness. And an attempt at a smooth transition to sex, which did or did not succeed, depending on the participating party). Never uncertainty. Never shyness. Never contentment with what happened without pushing you for more.

You didn’t know what to do with any of it.

“No regrets?” the question was also one that you never asked before.

Not after something as trivial as a first kiss. But then, nothing was the way it usually went with Neil. That much was quite clear.

“Not really. You?” as if sensing your growing uncertainty, Neil did not hesitate before answering the question.

He squeezed your fingers, still wrapped in his palm and met your gaze with something almost resembling confidence. Somehow, that was enough. You took a fortifying breath to gather courage and discard the doubts. There would be more than enough time to deal with them later. Hopefully.

For now, there were other things to do and say. Like answering Neil’s question and reclaiming the conversation from its sombre paths. Especially since no cell in your body regretted the kiss. Or any other thing you had ever said or hinted at to him. It is just that somehow, somewhere along the line, your normal confidence had been wiped off the table. And it felt like it was never to be seen again. Not like before.

You hoped to ignore that bit of revelation, too.

“Nope. I’d offer a coffee at mine, but… I think some things need a better build-up,” you hoped the chaos in your head was not easily seen as you dropped the line with an attempt at the usual smoothness and met Neil’s eyes with remaining poise.

You meant that, too. A part of you, the same that had difficulties ending the kiss, wanted to continue it wherever it may lead you. You were quite sure you knew where it was going. And you certainly wanted that. But, at the same time, rushing into it seemed… wrong. As if the fact that you also wanted to be friends with Neil needed a little more respect. A little more time.

You could tell he understood from the way Neil nodded, his eyes still blown out by the darkened pupils.

“Agreed,” he shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it before glancing at the timing screen over your heads. Whatever the impact those 7 minutes of waiting had, the next thing Neil did was to heave a sigh and set his weary eyes on you, “Actually, I might walk back home. Should probably clear my head,” a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Without overthinking the act, you seized his hand and started for the stairs. Just because you were not yet taking him home did not mean you could not drag out the goodbye. Right?

Right.

***

Although the kiss was not forgotten and only added to the general restlessness, you never mentioned it again. It was another layer added to the sprinkled, complex mess that was your relationship. A tiered cake that had so many flavours it was impossible to label it using a concise, less than five-word description. It just did not get discussed.

That was both a blessing and a curse, considering that with mere days left till the public Don Quixote premiere you could barely handle one type of stress and uncertainty. Let alone two. The reality check deadline crept up on you without warning, catching you pacing the flat for over an hour the evening before the official pre-premiere. The event always happened at least a night before the opening soiree and was reserved for the press, Royal Ballet directory and special guests of honour. It also meant that every detail of the performance had to be up to par if one wanted to continue advancing the career in the company. Which you did want. Desperately. It was just bloody unfortunate that the usual insanity of anxiety now was interlaced with something else.

Something that made you stop the pacing and pick up the phone only to open the messages and stare at the text conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours, and considering the 9 pm on the clock, you had a fair right to believe that he might be asleep. Maybe. But that could hardly deter the part of your brain that tended to get ahead of itself. Especially fuelled by stress and anxiety.

Without letting yourself falter, you typed the question:

/ 🏹, 9:04 pm/ Are you still up?

Luckily, you only had to hold your breath for an answer (or a lack of it) for less than 5 minutes. For that, your lungs were eternally thankful.

/✝️, 9:08 pm/ Is this the moment you ask me for dick pics?

A ridiculous guffaw broke the silence of your flat, along with that necessary intake of oxygen. Conversations like those still happened daily and only increased the want you could not get rid of if you tried.

And you didn’t try. There was no point to it.

/ 🏹, 9:09 pm/ Nah. Not yet.

You were having fun, chatting the shit on the daily with someone who seemed more than eager to keep the ball going. That was partially why you reached out on a whim, desperate to get out of the flat even for a little while. After all, asking Neil offered a fifty-fifty chance of an entertaining evening. All other intentions did not have to be disclosed. Even in your mind.

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ That’s a relief.

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ How can I be of service, my lady?

/ 🏹, 9:11 pm/ You’ve no idea, babe.

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ I was thinking of going to the dance studio, that’s open till midnight. Do you want to come?

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ You’ve said you wanted to see me dance so…

After sending the third message, you put down the phone and exhaled. That nervousness residing in your bones was new. It was almost as if it mattered what Neil’s answer would be. As if you cared whether he would say yes to the tentative proposition. None of that had ever happened before.

The urge to faceplant into the pillow was derailed by the buzz of an incoming message. With embarrassing speed of reaction, you read the texts:

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ Happily.

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ When and where do we meet?

You grinned. As you copied and pasted the location pin into the message, you could already feel a different type of nervousness enter your system. It was time for Neil to see you dance. You would also see him for the first time since the kiss. It was high time someone covered this topic on wikiHow. Or, at least, you thought so.

***

Although the Royal Ballet had more than good enough facilities at the Covent Garden building, the company could also use a studio by the Southwark Underground Station whenever you felt like it. Conveniently, that alternative place was open till midnight on weeknights, offering a one-in-a-million chance to run over the choreography for a billion times more before the pre-premiere. Without an audience of your fellow ballet dancers and their critical eyes, at that.

The other perk to the external studio was that nothing stopped you from bringing someone from the outside along. Nothing except for maybe the deeply rooted fear of showing Neil what you could do. Or couldn’t do.

That fear had not left through the Uber drive from your flat, growing in force from the moment you set your eyes upon Neil waiting outside the studio with a smile on his face. You exchanged the usual niceties, bypassing the awkward tint to the interaction with an avoided hug and nonsensical commentary from your side.

The nerves seemed to reach the peak as you left Neil in the main ballet studio room, the space lit up sparsely to maintain the strangely surreal atmosphere of those late autumn nights in London when nothing seems to be tangible and real. Having left the house in a pre-planned rehearsal outfit, you only took off the unnecessary layers, leaving you in a simple bodice and a wrap mid-thigh skirt and pulled on the woollen leg warmers to keep the chill at bay.

Luckily for your racing heart, the ritual of putting on and lacing up the pointe shoes always did its magic, allowing you to centre yourself and take a couple of deep breaths. Until there was nothing left but to march out of the changing room and connect your phone to the speaker, the right track ready for you to press play.

But before you could go that far, you made the mistake of locating Neil in the room. He had settled on the floor opposite you, his back pressed to the mirror-covered walls of the studio. He stared as you entered the invisible stage and offered you an encouraging smile. A slow, gentle warm-up was a valid opportunity to falter. A necessary step you had to take while also admitting that it was convenient. Although, Neil’s attentive gaze following your every move was much less convenient.

Once you had run out of all other options, you started the music, put down the phone and took up position. Desperate to rehearse as much as possible, you chose to go through the entire dream sequence at the end of Act 2. As always, the Minkus score did its magic, helping you settle into the movement and almost forget about everything else.

You followed the steps with practised ease, hearing the dull thud of pointe shoes hitting the hardwood floors with each landing between the orchestral notes. When the cue to finish was near you were almost out of breath. The pearls of sweat clung to your temples as the sweetness of exertion burned through your muscles and tendons. When those final notes rang off in the quiet studio, you held the finishing pose and waited for the music to end. The resulting silence was deafening.

Slowly, as if pained to do it, you opened your eyes. Neil was right where you had left him; his gaze seemingly never trailed away. But the exact look on his face was different. Instead of the ease and unbothered nonchalance he tried to emit earlier, Neil was now speechless. Dazed. His mouth was still agape, and he had to remind himself to close it before swallowing hard. You tried your hardest not to let that get into your head. You failed.

“So… what do you think?” unable to keep quiet for much longer, you released the question into the ether with a permanent frown and a minimal level of conviction.

It seemed to be what Neil needed to wake up from the stupor. He shifted, pulled up his knees to his chin and eyed you with a bright gaze. The desire to look away rose with every minute, but you tried to endure it. Somehow.

“You’re brilliant. Do you know that?” the matter-of-fact tone threw you off kilter, bringing out an automatic (albeit manic) grin from its hiding back onto your face.

Neil mirrored the expression instantly, only widening your smile in the process. Feeling the need to move again, you flexed your calves, completing a set of rapid changements. Only once that was done you could attempt to answer the question.

“Maybe,” you shrugged, unwilling to stray onto that sort of honest territory just yet, “It doesn’t hurt to hear it again, though,” unable to ignore that one voice at the back of your head that had not been convinced, you asked, “Was it actually… good?” the emphasis on the word was automatic.

You could tell Neil saw right through your faux nonchalance as he smiled, a different type of fondness shining in his eyes. That, too, was best left alone for now. The observation was shelved among others of its kind in the darkest cavern of your brain. Ideally left alone for good, never to be touched or thought of again. Just in case.

Neil’s gaze never strayed from yours as he offered you an answer without a hint of exasperation:

“As far as my virgin eyes could tell, it was perfect,” the corner of his mouth rose in the makings of a familiar smirk.

It eradicated any illusions that he did not know what he was saying. Or the effect the sentence would have. You closed your eyes against the sight, hopelessly willing the inconvenient feelings to disappear.

By now, it was painfully clear that Neil could be a bastard when he wanted to. It was just another thing that you liked about him. Perhaps too much.

For a second, you debated following the easy way out he had offered. It would have been effortless to take up the tone and turn the conversation into yet another pleasant back-and-forth that could potentially lead you past the talking. Past that one kiss, that had lowkey driven you insane with the promise of potential.

But the doubts were still there. They still clouded your mind like a flock of hungry birds of prey hunting for a bite of flesh. And Neil was the only person you could talk to and know he would listen. That he would care. For some reason, it was a crucial thing to share. An important topic to raise. Here and now.

“Allow me to ignore that double entendre potential for a second,” your apologetic frown was accepted with a subtle nod and meaningful glance.

“You’re excused, Cupid,” Neil grinned, evidently taking pleasure from the nickname you became fond of.

Especially because it was him, who bestowed it on you.

“Thank you,” shaking off the sudden rush of affection, you completed the gratitude with a cheeky addition, returning Neil’s smirk, “Sir,” only once noted his answering blush, it was safe to delve into what you really wanted to tell him. You took a deep breath, completing half a pirouette to face the mirrors on the wall and asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re just constantly pretending? Like the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ deal, except you never stop faking it?” training your gaze on the hardwood floors, you stared at the tips of your pointe shoes.

The worn-out, ragged edges caught your attention for a split second. You took a mental note to break in the brand-new pair and prepare them for tomorrow’s show. On the periphery of your vision, you could see Neil’s reflection. You could feel him staring, the intense gazing boring holes in the back of your head. But not even that could make you turn and face him.

“Pretty much every day,” Neil’s reply made you look up, meeting his eyes in the reflection. That was not an answer you had expected, “I’ve found that sometimes, if you’re lucky, all that pretending can fool the brain, too,” he signed off the addition with another reassuring smile.

Still, the scepticism reigned free as an unbidden scoff tore from your throat, forcing you to swallow down the sudden desire to retreat from the conversation. Years of practice did not seem to share Neil’s thesis. Things never got easier. You doubted they ever would.

“I’d hope so. Except that, I’m not sure I am that lucky,” that was a given, an undeniable fact of life like the laws of physics or the ignorance of the Tories. Unchangeable. The familiar wave of frustration threatened to pull you down as you allowed the insecurities to speak their part,“I may appear as a fucking cool cat, confident and all, but… I’m not,” hearing the broken note in your voice, you swallowed hard, unable to look at Neil anymore. There was only one final thing to add, “And I wish I could be,”

There. The curtain has fallen, revealing the truth underneath. Now, it was clear Neil had no illusions left about you. No reason to think of you highly. Somehow, you felt lighter. Sure, still unable to meet his gaze, even in the reflection, but it was better that way. Now, when you did disappoint him somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, it would be much less surprising.

You had no doubts whether that moment of disappointment would happen. It always did.

“You have every right to be. Because you are” when Neil spoke, at first, you did not register it. His words flew right over your head before being caught by your heart, desperate to find anything to hold on to. Only then did you hear what he said. You looked up in time to see the remains of the fading blush on his cheeks, “If that even makes sense,” he shook his head slightly as if scolding himself over the awkward reassurance and stood up. The tense shoulders betrayed the lightness he still tried to emit, “Trust me when I say I feel useless and stupid every minute of every day,” the weariness in his voice clashed with the disbelief you felt when hearing what he said.

That made no sense. The turmoil made you turn around in a half-pirouette and face Neil with wide eyes and mouth agape. Your brain was experiencing severe computing issues, the smoke almost sizzling out through your open lips.

He was none of those things. You barely resisted the urge to close the miles between you and shake him by the shoulders, all the while screaming at him to stop saying such bullshit. You did not do any of those things.

“But you’re… you,” instead, you gestured vaguely towards him, armed with words that were not enough.

No words seemed to be apt to describe him. Neil was just… impossible. Ineffable in his wonderfulness. Much better than anyone you had ever known. But that was something you could not say. Not now.

“In my books, that’s not necessarily a good thing,” Neil glanced at you with tired eyes, kicking around at nothing as he slid across the parquet in his socks.

When you entered the studio, he started unlacing his shoes before you could protest. Said something about not wanting the cleaner to have more work. The comment made you smile too brightly before you excused yourself into the changing room and hid your face in the palms of your hands. That state didn’t seem to have passed.

In an effort not to do anything stupid, you backed away till you could feel the barre against your back. Only then you met his searching gaze and made sure to show Neil the extent of earnestness on your face:

“It is. I’ve never met anyone like you, Neil,” the admission was met with a surprised double-take, so you decided to soften the tone with a stupid addition, “The hottest priest in London and whatnot,” you did mean that one, too.

Neil’s huff of laughter felt like a dodged bullet.

“Funny,” the bright sparks in his eyes confirmed the praise with doubled force, making you turn back towards the mirror to avoid being blinded by the strength of his affection. That stuff could be dangerous, “You’re the hottest ballerina in London, so we’re even,” once you registered Neil’s words, the silky tone of his voice that had not been there just a second ago, you knew that trouble was coming.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him close the gap. The warmth settled in your cheeks as you felt the comfortable heat spread around your body. That pleasant anticipation ignited in your bones with every step Neil took. Somewhere, at the edges of reason and logic, you knew you still had a choice. You knew that whatever he had envisioned in his mind, could easily be stopped with one word from your side. What was the problem?

Mainly that you didn’t want him to stop. Did not want to cut short the moment slowly blooming into something crucial. You could feel it buzz beneath your skin as Neil took the final steps towards you and leaned in. His hands came to rest upon the barre, millimetres from yours. Not quite touching but enough so you could not ignore his presence. You could feel the heat from his body as Neil pressed his chest to your back and whispered into your ear:

“A cool cat,” in normal circumstances, the call-back to your rant would have made you laugh.

But those weren’t normal circumstances. Not with Neil’s proximity, his hands slowly tracing invisible lines up your arms. You could feel his breath on the nape of your neck, creating goosebumps effortlessly. And the thing was – this wasn’t anything new. It was far from the first time someone had done this. Far from the first time you had been tempted by someone who desired you. But it was the first time they seemed to take their time for it.

Your head felt dizzy with the revelation as Neil’s fingers lightly brushed the neckline of your bodice and journeyed down. It was a first in the fact that he did not even try touching your breasts, instead respectfully settling over your ribs and tapping a vague rhythm over your heated skin. Without searching your heart, you knew that you did not mind it. Not one bit.

You covered one of his palms with yours, firmly pressing it against your waist and raised your head to seek Neil’s gaze. He was already looking back at you, the blue eyes of his eyes dark and consumed with something you wanted to call hunger. The same feeling could be easily found on your face.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” you frowned at the hoarseness of your voice and the breathless tint to the question.

For the first time, it was impossible to fake your reaction. Impossible to pretend you were not affected. Neil’s answering smile, full of confidence and mischief, made that discovery seem fine. Not troubling at all.

“Is it working?” the warmth in his eyes made you feel safe, not threatened by the potential of what could happen.

Not viable to the pains of consequences. That seemed enough.

Enough to make you gently tug at his hand, asking for the freedom of movement to turn around and face him. Only then, with Neil’s curious gaze beaming down on you like a desirable spotlight, you placed his palm back on your waist and offered an honest reply:

“I think you already know,” as proof, you picked up his other hand and guided it to press against your chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat.

The wolfish grin you received in return was worth any leftover sense of shame and embarrassment. Neil leaned in, and just as you were about to close your eyes, awaiting another life-changing kiss, he left a promising peck on the edge of your jaw. On its own accord, your hand tightened over the wooden railing as you exposed your throat for his use.

Neil wasted no time leaving a trail of kisses down the slope of your neck, only just being careful enough not to leave marks. Each kiss felt like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your neck, blazing hot and impossible to shake off. You closed your eyes, letting the sense take in the sensation of his tender care. Of the contrasting burn of stubble, scratching at your skin with a delicious sting.

Every kiss took time, only then to be sealed with a lick of his tongue, eliciting your quiet gasps and barely kept in groans of pleasure. The wave of insanity rose, threatening to take over your brain, save for one consistent thought. One revelation.

No one had cared this much before.

Letting go of his hand, you tangled your fingers in his golden strands, lightly tugging to gain his attention. The answering groan was sure to enter the library of sounds and images you liked to relieve in private. But before you could attempt to formulate the desire painted across your face, the door to the studio creaked, disrupting the silence.

You gasped in shock as Neil took half a step back, warily eyeing the doorway. A thousand curses lodged themselves in your throat as a silhouette of an older man, armed with a bucket and a mop, peered inside the room with a scowl. Fucking Rich, the Janitor.

The older man scanned you both from head to toe and sighed.

“It’s closing time, kids. Go home,” his gravelly voice acted like the much-needed bucket of cold water.

As he turned back towards the darkness of the corridor, you met Neil’s eyes. The depths of exasperation visible there told you this business was far from over. You certainly hoped so.