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simpleeshea · 2 months

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On the clock!

C!Wilbur x Gn! Reader

Chapter 8

It’s okay, I’m a cheap date.

Tw: alcohol

"So then hold me."

He said this and my mind drew a blank. Wilbur’s watery eyes watched as a breath caught itself in my throat latching onto the inner-workings of my skin like tiny knives, desperate to not be released. I watched as his arms awkwardly motioned open. He was letting me in, he was allowing himself to be vulnerable toward me. And not just in an emotionally vulnerable way. No. Wilbur was standing just a few feet away with his arms shakily outstretched offering to let me.

I hesitated. I hesitated and I hated myself for it. Wilbur’s arms fell flat to his side but just as they did I took quick steps and wrapped my arms around him. It wasn’t my first time hugging him today, but this time it was different. This time Wilbur had offered himself up to me instead of it being a spontaneous act on my part as a way to cheer him up. This was Wilbur actively saying with his actions that he wanted to let me help him, to let me be there for him. His body was taut under my arms before he released a breath and relaxed into the hug, bringing his arms around my body as well to hug me back. He was cold, so cold. It was no wonder to me now as to why he always wears his giant coat. My head pressed hard against his chest, holding him close as a way to say that I would never let him go... never let him fall down the path he had once before. Wilbur was not a lost cause. Even if he stopped believing in himself long ago, I will never stop trying to hold him up, never stop my belief that he can be better, that he is better than who he was before.

"Wilbur?" I asked with a voice muffled into his chest.

"Hmm?" he mused softly, seeming for once completely at ease even though I could hear the small cracking of his voice through his soft and barely perceivable tears.

"What do you say we get out of here?"

He took a small step back but his hands trailed down from my back to hold my elbows. I assumed he did this just so he could still feel the warmth and comfort of my hold as my hands still rested softly on the dips of his waist.

It was at this moment I looked up into his sad brown eyes. They were watering over with salty tears, a few already stained to his cheek. Without thinking I reached up with my hand and wiped his cheek, letting my hand rest on his cold skin for a bit longer before bringing it back to his waist.

"Yeah, I would like that."

I hadn't really put much thought into where we would go. It was just a spontaneous ask. An ask because I knew the headachingly lit lights and whirling sounds of the gas station were far from what Wilbur needed right now. I was far from what Wilbur needed right now. But I would have to suffice. I was hesitant to ask my next question, not because I was embarrassed by my lifestyle but more because I didn't want to make Wilbur uncomfortable, but I still went forward with the question. "We could go back to my place?" Wilbur blinked once at my offer, a small tear trickling down his face as he did. "I know you said getting drunk twice in one work week was a bad idea... but I think you're worth the exception. At least just this once," I tried to laugh halfheartedly.

Slowly a small smile began to form on his lips as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "That sounds wonderful," his voice was a bit stronger now, still though, I could hear the pain in the back of his throat as if he ached to scream to the world about his apathy.

My face lit up. I wasn't terribly excited about showing off my small apartment but I knew that Wilbur of all people would never judge me for my state of living.

After I finally made it to the apartment complex with Wilbur tailing behind me, I got out of my beat-up truck and slammed the door hard to make sure it shut all the way before locking it. Wilbur had parked right beside me. His car wasn't anything special either, but it at least looked to be in better condition than mine. I turned and looked at Wilbur as I led him up the stairs, "Sooo..." I hesitated.

"Sooo?" he asked.

"You're gonna have to stand outside for just a second before I let you in so I can make sure it's clean." And before you ask, yes, yes I did clean before leaving. But I was in a hurry to leave when Wilbur asked me to come in and help, which means I left my clothes from before work scattered on the floor.

"Oh okay, that's alright," it was clear to see he felt awkward, which I planned to fix as soon as I could.

I stepped inside right after unlocking my apartment door and quickly scooped the clothes off of the floor and threw them into my hamper. After that, I tossed on a new shirt and pants that weren't stained with an assortment of slushie flavors and then quickly brushed out my hair. "Work air," I rolled my eyes and scoffed before quickly rushing to open the door for Wilbur. His eyes locked onto me as I huffed slightly being out of breath from just running around. "Say hello to my mojo dojo casa house," I joked slightly, not even sure if he would get the reference.

He laughed slightly under his breath, I still wasn't certain if he got the joke and cursed myself for saying something that stupid.

"The Barbie movie was really good," he said adding to the conversation. A breath of relief fell from my mouth as he said that, I suddenly felt a lot better about my joke. Wilbur was good at that: unknowingly taking my anxieties and tossing them in the trash.

"Yeah!" I perked up with a smile as I went into my small kitchen and reached up into a small cabinet reaching for a bottle of cheap wine. "You can sit wherever," I quickly motioned to around the room before continuing on to say, "I actually sobbed watching Barbie, though."

Wilbur nodded and watched as I poured wine into a glass for him and I. "I can see why, it's a lighthearted movie that still brings forth a serious message."

A small warm smile crept up onto my face, pleasantly delighted that he understood. Green flag. I handed him his glass to which he smiled and thanked me before taking a small swig of the red liquid. His brows contorted as he smacked his lips together. "It's shit isn't it?" I laughed and he nodded.

"Yeah, that's bad," he said as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth, "really bad."

I laughed more at his reaction, seeing as he was so repulsed by the red liquid. I lifted my glass to my lips taking a big swallow of it and squinting hard as it burned its way down my throat and chest. I shook my head and gagged. "You're wrong," I wanted to cry, "It's terrible." I sat the glass down and listened to Wilbur snicker in the background and take another drink of the horrible liquid. I turned and gave Wilbur a hard side-eye, to which he only laughed more, nearly spitting out his drink at the look I sent his way.

"How much is the alcohol content in this?" he asked, staring down at the fermented drink as he swirled it around.

"About thirty percent, I think, maybe twenty-five. I'm not too for certain but it's pretty old... and not like the aged kind of old."

Wilbur shook his head as he took another drink, to no one's surprise, it was still bad. "How long have you had that?" his voice sounded disgusted as he asked.

"Since I moved out," I answered quite plainly before taking a small and agonized sip.

"And how long ago was that?"

"You don't even wanna know," my lips formed into a smirk until my eyes focused on the fact that Wilbur was still in his gas station uniform, which was known for having an itchy collar. "Do you want something to change into?" I asked.

"Uhm," Wilbur looked down at his clothes as if he hadn't even noticed, "Yeah sure, if you have something. If not then don't worry about it."

I shrugged, not sure myself if I did have anything that could fit that beanstalk of a man. "Let me look right quick." I sat my drink down on the table and stood up to go look inside my closet. Wilbur's eyes followed as he took another pained sip and I dug around through my small collection of clothes. Suddenly my eyes locked on something that looked big enough. My face lit up in excitement before quickly shoving all of my other clothes out of the way to reveal the hoodie. But slowly as I realized just whose the hoodie was my eyes dimmed. I pulled it off the hanger anyway and tossed it to Wil.

"Oh, so you do have something," Wilbur said slightly surprised.

"That tends to happen when people leave shit at your house," I shrugged trying to ignore the pressure that was forming in my chest. Quickly, I picked my glass back up and drank up the remaining liquid to cancel out the pressure in my chest with a new kind of burn. Wilbur glanced at the hoodie for a moment before taking off his shirt. I watched dumbfounded for a second before covering my eyes with my hand. Wilbur didn't seem to notice or care for my reaction. My mind went numb, and it wasn't because 'Oh mY gOsH, I jUsT sAw HiM sHIrTlEsS', No. It was, oh my gosh, I just saw him shirtless and he has a giant scar in his lower stomach. I felt my stomach sink in a deep sickness. I could feel the whirling of burning liquid deep in my gut just waiting for the perfect moment to come back out of my throat. Wilbur tossed the hoodie over his head and slipped his long arms inside. I bit my lip to try to keep it from quivering as I saw the hoodie. It had been in that closet for god knows how long just collecting dust. I almost burned it after everything that had happened… but I refused to be one of those crazy psycho ex partners even if I am just a bit crazy . Wilbur looked over at as if he seemed to wanted to say something but he was holding himself back. Finally he said, “You have any cigarettes by chance?” I knew that wasn’t what he was originally going to say. Wilbur never hesitated to ask me for a smoke, especially considering how often I bum off of him.

I looked around the room before remembering that I smoked my last one. “No…” my voice trailed off before I remembered something and quickly stood up. I was surprised by how dizzy I felt for a moment but ignored it as I ran over to my paint-chipped nightstand and rummaged through the drawer before pulling out a small device.

I took a quick hit from the cool grape flavored nic-stick as I liked to call it before tossing it over to him. “I have this though.”

Wilbur’s eyes seemed to slowly light up, I could tell the alcohol was starting to hit him too. “Rightttt, from when you tried to switch over.” He laughed, “That didn’t last long.”

“Yeah I hated having to charge it,” I said shaking my head before going to sit back down at my small table and pouring another glass of shit wine.

“Really? In surprised it’s alive then,” he said before tossing it back over to me as I took a long hit from the device only for it to not work.

“You jinxed it…” my voice pouted as I slapped the vape down on the table.

Wilbur laughed wholeheartedly, it was a pleasant change to the tears from earlier today. A groan fell from my mouth as I got up to find a charger and plug it in. My mind was hazy and it felt like an animation with missing frames. “Hey y/n,” Wilbur asked catching my attention. I turned my heavy head toward him as I felt the charger click into place inside the device.

“Yeah, Wilbur?”

“Do you think I could ever actually apologize to Tommy?”

I sat for a second on the bed and looked at him as he sat at the table. He was tipsy, I could see it very clearly despite the rest of my vision being far from clear. I sighed softly before saying, “Wilbur… do you think you think you can?”

He seemed taken aback by the question, as if he hadn’t expected the tables to turn on him. “Well I-“ he paused, searching the room as if it could give him the answer. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“What?” his words fell softly and brokenly.

“I know that you can, Wilbur,” I beamed at my own cheesiness and Wilbur could tell I was trying to make him smile. “Of course you can, maybe not nowwww… but you will, eventually.” I shrugged taking the vape off of the charger for a moment to get a good hit in before tossing it across the room hoping Wilbur could catch it in his dizzying state. And he didn’t. But thankfully it fell on the carpeted part of the floor to which he picked it up.

Wilbur in his hazy state bent over to pick up the small purple device and bring it to his lips. "Thanks, Y/n," he said in a whisper as smoke came rolling out from his lips.

I nodded before standing up and walking over to sit across from Wilbur at the table. I threw my head back with glass in hand, taking a big drink feeling as it burned its way down. I shook my head disapprovingly of the taste. "We should play a game," I say simply, feeling bored.

"Like what?" Wilbur said with thick a thick voice.

"I dunnoooo," I drawled, "Just a game."

Wilbur took another long hit from the vape before sliding it across the table back over to me. I felt my head grow heavy so I slumped it onto the table just barely peeking up at the fluffy-haired man through my arms. A random thought popped into my head, it was only just for a moment, but just a moment was enough for my far from sober state to blurt it aloud. "You're eyes are so pretty."

Completely forgetting about my game question Wilbur looked down at me with a strange look on his face only for it to slowly turn into a smirk. "Really?" his voice was heavy, we were both clearly drunk at this point. "What else?"

"Pardon?" I asked genuinely lost.

Wilbur smirked, standing up slowly from his chair and coming behind me. I felt a chill tingle in my spine as he stood there for a moment before he slowly bent forward his chest pressingly slightly against my back leaving my breath to be caught in my throat. My eyes went wide as I felt him against me until I saw his hand snake over and grab the vape sitting right in front of me on the table. He just wanted the nic-stick, was the conclusion I came to, but as he leaned back with vape in hand he asked again, "What else do you think about me?"

I turned in my chair giving him a confused look as he only seemed to smirk wider before putting the device to his lips and blowing out smoke from his nose. I turned back and took another drink of wine, knowing that it was a need in this moment. My glass hit the table with a small thud as I sat it down. My mind was far too hazy to think about anything at all and it only got worse as Wilbur's hand moved to rest on my shoulder from behind me. His arm reached around with vape in hand, he held the device to my mouth and despite the uneasiness I felt, I still sucked in the metallic vapor and felt as it slowly rushed to my brain. It felt as though he was trying to get me nic high and drunk so he could hear exactly everything I thought about him. "Am I being interrogated?" I said hazily.

Wilbur chuckled deeply, "No. Just curious."

"mmmm," I mused, taking the vape from him and hopping up to throw it back on the charger in my bed. His eyes watched each step I took. "So you want to know what else I think?"

He nodded, taking what remained in my wine glass and gulping it down quickly.

"Well, what do you want to know?"

Wilbur shrugged, "Anything at all," he went on further to say, "I want to know how your pretty little head sees me."

I could feel the heat rise to my face even though I wasn't even too sure it was a compliment in my state. My eyes slowly trailed to stare at the wall while my brain wandered in deep thought. "I think you're really tall," I said confidently. "Fuckin' beanstalk," I mumbled.

Wilbur's brows rose and his eyes went wide before falling back to a resting position and his lips forming into a smirk. Slowly he approached the bed and sat down beside me, reaching over his hand just barely grazing my upper thigh as he leaned over in close again to reach for the device on the charger. "What was that last part," he whispered lowly as he reached in and as he pulled away he finished by saying, "I didn't quite catch it."

I stared at him, my head was throbbing and the room felt like it was spinning. In this state I didn't give too shits... maybe that was why I enjoyed being drunk so much, I could speak my mind and I didn't worry so much about what others thought. I leaned into his ear and whispered, "I said...FUCKIN' BEANSTALK" the last few words were yelled into his ear. I leaned backward in a fit of laughter, laying back on my pillow as I giggled and Wilbur grumbled about me yelling in his ear.

He shot me a dirty look before giving me a quick slap to the arm.

"Owwww," I pouted.

"You're fine," he huffed out angrily. I gave him a side-eyed look before crossing my arms and turning away from him. He stared at me as I looked away from him, staring indignantly at the boring wall. "You're so beautiful." I blinked once before his hand snaked over to cup my cheek and turn it to face him. "You deserve to know that," he said softly. "Sometimes I don't think you realize the effect you have on others."

"What-" I stared at him in confusion, bringing my hand to his on my cheek and moving it down to hold it in my lap, "What do you mean?"

He offered me a warm smile, "You try to act like you have all of your shit together all of the time... You smile and laugh, trying to make sure everyone else is happy before worrying about yourself. You're so genuine... I think that's what I really like about you, Y/n."

I was completely and utterly lost. HUH?! ME? Genuine??? I laughed, "Wilbur you do realize you know like nothing about me? I can't bring myself to share with you who I actually am... You're-" I paused shaking my head in crazed laughter, "You're so much stronger than I am. You've gone through so much. So much! Way worse than I have and you can still share it with me- with the world."

Wilbur's face morphed into a frown, "But you still have the strength to smile... to make me smile," he said drunkenly. "I wasn't," he gave a small exhale, fumbling with his hands in his lap. He blinked hard before saying, "I wasn't happy before you came into my life. When I'm at work, I feel as though I'm the happiest I've been in a long time... and it's all because of you."

I was gobsmacked... and a little upset knowing I probably wouldn't remember much of this conversation in the morning. My body was swaying and my head spinning, "Wilbur I-"

"You don't have to say anything," he said with a warm smile cutting me off as he spoke, "You just needed to know."

----

To this day I can't recall much else from that night. Even most of that was just how I assume my brain filled in the gaps, what I had come to believe as truth to what had happened that night. The only thing I know for a fact is that I woke up with Wilbur beside me in bed, cuddled up next to my frame.

A/N

Rip to my icy grape nic stick, she will be missed.

Anywhore, I'm alive. After a bit of health issues, I'm back and working again.

#Spotify #wilbur x y/n #dsmp wilbur #wilbur mcyt #wilbur soot #wilbur x reader #gas station #c!wilbur x reader #x reader #mcyt x you

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neutron-stars-collision · 2 months

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Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 5 - Canary Wharf Underground Station

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

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

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

You only succeeded at that first task.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Neil would know just how much it meant.

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

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

You did not waste a chance like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

4:25 pm – light lunch

4:50 pm – costume change

5:30 - in-costume rehearsal (short)

6:00 – make-up and hair

6:30 – be ready

7:00 – fucking showtime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ Thank you.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ And fuck you.

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

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

***

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

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

A lot.

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

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

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

But whatever. For that, he definitely needed flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rolling your eyes skywards, you muttered:

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

Very briefly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All yours, apparently.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t long till you could leave.

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

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

But where would be fun with that?

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

When you leaned back again, he nodded:

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

That was a question you needed no time to answer.

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

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

Quite the contrary.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conclusions which at any other time would terrify you.

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

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

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

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

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

Not to be crude or anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A classy, black leather harness lured the interested parties from the shop window. A giggle arose in your throat and spilt outward, tinting the night with a new shade of unforgettability. The feeling increased when you turned to see Neil’s grin:

“Must be” the joy in his face blinded you to everything else.

The comfortable silence stretched as you walked around Soho Square. Within the dimly lit park, you could make out the statue of King Charles II. That late at night, the iron gates were closed, leaving you to trace the perimeter of the square. The red brick tower of St Patrick’s watchfully traced your steps as you passed through the common and continued down one of many busy streets.

The wistful silence felt inspiring in ways you could hardly explain. Before you knew what you were doing, the question was out of your mouth:

“Can I ask you another inappropriate question?” at this point, the opener was a tradition.

It always got a smile out of Neil, so you did not consider ditching it.

“Shoot,” he squeezed your hand and peeked inside the pub you passed.

This one’s choice of music was not any less predictable. With the sounds of Mr Brightside, you asked:

“What are you most afraid of?” the origin of a question was hard to trace.

You only knew that it had been waiting for the right moment for quite a while. Perhaps it was because you barely had anyone else to talk about things like these that most people would rather stay unsaid. Perhaps it was that you were tired of ignoring the complex subjects and shutting the door on the uncomfortable.

Perhaps it was just that you wanted to know Neil better.

“Damn, that’s inappropriate indeed,” his low whistle told you even that sort of question was not too close for comfort.

You were yet to find the limit, which was both an exciting prospect and a terrifying concept.

“You know me,” you shrugged, hoping that gesture alone would help you ignore the implications of the sentence.

Yet the look Neil shot you as you risked a glance at him rendered the attempt useless.

“I do know you” the simple confirmation felt like a punch to the face, but you had no time to react. Neil followed the thought with the answer you had asked for, “Okay… It used to be something like being forgotten or not achieving my dreams, but now, I think it’s just that I’m scared of waking up one day and realising that I’ve nothing to live for. It’s that fear of failure, combined with the real chance of no one ever loving me for who I am” each of his words felt like that pinprick of pain in the molecules of your existence. As did the tiredness in his voice, almost emotionless except for the resignation you were well familiar with. It was the same tone of someone so used to the reality of their situation that it hardly made them feel anything anymore. It was a tone you knew well, “Fuck, that sounds depressing” sighing upon the conclusion, Neil slowed down your pace to look at the display of an indie boutique.

You knew that tactic. Understood that it was just a part of the ploy to shift the subject away from his troubles. But, in the light of all he said, you could not stay silent. You stepped close enough to show your intent in the movement and said what you knew was obvious:

“I think people would be stupid not to love you” despite your history with love, you knew that much.

If love existed, Neil was more than worth the pain of it. And anyone who was blind to it was not worth him.

Slowly, he turned to face you. The impassive face let you know that this time Neil would not be willing to get into the polemics over something he did not believe in. Instead, you got a neutral smile and a tender touch, brushing the stray lock of hair behind your ear:

“I wish, sweetheart” the mournful edge to his smile felt unsettling in a way you desperately wanted to ignore. As if sensing your discomfort, he quickly transformed it into a sardonic grin, “There’s also the fear of the world ending, but that’s just millennial quirks, I guess” before you could react to the mood shift, the invisible mic was extended towards you “Anyway, your turn,”

While you always knew that opening this topic would mean you would also have to bear your soul to Neil, the moment it came, you found yourself struggling for words. The truths were there, but they did not want to be released into the night like this. Without a promise that nothing would change after.

Wordlessly, you extended your hand to Neil and waited for him to take it before resuming the walk. It took you another two or three minutes of silence to start speaking:

“It was always the fear of growing old. And I don’t mean like a teenager shaking at the prospect of being thirty someday. I mean me right now, scared out of my mind for the day I realise I’m old. Because there’s no future for ballerinas past forty, if even that” once the words came, it was hard to stop them. They flowed, empowered by years of awful thoughts you could not permanently get rid of and the paralysing knowledge that they were correct. That this was the future awaiting you, “And I know that for all my talk of not needing other people for anything else than a good time, it’s going to bite me in the ass. When that youth fades, I’ll be a below-average woman who doesn’t have anything to offer” the conclusions came upon a weary sigh, with the burdens not at all lessened but only voiced.

For the first time ever, possibly.

The warmth of Neil’s hand in yours was a spark of comfort, urging you to let go of the thoughts and keep walking. You knew that if you stopped, there would be nothing to pick up from the pieces you would become.

“I don’t think you’re below average” although you did not dare look at him, you could feel Neil’s gaze on you.

Those knowing blue eyes wandered over your features like a tender touch you never deemed yourself worthy of. Although seemingly nonconsequential, his protest was not something you could brush over. It reverberated in your head until you felt like you had to shake it out with another pointless shrug:

“The point still stands, though” unsurprisingly, it was the shame that followed, forcing you to look his way and whisper a needed apology, “Anyway, I’m so sorry I asked that. I don’t know what overcame me,”

The most accurate guess would be the demons of hell or your lack of self-preservation.

“It’s okay. I want to know you more, and what better way to do that than through questions you’d ask at a sleepover in Year 9,” the judgement was not present on Neil’s face as he offered you a hand squeeze and a bright smile.

It almost looked like he was back to normal, having put the strange conversation behind you. You sure hoped that was the case.

“True” returning his smile with a degree of hesitation, you took the phone from your pocket to check the time. It was late, almost midnight, and you still had to get home. That sobering thought helped you decide the best course of events, “Should we get on the tube at Oxford Circus? We could then change at Baker Street,”

To deny that you hoped you would not get off at St. John’s Wood alone would be to lie, so you stayed quiet. The idea was slowly simmering in your mind, hoping to come to fruition through luck or the powers that be.

“Sounds good” Neil nodded, already picking up the pace to lead you towards the mentioned station. After a beat, he asked, “Cupid?”

“Hmm?” too occupied with your thoughts, you only made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re worth more than you know” that fondness in his voice was old news by now.

Yet it still punched the air out of your guts, like always. It still made you swallow hard against the inconvenient revelations and focus on what mattered the most.

Which, in this case, was to get Neil to come home with you. Easy.

***

It was impossible to tell which one was the deciding moment. When the course had been set, except that sometime between getting on the Bakerloo at the Oxford Circus and St. John’s Wood, the dice had been cast. Metaphorically, that is.

Somewhere between Baker Street and your station, with your lips formed into an almost permanent smile, you turned to Neil. Noticing the creases around his beautiful eyes and the fond grin on his face, you chanced an invitation that had been rattling around your brain for hours and days:

“Do you want to come to mine for a glass of wine?” miraculously, the tremors did appear in your voice.

As soon as Neil registered the question, you could see something in his eyes shift. Without a doubt, he understood where it was going. Or where you hoped it would go. He glanced at your mouth, almost as if on an unconscious instinct. Your hand resting in his loose hold on your lap twitched, making him tighten the grasp. The silenced stretched, thick, and substantial in the empty carriage. Empty save for the two of you.

It felt like aeons later when Neil finally met your gaze again and offered you a lazy smile.

“I’d love to,” that wolfish glint in his eyes told you he knew what you had been thinking.

It also assured you that this, like many things, was something you shared.

That awareness did nothing to eliminate the giddiness set in your bones, which only grew in strength as you led Neil through the streets of St. John’s towards the outskirts of Maida Vale. Once you arrived at your apartment and somehow opened the door without dropping your keys (a feat indeed), that giddy feeling transformed into nervousness coursing in your veins. It stayed as you opened the door, letting Neil through and following behind him. It was always a strange feeling to let someone else into your world, into that private space, so separate from the grandness of ROH. Unconsciously, you always expected critique or worse – ridicule.

But none came as you walked past Neil in the hallway and took off your shoes with caution. His eyes roamed over the walls and the furniture with interest, taking in every feature with curiosity. Trying the hardest to discard the awkwardness, you walked down the hall towards the living room and the kitchen, knowing he would follow. It was once you had welcomed Neil into the living space that you could no longer maintain the suffocating silence:

“I know it’s not Buckingham Palace, but…” gesturing weakly towards the room at large, you shot him a tight smile.

It was almost as if Neil going off the script and not being a judgmental guest threw you off to the point where you had trouble acting normally. It must have been visible in your body language, for he grinned and replied:

“No, it’s cosy” another broad look around the living room must have satisfied him as Neil took off his coat and scarf and draped them over the highchair by the breakfast bar, “Fits you,” meeting your gaze, he winked.

Instant warmth spread over your body, replacing the uncertainty with something different. Something dangerous.

“Whatever that means” returning his grin, you stalked into the kitchen and threw open the cupboard doors with a simple question, “Red or white wine?”

Settling the two wine glasses on the countertop, you turned to Neil. Only to find him browsing the bookshelves lining your walls between the windows.

“Red. Thanks” he put down the book he had been inspecting and turned to gaze through the windows down the street below, glancing your way in between.

Procuring the bottle of semi-dry Primitivo from the shelf, you recovered the corkscrew from one of the messy drawers. Only when that was done, and the wine could breathe a little (impressing the snobbish people on TV), you turned back to Neil. He was still perusing the bookcase, clearly doing his best to accommodate your strange shyness. Lucky for him, the worst had passed.

“You can have a look around. Just you know, don’t peek into my bedside drawers or go through my underwear” when Neil glanced at you with a scandalous gasp, hand clutching at his chest, you smirked.

That was familiar. Safe. A trustworthy dynamic to settle upon when looking for pointers for whatever would come next.

“As if I would,” the affronted look on his face made you giggle as Neil finished the living room tour and joined you in the kitchen, “Though now my curiosity has piqued. What do you keep in the bedside drawer?”

Sure, you could give him the answer he so desperately sought. But that would’ve been too easy.

“Maybe one day you’ll see” shrugging off his advances, you winked, hoping it would show how much you meant it.

Admittedly, if everything went how you wanted it to, you hoped that vague one day would come. For some reason, when staring at his broad back as Neil picked up your invitation and walked down the hall towards the bedroom, you knew he could never disappoint you. Not in that way. Somehow, it felt like once you crossed that line, which was constantly getting closer, it would be impossible to go back. And in a good way, too. In a way that would make you want to keep going back, again and again. Neil already was like a special kind of drug for you. Nothing could change that.

When he completed the self-guided tour, you were waiting on the sofa with a carefully chosen soundtrack running in the background and two glasses of red wine. As always, it was not difficult to keep the conversations running, ranging from topics such as how you became a ballerina to how the fuck did Neil manage to make his hair look so goddamn soft all the time.

For the sake of the argument you tried to make, you shifted across the cushions closer to Neil and buried your fingers in his dirty-blonde tresses. It did not escape your attention that as soon as you started intently combing through the strands and lightly pulling at them Neil closed his eyes with a telling exhale. Or that his body tensed, betraying wants and needs he probably tried to keep secret. Willing to spare him some shame (for now), you focused on the silkiness of his locks, staring as the colour reflected the warm lighting of the room.

“I seriously need tips on conditioners” with reluctance, you let go after something close to a minute and leaned back.

Just a fraction. Now that you had lessened the distance, you did not want to leave his side again. Without even trying to be exceptionally smooth, you lounged towards your old spot to move the wine glass and settled back against the cushions. The warmth of his body radiated across the minimal space. Some time ago, probably midway through the second glass, Neil has ditched the suit jacket. The vest underneath only did his body more favours, making it impossible for you to stop staring for most of the evening.

“Will do,” Neil nodded, seemingly having recovered his composure. He took another swig from the glass and regarded you with curiosity in his eyes, “Does that do it for you?”

You did not need to ask for clarification. Not with the way you had always seemed particularly fixated on his hair. Or how your hands always betrayed you when you kissed, taking every opportunity to touch them again. With that sort of transparency, you might as well embrace it.

“Definitely” offering him a shameless smile, you picked up the wine glass to down the remains.

That pleasant alcoholic buzz in your head smoothed out the edges of your vision and drowned out the remaining anxiety. Until all you could feel was warmth and contentment.

Only sometime later, after discussing the intricacies of your home lives growing up and the likelihood of you meeting Neil’s work friends (and getting along with them), the mood began to shift. It was hard to tell at first, smoothly falling into your usual dynamic. It was that sudden desire to lean your head over his shoulder and Neil’s inexplicable tendency to touch your knee with every other gesture during a particularly complex story.

One of those was just ending, with Neil describing in detail that one time as a teenager when he accidentally dyed his hair seaweed green when that uninvited voice inside your head would not keep quiet any longer.

“Can I tell you something?” blurting out the question was the easiest part, although its placement at the end of his story was clumsy.

The abruptness made Neil start, his hand hovering right over your thigh twitched. The blue eyes met yours with curiosity shining through.

“Always,” the dusting of pink along his cheekbones confirmed that you were not the only one feeling the effects of that bottle of Primitivo, now empty on the coffee table.

“I’m so glad you came tonight. And that you stayed, too” the earnestness in your voice was something you did not want to get rid of.

It strengthened the sentiment, showing that you meant it more than anything. Although the gratitude was there from the moment Neil stepped into the dressing room, it only increased with every passing hour. Because as he sat there, listening to your bullshit, one understanding came to the forefront of your mind. Something obvious, yet not at all. No one has ever taken their time like this. No one at all.

“Of course, I’ve told you I had fun. I’m beginning to see how incredible it is what you guys do on the stage” the sparks in his eyes drew you in like a moth to a flame as Neil added, “All of those years of practice and perfect technique. I could never” the admiration was another fatal blow to the remains of your composure.

It shone through his words, making it abundantly clear that Neil meant what he said, too. The fuzziness in your head got stronger the moment you tried to comprehend it. Shaking it off with a shrug, you shifted in the seat and leaned away from him enough so you could breathe. Or, at least, get an illusion of clarity back.

“Well, it is tough, I won’t lie” as always, your mouth kept on running before you could get a hold of your tongue, spilling all the facts and observations you had kept to yourself, “But that’s the thing. You came, and you actually watched, and now you’re here, listening to me waffle on about ballet and pointe shoes and all that bullshit, when you could just… I don’t know, leave?” the groan of frustration tore at your vocal cords as you finished the rant on a particularly bitter note “Or you could do what everyone else had when I dared invite them to one of my shows,”

Even the memory of it stung, making you drop your gaze to the drying burgundy spot on the table. In all your naivety, you hoped that would be it. That another topic would come up and make you forget about it.

But Neil had other plans. Not that you blamed him for it.

“Which is?” his question was the epitome of carefulness, with even the tone of his voice doing everything in his might not to startle you and make you clam up amidst the rare moment of extreme sincerity.

It when then and there that you decided Neil was worth a little discomfort.

“Spend the ballet on their phone, tune me out afterwards and only wait as far as coming here or going to theirs to ask me to be a good girl and suck them off” rolling your eyes against the reminder, your fingers restlessly picked at the loose thread in the hem of your dress. The ghost of that familiar dissatisfaction burned through your system almost as if it had just happened, “Because apparently I’m such a turn-on in those tights it’s impossible to pay attention” the attempt at an impression of that compliment never quite landed because of the venom in your voice.

The warmth of Neil’s hand enveloped yours as he stopped your anxious fiddling. You risked looking back up at him and instantly were struck by the heat in his gaze. It sparked something buried beneath the annoyance and incomprehensible feelings. Something you should have never ignored.

“It’s definitely a turn-on, but so is this” unaware of your ongoing spiral, Neil’s hand slid to your knee and squeezed it, “Hearing you talk about things that matter to you” the heat from his touch seeped through your skin, emphasizing the growing derealisation.

Because how could this be real? How could he be real? Neil, with his beautiful blue eyes and the ability to say the right thing when you needed it most. The breath hitched in your throat as you swallowed hard and channelled the storm inside your soul into words:

“Not according to most men” if asked about it later, you knew you would barely recollect what you said, having surrendered into the inherent ability to bullshit your way into everything ever, “And then they never even try to make me feel good. Well, they do, but not… selflessly” you could tell Neil caught the meaning with the way his eyes widened “When after every show I do all I want is for someone to take care of me” you did not get much time to wallow in the misery.

Not with the way Neil took approximately ten seconds to decide before his gaze turned back to you with breath-taking focus. His palm moved inward from your knee to slide between your thighs. The warmth of it encircled your leg as he leaned in close, nosing at your pulse point without a shadow of hesitation. Your abrupt gasp rang in the sudden silence, legs already parting to let him in without the conscious thought taking part in the action.

All the thoughts you could have had perished from your head as Neil pressed a kiss to the side of your neck and whispered against your skin:

“Like this?” the tenderness of his touch was overwhelming in the best of ways.

It took over your senses as he hitched up your dress and continued the slow journey up your thighs to the space between your legs. You could feel the arousal seeping into your underwear, making the material cling to your skin. It would be so easy to let him do whatever he wanted. Only-

“Yeah, but- Do you want to?” the breathlessness of your voice was bound to be an embarrassing memory.

But only once you had recovered the sanity, which was nowhere to be found. Still, you had to ask. There was no question about what you wanted. Not with the need coursing in your veins, begging you to stop fretting and just let go. Begging you to act like you always did.

But Neil was not like anyone you had ever been with. And that meant you cared. Too much, probably.

Leaning back far enough to meet your gaze, Neil tipped your chin so you were forced to look at him and smiled. The hungry determination was still there, only now interlaced with subtle reassurance. For your sake.

“Oh, trust me, I want to” without giving you time to reply, he kissed you quickly and stood up from the sofa, dropping to his knees before you without a word of warning, “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks” that devilish grin tugged at your insides as tilted his head, silently asking for permission.

Permission to change your relationship forever. You took a deep breath, already aware of the mess between your thighs and the insanity in your eyes.

You nodded, saving the voice for later.

Somehow, you knew soon enough you’d need it. Neil grinned like Lucifer himself. You were certainly fucked.

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unfortunate17 · 1 year

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Hii! I just read your last Wilmon fic and it's just so so good, omg! Loved it!! If you're taking requests, I'd love to read a fic where Jan-Olof never interrupted them in the last episode. What they'd have said/done then? (Maybe in a world where the speech wasnt a thing, idk) Thank youuu 😘

hihi I'm so glad you liked that fic, it was just an excuse to write a bunch of random scenes the I couldn't get out of my head.

I think the confession scene is actually PERFECT the way it is in the show, but since you want a little more, here you go, anon (they're not interrupted, but alas Wille must still give the speech):

Simon nuzzles into the curve of Wilhelm’s neck, takes in the bobble of his throat, the stutter in his breathing. He feels lighter than he has in months, Wilhelm’s gentle fingers pressing into his ribs like piano keys.

Wilhelm shifts, drawing Simon out from his neck and steeping their foreheads together. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. The crisp, tailored line of his shoulders are softened and relaxed.

There’s something about seeing Wilhelm this way that makes contentment settle deep into Simon’s bones. Weeks of bleak misery cleared away by the first rays of joy.

He smiles, a near reflexive motion, and knocks his nose into Wille’s. “You’re so quiet.”

Wille lets out a breath of laughter. He leans away, tips his head back, rolls out his shoulders. He’s smiling up at something above them, but Simon is too entranced by the wondrous sight of him to be bothered to follow his gaze.

Instead, he steps closer once more, cups Wilhelm’s cheeks and traces the length of his cheekbones with his thumbs.

Wille’s gaze returns to meet his own. “What do you want me to say?”

Simon shrugs. It feels like the sun itself is rising in his chest. “I missed you. So much. Can I stay with you tonight?”

Wilhelm looks floored. His eyelashes are wet. “You want to stay with me?”

“Yes please,” Simon tells him. He knows how much Wilhelm likes to be wanted, how he blooms when Simon puts voice and touch to his affections.

And now Simon is finally, finally free to give Wilhelm everything he wants.

“Okay, yeah,” Wille cups Simon’s hands with his own, brings them away from his face to hold them between their bodies. He’s trembling faintly, sweat slicking his palms and fingers. “Of course you can stay. I just need to - to take care of this jubilee shit and then I’m all yours.”

Simon watches him gently, rubs a thumb over the back of Wille’s hand. Tenderness is oozing out of him and he does his best to redirect it at Wilhelm. “Are you ready?”

Wilhelm’s mouth flattens, and he shakes his head twice in a tight, stressed motion. The euphoria of the last few minutes seems to be fading. “No - I mean, yeah. I just want it to be over, you know?”

Simon nods. He pushes up onto his toes, presses a kiss to Wille’s cheek. “You’ll do great.”

Wille nods, gives him a tense smile. “Thanks.” He looks pale, but Simon’s seen the speech cards taped to the wall behind his bed. The address he’s giving is largely made up of pleasantries. It shouldn’t take Wilhelm more than five minutes at max.

However, when Simon goes to step away, something like alarm flashes across Wille’s face. The grip on his fingers tighten. “Where are you - what?”

Simon gives him an apologetic look. “I need to be lined up with the choir before the cameras start rolling.”

Wilhelm clutches him tighter. “Okay,” he grits, “I’ll walk out with you.”

His stomach drops like stone. “Wille, there are cameras.”

“So?”

“So,” Simon tells him slowly, freeing one hand after the other from Wilhelm’s clammy grip, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be, like, out there together.”

Wille’s eyebrows furrow for a moment. Then, he looks thunderstruck. “Wait,” he says grasping Simon’s shoulder, “that’s not what I – ”

Simon kisses him, sweet and languid. They’re running out of time, he’s half surprised Jan Olof hasn’t returned to tell them off by now. But Wille seems agitated and seeing him that way makes Simon ache in the private, soft places he tries his best to keep hidden. “I’ll wait for you in your room after the Jubilee – ”

A shadow of something dark crosses Wille’s face, his eyebrows and mouth slanting sharply downwards.

But Simon pushes on. He desperately wants to make Wilhelm feel better. “ – we can hang out a little before dinner.” He turns towards the door, knocking his shoulder into Wilhelm’s playfully, “We can also finally finish Andor.”

Wilhelm’s swallows. There’s something unreadable in the hard set of his jaw. “Okay,” he says quietly. His eyes linger on Simon for a long, long moment. “Okay, sure.”

Simon allows himself one last fond look. Wilhelm is bracketed by double doors, backlit by the bright, spring sun. “I love you,” he says again, because he doesn’t think he can ever say it enough now that he knows how sweet the words taste.

Wilhelm keeps looking at him. But then, he straightens, his spine snapping taut. He gives Simon one last nod. “See you soon.”

---

Later, hours later, once Wilhelm has lit a match to everything he has ever known, Simon finds himself in Wilhelm’s room as he’d promised. They’re curled together in bed, Wille nosing at the back of his neck, breathing together.

“You didn’t have to,” Simon tells him quietly.

Wilhelm holds him tighter. “I couldn’t say it back if I didn’t.”

Simon blinks into hazy darkness of the room. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I wanted to,” Wille kisses the knob of his spine, so sweet that Simon’s heart clenches in his chest. “I love you too.”

Simon burrows deeper into his grip, drawing the blankets up and around the two of them like a cocoon. “You’d better.”

Wille lets out a burst of laughter.

Then, quieter –

“I do.”

#young royals fanfic #wilmon fanfic #young royals #wilmon #my writing #ask #this was fun I hope you like it even though it's a little short #again if you helped make young royals DO NOT PERCEIVE ME #also I’m taking requests if anyone wants me write something haha

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facewipes · 4 days

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posting the mybeauty iceberg specifically so that icy can get caught up on some mybeauty lore fire might’ve missed

explanations under the cut [tw substance abuse, csa, ed, family death]

tier 1 - you guys should know everything here and if you don’t. tch

tier 2 -

magenta mine: buggie’s hit song after leaving mybeauty. infamously known for having the line “i’d pretend someone’s work was my own too if my voice sounded like the vomit you puke into the toilet after every time we ate”

why charlene likes clowns: her dad was a clown and it sparked a special interest for her. simple as that

neo’s real name: yafir, that’s all

tipsy toms: buggie and minnie’s workplace. just a classic american food chain restaurant

elvis: buggie’s brother that died of lung cancer when she was 17. his death led buggie to run away from her family.

tier 3 -

best new artist: beauty won best new artist in 2022

mommy issues: both emil and charlene’s problems stem from their moms.

dinocon: a convention held by dinos (like furries but for dinosaurs). cole has been to a couple dinocons in his life

jubilee’s fursona: self explanatory

bulimia: a core part of emil’s character is that he is bulimic and has been since he was 14. he has small periods where he’s fine until he relapses again

neo addiction: omg wow speaking of relapse…neo! neo has an alcohol and sleeping pill addiction. he uses his addictions to knock himself out of reality…there’s a point where he does go to rehab in 2018 but once the stuff with emil and co goes on in 2022 he gets back on everything

bloodsuckers: in-universe fantasy/mystery comic turned getflix live-action show. emil and jubilee are big fans

charlene’s stitches: from her gallbladder removal

tier 4-

dead pigeons: a british pop punk band that jubilee likes a lot

jubilee is adopted: self explanatory

fractured pelvis: referring to how emil has a minor fracture in his pelvis due to a car accident

misses madam the musical: a semi-popular musical. malcolm is a part of it. there’s a specific storyline involving him and this musical + emil but i don’t want to take forever explaining it…maybe i will another time

mmood swingz: a group of toxic gen z north florida teens in a band that makes music that no one likes and everyone makes fun of. their lead singer mika is a stan of mybeauty/emil

froot and veggi vs emil: picture this. you’re a pop duo of twin greek sisters with more plastic surgery procedures than years of your life and suddenly a washed up frail chainsmoker tells you that you’re untalented. he then proceeds to have a coked up hissy fit about how you and your sister suck and that back in his day pop music was good. amongst all his ranting you just watch and from being silent you automatically win the fight that he made up for no reason

tier 5 -

cole’s ex: a girl cole used to date in high school before he met jubilee and who is now a model. her name is gia. jubilee gets extremely jealous of gia when she sees cole interacting with her. so jealous in fact that she goes on kidder and bashes her for appearance basically no good reason.

beauty pageants: erin grew up being in multiple beauty pageants. though she never won any. her standards of beauty was shaped through her experience as a pageant girl…

camila: erin and emil’s cousin from their dad side. she’s not very nice to her cousins (nor her parents, uncle, aunt, and grandparents, for that matter) but she still expects them to be there for her when she “needs” it

erased lesbianism: referring to erin getting the lesbian card revoked

yoohoo bunny: a little white bunny mascot that can be found as toys, clothes, bags, pillows, and so much more. emil and bambi love yoohoo bunny

prom queen 2013: the year erin (gasp) won prom queen. she brags about it anytime she gets

tier 6 -

swine: the nickname buggie gave her groomer, monty swineson. a very abusive and controlling man. treated buggie like dirt while trying to convince her that he was the only person who cared for her. overall scum!

papaya fields: think of a site with a fruit in the name and targets trans people. this is the beauty version of that and you can bet your ass they have a dedicated page on emil somewhere

lost music: the earliest music emil and neo made together is completely lost and the idea of it ever being found is very slim

jivin: an editor for indiefools and emil’s future (like very distant future) boyfriend

motorg!rl: an online alias created by neo where he can pretend to be a cute anime girl producing music. he has a league of devoted fans who have no clue who is actually behind the music. if you looked his persona on google images you will get…interested results

jubilee gets drugged: there’s a moment during 2017 mybeauty where they all go drinking and jubilee (who never drank a day in her life and lowkey got pressured by cole to do it) gets drugged. she falsely accuses cole of doing it out of paranoia

drunk meltdown in france: neo gets REALLY fucked up in france + has a fight with dondre and ends up going live on the motorg!rl channel. he reveals his identity and calls all his fans “gross porn addicts”. he then cries for the rest of the live until passing out with the camera still on. this destroyed his online persona immediately

tier 7 -

“i wish i was born a girl” truth or dare: one night the gang is all together hanging out playing truth or dare (but like the one that is a physical game where you get like a truth or dare prompt on the card) and buggie gets a truth card directed at neo that reads “what is your biggest hot take” and everyone is expecting neo to say something silly but neo is already pissed at buggie for something earlierso he hits them with “i wish i was born a girl.” which causes everyone to go “….🥚?” but then neo goes on about how being a woman is easier than being a man and how women don’t seem to understand the privilege they have above guys. it’s basically him generalizing the experience of all women and comparing it to his unique experience as a man and most of it was just neo being bitchy about something buggie said earlier. tldr neo has a misogyny moment because a clown girl pissed him off.

jubilee’s doppleganger friend group: jubilee has a seperate group of friends that can basically be described as off brand mybeauty. their names are emiliano (mili), neya, aaron, and chelsea (cricket). mybeauty meets them and finds them to be very…offputting

medical abuse: referring to medical abuse both neo and emil faced. mainly involving mental health services.

why cole’s dad is in prison (csa tw): he made cp. he would sell stuff with other kids but never uploaded or shared anything with cole included, however, he did take gross pictures without cole’s knowledge back when he had custody. the police raided his house when cole admitted to his 3rd grade teacher that his dad assaulted him just a day prior. cole’s dad also abused his older sister judy before abandoning her, cece, and his ex-wife, but he never laid a finger on cece. cece feels guilt about it constantly

tier 8 -

dondre’s mom cause of death: murdered by his abusive stepdad. in a blind rage dondre grabbed his stepdad’s gun and shot him too. thankfully, he wasnt sentenced/charged due to it being deemed self defense. the memory of that day haunts him forever.

charlene is anti vax:

emil sex tape: i think the name makes it sound like he and neo made a sex tape kim k style but it refers to when emil used to make porn while he was homeless because he had no other form of income. a lot of people found these videos years later and used it to harrass him

neo dated his music teacher (csa/grooming): neo would call it dating but i personalllllyyyyyyyy would just call it grooming. he started doing things with his music teacher after school (some sexual some not) in exchange for good grades (he would’ve been a A+ student in that class without it but his teacher tricked him into thinking that he would fail if they weren’t together). their relationship offically ended when the teacher got fired for something completely unrelated. to this day neo refuses to see it as grooming since he wasn’t “forced” into anything. neo look at me you are a VICTIM.

tier 9 is just jokes nothing serious

#mybooty

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shadowphoenixrider · 14 days

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(So I fell down the down the Gambit rabbit-hole, and this self-insert fic/drabble resulted. Although it's self-insert fic, the descriptions' probably vague enough for a reader to slot themselves into it if you want. Enjoy, regardless!)

"Gambit's got you, mon amie. It's ok."

I groaned, leaning into the strong arms that looped around me. The world slid away from me, starting to swing uncontrollably. My head and body started to turn to lead, and I squeezed at the arms holding me.

"Remy - floor, floor. I need to-"

He acquiesced immediately, hand protectively shielding the back of my head as he helped lower me to the ground. I rolled onto my back, only to be greeted with a solid blue sky, not a horizon nor a cloud to focus on. My stomach cringed as everything continued to spin - maybe if I chose a point in the zenith, that'd work? I had to hope, I didn't want this to get worse, or-

Next thing I knew was the blue being bisected by grey - a straight line - that I could definitely use, and I focused upon it. My vision continued swim but slowly, it began to solidify around the grey 'horizon' - a bo staff, I realised - the spinning sensation easing bit by bit.

"Helping, mon amie?" The Cajun spoke gently, somewhere in my peripheral vision that I dared not glance at, least I set the spinning off again.

"Yeah, definitely. Thanks for that, Remy. You're a lifesaver." I offered him a weak smile.

"Gambit be happy to help." Came the reply. "First time your vertigo come on out here. An' quick too. You doin' alright?"

"I should be. Can't think of anything it'd be except for my time of the month." I sighed. "Just my luck."

"Why don't ya get one of those implants?" Gambit asked, not unkindly. "Don't they help with that?"

"In theory, yeah. But I don't really need contraception when I'm not exactly sleeping with anyone. That and I'm not looking forward to everything going haywire for a little while."

There was a silence - brief, but enough that I sensed a switch in the demeanour of the man cupping my head.

"No-one caught ya fancy?"

I raised an eyebrow.

"You're suddenly very interested in my sex life, Gambit. Didn't realize you became my gynaecologist when I wasn't looking."

That made him choke, the staff wobbling. It didn't seem to restart the vertigo, though.

"Well, uh, Gambit jus'...Ah, forget about it." I didn't need to see him to hear his embarrassment, the spare hand that would be scratching the back of his neck.

"I'm gonna try sitting up," I said.

Bracing myself on my arms, I slowly levered myself upright, pausing to let myself adjust to each change of angle.

"Feelin' better?" Gambit asked from behind me.

"I think so...Need a bit before I stand up, though." I reached backwards blindly. "Stay with me? Just in case."

"Gambit not goin' anywhere." His hand brushed mine, gently squeezing it in reassurance. I wished I could turn to see him and not the grass and tree-line; despite his words and touch, Gambit could easily vanish and I'd be none the wiser.

"To answer your question," I began, hoping to hold his attention, "I need to know what you mean by 'fancy'. 'Fancy' as in what Jubilee and Roberto have going on, or 'fancy' as in getting an implant so there aren't any unforeseen consequences to certain indiscretions?"

The sudden silence implied that Gambit was blushing, and I cursed my vertigo that I couldn't see it.

"Both?" Came the oddly shy response. "Is there both?"

"Not yet." I replied. "I got a few crushes going on, but it's mostly aesthetics."

"Any in particular?"

"Storm, for definite. She's very beautiful."

"Ain't that the truth." I could hear his smile. "Anyone else? Rogue?"

"She is pretty, but no." I smirked. "There is this one guy, though."

"Oh? Just the one?"

"Just the one." A smile played over my lips. "I think you'd approve. He's very handsome."

"That don't exactly narrow it down, mon amie." He commented, and my smile became a grin, thrilled to hear his humour returning. "Though Gambit might have some questions if it be Wolverine."

"Mmm, no. Think taller. Has gorgeous eyes I could stare into all day."

"Ain't Cyclops married?" Gambit teased, and I swung an elbow at him. It didn't matter that I missed completely.

"You know what I mean, Remy! Eyes that won't physically fling me into next week!"

"Alright, we down to Gambit, Beast, and Bishop..." He paused. "Do Morph count?"

"No. They're sweet, but their powers are a little too uncanny for me."

I hummed thoughtfully, choosing my next words with care.

"The guy's got a really nice voice. Always makes me smile when I hear it. And even though he can be a huge pain in the arse, I know he's always got my back." A heartbeat's pause. I took the chance, daring to look over my shoulder. "He also cheats at cards."

"Gambit don't cheat! He-!" The Cajun's sputtered indignation came to a screeching halt, and that was when I decided to turn to face him. Gambit blinked at me, his face such a picture of baffled confusion and surprise I couldn't help but giggle.

"Figured it out?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. His expression softened, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Reckon so." He looked me up and down. "Think you can stand now, mon amie?"

"I think so. Help me?"

Gambit didn't need to answer, taking my hand and supporting my weight as I gingerly got to my feet. He didn't let go as I surveyed my surroundings, turning my head experimentally.

"I think it's passed now." I smiled at him. "Thanks Gambit, glad this didn't happen when I was on my own." I cringed at the memory. "It wouldn't have been a pretty sight to find."

"Non." Gambit agreed. He still hadn't let go of my hand. "Perhaps we better head inside, find something else to do?"

"I suppose." I pretended not to notice as we walked back. "Although, if it's cards..."

"Gambit don't cheat, mon amie." He grinned at me. "You jus' got a terrible poker face."

I lifted a shoulder, chuckling.

"True enough. Never been very good at subtly."

#self insert fic #gambit #remy lebeau #self-insert/gambit #fluff #also first time with the cajun accent so forgive me #should I tag this is 'oc'? hmm #sprs writing #drabble #self ship

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slashingdisneypasta · 1 year

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Harper Alexander x Fem!AFAB!Reader || Smutshot

Note: Y'all can thank @darlingpassion for this! It was inspired by her recent 18+ Harper Headcanons (Oh my lord, go check them out. I read them in the middle of class and- I- 😅 lets just say we're lucky I'm still unwell otherwise the colour my face turned woulda been sus XD )

Plot: You (A would-have-been victim if you hadn't have been so cunning and wormed your way into Harper's good books) teach Harper what a lady in this day and age expects from her lover 👍👍👍

Warnings: Cunnilingus and begging, and slight hate fucking?. Plus both parties are dominant so there's a sort of ongoing dispute involved. Not super hot at the start but trust me- it heats up XD

"You want me... to put my mouth... down there?" Harper never looked so confounded when he finally understood what you were getting at- that sweet accent of his growing thicker and his judgemental eyes flickering from the dead-serious look on your face- to your parted legs.

"I promise this'll be a hit with the gals that come into town for the jubilee... " You insist, smirking at his reaction and crossing one of your legs over the other thigh once again, now that he got the picture. Then you hold two fingers by your head, like a scouts oath. "I guarantee it."

Rolling his eyes, Harper takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to you, before leaning forward in order to look at you. "You know, when you said y'could teach me a couple'a things... I was thinkin' a long the lines of interestin' role-plays... and knots."

"Yeah we'll get there," You brush him off. "But this is essential, my guy! If you cant do this, you're really only worth the length of your little mr- and I've seen him. Now, I don't wanna emasculate you, Harp, but... ehhhh, he's average."

Harper's jaw drops. "Avera- "

"Which is why this is such a good idea, that I have had! You can thank me later- now go get on your knees."

He just squints at you, not moving an inch except to squeeze the edge of the mattress on either side of his hips; frustrated by you.

Lord, this guy is always frustrated with you. All you want to do is help- and maybe survive, also- and all he has for you is arguments and a stink face. Huffing, you set your hands on your hips and twist your upper body to fully face him. Lets see how his ego fairs with this manoeuvre. "Should I ask Buckman, then?"

... His eyes narrow. "... Why?"

"He's, like, your pimp right?" Harper mouths the word 'pimp', like he doesn't recognise it - adorable country boy that he is, - and you huff. Okay, lets try that again. "He looks like the kinda man that gets it- maybe he can talk to you about the importance of a ladies pleasure, instead of me? Is that what you want Harp? Is it?- "

Harper cant take any amount of teasing from you, it annoys and frustrates him, and before you can even finish what you were saying he's got one of his hands curled around the back of your head and his mouths crashes into yours.

He's not really the most skilled kisser, he kisses like an old man who believes its just a stepping stone to get a woman to suck his dick, but fine, damn, it does the trick!~ And besides- you can work on it with him later.

After a moment you lean away from him, too far for him to follow you, and flick your eyes from his- down to the ground in front of you.

Hm?

For a moment he sits there, his perfect workman's hand still a comforting - almost affectionate, - weight on the back of your neck as he thinks, grumpily to himself. Then he sets his jaw and goes to kneel down in front of you. "Fine- teach me howta do it already."

"... You know, that sour face is not doing you any favours. Some men like this kinda thing- " He cuts you off, picking lazily at the waistband of your pants while you stop and just blink down at him. You watch him take out a blade from his back pocket (And first of all, WHY does he have that back there?? God, this man- infuriating and hot at the same damn time), and consequently let out a yelp.

"Hurry up, or I'm gonna slice these things off myself."

"... Rude."

That makes him smirk; An unfairly devastating smirk for such an asshole-... but pleasant. So pleasant. When he does that, the rest of your life stuck here doesn't look quite so grim.

Even though he's a dick-

"Am I doin' this right??"

Giving a sigh, with your back on the bed and your legs spread wide for Harper, you roll your eyes. "If you're talking, no... "

"... You're sure wet enough... " He mutters back under his breath, and you promptly get up onto your forearms to spit some facts at him.

Ohhhhh this guy. That smug look on his face as his eyes move slowly from your core to your face. Infuriating!! You're gonna kick him. In the face- "Hey- you. Barn-Boy. For your information, that is because I've been picturing Granny Boone this entre time- now stop staring at it and do something." You exclaim, before plopping back down on the bed, blowing hair out of your eyes. His eyes only seemed to light up with me yelling at him, you think, rolling your eyes. And he says the kinky thing is all an act...

Pfft. I see your soul, Harper Alexander.

While you're lost in thought over Harper, he seems to decide on taking another crack at this- and leans his head in towards your pussy. You don't feel any breath, because he's dead and he doesn't breath, but you definitely feel a presence. A tingle. You just know something's about to happen, and its maddening- you wanna arch your hips, slip the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades and push him forward, or buck up- anything to just feel his lips on you- but you curl your fingers subtly into the bedsheets, instead. No need for him to know the effect he has on you. That wouldn't do.

When his lips do touch you, its not without skill. He has been kissing for a long long time, so he isn't unfamiliar with using his lips, but there's just something missing. Its nice, but... not amazing. As he presses his face into you, slowly taking his tongue all over you, you think back to moments in the past when men have touched you like this. When its been so good your toes curled and you couldn't help but grind your cunt against his tongue.

... What was the difference?...

Biting your bottom lip, you rack your brain over this for a few more moments as Harper continues to explore; Even using his thumbs to rub up and down the outside of your lips, leaving lovely tingles in their wake. Still, you wonder... what's missing...

Maybe... he's not... really into it?? If not, you really shouldn't make him-

Wait.

Suddenly your whole body goes stiff, remembering. You hope he doesn't notice, which he mustn't because he doesn't stop his ministrations at all, because you have had an epiphany. Even the first time you two were together, he was like this. Without a spark. But he warmed up and it got really- really, good.

Because you started begging him.

Getting up on your elbows again to see him, you glare... even though the sight of this beautiful man with his face in your pussy does send butterflies all the way up through you. Because, god... This narcissist. Of course. Of course- he gets off to you begging him. You're not surprised, but you are irritated.

... well. Its worth a shot anyway.

Shifting, you slide your legs slowly up over his shoulders, caging the beautiful man between your thighs and allowing him a better angle, and transform your face- closing your eyes, parting your lips, and tipping your head back. When he leans in some more and licks a particularly broad stripe through your lips, gliding his tongue fully over your clit, you let out your moan. One of your heels digs into his back, and you push your core out a little bit closer to him, biting your lip and bunching up some more of the bedding into your fists. "Damn... " You whisper, putting on a performance- even though your pleasure is real.

Harper stops. He disconnects from you, and leans back on his heels, and when you crack your eyes open ever-so-delicately, you see him raising a brow at you. "What in the world was that??"

"That was encouragement, Harper."

"Y'think I need it?" He asks, though one corner of his mouth quirks up.

You just give a wink, before laying down again on your back. There's a secret smirk on your lips as you look at the ceiling. "Please... just do that again."

The pleased lilt to his voice is clear, and you're expecting to just put it on for the rest of this, for his benefit. "... hm. Well, your wish is my command I s'pose. Get comfortable, Miss Y/N."

... But when he comes back in, you're immediately shocked at the sudden change in him- you actually let out a sudden yelp of pleasure, feeling his thumbs spread your lips wide open for him now and his tongue dart deeper inside your core then you thought he could. You very nearly slap a hand over your mouth because of the very unintentional gasp- and then- "Oh god!- "

Your hips jolt forward, too, into his soft lips and immediately feel him chuckle against you. It make sit even worse, the vibrations directly against your clit. "Fuck!- fuck, fuck, fuck- "

Harper presses his mouth hard against the outside of your cunt and devours you, shoving his tongue into you as deeply as he can get and thoroughly tongue-fucking your most sensitive parts- making you whine, and yelp, and buck into him like a desperate, needy bitch.

The sounds he's making, too, are hot. Groaning into your pussy like he's eating something fucking delicious, your taste on his tongue exactly what he was looking for as he rubs his mouth more securely into the crevice between your thighs.

When you're so close to a very sudden, very violent orgasm- Harper takes the moment away. Starts giving you slow, language strokes that are just not deep enough- the bastard even takes one of his hands away from you in order to hold your calf on his shoulder. Tight.

Stopping you from pushing him in again.

He chuckles once again against your poor, throbbing and now tragically empty cunt, and gently rubs his nose against your mound. It would be sweet, affectionate; if you didn't hate his guts for it.

Giving a whine crossed with a desperate, frustrated sob, you throw an arm over your eyes so as to hide from the shame of outright begging this asshole. "Harperrr, plee-eesseeeee... "

"Don't you worry, Miss. Heh, I aint done."

"... Wh- Ah!" When he suddenly slips a long finger into and starts torturously rubbing at your inner walls with it you really do slap a hand over your mouth- afraid of the noises coming out of you, now. Another finger goes in, covering more area as he ruthlessly attacks your deepest, most private, most sensitive spots.

Your hips aren't just arching anymore, they're following his rhythm; Grinding into his evil fingers now, rolling so they move inside you just the way you need. "Y'like that, Miss Y/N?"

"More Harper, please Harper- "

"I gotcha."

Then he leans his head in between your thighs again, and he struggles, but he manages to lick you while his sopping wet fingers thrust in and out of you fast.

With your most embarrassing sound yet and one more roll against his face, you cum right into his damn face.

While you sit up with your hand on your chest and a pillow between your legs, just trying to calm down from that ridiculously amazing high, Harper gets up and sits down next to you; A hand on your knee and a smirk on his face. When he speaks, you give him a bemused look, while you continue to feel your racing heart inside your chest still. "So... how'd I do, then? Did I master the importance of a ladies pleasure, then? Or do we needa' do that again?"

For a moment you consider telling him to shut up, but the horny outweighs the need to wipe that look off his face. So instead you lean in, eyes half lidded, and look at him down your nose; A finger under his chin to make him look back, though he isn't looking away from you. "Practise does make perfect, Harp."

"I couldnta' said it any better myself."

#Harper Alexander x Fem!AFAB!Reader #Harper Alexander x Reader #Harper Alexander x Reader Smutshot #Harper Alexander x Reader Oneshot #Harper Alexander #Smut #Horror Villains #Horror Villains x Reader

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straighttohellbuddy · 1 year

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Okay, I'm always interested in learning more about 'but you're talking in your sleep'. Obviously lvjy song and the mc's/your interest in literature are two important story details. How did you decide to intertwine those? Like, did you read you are jeff and decide to make a fic off of it, or did was it the songs that inspired it? Why did you decide to do both? Idek if this makes sense, tbh. But I'd love to know your though process, in general, regarding that fic.

oh YO this is perfect I love you im gonna ramble for a bit !!

also context; read but you're talking in your sleep (Wilbur/Sister-Innit!Reader)

So initially I was hyperfixated on Pebblebrain when it came out (weren't we all) and my song flavour was Oh Yeah, You Gonna Cry? and the very first idea I had was about the reader and Wilbur being best friends and former FWB after the reader starts dating a fuckboi, which I realised I've already kind of talked about here, but I'm happy to reiterate that the line 'say my name in her sleep/i thought you knew her better than me' and Wilbur just being the cockiest motherfucker without a shred of self awareness that he is very in love with the reader and that's the main reason he hates her boyfriend (who is also just a tool).

the idea to intertwine the lvjy and specifically siken is so unbelievably self indulgent; he's my favourite poet and has been for years, and Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out has been my favourite poem for a very long time. as for You Are Jeff, i can't remember exactly, but I think I saw the first few lines of the last stanza in like a webweave while I was looking for inspiration and I realised 'you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you he loves you, but he loves you' is the most precious, perfect summary of reader & wilbur's dynamic in the fic. this was also the basis of the part of the reader's characterisation where they always used allusions/implications/other people's words when they were afraid of speaking the truth. a few of these moments that i want to point out;

the first one is of course Do I Wanna Know?

literally all of the lyrics for this song. i tried to pick a few but holy shit all of this song -- the first time the song's mentioned when it's Y/N's karoke choice and then immediately calling Wilbur right after they'd chosen it I think the key lyrics are; 'Have you no idea that you're in deep? / I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week / How many secrets can you keep? / 'Cause there's this tune I found / That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat / Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee

the second time the song is mentioned is when Y/N and Wilbur go out to a pub with his flatmates in brighton and she starts humming it when they head to his bedroom, and it's just the whole second verse; So have you got the guts? / Been wonderin' if your heart's still open / And if so, I wanna know what time it shuts / Simmer down an' pucker up, I'm sorry to interrupt / It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you / I don't know if you feel the same as I do / But we could be together if you wanted to

the one that personally might break my fucking heart that Y/N is very familiar with Jubilee Line, which is already a fucking bleak song especially since she lives in London, and later has some implications about how if she didn't leave London she was going to jump in front of a train, but there's a little moment in the first chapter when she's on the phone with Wilbur right before she decides to come visit him -- “I’m everywhere. My mind’s everywhere. The walls shout back, I didn’t realise they could do that, or start the argum- I’m not making sense. I’m sorry.” -- it's such a blink and you'll miss it allusion but she's making a point to hide the truth she knows about Mark and her relationship by reference Jubilee Line and the lyrics 'shout at the walls because the walls don't fucking love you'.

In the final part, when Wilbur comes to pick up Y/N from the french cafe, and she's quietly moved by how much he cares about her in a way other people in her life seem not to -- before turning and beaming at him, thanking him again for coming all this way, adding that he didn’t need to worry; ‘no cause for concern’ is how you worded it, deliberate. -- Because 1) 'We ain't gonna hurt you' but also, as much as there is a more romantic final chorus to that song, she is also like 'you could knock the wind out of my breath / you could knock the teeth out of my head / and still it's no cause for concern' like she loves this boy who drove to another country for her, he can do whatever he wants forever in her books.

and one other one off the top of my head is the fact that the name she'd hidden Wilbur as in her phone is Pandora as a reference to the text conversation when they'd reconnected, yes, but also because He Gives Her Hope.

and now, on this already long post, im going to talk about the lovejoy lyrics that were "inspired" by Y/N in the fic (when its really the other way around)

Sex Sells gets an in-canon one; But the song he’d written about how Mark doesn’t love you he just loves that you’re his, that you hate him but you keep going back to him for reasons Wilbur still doesn’t fully understand, and now on top of it all you know that Wilbur can’t stop fucking thinking about it, about you, even when he’s trying to sleep? It’s accurate, and everything tastes like ash in his mouth for several bitter moments. How’d it go again? How’s it feel to be so loved, yet so alone? He’s got his answer, can hear it in your sobs as you sit on the steps of your boyfriend’s apartment two hours away.

So lets go through Pebblebrain

Oh Yeah, You Gonna Cry? is obviously a huge one lol, with a lot of what i drew Fucking Mark from;

You got the same eyes as your father / And you carry the same kind of temper too / But what a shame for the people of the community -- which ties directly in with another of the songs i'll get to, and this line from a flashback; “It’s a good school, though, I’m glad I got in, and Mark, he’s- he’s really sweet. It’s brave of him to move, even though I’m on campus and he’s not; none of his family’s lived outside of Nottingham for generations,” the face you’re making is close to a smile, to anyone else they might mistake it as such, but there’s a wrinkle in the bridge of your nose, a tightness at the edge of your smile, “he’s training to go into the same line of work as his dad, he’s just glad he can do it here,” you laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

But I quite like your girlfriend! / How the fuck 'd she end up with you? -- i think this speaks for itself

And she told me that she fuckin' hates you -- regarding the moment; Later, he’ll ask the question that’s been plaguing him, ask if you even like your boyfriend. Later, you’ll be wrapped up in his sheets, stretched out on his bed as your whole face scrunches like you’ve bitten a lemon, and he’ll have no idea what you mean when you tell him that that hasn’t mattered in a very long time.

the whole song is about Mark in this fic. the whole song. i love it so much.

Model Buses could also be arguably about Mark in some respects but I've held myself back from putting that thought into the fic.

I don't think Concrete has any real connections to the fic either, however.......

PERFUME, BAYBEEEEEEE

in the context of the fic, it's written mostly after the reader goes home from brighton after their affair with wilbur where they're clearly in love with each other and he's struggling to deal with that in a healthy way by writing the song. i could add analysis for LITERALLY EVERY LINE but i wont. just know it's all Y/N

It's 3:45 (AM) / And I just bite my tongue / Update me on your life / And now you've found the one / But I don't like his eyes -- hence his building almost resentment whenever they call him when drunk and insisting that mark's not as bad as he seems

And I can still smell her perfume -- because it's on his damn pillows.

You say your ex-boyfriend's a policeman / Well, I say you need better standards -- you remember how i said a line in OYYGC links to another song, well it's this, now, because with Y/N talking about Mark training to go into the same field as his dad, we also get this reveal, despite not drawing attention/connecting it to the earlier mention of Mark's chosen career being the same as his dad's; “Mark’s dad’s been chief of police in our town for as long as I can remember,” Tommy says with a sigh.

Why can't you be a dick? / Why must you be so nice? / It's hard for me to move on / When I don't really hate you / (I don't really hate you) -- this one's a lot of things, it's Wilbur fully acknowledging that he should not be cool with Y/N cheating emotionally and physically on her partner but still making peace with it despite the turmoil the situation has caused him. it's also him kind of frustrated at how despite Y/N rightfully calling him out for writing such a spiteful song as Sex Sells, they didn't take it as badly as they could have, and so he acknowledges that he doesn't actually believe what the song is saying about them. it's ALSO a deliberate echo of this moment; “I wish I could hate you more for this, but I don’t,” you mumble, soft and a little forlorn, heart not in your words as his aches. He should have kept that song to himself, like his gut had told him to.

You'll Understand When You're Older is an interesting one because I appreciate the actual meaning of the song a lot, but i also like adding my own to it, so the context here is it's half inspired by the Y/N situation and half by current events;

It must be nice to be the reason / His work, it ain't so bleak / That must be what motivates you -- there's spite here as he considers how little Mark appreciates Y/N and her love and kindness, with the veiled implication of 'if Wilbur were in Mark's situation these lyrics would be sincere'.

All he needs is to see you smiling / And well, you light up his whole week -- that implication and subtext moves straight up to text here. Wilbur is just talking about himself here.

Imagine thе kind of things he'd do to you / If there wеren't so many cameras -- calling back to their almost moment when Y/N had sat in on Wilbur's stream in brighton, refusing to reveal their identity;

“If you’ve got something to say,” insufferably smug, he watches you puff out your cheeks. Averting your gaze, you flip him off, hand in frame for the camera to see, “sook,” he teases, “just say what’s on your mind.” For a moment, your mouth drops open as if you’re about to say something, to call his bluff, but your gaze flicks to his webcam. What’s on my mind, you mouth pointedly when you look back to him; something about your expression has turned bashful for reasons he can’t quite fathom. You glance quickly at the camera again before shaking your head, you wish, you mouth, but can’t quite look him in the eye. There’s a serious moment where he considers ending the stream, because this feels like it could be a moment, a chance. He’s a hypocrite, he can’t begin to say what’s on his mind, won’t give himself the chance, getting back to his stream after another brief moment and a deep breath.

and of course;

And you're keeping a dark secret / But you're talkin' in your sleep -- Y/N loves Wilbur, not her longterm boyfriend. wilbur knows this because she talks in her sleep. <3

The Fall again isn't relevant.

and finally, in the fic, a lot of the lyrics and vibes were completed not too long after Y/N and Wilbur reconnected, before Are You Alright was even released, but Wilbur will never in his life (in this fic lol) admit that It's All Futile! It's All Pointless! was a heartbreaking hybrid of his own feelings/experiences, and kind of who Y/N had become in the two years since they'd seen each other, also what he had seen a little bit of after she reconnected with Mark when she and Wilbur had first met, while wilbur still tries to act like he's not in love with her. but it is, and he is.

HOLY SHIT OKAY THATS SO MANY WORDS but also a lot of that ive been holding onto for SO LONG and im so glad i got the chance to talk about it. seriously anything else abt the fic you wanna talk about because I love it TO DEATH. every day i fight the urge to explain the entire 46 song fic playlist. i lov u.

#wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur imagine #wilbur soot imagine #bytiys #shut ur pretty mouth

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oneofthemillionarmy · 2 years

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The Impossible Order | Ch. 8

Summary line: Mr. Min is a stoic boss who will never outwardly show appreciation for you. Not until you’re gone does he recognize how much you do. And what you do matters to him.

ceo!Yoongi | best.friend!Hoseok | romance, fluff, angst, and stuff

Loosely inspired by Secretary Kim and this third bullet point of the prompt list

Start from the beginning | Last Chapter

A/N: I tried researching on Jubilee celebrations in Bhutan, because I tend to want accuracy in my stories so they can be realistic, however Bhutan is small and relatively closed off from the rest of the world. I got some great sources, but nothing complete so this may end up looking like a very westernized and/or fake celebration…

“Prince and Princess, Mr. Min is here with his entourage.” Bhutan security announces Mr. Min, Seokjin, and you into the private dining room of a restaurant near the palace.

“Mr. Min, it’s wonderful to see you again”, the Princess gets up to greet Mr. Min.

“Yes. Hello, Princess Jamphel. You remember Seokjin and Y/N.” Mr. Min gestures to you and his best friend by his side. The Princess greets you and Seokjin as well.

“This is my brother, Prince Loday. He did not accompany me to meet you the first time because he was working on other arrangements for other guests who are coming in from out of the country as well.

“Please sit, we have the chef recommended lunch here.” Mr. Min is led to his seat next to the princess on her left, you on his right. Seokjin sits next to the Prince.

Without any prompts or gestures, the food is brought in bronze plates by servants lined up as strict as the military. Perhaps it’s because Mr. Min and Seokjin have already eaten breakfast and you only had coffee so far, because you’re trying your hardest not to scarf down the food and eating with as much decorum as you can muster in front of royalty, while Seokjin and Mr. Min take their time to adjust to a different culture’s taste.

Despite most of your focus is on how scrumptious the food is, you’re still listening to the conversation; organizing the information in your head that the Prince and Princess is giving to the men, regarding culture and the process of the ceremony. You already memorized it all on the plane ride here, and debriefed your employer and his colleague. However, you’re pretty sure they both need a refresher; Seokjin because he generally requires 2-3 times to retain large amounts of information and Mr. Min because you can tell by the twitch in his hands that he is missing his lunch coffee and he needs a distraction. Seriously, this man may need to go to rehab for his caffeine addiction.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Min? Mr. Kim?” The princesses brings her gaze towards Mr. Min and smiles at him. Mr. Min nearly twitches as he smiles back at the princess and politely says, “I believe your information has been very thorough. It sounds like a wonderful experience; I’m very grateful that I get to witness this myself.”

“Absolutely. It’s not every day Bhutan celebrates a queen’s Jubilee.” The prince moves to a new subject, “Speaking of which, my sister showed me some pictures of the queen’s gifts. I must say, my sister made a wonderful choice to have the biggest player in the gemstone industry to be assigned to the task. My sister has always been a big fan of your work and she really wanted to meet you for a long time. She may be a princess, but you are her celebrity.”

The princess shoots a sisterly warning look towards her brother as he laughs it off. Seokjin is attempting to hide his shit-eating grin as he tips his glass back towards his lips and shoots his own look to his friend. Mr. Min’s hand retreated to his lap as he twitched hand even more. Seokjin is dead to him for the rest of the lunch now. Since you are clearly his only confidante in this situation, he resorts to having you break the tension. Mr. Min lightly kicks your foot, almost catching you off guard.

“Prince Loday, Princess Jamphel, I believe I read somewhere that your queen has been extremely forward thinking in solving the environmental issues within your country for the past 8 years, is that true?” Seokjin smirks at you because he knows Mr. Min put you to it to change the subject. The princess doesn’t look to mad at that either; quite relieved towards you actually.

“Yes!” The princess immediately jumps in to the conversation before her brother could chime in. Enough of this teasing; her mother has made some very important feats to her country.

“Unfortunately, our country being where it is, is at risk of being severely affected by global warming: forest degradation, soil moisture, and crop diversity, to name a few. My mother has been in diplomatic business trips to discuss with the United Nations for an environmental support program. We are aiming to implement a 2030 long-term vision strategy with the UN assisting us. My mother is very ambitious, she has been researching passionately, mainly in water resources for rural, urban areas.”

“That’s quite impressive. I do believe our company is also looking into self-sustaining energy by 2030 as well, but nothing as remarkable as leading a whole country through environmental issues. Congratulations to your mother. She’s an inspiration for making such a vital footprint for environmental wellbeing within Bhutan.” You exchange with Princess Jamphel. Of all the overarching projects you get to work with, self-sustaining energy has been a very interesting project for you.

“Y/N, please make a note to organize a sizable donation to Bhutan on behalf of Genius Design.” Mr. Min attempts to speak subtly to you, as it’s not supposed to be an announcement, but Princess Jamphel overhears his words and smiles, “Thank you for your contribution, Mr. Min.”

“Yes, Mr. Min. I will take note.” for Jungkook, you think loudly, hoping that Mr. Min can hear your thoughts and be reminded that after this, you are back on your sabbatical. Since you know it’s not possible, in your head, you’re underlining, bolding, and circling Jungkook’s name on your mental notepad.

“This is also Bhutan’s first Diamond Jubilee for any Queen Regnant,” Princess Jamphel returns to admire her mother, “Most queens are much older by the time their sons reach 21, so it won’t take long until the queen turns 65, but my father passed before my brother was born, so my mother had to become Queen Regnant for a long time. She will turn 65 in three years, and that’s when she will step down.”

Your watch blinks to you it’s notifications and you notate the time. You lightly pat the napkin on your lips, “Pardon my excuse, I will be leaving to fetch the ceremonial outfits now.”

You’re excused by the table and leave the room. As soon as the doors are closed behind you, you breath in and let out a huge breath, whipping out your phone to make a quick call to Hoseok’s hospital to check in on his status. No change.

~•~

Mr. Min has never been to a royal ceremony before, and this was definitely a cultural learning experience. He stifled many yawns over the course of the celebration; not that he was bored or the celebration wasn’t stimulating in his observances, but he was without his coffee in the past 7 hours. Between Seokjin’s subtle pokes at his side when it looked like Mr. Min could have given up his energy, and Y/N’s soft whispers in his and Seokjin’s ear about what was happening, who is who, and any details about the ceremony that wasn’t informed during the lunch meeting, Mr. Min was able to get through the ceremony without dozing off or stressing out.

The people of Bhutan had many gifts and blessings to offer to the queen since the beginning of the queen’s arrival. Prior to that, the queen had traveled through the main road to greet her citizens. When the prince and princess finally present the queen with their gift, it will end the beginning of the ceremony and move to an hour of prayer to their religion. The queen was beautiful and dignified as she took the steps up the palace and acknowledged the three of you on her way up, as well as all the other international ambassadors and dignitaries.

You watched as the queen passed the two of you and came up to her children, who bowed to her and unveiled Seokjin and his team’s work. Everyone you could see and feel within your peripheral were nearly climbing over each other and tiptoeing to see the crown jewels. Mr. Min also felt it because you also saw in your peripheral that he lowkey puffed out his chest in pride when you both heard whispers and gasps. Princess Jamphel took a glance at Mr. Min, also noticing his posture straighten, and smiled with a nod. Mr. Min nodded back and you felt him shift because Seokjin elbowing him which caused him to lean into you a little bit. You shot them both a look reminding them where they are and they refocused their attention towards the queen again. You whispered basic translations to Mr. Min and Seokjin to let them know what was going on and preparing them for what’s going to heappen next.

Prince Loday gently placed the crown on his mother and Princess Jamphel handed her the scepter and orb into each of her hands. There was a rumble of drums, gradually growing louder and louder as the queen slowly turned. There was a hard stop, which made you question whether or not you’ve gone deaf or not, and everyone bowed towards the queen. You’ve never been in the presence of royalty before but you felt the air filled with authority from the queen and respect from her people.

The prayer session was pretty individualistic in terms of how it went. Everyone filed in line at the bottom of the palace and slowly went in turns to recite their prayers and presenting offerings to the Buddhist alter table. The royalty did so and the queen prayed for her country at the top of the stairs. The three of you also took your turns at the bottom of the steps too. You went first because you learned the mantras and said it to a certain volume that wasn’t disrespectful to others but Mr. Min and Seokjin can both hear it.

Since you were a little hasty this early afternoon eating the Bhutanese cuisine, this time you could really savor the flavors. Bhutan quite likes their spice because almost every dish had chilies and absolutely full of spice that you can taste in each part of your mouth. Normally you’re not much of a spicy person. Yoongi side-eyes you because he knows this all too well from client lunches and dinners and secretly spooned the spicy dishes from your plate onto his. Although you looked at him with gratitude, you at least took a spoon back and looked at him; letting him know by your eyes that you want to at least try everything in order to be respectful. So instead, Yoongi poured all three of you some water, deliberately placing yours in your hands. You were quite grateful to him for that as well because you needed a sip after one bite of each of the foods. At some point, Yoongi just wordlessly brought the rest of your food back on to his plate.

After the dinner, a series of dances were prepared for Her Majesty, similar to that of a parade, where groups of people danced through the crowd, each group wearing a different color. You couldn’t help yourself but record some of these dances since it didn’t really seem like there was a restriction towards it. Seokjin also joined you in it and shared his powerbank with you too. That’s when Yoongi couldn’t help himself to shake his head and you and Seokjin, but he couldn’t stop you two, especially seeing how happy you two seemed to be and chatting pointing out certain movements or outstanding dancers. The daylight already settled down and fire posts were being lit for people to continuing viewing the performances.

The arts and crafts celebration portion were where the citizens craft important symbols and animals of their culture. This lady provided instructions to children on how to fold, color, cut, and glue the different crafts they could make. You three were standing at the back of the table, watching the lady’s directions so you guys could follow along, since the rest of the adults clearly already knew what to do. You made a takin, Mr. Min made a raven, and Seokjin made the Himalayan blue poppy. The three of you lowkey started reverting to childlike behavior, as you are surrounded by children who are also playing with you all; you started making skits with the animal that another child made next to you. Mr. Min and Seokjin joined in and the child directed the play between all the animals.

The child clearly took a liking to Yoongi, because she lowkey pushed you away to stand next to him and act out her raven and his raven is going through a marriage ceremony, with your takin officiating the ceremony, making you and Seokjin giggle nonstop.

You went to get some water and Seokjin continued playing with the children while Yoongi found a way to redirect the child to playing with Seokjin as well. Taking a glance back to the child to make sure she didn’t follow him, he searched around to find you taking a sip of your water and came to your side.

“Shouldn’t you be with your new wife?” You teased, lower your cup while he poured himself his own.

“Shut up.” You both shared a lowkey awkward silence and continued sipping your cup. Or at least, you felt it was awkward as you were slowing drinking your water, figuring out what to say next because Yoongi is just staring at you from the side of his cup.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He noted. Your cup tilt back as you turned your head to watch people enjoy the cultural festivities.

“I mean, it’s been fun! A lot of cultural learning, beautiful dances, good food (but a bit spicy for me, but it was still good!), and the queen seems awesome!” You gushed at everything you’ve learned and experienced about the culture. Yoongi lightly smiled towards you, “I’m happy that you’re enjoying yourself.”

You looked up at him, your expression turning neutral, trying to hide your surprise. You knew he was looking at you! Every 20 minutes, you caught him glancing towards you since you lined up to wait for the queen.

“I…I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay for this trip.” Yoongi begins, “I know that this trip happened abruptly. I know you’re going through a lot personally. But if you’re at least enjoying it, I guess that’s all I can hope for while you’re here.”

There’s no way that he’s been worried about you. There’s no way that he’s been silently checking on you. Your expressions, your looks, your physicality if you’re too tired or not. The way that you’ve been carrying Seokjin and him on your back trying to make them presentable to royalty. The way that you’ve been taking care of him on the plane and car rides here. He knows you probably haven’t slept more than 3 hours at a time with the hectic schedule that you’ve had all day. He knows that this water break is almost the first time in the past 10 hours that you took a break at all. There’s no way that he’s been watching you for this reason.

Your cup nearly slips from your grip but you’re able to catch yourself. Although it was slight, Yoongi also saw it and instinctively shoots his hand out to grab it too. Your hand feels his warmth as he secures your grip.

Over the course of these years, you’ve had countless training on deescalating sexual tension between you and your boss. 7 accidental gentle touches when you both reach for the same file. 8 times where he catches you when you almost fall; 3 times where he catches himself before he falls with or against you. Twice where you were both stuck in an elevator for 2 hours. And a few times where he was feeling extra cheeky for no reason. Even last night when he flirted with you in the airport; it wasn’t your finest evasion technique, but as long as the conversation ended quickly, that’s all you an ask for.

You would never let yourself be caught in this situation where you get the awkward, sexual tension silence, especially not with your boss. Each time, you quickly move yourself away and return to the original conversation. Normally you wouldn’t really think anything of it, as you feel like it’s part of your job. He probably doesn’t even notice or feels the tension on all those times, so you’re not worried about him. It just helps you continue going through the day without staring blankly into space thinking about it.

Despite his intense gaze that heats up the back of your neck, your professional will is stronger and today is no different. As the moment his hand envelops yours, you bring your other hand up to take the cup and take another sip. But this time, you’re pretty sure Yoongi finally caught what you were doing and quickly withdraws his hand too. You ignore it to the best of your abilities and look away, “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Min, but I’ll be fine.”

His stare is burning through the side of your head but you shake off the feeling before that feeling of awkwardness resurfaces. Luckily, both of you are saved by the ringtone before you have to change the subject or Yoongi is able to process what just happened to everything that just happened.

“Excuse me, Mr. Min.” You quickly turn away from him and everyone to take the phone call. There is quite a bit of background noise from the festivities so you walk away further to take the call.

Yoongi tilts his head as he looks at your retreating figure and looks up just in time to see Seokjin staring back at him with the shittiest-eating-ass grin he’s ever seen in his entire life. Yoongi is just about to raise his most used finger towards his friend before a new voice captures his attention.

“Mr. Min.” Yoongi turns forward to see Princess Jamphel looking careful to find her words, “I wanted to know if you’d be interested in staying for the rest of the weekend for some more of the festivities. There will be some horseback riding, kite-flying, and games.”

“I –”

“Mr. Min!” Princess Jamphel and Yoongi looks up at the same time to see you running towards him. You bow to the princess before you turn to him, “I have urgent business to return home immediately.”

“What’s goin –"

“It’s personal.” Knowing what that means, Yoongi nods, “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Your figure escapes his vision in the darkness, making him feel like, for the first time, that you’re leaving his side. He almost forgets, “Mr. Min?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Would you like to stay for the rest of the weekend?”

“Apologies, princess. Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to. Please let your mother know that Genius Design would humbly accept another chance to work with the country of Bhutan. Please excuse me and my associate, we must cut our trip short.” Yoongi bows and turns away from the Princess, Seokjin following quickly as he’s been observing the whole thing.

The princess turns away from Genius CEO, and returns to her brother’s side.

“So? How’d it go?”

“I was not wrong.” The princess wipes away any disappointment on her face and returns her neutral but dignified expression towards her people, “He likes her.”

Back at the hotel, Mr. Min comes by to visit your room to see if there’s anything he can do to assist you, but it seems that you have already checked out.

“Did y/n get a chance to tell you why she had to leave?” Seokjin asks, one of his hands are in his pockets as he drinks his water.

“She only said it was personal.” Seokjin slowly nods and says his good night before he returns to his own room.

If only he were able to speak to you, Yoongi would have told you that he’d return with you. Since you’re already gone and everything else is laid out in the original plans, it seems like he’ll be leaving in the morning, at least 10 hours after you. Yoongi sighs and falls on his back on the bed with his hands supporting his head; replaying in his head the last 5 minutes he’s had with you tonight.

There are only so many reasons that would take for you to leave his side. And the only one that he goes back to, is that your friend is awake.

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 1 year

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Harry's Spare: Confirmed

Rumors and theories Harry confirmed in Spare.

Harry has an inferiority complex against William and plays “anything you an do I can do better” games via PR because of it.

Meghan’s neediness/insecurity lost Harry all his friends.

Sussex security lawsuits are because of Harry’s active-duty Afghanistan service and his belief that because he killed Taliban soldiers, they’re out for him.

Meghan and Harry’s drug/substance abuse issues are true.

Meghan wanted Diana’s tiaras for the wedding.

Archie pregnancy was announced at Eugenie’s wedding to family.

Meghan made Kate cry.

Sussexes planned a year-long PR strategy to reconcile with The Queen after the Netflix series and Harry’s memoir came out, probably saying they were pushed into being mean by producers/editors, to get more material for new content.

Since The Queen died, the reconciliation strategy reshifted its focus to Charles and William – want back in to have coronation and investiture content.

Meghan was clearly uninvited or disinvited to Balmoral as the Queen was dying.

Sussex tantrums delayed the others from the chance to be with the Queen before she died.

Sussexes were told off for their behavior while the Queen was dying.

Memoir was delayed to add content about Jubilee and Queen’s Funeral.

Meghan was furious about the way she was treated at the funeral but will pretend it doesn’t bother her to support the reconciliation strategy.

Harry’s memoir to be published in 2023.

Meghan leaked/planted stories that William forbade her from traveling to Balmoral.

Harry to go on a US book tour of Spare; no visits to the UK.

Charlotte’s bridesmaid dress was intentionally poorly-made/poorly-fitted.

Meghan wanted an emerald tiara or a bigger-than-Mary’s-tiara for the wedding.

Sussexes wanted a big London wedding with a balcony kiss and appearance afterwards.

Diana’s engagement ring had always belonged to William, was never in Harry’s possession.

Sussexes take freebies from companies despite it being against royal protocols and standards of conduct.

Meghan used freebies to justify her behavior towards KP staff.

Harry never kicked his teenage drug problem.

The BRF / Charles covered up Harry’s behavior and drug issues.

Harry’s book to go after William and Kate to delegitimize their royal status and office.

Royal family parentified William to Harry after Diana’s death.

Harry sees Kate as a “wicked stepmother”-like figure who stole William from him.

Meghan to write a tell-all about the BRF.

Meghan manipulated or threatened her staff/bullying victims (requiring NDAs, threatening to give bad references, holding their mistakes over them, etc.) to keep them from reporting mistreatment.

Meghan is jealous of Kate because of what she means to Harry and presented to Harry and Charles as Kate’s physical opposite.

Harry is in love with Kate in a not-brotherly way. (Interview)

Harry wants to move back to the UK. (Interview)

Meghan intends to sell her private journals from being a royal for large profit. (Interview)

Lawyers were involved with the book because of inconsistencies and demands to edit out inflammatory parts. (Scobie confirmed with a tweet about 50 pages being removed.)

All bridesmaid dresses were poorly made / poorly fitted except Ivy’s.

Meghan was an escort or involved in pay-for-play Soho schemes.

Sussex bullying allegations are true.

Camilla didn’t want to marry Charles, just wanted to stay his longtime companion in Gloucester. (Anonymous friends defense)

No ranking members of the BRF speak to the Sussexes due to risk of private conversations being used for public content / public argument. (Post-Spare article saying they speak through lawyers)

All necessary information the Sussexes need are shared via embassy, consulates, and secure lines to prevent direct 1:1 contact between Sussexes and senior royals.

Charles communicates with/handles Harry through writing only.

Meghan had a heavy hand in the writing of Harry’s memoir.

Harry never actually saw any combat, so claims that he killed 25 Taliban are an embellishment to justify need for security and IPP status.

Harry suffers from drug-induced paranoia and memory loss.

Harry to lash out over criticism about his book and silence from the BRF.

Meghan made up and spread the rumor about William having had an affair. (Post-Spare articles)

Harry used active-duty Afghanistan service to justify need for a more expensive wedding than William.

#confirmed #spare #i also sent this to empress

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causethisismyblog · 1 year

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Episode 5... Thoughts and comments/questions. Here you go!

This has been delayed because my life got crazy busy recently.... Not sure when I'll get to episode 6, but I still plan on doing it.

Was Simon going to break up with Marcus the morning after the ball? He went to the stables looking for him and ended up chatting with Sara instead.

The way the speech is talked about, it almost makes it sound like if Wille doesn't make this speech August automatically becomes the Crown Prince. Which I don't think is the case?

Fuck Jan-Olaf.

One of the reasons they don't let Simon sing his song as a jubilee is because it's a solo, and the original everyone can sing along to. But I distinctly remember in the first episode that the music teacher told him he would be able to sing a solo at the Jubilee. Am I mistaken?

Jan-Olaf never answered Wille When he aske if the song was changed because it was Simon.... He didn't even try to play it off

They had to have brought August into the line of succession not just as a backup for Wille, but as a threat to him. If you refuse to do this then August will become Crown Prince. His mother knows how much she hates him and how much he would fight against putting August in that position.

As much as I understand that Sara is upset over Rousseau does she not understand that Felice had no say over it? Her parents own the horse and have decided to sell it, and they don't seem like the kind of people who would take her concerns about the buyers either way.

I feel like if Erik was still alive he would hate everything that has conspired between the Royal Court and Wille and August.

The fact that Malin calls Wille, Wilhelm not Crown Prince. She called him Crown Prince in season 1, so he had to have had a conversation with her saying that he wanted her to call him by his name and not his title. Wilhelm seems incredibly uncomfortable anytime anyone calls him by his title.

Again the fact that nobody sees Sara and August in the hallway at Forest Ridge. Where the fuck did I get this luck from.

How long did Wille wait in the car for? And did he show up and talk to Linda before finding out that Simon wasn't home. And instead of waiting inside with Linda decided to go back to the car and sit by himself. Seriously. 😢

How Ayub says, did he say he'd give up the crown for you? Which is kind of what sounded like. But I think it's more so that Wille wants out of this life, it's clear he doesn't enjoy being Royal, but he wouldn't give it up to August out right. If he was to give it up to August he'd want it to be worth it, having Simon back would make it worth it.

I would love to see the process of how they get Malté crazy huge hair down to what August has.

The way Simon and Wille look at each other. Makes me feel so lonely in my real life.

Someone pointed out the mistake in the shirt between scenes of Wille and now I can't unsee it and it bothers the heck out of me.

🌯

I just love how much you can feel how much they needed each other in that last scene. It's just so beautiful and it breaks my heart.

#young royals #yr2 #simon #wille #wilhelm #simon x wille #simon x wilhelm #august #sara #ayub #malin #erik #episode 5 #love #this show is gonna be the death of me

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celticcrossanon · 2 years

Note

I was watching most things live about Queen Elizabeth’s passing, crying on and off. But the words that really brought it home was when Liz Truss ended her speech to the nation on September 8th with “God Save The King”. She said it so forcefully you can see she was caught by the emotion of it all. And she was doing it live too, which was very brave of her. That made it so real to hear those words for the first time by a prime minister.

Also Charles. Wow he impressed me. That he was good at statescraft is no surprise, he’s had 50 years practise. He spoke so lovingly of his mother, and then he conferred the POW titles on his son William and Catherine, his wife. I literally shouted out loud. Could this be happening? He listened to advice and warnings. They all noted the “Of Wales” use at polo and on court documents. Plus Charles wants to separate himself as quickly as possible from the POW title and identify as King Charles. So he killed two birds with one stone. And just 24 hours after his moms passing too. The overseas duo had no time to plot and plan their months long pr assault about POW titles, and Haz being equal to William. Charles expressed his much love theme, on their new life overseas. It was very clear. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. No pr to spin there. Never, ever, never cross a Scorpio. You will never know stick the knife in.

Now rumours about Mrs overseas flew Doria in and is seeking help and advice from Oprah. She supposedly wants a prominent role in the funeral. No dice missy. Not after the cee you next Tuesday interview. Poor Haz must be like a deer in headlights now. Well buddy, there are consequences. No one wanted to touch you while gran was alive, but you pissed all over that. I’d be very shocked if we went back to California with her. No wonder she called in Doria for reinforcements. Where’s Marcus when you need him?

Hi AnonymousRetired,

I was pleased that His Majesty put the Harkles in their place so quickly and publicly. Whatever the reasons behind it, it was something that needed to be done and I am glad it was done. I think it was a good move to hand on the Prince of Wales title as well. As you said, it helps Charles in his identity as King and I think it will be a popular move among the general public, as well as shutting down all the Harkle equivalency PR, again as you have said. Lots of things accomplished by one Letters Patent making William the Prince of Wales.

The rumours about Meghan show what an ongoing nuisance she is going to be to the BRF. I now have hopes that His Majesty will say No to her instead of bending the rules for her, in line with the current treatment of the Harkles since the jubilee (i.e. putting them firmly in their place). I hope that Harry leaves her, but I don't know. I think she is now going to hang onto him until after the coronation, so it will be up to him to take the initiative and leave. I just don't know if Harry is up to doing that, or if her repeated (failed) promises of fame and fortune will continue to keep him at her side.

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grandmaster-anne · 1 year

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Camilla The down to earth Duchess

Words by Juliet Rieden, Photography by The Duchess of Cambridge | Published 13 July 2022

It’s early afternoon on the first day of Platinum Jubilee celebrations in London and the Duchess of Cornwall has had a frenetic, thrilling and at times unexpected morning. Just a few hours ago she was seated with her stepdaughter-in-law Catherine and the rambunctious Cambridge trio – Prince George, Princess Charlotte and Prince Louis – in a magnificent horse-drawn barouche, the royal children barely able to contain their excitement as they waved furiously at the tens of thousands lining the route from Buckingham Palace down The Mall. On horseback behind them were the husbands of these two future queen consorts, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, resplendent in full military regalia.

In the week leading up to the event, the two duchesses had also been together, this time at Camilla’s private home, Ray Mill House in the rural county of Wiltshire, where Catherine turned photographer for our very special garden shoot. The Duchess of Cambridge’s prowess behind the lens is well documented in her many photos of her children, but this is the first time she’s taken an official portrait of her stepmother-in-law. In her royal life the Duchess of Cornwall has had to get used to being constantly photographed, but it’s not a comfortable place, so having Catherine take these birthday celebration photos is very welcome.

The bond between the two wives of Windsor is evident and the shots capture the Duchess off-duty and relaxed in one of her favourite places: her garden.

Back to today, and after the pageantry and crowds of the parade, all is calm in Clarence House’s elegant Morning Room, where the Duchess and I sit down for a wide-ranging and surprisingly personal interview. “I’m still in Trooping dress,” she apologises, looking down at her outfit, its striped pastel shades blending in with the soft blue of the famous room which was the Queen Mother’s favourite when she lived at Clarence House and which today is bathed in sunlight. “It’s lots of ribbons sewn together. Very clever. I can’t sew anything,” she chuckles. “I did mean to change into something more casual, but I thought I would keep everybody waiting.”

I first met the Duchess at Clarence House a decade ago. She was preparing for her inaugural visit to Australia with Prince Charles, and in advance of the tour I was invited to spend a week shadowing her. Since then I have continued to follow the Duchess as her royal work has burgeoned along with her profile, but this is the first time she has agreed to a private interview.

Casting her mind back to that first taste of Australia, Camilla smiles. “I think he [the Prince of Wales] always wanted to take me there and show me what it was like. He was proved absolutely right. I love Australia,” she declares.

Prince Charles’ unique connection with this country began when he was 17 and went to school at Geelong Grammar, his first major visit overseas and a chance to escape the royal bubble at a very formative time for the young heir apparent. “He’s always spoken about it, his time at Timbertop, which he said was pretty hard but he loved it. Probably after Gordonstoun [the Prince’s school in Scotland known for its “character building” regime and where he was bullied by some of the boys], it was light relief to go to Timbertop. He said everybody was very kind and easygoing and I think it toughened him up.”

The Duchess says that, like her husband, she appreciated what she affectionately calls the “take it or leave it” spirit of Australians. “I like that everybody’s down to earth and they say what they think. I’d much rather people were out there saying what they think than beating round the bush, telling you a lot of porkies. And I like the Australian humour. You have a jolly good laugh with them. I just think it’s a lovely country. This year we were ready to go back again, but we just couldn’t fit it into the Jubilee schedules. But we’ll be back soon, I hope.”

In the meantime, the couple closely follows what is going on in Australia, and during the Black Summer bushfires in 2019, GIVIT charity CEO Juliette Wright OAM was blindsided when out of the blue she received a message from the Duchess’ team. “I was giddy with excitement,” confesses Juliette. “The Duchess was devastated by what she was witnessing on the television, her heart was going out to people affected by the bushfires, and she said she would like to give a personal donation to support an animal charity and also a charity that’s helping people on the road to recovery.”

In the interests of raising awareness, the Duchess allowed GIVIT to mention her support on social media. The response was immediate – a 46 per cent increase in traffic to the website. “I’ve never seen such a spike in donations. It was like she created a cyclone of giving just by her act of generosity, so more donations were flowing to those in urgent need,” says Juliette who, seizing the day, asked if the Duchess would become their patron. “They came back a day later and said she would be honoured.”

Queen Consort

The Duchess celebrates her 75th birthday on July 17 – a milestone not least because, at a time when most of her peers are kicking back and smelling the roses, she is preparing for the biggest job of her life. When the Queen used her February Platinum Jubilee message to express her “sincere wish” for Camilla to be known as Queen Consort “when my son Charles becomes king”, she rubberstamped the monarchy’s future and her daughter-in-law’s title. Public opinion, which had vacillated on the topic, noticeably shifted. While Camilla has never sought the limelight, her quiet and dedicated service was there for all to see. She would be our next Queen.

“Obviously it’s a great honour and I was deeply touched for Her Majesty to have given me this role,” says Camilla, who as Consort will be following in the footsteps of the late Duke of Edinburgh. It was the Duke, she says, to whom she often turned for counsel while learning the royal ropes. “The Duke of Edinburgh was always a very good ear. He was a role model to me and a very good person to take advice from because he always told me what he thought, which was very helpful, especially with things about the army because I took over the Rifles [regiment] from him.

“He was always two steps behind the Queen, which for a man must be much more difficult than for a woman – and somebody as macho as he was, who’d commanded ships. So I think [from the Duke] I learned that your place is several feet behind the monarch. You’re there as a back-up.”

It’s a role she could never have imagined when growing up in rural England playing with her ponies. But I suspect it’s that practical, carefree country childhood which gave Camilla the stable basis to cope with the roller-coaster of royal life in the spotlight.

“I was one of the very lucky ones. I had the idyllic childhood right in the country, sitting on the South Downs with my brother and my sister and our pets and our ponies. I think it was a very simple childhood,” she says, casting her mind back. “Sometimes in the summer we used to ride to school on our ponies, probably something that’s more Australian than English, but we used to ride and then tie them up and ride back again. It just shows how things have changed, because in those days there was nothing on the roads. Can you imagine now letting a child ride to school with its satchel on its back? I mean it wouldn’t happen,” she laughs.

Young Camilla Shand was nine years old and in heaven. “It didn’t happen very often, but when it did it was lovely. We just pottered along this very pretty road with two or three cars going past. Life was very laid-back. The awful thing is, I suppose I thought life was always going to be like that … It certainly gave us all a very good grounding, because we could start off with a smile on our face. As far as I remember it was perfect.”

Camilla was the eldest of three and she, Annabel and Mark were a tight-knit unit. “I never took the lead very much, we just did things together. My brother had a very bad temper and was quite spoiled sometimes, but it was very evenly shared out.”

Life lessons

Their mother was the glamorous and well-connected Rosalind Shand (née Cubitt), who hailed from a wealthy aristocratic family and was ‘Debutante of the Year’ in 1939. Camilla was very close to her and says the greatest lesson she taught her children was the art of small talk, something that certainly prepared her for royal life.

“My mother was absolutely brilliant at making us speak to people,” the Duchess recalls. “She used to have people to dinner; it didn’t matter who it was, old or young, some of them we thought were incredibly boring, but she used to sit at the end of the table and say: ‘Talk! I don’t care whether you’re talking about your pony or your homework, just talk!’ She was also quite forthright and never minced her words.”

Putting people at ease in formal situations is now part of her daily work and something the naturally gregarious Duchess enjoys, but she notes that taking the lectern for speeches – which she is called to do with increasing regularity – is torture. “I get petrified making speeches,” she says. “I hate every moment of it. People always say it’ll get better and sometimes I find it’s all right if I really know my subject, but sometimes [I get] that awful thing beforehand of really shaking and feeling seriously sick.

“The first speech I ever made was about osteoporosis in Lisbon, before I was married, and the night before I was out of bed tying my sheets together to see if I could escape and go home. I’m never going to enjoy it.

“My husband is very good; he loves it. Because he’s a very good actor, I think. You’ve got to have a bit of acting experience. I was the worst actor in the whole school. If I was given one line to say, it always came out backwards. So I think speeches – no, they’re never going to be my favourite things.”

Camilla’s father, Major Bruce Shand, was a dashing officer in the British Army who was captured by the Nazis in World War II. He married in 1946 and left the army in 1947, but growing up Camilla knew very little about his war years. Then decades later he started to open up to his grandchildren.

“We couldn’t get him to talk about it. Yet when my children [son Tom and daughter Laura] and my sister’s children came along, especially the boys, he started to,” she says. “He was captured at El Alamein and was very lucky, really, because he was shot. He was in an armoured car, about 100 yards from Rommel’s encampment, when my father opened his mouth to shout a command at his wireless operator and the bullet came zinging from the German, went through one side of his cheek, out the other and killed his wireless operator. It was extraordinary because it missed all his vital organs, his tongue, his teeth, but obviously his face was blown to pieces. Then a second bullet got him through the leg.”

Major Shand was held captive. “He remembered Rommel in his greatcoat walking off and climbing aboard a tiny aeroplane. That was probably the last time he was seen!” As an injured prisoner of war, Camilla’s father was taken to a hospital in Greece, where “there was the most brilliant plastic surgeon. Nobody had ever sewn up anybody from the inside [of their mouth] before. You would have never known my father had anything wrong. Afterwards he was shipped back from Greece to Spangenberg Castle in Germany, where he was a prisoner for two and a half years.”

The Major, who died in 2006, a year after Camilla married Prince Charles, would undoubtedly have loved to have seen his daughter playing such a key role in the Trooping the Colour parade. “He’d be so pleased knowing that I was Colonel-in-Chief of the Rifles now. I don’t think anything would have made him more proud,” she adds wistfully.

Losing Rosalind

Camilla’s mother didn’t live long enough to see her daughter marry into the monarchy. She died “far too young” in 1994 at the age of 72 following a long battle with osteoporosis.

“She was in her mid-60s when she got it,” says the Duchess. “Nobody in those days knew anything about osteoporosis. So when she suddenly used to scream, which she did if somebody touched her, we thought, ‘Why is she making such a fuss about this? It can’t be that painful.’ She was a strong woman, capable of anything, but she shrank and she shrank and she started bending over like a croquet hoop. It affects your stomach and lungs, so her breathing became very bad. She couldn’t eat much food and was in agony the whole time.

“We were at such a loss to know how to help. She used to go to the doctor who would say, ‘There, there, you’re old and frail, all old people get the dowager’s hump, that’s what happens!’. She gave up in the end. She was a wonderful gardener, but she couldn’t garden, she couldn’t do anything at all.”

The pain of losing her mother to this cruel but preventable disease is with Camilla every day. “It was terrible, because we felt so helpless,” she adds.

That experience inspired her 21 years ago to become President of the Royal Osteoporosis Society (ROS). Increasing bone strength is crucial, she says, to preventing the onset of osteoporosis, and one of the latest initiatives she can’t get enough of is the Silver Swans, a dance class for over-55s launched by the UK’s Royal Academy of Dance, whose president is ballerina Darcey Bussell, and Camilla is now the Academy’s Vice Patron.

The Duchess tells me she will never forget the first time she saw some “Swans” in action. “They were taking me around [the Academy] and said, ‘We’ve got a Silver Swans class.’ I said, ‘What’s that?’ ‘It’s ballet for people getting on.’ I said, ‘You must be joking’ and thought to myself, ‘Oh dear, we’re going to have to sit through a lot of very old people crashing about all over the place. I don’t know how I’m going to keep a straight face.’ I went in with my teeth gritted, biting my lip, mustn’t laugh – but some of these people, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

Camilla was so impressed she decided to join. “I said to the dance teacher, ‘Would you ever take a private class? I’ve got a few friends who’d be very interested.’ So she comes here when I’m in London and we crash about very happily and it’s great fun.

It’s jolly hard work – you get really involved and I find it’s a really good way to exercise.”

The Duchess’ support of the program has had a huge impact, Darcey tells me. “She’s very happy to talk about her own experience. She’s very funny, too. When we had the opening of the new headquarters of the Royal Academy of Dance recently, she came into a class of Silver Swans. There were men there as well, some in their 80s, and she was like, ‘Oh gosh, they’re much better than me’, and I suddenly saw her competitive spirit coming through.”

I ask the Duchess if she has managed to recruit her husband yet. She shakes her head, laughing. “He’s a very good dancer and loves ballet, but I’m not sure how good he’d be on his tippy-toes.”

As a young girl the Duchess had lots of dance lessons but never ballet. “At school we had once-a-week dancing, rather like Strictly [Strictly Come Dancing, Britain’s version of reality TV show Dancing with the Stars]. We learned the waltz and the quickstep, the cha-cha-cha and the Charleston, but I was always the boy so I always pushed people around the floor. Even now I find it quite difficult going the other way.”

Strictly is one of the Duchess’ favourite TV shows and also – apparently – a hit with Her Majesty. “I love seeing people who can’t dance at all. They arrive with no sense of rhythm, and then you see them progress and they end up as professional dancers.”

The Duchess has now developed a friendly bond with Aussie dancer and Strictly judge Craig Revel Horwood. The unlikely couple met in 2008 working on a “Boogie for your bones” campaign for the ROS. Camilla came to an event and they ended up on the dance floor together.

“I thought she was going to be terribly posh and aloof,” says Craig. “But actually she was so down to earth, so full of beans, such a great dancer and totally up for all of it. I never thought for one moment we would ever get into holds and start doing a cha-cha-cha in front of everybody, but we did! My family was sitting around the six o’clock news at home in Ballarat, Victoria and then suddenly I came on dancing with the future Queen of England!”

Over the years Craig has been a regular at royal functions and says the Duchess and Prince Charles are a fantastic couple. “They have a laugh, and they care about people,” he shares. “I think it’s taken people time to get used to the fact that they are together, but their relationship has really shone and that’s what people pick up on.”

Darcey Bussell agrees with that. “Obviously there were tough times with Diana and that whole transition, but marrying Charles and realising what a bond they have and a force of positive strength [they are] together, I think that has really resonated with the public.”

Finding her voice

In her royal work Camilla talks to strangers from every walk of life, and while she is naturally a shy person, her ability to connect with those she meets, no matter their background or circumstances, has become her secret weapon. It’s something Jude Kelly, CEO of the Women of the World Foundation, has watched unfold. “The Duchess has a clear sense that she has a powerful voice and she wants to use it for people who don’t have a powerful voice. She’s chosen to use it for women who are dealing with horrendous levels of violence.”

This work has become a significant focus for Camilla, who will never forget the moment that sparked her involvement. “It was when I first went to a meeting of SafeLives – in 2016 – of which I’m now patron. It was unbelievable. We all sat around in a circle and six women told their stories. I remember sitting opposite this woman who was about my age and she wasn’t talking, but her daughter’s friend got up to talk and I watched this woman’s face, which was tragic, and I knew something awful was going to come out. Her friend told the story of Jo, who was married to a British Airways pilot, very wealthy, they lived in the middle of Ascot, two children, and he’d been abusing her. Eventually the police came in, he had a restraining order and he wasn’t supposed to visit her.

“For some reason he was allowed to see the two children, so he took them out for the day and instead of dropping them where he was supposed to, he brought the children back into the house, took out a cleft hammer and beat his wife to death. Fourteen blows on the head, with the children in the next room.

“We all sat there in complete and utter silence. Nobody could breathe, desperately fighting back tears. It shocked me so much. I watched this woman, who was my generation, aged 70, and was going to have to bring up her grandchildren because her daughter was dead and that father was in prison.”

The Duchess knew she had to act, and while the SafeLives charity is a long way from usual royal patronages, issues of domestic violence, rape and coercive control have become a calling. “I think they were very surprised. But it’s just something that gripped me. I couldn’t just let it go. At least I can try to do something that might help others by standing and shouting about it.”

Away from her public life, Camilla’s favourite role is grandmother. “I’ve just said goodbye to several [of the grandchildren] who’ve been staying here for Trooping. That’s the best role there is,” she says, beaming. “The girls are becoming teenagers, which is a bit of a worry. I’d quite like to put a lid on their heads and make them small again because they’re all sweet and scrubbed and nice. Now they’re quite keen to have a good argument!

“They’re just fun to be with. I love being with them, eating together, going to see a film or a play. They’re great enthusiasts. And it’s always nice to be in touch with that generation because it keeps you abreast of young people’s feelings and ideas. It also makes me think how much has changed between their childhood and my childhood. Things are so different. The idea of us having these phones full of games and everything else they can do with them, and then they seem to get on aeroplanes and go here, there and everywhere. We hardly knew what an aeroplane was. I think it’s a much more difficult world that they’re growing up in than the world I grew up in.”

If Camilla has wisdom to impart it would be, “Be yourselves. Just do what you think is right, but if you’re worried in any way about it, take advice from somebody older and wiser because I think young people can help old people. That’s why we get on so well. We’re different ends of the spectrum. They can learn a lot from us, but we also can learn a hell of a lot from them. I remember I always went to my grandmother to get advice, so I rather hope they might come to me.”

And finally to 75, a number Camilla is not celebrating. “Nobody particularly wants to be 75, but I can’t do much about it. I think you’ve just got to get on with life and make the most of what you’ve got left.”

See page 181 to discover The Duchess of Cornwall’s favourite Australian novel, reviewed exclusively for The Weekly.

SHONA WILLIAMS. DESMOND O’NEILL. SHUTTERSTOCK. STEVE SOLOMONS/PA WIRE. GETTY IMAGES.

#queen camilla #i loved reading this!#should've read it sooner #The Australian Women's Weekly #article #interview #princess of wales

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nicklloydnow · 7 months

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“North, slight and pale, sits behind the wheel wearing jeans with holes at the knees and a t-shirt adorned with a Mount Rushmore of Communism: Lenin, Mao, Marx, Stalin, and Trotsky. His stringy hair is dyed black, like it was back in the early 2000s when he played guitar with a pack of rabid Hollywood wolves called the Icarus Line and then toured the world with Nine Inch Nails for a few years starting in 2005. Small red blotches dot his face, a reaction to the antidepressant Lamictal, one of a half-dozen or so such medications he’s on. He cracks his knuckles nervously at stoplights, plays his muddy Stooges bootleg CD loudly, and speaks in a ceaseless rush of words. It’s been a while since he had an audience.

“This over here,” he says in his trembling California-dude accent as we creep past an armpit of a bar, “that’s where Charles Bukowski used to drink. He’s one of my favorite writers — him and Henry Miller. I had a Kerouac phase after I quit music where I thought I was going to drive around and write all the time. See the back? See the carpeting? I figured I’d sleep in my car. I did that, but I never really did the Kerouac thing. I should’ve written three books by now and I haven’t finished one yet, so what’s the fucking point? That’s just how my brain works. Okay, we’re coming up to where David Bowie and Iggy Pop used to cruise for teenage girls. I’m obsessed with those kinds of facts. I can’t get enough of them. It’s like, ‘This is what happened.'”

North knows that undisputed facts are luxuries afforded the stable, sober, and dead. Over the last few years — to varying degrees of his own dismay — he’s struggled to achieve any of those three states.

(…)

“Aaron was the best, most entertaining guitar player I ever saw,” swears Queens of the Stone Age bassist Michael Shuman, who briefly played with North in the latter’s ill-fated post-NIN project, Jubilee. “He had this wildness to him onstage. He would scare you in a mind-blowing way. Everyone I knew in L.A. wanted to be in a band with him.”

And now? Shuman exhales deeply. “I honestly haven’t heard from him in forever. I don’t know if I want to get into it. We had some problems and then he sort of vanished. I hope he’s doing okay.”

By most standards, Aaron North is not doing okay. He’s 34 years old and, by his estimation, has the body of a seventysomething. When he looks in the mirror, he sees a “junkie-looking motherfucker” — despite, he says, having been straight-edge for a decade. In order to pay for his various medications, he draws the maximum amount of state welfare. He tells me that his treatment was a nightmare of incompetent doctors and labyrinthine bureaucracy, but now he feels like he’s finally found the right prescriptions. He uses an EBT card to buy food and attends group therapy multiple times a week.

Sometimes, North says, he sleeps at his mom or dad’s house. (His parents are divorced.) His grandmother is ill, so occasionally he goes to her home to help care for her. There was a period when some fans let him crash on their couch for a while, and he has a rental storage unit in Redlands, California, 70 miles east of Hollywood, where he keeps his musical gear, some of it still in road cases bearing the Nine Inch Nails logo. But the space has also doubled as a place to spend too many low and lonesome nights.

That is his situation, as he tells it, and it is actually far better than it once was. Up until about 18 months ago, when he hit upon a sustainable combination of medications and behavioral therapies for his bipolar disorder and severe depression, North had abandoned contact with nearly all his former best friends and musical partners. He has not played music in public since late 2008. His Internet presence petered out around 2011 — strange for someone who was a key contributor to a website, Buddyhead, that once drew millions of readers. His seclusion was so total that in the spring of 2012, an Icarus Line fan page posted an image of a milk carton with the words “Have You Seen Me?” written above the guitarist’s face. North, a sort of L.A. rock Zelig who counted Trent Reznor, Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme, and Tool’s Maynard James Keenan among his friends and collaborators, had been a beacon. Then he went dark.

“He was one of the only motherfuckers I saw when I first got into making music who was killing rock and raping roll,” says Eagles of Death Metal frontman Jesse Hughes, who means that as high praise and who, like so many others interviewed for this piece, warily counts himself as a “former” friend of North’s. “He had courage at a time in rock when it was real easy to talk big but demonstrate cowardice. He did unbelievable shit.”

Onstage with Icarus Line and later with Nine Inch Nails, North radiated a scarily intense charisma, stabbing his amplifiers with his instrument, spewing psychedelic guitar sleaze, and giving himself over to the thrilling don’t-give-a-fuckness that signals authenticity in rock’n’roll and a severe problem everywhere else.

(…)

I ask North when he realized there was something wrong with him, something that couldn’t be attributed to being a Black Flag fan in a white-flag world. “I would have these rages,” he says. “I remember one time in high school this teacher’s-pet motherfucker locked the classroom door on me five seconds before the tardy bell rang. I lost it. I smashed my hand through the classroom window. I felt like I was in the right, but I knew my reaction was not appropriate. I knew something was wrong with me. That’s the first manic episode I consciously remember having. But I just figured they’d eventually go away. I didn’t want to think there was something wrong with me, so I never tried to get help.”

(…)

The high (or low) point of the band’s performing career occurred at a 2002 gig in Austin, Texas. In the middle of a set at the Hard Rock Café during that year’s South by Southwest, North used his mike stand to smash a display case holding a guitar that once belonged to Texas blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughan. The incident was widely reported, the stories often depicting North as some sort of rock’n’roll black knight who’d pulled a magical sword from a phony corporate stone. “I wasn’t trying to liberate that guitar,” North says, cracking his knuckles again. “We were playing a show we didn’t want to play at a shitty club. People were spitting on us from the balcony. I snapped.”

He shakes his head. “Everyone said it was great. It wasn’t great. I had a meltdown, and I was championed for it. I was having a fucking manic moment in public. That’s why I did all those things I used to do: serious mental problems. But I kept thinking it would get better. I never told anyone what was wrong with me, so who knows what other people thought about why I behaved like a fucking maniac sometimes.”

Accordingly, the true nature of North’s behavior was hard for others to gauge. “We’d be in the studio, and there’d be a little technical problem, and Aaron’s pupils would go from little dots to grapefruits in seconds,” Sidel remembers. “He’d start shaking. We were like, ‘Calm down, it’s an easy fix.’ And he was like, ‘I can’t help myself.’ I thought it was perfectionism, you know?”

(…)

At the same time that the Icarus Line were whipping themselves into a frenzy onstage, North was doing the same to readers online via Buddyhead. Started by North pal and Idaho transplant Travis Keller in 1998, the byline-free site mercilessly skewered what it saw as a rock scene fat with talentless poseurs — and did so in a bombastically judgmental proto-Twitter tone. (“You’d have to smoke crack for this to sound good,” began one review of the Libertines’ 2004 self-titled debut.)

“There was so much bullshit in music, and no one was being honest about it, so we decided to speak up,” says North of the site’s mission. “Limp Bizkit were talentless assholes, so that’s what we said — over and over.”

Keller and North (the latter of whom quit the Icarus Line in 2005, and Buddyhead in 2008) were also fed salacious celebrity gossip: Who was fucking whom, using what, fighting when. And if confirmation was what you desired, the dirt often came attached with a phone number for the celebrity involved. This was good for attention — the site reportedly was earning as many as 12 million page views per month — and a steady source of income for lawyers.

“We were constantly getting cease-and-desist letters,” says Bryan Christner, Buddyhead’s attorney in those days. “I have a bunch from Courtney Love. I actually pulled out one of those not that long ago because I needed to see an example of a highly aggressive cease-and-desist. It’s a good thing that litigation is so expensive, otherwise they’d have gotten in a lot more trouble than they did. I helped them because I thought what they were doing was brilliant, and it’s a shame Aaron went away, because he was the one behind it with the pen full of poison.”

“The reality,” says Dillinger Escape Plan guitarist Ben Weinman, speaking on the phone from his home in New Jersey, “is that Aaron North is a hard person to believe.”

North and Weinman were close once, having become friends when the Icarus Line and Dillinger toured together. “When he joined Nine Inch Nails, it was the perfect scenario — it was like the good guys won,” Weinman recalls. “He never kissed ass to get somewhere. He didn’t drink or do drugs. He was this lone-wolf person who didn’t fit in anywhere but found really amazing creative outlets. But Nine Inch Nails didn’t work out. It made him obnoxious: ‘Yeah, I fuck models now — go piss off.’ He’ll blame his situation on this, that, or the other, but he’s not always telling a straight story. His resume alone should’ve allowed him to keep being in good bands. So why isn’t he? It can’t just be because he’s mentally ill. That doesn’t make sense.”

But how could it? North says that after signing up for NIN in ’05, he was squeezed by a relentless touring schedule, under pressure to be at his wildest night after night, frightened to tell others about the demons in his head. He claims he did not have any addiction problems, and that those with damaging things to say about him are interested in revisionist history or simply have incomplete knowledge. Painkillers were necessary at times — canceling shows was not an option — even if they would counteract what he calls his “crazy pills.” So maybe he wasn’t so nice to his old friends all the time? If that’s a punishable offense, just about every human who suddenly earns fame and money should be up against the wall.

“Aaron North is different things to different people,” says Buddyhead contributor Tom Apostolopoulos. “I never had a problem with him. I love him, but there was also a time when I couldn’t deal with the kinds of things he’d get involved in.”

Like what? “I’d rather not get into it. You should talk to Travis or Joe.”

I tried to, and was shut down. North’s two closest ex-colleagues —Buddyhead’s Keller and the Icarus Line’s Cardamone — refused to speak to me for this story, other than to express disgust over the various shady ways in which their former comrade caused them pain. They were clear, though, in sharing their belief that writing about North was a misguided waste of time. He’s a destructive force, they told me, and he shouldn’t be rewarded with attention.

Theirs was not an isolated reaction. Others would speak about North only on condition of anonymity. I was told that he skipped out on debts and spread hurtful lies, and that he was not a victim. I was told that he was a manipulator who prided himself on being clean while gobbling painkillers, then explained his actions by saying the pills were necessary in order to ease back pain caused by years of sacrificing his body onstage.

(…)

Still, suspicions persist. “I’d be careful about giving him the most empathetic possible understanding,” said a former running mate of North’s who wished to remain nameless. “Whatever situation he’s in now, I’m telling you right now that there is no fucking way that it’s possible he’s clean. Clean and sober is not merely being off of street-illegal drugs. When someone is telling you about how many medications they’re on or how suicidal they are, are they doing it because they really need help, or are they manipulating you and trying to get you to be sympathetic?”

(…)

From their perspective, North brought “a certain chaos to the band,” Reznor tells me now. “That live incarnation of Nine Inch Nails was an amazing, unpredictable thing. He helped make it that. I just don’t know that he was equipped to handle it in the long term.”

“Aaron brought pay-offs onstage to the band,” adds drummer Josh Freese, whose time in NIN overlapped with North’s. “He would trash his guitar or give it to someone in the crowd at the end of a show. Or he used to drag his cabinets into the security pit and throw them into the audience. We used to joke around and say, ‘We’re having an off night. Go ahead and trash some gear, Aaron.'”

But, adds Freese, “He’d go too far.”

North’s voice, already thin, recedes into a whisper as he shares an unintentional moment over the edge. “It was at a show in Wisconsin,” he says. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong on purpose. It’s too chaotic and loud onstage for the techs to see you or hear you if your microphone breaks. So there are these drop zones that you’re just supposed to drop the mike stand into, and someone would bring you another one. And this security guard is standing in the drop zone. The zones are marked with neon tape. People are told specifically not to stand in the drop zones because it’s dangerous. I just dropped it down.” He cracks his knuckles. “These are custom mike stands, and they’re fucking heavy. This security guard was standing there. The stand knocked him out. It scalped him. I felt so terrible. He sued me and the band [in 2006]. It got settled, but I was like, ‘I’m just getting worse.’ I wasn’t supposed to even be in the band that long. I’m six kinds of crazy, state-certified crazy. I couldn’t deal with it.”

Reznor also says that North’s offstage antics eventually began to mimic his onstage unpredictability. “He started behaving erratically. It got difficult to have him around. I was still somewhat newly sober at the time, and basically just went to my hotel room and closed the door after the shows, but later I learned that there was some stuff going on that maybe explained Aaron’s behavior.” He leaves it at that.

This notion of an explanation is problematic. Did Aaron North have a drug problem? He says he didn’t. Was he mentally ill? Clearly. But regardless of the cause, he was clearly suffering, and so were the people around him. “There was so much pressure,” he says, recalling the circumstances that led him to finally leave Nine Inch Nails in 2007. “I was picking the opening bands,” he claims. “I was making sure everything was going smoothly. I was trying to work on music with Trent. I had all this money that I didn’t know what to do with. There was the lawsuit. It was all too much for me. I didn’t have a drug problem; no one else knows what was happening with me. It was manic depression, manic episodes, and I feel terrible about them and the trouble they were causing. That’s why I left the band. You don’t just leave a band like that lightly. I’m still bummed about what happened with Nails. I have nothing bad to say about Trent Reznor. He’s a great guy. I’ve dealt with a lot of fucking assholes who used to be my friends. He was never an asshole.”

I ask if any of his old friends or admirers or bandmates have reached out to him lately, to see if he’s okay.

“You’d think so,” he says. “Wouldn’t you?”

(…)

The broken band returned to play a disastrous Christmastime gig at the Hotel Café in Hollywood on December 21, 2008. North spent endless time tuning, and the set derailed. He calls it his “Syd Barrett meltdown.” Not long after, he stopped working on recording Jubilee music. He says he tried to play guitar a few times in the ensuing years, but medications had dulled his talent. “It’s like my hands were always too late for what my head was telling them to do,” he says.

Following the miserable holiday show, North disappeared into the apartment we’d stared at from the street. He says he stopped phoning his friends and didn’t return any calls. He stayed inside for months at a time, reading books about music. His money drained away. The entirety of the first Obama administration is a blank, he says. He was alone and he wanted to die.

(…)

“I should be dead,” he says. “I used to walk alone in Watts or South Central trying to pick fights with gang members to try and get killed. I’d think about walking into traffic all the time. Then I finally decided I’d kill myself by jumping off the bridge. I didn’t think anyone would be sad for me, because if they were sad, they should’ve been sad for me years before I actually did it. I was gonna jump from either the Golden Gate Bridge or the Vincent Thomas in San Pedro. The day I decided to do it, I was driving, and I got to the ramp and thought, ‘If I go north, I’ll jump off the Golden Gate, and if I go south, I’ll do it in San Pedro.’ Then I realized that the ramp is the same one I used to get on to go visit my mom in Cucamonga, and I didn’t do it. I still wanted to die, I just didn’t want my mom to deal with it.”

(…)

We come to a stop beside a rolling green park perched on a steep slope. “A year and a half ago,” says North, getting out of the truck, “I thought, ‘Either I need to kill myself or do something about things.’ I don’t want to play music anymore. That lifestyle and those people — I can’t get involved. That’s why I’m working on a book about what’s happened to me. There shouldn’t be a stigma about mental illness. There’s like a macho thing against it, which is bullshit. And being on government assistance: I’m here, I’m doing it, it’s okay, fuckers. Maybe one person out there would benefit from reading that. It’s a reason to at least try.”

(…)

“I’m not saying I’m more special than anyone else,” North says as we walk up a steep embankment. “My life was wild enough. Why would I make anything up? I never tried to tell anyone that I felt like I was being applauded for my mental illness. I never tried to tell anybody, because they’d never understand. I’d go on tour and run out of anti-depressants, and trying to kick that shit is harder than kicking heroin. I was in an impossible situation.”

North explains that he knows he’s let people down, that he’s caused pain and offense. He also says he’s been misunderstood.

“If I wanted to be a woe-is-me guy, I’d put it like this: I was good to people. I made good music. I feel terrible that people had to deal with my shit. I know people can’t forgive me for some of the things I put them through, and I know people have hateful feelings towards me. But I don’t want any fuckers feeling sorry for me. If I die, it’s okay, because I lived. I got to travel the world. I got to play music.””

“I don’t really know how to answer your questions about “career paths” or “the music industry”, etc. I haven’t played music in over a decade. When I did, it wasn’t because I was trying to make a career out of it. I played in bands when it was enjoyable and stopped whenever it wasn’t. I never made any decisions based on how they’d affect me financially. If my goal had been to “make it” as a “professional musician”, I wouldn’t have turned down offers to play with the Marilyn Manson’s, Queens Of The Stone Age’s, Chris Cornell’s, etc. As different as it is, my approach to standup is no different. I’m not trying to make a career out of it or appeal to everybody.

(…)

When I said I didn’t understand or agree with the premise of some of your questions… I get the impression that your viewpoint on what you’re asking me about is skewed. Or just plain wrong. I feel like most of the information you’ve based certain opinions on is hogwash. Anything concerning my departure from The Icarus Line would be included. The story those guys have believed and perpetuated over time is that I quit The Icarus Line so that I could go join Nine Inch Nails and make a lot of money and be famous or some horseshit. Couldn’t be further from the truth. I suppose that would soften the blow for them, or make it easier for them to understand why I left or something? Naw… in the weeks after quitting the band I was furiously filling out job applications for nearby fast-food restaurants. The truth was that I quit because I didn’t like some of the people I was in a band with anymore, and would have rather flipped burgers to pay my rent than have to stand next to them on stage even one more time. The Nails thing happened some time later and had nothing to do with any of that. Anyhoo, post whatever ya want. Stay outta trouble.”

#aaron north #icarus line #nine inch nails #trent reznor #joe cardamone #josh freese #buddyhead #dillinger escape plan #queens of the stone age #mental illness #music #art #punk #depression #meds #crazy pills

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