Romantic headacon Rocky x male reader who is apathetic and deeply depressed, the only thing that keeps him going is Rocky
─♣️─ Lackadaisy : Apricity
⸝⸝ tl;dr : the warmth of the sun during winter's worst, rocky rickaby is quite frankly the only thing keeping you going .
⸝⸝ notes : this post contains mentions of depression and ever so slightly implies spicy stuff; if you're uncomfortable with such subjects, please click away ! this post is also pretty long, i had too much fun writing this aaa
When was the last time you felt alive?
Not recently, that's for sure. Every day just seems to pass by in a blur -- all the same stories, all the same places. You never care to look at things anymore ; they're all uniform anyways, why bother?
Maybe it's just the weather. Maybe it's just the way the heavy winter clouds block out the sun that's got you like this. Maybe, maybe. Two syllables that seem to define your current state : Maybe I'll feel better. Maybe I won't. Walking the tightrope of life with cloth pulled over your eyes, no end in sight.
It's worst during the nights. Atleast in the day there's something to distract you -- your neighbors' bickering, the leak in the kitchen faucet, the state of your room. Anything to help you turn a blind eye to your plight.
But the nights are different. Silence everywhere, like a blanket covering the world, forcing all your senses to focus on how you are, what you are, how you got here. When was the last time you ever felt alive?
And then there would be a rumbling outside, like a car on the pavement. All cars sound the same to you -- all except his. The sound of his car alone wakes your nerves, the revving of the engine shooting adrenaline straight into your veins.
The sounds of a car door closing, quick footsteps on the stairs, an earth-shattering knock on your door. His voice, weightless as gossamer and bright as sunlight -- "Y/N ! Are you in there ?"
Your heart grows wings, flutters in your ribcage. Just his voice alone stirs your psyche awake.
You don't remember what happens during your late-night rendezvous with Rocky Rickaby. He could've taken you out to a restaurant, he could've sung ballads to you with his violin in the moonlight, he could've cooked you a ten-course meal in your kitchen (how has it not burned down yet ?) -- you could never remember.
What you do remember, however, were the ways his hands (paws?) caress your skin, your face, your hair, rousing your body from a sleepy stupor. Times with Rocky means times where your breathing quickens, gasps and pants escaping your mouth; where your lips form words, which tumble like a waterfall, your throat working hard to talk after hours upon hours of silence; nevermind the neighbors, let them hear.
You don't remember what happens during your meetings, except for the times after where he holds you in his arms, stroking your back. The crickets chirp outside the window; moonlight falls through the glass.
At times like that you listen to his heartbeat, steady as a drum, and at times like that you recall the question you've asked yourself over and over again : When was the last time I felt alive?
And then you'll smile, move closer to him, and you'll say : When I'm with him. Outside the walls of your bedroom, time speeds up, time slows down. Days and months and years could pass outside, but in your room it's stopped for the two of you, a living memory frozen in time.
thinking abt ethel's vicious mockeries @ that scrapped werewolf companion for no particular reason,
I'll tan your hide, beast!
You don't scare me wolf. You don't scare anyone!
Just a snivelling child playing the beast!
Think you're a person because you're walking on two feet? Adorable!
Won't have any friends after the full moon, girl.
more comfortable places than the lower level of the chantry, surely, but … his smile grew into a grin and he surrendered to blackwall’s deft hands as they started tugging away his clothes. the chance of shame of being stumbled upon was quickly forgotten and replaced with desire as he pulled the other man closer in for a kiss, his hand straying for the other man’s groin. he hadn't felt this desired in a long while, pulse skittering beneath his lover's teeth grazing over his throat.
“missed me, did you?” he breathed against blackwall’s mouth, moving so that his own back was against the nearest wall. he continued to tease and stroke the other man in his hand, feeling him harden against his touch. mal stroked a thumb under blackwall’s jaw, at his pulse point, nodding his head and pushing the other man downwards so as to encourage him onto his knees. he looked beautiful in the torchlight, pupils dilated and blue eyes almost gold. “show me how much.”
it actually is possible to soften sol’rys, both in a platonic or romantic sense. it just isn’t easy to considering how difficult his upbringing was and that he was taught softness / gentleness is weakness, on top of being a mistake that gets you killed or worse. melee-magthere was also brutal and it’s easy to imagine how much anyone would lean on that mindset to get through the ten years of whatever punishing exercise he and the other boys would be put through. he’s just attributed his own strength to getting through so much, and even when he ended up on the surface no one really tried to push past the confident warrior he presented himself as, usually out of their own preconceived notions etc.
he actually very much doesn’t enjoy his own ingrained sense of cutthroat self-reliance. it’s still hard to break out of. he’ll still try to resist others’ good will, and immediately assumes they want something from him even though part of him might … like it. shockingly, at a certain threshold where he approves of someone, he actually can be a devoted friend or lover. he’ll usually show it by doing things for someone or making a sincere (as opposed to trained / obligated) effort to protect them, since that’s what he knows he’s good at.
