Because of @boopifer and Sebastian Stan and the pandas (I CANNOT EVEN HOW IS HE REAL), here, have some Extra Sugar with a panda plushie. (For the record, this was almost MUCH filthier. Like, such that my brain, having had the idea, stopped me from writing it.)
“How’re you doing, sub?” Chris’s voice rumbles low and concerned and loving from Sebastian’s iPad, propped up on the bed. “Feelin’ okay?”
“More or less, yes.” He runs a hand through his hair, knowing it’s a nervous gesture, knowing his Dominant’ll pick that up as well as the cuddly sweats and cozy blanket-burrow. His body’s relaxed—Chris hasn’t been gone that long, and Chris is here, talking to him—but nevertheless. Four days.
This is only day one.
“God, I wish I could be there.” Sincere longing colors Chris’s tone. “This timing fuckin’ sucks.”
“Agreed, sir.” Chris had been invited to open an exhibit in San Francisco; Sebastian’d been planning to come, but timelines and scheduling had shuffled around with his Marvel contract, and then he’d been unexpectedly offered a chance to write the score for not one but three other films, and he’d had to juggle meetings with directors, some of whom were only free that weekend…
He sighs. “I’m handling everything.”