#just writing desus when everyone else has moved the fuck on

[canoncannon]

So, I have a prompt that won’t get out of my head. Jesus makes it a habit to visit Hobo Daryl whenever he is out on runs and stuff and they get to know each other, and eventually fall in love. It takes a long time. D is initially annoyed at the intrusion to his solitude, but Jesus cracks through his shell. They open up to each other and J eventually makes a move. Awkwardness insues. D is virginal and things don’t go smoothly. You are the goddess of awkward Desus, and you would rock this. 😘

This was prompted so, so long ago, and I kind of paused doing prompts to try to update my WIPs… it’s actually a continuation from my last ficlet (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833258/chapters/40192958), but can also be read on its own I think.

@radiofreeamy thank you so much for the prompt, and I’m sorry it took me so long :)

“You ain’t gotta take the couch,” Daryl says, shifting his weight. He and his dog look both filthy and uncomfortably aware of it.

“You and Dog won’t fit on the couch,” Paul replies.

“She can sleep on the floor. Don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Daryl. It gets cold at night, even in here. Take the damn bed.”

Daryl leans down to pet the mutt. “You and your Jesus shtick. Always running people’s errands, giving people your food, letting people sleep in your bed.”

“By ‘running errands’ I think you mean ‘conducting trade negotiations.’ And my usual way of getting people into my bed is far from Christlike, I assure you.”

It’s something he’d have said without second thought in the woods. In his room, though, it feels too intimate. Too real.

“Pft. Explain all them women you’ve slept on the couch for, then.” Daryl’s not looking at him, still petting Dog.

“You want a shower? There’s warm water,” Paul says, because sure, asking Daryl to get naked will help ease the awkward tension in the room. He doesn’t so much as glance at Daryl as he adds another blanket to the couch, mentally berating himself.

—

In the woods, everything had been easy. Paul liked stopping in for a night or two to check on Daryl and flirt a little—occasionally even going so far as to think about taking things further than that, if only Daryl would give him a sign he was into it—before returning home and fucking Alex into the mattress.

Alex is with Wes now, and Daryl is ten feet away in Paul’s bed.

Having a stupid little crush on someone he only saw a couple dozen times a year had made it easy to dismiss the way he felt as unimportant—as, well, a stupid little crush. Having Daryl in the trailer is a different thing entirely.

They play checkers a lot. They eat breakfast that Daryl cooks while Paul struggles to drag himself awake, because coffee is now officially a thing of the past.

Which gets Paul thinking: in the past, if he was attracted to a guy, nine times out of ten he’d simply ask to kiss him. And it had usually worked out for him, at least for the night. With Daryl, that seems unimaginable. He’s never made friends easily, even before roamers started eating his available options. Losing Daryl, even if he gets to fuck him first—maybe especially if he gets to fuck him first—is unacceptable.

But there’s a look on Daryl’s face, sometimes, that makes him wish that he was be brave enough to risk it.

—

Paul falls asleep reading on the bed one night; there’s no light by the couch. Daryl doesn’t wake him up to move, and he wakes up to find Dog laying across both of their legs, head on Daryl’s foot and sharp nails against Paul’s shins.

Two nights later, he falls asleep there again, and pretends in the morning that it was an accident.

When he gets back to the trailer that evening, Daryl’s moves his pillow and blankets onto the bed. He blushes when Paul comes in, and Paul’s heart does something weird. Some might call it ‘skipping a beat’—Paul calls it a fucking betrayal.

—

“She wasn’t kidding. We started it two years ago.” Paul is laying on the bed that he tells himself they share for warmth. Dog is laying in the exact middle of the bed; she generally sleeps between them, as if guarding her master’s virtue. He glares at her, then scratches her ear.

“Does she even know for sure that it’s New Years Eve?” Daryl settles into the bed in his pajama bottoms and long-sleeved top. They’re all freezing their balls off this winter.

“I guess Gregory kept a calendar, and she took it over. It’s close enough, anyway.” Paul reaches for the light, then settles back into the bed. “We don’t have to go. We’ll sign up for watch.”

“I already told her I’d go. She just sprung it on me.”

“Sucks to be you, then,” Paul teases, and they fall silent for the night.

—

Paul had underestimated Maggie’s determination, though. Before he gets a chance to switch watch shifts with someone, giving them the loud, chaotic heat of a jam-packed Barrington library in exchange for a flashlight and Voltaire in the frosty silence, Alden oh-so-casually mentioned how important the party is to her, and how much she wants him there.

As if that wasn’t enough, the next day Maggie hunts him down while he’s doing laundry for the sole purpose of telling him that Daryl doesn’t know that many people at Hilltop yet, and will be more comfortable with Jesus around to distract him.

Paul knows when he’s being manipulated; he also knows when he’s been beaten. He gives in with fairly good grace.

—

The night of the party, he and Daryl sequester into a corner to be uncomfortable and drunk together.

Alex is across from them in the opposite corner, hanging all over Wes, suddenly comfortable with PDA in a way he’d never been with Paul. Granted, they’d never been an official item, but he’d made such a point of keeping his distance—and now he’s sitting on a couch practically in his new boyfriend’s lap, occasionally nuzzling his neck. 

The worst part is that Alex isn’t even doing it to annoy him—he’s completely oblivious.

Daryl looks miserable, too, but then he always does when he’s surrounded by people.

Finally, midnight strikes.

—

Daryl definitely hadn’t planned it. In fact, he doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s in the middle of doing it: holding out his arms with a tiny shrug, offering Jesus a midnight kiss.

It’s just something about Paul’s hurt expression after he locked eyes with Alex—

Something about the superior little glance that smug asshole gives them as he practically gnaws Wes’s face off—

Something about Paul’s flushed cheeks and abrupt change in posture—

Daryl just reacts, offering, and to his surprise, Paul takes him up on it.

Daryl steps back less than a second later, realizing he’s made a mistake; seeing Paul kiss a grimy redneck isn’t likely to make Alex feel any less superior.

—

Paul leaves right afterwards, just turns and practically runs out of the room, so apparently it had been a mistake on multiple levels.

Shit, fuck, goddamn it. Woozy with liquor, Daryl stands and follows him out, down the stairs and into the freezing cold.

Small boot prints lead him to the barn.

“I’m sorry, alright?” Daryl calls out as he enters, because he knows Paul will have heard him coming even over the wind. “Don’t know what I was thinking, just… your ex is a douchebag, and… I dunno. M’sorry.”

“Are you… apologizing for the fact that I kissed you?” Paul appears before him in the dim light, looking cold. Neither of them had grabbed their coats before leaving the party.

Daryl scowls, and Paul’s eyes.

He takes a slow step forward, then a faster one, and then he’s kissing the hell out of Daryl. Then he takes his hand and pulls him out of the barn, across the courtyard through the snow.

Daryl honest to God doesn’t know where they’re going at first, and thinks vaguely that he doesn’t want to go back to the party.

When they reach the trailer they both pause out of habit to pull off boots and socks. Daryl finds himself staring stupidly at a perfectly ordinary set of small white feet that he’s probably seen a dozen or two times before, but never actually noticed.

“I could bring you off with them, if you’re into feet,” Paul says, and Daryl realizes, for the first time, that Paul definitely intends to have sex with him.

—

Paul wants this. He wants it now, and tomorrow night, and next week, and he’s more than willing to go outside of his usual sexual wheelhouse to ensure Daryl has a good time.

“What?! No! Nah, ain’t into that.”

“Sure? You were staring an awful lot just now.”

“Ain’t the feet, it’s just, uh.” Daryl’s face and posture telegraph his discomfort, but Paul doesn’t interrupt to save him from his own awkwardness. He wants to know the end of that sentence. Eventually Daryl finishes sweetly with, “It’s just you.”

It stops Paul in his tracks, trying and failing to hide a beaming smile. “Ok. Just… I’m open to suggestion, is all. If there’s something specific you want, here.” 

A brief shadow slides over Daryl’s face. “But… what do you want?”

Utterly charmed, Paul steps closer and swoops in for another kiss. Daryl flinches at the quick motion and Paul redirects to his cheek—the last thing he wants is to scare him.

Fortunately Daryl recovers quickly. And he doesn’t just recover, he goes a bit wild, mouth careening around their kiss. Paul’s eyes widen a bit and he pulls Daryl closer, letting the other man plunder his mouth messily.

The enthusiasm makes Daryl’s lack of experience extremely obvious.

Paul pulls away gently. “Hey, slow down a little. We’ve got all night, right?”

Daryl nods and pulls in a huge lungful of air. “M’sorry.”

“What for?”

“I ain’t good at this.”

“You’re doing fantastic so far.”

“Pfft. Ain’t gotta lie.”

“I wouldn’t, I’m not.“ Paul would and is, a little, but he’s not about to complain. He pulls them to the bed—pausing to get Dog settled on the couch, where she glares at them reproachfully—then lays down and waits for Daryl to join him. Smiling reassuringly, because Daryl looks about ready to hyperventilate at their new position, he says, “Is this alright?”

Nodding, Daryl turns towards him. “I didn’t think you wanted this, with me,” he says quietly. He’s not touching Paul, or reaching for him.

“I didn’t think you did.” Paul has been waiting too impatiently for too long to deny himself now. He grabs Daryl’s waist and pulls.

—

The bottom line is, Daryl can’t keep up.

Paul has him out of his clothes before it occurs to him to reciprocate. Then Paul’s touching him, and that’s distracting, and by the time Daryl realizes he needs to move his goddamn hands and do something, anything, with them, Paul is back to kissing him instead.

He wants Paul’s clothes off, he thinks, trying to kiss back. Unless Paul doesn’t want that—but he would, right? It’s the usual thing.

Not that Daryl would fucking know.

He slides a hand up Paul’s thigh to his zip. Paul leans back, straddling Daryl on his knees, and it’s so fucking hot that Daryl loses the use of his thumbs.

After a minute, Paul has mercy on him and undoes his pants.

“Your shirt,” Daryl says, willing to sound stupid if it gets the job done, and Paul smiles down at him in the dim light and pulls his shirt over his head. It’s cold, and his nipples are hard. Daryl’s mind is suddenly launched into an unwelcome tangent: Merle bragging about turning up the air conditioning in a car to get some chick’s nipples hard enough to see through her shirt.

He pulls the other man back down to kiss him, and Paul moans over it, biting Daryl’s lip, and fuck fuck fuck how is this actually happening to him now, at forty-something, after a lifetime of not knowing how to even start talking a guy into having sex with him?

Sitting up again, Paul shoves his pants lower, still straddling Daryl, and pulls his dick out, which Daryl isn’t supposed to want to suck. His mouth waters as Paul starts stroking himself, grinding slightly down on Daryl’s dick.

It’s too fucking much.

“I think I might- might come if you-”

Paul stops, eyebrows raising, but it’s too late, and Daryl shoots off against the ass of his jeans.

—

Watching Daryl squirm underneath him, chest rising from the mattress and teeth clenching, just makes Paul jack off even harder. Then Daryl slumps, spent and embarrassed, and shit, Paul really should stop and make sure he’s alright.

He compromises and asks while still jacking off, “You ok?”

Looking determined, Daryl bats his hand away from his dick and takes over. His mouth hangs open, and Paul stares.

Do not ask. Don’t even think about it.

Instead he lets Daryl continue his slow, gentle handjob, touching Paul like he’s worried about hurting him. Paul’s getting off on the idea of it all, more than the actual sensation: Daryl Dixon came in his pants just from the sight of his dick. Daryl wants his dick, is staring at it like he wants to suck it, would probably scramble to his knees for it if Paul just- just asked- “Do you want to use your mouth?”

You are a bad person.

Daryl does scramble, though, and is in position before Paul finishes pulling off his come-soaked pants.

—

It takes long enough to make Daryl’s jaw ache, and to make him wonder if he’s completely fucking this up. Then Paul starts trying to pull away, like maybe Daryl’s so terrible at it that he’d rather jerk off, but Daryl stubbornly stays put and redoubles his effort, sucking harder, going deeper—which is how he ends up with come going down the wrong pipe.

He pulls back, gagging and coughing as Paul comes helplessly on his face.

They both stop at about the same time. There’s come on Daryl’s eyebrow that feels like it’s threatening to drip down and blind him, but he’s not sure about the etiquette here. Paul’s shirt is closest, his own is on the floor a few feet away.

“Shit, sorry,” Paul says, and begins wiping his face clean. “I tried to- that was-”

“A disaster from start to finish?”

Paul pauses in wiping Daryl’s forehead for a second. “Maybe. But we’ll do better next time, right?”

They stare at each other in the darkness. “Yeah,” Daryl says, and he can’t keep the happiness or the surprise out of his voice. “Alright. Next time.”

“Happy New Year, then.” Paul smiles at him, a genuine grin, and Daryl grins back.

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Cat & Mouse

Summary: A re-imaging of the restaurant scene in chapter 2.

A/N: OH2 is supplying us with such good content. The fic ideas that have popped into my head are just *chef’s kiss*

Warning: Just a teensy bit naughty

Tags: @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @choicesobsessedd @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @sparklinglilac  @cream-ray @perriewinklenerdie @barricades-of-freedom @dr-brianna-casey-valentine @doroshi-desu @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms

~v~

The restaurant Governor Rivera picked is amazing, Naomi can’t deny it. Everything at Chez Pierre feels luxurious, pleasing her senses. The view is spectacular, the Boston skyline lit up beautifully this time of night, the drinks are great—Naomi has never had such an amazing raspberry margarita before—and the food is unlike anything she’s ever had.

The conversation is flowing freely, as well as the drinks. The governor smiles warmly at her, but the older woman’s gaze is intense. “So Naomi, what does Edenbrook’s bright future look like to you?”

Naomi gulps. She wasn’t expecting to be put on the spot like that. 

But she squares her shoulders and looks the governor head on. “I think it lies in our community.” She glances around the table, making eye contact with her fellow doctors. “That’s why we got into this line of work. To help people. Those same patients go back into the community and help others. That’s how a town like Boston grows and prospers. By taking care of its own.”

The governor smiles at her words. “How touching! I should have you write my re-election ads.”

Naomi chuckles good-naturedly at the compliment. She silently thanks her parents. If it weren’t for them dragging her to various parties, galas, and fundraisers growing up, she’d be completely lost in the presence of such a powerful politician. “You’re too kind, Governor.”

She locks eyes with Naveen across the table with, who winks at her, approving the answer. She winks back, as if they’re two co-conspirators in a scheme.

But she feels Ethan’s knee brush against hers and she freezes, her spine going erect and a chill coursing through her a the simple touch. He pulls his knee away before she can fully revel in his touch again. She turns to look at him, but he doesn’t look back, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Did she just imagine that? He did touch her, right?

What happened to him wanting to have boundaries? What happened to keeping things strictly professional?

She smirks to herself. Fine. If Ethan wants to play games, she can play them just as well. And win.

She slides away from him slightly so she’s able to move a bit more freely. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Ethan lift his wine glass to his lips. As soon as he takes a sip, Naomi curls her leg around his, sliding her heeled foot along his calf. Ethan chokes at the contact, spitting his Cabernet back into the glass.

Naveen frowns, looking at Ethan with concerned eyes. “Ethan, are you alright?”

Ethan nods furiously, a bit too enthusiastic to seem realistic. “Y-yes. The wine just went down the wrong way.”

“I know it’s delicious, but please don’t hurt yourself,” the governor teases. “Slow down.”

Naomi’s foot doesn’t leave his leg. She continues to lazily run it up and down the back of his leg and Ethan sucks in a large breath to stay calm. “Yes ma’am.”

When everyone resumes their conversation, Ethan shoots Naomi a glare. She gives him a coy smile in return, feigning innocence.

A few courses pass and they’re finally into the thick of their meal, with the server coming out to serve everyone filet mignon and garlic potatoes.

“So Naomi,” Governor Rivera starts, “tell me a bit about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the basics. Are you a Boston native?”

“No, I’m a transplant. I’m from DC, actually.”

“Interesting. So what made you choose Edenbrook for your residency?”

“It’s one of, if not the best hospital in the country. I wanted to learn from the best and become the best.”

“How’s that gone for you so far?”

“Excellent. I performed an emergency surgery with one of the greatest surgeons of this generation,” Naomi says smiling at Harper. “And I get the privilege of working under Dr. Ramsey, who is absolutely amazing at what he does, and he learned from Dr. Banerji. It’s a literal dream come true. I can’t imagine working at a different hospital with different people.”

“And what about you, Ethan?” Governor Rivera asks. “Where are you from?”

“New York. I went to Columbia for undergrad and medical school, but I’ve been in Boston ever since.”

“How long has that been?”

“11 years now.” He feels Naomi’s hand settle on his knee. A few seconds pass, and she doesn’t move a muscle. Instead of bringing attention to it, Ethan continues talking. “But it feels like forever. Boston is my home, even though I wasn’t born here.”

“It’s amazing to hear just how much Boston means to those who weren’t even born here. I’d love to be able to quote one of you guys on that.”

Naomi’s hand leaves Ethan’s knee and travels north. She starts tracing a nonsensical pattern on his thigh, but again, she doesn’t give anything away. Ethan watches as she just smiles politely at the Governor. “Oh now, you can quote me only if we get something in return.”

The governor laughs. “Naomi, you are an absolute delight! I wish more young people had your wit and charm.”

“It’s a gift not everyone has,” Naomi says. Her hand venters up even higher, her delicate hand gently palming Ethan through his trousers. “But I’m willing to shoulder the burden.”

Ethan coughs loudly, and looks down at his lap. He can feel himself turning beet red due to Naomi’s ministrations.

“Son, are you alright?” Naveen asks. “Do you need some water?”

Ethan shakes his head, and coughs again, trying to disguise a moan.  Jesus Christ, is this woman really going to give him a handjob at the fucking dinner table? “I’m fine.” The words come out gruff and shaky, and Ethan barely believes them himself.

Deciding enough is enough, Ethan grabs Naomi’s hand, rougher than he intended, and she instantly stills. Seconds later, she recovers and switches gears, lacing their fingers together. Now Ethan is 100 percent sure his face is bright red, holding her hand feeling much more intimate than whatever it was they were just doing.

Ever so subtly, Naomi knocks her fork off of her table. “God, I’m so clumsy.” She reaches down to retrieve it, but Ethan beats her to it.

While they’re both crouched down on the floor, pretending to grab the utensil, Ethan takes the opportunity to talk to her. “Whatever game you’re playing, Rookie, you need to stop it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dr. Ramsey,” Naomi replies, innocently. She sits back up in her seat, leaving him dumbfounded.

Naomi - 1, Ethan - 0.

So is this the game they’re about to play? Ethan nods silently to himself. Fine. If Naomi wants to play with fire, he is willing to light the match with her.

He sits up, and adjusts the napkin in his lap. Another course is placed in front of them, a charcuterie board covered in cheeses, salamis, and crackers and various spreads. Naomi and Harper marvel at all of the options in front of them.

Ethan decides that it’s the perfect opportunity to exact his revenge. He glances down and zeroes in on the high slit of Naomi’s forest green dress. Jackpot. While she’s talking to Harper about some sort of jam that’s on the board, Ethan slowly slides one of his fingers up and down her leg. The contact catches her by surprise, her breath hitching slightly, but she doesn’t do anything else, nothing to alert the other guests at the table to what they’re doing.

His hand goes further, curling over until it’s fully squeezing her thigh. Naomi doesn’t move a muscle, happily chatting with Harper as if nothing is going on. Ethan is impressed. He didn’t expect her to have such a strong poker face. So he ups the ante. His nails dig into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, scraping along the skin. He can feel the goosebumps popping up on the disturbed skin, and Naomi squirms a bit in her seat, but again, he’s the only one who notices.

He frowns slightly to himself. She’s good. Too good. And his competitive streak has been triggered now, Ethan won’t be able to rest until she breaks. 

Ethan’s hand travels higher until he reaches the thin lace of her underwear. He absentmindedly toys with the fabric for a while before pushing it aside. He watches as Naomi rocks herself side to side, her elbows pressed on top of the table. But Ethan doesn’t take it any further, rather he de-escalates the situation, placing his hand back on her knee. His thumb runs across the skin in a soothing manner.

This was only supposed to be about her, but Ethan realizes just how much he’s missed touching the younger woman. As quickly as the thought crossed his mind does he push it away. This was supposed to be about torturing Naomi. She’s supposed to be the loser, not him.

Naomi rests her cheek on her open palm and leans forward, pretending to be interested in whatever story the governor is telling them. A few well placed nods and polite chuckles buy her time, but all Naomi can think about is Ethan’s hand. His big, strong hand that is currently touching her. When she kicked this thing up, she wasn’t expecting him to actually play along.

She needs to get away from him, and the table. There’s only so much more “subtle” writhing she can do in her seat before she starts looking like a crazy person.

So Naomi clears her throat, getting everyone’s attention. Grabbing her small clutch, she stands up. “If you’ll all excuse me for a second.”

They lock eyes and Ethan watches her form retreat from their table and head towards the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are.

He silently gloats. Ethan – 1, Naomi – 1.

A minute later, his phone dings in his pocket. He discretely pulls it out and checks his notifications. He has a new text message from Naomi, with just a single word.

Dr. Naomi Valentine: Bathroom. 

All of the blood rushes from his head upon reading the message. She seriously wants to do this, now? While they’re at a dinner being hosted by the governor? Ethan waits a few more seconds before getting out of his seat as well. “I apologize, but I have to make a phone call.”

“Is everything okay?” The governor asks.

“My neighbor is watching my dog,” Ethan lies casually. “He keeps sending me texts, so I should definitely call and check in.”

“Of course, of course. Go right ahead.”

Ethan smiles, grateful that the lie worked. “Thank you.” He excuses himself from the table, and when no one is looking, he weaves through the tables of the restaurant, making his way towards the back.

He looks around to make sure no one is paying attention to him. They’re not, everyone so caught up in their own dinners and conversations. He slips into the bathroom, unnoticed and locks the door behind him.

The bathroom is cozy, dimly lit and smells like ocean salt and fresh flowers. At the sound of the lock clicking into place, Naomi looks up and locks eyes with Ethan in the bathroom mirror. She doesn’t move in inch, challenging him to make the first move.

“Naomi Valentine, you are an absolute temptress.” Ethan says, slowly moving closer to the younger woman.

“You don’t expect me to believe that little knee touch earlier was innocent, do you?” Naomi shoots back. “You started it, Ramsey. I merely kicked things up a notch.”

Ethan keeps moving closer to her until he’s crowding her space, trapping her between the counter and his body. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the jasmine scent of her perfume before placing a delicate kiss on the spot.

“You’ve spent most of the night teasing me,” Ethan murmurs. “Now that I have you all to myself, I don’t know if I want to tease you senseless or absolutely devour you.”

Naomi can’t help but visibly react to that, her entire body shuddering. Fuck, was he always so good at dirty talk?

“You can do whatever you want,” Naomi replies breathlessly. She’ll probably regret the desperation once the fog clears, but right now, she doesn’t care.

That’s all he needed to hear. Ethan spins Naomi around and effortlessly lifts her onto the countertop, the bottom of her dress bunching at her waist. Before she can react, he crashes his lips onto hers, kissing her.

It’s unlike the one they shared at Donahue’s the night before. That was tentative and chaste, with Naomi having to do all of the work. But this is different. This is all consuming and it stokes the flames growing in the pit of Naomi’s stomach. Naomi can feel the kiss from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, electricity coursing through her veins.

Naomi grabs Ethan by the lapels of his green jacket and pulls him closer to deepen the kiss. One of his hands flies to her hair, pulling, getting tangled up in the mass of soft curls. She moans into the kiss. She always was a sucker for a bit of hair pulling.

Ethan takes advantage of the moan, his tongue sliding into her mouth. It curls against hers, fighting for dominance that he knows she won’t give him so easily.

His lips move across her jaw and down her neck, his beard tickling the path he created. Her head falls back, giving him more access and Ethan kisses along the side of her neck, before sinking his teeth in.

“Fuck, Ethan–” the words die on her throat as he drops to his knees in front of her. His fingers hook into the waistband of her black lace thong, and he yanks it down hurriedly, ridding her body of the material. He throws one of her legs over his shoulder and bites the soft skin of her inner thigh.

She isn’t sure where her will power is coming from, but despite everything single cell in her body dying to cry out at the sensation, Naomi manages to keep it together as best as she can.  She grabs a fistful of his hair and holds him there. Ethan pulls back and runs a long swipe of his tongue against the mark, attempting to soothe the bruise. She curses quietly to herself as heat pools in her belly.

Ethan spreads her thighs apart further. A please growl escapes the back of his throat at the sight of her. “Look at how wet you are,” he murmurs. “How wet you get for me.”

She whimpers at his words. God, she just wants him to touch her already.

“What do you want me to do to you, Rookie?” Ethan asks.

“Please…”

He’s amused by her eagerness, her desperation. He huffs, not quite laughing and his warm breath on her thigh makes her squirm. “Please, what? Use your big girl words, Naomi.”

“Just fucking touch me already!” Naomi snaps, her patience nonexistent at this point.

Ethan chuckles. “Good girl.” He drops her leg and pulls himself up. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Ethan takes a step back and coolly appraises Naomi. Her hair is tousled, her eyes hooded, lips swollen. He’s never seen something more beautiful.

“No.”

Naomi’s eyes snap up and she looks at Ethan, confused. What did he just say to her? “What?”

“You heard me. N. O. No.”

“But–”

“You think you can tease me all night and I’d let you get away with it?” His blue eyes sparkle with mischief and Naomi doesn’t know if she wants to yell at him or cry in frustration. “Absolutely not.”

Naomi shakes her head, trying to sober herself up. Is he really saying no to her? He came all the way to the bathroom just to tease her?

She hops off the counter and fixes her dress, ignoring her weak knees and wobbly feet. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ethan?”

“Come on, you know I don’t kid around.” Ethan leans forward and presses one more chaste kiss onto the corner of Naomi’s mouth. He chuckles at the dazed look on her face. “We should head back. I don’t want it to look suspicious that we’ve been gone for so long.”

Ethan doesn’t spare Naomi another glance or give her a chance to respond, turning on his heel and walking out of the restroom.

It takes her a minute to recover from the shock of the situation. After fixing her hair and reapplying her lipstick, Naomi exits the bathroom. But before she returns to the table, she stops a passing waiter and lets them know that it’s Harper’s birthday. Naomi might as well fully commit to the lie and use it as her excuse for being gone for so long.

Naomi walks back to the table, a waiter carrying an ice cream sundae covered cookie trailing her. She sings happy birthday with the rest of the table to a very flustered Harper, and casually slips back into her seat, avoiding eye contact with Ethan.

It isn’t until they’re on the 7th course of their meal does Naomi remember that Ethan never gave her panties back.

Ethan - 2, Naomi - 1

[bringmecoffeeandroses]

Desus 5-9 please!

Sorry, I got interrupted half-way through writing this ^_^

5. Who is most likely to carry the other?

Almost definitely Daryl. Never mind that that’s been a thing in the show, I can easily see Paul falling asleep and Daryl carrying him to bed on the regular. Because Daryl tries so hard to make it no one sees how affectionate he is? So he can take the time to stroke Paul’s hair and memorize his face and hold him close. Paul never lets on that he sometimes feigns sleep specifically to have Daryl do this.

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

One feature? No, no, that’s not a fair prompt.

For Daryl - Paul loves Daryl’s protectiveness, his love and selflessness for his family going above and beyond. He loves the range between Daryl’s gruffness and the things that make him vulnerable, that point where Daryl says he’s afraid of nothing but buries his head in Paul’s neck and breathes because he just needs to know everything’s going to be okay.

Also, ARMS. 

For Paul -  Daryl loves Paul’s weird sense of humor, that ability to be a glass-half-full person when everything’s gone to shit. He loves that he’s a point of reference for everyone, the mediator, the peacekeeper, the one everyone can rely on to do the shit no one else can but, beneath it all, he still has questions and doubts.

There’s also the fact that Paul can turn him out on his ass that is a strange turn on.

7. What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

How awkward/aware of themselves they are around each other, I would guess.

Like, Paul sees it first because, frankly, he’s had more experience at this and what was too-long glances and moments of quiet admiration turn to this deep, steady notion that Daryl is one of the best people he’s ever known and he’d do just about anything to keep Daryl next to him. Which is kind of terrifying for someone that’s never let anyone that close before? And he’d really rather not get punched in the face for trying to kiss him, which could be a possibility with how unreadable Daryl can be.

Daryl takes longer, way longer, to the point where he thinks he’s just used to having Paul around and tries not to admit to himself that it bothers him when Paul isn’t around. And maybe he thinks about Paul’s hippie hair and his stupid beard and the way Paul’s legs and shoulders move when he’s doing those kicks and flips? But it’s all quiet thoughts, the kind Daryl never looked at too closely - not when he was growing up and definitely not now. And one day they’re out sitting together, talking after some run, and Daryl thinks that if he leans close enough, he could kiss Paul and find out how that stupid beard felt tickling his skin. Which is enough to send him up and halfway across the room, trying to give some bullshit excuse about getting back because what the fuck was that? 

8. Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?

I don’t see too many over-the-top petnames/nicknames in their relationship mostly because I think Daryl would spend too much time glaring at Paul to make that fun, but there are a few that are my straightforward headcanon. Daryl affectionately uses “hippie” and “asshole” to tell Paul how much he likes him; Paul likes to use more petnames, “honey” and “sweetheart” and “babe/baby” when he can get away with it. However. Paul will tease the shit out of Daryl with the worst non-serious ones when they’re alone and Daryl’s in a shitty mood, “sweetie” or “honey bear” or “sugar pop” until Daryl threatens to throw him out of bed.

9. Who worries the most?

Outwardly, neither of them show a lot of what they worry about. Paul covers his with philosophical humor and Daryl with his stoic, do-what-ya-gotta-do personality but, between the two of them, I’d say Daryl worries more than Paul. Daryl worries about protecting the people around him. Thinking about the losses he’s had in just the time that the apocalypse has broken out and what will come next. That’s the thing that’s hardest to pin down for him; he’s been through too much to not think prepare for whatever’s coming next (because it will, eventually, come).

Still, you know it’s easier when you have somebody to share your worries with.

MAY I SAY: YAY! 

❤❤❤DESUS IN MY ASK BOX ❤❤❤

[ec-sanderssides]

Pride

Hey guys, So this one was inspired by my current location, and boy was it fun to write. For those of you that aren’t familiar with the story, it’s taken from the Iliad. Although I did alter a few things to better fit the characters (and make it angstier, shhh). This one goes out to @shadow-desu. I told you I would get revenge. TW: Character Death

“Roman,” Anxiety called out, as he entered the tent. "Are you there?”

Hands came from behind to grasp his waist, pulling him back. Recognizing the feel of them, Anxiety relaxed into the hold.

“Have you come to entertain me in my boredom?” Roman purred, his arms now fully wrapped around his lover.

Anxiety huffed. “You mean staring at yourself in a mirror isn’t entertaining enough?”

Roman chuckled. He sounded better than he had in days. Maybe this conversation wouldn’t end terribly. Still that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.

Anxiety pushed Roman’s arms out of the way, and turned to face him. 

“Seriously though,” he said, all traces of teasing gone from his voice. “Agamemnon sent me.”

A scowl instantly appeared on Roman’s face. “So that bastard is making even you do his dirty work now. I didn’t think he would stoop so low.”

He whirled away from Anxiety and began to pace furiously. Feeling the conversation rapidly beginning to spin out of control, Anxiety moved to catch his shoulders.

“Roman. Roman!” he said, “Calm down. He’s not making me do anything. He just came to me because he knows you’ll actually listen to me. But if he’d tried to make me do anything, I would have told him to fuck off. You know that.”

Roman had stopped pacing, but his muscles were still tense and coiled under Anxiety’s hands. Wanting to get to the point before Roman could blow up again, Anxiety continued.

“Look, Agamemnon is a dick sometimes, okay, most of the time. But for once he’s got a point. You can’t spend the rest of the war in your tent, Roman. You have to fight.”

Roman jerked out of Anxiety’s grip. “You would dare ask that of me? After knowing the insult he paid me!” He laughed, but it lacked any of his normal warmth. “And here I thought I could trust you.”

Anxiety felt his face grow hot. “This isn’t about your stupid pride!” he shouted angrily. “People are dying, Roman. Our friends are dying. And you just sit here, knowing you could change that, and do nothing. Do you even care!”

“I am not the one in the wrong here,” Roman snapped back. “Agamemnon is the one who stole my prize. He is the one refusing to apologize. He is the one refusing to make amends. I only want what’s due to me.”

“So you don’t care,” Anxiety said flatly. “You and your ego. You are such a self-obsessed bastard sometimes. You don’t care about any of us out there. Not even me.”

“If you find me so unbearable, why not go seek out Agamemnon,” Roman said, his expression full of rage, “Clearly you prefer his company nowadays!”

“Maybe I will!” Anxiety told him, all thoughts of trying to stay calm now having fled. “At least he’s out there fighting, instead of hiding away like a coward.”

With that he stalked out of the tent, hands clenched into fists, storming through camp. He made his way to an empty fire pit, his palpable aura of rage keeping anyone else from approaching.

He stabbed angrily at the fire. Stupid arrogant prince. Why couldn’t Roman just get over himself. They needed him.

He sighed, his shoulders sagging as the anger was replaced by weariness. They really did need him. The Greeks were losing. And, as much as he hated to admit it, Roman’s pride wasn’t entirely unfounded. He was truly the greatest warrior in their army, maybe even of all times.

Not that it mattered with him not leaving his tent anytime soon. What were they going to do?

Just then, someone else sat down beside him.

“Well, hello there,” Patton smiled at him, “What has you all worked up?”

“Roman,” Anxiety answered shortly.

Patton’s smile faded a bit. “Ah,” he said, tipping his head back. “I take it he’s still being stubborn then.”

Anxiety didn’t bother to respond, only moodily poking at the fire some more.

“He’s young,” Patton said softly, “and prideful. But he’ll learn, in time.”

“And how many more of us will die before then?” Anxiety asked bitterly. “We can’t go on like this. And the worst part is that there’s nothing else we can do. It’s not like we can magically make another Roman appear out of nowhere.”

Patton was looking thoughtful. “Actually,” he said slowly, “Maybe we can.”

Anxiety stared at him. Right, clearly the stress of the war had made the old man finally crack.

“Are-are you feeling okay?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m fine,” Patton replied, his eyes now gleaming. “In fact I’m better than ever. I have a plan.”

“Uh-huh” Anxiety said, now wondering if he should maybe go and fetch someone. Maybe Logan? He was probably the smartest person Anxiety knew, so if anyone knew how to deal with whatever was wrong with Patton, it was probably him.

“Hear me out,” Morality begged. “Look, half the reason we’re doing so badly right now is because half the army’s convinced we’re doomed without Roman.”

“I mean they’re not wrong,” Anxiety muttered, but shut his mouth when Patton huffed at him.

“What I’m saying is that we need something to lift everyone’s spirits, to get them ready to fight again. If we can just get them feeling confident, I know we can win.”

“And how would we do that?” Anxiety asked. He could see Patton’s point, but he wasn’t sure where this was going.

“Well, if Roman refusing to fight is what has them depressed, then to cheer them up, we just have to make them believe that he’s agreed to fight again.” Patton said, his voice filled with excitement

“I think they’ll figure out we lied to them, when they notice he’s not there,” Anxiety drawled.

Patton gave him a small, secret smile. 

“That’s where you come in,” he said. “Anxiety, you and Roman do look somewhat alike. You have relatively similar heights and build. With a helmets over your heads, no one could tell the difference unless they got up close. And if you’re wearing his armor….”

Anxiety thought about it. It… wasn’t a bad suggestion. Roman’s armor was distinctive. He’d insisted on getting it custom-made. So as long as nobody got too close to him, and they only saw the armor, maybe.

“That-that could actually work,” Anxiety said slowly, “As long as I can get his armor, then yeah, maybe.”

“I believe in you,” Patton said. “I’m sure you can do it.”

Anxiety watched and waited. He had been lurking near Roman’s tent since sundown, waiting until he felt sure the other would be asleep. Carefully, he crept up to the tent. Hopefully he hadn’t made a mistake.

He hadn’t. As he peered into the tent, he could see Roman sprawled across his furs, his face only just illuminated by the moonlight. Anxiety couldn’t help the soft smile that crept across his face. In moments like this, he remembered why he loved the idiot.

Making sure to keep his steps light and soft, he moved carefully towards the chest where Roman kept his armor. Keeping on eye on Roman to see if he was waking up, he bent and picked up the chest.

It was heavy, but Anxiety didn’t let that deter him. Arms straining, he quickly made his way out of the tent, with Roman still lost in dreamland. Once he was out, he let out a sigh of relief. He’d done it.

But then looking back at Roman’s tent, he felt a pang of sadness. If only none of this were necessary. If only Roman had listened to him. Looking back down at the chest containing the armor he was supposed to don when tomorrow came, doubt began to creep into his brain.

How was he supposed to imitate Roman? How could he measure up to his stupid, prideful, perfect lover? But he had to. There was no other way.

Sighing he glanced back at the tenet. Hopefully Roman wouldn’t be too furious when he found out what Anxiety had done. Hopefully he would understand.

“Sleep well, Princey,” he murmured. “I wish you could be with me tomorrow.”

With that, he picked up the chest again, and began to trudge back to his tent. He needed all the rest he could get.

Inside his tent, Roman’s brow furrowed, and he shifted restlessly in his sleep. His dreams had taken a dark turn.

When Roman awoke the next morning, he felt restless. This was not an unusual state for him recently, as staying in one’s tent was hardly stimulating, but this felt… different.

After hours of pacing, muttering, and attempting to read, he decided to give his hands something to do, and turned to polish his armor. But when he went to look for his chest, it wasn’t there.

Roman stared at the empty space, puzzled. He wasn’t sure where it would have gone. Unless, maybe it was Agamemnon. A dark scowl crossed his face, if Agamemnon had had the gall to steal his armor as well as his war prize, he was going to kill the man, consequences be damned!

His murderous thoughts were then interrupted by Logan racing into his tent in more disarray than Roman had ever seen before.

“Roman,” he gasped. “You have to come. Quickly. He’s calling for you. We don’t have much time.”

He was frantically tugging on Roman’s arm, but Roman shrugged him off, not in the mood to be manhandled.

“Who’s calling,” he asked cooly, ready to dismiss the other if it was something trivial.

“Anxiety!” Logan said, “He’s with the healers. They don’t know if he’ll make it. Roman, please, he’s begging for you!”

Roman’s heart turned to ice.

He shoved Logan out of the way, knocking the slighter man over, racing out of the tent. No, no, it wasn’t possible. This could not be happening.

As the healer’s tent came into sight, echoes of their last conversation drifted through his head.

This isn’t about your stupid pride! 

You don’t care about any of us out there. Not even me.

How could he have been so stupid? As he pushed open the tent flap, Roman begged to every god he knew for the chance to make amends. To not punish Anxiety for his pride.

Inside the tent, Patton looked up tearfully, Anxiety’s head cradled in his lap. His lover lay still, his only movement the faint rise and fall of his chest. Where his skin wasn’t crusted over with drying blood, it was pale and waxy. His eyes weren’t open.

Roman slid to his knees beside him, his arms reaching out to cradle the other.

“Anxiety,” he whispered. “Anxiety, please open your eyes.”

But the other didn’t stir.

“Anxiety!’ he begged. "Please, please, just open your eyes. I’m so sorry. I love you please. Let me make this up, let me make this better. Just open your eyes.”

Pulling the other man closer, he could feel tears beginning to drip down his cheeks.

“There’s so much more I have to say to you,” he murmured. “So many things we haven’t done. I didn’t mean any of what I said earlier, can you forgive me? You were right, and I was foolish. I should I have listened to you. I will always listen you in the future, just please wake up!”

Rocking back and forth, Roman begged and begged, all thoughts of pride forgotten.

“Wake up! Wake up, I need you. I can’t do this alone. Please, Anxiety, stop doing this, I love you, please!”

His voice broke on the last please, choked by sobs. Logan came up hesitantly beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Roman, I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “We were too late. He’s gone.”

“No,” Roman whispered hoarsely, “No, he can’t be.”

“His last words were of you,” Patton said, sounding choked. “It- it was your name. That was the last thing he said, your name.”

Roman keened, a high-pitched sound more akin to a wounded animal than a human. He screamed, his grief echoing throughout the tent. Anxiety was gone. Gone, gone, GONE!

So lost in his sorrow, he barely noticed the hands shaking him, only reacting when they tried to pull Anxiety from him. He snarled up at Logan, his hands clutching around the body possessively.

“Roman, please” Logan said. “You have to let him go. We have to bury him.”

Let him go, how could he ask such a thing.

Seeing his refusal on his face, Logan tried again. “Roman,” he said, “I know you’re upset, I am too, but he must be buried.”

Roman snapped.

“You think you understand my grief, Logan of Ithaca!” he roared. “You know nothing! You still have a life waiting for you. All that I am has been destroyed. You would dare take him from me? I would kill you where you stood.”

Logan paled, but did not move.

“Roman,” he said softly, “If he’s not buried, his spirit will never find rest. You can’t hold onto him forever.”

Roman flinched as the words bit into him. Turning away from Logan, he pressed his face into Anxiety’s cold chest.

“Go,” he said bitterly. “Leave me. I will prepare his body. You can go and build his pyre.”

As Logan and Patton moved to leave the tent, Roman lifted his head up, and called after them.

“And Logan,” he said, making sure his tone conveyed the full weight of his words. “Make sure it’s fit for a king.”

Logan met his eyes and nodded solemnly, before exiting the tent with Patton. Roman turned back to face Anxiety, one hand reaching out to softly caress his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, my love. I failed you.”

Later that night, as the pyre burned and the women of the camp wailed, Roman turned to Logan.

“What happened,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

Logan looked uncomfortable, but he answered.

“He took your armor,” he said dully. “Pretended to be you, so he could lead the troops. So they’d stop being convinced things were hopeless. He was doing well actually. You-you would have proud of him. But then Hector came.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. So it was Hector.

Logan continued, his voice sounding more broken by the minute. “Anxiety tried to hold out against him, but he’d gotten trapped behind enemy lines. We couldn’t help him, and Hector just wouldn’t, he wouldn’t stop. By the time we broke through and reached him, we were too late. He was already, well you saw.”

Roman stared at the pyre, his eyes burning, his jaw clenched. Yes, he had seen.

“I’m going to burn Troy to the ground,” he said, feeling the bloodlust rise within him. “I will take Hector and throw his body to the dogs. I will grind their city to dust, bring their people to ruin, and when that is done, I will fly Anxiety’s standard above it, so that they might know, that even in death, he surpasses them.”

Logan was staring at him, pale and uneasy. “Roman, please don’t do anything stupid,” he said quietly.

“I will only do what is necessary,” Roman replied harshly, turning from the other. He had to visit the blacksmith.

Two days later, Roman stood ready. His new armor gleamed. He had not needed the blacksmith after all. No, this armor was forged by the gods themselves. He was pleased with it, it would suit his purpose well.

As he marched through the camp, his hand went to the space above his heart. That had been his one request to Hephaestus, that Anxiety’s name might be inscribed above his heart. The god had looked at him with sympathy, and then agreed.

Once he had reached the front lines, he donned his helm. It was time.

“I will avenge you, Anxiety,” he murmured. “I’ll avenge you if it’s the last thing I do.”

It would be.