#old habits die hard fic

[untilthenextencore]

Old Habits Die Hard~: Ch. 1

Robert remembered when it happened. He remembered the day. In the midst of an upturn in his solo career thanks to the Honeydrippers he was invited onto many an international show. In many a genre. Variety. Music. Even the odd kids or teen fare. Things he thought he had long since past his appeal for. Never one to turn down a chance at new experiences, Robert took on as much as he could. This was one of them.

The show he remembered being called something like "El Dia Ardiente" "The Fiery Day" nicknamed "Viernes Ardiente" aka "Fiery Friday" due to it being a Friday night staple for young Hispanic kids in Mexico & the Latin Market at large.

It featured a group of young teens & twenty something dancers, Singers, actors, models & all around variety talents that were thusly nicknamed "Los Ardientes" "The Fiery / Hot Ones". There were cheeky skits frequently featuring the stars of the week, reviews of albums & concerts passed or announcements & interviews with stars from either those passed or upcoming concerts & albums. There of course was a bandstand type element where artists could appear & perform while the kids danced around.

A kind of Mexican American MTV. Sort of like Bandstand meets Laugh In with touches of SNL. Robert didn't know how to explain it. He just knew he liked it a damn sight better than Saville.

It was there that he met Katia. Or at least that's what he initially thought she was called. It turned out later upon meeting her that he had misheard her nickname amidst all that rapid fire Spanish being spoken. She was not called "Katia" but rather nicknamed "Gatita" or the even shorter "Gati" aka "Baby Cat" or "Kitten", the playful diminutive of her first name, Katarina. He quickly corrected himself. Yet as time went on, between the two of them joking references to the mixup kept popping up. And between the two of them the name "Katia" - along with her actual names & nicknames "Gati" & Katarina of course - stuck.

But first he saw her. Earlier in the day before meeting her. Catching fleeting glimpses of her throughout that morning's warm-ups. Clutching her script of sorts to her chest, hair in pigtails as she listened to the producer telling her any last minute changes he had made to her segments.

Later again when she was getting her makeup touched up at the same time he was. Now with her hair messily clipped up. Loose tendrils fireworking out & framing her face. Unfortunately for him, she was too far to make small talk then. Add to the fact she was yet again wrapped up in a conversation; this time with the stage director.

The next time he saw her was when she was posed behind one of the hosts for a "beachy" intro segment. The palm frond used for styling obscured her vision of him as well as did the lights. All he could do was hope that the thousand watt disarming dimple flashing smile he was shooting her could rival them if not outshine them & catch her attention. He saw her gaze in his direction with a slightly stunned look on her face. A sign of recognition perhaps? That he was in fact looking at her? Surprise at the "Hi" he mouthed & the wave he added? Robert wasn't quite sure. He'd find out later.

After that segment she disappeared into wardrobe for a quick change & reappeared soon after with her hair pinned up slightly more neater this time. Elegant. Coolly seductive. Clad in a rich earthy toned gown, cinched at the waist with a full skirt & stockings. Robert felt his knees weaken slightly. Not only would he be singing the songs of his youth but with a living reflection of the girls of his youth next to him. The ones he used to gaze after. Lust after. Chase after. Pine after. Follow home from school holding their books after.

And as she was directed towards & neared him on his stage he decided, this was it. He had to get to know her.

Taking her hand, he guided her up onto his platform carefully. Gentlemanly. Also placing a gentlemanly kiss to the back of her hand as everyone was busy setting up & finding their marks, greeting her. "Nice to meet you."

She curtsied a little with a half smile half grin at her own over-politeness. "You're so sweet. Thank you. I'm glad to meet you too, Mr. Plant."

Mr. Plant? My, she was being formal!

"Please, call me Robert. Katia I hear your name is?"

Here went the cliffs notes of the explanation.

"Gati I think you heard. Gati or Gatita. Like Kitten. Short for Katarina. Long story..." She rolled her eyes & smiled exasperatedly.

"I hope you'll see fit to tell me one day." He grinned, flashing his popped dimples at her again.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to bore you. It's so silly."

"You could never bore me, darlin'. Trust me. I can tell already." He patted her hand. Then moving on to caressing it. Keeping it locked gently between his two much larger mitts. Never having let go of it once. "So you're my partner for today, eh?"

"Yes, sir." He gave her a look, mouth peaking in a grin. "Um, I mean Robert. Yes, Robert. I'm supposed to kind of dance around you as you sing. And maybe with you if you don't mind. Sort of a little window dressing. Not that you need it though."

"Of course I don't mind, Gati. Though I must admit I've never had my window dressed before. Certainly not so prettily. A hell of a first time it's about to be I'd say. Lucky me, eh?" There went that grin again. Those dimples. And that thousand watt smile which she blushingly returned with a nod.

If only he knew what awaited him passed that "window dressing" and how nothing would be the same for him again...

With her doing a slowed version of the stroll, undulating next to him it was surprisingly hard to focus as he sang "Sea of Love". Focus on the camera. The audience. On anything but the lyrics, her & this moment. Moreso when she came to the point where she was instructed to turn in towards him & slow dance with him as he beckoned her to "come with me to the sea".

A petite brunette knockout in stockings & petticoated skirt looking up at him with seemingly bated breath as they slow danced to a doowop song. Where was he again? In time & place, he wasn't sure. It just felt so right.

Was he seeing things or was she mouthing the words "I love you" to him every so often? Oh, right! The song! Those were the words! The words currently coming out of his mouth. She was mouthing along to the song. Was she playing along though? Was he?

He didn't quite know.

Running through the number a few more times didn't make it any easier. More time to get lost in the song. And her. More time to lose himself in her eyes. Her perfume. Her softness folding into his arms & yet somehow outright enveloping him. Her lips as they mouthed the words "I love you" over & over. Holding in a tentative breath or seeming to at times. Holding with them a kiss he longed to steal. Or feel.

It was enough to make him snap!

He did snap...

It was later that day after they had done the little promo bumpers for his appearance. Robert surrounded by Gati & a few of the other kids. Gati in another full skirted number. This one black with white polkadots, equally cinched at the waist with a bow at the collar. Robert even managed a little Spanish after a few quick notes by Gati & the kids on pronunciation.

He was surprised he could manage the finer points of the language in any regard being in such close proximity to her. Inhaling her perfume again. Watching those full lips pout & part as she taught him how to roll his R's as necessary. That sight of her trilling her tongue so definitely made his trousers shrink. As did the bright smile that followed after his attempt.

It was too much...

And so it was that as a wrap was called and the kids & crew scattered to the winds after the customary surrounding him for autographs & pictures, Robert cornered Gati. Literally cornered her. She barely had time to react when as she walked away, he called out, "Gati!" Her only managing to whirl around, skirt & petticoats fanning out around her, as tendrils of her hair fell to frame her face. All of it coming in slow motion to him.

When her lips had barely parted in response "Wha--?..." He pounced. Wrapping his arm around her waist & pressing her to him, claiming her lips in a kiss that had been all day in coming. He felt her gasp against his mouth. That bated breath again. And growled. Her lips faltered against his until he guided her in a smooth & easy rhythm that she hesitantly picked up.

"Mmmm..." He purred, feeling his trousers grow tighter still, rivaling some of his more famous pics from the Zep days. Just as he had thought. She tasted as sweet as she looked.

He continued the kiss even as he backed her against the nearby wall. Helping the trembling & shocked thing stand, while also helping to press her against him. When he accidentally - or was it instinctively? - ground against her gently, eliciting another gasp from Gati, he broke the kiss. Giving her a chance to compose herself & breathe.

Surprisingly, Robert found himself needing a bit of a breather himself as well.

Was it her perfume that made his head spin?

Was it the feel of her near?

Or just her?

He didn't know.

So instead he tried to lose himself in some small talk, trying not to show just how taken aback he was by his actions & his reaction to her. And how his shock rivaled if not dwarfed even hers!

"So... Gati... That long story about your name or nickname... How's about telling me over lunch? Or dinner, maybe?"

"Really? Tonight?" She looked a bit incredulous at it all. "Are you sure? I mean.. Sure you're not too busy for me? What with your shows coming up & other promos?"

"For you, luv?" Again, he made sure to flash his best dimple displaying grin. "I'll make time... So c'mon... Whaddya say?..."

"Okay!" She nodded, helping him wipe off traces of her lipstick carefully as she tidied up her own. "As long as you're sure... Wait right here while I get my things. I know a great place for lunch."

Robert couldn't believe his luck. Though he'd also assume that others wouldn't believe he couldn't believe his luck.

The one thing he really didn't believe was when one of the crew sidled up, apparently noticing him gazing at Gati, to him & in a mixture of Spanish & English told him something & revealed something to him that gave him pause & made his blood run cold. "Be careful, Mr. Plant. She's beautiful & brilliant... She's insanely talented... But she's also sixteen..."

Just his luck...

~

As ever, this is forever under construction & being edited~...

Hope you enjoy~!...

[frozenartscapes]

EdenAU idea where Loid/Twilight - one of WISE's youngest agents - is assigned to go undercover as a student in Ostania's Eden Academy to look into a few of the students most likely to go into politics. It's all going fine until one day when his gym class has a "wilderness survival" excursion way out on the grounds and he runs into this weird girl he's never seen before. She's about his age - maybe a little younger - but is decidedly not a student (evidenced from her lack of uniform, messy hair, and all the scrapes and bruises). Despite her wild appearance she was really nice and they ended up foraging for mushrooms together. But when he went back to his group no one believed him when he mentioned a strange girl he found in the woods.

He then keeps running into her. Turns out her name is Yor, and that she lives in the city with her brother. They moved there after their parents died and it's sometimes still hard to buy all the food they need so she often goes foraging on Eden's grounds (since it's the largest natural greenspace still within the city proper). He does try to convince Franky that she's real but there's always some kind of wacky circumstance that keeps her from being revealed to the other students. Loid is even starting to wonder if he actually saw her or if all the stress has finally gotten to him.

[peachcitt]

good morningeveningafternoon everyone. have this

you can read it here

enjoy! :)<3

[12romy]

Fic announcement!

So, I've decided to start publishing the second part of A Change of Habits on Decembre 31st! Just because it will be exactly one year after I published A Change of Habits ;)

The name of the fic is "Old Habits Die Hard," and it will happen during 2024! I can promise you an exciting 2024 season (unlike the real one will be lol), with lots of drama, and chaos, and most of all, fluff!!

Stay tuned, I'll see you guys at the end of the month~

[jargyles]

jeddie - the one where they don't break up

j&e have an epic summer of love and can't wait to finish highschool together (au where the byers don't move to cali. yet), but jonathan's insecurities get in the way of their outness. they don't break up about it. | ship: jonathan byers/eddie munson | bg characters: will byers (mentioned), wayne munson (mentioned) | words: ~3.4k | warnings: mentions of drinking, recreational drug use, references past alcoholism, internalized homophobia, period-typical attitudes around queerness, jonathan-typical relationship problems. lotsa angst

summer happened.

jonathan and eddie kissed for the first time, a whip of teeth and tongue that left jonathan hopped up on a new strand of endorphins and eddie- well, the same, but back then- newly obsessed with his club member's brother. jonathan hadn't anticipated them kissing more after that, chalking it up to some hazy frolic into dying grass, a firework that left a smell. he figured that would be the case especially when the fourth of july came and eddie kissed him again, and a handful of times between then and their first kiss, and another handful of times after that.

jonathan didn't think anything of it; having eddie around, getting high, going to shows and kissing in the dark, getting drunk, kissing after long walks home, all of it seemed like something that fit into eddie's idea of "a summer you'll never forget, byers". he didn't think anything about the way eddie looked, or spoke, or played guitar, or even held him in between moments they weren't doing anything. he didn't think about any of that, but… there was something. something that drove them to where they are now, something that made jonathan fully aware of what they meant to each other, even if it took a while.

it'd be the way eddie beamed at him every time they met, thin lips brandishing wide smiles and folding into the slight chub of his cheeks. it'd be the way jonathan didn't understand what it meant to feel empty when he didn't see him smiling. it'd be the way his hair would fall in stringy curls in front of his big brown eyes during a show, or after, or before, when they'd spent a good thirty minutes trying to wrestle a blunt they were sharing away from one another. the way his eyes would linger on the bend of eddie's knuckles underneath his silver rings. sometimes it'd be his scent, his laugh, even his touch- but really it'd be the lack of it all that drove jonathan to places he never thought he'd park at. especially with eddie munson.

neither one of them expected the other to say 'i love you', but they both did, and they were both shocked and didn't know what would come after that, but then they just kind of dealt with it. they would kiss, and get high, and go to shows, and hold each other, and spend days with jonathan's family and wayne, or the party, or the rest of eddie's band, and they would smile and say 'i love you' somewhere in between all that. they didn't even question it, and after about two months or so, they just accepted it. they were dating. boyfriends, even.

summer happened and the rest of their relationship became interwoven with trips to scoops and reading comic books in the woods and making out while listening to queen, a middle ground. the theatrics and vibrato were for eddie, and the music, the lyrics, and the familiarity of it all were for jonathan. lyrics became dates of the week, and theatrics became sweat-stained t-shirts under fizzling leds. they were trapped there for a while.

eddie had to repeat his senior year (again), and jonathan was starting his. both of these milestones, so to speak, took place after summer, and they hadn't thought about that.

jonathan was mostly excited for will; getting to drive to school together, showing him where his classes were, helping him with extracurriculars and homework, not even thinking for a second that his little brother would be attending the same school as his boyfriend. eddie didn't think about that either; he was stoked to have his byers and his mini byers with him, rambling on about how 'awesome' hellfire campaigns would be, how they'd drive him to the hideout- to which jonathan immediately shot that down- and how will's freshman year would be his favorite year because 'me and big byers are gonna make you never forget it, kid' and that's all the two of them cared about, really.

they didn't think about what would happen after they showed up at school together.

will decided that he'd rather walk with the rest of his friends to school that day, and have a proper meet-up-and-recap before they all settled into new classes and opportunities, so jonathan and eddie rode to school together. in eddie's van.

the thing they don't tell most people about having a boyfriend in hawkins is that most people in hawkins who have boyfriends are girls, and most boys who date have girlfriends, and so little couple-y things like showing up to school in the same van and fixing each other's jackets would earn strange and unsettling looks from fellow student passersby. things like that, when done without a girl present or involved in the straightening or light dusting of jackets, often got someone spat on or shoved into a toilet or trash can or locker of some kind, accompanied with a brand new word for "gay" written in permanent marker somewhere on your exposed skin for everyone to see.

they have the same first period, but they don't walk to class together.

they have the same last period too, but eddie can't wait that long.

during lunch, when jonathan is washing his hands before making the trek to the parking lot to eat alone in his car, a handful of boys enter and exit their respective stalls. most of them ignore him (thankfully) and the ones that don't just stare, and it could be due to his brother- the zombie- attending school with him now, it could be the way some people definitely saw him exit the same van as eddie munson, and it could be the way it's taking him so long to raise his hands above the sink to dry them off. all in all, they're still staring. there's a rolodex of reasons to stare at jonathan byers, and none of them are good, and all of them make sense, to a certain degree.

at least jonathan can wash his hands about it. he's getting better at moving his arms past his elbows, and he's grateful for being able to wash his hands under five minutes, even if his fingers still jitter or the water feels like- something he's bound to wash away again, maybe, if he isn't careful about eddie. about will. at least he can look forward to walking by eddie's table with the rest of the hellfire club as he makes his way into peaceful (albeit, regretful) solitude. maybe eddie will shoot him a wink mid speech, or smile at him and act like he's smiling at someone else during one of his elaborate public disruptions.

instead, jonathan hears a loud, swinging screech and flinches, his arms tensing up down to the laddering of his spine, and his first instinct is to reach for something but instead he just ducks his head down and mutters an apology, as if he was the one barging in on an innocent sink-dweller. instead of barking back at him, or spitting a venom-slick synonym for 'queer' and shoving him into the nearest stall, the interrupter pulls him in for a tight hug. it startles jonathan, until he realizes the only person to hug him by lifting him a foot above the ground is-

"can't fucking do this-" and eddie’s wrapping constrictor-tight arms around him one moment, then pushing the two of them into the nearest stall the next, and holding him by the face with both hands to kiss him right after that, "can't fucking do this, byers- i can't-"

"hey, listen-" jonathan melts, and couldn't think of a way to reciprocate eddie's intensity if he tried, becoming fully swept up in words stitched in between layers of kissing, "listen, eds-"

eddie stops, because he knows when to stop, when jonathan feels like it's becoming too much, too much acting and not enough savoring, or too much closeness when he needs air. jonathan expected eddie to ramble himself into a corner, or have a smile cutting its way across his mouth, something familiar to soothe his yearning. what jonathan doesn't expect is eddie looking back at him with eyes so wet, so red, that it looks like he'd been punched everywhere but south from the time he swung that door open to the first kiss he planted on jonathan's face.

"do you- do you know?" eddie's hand is on the spot next to jonathan's head. he's practically hunched over, his lips scrunched into a frown. "do you know how hard it is to act like i don't fuckin' miss you like crazy?"

"i know, hey, i know-" and jonathan is cradling eddie's head in his shoulder like he did during the summer, when they'd open up about things like this, that left them hoveling and wrecked for hours on end. he smooths over his stringy mass of hair, pushing it out of his face while eddie tried to replace the air in his lungs with whatever jonathan had going on at the top of his neck.

"i can't fucking do this." he snaps, his voice as wet as his eyes when he yanks himself from underneath jonathan's hold.

"i know." jonathan is prepared for the worst; he's ready to kiss eddie one last time in that stall and walk out with a wrinkled shirt that's bound to turn heads. he figures it's the end of summer and eddie has a breakable heart, and it must break his heart to not be around jonathan like how he used to, so jonathan figures it's time. he sighs, putting on a brave, stoic face while giving eddie a firm squeeze on his shoulder.

eddie isn't having any of it.

"i can't fucking live like this, byers." eddie says it- live- in a way that jonathan would've easily missed had he been focused on the mess of teeth and tongue sliding its way up and down his neck, dancing just above his collarbone.

it weighs on him, the idea of eddie not being able to live without him, or the idea of eddie not being able to live without being with him, whichever idea made the most sense. jonathan knows this is nonsensical, from every angle, because eddie doesn't mean that, and jonathan shouldn't just assume things out of people he dates for a month or two, or three, or… however long it's been since their first kiss. just because eddie kissed him back then the exact same way he's kissing him now- sporadic movements and bumps of teeth, both of their skin clammy and sundried at the same time- doesn't mean they should exist in a world where hawkins isn't hawkins. it's hard for him to imagine it, a world where he and eddie could step out of the same van or even hold hands in the halls, and if he tries hard enough he can convince himself that that isn't actually what he wanted from all this, no way, no how. it's hard to convince himself of that when eddie is taking his zipper down.

"eddie, wait-" he manages to cough out, having had every cognitive thought kissed right out of him, and his featherlight wrist tries to pick at eddie's heavily accessorized one. "really, wait. c'mon, eds- we gotta- gotta talk this out, okay? talk."

eddie exhales, long and heavy through his nose, with a pleased chuckle rumbling somewhere underneath all that. jonathan is relieved, even if eddie starts pressing quiet kisses up his neck again, at least jonathan knows he's listening.

"i missed you too." jonathan leans into it, resting his palm on eddie's cheek. he does miss him, even now, but he won't say it. eddie doesn't have to know that this is hard for him too, that he wants to be doing this- kissing, no judgemental eyes or poisonous words- out in the open, with all their peers, with everyone and anyone who could see.

eddie makes a noise, disgruntled, perished, wrecked inside, and he’s pressing the flesh of his cheek into jonathan's hand, nuzzling him with a ferocity that shouldn't be described as a "nuzzle". his arms come around jonathan's waist, tight, like he's protesting the bulldozing of the place that doesn't card for cigarettes, or trying to break him in half.

"i'm serious, eds," jonathan hears himself break, for a second, in a voice crack that borders on a wheeze, "i missed you. a lot."

"yeah, no, i- i know." eddie closes his leaking eyes tight, breathing him in again. "which is why i- i can't. i can't not be with you, or around you, or act like i don't even… like we don't even… know each other? does that make sense? i don't- i don't know what i'm saying here, jonny. something in there might make sense-"

"eddie." jonathan scoffs with endearment, then his heart sinks when he thinks about not getting to hear his boyfriend ramble anymore. "i know what you mean."

they pause, silence wrapping around them like a wool blanket. they're just limbs at this point; eddie's lips still wandering aimlessly on however much skin he could find on jonathan's neck, jonathan's head curled towards him, both of their arms folded around each other as they breathed, speaking in bumps of noses and sighs of gratitude.

"we just have to be careful, okay?" jonathan is the first to pull them back to reality, as unwilling as he was. "just for the year, yeah? so people don't think… y’know."

"god," eddie groans, his forehead thumping against the wall behind them, and he chuckles again, until it bleeds into a whine. "since when do we care about what people think? since when did we have to start acting like fucking…" both of them know what that silence means, and both of them knew how to not get caught over the summer, except for when they didn't, "ugh! this fucking sucks. this sucks, byers. why do we have to pretend that we're-"

"we won't be pretending," jonathan's face feels blank, and he tightens his fingers around eddie's bicep, "we'd still be together, just… we won't tell anyone. not because of what they'll say, but because it isn't their business."

there were a lot of things jonathan was scared of, and a lot of reasons to be scared of them. for a long time, he was scared of having to hurt someone he loved, and he was prepared for the inevitability of it happening, because ever since will first went missing, he knew he'd shut himself off more. what he wasn't prepared for, in the event of letting down a person he loved, was for that person to be eddie. he especially, never in his life, would've thought to prepare for the look on eddie's face after he said that.

eddie backs off completely, unashamed tears fully streaming down his face, his hands forgetting jonathan's zipper entirely, latching onto his shoulders like jonathan would go missing without them being wound together. he shrugs, and then his head is down and jonathan hears the starts to a lot of sentences that never get finished, or even have a first word to begin with. his hands tremble, his ring-clad fingers digging dent marks into jonathan's bare ones. he sniffles, hard, and it breaks jonathan's heart right down the middle.

he knows he should say something. he knows he should pull eddie closer, tell him he didn't mean it, that they'll just float through their senior year together and it'll be a breeze, or the best year of will's life, or whatever else eddie said, but he can't. he can't bring himself to do anything when he knows that lunch period will be over soon, and someone might see them leave this stall together and assume the worst- the truth- and make their lives a living hell. eddie doesn't deserve that. he should be able to graduate in one piece without jonathan dragging him down.

"i didn't know you were-" eddie is the first to speak, because jonathan is busy holding in his own tears at seeing him like this, "i didn't think you still cared about this stuff, y'know?" he squeezes jonathan's hands in his palms, "other people seeing us, whatever, all that shit. i didn't know it mattered so much to you."

"it doesn't." jonathan's lips crinkle into a frown. eddie didn't know what he was talking about.

"yeah?" eddie meets his eyes, and they're worse than jonathan could've imagined them being. his face is flushed, and his lips are red from having kissed jonathan so much, and his mouth twitches as it opens and closes, words dying off his tongue before he could form them. "because you really seem to give a shit about being seen with me, or even fucking knowing me, actually, so what gives? what changed with you, byers? what made you make up this- this fucking game plan on how we're supposed to act now, huh?"

"nothing." jonathan's voice is tight, and his fingers feel small and dry in eddie's hands.

"bullshit." eddie's grip is more firm, more secure, but still soft. his eyes scan jonathan's face, and his eyebrows have that arch in them that jonathan had only seen when he was learning a new song on guitar. he used to admire it, found it cute, but now it terrifies him. "what, are you, like… embarrassed of me? ashamed or- or something?"

"that's not-" jonathan feels a single tear fall, and he realizes he might've been holding in a breath this entire time. he knew how eddie worked; all it took was one missed idea, or misconstrued thought, and eddie would be in his dark hole of self pity once again, and they'd done so well with his progressing sobriety over the summer that jonathan doesn't want to see what'll happen when eddie gets down there again. “i’m not.”

"you don't like me anymore, then?" that crack in his voice- jonathan hates it- makes eddie sound like a rejected kid, and even he starts to shake his head at how ridiculous it might sound. "are we not, like, clicking like we used to? is it someone else?"

"eddie-" jonathan knows he's helpless to stop this spiral, and he starts his own series of unfinished sentences that come out as shortenings of breath and hollow grunts.

"did i do something?" eddie has his shoulders fully slumped now. "i know i'm not, like, the best boyfriend in the world or anything, but, you- you gotta tell me if i mess up, y’know? so we can-"

the bell rings. jonathan swore he wouldn't miss lunch, swore to himself he wouldn't make a scene on the first day back, for everyone's sake, and here they were. eddie is stood frozen in front of him, his body solid in it's hunched stance while his eyes bug out, racing around every corner of their shared space. when jonathan snaps his fingers in front of his face, eddie heaves, his posture loosening almost instantly.

"go." jonathan wishes he didn't sound so quick to get eddie to leave, but he has to get them apart before people see, and eddie still isn't getting the picture. he grabs him by the arm, and the way eddie won't even look at him is blunt enough to crack a bone. "you have go, eds, right now, or-"

"yeah." eddie snatches his arm away, sniffs hard as he wipes his face with one hand, and pushes the stall door open to properly storm out. "already ahead of you."

jonathan watches him leave, knowing (or at least assuming to know) that they'll talk later, and that they both need to get a grip before shit gets heavier than it needs to be. it'd have to be at his trailer after school, without will tagging along or, hopefully, without wayne to mistakenly wander in on their conversation. jonathan would have to think, long and hard, about what that talk would even mean for them. worst case scenario, they break up and hate each other for the rest of their lives.

jonathan can't think of another scenario.

[speuradair]

picture this:

its 2:30am. It’s winter break so there’s no school tomorrow. Instead of sleeping, you have Bring Me Horizon’s Sempiternal album playing on repeat and you’re writing a fanfic in the notes app on your phone. The only light in the room is coming from the fairy lights you hung up around your bed. The year is

2022. That’s what i’m doing right now and i’m suddenly realizing i haven’t changed a single bit since 2013 lmao

[misty-wisp]

something haunts them, like parasites feeding off their hosts.

five are affected.

one has recovered.

the first blinds its host's anger, its fog clouding her judgement.

the second is given the cold shoulder, hiding itself away.

the third embraces the one it affects, like they're two peas in a pod.

the fourth spun the web of lies that began it all.

for four years they've grown...only now do they take effect.

[untilthenextencore]

Old Habits Die Hard Ch. 5~...

Robert didn't understand it. How was it that even with that little tiff in the books & on its way to being smoothed over, he hardly felt any better? After that slight admonishment, the rest of the night was more or less a non-issue. It was a blur still. Drinks. Handshaking & backslaps. Congratulatory messages all around.

Along with that came several volleys of that same old question as to if the behemoth will rise again & when? All of which he did his best to evade & avoid. Though this time he was a little less off-handedly acid-tongued.

Her words still reverberated in his head. As did her look of abject disgust at his earlier behavior.

But really, it was hard to tell which affected him more, the image of her distaste at his earlier childishness & acting so "beneath him".

The memories of Mexico months earlier...

Or the sight he was confronted with then. Her on Pagey's arm. On his lap. Taking care of him. Primping his curls again. Patting his sweat away with a towel amidst kisses. Jimmy sitting happily & holding court with her sitting pretty on his lap.

Robert felt like a satellite just then. Or a meteor. He didn't know which. Making his rounds of the crowds of fans & friends... Only to then crash near if not into her.

And crash he did, into the dark depths of backstage, just in earshot (if not eyeline) of the two of them in one of their many clinches. The darkness giving Jimmy license to get a little more bold. At least from what he could tell. Jimmy was mauling her happily. Salt & pepper hair obscuring the curve of her neck. Where his lips were then attached to no doubt.

Or so he could tell by her voice as it lilted above her soft giggles to hush an endearing. "Jimmy... You know this collar can only cover so much, darling." As she did her best to keep his jacket from falling off her shoulders.

He didn't see much else, turning heel & leaving. Apparently, they had the same idea. As it is while he was on his way out of the backstage area he hears a faint yet familiar. "Bye, Robert!" Followed by an equally familiar. "Yeah, bye mate!" Robert turned to see Gati waving at him as Jimmy wrapped an arm tighter around her as he led her briskly away & out back into the crowd. Into the night. Into the ether.

The rest of the night was a blur of pints. Pints passed to him & Pints he got himself. Congratulations or consolations. He wasn't even fucking sure anymore.

When the dust settled & the dream clouds (or drink clouds) parted though he might not realize it, he felt that mystical force pulling or pushing him. The satellite was on the move. The asteroid prepping himself for the inevitable crash.

~

Before he knew it, Robert found himself outside the door of Pagey's room with a little wrapped present in tow. He didn't know what to expect when he knocked on the door. Gati in a sheet. Gati wrapped in the blanket. Gati in another one of Pagey's shirts? If he were thinking straight what actually ended up confronting him would've made sense. Pagey fisting a bottle of champagne & looking a little tousled.

Bed rumpled.

Shit.

"Hello, Robert. What brings you around?" Jimmy smiled, eyes falling to note the prize or present Robert brought with him. That same familiar wry smile curved his lips. Content with the fact that it was he who held the true prize.

"Oh, nothing much. I just figured since we were both still around you might like to have lunch..."

The grin widened, curving one side of the mouth higher than the other. "I see... Well come in, come in! Not sure I can make lunch, mate. But perhaps tea. Y'see Gati is still getting ready for the day. We had a long night..."

"Ah yes, Gati..." Despite it all, Robert did his best to appear off-hand about it all. He tried his best - albeit in vain - not to let those last words nor the lascivious sounding chuckle that followed get to him, as he made his way into the suite. Delightfully disheveled everything was. A bucket of partially melted ice on a mini table to the right that had clearly housed the bottle of champagne that was then in Pagey's possession. It now held two discarded flutes; one with a discernably pinkish red lip print. The aforementioned rumpled bedclothes. Pagey's clothes from the day before lay tossed about. And a very tell-tale slip dress cast to the floor.

That came as a blow to Robert.

Despite his best efforts to try to shield that from prying eyes, he knew Pagey's own inscrutable gaze could see all. He knew him too well not to. Robert knew that well. That fact was driven home when his gaze lifted from the slip dress to find Pagey's gaze locked straight on him. The grin never wavered.

However he hardly had any time to contemplate that before a soft voice rang out from the bathroom.

"Jimmy have you seen my hair clip? I still can't find it anywhere! I-- oh!... Hello, Robert."

It was then that Gati appeared. Appearing around the corner out of the powder room as she fastened a swath of fabric around her bust, hair wrapped in a turban, with a towel wrapped & slung around her waist. Her body swathed in a sheen. Damp with dew still.

Talk about knockout.

Robert couldn't feel his own breath. He wasn't even sure if she was breathing. His words left him. She seemed to be moving in slow motion. Patting herself dry with another towel as she crossed the room, affixing herself willingly to Jimmy's side.

Jimmy's arm slunk around her waist, hand splaying on her lower stomach & teasingly clawing through the cascading droplets on her midsection. This made Gati giggle & writhe a bit, clearly ticklish, before turning to cup Jimmy's shadowed jaw to press kisses to his cheek. His grin then brightened as it was followed by a chuckle.

More claiming.

Classic Pagey.

"No, luv. I haven't seen it. I'm sure it's around somewhere. It'll turn up." He returned her kisses as his fingers danced along her damp midsection, making her wriggle & gasp.

"Jimmy!" She squealed, beginning to giggle again as she tried to still his hand. "Jimmy! Jimmy that's enough! Please!" Then adding as his lips traced a familiar path down her neck, drawing Robert's eyes to a bit of soft bruising along the nape.

Hickeys.

Damn Jim.

"Jimmy! Jimmy, please! Not in front of Robert! It's bad enough you've marked me so already! Oh, I'm gonna have a wonderful time covering this later for work."

Just for good measure, Jimmy gave her nape a quick little nibble & suck, making both Gati & Robert squirm, albeit for different reasons. Unlike Gati, Robert wasn't in much of a mood for giggling & squealing. Jimmy's chuckling & self-satisfied smiling didn't make it any better.

Recovering after her little joy filled fits, Gati did her best to compose herself. A small smirk threatening to spread across her lips as she turns to the guitarist beside her & asked. "By the way Jimmy... Have you seen your scarf as of late? Your favorite white one?"

Jimmy whipped his head around, taking stock of where his things lie around the room. No scarf in sight. It wasn't until he noticed Gati give him a pointed look as she adjusted the tie on her "top" that he twigged. "Luv!" He broke out in incredulous laughter. "You didn't!"

"I did! I thought it cute this way. Don't you think so?" Gati asked offhandedly, while fluffing the "bow".

"I do, darling!" He nodded, then leaning in to hush an addition which Robert could still hear. "You'll find out just how much when it's back on the floor later..." Another kiss to the neck & cheek followed. As did more kisses from Gati in return along with giggles.

Robert was helpless but to watch. Watch Jimmy as he fully enjoyed & reveled in something he got only a taste of before being carried away by the wind & his own insecurities. Something he hesitated to allow himself to enjoy in full as he might've in times before. It wasn't the seventies anymore. Apparently, seventies or not, Jimmy had no such qualms or reservations.

Jimmy just chuckled, before bringing Gati's attention to something of great importance. "Gati luv, it seems Robert here came to invite us to tea or lunch or what have you. He also brought a present for you."

"Is that so?" Gati turned to face Robert, motioning to the box clasped in his hands. "Is that for me?"

Robert nodded, rasping a soft "Yeah..." as he passed over the box for Gati to inspect.

"Thank you. That's very sweet of you." Beneath the bowed ribbon, she could make out the words, "Fine Mexican Chocolate". She smiled. "Now Robert! Where on earth did you find this?"

At last, some of Robert's bravado came back. "Oh, I have my ways..."

"I'm sure you do. Or so they say..." She giggled, luring a laugh out of him as well. "Whatever made you buy me this?"

"I just wanted to apologize for last night..." Robert's words caught Page's attention. The dark-haired guitarist raised an eyebrow as he took another swig from the bottle of champagne, cutting his eyes at Robert.

Robert explained. "It seems that during the interview with MTV Gati picked up on something I said that went sideways. She spoke up & out later on. Wildly protective of you she is! She gave me quite a tongue-lashing. Well earned I'd say. Though of course, I meant no harm."

"Oh, of course..." Jimmy murmured against the mouth of the bottle with a smirk.

"She confronted me. Defended you tirelessly in fact. That's quite a little spitfire you have on your hands, mate!" Robert laughed.

Though the laugh faltered a bit on his lips as Jimmy - chest puffed with pride & with his grin as wide & bright & proud as it's ever been - clutched Gati tighter as she nibbled one of the chocolates & grinned as he declared. "Don't I know it! S'part of what I like about her so much." He turned to Gati with a proud smile. "Thank you, darling."

Now the bravado fell again as Jimmy licked his lips after yet another kiss, murmuring. "Mmmm, chocolate."

More giggles followed, Gati asking. "Tastes better with champagne, no?"

"I think..." Jimmy replied with a nod, tilting the champagne bottle slightly to her after she finished her last bite. "Tastes better on your lips..." Taking her lips in yet another kiss, humming in delight as he relished the mingled taste of champagne, chocolate and her.

Robert was dumbfounded. He felt relieved that the tiff was now well & truly behind them. Glad she enjoyed his present so as well. He didn't foresee Jimmy enjoying the present as much as Gati. Certainly, he didn't foresee Jimmy enjoying it in such a way either. How did Jimmy become the victor to whom all the spoils belonged to & went? The champagne. The chocolates. And her?

Robert was pulled from his contemplating his quandaries by more of Gati's giggles cascading into his thoughts, into his ears & her lyrical soft voice asking. "Well... Back on topic... Must I dress for dinner or whatever it is? Anything special?..."

"No, not at all. Very come as you are sort of place. Er, that is, wear what you like!" Robert corrected himself.

"Great! Sounds wonderful!" Gati clapped once before going over to a suitcase lying open nearby. "Mind if I borrow something, Jimmy?"

"Not at all! Take what you like, luv!" He smiled as she picked up a blouse & headed back into the powder room, announcing.

"I won't be long!" Gati then making Jimmy's grin widen as she added. "Oh! Here you go, Jimmy. Almost forgot. Don't want to misplace this!"

A dainty, delicate, manicured hand then appeared holding out a very treasured item from the cracked open door. A slightly damp & elegantly rumpled scarf, which until then had been her makeshift top. Jimmy took it with his thanks & evident great pleasure, gladly & proudly draping it around his shoulders as his accessory for the day.

For Robert it made his knees go weak. His blood felt like it was bubbling. Scalding. His heart felt like it was pumping out steam. And he felt a very familiar throb between his legs then grow all the more keener.

The same feeling intensified when she returned shortly thereafter. Very lightly made up. Black miniskirt & heels. Hair loose, wavy & still somewhat damp. A shirt that is very decidedly too big for her - very decidedly Jimmy's - tied under her bust.

Yet again, Jimmy's grin widened to a truly Cheshire cat level.

Yet again Robert's jaw fell.

Either way the effect was the same.

K.O.

Knock. Out.

~

Hope you enjoy~!

Thanks to @firethatgrewsolow for some dialogue coaching~!

As ever this is forever under construction~

[artdcnaldson]

Tie Break || Art Donaldson x Reader ; Patrick Zweig x Reader

this can be read as a sequel to changeover or as a standalone :) enjoy <3

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v smut x2, f!recieving oral, handjob, creampie, cum eating), angst with a happy ending, infidelity, toxic relationships, everyone in this is kind of a horrible person, language obviously

Summary: It’s summer in Atlanta, 2011. For the second time in your life, you’re the clear second choice. When the opportunity arises, you find a temporary distraction in Art Donaldson.

A/N: FINALLY here it is! The 2011 Atlanta fic. They’re back, they’re older, they’re even more toxic. Let me know if you’re interested in a part 3!

It was hot, even though the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. It was a cloying, oppressive heat that made the stupid, business-casual top you wore stick to your skin. 

The article you were working on was halfway written, something you could knock out in the next hour if you really tried. Your drink was watered down from the heat, weak when it hit your tongue. A frown turned your lips, but you really shouldn’t have been drinking anyway.

"Working late?”

The voice was so familiar that you could’ve recognized it anywhere, any time. Art Donaldson was one of the most recognizable men in the country, but to you, he seemed so different. The boyishness was still there, but it lay beneath a new level of confidence.

You took a sip of your drink, trying to appear nonchalant, like it hadn’t been four years since you last spoke. “I’m on deadline. I’m writing a feature on Anna Mueller heading into the US Open next month.”

Without asking, he sat down across from you at the small bistro table. He was so close you could smell the minty gum he had been chewing. It nearly made you smile. Old habits die hard.

“So you write about tennis?” He asked, meeting your gaze. 

“I write about athletes,” you corrected. “I was going to be here anyway, and since Anna is heading for a Grand Slam, I thought it would be easy enough. Grab a couple of interviews, watch a few matches.”

He nodded, leaning back in the chair, trying his best to be causal in a situation that definitely wasn’t. You sipped again at your drink, peering at him over the edge of the glass. 

“You have a match tomorrow,” you said, as though he needed reminding. “Shouldn’t you be listening to shitty pop punk to get yourself psyched right now?”

A smile spread across his lips, and he looked so much like the guy you knew from college that it made your chest tug uncomfortably. Same hair, the same smile, the same crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he was amused by something. You couldn’t help but smile along with him, like the past four years were nothing. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said with a laugh. “Do you want another drink?”

You looked down at your glass, mostly water and thin ice cubes. “Rum and coke?” You asked, giving him a tiny smile. He nodded and disappeared towards the bar.

It felt strange, sitting there in the quiet, your article the furthest thing from your mind. Four years. It felt like yesterday and an eternity ago that you’d last spoken with him. He was a familiar stranger, nearly unknowable. 

Your cursor blinked a few more times before you shut your laptop and slid it back inside your beat-up work bag. 

“Running off?” He asked, catching you in the act of packing your things. You shook your head and accepted the fresh drink with a smile. “You said you were going to be in Atlanta anyway,” he said as he sat, spreading out, making himself comfortable in the shitty bar seating. “When you were talking about writing about Anna.”

You nodded. “Mhmm, I did,” you replied, chewing the inside of your lip nervously. His gaze was intense, falling just on the other side of casual. You felt tiny under that gaze, like you were guilty of a crime you didn’t know you’d committed. 

“And you’re here for Patrick?” The words were nonchalant, but you could hear the accusation beneath them, the history of the two of them just in one sentence. It turned something in your stomach, the possessiveness in his voice. You could hear it, even four years out.

The new drink was strong, but it was the perfect way to hide the distaste in your expression. The burn of liquor into your chest grounded you back in reality instead of the easy allure of nostalgia. “Yeah,” you said after a beat. “I try my best to go to all of his matches.”

Art narrowed his eyes, just slightly. There was still an element of exaggerated friendliness, the casual smile on his lips, the open body language. All of it masking the lingering resentment and hurt that was buried beneath mountains of nostalgia. Deep enough that neither of you had realized it was still there until you found yourselves face to face. There was an unspoken question, one that he didn’t want to ask, one that you didn’t want to answer. 

How long?

You took another drink. 

“Where is Patrick?” He asked, glancing around like he might materialize out of thin air.

“He went out for a smoke, or to walk around and clear his head, or something,” you said with a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Where’s Tashi?”

His jaw clenched and he looked away— a sore spot. A scab you wanted to pick at until it bled, dig your nails in. Maybe that was your eighteen-year-old self talking. 

“You never used to let her get too far away from you,” you noted, mirth dripping from each syllable. “Bet you came down here looking for her. Your leash must’ve been just a little too loose this time and she slipped it.”

You took a long drink, nails tapping against the glass as you considered your words. Tashi wasn’t the type of woman who let a man hold her back. If you were trying to be more accurate, rather than just piss him off, you might’ve fixed the analogy. Art was the sad little puppy following her around. She tied his leash to a lamp post for a fucking break.

“Do you remember the day Tashi got injured?” He asked, changing the subject suddenly. 

You blinked slowly, appraising him. But his expression gave nothing away. “I do.”

A wry smile spread across his lips, and he met your gaze with a coldness that you didn’t recognize. Mean in the way injured animals like to snap at the nearest hand. “It was Patrick in your room that night, wasn’t it?”

Your brows furrowed, face falling at his words. “What?”

He made a face, something akin to skepticism, but crueler. It made your stomach turn. 

“You were fucking someone in your room,” he said plainly. “And I’ve always had a suspicion that it was Patrick. Was it?”

That didn’t do much to clear up your confusion. “You were there?”

He laughed, mirthless, and nodded. “I was, uh, sitting by the door like an asshole. I came to apologize, to beg for you back, but instead, I spent the night listening to my girlfriend getting fucked on the other side of the door.”

Annoyance flickered in your gaze. He knew of a wound of your own, and he relished in picking at it the way you’d relished in digging your fingers into his. “I wasn’t your girlfriend, Art.”

���Right, you weren’t. But you’re Patrick’s girlfriend now, is that it?”

Heat burned in your cheeks. Your relationship with Patrick was… tempestuous to say the least. Most of the time he was your boyfriend, but others he was just a friend that you could count on for a good fuck, sometimes not even a friend. At the moment, he was the former, but that could always change.

It wasn’t easy, being with someone whose emotions ran on an equally short fuse. You’d sound too much like his parents, or he’d devalue your work, or Patrick would forget to take out the trash in your apartment and you’d snap, or you’d mispronounce a word one too many times and it would drive him crazy. Insignificant things could feel big with him, because of him. For better or worse. 

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment.” He echoed, laughing like he was in on some joke you were painfully unaware of.

”That’s amusing to you?” You asked, raising a brow. 

He shrugged, picking at his jeans. “Your choice of words is interesting.” He lets that hang in the air before he meets your gaze again. “Do you think Patrick would’ve even noticed you if it hadn’t been for me?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Does it matter?” You asked. “You realize that we’ve been together going on four years now, right? Broken up, dating, fucking, whatever. You realize that there may be more important things in our life than you?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think you know that whatever you have, it’s built on the fact that you were a warm body when he needed it. Just like you were for me.”

That arrogant expression, like he actually fucking knew anything about you anymore was the last straw. You stood suddenly, grabbing your bag. You weren’t Art Donaldson’s little lapdog anymore— you didn’t have to sit there and take all the shit he doled out. 

“Goodnight, Art. Thanks for the drink.”

It was funny, how your weaknesses were still so exposed. Art’s was Tashi, and it probably always would be. His desire to be seen, to impress, painted upon every lovely feature. And yours, raw and bleeding and obvious— the unbearable, visceral need to be wanted.

You made it to the elevator before you felt his presence behind you. Wordless, but so close it was suffocating. You jabbed the up button over and over in frustration, knowing it wouldn’t speed anything up. 

Art stepped into the elevator with you, so close you could feel the body heat radiating off of him. He always burned hot, like a human furnace. 

It was silent as the lift lurched upwards. You pressed against the back corner, watching the number of the floor increase one by one. 

“Patrick is with Tashi,” Art said without looking at you, just as the elevator opened on the floor of your room. You froze, swallowing hard. “I saw them in the hotel bar, then they left together. What do you think they’re doing right now?”

You shook your head dumbly, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Go fuck yourself, Art,” you said weakly, because what else was there to say? You stepped into the hallway— lit with dim yellow light so you couldn’t see where the wallpaper peeled and the carpet was stained.

“If you need somewhere to wait them out, and you will, I’m in room 13 on the seventh floor.” The elevator doors closed, and you were alone. 

The hallway was winding, and you felt a bad sort of anticipation of what you might find, like a sick feeling in your gut. You stood in front of the room, 306, and froze.

The door to your room was closed, no light shone from beneath the door, but you could hear them. Muffled, but clear enough. A pretty voice and breathy moans. Patrick’s laugh, the thud of something falling off the dresser.

Your room key was in your purse— you could’ve gotten it out and stopped it, but what good would that have done? You’d still spend the night humiliated, facing opposite walls as Patrick, lying in the same sheets he’d just fucked her in. 

You dropped the bag by the door and took a slow, shaky breath to calm yourself down. 

Tashi Duncan. She had lingered on the edges of your relationship with Patrick too. She was Patrick’s first choice, just as she’d been Art’s. You’d never blamed them for that, you knew where you stood, and you chose them anyway. 

It was easy to choose them when you thought that the threat was nonexistent— when distance made you feel safe. You could hear her and him, but it felt like mere static in your brain.

You knew how Art felt, back at Stanford. Sulking outside the door, unable and unwilling to stop what was happening on the other side. 

You were in the elevator before you realized you’d walked away. Shitty soft rock played over the speakers, and a poster on the wall advertised a continental breakfast. Your stomach turned uncomfortably. 

You knocked on the door— room thirteen, an unlucky number. Maybe it didn’t bode well. As you waited for the door to open, your nails tapped a staccato rhythm against your thigh.

Art opened the door like he’d been expecting someone else. Maybe he had half-expected you to interrupt and send Tashi back upstairs, but no. He got you standing at his door with fiery eyes and an expectant expression. 

Second choice, second choice, second choice.

Art kissed you for the first time in four years, and you let him. Not because you wanted to hurt Patrick or Tashi, but because you knew it would hurt you. His tongue pressed between the seam of your lips like he belonged there, licking into your mouth like he wanted to reclaim every part of you that Patrick had touched. You pushed him with a firm hand on his chest and he stumbled backward into the room. Despite everything, he smiled. 

His hotel room was nearly identical to yours and Patrick’s. But you didn’t have time to really take in the details when he had his tongue in your mouth, kissing you hungrily.

That afternoon, you kissed Patrick after he lost his match. You wondered if Art could still taste him on your tongue then, if he wanted to drown out the taste of him. 

It was different than you were used to. Four years with Patrick meant that you’d grown accustomed to certain ways that he did things— the intensity behind each kiss, each touch. His emotions— good, bad, in between— were never masked, never repressed. 

When Patrick kissed you, when he touched you, when he fucked you— both of you were laid completely bare. 

Art was different. When he kissed you it was through a certain level of performance, like he’d learned how from a searing romance film. In college, you’d believed that he kissed you like that because deep down, he did love you. Even at that moment, years out from your relationship with him, it muddled your brain.

Your sensible work heels had long since been kicked off by the door. Art’s fingers undid the button and zip of your jeans deftly, with a confidence that had only doubled since Freshman year. They wound up in a heap against the hotel dresser. 

In his haste to remove your (also sensible, and very business casual) button-down, he popped about half of the buttons off completely. 

“Sorry,” he said. The grin on his lips made you wonder if sorry was really how he felt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Stop talking.” You pulled off your bra and lost it somewhere across the room in your haste. Art was pulling off his clothes— his hoodie and the shirt beneath. His jeans and shoes toed off and left to be dealt with later. 

He kissed you again, guiding you exactly where he needed. Your knees hit the back of the mattress and he eased you down without moving his lips from yours. When your head hit the sheets, you smelled perfume so sweet that it was nearly intoxicating. You turned your head, breathing deeply. Tashi. In this same bed, in this same spot. It made something stir inside you— right in your chest. A hint of wrongness, a hint of hurt. 

Art pulled back, moving his lips along your jaw, down to the junction of your throat. 

“Stop thinking,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down to your tits. “I don’t want you thinking about Patrick. Not when you’re with me.”

The words were mumbled against soft, supple skin. His eyes were intent as they looked up at you, the demand of momentary fidelity in his eyes. You wanted to slap that expression off of his face, or run your thumb along his cheek and hold his face in your hands. 

How was it fair that he asked you that when he’d lingered like a ghost on the edges of whatever it was that you and Patrick had? How was it fair for him to look at you like that?

He took a nipple into his mouth and you gasped as his teeth grazed against the sensitive skin. Soft kisses before he suckled softly. “Okay,” you gasped, lying through your teeth. “I’m only thinking of you.”

His hair was still long, kept the same way he wore it in school. Your fingers tangled in his hair like muscle memory, scratching against his scalp as he kissed along your skin with wet lips, treating your other breast with the same, hungry attention.

“Still so fucking hot,” he mumbled against your skin. “Should’ve— fuck— should’ve kept you. What do you want, huh? Tell me.”

Your mind swam with possibilities, but you didn’t even know where to begin. Your mind was stuck on his previous words. Should’ve kept you. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  “I don’t know,” you replied, completely honest. “Whatever you want.”

He accepted that easily— it was so similar to how you’d been for him in college. You gasped as he kissed down your sternum, then your stomach. His lips found the waistband of your panties and he grinned, tugging at the lace with his teeth, letting it snap back against your hip. 

He peeled your panties down slowly, letting his hands trail down the expanse of your legs. The possessiveness of the touch sent a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed along your skin, from your ankle, up your calf, then your knee. Your legs spread instinctively, welcoming him right back where he knew he belonged. His pretty lips trailed wet kisses up your thighs, stopping just where you wanted him. 

You expected him to rush. He’d seen Patrick and Tashi leave, which meant they’d finish before you two, more likely than not. There was every reason in the world to make things quick— to fuck you and make you leave. 

Instead, he took his time with you. Soft, teasing kisses peppered on the supple skin of your thighs before he nuzzled into your cunt. The first delve of his tongue was slow and exploratory, tasting the arousal that had pooled at your core. 

”God, you still taste so fucking sweet.”

Another thing you’d nearly forgotten about Art— in all things, he was methodical.

He started with kitten licks at your clit— light brushes with his tongue that made you whimper needily for more. His tongue circled you there, and he relished in the way your fingers tugged on his hair at the sensation. 

Then he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking with more pressure until a strangled moan squeezed past your lips. Your thighs tensed on either side of his head, holding him there as he alternated between slow, soothing licks and firm suction.

It was frustrating, how wet you were. Art had brought out the worst in you, turned you into something that left you feeling genuinely embarrassed. And still, you were slick, dripping down to the sheets. A mess of arousal and Art’s spit. 

When he eased a finger into your cunt, it slid in like your body was made to fit whatever he could give you. At that point, you very well could have been. What were you, if not an object orbiting in the atmosphere of his life?

He looked up at you, seeming so fucking intent on making it feel good for you as he crooked his finger. It rubbed against the soft, spongy spot within you and you cried out, eyes rolling back. 

“That’s it, huh?” He cooed as he pressed a second finger inside of you. Your arm was slung over your face. You couldn’t let yourself keep looking at him when he was looking at you the same way he had in college. The same fucking expression that got your head all mixed up in the first place. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your clit and you whimpered. “I know it feels good, baby, just relax.”

His fingers thrust within you with a slow, deep pressure as he continued to make out with your clit. It was always so good with him— you’d nearly forgotten how easy it was for him to bring you to the edge. 

When you came, it wasn’t like what you had grown used to with Patrick— sudden and overwhelming, like it had been ripped from some secret place within you. It was intense, but slow to build, seeming to last forever as Art’s fingers and tongue worked you through it. Your breath was shaky as he pulled back, pretty mouth wet with your arousal.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked, looking up at you expectantly. 

You should’ve stopped— rationally, you knew that it was best to turn back and quit before you fucked up the situation beyond repair. 

But it was Art. He could’ve had anyone else, but he wanted you. Maybe not forever, or even longer than that night. But for then. 

You shook your head softly. “No. Do you think we should stop?”

His fingers moved between your thighs, circling your clit. “We definitely should. You’re with Patrick.”

You sighed, eyes fluttering as he caressed you with featherlight touches. “Don’t fucking talk about him,” you said, but your words came out with no bite. How could they, when he was playing with your body like a favorite toy?

“No?” He asked. He was wearing a smug sort of expression. “You don’t want me to talk about your boyfriend, huh? Too personal?”

You moaned as he applied more pressure at the apex of your thighs, making your cunt clench and ache to be filled. 

“Does Patrick know how much you’ve missed me?” He asked. Your breath caught in your throat, and he just smiled. “I bet he does. I think he knows that if he just drops my name in a conversation, your pussy gets wet.”

You moaned softly at his words, chest heaving with soft pants. You weren’t even sure if it was true, but it felt like it could’ve been then. He leaned down, his words spoken close to your ear.

“I can go slow. Make it last for you.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, making you shiver. 

You nodded eagerly, turning your head to capture his lips with yours. The kiss was slow, like you had all the time in the world. His tongue against yours, the weight of his body on top of you, the feel of him hard, pressing against your thigh. 

He sat back to strip off his boxers, and you relished in the sight of him laid bare before you. You’d nearly forgotten how pretty he was— big and flushed nearly red with need. It made your heart hammer with nerves; your excitement and shame and need rolled into one messy, electrifying tangle. 

His hair flopped into his eyes as he held himself over you, just like you remembered. You reached up, brushing it out of his eyes with a tender hand. His lips brushed against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse thrummed in your veins. 

“Tell me you’ve missed me.”

Heat flooded your entire body, as you repeated the words. “I missed you, Art.” You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, and guiding it towards your entrance. He moaned and bucked instinctively into your hand.

”Tell me you want me to fuck you, no one else.” You could hear the implications in his words. Tell me you want me, not Patrick. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Art pressed himself inside of you, sinking into the welcoming warmth of your cunt. You wrapped your legs around his waist, squeezing him closer, deeper, until his balls pressed firm against you and there was nothing else to give.

He thrust shallowly, rocking against a spot deep within you, one that made your eyes flutter with each brush against it.

“You’re so tight still,” he moaned, lips moving against your throat. “Pussy’s made just for me.”

He touched you like he hadn’t forgotten how you felt or what you needed. Spoke to you like you were one of his possessions.

You lost yourself in it— the sweet, filthy words spoken against your skin, and the rhythm of his body moving against yours. His lips captured yours with a hungry insistence, like he could convey four years' worth of unspoken words with a few brushes of his tongue against yours. 

When he pulled back, lips spit slick and looking so pretty, you thought maybe there was a sort of understanding between the two of you.

His head fell back as he sped up his thrusts, chasing his release. There wasn’t time to stretch it out, to spend as much time as you could with each other’s bodies. 

“Need you to cum,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs to rub your still-sensitive clit. Your cunt was squeezing him tight, body aching for it, for him, brought to the edge simply because he’d asked for it. “C’mon— you get so tight when you cum, need to feel it again.”

It was like your body was hardwired to give him exactly what he wanted. You came with broken moans of his name and legs squeezing him closer, deeper. Your chest heaved with shaking breaths and punched out whimpers as he kept fucking into you.

He was practically crushing you with his weight, pinning you down, groaning into the junction of your shoulder. 

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” his words vibrated against skin tacky with a thin sheen of sweat.

”Want you to.” Your arms slung around his back, holding him close to you. “I’ve got an IUD, so you can— you can cum.”

His lips met yours as he came, with a pretty moan into your open mouth and slow, messy kisses that made you want to just melt into him and stay that way forever. 

Spent, he rolled over and turned on a lamp at the bedside. The alarm clock announced the time in a dim red glow— five past one.

You lay there, damp between your thighs from the mixture of your releases, unsure of what to do. It was cold beneath the hotel AC. He was peering over at you, wearing an expression you were scared to dissect.

When his hand touched your arm, you nearly flinched. Your breath caught in your throat as he ran his thumb along your skin, so sweetly that you felt that same discomfort tug at your chest. 

“C’mere,” he said, an offer. His arm was splayed over the pillows, giving you the perfect spot to lie down and press yourself against his side. To pretend like you belonged there.

But you didn’t belong there. You belonged four floors down with Patrick. That’s where you had belonged for four years. The reality of what you’d done had set in quickly, and you knew you needed to get out of Art’s room. 

”Art,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I have to go.”

He nodded and sat up against the headboard. You watched him grab his boxers and pull them back on, a strange smile on his face. He must’ve sensed your confusion, even without you saying. 

“It’s funny how things change,” he said. “Here I am, asking you to stay for once.”

You didn’t say anything as you picked up your clothes from around the room, redressing as you recovered each piece from its hiding spot around the room. Your shirt was unsalvageable, so you grabbed Art’s. He had plenty of brand sponsors that would jump to replace it, and Patrick wouldn’t recognize it.

“I loved you, I think,” he said suddenly. “Back in college.”

You froze, arms crossed over your chest as you looked at him. “Art—“

“No, I did. I loved you, I just did it all wrong.”

“Art, just stop,” you said firmly. Embarrassment hit you all at once— the guilt of what you’d done, and the shame over who you’d done it with. Your eyes stung as you looked at him. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

His lips twitched, dipping into a frown, then back into as close to a neutral expression as he could manage. “I just thought you should know. It’s only fair.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “Fair? Jesus Christ, you really haven’t changed, Art.” 

His expression fell completely. It looked like it had back in the hotel bar— icy. “I haven’t changed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed as you looked at him. “It means that if this were Stanford, that would’ve made me crawl right back into bed, lay by your side, and daydream about what it could mean for us. If one day I might be Mrs. Art Donaldson. It means that you say these sweet things to me every time you can feel me slipping away, but they mean absolutely nothing. We’re not nineteen anymore, Art. I’m not leaving Patrick to be your plaything again.”

His jaw tensed, and he looked down at the bed briefly while he picked at loose threads on the sheets. “You think that’s what I want?”

You frowned. “I think you want what Patrick has.”

He scoffed. “Patrick doesn’t even want what he has,” he said, relishing in the wounded look on your face. “If he did, he wouldn’t be fucking my fiancée right now.”

Fiancée. You felt stupid for not knowing it, but you swallowed down your hurt and met his gaze. “I guess we’re both going to have to be content with being the second choice.” You slipped on your shoes and went for the door. “Good luck with your match tomorrow, Art. I sincerely hope that I never have to see you again.”

The hallway felt colder when you stepped outside of the room and shut the door firmly behind you. A very big part of you wanted to go back, to knock and apologize and grovel like you might have when you were a freshman.

Maybe you hadn’t grown up that much after all. 

The elevator was playing Billy Joel. You leaned against the side of the elevator, relishing in the cold against your sticky skin. When the doors opened on your floor and you stepped out, you blinked in surprise. 

Tashi stood in front of you for the first time since college, looking just as stunning as you remembered, probably more so. Her hair was pulled up, slightly damp at the ends. Her eyes flicked down to your shirt, Art’s shirt, you swallowed as an understanding passed between the two of you— wordless, because what was there to say at that point?

”You left your laptop in the hallway,” she said, skipping formalities. “I took it inside so it wouldn’t get stolen.”

“Okay,” you said, chewing on your lip. She stood there like she expected something more. You felt her surveying you, and froze as she reached forward and rubbed at your bottom lip.

“He could’ve at least cleaned you up a bit,” she said. Her fingers delicately fixed your hair, tucking it back into place. She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of your mouth. Once there was nothing left to fix, she looked at you one last time and nodded. “You should be fine now.”

Before you could process that, she stepped into the elevator, and you were left alone in the hallway. When you made it to the room, the door was cracked open, so you let yourself in.

Patrick was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, a towel slung low around his waist. The bed was a fucking wreck, not that he seemed to mind. 

When the door clicked shut, he stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking and joined you back in the room. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked. His jaw tensed as he looked at you, like he was ready if you were going to start a fight.

“I just want to go to bed, Patrick,” you said, annoyed by how wobbly and pathetic you sounded. 

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead. “Okay. We’ll go to bed.”

You kicked off your clothes, but left on Art’s hoodie. Patrick didn’t ask where it came from, or what happened to what you were wearing earlier. You knew he already knew, that he could tell the moment you walked in. He dropped the towel onto a heap on the floor, climbed into the bed, and held out his arms for you.

A stronger person would’ve told him to fuck off, but you weren’t a stronger person. You nestled into his side and felt the hot sting of tears in your eyes. 

He rubbed your back soothingly and kissed your forehead. The sheets smelled like Tashi, he smelled like hotel soap, and you smelled like Art’s cologne. 

“Do you want room service in the morning?” He asked softly.

“Patrick—“

“I’m serious. We can have breakfast in bed, do some tourist-y shit, maybe we’ll go watch a couple of matches, then come back and—“

“Are we supposed to just forget what happened?” You interrupted.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” He kissed your forehead, tender, sweet. “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you want.”

You met his gaze. “Do you… do you want to know? About Art?”

He went quiet as he played with the ends of your hair. “Did it make you feel any better?” He finally asked. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Then it didn’t.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “No?”

You shook your head, sighing softly as his kisses trailed down, over your nose, to the sides of your mouth. “No. It was a mistake.”

”Tell me about it,” he said, murmuring against your jaw. “Tell me how he touched you.”

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more access. Your nails scratched softly against his scalp as he sucked bruises onto your throat. 

“He was desperate,” you said, heart hammering as you began recounting it to Patrick— your boyfriend. There was no world in which he should’ve wanted to hear about it… and yet. He moaned against your throat, encouraging you, wanting to know more. “Kissed me like he wanted to taste you in my mouth, like he wanted to overpower you.”

Patrick moved his lips to yours, kissing you with a sloppy brush of his tongue against yours. “Like that?”

You shook your head and leaned in, deepening the kiss with slow laps of your tongue into his mouth. He moaned softly, matching your pace in a way that was rare, but made butterflies dance around in your stomach. He pulled you on top of him— hands roaming from the backs of your thighs to squeeze your ass as he deepened the kiss. It was just as slow and sweet as before, but you could sense the need and hunger behind it.

You pulled back, just enough to remove your lips from his. Both of your breaths came in needy pants. You weren’t sure why you were enjoying this, but you were, so you kept going. “He took off my clothes, and laid me down on the bed.”

Patrick moaned, chasing your lips. You sat back and just looked at him— lying there with still-damp curls, his pupils blown with lust. His cock was hard, resting against his stomach, precum beading at the tip.

You pulled off Art’s hoodie and tossed it across the room, relishing in the way Patrick’s eyes raked over every bit of exposed skin like it was the first time he’d seen it. “He ate me out, made me cum on his fingers first, then again while he was inside of me,” Patrick’s breath caught, just for a moment. Desire, or jealousy, or both flickered across his gaze. “He fucked me like he wanted me to fall in love with him again.”

Patrick’s chest was heaving as you moved a hand between your bodies, grasping his cock in your hand, stroking slowly. “Is that how you fucked Tashi? Like you wanted her to pick you instead of her fiancé?” He moaned as your thumb ran over his slit, smearing the precum that had begun to dribble out. 

“No,” He groaned. You nodded encouragingly, squeezing him tighter in your fist. “Fuck. I fucked her like I wanted her to know she made a mistake. Made her cum until she tapped out”

You ran a thumb over his bottom lip, tugging slightly. “With this pretty mouth, huh?” He nodded, wordlessly. “And with this?” You gave a slow stroke of his dick, making him buck up into your fist. Another nod. 

“Show me.”

Patrick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “Show you?”

You nodded and continued stroking him. “I told you about Art, so I want you to show me how you fucked Tashi.”

You recognized the fucking insanity of what you were asking, but you didn’t care. It was a strange form of closure— closing the circle, or whatever. 

“Fuck, okay. Lay back,” he said, patting your thigh. You slid off his lap and settled atop the sheets, watching him expectantly. 

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, and he slid them down slowly. “Fuck.” Your cheeks flooded with heat as he held the sodden fabric up, wet and sticky with Art’s cum. He groaned and hooked your thighs over his shoulders. “That’s… god, that’s really fucking hot, baby.”

Oh. The mix of embarrassment and desire was something new— burning hot in the pit of your stomach as Patrick licked at your pussy, tasting the evidence of your arousal mingling with Art’s release. He moaned against you, holding you so tightly that his fingers dimpled your thighs. 

His tongue lapped at your entrance, pushing into your cunt as deep as he could manage, then back to licking at your clit. It was messy— a combination of spit and cum and your juices.

“Fuck!” You cried out, tugging his hair as he sealed his lips around your clit. He moaned loudly against you, encouraging you to do it again, the fucking masochist. 

He redoubled his efforts, pulling you closer, moaning against your cunt. It was like he wanted to devour you, to lick up every bit of Art that was left inside of you. You wanted him to try— you wanted him to replace every part of Art that was left in your body and soul.

“Patrick,” you gasped. He murmured an mhmm against your pussy. Eyes closed, right at home between your thighs, lost in the taste of you. “Need you inside.”

He planted one, two sloppy kisses to your clit before he pulled back, his lips shiny with your arousal. He wiped the mess away with the back of his hand, smirking down at you. “You need me, huh?”

You nodded, chest heaving with each panting breath. Patrick sat down at the headboard and patted his thigh. “Prove it.”

You sat up, crawling up the bed until you were straddling his lap. “You made her do all the work?” 

He laughed, running his hands up your thighs to squeeze your ass, tug you closer. “I didn’t make her do anything.” Patrick had a hand wrapped around his cock, and you moaned softly as he guided it between your thighs to notch at your entrance. 

You sank down slowly, forehead pressed against his as you took inch after inch. “Fuck,” you breathed. You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his as you gave a slow roll of your hips. “Fuck. You’re so deep, Pat. Feels so good.”

His head fell back against the headboard as you began to ride him in earnest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, still wearing that fucking smirk, even balls deep inside of you. “That’s it, baby, take what you need.”

And you did. The way he was looking at him was proof enough, he was eating up every fucking second of you fucking yourself on him, using him like a toy. 

Your noises were near-pornographic— Right there, fuck, you’re so big baby, so fucking deep.

The poor soul next door slammed on the wall, begging for you to just shut the fuck up. Patrick silenced you with a hungry kiss— a mess of tongues and spit. His fingers moved on your clit, pulling you towards the edge with desperate need. 

“Close,” you gasped. 

He nodded, moving his fingers faster. “I know you are. I’ve got you.” 

You collapsed on top of him as you came— hips canting weakly as he worked you through it. He thrust up into your tight walls, groaning at the feeling of your cunt spasming around his cock. 

“Fuck, you feel so perfect,” he groaned, burying his face into the junction of your throat. “Gonna cum— fuck—“

You moaned softly at the feeling of him spilling inside of you— the soft pulse of him, the warmth of his cum flooding your cunt. You stayed on his lap, kissing his freckled nose, his eyelids, his mouth. 

When you finally moved off of him, you whimpered at that loss of fullness, and of the slick mess seeping out between your thighs. If you were smart, you would’ve gone and cleaned up, but there was nothing more you wanted than to lay there in Patrick’s arms and fall asleep. 

Whatever. You’d leave housekeeping a very generous tip. He sighed contentedly as you lay there— like you were made to fit against him perfectly.  A warm hand rubbed comforting circles on your back, and you felt so at home, even in an Atlanta hotel. 

“I love you, you know that?” He asked.

You looked up and nodded. “I know. I love you too.”

You found yourself staring up over at Patrick with a stupid, persistent smile on your face. He turned to watch you watching him, wearing a matching grin on his face. It was hard to tell who started laughing first— you or Patrick. At the absurdity of it all, at yourselves. 

“God, we’re so messed up,” you said, with another laugh.

He nodded. “Really messed up, but whatever. Apparently your brain isn’t even fully developed until you’re 25.”

“Great, so we have one more year until we’re normal, rational adults.” He laughed, holding you against his chest. 

He reached over and kissed your forehead. You were so sticky and gross that you really needed a shower, but, again— it was a tomorrow problem.

It fell quiet, and you could feel yourself slipping into comfortable drowsiness when Patrick finally spoke up. “Are we going to be okay?”

You blinked slowly. With your hand resting on his chest, you could feel his heart thudding just beneath your palm.

When you were twenty, you met Patrick’s parents. Crowded into his childhood bed with your head resting against his chest, his heart pounded as he apologized for the intense grilling you’d received that night at dinner. It was the first time you ever felt like his bravado had been shaken, like you were seeing through to the core of him. 

You always knew you would be the one to say you loved him first— it was just the way things went. “I don’t care if they like me,” you had assured him. “I love you.” His heart beat harder, faster. He didn’t say it back until two days later, when he was fucking you in that very same bed— forehead to yours, skin sticky with sweat. “I love you,” breathed into your mouth like air. 

When you were twenty-two, you moved into an apartment in Manhattan and Patrick followed like a housecat— no rent, no job, just company and a mouth to feed. The tour wasn’t going well, and you were working for a shitty, clickbait news site that hardly covered the cost of your place. 

Things were good, mostly. Comfortable, domestic. Patrick tried to be a good boyfriend, you tried to be a good girlfriend. Both of you were trying to figure out what that meant for the other as best as you could. Patrick would bring you flowers from the corner store and take you out for drinks and dancing on weekends. You’d drive out on holidays to visit his family and wind up leaving early to go back to the comforts and peace of your apartment. 

When you could, you’d follow him out to tournaments. If he won, he’d take you out with the prize money. If he lost, you’d take him back to the hotel to cheer him up.

On rough days, one of you would come home to the apartment and pick a fight over laundry, or a dish left in the sink, or even what he’d left on TV, and the other would give it back tenfold. Your neighbors would beat on their walls in annoyance as you yelled at each other, until one of you slammed a door and sulked in another room for a few hours, or you had make-up sex that gave the neighbors another reason to bang on their walls. 

The breakups were infrequent but severe. You’d kick Patrick out, he’d live out of his car, or in a motel, or fuck off to some tennis tournament that you’d previously promised to go to. One of you always broke first, returning to the other with promises of love, and to do better.

You did love each other, really. And things usually got better. It was just easy to live with your feelings dialed up to a ten where Patrick was involved: bigger good moments, worse bad ones. 

Your career had vastly improved. Patrick had moved up in the rankings, only slightly, but it was something. You could afford a bigger apartment in a nicer area, maybe get a dog. And you didn’t just want those things alone, you wanted them with him. 

You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest and nodded. “We’ll be fine,” you assured. It felt like the truth.

He nodded, looking down at you. His freckles were so much more pronounced after tournament after tournament in the blazing sun. “Yeah, probably.”

The next morning, you both got the continental breakfast you’d seen in the elevator while housekeeping dealt with the aftermath of the previous night. You did tourist-y shit— went to a museum, found a nice spot for lunch.

At the end of the day, you sat in the oppressive Atlanta heat with Patrick and watched Art Donaldson win his tennis match. You and Patrick left early, fucked in the backseat of his car, and decided to head home early. 

As you started the drive back, you held his hand over the center console and listened to a shitty mix CD with songs he’d ripped off of LimeWire. You gave him shit when Kelly Clarkson followed Lil Wayne, but you both sang along to every fucking word. 

You were right. You and Patrick would probably be fine.

[mrpenguinpants]

See you, space cowboy

— Parting words at the end of the day.

— Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Imbibitor Lunae, Dr. Ratio + Luocha

[Masterlist]

The title is from Cowboy Bebop. I used their "Parting" voice lines if anyone was curious. Ignore how I'm using a Kafka gif for a fic with only men. I promise this is still a "genshin" blog.

Jing Yuan

"Mmm, rest well... My apologies. There is still some work to be done and I can't see you out personally."

You blink at him before you narrow your eyes and give him a judging stare. Your fingers reach out to curl around the sleeve of his uniform, giving it a small tug that he willingly steps into despite his earlier words. He doesn't try to hide the amusement in his eyes, even letting out a soft chuckle that makes your lips downturn into a frown. Jing Yuan reaches up, smoothing the crease between your eyebrows before resting on your cheek.

"It's obvious that you're tired. You should rest for a little bit more before you go back to work," you lightly scold as you give another weak tug for him to return to your shared home. Another chuckle escapes him as he places his other hand on your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles through the fabric for a few seconds to attempt to appease you. "It's been a while since we've shared a meal together..."

Jing Yuan's eyes soften yet he politely removes your hand attached to his sleeve. This time he avoids your gaze, the disappointment flowing heavy in the air, when he shakes his head and steps back.

"Next time, I promise," he whispers, squeezing your hand to hopefully convey his sincerity. "I'll take a day off as well. I heard that our Trailblazer friend has restored Aurum Alley back to its former glory. I'm sure Yanqing would love to join us as well."

You seem to mull over it in your head. To trade one night for a full day is tempting, plus Yanqing has been running himself ragged given the recent events. It would be nice to have a break where it can just be the three of you without any military or political weight hovering above you.

"...fine. But if you break your promise, I'll sic Mimi on you," you pout at him, twisting your hand from his grip to poke him in the chest.

"I...shall plan accordingly then," he laughs awkwardly because he knows you will follow through with that threat. He still has the scratch marks on the walls as proof. Playful or not, Mimi is unfortunately an overly heavy lion.

Blade

"Go. When the mara strikes, you don't want to be next to me."

"Is that what you say to everyone who tries to help you?" you huff as you carefully bandage his wounds, the white bandages seeping red slowly as you wind them around his torso. Despite the sarcasm dripping from your tone, he can tell you're genuinely angry with him this time. If it were anyone else, he would shake them off to leave, but when you look like you're two breaths away from bursting into tears, so he can only take a deep breath and let you bandage him up.

"They'll heal. They always do," he says after a moment of silence. Alas, his attempt at comfort does nothing but make you more stressed. He winces slightly when you pull too tightly on the bandage, the gauze scrapping against his gash that's already stitching itself together again.

"I know, so shut up already," you spit in an attempt to save face, and he decides to offer a bit of kindness by not commenting on it, "I'm not doing this for you."

He knows. You used to be an ordinary medic before the Stelleron Hunters recruited you, and you incidentally had to switch careers to something more violent. But old habits die hard, and this small bit of control helps to ease your worries. Even if it's only by a small margin. Your weakened hold lets the bandages fall into a heap on your lap as your shoulder shag. You press your forehead against his shoulder just slightly above where his wound is already rapidly healing into another scar.

"Can't you be more careful?" you sigh into his shoulder, a smear of red on your cheek that you both ignore. Blood will wash out.

"I'm sorry," he replies. He won't lie to you and say that he'll try. For as much as the mara controls him and his emotions, he wills them away for a few seconds.

Dan Heng

"Time to turn in already…? Thanks for the reminder. It's easy to lose track of time in the archives — before you know it, a whole day's gone by… See you tomorrow."

You have to stifle your laugh lest you make Dan Heng more embarrassed that he kicks you out of the room to save some dignity. Even though he says all that, he hasn't once lessened his hold on you for you to actually get up and leave. If anything, his arms around your waist tighten so you're practically molded into his chest. To be fair, you had lost track of time as well. After the recent adventures and running everywhere, it felt nice to settle into Dan Heng's lap and waste a day away in the archives, just basking in each other's presence. No crazy hunter trying to stab Dan Heng or overactive mara-struck enemies attempting to decapitate you. Just the hum of the machines and the warmth of company that neither of you are ready to leave so soon.

"You know...technically it's already "tomorrow" since it's 2am. We could just stay here," you muse as you tilt your head up to look at his unimpressed expression. The longer the two of you stay up, the worse the rest of the day will be from the lack of sleep. Plus it's not healthy to stay up to reset a sleep schedule.

"You know we can't do that. Besides, you might be comfortable but this shelf has been digging into my back for the past few hours," he sighs, shifting his body to prove a point further.

"10 more minutes," you bargain.

"2," he denies flatly.

"5?" you try again.

"2." He stares you at with a frown.

"3!" You stare right back with a cheeky grin.

"...fine."

He hides the fond smile into your hair as you cheer on gaining a single minute.

Dan Heng • Imbibitor Lunae

"It's getting late, I won't be staying up much longer. Sleep well."

You have to stifle your amusement less you make Dan Heng recede even further into his shell, but you can't help but think it's kind of cute how awkward this dragon can be sometimes. The way he stands so stiffly and not at all relaxed for sleep, how his eyes are staring at anything but you who is standing right in front of him, coupled with the uneasy way he says for you to "sleep well.". As if he's questioning if it's okay for him to say something so casually despite all the time you've spent in each other's company. Dragon horns or not.

"Much longer...huh. And pray tell, how many minutes does that equate to again? It's kinda hard to tell when I'm talking to an infinite respawn glitch," you tease, lightly punching him in the shoulder makes Dan Heng crack a tiny smile. You mentally pat yourself on the back for that little win. Ever since the Astral Express concluded its journey on the Xianzhou, the new dragon had been walking on eggshells around everyone.

"You're talking too much to that hacker girl. That's not how the vidyadhara reincarnation works either," he sighs but the tension is gone from his shoulders. If you're able to joke about it then you're not mad at him lying about his origins, even though you haven't been in the first place. "But I will return to the Archives with the system hour."

You spare a glance at the clock. It'll be midnight in another 20 minutes. Has it really gotten that late so quickly?

"Alright, but if I check the data bank and there are new entries, I'm kicking your door open mister," you place your hands on your hips as you gesture two V-sign fingers at your own eyes, then at him. "Good night Dan Heng. See you in the morning.".

Dr. Ratio

"Another day has passed. If your problem still hasn't been solved, is it possible that the problem is you?"

He tilts his head to the side gracefully as you hurl your pen at him. The cheap plastic breaks on impact and leaves a smear of ink that you'll have to clean up unless you want another stain for Dr. Ratio to insult you for. Perhaps you can use his name as a tax write-off? It's the least he could do for you with how much attitude you put up with.

"What if my problem is you? If you didn't dodge then I wouldn't have to waste so many precious pens," you counter as you reach for the white cloth hanging from his waist to use to mop up the ink. One that has Ratio slapping your hand away with his stone booklet. He even dares to wipe at it with a handkerchief, as if touching your skin is equivalent to touching trash, rather than offering it to you!

"Ow! Geez, you really don't hold back. I wasn't going to actually use your clothing!" you fake sob as you nurse your poor hand close to your chest. It doesn't hurt as badly as you're making it out to be. You've seen Veritas throw chalk at his enemies and leave chalk-sized holes in them. "Besides, it's not like I can do anything about my "problems". [ Rahu ] isn't the easiest place to investigate..."

Your body slumps in as you think back on how little progress you've made with that strange planet. Diamond has been kind enough to not assign a deadline but you can feel the quiet disappointment every time you report that you don't have anything new to share each month. Maybe Veritas is right. Maybe the problem is you.

"Which is why you've been given the role. The numbers written on a stats page or monthly reports do not measure the trial and error of someone's pursuit of knowledge. Very few scholars I know would be capable of continuing for the sole purpose of finding the truth. Surely you're capable of seeing that? Unless I've severely underestimated your intelligence," Veritas states as if it were a fact. He reaches to take your hand, giving it a once over to see if he has truly hurt you. His words bring a small smile as your heart swells at his encouragement as you squeeze his hand back.

Luocha

"Have an early rest. I'll keep watch here."

It's the last thing you hear before your eyelids droop close and sleep takes you under. Your body slumps against Luocha's side, his hands already out and ready to catch you, before he gently maneuvers you so your head rests in his lap. He hums humourlessly as he combs through the strands of your hair, a bit of dirt clinging onto the ends. He'll have to tend to that later.

"I wonder what someone like you dreams of," he contemplates although he doesn't expect an answer. Your face is the picture of serenity as your chest rises up and down slowly with each breath, completely dead to the world. You're far too trusting of him, even his first meeting on friendly terms with Dan Heng hadn't made that man lower his guard. Sure, they had been on the same team but Dan Heng would constantly look behind him as if he was waiting to get stabbed in the back by Luocha's sword. Yet here you are, fast asleep in his lap and entirely defenseless.

A loud buzzing sounds from your pocket that Luocha reaches for to check, you're not going to be awake to answer it anyway.

"What considerate companions you have," he muses as Dan Heng's caller ID flashes on your phone before his call gets sent to voicemail. It's truly a blessing that all phones operate under the same system programming as he holds down the power button, effectively shutting the phone and other potential distractions silent. Under the artificial night light, when it's just the two of you here, no one can see the secret smile on his lips. Nor the possessive hold he has on you.

[12romy]

Guys guys guys!!! Guess what??? NEW FIC!!!! Happy new year everyone!! <3

As promised, here we go for the second part of the Habits verse, "Old Habits Die Hard"!

I am not used to write established relationship but I'm having a lot of fun with it! The number of chapter is just estimated for now, it might be more than thirty...

Hope you guys will enjoy the prologue, I will post the first chapter next week ;)

[ellecdc]

My love!! I have an idea for fic (only if you want to of course) james potter x reader where james is obsessed with reader’s tits and after a minor couple arguments james was still sulking and reader wants him to be the first one to talk to her so she wear very revealing clothes to tease him and he give in.

It doesn’t have to be a smut, just teasing and fluff!

hahaha awe this is so funny - the best part is, it would so work!!! Thanks for requesting 🫶

James Potter x fem!reader

CW: mention of boobs/tits/love of tits - no smut, joke about dying from suffocation on account of boobies

You were being petty; both of you were. In fact, the two of you seemed to be working overtime just to stay mad at each other at this point.

You can’t even really remember what you had argued about in the first place that caused this rift between you and James; all you knew was that you were not going to be the first to apologize.

It had been a few days since the big blow up that saw James uncharacteristically stern and firm in his words and left you feeling horribly defensive in response. Words were said, feelings were hurt, and now you were here.

Here being this awkward quasi-polite energy in your few measly interactions as you tried to co-exist in the same flat.

He made dinner one night - shrimp korma and a side of homemade naan - and you may have been mad, but you weren’t a jerk, so you thanked him for it.

You had been cleaning the flat one day and started a load of wash. You had more than enough room for more clothes, and not doing James’ wash just for the sake of it wasn’t worth the extra hit to your water bill (which wasn’t an issue, but old habits die hard in your case), so you threw his in too. And once it was washed and dried, well, you figured you might as well fold it and put it away for him. 

He had to begrudgingly thank you for that as well.

So now it was the weekend, and the two of you were clearly dying to update each other on your weeks. You couldn’t help but admit that you really missed James. You missed chatting with him, you missed laughing with him, you missed venting to him, and you missing cuddling with him.

There were other things you missed but... that was neither here nor there. 

All this to say, the feud needed to end.

But you were steadfast in your stance that you were not going to break first.

The idea came to you yesterday morning when James returned from his run sans shirt and muscles glistening with sweat in a way that actually had your mouth watering like some kind of deranged off-brand Pavlov experiment. The worst part was that James had noticed you ogling him and walked away to shower (alone, the bastard) with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

No matter, this just served to give you your brilliant master plan to win him back.

You had something James adored... two things, as a matter of fact.

Anyone who knows James Potter knows that James is a certified Boob Guy™. More specifically, James Potter loved your tits. You had two assets free to use in this battle, and you weren’t going to let that advantage go to waste. 

The weather, it seemed, supported your master plan and was finally warm and sunny enough to break out some of your more... revealing clothing. Today’s ensemble consisted of a particularly low neckline and tight-fitting tank top. You gathered a book and a bottle of water as you walked towards the back door for the terrace. James, being completely unable to break his good mannerdness even in the face of petty feuds, jumped up to get the door for you when he noticed that your hands were full. 

You made a point to use your elbows to encourage the girls a little closer together as he approached, causing him to stumble in his steps as his eyes strayed from his destination.

“Thanks, Jamie.” You murmured quietly, making sure a cool sense of indifference still coloured your tone. That seemed to shake James from his reverie as he looked up at you, a look of regret seeming to cross his face briefly at not being able to do what he would normally opt to in this situation (i.e., shove his face between them and die due to suffocation). 

“’Course.” He offered instead of saying “oh my god I love your boobies” and cleared his throat, closing the door gently behind you as you made your way to a lounge chair. 

You knew James wouldn’t have gotten far, so you read a few pages before deciding to step up this little ruse.

You slipped your tank top off to display your torso, boobs only supported by a thin bandeau wrapping around your chest. You poured a little water into your hair and then onto your chest to cool off when you heard a solid thunk on the panned glass of your back door. 

When you turned to look, you saw James’ retreating form and the tell-tale imprint of his forehead against the window where he had been standing previously. 

Though you knew you made an impact today, James seemed resolute in his sulking. No matter, tomorrow was a brand-new day.

Being a brand-new day, your morning outfit was a pair of joggers that you rolled the waist band a few times to expose more abdomen paired with a cropped top that was probably a touch too cropped to begin with, let alone paired with your currently braless state.

You could have sworn you heard James try (and fail) to suppress a groan as you entered the kitchen. You hid a smirk as you offered him a faint ‘morning’ and began readying yourself a cup of tea.

Apparently, James’ self-restraint snapped when you stood on your tip-toes to reach the honey on the second shelf of your cupboard; the action of you raising your arm causing your shirt to also lift sinfully.

“Angel.” He keened, causing you to turn your (what you hoped to look like an) innocent expression on him.

“Yes, Jamie?”

He groaned again and stood from the breakfast table, taking slow, cautious steps towards you. “I’m so sorry, love I... I hate that I let us go this long upset with each other.”

Your mouth pinched to the side as you spread your arms – inviting James into your embrace which he was all too eager to accept. “I’m sorry too, bubs. I’ve been immature.”

He half-chuckled half-groaned into your shoulder as the two of you relished in the feel of being in the other’s arms. 

“You are a cheeky little minx, torturing me like this.” He muttered.

“Like what?”

James scoffed and pulled back to look at you incredulously, but any mirth in his face was completely curtailed by the fondness oozing from his warm brown eyes.

“Oh, I’ve missed you.” He said as he bent his knees to be at eye level with your tits before he shoved his face right between them.

You rolled your eyes though he couldn’t see it, asking “who? Me or my tits?”

He was quiet for a moment as he thought about his answer. “Both?” He said, voice muffled from his place in your chest.

“I’ll allow it on account of your withdrawal.” You conceded. 

Note to self: all future arguments can be solved by flashing a little under-boob. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

hiiiii I love your work so so much cannibal is my fav dragon!!! and I love the fic's you write!! and I was wondering what do you think reader and daemon's relationship? what would it be like you know with cannibal and caraxes added to the mix? also do you think that jace would end up falling for reader like aemond or no?

Cannibal has grown to be my favourite dragon out of all of them alongside Balerion the black dread and would love to do a mini series for him one day, but I don’t want it to feel as though I’m coping and pasting from my cannibal series and do something new.

Also I hope this is what you were after.

Daemon doesn’t make it easy for anyone to like him, neverless trust him wholeheartedly and he wasn’t going to make any exceptions for you, not by a long shot.

The relationship you’d share with the rouge prince is passive to say the least that you felt better when he was out of the room rather than in one. He’s just too much of a loose cannon for your liking and you didn’t take enough risks for his own liking, especially since you’ve claimed Cannibal, Daemon would’ve thought having him would make you more adventurous; only to feel discouraged when it did not.

If anything he probably saw you as Aemond 2.0, claiming a large dragon and all 💀

Daemon didn’t show fear when Cannibal was practically keeping you at a safe distance from him, shrugging it off as though it were a minor inconvenience, and head off in search of Caraxes.

Speaking of Caraxes and Cannibal, needless to say it would be best if they were kept apart from one another for there was not much love lost between the two considering who their riders were. Cannibal didn’t like anyone or anything near you, regardless whether it was dragon or human, he didn’t care as they shouldn’t get close to his human; meanwhile Caraxes cared about you or Cannibal about as much as Daemon did and would make that known however he could.

You and Daemon’s lacklustre of a relationship would be reflected in Cannibal and Caraxes as they side eye one another at every opportunity given to show their lack of trust towards one another. You swore you heard cannibal huff in amusement whenever Caraxes and Daemon got into trouble or exiled as it meant not having to deal with seeing that slim, sleek blood red dragon as often.

Again Cannibal doesn’t trust anyone but you, so don’t be surprised if Cannibal tries to take a bite out of Caraxes from time to time, only for Caraxes to escape every time, old habits die hard I guess.

Jacaerys on the other hand would probably have fallen for you the same time as Aemond did and would grow jealous whenever he heard his uncle speak about you as though you were already his.

You weren’t something to stake claim to as though you were nothing but a possession and Jace knew that he could treat you better than Aemond could, he could be your gentleman if you give him the chance, and he would never make you regret it as Rhaenyra raised him to be the pinochle of what a man should look like.

Jacaerys did not need you to claim Cannibal to realise his pre-established feelings, he need only look at you and be reminded of the kind of man he wanted to be for you, for he could see his future in your eyes and wants to make a start on it as soon as possible but was more then willing to wait for you no matter how long.

He would stand beside you, tall and strong, all the while looking at you from the corner of his eye now and then whenever you spoke up. Jacaerys didn’t make it subtle that he liked you, it was clear for anyone to see that this man was more than willing to walk through fire for you, should you ask it of him of course.

Jace’s lack of subtleness didn’t go unnoticed by Cannibal as he would watch the brown haired man practically follow you like a lovesick pup, making sure you were safe and guarded despite the fact that you could look after yourself, making sure you ate and so on to the point that Cannibal would growl at Jace; warning the prince of what would happen should he become overbearing.

[morning-star-joy]

daydreams

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak Jackson Era

Summary: It's been years since Joel's kissed anybody, and your lips are all he can think about.

Tags/Warnings: Soft, Touch-Starved, Pining Joel. Grumpy x Sunshine. Resolved Tension. Mentions of alcohol and food consumption. Brief mentions of sexual desire. Entirely in Joel's POV. No mention of Reader's age or appearance other than wearing lipstick in one scene.

Wordcount: 6.4k

A/N: Really enjoyed exploring an entire Joel x Reader fic all in his head, focusing on how he falls in love with Reader. Big thank you to @joelsgreys who was excited about this idea with me, and @cupofjoel who always inspires me with her own amazing work (and that Clicker joke she made that ended up in this fic hehe)!

Here's my Kofi if you're interested in supporting my work further💜

Beautiful dividers by @saradika

Masterlist

People fucking love you.

It was the first of many things that Joel was burdened to discover about you, small facts and inconsequential incidents about who you were as a person that floated around in his subconscious until they burrowed under his skin, much like you did.

He could remember checking his patrol schedule on the board one chilly autumn day. A scarf that was decades old but new to him, too soft for his rough skin, was wrapped around his neck and keeping him warm while he peered over the heads of two men crowding in front of the arranged names.

Despite Joel’s size, he had always been good at not being seen if he didn’t want to be, at least when it counted. It was a harder habit to keep up with in Jackson, a place where everybody wanted to know anybody at all. The feeling of at least one set of eyes on him at all times when he walked the streets was an odd juxtaposition to the foreign comfort that radiated inside the town’s tall walls.

Not a watch kept on him, but curiosity that peered at him around every corner. He had thought it would die down eventually, but it lingered with a stubbornness even years later.

Now though, both men didn’t have a care in the world for his presence behind him, crowding around the board and a pair of names he couldn’t quite glimpse until one of them turned, jumping at the sight of the unintentionally imposing figure at their back.

“Oh!” the man let out a noise of surprise before recomposing. He was a newer patrolman, his name starting with a C, Chuck or something. “Joel, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”

The familiarity in the way his name is spoken makes Joel bristle for a moment, but he calms his raised hackles before it can be noticed.

Back in Boston, his name had been a familiar one spoken too. But hints of apprehension, even fear crept around the syllables of those who knew it, those who had heard it whispered in the alleys of where he’d left somebody’s blood splattered against the dilapidated brick walls.

“Hey,” the other patrolman offers in greeting when he notices the pair aren’t alone anymore, and Joel nods, glancing towards the two names their heads had been bent down around when they moved out of the way.

There’s a name he doesn’t have a face to place to it, another person new to patrol. He’d only seen the name in passing on the board each time he checked assignments recently, though this time it's right above his own, listed as his partner on his next route.

“Lucky man,” the other patrolman says with a clap to Joel’s shoulder, and he hates it, jaw setting tight enough that the first patrolman gently nudges his friend away with a wary look.

“I’m always stuck with Willy,” the first one says, and Joel glances back towards the board, searching for that name and seeing it paired with Chad. Names for faces, a common courtesy in the settlement, one he still had a hard time keeping up with sometimes, even years into being here. “Been dying for a chance to head out with her.”

There’s a gesture back towards the name paired with Joel’s, and he stares at the letters written into the thin wooden plaques that are used to arrange assignments on the board. Stares so much even as his fellow patrolmen leave, chattering amongst themselves about Joel’s new partner as he frowns in confusion over why it wasn’t his brother’s name.

“You could use some friends,” Tommy explains with a jovial smile when Joel shows up on his doorstep to question him about the change, though there’s an undertone of ribbing to his tone that makes Joel glare at the younger man. “I figure she’s the perfect one to bring you out of that stubborn shell.”

Joel scoffs at that, brows still knitted together in frustration as he gets ready for bed the night before he’ll have to wake up early to head out with this unknown person on patrol. He’s annoyed over the idea of something as irrelevant as socialization trumping protection on his route, frustrated that he’d have to watch his own back for the dangers only a human could pose, as much as the trail ahead of him for Infected.

But then he meets you, and he understands.

At least, Joel understands why those men had been jealous of his patrol partner when he shows up at the assignment board the next morning, hoping to grab a hot drink in one of the thermoses provided before heading out. He prays for at least the last dregs of some coffee when he sees a small gathering of other patrolmen, including the two from before. All smiles and laughter, until one turns their head towards him.

Joel meets your eyes for the first time, a smile gracing your face as he does so, and he understands.

“Joel Miller,” is the first thing you ever say to him by way of greeting, uttering the syllables in near disbelief, like he’s some fabled myth you’ve finally caught a glimpse of. There’s an infectious, positive energy in the way you say his name to him, in the way you say everything, he’ll come to find. Like there’s things in the world still worthy of being spoken with such excitement. “Good to finally meet you.”

He just nods, eyes flickering to the disappointment on the faces of those gathered around you as your attention focuses solely on him. You move closer, holding up two thermoses in hand, Joel’s gaze narrowing down to them as you gesture with each and ask, “Coffee or tea?”

With a blink, he stares at each before looking back up into your face, noticing the hint of amusement across your features as his lips part, and the first thing he utters in your presence is an awkward hedge of, “Uh.”

Your lips quirk up into a wider smile, and Joel notices then that for all its brightness, it's almost half a smirk. There’s humor in your gaze, and he feels those sharp hackles of his start to rise again until you clarify kindly, “Which do you prefer?”

His brows knit together, looking back down into your hands, and he realizes you’re offering him the choice of which one he wants for the morning.

“Coffee,” he says instantly before his mind can catch up, and the point of your teeth peek past your lips now in a grin when you pass the thermos to him.

“Smart man,” you comment in passing, oblivious to how the two simple words will stick into his mind and replay themselves in the exact tone of your voice for weeks to come. “I prefer tea, anyway.”

You raise your own thermos to his, eyes twinkling with that same good humor, that warm mirth that suddenly makes Joel’s stomach flip when you add, “Looks like the start of a beautiful partnership.”

It is.

Joel hates to admit it, but you work startlingly well together.

He’s paranoid at first, glancing back over his shoulder at you every now and then, but your eyes are always trained on the area around you, keeping diligent watch. Except for when he’s staring at you for too long, for reasons he doesn’t know yet, or is too stubborn to believe.

You somehow always catch him in those stolen moments, smiling at him when he whips his head back around to refocus on the trail in front of him. Sometimes there’s a soft chuckle under your breath when he does so, and those are the times he stubbornly faces ahead for the rest of patrol, so you won’t see the heat creeping into his face that he curses every time you bring it out of him.

He’s too goddamn old to be blushing like a schoolboy, but around you, his body betrays his age and does it anyway.

Sometimes you talk to him. Joel can’t figure out for the life of him why. You certainly aren’t the type to ever be searching for conversation, a whole host of willing participants to speak with you gathering around you every morning before you set out for patrol with him.

But you talk to him anyway. Offer things about yourself and ask him questions in return, ones he hardly answers with more than a few words, if he even replies at all.

That doesn’t bother you. You continue the conversation, and though he barely says a thing, you manage to make him still feel involved. Like you’re not just talking at him, but with him.

It’s just something about you, Joel eventually realizes. There’s a charm about you that goes beyond just a natural charisma. It’s a force of gravity, as inexplicable as it is irresistible, pulling in those around you, and they don’t even care. They want it.

Because you’re not simply bubbly and friendly, but you’re warm. Warm and bright, pure sunshine that brighten up the shortening days, and at some point through that fall of patrolling with you, Joel finds himself riding beside you instead of in front of you.

He nods more to what you say, following along better to whatever stories you’re sharing that morning, tales you never seem to run out of. He starts to answer your questions with sentences instead of words. Sometimes, he sneaks glances at you, and he’s always shocked in the moments when you’re already looking at him.

At first, Joel thinks he’s caught you in those moments. But you just smile at him when his eyes meet yours, unbothered by him noticing your attention on him, and he’s the one turning away yet again, facing the trees away from you so you won’t notice what that soft laughter of yours does to him.

You’re also more than capable in a fight, proving yourself time and time again in sticky situations, and soon enough, Joel doesn’t really mind waking up those early mornings when he knows you’ll be waiting for him with a thermos in each hand. He looks forward to an unnecessary apology on your lips if there’s no coffee that day, and the way you make him take a hot drink anyway—sometimes a pastry too, gently chiding him on taking better care of himself.

“I need you all big and strong for patrol,” you teased him once, but you still glance up and down his body with an appreciation he doesn’t think should be for him, even as he greedily drinks it in anyway. 

Then you wink, and he finds himself unable to make eye contact with you for the rest of the day.

Even then, he knows you’ll have his back, as he has yours.

Yeah, you work well together.

So well, in fact, that he finds his mood takes a sharp decline when he checks the assignment board months into being on patrol with you, and sees Tommy’s name paired with his again.

It makes sense. Winter arrives in Jackson, and with it, increased numbers of Infected on patrol. Joel needs to work with Tommy to clear out the routes hit the worst by hordes, for the good of the settlement.

Joel had never hated practicality before, but he does in that moment he first sees your name paired with Chad.

Chad, the young man with a stupid grin on his face while his buddy expresses jealousy over the “luck” of his assignment, and Joel hates the feeling of the same jealousy curling in his gut.

He hates it when you’re not waiting for him in the mornings. Hates it when your smile isn’t for him, when he’s not listening to your voice express every emotion imaginable in whatever story you’re telling him.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s feeling, doesn’t know that he’s lonely until he’s waiting for Tommy one morning when his brother kisses Maria goodbye before going on patrol.

It only hits him then, with the warm, open affection Tommy gazes at his wife with before leaving, and how she watches him with fondness as he goes. Only then does he feel the hollow ache in his chest, a gaping hole that’s only caved in deeper when your presence came and went.

He’s still thinking about it that night when sleep won’t come to him. Rubbing together his lips, chapped from the cold winter air from being outside all day, he wonders when the last time he’d had another mouth pressed to it.

Jesus, when’s the last time he kissed someone?

It’s a stupid thing to think, an embarrassing thought that has him turning onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. His arms outstretched beneath it, he groans into the fabric, trying to shove away the emptiness even as it continues to ache.

It fucking aches, and it shouldn’t. He was too old, had gone through too damn much to even care about kissing anybody.

So he tells himself he doesn’t. Convinces himself he couldn’t give less of a fuck about not being able to remember the last time he’d kissed somebody. Pretends he doesn't care about holding another person in his arms, lips pressed together just for the sake of it.

Joel likes to think he does a pretty good job of not caring about it, up until the next time he sees you.

You’re standing at the table of food and drink before patrol, eyes scanning over the pastries available with an intense look of deliberation for what you were craving that morning. When you find what you want, your lips part, tongue darting out to lick them in anticipation of your treat, and Joel’s blood runs hot in a way he thought himself no longer capable of.

He watches with rapt attention as you bring the scone to your mouth for a bite, how crumbs of it flake off onto your lips while you nod in satisfaction at the taste.

It’s a taste Joel wants to capture for himself. He wants to find the sweetness of the pastry on your lips, to press his mouth to yours and have you fill that emptiness, to have you soothe that ache in him with the exploration and discovery of you.

“Joel Miller!”

He blinks, hazy vision refocusing on the tantalizing soft look of your lips to see them curved up into a smile, and his eyes flicker up to see you looking right at him as you call to him, speaking his name like he’s still some legend you can’t believe exists until you see him again.

Yet again, he’s caught right in the center of your web—so many times now, that he almost starts to wonder if he willingly walks into it. Merciless to whatever you intend to do with him now that you have him right there, right where you want him.

But you just smile, head tilted with your gazes locked together, and suddenly he doesn’t care if you trap him or if he’s giving himself to you. You have him, and that’s enough.

Then, your lips part, tongue catching those crumbs still stuck to the corner of your upper lip, and Joel’s own lips part, breath hitching through them.

You notice.

You have to notice, because the edge of your smile curls up even more, eyes striking with the joy of a newfound discovery about the stoic man you’d found steadfast by your side for months of patrol, a silent presence now outright ogling you the same way everybody else did.

Everywhere you went, you were sure to find people lazing about in the warm rays of sunlight you cast from your very soul.

Joel wondered if you ever got tired with how much you gave. 

How much everyone took.

And now here he was, taking just the same. Your stunning vision reduced to an idle daydream, one you’d caught him in the very first moment he’d had it. 

Joel thought about what he must look like to you then. Just a lonely old man, longing for a touch. Like a mangy stray turning up at your doorstep, desperate just for the offhand chance of an ounce of kindness you had made the grave mistake of showing him before.

Because now he would always be back, aching for more.

Pathetic.

He turns from you at the sharp voice of self-hatred in his mind, walking away at the same moment you take a step forward. Joel brushes past those other souls just as eager, just as desperate for your attention as he tries to get far away from what you make him feel.

But it stays knotted up in his chest, ever more evident in your absence, the memory of your smile like a pain throbbing in his bones, ringing in his mind when he brushes off Tommy’s concern with a gruff “doesn’t matter” before heading out.

Because it doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

But it does.

Jackson had not only brought safety and comfort, but the luxury of wanting.

And, dear Lord, he wanted.

He hasn’t stopped wanting, not since that first morning when he really noticed the curve of your lips, the shape of them taunting and tempting him. 

Now he notices them every time he sees you. The slight quiver of them in a brush of cold winter wind, and how you pull a tube of homemade chapstick out of the pocket of your jacket to run over them. How you rub your lips together to spread it along each gorgeous line and indentation before popping them out with a smack, and Joel nearly fucking moans at the sight the first time.

God, he wants so badly.

He needs, he thinks sometimes, on the coldest, darkest nights. Thoughts of your mouth and what it would be capable of plaguing his mind as he breathes hotly into his pillow and tries to stay still, tries not to rut into the mattress just from the thoughts of what a simple kiss from you would feel like, giving and taking until it was impossible to tell where he ended and you began.

Because it was you.

It was always you.

Some days, it’s all Joel can think about. Your eyes, your hands, your laughter, but most of all, every bend and curve of your lips. 

It’s embarrassing how much just the mere thought of you consumes him. 

And it’s frightening, the power you would have over him if daydreams ever became reality.

What makes it even worse, is that he thinks you know. Joel’s almost sure of it, the way your eyes linger on him whenever you pout or purse your lips together at something especially grumpy that he says.

It’s like you’re doing it on purpose now, and he falls for it anyway, gazing at the fullness of your mouth, the most beautiful color he’s ever seen, with an aching want that he pretends never happened when it turns up into a smile.

Time and time again, you catch him wanting.

And you let him.

You never make a move to stop him, to call him out on it. Instead, you feed the fire, with a kindness in your smile and a mischief in your eyes that Joel is fucking addicted to.

If all you’re doing is stringing him along, he’s more than willing to let you do it, if it only means that the joy that lights up your face whenever you see him never dies out.

He sees it again one afternoon when he runs into you on the street, a bundle of produce from the greenhouses tucked underneath one arm that he almost offers to carry for you by some forgotten reflex, manners he used to have, when you distract him with a question of, “Are you going to that dinner for the patrolmen Maria is putting on?”

“Uh.” Joel winces at how he always finds himself hedging around you. He doesn’t think the things he’s said in your presence is enough to fill a page, even though you’ve plagued his thoughts enough that he could write a whole fucking book on you. 

There’s already a little smirk on your face as he hesitates, and he clears his throat, shifting on his feet with startling uncertainty you always drag from him as he finally responds gruffly, “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“Great!” you chirp, your free hand patting him on the chest as you move to brush past him, fingers idling on the buttons of his flannel, gliding down along them in a way that sets all his nerve endings alight. “Save me a seat, would you?”

His body turns with the motion of you stepping past him to watch you go, breath caught in his throat as he wonders if you’re joking or not.

Regardless, he saves you a seat when that night comes.

It’s not like anybody wants to sit with him anyway. Most of the others seem to avoid him like the plague. Even years into being in the town, and Joel still feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb.

He doesn’t blame them. Even with his rough exterior growing softer than it had been in decades, he was a shit conversation partner. Joel just didn’t know how to do the things that they did anymore, not amongst strangers. He was happy enough with his own people, and he wishes that he was back home, playing guitar or watching movies with Ellie instead of sitting here alone, reminded constantly of everything he was lacking in.

When he’s asked if the seat next to him is taken so somebody can sit with their friend, Joel hesitates, resisting the urge to just get up and leave altogether when a familiar voice rings out, “It is!”

His head turns, and there you are, face aglow with a warm smile when you round the table towards him, and Joel is already halfway up out of his seat before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Your smile turns to him, eyes brightening with a spark at his quick movement that makes his heart pound in his chest, before you’re taking the back of the chair from the other patrolman’s grasp with a sweet, “Thanks, Astrid.”

When you start to pull the chair back further to sit, Joel takes it from you to do it for you, and it’s the first time he sees genuine surprise flash through your eyes. Still, you smile, and there’s a quiver of excitement to your lips that turns his aching into a yearning the longer he looks at them.

It’s also then when he notices that they’re painted, a shade of lipstick that fills them out further, complimenting your beauty with the way you had dressed so finely for the occasion tonight.

To sit next to him?

The question of futile hope echoes in his mind as you sink into the chair with a grin you’re trying to hide, and his hands are shaking as he pushes the chair in and takes his seat next to you again, something he also tries to hide as he folds them together and tucks them under the table.

When a bottle of wine is offered around, Joel can’t hold in a quiet chuckle at the way you jump in excitement for a glass. It's tilted in your fingers, the liquid swirling gently around the glass before you take a sip, and he’s enraptured by the sight of your lips wrapping around the rim, unable to glance away from the mark you leave on it once you set it back onto the table.

He’s fixated on that lipstick stain, can’t fucking look away from the shape of your lips painted onto the glass, and Joel starts to vividly imagine you leaving that mark on him instead. He wants evidence of your kiss all along his skin, down the collar of his shirt, smeared across his own lips as he takes your mouth in his, again and again.

He wants those marks trailing down, down, wants those painted lips teasing him until it smears all across that pretty face, wants them wrapped around his—

“Joel.”

His head snaps up, catching the gaze of his brother across from him. Tommy’s brow arches in question as he asks, “You good?”

“Yeah.” Joel clears his throat when his voice comes out thick, shifting in his seat while his folded hands move into his lap, shifting the napkin to help his new…issue. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“Really?” Tommy asks, his gaze one of suspicion, and maybe a bit of amusement as he drawls, “‘Cause I asked you if you wanted a glass of wine about three times, and you didn’t respond.”

Joel pales at being caught, jaw ticking with annoyance at the glee in his brother’s eyes when they snap to you sitting beside him, and he reasserts roughly, “I’m fine.”

Tommy backs off then, turning his attention somewhere else, and Joel almost relaxes until you hold your glass out to him and offer with a smile, “Want to try some of mine?”

The look in your eyes when the blood rushes back into Joel’s cheeks is nothing but goddamn trouble, and he fucking loves it.

You watch him as he stares at the mark of your lips on the glass. He imagines what it would be like to wrap his own lips around it, wondering if he’d taste you with the wine, and he quickly clears the lump that tightens in his throat before mumbling, “No, thank you, ma’am.”

A grin plays on your lips at that, and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life than to kiss you at that moment. He wants to grab your face and pull you into him so fucking bad, wants your mouth to claim him, bruise him, make him hurt until he heals.

Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, still folded in his lap in a vice grip over his napkin now when you tease, “Ma’am, huh? I think I like that one.”

You wink, and all the blood flooding into his face suddenly rushes south.

Without a doubt, you had him completely fucked.

You talk to Joel the entire night.

Your head is turned to him throughout dinner, and you ask him more questions than ever before. Unlike your patrols, where you were content to tell stories, and he content to listen, you gently prod him to tell you his own. 

Joel’s voice is quiet when he assents, the low, gentle timbre hardly audible over the din of conversation around the long table. He’s sure he must be boring, a drab collection of colors long washed out in comparison to your blinding vibrancy, but you may as well have been the only two in the room with the way you listen to him.

You’re leaning in with your chin resting on a closed fist, nodding along to what he says with eyes dancing over his face so intently, as if to memorize him the same way he did you.

He’s surprised that he wants you to.

At the end of the dinner, when everybody’s bellies are full and they’re filtering out the door, Joel isn’t even shocked that he’s unwilling to leave your side. Though he is startled when the question slips quietly past his lips, “Mind if I walk you home, darlin’?”

You look back from where you were grabbing your jacket with wide eyes, stunned at the unexpected question and the pet name that had escaped him without a second thought. For a moment, he’s worried he finally scared you away, but then you smile.

“I’d like that.”

Joel nods, trying to calm the racing of his heart as he gently tugs the jacket from your grip and helps you put it on. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through you when his fingers brush against your skin, and suddenly there’s a feeling of anticipation simmering low in his belly, a warmth that spreads through his chest when the two of you stroll under the streetlights and eventually reach your doorstep.

You don’t let him turn away.

Somehow, he ends up on your couch. His boots and coat are left by your front door as he sits next to you, a glass of wine finally in his hand to ease the strain of his nerves. Your legs are tucked comfortably underneath yourself, the side of your face resting on the back of the couch, gazing up at him as you talk about nothing in particular.

You never seem to run out of questions for him. He answers the ones he can, and you’re not offended when he avoids the others. 

Tonight, Joel asks you questions too. Things he once thought didn’t matter anymore, but right now, he wants to know them all—where you grew up, your favorite movie, the concerts you’d been to before the world went to hell.

It becomes a back and forth—you ask him a question, he answers. Then it’s his turn to ask a question, and you answer.

Hours go by, wine is refilled, and when it’s your turn again, you ask him with such startling gentleness, “How long has it been since you kissed someone?”

Joel freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. He knows that when he does, he’ll see for sure that you’ve been aware of his pining, his fantasies, all along, and he doesn’t think he can face that.

Instead, he takes another long sip of wine, swallowing down the liquid courage before he answers lowly, “It’s, uh...been a while.”

Silence falls between you then, with more weight to it than any before in that night, and he has to fill it. So he does with the first thing that springs to his mind, “What about you?”

You hum thoughtfully, even as his heart lurches in his chest when the question spills from his lips. He can’t believe he actually fucking asked that, and then you actually answer it, “A couple months ago.”

Joel’s head snaps up, eyes glancing over your face as you trace the rim of your glass with a thoughtful expression.

“Was it…” he hesitates, before deciding he may as well say whatever he wants now that he’s already gone ahead and fucked it all up by asking about it in the first place, “good?”

“Nah,” you sigh, shrugging casually as you smirk in amusement at the recollection, “it’s like he was eating my face.”

Joel snorts at that, brow arching as he retorts dryly, “You go on a date with a Clicker or somethin’?”

You laugh then, head tilting back with the joyful sound, and he realizes it’s something he wants to hear for the rest of his life, even as you playfully nudge his shoulder and mutter, “Shut up.”

He chuckles along with you, looking back down into his glass as a sigh falls from his lips, and he mumbles more to himself than you, “Not sure I’d be much better, at this point.”

Suddenly, you shift beside him, pulling his attention back to you as you sit up straight. There’s a spark of interest kindling in your eyes, one that makes his throat go dry as your eyes slowly scan over his face, down to his lips.

They part under your attention, and your pupils dilate in the darkness of the room, pulling a soft exhale from Joel’s mouth at the sight of you wanting.

You.

Wanting.

“I don’t know about that,” you murmur as you set your glass down on your coffee table, then do the same with his, tugging it easily from his grasp before leaning in towards him. “But we could find out.”

Joel licks his lips, and you’re on your hands and knees now, crawling towards him on the couch as his eyelids flutter and he rasps out, “I—darlin’, I don’t think I—”

“You don’t want to?” you whisper, stopping instantly at the idea of going too far, and horror rushes through him at the thought of you believing he didn’t want you.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He exhales heavily into his palm, trying to find the words before he removes it to admit, “I just…don’t think it’d be that enjoyable for ya.”

You scoff, leaning forward to settle on your knees right beside him, fingertips finding the edge of his jawline. They run across it, and Joel’s eyes fall shut, sighing from the sensation of being touched after so long, of it being your hands on his face when you cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones so softly. 

You stroke his skin like you were holding something delicate, and not a living, breathing instrument of death with the scars to prove it right under your palms.

What did you see in him?

“Joel,” you breathe, and a whimper gets caught in his throat, his eyes blinking back open, struggling to refocus on you under the heavy heat of the moment. “Do you want to?”

He doesn’t have to think twice, doesn’t even want to as his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, a desperate beg of, “Yes.”

Your lips are on his then, and his hand finds the small of your back, tugging you into him as he groans into the mouth he’s been dreaming of, day and night, for months on end.

Joel tries to be gentle with it, but it feels so fucking good, and God, now his hands are shaking. He has to grip onto your waist tightly to anchor himself to the moment, to remind himself that you’re there. This isn’t one of his vivid daydreams, or images that taunt him in his sleep that he’ll wake up painfully hard from.

No, you’re here, lips pliable and just as wanting as his when his tongue tentatively traces the shape of them, knowing the curve of your mouth from long stolen glimpses even with his eyes closed, even through just the touch of his lips to them alone. 

Your mouth opens eagerly, and he licks into it, moans deeply into the sweet taste of you. His hand slides up your back to cup your neck, fingers tangling into the back of your hair as he tugs you forward by the waist until you’re settled in his lap, so he can wrap you up and pull you into him completely.

When your lips leave his, he tries to chase them with a whine stuck in the back of his throat, and he can feel that pretty smile pressed to his skin when you kiss along his bearded jaw and down the strength of his neck as it strains under your attention. 

Joel’s head falls back, sinking into the couch with the feeling of your lips descending, until there’s a sweet bite of pain that pulls his lips apart. It tugs a throaty grunt straight from the pit of heat building in his lower stomach, his hips bucking up hard into your own.

His hands are clutching your waist, the sweet syllables of your name pouring from his mouth like a prayer. The sound of his desperation, his need for you vibrates against your lips as you suck a mark on his neck, your tongue flattening against it and pulling another weak bucking up of his hips.

Your head lifts, gazing down at him with lidded eyes and a giddy smile at this mountain of a man you’d pulled apart and wrapped around your finger so easily, before you tap that very finger against the same spot on your own neck.

Joel’s jaw drops.

“I—sweetheart, I—”

He can’t find the words, can’t explain how he’s afraid he’s far too rough to do such a thing. It’s been too long, he’s out of practice, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

You just smile down at what he leaves unspoken, some look in your eyes that makes him tremble as you brush your hands through his hair and whisper, “You’re capable of much more softness than you realize, Joel Miller.”

A warmth eases his concern at your words, and he lets you guide his face to your neck, his lips finding your skin for a tentative kiss there. You’re putting yourself in his hands now, trusting him not to break you, just as he trusts you to lead him through this forgotten territory until it was familiar to him again.

Joel breathes you in, large hands grasping at your back as he pulls your body firmly against his, tongue darting out to taste your skin before he bites down softly.

There’s a moan that floats from your lips then, the most sweet, seductive music to his ears that’ll replay in his mind for nights to come, and Joel sucks at the skin, eager to leave his mark on you as you did him. He’s grasping desperately at your body now as you grind down into his lap, unwilling to ever let you go now that he has you.

Heavy breaths fill the air as you bring his face back up to yours, and you just kiss. Lips swelling from the attention, and Joel never wants to stop, even though he knows he’ll have to eventually.

When he does, the two of you finally needing to actually catch your breath, your forehead rests against his with a quiet sigh. It sounds dangerously like contentment, and it takes a moment before Joel realizes that such a thing isn’t so dangerous anymore.

Your nose bumps against his, and he whispers hoarsely, “How was that?”

You laugh, sounding just as breathless and raspy as him, and he can’t stop the goofy smile that stretches across his face when you hum, “Mm, I’ll need more evidence before I draw any conclusions.”

Joel’s lips meet yours again, a softer kiss shared this time, leaving the promise of more that he’d never thought he’d be able to make before he pulls back, and your smile returning his own tells him all he’s ever needed to know.

“That can be arranged.”

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Two

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, blood and injury, nurse!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, feelings of fear, anxiety. Panic attack. Implied past abuse. Implied stalking. Deep breath.

There is blood in Johnny's eyes.

He comes to with a start, Price’s voice barking out an order, pressure and flame and blood all washing over him, pain erupting across every receptor in his brain like he’s being shredded alive. 

“Bloody hell, hold him steady.” 

It’s still Price, roaring over the chop-chop-chop of the helicopter blades, bloodied hands trying to keep pressure on the hole in his stomach, his side. 

It burns. Everything burns, his body feels like it’s on fire, bones turning to ash inside his skin, chest being torn apart by some invisible force. He can’t get enough air. There is something shoved inside his ribs, something heavy that’s weighing his lungs down, keeping him underwater, cinderblocks tied to his feet.

He tries to move, but he can’t. 

Gaz is strapping him down to a stretcher, he thinks, and when he ratchets a strap across his legs, Johnny screams in agony. 

“’m sorry mate, I’m sorry.” 

Where is Simon? There are faces here, but none of them are the one he needs. His LT. “W-where is Si?” He slurs, and Price frowns, leaning back over his face, calling his name. 

“Johnny, Johnny. Hold still. You’re on a medevac. We’re lifting you to base.” 

“Si-“ 

“Simon isn’t here, remember? Johnny, oi. Keep your eyes open, Sergeant.” Remember? Does he remember? He tries. Tries to place his partner’s face amongst the rubble, the blast, the screaming. 

Where is Simon?

Your coffee maker sputters to life in the silence of your apartment, churning out the dark, thick, life-giving liquid, and you can’t beat back the glare that fixes your face upwards towards your neighbors, the ones who are running a marathon in their apartment at three in the afternoon.

Seriously. Is there a herd of elephants up there? 

You can’t be too disappointed in them, you know. It is normal working hours. Normal daytime hours. You don’t expect your neighbors to accommodate or understand your schedule. Still, it would be nice if they were just a bit more considerate. 

It’s not the end of the world, regardless. You're up now, already started your day, crawled out of bed and opened the blackout curtains to stand in the afternoon sunlight that streams through your studio apartment. You flick open your laptop as sip your morning coffee, logging into your banking app with quick efficiency, eyes roving over lists of numbers, figures adding and subtracting in your head. You’re so close to being able to move forward with the plan, the light at the end of the tunnel growing stronger and stronger, glowing bright with hope, something that once felt so impossible, so far away. You're going to make it. 

It’s a hike to the train.

You’re fortunate that you only have to take one, no longer having to change once, or twice, in the middle of your commute like you used to, but now you’re walking at least twelve blocks to get there, each way.

It makes you feel very exposed.

You keep your headphones in, hood of your jacket over your head, and move within throngs of people during the trek, keeping your eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead, posture tilted just enough that you can watch the ground but still see in your peripheral. You don’t relax until you make it onto the platform, and even then, your head is on a swivel as you wait for the train to arrive, and you can melt into the mix of others. Seen, but not noticed. 

Old habits die hard. 

You swipe your card to proceed through the turnstile, cool metal sliding against your hands when you push forward onto the platform, settling against a pylon as you wait, flicking through the news with half interest.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

Someone is watching you. 

Your skin goes cold, ice beneath your jacket, and your lungs stutter with short breaths. Logically, you know you’re wrong. The faces that wait alongside you are not focused on anything but themselves, too busy staring at their own devices, tablets, readers, phones. A woman fidgets with a stroller, a man wearing headphones spits some corporate nonsense out loud, obnoxiously. You’ve already looked them over, too many times. He’s not here.

You lean against the tile, rocking your back into the grimy wall, fingers clutching against the edge of your phone. He’s not here. You’re safe. The dark of the tunnel mocks you, laughs with his voice, its circular opening growing teeth like his, ready to devour you, drag you back to hell, swallow you whole and keep you there.

He's not here. You’re safe. He doesn’t know where you are. Deep breath. 

You breathe the words deep, counting the time of your inhales and exhales until the brakes of the train are squeaking and squealing to a stop, doors opening with a hiss. Everyone moves in tandem, an amoeba inching towards the same goal, get off, get on, and you go with it, pressing inside and shuffling towards the back, angling your body outwards, molded into a corner so tight your shoulders touch the walls of the train.

Deep breath. 

“Hey, you’re early!” The nurse you’re relieving smiles brightly at you, blonde hair pulled high in a scrunchie, stickers all over her badge and ID.

“Yeah, wanted to get caught up on some admin stuff but I’ve got it, if you want to…” you motion with your head, the universal signal of ‘if you want to leave’ without saying it out loud, lest you jinx it, and the place goes to chaos in the next five minutes. She nods eagerly, launching into a run-down of your beds, who’s stable, who’s sedated, who’s still on a vent. “-and two sixty-eight is about to come down from the PACU.” Your stomach clenches with anxiety, and you check your watch.

“They took him when I left this morning…”

“Yeah, I guess there was a complication. Had to re-open his chest, put in a new tube. Poor guy, he’s battered all to shit. Did you see the scans of his femur? It’s literally in pieces.” She sighs. “His partner is in the surgical waiting room, told him the next shift nurse would come find him when he could come back to the room.” Your anxiety heightens, and an alarm bell goes off in the back of your mind as you think about Simon, pacing back and forth upstairs, and Johnny, alone in the PACU, probably coming out sedation, terrified. What is wrong with you? 

“I hear those guys are like black ops or something.” Nia, the nurse who’s worked the last three rotations with you, comments over your shoulder as she drops her bag in the pit. You raise an eyebrow skeptically. Black ops? You shiver. “They air-lifted him from a military base that’s doesn’t even exist on a map. Cass and I checked.”

“Really?” The dayshifter perks up, interested, and you hold your hands out in caution.

“Okay, okay. Let’s not speculate.” You tap your number into the tablet, reading through charts and noting updates. A little green circle with an arrow through it blinks next to Johnny’s, signifying that he’s about to be moved. “Besides, he’s been through hell. Clearly. Let’s have a little, ya know. Respect?” They all cluck, rolling their eyes and groaning, but they shut up, and Nia gives you a little grin. You might not be the charge nurse, but you were the perma-night shifter on this floor, and the one with the most seniority in this moment. 

“Alright, well. You got this?” Dayshift asks, and you wave her off.

“Goodnight.”

“You’re the best. Bye ladies!”

Simon is easy to find. He’s wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday, black cloth mask still covering half his face, hoodie pulled up over his head. He looks less exhausted, but no less anxious, dark circles still present under his eyes, body language tense. He looks… scared.

He spots you just as easily, shooting to his feet when he sees you coming, hands clenched together in anticipation, and you motion to the chair, placing yourself next to him, turning slightly to ensure you’re giving him your undivided attention.

He shifts in the seat, legs spreading out against the stiff frame, and his knee bumps yours, warmth radiating beneath denim bleeding into your scrubs. If he notices or cares about the contact, he doesn't say anything, only blinks at you in anticipation. His head tilts before you start speaking, and your skin heats when you realize he’s looking you over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before pinning you in place with a focused scrutiny.

“Has anyone come to speak with you?” You ask, silently hoping that the surgeon actually did the last part of his job, and didn’t neglect the family member in waiting room, the one who’s holding their breath as every second ticks by.

Simon nods. “They said there was a complication with his lungs?”

“They had to plate his ribs. It will give the bleed in his chest a better chance at healing, help keep him stable. They also replaced his chest tube.” His brow furrows, and you pause. Maybe visualization will help. “Do you want to see?” You tap on the tablet, bringing up Johnny’s last imaging, scrolling through the pictures to show Simon what it looks like, pointing out the before and after CT of his chest, explaining the white vs grey spaces on the image. Simon studies it, taking the tablet in his hand, fingers tracing over the screen reverently, carefully, like he's touching Johnny himself. An ocean’s worth of emotions reflects in his gaze, despair, sadness, grief- all sitting just on the edge, nearly ready to spill over. Your heart skips a beat.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s coming down from the post-surgery unit now. I’ll have to get him resettled in his room, but I promise as soon as I can, I’ll come get you.” He twitches in the chair, rubbing the back of his neck before he huffs out something that sounds like ‘okay’, and you give him one more small smile with your ‘see you soon’.

Johnny is conscious when he comes up from the PACU, barely. His vitals look good, temperature, blood pressure, heart rate all in target ranges, and he’s due for another round of pain medication.

"Hey, Johnny." You smile down at him, sliding the lock on his bed in place and reattaching his leads carefully, gentle enough so you don't jostle him too much. 

"Hi, pretty girl." He slurs, and you chuckle, instinctively rolling your eyes before patting his good hand. 

“Came out of sedation fine, but he’s been a bit emotional.” The PACU nurse warns you, eyes soft with sympathy when she glances at him in the bed. “He’s asking for his partner, I think. Simon?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.” You scan the post op notes, hitting all the important things, logging his last vitals check so you can administer his meds. The incision in his chest has been reopened, and then closed, and his lower body is completely immobilized in the bed, his hip pinned, femur delicately pieced back together with a plethora of plates and screws, so many you think it’s probably more metal than bone now. “How are you feeling?" You ask, heart tugging a bit at the hopelessness in his eyes. “Ready to get some more sleep?” He groans a response, words jumbled together and cracking into a sob that has tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Si..”

“He’s not back yet.” You try to explain gently, grabbing an extra blanket to put over the scaffolding around his leg. “Once I get you settled, we’ll bring him up, okay?”

“H-hurts.” He cries, vibrant blue eyes finding yours, scared, and desperate. “It h-hurts.” He’s openly crying now, shoulders starting to shake, and the monitor chimes at you, registering an increase in heart rate and blood pressure.

“I know. I know it does.” You clean his port, tracking the uptick in numbers on the screen. “Hey, hey. Shhh, it’s okay.” You try to calm him as you flush the line, pushing the saline from the side of the bed. “You’re alright. We’re almost,” You administer the medication easily, counting in your head, replacing it with another saline before reattaching his fluids line, all of the motions so second nature that it allows you keep your focus on him. “there.”

You expect him to calm down. Most patients do, but his heart rate continues to tick upwards, and his respirations don’t decrease, lungs heaving against the fresh sutures in his chest. His hand, the good one, skates across your elbow and down your forearm to grab a hold of you, fingers gripped onto yours tightly, like he’s afraid you might let go.

“It’s alright, Johnny. You’re okay.” His eyes don’t leave your face, his own jaw slack, pain meds coursing through his system. He's frightened, big blue eyes wide and anxious, and you squeeze his hand, stroking your thumb across his knuckles. “Deep breath.” You see patients upset, in pain, all the time. It’s an everyday part of your job. Even the hand holding is a necessary, frequent part of your profession.

But with Johnny, something feels different.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, just try to relax. Take some long breaths- good. That’s good.” You soothe him, rubbing soft touches into his skin. His head is turned to where you’re standing next to the bed, chest still heaving, and he winces with each exhale. “It’s just the last of the sedation, it can make you a little out of sorts. The pain meds are going to kick in real soon.” You reach over, and press the call button, twice. You can feel the pressure, the burn of his attention, his unwillingness to look away from you, and you hum out the softest words you can find, encouraging him to take calm, deep breaths. 

When Nia appears, she frowns. “Everything alright?”

“Hey, yes. Could you do us a favor and go up to the surgical waiting room? Johnny’s partner Simon, is waiting to be told he can come down.” She looks from you to him, reading the situation just as you would if the roles were reversed.

“Got it.” She makes her exit, fast, and Johnny gulps, still staring up at you with bright, wet, blue eyes.

“See? She’s going to get him. Everything’s alright.” He nods, barely, starting to succumb to the medication, and you exhale, letting out some of the tension from the last few minutes.

Simon comes through the door in a whirlwind, and you immediately raise your free hand, palm out, to slow his hurried panic.

“He’s okay.” You point to where Johnny is still clutching onto you. “He was still in a fair amount of pain when he came down, and coming out of sedation can be disorientating. I think he panicked a little when he realized you weren’t here.” He nods silently, taking his place bedside, towering over both you and Johnny, leaning past you to brush his lips against Johnny's forehead in a sweet, smooth kiss. 

"I'm here, sweet boy." He murmurs, voice so low you barely catch it. You step back, pulling your grasp from Johnny's, but he tightens his fingers, grip stronger than you anticipated, and you stop mid step, glancing to his partner. “I got him.” Simon reaches for where the two of you are connected, sliding his own hand overtop yours, replacing the contact before holding Johnny's hand whole. He’s so careful, lowering himself into the chair, carefully holding onto Johnny until he’s seated, bringing his palm to his mask covered lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Si.”

“I’m here Johnny. Rest.”

“Ye weren’t there.” He croaks, and Simon’s eyes shutter with a long inhale.

“I know.”

“Ah needed-“ He loses the words, dazed in a swirl of semi-consciousness. “was scared.” Simon strokes some of the hair that’s in disarray away from his forehead, smoothing his thumb back and forth above his eyebrow.

“Shhh, everything’s alright now. I’m here.”

The chair in supply closet 2b knows you well. It’s an old thing, something pulled from a patient room once it was deemed too squeaky, and too uncomfortable, shoved in here to be discarded at some point in the future.

That was months ago.

Now, it sits in a dark little corner, plastic packages of disposable PPE and gowns littered on top of it in a heap, excess supply with no place to live. Everyone takes turns in it, shifting whatever it happens to be holding that day onto the ground and settling in for what some could call a break, brief moments that could last seconds or minutes, quick opportunities to get off your feet and most importantly, not have to speak or be spoken to, for an indeterminate amount of time.

This is usually where you hide when you need a second. When there’s a lull, and the pit is full of nurses, techs, students or whoever else may have downtime, talking and laughing together, building relationships, getting to know one another. Making friends. It's a small luxury at work, to have that time, those friendships. 

Luxuries someone who wants to be seen, but not noticed, not known, does not have.

You close your eyes, head tipped back against the chair.

It’s okay to be alone. You can do this. Deep breath. 

Your mind floats to two sixty-eight, to Simon and Johnny. What is it like, to be loved like that? To be so fiercely cared for? Johnny’s teary, blue eyes and Simon’s soft, loving regard for him makes your stomach flip. You didn’t even know love like that was real. The only taste of love you’ve ever had left ash in your mouth, poison in your veins, and deep, deep scars across your body and soul that you’ll never be free of.

Deep breath. 

Your work phone and the tablet both start to beep, a shrill noise that makes you wince, muscle memory of what it indicates making you leap from the chair.

The screen shows a red flashing symbol next to room two sixty-eight.

Johnny.

“He’s tachycardic.” You tell the tech who’s fumbling with the phone, firing off a rapid text message to the on-call for this floor. You hold Johnny’s forehead still with the heel of your hand, using a finger to flick open his eyelids one by one, flashing the pen light across his pupils. “Pupils are dilated, BP is elevated- no call him- call him right now. Do what I said, I don’t care what he told you.” You bark, glancing up at where Simon is frozen across the bed from you, grip so tight against the rail that you think it might break.

“Simon-“ He cuts you off, but you’re half paying attention to him, too busy checking the site of Johnny’s chest tube, and then moving onto the dressing on his lower abdomen, ensuring it doesn’t feel scalding to the touch.

“He was fine. He was just… sleepin' and then-“ You move around the bed, pulling the oxygen tube longer, replacing the cannula with a mask.  

“Simon, I need you to step out.” You press two buttons on the machine, ensuring it’s on high flow, door sliding open with Nia’s arrival.

“No.” His refusal is steadfast.

“Simon, hey.” He lurches closer to Johnny, and on instinct, you reach out and grab his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes are wild, bleak with anguish, and his chest heaves heavily, panic radiating from his massive form. “Listen to me, listen. I’m here. I’ve got him, alright? But there are about to be five other people in this room, and we can’t work if you’re in the way.” You speak firmly, clearly, trying to get your point across as the door opens again, and the on-call attending is standing on the other side. Simon glances from him, back to you, and you nod reassuringly, swallowing the lump in your throat that forms when he latches onto your own arm, squeezing it tight. “He’s in good hands.” You tell him, nodding to the tech that’s waiting to usher him towards the hallway. 

He keeps his eyes trained on Johnny, before they flick over to where you’re lowering the bed completely flat, free hand on his bicep, thumb rubbing a small semi-circle into his skin, just like you watched Simon do last night, and earlier today. He swallows, endless depths of desperation welling in his eyes, and you take a deep breath, imbuing your voice with all the strength you have.

“I’ve got him. I promise.”

[untilthenextencore]

Old Habits Die Hard Ch. 3~...

But that was a while ago. It was in the past. Heady. Stunning. Mind numbing. But in the past. When it was time to move on, he did. Albeit with a few more kisses & stolen clinches. But he moved on.

She was too intoxicating. Too easily able to get under his skin. Into his head. Into his blood. Even without trying to.

Maybe another time...

In another life...

In a few years even...

Before he left he had promised to see her the very next time he was in Mexico. Or the Southwest / LA area. "See you next time I'm in town, babe..." God, how many times had he given THAT line?

Only this time he rather liked the idea of following through on it.

It seemed... Promising...

But now he had other things on his mind.

More pressing matters.

The Woodstock of The Eighties.

Or so some people in the press saw fit to call it. But, really? What wasn't being termed the "new Woodstock"? They usually never measured up.

Hopefully the performance would measure up. Funny how he was so insistent on moving forward & yet here he was going back to the rock group grind. For at least one night. One night only perhaps?

Ah, anything for Bob he guessed.

~

He had no time really to contemplate it much as he strolled around the grounds before something white, flowy & fluttery caught his eyes.

Dark curls. Pinned up. Tied with a thin white scarf. Delicate features. Finely curved figure. Long lithe legs. Sun-kissed skin. White flowy & fluttery summer dress paired with strappy sandals.

No.

It couldn't be.

Could it?

Robert shook his head.

And then looked again.

Full cheeks. Big doe eyes. Petulantly - and temptingly - pouted lips.

Lips that were currently being taken by an older man beside her. One with equally dark, curled hair. Albeit with some traces of salt in that pepper. Taller than her. Drink in one hand, clutching her close with the other.

Why did that look familiar to him?

Ah yes... Mexico...

Indeed it was her. Katarina "Gatita" Fuentes. Gatita. Gati. "Katia".

But she, nor her current kissing clinch with the older man, weren't the only thing that looked familiar. For the man did as well. As did the sight of his smooth seduction & claiming of his girl.

For the man before Robert, kissing Gati & wrapping her in his embrace wasn't just any man.

It was Pagey.

Shit.

~

They certainly looked cozy together. Gati nuzzling him. Jimmy chuckling amidst murmurs and holding her closer. Robert could be mistaken but it seemed Gati was drawing as many eyes as Jimmy was. Or where one drew a gaze the other held it.

Upon further inspection, he noticed exactly what tied up her hair. It wasn't just any scarf. It was Pagey's scarf. More claiming. Just as much as the large hand clutching her hip. If not more so. As was the oversized lightweight jacket she draped over her shoulders as they broke from their all-engrossing kiss to stroll amongst the crowd. Also Jimmy's.

Robert noted the grin slinking its way across Jimmy's face. He recognized it. Triumph. Robert didn't blame him. It was clear to all that Jimmy had quite a prize on his arm. None moreso than Robert.

"Ah! Robert!" He was spotted. Jimmy waved at him as he neared. Gati's face, for her part, registered her recognition, but not surprise. "Let me introduce you to, Gati. Isn't she sensational?"

"Jimmy! I told you we met a few months ago..." She chided with a soft tap of admonishment to his chest. Then, turning to Robert, she nods & offering her hand in greeting, the same look of soft recognition coloring her features. "Hello, Robert. Hope you've been well."

Clearly Gati was trying her best not trying to cause a scene. Good on her.

Robert took that offered hand to his lips, placing one... Okay three... Small kisses to the back. It was hard to stop at one with her. He knew that well. Apparently, now Jimmy did as well.

Before he knew it, try as he might not to, the words fell from his lips. "Very well, thank you. Though not as well as you, I see. I see you've been doing quite well yourself. Lucky girl." His dimples popped, though what he was feeling then landed him a little left of mirth.

"Oh, it's more than luck. Jimmy's been taking such good care of me as of late. Since we met a few weeks back. He's just the sweetest, tenderest thing to me." She reached up to primp & toy with his curls. Jimmy - despite his shy blush - grinned with the blasted weight & brightness of the sun then as he was so fussed over. "So sweet to me. He's so good to me. He's worth his weight in gold. As I'm sure you know."

The sight of her fingers tangling in Jimmy's curls wound Robert tighter with every minute swirl. Robert didn't even know that was possible. How could he feel himself winding around her fingers just as much when he watched said fingers winding in Jimmy's hair as when he felt them winding in his own? It made no sense.

"Yeah. Yeah he's something alright..."

Jimmy just chuckled. His grin never faltered. Not that it had any reason to then. It rankled Robert. The thorn in the lion's paw. Though Robert couldn't really tell if Jimmy's grin was just from the prize on his arm with her fingers laced in his salt & pepper curls, or if it was from his orchestrating the whole scene. He couldn't even say with any certainty that Pagey even had orchestrated anything! That was Pagey. Inscrutable as ever. Even in his mirth. And that made the thorn in his paw feel like a full on vine if not branch to Robert then.

Not the only thorn he would feel that night as it turned out.

None of them knew what developments lay in wait for them that night. Events that would hold long standing implications for them. Both professionally & personally.

But it would be soon that, as a very familiar song once said...

"All will be revealed~..."

~

Hope you enjoy~!

As ever it is forever under construction~!