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as-is-above-so-below · 2 months ago

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The Death of Peace of Mind | Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part 1: Altitude. Altitude.

summary: life with a pilot isn't all it's cracked up to be. a/n: hi friends! welcome! entry, please! i told you i would be back :) unfortunately, it took a lot longer than i expected. i moved states this year, started a new job, found a loving and healthy relationship, traveled internationally for the first time... i.e. i have been super busy, but i'm out of my depressive slump and finally got the urge to write (and post) again. i won't say that consistency is back, as my social calendar has obviously been slammed, but i will try my best <3

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Thunderous.

That’s the only way to describe the sound of hundreds of boots pounding down the ship’s stairs toward the dock below. While Hangman had only been aboard for a few weeks, many of the crew had been deployed for months on end. He, and a few other Top Gun members, made the vessel their temporary home while they completed a brief mission. Nothing like the Dagger mission, just simple recon; but the security was top-notch, and the admiral wanted his best on the case.

Hangman rolls the toothpick between his teeth with his tongue and shrugs his duffel higher up his shoulder. He laughs at a dig Phoenix makes at Rooster and claps a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Phoenix. How I’ll miss you and your quick wit,” he sings, the sun hitting his face as his boot hits the dock beside her.

Phoenix shakes her head as she pulls her aviators from her shirt and settles them on the bridge of her nose. “And I will miss nothing about you, Hangman.”

“Ouch! Brutal! You wound me, Natasha.”

“See ya next time, Hangman.”

“You won’t have to suffer too long, Rooster. I’ll be in your dreams tonight, per usual.” He nods in the other man’s direction. “Rodeo, it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’ll never understand why you boys can’t seem to get along.”

Bob’s cousin, Rhett Abbott. Related by their twin mothers, almost identical themselves. A skilled pilot and proud country boy, with a heart of gold. Not to mention, entirely tolerable. Unlike his buddy, Bradley. Hangman and Rodeo clap hands in a firm handshake, smiling at each other. “It’s not in my blood, cowboy.”

They say their final goodbyes and are about to split up when a tiny voice shouts, “DADDY!”

Usually, this wouldn’t be uncommon. They’re on a dock, where families had come from all over Texas to welcome their servicemen and women home from a long deployment. It’s an emotional affair, albeit happy, but emotional nevertheless. However, when a little blonde girl they don’t recognize (again, not uncommon, usually) gets closer and closer, set on a path in their direction, confusion is written all over their faces. That confusion only increases tenfold when Hangman breaks into the biggest, most genuine smile they’ve ever seen him wear, and takes long strides in her direction.

“DADDY!”

Hangman drops into a squat, holding his bag in place on his shoulder, and grabs the child with his other arm. “Hi, baby!” he exclaims and fervently kisses her cheek. “I missed you so much!”

He can’t remember the last time his heart felt so full. He understands now, why so many people have their families show up after every deployment or mission. Watching his daughter, who somehow managed to find him in the crowd, run up to him with so much excitement and love was entirely different than walking in the front door.

Although, it’s been a while since that’s happened.

He shakes the thought from his mind and scoops her up with his arm while he stands again. Her little arms go right around his neck, hugging him tight. He’s gently rubbing her leg when he asks her, “Where’s your mom?”

He’s fully aware of the absolute circus in the minds of his fellow pilots in the background. They haven’t spoken a word, silent, but he doesn’t have to look to know that they’re probably standing in the same spot. Unmoved, jaws on the floor. What Hangman does do is look around, keeping an eye out for–

“Mama!” the little girl yells, waving her hand frantically at the woman approaching.

“You found him! I’m so proud of you, Daise!”

Jake Seresin was an expert at keeping his personal and work lives separate; or he thought so, at least. Work often bled into personal, but never the other way around. Any piece or crumb the crew knew about his life outside of work, he had fed them willingly and with intention.

“Would you…want to come to port?”

“...What?”

“Only if you want. I know it’s a long drive for Daise–”

“No, no. We could fly. I’m just…surprised. You’ve never…”

“We’re docking in Corpus. The crew asked if I would show them around while we’re on leave. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to introduce you. And Daisy. Especially with…”

“That sounds nice. We’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll send you the info.” Silence. “Thanks, Red. I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you for including us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

“You’re fixing it. That’s all that matters.”

He thought that he had mastered work-life balance, too.

Apparently, not.

You give him a short side hug, partially blocked by his familiar duffel. His hand lingers on your arm after you pull away.

“Hey. Thank you for coming.”

“Happy to. I wish you could’ve seen her face when I told her. Didn’t complain once the whole drive here.”

“Really? Isn’t that something?” He turns his attention back to Daisy. “Were you good for Mama?”

Jake listens intently to your daughter’s jumbled, excited retelling of your journey, and you occasionally butt in with light banter. He hadn’t been gone long, but from the speed and fervor at which Daisy was talking, you’d think she hadn’t seen him in months. This goes on for a bit until someone interrupts your daughter’s babbling. A male voice barks his callsign, and he peers over his shoulder in their direction.

He looks back over at Daisy with a gasp. “Daise, would you wanna meet Daddy’s coworkers?” he asks, his eyebrows quirked in faux shock.

“For real?!”

“Yeah, for real.”

“Yes!”

And that’s what you do. Jake nods in the group’s direction, and you follow his lead, sticking close to his side. He had obviously done an excellent job at keeping his family a secret; you can tell from a mile away that the band of pilots is trying to quietly deduce what the fuck is going on while you approach. Daisy is practically ready to launch out of his hold in excitement, giggling and wiggling like a little worm.

“Alright, don’t get yourselves in a tizzy.” He hikes Daisy up on his waist. “Daisy, this is Rodeo–”

“Like the rodeo at home?” she asks, in her curious, pitched voice.

“Just like that. Rodeo, this is Daisy Mae.”

“Pleasure.” The man holds his hand out to her, and she takes it, bursting with giggles again. The sound is like music to your ears, and you just know that Jake is absolutely reveling in her joy. Rodeo has a charming smile and a warm personality. You’ve heard just about every complaint under the sun from Hangman (and he has plenty), but he’s bitched about Rodeo the least. Although, when he bitches, that usually means he cares.

And he complains about Rooster a lot. A lot.

Rodeo then moves on to you and offers the same gesture. “Rhett Abbott. Miss…?”

“Seresin. I��m his wife,” you say, shaking his hand while you tell him your first name and insist that he drop the formality. You can sense Jake, your husband, looking and smiling down at you like you’re his moon and stars. You make a feeble attempt to avoid meeting his gaze but it’s futile. You make eye contact, and you know you won’t live the admission down.

You’ll talk about it later.

“You have a hat like Daddy’s,” your daughter says, and reaches out to touch the brim.

“Do I, now?”

“Moving on.” He turns her a little, “And this is Rooster.”

Daisy’s button nose scrunches in distaste, and her brows furrow together, before “…Ew.”

The man with a mustache, Rooster, clicks his teeth. “Seriously, Seresin?” he exclaims, exasperated.

“You know it. Up top, pumpkin.” Daisy throws her whole body into the high-five. You laugh as they smack hands in the air, and Jake shakes it off as if it were the crispest he had ever received. “Ouch. You’re gonna have a nasty right hook one day. You know who else throws a good punch?” He turns them to the next person, the sole woman of the party. “This is Phoenix.”

The dark-haired woman smiles brightly. “Hello! Phoenix is my work name. You can call me Natasha,” she says as if they’re sharing a secret. She’s very pretty, you notice, and you already like her. You hope the two of you can keep in touch, maybe even become friends.

You thought you would be more nervous, meeting the people Jake spends most of his time with, but you feel at ease. Sure, there’s anxious fluttering in your stomach, but it’s minimal. You’re in his sanctuary, his church, for the first time ever, and the magnitude of that isn’t lost on you.

“N…Tasha.”

“Exactly. Tasha’s okay too.”

It almost feels like before. Before Jake, Hangman, blew right past the hard deck of your relationship and left a fiery pile of rubble, which he was now attempting to repair.

But this isn’t before.

Then

Altitude. Altitude.

Not being selected for the mission stung; but being put on standby (babysitting duty), twiddling his thumbs on deck in favor of Rooster, stung even more.

Hangman knew deep down what Rooster was capable of. He said so during their training exercise. He had all of the skills to complete the mission just fine if he would just buck the fuck up. He didn’t have the confidence, too cautious for his own good. He hoped Maverick was right, that Roos was ready to get the job done.

“We got two minutes to target.”

“Copy. We’re a few seconds behind, Rooster. We got to move.”

“Thirty seconds to tomahawk impact on enemy airstrip.”

“Dagger, Comanche. We’re picking up two bandits. Single group, two contacts.”

They would be fine. Nothing to worry about.

“Sir, Daggers two and four are behind schedule. Time to target, one minute-twenty.”

“Rooster, where are you?”

“Come on, Bradshaw, pick it up…”

“Come on, Rooster. Bandits inbound. We got to make up time now. Let’s turn and burn.

Good, Payback. Kick his ass into gear.

“Guys, we’re falling behind! We really gotta move!”

“If we don’t increase our speed right now, those bandits are gonna be waiting for us when we reach the target.”

Hit the gas, Rooster. Do it.

And he did. By the sound of it, Roos had blown his wingmen out of the water with the way he took off. He nearly left them in the dust, to Hangman’s surprise and pride. Maybe the other pilot had taken a page out of his book.

“Dagger one is hit! I repeat, Dagger one is hit! Maverick is down!”

He had considered at least one of the lieutenants not making it back. Whether it was Rooster for being too slow, or Payback and Fanboy going down with him for his hesitation. He was fairly certain Phoenix was safe, with the legendary captain as her wingman. But losing Maverick wasn’t anywhere close to his radar. He started adjusting in his seat, checking his buckles and legroom while holding his mouthpiece up. “Dagger spare, request permission to launch and fly air cover!”

There’s a beat, before Comanche’s response. “Negative, spare.”

And like a good soldier, Hangman listened. Begrudgingly, and with great frustration, he listened. Even as Rooster disobeyed orders. Even as he located a somehow living Pete Mitchell. Even as he crashed like their leader. By that point, they were sure to be dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

That is, until–

“Daggers two, four, and spare. Be advised, a supersonic F-14 has been detected with Rooster’s headset. Unconfirmed occupants. Do not engage.”

“What?” Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes darted to Phoenix in her cockpit. She was looking between Hangman and Dagger Four just as confused as he was. “Did they say–?”

Payback lifted his mouthpiece. “Comanche, repeat.”

“Rooster headset has been picked up in the air.”

Going after Roos and Mav was a split-second decision. He knew he shouldn’t have done it the second his wheels left the carrier.

Pull up. Pull up.

And by then, it was too late to turn back.

“Dagger spare, do not engage! You do not have clearance for take-off! Acknowledge!”

“With all due respect, Comanche, not acknowledged.”

A man’s voice, likely the vice admiral, suddenly cut in. “Hangman! Stay put! That is a direct order!”

If he was going to get written up, potentially court-martialed, for disobeying direct orders, he was going to make the most of it.

“Sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

Hangman didn’t respond to the slew of orders and cursing. He engaged the jet canopy and sat in silence with his hand over his right breast pocket, where three small photos were safely tucked away. One of you, in your pajamas with your hair up and an ice cream spoon in your mouth, eyes crinkled as you grin at him. Another of him and Daisy, and a third of the three of you.

You’d better be worth it, Bradshaw.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking.”

“Hey, Hangman. You look good.”

“I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.”

You were standing by the door, rifling through the pile of mail from the day, when you found an official-looking letter in the middle. “Jake, baby, there’s a letter for you.”

Altitude. Altitude.

“Does it say ‘confidential’?” he hollered from the kitchen.

You turned the thick envelope over, then back again. “No, it’s just addressed to you,” you said, shaking your head as if he could see you.

“Go ahead and open it.”

The paper and adhesive tore easily around your finger as you approached the kitchen. You pulled the single page out of its sleeve and quickly skimmed the letter to give a summary. But that cursory glance sent an icy chill up your spine, choking back the first line that you had meant to read aloud.

You stood between the living room and kitchen, letter in hand, frozen; a reprimand.

“What’s it say, babe?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, let alone move. Your eyes meticulously crawled through the slip, unblinking, tears pooling helplessly at your lashes. Eventually, your body couldn’t take the stillness and your lashes fluttered. The gathered drops raced down your cheeks and soiled the paper.

LETTER OF REPRIMAND FOR FAILURE TO FOLLOW ORDERS

MEMORANDUM FOR Lieutenant Jacob Austin Seresin

FROM: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson

You are being reprimanded for violating Article 92, Failure to Obey an Order or Regulation. During the [REDACTED] mission, you, Lt. Seresin, were ordered to remain grounded. You neglected to do so. As your commanding officer, the risks and outcomes of the mission were weighed carefully. You decided, on your admission and recognizance, to steal government property and engage in air-to-air combat with an enemy force that had already shot down two of your fellow airmen.

Said action could have resulted in your death, as well as the deaths of others. As a lieutenant and military member, you are expected to be a leader and obey all lawful orders. This behavior is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. Any future occurrences of failing to comply with Navy Standards will result in stronger disciplinary actions.

After reviewing the sequence of events, and given the outcome of your actions–

You didn’t need to read the rest; the course of action Jake’s command had decided upon wasn’t important. You’d had enough. Your face suddenly felt hot. And your insides, your insides, too. The wet streaks on your face and neck suddenly burned; or was it the heat under your skin turning them to vapor? Eventually, after Jake prompted you again, an echo in the ringing in your head, you managed a quiet, “Get out.”

“Can’t hear you. What?”

Through gritted teeth, you turn to stare at him, gaze like hot daggers, and growl, “Get. Out.”

He turned to find you, the epitome of feminine rage and nearly cowered back. In the years you had been together, he had never seen you so angry.

“W…hat do you–”

His confusion only made your fury worse. And so your rampage began. Your heavy footsteps cut him off and you all but ran to your shared bedroom, and slammed the letter on the kitchen island on your way past.

“Red–” The thought died in his throat when he scanned the mail.

Fuck.

A bag flying into the living space from the hall broke him out of his stupor. Jake quickly moved toward the source, and asked, “Red, what are you do–” When he crossed the threshold, a pressed uniform smacked him in the face.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out, GET OUT!” you screeched, lobbing clothes and other small objects at him.

His pants, his socks, his fucking underwear–

Out. Get it all out. All of it. Fuck him, fuck his shit, fuck his job–

“Baby–!”

“Fuck you! Don’t call me that!”

“Red, baby, please! Stop!”

That finally sparked a coherent thought in your mind. You were sobbing, choking on your cries, but you managed ragged breaths to string together a sentence. “We just talked about this! You promised me! You promised that you would do better, and I believed you! MOTHERFUCKER!”

A phone charger smacked the wall where Jake’s head once was; he swatted at a pillow that came in his direction when he straightened back up. “I…Sweetheart,” he stuttered, desperate sounding. “I couldn’t–they would’ve died! I’m so–”

Hearing him about to say he was sorry made it so much fucking worse. You don’t know what else to do but just…scream. Like a banshee. That was when the heavy shit started–the remote, a picture frame, a vase, a lamp. During your blind frenzy, he managed to get close enough to grab your arms when you turned your back, searching for another projectile. He pulled you to his chest, practically crushing you against him, so you would stop fighting and trying to injure him. But you were vicious; screaming obscenities and insults, writhing in his iron grip. You managed to get your legs up and kick at the bed, which sent Jake stumbling back and forced him to plant his feet. If he were honest, he would admit that he struggled to keep you contained, even for a moment.

His body, his flesh touching yours was too much, and your sleep set didn’t offer you much relief. Your skin crawled like you might just burst at the thought of having to be in his proximity any longer. Amidst all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about your toddler, sleeping soundly in another room.

“I can’t believe I trusted you! You’re fucking killing me! And you do it like it’s nothing! Like we’re nothing! I’m done! I’m fucking done!”

Pull up. Pull up.

You kicked again, and Jake let you go, instead holding your face to make you look at him. But you shoved him away before he could get the chance. “Red, you have to understand–!”

“I’m done understanding! I don’t care about them! I don’t care about the military! Why should I give half of a shit, when my husband would rather die for them than live for his fucking wife and child!”

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. What could he have said? To apologize, to make it better, to prove that. He’d already groveled to get to where they were then, and he screwed it up so quickly.

The battlefield that was his mind wouldn’t cooperate. He was barely keeping his head above water lately, let alone while trying to mitigate the damage he had done to his wife. Damage that he didn’t—couldn’t—see, and still didn’t quite understand. You brought up your feelings, over and over again, and he did his best to keep his promises.

He did his best. Why wasn’t that good enough?

“You don’t get it! And I don’t know how to make you understand. I’ve begged, I’ve made threats, and it’s not working. So I’m telling you again. GET. OUT!”

“Red!”

The neighbors called the police. They heard your fight from next door, through the hum of their TV while their family ate dinner. How your daughter slept through it, even with taking after her father with his heavy sleeping, you’d never know. Jake sat on their doorstep shell-shocked, a cop around his dad’s age hovering over him with a sad look.

“I just want him gone. I need to be left alone,” you choked through tears, wiping your sleeve across your face. “I’m always alone.”

How did we get here?

Daisy’s faint cries flooded through the doorway from her bedroom. Your husband instinctually went to get up and tend to her, but was met with a firm hand on his shoulder. The man shook his head, and Jake slowly sank back down. If he could’ve sunk into the concrete, he would’ve. What kind of man was he, if he couldn’t even tend to his daughter?

The officers told each of you separately that charges weren’t necessary for a case like yours, which you were grateful for. Jake would never hit you, and you told them as much; you’d just reached your breaking point and needed space. The older man followed the pilot through the house as he went to fetch some clothes to last him a few days. It took everything in his being to ignore Daisy’s cries for him from behind her closed door; it was enough of a challenge that the officer had to nudge him past when he paused at the painted entryway, adorned with her namesake.

With instructions to restrict contact to Daisy’s needs for the next few days, to give you both time to cool off, your husband left peacefully. You didn’t watch as he tossed his bag into the backseat of his truck, or when he pulled out of your driveway. You simply thanked the officers and closed the door, leaned back against it, and sobbed into your palm. You don’t have long, your daughter having gotten louder with each passing minute she was left unattended. You let her cry for just a bit longer to get it out of your system before fetching her.

Even though you had just kicked your husband, the love of your life, out of your family home, you still managed to be incredibly gentle with your toddler. It felt like your soul was torn to pieces, one of them on his way to a motel or parking lot, no doubt.

You shushed her quietly as you scooped her into your arms and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mama’s here. It’s okay.”

Altitude. Altitude.

#jake hangman seresin #top gun hangman #jake hangman fic #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #hangman x wife!reader #jake seresin x f!reader #hangman x f!reader #as is above so below #the death of peace of mind as is above so below

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foliosriot · 1 year ago

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LOVE’S THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND ♱ PART TWO

noah sebastian x reader

WARNINGS!!

none, just very short :(

TAGS!!

@malice-ov-mercy @measuredingold @crimson-calligraphyx @chels3a-smile @misspygmypie @veronicaphoenix @loverofagoodbeard @catj422

masterlist. tdopom masterlist.

“Hello?”

“I’m fucking panicking.”

The line is silent for a few beats, and it has you worriedly thinking if Jolly just hung up on you. But then there’s a deep sigh that has you feeling momentary relief.

“Why, exactly, are you fucking panicking?” Jolly asks carefully.

“I texted Noah,” you tell him, nervously nibbling at the tip of your thumbnail.

“That’s good! I’m proud of you for finally communicating with him,” Jolly praises you.

“No, it’s not good, Jolly!” you fire back. Stress is eating away at you, anxiety bubbles violently in your stomach. “I have never felt such panic since Fall Out Boy’s hiatus after Folie à Deux!”

“Wow, okay. That’s … That’s a strangely niche reference I haven’t heard you talk about for a long time.” Jolly looses another sigh. “Okay, I’ll bite. What happened?”

“He told me he misses me.”

The line goes silent again. Your leg is bouncing as you sit atop one of the stools under your kitchen counter. Your phone is face-up on the counter on speaker, and you know Jolly hasn’t hung up because the call time is still ticking. But that still doesn’t calm your nerves by any means as you wait for his response.

It’s been two days since you texted Noah, two days since he replied, two days since Bad Omens released their third album THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND. You hadn’t known how to go about Noah’s response so you’d thrown yourself back in to work and whatever chores needed to be done around your apartment. Your resolve had finally cracked when you shamelessly listened to the record for the sixth time (at least you think it was the sixth listen).

As soon as Miracle had ended that last time, you immediately called Jolly. You didn’t know who else to talk to. And thankfully, Jolly knows both parties personally and is the one who had told you to text Noah in the first place, so it was simply logical, actually.

But that hadn’t made it any less aggravating to wait for him to answer the damn phone call.

Finally, Jolly says something, but it has you wishing he had just hung up on you.

“He does miss you.”

God, and isn’t that just fucking wonderful information? The single sentence brings tears to your eyes. You fold your arms on top of the counter then rest your cheek against them.

“Jolly, he—“

“Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.” Jolly’s voice is firm, and it almost feels like a parent scolding their child. You bite your tongue anyways. “You told me you were the one to stop texting in the first place. You said your feelings were all messed up and didn’t know how to talk to him about any of it. Don’t think that your decisions didn’t hurt him, because they did. Noah wanted to talk to you about what happened but you ignored his calls, right?”

You hate how well Jolly knows you. You say nothing.

“There’s so much of you in the album, it’s fucking crazy,” Jolly continues. “Noah misses you so much more than you think he does. He wanted to figure this shit out with you. But he ended up just compiling all of it into those songs because you couldn’t pick up the damn phone.”

Tears are spilling down your cheeks now. Jolly’s words hurt — god, they really fucking hurt. But he’s speaking with so much honesty and sincerity it makes you sick. Because yes, you were the one to ignore Noah’s calls and voicemails when you first started losing touch. You couldn’t deal with what you were feeling, nor could you express how you felt at the time. You don’t think you’d be able to now.

But you need to. All of these feelings and emotions have been festering inside of you for years and years. They were nearly overflowing the first time you and Noah were intimate, then they finally flooded every inch of your body the last time you spoke. You just didn’t care enough to acknowledge them.

However, as your vision is blurry with tears and you’re quietly sniffling, you know what you need to do.

“I miss him, Jolly,” you whisper in a broken voice, scared it won’t carry through the speaker. “I miss him so much.”

“Then talk to him,” Jolly says, gentler this time.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, relenting only when you see fuzzy stars and nebulas accumulate beneath your eyelids. More tears slip down your face as you blink repeatedly.

“I’ve lost him once already. I don’t wanna do it again.”

“You haven’t lost Noah, trust me,” Jolly assures you. “To this day, he is still your best friend, whether you realize it or not.”

“What do I do, Jolly?” you ask timidly. You’re scared by his potential response, but you are already mentally writing down what you want to say after this phone call ends.

“Text or call him, and set up a time to meet,” Jolly suggests. “If you don’t, you’re gonna drive yourself insane. I mean, you’ll be our number one Spotify listener for the entire year, but let’s avoid that this time around, okay? I’d like to prevent that from happening for a bad reason.”

You chuckle a bit at Jolly’s antics. But you find yourself nodding, even though Jolly can’t see you. You push up off the countertop with a spark of something settling in your stomach.

“Okay, I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” you tell him. You sniffle then stay quiet for a short minute. “Thank you, Jolly. I’m sorry for dumping all of this onto you.”

“Don’t worry about it, dude,” he responds. It’s evident that he has a smile on his face just from the tone of his voice. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Yeah, for sure. Love you. Bye.”

“Love you.”

Jolly hangs up and you’re left in the quiet of your apartment.

Now, after having talked to your older brother figure — who made you cry, that fucking asshole — you feel a sliver of determination embedding itself into your ribcage. You can feel it burrowing into the bone and marrow, slowly spreading across your entire skeleton. It infects your organs and veins and bloodstream, until it’s all you feel.

You wipe away any tears that had fallen in the past couple minutes. Your skin is hot beneath your fingers and you can your pulse in your palms. But you ignore the heat radiating off of you as you open your phone with shaky hands.

A moment later, Noah’s contact is staring at you. You’re hesitant to open your shared text thread and ask if he wants to meet up and talk. But Jolly’s encouragement echoes from every corner of your skull, each word reverberating into the tissue of your brain until it is the only thing you can remotely think about.

Then you’re typing and sending off your message before you can think twice about it.

You gingerly set your phone back down on the counter. Deja vu ripples through you, a scene in your bedroom playing in your head from just a few days ago.

But you shove that memory away as you stand up from the stool. The leg that had been bouncing hurts a bit from constantly jittering, but you ignore the ache as you begin your way to your room. You purposefully leave your phone behind.

After gathering clean clothes and a clean towel for your shower, you head back into the kitchen to retrieve your cellphone. And you see there’s a new text notification present on the screen — one from Noah.

Your heart nearly stops at his reply. You aren’t sure what you should be feeling right now. But he definitely did just say he wants to see you.

You’re shaking uncontrollably as you read the text over and over. It’s almost like you’re waiting for Noah to say this was a joke, that he never wants to see you again for as long as he lives. But it never comes as you continue staring at it.

Noah wants to see you.

Noah wants to talk to you.

Noah wants to—

Meet tomorrow night?!

You must have read that last part wrong. You read through the text several more times to make sure you didn’t misread anything or mistook what he meant. Because Noah asked if tomorrow night at your place works. At 7:00pm.

You almost decline, saying that you picked up another shift from work at that time. And you’re about to begin typing out that gentle rejection when Jolly suddenly texts you.

Jolly🎸☀️: Noah just ran in to the living room telling me you texted him. Fucking smiley bastard. Just know that I’m very proud of you for doing this!

Well, shit. Now you have to accept the meet time.

So you do, standing in the middle of your cramped hallway with anxiety on the verge of spilling out of your mouth. You swallow harshly, choking back the bitter taste as you’re typing out your answer to Noah.

But you can’t help feeling hopeful. It almost overpowers the anxious tugging in your belly. And you let it remain confined inside of you as you take your shower, letting each and every possible scenario for tomorrow night play in your head.

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

♱ foliosriot 2023

#noah sebastian #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fic #joakim jolly karlsson #jolly karlsson #the death of peace of mind #fic: love’s the death of peace of mind #𖤐 #𖤐: writing

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sulky-cabbage · 5 months ago

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AU: Where Sukuna Wins

Part 1

Part 2 here

Imagine an alternate universe in which Sukuna triumphs, dominates over Japan, and endures a lonely existence for many centuries, while allowing some humans to live.

They hold a grudge against him, of course, and want to kill him. They train at Jujutsu High and have some great fighters that occasionally provide Sukuna with some entertainment.

They are so desperate for salvation, they can only find solace in prophecies about a figure with powerful blue eyes that will defeat the king of curses and rescue Japan.

And do you know what Sukuna does in response to that? One might expect him to go full Pharoah mode and kill newborns, but NO!!

HE DOES THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE !!

Whenever he ravages a village and devours the women and children, he ALWAYS spares the blue-eyed infants.

All the curses know better than to kill an infant with blue eyes. The last time a curse did that, Sukuna made sure to make an example of it.

Killing a member of the Gojo clan is also off limits, as well as anything that could delay the reincarnation of this certain person.

These humans are not the only ones waiting for salvation.

Sukuna is also WAITING...for his wretched existence to end at the hands of this person.

The ONLY one worthy of having the honor to do so.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #ryomen sukuna #gojo satoru #sukugo #gosuku #my post #reverse pharoah Sukuna let's goooo #Sukuna wants to be defeated by his blue-eyed soulmate sooo bad #I guess that makes Gojo Moses #He's more like Jesus in this situation though #Sukuna is a curse so he needs to die to rest in peace but don't worry him and gojo are gonna die together in this au #he will bring salvation to the people and to Sukuna #in this universe you're only safe if you have blue eyes or if you're a member of the Gojo clan #jesus now that I think about it that gotta change the gene pool overtime #Half the population of Japan will have blue eyes by the time Sukuna gets defeated #people are waiting for gojo to come back in every universe 😔#Sukuna holding a baby in one hand and a fork in another ready to feast *baby opens his blue eyes* Sukuna: NEVER MIND #Sukuna: Uraume take him to the gojo clan so he can train for our fated battle #Uraume: Sukuna-sama this is the 400th baby we sent them the Gojo clan can't train all of them #all of this is for nothing btw because when Satoru actually reincarnates Sukuna will KNOW #he will feel the shift in the the universe🥴#hashtag wish i could write #someone please write a fic about this..

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casyawn · 1 month ago

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So I may have written a Klimsdorf/Goncharov/Gregory Berrycone piece and put it on Ao3. If you're interested.

This is the craziest thing I have ever read I can't believe you want to remain anonymous for it... is it weird to say Klimsdorf feels really in character?????? anyway I had to google who Gregory Berrycone was but honestly? inspired

#klimsdorf #sorry for taking so long to reply i needed the peace of mind to actually read the fic #but yeah showstopping incredible 10/10

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oh-biwan · 7 months ago

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[rattling cage] Do you have any Obikin fics that you've enjoyed? Your beautiful art made me slip right down the ship rabbit hole and now I need recs, any rating/theme.

-blushes, clears throat- Hi!

I like a lot of different flavors but, to keep it simple, I'll try to match my recommendations to the theme I'm cultivating on this blog so far.

First of all, I have to mention skyl_tales, they wrote some of the absolute Obikin classics and I love their work, it's very dear to me. If you haven't read anything from them yet, I strongly recommend taking a look at their works and going for anything that captures your attention!

Alright, now my conscience is clear and we can move on:

Armageddon Game by posthumous_vigor

One of my more recent obsessions. Basically, padawan Obi-Wan gets captured by Sith Anakin and then groomed to the Dark Side. What I enjoy about this one is how, even despite the unfavorable cards that Obi-Wan has been dealt, he cleverly chases down his goals... but not without twisting himself in the pursuit as well. He is an active actor in this play and ultimately it is not Anakin who Obi-Wan plays against. And by recommending this I'm recommending the whole series :).

Untouched by objectlesson

This fic has one the most predatory padawan Anakin I've ever seen. This child is just so deliciously fucked up in the head. I... I think I'll just let the author's summary speak for itself: In his darkest moments, Anakin began to think of it as his right. To control Obi-Wan’s sleeping mind, force it into a box, shut it up so he could take what he deserved. Warm skin, slack face, soft snores. And then—then—more.

pleasure, little treasure by objectlesson

A guilty pleasure of mine. And probably a very hard pill to swallow, so careful there. In this one, Vader goes back in time, kidnaps Jedi initiate Obi-Wan, and makes him his apprentice. Yes, it's very dark, a psychological horror, but this author writes with such skill and poetry that I trusted they could make me enjoy reading stuff I'd normally avoid... And I was right. The beauty in the abominable. That's why I love this author, the things they write are so refreshingly daring and so deeply fucked up on so many levels, but served in a way that makes me swallow it all up without question. (oh, I should probably mention that as of now this fic is unfinished, I seldomly pick up unfinished works, but with this one, I have no regrets :))

hold my heart more gently than you do my throat by tennessoui

This is a role reversal omegaverse AU. Master Skywalker has been captured by the Separatists, and behind the Council's back, his omega Padawan sets out to save the master in distress. It is debatable if the master in question needs the saving -noises of massacre in the background- (he did need the saving, in my opinion :)). What I really love about this fic are the horror vibes of little Padawan getting chased down the hallways of the enemy base full of dead bodies, and an unknown monster breathing down his neck, but the only thing on his mind is how to find his master and rescue him. Also, I enjoyed the final twist and how the story unfolded in the end. Satisfying. If omegaverse is your thing I definitely recommend this one.

game plan by treescape

Out of all the recommendations, I consider this to be the tame one. If all of the above made you hesitant to try, this is the one to go with. The summary: Vader keeps capturing Obi-Wan during the Wars. Obi-Wan keeps escaping. It's kind of a thing. I'm recommending this one for the banter. Some of it is just next level. Very amusing to read. Chef's kiss.

#I wanted to answer this one as soon as possible but I was too excited about getting an ask and then started overthinking a little bit :))#thank you for the ask!#I hope at least one of the recommendations will sound interesting to you but if not... oh well. I'm aware that most of it is... a lot.#to put it mildly XD. So it's obvious but for my peace of mind I have to put down the warning - please read the tags carefully :)#fic rec #obikin #vaderwan #oh.asks #oh.talk

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badassomens · 7 months ago

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I've had a little idea for an AU in my head for a long time, and I'm thinking of writing it here. Let me know if you'd like to read this

#noah sebastian #bad omens band #bad omens cult #concrete jungle #the death of peace of mind #noah sebastian davis #noah sebastian x reader #AU #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fic

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midnightsilver · 3 months ago

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Mr Smith meet Mr Smith - It was my thought that they would hate each other…. at first.😁

My art pitch for @crack-in-the-chassis was chosen by @masoena who wrote a story for it 😄 you can find the summary info here.

#MidnightSilver #supernatural #spn fanart #citc 2024 #mr smith/mr smith #unrelated wincest #Dean Smith (Spn 4x17 it’s a terrible life)#Justin Smith (Spn 14x15 peace of mind)#fan fic by masoena #dean winchester #sam winchester

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dendroaspis-viridis · 1 month ago

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I'm always a slut for Leyendecker edits.

This was the reference pic, btw.

I can't wait to crank that height slider to 100% when I get my little goblin hands on the character creator. Katareth is gonna love fawning over her short (to her) king and talking about anything and everything with him 💚

#emmrich volkarin #katareth naletski #emmrook #rook ingellvar #dragon age fanart #this was supposed to stay a rough sketch #then it grew a mind of its own #regardless im happy to finally have it out of my WIP folder #now i can work on the most unhinged mutual pining fic you've ever fucking seen in peace

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canarydarity · 11 months ago

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(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain?

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment.

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot).

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling.

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling.

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground.

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first.

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard.

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood.

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on.

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?”

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did.

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still—

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant.

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion.

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out��Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!”

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!”

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace.

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand.

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone.

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone.

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once.

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely.

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.”

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare.

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?”

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction.

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse.

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances.

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?”

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind.

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage.

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing.

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned.

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t.

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind.

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.”

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back.

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?”

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused.

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—”

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for.

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes.

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too.

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now.

“Yes...”

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration.

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment.

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either.

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.”

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—”

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!”

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after.

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him.

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks.

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid.

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!”

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention.

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too.

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew.

And Tango wasn’t mad.

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night.

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—”

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit.

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.”

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit.

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!”

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did.

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe.

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate.

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak.

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same.

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force.

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks.

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired.

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore.

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own.

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there.

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact.

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.”

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about.

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it.

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations.

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had.

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault.

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this.

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down.

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

#know that i held off as long as i could #i wrote this fic 8 months ago. and every time i got close to posting it id go #'you cant do that to the rancher community. you cant drop 6k of the ranchers fighting with no warning'#but i could only stay strong for so long #i need people to be as unwell about this as i am. im sorry i need it #it does not need to be read but at least now i have peace of mind that its out roaming the wild #EDIT: ALSO!!!!! if anyone remembers bright&fast……haha see what I did there 🤩#worm writes #team rancher #jimmy solidarity #tango tek #team rancher fic #double life fic #double life smp

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katsmtmsdoodles · 1 year ago

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Day 4 of drawing Matt's teen facts because the Li Wilsons make me sad!!

S2E5: Link is always a Chelsea player for Halloween and his dads go as his biggest fans :>

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gerrystamour · 1 year ago

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here i have found some peace of mind [chapter one]

Rated E | Steddie

Steve Harrington works at a hotel in Chicago, responsible for making and managing reservations for groups of all kinds: corporate, tours, entertainment, you name it. When some famous metal band signs a contract for rooms three months ahead of their concert date, Steve is swept into a flirtatious back-and-forth with someone he as been led to believe is the tour manager, Chris Cunningham, and quickly finds himself falling for the man… Eddie Munson is a rockstar still riding the high of Corroded Coffin finally, finally making it big, but with the fame he finds himself almost lonelier than he was before. So when he answers his tour manager's phone and a nice guy with a cute voice starts calling him "Chris," Eddie plays along and maybe gets a bit carried away…

[ READ ON AO3 ]

spent all winter waiting for the sun to arise

“Hey Steve, can I turn this group over to you?”

Steve startled and looked up from his computer at the speaker. Nancy was standing on the other side of his cubicle wall with her arms crossed on top of it. She was smiling sweetly in the way she only did when she was asking for something outside of his job description.

“When is the group coming?” Steve asked, and Nancy almost suppressed her grimace.

“They’re coming in July—”

“July, Nance? It’s March,” Steve huffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You have to turn it over to Joyce, and if she assigns me the group, fine. July is too far out—”

“If I give it to Joyce, she’s going to assign it to one of the event managers, and they’re going to screw it up,” Nancy said quietly, glancing around the office. “I only trust you to handle this one. It’s rooms only, no catering needed.”

Steve wouldn’t deny that the praise had him reconsidering his protests just a bit. But only a bit, because she was still asking him to take on a group that wasn’t arriving for three months without consulting his boss at all. He was the group housing coordinator for a luxury hotel connected to the international airport, and while he handled a few groups on his own, it was only in specific cases. What Nancy was asking was not even remotely in the realm of those specific cases.

“You have to turn it over to Joyce,” Steve said plainly before turning back to his computer to continue making a room block for one of the event manager’s groups. That was his job; making room blocks and booking rooms for groups coming to the hotel. “You can always tell her that you want me to take it.”

“Then she definitely won’t assign it to you,” Nancy insisted, exasperated.

Steve sighed and pushed his glasses on top of his head so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. Joyce usually didn’t assign the groups to Steve like Nancy asked in an effort to keep Steve’s plate from being piled too high. Once, Nancy ended up turning over so many groups directly to Steve that he got overwhelmed and burnt out. He was more or less forced to take all three weeks of his unused and rolled over vacation days.

Since then, Joyce had a strict policy that the sales team could only turn small groups arriving within the next ten days directly over to Steve.

“Steve, please, I promise you’ll want this one,” Nancy pressed, and Steve let his head drop forward.

“Is it a tour?” he asked grumpily, knowing there were only three types of groups that would sway him in her campaign.

“Nope,” Nancy said, and Steve could hear the triumphant smile on her lips. “It’s a band and the film crew. They’re doing some kind of tour documentary.”

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead onto the desk. While he liked handling tours, Steve loved handling bands and film crews. Even the most difficult clients were still straight-forward enough with interesting people. They needed rooms, they sent you the requirements for their stay, and you followed their instructions. Half of the time the bands would cancel before they even arrived, and the film crews were usually quiet once they got settled.

“Do I know the band?” he grumbled, not even lifting his head.

Nancy scoffed. “Do you listen to metal?” she asked, and Steve lifted his head to raise an eyebrow at her. She was smirking down at him. “Didn’t think so. Don’t worry about it. I only know who it is because the above-property sales person told me when she sent me the signed contract.”

“You’re assuming I’m taking it,” Steve said flatly, but he knew Nancy won.

Nancy gave him a patient smile as she dropped the printed contract on his desk. “I’ll send the rest of the details for you to make the room block. There’s a note that the tour manager wants the confirmation numbers ASAP.”

With that, Nancy walked back to her desk around the corner.

On his desk, Steve’s cell phone buzzed.

Robbie: food in dusty-buns office >:3c Steve: be there in 5 😩

❖

“She has you so whipped, Steve.”

Steve sat on the staging table in one of the banquet storage rooms and ate a plate of leftover food from a buffet the team just cleared. They affectionately called this storage room Dustin’s “office” since the banquet server was most often working events and using that staging and storage area.

He gave Robin a baleful glare as he shoveled another scoop of ravioli into his mouth.

“Yeah, dude, why are you even letting her boss you around? Just tell my mom,” Dustin said, popping open a can of soda. Steve rolled his eyes at the suggestion. Claudia Henderson was the Director of Sales and Nancy’s boss, and Steve knew he should be telling her that Nancy was overstepping again.

He didn’t actually want to, though.

“I’m not gonna tattle to your mom, Dustin,” Steve sighed heavily.

“Yeah, because Nancy Wheeler has you whipped,” Robin repeated, rolling her eyes. “She’s totally taking advantage because she knows you’re still not over her—”

“Okay, first of all, I am totally over her, like one-thousand percent over her,” Steve said quickly, pointing at Robin. “And she said she doesn’t trust the event managers to handle bands or film crews, and honestly? Valid.”

“I don’t know enough about rooms to dispute your expertise in them,” Robin admitted sadly, grabbing another fancy little brownie bite.

“You don’t know anything about rooms,” Steve agreed, smirking at her. “Anyway, it’s one group, and they’ll probably cancel anyway.”

“Why do you think that?” Robin asked.

Steve heaved a big sigh as he settled in to explain as simply as he could. “Half the time bands will cancel, usually because their tour got all fucked up for one reason or another. Anyway, this group is booking their rooms three months in advance. There’s no way they’ll actually come.”

“But you said they’re traveling with a film crew, right? Wouldn’t they have a pretty strict filming schedule?” Dustin asked, and Steve shrugged.

“No idea,” he replied.

“Who’s the band?” Robin asked, and Steve shrugged again. Robin scoffed. “Seriously? You don’t know?”

“I know they’re a metal band. None of the paperwork says the band’s name, and the rooming list has fake names already,” Steve replied. “Typical procedure for higher profile bands, so they might be a big deal. I don’t really care, honestly.”

Just as he finished saying that, Steve’s phone started ringing.

“Hello, this is Steve,” he answered.

“Hey, I know you’re on your lunch, but the tour manager called asking about the rooming list,” Nancy said, her tone apologetic.

“Revisit the first half of that sentence, Nance,” Steve said, but he was already putting his plate aside to hop down from the table.

Robin made a whip-cracking noise with a roll of her eyes.

“I know, just— the tour manager seems really high-strung about it,” Nancy pressed, and she did sound genuinely sorry for calling on his break.

“I’m. On. My. Lunch,” Steve said slowly and deliberately as he waved goodbye to Robin and Dustin, slipping out of Dustin’s office.

“Fine, fine, just make sure you get it done before the end of the day,” Nancy sighed and hung up.

Steve let out a slow breath as he walked back to his office ten minutes before the end of his lunch break.

❖

Sitting back down at his desk, Steve pulled up the details for the block and opened the rooming list the tour manager sent.

He was startled, but appreciative of the fact that the riders were included in the same document, even if that meant that the rooming list was given to him in the worst possible format: A goddamn PDF.

Steve was used to it by that point, coming from entertainment groups; it was a security thing. That didn’t make it any less frustrating to handle.

Grumbling to himself, Steve did what he did best; tucked himself in to read the contract from top to bottom, then back again, then did the same with the riders. Then came all the technical stuff of building the room block, then struggling through getting the names off the PDF and into a spreadsheet to book the rooms.

“They could’ve sent this when it was still a Word document but no,” Steve grumbled bitchily, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “They had to be all fancy and important and send it as a fucking PDF.”

Finally, when that was all done and the rooms were confirmed, Steve pulled up a blank email and the tour manager’s contact details in their system.

The manager’s name was Chris Cunningham, according to the information the above-property sales manager input, and something about that name did sound familiar. Steve couldn’t place it right away, so he gave up trying and went back to starting his email.

Good afternoon Chris,

It’s a pleasure to e-meet you!

Thank you so much for choosing our property to host your group. I have reserved the rooms and attached the confirmed rooming list here for your reference. Please confirm that everything is correct at your earliest convenience.

Since there is still time before your group will be arriving, I will reach out a bit closer to when we will take the deposit for the rooms to confirm some of the other details.

Please do not hesitate to reach out at any time! It is my pleasure to assist you.

Once again, thank you for choosing our property, and I look forward to working with you.

Warmest regards,

Steve Harrington - Group Housing and Events Coordinator

Nodding at that email, Steve attached the documents and hit send. Then he set about putting the print-out of the contract and riders into a folder to tuck away until he had to look at it in June.

With all of that finished, Steve was able to do his other work. He literally didn’t have to worry about this group for months.

But he ran into an issue with a client the week before where he couldn’t email her anything with an attachment from his work email without it being bounced back to him. Nancy had told him the manager seemed high-strung about the rooming list.

With a groan, he decided he’d call the manager just to make sure the list was received. Steve didn’t hate talking on the phone, but it was a close thing.

“Maybe they won’t even pick-up,” Steve muttered as the line rang once, twice—

“Hellooo, this is Cunningham’s phone,” a deep voice drawled, and Steve internally cursed his luck.

Slapping on his cheeriest smile, Steve said, “Hi Chris, this is Steve calling from the hotel in Chicago! I’m the event manager for your group staying in July.”

There was silence on the other line, and Steve hoped the line had dropped.

“Sorry, that was a lot of words at once,” Chris said, and Steve made a pained face.

“Is this Chris?” Steve asked, and the man on the other line laughed.

“Yeah, sure, I’m Chris. I’ll be whoever you want, handsome,” Chris replied, and Steve felt like he could actually hear the grin. “How can I help?”

Steve frowned because this guy sounded bored and relaxed, nothing like Nancy had been describing earlier which made him a bit angry. She rode his ass about this rooming list and the guy was actually super laid-back?

“Yes, hi Chris, I’m Steve? The event manager for your group arriving in July?” Steve repeated, keeping his voice pleasant even if his building headache was making him bitchy. “I was just following up to introduce myself over the phone, and also to confirm that you received the rooming list I just sent.”

“Oh shit, let me check,” Chris huffed, and Steve could hear him messing with the phone. “Yep, looks like we got it. You’re fast.”

Steve preened under the praise. “Thanks. I understand how important speedy confirmations can be, especially during a stressful tour,” he said sweetly, and Chris laughed.

“It’s a stressful tour, alright,” he sighed.

Steve hesitated a couple seconds before he said, “Alright, I’m glad you got the list. I won’t reach out again until the beginning of June, but please—do not hesitate to email or call if you have any questions, concerns, or requests.”

“Oh, you’ll definitely be hearing from me, Stevie,” Chris teased, and Steve blushed a bit at the nickname. He knew he should be annoyed by it a little, but it was cute, and Chris’s voice really did it for him.

“Sounds good, Chris,” Steve said, and he wasn’t pretending to be nice completely. “I’ll talk to you later.”

At that, Steve hung up his phone and stared at his keyboard for several long seconds.

He hadn’t dealt with a flirtatious guest or client since he left the front desk a year ago, and already this felt like unfamiliar territory. Maybe Chris would lose interest and settle down as they worked together.

Steve found himself quietly hoping that didn’t happen, though.

❖

In a bunk bed on a tour bus on the other side of the country, Eddie Munson stared at the phone in his hand with a little smile tugging at his mouth.

It was a short conversation but there was something really nice about having a conversation with someone who treated him like a normal human being. It had been years since Eddie could talk to someone other than his band mates, manager, and uncle without it being either drenched in starstruck hero-worship or stilted professionalism.

At first, that had been exciting. They finally made it. After all of their hard work and grinding and sleepless, penniless weeks of driving themselves to gigs, they did it. Eddie wasn’t the local drug dealing deadbeat loser every high school teacher believed he would be forever. He was somebody, and people either worshiped him or at least respected him.

He just never expected stardom to become so lonely.

Obviously, Eddie had the boys and Chrissy, all of them sticking together through the worst of times and reaping the benefits of the best of times. He was never alone, and for that Eddie was grateful.

But sometimes he just wished he could make more friends, maybe even have something more than casual sex with someone. Someone who saw Eddie, not the frontman of one of the biggest metal bands in the scene currently.

Now, Eddie wasn’t completely stupid. He knew that Steve was only so relaxed because he was under the impression that he was talking to the tour manager. But still, it was nice. He liked it.

“Dude, is that Chrissy’s phone?”

Eddie jumped and looked up at Jeff with wide eyes. Jeff was standing in the doorway of the “bedroom” of the tour bus. For a moment, Eddie was struck with the idea to eat the phone to hide it which he put a stop to immediately.

“Maybe,” Eddie said elusively, rolling so he was laying more on his side rather than on his stomach.

“You know she’s literally about to have an aneurysm out there trying to find that, right?” Jeff asked with a snort before he climbed up into his bunk across the small hall between beds.

“At this point, if she hasn’t figured out that I have her phone one-hundred percent of the time she can’t find it, that's on her,” Eddie said haughtily, going back to the game of Sudoku he was struggling with before Steve called.

“Maybe you should stop losing your phone, yeah?” Jeff suggested tiredly, throwing his arm over his eyes.

Eddie pouted at the puzzle. “I didn’t lose my phone,” he grumbled, and Jeff snorted.

“Okay, fine, maybe you should stop completely destroying your phones, plural,” he said, and Eddie felt his ears heat up.

It wasn’t his fault that they made phones more and more fragile while also making them too big to fit in his pockets. It’s also not his fault that he was prone to jumping up onto surfaces he shouldn’t be climbing on and horsing around. He had a diagnosis for that and a prescription and everything, he was honestly doing his best.

Maybe goofing off on the half-wall overlooking the Grand Canyon while wearing his tightest pair of jeans with the least effective pockets last week wasn’t the best decision, but it wasn’t his fault.

The time before that, he was just trying to get a signal while they drove through the boonies. It wasn’t his fault that the bus driver hit a pothole the second Eddie held his phone close to the open window. It truly actually wasn’t.

And before that, he actually just lost his phone. Eddie was positive he had it in his bag, and then when they got to the next venue, it wasn’t there. That happens to the best of people all the time, right?

According to his band mates, no, that didn’t happen to people all the time, but he was pretty sure they were all just conspiring to make him look like a weirdo.

“Whatever, the point is Chrissy knows I always have her phone when she can’t find it. Her freaking out is just silly,” Eddie said with a sniff, glaring down at the Sudoku puzzle he was making zero progress with.

“Edward Munson!”

Jeff peered over the edge of his bunk to smirk at Eddie’s wide-eyed stare. “Uh oh,” he teased as Chrissy approached.

“Jeff! Quick! Get my cane,” Eddie hissed, frantically pointing at it where it hung from its wrist strap on a hook. He wouldn’t be able to jump up and get it quick enough himself, but he needed to defend himself somehow. Chrissy was a dirty fighter.

Jeff just laughed and shook his head. “No fuckin’ way I’m getting involved,” he said as Chrissy appeared in the doorway, red-faced and furious.

“You!” she practically shrieked, pointing at him as he shoved the phone between his body and the mattress as if she hadn’t already seen it in his hands.

“What?” he asked innocently, and he screamed as she dove into his bunk to wrestle the phone out from under him.

They tussled for a while, Chrissy yelling all sorts of expletives at him that were honestly still a shock coming from her sweet face. And again, she was a dirty fighter.

“Ow, shit! Did you just bite me?” Eddie hissed, grabbing Chrissy’s whole face and pushing her away as he looked at the distinctly teeth-shaped indents on his arm following the curve of one of his burn scars. The bite mark was deep, just barely not breaking skin and would definitely bruise.

Then Chrissy licked his palm like an animal, and he recoiled enough that he rolled off of her phone.

“What the fuck, Cunningham, that’s disgusting,” Eddie said with a glower, wiping his hand off on his shirt as Chrissy checked for new messages. When she didn’t respond, he added suggestively, “you have no idea where my hand has been.”

“I’ve had worse in my mouth than whatever you’ve got going on,” Chrissy muttered, and Eddie grimaced.

“Now I’m thinking about Jason’s dick. Thanks for that, Chris,” Eddie groaned, and Chrissy just snorted.

“I was actually talking about that pizza we were subjected to by the venue last week, but okay, bring my ex’s dick into this,” Chrissy said before smacking Eddie’s chest.

“Ow, my nipples,” Eddie pouted.

She just smacked him again, trying not to laugh as Jeff interjected with, “You only have one nipple, dude.”

“Stop stealing my phone!” Chrissy bit out through her teeth, trying to be intimidating but honestly channeling the energy of a chihuahua puppy.

“I didn’t steal it! I was just using it! Secretly! While you were looking for it! Without asking!” Eddie said, barely containing his laugh.

“You’re an asshole, you know that? We’re getting you a new phone as soon as we have time,” Chrissy huffed, tossing her phone back onto Eddie’s bed, which he immediately snatched back up. “Don’t hide it from me.”

“Did you fucking delete all the answers I figured out on this stupid puzzle?” Eddie gasped, looking at Chrissy with wide eyes.

“Maybe I did,” she said huffily, puffing up her chest as she crossed her arms.

“You monster,” Eddie wailed, flopping back and laying the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

“Well, maybe you’ll think before you destroy your next phone, huh?” Chrissy said, reaching over to quickly and viciously pinch Eddie’s nipple through his shirt. As Eddie yelped, she quickly dove off the bunk with a shrieking giggle and fled the bus.

For a moment Eddie tried to chase her, but after all the wrestling, they had managed to get his blankets tangled around his legs. Plus, his bad leg didn’t really allow for jumping up and chasing anyone at the best of times. Did Eddie only stop trying when he wound up in an undignified heap on the floor of the bus? Perhaps.

“You good, Eddie?”

When Eddie looked up, he was met with Jeff’s phone out and clearly recording, if the way he was stifling his laughter was anything to go by.

Eddie groaned and dropped his forehead to the floor with a loud thump.

Of course, Jeff would be recording this whole mess, just like Gareth had recorded the exact moment he realized his phone had fallen into a literal canyon last week. Naturally, all these moments would be edited together for their next “Tour Diary” on their YouTube channel.

And yes, the incident with Eddie’s phone falling out the window of the moving bus was also caught on video, and the fans had lost it. So yeah, now their tour diaries included an entire section dubbed “Cringefail Eddie” and it was all good fun.

Crawling back into his bunk, Eddie picked up Chrissy’s phone and started the Sudoku puzzle over again with a bright smile on his face. Yeah, stardom was kind of lonely, but he still had his best friends along for the ride with him.

[ NEXT ]

[ READ ON AO3 ]

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