#jameson's shower thoughts

[jamesonsjournal]

random shower thoughts. #1 hello everyone, jameson wilkes andres here. i decided in order to air out my thoughts easier, that i shall drop my "shower thoughts" into the space of tumblr. here is my first. july 13, 2023 - 7:18 am. "if intercourse is a battle, would orgies count as battle royales?"

that is all i may say for today. do take care everyone,

jameson.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

okay this is going to sound totally crazy but now I think of it I can’t stop…

I know not everyone does this but I’m pretty sure it’s fairly common to take your shoes off in your house right?? But can you imagine the Hawthornes and Avery walking around hawthorne house in socks, or bare foot… like…

sorry I can’t unthink this 😭😭

[gergthecat]

Jameson, texting Avery: Would you like a photo of my mustache?

Avery: What mustache, I saw you an hour ago?

Jameson: My penile one. I’ve styled it.

Avery: WTF, Jameson, why in the world would you ask that?

Jameson: Well, I wasn’t going to send you an unsolicited dick pic, that would be un-gentlemanlike.

Avery: And styling your pubes is?

Jameson: Yes, he looks very dapper.

[victorluvsalice]

-->And, as Victor replanted his oversized crops (which I’m not actually intending to make oversized this time! Smaller ones make a bit more sense to sell in the store), Smiler scheduled a weenie roast for the next day! They hadn’t thrown a party in a while, and I figured that would be appropriate for it being summer, especially with SimCity Founding coming up. They invited their friends Heath, Aleah (the Hermit from Granite Falls), Cecilia, Nalani, and Grace, and had the whole thing start at 3 PM, as that felt like a decent start time for me for a cookout. And I just crossed my fingers and hoped that it wouldn’t be as chaotic and glitchy as some of my OTHER weenie roasts had been. . .

-->And with that, all that remained was for Victor to finish up his planting and for Smiler and Alice to have a little bonding time (including synchronized showering in the rain -- Erratic Sims *sigh*) before it was back off to the store! Smiler of course made another flower arrangement while Alice started making more cakes and pies for the bakery and Victor began doing bulk bread processing -- and then I discovered two things:

A) The new update, which added slots to the tops of a bunch of the toilets and sinks? It has a dark side, and that dark side is that Sims WILL put random shit on those slots. As seen with Victor putting his bread on top of the toilet in the bathroom stall. *facepalm* I moved it out of the bathroom with haste and quickly put -- I don’t recall what it’s called, I think it’s related to the menstrual cycle stuff in Wonderful Whims, which I don’t use, but it’s like a little spray bottle that you MIGHT find in a bathroom like this, and it took up one of the slots on top of each toilet, making them less of a good place to drop baked goods.

B) Smiler actually didn’t have that much to do, as the flower arrangement shelves were full, and there was no more room for any of the baked goods from the cupcake machine in the bakery section. Whoops. ^^; Fortunately, there was another protest going on nearby in the little square, and when Smiler batted over to say hello, who should they encounter but Jameson, the guy they met over in Henford-On-Bagley on fair day! :D Smiler promptly renewed the acquaintance, and they had a nice chat together. Them being the most social of all my Sims DOES make keeping them occupied easier. XD

-->And while THAT was going on, I decided it was about time I had Victor test out his Copypasto skills! Now, as I reported back in the Finchwick Fair update, there was no way for me to have him Copypasto any of the cans and boxes from the Simsonian Canning Factory mod (you know, like the canned peas and such). . .but he COULD Copypasto the various sauces and preserves, since those are the same as the ones you get from Cottage Living itself! And so Victor set about copying as many jars of jam and sauce as he could. . .

[s-rosie]

TIG CRACK HCSSSSS #2

30 hours to live, how should i spend themmm…?

max and avery have a game called “uncomfortable flirting” where they go back and forth trying to make the other person either get too caught off guard to make a comeback or quit bc they get uncomfortable (this is actually a real game that me and my friend made up lol it’s actually fun if you are good enough friends for it not to be awkward)

jameson watches barbie life in the dream house and quotes it without even realizing

avery says stuff like “me personally i would never take that level of disrespect but that’s just me” kinda ironically but kinda not

xander and ave had a water balloon fight using gloves from the nurse filled with water at school and they got detention for it after avery accidentally threw a glove at someone she thought was xan but wasn’t

max tried to become a rapper in like 6th grade and she entered the talent show and everything trying to rap to like nicki minaj but it kinda sucked and now the video of her at the talent show haunts her

grayson has the best fake porn star girl moan but he only did it once on a dare with jameson and no one will believe jamie that he can do it and it drives him crazy

libby can do weird things with her tongue (get your mind out of the gutter) like she can lick her elbow, touch her nose and chin with her tongue, do that clover tongue thingy, etc.

nash did gymnastics when he was little and he does random back handsprings now

jameson, avery, and xander are the reason most of the rules at their school were made bc they always found loop holes

oren is fluent in gen alpha and is a translator for when xander and jamie start talking gen alpha

alisa watches spirit and cries every time

gigi blasted “i don’t fuck with you” when sav finally broke up with duncan

lyra has a shirt that says “thick thighs save lives” and grayson gets so embarrassed bc he knows those thick thighs saved his life

jamie went through a phase for like a week where he didn’t shower and just used chocolate axe spray instead in like 5th grade

max, avery, lyra, and libby make spicy dances together and say they are going send them to their boyfriends but they always get too embarrassed so they just keep them a secret (but then the truth came out and xander hacked their phones to get the videos)

max makes those “i just wanna be part of your symphony 🌈🌈🌈🌈🐬🐬🐬🐬🐬✨✨✨✨🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀” memes and sends them to avery at like 3:30 am randomly

xander will barge into avery and jamie’s room and see them kissing and say “omg guys get a room” just to confuse and annoy them

max and Xander make pov tik toks together

Avery once pulled a monica from friends and pinned Xander down to get his eye drops in and xander couldn’t get up and was like was like “omg why are you so good at this!!!” then “wait, why are you so good at this… 😏” and avery just sat there like 🫣😳

when libby went wedding dress shopping, max and avery also tried on wedding dresses and even bought them just to have fun in

gigi and xander love sexyy red and put her on the hawthorne house speakers to make everyone die because her songs are so dirty

i hope you like theseeeeee

[literaila]

this is alarming 

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary: you consider yourself a generally unlucky person, but when you meet peter parker it becomes even more apparent that the universe hates you. 

warnings: mean peter, mean reader, coworkers, angst (?), working, jameson

a/n: this is part one because i wrote 10k and decided that tumblr wasn’t going to put up with me any more. next part will be out later tonight, or tomorrow. 

*

you always set seven alarms in the morning. 

it's often that your alarm clock falls behind the nightstand, often that you shut it off without a moments notice--eyes closed, dreaming dreams you can never remember. it's often that you don't hear anything at all. 

only the sound of a groan escaping your mouth when you pick up your phone and see that you're two hours late for work. 

the first alarm is to be snoozed; almost an hour and a half before you need to wake up. 

the second alarm is for the dreams to muffle, to hear the sound but pretend that it's only a figment of your imagination. 

the third is for stirring. 

the fourth is to open your eyes and feel some haze snap them immediately shut. if you can't open your eyes, why should you even bother to wake up? 

the fifth is for shivering into the covers. your temperature hasn't regulated, and if your bed wasn't so welcoming, you probably wouldn't still be in it. 

it's usually by then that you've pushed the alarm clock off of your nightstand, and that it rests under the bed, collecting dust. 

you've tried moving it to the other side of the room, but even seven alarms weren't enough to get you up. 

so there it remains, ready to be picked up whenever you are graced with the opportunity to really notice it. 

the sixth alarm is to think. wonder to yourself what you're supposed to be doing right now, if you need to shower, smell your own sweat from restless sleeping, and consider the possibility of never waking up at all. 

you usually get caught in these thoughts, and your eyes still don't want to open. 

the seventh alarm is the one you get up to if you're lucky. it's the one that pushes you out of the bed, onto the floor and laughs when it sees the bruises you have from falling. 

and it doesn't really matter when you wake up, or when you get to work. 

there's a bitter taste in your mouth, and it's not just morning breath. 

*

it usually rains on the days you walk to work, and conveniently you've never really learned how to open an umbrella properly--proven by the stack of broken ones you keep hidden somewhere in a closet--so there's no hiding from the drizzle of the sky. 

sometimes you wonder if the earth is mad at you. if whatever deity controls all of this thinks that you're making a mistake. 

a mistake every time you wake up in the morning, and suddenly feel the courage to move your limbs. 

it doesn't matter though. you have an extra pair of clothes in the ridiculously large bag you always carry around. 

there might be a first aid kit in there, a water bottle, a lighter, and many other things that you only realize you need when you don't have them. 

your relationship with this bag is the longest one you've ever had. and it's beginning to fray at the edges, not unnoticed by you. 

still, as soon as you get to work--only fifteen minutes late--you hide in one of the bathroom stalls, cursing when you accidentally drop your clean clothes onto the floor. 

you try not to think about bacteria, or who's walked in this bathroom before you. 

and if you weren't already late--and if you cared a little bit more--you might try and deal with your hair, but today, you settle for dripping it out over the sink and ignoring the woman who walks by behind you, giving you a look you can't miss in the mirror. 

you ignore all of it, at this point. 

*

when you got this job as an editor at the bugle--known for crazy conspiracy theories and adamant headlines, or pictures of spider-man--there was only one desk available. 

it's hidden in a little alcove of the space. a corner you have just to yourself--and it would be nice, you're sure, if there was any actual lighting or an outlet that worked anywhere within the eight-foot vicinity. and also if the ceiling would quit leaking almost right above your desk. 

you didn't complain when betty showed you it on your first day. you figured that after ten job interviews and six very strange first days, you didn't have any room left to complain. and you wouldn't be surprised if this only lasted three days. 

but it was supposed to be safer than stocking shelves at target--which, coincidentally, had no more shelves--or passing out flyers for local offices in the middle of the street. or even working at annie's flowers where everything was supposed to be beautiful and nurturing, but you were pretty sure you still needed stitches from all the thorn pricks you'd endured.

this was an office job. this was reading and writing and hoping to avoid the available eyes of everyone else--or a helicopter crash into the side of the building. 

what could go wrong, you'd thought, smiling at betty and thanking her for showing you around. 

and then you grabbed the nearest file on the desk, stained with something that looked like tears. you never said a word about your desk or the discomforting smell that came from the exposed pipes on the wall. 

you'd managed to last seven months at bugle, so far. seven months of laughing at grammatical errors and wincing at headlines with puns that even you couldn't have come up with. 

you fixed things and stayed out of everyone's way. 

and then you went home, running to avoid the rain, or trying to catch the subway before it left. 

you sat on the couch and watched the news, eating a sandwich or whatever you could find in the fridge that hadnt already rotted. 

you hadn't put the pictures up, and you didn't think you were going to. even though you'd been living in this apartment for more than a year, and it had been three since any of that mattered. 

you were lucky to have this life, you reminded yourself. and you sat at your tiny desk, reading about fates that were far worse than yours. 

*

there were at least twenty pairs of eyes on you when you opened the door. the hinges squeaked as you closed it, and you almost squeaked when you realized that everyone else--everyone--was already in there. 

all sitting down, all giving you confused looks. 

and you swore that the email about this mandatory "morale" meeting--an excuse for jameson to talk about failures for the month--said eight-thirty. 

you were absolutely sure of it. 

but as you lean against the wall because there aren't any chairs left, after whispering a soft apology, it was clear that you were very wrong. 

or maybe you'd been sent a typo that no one else received. or they forgot to put you on the forward list again, and there was no way for you to know that the time had changed to eight. 

or maybe you just couldn't read. 

it didn't matter, because after about fifteen seconds, the lecture resumed and the eyes left your sullen and guilty face. 

you couldn't listen to anything else you were supposed to be paying attention to for the next thirty minutes. 

your feet ached, and your head hurt, and every two minutes your stomach grumbled. and then you were thinking about breakfast. you were thinking about quitting this job so you didn't have to see any of these people ever again. 

and whatever jameson was ranting about, it probably didn't apply to you. 

still, it got worse when you began to doze off--who knew drywall could be so comfortable--only to wake up to people passing you, pushing you with glares in their eyes. 

"hey, cathy," you nodded, giving her a reckless smile and waving. you’d never shared a proper conversation with the older woman. you definitely did not hear her scoff as she walked by. 

and as soon as the crowd of your coworkers had cleared the room, you were sighing, hand to your head, and then promptly tripping over a leg of a chair someone didn't push in. 

a hand wrapped around your shoulder, awkward and warm, as someone pulled you toward them, keeping you from falling. 

"are you sick?" a rough, low voice whispered, not quite in your ear but not quite far enough away for you to feel comfortable. 

with the grace of a drunk elephant, you attempted to stand on your own two feet, trying to find your balance without flailing your arms. 

"what?" you croak out, trying to laugh this furious heat off of you. 

"you came in late, and now you're falling over. also, you feel a little warm." 

"i thought the meeting started at eight-thirty, and there was a chair," you say to this man, pushing the damn chair back in. "plus--" and then you look up. 

peter parker, with his signature furrowed brows and lip bite, stands there, looking at you. 

well, that explains the heat.

"oh, um--" you scratch at the back of your neck, going for a pleasant smile. "hey, peter. thanks for... not letting me split my head open." 

"do you want me to call you a cab?"

"why?" 

"you don't have a car right?" peter says, eyes clearly saying are you serious?

"i-- no?" 

"you probably shouldn't walk home then. you're already having trouble standing.” 

you blink. "i'm really not sick," you tell him, trying to sound stern or serious or anything but flustered. "it was an accident." 

he holds intense eye contact with you, barely blinking. "you sure?" 

you nod. it doesn't feel necessary to tell him that this happens a lot. 

"okay. well, jameson wanted me to talk to you about the jenson project. which he wants us to do together." 

"oh. how come?" 

"apparently 'partner work' is a strong selling point. i'd just send you some pictures to fit into an article. you'd have to--" he purses his lips. 

"mess with them?" you ask, trying to be helpful. 

"sure. jameson said he wants it to be nice and shiny for next weeks release. i thought maybe we could work on adding the pictures together, just so i know if i need to change anything." 

"like photoshop?" 

peter nods. "or if there's anything you have questions about. i was there taking the photos so i got a lot of the interview too."

"yeah, okay. i'm just working on a couple of footnotes for this week right now, so i'm not sure when i can--" 

"how's thursday?" 

you try not to flinch at his tone. certain but soft. his eyes, you think, might be the most terrifying thing you've ever seen up close. 

clearly, peter is not very interested in any of this. or maybe he's a strict rule follower and is holding a grudge against your lack of punctuality. 

"thursday works," you tell him, dropping your somewhat regular smile. 

"great. we can work at your desk or mine, it doesn't matter to me. or we can go get coffee to escape the office for a couple hours. just let me know."

and then he's walking away, pushing in a chair as he goes with a look back to you, and you've barely even comprehended what he just said. 

or the fact that he didn't let you answer him. 

"okay," you say, in a whisper, but you're just talking to the wall. 

last to come, you think, and last to leave. 

*

here's the thing about peter parker. he's not known for being the friendliest of coworkers. 

he's pleasant enough, gets all his work done, doesn't snap at people when they make mistakes and doesn't finish the coffee in the breakroom without brewing another pot. 

and since you've been there, you've learned--mostly from eavesdropping--that he's been working here for three years. that he's taken lead photographer out of many qualified candidate's hands and only responded with a smirk. that he's supposed to be a genius, comes into work with bruised knuckles sometimes--which your coworkers gossip endlessly about--and jameson is either constantly praising the man, or degrading him.

he doesn't go to office parties, he doesn't respond to emails. peter practices something you like to call "every man for himself." 

and he doesn't ever smile. 

trust that you should know. because, you'll admit, when you first got there, it was hard not to notice peter. 

first of all, he's very tall, strong, and kind of brooding. he takes up fifty percent of the office space alone. 

but he's also insanely attractive. blessed with thick hair and glorious eyebrows and cheekbones that put knives to shame. his eyes are soft and his lips are plump and he is a certified asshole. 

or at least something like it, everyone knows. including you. 

but for at least the first two weeks you couldn't avoid staring at his pursed lips or snorts when someone said something particularly obnoxious--usually jameson--or the way he tapped his wrist incessantly, like he was counting down time. 

peter parker makes for a very suitable work distraction. 

but as soon as you talked to him for the first time, you realized that he was a pretty, intelligent man.

you'd stumbled into the breakroom and dropped whatever semblance of a lunch you were going to pretend to eat that day, and peter was sitting at one of the tables watching. 

he didn't have anything to eat, just a cup of coffee and a bitter look on his face. 

you'd smiled sheepishly, picking up your now tarnished food, and swallowing. "i wasn't that hungry anyway," you'd said aloud, mostly because you weren't thinking clearly at the time. 

peter didn't say anything back, not acknowledging the sarcasm or your lost lunch, he just stared. 

and then you held a hand out to him. "hi, i don't think i've introduced myself. i'm y/n, a new editor." 

peter blinked, looking at your hand, then back to your face. "peter," he said, giving you a small wave. 

and then he turned his attention back to the mug in front of him, leaving your hand in the air, radiating embarrassment. 

you cleared your throat and left the room, deciding to get more work done instead of worrying about it. 

you'd sort of assumed--recklessly--that he would be charming. that he might smile at you, welcome you to the team, tell you that if you needed anything he was there. maybe it was his face, you'd thought. soft and knowing. 

but peter wasn't there for anything but the money, and gradually, he became just another grim coworker, watching the clock until five every day. 

and that was probably good for you anyway, because as angry or numb as peter already was, you didn't want to inflict anything bad on him, as you might've if he'd just smiled at you. 

and if you overheard the clique of middle age ladies talking about him during lunch, you didn't say anything. didn't smile or laugh, or try to pretend like you weren't listening. 

you kept your conversations with him short and tried to stay out of his way. 

but apparently, he was going to get in yours. 

*

you really don't even notice him when he walks up to your desk. 

it's not your fault that you didn't get much sleep last night, being that your neighbors--right next to your bedroom--were fighting all night long. slamming doors and throwing things that shattered when they hit the floor. 

and then they'd start screaming again. 

you'd attempted to drown them out, only just barely dozing off when some other loud noise would wake you right back up. 

you'd considered putting your headphones in and playing white noise, but with your luck, that would last all night into the next day, and your seven alarms would be pointless. 

so you laid there, trying not to eavesdrop on the fight they were having, or think about your own voice yelling, screaming, and then going completely silent. 

and now, you were nursing a cup of coffee, blinking at the computer screen like it was a puzzle. 

and peter had come up to your desk--made the effort to venture almost across the office to your little cave--and you didn't see him there.

you didn't see anything until he cleared his throat, tapping his foot against the floor like an angry mother, and you finally looked up. 

looked up to threatening eyes and a frown. 

and peter parker, because of course he was there, at this very moment. 

"hi, peter. what-- what's up?" 

he blinks at you. you blink back, though significantly slower. 

in the past two days, you had avoided any and all eye contact with him and accidentally forgot to look at the email he had sent you with some files attached. you also conveniently learned that jameson was disappointed with his last set of pictures, and that was probably why he'd forced the two of you to work together. 

it didn't really matter. 

"it's thursday," peter answers, dryly, after several moments of uncomfortable silence. 

you look away, searching for any other person that could talk to him instead of you. "was that a question?" 

"we have a date," he says, a bit harsher. 

you couldn’t avoid leaning back at his voice, nor noticing the wince that fell upon his face as soon as he said it. 

"er," peter clears his throat. "we're supposed to work on the jenson article today. are--do you have amnesia?" 

"huh?" 

"or some other medical condition," peter continues, "that would cause you to forget about the one article you have to edit this week?" 

briefly, you want to ask how he knew that it was your only article, and why he was allowed to judge your work ethic when his was "consume coffee like blood and scare away any person who tries to speak." 

you try not to laugh at the idea of vampire peter. 

instead, you mumble "just a severe mental deficiency," under your breath and pinch the skin of your thigh, just to wake you up some more. 

"what?" peter says, still frowning at you.

you sigh. "look, peter, i'm sorry. i haven't even looked at the article yet, or any of your pictures. i've been busy. but if you just want me to finish it myself i can--" 

peter holds a hand up, telling you to stop without asking nicely. 

you almost scowl at the very idea of it. 

"no," he says, like it physically pained him to do so. "i need this--jameson wanted us to work through it together. as an actual collaboration." 

you're very grateful that he's explaining this to you. 

"i'm not going to tell him," you say, voice rough.

"you can read it and figure out where you want the pictures and the description for them while i edit some of them. i was rushing when i did it last week." 

"um... okay. are you sure?" 

"we can't work here," peter responds, instead of answering the question. "there's barely enough room for just you." 

"...yeah." 

"my desk is a mess," peter says, more to himself. "we can go to the coffee shop a block away." 

you squint at him. "are you sure? 'cause we could always go to the starbucks on fifteenth, or we could just skip it and head to tipsy's." 

you're just briefly aware that your sarcasm is not coming across well, and that you probably shouldn't have said that, nonetheless to peter parker, who already hates you enough. 

to be fair, he hasn't asked you about any of these decisions.

"i'm going to go get my bag," peter grinds out. "i'll meet you by the elevator." 

*

the only thing keeping you sane while you sit across from peter is the latte that you've been chugging for the past three minutes. 

as soon as you got there, peter had ordered some tea that you didn't know the name of, picking the table for the both of you, and before you could even sit down he was frowning at his computer. 

he hasn't bothered to say anything to you, so you don't bother to say anything to him. 

still, you look up every couple of minutes, wondering what he could possibly be so worried about. 

luckily--ha--this article is reasonably proofread. you only have to fix a couple of jumbled sentences and reread a couple of paragraphs because you can't really focus.

it's about half an hour after you've both been working that you get tired of it. 

collaborating with peter by staring at your computer and hoping that the pleasantries, or nice relationship you've been craving for the past six months will manifest itself into existence. 

he's right there, you think to yourself, and he's an ass sometimes but so are you. 

and it's not like you get the opportunity to talk to a lot of people at work. 

you clear your throat. "the pictures are good," you tell him as if this is new information. 

you've known about peter's affiliation with photography since your second day. 

the man just grumbles out a thanks, not even bothering to look up and acknowledge you. 

you have a tight smile on your face. "are you still editing them, or can i start asking you where you think they should go?" 

"you finished already?" 

there's some emotion in his voice that you don't recognize, but there is still the obvious disdain that you're becoming very comfortable with. 

"i'm a fast reader," you tell him. "was that a no?" 

peter finally looks up, face blank. "i'll send you the updated ones. do you want me to add them in where i think they'd work, or just tell you where to do it?" 

you'd really like to never have to have a one-on-one conversation with him again, but that doesn't really seem like an option right now. 

"how about i put them in and you blink twice if you think it's stupid." 

peter does not crack a smile. he doesn't even blink. 

you try to hide another sigh. "go ahead and put them in." 

and so you wait five minutes for the internet to catch up to him and silently curse jameson for subjecting you to this. 

your latte is almost gone. 

"okay, you can go through it," peter tells you eventually, returning to something else on his computer. 

you scroll through it, beginning to write descriptions for each of the photos--which really are beautiful. and bright, almost too good for the bugle. 

but you're a bit bored, and a bit delirious. 

"can i ask you something?" 

peter looks up at you, classic furrowed brows, and then back to his computer, grunting. 

you're assuming that it means yes, but if he's not going to use his words like a big boy, then he'll have to deal with the consequences himself. 

"how do you get the pictures of spider-man?" 

"with my camera." 

you can't tell if he's kidding or not.

"no, i mean, how do you get such good quality? he's always moving around, and quickly, so i'd assume it would be pretty difficult..." 

he frowns. "it's just some angles and flash," peter answers. "honestly, it's less complicated than you think. they're not all good, i go back and edit them." 

"yeah, but still." 

peter shrugs, and looks down again. 

"have you ever actually spoken to him?" you continue, still sizing pictures, still writing descriptions. 

but you'll be damned if peter sits there in silence for another minute. 

he sighs. "yeah, couple times." 

"really?" 

peter nods. 

"is he nice?" 

peter frowns. "'is he nice?'" 

"yeah. i mean, i've heard lots of stories and read the articles--obviously--but i've never met him. is he... a good guy?" 

"he keeps people from dying on the daily, and you're asking if he's got a good moral compass?" 

you almost scowl, looking up to find brown eyes studying you. and then you shake your head. "i just find it hard to believe, i guess. i can't imagine--" you pause, shrugging. look away from peter's intimidating eyes. 

"you can't imagine what?" 

"just... doing that every day and being okay. i mean, he sees people get hurt all of the time, and he's supposed to be okay with that? that's a lot of mental energy. what if he's helping someone that he knows? or what if he can't help? not to mention the physical aspect..." 

peter closes his computer, taking a breath. "are you good with the photos?" he asks. 

"what?" 

"i need to get back to the office and talk to jameson about some stuff. do you need anything else from me?" 

peter is stiff and scowling. you shouldn't be surprised, but he also just shut down the first actual conversation you've ever had with him. 

"oh, no. no, i'm okay. thanks." 

"okay. i'll see you later." 

peter packs up his stuff, and doesn't bother to look back at you while he walks out the door. you're not sure what you did this time--besides just generally existing--but you groan, hands rubbing at your eyes. 

you're too tired for this. you're too exhausted to be talking to peter parker, who doesn't talk to anyone. 

you sigh and look back to the article. 

and then you spill what's left of your coffee, watching as it drips to the floor. 

*

you're trying not to move. 

even breathing, you think, is moving. so you hold your breath for as long as you can bare it, counting by tens, thinking about all the reasons you shouldn't need air. 

but eventually, your body gasps for you. 

your body moves because it can't think the same as you can, it can't hold that same guilt. 

you know that if you don't move--not even a millimeter--nothing bad can happen. the dominos won't fall if there's nobody to push them over. 

you're laying in bed completely still. 

you're thinking about all of the mistakes you made, all of the unfortunate things you've caused to happen, and it causes enough fear to turn you to stone. 

you'd be a statue. you know if you could choose that, you would.

what do you want to be when you grow up? 

clay. 

you'd choose being cemented in concrete than ever having to look your own luck in the eyes again. 

you count by tens until you fall asleep. 

and you dream of things that have already happened. 

*

when you show up to work on monday, soaking wet, there's already a cup of coffee on your desk. 

you try and think back to friday--which was lifetimes ago, really--and remember if you left it there. but you stayed in the office on friday, contemplating putting in your two weeks or throwing your computer across the room. you didn't go out for coffee. 

and when you pick up this disposable cup to smell it, you can feel the steam on your face. 

it's warm. 

you look around the room, searching for someone who might've left this on your desk--even though you're literally hidden from every common eye--but can't find anyone who looks particularly tired this morning. 

and there are only four people in the office as of now. 

so you wait ten minutes, and then fifteen, ready for someone to come up to your desk at any moment and accuse you of stealing their coffee. 

this would not be a surprising occurrence. 

but even after twenty minutes, no one does. 

you're back in your corner, alone, as per usual. 

and when you realize that the coffee is going to go cold--claimed or not--you decide to take a sip. 

and for the first time in a while, you've started the day off alright. 

*

on tuesday, jameson calls you and peter into his office. 

and, out of nothing less than familiarity, you're ready to be yelled at. you've prepared a list of snarky remarks to keep you from crying. 

and you're completely, one hundred percent ready to ignore peter. 

if he doesn't like working with you, fine. that's up to him--even though you definitely did a good job with his pictures. and if he doesn't even like you, fine. 

you can deal with that. 

what you can't deal with, of course, is standing a foot away from him in this office, feeling towered over by both of these men, who are much bigger than you. 

but you keep eye contact with jameson anyway. what else can go wrong? 

"i heard we were having some issues with the article last week," the boss starts, his voice typically unserious. 

you furrow your brows and try not to look at peter. 

he tattled on you? 

"yes," you say, instead of admitting defeat. "i was behind on editing the article, so it took a little longer than expected. but i emailed you the finished copy on thursday night." 

you don't mention that it was exactly one in the morning, and you'd been having twenty-minute naps since you got home. 

or that peter had completely unnerved you. 

"parker?" 

peter sighs, shrugging. "it gave me more time to go over the pictures. we got it in." 

at that, jameson smiles. 

you wonder if he finds peter's grumpiness as amusing as you do. or if he's just enjoying the two of you struggle to completely ignore the other. 

"good. well, seeing as it worked out--and it's some of the best work i've seen from both of you--i'd like to make it a regular arrangement." 

finally, you glance over at peter, noticing his jaw clench. 

you're not sure if it's at jameson's suggestion or his praise. 

"it's a brilliant idea, having the photographer and editor working together. parker, you've got some fine pictures, but you're no writer. and obviously, she is." 

you don't tell him that you feel anything but. 

jameson chuckles, holding his hands up in defense. "i know, i know, it's more work for both of you. and more interaction. but it's only one article a week. everything else will remain the same." 

"for how long?" peter asks, for the both of you. 

"until one of you quits, i guess. or dies." 

it's at this point that you see that there are no other options. no choices for you to consider. if peter wants to quit, he certainly can. he could get a job anywhere he wanted, any newspaper. 

but you've struggled to keep this job. you've struggled to be anywhere for more than a month. 

and despite how much you might dread the place, it's also an escape from everything else. 

so you can't leave. and you have no current plans to die. 

"alright, you can both go. shut the door on the way out. and one of you ask betty to get me a cup of coffee." 

you follow peter out, looking at the muscles in his back tense. 

and when you shut the door, he turns toward you. 

he looks even angrier, even worse than he had last week. he's not even trying to remain professional. 

"thursday?" he asks, but you know it's not a question. 

"fine." 

you go back to your desk, watching the ceiling leak onto your computer. 

*

peter decides to go back to the coffee shop. 

he orders the same tea, sits at the same table. 

and he doesn't say a thing to you. he didn't even blink when you went to his desk at nine, gesturing towards the elevator. 

but honestly, that's fine. you don't have anything to say to him either. 

except to ask what made him hate the world so much. but you don't think he'd appreciate that. 

eventually, you swallow. "so, you can put the pictures where you'd like, and then i'll write the descriptions. it'll be faster that way, and you've got a good eye." 

peter nods but he doesn't answer. 

"is there anything i need to know? anything important you want to add?" 

"about the pictures?" peter confirms, waiting for your acknowledgment. "no. about social courtesy? definitely." 

the last part is said completely under his breath, but you catch it anyway. 

catch it like a rope you're hanging onto, hoping that it doesn't slip from your fingers. 

"what?" you say, looking right at him. your hands are off of your computer. your hands might be around his throat in a couple of seconds. 

peter furrows his brows. "what?" he repeats as if he doesn't know what he's said. 

"what's your problem?"  

"my problem?" 

"yeah, with everyone. but especially me. peter, you don't have to like me, but i'd appreciate it if you could at least try and be professional. or talk to me about the work that we need to do." 

"i don't have a problem--" 

"save it. i'm sorry that jameson is making us work together, but unless you kill me, there's nothing i can do about it." 

peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. "well there's something you can do about the way you get everything done," he says, quick and sharp. 

"excuse me?" 

"is it physically impossible for you to sit still? or show up on time, or do the work that you need to do? if i have a problem with you, it's that you're not doing anything to help me, and i don't need you." 

"that's not what jameson thinks." 

the words slip from your mouth, but honestly, peter deserves the wind knocked out of his chest, just like he did to you. 

if karma is a thing, it's coming through.

it's just your luck that you'd get partnered with the one person that couldn't hate working any more. 

"jameson doesn't even read the articles," peter scoffs, "he just sits in his office and smokes cigars and bosses everyone around--" 

"then why does he want me to write your descriptions? you can't do it yourself?" 

"maybe he pities you." 

peter's eyes are sharp. his words are perfect. 

"why would he pity me?" you ask him, "because i'm an editor?" 

"because there's not a single person in the office that likes you. because disaster is attracted to you. because you can't follow directions to save your life, and you clearly have some issue with speaking up for yourself. he's probably pairing us together in some last-ditch effort to save you." 

save you. 

you take a breath in, tell your lungs that there's no air that they need. 

there's no reason to be breathing, if you think about it. 

and when you look at your hands, they're shaking. and you can't keep your eyes in one place. and you're ready to run out of there, to anywhere where peter can't follow. 

you can't admit to yourself that he's right. you can't sit still, and you can't be there for much longer. 

"you think you're better?" you ask him. "everyone in the office is scared of you. you don't have friends or anyone that likes you either." 

peter shakes his head. "i chose that." 

there's an implication there that you can't think about. there's something about his calm demeanor. 

you can almost see the ghost of a smile on his face, just like everyone had said. 

you don't have a choice about most things. but you know when to quit. 

"peter, you can talk to jameson. you can quit, or do all of it yourself. if you want to just send me the pictures and have me edit all of it, that's fine." you stand up, shoving your computer in your bag, and trying to keep your hands steady as you pick up your latte. "but if you can't treat me like a person, or a coworker," you tell him, "then i'll talk to jameson myself.”

and then, without waiting for a response, you walk out the door. 

you try not to let it hit you on the way out. 

*

peter avoids you the next day. 

or maybe you're avoiding him. 

luckily, he's gone most of the time, taking pictures and sulking in corners where you don't have to watch. 

jameson hasn't said anything about the article you submitted, and you're trying to assume that it's a good thing. 

but honestly, none of it feels good anymore. 

you know that you shouldn't let someone like peter parker get under your skin, but he has some iron grip on your brain. some cave built in your head, echoing the things he said to you yesterday. 

nobody likes you. 

disaster is attracted to you. 

it's in your nature to prove him wrong, somehow. to start gossiping with the other ladies in the office, maybe even ask one of the men out on the date--though none of them are as tall, or as pretty as peter parker, so it probably wouldn't matter to him anyway. 

you think about talking to jameson, tell him that you and peter can't work together, or that peter is an asshole, or that you would like a raise. 

you think about blackmailing peter, but you have nothing on him. (besides his obvious attitude problem). 

you want to do anything to prove to yourself that what he said isn't true. 

people can like you, and you can like yourself. 

but you know, that even if peter is just an asshole, bitter, and lots of other things you don't care to think about, he's also right. 

at least about one thing. 

disaster is attracted to you. and to the people you care about.

cared. 

you wish you could tell peter that all of those things he thinks about you aren't by choice. that you don't want to live in your cave of a desk, and you don't want to show up late to anything, or trip on chairs, or walk in the rain. 

but he'd probably just laugh. 

and anyway, he isn't there on friday. so you can't tell him any of it. 

*

on monday, it only takes two alarms to wake you up. 

and typically, you'd be proud of that. grateful for it. 

but it's cold outside, and you have to go to work. 

you'd rather be sleeping. 

rather be laying in bed than thinking about peter, or anyone else pitying you. rather do anything than think about peter and still recognize that he's smart and talented and better than you. 

so you leave your alarm clock under the bed. 

what are sick days for, if not days like this? 

*

on tuesday, you get to work early. it's not by choice, but you were running in the rain. 

you were trying to beat everyone there so that you might not have to speak to a single person all day. 

that would be nice. 

but someone is already there when you walk through the elevator doors, jacket still dripping. 

and that someone doesn't even look up, or bother to wonder where the water is coming from. 

of course, peter beat you there. 

you've never loved your desk, but it's a welcome refuge now, despite how bad it smells. you can't see him, and he can't see you. 

and you can take your jacket off over there. 

but when you sit down, there's something on your desk that you don't recognize. 

a blue hairbrush, and a candy bar next to it, wrapper somewhat wrinkled. 

on tuesday, you decide that you're officially going crazy. 

*

you try to avoid wednesday as a whole. thinking of it more as another object in your way, and something that can be ignored until it's over. 

and it works, for the most part. you eat lunch at your desk, bring coffee from home, and sneak handfuls of chocolate whenever you feel like it. 

you go through a thousand articles and decide that all of your coworkers are illiterate. 

which you don't really mean, but prefer to think anyway. 

it's about an hour before you can get home that you see the notification show up in your mail. 

a new message, most likely some coupon for h&m. 

but you see peter's name at the top, and a file attached to it. you stare at it for at least a minute. 

it could be a hate note, a notification about submitting an hr claim, a picture of a house burning with a description of "this will be you." or even a list of people that peter hates, with your name in bold. 

there are a thousand possibilities, and you don't care about a single one. 

but when you click on the link, you just open a pdf with new pictures, labeled with the title of the article for the week. 

and you're not sure what any of that is supposed to mean. 

*

on thursday, peter is at your desk again. 

in fact, he's at your desk before you are. and when you see the back of his head peering over your pens and pencils, and files that you haven't wanted to put away, your breath stops. 

he might be there to murder you. 

still, you continue to walk forward, tennis shoes squeaking, and pray that you don't accidentally trip before he's even noticed you're there. if peter is going to kill you, you might as well accept your fate. 

and then you step past him, frowning. "peter?" 

"oh, hey," he says, softly, standing up. his hands are awkwardly clasped in front of him. "you're early." 

"what're you doing here?" 

"at work?" 

"at my desk." 

peter bites the inside of his cheek. he gestures to the ceiling. "it's leaking," is all he says. 

"yeah. it rained last night. why are you here?" 

"did you tell jameson about it?" 

you don't know how to feel anything but shocked. is he waiting for the perfect moment? does he want you to get comfortable just so he can ruin it? 

"i--no, it's fine. i don't..." you shake your head, setting your bed down. "did you need something, peter?" 

he clears his throat, nodding. "are we going to work on the article today?" 

you might be gawking at him. 

"what?" 

"i just--there are some details i want to add, if you don't mind, and i think--" he stops, taking a deep breath in. "you're better at it than me, so i'd like your advice." 

there is only one thought running through your head as you stare at him. 

when did peter parker get a nicer, shyer twin? 

"what?" you say again, just because you don't know how to answer any other way. 

in fact, some part of you thinks that this might be fake. peter parker would kill you, and then you would hallucinate a different version of him that's actually talking to you. 

no trick the world might be playing on you is more surprising than the smile peter is trying to put on his face, stiff and wrong. 

he blows out a breath. "i'm sorry about last week. i shouldn't--i didn't, well. i shouldn't have snapped at you. or said any of those things. and you were right about me being unprofessional and mean, and just--" peter shakes his head. 

and then he meets your eyes. "i'm really sorry. i'd like to continue working with you, because jameson is right, and... but i understand if you don't want to. if you don't feel comfortable. i can talk to jameson, so you don't have to, or--" 

"peter?" 

he stops talking, nodding. "yeah?" 

"am i hallucinating?" 

you must be. you must be dying or something. you can't believe that you didn't notice until now, that you didn't pay attention to any of the signs, or worried over something stupid like what you should be eating for breakfast when-- 

but peter parker laughs. 

it's small and almost inaudible, but he's laughing. 

and it's not that laugh that first drew you to him all those months ago, that judgemental snort or the laughing-at-you-not-with-you chuckle you'd thought was adorable. 

this is a genuine laugh. 

you blink, because this is just another sign that you're dead. 

peter sighs. "no, i mean all of it. i'm... just sorry." 

"you are?" 

he nods, and he's still looking at you. 

"um, okay," you say, nodding your head. "yeah, we can--we'll go get coffee. but there's, um, i just have some stuff i need to finish from yesterday, so--" 

"how's nine?" peter asks, softly. 

and this time, it almost isn't an interruption. it's more of a saving grace. 

"yes, sure. nine." 

"okay," peter gives you that same fake smile, and then he turns around, leaving the cave and going back to his desk. 

you can't decide if this is a good or bad thing.

*

"you didn't have to do that," you're saying to peter as the two of you walk to the only empty table in the shop. 

conviently it's much smaller than your usual table. 

"i owe you," is all peter says. 

"not coffee." 

"it's six dollars." 

you're having a hard time deciphering his face. and his attitude. 

you're wondering if this more pleasant, sweet version of peter is going to last long. 

you're wondering how far you can push him. 

"i don't want to be indebted to you. it sets a bad precedent."

peter sighs, and he's shaking his head, and possibly rolling his eyes, but he says: "fine. next time we come you can pay." 

you're satisfied with this, at least for now, so you take a sip of your latte and open your computer. 

"which descriptions do you want to add?" you ask peter, "i already looked through all the pictures." 

"just the ones of the church, and the bank." 

"you want to add descriptions to the burned-down buildings?" 

peter doesn't seem to recognize the sarcasm, because all he does is wince and nod. 

you're frowning at his face, but you agree, letting him handle your computer so that you don't have to wait for it to update. 

peter takes a couple of minutes, writing details that you'd have no idea about, scowling all the while. 

"when'd you take these pictures?" you ask him, in the middle of it. 

"saturday before last." 

"you work on the weekends?" you raise an eyebrow at him, but he's not looking. 

"i carry my camera around. sometimes jameson asks for pictures that i can't get six days after." 

he pushes your computer back to you, nodding. immediately you start reading what he's written, trying very hard not to laugh at some of the word choices. 

most readers aren't going to respond to an acrid smell. 

but you don't tell peter this, you just change it, adding and deleting words where you see fit. 

"did you work at another journal before this?" peter asks, after a couple of minutes of silence. 

you look up at him and realize that he might've been staring at you the whole time, and you'd have no idea. he might be texting someone about how horrible you are. 

"no." 

"you started writing when you got the job?" 

"mm-hmm," you continue typing, trying to avoid peter's eyes. 

"how'd you get so good at it, then?" 

"oh, well. it's just editing, you know, not that complicated," you repeat his words back to him but feel uncomfortable at his praise, even if it is a lie, but especially if it's true. 

"you're writing all of these descriptions. jameson says i make them too complicated, or unreachable for readers." 

"jameson says that to betty when she puts cream in his coffee." 

peter almost chuckles. "that's true." 

there's a moment when you aren't sure what to say. if this is friendship, or peter pretending to be kind just so that you won't tell jameson. just so you'll keep helping him. 

but he doesn't need you. 

"well, you're a brilliant photographer, so you don't have a lot to make up for." 

"tell jameson that." 

and that third week, everything goes smoothly.

*

after the fourth week, you and peter don't need to plan when you're going to work together. four days of the week you are completely independent, editing articles and spinning around in your chair, and listening to jameson yell at people from across the room. 

but on thursdays, you and peter are partners. 

it's a regular meeting now, so you show up at the elevator at eight-fifteen and peter is already waiting there. and then you walk to the coffee shop, making small talk that isn't completely uncomfortable. 

peter asks you about your plans for the weekend--though you doubt that he actually listens to the answer. and you ask him about working at the bugle for three years, about wanting to quit every day. 

it's only when you mention something of the sort that you can get peter to smile, even a little. 

but today, as soon as you sit down, sipping on your coffee and moving hair out of your face, peter is frowning. 

but it's not his typical resting frown. 

"what did you do?" he asks, staring at your forehead. 

"hmm?" 

"to your head. what happened?" 

you touch the edge of your head, feeling the cut run up your skin, and sign. "oh. that. i fell." 

peter is blinking at you like you've removed your head from your body. 

you move your hair back, feeling self-conscious. 

"what'd you fall on? a knife?" 

it's almost a joke but peter's face is concerned, his eyes are running over yours. so you're not sure that it counts. 

"i bumped my head on the corner of a table." 

"and got a five-inch cut?"  

you roll your eyes, realizing that neither of you has taken out your computers, or actually sat down properly. "by 'bumped' i meant tripped and fell into the table and woke up a couple minutes later feeling a bit dizzy." 

peter's frown deepens. "do you have a concussion?" 

you raise a brow. "no?" 

he tilts his head, pursing his lips at you like you're a reckless child. "you didn't go to the doctor?" 

"i washed my face and put some glue on the cut." 

"it probably needs stitches." 

you just shrug. 

"does your head still hurt?" peter asks you. "are you having a hard time focusing? did you feel nauseous when you woke up?" 

you blink, laughing just a little bit, mostly because you're confused. "whoa, dr. parker, i'm fine. it happens. i'm clumsy." 

"you're reckless, you mean." 

"says the man who wears converse and a t-shirt when it rains." 

at that, peter has nothing left to say. 

*

it's maybe three weeks later that the two of you have moved on. 

way, way on. 

bypassing the small talk stage, you now make fun of peter for being knowledgable about every single thing--to avoid showing him how impressed you are--and he teases you about your abnormaly large bag, all the while trying to give you life advice, telling you that he has more experience than you do. 

he's about a year older. 

and it's comfortable now. peter doesn't joke much, but when he does, you react with nothing short of a cackle. and you've finally chided a real smile out of him, even if it's just a twitch of his lip or a wrinkle of his nose. 

peter doesn't complain about your tardiness or the strange way you like to get your work done, and you don't complain about his sour attitudes, and glares. 

well, not much, at least. 

and you're not friends--you don't think you can say that, if only because it terrifies you--but that's okay. you don't think either of you needs that, some label on a relationship that could fluctuate into something else at any minute. 

but peter is there, and you don't feel like every move you make is a mistake anymore. 

when jameson calls the two of you into his office to praise you about an article that did well or ridicule the two of you for slacking on an article that no one cares about--even though he chose the topic--well. you smile at peter, and he smiles at you. 

and if you laugh, he laughs. 

still, you notice some layer of bitterness behind peter's eyes. like he knows that he's not supposed to be here, not supposed to be laughing or smiling or working with someone that he doesn't need. 

you can see it, hear it in the way he talks sometimes. 

so you tread lightly, not talking much on those days, and only offering him suggestions that he can't turn down. 

he never snaps at you, and you don't think he's going to. 

but there's still a bit of hesitation. 

and on this particular wednesday, you're crossing out some section of an article, sighing into the paper, and trying not to listen to the creaks of your chair, when peter walks up to your desk. 

in his eyes is something curious, something you don't see very often. 

"hello, peter. is there something i can do for you?" you exaggerate the words, sort of like a warning. 

"just stopping by. wanted to make sure that our fresh meat isn't being worked too hard." 

you frown. "i've worked here almost a year." 

peter tilts his head, shaking it. his eyes display some fake show of shame. "ah. to be so naive." 

and then, without giving you another glance, he steals a pen from your desk and walks away. 

you don't know if you're supposed to call out to him. 

*

"what is that, peter?" 

he looks up from his phone, still chewing. "what?" he asks, through a mouthful of food. 

"that's your lunch?" 

"wanna bite?" he offers the protein bar to you. 

"you're surviving on that?" 

peter rolls his eyes, looking away from you. "i have a big breakfast." 

something about the way he says it makes you feel like he's lying, or hiding something, but if peter wants to lie about his eating habits--you had a bagel with butter on it this morning--who are you to judge? 

it's comforting to be sitting here, in this lonely breakroom, next to an actual person. 

it's also a bit strange because peter had said one word to you in this very room, the day you'd met. 

"do you also eat wheat and very occasionally half an egg?" 

peter bites his lip. "how do you half an egg?" 

"c'mon, you can have some of my lunch." 

you pull out a bag of chips, a sandwich, and some assortment of fruit that had been sitting in the fridge for far too long. 

peter furrows his brows. "what is that?" 

"this is a lunch, peter. say it with me. lunch." 

"i think your sandwich is rotting." 

you snort. "i don't want to hear any criticism from you, mr. ant, when you're literally eating eight grams of protein and four chocolate chips." 

"there's at least seven," he argues, and frowns. "ant?" 

"cause of your appetite." 

and then, peter almost smiles. 

*

and there's a part of you that feels the guilt seep into your skin with every breath, every almost laugh you get out of peter. 

there's that voice in your head, laughing at your stupidity, wanting to whisper threats in your ear. 

when you're home alone, you can't ignore it. 

you can't feel anything. 

you worry that sometimes, seven alarms won't be enough to wake you up. not from this foolish dream of having a friend, or just someone to talk to. 

you'll never stop being reckless, that voice says. 

you'll never stop hurting people. 

you know that you need to let peter go, right now, before you get used to his laughter and a smile with teeth. before he wonders where you've gone on days that you miss work, and can call you when he's bored. 

the last time this happened, the last time you let this happen-- 

every night you promise yourself that tomorrow. tomorrow you'll start distancing yourself. 

you'll be too busy for peter. too busy for anyone else. 

you've kept this job for longer than any other one, and you don't want to lose the familiarity. you don't want to have to leave. 

you'll be a ghost, starting tomorrow. 

*

"what do you mean?" peter says, arms crossed, glaring at you from the other side of the table. 

you're typing as you say "what do you mean what do i mean?" 

the two of you have eliminated peter's computer completely. you type descriptions, and he places them where he wants, making sure not to mess up the rest of the article. and then you read what you've written to him, and try to ignore his snide comments. 

it's a well-thought-out routine. 

thursdays might be your favorite day of the week. 

"you don't cook?" peter asks, sounding dubious. "not even pasta? or a pre-cooked meal in the oven?" 

"i save those for special occasions." 

"you just eat things you find at the store?" 

"i'm a big fan of those pre-made salads, and cans of fruit." 

peter sighs, leaning his head into his hands. 

"what?" you say, "the lack of protein bars in my diet is upsetting you?" 

"you don't cook?" peter repeats. "at all?" 

"no, peter. now will you help me--" 

"why not?" he interrupts, closing the computer. 

you sigh at him and he sighs back. 

you think that his foot might be kicking yours under the table. 

"i'm kind of a hazard in the kitchen. i don't feel like making a hospital visit every time im craving some mac and cheese." 

"you can't be that bad." 

you laugh and roll up your sleeve, showing peter the side of your arm. "see that scar? it's from when i tried to make thanksgiving dinner and burned myself trying to put something in the oven." 

peter frowns, running the tip of his finger over it while you laugh. 

you roll your sleeve back down, looking at his far too concerned eyes. "last time i tried to use a knife i almost lost the tip of my pinky." 

peter waves a hand. "that happens to everyone." 

"and i was also wearing a cutting glove." 

he closes his mouth. stares at you very intently. 

"peter, can we get back to actually finishing this article before jameson fires us both? and by fire, i mean literally burning us both alive." 

peter is still staring, apparently thinking very hard. "i'm going to cook for you," he states, shrugging finally. 

"what do you mean?" 

"my aunt taught me enough to feed you for one night." 

"peter, i meant, why would you do that?" 

"because apparently you only eat boxed food--" 

"--there's cans too--" 

"and you're already crazy. you need some actual dinner. a meal." 

"peter, you always criticize me for eating so much at lunch when you're munching on your apple or whatever--" 

"yeah, because i didn't realize that those bagged foods were the only sustenance you were getting." 

you laugh at him. "i think that's a little dramatic." 

"i don't. are you free tomorrow night?" 

something inside you screams no, violently and furious. it tells you to get up right now and leave. tells you that you shouldn't even be here, that they should. 

but the other part of you is laughing. 

"peter, i'm not letting you cook for me." 

"you think i'm a bad cook?" he challenges, just barely smiling. 

"i think you're insane." 

he mock laughs, and then holds his hand out. "give me your phone." 

"why?" 

"just do it." 

and you do, only because peter's eyes are right on yours and he's not going to let you look away. 

he takes your phone and types something in, smiling a little while he does so. and then he hands it back to you. 

"type your address in." 

"peter, i'm serious. you're not coming to my apartment to cook for me. i eat." 

"so am i," peter responds, "put it in." 

you raise a brow, refusing to lose this battle. in all honestly, you're not sure who's going to break first, because peter hates eye contact, but you hate his eyes. 

"do you want me to just ask jameson for the address listed on your file?" 

and there's something about the way he says it that makes you giggle, finally looking away. you shake your head, a bit annoyed that he's gotten this far. 

but you type your address and send it to him anyway. 

and there's only a small piece of you that regrets it. 

*

there's a knock on your door while you're pacing around. 

it's seven o'clock, and you've only had the last two hours to think about how to get out of this. you've contemplated playing sick, pretending not to be home, telling peter that there was an emergency, accidentally forgetting about this whole in the first place. 

and the only real answer you've come to is that you can't answer the door. 

work is one thing, you think, but as soon as someone is allowed to invade other areas of your life, you've got no choice. 

you need to keep peter away, and you need to start doing it tonight. 

but he's knocking at your door, and there's something about him standing there that makes you feel restless. 

insane. 

and you're not even thinking as you walk through the hallway, swearing to yourself that you're only going to make sure that it's really him. 

you're not thinking when you bump into the side table by the door, and knock over a vase that you could've sworn you moved weeks ago. a vase you shouldn't even own. 

"shit!" you're saying, as you try to catch it. 

it shatters against the floor, covering the entire walkway, and effectively trapping you from moving forward. 

maybe it's fate. 

maybe this is just another warning not to answer that door. 

but then a muffled voice says "y/n? you alright?" 

and you rap your hand against your head, feeling so stupid and unlucky. still, you call back to peter. "i'm okay. just broke a vase. let me clean this up really quick and i'll--" 

peter is frowning when he opens the door. 

and you are frowning when you realize that you left it unlocked for the last two hours. 

"don't move," peter says, quickly. "you're not wearing any shoes." 

"it's fine, peter, i'll be careful." 

"where's your broom?" he asks, meeting your eyes.

it's only then that you realize he's wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. he's standing in front of you in completely normal clothes and carrying a bag of groceries. 

"no, you're my guest and i'm not letting you pick up my mess." 

"where is it?" he repeats, softer now. 

and you want to walk over the shards just to prove a point to him--whether it's that you're fine, or that you can handle a little pain--but peter is looking at you and walking inside, trying to kick away the shards closest to your feet. 

you sigh. "there's a closet just around the corner." 

peter gives you a small smile, hand grazing over your shoulder, and then he goes to get it, unconcerned about the cracking underneath his feet. 

when he comes back and begins to sweep it up, he's almost laughing. "were you running to the door?" 

"i think i lack control over all of my limbs. i might be a robot." 

peter scoffs. "you wouldn't get hurt all of the time if you were a robot." 

"i'm realistic."

 "you're human and ridiculously uncoordinated." 

you frown at him, and peter smiles at you. he brushes the broom over your bare feet, laughing when you squirm away. and then he clears a path so you can walk forward without cutting yourself. 

"thanks," you say to him, watching shamefully as he continues to clean. "sorry, i don't mean to make you my butler." 

"i'm already cooking for you, might as well clean." 

and then peter lets you lead him inside, asking where he can dump all of the glass, and moving the grocery bag he put by the closet onto the counter. 

after a moment, he looks around, his eyes scanning the walls and the floors. 

he licks his bottom lip. "it's... nice." 

you look at him, pouting. "you don't think i'm a good interior designer?" 

"it's just a lot more empty than i thought. i figured you'd have art and sculptures, and... more." 

you don't tell him that you'd love to, that you'd love to fill this apartment with things close to your heart. you don't tell him that if anything gets that close, it's sure to be broken. 

but you smile anyway. "sorry to disappoint you, mr. parker." 

"it's just unexpected. show me where i can get a pan." 

you show him where all the necessities are, scoffing at some of the ingredients he has in the bag, and listening to him explain that it isn't his recipe, but that you still aren't allowed to criticize. 

you just nod errantly, sitting on a bar stool so you can watch him. 

and peter makes it look like a little dance, finding the things he needs in seconds, handing multiple things at once, and catching anything before it falls. 

you sigh, and peter looks over to you, questioning. "i think you stole all of the coordination i was supposed to have." 

and then peter laughs--with teeth and everything--and turns back around. "i don't think it matters much." 

and you're about to argue with him, when some timer he set beeps. 

"almost there," he says, "do you want to get some plates and forks so i can just move it onto there?" 

you nod even though he can't see it, and walk around the counter to move past him. 

but peter has ridiculously long legs, and without even noticing, you're stumbling into one of them and almost falling into peter's back. just as always though, he's quick to turn around and keep you from hitting your head on anything, including his bones. 

peter sighs and you look at him, sheepishly smiling. 

"see what i mean?" he says and then helps you stand back up. 

even when he lets go you can feel the imprint of his hands around your biceps, the taste of his laughter in the air. 

peter is in your apartment, laughing and cooking for you, taking care of you, and doing it all with a smile. 

and, god, you don't think you'll ever be able to wake up from this. 

*

part two. 

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf  @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon  @moo-b1tch​ @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff​ @hollandweather​ @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan​ @valvlry​ @imthatcoolmom​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​    invisibletrolleyson-jeremy  @sharkswaters  

[lyrakanefanatic]

hiiiiii 250 followers is SO WELL DESERVEDDDD OMG

could i request ☕️averyjameson where he’s just obsessed w her hair?? and also 🌙 bc im curioussss

THANK YOU SMM <33

and sure!

—————————————���————————————

Jameson’s eyes darted away from his phone as he watched Avery walk out of the shower, her hair still damp as she was clad in cozy pj’s. His heart always felt at home just looking at her, and without meaning to, he’d gotten up from where he was laying on his bed, and walked over to her, lost in a trance as she raked her hair over to one side of her neck. She was about to pick up the brush on her vanity, when Jameson’s words stopped her.

“Can I brush your hair?” He asked, standing behind Avery as he lightly felt her wet hair. Avery seemed surprised for only a moment, before a smile touched her lips, and she handed the brush to him without turning around.

“Have at it.” She said. Jameson caught her eyes in the mirror and smiled a crooked smile. Then he took the brush, and delicately took a piece of her hair in his hand, combing the brush through it. He was immediately hit with her sweet vanilla-lavender scent, which only made him want to pick her up from the vanity chair and hold her close even more. He continued brushing her hair, slowly and softly, while listening for her breaths and sliding his hand onto her neck by the hair he was brushing. He could barely feel her pulse, but still, her heart drummed under his touch. He wondered if he was imagining the way her heart beat sped up, matching his own quick one, as he continued to brush through her hair.

He brushed the last piece of hair away, and, putting all her hair on one side of her neck, he gently pressed his lips to the other, kissing her right where her shoulder and neck met. Averys breath hitched, and just that sound made Jameson’s senses quicken. She turned her head to look at him, and all the thoughts that he had been holding back before came racing now. He moved to hold her face with one hand, before pressing his lips onto hers. Avery was quick to deepen the kiss, pulling him in closer as the kiss turned from gentle brushes to passionate kisses. Jameson held her as close as he could, but wanted to hold her closer, wanted to intertwine their bodies till they were one and the same. Finally the two separated, casting in short breaths as they gazed at one another. Jameson smiled, and it was nothing short of dangerous.

“I guess now I’m a professional hair stylist, heiress.” He said, his eyes twinkling. Avery raised a brow.

“You’ve still got a long road ahead of you. Brushing hair is the bare minimum,” She said, getting out of her chair and meeting his eyes. “There’s still so much you can’t do.” Jameson raised a brow at her. Was she challenging him? Either way, he very much liked it.

“Some skills don’t have to be cosmetology related. And I have those non related skills in spades.” He said, with a suggestive smile. He felt his smile grow as he saw the slightest blush on her cheeks, before pulling her into his arms and carrying her to bed.

——————————————————————————

SORRY THE ENDING IS KINDA BAD I GOT LAZY AND DIDNT KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO 😪😢

also i’ve been kinda slow at doing these asks bc i just got home from vacation and have been kinda taking it slow but im gonna start posting more again!!

and by 🌙 im assuming you mean a javery mood board but if u didn’t im sorry 😭😭

[hearthown]

I have a headcanon that Jameson has the highest pain tolerance compared to the rest of the brothers.

He gets wounds pretty often and I can also picture him standing in the shower after getting one, just watching the water turn a bloody colour, feeling the sting and somehow basking in it.

Self-destruction is his coping mechanism so he pushes past the hurt and it adds up with his masochistic behaviour -> "it hurts but I want it to hurt more because I don't know what else to feel".

I know that there are people out there who hate Jameson because of what he loves - games, riddles, traps. I know (one of the reasons) they hate him is because he can be very focused and immersed in a game to the point he might appear as though he doesn't have an ounce of self-awareness.

What I'm saying is... we always see how much Grayson suffers in silence. We see how much he's broken, the thoughts that go on in his head (especially about Emily), the way that he always HAD to be perfect for his grandfather and for the legacy. But we never saw that side of Jameson. The side that was vulnerable. The side that didn't play the Pretend Nothing Happened Game.

Honestly speaking, I think Jameson has been playing that game most of his life. He's pretending that it doesn't hurt, and he wants it to hurt more. It has hurt. So much to the point that he's numb.

So maybe watching him play a game, focusing everything he has on it, and not caring about anything else in the world doesn't mean he has no self-awareness.

Maybe it means that he just needs it to hurt less. Maybe it means that he needs to feel instead of staying numb all of the time.

[two-braincells-in-total]

hey there

i just wanted to say i love your writing!!!

and can i request an averyjameson fic? where this time, jameson is sick and avery is taking care of him

thank you!

The one to hold him

Pairing: Avery x Jameson

Word count: 911 words

A/N: This is kinds short and it's my first tig fanfic, so I apologise if it doesn't meet your expectations or if it's ooc

Tagging: @clarissaweasley-10 @alwaysthefangirl @wish-i-were-heather (lmk if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jameson woke up with a terrible headache and a sore throat. Amazing. He wasn’t one to get sick often, but when he did, it sucked. He wasn’t going to let that stop him today though. He and Avery were going to a fundraiser’s event tonight.

He got up and got into the shower. The cold water made his headache less painful, but it didn’t go away completely.

He dragged himself to the dining room for breakfast, trying not to look like a zombie. His whole body hurt because of the fever. Avery was already there, talking to mrs. Laughlin. She had managed to grow on her just a little bit over time. He closed the door and Avery turned around, concern immediately taking over her face. Apparently, he wasn’t hiding his state as well as he thought.

“Jameson, what’s wrong?” she asked, taking a step forward.

“Nothing’s wrong, heiress,” he said, smiling down at her.

“You look like you’re sick.” She crossed the distance between them and put the back of her hand on his forehead. “Jameson, you’re burning!”

“I’m fine, I swe-” a cough interrupted him. Avery’s eyes were on his, her gaze full of worrisome mixed with annoyance at his stubbornness.

“Go back to bed, I’ll bring you breakfast,” she said softly.

Jameson, despite not wanting to go back at all, knew there wasn’t any point in arguing with her, so he just complied.

~~~~~~~~~

Avery found him cuddled in the covers, already half asleep. His hair was ruffled from the pillows and his face relaxed from the exhaustion. She smiled at the picture in front of her.

She crossed the room and put the plate with food and the cup with the tea she prepared for him on the table next to his bed. She sat next to him on the edge of the bed and brushed his hair back from his forehead. She scowled at the heat radiating from his skin, his fever must be bad.

He slowly opened his eyes at her touch. “Heiress?”

“I brought you food.”

“Ah, yes, the way to a man’s heart,” he said, attempting a smirk. “I’m not hungry though.”

“You have to eat,” Avery replied sternly, “you need energy when you’re sick!”

“But I’m not sick, heiress,” he attempted weakly.

“Yeah, then why are you burning unless it’s from the fever?” she said while looking around the room for a cloth. Why was everything so messy?

“That’s because I’m naturally hot,” Jameson lifted the corner of his mouth in another weak attempt for a smirk, “if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Avery replied and then, bingo! She finally found a cloth in his dresser. “That’s exactly what’s going on!”

She walked towards the bathroom to wet the cloth with cold water. That’s what her mother used to do when she was sick as a child, it was a cheap and effective method to fight a fever.

She sat back on Jameson’s bed and pressed the cold material against his forehead. He hissed in discomfort. “Shh, I know, it’s uncomfortable,” she whispered, “but it’s working! You’ll feel better soon, I promise!”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Heiress?”

“Yes, Jameson?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered tiredly.

“What are you sorry for?” Avery was worried now. He had a tendency for apologizing for everything, he thought she’d leave him at the smallest mistake. She didn’t know how to convince him that she’ll always be there.

“I’m sorry that I won’t be able to go to the fundraiser event.”

She stared at him for a second. “Jameson, you’re way more important than the event. I’d rather be here and make sure you’re feeling better than go there!”

“So, you aren’t mad at me?” He looked down at the sheets.

“No, Jameson, I’m not mad at you,” she said softly. “I could never be mad at you for something as pointless as this, my love.”

He looked back up at her. The cloth wasn’t cold anymore, so she removed it. She brushed the hair back from his forehead again and kissed it gently. He closed his eyes, burying his head deeper into the pillow.

“Jameson, I’m going to need you to sit up for a bit,” she whispered. “You have to eat.”

He grunted in complaint, but let her help him up.

~~~~~~~~

She picked up the plate and fed him all of it, bite by bite. She was whispering encouraging words to get him to keep eating and it was slowly finished. She helped him lay back on the bed and got up to get some medicine from the bathroom in case he woke up feeling worse.

“Heiress?”

“Yes?”

“Can you come closer?”

She sat back on the bed and he pulled her hand to get her to lay down with him. He moved a little bit so that his head was on her chest, using her as a pillow. He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her as close as possible. She pulled the blanket over him and started gently brushing his hair with her fingers.

He didn’t fall asleep immediately, but the feeling of her hands in his hair calmed his mind down. He has never felt safer than when he was in her arms.

As he was dozing off, he heard a soft whisper, “I love you!”

He fell asleep thinking that she loved him. Him. His heiress. The one to hold him when he needed her to.

[bumpkinspice0]

Parallels: Chapter 3

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!FemReader

No use of y/n

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI!!!)

Word Count: 1400

Summary:Miguel was consuming your every thought and it's becoming an issue. You wonder if he's having the same problem.

Warnings: Smut- Male (Shower) masturbation, Sexual frustration, Pinning, tension, Angsy as hell, learn a little more about reader's life, J. Jonah Jameson is in every universe Notes: I just realized I never said that the 'shared spider-sense' theme of this fic is entirely inspired by the relationship between Peter Parker and Cindy Moon, or more commonly known as Silk. They were both bitten by the same spider and share a spider sense, making them drawn to each other and ALSO able to track the other through the multi-verse. Silk is a an awesome spider character. 10/10 recommend checking out her comics (But I say that about every comic) I'm not sure Miguel and readers connection will be exaaaactly the same since they literally couldn't have been bitten by the same spider, but yeah. This is a totally cannon thing spider people can do 😅

Previous Next

Series Masterlist

AO3

-

Chapter 3

On My Mind

The restaurant was busier than you’d like, but really everywhere in this city was. Busier just meant louder, and louder meant earplugs for you. After having advanced hearing for nearly a decade you’d gotten used to it by now. You didn’t want to spend all night asking people to repeat themselves because you could over-hear everything that was happening in the restaurant. Right now you just wanted to be with your friends— unfortunately, your mind kept drifting elsewhere. 

Since you returned to your dimension 3 days ago, Miguel has consumed your every waking thought. Your daily hero life was suffering for it. You lost 2 robbers last night and missed a car chase this morning because you were too stuck in your own head. You were never one to get distracted on the job— and by a guy no less. 

 I should have stayed in the training room. I should have stayed longer and maybe we could have…

You’re not entirely sure what would have happened, honestly. This was uncharted territory. Some undefined connection only between the two of you? An innate sensation that drove you to horny madness. It sounded like a bad comic book plot. You’d probably had weirder things happen in your nearly 10-year-long spider career but this was by far the most frustrating.

Just the thought of him invaded your every sense. The deep rumble of his voice. His distinctive, rich smell— Like red wine. The taste he left in your mouth. 

You wanted him. You wanted him so badly, and you hated how much you wanted him. You didn’t even know anything about him.

Fuck Miguel O’Hara and whatever the fuck he was doing to you. 

But Miguel was a Spider-Woman problem.

Tonight you didn’t want to be Spider-Woman. You wanted to forget your interdimensional side gig and the broody, gigantic man that was driving you insane. Tonight you just wanted to be a good friend— and you were failing miserably at that too. 

Your best friend Jack wrangled his boyfriend, Ash, and your college friend Sue to come out for drinks and your mind couldn’t be further away.

“Hey, space cadet!” Jack snaps his fingers directly in front of your face. You’d been staring at the same potted plant across the room for probably 5 minutes now. You crash back to maddening reality. 

“Sorry, what?” you reenter whatever the conversation was now with a pitiful smile.

“Ash asked what’s new at the paper,” Jack repeats the question you never heard. He gives you a worried look. Jack knew about your double life. He’d known you for so long now, you couldn’t hide anything from him. He'd catch it whenever something was slightly amiss before you could even articulate a single word— thus why he lined up this friend's night in the first place. You’d been reclusive since you’d joined the multiverse. 

“Oh, at the Bugle?” You take a generous swig of your cocktail, “Jameson’s still behind on the times, I think. Keeps trying to push papers instead of giving our digital department more funding. I’m still only making stuff for print. Like, do you even remember the last time you even read from a newspaper?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I ever have.” Ash snorts.

“Maybe in high school,” Sue taps her chin, “And even then it was for like an assignment.” 

“People still need paper-mache supplies!” Jack interjects.

“Hey!” you playfully shove him, “That’s my entire industry you’re shitting on, sir!”

“Oh, so you’re defending the infamous J. Jonah Jameson now?”

“I’m but a lowly graphic designer,” you clarify, “The only thing he wants me to do with his precious paper is not look too much like The Times .”

You’d landed your job at The Daily Bugle in college. An internship turned full-time staff position. You’d gotten Jack some freelance work there on the side. He was seemingly the only photographer that could get a halfway decent picture of the mysterious Spider-Woman. He always gave you a small cut of whatever Jamason was willing to shell out. You didn’t know how to work a camera for crap, but you knew how to pose for a picture.

The evening rolls on with a pleasant demeanor. It was nice to be talking to non-spider people. To listen to the casual ramblings of your friend's completely ordinary lives. That new bitch at work or their mother calling one too many times a day. You envied them, honestly. It’s been so long since you could just simply live . This night out was a small taste of what you’d been missing. Connection. 

And, of course, it gets ruined. 

The nearby wail of sirens penetrates through your foam earplugs. They were maybe 3 blocks away. Once you hear it, you can’t unhear it. All conversations fall dead in your ears, your focus now entirely on the possible imminent danger to your city. The sirens are getting further away now.

A vibration from your phone in your pocket catches your attention. You check it under the table. A text from Jack. 

‘Sidejob thing?’

He always texted you in code about Spider-Woman business. He must have seen your face go placid, even though he can’t hear the distant sirens. You give him a faint nod across the table and he glances to the door— His silent message loud and clear. 

What are you waiting for? Go.

You know Jack did his best to understand, even if he never truly could. You had a duty. It wasn’t just a job, but who you were. You could never just stand idly by.

You quickly make an excuse about forgetting a deadline and shimmy out of the booth, leaving a few bucks for your meal. So much for no Spider-Woman tonight. 

____

Fuck you. Get out of my head.

Fuck you. Get out of my head.

It had become his mantra for the last few days— of course, it didn’t help anything, but cursing you gave him some minor vindication. 

He found himself in the shower 20 minutes longer than usual, attempting to give himself some kind of relief. The thought of you waiting on your knees for him clawed at his mind. He stroked his painfully hard cock to the image, now forever burned into his retinas. 

He never got distracted. It wasn’t in his nature. He prided himself on being the best leader he possibly could be. Attentive, knowledgeable, a team player— and for the most part, he was. Now you had come and thrown a wrench into all of that.

He should have known from the first time he saw you this would be a problem. It caught him completely off guard, but how could he have been prepared for… whatever this was? He was in the midst of building an empire, and there you were, as casual as ever— and so clearly just as confused as he was. A spider-sense suddenly manifesting? Ridiculous.

As soon as you locked eyes, he knew this was all because of you.

God, you were beautiful.

There had been few times he let his instincts take hold of him. He’d made himself into an apex predator in search of his spider abilities— he had to hold himself to a different standard than the rest of you. He was dangerous, and whatever this connection is, was dangerous in turn. 

He couldn’t control it, not yet anyway. And seemingly, you couldn’t either. You were both prey to your most primal desires and irresistibly drawn to the other to satisfy them.

He couldn’t escape your assault on all of his senses. He was fixated on you in every way imaginable. Your smell, your voice, your looks— your taste. 

He cums to the memory of your soft thighs squeezing his head. He heaves shaky breath after shaky breath, trying to gather his composure. It was hollow, fleeting relief. He can’t help but think you could have made it better— He knows you’d have made it better. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the foggy glass and is immediately disgusted with himself. 

He’d never been this way before. You were part of his team, a fellow hero that decided to join his league. He was your boss, for lack of a better term. This couldn’t go on. At least not the way it was currently.

He needed answers.

He was a scientist. It was time to do some research.

[wish-i-were-heather]

OKAY SO here are my thoughts on the grandest game up to chapter twenty four (SPOILER WARNING)

(im also including my initial reactions from reading chapters 1-9 even tho we've already read those)

Why does it always say the old Lyra what happened

NOT HER PUNTING A BALL AT THE HEAD OF THE GUY WHO CATCALLED HER OMG BOW DOWN QUEENNNN

I LOVE GIGIIIIIII I LOVE GRAYSON I LOVE THEIR DYNAMIC

“Sitting on the edge of a bed that was not his, wearing nothing but a lush Turkish cotton robe, Rohan twirled a knife slowly though his fingers.” (23) I CANT I LOVE HIM OMG KSHD HDSJD IM DYING

WHYS HE SHOWERING WITH  A KNIFE SIR

Rohan and Savannah when?

THE BABIES THE BABIES THE BABIES THE BABIES ROHAN WDYM WDYM CONGRATULATIONS ON THE BABIES THE BABISES?????? dHFSDHAFKJHAK THEY HAVE BABIE HFDHSFKHSDF?? PLURAL?I AM SCREAMING I FULLLY GASPED I AM NOT OKAY WDYM THE BABIES NASHLIBBY CHILDREN???????

“You’re staring, pet” (79) WOAH ROHAN CHILL

HAWTHORNE BOY (85)

“Beside Avery, Jameson was looking at her like she was the sun and the moon and the stars and all eternity, all rolled  into one,” (87) GET ME A MAN LIKE HIM OR NO MAN AT ALL

If Avery and Jameson were real they would be the best celebrity couple sorry Tom holland and zendaya sorry Olivia Rodrigo and Louis partridge but Avery grambs and Jameson Hawthorne are superior 

The mental image i got of avery with the hawthorne brothers all behind her and then when the four of them took off their masks- AUGH i am NOT okay AT ALL they are so cool i wish the masquerade scene was longer tho

If Rohan doesn’t stop calling people “love” even in just his internal monologue I might have to marry him

eigHT PLAYERS? I KNEW GRAYSON WAS GONNA PLAY EVENTUALLY BUT AHH

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 27: Oliver's Delivery

Masterlist

September 1925

TW: captivity, mind control

The next two evenings passed too slowly and too quickly at the same time.

Oliver was charged to remain in Miss Lily's room with Miriam, while Miss Lily finished up work at the auction house. She left him with little entertainment save a stack of magazines, but the room also contained a radio, a luxury he didn't have at home.

Home. Would he ever see it again? Or was Lord Alexander's house his home for the rest of his life, now? Would he be locked in a single room, a prisoner, never emerging except at his new master's behest, or maybe not at all? Was he even still a person, or was he simply a food source? And if it was the latter... food sources didn't need enrichment or entertainment, no more than you might bring a loaf of bread or a hunk of cheese with you on a walk.

He might never see anything but the inside of a single room at a vampire's mansion for the rest of his pathetic life, and there was so little he could do about it. Miss Lily and Lord Alexander could both control his mind effortlessly. They made him want to obey. And he felt so torn inside, his desire to obey at odds with his lingering sentiment toward his old life.

Miriam wasn't particularly forthcoming with information. She spent the bulk of her nights either sleeping or embroidering, but she didn't seem to mind when Oliver switched on the radio. It had quickly become obvious that her memory and focus were both patchy, and any questioning about Miss Lily or her life as a thrall was met with uncritical gushing. Besides, Lord Alexander was clearly quite different from Miss Lily, so any information gleaned from her was of limited use at best.

He'd know soon enough, when he was delivered to Lord Alexander's house, and what an awkward moment that would be, when the two of them were alone. No longer bookseller and patron, but master and thrall. 

He tried to push all the worst possibilities out of his head. Lord Alexander chaining him in a basement. Lord Alexander whipping or beating him if he weren't obedient enough. Lord Alexander shattering his mind with his hypnotic powers. He wouldn't have thought the quiet, studious man to be capable of any of those things -- but he wouldn't have thought he was capable of buying and keeping a human being, either.

And what if the purchase fell through? What if Lord Alexander changed his mind? The next highest bidder was Lord Jameson. Oliver's memories of that encounter were muddled, but he could still recall his cruel eyes and his threats. His worst nightmare.

On the third evening, Oliver had only just woken up, anxious thoughts already clouding his mind. Miriam was still fast asleep, so he didn't want to turn the radio on. Instead, he went into the bathroom and took a nice, long, hot shower to calm himself. He hoped that he had a shower where he was going. It made everything far more bearable.

Oliver had no sooner put on his soft white thrall's dress and emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp, when Miss Lily bounded into the room. She was holding a small cardboard box."The check cleared! We're in the money!"

"Oh, wonderful!" said Miriam, clapping her hands.

"And the sun's only just set, so we have plenty of time to deliver you to Lord Alexander tonight, Oliver. We'll set out in my car just after breakfast." She set the box down on the bed. "Here are your personal affects. They'll come with us. And you'll probably want to put your shoes on."

Oliver peered in the box. His shoes were in the bottom of it -- he hadn't worn shoes since the night he was kidnapped. His belt was neatly folded on top, and his pocket watch and chain were tucked into one of the shoes. He hadn't expected to see any of these things again, especially not his pocket watch.

He could barely keep breakfast down once it arrived, nerves on edge. In the blink of an eye, he was putting on his shoes and saying farewell to Miriam, who was staying in the room while Miss Lily made her delivery.

As though I'm a parcel, he thought, half-expecting Miss Lily to wrap him in paper or bind him with twine. Instead, she indicated for him to follow as they navigated the now very quiet auction house. A few dead-eyed thralls passed with trays of breakfast, not paying them any mind, and Oliver spotted Miss Cecily, the vampire who had processed him in. She gave him a curt nod.

Soon enough, they were in the underground garage, and Oliver was bundled into the passenger seat of Miss Lily's car. Oliver leaned his head against the window and watched the countryside give way to clusters of houses and finally to the city proper. Last time he'd been in a car, he'd been trying to escape through a drugged haze; this time, he had no desire to resist.

He thought about asking Miss Lily questions, but it seemed pointless now. He'd know what his life would be like soon enough, and he'd rather enjoy the scenery out of the car window, just in case he ended up imprisoned permanently.

As the car turned down city streets, he saw the ordinary bustle of early evening. Tired looking people making their way home from work, shops serving the last of their customers, bars and dives beginning to fill with their usuals, couples walking along the street arm-in-arm. Such a familiar sight after all his time spent in the bizarre world of vampires.

And he was suddenly filled with regrets. He might never do any of that again, even something as simple as going to the shop, never mind falling in love. He'd always just stayed in his bookshop, living a quiet life, waiting for something to happen, thinking of the things he might do someday. He hadn't pursued romance, he hadn't traveled, he'd only dabbled in learning new skills. He hadn't pursued what he wanted -- he didn't even know what he wanted. He hadn't appreciated how precious his time was until it was too late.

Maybe he really was meant to be a vampire's blood source. Better someone like him than someone living a vibrant life to its fullest. 

Oliver was roughly jolted out of his thoughts as Miss Lily attempted to park the car, hitting the curb and ending up with the car partially on the sidewalk. He opened his mouth to say something but then decided that if Miss Lily wanted to risk a parking ticket, that really wasn't his business.

They were parked in front of a brick mansion, three stories high and with two wings, in the oldest and wealthiest part of downtown. The windows were all blocked with thick curtains, and the lawn was sparse but reasonably kept. A wrought-iron fence separated the mansion from the street.

This was it, then. His new home.

Miss Lily showed no hesitation in marching Oliver up to the door and knocking. She smiled serenely while they waited for an answer, all the while Oliver's hands shook and his knees turned to jelly.

It's only Alexander, he reminded himself. You know him. You've talked to him on many occasions. It's only Alexander, who was secretly a terrifying vampire lord, who now owns you.

Oliver's trembling grew worse.

The door opened. Lord Alexander was wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt, his hair pointing in every direction, his blue eyes tired. "Ah. Come in," he said, his voice and expression as though he were keeping it stoic on purpose. Oliver followed Miss Lily into the mansion's foyer, and the sound of the door closing behind him roared in his ears.

The place was not what he might have expected from a vampire lord's manor, but it is what he might have expected when he thought Lord Alexander was human. The foyer was clean but cluttered, with an overflowing coat and shoe rack near the door and bookcases crammed into every free space. It was illuminated by gas lamps, and Oliver would have found it cozy looking under different circumstances. A carpeted staircase led into a foreboding, darkened loft, and a few hallways and doors branched off the main entrance.

"Welcome, Oliver," said Lord Alexander. "I trust your transport went smoothly? And that Lily treated you well?"

"Oh, yes, sir, very much so," said Oliver.

"Of course I did," Miss Lily added. "What do you take me for? I know how to treat a thrall."

Lord Alexander glared. "Do you even realize what you've done? I told you in no uncertain terms that I wasn't prepared to take a thrall. And you know exactly why."

"What did you expect me to do, then?" Miss Lily rolled her eyes. "Colette was the one who captured and brought him in. I thought he would suit you, and I was right. I had no idea this was a human you were already attached to."

Oliver looked at Miss Lily curiously. Lord Alexander was attached to him? What did that mean?

"You know that our sire will be far too interested in him," said Lord Alexander.

"You worry too much. He barely touched your last thrall."

"My last thrall was specifically chosen to be uninteresting to him. This thrall," he said, pointing accusingly at Oliver but glaring at Miss Lily, "may as well have an electric sign pointing to his head."

Oliver wasn't entirely sure what was being discussed, but it certainly didn't sound favorable to him. "Sir -- if I've done something wrong --"

"You haven't done a thing wrong, Oliver," Lord Alexander immediately reassured him. "It's Lily here who has overstepped. It isn't the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last."

"Excuse me for wanting you to be a little happier," she said in a softer tone. "Look at you. You're exhausted and diminished from drinking nothing but farmed blood for months. You need a fresh human. And this human is ideal for you. He smells delicious, he shares your interests, and he's perfectly fit to be a servant. You need this, Lex."

Lord Alexander looked over to Oliver, anger gone from his expression. "...I know I do. That's not in question. The question is how I keep my sire at bay."

"You'll figure it out," said Lily. "You're a smart boy. I know you've been working on it."

"And you know how little progress I've made lately." Lord Alexander ran his hand through his hair.

"Well, maybe this will light a fire under you."

"I suppose it has to. I don't want anything to happen to..." He trailed off with an anxious glance. "Anyway, I need to get Oliver settled. We should catch up soon. Call on me next week?"

"I will. I'll bring Ruth, too. She missed you back at the auction house, and you've been so damn reclusive," said Lily. "Anyway, I have business back there, so I'll be on my way."

"Indeed."

"Well, good luck, Oliver! Be a good thrall for Alexander, won't you? I'll see you both soon!"

Miss Lily was out the door, and Oliver was now alone with his new master.

Part 26 >> Masterlist >> Part 28

Oliver's arrived at Alexander's house, and your dear author needs to write some more parts because I only have four updates left and I'm trying to be responsible about keeping a backlog. Thanks for reading!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @snakebites-and-ink @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

[gergthecat]

Could you make averyjameson or averygrayson headcanons? (Headcanons for whichever couple you ship)

YES I CAN ANON🫡

Averyjameson bc Grayson makes me feel weird

They both get nightmares a lot and so when they don’t they have a little party

There are so many of those “celebrity couples wearing each others’ clothes” comps of them

Avery’s fav sweatshirt is one of Jameson's from when he was like 14 because it’s actually her size

When Jameson gets sick he gets sad because he doesn't like feeling helpless

They NEVER shower alone

Whenever Avery is sad Jameson gets all the blankets and pillows and makes a nest for them to cuddle

Avery LOVES coconut and it makes Jameson gag (me too, Jameson, me too)

He actually cried during their first time because he thought that he would accidentally hurt her or it would be bad for her and she'd hate him

girlie pop did NOT hate him (quite the opposite)

Jameson draws stars all over her when he's anxious/just feeling bad with sharpie because he likes that they stay for a while so he knows she's there (does that make sense?)

For his birthday one year she gets stars tattooed on her hips and he cries :)

Avery loves choosing Jameson's clothes because she doesn't have a lot of control over what she wears

They match at EVERY event they go to even if it's just a small detail

Jameson gets his ear pierced in some county they visit and Avery goes FERAL

I hope these live up to your hopes and anyone is welcome to send more (this was so fun)

also sorry for taking so long I got this ask right before I had a cello performance lmao

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Deeper Through the Wylderness

Fantasy Masks AU: Chapter Forty

A JSE Fanfic

Who's ready for more Wyldwood? :D The guys continue their journey, encountering a few strange things. Unusual animals, unusual fruits and plants, unusual beings, even. They're making progress, but this strange place might wear on them over time. Yeah this chapter, much like the last, is basically an anthology of weird things that the guys encounter in this magical forest. But next chapter, if all goes according to plan, will be VERY important to the plot :3 Hope you guys enjoy reading!

Previous Part | | From the Start | More AU | Read on AO3: CrystalNinjaPhoenix

Taglist: @brokentimewatch

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marvin was woken up by the familiar feeling of something fuzzy against his face. He stayed totally still. The best way to get Draco to stop doing something was to ignore him. But the fuzzy thing persisted, pushing against him. He couldn’t help but groan. “Draco, nooo.” He rolled over, but the fuzziness climbed over him, sniffing at his face. Keeping his eyes closed, he reached out, trying to push Draco away... but felt something odd. The texture—that wasn’t fur. It was more like... feathers?

Mrow. And that was Draco’s meow—coming not from right in front of his face, like he expected, but instead from over by his feet. Draco wasn’t here?!

His eyes flew open. Instead of seeing Draco’s blue eyes and off-white stripes fur, he was staring into a pair of Hazel animal eyes surrounded by orangish-red, its black snout longer than a cat’s—

“What the fuck?!” Marvin shouted, scrambling backwards.

“Huhwhatdanger?!” Next to him, Jackie sat bolt upright, lunging for his swords.

Henrik yelped awake, blinking wildly. Chase was next, lifting his head from the ground. JJ was already awake, though he was blinking blearily.

“Fox!” Marvin said. “There’s a fox!”

Indeed, a fox had wandered into their camp in the Wyldwood... but not an ordinary fox. Its front legs were more in line with bird legs, tough-skinned and taloned, feathers sprouting along the upper length. On its back were a pair of large wings, brown and black striped. It leaned forward, trying to sniff Marvin some more, and Marvin quickly scooted backwards.

“Oh! I know what that is!” Chase sat up, wriggling out of his bedroll. “That’s an enfield!”

“Enfield?” Marvin repeated, puzzled. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Is it safe?” Jackie asked, raising one sword in preparation.

“Um... as safe as foxes are normally, I think. Don’t bother it and it won’t bother you.”

The enfield stepped forward again, and Marvin continued to crawl backwards away from it. “Why does it want to sniff me?!” He hissed.

“Maybe you smell interesting?” Chase guessed.

Henrik frowned. “How did it get close? Jamie, I thought you were on guard.”

Jameson rubbed his face. I was... I remember hearing this strange flute music. And seeing something... small? Out there? He gestured at the woods around them. The music was trying to put me to sleep, I think, but I threw a rock at the small thing and it stopped. But I still felt really sleepy... He shook his head. I don’t think I actually fell asleep but I must have been really close if I let a fox with wings through. Sorry, everyone.

Jackie sighed. “It’s fine. There was no harm done, I guess. But in the future, we should wake someone else up if something like that happens.

Jameson nodded slowly... his head drooping...

“Jair! Wake up.” Marvin grabbed some magic from his amulet and flicked it at him. He only intended for it to be a shower of sparks. But instead, clouds of bright light slammed into the side of Jameson’s head. He shot straight up, eyes wide, immediately not tired anymore. “Oh—sorry. That was supposed to be a simple wake-up spell, like the one I sometimes use. I suppose it came out a bit stronger than I wanted.”

It’s fine, Jameson said, hands shaking slightly as he spoke. The spell must have shit him full of energy.

The enfield trotted over to Jameson and started sniffing him instead, licking the fading magical light around his head. Jameson looked at it warily. “I think it must be interested in your magic, Marvin!” Henrik chuckled.

“Great. Great.” Marvin clutched at his focus. “Good to know. Be interested in something else.”

Jackie looked around. The group had made camp in a slight clearing in the Wyldwoods. Trees surrounded them—of course—these ones with bark that was so dark brown they were nearly black, which contrasted with the leaves that were a pale pink color. The pink leaves covered the ground in a soft layer, so soft that Chase had inched out of the bedroll over the course of the night and hadn’t even realized that he was on the ground. Large flowers with purple petals and centers the size of dinner plates also dotted the ground, glowing softly. “We should probably start moving, shouldn’t we?” Jackie said. “We don’t want to waste any time.”

Henrik sighed. “I suppose. Though this is a beautiful area. I am reluctant to leave. Where else will you see pink trees like this?”

“Well there’s going to be more amazing things to see as we go deeper,” Marvin said, still eyeing the enfield suspiciously. “I promise you.”

“I know, I know. I am not saying we get lost in the pretty landscape. I am just saying it’s a shame.” Henrik stood up. “Let’s go.”

The group packed up their supplies into bags and headed off, Marvin and Draco leading the way. The enfield trotted after them for a while before some smaller enfields with little fuzzy wings ran up to it—Its children?! Adorable!—and then it diverted its attention to herding them, letting the group leave them behind. This was the morning of their third day into their journey, and if everything went well, they’d only have four to five days left. Almost halfway there! Chase wasn’t sure if he was excited about that, or nervous. Both, probably. No, definitely both.

Just as the last couple days, the Wyldwood was silent, the undergrowth mysteriously moving out of their way as they walked. Two days straight of this meant they were starting to get used to it—which meant some of them were starting to get restless. Jackie constantly wove back and forth through the group, taking up a position on the left before moving to the right a few minutes later, his hand always on the hilt of his sword as he glanced around uneasily. Henrik’s eyes also darted back and forth, and he couldn't help but occasionally reach back to check that Vsevna’s axe was still there. He occasionally muttered something under his breath in Alterdan. Were his symptoms bothering him again?

Jameson kept practicing his fighting skills as they walked, slashing with his knife for a while before reaching back to grab the bow he’d packed and practicing firing it. Chase watched him do that, smiling a bit. “I don’t think practicing without an arrow is all that helpful.”

I suppose, Jameson said, awkwardly gesturing while still holding his bow. But it’s probably not a good idea to shoot wildly in a magical forest. Remember the screaming flowers?

“Ah. Riiiiight.” Chase winced. “The trees might not take kindly to being shot. Well, at least let me help you with your technique. Here, hold the string like this...”

They soon left the section of the Wyldwood with pink trees, and the colors of the trees slowly shifted. The branches began to droop downwards, their dark green leaves becoming long and skinny. For once, it became difficult to walk through the area, as the tree branches didn’t move out of the way like the undergrowth did. Jackie quickly got frustrated with this. After one too many times of being hit in the face with leaves, he growled and pulled out his sword, swinging it wildly. “Out of the way! Out of the way!”

“Whoa!” Marvin’s head whipped back around to look at Jackie. “Hey, calm down!”

Jameson grabbed onto Jackie’s shoulder, trying to stop him. Once he’d gotten Jackie’s attention, he signed, We don’t want to hurt the trees!

“Well what if the trees want to hurt us?” Jackie asked.

THEN we can do something! But we shouldn’t make the first move!

Jackie growled, glaring at the branches around them. “Fine. But still, we’re losing progress.” He gave his sword one final, frustrated swing—

Smack!

Jackie went still. “I, uh... I hit something... solid.”

Frowning, Henrik walked over, grabbing the branches and sorting through them. His eyes went wide. “Oh! Look at this!” He turned the branch around. There was something shiny attached to it. A fruit of some kind. It looked like a plum, but its purple skin was reflective and crystalline, like it was a jewel.

Chase gasped. “Oooo!” He looked around. “Are there any more of them?”

“Let us see!” Henrik continued to search through the branches, and the others joined him, curious about these strange crystal plums. There weren’t many of them, maybe three for each tree, but they stood out for how strange they were. “So fascinating!” Henrik said, eyes lit up. “Can we pluck these? Eat them, maybe?”

“Hmm.” Marvin narrowed his eyes. Then he bent down and picked up Draco, holding him up to one of the crystal plums. Draco sniffed it, then turned away, uninterested. “Well I don’t think they’re dangerous, at least.”

Jackie sighed. “Alright... we can take a break to look at these.”

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re not curious!” Chase said, grinning. “When are we going to get another chance like this?”

“I just... I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Jackie shook his head. “Alright. What are these things?”

Jameson is trying to pull the plum off the droopy branch, but its stem is really strong. He pulled out his knife to slice through it, but even that took a minute. Once the plum was free, though, he turned it over in his hands, tapping it. This is practically stone, he said.

“Well plums are stone fruit,” Chase said jokingly.

Marvin blinked. “They’re what?”

“Huh? You’ve never heard that phrase before?” Chase grabbed one of the plums; Jameson was right, the fruit’s skin felt more like glass than fruit. “A stone fruit is a fruit that has a pit in the center instead of seeds.”

“Really? Interesting.” Marvin looked at one of the plums still on the branch. “So these are... literally stone fruit. Or, more like crystal fruit.”

“How do we eat them, if they’re made of crystal?” Jackie asked.

“Maybe we do not?” Henrik said. “Or maybe it is like nuts. They must be cracked open. Here, Jackie. Since you are so concerned about moving, we can take some off the trees and examine them while we walk.” He took his bag off, reaching inside. “Let us put some in my potion supply box for safekeeping.”

They continued walking, pushing aside some of the drooping branches. Occasionally one of their hands would hit a solid crystalline plum. Chase took out his hunting knife and tried to find a weak spot in the solid skin. He was pretty sure there was something inside. He could feel it when he shook the plum. But the whole thing was solid, deflecting his knife like a regular bauble made from jewels. 

When they walked out of the grove of droopy-branched trees, Henrik immediately started looking around for a rock or something else to smash the plum with. But... “Huh. I am seeing something unusual. There... are no rocks anywhere.”

“Oh! That’s right!” Marvin nodded. “I didn’t notice the first time I was here. But there aren’t any random rocks or stones anywhere like there would be in regular forests. The undergrowth is all plant life.”

“Aw. But then how will we open these?” Henrik asked, disappointed. “If they can be opened at all.”

“Use Vsevna’s axe,” Jackie suggested. “It has that spike on the end, maybe it could pierce the skin?”

“Hmmm... perhaps.” Henrik stopped walking and bent over, placing the plum on a spot clear of long grass. Then he pulled Vsevna’s axe off his back. He aimed the spike on the back at the plum, a hand’s width above it, and narrowed his eyes as he concentrated—then brought it down.

Crack! There was a loud sound and the plum went spinning off to the side. A spray of bright red juice covered the ground—and Henrik’s legs. He yelped in surprise and backed up. Jackie laughed. “Well I don’t think any of us expected that!” He said.

“We probably should have,” Henrik grumbled. He walked over to the plum and picked it up. There was a crack in its crystal side, through which dripped that bright red juice. Unnaturally bright red, almost pink even. “Do you think this is safe to eat?”

“Who knows?” Chase said. “I’d be cautious.”

What does Draco say? JJ asked.

Marvin picked up the cat and held him up to the plum again. Draco leaned forward to sniff the juice. His nose wrinkled up and his eyes narrowed. “That’s not a guarantee of anything,” Marvin said. “He makes the same face when smelling that linseed oil Jackie and other warriors clean their weapons with. I think he just thinks it’s a strong smell.”

Henrik sniffed curiously. “It is very sweet. Almost like candy. Hmm... Perhaps we should not eat it.”

“Why were you so insistent on getting it open, then?” Jackie asked, exasperated.

“Just to see if I could, honestly.”

Jackie sighed. “Well now it’s probably going to leak juice everywhere. And maybe it will rot. We don’t want to carry rotten fruit around, even if it’s magical. “Here, just... Give it to me.”

Henrik did so, though he was a bit reluctant. “Are you going to do something foolish?”

“Possibly.” Jackie swiped up some of the juice with his finger and stuck it in his mouth.

“Wait Jackie no—!” Chase lunged over, grabbing Jackie’s wrist and yanking his hand away from his face. But it was too late. “What if it’s poison?!”

“Draco would’ve stopped me,” Jackie said. “Marvin said he would stop him from eating dangerous... um... stuff. Like... fruit and... stuff.” Jackie’s eyes slowly widened. Not as a response to how he was feeling or anything. It was almost like they were being pulled wide by invisible hands. A pink film glazed over his irises. 

“Oh no,” Chase whispered.

How do you... feel, Jackie? Jameson asked hesitantly.

Jackie looked at him. “You’re glowing,” he said slowly. He looked at Marvin. “And you’re like... like really bright. Like really glowing. And whoaaaa, Draco looks strange.” He giggled. “He’s a ghost. Ghooost cat. Glowing ghost cat.”

“Oh elders, it’s like he took amarita blossoms,” Marvin muttered.

You’ve met someone who took amarita? Jameson raises an eyebrow.

“Not anyone who took them regularly, but I’ve been on the run for the last year, practically, I’ve met a lot of people.”

“Guys guys guys, it’s not a problem.” Jackie kept looking around. “It’s all good, it’s like—so good. I feel great, and whoaaaa... pretty.”

Henrik sighed. “Damn it. If only I had my medicine I could snap him out of this really quickly. I suppose we will just have to wait for him to come down normally. He had a small sample, surely this won’t last long.” He took the plum out of Jackie’s hand. Jackie didn’t react at all, spinning in a circle so he could look at everything. “Let’s keep walking.”

Luckily, the effect of the crystal plum didn’t hinder Jackie’s ability to walk—though he did slow the group down a bit because he kept stopping to stare at random spots in the air. But after about two hours, the pink film faded from his eyes, and he stopped looking at stuff. He mumbled some apologies to everyone, but they all assured him that it was okay—though Henrik and Chase did point out how foolish it was to try juice from a magical fruit. Even if Draco didn’t intervene, that didn’t mean they were safe!

Nothing else of note happened on that day. They continued to walk through the Wyldwoods, occasionally swapping stories and memories to pass the time, always listening for sounds that would break the silence. Sounds like rustling, like distant voices, like footsteps that seemed to pass right by the group but without any sign of a person or animal. All of those happened at least once during this day. When they did, the whole group went dead silent for a minute before continuing to talk.

They made camp near a lone hill in the middle of the forest. Though it might have been an advantage to camp on top, where those on guard would have a good view of the surrounding area, none of them dared to get too close. The Fair Folk were said to live under hills. Not always literally. Some stories said that the hills were merely an entrance to a Faerilynd, the world where the Folk gathered. Either way, a lone hill in a magical forest probably wasn’t safe to get close to. Who knew what it could be? They settled down between two tall trees nearby, keeping an eye on the hill but not approaching.

“Maybe we should have two people keep guard,” Jackie suggested as they set everything up.

But then if we keep going in our shifts of three, eventually someone will be woken up again, JJ pointed out. Everyone will have only one shift, but someone will have to have two.

“I’ll take two, it’s fine.”

“No, nobody is taking two shifts at night,” Marvin said firmly. “We all need to be in the best shape possible in case something happens.”

“But—but there was that incident with the party!” Jackie protested. “And this morning, the enfield was able to just walk right in! We need to take precautions!”

“We do, but we need to take care of ourselves too,” Henrik said.

Chase frowned. “Is this because of the fruit thing? Jackie, it’s okay. I know me and Henrik already gave you shit for it, but it’s in the past. And hey, now we know what those plums do, don’t we? You don’t need to make up for an impulsive decision.”

Jackie slumped. “I... I just...” He looked to the side. “I thought that... we’d need to see what they do, didn’t we? Because what if they were harmful?”

If they were harmful then it was even more foolish to taste one, Jameson said. You could have gotten hurt.

“Well—better than losing our doctor or our guide or our oracle or the guy who needs to make it to the end of this journey!”

“Jackie,” Henrik snapped. “Are you implying you are expendable?”

“No,” Jackie said. “Honestly, no. I know I’m not. I’m a Masked Phantom leader and the best physical fighter here. But I...” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Marvin stared at him silently. “Just remember that we don’t want you to get hurt.”

Jackie nodded. “I will. I’ll be more careful, promise.”

“Please do be,” Henrik said quietly. “Now... Let us all get some rest.”

Little did the others know, but Jackie stayed awake as long as he possibly could, one hand out of his bedroll, clutching the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the group woke up in the morning, the hill was gone.

“Well that is worrying,” Henrik muttered. “Marvin? You had last watch, what happened?”

“It just sort of...” Marvin held up a hand parallel to the ground, then slowly lowered it, like he was pushing something down. “Sank.”

“When???” Chase asked, concerned.

“Not too long ago, actually. It was surprisingly silent.”

The whole group looked at the space where the hill was, unnerved. We should walk around that spot, JJ said.

“Agreed,” Chase said. 

They started walking again. This section of the Wyldwood had trees with reddish bark, occasionally streaked with lighter, almost yellow stripes. Tall bluebell-like flowers sprouted from between their roots, their soft glow joined by specks of light that floated through the air. As the group brushed past them, the flowers made ringing sounds, like the bells their shapes were named for.

“Do you remember all of this, Marvin?” Henrik asked, fascinated with the flowers.

“I remember it when I see it,” Marvin replied. “Honestly, the whole first journey I had was so strange that it all sort of... blended together into an overall oddness. But now that I’m back in here, I do know where to go and recognize some of this. I didn’t recognize those crystal plums yesterday. But maybe I just didn’t see them. They were pretty hidden in those branches.”

“And... there are truly no records of the Wyldwood at all?” Henrik asked.

“None in recent memory, and no records of anyone going this deep,” Jackie said. “You should know this, Henrik. I know you’re from another kingdom, but you’ve lived here for years now. You know that the Wyldwood is dangerous.”

“Yes, but people make records of going into dangerous places all the time,” Henrik said. “And this is half the island!”

I suppose having the Dragon’s Teeth mountains as a barrier dissuaded exploration, Jameson mused. I’ve heard of other Wyldlands in the world that are more explored. Wyldsands, Wyldmounts, Wyldmarshes... I can see why you’re surprised that there aren’t any records.

“I think that part of the reason people avoid the Wyldwood is because of the Fair Folk,” Chase said. “After all, people say that those who didn’t retreat to their own world live here now.”

“You know a lot of stories, right, Chase?” Jackie asked. “Do you know any about the Fair Folk or the Wyldwood?”

“Hmm... well there are a few,” Chase said. “For example, the story of Lasta and Caba is said to take place in the Wyldwood. Supposedly, when most of the Fair Folk decided they wanted to leave this world for their own, two of them, a leprechaun and a bodacha, refused to stop playing their card game to help the others move. So they were cursed to keep playing forever, never finishing the game. Supposedly, if you join in, you have a chance to win some sort of prize. But be careful, because time outside of the game will pass faster than time around you and them.”

“Fascinating,” Marvin said. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

I think I’ve vaguely heard something like that, Jameson said. I remember the bit about time passing differently very distinctly.

“Well, time being different around the Fair Folk is common in stories,” Chase said. “There’s also the one where a man falls in love with a beautiful Fair One. A princess or prince.”

“There are two versions of the story?” Henrik asked. “So... does that mean it is not true?”

“No, it could be that it happened a long time ago and the details of the Fair One got lost over time. Or maybe the Fair One was both. Who knows? The point is, the Fair One invited the man to their palace for a night of partying, but when the man returned after one night, a year had passed.”

Jackie glanced around nervously. “Do you think that... that same time strangeness affects the Wyldwood?”

Marvin shook his head. “No. I walked through the woods for a week, and when I was out again, a week had passed for everyone else.”

“Oh right. I forgot about—” He paused. “Do you all hear that?”

The group stopped walking, listening for strange sounds. In the otherwise silence of the Wyldwood, it stuck out easily. A thundering sound. But not actual thunder. Was it... hooves? From a horse? Chase frowned and looked at the others, noticing as they all came to the same conclusion around the same time. “Strange...” Henrik muttered. “Where is it coming from?”

“Get to the side,” Marvin hissed. “Out of the way of any open paths!”

They all scrambled to get close to a tree, away from the open parts of the Wyldwood. In the distance, something dark was forming, quickly approaching—

Jameson gasped and fell forward, sprawling across the ground. Jackie spun around. Without hesitating, he ran towards Jameson. The dark thing was suddenly much closer, streams of orange-red light streaming from it as it got closer—within a second it was bearing down on them—

“Jackie!” Chase gasped.

Jackie dove at Jameson and the two of them went rolling across the ground. The dark thing galloped past them, inches from their bodies, smoke and light following it in a trail. It looked like a horse and rider but something was wrong with the rider: he was missing something. By the time Chase realized what it was, the creature was already galloping into the distance.

“Elders!” Jackie breathed, visibly shaken.

Henrik ran forward, and Marvin and Chase were right behind him. “Are you two okay?!” Henrik asked.

“I-I’m fine,” Jackie said. “Jameson?”

Jameson raised his head. His eyes were wide enough to see the white all around his irises, but he nodded. Shaken, he said weakly.

“Wh-what happened?” Marvin asked. “Did you trip on something? What was that thing?!”

“I-I think that was a dullahan,” Chase said.

“A what?! Aren’t those an omen of death?!”

“Huh? No, th-that’s not what I’ve heard about them. Though they are often linked to it... h-having no head, and all. And they, uh, often show up where people died, I-I think?”

Henrik shuddered. “So... someone died here?”

“I have no doubt that a lot of people died in the Wyldwood,” Chase muttered.

Jackie sat up, one arm wrapped around Jameson, bringing him upright as well. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jameson?” he asked gently. “What about your foot? Did you twist your ankle when you tripped?”

“Hmm... I thought the plants were making way for us,” Henrik said, frowning.

Jameson laughed silently, darkly. It wasn’t a plant or root or anything. I just... tripped on... my own foot.

“...ah.” Henrik blinked. “...well that is... unfortunate.”

I suppose I was thinking too much about moving, if that makes sense? Jameson sighed. I’m not hurt, though.

“Alright, if you’re sure.” Jackie stood up, and reached down to help Jameson up. “Are you good to keep walking?”

Are you? Jameson asked.

Jackie laughed. “Of course I am. Come on. We have to keep going. Ideally, away from where that dullahan went.”

And so, with nothing else to do and nobody hurt, they just... kept walking. Until, eventually, it was time to settle down for the night once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day passed normally—or as normally as things could be in the Wyldwood. They continued to pass through vibrant trees and grass, surrounded by glowing flowers, glowing mushrooms, and occasionally glowing insects. Henrik was quickly getting overwhelmed with the variety of plants, and quickly running out of room for samples in his potion ingredient box and other bags. He soon learned that he couldn’t take all of the glowing plants. Some of the samples from the first day had stopped glowing—though not all of them—so he exchanged those for others.

Draco kept walking steadily through the forest, occasionally waiting for the humans to catch up. Chase still wasn’t used to him acting so... smart. But it wasn’t like he was acting oddly human. He was still clearly a cat, with the same mannerisms and behaviors. When some glowing blue dragonflies showed up, he chased them, tail wagging, just like any other cat would. But still... it was odd that a cat was leading them.

Chase’s thoughts started to swirl, thinking about what was waiting at the end of this journey. At this blasted heath that Marvin mentioned. He asked Marvin to tell him everything about what he saw there again, and Marvin told him all he remembered. There was a building in the circle of dead earth, along with some strange trees. The ghost of King Samuel said that this was related to something unspeakable—something that literally couldn’t be spoken of. Something that Chase needed to find out for himself, something that would help them defeat the King. It was frustratingly vague.

He wasn’t sure if anything he’d find in the Wyldwood could help him defeat the spirit possessing the King... but he had to try, didn’t he? He had to help Jack. And so, he kept going on, despite the doubts trying to worm their way in.

Another day of walking passed. Their fifth day. They were almost there now. Just two more days of walking... or was it only one and a half? Maybe a little more than that? Would they have to walk for two days, rest for the night, and then walk a bit more in the morning?

“Hey... Marvin.” Jackie glanced around as the Wyldwood around them started to grow dark. “Maybe we should walk through the night. Or... a little bit into the night, I should say.”

“Huh?” Marvin glanced back at him. “We never walk through the night when traveling.”

“I know, but that’s because it gets too dark to see where we’re putting our feet,” Jackie explained. “With all the glowing things in here, it never gets darker than what would be evening outside the Wyldwood. We could probably keep walking.”

Henrik frowned. “I... wonder if... if there are creatures that come out at night, here. A-after all... that strange party happened at night. The music that Jameson heard, too. And the hill disappeared during the dark. It may be dangerous.”

“It... i-it may be,” Jackie agreed slowly. “But we could protect each other. I... I think the faster we get there, the better, right?”

The others all glanced at each other. Perhaps we can walk a bit more? Jameson asked.

“I really think it is not a good idea,” Henrik insisted.

Marvin looked down at Draco, who was stretching and yawning. “I agree. I think we’re supposed to stop for the night.”

“Just a bit farther couldn’t hurt,” Jackie said. “Chase? What do you think?”

Chase hesitated. “Um... just a bit farther, maybe? Ten or twenty more minutes?”

Henrik and Marvin looked at each other and sighed. “Fine,” Marvin said. “If all three of you want to keep walking for a bit, you take the majority. But... let’s be careful.”

Jackie nodded. “We will be. I’ll lead the way.”

They kept walking. Draco didn’t want to continue, so Marvin reached down and scooped him up, carrying him as they went along. The trees around them rustled, and Chase glanced up into them uneasily, instinctively searching for animals that weren’t there.

After the twenty more minutes of walking that Chase suggested, the group came across something... unusual. A... path. The sort that was worn into the ground from people or animals walking in the same place over and over. It dipped into the earth slightly, the dirt a bit muddy.

Marvin frowned. “I remember this. It was daytime when I came across it the first time. I didn’t want to cross it, but Draco had no problem, so I walked from one side to the other easily enough.” He looked down at Draco in his arms, whose eyes were currently closed. “Hmm... don’t know if I’m comfortable walking across it when he’s not there to make sure it’s safe.”

Chase looked back and forth, tracing the path to the left and right. Then he crouched down to look at the dirt, trying to figure out if there were any tracks in there. No good. Despite the mud, he couldn’t make out anything clearly. “I don’t know if this is a deer trail or a wolf pack or something magical,” he reported.

Jameson blinked. Is it just me or is the air... shimmering?

Chase stood up, and he and the other three guys all stared at the air in front of them. Yes... it was shimmering slightly. Like the air above a heated rock. As they stared, things became clearer. The air was moving. No, not the air. They were... people? Translucent at first, becoming more and more solid, glowing slightly. Jackie backed up, holding his arms out in front of the others as if to push them back as well. But there was no need for that, as everyone was scrambling backwards away from the glowing strangers.

“Wh-what is this?” Henrik whispered. “Are you all seeing this as well?”

“Yes, Henrik, we are,” Marvin confirmed. “Who are these people? What are they?”

They watched silently for a while, tense and waiting. But the glowing people didn’t bother them. They looked at the group, a few waved, but they didn’t stop their procession to attack, or even to speak.They just kept walking. And just as the group started to relax—

Jameson inhaled sharply. He ran forward, running along the path, eyes locked onto something. “Jair!” Marvin gasped, running after him.

“Wait you two!” Jackie rushed after them, and Chase and Henrik glanced at each other and followed.

Jameson came to a stop, staring at some of the people. A man, looking to be in his forties, walking with a woman of the same age, their arms linked together. The woman was smiling and laughing at something, and the man nodded.

“What is it?” Marvin asked, shifting Draco into just one arm and putting a hand on Jameson’s shoulder. But Jameson didn’t even bother to look at him. He just kept staring at the man and woman. What was so special about—

The realization hit Chase all at once. The brown shade of the man’s hair, the shape of the woman’s face, the blue of both their eyes... they both looked a bit like Jameson. And as the man and woman noticed them, the man raised his hand. There was a ring on his finger. A signet ring of some kind. “...oh,” Chase breathed.

Jameson was shaking slightly, trembling beneath Marvin’s hand. Behind the couple walked three others. Young women, all around the same age. The eldest walked in front, auburn hair shorn short. Behind her was a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight braid, a pair of fancy riding pants, the sorts nobles wore for long horse rides. And behind her in turn was the youngest, her light hair curling, smiling as she skipped along. She looked at Jameson and waved.

“Oh... oh no,” Henrik whispered.

Jameson’s mouth formed words, but of course, no voice came out.

And then Jackie’s eyes widened. “G-Grandmam?” An older woman was walking along the couple, using a cane to support herself, bent over with deep lines on her face. 

“Oh!” Marvin started. “There! Isn’t that Miarch? H-he was—we lost him s-so early on... A-and there’s Kieron, and Ilsa, and...” The people he was pointing out all had white plaster masks with them, on their face or hanging from their belts.

Chase tore his eyes away from the procession. It was clear now who these people were, and he didn’t want to see anyone he’d known.

But Jameson... he started to step forward.

“No!” Henrik lunged forward, grabbing the back of Jameson’s shirt. “Do not get too close!”

Jameson spun on him. Why not?! he demanded, eyes welling with tears.

“We do not know what will happen if we touch them,” Henrik reasoned. “What if we... what if we join them? Jamie, please tell me you do not want to join them.”

That seemed to get through to Jameson. He blinked, then shook his head. Of course not. I just... He turned back to the procession. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them. Mam and Dad... Emer, Orla, Mairead... those are their names. He spelled them out in handspeak so that the others would know what to call them. I never got to...

Chase took a deep breath. He walked over to Jameson and put an arm around his shoulders. “Well... this is the time to do it, isn’t it?”

Jackie and Marvin were also staring at the people they recognized in the procession. Henrik, like Chase, is trying not to look, though his eyes can’t help but glance back every so often at the ones with white masks. But they all hear what Chase said. “Y-yes... th-this is the time... to say goodbye,” Jackie whispered.

“I-I don’t think we should actually say anything,” Marvin said quietly. “Just in case... that starts a conversation we... don’t want. W-we don’t know how they’ll... react to us.”

Jameson shuddered. As much as I don’t want to stay silent... you’re right. Best to be cautious. We don’t know what effect the Wyldwood would have. He looked after his family. They seemed... happy. As they waved at him again, he waved back, a slow, sad farewell.

And after a moment, Jackie, Marvin, and Henrik all waved as well. Chase saw no one he recognized... and he didn’t seek them out.

After a while, the friendly faces disappeared down the path. But the procession didn’t stop. They watched them continue appearing, walking left to right, an endless parade. “We... we shouldn’t interrupt them,” Marvin whispered. “Let’s... go back and make camp.”

Jackie nodded. “I-I’m sorry I made us keep walking.”

Don’t be, Jameson said. You didn’t know this would happen. And... maybe it was a good thing, in the end.

“...maybe,” Jackie said quietly. “Let’s... go.”

The group turned and walked back the way they came, setting up their bedrolls around a large tree. The procession was a slight glow in the distance, a line of light. They went to bed, said their good nights... but none of them fell asleep. They all knew they were watching the procession. Watching it until exhaustion caught up to them.

As Chase drifted off, he reflected on who he saw in the procession. The Masked Phantoms. Jameson’s family. Were others in the procession... because of the King as well? Or... because of the spirit possessing Jack?

...He would remember them. Remember why the King must be defeated.

There would be no more of them. Not if there was anything they could do about it.

[lanterns-and-daydreams]

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

A Grayson Hawthorne x oc fic

Notes: I'm changing Cassian's eye colour. Also, please take a look at this for the profiles of some characters

Warning: once again, this is only a work of fiction, don't do this shit 💀🙏

PROLOGUE

Part 2

After the shower, Grayson knew he was late. He knew being tardy was unacceptable.

He quickly put on his clothes and then scurried towards the dining room. Everyone was already there. He was the last person to arrive.

He swallowed thickly as he felt his Grandfather's subtle gaze on him. He walked stiffly to his seat and sat down, next to Jameson, who poked him and then snickered. Grayson shot him a small glare.

"As everyone is now here, let us begin" The Great Tobias Hawthorne himself spoke.

There was silence in the room today, not even Xander was chatting like he usually did. The atmosphere was unusually......tense. It was as if everyone had noticed the old man was a little agitated today, so they had all opted to stay silent.

After the old man was done, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, stood up, and spoke

"Grayson." he said, and Grayson's head shot up "a word. After you're done, of course"

The old man walked away, and Grayson had suddenly lost his appetite. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nash look at him worriedly. He saw Xander look confused, and then a flash of emotion in Jameson's eyes, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly.

He slowly got up, making eye contact with his aunt, Zara, for a moment before looking away and heading to his Grandfather's study

_______________________________

He hesitated before knocking on the door. He didn't know what his Grandfather wanted, he just hoped whatever it was, it wouldn't get him in trouble.

He went in after he heard a small 'come in'

He opened the door to see his Grandfather sitting on a chair in front of the large fireplace.

"Grandfather." Grayson pauses "it's me"

"Ah, yes. Grayson. Come here" his grandfather beckoned him closer, and he walked closer till he was only a couple feet away from the chair his grandfather was sitting on.

He stood stiffly, but tried to look like he was calm. He wasn't going to let his Grandfather see that he was anxious or nervous

"I saw you running around in the gardens today. A little unlike you" his Grandfather spoke after a pregnant pause, shaking Grayson out of his thoughts. "You were with someone."

The fact that the old man wasn't looking at him made him even more nervous, because he didn't know what his Grandfather was feeling in the moment, as his voice gave away nothing

"Yes" he replied, after a small pause "Yes, I was. It was not something significant, Grandfather. You need not worry."

"im not worried, my boy. But do tell, who was this 'insignificant person'?"

"it was a boy. He was annoying me. I was merely showing him that someone with the Hawthorne name is not someone to be messed with" Grayson stands straighter as he speaks, his voice steady

"And this 'boy' does not have a name?" the old man turned his head, but only slightly

Grayson was silent for a moment before speaking up. All he had to do was say this boy's name. Cassian Moonbeam. He knew his Grandfather knew that the boy had trespassed. Somehow, his Grandfather knew everything.

"i did not care enough to ask for his name."

The old man turned around to look at Grayson, the firelight reflecting off the lens of his black framed glasses "is that so?" he whispers

The old man got up, and Grayson stiffened, and looked down at the floor. He heard his Grandfather walk towards him, his footsteps echoing in the big study.

"Grayson." he paused, letting the word sink in slowly "Never forget that the future of this family rests on your shoulders. You are the heir apparent. Am I clear?"

Grayson tried not to shake. Tried to make sure his lips didn't quiver and that his voice was steady "Yes.....sir..."

His Grandfather leaned down a little and squeezed his shoulder "Remember, when you grow up, you will inherit everything. You will be the continuation of my legacy. The future of this family will rest on your shoulders and you will have to make decisions that will have the potential to either make you flourish or ruin you. Remember, family first. Your family always comes first, and people like us cannot afford to trust anyone easily, especially not the strays. That is like giving them a knife and turning your back to them."

He paused, letting it all sink in. "Do you understand now, Grayson? That you cannot trust people who are not family"

"Yes, Grandfather" Grayson says, eyes on the floor.

The old man squeezed his shoulder again, and then straightened, walking back to his chair "Then you may leave. You are dismissed"

Grayson walked out hurriedly, and only released the breath he didn't know he was holding after the door shut behind him. His eyes stung with unshed tears. He didn't even know why. His Grandfather had said nothing wrong. He didn't even know Cassian at all. He had met him just today, and the other boy had annoyed him and gotten him dirty. That was all.

But.....

No one had given him flowers before....

No one had talked to him so confidently as if they didn't care about his last name......

Everyone had always given him respect. No one just wanted to be his.... Friend.

"ill forgive you for calling me stupid since I wanna be your friend"

Why?

No one at school wanted to be his friend. His classmates thought he was rude and stuck up and arrogant and boring. They did not want to sit with him and talk to him.

Then why does this boy--

Its been a day, you idiot Grayson thought He'll get tired after a few days. But it doesn't matter. I have to tell him to stay away even if he does come tomorrow.

Grayson bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering as he nearly sprinted towards his room, hoping no one saw him right now.

Why are you crying? He thought to himself He's no one......Relief. Its relief. I'm relieved it was only a lecture. That's it, that's all.

He took a deep breath as he closed the door to his room and leaned on it, trying to calm himself and organize his thoughts.

But all he achieved was futile as his gaze landed on the geraniums again. He had washed them. Cleaned the mud off them. He had to admit, they were pretty.

He angrily walked over to them, picked them up, and threw them into the bin.

"Stupid flowers" he muttered

I'm gonna avoid him tomorrow. He's a wierdo, and I'm not gonna let him disturb my garden time. The more I stay away from him, the better Grayson thought to himself

......

Then why do you keep thinking of him?

Taglist:

@never-enough-novels @dahliawarner @pink-mask-06

@x-liv25-jamieswife

[amiserablepileofwords]

Mech pilot who is your problem now, sucker

Note: This repost-as-is was first posted to Cohost on July 2nd 2023 in response to a prompt from Making-up-Mech-Pilots.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No! You can’t do this to me!” Valentina’s voice was thick with mounting despair as she looked around the table.

“Oh no no no, you won. Fair and square. She’s all yours now.” There wasn’t even the slightest shred of pity in Jameson’s. In that triumphant grin on his stupid smarmy face as he pressed his thumb on the dataslate and it made a cheery noise of acknowledgement. Sealing her fate. Dooming her. “It’s your own fault for not asking questions, Madcat.” He’d known she’d want the latest Allied Dynamics LRT-15d for her squad’s long range support, and wouldn’t look any further. Ask why he'd want to give up a brand new mech. Why he had one. Bet on it.

They’d all known, Valentina was coming to realize. Now that it was too late. Now that she knew that she was part of the package… Everyone else around the table, everyone in this ‘impromptu’ little pick-up poker game in the officers’ mess had been her CO at one point or another. She could feel the collective sigh of relief in the room now that she was no longer their problem. Wouldn’t ruin their lives any longer with insubordination and reckless behaviour.

Just hers. Again.

“Damn it! You bastards!” Valentina’s fist slammed on the table, making the cards dance. Toppling stacks of poker chips. Her stacks. That she’d won so easily. She’d thought she was on a hot streak. That Lady Luck was finally smiling on her. Showering her with golden riches. She’d been showering her with something all right.

Story of her life.

As the others shuffled out, some of them at least having the grace to look embarrassed, belatedly, now that they were free and unburdened, Valentina stared at the tabletop. Traced the fake wood-grain in the formate with her eyes, not really seeing it. Remembering her. Going through pilot training together. Her dangerous antics. How she burned brightly, like an irresistible flame. Being with her. Loving her. Hating her. Missing her. Aching for her. Like a phantom limb, blown away in a thermonuclear explosion. An apt comparison for her, and what she did to Valentina. Would be doing to her again. Now that Valentina’d finally managed to rebuild her life from the ashes. After almost a decade of struggling, of clawing her way back from the blast pit of despair. Of slowly rising in the ranks.

No. This time would be different. Valentina knew all her tricks. Could steel her heart. Armour her soul. Prepare her defences, now that she knew the storm was coming. Now that she was forewarned. Never again.

Valentina’s resolve lasted exactly one night. One look in those clear green eyes during the morning briefing. A smoky “Hey there, tin-tin. I guess I’m one of yours now, huh?” drifting her way. That little quirk of a broken smile, drawing attention to the tiny freckles on that cheek Valentina knew so intimately.

Blasted with the power of a thousand suns, everything she'd so carefully prepared came crumbling down. As if it'd never existed. Valentina's heart and soul stood naked before her. Her greatest love. Her worst enemy. Her everything.

“Hey.” A sigh. Not of resignation, but of longing. Of hope.

Sucker.