#so this may have been my fault and the wires got crossed

[ladysophiebeckett]

I never once in my life have asked for a sequel to ‘practical magic’. tho i understand bullock and kidman’s desire to work together again, surely there was something else to do…

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crossed Wires 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: silverfox!Andy Barber, Cole Turner

Summary: you try to balance your work with your private life as your boss and a new client try to blur the lines. (short!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

As you drive off the former Orson property, your phone rings. You slow to a crawl as you answer, hit speaker and toss it on the passenger’s seat. It’s the same person who only calls. The only one who does.

“So, how’d it go?” Cole asks, his voice patching in and out over the erratic countryside reception.

“Typical,” you answer.

“Been a while since we got a new customer. Were they nice?”

“Eh,” you mutter.

“She friendly?” He prompts further.

“He was fine. Tipped well.”

“He? Interesting. Just one guy or–”

“I guess,” you shrug at the road as you drive. “I’ll bring the check tomorrow.”

“Sure, uh, you going to The Horn tonight?” He asks as you steer along a board curve and rev a little as the road inclines.

You sigh. You were thinking about it but if he’s asking, “no.”

“Oh, alright,” he replies, his disappointment plain. 

You don’t mind a nice cold pint at the end of a hot day like this but he’s a lightweight and he gets obnoxious. Sometimes you forget he’s almost forty, more than a decade your senior. He seems to forget too.

“Might get a call for a door opener install,” you break the silence.

“Uh, okay, I’ll keep an ear out. What’re you doing for dinner?”

You stare ahead at the road. You get that the village isn’t very big but you’re not into socializing with your boss and only other coworker. You’re lucky he can’t see the dimness in your eyes.

“Leftovers,” you mutter, “you’re cutting in and out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You pull onto the apron as you reach for your phone. You hang up and drop it back to the seat. He’s a nice guy, you can’t fault him for being just that, but you keep to yourself. That’s how you’re comfortable and you’re not spending your time off pretending otherwise.

✨

The next day, you drive out to the Turner farm. Ethan greets you as he sweeps the porch steps. You apprenticed with him right before he retired and passed on the business to his son. So far, junior has yet to live up to senior.

You get out and decline his offer of a coffee as you climb the stairs. You prefer the elder Turner, he doesn’t chit chat so much. You go inside and leave your boots on the mat, not wanting to draw Beverly’s wrath and press on to the little office behind the kitchen, refusing a second offer of a coffee; you have a thermos in the truck.

You knock and wait for an answer. There’s a groan.

“Honey, you can probably just go in,” Beverly says.

You nod and let yourself into the office. Cole has his head on the desk and winces as you shut the door behind you. You take out the wad of bills you got from Mr. Crayford and the check from that other man, Barber? You put them just above his head and step back to cross your arms.

“Shit,” Cole sits up and rubs his temples, “bit too much fun at The Horn last night.”

“Mm,” you hum. “There’s the money.”

“Ugh, right,” he reaches for the check and squints at the narrow writing. He grumbles and drops it back to the desk, “my head.”

“Any calls?” You ignore his obvious struggle. “I have Lynette marked down for the afternoon–”

“She canceled,” Cole reaches to flutter through the heavy ledger, “but… Odinson called. They’re having an issue with a whole floor. I was thinking we could tag team it, it’ll be a bigger job.”

He speaks gingerly as he cradles his head between his hands. You stare at him dully. He is in no state to do anything more than whine.

“Are you sure?” You ask.

“I just need a coffee,” he says as he rubs his forehead, “I’ll be okay.”

“What time?” You check your watch.

“What time…” he repeats thinly.

“What time are we headed out? I got errands I could run–”

“You’re not going to hang around?”

“Depends,” you huff and drop your arm, putting your hands on your hips as you push back your open flannel shirt, only the button in the middle hooked. His eyes follow the movement.

“In an hour?” He gurgles, “I’ll have to call and confirm.”

“Right,” you take a breath and turn on your heel.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“Grabbing my thermos,” you say without looking back.

You leave him, letting Beverly pass as she approaches with a full steaming mug. She does tend to coddle him. His helplessness isn’t very surprising. You stop to step into your boots and tuck the laces in.

Ethan is sitting on the porch bench, a newspaper in hand. You give a small wave as you emerge and head off to your truck. You get in the front seat and roll down the window. You grab your thermos and uncap it. You can wait out here until Cole gets his shit together.

You put the thermos back in the cup holder and look down. You button up the front of your shirt, skin crawling as you recall the way he stared at your hips. He does that sometimes but you’re not even sure he realises. He just watches you…

Whatever. You got a job to do and having him with you will only double it.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Flufftober prompt 7: one bed (sir pentious)

so so glad the person who supplied this prompt list gave some alt prompts because i could not think of anything for the sharing clothes prompt </3 prompt: You and Sir Pentious share a bed together after your bedroom was wrecked, along with a lot of the rest of the hotel... notes: reader is gn, crushing but nothing official relationship wise, no events based on whats happened in canon- think of it as canon divergent/an off screen moment where the hotel was attacked by some ticked off residents of hell, reader is a sinner word count: 2678 cws: none

It had been absolute chaos, you weren't even sure who was responsible for pissing so many people off... not that it seemed to matter, as the outcome left a huge chunk of the hotel ruined and in shambles on one side; demolishing a lot of the rooms on the upper floors. You winced as you looked at the damage, even from the ground you could tell your room didn't leave unscathed. Some of your belongings, left scattered and scorched, only cemented that idea. Your staring must have been obvious as a handful of some of the hotel residents came over. The first to speak was Charlie, who was already left a little wired from the attack.

"These aren't yours, are they?" She asked softly as she avoided stepping on anything that once belonged to you. The others that followed her weren't as mindful. Charlie worked her eyebrows together, working her hands together as she tried to think of something to say. "We'll get this fixed-" She whipped around, seeming to take a mental note of the extent of the damage done. Her face visibly fell for a second when her eyes scanned across the upper floors. "-You can sleep in one of the empty rooms-"

"If they're not destroyed." Vaggie mumbled, arms crossed over her chest. You wondered if she was already trying to figure out who's fault it was, who got who angry enough to come and attack. "We can fix it," Charlie reassured, putting a hand on her girlfriend's shoulder. "How long do you think it will take?" You finally spoke up. The actual suggestion of time seemed to take the princess off guard, but she quickly composed herself.

"Maybe..." She started before picking up a piece of burnt wood, then turned to Alastor. He had been able to summon souls to help fix the hotel before, but this was so much more than a blasted up wall. "At least a day or two, I'll go ask Alastor... maybe.." a pause. "you can stay in a spare room if it's not destroyed,"

"I can just stay somewhere else for a few nights, it's not that bad," You suggested, but Charlie quickly shut that down. "I don't like the idea of anyone going out for now... I mean," She gestured towards the damage, "If someone got mad enough to do this, I don't want to risk them grouping us all together... if just one of us caused problems..."

"Not that I would.. force you to stay..." She added under her breath.

"It's fine, really," You began but a third person spoke.

"They can have my room, I have somewhere else to stay" Sir Pentious offered.

A pause.

"Your ships been destroyed, where-" You started. It was true, granted it wasn't totally destroyed... it had taken a rather nasty hit during the attack. Pentious gently waved you off, "You won't need to worry about that!" He insisted, though by the look on his face it was most definitely something to worry about. However, by his tone he seemed set on letting you have his room.

"Pentious... are you sure?" Charlie asked, only for the sinner to nod. He adjusted his hat by the brim. "I'll get my belongings... in the meantime.." His eyes darted towards you. "Why don't you grab what can be salvaged... you may store it in my room for as long as you need," His eyes pulled themselves away from you the second he was done speaking. You chewed on your tongue for a moment before deciding to take him up on his offer. "Well if you insist," You shrugged before dragging your feet across the ground, picking up some of the burned things that were once in your room. Thankfully, nothing of value seemed to be lost... at least from what you could tell at the moment.

There wasn't a lot to salvage from what was left of your room. The wall was totally blown open and some of the things that didn't get blasted out were either destroyed from the damage or tosses all over the place. You gathered some clothing to move to your temporary room as well as some essentials and made your way to Pentious' room.

Now that the shock and adrenaline of everything was subsiding, the aches in your body made themselves known. You were relatively uninjured but that didn't change the fact that your body asked for you to lay down... you'd need to take a shower first, hopefully Pentious wouldn't mind you using his bathroom tonight.

Speaking of the sinner, you found him scrambling about his room trying to collect what he needed to move out for the night, his eggs scuttling across the floor around in him an attempt to help their creator. You knocked gently on the doorframe prompting the man to jump, his hood fanning out before relaxing down against his back when he realized it was just you. He scrambled to pick up what he had dropped and he offered you a half smile, face a little reddened from his surprise.

"Sorry about that," You smiled back and stepped out of the way so the egg boiz could pass through the door. You didn't pay much mind to what they said, most seemed to just be greeting you and chattering about the temporary move. "Did you find somewhere to stay?" You let the eggs pass by without much thought. Pentious seemed to wilt, but he didn't give you a chance to make a comment.

"It's all settled, there is no need for you to worry about me!" He said, firmly and almost like he felt proud of himself for stepping up to let you use his room. "Oh.." You said. The air was awkward, despite the snake trying to look as collected as possible. He was failing. Badly.

A pause, neither of you said anything for a few seconds.

"Is it fine if I use your shower? The one in my room is kind of..." You trailed off, closing your fist before opening it to mimic a boom. He took a moment, before nodding. "Of course!"

More silence.

"Alright..." You nodded, letting him pass to the door. "I'll give you some privacy," and he had slithered out abruptly, leaving you alone. You stood there for a moment before walking to the door, shutting and locking it.

The first half of the night was uneventful. You showered, winded down, and went to bed. You would have slept through the entire night if it weren't for a not too soft thud near the door of the bedroom. You pulled yourself into a sitting position and rubbed your eyes, allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was a scurrying noise coming from the door, and you weren't going to lie... in your half awake state it put you on edge. After a few seconds, you approached.

You paused for a moment, as the noise started to die down a little. Your hand rested on the knob, before pulling the door open. For a moment you didn't see anything in the dim light the hall's light showed, mostly due to the thing that made all the noise being on the floor. You nearly screamed, only barely containing it by slapping your hand on your mouth.

It seemed, Sir Pentious had not found somewhere else to stay. Or maybe this was what he meant when he said he'd sleep elsewhere. He too, seemed only half awake. You both stared at one another, you had just noticed his egg boiz huddling into his tail. If you weren't so tired you may have found the situation at least a little comical.

"Why," You started but your words seemed to snap Sir Pentious out of whatever grogginess he was stuck in. "My ship was far more destroyed than I first believed," He started, shutting you down as he went into explaining himself. The couch in the living room had been wrecked in the attack, and most of the spare rooms were either destroyed or locked. Sleeping on the floor seemed to be his best option.

You took a step forward, and looked up and down the hallway. Everything was quiet except for Pentious' rambling. Everyone else seemed to be asleep, save for the faint scuttling. Bugs, or Niffty. You weren't sure which one it was. Had she been here a second ago? You looked back down to Sir Pentious as he moved from defending himself to saying he won't be a bother to you, that he can move away from the door if you would like. It was pitiful to watch, actually, watching him coil in on himself to make himself smaller and hopefully less noticeable. You started to feel bad for him.

You cast a look over your shoulder to the round bed you had just been in. Considering only one person was in this room, unless you counted the eggs as people, it was rather large. More than enough room for you and the sinner to share with plenty of room to spare. Eyes darting back to Pentious, you broke up his talk.

"You're going to get sick if you sleep on the floor, or maybe wake up with a piece missing from you if Niffty catches you," You joked... though... Knowing her, she might actually try. "Why don't you come to bed? There's room, you know," You added after a moment. He stared at you, grabbing his hood and wringing his hands into it. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't want to intrude," He mumbled. "It's your bed, you should be allowed to sleep in it. We can put up pillows as a barrier if you're worried about space," You insisted.

He paused, looking you in the eye before pulling his stare away down to his eggs. "Alright..." and he started to slowly coax the eggs awake to make the move. You offered a small smile, before rushing back to the bed to move the spare bedding you had been given. There wasn't much to make a barrier, so you simply sacrificed one of the blankets you were given to make a line. "You can have this side," You offered as you crawled in. Not much was said as the sinner claimed the free space, letting his eggs curl back against his tail. They fell back to sleep fairly quickly.

Now that the two of you were in bed, the blanket barrier became laughable. It hardly did anything to divide your spaces, but that didn't seem to be much of an issue given that the snake man was keeping to himself and pressing against the raised sides of the bed. You felt rather silly for not noticing sooner, but you realized the bed resembled that of a nest.

You couldn't help but smile to yourself.

"It's a shame I can't take your bed with me when my room's fixed," You joked, turning your head to look at Pentious. He had turned his own head to look at you, eyes widened by his statement as he seemed to struggle to work his mouth. "You can have it-" He spewed out, before backtracking. "I mean... I can show... tell... you where Miss Charlie got it from, and.." He forced his mouth shut and paused. "I can help... put it together.. for you!" He added, ripping his words out of his throat. You blinked, taking a moment to think... your silence only seemed to make him more nervous.

"Or we can switch rooms if you prefer this one," He added, forcing himself to look up at the ceiling and away from you. "I was joking, Pen, you don't need to do any of that." You insisted. Quiet, followed by a soft "oh!" and forced laughter. "I knew that!" He very obviously lied.

You looked away from him and sat in silence. You bit your tongue, teasing him felt a little too mean, and besides you were tired.

"You could have just stayed here from the get go, you know, you didn't need to go. If you weren't already sure you had somewhere else to go I could have just went and looked... for a place.." You trailed off and thought. He had seemed too eager to offer up his room earlier, now that you were remembering the interaction. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, he had been staring up until he noticed you give him a look. "Offering was the right thing to do,"

That's right. He's trying to be redeemed.

And for a moment you though he had done it for another reason.

You looked up at the ceiling, trying to make out the texture of it as you tried to think of something to say.

"Well, if you keep this up you're probably going to get to Heaven..." You started, then looked at him. You didn't take much time to think if it were even possible, but the way Charlie spoke about her cause... there had to be a shot, right? "Not to shade anyone else here, but I think you're probably way ahead, compared to all of us..." You added.

You turned yourself to rest on your side. "You do realize if you get redeemed, if someone can be redeemed, you're going to be alone up there without the rest of us you know?"

You couldn't stop the words before they came out. You never thought about that, the separation. By the look that spread across his face it became clear that he didn't think about that either. The look of surprise and realization quickly turned into one similar to sadness.

"I'll be sure to grab onto you before you ascend, you're not going to be getting rid of me that easily," You tried to lighten the mood, and your comment seemed to work just a little bit. "Will that not get us both in trouble?" He asked. You offered a shrug, "If so, maybe we'll get kicked out... doesn't mean we can't try again- they'll just have to let us in together eventually" You smirked. He offered one in return, though the worry didn't leave his eyes.

"I think..." He started, resting his hands across his torso as he stared back up at the ceiling. "Being with you... is heavenly enough."

Quiet.

"Because I enjoy your company, and-" He started, about to launch into another ramble, similar to the one he had in the hallway. He pressed himself harder against the sides of the bed, like he was looking for an escape. You couldn't help but smile over his words.

"I think you're pretty neat too, actually" You said bluntly, making the sinner freeze up. He seemed to relax just a tad, but he kept his eyes away from you.

"You think so?"

"Of course, lying is a sin isn't it? If we're getting out of here together I need to be honest," You turned yourself back onto your back, looking to where he had his eyes focused on the ceiling.

He remained quiet for a while, and opened his mouth as if he were about to speak. A few noises made themselves past his lips, before he closed his mouth again.

You didn't push him to say what he wanted, the exhaustion in your bones was beginning to become almost too much to bare. You had decided you'd both have more than enough time to talk when you'd wake up... it wasn't like he was going to ascend to Heaven the first thing in the morning... if simply disappearing into the air was how it worked... You imagined the sinner just rising into the air and you couldn't help but smirk a little bit... no that's not how it works... it couldn't be...

Unbeknownst to you, as you drifted off to sleep, the sinner was staring at you. The words he finally got to pull from his mouth were left unheard as the image of him hovering into the air faded from your mind's eye, sleep claiming you.

[spacehippieface]

TW: BODILY FUNCTIONS, SEX, DEATH/SUICIDE

So, I received this book as a birthday gift.

You'd think it was a self-help guide, yes?

Wrong.

Happy is an utterly cynical philosophy lecture, delivered by a waffling TV magician who doesn't know how or when to get to the point, and felt the need to shit on anything that might well help some people because he personally doesn't like it. Oh, there are a few little nuggets of helpful ideas in the early stages, but then it gives way to Brown giving a long, dry history lesson cum sermon about philosophers, his favourite being the Stoics. But the longer it goes on, the nastier these nuggets become, like flecks of shit stuck between his rambling Stoic-loving buttocks. I think he may have been idly masturbating one night while half-dozing, with a philosophy lecture on as background noise, because he's so very very smart, and then as he climaxed, the wires in his brain got crossed, and now every time he thinks about the Stoics, he gets a hard-on that just won't quit.

Here are some of the aforementioned nuggets, from the course of my trudging through this thing, in no particular order:

Don't concern yourself with what other people think of you. (This one actually is helpful)

Don't worry about what you can't control. Just say it's fine and move on. (This is the answer to "why everything is more or less absolutely fine." It repeats a lot.)

If you want to enjoy life, don't limit your activities. Broaden your horizons as far as they'll go. (This one is also helpful)

Don't make plans. You'll only be disappointed when they fail. They will.

The universe won't and doesn't care about you or what you want/don't want.

If someone makes you feel bad, that's your problem. No one is to blame but you and your perception of other people and their words and deeds.

Religion is bullshit.

Faith is bullshit.

A positive outlook is unhelpful and bullshit.

I am very smart. Do you know I'm very smart? I've been on TV, you know.

If you don't know what any of this means, you shouldn't be here.

Whatever it is people do that annoys, aggravates or upsets you, you are equally guilty.

Just do your damn job.

Lower your expectations.

Forget self-help, or self-care. That's selfish. Pull your head out of your ass. Helping others is far more important than yourself.

Cancer is actually good because it makes you appreciate the time you have left.

The idea of the soul is bullshit, as is an afterlife.

Maybe I'm not smart enough for this book. But you know the worst part of the whole thing? It was given to me with the best intentions. Someone recommended it to the one who gifted it to me, saying it saved his life. I would like to meet this man. I'd like to find out the circumstances of his life that led him to this result upon reading this thing.

Do I feel happier for reading this? Well, no. I've spent the last few weeks in a deep pit of misery while reading, and I actually want to kill myself even more now. Just yesterday I was starting to think about writing the damn note! And of course, by Derren's logic, it's my own fault for feeling this way because of how I perceive things. Perhaps I'm just taking things too personally again, which - guess what? - is also my fault.

Final thought: Unless you're really truly madly deeply into philosophy, don't bother with this book.

[wordstome]

✨💫🤍☯️

✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit) I haven't put out a lot yet, and I'm very fortunate in that everything I have posted has gotten as much if not more love as I could have anticipated. I've always had at least a handful of people asking me for more of what I've written, and I can't thank you guys enough for that <3

💫what is your favorite kind of comment/feedback? I love when people go into detail about what specifically in my writing they enjoyed, or how my writing made them feel. I know it takes more effort, and I appreciate everything you guys say, but the ones that are brave enough to share what they're thinking are so special to me.

🤍what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"? I'm tempted to say Shrike, but that was not for lack of trying. People gave me a lot of love for Shrike and I do think people appreciated it more than I could have ever anticipated. I think I only feel this way about Shrike in particular because I personally think there's a lot of untapped potential in that au, and I just haven't explored it yet. So it's mostly on me more than the readers.

☯️how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

If you have something to say, say it!!! Speaking up and engaging with people is how you make connections with people, and how communities are formed. If you like what someone's writing, compliment them! If you can't stop thinking about a writer's story, then tell them, and 9 times out of 10 they'll be like I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO TALK TO ME ABOUT IT.

I know it's very frightening to reach out and risk being embarrassed, or worse, have someone you admire and whose work you like make fun of you or block you. I once said something that in hindsight was pretty annoying to a creator I used to admire, and their response was wildly disproportionate and very angry. After I calmed down a little I understood where they were coming from, but I also understood that I didn't deserve that reaction, and I stepped away from their content. (They turned out to not be such a good person anyway so lol)

What I recommend with if you're anxious about interacting with people online is that if you're anxious, then you're already doing things right. It's like how if you're worried you're being narcissistic, then you're not a narcissist because narcissists don't care about being a narcissist. If you're worried about how you'll come across to people and worried about upsetting or offending them, it means you care. It means you're going to be polite and respectful of boundaries to the best of your ability. And if you get it wrong, that's okay. It might be embarrassing or hurt really bad if a creator reacts poorly, but there are some important things to keep in mind:

You tried your best. It's okay to make mistakes. You can't know everything about everything.

If you upset a creator, it will hurt a lot if you think they have the wrong impression of you. It sucks bad. But to get over this feeling, you just have to keep reminding yourself that it is not personal, and it does not mean that you are a bad person. You don't need to prove anything to anyone, and other people deserve space if they've been upset. It's okay. I know you're sorry. I know you wish it happened differently. But sometimes the nature of the internet is that wires get crossed.

If a creator humiliates you on purpose or disproportionately blows up at you, that is not your fault. As long as you stay open to the possibility that you may have done something wrong, you don't need to shoulder the entirety of the blame. Sometimes a creator's just having a bad day, or they're just not handing this particular thing very well. It's important to strike a balance between "maybe I could have done that better" and "they're still being an asshole about it though". Stay open to criticism, stay reflective of your own actions, but also remind yourself that you don't need to take others' abuse or the brunt of their bad moods.

Remember that there are a variety of reasons why you might not get a response or a reaction. It's not worth it to fret over whether or not it was something you did. Just don't think about it <3

The vast majority of creators love to talk about their work. Reach out. Nine times out of ten you'll receive a positive response. And if you don't, it's okay. You know what you intended to do, and that's enough <3

[petermorwood]

What @dduane calls The Not-Screaming Thing has probably done my Karma rating some good.

It helps to have been on the other end a few times during a school-summer-holiday job, even though that was back in the 1970s before real I-want-to-see-the-manager Customer Entitlement made itself felt.

And in at least two instances - maybe good luck, maybe a dividend from all that Karma - The Not-Screaming Thing has reaped real benefits.

Bear with me, now.

*****

Back when I was thinking about my first smartphone. I took a fancy to the HTC Desire. DD had been using one for about six months, had nothing but praise for it and - convenient! - they were on offer at a discount from my cell provider.

So I called to order one and - despite the on-offer ad still being loudly front-page on the provider website - they were completely out of stock.

I didn't scream, complain, or tear strips off the sales agent because the ad was still up when it should have been down, I just said "Oh well, better luck next time. Bye..."

That's when the agent said, "Could I put you on hold for a minute?" and, after a few more minutes, came back.

Agent: "Listen, we've just got an initial batch of the new HTC Desire HD. They won't be officially available until next week, but my supervisor says you can have one now if you want."

Me (cautiously): "How much more than the old one?"

Agent: "I'm authorised to give you the same discount offer."

Me: "What, really?"

Agent: "Yes, really."

Me: "Yes please!" (confirmation of cell account, address etc. followed. Call was about over. Then...) "Um, why did this happen?"

Agent: "We ran out of the discount phones just after lunchtime, and you're the first caller all afternoon who hasn't yelled at me as if it was my fault. Have a nice evening..."

*****

Second time was when we were having fibre broadband installed.

It was meant to go in at the end of October 2018, but - according to the Customer Service transaction log I kept, Just In Case - what with crossed wires (hah!) and other failure-to-communicate blunders at the installer end, the order was:

redirected

confused with another order

put on hold

cancelled

found to be cancelled in error

renewed

reconfirmed on 14th May 2019

finally connected on 17th May.

This suggested how fast it could have happened if everything had gone right.

Because it hadn't, we'd been spending the usual fortnightly top-up fees on an unimpressive line-of-sight cellular broadband which was all our location allowed. Its signal was slow at the best of times, and got slower to the point of stopping when it rained heavily.

We're in Ireland, guess how often that happened...

So where, despite all those top-up fees we shouldn't have needed to pay, does The Not-Screaming Thing fit in here?

Because I'd been calm and courteous every time I called for an update, and I'd been calm and courteous every time I was told about another error. I don't know how I managed that, because I was definitely simmering underneath, but it made me feel better, I'm sure it made the help-desk people feel better...

And, like the smartphone, I got an unexpected pay-off, because as I signed off after the installation, I noticed our original 150 Mbps plan was now upgraded to the 300 Mbps plan, even though the monthly charge remained that for the lower speed. The same initialled authorisation was beside each amendment and there's been no change since.

I don't know how many times we've made back that batch of surplus top-up fees, but Enough To Matter A Lot would cover it.

*****

Despite those personal experiences (which I hope don't sound like me putting on a brag about What A Nice Chap I Am because trust me, I'm sometimes not) on the whole The Not-Screaming Thing earns little more than Brownie Points and a positive deposit in the Karma Bank.

However in the real world it can make someone else's day a bit less unpleasant, and that's worth doing - even if you have to grit your teeth a bit as you do it. ;->

From my time on an IT helpdesk

I don't know what your secret number is. I have not, nor never have been able to put a number on your account.

I did not deliberately make the password reset hard to annoy you. You made it hard by not knowing anything. Like your email, or phone number.

I'm not obliged to replace your device because you screamed at me. Especially if you broke it yourself.

The burnout on high level support is intense. If your case got lost, that's because your tech had a mental break. Or you've been exploiting a senior advisor.

I'd love IT if it wasn't for customers

Posted by admin Rodney.

[the-amazing-simp]

The Way Our Horizons Meet | TASM!Peter Parker

📝 Title: The Way Our Horizons Meet (TFIOS!AU)

📚 Requested: Yes/No

✍ Summary: You met your greatest love at a support group. But, star-crossed lovers really do exist. | 8.1k

🧧 Warnings: cancer (this is a The Fault in our Stars au, so it's a given), death, spoilers for TFIOS

💌 This is officially the longest fic I've ever written in my life. I tried my best to follow the original timeline - I altered some scenes as well as adding in some new ones. And yes, I did copy both eulogies from the book so don't come at me for that.

Love often comes when you least expect it but need it the most. 

Having cancer was hard enough in itself especially when the expression “life is short” could quite literally apply to you.

You were currently sitting in your mom’s car while she drove you to the support group you had always hated attending.

“You don’t have to wait in the parking lot you know,” You said as the car turned a corner, “you’ll have nothing to do and it’s hot.”

Your mum shrugged, peering at you through the dashboard mirror, “I can read a book, but I think I’ll stay at the mall a block away then I’ll come pick you up afterwards.” 

“Okay.” You said, fiddling with the wire of the oxygen tank as she pulled up to the entrance.

“Do you need help with that?” She asked.

You shook your head, giving her a small smile as you got out of the car, “No thanks, I’m fine.” 

“Sure honey,” Your mom answered, “just text me if you want anything from the mall.” 

You nodded in confirmation before you headed past the church and took the stairs down to the basement where the meetings were held, as they called it, “right in the center of Jesus’ heart”.

There was an elevator, but you were fine with the stairs, because in the support group - taking the elevator meant you were close to the finish line. 

“Hey!” Your best friend from the support group, Harry, greeted you with a smile, eyes gleaming behind the shades he wore, “How’re your lungs holding up?” 

You laughed, tapping your oxygen tank, “So, far pretty well. How about you? How’re you and Monica?” 

“As usual, we still love each other till the end of forever.” Harry smiled to which you rolled your eyes at his remark.

“Hey!” He protested, making a face at you.

“It’s cheesy.” You deadpanned.

��It’s not cheesy. It’s love.” Harry said, “And you won’t understand that since you haven’t been in love yet.” 

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny.” You said sarcastically.

Harry stuck his tongue out at you, “Whatever. But don’t go gushing to me when you’re finally in love. Anyway, stay put, I’m going to get some cookies.” 

“You’re the reason why I even tolerate being here!” You called out, causing him to laugh.

Scrolling on your phone to pass the time until the session started, you looked up only for your eyes to meet the honey-colored one of a boy around your age who seemed to be staring at you intently.

The staring wasn’t anything in a creepy way, neither did it make it seem like the boy had ulterior motives. It was like he was vaguely interested in you, like he had seen you before but couldn’t quite recall where or how.

You looked back down at your phone, you just had to hope that the heat you felt on your cheeks was being reflected on your face for the boy to see.

A couple of minutes later, the session group started. With Henry, basically the mastermind behind the support group, leading the opening prayer and the supposedly inspirational talk of how he’s still alive despite his balls being taken by cancer which started the routine of you and Harry communicating via exasperated sighs. 

“Now,” Henry said, “let’s give the floor to Harry who has some news to share with us.” 

Raising a brow at him, he just shrugged in response before standing up.

“I am having eye surgery this weekend.” He started, “Which would make me totally blind. And I also brought my friend, Peter, along here for some moral support.” 

“We pray for you then, Harry, that your operation may be successful.” Henry said before adding, “Why don’t you introduce yourself to us, Peter.” 

Peter, who happened to be the one staring at you earlier, made eye contact with you, shooting you a small smile as he slowly stood up, “My name is Peter Parker. And I had a slight touch with osteosarcoma a year ago. Now, I have no evidence of cancer.” 

As he said that, he rolled up the left pants leg to reveal the metal prosthetic hidden under there.

“I also fear oblivion.” 

“Oblivion?” Henry asked with a puzzled look, “Isn’t that a rather peculiar fear?” 

“I think he fears the unknown.” You spoke up, “Especially since it's unpredictable and what happens next would, most often than not, catch us by surprise.” 

Peter smiled at you, “Exactly, What’s your name?”

“It’s Y/N.” 

“Your full name.”

“Y/N Y/M/N L/N”

–

You were currently in the parking lot, waiting for your mom to pick you up while Harry had his girlfriend pinned to the wall of the church while they made out.

The two pulled back for a moment, whispering “always” to each other before diving back in.

“At this point, I don’t know if he’s trying to arouse her to perform breast surgery.” Peter mused, suddenly appearing by your side. 

You laughed, turning to face him, “I guess he’s trying to make the most of it. Since he won’t be having any sense of sight this weekend.” 

Peter shrugged, taking out a pack from his pocket and popping a cigarette into his mouth, “Makes sense.” 

Slightly glaring at him, you deadpanned, “Are you serious? That’s absolutely disgusting. You just ruined this whole thing.”

“What’s disgusting?” 

“You’re literally standing next to someone with lung cancer and you decide to get a cigarette and smoke. Let me tell you, not being able to breathe normally sucks.” 

Peter grinned, the cigarette sitting by the corner of his mouth, “I don’t smoke.” 

You looked at him, puzzled, “If you don’t smoke, then why do you-” 

“It’s a metaphor.” He interrupted, “You put the killing thing in your mouth but you don’t give it the power to kill.” 

“That actually makes sense.” You agreed.

“See?” He chuckled, causing you to laugh. 

“Why are you staring at me like that?” You asked.

“Because you’re beautiful and I like looking at beautiful things.” He answered with a confident smile.

“Also,” Peter added, “you look like y/f/c from the movie, y/f/m - have you seen that movie?” 

You nodded, “I did, it’s actually one of my favorites. But, I don’t really think that I look like y/f/c.”

“If you want,” He said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and fiddling with it, “you can come around to my house and we can watch the movie together so I can prove to you that you do look like y/f/c.” 

You pretended to think about it for a moment, “Sure, let me just call my mom and let her know.” 

Once you had done that, you climbed into the passenger’s seat of Peter’s car as he started driving.

“Woah.” You said, grasping your seatbelt tightly as you hit another bump, “Are you sure you have a license?” 

Peter laughed, making a u-turn, “Of course I do. Though, I did kinda fail the test twice.”

“Uh huh,” You nodded, “and no one has died while you’re the one behind the steering wheel?” 

“Very funny.” He answered sarcastically with a small smile, “So far, no one.” 

“I really don’t intend on being the first then.” 

–

“I still don’t see how I look like y/f/c.” You said once the ending credits of the movie rolled in.

“Seriously? Are you blind? You could easily pull off being her twin.” Peter protested.

After having a debate over it for the next ten minutes, your attention turned to the stack of books by his bedside table.

“You like reading?” You asked, examining the pile. 

Peter smiled, hands tucked away in the pockets of jeans, “I do. I know that I don’t look like I do though.” 

You rolled your eyes, scanning the spines, “What’s your favorite?” 

“Prince of Dawn.” Peter immediately answered, “You?” 

“An Imperial Affliction.” You said.

His eyes immediately lightened up as an idea popped into his head, “Why don’t we do a book swap? You read Prince of Dawn, and I will read An Imperial Affliction.” 

You smiled, “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

You closed the door of Peter’s car as you reached your house, “Thanks for the ride.” 

He smiled, running a hand through his hair, “No problem. Also, aren’t you going to ask for my number?” 

You giggled, gesturing to the Prince of Dawn in your hand, “I have a feeling that you already wrote it in the book.” 

Peter laughed, “We just met, Y/N, but it seems like you know so much about me.” 

“Who knows?” You shrugged with a grin, “Maybe I’ve known you my whole life and you just didn’t know.” 

“That would’ve been cool.”

You nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “Well, thanks. I better get inside now.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“You know, maybe okay can be our always.” 

–

Golden-painted pieces of metal laid on the floor, remnants of the trophy smashing incident that happened mere moments ago that helped Harry feel a little better over the fact that Monica had broken up with him.

“Was it worth it?” You asked Peter as you helped him pick up what used to be his basketball trophies on display.

He just shrugged, “Kinda. I mean, it did help Harry feel a lot better. Besides, I never liked playing basketball anyway, I only did it because it made my dad happy.” 

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” You mused, running a finger through the faux velvet base, “The things we do to make the ones we love most happy.” 

“I think it’s a metaphor for humanity.” He smiled, “The instinct, the need to please others which in turn somehow pleases ourselves too.” 

“Peter Parker, do you ever run out of metaphors?” You laughed.

His smile grew even wider, “For you, m’lady, never.” 

Silence grew between the two of you before he spoke up again, 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You looked over at Harry, who had now resumed playing the game, “Do you think he’ll be fine?”

Peter shrugged, “All I know is the thing about pain is it demands to be felt.”

–

“But you have to admit it, the cliffhanger was great but it was also damn cruel.” Peter argued as the two of you walked to the park.

“Fine it is. But it just goes to show how unexpected life is that sometimes it just ends in the middle of a sentence.” You said, lugging your oxygen tank behind you, “Also, you’re steering away from my question - what’s with the basketball jersey and the orange tulips?” 

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” He shrugged, before taking the tank from your grasp and holding on to it for you as you walked. 

As soon as he said that, you suddenly saw a checkered blanket laid upon the grass, a picnic basket on top of it. 

“Surprise!” Peter said with a small smile. 

You took another bite of the sandwich, “Shame on you. You already nailed the German theme - the jersey and the tulips but, out of all things, you don’t put German tomatoes in the sandwich.” 

Peter laughed, “I’m sorry, okay, I couldn’t find any.” 

“What’s with all the German stuff anyway?” You asked, taking another bite, “Is this another metaphor?” 

He shook his head, “Nope. All the German stuff is a hint.” 

Furrowing your brows, you recalled a conversation you had with Peter two nights ago about The Imperial Affliction and the rumors that the author, Van Houten, was now living in Amsterdam. 

“Peter…” You said slowly, a slight warning tone in your voice as realization struck.

A light pink tint painted his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck, “Well, Y/N, the thing is…”

You took a gulp of oxygen, adjusting the tubes that connected you to the tank before saying, “Peter Benjamin Parker, we talked about this, don’t tell me that you use your one and only wish for Amsterdam.” 

The guilty grin that appeared on his lips was enough reason for you to smack his arm.

“Ow!” He complained, rubbing the spot where you hit him, “You sure hit really hard. Besides, at least I’m not someone who wished for something as cliche as Disneyland and Epcot. Unlike you.” 

You assaulted his arm with another hit as you felt the temperature rise up to your cheeks, “Still, you only get one wish and I don’t want you wasting that on me.” 

“Hey,” Peter cooed softly, caressing your cheek, “I’m not wasting it, okay. It’s for us and I know that I couldn’t ask for anything better.” 

Silence grew in between the two of you for a moment with Peter slowly leaning forward towards you.

When his lips were just an inch away from yours, you pulled away, muttering a small “sorry”.

Peter gave you a smile, opting instead to place his hand on top of yours, “It’s fine. We can take it as slow as you want.” 

–

“I still can’t believe that we managed to sell that swing.” You laughed before taking a sip of coffee.

Peter smiled, cigarette dangling from the edge of his mouth, “But you have to admit that pedophilic swing set seeking the butts of children had a nice ring to it.”

It’s been a week since the doctors had deemed you ineligible to fly to Amsterdam and a couple days since you and Peter managed to sell your childhood swing set.

You laughed, “Yeah, maybe.” before reaching forward and plucking the cigarette out of his mouth and placing it inside yours.

Peter chuckled, tongue pressed to his cheek as he brought out his camera and waved it in front of you, “Looks like this is a perfect opportunity for a photo.”

–

You groaned as a throbbing pain appeared in your head. Eyes having to adjust to the bright light above you.

“Honey,” Your mother cooed, a hand gently running through your hair as relief laced her voice, “thank goodness you’re awake.” 

“How’re you feeling?” Your dad asked, appearing by your mother’s side.

Slowly sitting up, you answered, “A bit like my insides have been microwaved but otherwise I feel fine.” 

This was when you noticed the tube connecting you to a plastic bag filled with dark water, most likely sucked out of your lungs.

You flinched, “Not again.” 

“That’s why you passed out. When we brought you here, they immediately admitted you here, the ICU” Your mother gently explained, squeezing your hand as she spoke.

“Also,” your dad said, “Peter’s waiting outside, do you want to see him?” 

Staying quiet for a moment, you thought about it before nodding.

Your father went out of the room while your mom waited with you, asking if you were okay.

The door opened again, this time revealing both your father and Peter.

“Hi.” He said softly, walking to your side, shyly handing you the bouquet of your favorite flowers.

You returned the smile as you placed the flowers he brought in a vase on the table next to you, “Hi, and thanks for the flowers.”

“No problem.” Peter smiled, nervously running a hand through his hair, “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m feeling okay.” You said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be up and running in time for our trip to Amsterdam.” 

Peter playfully rolled his eyes, “Amsterdam is the least of my worries. What’s important is that you keep on fighting.” 

“Of course I will. I’m going to stick around and annoy you for as long as I can. There’s no getting rid of me that easily, Parker.” You laughed.

Little did either of you know that your parents had been watching you and Peter the whole time, no words were said between them as they watched the young love grow. They exchanged one look and that was enough to say everything.

–

You had never been more nervous for anything in your entire life. 

You were sitting in the corner of one of the conference rooms at the hospital, while a team of doctors debated over whether you were eligible to travel to Amsterdam with Peter or not.

Hearing a small ding, you looked down at your phone to see a text from Peter.

Pete🛹: How’s it going? Are you cleared?

Y/N✨: Nope, they’re still debating.

Pete🛹: Hypothetically, in case they still don’t think you’re eligible to travel, how bad would it be if we just hopped on the plane?

Y/N✨: Well, hypothetically, you could be arrested the minute you step foot back in America for kidnapping.

Y/N✨: Murder too if I died on the flight.

Pete🛹: We better not risk it then 😂

“We have come to our decision.” The head doctor announced, causing you to look up from your phone.

Your doctor looked at you with a smile, “We have decided that we’re giving you the go signal to travel to Amsterdam. As long as your mom or someone who knows your condition well enough comes along with you.” 

You gave her a grateful smile, glancing over to your parents in excitement, “That would be great.” 

Y/N✨: I don’t think you would have to resort to kidnapping then.

– “Was the line at McDonald’s really that long?” You asked as Peter made it just in time for you to board the plane.

Peter shrugged as he gave you a small smile, “A lot of people seemed to be craving McDonald’s.” 

“Are you excited?” You asked, settling into the middle seat between your mom and Peter. 

He chuckled as he nodded, looking out of the window, “Yeah. It’s actually my first time on a plane so this is really cool.” 

Once the pilot had announced that seat belts would be fastened as the plane started to take off, Peter gripped the arm rests, looking like a little kid on Christmas day.

He glanced at the window, looking at the clouds that were seemingly shrouding the vehicle.

“Are you okay?” You giggled, seeing the look of marvel on his face.

“I couldn’t be better.” Peter laughed gleefully, glancing back out at the clouds, “Nothing has ever looked like that in all of human history!” 

–

“Okay,” you breathed out, walking out of your room to have your mom be the judge, “how do I look?” 

Your mother looked up from the brochure that she was flipping through, giving you a smile, “You look amazing.” 

Looking at the full-length mirror, you ran a hand over the creases of the baby blue dress, “You sure?” 

“I am.” She answered.

At that moment, a knock came on the door. Upon opening it, you saw Peter standing there in a suit and tie. 

Van Houten’s secretary had let you two know that you would be meeting the author the next day, but he has reserved a dinner for the two of you at a restaurant called Oranjee.

“Wow.” Peter said, jaw dropping as he drank the sight of you in, “You look beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” You muttered, smiling as you looked down at your feet, feeling the heat rise up to your cheeks, “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“Shall we go mi’lady?” Peter grinned, offering an arm to you.

“We shall, my kind sir.” You giggled, taking his arm while you waved good-bye to your mother.

Once the two of you had arrived at the restaurant, Peter cleared his throat and said, “Uh, we have a reservation from Mr. Van Houten.” 

“Ah,” The waitress smiled, “The one for Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Right, come this way.” 

You and Peter exchanged a look, trying to hide a smile before following the waitress to your table.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Parker huh?” Peter mused with a smile once your orders had been taken, causing you to laugh.

“Kinda has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” You teased.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, “It actually does.”  

“Would you like some champagne?” A waiter suddenly appeared next to you, “It’s like tasting the stars.” 

“Sure.” You grinned, “Why not.” 

The light gold liquid filled both of your glasses, the small bubbles slowly popping upon reaching the surface. 

“Cheers.” Peter grinned, clinking glasses with you before taking a sip.

“Wow.” You said, “I didn’t know the stars tasted as good as this.”

“I know right. We need to bring this home, someone tell me how to bottle up the stars.” Peter said.

“Mhm.” You hummed, taking another sip.

“Gosh, if the champagne already tastes this good, what more does the food taste like?” He said.

“I know right.” You agreed. 

“I am so in love with you.” He suddenly admitted, smiling at you with pure sincerity and lovestruckness.

You giggled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “Same here.” 

You breathed a sigh of contentment, leaning against Peter’s arm as the two of you walked out of the restaurant, “The first thing I’m doing when we get back to Queens is to search up if there are any franchises of Oranjee in America.” 

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, “Sounds like a terrific idea.” 

You looked up at him, saying in a whisper, “Peter, you know that this doesn’t change the fact that I’m practically a grenade right? Like, my whole existence could blow up at any minute and I could leave you heartbroken.”

He stopped walking, turning you to face him - a look of pure adoration and affection on his features as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “It would be a privilege to have my heart broken by you.”

You sniffed, “Really?”

He nodded, “Really.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” 

–

“What do you mean you don’t know?” You asked from the seat across the author you have been admiring since the very first time you picked up An Imperial Affliction.

Van Houten, drank the brandy in his hand while he gave a shrug, “I just don’t.” 

“You’re the author.” You deadpanned, trying to keep your composure, “How on earth do you not know?”

“Look kid,” The man said, leaning back into his chair, “I did not think about it because I had no plans of writing a sequel.” 

He then sighed, “Teenagers these days. I knew this was a bad idea.” 

“With all due respect,” Peter suddenly piped up, “don’t you see that your book has made a great impact on her and we didn’t come all the way here for nothing. So, the least you could do is give an answer to her questions.” 

The author grew silent for a moment, taking his time in pouring the brandy into his glass after his assistant walked out on him.

“Anna’s dead.” He said, quietly, “There’s no story to tell.” 

With a scoff, Peter stood up - pulling you up with him as the two of you walked out the door without so much of a glance back at the man the both of you had used to admire.

“Don’t mind about him.” Peter said, rubbing your shoulders comfortingly, “I’ll write you a sequel. I’ll write you a better sequel than that dumb idiot could ever write.” 

You laughed despite the disappointment, feeling lucky that Peter was there with you, “I’m sure of it.” 

 –

“Lean here for a moment.” Lidewij said, stopping for a bit as the three of you reached the last step of the stairs.

You were leaning against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Peter rubbed his hand up and down your back.

Lidewij, Van Houten’s former assistant, decided it would be a great idea to accompany the two of you to an Anne Frank museum nearby to make up for her boss’ rudeness.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, concern lacing his voice as you sat down on the floor, taking a gulp of oxygen, “We can take a break here if you want to.” 

You shook your head, waving him off as you stood up, “No. It’s fine. I can handle it.”  

He gave you a look, silently insisting on asking you whether you were really fine or not. 

Nodding in response, you gave him a small smile, “Don’t worry about me.” 

A shrill ring suddenly echoed through the quiet walls of the museum. Lidewij gave an apologetic smile to the people who glanced in your direction before answering the call. 

“Sorry.” She whispered, turning to you and Peter, “I have to go right now, is it okay if I leave you two here?” 

The two of you nodded, “Yeah. We’ll be alright.”

With a smile,  she dashed off, leaving the two of you in the exhibit.

Peter laced his hands into yours, the two of you walking at your own pace through the exhibit until you reached the video where Anne Frank’s father told about his daughter’s bravery and the grief from the loss of his family.

Looking at the boy next to you, you couldn’t imagine how you got so lucky. You couldn’t imagine a day wherein he wasn’t there for you. 

“Hey.” He said softly, pulling you out of your train of thought, “whatcha thinking?” 

You gave no response, instead,  you stood up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

You could feel him smile into the kiss, his hands making their way to your hips as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, silence echoed through the exhibit. You half-expected the crowd around you to start a monologue on how disgusting and inconsiderate teenagers were nowadays. But, instead, they all started cheering at the young love that blossomed right in front of them.

Making it back to the hotel, Peter was about to press the button that led to your floor when you suddenly said, “Do you want to go to your room?” 

A grin made its way to his lips as his finger moved up to press the number of his floor.

A ding told you that you had arrived at the floor, interlocking your hand in his, the two of you ran out the elevator.

Peter stopped in his tracks, leaning against the wall as he clutched his side.

“Are you okay?” You asked, immediately regretting what you suggested in the first place.

He took a deep breath, “It’s above my knee, it’s just a bit of skin then it tapers a bit.” 

Furrowing your brows, you asked, “What?” 

“My leg, or what’s left of it.” He answered, “Just wanted to prepare you before you see it.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, pressing another kiss to his lips as you rolled your eyes, “You’re so full of yourself.” 

“Touche.” He laughed, grabbing your hand as you ran to his room.

–

You were almost in tears from laughing too much.

Peter was currently doing an impression of Van Houten as you recounted the story to your mum, making the author seem like a more idiotic, old man who had a hearing problem, an alcohol addiction and kept on insisting that there were Nazis at his door.

“Goodness,” your mother breathed out, “That old man is lucky I didn’t tag along or else I would’ve screamed at him.”

You smiled, “Yeah, but we were fine. Looking back, it is quite funny.”

“Yeah.” Peter agreed, placing his hand on top of yours above the table.

“What did you do afterwards?” Your mum asked.

Both of you exchanged a look, the previous night’s events circling back into your mind, “We went to a museum.”

“Then Y/N humored me with some venn diagram humor.” He continued the inside joke causing you to roll your eyes. 

Peter told you that he had wanted to tell you something, so while your mother was out sightseeing, the two of you were currently in his room. 

“I took a PET scan a week before you were admitted into the ICU.” 

You sat down on one of the vintage chairs, staring at the rug, heart beating in fear of what would come next.

“And?” 

He took a deep breath, trying to reassure you with a small smile, “I lit up like a Christmas tree, Y/N.” 

You gulped, trying to keep the incoming tears at bay, “No.” 

He nodded, “I did.” 

You sniffed, standing up to wrap your arms around him, “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. You already defeated it once, you can do it again.” 

“Yeah.” He agreed, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he pulled you closer, “Of course.” 

“Remember how I said that I feared oblivion when we first met?” He said as he stroked your hair.

You looked up at him, “Yeah, why?” 

“I feared the uncertainty that each day brought. But the day that I met you, I realized that life being a mystery, may not be so bad after all.”

–

“Hm,” Peter hummed, smacking his lip as he looked at you making you laugh, “Not up to the standards of Oranjee.” 

“Very true.” You smiled, taking a sip from your own red plastic cup of champagne, “The airport can afford the dimmer stars.” 

He laughed, taking a cigarette from the box and popped it into his mouth as you scrolled through the movies available.

“Excuse me sir.” A flight attendant approached, “But you’re not allowed to smoke inside the plane.” 

“Oh, he doesn’t smoke.” You said, “It’s just a metaphor.” 

“Well,” She said, “metaphor or not, let’s just put the cigarette away to be safe.” 

He nodded, plucking the cigarette out of his mouth and putting it back in the box.

“So, what’s the movie?” Peter asked once the flight attendant left.

“Titanic.” 

–

You gently knocked on the Parker’s doorstep, fiddling with the wire of your oxygen tank as you waited.

“Hello dear.” Aunt May smiled as she greeted you with a hug.

“Hi Aunt May.” You returned the smile, “How is he doing?” 

It’s been a week since the trip to Amsterdam with Peter. Once he had gotten back, the doctors had put him up for a clinical trial for something that should supposedly help in lessening the places that cancer had infected. 

“He’s okay. Peter’s over there by the couch, Harry’s also here too.” She said, letting you in.

“Hi Pete.” You greeted, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He smiled, running a hand through his hair, “Hi.” 

“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t just hear that.” Harry said, from where he was seated across from Peter.

You jokingly rolled your eyes, “Hello to you too.” 

“Hey!” Harry stuck his tongue out at you, “Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I can't sense that eye roll in your voice.” 

You laughed, plopping down in the seat just next to the couch.

“Anyway,” Harry changed the subject, turning to Peter, “how’s the clinical trials going?” 

Peter groaned as he shifted to sit up, “I’m on a rollercoaster that only goes up, my friend.” 

“He always never gives a specific answer.” Harry teased

You shrugged, “And somehow we don’t mind.” 

“How’s Monica by the way?” You asked, turning to Harry.

The atmosphere in the room tensed up a bit as you and Peter awaited an answer.

“She, uh, we haven't really had any contact since the operation.” Harry said.

“She didn’t even visit you at the hospital?” Peter asked, to which Harry just shook his head.

After a moment of silence, Peter stood up, taking his car keys from the table and a carton of eggs from the fridge

.

“C’mon.” He nodded towards the door.

You helped Isaac up, “Where’re we going?” 

“Monica’s house.” Peter said casually.

“Here.” Peter handed the carton of eggs to Harry when the car had been parked right across from Monica's house.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Harry asked.

“Throw them at her car.” Peter smiled.

A grin made its way to Harry’s face as he felt around the carton for an egg and got ready to throw it.

“A little bit to your right.” You guided.

Following your direction, Harry launched the egg.

“What did I hit?” He asked excitedly as its contents started to drip on the car’s bumper.

“The bumper.” Peter had his own grin as he encouraged Harry to throw some more.

While the boys were having fun, you took out your phone and discreetly took a picture of the scene in front of you - the smiles of both being preserved in the moment.

Little did you know that that would be the last picture you would take of him.

–

“Peter,” you said, looking up at Peter, “can I ask you a question?” 

He nodded, combing a hand through his hair as the two of you waited for Harry to be finished with his eye check-up, “Sure.” 

“Who’s Gwen Stacy?” You licked your lips, “I remember you mentioning her before and when I looked her up on instagram, it looked like she was your girlfriend.” 

Peter nodded again, “Yeah, Gwen actually was my girlfriend.”

“What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“Well, she is no longer suffering from personhood.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” 

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear before continuing, “She had brain cancer. Towards the end, there was actually no filter between her thoughts and her speech. Once she joked about how she’s sorry that she accidentally dropped a book on my ‘leg’.”

You cringed at the thought causing him to laugh.

“It wasn’t like I had a choice. It would just be cruel to break up with someone in that state.” 

–

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes as your ringtone continued to cut through the air.

Peeking at the caller id, you immediately picked up the phone. After all, Peter wouldn’t just randomly call you at 3 am for no important reason.

“Pete? Is everything okay?” 

You could hear him taking deep, labored breaths.

“Y/N, I’m at the gas station and I need your help.” 

You climbed out of bed, phone pressed between your ear and shoulder as you unhooked yourself from the BIPAP and to the oxygen tank, fear coursing through your body, “Pete, what happened?” 

“I just wanted to buy some cigarettes. I lost the pack a few days ago and they said they’d get some for me but I wanted to do it myself. So, I drove to the gas station and the tube that is attached to my stomach just got tangled and I tried to fix it and it may have just gotten worse.”

“Oh my gosh,” You gasped, leaving the note you hurriedly scribbled down on the dining room table as you ran to your car, “okay, just don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way. Do I need to call an ambulance?” 

“No!” He immediately said, “Please, don’t call an ambulance.”

“Okay.” You breathed out, placing your phone on the dashboard, “Just stay on the line, I’m on my way there.” 

You ran through every green light at the speed limit, praying with every inch of you that it wasn’t as worse as you imagined. 

Arriving at your destination, you ran to where Peter’s car was parked. 

“Peter.” You cooed upon opening his car door, seeing the blood soaking his shirt.

“Y/N.” He smiled, reaching for your hand.

“Peter,” You repeated, your brain now triggering your ultra-panic mode, “I can’t fix this we have to call an ambulance.” 

Peter stubbornly shook his head, grasping your hand harder, “No. Please no. I don’t want to be useless.” 

You kneeled down in front of him, pushing a few brown locks out of his eyes, “Listen to me Pete, you’re not useless okay. You’re going to be alright.” 

Holding his hand, you pulled out your phone, dialing 911 as you muttered, “I’m sorry Pete, I have to. I promise, I’ll buy you a pack, okay?” 

He sniffed, voice cracking, “Damn it! I can’t even get a pack of cigarettes anymore without asking for help.” 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hello?” You said, trying to keep your voice calm, “My boyfriend has a tube in his stomach and it's tangled, he’s also bleeding. Uh, I need an ambulance right now. We are at the gas station near the Empire State and he needs to get to the hospital immediately.”

“Okay,” the lady said, the clacking of keyboard keys could be heard, “an ambulance is already on its way.” 

“Thank you.” You said as the line cut off.

Turning your attention back to Peter, you pressed a kiss to his hairline, interlocking your hands together. 

“Okay?”

“Okay.” 

–

“You know,” Peter mused as you wheeled him out on his wheelchair to the backyard, “I never really saw how sunsets are really connected to romance until today.”

“And,” You smiled, encouraging him to continue, “what is your conclusion?” 

He looked at you, raising your hand up to his lips to press a small kiss to it, “Sunsets can be romantic. But, only if they’re with the right person.”

“Real charmer aren’t you, Parker.” You giggled.  

“Always am.” He smiled.

“Peter’s a nice kid and all.” Aunt May suddenly said, appearing behind the two of you, “But sometimes I wonder how he managed to get someone sweet like you.”

Peter feigned a gasp of offense before laughing, “I gotta agree with you Aunt May. There’s not a day where I don’t wonder how I managed to woo her.” 

You rolled your eyes despite the smile you had, “Cheesy.”

“You love my cheesiness.” He retorted, “Right, Uncle Ben?” 

“I don’t know about you, but that how I got your Aunt May.” Uncle Ben chuckled causing Aunt May to roll her eyes.

Uncle Ben placed a hand on your shoulder, giving you a smile while Peter and Aunt May were busy talking.

“I thank God everyday for you kid.” 

–

You sighed, staring blankly at the paper in your hands with typewritten words. 

Peter called you earlier that night, telling you that he would be having a pre-funeral so that he would be able to hear the eulogies and he wanted you to be there.

You promised that you would be there, a small part of you wishing that he was the one eulogizing you instead. 

“Mom, Dad, I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back before 10.” You called out, taking your car keys from the table.

“Where’re you going this time?” Your mom asked.

“Just to the church where we hold the support group sessions. Peter is having a pre-funeral and he wanted me to be there.” You shrugged.

“But sweetheart you’re barely home anymore.” Your dad said.

You nodded, “I know. But Peter needs me. Who knows how much more time I have left with him? Who knows if this is the last time I’ll be seeing him? All I know is that once he’s gone, I’ll be here all the time.” 

Your parents nodded in understanding, pulling you into a short hug as their hearts softened at the sight of you trying to keep your tears in as the thought of Peter dying crossed you.

“Give Peter our regards then.” 

You stepped on the platform after helping Harry back to his seat after finishing eulogy.

Giving Peter a small smile from where he sat in his wheelchair, you glanced down at the paper in your hands and started,

“My name is Y/N. Peter Benjamin Parker was the great star-crossed love of my life. Ours was an epic love story, and I won't be able to get more than a sentence into it without disappearing into a puddle of tears. Pete knew. Pete knows. I will not tell you our love story, because like all real love stories, it will die with us. As it should. I'd hoped that he'd be eulogizing me, because there is no one I'd rather have. I can't talk about our love story, so I will talk about math. I am not a mathematician, but I know this. There is an infinite set of numbers between 0 and 1. There's 0.1 and 0.12 and 0.112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million.”

You could feel the tears streaming down your cheeks, giving a sniff and a small chuckle, you continued.

“Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. A writer we used to like taught us that. There are days, many days of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set. I want more numbers than I'm likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for Peter Parker than he got. But, Pete, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity. I wouldn't trade it for the world. You gave me a forever within the numbered days, and I'm grateful. I love you so much."

Peter nodded, his own tears mirroring yours as he mouthed, I love you too.

–

It’s been eight days since Peter’s pre funeral.

Things have just gotten progressively worse. It was 11 pm when you received a call from Aunt May.

“Y/N, dear, I’m so sorry to call at this hour but can you drop by the hospital? Peter wants to see you. I told him that you’d be coming to visit him again tomorrow but he wants to see you now.” 

You licked your lips, momentarily closing your eyes to prevent you from thinking about the inevitable, “I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” 

You didn’t have to ask the front desk what room Peter was in. You had been coming in for the past 8 days, you knew where to find him.

Slowly pushing the door open, you gave a small smile as you were met with the sight of Aunt May and Uncle Ben - both who were trying hard not to burst into tears and stay strong, and the boy you loved looking weaker than when you had come to see him hours ago.

“You wanted to see me?” You asked quietly, sitting on the chair that was placed next to his bed.

“I missed you.” Peter said, pecking your cheek as he reached for your hand.

“How’re you feeling?” You asked, evne if you knew that it was dumb question considering his state.

“Like my ass has been kicked and my insides deep fried.” He smiled, making you laugh.

The two of you sat in silence, comfortable silence, no words needed to be exchanged because this was what both of you needed.

Peter licked his lips before he disrupted the silence, “There’s a red box underneath my bed back at home. When I pass, I want you to have everything inside of that box. I left it specifically for you.”

You shook your head, not even trying to hold the tears back, “Peter…”

He held a finger to your lips to shush you, giving one of his award winning smiles, “I feared oblivion. But, I guess it won’t be that bad, if I have the hope of seeing you again there.” 

You sniffed, throat tightening and voice cracking as you joked, “You better wait for me Parker.” 

“I don’t care how long it takes.” 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

An hour later, a nurse came in, telling you that visitation hours were over and that only the family can stay.

You stood up, pressing a brief kiss to Peter’s soft lip before giving Aunt May and Uncle Ben a hug.

“Hey Y/N.” Peter called out once you’ve reached the door.

“Yeah?” 

“You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me right?” He looked at you similar to the way he did when you first met.

You smiled, “Happening, Pete. Don’t use past tense yet. You’re the best thing that is still happening to me.”

–

You wanted to scream, to cry, to just have the earth swallow you up whole,  it felt like the whole world just stopped on its axis, gravity was gone and everything everywhere is just absolute chaos.

The only thing that could be heard on the other line was Aunt May’s sobs as she told you the news. 

Once Aunt May had hung up, you called Harry who was able to do the thing you couldn’t do - scream. He cursed the world, questioning where the damn trophies were when you needed them.

You were vaguely aware of your parents standing by your bedroom door, they already knew what happened.

You took a deep breath, which was a mistake as you inhaled the scent of him since you were wearing his shirt after all. The scent that you would probably never be able to breathe in again.

Burying your face in your pillow, you screamed until your throat was hoarse and cried until you couldn’t breathe. Your parents were on either side of you, trying to console you in the best way they can.

You knew this was inevitable, you knew that this was bound to happen on any day. But that didn’t prepare you for the fact that Peter Parker’s heart had stopped beating.

That the star-crossed love of your life was dead.

–

“I am so glad he met you.” Aunt May sighed as she hugged you when you arrived at the funeral, “I’ve never seen him that happy before.” 

“I felt like I was the luckiest girl in the world when I was with him.” You smiled.

“Also,” Uncle Ben said, “If you’re okay with it, can you drop by our house after the service so you can get the box he left for you? I would’ve brought it here, but I don’t think I have the strength to go down there yet.”

You nodded, “Sure.” 

You walked up to his coffin while Aunt May was preoccupied with your parents. Looking around to see if anyone was watching you, you took the pack of cigarettes from your dress pocket and placed it next to his resting figure, hidden from view.

“You can light these.” You whispered, “I won’t mind.”

After the service, you sat in your room - the red box that Peter mentioned laid beside you while the four pieces of paper (along with the various polaroids of you and him) were cradled in your lap.

You ran a finger through his penmanship, the various colors of ink and sizes of the words showed the state of his consciousness during the last few days. You had found them in an envelope with a return letter from Van Houten’s address.

It wasn’t the sequel he promised you, but it was something better. You couldn’t help but slightly smile through the tears as you read,

Mr. Van Houten. I'm a good person, but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person, but a good writer. I think we'd make a good team. I don't wanna ask you for any favors, but if you have the time - and from what I saw you had plenty - please fix this for me: It's a eulogy for Y/N. She asked me to write one, and I'm trying, but I just... I could use a little flair. See, the thing is... we all wanna be remembered. But Y/N's different. Y/N knows the truth. She didn't want a million admirers, she just wanted one. And she got it. Maybe she wasn't loved widely, but she was loved deeply. And isn't that more than most of us get? When Y/N was sick, I knew I was dying, but I didn't wanna say so. She was in the ICU when I snuck in for ten minutes and I just sat with her before I got caught. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale, but her hands were still her hands, still warm, and her nails were painted this dark blue black color, and... I just held them. And I willed myself to imagine a world without us and what a worthless world that would be. She's so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she's smarter than you, 'cause you know she is. She's funny without ever being mean. I love her. God, I love her, I'm so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have a say in who hurts you. And I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

Holding the letters close to your chest, you closed your eyes and tried to imagine his smile, his voice, his laugh.

“I do, Peter, I do.”

–

It’s been a long and terrible year.

You laid down on the grass at the park where you and Peter happened to have your first date. 

Over the course of the year, your condition worsened, you could feel yourself getting weaker with every passing day.

You held the letter Peter had left you a little over your head, eyes scanning the words that were practically engraved in your heart from reading them everyday.

Once you had finished, you held them close to your heart, looking up at the twinkling night sky and the stars that shone with them.

“Okay Y/N?” His voice echoed clear as day in your mind as you looked up at his almost transparent silhouette as he smiled down at you, just like it was the very first time.

You took a deep, labored breath. A smile gracing your lips as you closed your eyes.

You could vaguely hear your parents calling out for you, screaming your name, telling you to hold on that they’re bringing you to the hospital. But this was it, there was no turning back.

Memories flashed through your mind: your first birthday, first day of school, the day you got diagnosed with cancer, the day you met Peter along with every single memory that had Peter attached to it.

You could feel your heartbeat slowing down with every minute and air getting harder to hold on to. You could see a flash of light, Peter holding his hand out to you, an unlit cigarette nestled in his mouth- keeping his promise. 

Gathering up all your remaining strength, you managed to use your last gulp of air to utter the word you couldn’t bring yourself  to say for a year before everything went dark.

“Okay.” 

Peter Parker and Andrew Garfield Taglist:

@beloved-bucky, @hunnybunimdun, @andrewgarfield2022, @jasmin7813, @andrewgarfieldsbae, @spxiiee, @shaded-echoes-recs, @holy-macncheese-balls, @mcugeekposts

[anon-e-miss]

Kintsugi AU - Try

It was hard seeing Prowl so completely beaten down and it was harder still to know that he had been the one to do it. Maybe Jazz had not been the only offender, but he had struck the first and the worst blows. As angry as Jazz was at Chromedome for ruining Prowl’s reputation, Jazz knew if he had not thrown Prowl out, had not closed his spark and his processor, Chromedome would never have had the opportunity. Prowl had always been self-assured, even when it had just been a shield to defend his spark, there was no shield, no self-assurance. In its place was visible uncertainty and Jazz did not know where to begin fixing this. All Jazz knew was that he had to fix it, all of it.

The mechlings forgave Jazz enough by berth time to ask for lullabies, but only after Prowl had told them stories. As Jazz sang, Prowl slumped against his side and just as the Twins fell into recharge, so did Prowl. Prowl needed the rest, he needed contributions for this delicate carrying but they could not just... jump into that without talking. They would talk in the light-cycle; Prowl had had a long enough mega-cycle as it was. At the moment, it was not struggle for Jazz to lift Prowl up and the carry him to the master berth. He remembered insisting on carrying Prowl over the threshold the dark-cycle of their bonding and he remembered it had not been an elegant affair. Prowl had been worried Jazz would drop him being so ridiculous; he had not but it had been a near thing. When they had made love, Jazz had worshipped Prowl’s gloriously curvaceous frame so his conjunx would not think for a nanoklik Jazz wanted him to change a single wire.

Prowl did not stir when Jazz laid him down and covered him with quilt. Though Prowl had not complained about the cold the previous dark-cycle, he tended to run cooler and Jazz pulled another quilt from the chest and covered Prowl with it as well. It may just have been Jazz’s imagination but he thought when he smoothed the blanket of Prowl, he seemed to relax into a deeper recharge. The urge to stroke his helm was intense but Jazz resisted for the moment. As it was, Jazz had been too selfish and he did not want to wake Prowl from his much needed rest now and so he made a quiet retreat. He could hear Ori in the kitchen, tidying. Jazz was anxious and restless and the only thing he could think to do was join him. Saying nothing, he started putting away the clean dishes. The chore was done... too soon? And Ori beckoned him to the living room.

“Y’re taken this hard,” Punch noted. “Just what ‘bout it, ‘m wonderin’. That Prowl’s sick? That he’s carryin’ for a mech ya don’t care for?”

“Both ‘n more,” Jazz replied. “It’s my fault this all happened to ‘m.”

“How do ya figure that?” Ori asked.

“Chromedome was always there in the background,” Jazz said. “Even when he was wit someone, he was... He never did anythin’, ya know. Never crossed the line but I hated it when he came ‘round to the bar. When his Mach died, he leaned onto Prowl so much. I didn’t realize how jealous I was. How mad I was that Prowl was givin’m all this time when he didn’t have the time for me or the Twins. Prowl was just tryin’ to be a good friend, a good enforcer partner. ‘M not surprised Prowl turned to ‘m. ‘M not surprised he was there waitin’.”

“It was Prowl’s choice, Jazz, to go wit’m,” Punch said. “One he couldn’t o’ known would go so bad. Blame, where blame is due, Jazz. Chromedome’s to blame for what he did.”

“Prowl wouldn’t’ve gone to ‘m, if I hadn’t divorced ‘m,” Jazz replied. “It’s not like wanted it. He never wanted it. He fought me the whole time. He wanted counselling. He wanted mediation ‘n I shut it all down.”

“Jazz,” Punch sighed. “Love.”

“I know,” Jazz covered his face with his servos. Ori got up from his chair and walked over the couch. Jazz did not lift his helm from his servos as he leaned into his originator’s arms as they folded around him. “I decided I was done so I was done. I didn’t give’m a chance to try. He wanted to try. I didn’t let’m. I didn’t wanna try.”

“The Twins...”

“I owed ‘em better,” Jazz replied. “I owed ‘em so much better.”

“Ya did,” Punch agreed. “Ya owed yer conjunx better too. Ya owed yerself better.”

“I did,” Jazz said. “I tell myself he’s stubborn but ‘m at least as stubborn. Maybe ‘m more stubborn. I tore his spark apart. I tore his life apart. Chromedome just finished the job for me.”

“What’s yer plan now?” Punch asked.

“He’s sick, Ori,” Jazz said. “Not just wit the Petro-Rat Bite Fever. He’s starvin’ for everythin’. The lil mechling is so small, he’s so so small. They’re both behind where they need to be development wise. Prowl’s got nothin’ left in ‘m to cannibalize. ‘M gonna contribute. They won’t, the three o’em, they won’t survive if someone don’t ‘n he don’t wanna go to a bank.”

“Ya wanna contribute, I think,” Punch replied.

“I want’em to be mine,” Jazz said.

“Not just the bitties, but their ori too,” Punch guessed.

“Yeah.”

“Well, Love, that could be struggle,” Punch said. “Ya gave ‘m good cause to shy.”

“I know,” Jazz said. “But I owe it to all o’ us to try.”

“That ya do.”

“Will ya be patient wit’m, Ori?” Jazz asked. “He’s terrified o’ ya.”

“O’ course I will,” Punch said. “It’s passed time ‘m ‘n me came to an understandin’.”

Jazz did not enjoy disappointing his originator. But the first step in “trying” now was to take responsibility for his failures, not just to Prowl’s audials but to Punch. It would be easier for them to co-habitate, his ori and Prowl if Prowl was not forced to wear the role of villain. Lying, even if only by omission would only have disappointed Punch more in the long run. As quickly as they had bonded, as quickly as Jazz had divorced Prowl, Jazz wondered how long it could be before Prowl would be open to even talking about trying again. Maybe never, Jazz realized, Prowl’s spark might be too shy to trust him again. If that was the case, so be it. Jazz would not break his glyph, this time, he would be a good co-procreator, a better one than he had been a conjunx.

“Jazz?” Prowl called his glyph from the hallway. Jazz looked up from his tablet. He had been trying to compose, but nothing had come from his processor but regret.

“Yeah?” He replied. “Can I get ya somethin’? Fuel? Meds?”

“I...” Prowl hesitated. “Would you join me in berth...? I know we have not made any legal agreement.”

“Of course,” Jazz replied and he set the tablet down. “I wanna do right by ya, Prowl. By ya, by them, by the Twins.”

“I do not want to impose,” Prowl said.

“Ya aren’t.”

[angelsdevils]

Kidd x Chubby! Reader

Title: Perfect

~flashback~

“(Y/N), What is it this time?” A young Kidd asked his best friend whom he was staying in an abandoned building.

“It’s nothing Kidd~kun.”

“(Y/N)?” Kidd crossed his small arms over his chest. You sigh looking away.

“Am I ugly?”

“Waah? Why are you asking that suddenly?” Kidd blush looking away.

“It’s just okay other kids call me ugly all the time.

“You are perfect.”

“Even with a stomach?” Kidd sighed and held his best friend’s shoulders.

“P.E.R.F.E.C.T. Perfect. Do you understand me to ignore them they are jealous.” Kidd said. You smiled and hugged him.

“You are the best friend a girl could ever have.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

~to current times~

The Kidd Pirates landed on Saboady Island along with other Supernovas and Kidd was too busy feeling personally assaulted in Law’s presence.

“Damn bastard.”

“Captain. Try not to let him get to you.” Heat said.

“Yeah, easier said than done. When he is around everything is fucking wrong.”

“I mean if you wanna fight I’m fine with that,” Law said Calmly which only pissed Kidd off more.

“I will gla~” Kidd was cut off as he heard yelling.

“Stop her!”

“How dare she start trouble with us.”

“Hahaha, suckers!”

“How the hell did she get the collar off.”

“I want my slave back get her!” A celestial dragon yelled. Kidd and the others turned and Kidd has seen a girl that looked familiar. Too familiar. (H/C) check, (E/C) check, (H/Style) check, on a chubbier side check.

“(Y/N),” Kidd mumbled narrowing his eyes and everyone looked at him.

“You know her.”

“Where is my wallet!?” The same celestial dragon yelled.

“Fucker that’s what you get for putting a high bid on me.” You stop and stick your tongue out.

“Don’t underestimate my strength or skill.” She dodged an attack and started to run again. She blinked and saw a familiar redhead.

“Kidd???”

“You causing trouble (Y/N).”

“Me trouble never! I’m innocent.” She said grinning and hugging her best friend.

“But I can’t talk if you can’t tell I’m being chased.

“Might want to start running as well marines are on their way.”

“Shit.” The groups said and everyone started to run.

“How many. 10 ships.”

“WHY!?” Saboady may or may not have been dealing with me purposely getting caught stealing from celestial killing them and running away if I kept them alive for the past 3 years.”

“You are crazy.”

“Me never I’m innocent.”

“WHAT PART OF THAT IS INNOCENT!?” Long-nosed said.

“Shut it long nose.” You glared and he threw his hands up.

“You certainly changed since I saw you.”

“Of course I did. I’m not the overly sensitive, crybaby I was before.”

“I think I may miss that,” Kidd yelled while running.

“Your fault you made me a narcissist.” Kidd’s crew sweatdrop. And you suddenly stopped and took a camera out.

“Which by the way I look good in his sister’s clothes.” You snapped a picture and started to run again. Once they all got away You collapsed on the ground panting.

“I’m tired now. Maybe I should lose weight.”

“How long have you been running 15 minutes.” Kidd shook his head.

“So are you gonna introduce me to your crew?” You smile and Kidd looks away.

“Uhm yeah. This is Heat and Wire, Killer, And the rest of my crew.” Your sweatdrop.

“And your friends?”

“Who?” Your motion to Law, Luffy, and the other supernovas.

“Don’t get it twisted (Y/N). I can’t stand Law more than anyone else and everyone else I can’t stand either.”

“Could have fooled me.” Law came up to you just to piss off Kidd and kiss your hand and you raise an eyebrow.

“Well aren’t you a char~”

“You fucking bastard. Don’t kiss her hand.” Kidd grabbed Law’s arm pulling him back from you and you blinked.

“Kidd be nice”

“Not to him.”

“Nice isn’t in Kidd’s dictionary I am X Drake by the way.”

“Well, y’all must be rivals or something cause he is nice to me.”

Kidd shrugged and pulled you to him.

“You should join my crew.”

“Nope.”

“Why you already have a bounty.”

“Still don’t wanna become a pirate.”

“(Y/N)...” Kidd said looking at you.

“Fine fine I will.”

“Well that’s too bad I was gonna ask you to join a stronger crew (y/n),” Law said and Kidd’s eye twitched.

“No, I want her to become my Nakama.”

“Luffy no.”

“But Nami...”

“She joined Kidd’s crew already,” Usopp said. You blinked and laughed.

“You guys are funny hey Kidd...” Kidd pulled you away from everyone so you guys would be alone.

“(Y/N)...” Kidd said looking at you. You were his weakness and that’s why he had to get you alone.

“Yes, Kidd?”

“I missed you.” Kidd looked away with a blush and you smiled brightly at him. He kissed you softly on the lips holding your waist. You smiled into the kiss hugging his neck.

“Wow didn’t expect the big bad pirate to have a soft spot.”

“For you, I always will.”

“I missed you too .” You finally said and he smiled but it looked more like a smirk.

“You should join my crew.”

“I planned to.”

“Why were you giving me a hard time then?”

“Because that’s what I do.”

“You are evil.”

“I know.” Kidd buried his face in your hair.

“You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Even more perfect which shouldn’t be possible,” Kidd mumbled.

“You shouldn’t feed my ego. Just saying.”

“I know I can’t help it though you are amazing and perfect.”

[pascalpanic]

Just One Mission (Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x Champagne’s Daughter!Reader)

Inspo: I Like It, I Love It by Tim McGraw

Summary: Your father, Champ, runs Statesman, and you’re his best- and only- female agent. Your normal partner, Tequila, is out, leaving you with another agent. Normally this would be fine, but it’s with Whiskey, who practically ignores you, despite the fact that you’re crushing hard on him. You’re sent to the county fair to track an undercover bad guy under the guise of being a couple for your latest mission, and it starts to feel more and more like something is happening, not just between your fictional couple.

WC: 5.1k

Warnings: language, obvious mentions of alcohol (this is Statesman after all)

A/N: Can I get a yeehaw for our favorite cowboy? Biggest of thank yous to @remmysbounty for helping me name this!

“You can’t be serious. Why can’t anything ever be straightforward around here? Why do I always have to go play make-believe?” You asked, pushing your glasses back up your nose to clarify his hologram. You move from where you stand, against the window showing the New York skyline, to walk towards the meeting table.

Champ gives a chuckle, as if he knows everything. Of course he does. He’s your boss and he never fails to make that known. “You came into this job knowing you’d be doing undercover work, Amaretto,” Champ says with a pointed look. You bite down on your lip to avoid cussing and look down to avoid his eyes. “Plus, you’re our best. And our only lady.”

“Whose fault is that?” you grumble, crossing your arms. Normally it doesn’t bother you much, but today you wished more women worked in the field. “Why can’t I go with Tequila? Him and I work well together, you know that,” you ask, hating your voice and your tone. You sound like a whiny teen complaining to her dad. Honestly, it was close enough, and maybe even worse: you were a fully grown woman complaining to her dad.

Your father, Champ, sighs and removes his hat. “For God’s sake, ‘Retto. Tequila’s mission has been extended. I’m sorry to tell you that Agent Whiskey will be your partner for just one mission, for one night.”

“Dad, I-”

“That’s Champ when you’re in here, Amaretto,” he chides, which makes you groan and plop down on an office chair, kicking your legs up onto the table and crossing them. “It’s a small mission. You can handle it. Whiskey’ll treat you right.”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you knew you could handle it. You would be more than fine pretending to be Whiskey’s sweetheart for the evening. It was what came after that you didn’t want. You had known Jack for a while now, and had been hiding a crush ever since the man first entered your life. 

You had been a Statesman ever since your father revealed to you that he wasn’t just the head of the Kentucky distillery- he was the head of a spy organization under the same name. Your career here hadn’t been long, but you were already proving that the skills must run in the family. You were the first female field agent, had a perfect mission record, and no unnecessary kills or injuries. That impressed Jack as much as the rest of the facility, maybe even more. You were a stunning and sharp woman with brains to match. 

As much as Whiskey wanted to flirt with you, to tell you just what he thought of you, he held back. Your father held his job by a string. In order to hold back everything he thought, he kept a distance. You were the only woman in the company Whiskey didn’t flirt with. “He hates me,” you say sharply to your father, telling him what you really thought Whiskey’s opinion of you was. He complimented every woman around him, but he actively avoided you. When you had talked in the past, it was brief and he had always found an excuse to leave. How else could you take that?

“Prob’ly just jitters around the boss’s girl,” your father drawls, and you want to scream and shout and throw a temper tantrum. “Besides, you both have roles. Neither of you have to be yourself.”

Stopping you before you can launch into a rant, a knock comes at the meeting room door. You look and- speak of the devil- Whiskey peeks his head in, finding you alone in the meeting room. “Sorry. Heard ya talking, you in a meeting?”

Your father laughs as he hears the man’s voice. “Tell him to put on the glasses,” he tells you, only audible through your earpiece. You relay the message to him and once Jack’s glasses are on, he straightens a little, addressing your father. “Good to see you, Whiskey. Just telling Amaretto about the mission,” Champ tells him, and you roll your eyes.

“Right, that mission. Next week?” He asks, clarifying, eyes darting to you briefly before finding your father again.

“You got it.” A knock comes at the meeting room in Kentucky, and your father turns for a moment, then back to the two of you. “Ginger’s callin’. Talk to you later, darlin’, and you too, Whiskey.” He takes off his glasses and the image of him disappears. 

You remove your legs from the table, swiveling your chair and removing your glasses. “How exciting, huh?” You ask dryly, eyes finding Whiskey’s. “The hottest week of the summer and he’s sending us to Alabama to spend a night outside.”

Jack chuckles a little, your sarcasm penetrating through the shield he has up specifically to deflect you. “At the county fair, no less. Couldn’t these idiots set up shop in a refrigerated warehouse?” He sighs, adjusting his hat. 

Tearing your eyes from him, you look out of the impressive window instead. “Sure to be a fun time,” you shake your head. He looks so handsome, and it makes you want to punch something. “Why my father loves to put me in these situations, I’ll never know. He’d never do this to Julep,” you lament. “I must be the expendable kid.”

“Julep is 17,” Whiskey reminds you, raising a brow. “You’re the only one of age, and you’re probably the only competent one too. He showed me a video of Rosé at the gun range and good Lord, how the hell did a man like that birth something so clumsy?”

“Why do you know so much about my sisters?” You ask him, tilting your head. 

“Your father never shuts up about ‘em. He shows them off constantly,” he shrugs. “Shows us videos, pictures. Even knew plenty about you before you came.” You raise an eyebrow at that, and he shakes his head quickly. “Barely anything personal. Hell, I don’t know your real name. He’s never called you or your sisters anything but your nicknames.”

You stand, gathering the folder you brought into the room with you. “Well, that’s a comfort. I’m not Champ’s daughter, I’m Agent Amaretto, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it,” you say, your voice slipping away from sharp and into flirtation. Whiskey’s deadpan slips into a smile and you press the folder into his chest as you walk past him, and out of the room. The smile grows wider as he turns to follow you.

-

Whiskey was right. It’s the hottest week of the summer, the August heat making you feel sticky and swollen, and you’re in Alabama. Disgusting. You look in the mirror and groan as you look at yourself. You were told that you and Jack need to blend into the atmosphere of the county fair, and you sighed. 

The past week, the two of you had prepped for your mission, slowly melting the thick layer of ice that subdued both your crush and his flirtation. He had slowly slipped into his regular self around you, which you didn’t notice. You didn’t know the real him. You had become more of yourself too; less sharp, more smiles, even a few laughs at his terrible southern euphemisms and adages. He finally called you darlin’ and sugar and sweet thing, and you felt your face warm more than it should. You let your walls down by the time you got on the plane, joking around with him and making actual conversation. During the flight, the two of you had enjoyed picking cover names, deciding on Beau and Jolene Pruitt, a newly married couple. Both were native Alabamians with thick drawls, not that it would be out of character for Jack.

Getting to wear casual clothing around that man excited you far more than it should, and you had spent a stupid amount of time picking out something that would fit in but also look nice. The wardrobe women had packed you plenty of options to mix and match from, and you settled on something that seemed to be a mix between your cover and yourself. You wore short denim cutoffs, ripped and distressed, with cowboy boots to match. You also wore a white tank top and a red, white, and blue flannel, either to be worn open or tied around your waist. A large gold cross pendant rested on your cleavage, as many women around here similarly had. It was imperative that neither you nor Whiskey could be recognized, and you had been given a wig of thick hair the opposite of your natural color, plaited into two French braids that were long and ended around your waist. No mission was complete without your gold, wire-rimmed Statesman glasses. 

You have to admit, you enjoy this look, minus the gaudy jewelry. You get to show off a little bit more than you normally would, and you secretly hope Whiskey may up his flirtation with you. You’re recognizable to someone who would know you, but the change of hair color and the glasses are a solid cover-up. You snap a picture in the mirror, sending it off to the ladies in the wardrobe department.  you ladies spoil me- I love getting to look cute for a change!

The women reply a moment later with a picture of all of them. You’re always cute, sugar! Show that man what he’s missing!

So, maybe you had confided to the wardrobe ladies that you found Jack attractive. Who didn’t? They agreed, but all showered you with attention and insisted you should make a move on this mission. You had said no, but they had hounded you over and over until you told them yes. It was a lie, but they didn’t need to know that.

A knock comes at your hotel door, and you smile before you can stop yourself. You force yourself to drop it, tossing one of the braided tails over your shoulder, and open the door. “Well there, Beau,” you drawl as you see Whiskey, but you stop and laugh a little as you scan his body. 

His reaction is the exact same, after a brief scan of your outfit. You both break into laughter. Jack is wearing cowboy boots, jeans, a white t-shirt, and a flannel with a different pattern but the same colors- red, white, and blue. “Stealing my thunder with the outfit, I see. Are you going to put your costume on or what?” You ask teasingly, and he shakes his head. 

“Believe it or not, Jolene, this is my costume. Seems the only different thing about being Beau is my name.” He grins wide at you, adjusting his similarly gold-rimmed aviators that rest beneath his classic Stetson. 

You shake your head but smile. “Why am I not surprised?” You tease, turning and grabbing your phone and the large bulletproof purse you’d be carrying tonight. “The ladies in the wardrobe department are going to love this,” you chuckle, and then freeze for a second. 

They did this on purpose. 

Whiskey has the same thought as you. He had confided in the ladies in the wardrobe department that he found you absolutely stunning but unattainable, due to the fact that your father was the control of his… everything. They had chattered excitedly, telling him that he should make his move on the mission too. He had done the exact same as you- said yes, but as an appeasement. “Well, they sure are. We’ll have to get someone to take a picture of us while we’re there.”

You nod, your heart skipping a beat at the fact that he wants a photo of this. It’s just for the mission, of course, you tell yourself and brush it off. “Oh, and that’ll be perfect cover. Of course these two would want a photo taken of them. We can do it right in front of the marks- better yet, we can ask them to take the picture,” you chuckle happily and sling the heavy purse over your body. 

“Or we can take a picture now,” he chuckles, nodding to the mirror you just took a picture in a moment ago.

“Sure,” you nod and lead him over to it. “Uh… smile?” You laugh and hold out your flannel for the photo. Jack makes finger guns and gives the camera a seductive face in the mirror, making you laugh. “Jesus, I thought you were the smooth agent.”

“Smoother than you. You’re smooth like a gravel road in a dry spell, look at that pose,” he says and zooms in on the picture. “Pose like you have some confidence in that pretty little head, honey,” he teases. “Copy me.” He makes the same pose, and you mimic it, taking a picture before bursting out laughing. “Much better,” he nods as he looks at the image. “Better send me that,” he nudges your side before walking to the door. “Well, Jo, let’s get this show on the road.” Smiling at the picture, you send the image to the wardrobe ladies. very subtle, Charlotte! You fire off before pocketing your phone and following him along. “Aw, Jo and Beau,” you coo, your personas snapping into place as soon as you leave the hotel room, clutching his arm. 

The two of you meander down through the hotel, finding your way to the parking lot. You break away from him to sit in the Bronco (of course he brought it) but you find yourself missing the contact of your arms intertwined. It’s probably for the best though, you think to yourself. If you have to keep touching him all night, it’s quite possible the Alabama heat may melt whatever’s left of the iceberg you’ve built to hold back your crush on him. 

-

A man bumps into you, and Whiskey is at your defense before you can defend yourself. “Watch it, cowboy,” Jack fires back, his hand resting on the small of your back. You smile up at him, practically making heart eyes. It looks in character, and you’re glad for that, but it’s entirely you. 

“My hero,” you giggle and place your hand on his chest. 

“Just for you, sugar,” he says sweetly and you beam up at him. He looks around, as you do, but the two of you rest there. It’s hot, unbearably, but yet you enjoy the contact your body makes with his. Both of you wear your flannels around your waist, allowing your grip on his arm to hold his strong muscles directly. It’s definitely enjoyable. “You hungry, honey?” He asks. 

You have to admit, you haven’t eaten much today, mainly out of nerves for the mission. But everything is going just swimmingly: you have eyes on the target, have a plan to infiltrate them later, and are now just biding time to seem normal. “I… yeah, I am,” you nod and look up at him. “How ‘bout some cotton candy?”

“Now, darlin’, if you’re hungry, that ain’t gonna do the trick,” he says and raises an eyebrow, removing his aviators and hooking them on his collar. “This is the county fair, for cryin’ out loud. Let’s get you something deep fried.” You nod in agreement and the two of you wander over to a stand selling various deep-fried atrocities. You smile and chuckle, letting him order for the two of you. The vendor hands you each a ridiculously large corn dog, and you laugh. 

The smell of the food makes your stomach growl. “Oh god, I didn’t realize just how hungry I was,” you moan as you bite into the food, your thick accent dropping. “Good choice, babe,” you tell him, smiling at how easily it comes. 

“I know you, sugar,” he teases, leading you to a picnic table where he sits across from you, munching on his own. No one else is around here, allowing you to speak freely. “Really, I do. I found out your real name the other day,” he says with a smile, and you nearly choke on the breading, halfway down your throat. He finally says your name aloud, drawing it out, making it sound like it’s coated in honey and dripping with flirtation.

You look down at your food, biting your lip. “Who told you that?” you ask, still staring down.

Jack chuckles at that, ignoring the question. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he teases, and you chuckle, shaking your head. The flirtation is much better than the stone-cold silence before a week ago, but it doesn’t do anything for the growing crush you have on the man. “Champ must’ve known you’d be a stunner.”

“Have you heard of nominative determinism?” you ask as you look up, tilting your head and twirling one of the long braids of your wig around your finger. The words sound funny with the thick accent you’re putting on. Whiskey shakes his head. “It’s this theory that your name shapes who you become. So, if you said that my name was chosen for beauty, I would grow to become my name, so I’d be beautiful.” He nods a little at that. “Do you believe in that kind of thing?” you ask him genuinely, tilting your head and taking another bite of the corn dog. 

“Clearly,” he chuckles through a mouthful of food before swallowing it. “Your name is pretty, you’re pretty. Someone has a name with a bad reputation, they become it.”

“Your mama named you Jack Daniels, you become Agent Whiskey,” you tease with a growing smile, accentuating that drawl that you’ve perfectly picked up from your father and the mustached man in front of you. “I’ve thought about that a lot with you. Did they assign you that name because of your name? My dad never talked about work with us before I became an agent.”

Whiskey shakes his head at you but does give a laugh. “Prob’ly, just thought it’d be funny, I ‘spose. They needed a new Agent Whiskey anyway, I believe. Last one died or retired, they never told me. Filling the vacancy while making a pun out of it. Your father has a sense of humor, doesn’t he? ‘S sure great at givin’ nicknames.”

You shake your head at that. “Don’t I know it. He’s been calling me Amaretto since I could give him sass back. Told me I was a little bitter, just like the word means in Italian. Julep’s too sweet, Rosé is a mix of gentle and bold. No one calls us by our real names unless we’re in trouble,” you chuckle. “You should hear my mama shout when Julep gets in trouble. She nearly shakes the house, and Julep likes to avoid it by pretending she can’t hear her. She’ll hide in her room, and my mama just shouts and shouts until the neighbors come over to make sure the family’s all still alive. It’s in a loving way, of course, nothing bad.” You shake your head, clearing the topic from yourself. “But it’s like your mama knew you’d get into something with alcohol. That’s odd.”

Jack chuckles and takes the last bite of his food. He doesn’t respond, just cleans up his little area and waits for you to be done, watching you with his chin resting in his palm. You smile as you notice that, looking away, and he does too. The two of you stand and walk along again. He offers his hand, to hold it, and you take it. You’re not entirely sure that he did that as Beau, and you’re certain you didn’t take his hand as Jolene.

Walking through the midway, you catch your mark out of the corner of your eye. “Go time,” you murmur to the man, dropping his hand. “Sir,” you ask and pat the man’s shoulder as he walks past. He stops and you shoot him a cheesy, massive grin. “Hi there, would you mind takin’ a picture for my husband and I?”

The man nods. “Sure, ma’am. Where do you-”

“Oh wonderful. Here,” you say and position the man, handing him your phone, then move back to stand by Jack. “Beau, honey, here,” you say as you position the two of you for the camera. You wrap his arm around your waist and place your hand on his chest, grinning ear to ear. He’s doing the same.

“How ‘bout this?” he asks, swooping you up and holding you bridal style. 

You squeal into his ear, laughing. You almost call him by his real name but stop yourself. “Beau, quit!” You giggle and smack his chest teasingly, playing along with it and smiling for the photo. He lets you down only to pick you up again, hoisting you onto his back, piggyback style. Finding no other choice, you wrap your arms and legs around him, and he rests his hands on your thighs to hold you up. “Beau Pruitt!” You exclaim, emphasizing the words, hoping that the man taking your photos registers the name, knowing it’s not someone threatening. He’d probably take your phone and run if he heard you call the man holding you up by his real name. 

He finally lets you down and you thank the man, taking the phone back and continuing to walk along, naturally lacing your fingers through Jack’s. “What was that?” you ask lowly, smiling despite the pretend annoyance in your voice.

“Playin’ the part, sugar,” he shrugs and smiles at you. As you wander through the midway, Jack’s eye catches on a brightly colored, massive teddy bear hanging from the rafters. When Jack gets a plan, he goes all in. “You know what, honey, if this is to be a proper date, I am gonna win you a teddy bear,” he chuckles, grabbing his wallet.

You quickly push the hand holding his wallet down. “Don’t be ridiculous, babe. I don’t need a teddy bear,” you laugh.

“I am takin’ you on a date to the county fair. It’s only fitting that I win you a teddy bear!” He argues back, laughing. He hands a bill to the attendant, earning him quite a few balls to toss at the stacked milk jugs. “Here we go. This is for the big, tie-dye one up there,” he declares before hurling a ball. 

It hits the top jug and Jack winces. “Ah fuck. Bad shoulder,” he chuckles, picking up another.

“Then why the hell are you doing this, Beau?” you ask, catching yourself before you can call him Jack and holding down his arm. “I don’t need the teddy bear!”

“I already paid the attendant,” he chuckles and leans in to your face, taunting you. He uses your distraction to slip his arm from your grasp, throwing it and hitting the second row of bottles. “Hell yeah!” Jack crows excitedly, arms in the air. You laugh at his excitement and decide to let it happen. He throws three more balls before he knocks down the whole final row, whooping excitedly. “That one, if you please,” he tells the attendant and points to the large bear hanging from the ceiling of the booth. The attendant takes it down and hands it to him, and he promptly hands it to you, beaming. “For you, my dear,” he says, pride radiating from him.

“I love it,” you laugh and hug the massive bear to your chest, kissing its forehead. “I think I’ll name him… Whiskey.” He grins at that and takes your hand again, leading you through the crowd.

-

The rest of the night passes more like a date would than a mission. You and Jack converse happily, simply avoiding real names but talking like you would between friends. His hand rests in yours the whole night, and you enjoy it. The sun begins to go down and the humidity lessens, as does the stifling heat. It’s almost cool now; the both of you wear your flannels properly now, unbuttoned in the front. You munch contently on some cotton candy you finally convinced Jack to buy, even feeding him some to further your ruse. Sighing, you look around and take in the absolute perfection that is this tiny county fair. The sunset is beautiful and the lights of the carnival section are starting to come on. You start to speak until you hear a too-familiar voice through your earpiece.

“Amaretto, Whiskey. They set up shop in the pig barn, but they’re at their most vulnerable. Time to move.” You both groan as you hear your father’s voice. You look down at your interlocked hands between the two of you, then up quickly, remembering. Your father can see what you see with these glasses on. His voice comes in through your earpiece alone now. “See, I told ya it wouldn’t be so bad to spend a little time with Whiskey. I’ve noticed you’re not hating it.”

You shake your head and pull out your earpiece, tucking it in your pocket and murmuring a curse to your father. Jack notices and you simply shrug. “Wasn’t working right. You’re gonna have to relay the messages for me.”

He nods then pauses, listening. He chuckles and turns to you. “He says to put it back in, he knows you can hear him just fine.” You groan and put it back in with a frown. “Next time you want to have family dinner, count on one less plate,” you hiss through the piece, making both Jack and your father laugh. “Whatever, get us to the pig barn then.” Your father guides the two of you through your mission. They’re indeed at their weakest, just four men loading their van with their backs to you. Luckily, they’re the four that Statesman wants. You and Whiskey each easily take out two, leaving them tranquilized on the ground. “Pops, they’re good. Send in the recon van.” A few moments later, the van rushes in through the utility door, and two recon members load the men into the van. You and Whiskey give them a nod, smiling at them and thanking them before leaving the barn.

The voice comes through on just your earpiece again. “Take the rest of the night off. I know you want to.” 

He’s right, you do want to, and so for once, you listen to your damn father. “The rest of the night is up to us,” you say as you turn to Whiskey, removing your earpiece and your glasses and putting them in your bag. You reach for his earpiece, taking it out too, both of you almost shivering at the contact of your wrist to his cheek as you take it out. Jack catches your palm and plants a kiss to it and you grin. “Would you like to stick around, maybe go on some rides?” you ask and put away his earpiece before sliding your hand into his. “As Whiskey and Amaretto?”

Jack grins at you. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

The rest of the evening is spent on rides and eating ice cream, getting squished into Jack’s side on the Scrambler and flipped around on the Slingshot. You both laugh practically all night, overjoyed. You check your watch and look up excitedly, eyes lighting. “The fireworks are gonna go off in ten minutes.” You look at the wait for the ferris wheel- it’s about as long. “Let’s go on the ferris wheel to watch it.”

Jack nods. “Whatever you say, sugar,” he nods, lagging for a moment as you start to run to the next ride, then catching up and pulling you into his chest, kissing your head. You laugh at the feeling of being trapped in his arms and wrap your arms around him too, allowing the bear hug to last a moment longer than it should.

The both of you wait in line for a few minutes, continuing the conversation you’d been having before.

The line eventually shortens enough for the two of you to get on, and you sit, hands on the lap bar. Whiskey sits next to you, draping his arm across your shoulders. You look up at him and smile, scooting into his side. You give a little whoop of excitement as the ride starts moving, and you jump at a loud bang.

You timed it perfectly.

The sky lights with different colors, a variety of fireworks lighting off and illuminating the dark night sky. The stars are clear all the way out here, in the middle of Alabama, and you beam at the image. You pull out your phone to snap some pictures but Jack holds your hand down. “The pictures never do it justice, darlin’. Just look up at those and remember ‘em real hard.” Laughing softly, you rest your head on Jack’s shoulder as you watch. It’s stunning, absolutely gorgeous, and you look at Jack for a moment to find he’s not watching the sky, but has his eyes trained on your face, watching your reaction.

The moment is perfect. He can handle the rejection, he decides, if he has to, but he has to move now. “Can I kiss you, Amaretto?” He murmurs quietly, his face already moving close to yours. You give an answer in the form of a gesture: taking his face in your hands and closing the gap. The kiss is perfect, his soft lips tasting of the cotton candy you finally persuaded him to buy a few hours ago.

He sighs softly, his hand finding the side of your face as well. He breaks away for a moment and looks at your lovely face, grinning at the way your eyes reflect only his face, the dark night sky, and the colorful fireworks. “I think your pops named you wrong. Furthest thing from bitter. You’re the sweetest, most perfect thing I ever did taste,” he drawls before closing the space again, pressing his lips to yours. Your heart pounds in time with the bursts in the sky, erratic and loud, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re finally kissing the man you’ve been crushing on since the moment your father introduced you to the Statesman.

A particularly loud firework startles you and you jump, breaking your kiss and grinning at him, the adrenaline from both the scare and the kiss pounding its way through your body. You look at him and want to say something but can’t find the words. You simply giggle and look into his eyes, making him laugh too. You sit there for a moment, laughing, while the ferris wheel stays stationary. As it moves, you cling to his chest again, looking up and beaming at him. “Kiss me again, cowboy,” you demand, and he chuckles.

“Any time, sugar,” he says with a smile as he takes your chin in his hand and kisses you again.

[duskholland]

The Fame Game (Part Five) || Tom Holland

Summary ↠ You have a mishap with a washing machine, Harrison’s a bowling prodigy, and Tom... Well, Tom is actually quite nice..?

Warnings ↠ Alcohol consumption, reckless washing machine usage

Word count ↠ 4.6k

A/N ↠ And with this part, we’re officially halfway through the fic...? Omg. Crazy crazy. I decided to give you a fairly soft chapter before I start messing things up in parts six-eight, so you’ve been warned haha. As always, thanks so much to everyone that’s been reading and enjoying the story - means the absolute world to me. Enjoy! :D

FIVE: I Wanna Hold Your Hand (Y)

Your trip to London is going well until you have a little mishap with Tom’s washing machine.

It’s not your fault, really. You’d been all over the place - press engagement here, fake date there - and you hadn’t been thinking as you’d shoved your brand new, freshly-worn red dress into the machine, alongside a collection of Tom’s favourite white t-shirts. It hadn’t even dawned on you what you’d managed to do until you heard a very loud, disgruntled yelp come from the laundry room.

“What’s wrong?” You yell reluctantly, voice echoing through the large house. You’re very comfortable where you are - burrowed beneath a heap of blankets and cushions on Tom and Harrison’s squishy sofa in the living room. You’re a week into your visit, and it’s safe to say you have made yourself at home. 

“Y/N! Do you not understand how a washing machine works?!” It’s Harrison. Immediately you feel trepidation creeping into your veins. “Come here!” 

Shuffling guiltily, you slowly make your way to the laundry room. When you enter, you gasp as you see Harrison holding up a shirt you recognise immediately as Tom’s, stained a nice, bright pink.

“Oh no,” you mutter. Your hands fly up to your face. “Are they all like that?”

Harrison nods, humming. For all the irritation of his yell, he’s looking at you with an amused smirk on his face. “Seems like you’ll need to do a bit of grovelling. I’m just glad they’re all Tom’s, and not mine.”

You pinch at the bridge of your nose. “Great,” you mutter. “This is fantastic.”

You take a bottle of water as your peace offering to Tom, who’s out in the back garden messing around with a punching bag. When he sees you, he pauses his punches, throwing out a toothy grin in your direction. He’s shirtless, lower half wrapped in a pair of black basketball shorts, and he looks quite nice with his face flushed a rosy red and his brown curls thrown in every direction.

“Hi,” Tom calls out, stopping his assault on the punching bag. “You alright?”

You manage a tight-lipped smile as you pass him the bottle. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Are you?”

Tom looks at you sceptically, raising a ruffled eyebrow. “Are you sure?” He questions. “You look a bit… stressed.”

You deflate. It’s as if he can see right through you. “Fine,” you admit. “I did something bad, and you’re going to be annoyed with me, but before I tell you what it was, I want you to know that it was an accident and I feel horrible about it, okay?”

Tom tilts his head, laughing nervously. “Is it as bad as the time you told Ellen I was the worst celebrity in Hollywood?” You shake your head profusely, gnawing your lower lip. Guilt sweeps across you, but you’re too nervous to focus on that now. “Then it’s fine, Y/N. Just tell me what happened.”

It’s odd - how quickly your relationship has broken down into something so much gentler. When you’d stepped off the plane and tumbled into Tom’s arms a week ago, you’d been full to the brim with apprehension about your trip. But he’s managed to ease you at every point - offering you tea, a nice bed, and unlimited time with his dog Tessa (who really might be your favourite Holland now). He hasn’t goaded you, or teased you, or pushed you too far. Part of you wants to know what’s changed, what’s catalysed his change of heart, but a larger piece of you doesn’t want to open up that dialogue for fear of him turning it onto you.

Tom’s being nice to you, and without any digging comments to respond to, you’re being nice in return. It really is that frustratingly simple. The residual tension and anger that has been a part of your relationship for so long have dipped beneath the surface, and whilst you still feel them somewhere, bubbling away, your relationship feels looser. 

Things between you are tender. Breakable and fragile, but like a tentative new beginning. You’re almost friends now - which is why you are so annoyed that you might’ve fucked it all up with one stupid mistake.

“I mixed colours in the washing machine and stained all of your shirts,” you blurt out. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

Tom takes a moment to process this, his face pinching into an expression of irritation. “All of them?” He repeats, his accent pronounced. 

“All of them that were in the washing machine,” you mutter, kicking at the ground. “Maybe ten.”

His jaw flexes, and you prepare yourself for a harsh insult or a snarky comment. You haven’t heard any recently, but you can almost imagine it, your mind familiar with his chide remarks.

Tom releases a breath. “It’s fine,” he says finally, defying all of your expectations. “Mistakes happen.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m really sorry,” you emphasise. You watch as Tom flicks off the lid of the bottle and starts to chug the water, using his other hand to card through his messy brown strands. His sweaty hair sticks to his fingers.

“It’s fine,” he repeats. Tom even throws in a bit of a smile to ease you. “I need new shirts, anyway.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Even better if you’re the one paying.”

You roll your eyes, releasing a breath of relief. “I knew you were only dating me for the money,” you tease, gasping dramatically. “You’re just a gold digger!” 

Tom clutches a hand to his heart, and you find your gaze briefly flittering over the defined lines of his muscular chest.

“I can’t believe you listened to those rumours about me,” he responds, his voice equally as performative as yours. “I thought you were better than this!” 

You descend into a round of giggles together, and Tom’s deep, hearty laughs are like music to your ears.

The following day, you find yourself walking down Carnaby Street, hand wrapped in Tom’s. Your other arm carries an array of heavy shopping bags. Despite halving your purchases with Tom, the bags weigh heavily on your arm, the tight lines of the handles pinching at your skin.

But you don’t care - not really. You’re too busy listening to Tom as he tells you about the last time he’d been down this street - last Christmas, with his brother Paddy, apparently.

“-Yeah, so that’s how he bullied me into spending five hundred quid on his present,” Tom finishes, pausing as you laugh. “He’s such a sneak.”

“Paddy seems nice,” you say. You’ve got a broad smile on your face as the warm spring sun beats down across your skin. It’s the first properly sunny day since you arrived in London, and it feels like the sun’s come out, just for you. “Your whole family seem lovely, actually.”

“Harry’s a bit of a twat,” Tom says, “But the rest of them are alright.” There’s a brief pause, and you glance over to see him looking at the ground, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looks up at you, nerves visibly in his eyes. “Would you want to meet them?”

You swallow back the apprehensive lump that forms in your throat. “Your family?” 

“Well, my parents and Paddy. You’ve met the others already. We’re planning on going bowling tomorrow night if you want to come with us.”

“You’d want me to meet your family?” 

Tom shrugs. “Yeah. They want to meet you.”

Your eyes widen, and you stop walking. Around you, shoppers and families pass you by, trailing up and down the busy shopping high street. Tom pauses, turning to face you, his thumb brushing casually across the back of your hand as he stares at you curiously.

“Don’t they hate me?” You ask tentatively. You both know why his family might think of you unfondly. Your family certainly doesn't view Tom in a positive light. 

Tom shakes his head, a bit of an awkward expression curling over his face. It gets uncomfortable now whenever your past is brought up. It seems both of you would rather skate around the topic than address it. You know avoidance is a bad idea, but pretending your relationship wasn’t built on resentment and crossed wires is easier than addressing the elephant in the room. Whenever you think about your history, it makes you feel angry - there are a lot of unforgiven sins hiding there, but you’re trying to bury them. You’re trying desperately to move on, but you can feel them following behind you like an anchor you don’t want to acknowledge yet. You can’t quite shake the feeling that this tactic of avoidance may, eventually, blow up in your face. 

“They’d like to meet you. You’re going to be a part of my life for the next three months, Y/N, and… And I’d like to think we are, uh, sort of friends now.”

You nervously bite at your lower lip, giving him a soft nod. “Yeah. We’re friends,” you confirm, mouthing the word tentatively. Friends sound nice, and your smile grows in strength when he squeezes your hand tighter. “I’ll come tomorrow. Thank you.”

Tom steps nearer, and surprises you by pressing his lips to your cheek. The skin warms at his touch, and you end up with a stupid grin on your face when he steps back.

“Thanks, Y/N. You’ll have a good time, I promise.”

And you just about believe him.

You’re glad that your days are filled with interviews and press junkets, because your nerves about spending the evening with Tom’s family still manage to build up, even with a thousand other things on your mind to distract you. It reaches the point where Harrison offers to tag along too, just so you have someone else to cling onto if it all goes awry. 

“You’re being a bit ridiculous about this,” Harrison mutters. You’re leaning up against the counter of the desks at the bowling alley, waiting on your bowling shoes. He’d come to pick you up from your last interview, and together you’d come to meet with Tom and his family at the alley. 

“I’m not being ridiculous,” you reply, eyebrows arching. You kneel on the floor, your fingers nervously unpicking your laces. “I just want to make a good impression. Is that so bad?”

Harrison joins you, the ring on his finger glinting as he starts undoing the straps of his shoes. “No,” he agrees, “But you really don’t have to be this cut up about it. They’ll love you.” He glances up at you, blue eyes glinting sceptically. “Since when do you care, anyway? I thought you don’t like Tom.”

You release a shuddering breath, shaking your head slightly as you stare at the patterned carpet. “Tom’s fine,” you find yourself saying. You stand up quickly, head spinning as you grab your shoes and place them on the counter. You rest on your elbow and look back to Harrison, who’s looking at you with an annoying smirk on his mouth. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You guys bought matching shoes,” Harrison states it like a fact as he reaches up to poke the toe of your new shoes. “I saw the same pair on him earlier.” 

You bite at your lower lip, shrugging. “We went shopping together. He took some of my fashion tips.” You don’t like the direction the conversation is taking, so reach out to elbow Harrison. “Tom’s finally recognised that I’m far more fashionable than him.”

Before your friend can respond, the bowling attendant returns with your bowling shoes and the conversation is swept away, just as your new white Converse get hurried back and shoved in a cubby. Harrison changes the subject as you both slip on the squeaky bowling shoes, and then he’s leading you up to the end of the bowling alley, where Tom and his family are waiting for you. 

Your first impression of the complete Holland family is their volume. They are loud, even as they’re split across two low, plastic bowling benches. Three either side, all six meeting in the middle with their voices clamouring together. Even as you and Harrison approach and you’re spotted, the conversation simply escalates - the topic of chat seeming to be which brother can lay out the most prominent greeting. It’s almost overwhelming, and Harrison seems to sense that as he’s quick to reach up and give you a discreet pat on the shoulder.

“Hello, everyone,” Harrison greets, exchanging a fist bump with Harry. You linger back, not entirely sure of your place within the fold until Tom’s mum rises from the bench and greets you with a kiss on the cheek.

“So good to meet you, Y/N,” she says warmly. “I’m Nikki, this is Dom, and that’s Paddy. You’ve met the rest of this noisy lot, I think?” Her eyes twinkle with comfort, and you feel yourself exhale.

There’s an exchange of pleasantries for a few minutes, and once you let go of the fear that Tom’s parents and younger brother might have gone into the meeting with chips on their shoulders, you’re able to relax. You end up gravitating towards Tom, who’s stayed sitting down on the bench, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watches the scene unfold. Tonight he’s in a black t-shirt and a chequered shirt, wrapped up in a pair of tight black jeans. Instinctively, your eyes skim around the rest of the alley, and you note the way you’ve already been spotted by a group of young men a few aisles down. 

“Hi,” you say, voice soft. Your lips spin into a smile as you meet his eyes. “We’ve already been recognised.”

Tom’s eyes lose a little of their shine, but he opens up his arms and tilts his head towards the empty spot beside him. “C’mere,” he urges, and you’re quick to comply.

It’s easy, now, to slip into your role as Tom’s girlfriend. It’s almost second nature as you sit beside him and let him wrap an arm across your shoulders, and it feels normal as he kisses your temple and squeezes you closer. It feels nice.

“Hey.” Harry’s drifting over before you can get too comfortable, his nose scrunching up. “You guys aren’t on the same team. Y/N, you’re on the wrong bench.”

Tom releases a deep sigh, and the vibrations rumble across you. “Harry, lay off it,” he mutters. 

Harry just crosses his arms over his chest, sharpening his gaze. “No. Y/N’s on my team, and I want us to win. That means none of this is allowed to take place,” he drags his finger between you and Tom, and you chuckle. 

“Are you competitive, Harry?” You ask him, already shrugging off Tom’s arm.

“Definitely.”

“Good.” You stand up, grinning at Tom’s younger brother. “Me too.”

But before you can walk away, Tom’s grabbing at your hand and pulling you back, standing as he brings the back of your palm up to nudge against his lips. He meets your eyes, his gaze swirling with something indistinguishable, and your skin feels warm in each place he kisses. He’s still a respectful distance, given how close you are to his family, but he kisses your cheek before whispering into your ear, “There’s no chance you’re winning this, Y/N. Game on.” He pulls back to smirk at you mischievously, and you chuckle in response.

“Game on indeed, Thomas.”

You’re not trying to be mean, but you do think the division of the teams is slightly unfair. On Tom’s side is him, Harrison, Sam and Nikki - facing off against you, Harry, Dom and Paddy. It goes well for the first few rounds, and you’re keeping up evenly with Harrison, who’s quite the proficient bowler, but you have a loose cannon in the way of Paddy. You’d decided to play without the guard railings lining the lane, and you sit through round after round of him tossing the bowling ball straight into the gutter. 

When it reaches round eight and your team is down fifty points, you decide to offer him some pointers. 

“Have you thought about twisting it- no, more like this?” You’re standing up beside Paddy, staring down at the lane together. The ten pins at the end glisten beneath the fluorescent lighting, highlighted a bright, winning blue. You’re itching to grab the ball from his hands and throw it yourself, but you’re trying to play nice. 

“More to the right?” The youngest Holland asks, looking up at you inquisitively. 

“Yeah. And when you’re throwing it, try to look at the pins. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

“Eyes on the prize,” he repeats slowly. Paddy steels himself with a deep breath, and you shoot him a reassuring smile.

“Go on, champ,” you encourage, stepping aside. You can feel the eyes of the group on the two of you, and give him a wide berth as Paddy approaches the line. You watch him play around with the heavy ball, weighing up his options, and then your breath hitches as you watch him implement some of your pointers. He moves fast - arm swinging, hair flicking, and then…

Strike.

A round of cheers goes up around the benches, and Paddy turns to you, ecstatic. “Did you see you?” He boasts, face flushing with a proud grin. “Look what I just did!” 

You walk over, meeting him in with a big high five as you beam. “Well done,” you congratulate. Paddy runs off to his family, and Tom wanders over, next in line to take his shot. Beneath the UV light, he’s glowing. The tips of his teeth gleam a weird blue as he smiles widely at you. “You see that?” You say, teasing, “That’s what I call star power. My team may lose, but I take full credit for nurturing such a young talent.”

Tom laughs, the sound deep and hearty, and with the hand that isn’t holding a bowling ball, he reaches out and rests it your shoulder. His fingers feel warm against your shirt, and as you drift nearer to him, the comfortable scent of his cologne tickles your nose.

“Quite impressive, I have to admit,” he concedes. “We’re still going to beat you, though.”

You shrug happily. “Whatever.” You lull into the comfortable thought that you don’t really care about the outcome of the match - it’s just nice to be spending so much time around so many good people. “Bring your best, Holland. I’d like to see you try to win.”

“A round of drinks for the losers, as promised.” 

It’s with a sombre tone that you walk back to the booth, three pints of beer balanced precariously in your hands. Harry trails behind you, grasping two. As you place the large glasses down on the sticky pub table, some beer sloshes down your fingers, causing you to screw up your nose as you shake it off.

“Cheers,” Sam says, voice dancing with amusement. Harry slams a glass in front of him, eyeing him hard.

“I still don’t believe the machine worked right,” Harry mutters. He slips into the booth beside Harrison. “There’s no way you guys won with mum on your team.” 

Harrison scoffs. “Stop being such a sore loser!” He exclaims, poking at Harry’s side. “We won fair and square. Have some grace and respect for yourself and get over it.”

Harry opens his mouth as if to respond, but you reach down to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “We’ll get them next time.”

He nods, eyes determined. “Definitely.”

You realise you’re still standing at the end of the table, and look to the bench on your left. With Harry, Sam and Harrison crammed there, your only option is to slip down into the booth next to Tom, who’s making quick work of his pint. He quirks an eyebrow as he sees you staring, eyes shifting suggestively at the free spot beside him until you sit next to him. 

As conversation picks up around the table, Tom rests an easy hand over the back of the booth, the tips of his fingers coming down to rest over your hair. Time slips by and he plays around absently with a few strands of your hair, shifting it around, fiddling with it - never hard enough to hurt, but present enough for you to feel it. In response, you rest a hand on his knee.

It’s interesting to observe Tom as the night draws on. He’s got several quirky characteristics to him that you’d never been aware of before. You realise he’s actually quite funny - always exchanging small sarcastic quips here and there with Harry and Harrison - but he also seems to know where the line is. When the conversation grows darker and Sam opens up about something close to him, Tom leans nearer, eyes full of concern and love for his brother. He speaks in soft, warming tones that you’ve never heard before, and they’re like assuring melodies to your heart. 

It’s interesting to see him show such care and consideration towards other people, because for so long, those qualities had been absent when it came to his interactions with you. You wonder if that was just because you’d been a dick towards him and he’d retaliated, or if maybe there’s always been something else hanging in the air between you - the type of emotion that doesn’t come out around family or friends.

As you relax by his side, Tom shows you many redeemable qualities, hidden away so close to the surface that you’re surprised you’d never seen them before. Your only explanation is that before - before this trip, and truly getting to know him - you’d been too reactive to notice them. Your past conversations had been coloured very differently, and you wonder how much of your history would be different if you’d seen this version of Tom, all those years ago, at the BAFTAs. The thought irks you, and you can’t help but think that you’ve wasted so much time fighting with him when you could’ve been chatting, easily like this, as friends.

“Excuse me? Hi?” 

You’re slightly tipsy as you look up to the side, realising you’ve been approached by a few people who look at you and Tom like they’re fans. You’ve inched closer to him, with his arm wrapped around your shoulders and your side snuggled up against him. You think it must be quite convincing, how much you look like a real couple.

“Hello,” Tom says, tilting his head to look at them. You can’t see him, but you can almost feel the perplexed smile on his lips.

“Um, sorry, this is probably really weird. We just saw you guys and wanted to say that you’re a really cute couple.” The fan looks at her friend, and they giggle together. “Are you guys planning on getting married? I think it’d be, like, the best wedding ever.”

Across the booth, you watch as Harry whispers something into Harrison’s ear that makes them both laugh. You throw a scowl towards them before looking back to the fans, taking Tom’s silence as a window for you to respond.

“Not at the moment,” you tell them sweetly. “We’re just seeing how it goes.”

You omit to tell them that in three months, you won’t even still be ‘dating’ Tom. You try not to think about how that fact rests uneasily in your chest.

“Aww.” The friends share a few pouts. “Could we get a picture with you both?”

There are a few rounds of photographs, then you come to the group decision that it’s time to pack it in and head home. You’re just glad the interruption came after you’d been in the pub for a few hours and not earlier. It’s always a risk being in public, but you’d assumed you’d be somewhat safe buried in the corner of a small London pub. You should’ve known by now that you can only remain anonymous for so long.

There’s a bit of a walk to the car park, and Harry takes it upon himself to tease you.

“So, where are you guys going on your honeymoon?” He asks, imitating the fan. “How long until you have kids? You’re both so sweet. Couple goals-”

“Shut up, Harry,” Tom grunts. He’s right beside you, your hands tangled up. You exchange an expression of frustrated amusement, and Harry barks out a laugh.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sounding the opposite. “It’s just funny.” He looks back at you, scrunching up his nose as he realises you and Tom are holding hands. “You know there isn’t anyone around out here. You don’t need to pretend.”

Feeling a little embarrassed by how easily and instinctively you’d reached to claim Tom’s hand, you let his fingers fall away. You shiver as the dark London wind whips around you, and your hand feels cold. 

You and Tom walk in sync, trailing behind Harry, Harrison and Sam. There’s a silence between you that feels almost tangible - stretched tight with unspoken words and observations. Eventually, he breaks it.

“It was really nice seeing you with Paddy earlier,” Tom admits. You glance to the side, noting the way his hair has fallen out of the loose gel he’d combed through it earlier. Chestnut curls frame his face - spreading out across his forehead, and you get the sudden urge to card your fingers through the strands. “He likes you.”

“He’s a nice boy,” you reply, smiling. “Got pretty good at bowling after I helped him, too.”

Tom chuckles, nodding. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I try.” There’s a soft silence again, and you nudge his arm. “Thanks for inviting me along,” you say. “It’s been nice getting to know everyone.” 

“Any time.”

It’s cold. It’s really cold. Your hand aches - too used to the warmth of Tom to feel content hanging alone.

“It’s so chilly,” you voice, shivering for effect. Tom glances at you, his brown eyes glowing in the dark. “I think my fingers are going to drop off.”

Tom chuckles, nodding in agreement. “Mine too.” He brings up his hand, flexing his slender fingers. Halfway through the action, he pauses, suddenly gaining a distant look in his eyes. “Do you want to, uh…” He offers you the hand, quirking an eyebrow. “Just if you’re cold, we could..?”

You bite your lip, keeping the smile at bay. “Okay.”

Your fingers tangle together, and the moment you feel his warmth against your palm, you feel better. Tom’s thumb brushes tentatively across the back of your skin, and though you’ve held hands on numerous occasions, this time it feels different.

It feels different because it isn’t forced. You aren’t holding him because you have to - you want to. And that’s the kind of different that would make your head hurt if you weren’t so distracted by the way his touch ignites a glowing warmth in your heart. 

Your hands rest comfortably between you, and Tom leans nearer, tilting his face so he can lay a gentle kiss to your temple. 

“Get warm soon, darling,” he whispers, keeping his mouth near your ear. His breath against your skin makes you shiver. 

Maybe it’s the drink, or the cold air, or the fatigue, but there’s a moment before Tom pulls back that your eyes find the slopes of his lips, and you wonder, briefly, what it’d feel like to kiss him without the eyes of the public resting on you. You wonder if it’d be different, like it is to hold hands now. Would he be gentle? How would it feel to share a kiss like that? 

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when you open them, he’s moved away. Your heart clenches.

“Thanks, Tom.”

↠ NEXT PART 

please let me know what you’re thinking!!!! ask box is open and I am dying to know your thoughts! :D

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[magalidragon]

Okay drabble #2 for @lalacristina18 ‘s ask! Hope you like this one! It’s a little silly and kind of Fixer Upper Fanfiction ( @nlights37 is that a thing? I’m doing it) meets my drabble “wet paint.”

Enjoy!

haunted house | 30. “You better watch yourself”

It was the dumbest thing she had ever done.

Except she felt like she had to do it.

How else was she going to get the cute handyman to ask her out?

"Just ask him out!" her best friend shouted, as she took a crowbar to the siding on her house, prying up the nails. Missandei was used to most of her antics, but she knew this was going too far. She watched, amazed, slightly terrified, and in awe, muttering, "You have gone mental Daenerys."

Maybe she had gone mental, but she was also put off by how attractive the handyman was. He was incredibly sweet. A little goofy; he apologized one day when he showed up in thick black glasses, saying he'd forgotten to put his contacts in before he left the house. She had wondered why someone would apologize for that, but she soon learned that Jon Snow, Handyman Extraordinaire, apologized for quite a few things that were in no way his fault or under his control.

Like when he couldn't get a part in time to fix her hot water tank, because it was a weekend and the store was closed. "No problem, guess I'll see you Monday," she had simply said with a smile and a cheerful glee, because she knew they were closed on the weekend and he'd have to come back Monday.

Or when she had purposefully yanked out some sort of fuse in her car so it wouldn't start and he had apologized that it had gone missing. "Not your fault at all!" Because it's totally my fault and then she'd pretended to find the fuse on the ground. "Will this fix it?"

He frowned at the tiny piece of place and wire. "Um, aye, that's so weird..."

Today she was going to claim there was something wrong with her siding and it needed to be replaced. She dropped the crowbar, wiping sweat off her forehead, and placed her hands on her hips, glancing at Missandei, who was shaking her head side-to-side. "What?"

"Just bloody ask him out! I'll do it for you. You're destroying your house just to get him to come over." She smirked. "He has to know what you're doing. He's just taking your money and knowing you're using him which is wrong, or he's really bloody stupid and that's not great either."

"You haven't met him yet."

"What guy could be so attractive and cute and sweet and all that for you to resort to this!?" Missandei waved her hands at the splintered wood at her feet. She sighed, closing her eyes. "Dany, love, you are my best friend but..."

"Good morning!"

Dany threw the crowbar into the bushes, spinning on her heels and beaming at the man who had poked his head around the open fence to her back garden. She waved. "Hello Jon! Good morning to you!" She rounded on Missandei, who stared at him and smirked knowingly. "You're a little early."

He turned pink, coming around the corner holding onto his toolbox. "Aye, sorry about that, I thought I might get you a coffee..." he trailed off and politely smiled at Missandei. "Oh I am sorry, I would have gotten another....here, you can have mine if you want."

To her best friend's stunned silence, he removed one of the two takeout coffee cups from the tray in his other hand and passed it to her. Missandei swallowed hard, clearing her throat. "Thank you, that's...so nice of you."

He smiled again in his shy, half-smile way that Dany absolutely bloody adored, and turned his face to her. "You called last night and said that your bathroom pipes were leaking again? I don't know what is going on, I mean..." He scratched his hair, brow furrowing, and gazed up at the old-as-shit house she had purchased with intent to completely renovate. "I swear I just fixed those..."

"Oh you did, I'm sure this place is cursed."

"By a Valyrian dragon," Missandei mumbled under her breath.

Dany stepped on her foot and crossed her arms, grinning. "And would you look at this? This siding is rotten, I think we'll need to replace it."

"Um, yes of course." He knelt and picked up some of the wood, shaking his head. "You must have an angry ghost Dany, this looks like someone took a crowbar to it." He was immediately concerned, jumping to his feet. "You should file a police report, someone could be vandalizing your property!"

Missandei sipped her free coffee and mumbled again, not so quietly, "Hmm, someone with silver hair I think."

"What?" Jon asked.

"Ignore her, she's mad." She forced another smile. "It's fine. I...thank you Jon, perhaps look at those pipes first and then we can look at the siding."

"I have wood," he blurted out.

Missandei choked. Dany flushed bright red. "Oh?"

"Hmm, in the truck. Be right back." He turned on his heel and walked away. Dany elbowed her best friend, who stared now at his retreating back.

"Oh my."

"It's beautiful. I just like to look at it."

Missandei patted her arm. "Daenerys you are my best friend, but if you don't ask him out by the end of the day, I'm going to tell him everything you've been doing and only because I'm scared you might set your house on fire just to watch him come running in with the fire hose."

Dany hummed. The idea was appealing, but arson was certainly not an option.

Yet.

---

It was the end of the day; she'd tried her damndest to get him to ask her out. Missandei had left, becaus she claimed she couldn't watch it any longer, proclaiming them both "stupid idiots" and Dany had to agree. She was a stupid idiot, trying to get him to look at her as something other than the crazy lady in the haunted house. She'd worn her bikini top while gardening, she'd broken her siding, and stuffed leaves in her gutters.

And Jon Snow still didn't bloody get it.

Maybe he was stupid, she thought, and watched him bent over some exposed pipes in the hallway leading to the master bedroom. A himbo or something. Except she knew he wasn't, because she'd seen that he had a stack of books in his truck to return to the library, one of which happened to be her brother's boring ass tome on Targaryen History, and he'd eagerly chatted with her about it.

"So why are you a contractor?" she asked. She kept referring to him as a handyman, but reminded herself he was more than that. He ran his own business and lumber yard up in Winterfell. "Do you just like fixing things?"

He shrugged, reaching his arm down into the pipes. "I do like fixing things, but when I got out of the military, nothing really appealed to me. Didn't want a boss again and I like building things. Working on my own terms."

"I like that too." It was why she moved up North, a freelance journalist, and needing a safe quiet space to recharge and focus between assignments. She got up and cleared her throat. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a strange sound. It was a yowl.

It sounded like Drogon, she thought, turning towards the wall. "Drogon?" she called.

He meowed again, pitiful. She moved closer towards the wall and knocked. Her voice trembled, calling once more. "Drogon?"

A light scratching and more yowling.

She screamed, realizing with horror that Drogon was inside the bloody wall. "DROGON!" She banged on the wall, running up the stairs, crying out. "Jon! Drogon's in the wall!"

"What?"

"I think he must have crawled in when we were talking and not looking, oh my gods, Drogon!"

Jon frowned at her, still not moving. He narrowed his eyes. "Drogon's in the wall, huh?"

"I think so."

He cocked his head and got to his feet, sighing hard. "Dany, I...I think I know what's going on and..." He turned bright pink. "I really have to confess something..." He shifted on his feet and blurted out, really fast, his Northern burr thick. "I...I know that not everything here is breaking and...and I'm fixing it and stuff, but...well...the store was open and I didn't get hte part because I wanted to come see you and...and I may not have cleaned the gutters all the way so I could come back and...oh gods, I haven't charged you at all because I'm just...I like you!"

Her eyes widened, too terrified for her cat to process what he'd just admitted to her. "But...I...I'm sorry, but he's really in the wall! Listen!"

They both were quiet and after a second, heard the pathetic howling of a trapped cat.

Jon moaned, mortified, shoving his face into his palms. "Oh my gods! I'm so sorry! I thought...oh fuck, forget what I said!"

"No I can't forget it because I like you too!" They could have this conversation after they saved her damn cat.

It took awhile, of her trying to coax the damn cat out from the opening in the floor, to Jon carefully searching and finding a space in the wall to knock through with a sledgehammer so he wouldn't hit Drogon or anything unsafe. Bits of drywall and debris scattered, "You better watch yourself," she warned him, when Drogon began to hiss and pant, terrified as they drew closer to him. "He might attack!"

"He's just scared, he'll be alright."

A couple hours later, her entire hallway and stairwell covered in broken bits of drywall, plaster, wood, and insulation, her very dirty and ashy cat enveloped in a blanket in her arms, Dany finally looked up at JOn. He hadn't said a word to her about his confession of not really fixing anything because he liked her and wanted ot keep seeing her.

She ducked her head, whispering, "I know it was wrong of me too, to keep breaking things...I just really liked you too."

"I'm not good with women," he admitted.

"Clearly, I was walking around in my bikini and you didnt say a word."

"I was trying to be professional!"

She giggled. Drogon whined in her arms. She scowled. "Hey! You didn't think I was serious that my cat got stuck in the wall!"

"I thought it was another thing like when you called me to say that your pipes were clogged at ten at night." He arched his brows. "Come on Dany."

"Alright, that was a ruse...but he really did get stuck!" She let go of Drogon, who raced into her bedroom to hide under the bed and lick his wounds-- more like his pride at having to be rescued by humans of all things. She looked up at Jon, sitting on the step just above her and grinned. "Can we agree to just...kind of start over?"

he nodded and licked his lips; she shivered. "Start over at dinner tonight?"

"Yes, dinner is perfect."

"And I'll be the first thing in the morning to start working on..." he gazed around at the chaos surrounding them, sighing. "This."

"Sounds good."

Turned out he didn't have to show up early at all the next morning, because he was already there, fast asleep in her bed, both of them exhausted. Dinner had been merely an afterthought.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Ensnarled

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, Havoc, Colonel Casey

He’d underestimated her, assumed that it was just a teenage rebellion phase that she’d grow out of in time.  There wouldn’t be any growing out of this.

Double whammy of prompt filling here: @flashfictionfridayofficial’s weekly prompt “a greater horror” and day 1 of @whumptober-archive‘s Whumptober “All trussed up and still nowhere to go: barbed wire and bound” This one clocks in at exactly 1000 words, according to MSWord.

There may be more to this one, but it really depends on what my muses think and if any more whumptober prompts fit.  There’s now more!

Scott had never really considered the Chaos Crew to be more than a nuisance, in the grand scheme of things. Yes, they spread International Rescue very thin, and they worked for the Hood, but while they made extra work for him and his family and presented a danger to civilian lives, they’d never come accompanied with the fear that the Mechanic had instilled in him.

Perhaps it was because they felt immature, rather like teenagers finding their feet – and Scott had plenty of experience with those – but while Kayo, Lady Penelope and the GDF hurried around after them to put them behind bars, he’d simply got on with his job and worked around their disruptions.

It had slipped his mind, perhaps because the teenagers Scott were used to were his siblings, that immature could well slip into its own brand of dangerous.   Immature meant not knowing when to stop, or seeing the line and intentionally crossing it with a sharp, cruel smirk stretched across lips.

Havoc was wearing that exact smirk now.  He’d never properly met the woman before, only heard stories from those who had, and seen snatches of holofootage on the rare occasions she hadn’t cut it off or hacked it into oblivion, so his opinion of her had been developed from that.

No-one had ever told him how cold her eyes were.  That when she looked at them, she clearly wasn’t seeing another peer, or even another person.  That her eyes were the eyes of a hunter, whose prey was far, far below her and held value only as an entertainment piece until she grew bored.

This wasn’t a young woman who would grow out of a rebellious phase in a few years.  This was a woman who had looked at the world and found it disappointing.  A woman who would annihilate it without a single care for the lives snuffed out in the purpose.

Havoc was a far greater horror than Scott had ever considered, and now he was paying the price for his ignorance.

Skilled in subterfuge, skilled in martial arts, skilled at remaining unseen until she chose otherwise – he’d known that, but he’d underestimated exactly what that meant when put together, assuming she was more like a mirrored version of Kayo and never stopping to consider other possibilities.

The barbed wire snarling around his wrists, tight enough to be drawing a concerning amount of blood and securing him to an entire fence guarded with more of the stuff, forced a re-evaluation of her cruelty.  The tendrils coiled around his throat, forcing him to keep his head uncomfortably craned back to prevent the vulnerable skin there meeting the same fate, highlighted her sadism as she regarded him with cold enjoyment in deadly blue eyes.

Trapped on his knees, with no way of escape that wouldn’t drain him of more blood than he could afford to lose, there was nothing he could do except look up at her, projecting defiance and burying the very real fear that was blooming up inside him.

How had he ended up like this?  Another false call, one that John was going to be tearing himself up over, placed as a lure to get Scott out and alone.  A paralytic jabbed into the exposed skin of his neck by what had been supposedly empty air before the hologram had flickered away to reveal the woman in all her smug, self-satisfied glory.

Why had she done this?  What did she have to gain by going through so much effort?  If she’d wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.  There was something else at play here, something Scott was completely in the dark about, and that did nothing but raise his unease.

She wasn’t talking, wasn’t taunting even though all the information he had on her said that she liked to gloat. She was simply regarding him, openly satisfied and enjoying watching his discomfort as he tried not to let the barbs draw any fresh blood from his wrists or tear open the delicate skin of his throat.

In fact, it felt rather like she was waiting.

But for what?

As if in answer, the whine of a GDF flyer reached his ears, the large military craft approaching painfully slowly, in comparison to a Thunderbird.  Scott couldn’t turn his head to watch it properly, but there was no missing the deliberate steps Havoc took until she towered over him, well within arms’ reach.

Right now, Scott was no threat to her, but he was uncomfortably aware of how much of a threat she was to him, especially when gloved hands carded unnervingly gently through his hair.

Once, twice, her fingers traced his scalp.  Three, four, five.  Each touch, soft and reminiscent of stroking a pet, sent Scott’s stomach lower and lower with dread.  Not that he knew what he was dreading.

The flyer’s large door swung open before it finished landing. Colonel Casey strode out, expression tightly reined under control, even though deep brown eyes widened a touch as they passed over Scott.

“Well?” Havoc drawled, seemingly unconcerned as ranks of GDF personnel filed out behind the Colonel.  “Where is it?”

“The GDF does not barter with criminals,” Colonel Casey said, her back ramrod straight in perfect military posture.  “Surrender, Havoc.  You’re outnumbered.”

Havoc bit out a sharp laugh, full of dark amusement.  “But you won’t risk this one, will you?” she jeered, confidence oozing from her words.  “Mr Commander of International Rescue.”

“Havoc-”  The Colonel’s voice was sharp, but not as sharp as Havoc’s smirk as the fingers petting Scott’s hair clenched tight all of a sudden, a fistful of strands wrenched uncomfortably into her grip.

“Your choice, Colonel,” Havoc mocked.

There was pain in Scott’s godmother’s eyes as her back straightened impossibly further.  “The GDF does not barter with criminals.”

“Then this is the GDF’s fault.”

The fist flexed against his scalp, and then Scott’s head – throat – was being driven forwards.  Down.

Right to where the barbed wire lay waiting.

“Scott!”

Don’t Hesitate >>>

[rosiehunterwolf]

two halves of a broken whole

Prompts: Scars and Free Space (stealing Post-Fight from the twixt board)

Word Count: 2,191

Characters: Nya and Zane

Timeline: Immediately after season 9

Trigger Warnings: Blood, Needles, Brief Swearing

Summary: The Sons of Garmadon have been defeated. Garmadon is in prison. The city has been saved.

In the aftermath of the battle, Nya is more than ready to take a much-needed break. But the life of a ninja is messy. Recovery is never that simple. Although the wounds may have healed, the scars still remain.

Zane’s scars seem to match up, though. And maybe together, they can begin to heal.

Read on FFN.net

Read on Ao3

Tumblr work under the cut

Nya stumbled through the dark kitchen, searching through the cabinets. She gritted her teeth as pain flared in her arm. Where are those painkillers? Ugh, how does Skylor find anything in here? There’s no system!

She gasped in relief as she finally found the medicine cabinet, but as she reached out to grab a bottle, she bumped her bad arm against the cabinet door. Crying out in pain, she jerked her arm back, and the bottles came tumbling down and clattering loudly to the floor.

“Damn it all,” she groaned, leaning her head against the cabinet. “Stupid, stupid arm, why do you have to be so weak-”

“Nya?”

Nya jumped, hitting her head against the cabinet door. “Ow! Zane, what are you doing here-”

The nindriod crossed the small kitchen in two steps, yanking off the damp towel she had draped across her upper arm, revealing a long, bloody cut stretching across the length of it.

“I knew it,” Zane muttered. “Nya, why would you hide something like this?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, I-”

“Not that big of a deal? Nya, this is serious! You need stitches! Next time, say something!”

She winced. “I didn’t want to bother you guys- Lloyd was way more hurt than I was, you guys had your hands full with him.”

“You could’ve gone to Skylor.”

“I wanted to prove I could do it, okay?” Nya snapped. “Skylor was so strong, walking off Garmadon’s power corruption like it was nothing. And she was being so generous, letting us all crash in her house like this- I didn’t want to bother her anymore, but instead, I just ended up bleeding out all over her bathroom floor.”

Zane shot her a sympathetic glance. “Nya, don’t worry about that now. Skylor will understand, and I can clean it up. The only thing we care about is that you are safe. Here, go sit down.” He gestured towards a kitchen chair and headed towards the cabinet. Nya slumped over into the chair, still clutching her arm, and Zane rooted through the medicine bottles, finally pulling out the painkillers and handing her three large pills and a glass of water. She eyed them warily.

“Isn’t this a little much? I mean, it hurts, but not that bad.”

“I still have to give you stitches, remember?”

“Oh. You’re doing that now?” Zane turned away, and Nya took the opportunity to down the pills, using the cheap coffee she had made herself to help her swallow instead of the water Zane had given her. “Nya, if I don’t do this now it will only make the cut worse.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know- ow!” she yelped as Zane rubbed at the wound with a wet, antiseptic-soaked washcloth, the fabric quickly staining red.

“I need to clean it, Nya. This would’ve been much easier if you hadn’t spent so long walking around with an open wound.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“I’m going to go get a needle and thread, I’ll be right back.” Nya sighed, slumping back against the chair. This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. The guys had been through hell recently. The last thing they needed was having to worry about her, too.

“Nya?”

Nya jerked her eyes open, turning her gaze towards Zane. What happened? Did I doze off?

Stupid coffee, not doing its job.

Zane seemed to catch on to this too, and frowned. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t need sleep, I have this magical liquid called coffee.”

He shot her a stern glance. “Nya.”

“Fine! I don’t remember, okay?” She reached for the paper cup again, but Zane snatched it from her hand.

“You can’t live off of coffee. First of all, it’s horrible for your health, second, it can never replace a full night’s sleep.”

Nya crossed her arms, grumbling. “Hey, at least I’m better than Lloyd. He dumps like five pounds of sugar into his.”

“Yes, well, Lloyd is sleeping. Like you should be.”

“Which is so not fair,” she huffed. “I spent weeks trying to get him to sleep and the second you guys get back, he does it instantly.”

Zane smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Kai’s always kind of had a way with him.”

“I know.” She turned her head, sighing. “I wasn’t trying to sound ungrateful, I’m so glad you’re back, but-” Nya let her hand fall to her side, where it bumped against Zane’s. Gently, she rubbed her fingers across the smooth metal, her heart pounding in her chest. Suddenly, she squeezed Zane’s hand, her breath coming in heavy pants as she closed her eyes.

“Nya?”

Her eyes snapped open. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Nya, it’s okay if you’re not fine.”

“I am.”

“I’m sorry we left you as we did.”

“It’s not your fault, okay?” She tugged away from him. Her hands were trembling now- from the coffee? The painkillers? The fear? She didn’t know. “It’s not your fault.”

Zane closed his hands over hers, steadying them. “No, but it still wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

“You don’t know,” she whimpered. “You don’t know what it was like. I wanted to give up so bad, and Lloyd-” she closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. “I don’t even know how I got him through it. He was so depressed. I can’t go through that again.” She turned sharply towards Zane, grabbing his hands. “I can’t. You hear me? That can never happen again.”

Zane squeezed her hands back, his eyes sad. “Believe me, Nya, I will do everything in my power to make sure it never does. But we are ninja. Dangerous things are going to happen, and if we spend our whole lives fearing that, we’ll never get through. We need to live life one day at a time. We need to trust in each other.”

“I do trust you!”

“Good.” He placed a hand on her arm, just below the wound. “Then you’ll let me patch you up?”

Nya glanced at the needle and swallowed, looking away. “Just go ahead. Don’t make me watch.”

“We really don’t have the proper numbing medication,” Zane said. “The painkillers will help some, but this is still going to hurt.”

“Believe me, I’m sure the sword going in felt a lot worse.”

Zane pressed his lips together. “Yes, I suppose it did. Ready?”

“Stop asking me if I’m ready and just do it already!” Zane flinched away, and she quickly added, “Sorry. I’m just a little on edge.”

“You’re going to be fine. Just hold still.”

The needle was cold on her skin, and then suddenly it was piercing through her flesh. It took all of Nya’s willpower not to jerk away, and she bit down hard on her lip, forcing back a scream. “Holy shit- Zane!” she broke off in a whine.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon.”

She tried to focus on her breathing as the needle pricked her again and again, Zane’s tugs quick and tight.

“Augh, remind me to visit Kryptarium later and go scream at those assholes for doing this to me.”

“We could’ve gotten you to a proper hospital if you had spoken up earlier. This is your own fault.”

“Oh, yeah, blame the victim. Besides, I hate hospit- aaugh, Zane, are you almost done?”

“Done.” Zane neatly snipped the thread, and Nya slumped over onto the table, grinding her teeth together and clenching her fists.

She felt Zane’s hand on her back. “Are you okay?”

“Gaugh, I will be, but son of a bitch, that hurt!”

“Alright.” Zane’s voice suddenly sounded cross. “It’s over now. That language is no longer necessary.”

“Are you seriously scolding me for swearing right now?” The table muffled her yelp. “I’d like to see how you cope when your arm stings like hell.”

“Nya.”

“You’re impossible!” Sitting up, she told him, “If you’re going to be such a goody-two-shoes, could you at least get me an ice pack?”

Zane got her the ice, and after about half an hour, the pain had finally dulled to something she could sleep through.

Exhausted as she was, though, she wasn’t done yet.

“Come see me in the morning,” Zane was saying, cleaning up the last of the bottles and putting them back in Skylor’s medicine cabinet. “It should be fine, but I want to check just to be sure. And try not to sleep on that side. I don’t want the stitches coming out during the night.” As he turned to walk out of the room, Nya grabbed his wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He blinked. “To bed? Like any sensible person should be at this hour?”

“Not so fast, now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“You patched me up,” Nya told him as she turned and rustled through Skylor’s junk drawer. “It’s only fair that I return the favor.” She pulled out a few screwdrivers, some scrap metal, and- score, a circuit board. And in pristine condition, too! Skylor always had the best stuff lying around. When you could find it, that is.

“But Nya, I’m not injured!”

She put a hand on her hip, glancing him up and down. Scratches and dents littered the ice ninja’s skin, and if she knew Zane, that was usually an allusion to something bigger going on.

“Oh please, the four of you came back a mess.” She walked around him, inspecting him. “Don’t tell me you came out of that whole ordeal unscathed. And I didn’t see anyone check you over today. Aha-” leaning forward, she rapped her knuckles against a spot on his back, near the shoulder, and the panel shuddered beneath her touch. “I knew it. This section isn’t sturdy. Take off your shirt so I can get to it better.”

“Nya, I am a nindroid, injury is inconsequential-”

“I said, take off your shirt! Or are you going to make me do it for you?”

Zane sighed, pulling off his pajama top so that Nya could see the damaged area better. The panel appeared cracked and loose, so, gently, she pried it off, revealing several frayed and broken wires. Part of the exposed circuits were fried.

“And you were telling me off for hiding my injuries?”

“It’s hardly the same. Human bodies cannot withstand the amount of force that a nindroid’s can. Plus, you are susceptible to infection.”

“Zane, I don’t care!” She got to work snipping at the wires and pulling some of the damaged parts out. “You’re still one of us. Just because you can take this sort of damage doesn’t mean you should!”

“I know. I was just worried about the others.”

“Well, it’s about time you thought of yourself for once. You can’t properly care for us if you’re not functioning at full capacity, anyway.” Sticking the tweezers between her teeth, she readjusted the wires and got to work on the circuits.

“I… I don’t like asking for help.”

Nya’s fingers paused.

“‘E ei’er.” The tweezers muffled her words, but Zane got her point clear enough.

“Sometimes we do need help, though. We are part of a team for a reason, after all.”

Nya removed the tweezers and wiped her grease-stained hands on a towel. “You’re forgetting that I was Samurai X before I was a ninja. I didn’t need any help then.”

“I didn’t forget, I just remembered the important parts. We were still there for you afterward, even on your solo missions.”

Nya was quiet for a moment. “Maybe that was why it was so hard with you gone. It was like a piece of me was missing. I couldn’t fully uphold the Resistance without you guys there to help.”

Zane’s fingers skirted across his heart. “I don’t know how we went on, with part of our souls realms away.”

Nya put a hand over his. “But we’re here now.”

“But you weren’t. We have all the pieces again, but they feel… broken.”

“Hey.” Nya pressed the metal against the gap in his back, using the screwdriver to secure it into place. She leaned back, admiring her work. Good as new. “I fixed you, didn’t I? Nothing will stay broken forever.”

“I can fix a car,” Zane sighed. “Or the Bounty, or the oven, or myself. But I have no idea how one goes about putting pieces of a broken heart back together.”

Nya sat down next to him. Their eyes met- stunning, electrifying blue against deep, gentle brown. “Neither do I. But maybe… we can figure it out.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Together.”

“Together is good,” Zane agreed, putting his arm around her. “I think I like it a lot better than being alone.”

Sitting there, on the hard wooden chair, raw stitches in her shoulder, with Zane’s hard metal arms wrapped around her, she couldn’t have been in a more uncomfortable position. Yet Nya felt more at ease than she had in weeks.

For the first time since the guys had gone to the First Realm, Nya’s sleep was peaceful and uninterrupted.

[mldrgrl]

Broken Things 1/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall Summary: The year is 1886, William Mulder owns a horse ranch in northern Texas.  The widow of a neighboring landowner has something he wants. Notes: Please be aware that this fic will contain ‘off-camera’ references to violence and abuse of various kinds. I will not be tagging individual TWs on the chapters.

Prologue

Many years from now, when he tells the tales of his younger days, he will claim that this is the day that changed his life forever.  If that horse hadn’t thrown a shoe, well then.  His wife will roll her eyes at this, tell him that any number of events prior to that day had already changed his life forever.  The decision to leave Massachusetts for the open prairie, for example, had changed his life forever.  The fact that his father had sent him to live with his aunt in the countryside instead of keeping him in the city had changed his life forever.  The pony he received for his birthday when he was a child had clearly changed his life forever.

All of that will hindsight one day.  Right now, it’s just an ordinary Thursday, the 9th of September, 1886.  The weather is mild, almost cool compared to the heat wave that had hit in the latter half of August.  And William Mulder’s horse has thrown a shoe.

Chapter 1

Normally, Mulder (only his family ever called him William) sends his ranch hand, Melvin, to take care of small errands and menial tasks, but he hasn’t been to town in almost a month and he could use a change of pace.  He hitches one of his more reliable horses to his wagon and takes one of the ones in training as well, one he’s just broken in, to see how he handles on the hour-long ride.  Their first stop is Gray’s Blacksmith.

After tying the horses to the post, Mulder gives them both a good scratching about the neck for a job well done and receives a snort and whinny of appreciation.  “Well done, boys,” he says.  “Carrots and apples at home for both of you if you keep up the good work.”

The familiar sound of clanking and hammering and the crackle of fire greets Mulder as he steps into the open door of the blacksmith’s.  He tips his hat to the striker, who nods a greeting.  The blacksmith turns and nods as well.

“Mr. Gray,” Mulder says.

“Mr. Mulder,” the blacksmith answers, passing his tongs to his assistant and then removing his gloves to shake hands.  “What can I do for ya?”

“Faithful Jenny’s thrown a shoe.  Melvin’s fixing her up, but I figured it was a good time to pick up a crate of nails and shoes.”

“Come on back and take a look then.  How’s business?”

“Doing well.  We’re training up a half dozen draft horses for the postal service right now.”

“Is the rumor you pulled in a mustang a few weeks ago true?”

“Afraid so.”

“You ain’t got a broken neck far as I can tell, so you must be faring alright with him then.”

“You can see him for yourself when I take this cart out to the wagon.”

“You brung him with ya?”

“I did.”

“I’ll be.”

Mulder feels a surge of pride when the blacksmith comes out to admire the horse.  He slides the crate of shoes and nails into the back of the wagon and then shows off his friendship with the four-legged beast by rubbing his belly.  The horse scratches the ground with his front hoof and shakes his head.

“You sure got a way, Mr. Mulder,” Mr. Gray says.  “If you got any stock you’re looking to sell I heard there’s a new homesteader a ways south that was interested.”

“I’m on my way to the mercantile.  I’ll be sure to ask John.”

The two men shake hands once again before Mulder gets back in his wagon.  He smiles to himself when the blacksmith watches him leave.  He’s made a name for himself in the short while he’s been here breaking and training up horses.  Folks in the area have said time and again that there isn’t a horse he can’t tame, that it’s almost downright spooky the way he seems to be able to talk to them.

There’s a man being waited on in the mercantile that Mulder doesn’t recognize, probably someone just passing through.  He waits for John Byers to finish with the customer, browsing the Montgomery Ward & Co. catalog at the end of the counter.

“Mulder,” John says after ringing the man up at the till.  “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, John.”  He pulls a shopping list from his pocket and unfolds it.  “I’m sure you’re better at translating Melvin’s chicken scratches than me at this point.”

“I believe I can manage.”  John chuckles and takes the shopping list.  He pulls a crate down and begins to collect items off the shelves and William goes back to the catalogue, thumbing past the illustrations of ladies’ garments to find menswear.

“If I put in an order for denim trousers for me and the boys you think they’ll be in by winter?”

“I’d say it’s likely.”

“Mr. Gray mentioned there were some new homesteaders interested in horses.”

“He must mean Mr. Campbell.  It’s oxen he’s after, I believe.”

“If you hear otherwise, send him my way.”

“I’ll do that.  I suppose you heard about your neighbor?”

“What neighbor is that?”

“Jack Willis.”

“Haven’t heard a thing.  What about him?”

“He spent all of Saturday night at the saloon in a poker game and was found dead in a ditch just outside of town on Sunday morning.”

“Robbed?”

“I should actually say he spent all Saturday night losing in a poker game and downing whiskey like water.  I heard he stumbled his way into that ditch of his own accord and met an untimely demise.”

“I only met him the once, but that doesn’t surprise me much.  Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but the man had a disagreeable disposition.  He seemed like the type to get himself into trouble.”

“Well, the bank is soon to be after his widow.  I’ve heard he’s in arrears.  I’m actually surprised the Sheriff didn’t stop on at your place on his way out there to tell her about her husband’s death.”

“Didn’t know he had a widow.  And you know Sheriff Doggett, he’s all business.”

“My Susannah saw them together, he and his wife, the day they passed through looking for land, and you know Susannah, she was beside herself at the notion of another woman come to town, but then no one’s seen hide nor hair of her since.”

“I still regret having been back east when Old Man Goodwin passed.  I’ve had my eye on that land for quite some time.”

“Maybe she’ll sell it to you.”

Mulder rubs at his chin in thought.  “You say the bank is about to repossess?”

“That’s the rumor.  I don’t think Mr. Skinner would relish evicting a new widow, but there probably isn’t much he can do if the mortgage is late.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take a ride out to pay my respects and assess the situation.  Thank you, John.”

Byers nods and gestures to the items laid out on the counter.  “I’ll have John Jr. load the cart for you.  Would you like this on your account?”

“I’ll square up everything now, but go ahead and order those trousers.”

The hour ride back home gives Mulder time to think.  He’s in a position to offer the Willis widow a handsome sum for his neighboring acres.  The one and only time he’d met Jack Willis he was immediately soured on trying to form any kind of friendship with him.  The man had been downright surly and abrasive and he sure hopes the widow is more neighborly.

Melvin takes over the wagon when Mulder arrives home and shows him the new shoe on Faithful Jenny.  The older man is at least a foot closer to the ground than Mulder and proudly displays a life-long love of hearty biscuits around his middle, but there’s no better right-hand man that Mulder could ask for.  He’s foreman and farrier, counselor and cook.  There isn’t anything Mulder doesn’t trust him with.  As they unload the wagon together, he tells him about what he heard from John Byers.

“Well, there’s no harm in asking,” Melvin offers as advice.  “If’n the bank really is after her, she might be grateful for the offer.  You should probably get out there as soon as possible in case anyone else might be sniffin’ around for them acres.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You know if’n I’d heard about Bob Goodwin any sooner I’d have snatched up them acres for you before I could even send a wire.”

“I know, it’s not your fault.  Do me a favor, old man, tack up Blondie while I try to make myself presentable.”

“That could take hours.  Days even.”

“Decades, in your case.  If it’s even possible.”

The two men laugh over their gentle ribbing of each other and Mulder claps Melvin on the shoulder.  He parts from his friend to go wash his face, comb his hair, and put on a fresh shirt.  His horse is saddled and ready to go when he comes back out.

“Good luck,” Melvin tells him.

A narrow, slow-moving creek divides Mulder’s property from the Willis widow’s land.  It’s one he’s crossed many times when Old Man Goodwin was his neighbor.  He knows where the shallowest spot is to lead the horse and where the shrubs are too thick and have to be avoided.  He tries not to daydream about what he’ll do with an expansion, but he passes the spot he’d like to clear out for a better corral and where he’d like to add another stable and it’s hard not to hope.

The old sod house that Old Man Goodwin had slapped together is still standing, though it looks to have seen better days.  The roof needs patching and the walls are crumbling in spots.  He dismounts Blondie when he’s still a few yards away and leads the horse over to the post he knows is at the side of the house.  The nearby trough which is usually full of water is empty.  The chickens that were usually clucking and underfoot are nowhere to be seen.

Mulder knocks lightly on the clapboard door and moments later a woman with the reddest hair and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen answers.

↭

Katherine is expecting the knock when it comes, though it’s sooner than she thought it would be.  In the days since her husband’s death, she’s racked her brain for a solution to her current predicament, but has come up empty handed.  She doesn’t delay in answering the door.  She may be on the verge of being destitute and homeless, but she’ll face it with dignity.

“Uh, Mrs. Willis, I presume?” the man asks.  He stammers a bit but he has an easy, congenial smile that catches her a little off guard.  She’d been expecting the Sheriff she’d met on Sunday, but perhaps the bank manager in this town takes care of evictions.  

“Mr. Skinner, I presume?” she finally replies.

The man chuckles and removes his hat.  “Ah, no Ma’am,” he says, running his hand through his hair.  “I’m afraid I have a bit more hair than our dear Mr. bank manager.”

“Oh.”  She should have known.  The bank managers she’s had dealings with in the past were stuffy and pinched.  This man is far too rugged and handsome to be a bank manager.

“William Mulder.”  He holds out his hand to her and when she gives him hers, he bows slightly and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles.  Embarrassed, she pulls her hand back and closes it into a fist to hide her dirty and calloused palms from him.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.

“I know we haven’t met before, but I happen to be your neighbor just to the south.  I heard about your husband and I’ve come to pay my respects.”

“I see.  Would you...care to come in, then?”

“Thank you.”

He has to bend to step through the low-frame of the door.  She has no candles, but there’s enough light from the open door and the unpatched holes in the walls that it’s unnecessary.  She watches him look the place over and she can tell he’s not impressed by the shabbiness of it all.  

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you,” she says.

He smiles politely.  “That’s alright, Ma’am.  I came to be neighborly, but there is also a matter I wanted to discuss regarding this land.”

“Oh?”  Fear grips her suddenly.  He may not be the bank man, and he may not be the sheriff, but he could be another kind of lawman.  Even if he was telling the truth that he was her neighbor, he could still be there to turn her out, or worse yet, remove her to debtor’s prison.  Unconsciously, she begins to tremble.

“Mrs. Willis?” he asks.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she answers, pulling the tattered shawl draped over her shoulders a little tighter across her chest.  “A chill is all.”

He looks around again.  “You’ve no chair to sit on?”

“No.”

“Would you like to come back outside?  Perhaps it will be warmer.  You could sit on my horse.”

The absurdity of the offer makes her laugh and eases her anxiety somewhat.  He bites his lower lip almost shyly and tips his chin down as he turns the hat over in his hands again.  She stares at his mouth, thinking about how the slight overbite he has seems to suit him well.  She notes other things too, in the silence.  Like how his beard is well-trimmed and his nails are clean.  He presents himself as a cowboy, but she knows a city man when she sees one.

“Um, Mrs. Willis, I…”

She flinches at the name.  “Katherine,” she says.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d prefer you call me Katherine.”

He cocks his head a little to the side and smiles.  “Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,” he murmurs.

She can’t help but lift her right eyebrow.  It used to irritate her husband immensely when she pulled faces, as he called it.  “Rather Kate the Curst,” she replies.

His eyes widen and seem to brighten.  “You know Shakespeare?”  

“You look surprised.”

“No, no, it’s just...I haven’t had much opportunity to discuss the Bard out here.  Apologies for the Taming of the Shrew reference, but whenever I come across a Katherine, I can’t help but make the association.  Especially when it’s not altogether untrue.”

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks with the compliment that she knows is entirely unwarranted.  She was never very pretty.  Her mother used to complain about how wild and curly her hair was when she was a child, not to mention the dreadful freckles across her nose and cheeks.  It may have been quite some time since she’s been in the presence of a looking glass, but she doesn’t need one to know that her appearance is lacking.    

“I suppose I could have just as easily been a Viola or an Ophelia,” she says, avoiding his flattery.

“Hopefully not a Lady MacBeth.”

“No.”  The conversation stalls momentarily, but then she wets her lips and tightens her shawl again.  “You said there was something you came to speak with me about?”

“I was away on some business when Old Man...ah, that is, when Mr. Goodwin, the previous owner of your land, passed on.  I’d been eyeing this parcel for some time and had been planning to offer Mr. Goodwin a sum to sell it to me.  I’d like to make you that same offer.”

“Ah.”  She closes her eyes and chuckles mirthlessly for a brief moment.  “I’m afraid I can’t take that offer.”

“Have you sold to someone else?”

“No, but I’m not in a position to sell.  My husband leased this land and I have every reason to doubt he ever made good on the rent.  He drank most of the money and gambled what was left of that.”

“I see.”  

“I’m just biding my time now until the bank comes to collect and turn me out.”

“Do you have people back...wherever it is that you're from?”

“Virginia.”

“It’s not but a few days ride to Fort Worth, I could send a wire to someone for you.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

“No.”  She shakes her head slowly and sighs.  “There’s no one back home, but thank you.”

He shifts his feet and tries to speak, but he says nothing.  He looks dumbfounded in a way that almost makes her feel sorry for him.

“Was that all?” she asks.

“Ma’am,” he stammers.  “Mrs. Willis...Katherine...I can’t...I can’t…”

She doesn’t know what compels her to do it, but she reaches out and puts her hand over his where it grips the brim of his hat.  He falls silent and stops his fidgeting.  She squeezes his hand lightly and lets her fingers rest against his wrist for a few moments before she takes it away.

“Since you seem familiar with the bank man,” she says.  “I’m sure you’ll get your wish soon enough.”

“But…”

“Good day to you, Mr. Mulder.  Thank you for coming.”

[amlovelies]

little traps

This is written to fill a prompt someone sent me at the beginning of the year. They had sort of piled up on me so I deleted all of them because it was stressing me out, so I guess better late than never 🤷🏻‍♀️

from five word prompts   “how about a hug, hm?”

fandom: fhr pairing: Ricardo Ortega/nb!sidestep (Vesper Bui) warnings: lots of cursing but otherwise tame. secret crush route. this is mostly about the banter words: 950 read on ao3

            There’s a fucking key in your coffee mug. It’s bad enough that Ortega had placed it on the highest shelf. Always needing to show off his height and that damn reach that just gave him one more advantage when you sparred. It’s bad enough how easily you get distracted. You can still picture the way he’d lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. You’ll have a bruise on your side for sure. You’d recovered well enough. He should be nursing a bruise too from that kick. Might have to give him another one depending whatever sort of trap this is.

               Probably another attempt to get you to join up. As if it was that simple. As if it was just a matter of convincing you, as if it wasn’t impossible. Impossible like so many other things.

               You can feel Anathema approaching the break room long before you hear Ric’s voice. At least when he’s talking, which is most of the time, you can hear him coming.  

               You don’t wait for him to get settled. Tossing the key across the table, you say, “what the fuck is this?” as soon as Ortega is through the doorway.

               You feel Themmy light up in alarm, “Ortega, I told you this was a bad idea.” You shoot them a glare; they are involved in whatever plot this is.

               He barely spares it a glance before answering, “well doors have these things called locks . . .”

               “You’re lucky I need this caffeine,” you interrupt gesturing threateningly with your mug. He knows you’ve got good aim; the only question would be if he could dodge quick enough.

               “And risk ruining this masterpiece?” He asks with a quirked brow gesturing towards his own face. Smug asshole.

               “On second thought maybe, it would be worth it to take you down a notch or two, pretty boy.”

               “You think I’m pretty?” Of course, he’d take it that way. Narcissist.

               “Pretty fucking stupid,” you growl crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down. He doesn’t look intimidated in the slightest, just amused.

               “This is my fault,” Themmy interrupts, trying to keep the peace. “I may have mentioned how you spent a few nights on my couch.”

               Shit. You knew that was a mistake. Stupid fucking rain. The warehouse had been nice. Sure, it was condemned and technically you were squatting, but it had felt safe. Had felt like yours. Until the rain ruined everything. Never thought you would be grateful for getting dragged to karaoke. Listening to Ortega’s eye-roll inducing rendition of “Live Wire” was only marginally less horrifying than being awoken by an entire hillside smashing into your makeshift bedroom.

               So not some ploy to get you to join the Rangers. Not like the application he’d snuck into your bag or the not so casual mention of interested sponsors. You thought this was about Sidestep. It being about Vesper makes it so much worse. You groan, “why would you tell him that?”

               “It’s just a key, Bui. In case you need a place to sleep. No questions asked.” No teasing bite to his voice now, just a softness that makes your stomach tighten. The expression on his face is even worse. He’s looking at you like he cares. Like you matter to him, beyond just your ability to watch his back in a fight. You, Vesper, not your mask not your powers, but you.  

                It feels like a trap. You’ve risked so much to be free, to be able to make your own decisions, to belong to no one. You should burn your skinsuit and disappear. Abandon Sidestep and Vesper and lose yourself to the freedom of anonymity. Except you don’t want to. You don’t want to lose this. They’re under your skin.  

               “Fat chance of that. Your nosy ass never can shut up,” you say with a sigh.

               “Fine,” Ric says with a roll of his eyes as he holds the key back out to you, “minimal questions.”

                               “Whatever,” you say as you take the key. It’s covered in little lighting bolts and you feel a small static shock as your fingers brush. Fitting.

               Themmy’s brain lights up as you take the key. They’ve been worried about you. Worried that you aren’t taking care of yourself. It’s not fun to see yourself reflected in their mind: the bags under your eyes and the gauntness to your cheeks, the thrift store clothes, your beat-up backpack rarely out of arms reach. It’s not right that you are struggling this way, struggling when you’ve done so much for this city.

               Ha. If only they understood that you have so much more than you ever had before. You have a name. You have a life. You have friends. That’s fucking terrifying.

               “I’m never going to use it,” you force yourself to scowl. Can’t let him think of this as a victory.

               Themmy gives a relieved laugh, “Don’t be so sour, Vesp. You know you secretly love us and our meddling.”

               “Oh, shut up.” But your voice has no edge. “You maybe aren’t actually the worst.”

               “You big softy,” Ric says with a wink. “How about a hug, hmm?”

               “How about I punch you?” He knows you will.

               “Can’t let us have a nice moment, can you?” He slings an arm over your shoulder, not quite a hug, but close enough.

               He’s close enough, fresh from the shower. You can smell his body wash and you hate the way that it sets your pulse racing.  

               “Nothing about you is nice, Ricardo.” You push him away, “you’re annoying, meddlesome, a pain in my ass.” Makes you feel. Makes you real.

               He’s undeterred, “and your best friend.”

               “Fine. And my best friend. Are you happy now?”

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