#jack daniels oneshot

[thelastofhyde]

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave. 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world. 

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?” 

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle. 

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction. 

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels. 

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more. 

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want. 

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room.  Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not. 

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care.  “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago, 

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous. 

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar.  “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops. 

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door. 

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.  

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word. 

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Palomino ║ Béarnaise

Jack Daniels x f!Reader

{ << Part 3: Dapple Grey | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Summary: You watch Jack cook. Deleted scene from Part 4 - Strawberry Roan.

Rating: M.

Warnings: Gratuitous descriptions of cowboy Jack cooking, food mention, very naughty thoughts, yearning, language

Word count: 250

Notes: While I was doing research for the next chapter, I came across a recipe that mentions:

Bicep stamina aside (we’re talking 10 minutes of vigorous whisking here), it can be quite challenging, even for the most capable cooks.

The next chapter is too long as it is, and I couldn't justify fitting this scene in, but I knew I had to write it. So here's a completely unplanned drabble. Set during Part 4.

It shouldn’t turn you on. 

You don’t know how saying yes to his question of whether you liked Béarnaise sauce has ended up with you squirming in your seat, trying to resist the urge to rub your thighs together right here across the kitchen counter from him.

But what you should know by now that your mind is capable of construing anything he does as unbearably arousing.

Not that he’s paying you any mind. He’s completely focused on the task at hand in that ridiculous apron you made him wear. Shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbow, his biceps strain against the constraints of the fabric as he whisks the sauce at a controlled pace. His brow is furrowed in studious concentration, serious eyes under knitted brows carefully observing the thickness and consistency, ready to adjust as needed.

You ache to drag your lips down the exposed side of his neck, pulled taut as he grits his teeth at the exertion from the sustained repetition.

It’s not at all a stretch to imagine him doing something else -

Then he stops, bringing the whisk up to watch the sauce dribble into the bowl with just the right viscosity, before dipping his index and middle fingers into the mixture.

You can see just a peek of his tongue curling around his digits as he cleans them off with a wet suckle.

He turns to you with a grin, oblivious to the slick pooling between your legs. ‘Perfect.’

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

[captainsophiestark]

History

Jack Thompson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Jack's ex-fiance left New York and moved to LA to start fresh after she realized he would never see her as an equal. Now, however, their paths might be crossing again, and Jack Thompson's managed to have a lot of growth since the last time they saw each other.

Word Count: 5,152

Category: Angst, Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I hummed to myself as I steeped my tea, soft music floating through the kitchen. I'd finished eating my favorite dinner before now preparing to settle in for my favorite radio program. A calm, perfect evening after a long day. All torn to shreds by the ringing of a phone in my living room.

I closed my eyes and sighed, but left my tea on its own and moved to answer the phone. Hopefully, whatever this was could be dealt with quickly, and I wouldn't miss any of my radio program.

"Hello?" I asked, resting the phone in the crook between my shoulder and neck and reaching for a pad and pencil, just in case. I froze mid-reach when I heard the voice on the other end of the line.

"Hey, uh, this is Agent Daniel Sousa. With the SSR. I don't know if you remember me-"

"Of course I remember you, Daniel," I broke in. "What do you want?"

He hesitated, and I couldn't help feeling just a little bad. My tone had turned from friendly to harsh in a split second, and Daniel and I had always been friendly. But if he was calling, it must've had something to do with my ex, and I certainly didn't want anything to do with that.

I'd met Daniel through the course of dating Jack Thomspon, who I later learned was actually Agent Jack Thompson. I'd met him when I was young and in love with the idea of being swept off my feet by a tall, handsome man, and Jack had more than fit the bill. It wasn't until much later, after he'd proposed and come home from the war, that I'd realized I wanted so much more.

I wanted a partner. Someone to have my back and build me up, to support me through life the same way I supported them. Jack wanted a maid that he could also sleep with, a picture perfect housewife with no external life or ambitions of her own. So I'd left him.

Before that, though, we'd gotten far enough that I'd found out about the SSR, and met Daniel in the process. We were friendly, and had even been on our way to being friends before everything between Jack and I had fallen apart. Since then, however, we hadn't spoken.

"...I'm sorry to do this to you, but I need your help."

Daniel's voice brought me back to the present. I sighed, sparing a longing glance for the tea in my kitchen before plopping down in the seat next to the phone.

"I assume this is about Jack? Is he... alright?" I almost choked on the word, surprised to find I actually still cared about the answer. I gripped the phone a little tighter as Daniel responded.

"Yeah, he's fine. Look, it's a long story, but we don't have a lot of time. There are some very bad people putting the fate of the world at risk, and I'm working with another agent to try to stop them. We have a plan we're in the process of enacting, but... we need your help to make sure it goes off without a hitch."

"Who's the other agent, Daniel?"

"Agent Peggy Carter. She's one of the best we have."

I paused. I'd been fairly confident he was about to say Jack, and to have him say a female agent's name instead was a nice surprise.

"Okay... but aren't you in New York? I don't know if you remember, but I moved pretty far away after things ended between Jack and I."

"And landed in LA, right?"

"...Yes... How did you-?"

"It's not important right now, just... how quickly can you get downtown? To the parking lot behind the hotel hosting Calvin Chadwick's campaign event?"

"Daniel, I haven't even said yes yet! I haven't talked to you in years, and I honestly don't think I want to get involved in this."

"I wouldn't be calling you if it weren't important. Meaning end of the world important. Please."

I paused, letting out a long, heavy sigh. I could practically hear Daniel waiting impatiently on the other end of the line, but I ignored the pressure. Unfortunatley for me, I believed that he really wouldn't be calling me if it weren't an emergency. And I didn't want to leave the world out to dry just because I didn't want to see Jack.

Which, also unfortunately for me, I knew this would involve. Daniel had very carefully danced around the subject of my ex-fiance, and I knew that dodginess was intentional. One way or another, Jack would be involved. But damn it all, I wasn't willing to blow off Daniel's cry for help on behalf of the world just to avoid Jack.

"...Fine. Dammit, fine. I can be there in fifteen minutes. I'm on my way."

"Thank you, serio-"

I hung up on him, giving myself one moment to relax back in the chair with a heavy sigh before launching into motion. I'd just have to make myself a new cup of tea when I got home, and ask someone at work tomorrow what I missed on my radio program.

Just under fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the back parking lot of the hotel hosting the campaign event. Carefully, I stepped out of my car, on high alert for a certain blond SSR agent. I whirled around at the sound of a door flying open only to find Daniel Sousa climbing out of an undercover van. He looked basically the same as the last time I'd seen him, although he'd apparently traded in his sweater vests for a Hawaiian shirt and a blazer.

"Thanks for coming," he said, crossing the parking lot to meet me. I nodded, my gaze going to the woman behind him. Daniel noticed my attention shift, and nodded to her. "This is Agent Peggy Carter."

"Pleasure, I'm sure."

I nodded and took Peggy's offered hand for a shake, but didn't say anything else as I quickly brought my attention back to Daniel.

"Alright, Daniel, why am I here? Specifically, not just 'to help'. And where's Jack? Don't try to tell me he's not here, you wouldn't have been so dodgy and nervous on the phone if he weren't."

"Dodgy and nervous?" Daniel asked, sounding more than a little offended. I just raised an eyebrow at him, so he sighed. "Fine. Here's the thing... we actually need you to go in there and distract Jack."

I didn't respond right away. I just stared at Daniel, waiting for him to say 'suprise' or 'gotchya' or some variation of the same thing. He just stared back, grimacing slightly. I finally came to the conclusion that he was being serious.

"I'll... pop back into the van and make sure Dottie and Mr. Jarvis are alright," Peggy said much too casually as she backed away from us. I never took my eyes off Daniel, my stare cooling considerably from when I'd first arrived.

"Daniel. Do you want to explain to me what's happening here, please? And why you need to distract a fellow agent, and especially why you think this is something you ought to be involving me in?"

Daniel sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then shifted slightly closer to me. He lowered his voice, then spoke again.

"Look, here's the thing. You should know Jack's had some growth since you left. He's changed enough that I can actually stand to work with him, and I might still say I want to kill him, but I probably wouldn't follow through if I got the chance anymore. But recently, he's got his head up his ass again."

I snorted. "I really hope this is not going to involve you asking me to talk to him or get him to come around or whatever."

"Not quite. Recently, he's decided to take the side of some pretty bad people, although I don't think he realizes just how bad. A few of those people are in that event tonight, and we have operatives inside who need to get something from one of them. But Jack's in there, too. And he'll recognize our operatives if he's aware enough to see them, and since he doesn't seem to know better, he'll stop them. We can't let that happen. Which is where you come in."

I stared at Daniel again, then after a moment, started shaking my head. I was frankly a little speechless, which gave Daniel an opportunity to keep talking before I could get a cohearant thought together.

"Look, I know this won't be easy for you. I know it's unfair of me to ask, to call you out of nowhere. And I know the only reason you showed up at all is because we used to be friends. But please, please do this. I promise it's important, and if it weren't this important, I never would've asked. I... I've been out in LA for a while now, and I thought about touching base, but I figured you'd want your space, since I'm probably tied up with Jack in memories for you. But we need your help with this one."

I shook my head, holding up a hand to stop Daniel's pitch.

"Alright. I came all the way down here, and because it's you asking and I know that means this thing you're involved in is actually, seriously important... I'll still help. But then you are not going to speak to me for at least a month, after dragging me into this mess to manipulate my ex-fiance, and then we're going to go to lunch. And you're paying, because it's ridiculous that you've been out here this long and haven't talked to me, noble intentions or not."

Daniel huffed a laugh, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. "It's a deal. Promise."

"Great. So... where exactly am I going to do your dirty work?"

"Just in there," said Daniel, gesturing for a set of doors at the back of the hotel. I nodded and turned to face the doors in question, intending to head in. But for some reason, I couldn't make myself start moving. "Uh... you alright?"

I cleared my throat and nodded, although I knew I wasn't convincing either of us.

"Yes, yeah, I'm... I'm fine. Just gonna... go in there. And see Jack. For the first time in a few years."

"Hey." Daniel shifted closer to me, resting one hand on my shoulder and lowering his voice. I huffed and closed my eyes, but didn't pull away. "Look, I'm sorry to put you in this position... if you really don't think you can do it-"

"No. We're not going down that path. I know you wouldn't have asked me if it weren't a legitimate emergency, so I can't afford to think about an out. Just... maybe you could give me a push?"

I didn't turn to face Daniel, but even out of the corner of my eye I perfectly caught the judgey, raised-eyebrow look he gave me.

"Are you serious?"

"Daniel, I am about to go in there and distract my ex-fiance. I am dead serious."

"...Alright. You ready then?"

"No, I'm not! That's the whole point of requiring a push!"

"Okay, okay! Geeze."

A moment later, I felt Daniel's hand on my shoulder, gently moving me in the direction of the ballroom. It had nowhere near the amount of force I'd been hoping for, but the thought at least was enough to get me moving.

I crossed the parking lot at a steady pace, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I pushed open the door to the ballroom without letting myself hesitate, striding through without looking back. I tried to ignore the sound of it slamming shut behind me as I strode confidently into the room, head held high despite the warring storm of emotions swirling in my gut. It took every ounce of strength I had to walk into that ballroom, but somehow I managed it.

And then I saw him.

I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but the moment I saw Jack, my heart stopped in my chest and my knees threatened to give out. So much history stood between us, and even though we'd ended on fairly bad terms and I knew I'd made the right decision, my heart still couldn't completely ignore everything we'd been through. Everything he'd meant to me.

I took a deep, shaky breath. Apparently, a lot of the world was counting on me keeping Jack from interfering in whatever Daniel had going on tonight. I'd agreed to come in here, and now I couldn't afford to fall apart.

I squared my shoulders, then strode across the ballroom, past dancing couples and schmoozing politicians. Everything faded away the closer I got to Jack, until I was standing next to him, just out of his peripheral vision, and we were the only two people in the world.

I reached out a hand to tap Jack on the shoulder, and time nearly stood still. He turned towards me in slow motion, and I watched his face go from one slightly raised eyebrow to wide-eyed, gut-punched shock. The moment our eyes met seemed to stretch for years, until Jack finally broke it, saying my name in a breathy voice that shouldn't have been audible over the sounds in the rest of the ballroom. Surprisingly, I didn't have to fake the slight smile pulling at the corner of my mouth.

"Hey, Jack," I breathed. He blinked at me a few times, maybe expecting me to disappear like some hallucination. When I didn't, he managed to find his voice again.

"Wh... what are you doing here?"

"I feel like I could ask you the same question," I said, voice soft. Speaking anywhere near normal force or volume felt like it would shatter something about the peace of the moment, or bring our problems back to the forefront of our minds. "I thought you were still in New York."

"I was. Am. Still in New York, that is. I, uh... they made me Chief."

My eyebrows shot up. Daniel hadn't bothered to mention that.

"Wow. Well... congratulations. When did that happen?"

"A little over a year ago," he said, shrugging his shoulders and glancing away like it was nothing. I knew him much too well for it to fool, me, though. He was beyond proud, and he wanted me to be impressed.

"That's great, Jack," I said, not entirely sure whether I meant it. "So is that what brings you out here?"

"Something like that," he huffed. He shook his head, staring off at the wall of the bar, apparently snapping out of the moment we'd found ourselves in with something else hovering over his head. It didn't bother me to be a part of that something, although maybe it should have.

"I take it this is more of that highly-classified, highly 'over my head' stuff you always refused to talk to me about?"

Jack's eyes slid back to mine, looking genuinely sad in a way I hadn't expected. Honestly, I'd been expecting to spark some anger. Instead, he looked like I'd just punched him in the stomach.

"I... wasn't great at communicating with you back then, was I?"

I snorted. "That's an understatement."

Jack sighed and took a sip of his drink, nodding slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, it probably is. Look, I don't know why you're here right now, but..." He cut himself off abruptly, glancing away from me again with a shake of his head. I raised an eyebrow, just waiting for him to work up the courage to say what he wanted to say. The longer he took, the easier it was for me to help Daniel with whatever this was, anyway. Jack took a deep breath, shot the rest of his drink, and set the glass down on the bar before looking at me again. "I was gonna look you up, while I was out here. I've been putting it off, because, well, I wasn't sure you'd want to see me. But... since you're here now...?"

I started shaking my head. I couldn't help it. Jack, apparently undeterred, stepped forward and took my hands in his. I wished I could say helping Daniel was the only reason I let him.

"You hate me. I get it, alright? But I'm not the same man I was the last time I saw you."

"Oh really, Jack? Then what kind of man are you now?" I asked, unable to stop myself. "What are you doing here, schmoozing at some party with a bunch of shady guys in suits? How different is that to the last time I saw you?"

"Very different! Listen, I get it now. I understand what you wanted from me, and I understand why you left. You wanted respect, and I... I wasn't willing to give that to you."

I frowned, scanning Jack's face for any hint of inscenserity or rehearsed speech. All I found was an honest, open expression staring back at me, my ex-fiance looking more open and interested in talking about the hard stuff than he'd been once in the time we were together.

"But sweetheart," he continued, after a brief pause to let his words sink in. I met his gorgeous blue eyes that I'd fallen in love with so long ago, and a hand clenched around my heart. "I get it now. And... I want a shot at giving you that respect, knowing what I know now. Being who I am now."

I huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking my head as I broke Jack's intense stare.

"Jack... are you kidding me right now?"

"Not even a little bit." He squeezed my hands lightly, stepping even closer to me. The hand around my heart dug its claws in. "I... I love you. I never stopped loving you. If you give me a second chance... I promise, I won't screw this one up."

A choked sob forced its way out of my mouth as the room started spinning under me. I pulled my hands away from Jack, shaking my head fervently as I did.

"I... You can't... I can't think about this right now. After everything you can't just..." I huffed, shaking my head again and moving out of the way as Jack reached for my hands again.

"Baby-"

I turned on my heel and ran before he got another word out. Hopefully, that was good enough for Daniel and his friends. One way or another it would have to be. I couldn't stay there for another second, and it was starting to feel like it'd been a mistake to come in the first place.

I'd been expecting some slightly charged conversation, maybe even some arguing. Breaking off an engagement wasn't usually amiable, and our situation had been no exception. I hadn't been expecting to see real pain on his face, or real regret, or real love still lingering there. And I definitely hadn't expected to feel the faintest hint of the same emotions in my own chest.

Whatever the hell that meant, I couldn't face it right now. Not when I was standing in that ballroom in the first place to trick and lie to the man giving me the apology I'd wanted for years before finally excepting I'd never get it. The guilt started creeping in like a knife to the heart, another thing I hadn't been expecting.

I didn't check to see if Jack was following me as I headed straight for the parking lot, back out the door I'd come in. A thousand different emotions and thoughts screamed through my head, and the only thing that seemed clear was that I needed to get as far away as possible from here, now.

"Hey!"

I don't know why I hadn't been expecting to run into Daniel, but I'd barely gotten a breath of the cool night air in before he called out to me, moving quickly from the back of their undercover van to where I'd parked my car.

"Hey! Are you okay? We didn't mic you up, but one of our agents inside said they saw you running out-"

"This was a bad idea, Daniel," I said, shaking my head and pausing to talk only because Daniel was in the way of the driver's door of my car. "I shouldn't have agreed to this. I didn't... I don't know what I expected. The same asshole I broke up with, I guess. An argument. Not... not what I got."

I moved to push past him, but he put a hand on my shoulder to stop me in my tracks. His eyebrows knit together as he scanned me up and down, concern radiating from him in waves.

"What happened in there? Are you okay?"

I shook my head. "It was a mistake to get in the middle of this, with you and him. He said some stuff... I don't know. I don't know, okay? This was stupid, I should've just stayed home. I need to go home, Daniel. So please, get out of my way."

Daniel hesitated again, looking me over, this time with a more critical eye. I huffed.

"I promise I'm not hurt, and that I'm fine to drive, alright? I just... I need to get out of here."

After another second, Daniel finally nodded and stepped out of my way. I didn't bother sparing him another glance as I got into my car and pulled away, putting as much distance as possible between me and Jack and everything to do with that ballroom.

When I got home, I replayed the conversation I'd had with Jack over and over again in my head, on an endless loop. I didn't hear another word from Daniel, or from Jack, which I tried to convince myself was for the best. When the radio silence stretched on for days, however, my arguments to myself became less and less convincing, and every additional day of silence was another day to overthink myself into a frenzy. Had something gone wrong with whatever world-ending threat they were dealing with? Did something bad happen to one or both of the SSR boys? Or was there some other reason the SSR agents continued to give me space?

By the end of the week, I'd just about decided to go track down Jack or Daniel or maybe Peggy, although I'd only met her in passing, myself. Finding a secret agency probably wouldn't be easy, but I'd been reeling and replaying everything in my mind for days, and I couldn't go back to pretending none of them had ever been part of my life again. I'd just started flipping through a phone book over my morning coffee, looking for any businesses that looked like feasible fronts for the SSR, when someone rang my doorbell.

I sighed, marking my spot in the phone book before standing and moving to the door, my cup of coffee in-hand. I almost dropped my favorite mug when I opened the door to find Jack standing on my doorstep in a nice suit, holding a bouquet of roses.

"Before you say anything, Sousa's the one who gave me your address. So if you didn't want to see me... blame him."

I couldn't hold back a laugh, at least half the weight on my chest lifting off with the knowledge that Jack and Daniel were both okay. I bit my lip, trying to keep control of myself, as I looked Jack over.

"I... I'm really glad you're okay," I finally sighed. "When I didn't hear from you for a while, I got a little worried..."

"We had... some stuff to deal with. But it's dealt with now. I'd love to come in and tell you about it... if you'd be willing to have some company for breakfast."

My eyes shot up to Jack's. He tried to look calm and collected, but I could see the way his hands fidgeted around the stems of the flowers, and the way his eyes searched my face for any sign of an answer in either direction. I sighed.

"Listen, Jack... I don't know..."

"Alright, look. I'm technically supposed to be leaving for the airport to catch a plane back to New York in about half an hour. But I also got Sousa to agree to let me stay with him for a while, if... if I need to stay in LA for a bit longer, for whatever reason. But if you don't want me here, if it's too little too late for you..." He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard and steeling himself before continuing. "Then I'll head to the airport and get out of your hair. And I won't bother you again."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, looking down and shaking my head to try to clear it. I'd sworn to myself when I moved out here that I wouldn't let Jack Thompson back into my life. I'd been confident it was for the best. But he really did seem different than he had the last time I'd seen him. And I couldn't ignore the way my heart still skipped a beat when I looked at him, or how badly I wanted to believe what he'd told me in the ballroom.

Finally, I looked back up at Jack. I met his ice blue eyes, the same ones I'd been staring into since we were basically kids, before he'd served in Japan and a thousand other things in our lives had changed. And I knew I couldn't send him away without at least hearing him out. I knew it might mean I got hurt again, badly, but I also knew the regret of never knowing for sure would eat me alive for the rest of my life.

"Jack... there's something you should know first."

"And that is?"

"It wasn't fate that brought me to the ballroom, or whatever else you thought it was. I... was actually there because Daniel called me to ask for my help."

Jack sighed. "I know. He and Carter told me. They seemed to have a guilty conscience about it. But I'll tell you what I told them: I don't care. It brought you back into my life, so... I'll take it."

The corner of my mouth tugged up again, and I tried not to let the excitement take over too much as Jack leaned a little forward.

"So... does that mean I can come in?"

I bit my lip again in a failed half-attempt to stop the smile rapidly spreading across my face. Finally, I let it win, and gave Jack a nod.

"Oh, thank god," he sighed, sagging and flopping over the doorframe, the flowers falling to his side for a moment until he looked back up at me. "You really had me thinking I was gonna have to race to make my plane for a minute there, sweetheart."

I laughed and shook my head, taking the flowers from Jack as I motioned for him to come inside. I shut the door behind him, then turned to lead him from the entryway into the kitchen.

"So... do you want some coffee?" I asked, moving to the pot before Jack answered. I knew he did.

"That'd be great." He paused, and I heard him sit at the table himself me as I added sugar and milk the way I knew he liked (although he'd never ask anybody else to add it in). "This place looks great."

"Thanks. It's been a labor of love, for sure. I learned how to fix just about everything in here that could break, since it started out that way."

I shot Jack a little smile as I sat down at the table across from him, sliding his coffee over. The statement was a test, and whether or not he knew it, he smiled back.

"If only you'd known all that stuff when we were in our old place. Maybe you could've saved me from breaking the sink beyond repair."

"If I remember right, I did try to help with that. And you told me to let you handle it while I made something nice for dinner."

Jack grimaced, taking a sip of his coffee. "Yeah. I do remember that. And... I'm sorry. I was an idiot back then. I wish I'd known then what I do now."

I nodded thoughtfully. He seemed sincere, which truly might've been a miracle-level personal shift. I still tried to keep my hopes from running wild, but it was getting harder by the minute.

"Thanks for the coffee, by the way," he continued. "I haven't had anything this good since... well, in a long time."

I gave him a rueful smile as he bailed out of "since you left". I sighed, taking a sip of my own coffee before looking at Jack again.

"So... why don't you tell me about all this stuff that kept you from visiting earlier? When I talked to Daniel, he said it was end of the world-level."

Jack nodded, running his hand through his hair. "I mean, it sure wasn't good. Might've been one of the worse things we've had to deal with. You're gonna like this though, since we saved the day. One of my best agents who helped solve all this stuff is a woman. Peggy Carter, she said she met you?"

"Only briefly," I said, smiling into my coffee. "She seemed pretty cool."

"She's damn good at her job. And so were you, by the way. You covered for her and Sousa perfectly when you showed up at that fundraiser. It took one of the people you were covering for walking straight into my path for me to realize something was up, and even then I didn't suspect you. Masterclass."

I huffed a laugh, but my smile grew so big I couldn't hide it behind my coffee mug anymore. Jack smiled back.

"Alright, so, this is kind of a long story. Especially if I start from the beginning."

"I want to hear all of it," I decided. "If you're up for it... including the stuff that came before this mission. I want to know about what you've been up to since... since I left."

Jack nodded, a hopeful smile pulling its way onto his own face. I could see him wrestling with himself to keep his cool, and I was happy to see him losing.

"Deal. As long as you promise to tell me everything you've been up to once I'm done."

"Sounds like we have a wonderful plan for the morning," I replied. Jack absolutely beamed back at me.

"I've never been happier to miss a flight in my life."

I laughed, and for a moment, I got a glimmer of the parts of my life with Jack that had made me stay for so long. His humor, and all the good in him that he worked to hide, but now, without the layer of separation that came from him not seeing me as an equal.

It had barely been ten minutes total of time spent with this slightly older, slightly different Jack Thompson. By far too early to say anything difinitively. But that little seed of hope in my chest had bloomed into a full bouquet since I'd opened my door this morning, and I couldn't help feeling that this time, things actually were different. Jack was different. And this time, maybe things would work.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

Marvel Taglist: @valkyriepirate @infinetlyforgotten @sagesmells @gaychaosgremlin

[pascalsbby]

WARNINGS: MDNI (18+), SMUT: fem! unless stated or requested otherwise. Writing about it does not imply endorsement.

Notes: please feel free to send me requests <3

@sscorpiiio is my non-writing blog!

MASTER LISTS - Series

*CARNAL : dark!stalker!dbf! joel

*The Devil & His Brother : joel x tommy x

*Hot Single Dad of The Neighborhood : joel

ONE-SHOTS, misc.

little bunny : javier

people talk : dbf! joel

“Truth is, he’d been waiting for your mouth to form his name all day. He knew you’d be here, always were on the fourth regardless of what boy you were running around with or what was happening in college. This time you were here for good. Or for a while, until your daddy caught on to your problem.”

come on in, sweetheart : joel

Joel was never patient when it came to pulling you through his front door- now especially, considering he’s already made a mess in his jeans because of you.

You find yourself bent over Whiskey’s knee after a night out with friends. Yes, he was a gentleman… but he expected you to be a good girl, too.

XTRAS

pink banner by @mewryn

[pedros-husband]

you get sick

pedro pascal characters x male reader

characters included: javier pena, joel miller, javi gutierrez, marcus moreno, agent whiskey, silva, oberyn martell, dieter bravo

javier pena: he's always constantly worrying about you due to the nature of his job and the danger both of you are in every day because of it, so when you get sick his anxiety is absolutely sky high. He calls in sick to take care of you and won't take his eyes off you for even a moment unless hes fetching food or medicine. if you try to talk about how he's worried about you and how endearing you find it, he'll brush you off and say he's just annoyed that he has to take care of you, but there will be a slight heat to his cheeks (it's totally the Colombian heat he'd tell you). He'd mutter spanish curses under his breath the whole time, grumbling about how annoyed he was that he had to be stuck at home taking care of you, or how stupid you were to go and get sick.

He's not stupid so he'll reduce affection to light touches and holding hands, so he doesn't get sick either, no matter how much you beg for a kiss or to cuddle. if you're persistent enough however, he may get in the bed facing away from you so you can cuddle him. he'd get annoyed if you get all your 'sickness' over his shirt but he won't move until he knows for definate that you're asleep, before getting out and placing a soft kiss to your sweaty forehead. he doesn't mind taking care of you that much really.

joel miller: pre breakout- he’s dealt with Sarah being sick but beyond that he’s not all that experienced, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try his best. If he can he’ll get a day or two off work (not guaranteed) and he’ll care for you with gentle words and cold compresses to your sweaty forehead. Or he’ll run to the neighbours and beg for some chicken soup for you. He’d refuse to kiss you on the lips but he’d be big spoon and cuddle you until you felt better.

He’d reassure you that your not a burden a lot and remind you how much he loves you with little:

“My handsome man”

“I love taking care of you sweetheart, makes me feel all important y’know”

He’s just a big softie inside really 🥰

Javi Gutierrez: he’s so sweet and caring, he hates seeing you sick so he’d take time away from whatever work he had to stay by your bedside, getting the most expensive medicine he could find only for you to ask him for some warm soup or cuddles. He of course doesn’t care if he gets sick so he’s give you so many sweet and tender kisses, making sure you know how much he loves you. He’d even let you choose a movie other than a nick cage movie if you were reallyyyy sick.

Marcus Moreno: he’d give you his mothers best soup to make you feel better and he’d ask to work at home for a while whislt he takes care of you, sitting on the bed with your head resting in his lap as he works on his computer, staring glances down to see your sick and puffy face sleeping peacefully in his lap cuddled up under blankets. He’d smile and occasionally run his fingers through your hair or traces shapes onto your soft skin, happy tears pricking in his eyes. He’d get missy to write you a get well soon card too.

Agent whiskey: due to his past with his ex he’s so much more concerned if you’re ever sick or hurt in anyway so he’d refuse to go out on missions until he knows for a fact your fit and healthy, constantly by your side biting his lips till their bloody and cracked, nails bitten down so much blood seeps onto his hands and he constantly has to wash them. He’d go crazy over medicine and food so much he often ends up stressed and overworked so much he gets sick too, ending up with you two looking after eachother, your thumbs rubbing over the soft skin of his knuckles to soothe him and whisper sweet words into his ears like:

“I’m okay mi amor, rest your pretty head”

“We’re a couple of sick love struck idiots hm?”

And he’d whisper things like:

“My man is so handsome even when he’s sick huh? That’s not fair”

“You gotta get better soon or I might just go crazy with worry mi Vida. And that wouldn’t be very fun for you now will it?”

Silva: he’d be a lot more quiet with his approach, choosing to simply sit with you, a cold rag dabbed across your sweaty skin and his fingers interlocking with yours. He’d read a book in the rocking chair husky he observed you sleep to make sure you’re okay and he’d take nice cold baths with you propped against his chest, his fingers tracing shapes onto you chest as he mumbles Spanish into your ear.

Oberyn martell: he’s a busy man- being prince of dorne but he’d send for his servants and the best doctors in the land to look after you, settling for comforting you at night. He’d climb into bed with a simple robe on only covering his lower half, one arm hanging over your side and a leg tangled with yours- not too much contact to overheat you in your sick state- but enough that you’re both satisfied. He’d be worried about you and constantly ask his servants updates on you through the day/s and visit you if it got really bad- sitting by your beside holding your hand with tears threading to spill though he’d never admit it if he did cry, chalking it up to you being sick and delusional. Or that it was a dream.

Dieter bravo: he’s been sick so many times from drugs and alcohol that it’s pretty normal for him and he knows how to deal with it like it’s nothing. Of course with you it’s different and he’d treat you liek a prince- knowing the pain you’re probably in. He’d give you the best medicine he knows and even some of his reserved stuff for extremely dark days if he felt needed, and he’d lay with you until it was all better.

sorry I was gone so long everyone- something happens in my life and I took some time off for myself. I am planning on releasing something soon but I just wanted to get something out there for now :)

[artistic-lightcycle]

Consider this: The SGC hosting different game events for team building.

You've got SGC DnD night of which Teal'c is a big fan.

The annual SGC capture the flag in which the SG Teams compete against each other. SG-1 won that 5 years in a row because Jack and Sam are just too good at strategic planning. One year SG-2 came dangerously close to beating them because Lou Ferretti has spent enough time under Jack's command to know how he's thinking.

And many more

[heliads]

Now You See Me Masterlist

Daniel Atlas

Someone in the Crowd - Based on this request: "daniel atlas x reader where reader volunteered to be a prop in a trick but atlas becomes super shy and stutters?" Imagine

Jack Wilder Masterlist

[21burritoseavey]

little daniel imagine, with the '“where’s the new coffee mix?” “i’ll tell you if you tell me where you put the keys?” “i TOLD you i don’t know where—”' prompt <3

a/n: thank you for the ask, anon! hope you enjoy!<3🌼pick a prompt:)

you get up a few minutes past seven o’clock, shuffling out of bed behind daniel, out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. the sky, as the sun rose not too long ago, is still wearing its coat of muted pink and yellow, and natural light welcomes itself into your home in narrow streaks onto the floors and kitchen countertops. daniel is first to wake up, sleepily mumbling something about wanting to get to tour rehearsals early, and with the help of his convincing smile and guarantee of breakfast, you hop out of bed as well. 

it isn't unusual for the two of you to be grumpy in the morning, only sharing slight smiles and little morning kisses and a touch of conversation while you work through your routines to get ready for the day…at least until there is cooked food and warm drinks on the table. 

honestly, if it wasn't for the tempting promise of hot, home-cooked breakfast, which you gladly agreed for daniel to make, the pair of you would still be in bed, lured in under the warm sheets and blankets, fighting off the wintry morning chill. your slight grumpiness has progressed into an obvious agitation, furrowed brows and all, at the absence of your keys from their usual spot near the entryway. 

daniel’s cooking as you breeze around the house looking for them, showing half-hearted concern and asking simple questions that honestly tick you off even more. “are you sure you haven’t seen them?” you call, halfway across the living room as your eyes scan every possible fraction of space and object in sight. 

“yep, no idea” daniel dismisses, unknowingly receiving an annoyed huff in return, his voice muffled by the sound of the kitchen cabinets and drawers rolling open one by one only to be shut again as he tries to find the jar of coffee that would usually be sitting in one of the shelves. 

he puts breakfast on the table anyway, two two mini stacks of pancakes and berries for each of you, and although daniel is proud of his culinary work at such an early hour, his limbs still tired and eyes still groggy, you aren’t so pleased at the absence of your necessary cup of coffee. the edge of your voice is ever so obvious as you pace around the house, looking for other things you’d somehow misplaced from your shoes to your lip balm back to your keys, murmuring out a “thank you,” followed by a “where’s my coffee?” as you glance at the food in front of you.

“where’s the new coffee mix?” he counters. 

“i’ll tell you if you tell me where you put the keys?”

the two of you attempt a staring contest, a battle of who can hold their frowning expressions the longest without faltering, before you just decide to search together. daniel loses, sighing in frustration before he moves to check around the kitchen one more time, “i TOLD you i don’t know where—”' his words are cut off, eyes rolling at the sight of your keys in the cutlery drawer. “how did they even get in here?” he questions, keys hanging off his finger in the air. 

an easy smile graces your lips, as if a frown had never been there, and the morning grumpiness melts away as you cheekily pluck the keys from his hand before plopping down at your seat to eat….”the coffee’s in the pantry, first shelf on the right” you say through a mouthful of food.

taglist: @chilling-seavey​ @marthagryffindor​ @hiya-its-amber​ @the-girl-who-cried-wolf​ @hackerXavery @jonahlovescoffee​ @onlyangelavery @sadbitchfangirl @wiildflower-xxx @nichmeddar  @unitersmoonshine  @sbrewer21 @comatosedheart  @kaitieskidmore1 @sunlightinmyeyes​ @starlost-andfound​​@jonahmaraiscupcakelimelight

join my taglist!

[justnat15]

Christmas Cookies

Okay, this was supposed to just be lighthearted and funny all the way through, but then the waltzing started and it's my absolute dream to dance around my home with the love of my life someday just because we can. This became an indulgence and is a lot longer than originally planned. Oops. So, with that, I present to you this story. Over 1,300 words of pure indulgent Christmas fun.

So much thanks to my foxy wifey @writeforfandoms for encouraging me when I was worried about making our cowboy out of character. I love you!

Warnings: Um, Christmas? Country music mentioned? Dancing? Cookies. Fluff.

                     Christmas Cookies

A heavenly smell infused the air inside the modest sized ranch house. You danced around the kitchen to the Christmas music playing on the radio as you took a cookie sheet out of the oven and placed it on the counter top to cool. Moments later, another sheet of cookies was placed in the oven. Different colors of frosting and sprinkles littered the island in the middle of the room.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels, special agent of Statesman, watched the scene with warm eyes from the entryway. It did his heart so much good to see the woman he adored more than anything be comfortable and at home in his house. With that feeling of warmth and love still radiating from him, he walked forward and grabbed you around the waist, spinning you to face him with a grin.

“Jack! You're home early!” His little darling cried with excitement, your smile making your eyes sparkle with joy. You stood up on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to the man's lips, giggling softly at the feel of his mustache against your soft skin.

“Hello sugar,” Jack murmured, whirling the two of you around the kitchen in a lively two-step. The cowboy's smile grew at the sound of his lover's laughter ringing through the house as he continued to spin you around to the music.

When the song ended and the dancing came to a pause, you were out of breath and rosy-cheeked. “What's got you in such high spirits today, cowboy of mine?” You asked, wriggling out of his grip to check on the cookies still baking in the oven.

Jack grinned salaciously at the sight of you bent over, reaching out to goose you. He chuckled at the yelp you let out, grabbing your hand as you whirled around to smack his shoulder. “I can't just be happy to see you in our home?” He bent down, his lips brushing against yours with each word.

Your mind blanked at the closeness between the two of you. It didn't matter that you had been in a relationship for over two years, Jack still managed to take your breath away and cause your brain to shut down at the drop of a hat.

Jack chuckled again at the bright blush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned down further and closed the distance between the two of you to properly kiss you. When he pulled back, he marveled at the flush that was somehow a deeper color across your cheeks. “Hello, darlin',” he cooed softly.

You blinked and smiled brightly up at your cowboy. “Welcome home, Jack. You're just in time to help me decorate the Christmas cookies.” You laughed as you spun out of his grip and turned back to the cookie sheet sitting on the space next to the stove. “The first batch should be cooled enough to put the icing on!”

The brunet laughed and followed you, enamored with how you shifted gears so quickly from being under his spell to being excited over Christmas cookies of all things. “Sounds like a plan, darlin'. Do you have the sprinkles this time?” He held back a snicker at the pout you sent his way over the reminder of the lack of sprinkles the last time you made cookies to decorate.

“Hush you! Or you won't get any of these! Not that you should, anyway. At least not until the company party, since Champ personally asked me to bring them,” you absentmindedly smacked away the cowboy agent's hand that was reaching for one of the sugar cookies waiting to be decorated. You giggled at the yelp and mock pout your lover sent your way.

“Now, sugar, taste testing is an important part of baking! It's for quality control! After all, you wouldn't want to take any cookies that didn't taste right,” Jack whined, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You leaned back in his embrace and sighed. “Oh alright. But just one!”

“From each batch?” Jack buried his face in your neck, knowing his mustache would tickle the sensitive skin there.

You screamed in laughter and tried to pull away. “Jack Daniels, you stop that!” Alas, his grip was too secure and you couldn't escape. After a few moments of delicious torture, he let you go and spun you around in his arms.

“Dance with me?” He led you in a slow traveling waltz as Frank Sinatra's “The Christmas Waltz” played in the background.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as the two of you danced around the kitchen again. “You know this is my favorite Christmas song.”

Jack hummed in acknowledgment. “I also remember once you said that you always wanted to waltz to it with your partner.” He hummed along to the crooning of Sinatra as he continued to twirl you around the kitchen.

You perked up at his comment. You hadn't talked about that to anyone since... “That was years ago! Before you even asked me out on our first date! Wait, I didn't even tell you that. I was talking to Ginger at the first Christmas party I attended at the agency!” You leaned back to make eye contact. “Jack, did you eavesdrop on me?”

His chuckle vibrated in his chest as he pulled you in close. “I was smitten from the first time I laid eyes on you, didn't you know that, sugar? The brand new tech specialist working alongside Ginger. I gathered information to make sure I could capture your attention and keep it. I succeeded, didn't I?” He bent you in a quick dip before pulling you back up for a spin. He grinned as his shining brown eyes met yours.

You returned his grin with one of your own. “Yes you did, cowboy.” You stood on tiptoes to kiss your lover, happiness shining in your eyes.

The two of you continued to dance in a comfortable silence for the next few songs until the timer went off, reminding you of the cookies still in the oven. Jack sighed and let you go, watching as you bounced on your toes in excitement again at the prospect of decorating Christmas cookies.

“C'mon, cowboy! You won't distract me this time from icing these cookies!” You giggled, pulling the special agent to the kitchen island where you had previously laid out all the tools for your current mission.

Jack just shook his head and followed your lead. At least for a little bit. An hour into decorating the cookies, Jack smirked at you over the cookies and frosting between the two of you and stretched out a hand to you as George Strait’s “Christmas Cookies” played over the speaker you had hooked your phone up to.

“C’mon, sugar. Swing with me,” was all he said before he grabbed you and pulled you to your feet. You laughed and obliged, allowing yourself to be led into a country swing. 

The constant movements of spins, dips, and jumps kept you on your toes, literally and figuratively. You knew all the same moves as Jack, but you never knew too far ahead of time which move he would pull until he was signaling you with the press of his hands. He could move through a tabletop or two, twist you through the pretzel, or lift you up on his hip before leading you behind his back for a hand change. 

Dancing with Jack brought you exhilaration like no other. Sure, you had other great dance partners, but none of them had a thing on Jack. He made following his lead as easy as breathing. It didn’t hurt that his touch made you feel alive in a way no one else could ever hope to. 

As if reading your thoughts, Jack pulled you in close and murmured in your ear, “I love you, sugar.” He spun you out and then back in with a wide smile on his face. “Best dance partner I could ever have.” 

You grinned, breathless, as the Statesman agent led you into one last dip as the song came to a close. “I love you, too, cowboy,” you managed to whisper before Jack pulled you up into a sweet kiss. 

“Now, how about we finish up those cookies?” Jack asked once he let you go. You couldn’t do anything but laugh as you both got back to decorating.

[lapseinrecs]

No Easy Day

By Liron_aria @queen-of-carven-stone

On Archive of Our Own (account required) & Fanfiction.net

Status: Complete; Oneshot; 11,663 words

Summary: SG-1 knows that there's no such thing a routine recon mission, so it shouldn't surprise them when Daniel Jackson befriends four teenagers and a twenty-something and winds up helping resolve an alien civil war. a.k.a. Just once, Tommy Oliver would like his birthday to pass without someone trying to maim, torture, or murder him and the people he cares about.

My thoughts: I appreciate the way that they weave together the military and the Power Rangers interactions.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Pressing

Jack Daniels x F!Reader, dude ranch AU

A Palomino oneshot, but can be read on its own

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack marks you as his in an unexpected way.

Warnings: PWP, Jack's belt leaves an impression on reader's skin, unintentional branding, unprotected sex, long-distance relationship, desperate and feral cowboy, no physical descriptions of Reader, very lightly edited, written as part of the Palomino universe, set after the end of the series, but can be read as a oneshot on its own

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: This little story came from an ask sent in by 🐴 anon in December 2022, which I have long lost, about a song that mentions a guy’s belt buckle leaving marks on his girlfriend's inner thigh while fucking. Naturally, they thought of Jack’s belt. 🐴 anon, if you’re still here, thank you for the inspo and for your patience ❤️

Also thank you to @lola-lola-lola for getting me horn knee about our cowboy again 😘 Writing Palomino smut first thing in the year was not on my 2024 bingo card, and I’m not mad about it!

Cutest dividers by @firefly-graphics.

It’s been two and a half months. Week after wretched week of phone calls on stolen time. Day after day of aching to reach through the phone screen and the distance between you to touch him.

It’s hard being hundreds and hundreds of miles apart. It’s even harder on weeks when he’s in the mountains with no reception. Harder to find time to call when you have to work late and he has to get up at dawn.

But you endure it all - for days like this. 

It’s a rare weekend off in the high season, with Teak pulling back-to-back pack trips to cover for him, joking that he can’t take all his sighing and pining for his Darlin’ anymore.

Jack takes the last flight out on Friday night, arriving first thing on Saturday morning, before the city - or you - wake up. You’re half-buried under the duvet when the jingle of the key in the door jolts you from shallow slumber.

On unsteady feet, you wobble out into the hallway, crashing into the walls as you go, balance off-kilter from sleep.

But it’s ok - he catches you, all white t-shirt and tight blue jeans. Incognito, if you will, in casual sneakers, but the cowboy hat is on as always. You knock it off post-haste, burying your face in the side of his neck in a desperate need for contact, his warmth seeping into your skin and wrapping you up in the deepest of comforts.

His hair is longer than he usually keeps it, and your fingers twist into his tousled curls when you pull back, taking in the stubble on his sharp jawline, and his tired eyes. But before you can say anything, he leans in and slants his lips over yours.

The taste of airplane coffee is sharp and bitter on his tongue as he kisses you deep and messy. You startle when he suddenly slams the door shut behind him, not realising it was still open, and his beat-up weekend bag is tossed carelessly behind him somewhere in the doorway. 

The legs of the kitchen table scrape jarringly against the floor as he crowds you onto it, big hands cupping your ass and pulling you against his straining erection through his jeans.

‘Fuck, it’s been too long, darlin’.’ His voice is gravelly from an apparently sleepless overnight flight, and hearing his voice finally on the shell of your ear has you whimpering needily.

‘Can’t wait any more,’ he growls, desperation thick in his voice.

With a flick of his wrists, he shucks off your ratty sleep shirt, eyes hooded as he gazes down at your tits, like he can’t believe he’s actually touching you. Cupping them, soft and heavy, with reverent, rope-worn palms, he sucks one nipple after the other between his lips, making you squirm against him and leak wet and sticky between your thighs.

Strong hands hold you in place easily as you buck, the scrape of his moustache almost painful on your over-sensitive skin, nerve endings on fire after being deprived for long weeks. 

Too impatient to wait, you tug your pyjamas shorts down your hips and kick them off clumsily, panties tangled in your damp folds as you writhe under him. 

You feel the breath catch in his broad chest at the peek of your pussy, a rapidly growing damp spot darkening your cotton underwear. Hooking his thumb under the fabric, he tugs it unceremoniously to the side, baring you to him. 

‘Look at all this,’ he marvels, tracing the fleshy pad of his thumb through your folds, making you arch clean off the table. ‘So wet for me and you’ve barely woken up.’

‘Been thinking about you the while night,’ you admit, hips twitching as you chase his touch. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Did you touch yourself, darlin’?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘No. Wanted your fingers. Your cock.’

His nostrils flare at your answer, unabashedly possessive in the way he looms over you. 

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs into your throat, nosing the side of your neck while thick fingers thrum against your clit. ‘I was so hard for you the whole fuckin’ flight.’ 

As if to prove it to you - not that you need it - he rolls his hips into your inner thigh, the hard bulge undeniable.

You mewl, hooking your ankles around his waist. ‘Fuck me now, Jack - please.’

There’s a wordless fumble for the solid sterling flask bottle of his belt buckle, his usual level-headed composure nowhere to be found as he pushes down his jeans with shaking hands, just enough to pull his cock out of its denim confines - 

And then he thrusts home inside you.

After months of only your fingers, it’s a stretch. But what a delicious stretch it is.

You feel him throb deep inside you, feel the thunder of a pained groan in his chest, pressed up against yours. Your cunt is all slick and give to his determined strokes as he begins to move. 

There’s no finesse, hardly any awareness, when he fucks frantically into you. His solid weight pins you to the table, and it rattles precariously under your back.

Your legs are splayed obscenely wide and bent at the knees while Jack pounds into your wet heat, eyes wild and mouth hanging open, watching your tits bounce as you take him, your nails digging into the cotton of his white t-shirt. He never did take off your panties, and the fabric rubs your clit just so with every one of his thrusts, rapidly sending you to the edge.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the coarse scrape of his jeans against your inner thighs, and something digs hard into the tender skin, the repeated motion dulling the sensation to an almost numb pressure. 

When you cum, you’re crying out before your head catches up, your body convulsing with blind bliss as your pussy clenches around him in a hot rush. The blood pounding in your ears is drowned out by your chants of his name, and then his hips start to stutter and his whole body tenses, frantic eyes on yours as he teeters on the edge. 

‘Where, darlin’?’

‘Inside me.’

The words have barely left you and he’s coming, broken pants against your lips as he comes and comes and comes - spilling inside you, filling you to the brim until he’s empty, turned inside out.

Slumped, boneless on top of you, humid pants pressed into your shoulder, his fingers tangle with yours, squeezing as if to let you know that he’s here.

You almost doze off, the gradually slowing rise and fall of the cowboy’s broad chest a comforting anchor, when he rouses you with gentle lips along your jaw. You giggle, feeling him softening and sliding out of you, making a mess of your kitchen table. 

‘Mornin’ darlin’,’ he says somewhat belatedly, warm eyes crinkling as he smiles at you.

‘Morning,’ you grin back, and when he shifts, you wince at the ache in your joints from being pinned to one spot for this very vigorous wake up call. His hands smooth over your legs in apology, and you jump when his fingertips brush over somewhere at the juncture of your upper thigh that is surprisingly sore.

‘What’s that?’ you ask, puzzled.

Jack doesn’t answer, curiously quiet. You look down to where he’s bracketed between your legs, watching him trace his index finger over the unmistakable imprint of his distinct belt buckle on the inside of your thigh, where it’s been digging into your skin the whole time. 

He glances at you. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ you give him a knowing grin. ‘And are you really sorry, cowboy?’

He doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. Gently pinching your swollen folds together, he groans when a milky bead of his cum dribbles out of you, running down the inside of your leg and smearing onto the flask-shaped impression.

‘Ain’t sorry about somethin’ that looks this good on you, darlin’.’

‘Could’ve asked me before you branded me, you know,’ you half-joke, running your own finger along the deep lines carved into your skin, for now.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, I tend to forget my manners when I’m balls deep in a pussy as sweet as yours,’ he retorts, one eyebrow arching when he feels you shiver at his words.

You huff in jest, ‘Doesn’t sound like much of an apology if you asked me.’

‘Whatcha want, darlin’? Me on my hands and knees for you?’

Heat flashes under your skin, from your cheeks down to your toes, and Jack’s eyes darken as his tongue wets his bottom lip. ‘Alright. I hear you loud and clear, ma’am.’

Slowly, he sinks onto his knees in front of you, his joints creaking endearingly as he goes, and you can’t help but tease, ‘Easy there, cowboy.’

The wicked tip of his tongue peeks out, and you bite your lip in a moan when it cleverly traces the outline of the belt buckle on your skin, ending in a playful nip that pulls a gasp from you.

With an unapologetically smug grin, Jack winks. ‘I’m only just gettin’ started, darlin’.’

Note: Thank you for reading ❤️ I’ve missed these two, and if you’re new to Palomino, I hope you’ll give the series a chance!

[captainsophiestark]

What The Fuck Is A Grid System

Jack Thompson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Jack Thompson's a New Yorker, dammit, and when Peggy and Daniel leave him to find his own way through the winding streets of LA with only some shaky directions as guidance, he might need a little help from a local to see him through.

Word Count: 2,031

Category: Fluff, Humor

A/N: It is not only a miracle that this got done, but also that I'm happy with how it turned out 😂

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I narrowed my eyes as I sipped my coffee, watching a man on the sidewalk. The same guy had just walked past this building for the third time, looking increasingly irritated. He kept checking a sheet of paper in his hands, then looking up at the buildings before disappearing out of my sight. So far, he'd never been gone more than a few mintues before coming back.

I debated getting up and saying something when he returned a fourth time, although I ultimately opted to stay put. But when he came back for a fifth time looking ready to hurl the paper in his hand into traffic, I decided to do something.

I stood, setting my coffee cup down at the counter with a wave to the barista before heading out the door. The guy still stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the same spot he'd visited almost half a dozen times now, looking around the city like this time, something would change.

"Hey!" I called, strolling up to him with a wave. He turned around slowly, like he wasn't sure I was talking to him, then narrowed his eyes when he saw me approaching. I gave him my best winning smile. "You look like you could use some help."

The guy scoffed, immediately turning away from me. i just smiled a little wider. He was tall, and handsome, and clearly pretty arrogant. Unfortunately for him, he also clearly had no idea what the hell he was doing.

"So what are you looking for?" I asked, ignoring the clear brush off and stepping closer to him again. "I can probably help you find it."

"I don't need help," he snapped, at last turning to face me. I just raised an eyebrow and stared right back. He cleared his throat, quickly turning back to the paper in his hands as a flush crept up his neck. "I don't need help. This city needs help. Who the hell lays a place out like this?"

"Ohhh. I thought you had some New York enegry going. That makes sense."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

I waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Look, you may just be able to walk in a straight line to get where you want to go in New York, but this is LA. We do things differently here."

"Differently and much, much worse."

I snorted and rolled my eyes, then snatched the paper out of his hand before he could stop me.

"Hey!"

"You're trying to get to the Sunrise Resort, right? Come on, it's this way."

"I've already tried that way."

"And clearly you did something wrong, since you ended up back here again. C'mon, let me help you. Unless you want to stand outside this coffee shop all day?"

I paused on the corner of the block, looking back at the man in question, his scribbled directions still held in my hand. He glared at me, and for a moment, I thought he really might not follow me. Then, he sighed and rolled his eyes, putting one foot in front of the other all the same as he trudged towards me.

"Fine. Let's go then."

He breezed right past me, walking with all the speed and huffiness I'd expected from him. I absolutely beamed at his retreating form, letting him get a few steps further away from me than necessary before calling out down the street.

"Wrong way, hot shot!"

He froze, his shoulders shooting up to his ears. I just grinned, waiting for him to eventually turn around. He did, slowly, a fierce scowl on his face. I had to fight back a chuckle.

"At least now we know where you were going wrong before. C'mon!"

I turned on my heel and started heading down the street in the opposite direction, this time trusting him to follow me. In less time than I'd been expecting, he caught up to me, falling into step beside me and walking with a confidence I hadn't expected him to recover for at least twenty minutes.

"You still need that paper, or do you actually know where you're going?" he huffed. I grinned and held it out to him.

"All yours!" He snatched it out of my hands, then shoved it in his pocket without another word. I let us walk in silence for another few steps, but this walk was going to be about half an hour all-told. I wasn't going to spend it walking in silence. "So... what's your name?"

The guy cut his eyes towards me, looking a little suspicious. I let the silence stretch, looking at him expectantly, and after the better part of the next block he sighed.

"Jack. What's yours?"

I told him, giving him the same beaming smile I'd given him a few times now. This time, he actually seemed a little more receptive to it.

"It's nice to meet you, Jack. So, what brings you out to LA?"

"Business. With any luck, I'll be out of here in a few days."

I laughed. "Oh, come on. Don't be ridiculous. It's the middle of winter, there's no way you're not at least a little bit happy to be in the LA sunshine over the New York winter."

"Have you had a pizza here?"

"Yes. I've also had ice cream on the beach in February. Both have been fantastic."

He snorted. "You really haven't lived yet if you think the pizza here is fanastic."

"Hm." I let my eyes wander, scanning the street ahead of us. Lo and behold, one of my favorite gelato shops was open on the next block, and even better, with almost no line. "Alright, pizza snob, time for a pit stop."

Before he could so much as open his mouth to ask a question, I grabbed Jack's arm and dragged him through the doors of the gelato shop as we walked past.

"Try doing this when you go back to New York and not freezing your ass off," I said as I stepped up to the gelato counter, pulling him with me. He huffed, but didn't put up any more of a fight. I smiled to myself as we surveyed the flavors laid out before us.

"Well, LA? What do you recommend?"

"Hm... honestly, you can't go wrong at this place. But I've always been a fan of the chocolate."

"Chocolate, huh?" He turned to the person behind the counter and called out. "We'll take two cones of chocolate."

I grinned, slipping forward to the counter and paying for the both of us while Jack grabbed our gelato cones. He turned for the cash register, then turned back to me with an incredulous look when he realized I'd beat him to it.

"I was gonna get that," he said. I just smiled and took my cone out of his stunned hand.

"You snooze you loose. Besides, I'm the one who dragged you in here. Consider it a better welcome to LA than our street system gave you."

Jack snorted, but the joke got him moving again. He fell into step beside me as we headed out of the gelato shop together.

"Well, thanks then. And I can say definitively, this has been a much better welcome than this city's ever given me before."

I laughed, leaning into Jack a little as we continued down the street, both happily eating our gelato. Unlike earlier, this time the silence was more comfortable than irritated, and I didn't mind it one bit.

As we continued making our way through the city, taking a few more gelato-style detours as we went, we fell into easy conversation. We talked about New York and LA, and Jack and I's lives in both places. He didn't seem to want to talk about work very much, so instead we talked about hobbies, things we liked to do in our free time, and even sports.

"Alright, you might've convinced me that there's something to this city that would make it bearable to be here for more than a few hours, but you will not convince me there's anything to the sports here. You don't even have a baseball team, for crying out loud."

"Oh yeah? Well both of our football teams beat all three of yours."

Jack huffed and waved me off. "Fluke. We'll get you next season."

"Like hell you will."

Jack snorted, but when I glanced over at him, I found him staring at me with an incredulous smile on his face.

"You know... I almost wish I were still lost," he said, the words tumbling out of him like he hadn't had time to think them through. "Walking around this city with you is the only time I've enjoyed myself here."

I smiled back at him, trying to ignore the way my heart sped up in my chest.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Why'd you decide to help me out, anyway?"

I shrugged. "You seemed like you needed it. And I didn't have anything more entertaining to do with my afternoon, anyway."

Jack huffed another laugh, then smiled at me.

"Well, then here's to you having way too much time on your hands."

"Cheers to that," I said, grinning right back at him.

Unfortunately, despite all our wandering and detours along the route, we'd finally made it to the hotel he'd been looking for in the first place. I heard Jack let out a small sigh as we headed into the lobby, and both of us dragged our feet more than we had for any other part of the way here.

"Well... I guess this is it, then," I said, turning to him and trying to force a smile on my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a man and a woman making a beeline for us. One of them shouted out Jack's name, a fair bit of concern and irritation conveyed in just Jack's name. I took a half step back towards the doorway, but Jack's hand shot out and caught my own before I could get further.

"Hold on. I'm not about to let the only thing worth being in this city for walk out that door without another word."

"I think your coworkers are anxious to talk to you."

Jack waved them off with his free hand. "They waited this long, they can wait a little longer. Can I get your number? I'll give you a call as soon as I'm done here. Take you out on a real date."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying my tour of LA doesn't count as a date?"

"Well-"

"I bought you gelato! There's nothing wrong with platonic gelato, but after spending an hour and a half on a trip that usually takes thirty minutes, I think it should count as date gelato."

"Fine! Fine, alright, I agree with you. Let me take you out on a second date."

I grinned. "I like the sound of that."

Jack rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything as I grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled my number on the piece of paper he'd been trying so hard to decipher before I'd stepped in to help him. I handed it over, then leaned up to give him a quick peck on the cheek before stepping back.

"Call me," I said, slowly backing away. Jack's coworkers had stopped just short of hovering over his shoulder, and I appreciated them not interrupting our moment, but they looked increasingly impatient to talk to Jack. He didn't seem to care, his eyes never leaving me as I headed out of the lobby.

"I will."

"You better."

"I promise."

He grinned at me, and I grinned right back as I took the last few steps out of the lobby. The minute I cleared the doors, Jack's coworkers descended on him, sweeping him away with lots of gesturing and shouting I couldn't hear from beyond the glass. I watched them for another minute, then finally turned away with a smile still on my face.

Thank goodness LA didn't use a grid system. If not for our confusing network of streets, I'd never have met Jack. I couldn't wait for him to call for our second date, not least of all to point out my new argument in favor of LA's city planning. I could already tell, we were going to have fun.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

Marvel Taglist: @valkyriepirate @infinetlyforgotten @sagesmelts @gaychaosgremlin

[starry-bi-sky]

tales of the passerine - danny fenton being bruce wayne's first kid

okay okay. so this is like a continuation/elaboration of my oneshot/prompt i wrote about the idea that Danny was the first batkid. We have a lot of aus where he joins the family after the rest of the bats do, right? So hey! Lets shake things up a bit. Danny is the first to be adopted by Bruce Wayne.

Danny's parents and unfortunately Jazz die shortly after the events of TUE -- how so? I was gonna say an ecto-filter explosion, that would call back to the TUE explosion and trauma behind that. But lets do something new! Carbon-monoxide poisoning.

It's not too unexpected for something to break in the Fenton house, especially with the Fenton parents' questionable understanding of proper weapon handling and lab safety. The water heater broke from a stray shot by one of the weapons, and was promptly MacGyver'd incorrectly. Danny went to stay with Tucker for a guys' night, and came back to a dead silent house.

(Danny's neighbors got a very unfortunate shock when he ran to the next house over in hysterics.)

There was a lot of shuffling around with CPS, the police. People had to be called in to handle the equipment in the lab, and the GIW was rumoring to show up in aid to clearing the scene. When Danny heard of that, he immediately went and dismantled the ghost portal to the best of his abilities. He burned the physical blueprints of all his parents' inventions, their blueprints on the ghost portal, and their most dangerous weapons were destroyed beyond recognition. Anything to prevent the GIW from getting their hands on his parents' tech.

It opened up another investigation, but he was not under the list of suspects. He was placed in the care of Vlad Masters, where they then went back to the rebuilt castle mansion in Wisconsin. Danny, terrified of the future that has once passed and may do so again, shuts down in his grief. Inadvertently, he ends up somewhat repressing his ghost half. Something Vlad, who is grieving Madeline but relishing in Jack's demise and his custody of Daniel, is not very happy with.

Vlad's... gone into a bit of a mental health spiral. He's becoming increasingly possessive over Daniel, the final remnants of his friends and a liminal being like him. He doesn't like that Danny's repressing his ghost half -- both out of genuine concern as a ghost, but also because of his desire to control Danny and groom him into the perfect son. If you ever had a phase where you read Dark SBI found family fics, first off; me too bro, and second off; those are the vibes I'm thinking of.

Danny's mentally shut down from grief! And fear. He's dropped into a bad depressive state -- paralyzed with grief and the terror of the inevitable. Clockwork saved his parents because he believes in second chances, but what's the point of that when his family ended up dead anyways? Danny doesn't wanna believe that he's destined to become evil, and he's holding out onto that hope, but it's a thin line, and he feels utterly hopeless and trapped. He hasn't used his powers or ghost form since he trashed the lab, and Vlad has alarms set up to prevent him from trying to escape.

He's also unintentionally cut off Sam and Tucker -- both of whom are so scared and concerned for Danny too, and are trying their damndest to reach out to him. He keeps ignoring their texts. Danny basically haunts Vlad's manor. He goes out to eat if he has to, attends parties Vlad drags him to, and stays in his room all day if he can.

At parties, Vlad doesn't allow Danny to leave his side, or really talk to anyone -- not that Danny wants to. A product of Vlad's increasing possessiveness. Well, he almost doesn't let Danny leave his side. Danny has a habit of slipping off to hide somewhere for the parties whenever he can, and Vlad reluctantly allows it so long as he stays alone.

This becomes an advantage when eventually, Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham after missing for years, and holds a bright charity ball to celebrate the return. Vlad has been chomping at the bits to get his hands on Wayne Industries, and with the return of its owner there is no better opportunity to wipe out his rival. He goes, and he as normal, brings Daniel with him.

Vlad thinks Wayne will bleed his little heart out for Daniel's poor orphan sob story -- he's a fellow orphan himself, after all. He's not wrong; Wayne's little heart will bleed, just not in the way that benefits him.

Bruce sees Vlad and Danny approaching before they're even close enough to introduce themselves - and like with many of the children he will soon come to care for, it's like someone set a mirror into the past right in front of him.

Danny Fenton's suit is tailor-made for him, and despite the fact that it's his perfect size, the sag in his shoulders, the ducked down head, and the way he hunches into himself all pictures the image of a child in shoes too big for him. There's a far away, glazed over look in his eyes and grief marble-cut into the lines of his face. There's not enough makeup in the world that will hide the dark circles under his eyes.

("My nephew, Daniel Fenton." Vlad's hands are possessive on Danny's shoulders. Bruce immediately notices the way the boy tenses under his touch. "His parents passed recently, and as his godfather I was designated his guardian.") ("I'm so sorry, the loss must've been terrible.") ("Yes, carbon-monoxide poisoning caused it. Daniel was out with friends, when he came home... they had already passed.") (Bruce immediately dislikes that Vlad shared the details of their death unprompted -- he likes it even less when Danny flinches at the reminder and hunches into himself.)

Danny runs off at some point earlier into the charity. At this point, parties are still being held at Wayne Manor (because iirc google search mentioned that was a thing at first before it was changed), so he disappears and hides in one of the empty rooms nearby. It just so happens to be the same room Bruce Wayne hides in when he needs a break from all of the socialization.

Thus begins a long, long process of trust. Bruce can't reveal his hand as being smarter than he looks, but he can be compassionate. Kindness needs no measure of intelligence. He keeps Danny company for as long as he can before he runs the risk of being found.

Rinse and repeat. Vlad insistently wants Wayne Industries, and he'll go to as many Wayne parties as he can to get his hooks into the man. The problem is that Bruce Wayne is never alone, and getting him alone is impossible. Finding him too. It's like the man never stops moving. Always talking to someone, always circling somewhere. He orbits around the room as if he isn't the sun of the Gotham Elite's solar system.

Danny's had such repetitive behavior that Vlad never thinks to believe that Bruce Wayne is disappearing to go talk to him. That "Vlad's" son is even interacting with him at all. Danny never gives him a reason to think so, and neither does Bruce.

Danny doesn't actually acknowledge Bruce until a handful of parties in, where he hands Bruce a small slip of paper he smuggled in that says; "don't trust Vlad". Danny's face stays carefully blank, but he's so tense that his hands are trembling, and he's purposely looking away from him. Bruce plasters a smile onto his face, slips the paper into his pocket, and tells him "okay".

(he's been busy with his own goals with the mafia, but he sets aside time to investigate Vlad Masters. He was holding off. Until now.)

Danny does eventually start speaking to Bruce, he's starting to really like the guy. He's starting to see a little hope, even as Vlad is starting to get more and more agitated with him the more he refuses to use his powers.

He reaches out to Sam and Tucker again, and starts trying to reconnect with them. Vlad has spyware on his phone, and he limits the amount of times he can talk to them. A weird parental control lock of some sort that leaves a time limit on how long he can talk to them for. 30 minutes. Danny doesn't tell them anything about Mr. Wayne.

Danny, slowly, wants out of here, and he's slowly gathering the motivation to do it. Vlad is genuinely scaring him -- and Danny wonders just how truthful the past-future Vlad was when he told him that Danny wanted his ghost half separate. He starts trying to come up with an escape plan.

Vlad has anti-ghost wards everywhere around the mansion, and while they're always on, they boost to full power at sunset. The doors and windows are always locked, all main exits have alarms set on them. The only reason it's not super extensive is because Danny hasn't tried leaving at all yet, so Vlad hasn't had to tighten anything.

At night, Vlad locks the door to his room and puts up an anti-ghost ward around the room. The mansion is on the outside westward side of Madison, more entrenched in rural Wisconsin. The closest town is a four-way stop sign with one house on three corners, and an open bar on the fourth. Not much to go.

He refuses to go to Sam and Tucker; Vlad would look there first. It's too dangerous. Vlad would sound alarm bells and have a manhunt looking for him, Danny can't risk going just anywhere. Too much risk of being found, sold out, or caught. There's really nowhere for him to hide.

Until there is. Bruce is telling Danny about the history of Wayne Manor, and says, as casually as saying the weather; "The manor has dozens of empty rooms, I'm sure Alfred wouldn't mind filling another one if he could." And quietly, hesitantly, Bruce places a careful hand on Danny's shoulder, unrestrictive and gentle; "He wouldn't mind getting one ready for you if you need one."

And there it is. There's his out.

Danny, just as quietly, replies; "I'll keep that in mind."

The ball starts rolling.

Now I've been trying to summarize this au as much as possible for length convenience, but Vlad has been steadily growing more and more controlling. More emotionally manipulative. More agitated at Danny for not using his powers.

He wants Wayne Industries under his thumb but he's been steadily growing more and more concerned with Danny. He's started grabbing him, yanking him around, shaking him; trying to goad him into using his powers. He gets angry when Danny doesn't react, or tells him he doesn't want to use his powers. He hasn't outright attacked him, but he's getting there. This has been happening over the time it takes for Bruce to indirectly offer Danny sanctuary at his home.

It all comes to a head when Vlad stops going to parties at all -- something Danny has to pretend he isn't upset about -- because Vlad doesn't want him around other people anymore. Vlad rarely goes now without him, and only leaves to go to a Wayne function or to handle something at VladCo.

Danny can't wait for Vlad to leave long enough to escape. So he leaves during the night of a big storm. Vlad's locked him in his room, but Danny doesn't bother trying to go for it; he goes to the alarmed window instead. Danny's been repressing his ghost half so long that he can't access his powers immediately anymore -- he can feel it, he knows its there, but he can't quite reach it.

He breaks the lock by hand.

Immediately the alarm goes off through the entire castle, filling the room with red, and he scrambles for the rope the Wisconsin Ghost left for him a few months back. Danny's already out and climbing down the side of the castle before Vlad even reaches his door -- the only good thing about the entire room being ghost-proof is that Vlad can't get in that way.

The rope ends before it reaches the bottom, and he's still twenty feet in the air. It won't kill him if he lands it right. Danny takes his chances, and drops. He breaks his ankle, but he survives.

And he fucking books it to the back garden. He hears Vlad shrieking over the thunder and rain.

I'll save the full experience for a future oneshot, but Danny makes it out into the nearby woods and forcibly experiences what it's like to be in a horror game, trying to hide from the thing that's hunting you. There's only one thing going through his mind; "i'm going to die"

I have this mental image for this scene. Very stereotypical horror imo. Where Danny is hiding behind a tree, with a hand over his mouth, and Vlad is a few feet away from him, glowing ominously red through the trees, trying to search for him.

Danny doesn't get away from this unscathed, but he does get away alive. That's all he could ask for. He gets away by getting his ghost half awakened long enough to transform into Phantom and fly to Gotham.

But he gets to Wayne Manor, he gets to Bruce. Or, at least, Alfred answers the door from his insistent pounding. Danny's just in tears and Alfred gets him in the living room, wrapped in a towel, with ice on his swollen leg before he has to step out and alert Bruce.

Bruce already breaks multiple traffic laws on a nightly basis. And that's just with the sheer existence of the batmobile itself, not including the speeding and military artillery attached. He breaks double the amount trying to speed back to the cave and get out of the suit.

Right off the bat: Bruce will know, at least before Dick enters the picture, about danny's powers. He'll figure out something considering the fact that Danny traveled from Wisconsin to New York in a single night. That'll be a bit of complicated affair, but I've already got something in mind.

Actually it'll probably be very soon after Danny joins the family, because Bruce tries to offer to fight for custody for Danny - the state Danny was in at arrival is clear enough evidence for a trial. But Danny immediately shuts it down, says it's not going to work and then Vlad will know Danny's with him and he won't be safe. He tells him that Vlad cannot know Danny was with Bruce.

Danny's biggest regret was not telling his parents he was a halfa, and while he doesn't want to tell mister wayne (yet), he does tell him about Vlad being one. He needs to know why Danny can't be seen with Bruce. So he tells him, and Danny's current plan is to just hide out from Vlad until he turns 18. That way, he has no more legal jurisdiction over him. After that? He's not sure.

And to wrap this up, since this has already gotten very long and I can make more posts about this au later; I've thought about it, and I'm going to say that Danny does become a vigilante before Dick enters the scene. He goes by, as you probably guessed; Nightingale. "Gale" for short.

[guiltyasdave]

masterlist

so... i had the (insane) idea to go through all of my fic recs and to put them into one gigantic list. i don't want to talk about how long this took me BUT here we are! this list is gonna work like an archive, and going forward i'll be doing weekly fic recs (also linked down below).

please check the tags and warnings on each fic! if you enjoyed a fic, please show the writer some love <3

weekly fic recs

clint oneshots

comandante veracruz oneshots

dave york oneshots

dave york series

dieter bravo oneshots

dieter bravo series

din djarin oneshots

din djarin series

ezra oneshots

ezra series

frankie morales oneshots

frankie morales series

jack daniels oneshots

jack daniels series

javi gutierrez oneshots

javier peña oneshots

javier peña series

joel miller oneshots - part 1

joel miller oneshots - part 2

joel miller oneshots - part 3

joel miller series

lucien flores oneshots

marcus pike oneshots

marcus pike series

max phillips oneshots

max phillips series

oberyn martell oneshots

tim rockford oneshots

march fic recs part 1 & part 2

my 1500 kisses challenge masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

👉 You are responsible for your own fic consumption. Please check individual warnings and tags before reading.

✨Fic Rec List will be updated regularly.

✨Check out my TBR list for more content.

>> Dave York All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Dieter Bravo All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter | Daddy Dieter

>> Din Djarin All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Ezra All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Frankie Morales All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Jack Daniels All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Javier Gutierrez All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Javier Pena All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Joel Miler All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Lucien Flores All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Marcus Acacius All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Marcus Moreno All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Marcus Pike All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Max Philips All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Oberyn Martell All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Pero Tovar All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Tim Rockford All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

Other Character Fic Recs

>> Benny Miller All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Will Miller All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

>> Santiago Garcia All Fics | Oneshots | Multi-Chapter

Credits: Moon Divider by @saradika

[hiraishua]

PEDRO PASCAL . RECOMMENDED LIST

+ 최고 — other lists

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| EXPLICIT BASED