Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Drop Your Anchor (S)

TW: Body Dysphoria, Trans Male Character, casual transphobia, unintentional misgendering, dysphoria, and obv lots of frustrated and upset feelings

For the fourth time that day, Will turned off his welder's torch and lifted his goggles in order to deal with an interruption. He ignored the sweat that beaded off the edges of the goggles in favor of using his teeth to pull off his left glove while his right hand pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He sighed and squinted at the name on the screen.

**DO NOT ANSWER #3 is calling**

He narrowed his eyes but swiped the answer button and held it up to his ear, shaking off the right glove and kicking the pair under his workbench as he spoke. "What do you want, Parv?" he sighed.

"Oh, Strife, don't act like you weren't happy to see my pretty face show up on your caller ID!"

Strife snorted, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He didn't bother telling Parv he had long ago changed the photo to a stop sign. "You didn't answer my question." He looked around his workshop, trying to spot something he could do while talking.

He could practically hear the pout in Parv's voice. "Am I not allowed to call my Strifey-wifey?"

Strife scowled and didn't reply, instead walking over to stand on his charging station, simply holding the phone to his ear as he let his jetpack charge.

Parv was silent as well, expecting a reply before finally realizing his mistake (to Strife's relief, though he wouldn't admit it.) "Oh, god, sorry. I didn't mean–"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Strife kept his tone light. He didn't need Parv tripping over apologies when he already was avoiding just outright stating the reason he called in the first place.

Speaking of. "I'm busy repairing my armor, Parv. I'm a very busy man and have very important business things I need to do. Say what you want before I start charging you for my time."

"Welllll," Parv drew out, his tone taking a sharp turn into a devious sing-song. "You're big on providing solutions and whatnot, riiiight?"

Will tapped his foot impatiently. He was getting very sick of this nonsense argument where Parv declared his blood magic was good for Will's business. The argument had come up so many times, it was safe to assume Parv was about to bring it up again. "Wasting my time stalling isn't doing you any favors," he warned.

He really wasn't in the mood for dealing with this. First, Hat Corp had dropped by early in the morning, hassling Will to loan them a disassembler (he told them no); then, Will discovered his farming system had somehow gotten damaged; and then only an hour ago, his good binder lost a few hooks (and Will knew exactly which two things to blame.) He was stuck with one he had outgrown, and it was already digging into his skin.

He absentmindedly reached up as Parv spoke, and rubbed at his shoulder where, underneath his button-up and vest, the straps were leaving angry red marks into his shoulder. He'd have to find a way to repair the good one, aysap.

"–so we'd probably need your atomic hammer thingy, and–"

"What?" Will asked.

"Were you not listening?" Parv gasped, as if the concept of such a thing was utterly outrageous.

"Don't get your boxers in a bunch, I just couldn't hear you over my machinery." A blatant lie, but Parv would never shut up if Will had told him he had spaced out thinking about his growing to-do list.

Parv sighed. "I swear, Strife, if I weren't around to pull you out of your base every once in a while, you'd go deaf from all your technology things and forget to feed yourself."