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ladamedusoif · 9 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #historical AU #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories

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silvermaplealder · 22 days

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Follow the Leader: Chapter 1

I wrote this because I love body-switching trope stories and I decided to share this one.

Story Summary: David switches bodies with a stranger, Michael Emerson, after a motorcycle accident. Michael has to take on the role of a vampire gang leader while David has to adapt to a domestic human life until they can figure out how to change back.

Chapter Summary: David has to deal with the stresses of being the lead vampire of his pack. There is more to making life run smoothly as a vampire besides existing and looking cool

Word Count: 3165

David stood just outside the cave, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes scanned the horizon, watching the last rays of the sun disappear beyond the water. Food, he thought to himself. Fuck, we need gas… he adjusted his gaze to his hands as he mentally listed off the chores for today. Eating, refueling, mending part of his jacket. The list went on and on.

The thing about being the leader of his crew was having to keep track of everything happening. His boys were demanding when it came to lifestyles. He had to keep track of getting fuel and repairs for the bikes. He had to keep up with all of their little hobbies. Buying the cigarettes for himself, the weed that they shared, the alcohol, the art supplies for Marko, the list never ended.

Being a vampire came with a lot of responsibilities.

He finished his cigarette and headed back into the cave. The other three boys were finally awake. When the bleach blonde arrived, the boys sat up and gave him their attention. “Breakfast?” Marko asked immediately.

“Yes. There were a couple of those assholes from the other day-” David began.

“Dewy and Martin, right?” Paul cut in quickly.

David inclined his head. “Yes. I expect we’ll find them on the boardwalk. They’re our target tonight.”

“What about that chick Donna?” Marko asked.

David shook his head. “No, not yet. Later this week.”

“But what if I’m still hungry?” the youngest whined.

The leader sighed softly, looking over the curly haired vampire. He hated having to ration food. It wasn’t fair. “We can grab a snack on the boardwalk later,” David promised. “Let’s head out.”

The crew followed David obediently to the bikes. The vampires mounted the motorcycles and headed to town.

How’d the stalking go last night? David telepathically asked Dwayne over the sounds of their engines.

Just fine. Dewy and Martin should be heading to the arcade tonight if nothing’s changed, Dwayne responded.

Good. Let’s hope they’re there. David led the pack straight into town towards the main parking lot of the boardwalk.

We could go after Donna as a plan B, Dwayne responded as they rolled up to park their bikes. It’s Tuesday and last I checked she had a spinning class that ends at nine.

David sat back on his bike as he cut the engine. He fished a pocket watch out of his coat to check the time. Then we don’t have much time. Those brats better be at the arcade. David was quick to lead the way onto the boardwalk. He couldn’t risk missing out on the potential meals. Grabbing someone random was always a huge risk.

The pack of vampires stalked down the boardwalk. David kept his eyes ahead of him, never faltering from the entrance to the arcade. He brought the rest of the pack up behind him as he slipped into the largest arcade on the boardwalk. Fan out, let’s find them, he demanded.

The vampires scattered quickly. David’s eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. He scanned the tourists, searching for the two late teens who had harassed Paul almost three weeks ago. The teens were quickly added to their menu, but David didn’t want to snatch them right away. They were young and foolish. Someone would be looking for them if they didn’t come home. But he waited and watched. Last week, Dewy got kicked out of his family’s house for attacking his younger sister. Martin was housing him at his folk’s house, but Martin’s family was away in Los Angeles this week. Two boys, all alone. No one would know they’re gone for days.

The bleach blonde carefully admired the people he passed. He felt compelled to start stalking them. Tourists were so curious to him. He loved following them and figuring out their lives. He’d watch them from the windows of the hotels. He’d follow them on the rooftops across town. He’d listen in on their conversations and find out who they were and what they did. There were plenty of perfect meals wandering the boardwalk. He just had to find the right one and strike when the time was right.

Found them! Paul’s voice cut through the leader’s skull.

David sensed his companion and snaked through the crowd. The four vampires surrounded the teens without their knowledge. David’s eyes scouted through the crowd. The arcade was busy this evening. He could start a scene and provoke the teens into a fight. But then security would be called and tourists would remember their faces. Loss of good prey.

Marko, Dwayne, wait outside by the river. Paul and I will lure them there. Dwayne and Marko were quick to follow his orders. David liked to keep Marko out of potentially heated encounters since the young vampire had a temper.

The bleach blonde approached the teens. “Well,” he stated, alerting them to his presence. “Dooby, right?” His tone was drenched in mockery.

The hot headed Dewy whirled around on David. It took him a moment to recognize the older boy and his companion that he saw a few weeks back. “Oh, it’s you,” Dewy remarked. The teen looked David over before giving a sneer. “Couldn’t find anything else besides your grandmother’s dress to wear today?”

David gave a small mockery laugh. “It’s called having class, kid. Something you’ll never have.” The vampire looked the brat’s outfit over. He lashed out a hand and snatched the boy’s chain around his neck. He yanked it off harshly, resulting in hatred flashing across the kid’s face. “Only dogs wear chains,” David teased.

“Oh you’re on pal,” the boy hissed.

David turned on his heel and shoved through the arcade. Get to the edge of the boardwalk, and quickly, David instructed.

Paul nodded and quickly disappeared among the crowd.

The boys weren’t interested in his taller companion. Dewy and Martin stayed on David’s heels as the vampire brought the two straight out of the arcade building. He paused just enough to rile up Dewy enough to lunge for him. David sidestepped the teen and then ran towards the river.

Paul stalked just out of sight. He followed the chase past the roller coaster and down towards the river. Dwayne and Marko stood their ground in the darkness, waiting for the ambush.

David brought the teens towards the river bank and paused. He looked over to Paul who came behind the boys. “You want this piece of junk so bad?” David taunted. He tossed it over their heads to Paul. “Then come get it.”

Dewy shoved the bleach blonde backwards. David took a short stumble back and scanned the surroundings. The boys turned to Paul who stood his ground with the necklace held over his head.

No watchful eyes. The coast was clear. Go. Feast.

Marko and Dwayne were quick to swoop in from the shadows. Paul threw the chain to the ground before latching onto one of the teens.

The three vampires tore the boys apart before they could make a sound. David kept a few steps back to watch his pack feed. The scent of blood forced his fangs to slide out. His stomach cramped in hunger, but he kept his distance. Marko pulled at one of the boys, trying to get more than his fair fill. Dwayne and Paul shared a glance but they tugged the second boy closer to them.

David turned away from the carnage to get away from the blood. When the boys were finished they washed up in the river. Marko splashed Paul with some of the water, causing the two of them to start wrestling playfully.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Dwayne whispered to David softly.

David glanced over to the playing blondes. He exhaled. “I’ll grab a snack later. You’ve seen how Marko gets when he’s still hungry. I can handle my hunger.”

“That’s fair,” Dwayne commented.

David let the dark haired vampire break the two fighting blondes apart while he turned his attention to the bodies. He scooped them up easily and admired the work that his boys did. Teeth and claw marks all over their bodies. David grabbed at Dewy’s arm with his teeth trying to get a taste of his blood. There wasn’t much left, but he managed to get a couple swallows in. He took to the sky and dumped the bodies into the ocean.

He rejoined the other vampires on the boardwalk. The three of them anxiously waited for their leader to return. The second he did, Paul headbutted the bleach blonde playfully. David grunted and Marko gave the taller vampire a smack. The two of them started nudging each other until David clicked his tongue for them to cut it out.

“David, can we go back to the arcade?” Marko begged.

“Got no money for arcade tonight, boys,” he replied. “Why don't you and Paul put those quick fingers to work and snatch some cash, hm? Bring me back a pack of cigs.” The blonde vampires playfully saluted their leader before charging off into the sea of people. “How's Veronica?” He asked to his last companion.

Dwayne shrugged. “Haven't seen her in a week or so. Not since Tony showed up not long ago.”

“Put them on the menu for tomorrow,” David ordered. “Get an idea for where they'll be.”

Dwayne nodded. “You want to come with?” He offered.

David pulled out a cigarette and lit it carefully. “I wish, but I have to meet with Max. We'll all catch up at the bikes later. We'll need to fuel up and then we can get back to the nest. Hopefully the blonde terrors can get a good stash tonight. We could use the money.”

Dwayne gently put his hand on David's shoulder. David leaned into the touch to show his appreciation. “I'll bring you home something to eat,” he promised. David gave him a warm smile. He trusted Dwayne picking something safe for him. Dwayne was always his rock. The man could steady David through any storm. “Got my eye on this kid down by the docks. No family. No friends. Real loner.”

“You're quite the hunter,” David praised. “Tell you what. Let me finish up with Max and then I'll meet you by the docks. We can grab the kid and then stalk Veronica.”

David made quick work of his chores knowing that he'd get something to eat when he was finished. As Max's oldest boy, David took the role of being second in command. He met with Max regularly to discuss the town and what plans they had for it. Max wanted to expand his reach into the local government whereas David wanted more freedom. Max didn't mind what the boys did, as long as it kept the city on their toes, but didn't have the locals with torches and pitchforks searching for them. Max liked the uneasiness of the town. He could use fear to control the local population. And since David and his crew were the root of the fear that drove this town wild, Max had more control than anyone realized.

After their meeting, David returned to the docks to meet Dwayne. The poor man's boat dock, as the boys took to calling the smaller one, had fishing boats and was the main launch for canoes, kayaks, and other small boats. For the rich who had nice luxury boats, they were stored on a separate dock with security cameras and a regular patrolling guard.

But on this dock, a young boy sat at the edge of the dock. David had seen him before but sorted him into a “starvation” category on his menu. The boy was barely in his early teens, but clearly running on his own. Scars coated his visible skin showing signs of abuse over many years.

The boys didn't typically eat kids. Kids didn't have nearly as much blood as their adult counterparts. They weren't as filling and oftentimes would only result in angry parents. Of course during the off season all humans were game, size and age no longer mattered. But when the summer was full swing and thousands of new meat hit the streets each night, there was no need to feed on the young.

But tonight David's hunger was gnawing at him hard. The kid had no one to go home to. No one to love him. The vampire saw it more as a mercy killing.

Dwayne watched as his leader swooped down onto the child and quickly ended him. There was no fight. David knew when it was appropriate to play with his food and when he just had to go for the kill. When he was finished, the two vampires returned to their bikes to refuel and regroup with Paul and Marko.

David and Dwayne sat on their bikes in the parking lot as the blondes came barrelling from the boardwalk. David held his hand out as Marko dropped a pack of cigarettes in it. It wasn't a brand that he preferred, but it didn't matter when it was given to him. He examined the pack seeing that they must have lifted it from someone's pocket. “Good work boys,” he praised, resulting in a happy noise from the smallest.

“Got two hundred dollars today, David!” Paul bounced over to his bike excitedly.

David gave him a warm smile. “That's very good. Why don't you two grab some gas on the way back and meet Dwayne and I at the nest later? We're stalking tonight.”

“Can we come?” Marko pleaded. He gave David his big, puppy dog eyes.

David propped his wrists up on his handlebars. He liked having the younger two learn hunting skills, but they tended to get in the way. “If you want to do some stalking, why don't you two check out that motel on Edmund? Watch the residents and see if you can get a running list of who's there and who'd make a good meal.”

“Got it!” Paul cheered.

“Remember, it has to be low profile. Figure out their check out date so we can figure out when to grab them.” David started up his engine. “No snacking.”

The blondes, given their new orders, excitedly got onto their bikes and headed off to complete them. The motel on Edmund was a good mark for fresh blood, but it wasn't in the best shape so the place was never fully booked. Even with it's low prices, people liked to avoid it. It was a common motel to hide from one's spouse while hooking up, or a cheap place for drunken men to bring women they met at the bar. But every once and a while, a good meal would stay for a few days.

David pulled out of the parking lot with Dwayne at his side. They had to make sure dinner was still on for tomorrow.

Veronica lived outside of town. Dwayne had met her several times on the boardwalk. She was young and excited to get his attention. But it turned out she had a fiance. While Dwayne was looking for an easy mark, it got easier knowing that the fiance returned and was pissed at the situation. Tensions aside, the two lived together in a small home with next to no neighbors. Tony was her high school sweetheart, but she started to see other men on the side while Tony would go on “business trips”.

Tonight, neither were home. David and Dwayne parked their bikes down the street and flew to the house. David picked the back door open and they started pawing through the place. David only cared about finding a schedule or calendar that would have their plans safely jotted down. And it didn't take him long to find one. He found a small notebook at the kitchen table. “They're having dinner with some friends tonight,” he commented. “Must be out late.” He flipped through the handheld planner.

Dwayne stalked around the house. “Washer and dryer here,” he commented.

“Great, it's about time we did laundry,” David grumbled. He hated domestic duties, but when you're a stinky vampire you have to maintain a healthy relationship with hygiene to keep living alongside humans. “They've got no plans for tomorrow. We can swing by after dark.”

“Sounds good.” Dwayne continued to go through the house, examining all the knickknacks that he considered taking.

David left the planner on the table as he found it. “Let's go back.” He waited for Dwayne at the back door.

It took the brunette vampire an extra minute before he returned to his leader. In his hand was a little trinket. “What's this?” He asked, passing it to David.

The bleach blonde took the spherical trinket from him and examined it. “No idea.” He couldn't read the engraved words on the little bell-like thing. David played with it in between his fingers before sliding it into his pocket.

The two vampires turned back to their bikes and began to head home. They took the winding back roads at a speed no human should. The two teased each other with a little race.

Nothing got them more competitive than a race.

David swerved onto a side road, cranking up his speed to try and cut off Dwayne up ahead. Adrenaline raced through his body as the boys couldn't see each other and tell who was winning. David didn't want to lose. He was the leader and he had to prove his mettle.

He popped back up onto the main road. Dwayne wasn't ahead of him, though he could hear the engine of the other bike. He turned his head over his shoulder, barely seeing the headlight of his companion through the winding trees.

He looked behind him for a fraction of a second too long. He snapped his attention back in front of him when movement caught his eye.

Movement from an SUV.

The vampire was blinded by the headlights of the vehicle. His vampire eyes were too sensitive to such lights in the darkness. His entire world went bright white. He was so overwhelmed with the race that he hadn't heard the sound of the car coming towards him. He tried to close his eyes and use his other senses, but it was too late.

He instinctively swerved, but the SUV collided with his back tire. The vampire was thrown from his bike, crashing down onto the asphalt. For any human it would have been severed limbs and instant death.

David couldn't feel anything, but he knew he wasn't dead. He wanted to open his eyes and get up, but he couldn't feel where his arms were. He knew for certain he hit his head and that his senses were gone for a duration of time. The only thing he could do was lay there and wait. There was no pain though. Maybe it was shock but he knew that consciousness was slipping away and fast.

#the lost boys #lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #tlb #vampires

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how-serene · 4 days

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Won't You Say That You Love Me?

Pairing - Johnson (Reprisal) x Fem!Reader

Summary - Why did you have to love another?

Word Count - 1k+

Warnings - not proofread, angst, nsfw, oral (fem receiving), mention of female anatomy, fem pronouns used, infidelity, reader is engaged, no use of y/n, first smut (still learning), mentions of guilt, reader prays for a second??, obviously I don't condone cheating

A/N - Inspired by 'This Thing Called Loved' by Stephen Sanchez.

(Part of the Angel Face Catalog)

Love was a funny thing, wasn’t it?

It was something that could mend and break, over and over again. Yet somehow, it always found a way to repair itself.

You wondered, looking up at Johnson, if love was strong enough to rebuild the damage you caused. If love was truly enough to save someone.

“We can’t do this anymore, Johnson.” You whispered, flushing from his touch. His lips caressed the edge of your jaw, peppering kisses down to your neck. He could feel the spike of your heartbeat, as you drew in a shuddered breath.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He said, nudging his nose against yours. “And I’ll leave.”

Your fingers hooked around his dark blazer, subconsciously bringing him closer. His mouth burned against your skin, leaving behind seared memories you wouldn’t be able to scrub off.

“God, please don’t.” You pleaded, latching your lips onto his. The outside world melted away, as you heard him groan into the kiss. He cradled your jaw in hands, pushing toward you despite the height difference. Soft strands of your hair wrapped around his fingers like vines, as if trying to hold onto him. He smelled like sweet hairspray, comfort and familiarity coiled in your stomach. It almost made you cry. You could taste your cherry chapstick on his lips, but something else too beyond the sweetness. It coated his tongue. Nicotine.

“My fiancé-

Your words were cut off, as he harshly nipped at your bottom lip. The yelp that escaped you was swallowed back as Johnson’s tongue swiped over yours. His kiss was bruising, as if trying to leave behind an imprint. Your head felt fuzzy, as his hot mouth suddenly left yours. Sheer chapstick coated the outer edges of his swollen lips. Your chest swelled with ego, knowing the taste of you would linger for the rest of the night.

“Don’t mention him.” He said, hand trailing down your thigh. You watched, in fascination, as he slowly fell to his knees before you.

“Eyes on me, pretty girl.” He muttered, before pushing your dress up. The fabric bunched at your hips, showcasing a set of black laced panties. Johnson carefully hooked his fingers under the waistband and tugged them down, the material scratched against your skin as they fell to your ankles. You pressed your hands flat against the wall, shame pooling in your stomach as you glanced away.

“Look at me.” Johnson demanded, his quiet tone sending shivers down your spine. You caved, as your eyes met his. They sparkled up at you, solely trained on your face. The sight nearly made you fall to your own knees. Never did your fiancé gaze up at you like this, like a man kneeling before his god, to pray and worship. His hands on your skin felt like some sick form of salvation, one you weren’t aware you needed.

‘God, forgive me.’ You prayed. ‘Of all that I’ve done wrong, please forgive me for loving another.’

Then you felt him against you, as he slid the flat of his tongue over your slit. You squirmed, sighing from the sensation. His hands gripped onto the fat of your thighs, pulling your heat flush against his mouth.

“Fuck.” You whimpered, entangling your fingers in-between his soft curls. He parted your folds, his hot tongue lapping against you like a starved man. A whine bubbled in the back of your throat, as incoherent pleas fell from your mouth. You felt selfish, enjoying the sight of his worship. God, did your fiancé know what he was doing to you? He was just downstairs, waiting patiently at the bar for your return.

Johnson moaned, arousal blooming in his stomach. He hooked your leg over his shoulder suddenly, allowing for better access. He sucked at your clit, with greed and fervor. You felt your stomach tighten, eyes rolling back from the sensation.

“Please, please…” You uttered, the mantra falling from your lips.

The anticipation built, along with the shame and desire for another life. A life away from the ‘wifely’ duties that your mother ingrained into your head as a young girl. A life where it was Johnson, kneeling like this, proving his devotion.

Tears stung the corner of your eyes, as you felt heat build up in your core. It wasn’t fucking fair, for life to do this to you. To provide you a man that felt so sweet against you, yet felt so far from your grasp all at once.

“Oh, god.” You threw your head back, pressing him into you. “Johnson, I’m-

The orgasm washes over you, pulling you under its steady hold. You stumble forward, hands gripping onto Johnson’s hair as you ride it out. You hear him moan against you, as his nails imbed themselves into your skin. Stars danced in your vision, temporarily blinding you.

A sob worked its way up your chest, as tears pooled in your eyes, before falling down your cheeks. Johnson pulled your underwear back up, securing them around your hips before fixing your dress. Through your blurry vision, you pulled him down by his collar til he lips met yours. The kiss was disgustingly desperate. It was sloppy, and careless, as the taste of you on his tongue mixed with your salty bitter tears. His hands trembled as they wrapped around you.

“I wish it was you.” You whispered, embarrassed by your words. Your bottom lip quivered, something else wading on your tongue. A confession you knew there was no coming back from if it escaped you. So you left it, to sit and rot inside you.

“Don’t cry, doll.” He cooed, brushing away your tears. You burrowed into his chest, a cry leaving your throat. His hands held onto you, not ready for you to pull away. Like always.

You sobbed into his neck. “God, I wish it was you.”

“I love you.” He said, voice cracking. You couldn’t say it back, despite the urge to do so being right there.

You realized, with a heavy heart, that love was not enough to save someone in the end.

At least, not you.

What more could I do If love means what I feel for you? Won't you say that you love me? For, in your eyes, I know this to be true

#david dastmalchian #johnson reprisal #johnson x reader #reprisal 2019 #fem!reader #angst #smut #stephen sanchez

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ember-owlet · 3 months

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Hi hi :]] I practically did a little happy dance seeing blue eye samurai in your fandom list !

It's super easy for me to see Mizu as a regressor due to various reasons, particularly involuntarily! (And they very much deserve to catch up on their childhood)

So I think the formal request would be a headcanon post ! 👀 it doesn't have to be specifically regressor Mizu if you don't see her in that light /gen :]

I'm just happy someone else in this little corner of agere internet shares one of my interests !! ✨️🌿

hello!! aaa i'm ecstatic to know that you also enjoy blue eye samurai with an agere lens! despite the show's brutality, there are some really good nuggets of baby content to be found. i'd be happy to write some regressor! mizu headcanons for you as its about time i wrote something for them. and don't worry, i see her in the same light as well! feel free to send me your own personal thoughts on the characters/show to discuss as i'm thrilled to be in this corner of the agere internet with you friend. enjoy the headcanons! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ disclaimer! i do use primarily feminine terms when referring to mizu (they/she), but i do acknowledge that there are many interpretations of pronouns/gender identities to refer to the character as, and i find them wonderful! /gen

dynamic: regressor! mizu

content warnings: mentions of vent regression due to trauma, physical/mental anguish, light mentions of gender dysphoria ((stay safe little firelights, you can always come back to this when you're ready))

mizu has always been a trauma regressor to me, especially due to their lack of dealing with their feelings head on. their body would have to nearly force them to stop and take a break from their revenge mission and focus on recovering.

the first time she regressed would be terrifying to her, the feeling of being so out of control and helpless would make her hide away to try to push herself out of it as fast as possible.

it would take an incredible amount of time and trust developed before she felt safe around someone to tell, let alone show such a vulnerable state.

the select characters that i could realistically see her regressing around would be sword father or ringo.

if she were to regress voluntarily it would be to have the childhood that she wished she could have, one where she wasn't forced to grow up as a boy and to ease her gender dysphoria with feminine items/clothing.

she would be a very independent kiddo, not wanting to rely on others in fear that she would be an inconvenience or she would be punished for wasting someone's time after being treated as a monster for so long. if she were honest she genuinely wouldn't know how to react to such affection.

that being said, she needs gentle reassurance when in a younger state with a caregiver that helps her along the way. adding fruit/vegetables to her meals to make sure its balanced or mending their clothes would never go unnoticed and greatly appreciated.

she'd be so used to the feeling of being in pain or nauseous that she'd have a hard time differentiating pain that should be attended to or not. therefore her caregiver would need to keep an eye on her and remind her that any and all pain is worth looking at/caring for.

as a sentimental person she'd want to keep things gifted to her and wear or use them as comfort items until they physically can't be repaired anymore.

some of her favorite gifts would include free flowing or baggy clothes that she can keep close to her person for comfort.

her main comfort item is her sword, and would not be able to go anywhere or sleep without it clutched to her side as it reminds her of home and is something that she can rely on to keep her safe.

an actually extremely feral regressor as well if given the chance to be her true self (/lh /pos). i could absolutely see them wanting to play outside and then coming back home caked in mud and bruises while having the time of their life.

let her be a goofy kid!! growing up so fast from situations out of her control that she'd long for days where she'd let herself have fun.

LOVES going to the beach/aquarium. a true ocean lover whose favorite activities involve being around or in large bodies of water.

play fighting is a love language! she would love to wrestle her playmates/caregivers to see who is the strongest. as a physically stronger regressor she'd need to learn the value of her strength and to not be too rough if she were to get too excited.

they can get easily frustrated with creative tasks, and would prefer specific instruction in order to feel useful. it would make them the best helper around.

would love to play a game where they are the hero for once. (being called a monster can wear someone down mentally and it would definitely make her day to be seen as the hero of the story).

she also requires a ton of quiet time to allow her mind and body to rest. would she ever do it herself willingly is another question for another day, but she'd reluctantly do it if asked of her with sufficient gentle praise and coaxing.

as touch starved as they are, i can't see her being the one to initiate contact with someone unless the moment takes over her softer side and she can't help but wrap her arms around them or gently nudge them with her body to tell them that she's there and cares for them.

from her caregiver or those that she considers close she would accept forms of physical affection but wouldn't be too vocal on how much it means to her.

she'd believe that she'd never be able to repay her caregiver for their kindness but will continually try to find little things throughout the day to show them how grateful she is.

oddly enough i could totally see her gifting a sword to her caregiver as it is something that she believes she's good at and would work tirelessly day and night to make sure it's perfect.

despite being in a younger mindset she can and still would mean business to anyone who dares mess with her caregiver. even a baby phoenix still has talons.

#regressor! mizu #blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai agere #mizu blue eye samurai #bes #bes mizu #agere #age regression #fandom agere #agere headcanons #sfw agere #sfw age regression #sfw agere blog #sfw age regression blog #sfw interaction only #embers writings

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fallingrealms16 · 3 months

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Destiel Fic Recs Part 2

(人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

heheh part 2 <33333 I couldn't fit these in part 1 (*<3*)

Sounds of Someday by AlucardsBiddies

36K Words // Chapters: 13/16 // 6K Hits // UNCOMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

"His relationship with Cas is complicated. Dean doesn't know if he can fix what’s broken between them. But he sure as hell can fix the roof of the cabin so it doesn't cave when the first snowfalls.” ------------------------------------------- Dean’s world has crumbled around him. Learning God's responsible for every awful thing in his life is hitting him hard and worst of all he pushed the person he loves most away. Determined to fix them, Dean tracks Cas down to Rufus's old cabin hoping to repair it and their relationship along the way.

2. Living Broken Adjacent by LittleAngelCassie

135K Words // Chapters: 41/41 // 27K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Hunt/Capture/Celebrate/Repeat. Dean Winchester’s world in four words: simple with no fuss. He’s not had a single, life-altering moment in the 13 years since he joined his dad as a professional bounty hunter. Why fix what’s not broken? That is, until everything around Dean comes to a screeching halt, leaving him alone in new surroundings. Suddenly, Dean’s forced to live in his own version of the Cuckoo’s Nest with the biter, the licker, and the joker. Where angels abound, and his roommate’s haunting blue eyes make him wonder about all his past choices. He’s got this no problem, right? WRONG! Who knew laughter and love could be found within the dull, institutional walls of a psychiatric hospital, teaching Dean that no one is ever truly broken, but sometimes you simply find yourself lost and stumbling through a life where you are living …broken adjacent.

3. Empty Spaces by thisisapaige

48K Words // Chapters: 20/20 // 5K Hits // COMPLETED

//MATURE//

[Castiel] found the colour. It was a green, one of the few gentle colours at the edges of his dreams and the one he tried to capture in his paintings, never quite finding the right hue. He spent so long chasing the colours, trying to find it though pills and needles, but they always evaded his grasp. Yet he found one, right here, hiding in the eyes of a stranger. He studied the colour, the subtle differences between dark and light, the little flecks of gold nearly hidden in the sea of green, the ring around the outside. He studied it, trying to commit the colour to memory. The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, dude?” Oh. Castiel forgot the colour was attached to a person. ~~~ What if Castiel had fallen before the start of the series and met Dean on a routine hunt? Set in the spring before Dean goes to find Sam in Stanford. Intended as a three part series.

4. Breathe In | Breathe Out by Elizabeth1985

222K Words // Chapters: 38/38 // 17K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Guilt-stricken, Dean finds himself wasted on the asphalt behind a club with Gadreel’s trail gone cold. In what he believed was his lowest moment, Castiel came and picked him up, giving him hope for a future. But it’s all taken from him; everything he was gets twisted. The very soul of him being corrupted. Castiel has seen the ages of the world, the tragedies that would cripple the strongest men. But this? It changes everything. Mending Dean’s mind and soul should be his only priority and yet, that too, is stolen from him.

5. Starstruck by peanutbutterjelly-pie (Aleakim)

203K Words // Chapters: 50/50 // 223K hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

From the outside Castiel Novak looks like a regular guy: a good job, two teenage kids, a nice house and a crappy car he’s way too attached to. But there’s one thing no one knows about him: that, over twenty years ago, he used to live next to none other than Dean Winchester – back then a brash and loud-mouthed boy and nowadays a huge movie star and Hollywood’s sweetheart. Castiel never bothered to tell anyone about his childhood friend because frankly, who would believe him? Probably even Dean himself already forgot about his former awkward and weird neighbor, so Castiel seriously doesn’t see any point in mentioning the whole thing ever. But then an interview on national TV happens where Dean reveals way more about his past than ever before … and Castiel - as well as the rest of the world - suddenly realizes that he left a much bigger impact on Dean’s life than he originally thought.

6. Fools Rush In by sysrae

132K Words // Chapters: 35/35 // 40K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

''I'm sorry,' he said. The words came out in a gulp. He stumbled backwards, knocking over a pile of books and for once not caring, stopping only when he hit his desk. 'I shouldn't – I shouldn't have done that.' 'The hell you shouldn't,' Dean panted, touching two fingers against his mouth. It wasn't until he stared at their tips, his expression almost wondering, that Cas realised he was looking for blood – that he must have actually bitten him. Lust, and embarrassment, burned in him like fire. He gripped the edge of the desk and levered himself behind it, falling into his chair before his legs could give out. Had he ever kissed anyone like that? Had anyone ever kissed him like that? And why, of all people, did Dean Winchester have to be the one to make him wonder?'

Fools Rush In is a Destiel AU, complete with loan shark Crowley, cults, FBI politicking, and All The Angst Forever. Plus and also: smut.

#destiel fanfic recs #destiel fanfiction #destiel #dean and cas #dean x castiel #dean is bi #dean winchester #deancas #castiel #castiel winchester #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #alternate universe #spn #books and literature

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blondeboyfriend · 1 year

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𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another repost from 2021. I'll always have a soft spot for this fic. [ SYNOPSIS ] You're a talented, hot mess of a screenwriter. Zeke is a beloved actor/writer/director that seemingly has his shit together. What better way to repair your reputation than by fake dating him at the behest of your agent? [ WORD COUNT ] 8.8k [ CONTENT ] Film industry AU, fake dating, tall!reader, y/n has a personality, drug use, alcohol, sexual harassment (Don't fret! Zeke is not the harasser!), misogyny, depression, cigarettes, y/n is neurotic and doesn't like eating in front of people, existential angst, swimming pools, Floch is your agent, hungover!Zeke. [ PLAYLIST ] Here's the link.

A car barreled down the street, a puff of dark exhaust spewing out like a specter. The wind carried it off, now nothing more than a grey stain in the air. Still, the noxious smell made its way over to you and buried itself in your nose, seemingly singeing every hair. You sneezed and wiped your nose with the back of your hand, hoping no one saw you. In any other moment, you wouldn’t care.

But unfortunately today was a day different from the rest. You had to present and composed. Dignified. The exact opposite of how you were two weeks ago…

You’d been dragged to one of those gaudy industry parties: a grandiloquent celebration for the cast and crew of a film you co-wrote.

You wore an understated, black sheath dress much too short for the occasion. On the model, the bottom hem rested gracefully above the knee, thighs mostly obscured by the cotton-polyester fabric. But you spent most of the night tugging on your dress and dissociating.

Your conversations were stilted. Your words tinged with uncertainty and distaste. Men licked their lips as they eyed your exposed thighs, occasionally winking if you caught them. The longer you stayed, the more your humiliation bloomed into an unspeakable rage.

Unable to contain yourself, you took to the stage and aired out your grievances. You pointed directly at a studio head, one that had been ogling you all night, and told him he probably had a “fucked-up looking, duck dick.”

It was no surprise the industry didn’t hold such high regard for your blatant disrespect.

Proverbial water filled your lungs with every attempt to mend the situation. You nearly ruined a press junket with an impromptu apology, your hand gripping the microphone like a lifebuoy. Writers and script doctors, people you once considered friends, retreated and left you in their wake. You weren’t worthy of the insurance the studios had to take out to employ you. They’d rather watch you drown.

But for whatever reason your agency believed your talent was worth going through hell for.

“You can’t fuck this up!” your agent shouted through the phone. “Act normal. Smile or something. That’s not outside of your skill set, is it? ‘Cause if it is, you can go fuck off right now and continue ruining your career on your own dime.” His tone changed to a calmer fury. “Act like you are sociable and reliable. Please. For me.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m a writer. Acting’s definitely outta my skill set.”

“I am going to wring your little neck on our therapeutic, nature walk tomorrow. I swear to fucking god.”

You struggled to stifle a laugh as he berated you about how to position yourself in your chair and what food to order. He even told you what clothes to wear: a gauzy, light pink sundress that barely covered your ass and a trendy pair of chunky sandals. But instead you showed up at the restaurant in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. You looked positively pedestrian.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll be cordial.”

“For the love of—Act like you’re interested in him! You’re lucky he agreed to this. Flirt, be coy. ‘Oh wow, you look soooooo good.’”

“Is that how you woo the boys and girls?”

“Do you ever want to have a job again? Do you want opportunities?”

“I mean… Duh.”

“Then make this believable. We need people to think you’re stable. And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually like him.”

You rolled your eyes. The idea of “dating” a man to make yourself seem even-keeled and hireable was laughable. Sure, he was rather popular with the masses and industry folk. A beloved actor. A clever screenwriter. A visionary director or some shit. And yeah, maybe he was one of the more dependable men to work with. He was seemingly the exact opposite of you.

He was the industry’s golden boy.

Floch seethed through the phone. “Listen. To. Me. You are going to act like you’re having the fucking time of your stupid life out there, got it? You’re going to ham it up for the paparazzi.”

“Why would they give a shit about this? We’re not A-listers.”

“I fucking hired them, that’s why. Also I’d argue Zeke’s pretty A-list; he’s just boring as fuck… Shit. My daughter’s teacher is telling me I’m making the other parents uncomfortable. I gotta go.”

“Wha—where are you?”

“A PTA meeting.”

And with that Floch hung up.

“Okay,” you muttered.

You stood outside the restaurant, waiting for this Zeke Yeager. Part of you considered running off and finding refuge in the cutlery store across the street. But no, that would make you even more unappealing. You were being watched after all. Suddenly you were suspicious of every person around. Every car, every pedestrian, could have been a paid pair of lingering eyes. In a panic you tried to call Floch only to get his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Floch Forster. I can’t answer the phone right now becau—Louisa quit biting your brother! Jesus fucking… Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I feel like it.”

You opted not to leave a voicemail.

As aggressive as Floch could be, he always was your biggest cheerleader. When he took you on as a client he made it clear you were his main focus. The only other person he represented was a surrealist director from Chile he had never spoken to directly.

You sighed and looked at your phone, hoping you’d find solace in your barrage of notifications. But none of them were particularly interesting. Still, you scrolled mindlessly, entering some sort of trance. The smell of cigarette smoke was what brought you back to the trappings of reality. You turned around to see Zeke.

“I thought you’d be shorter,” he quipped, taking a drag. “I don’t know why; don’t ask.”

“Is this how you say hello to people?” you asked, voice bristling with irritation.

“Yeah. You want one?” He held out his pack of expensive, imported cigarettes.

“Nah. I quit years ago. The taste makes me nauseous now.”

“How tragic.” He narrowed his eyes and took another drag. “You know I think I’ve met you before.”

“I don’t think so. I’d remember that.”

He wore a dark green flannel with a few buttons undone, his blonde chest hair peeking out. His beard wasn’t as neat as it was on camera; it was a tad longer, a little bushier. You preferred it over the perfectly manicured one. His long legs were clothed in dark blue denim, with a sizable hole in the knee. It was a relief that he hadn’t dressed up either.

“No, no. I definitely have. It was at—what’s her name—Yelena’s. You were with all those coked out girls. I tried to introduce myself, but you ignored me.” He laughed nervously. “But it’s fine. Do you still run around with them?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. That gaggle of starlets hadn’t crossed your mind in a year.

“No. I got sick of babysitting adult children with perpetual nosebleeds.”

“It does get old after a while. I knew I was done with that whole scene after I gave a guy naloxone behind a Scientology Celebrity Centre.”

“Can’t say I ever had something like that happen.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

He took a few steps closer and wrapped his arms around you, cigarette precariously resting between his fingers. He smelled like fresh laundry and tobacco. You swallowed hard, unable to recall the last time you let someone hug you. The only downside of it all was the potential of your hair getting singed.

“What the fuck, dude?” You asked, trying to act like you weren’t enjoying this.

“I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, aren’t I?”

“This just seems like a lot.”

“This is nothing,” he said.

He kissed your forehead and ruffled your hair. You hated him for taking on the role of your love interest with such ease. For you it was like putting a cat in a sweater.

“Relax,” he said, dropping his arms. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

You stared out into the street, over his shoulder. Your eyes followed a crowded bus as it puttered by. Anything to not look directly at Zeke. His whole person was overwhelming. You had seen him on the screen a handful of times and found him to be unremarkable, but seeing him in person was, again, a lot.

“Wish it was over now,” you muttered, finally stepping away from him. You immediately missed the warmth radiating from his body.

“We can make it fun. I promise.”

“Doubt it. Like don’t take it personally, but yeah. No.”

He grinned and tossed his cigarette out into the street, nearly missing a meter maid.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

“You’re an actor. Of course I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on.”

He opened the door to the restaurant. The smell of garlic and basil wafted into your nose.

“After you,” he said.

The restaurant was small. The walls were paneled with Pepto Bismol pink painted wood and decorated with aging photos of what appeared to be a sizable Italian family. Vases of wildflowers were scattered about. It was a level of hominess and familiarity that left you a little unnerved.

“I hate it here,” you whispered.

Zeke lightly elbowed you. “We haven’t even sat down yet.”

“Sometimes you just kn—”

“Wheredyawannasit?” a lackadaisical host asked.

“What?”

“By a window,” Zeke said coolly.

You hated how easily he navigated social situations. Granted he was an actor; it was basically in the job description.

“A window, huh?” you said, cocking an eyebrow.

The bastard winked at you.

You both took a seat. The table was covered with a powder blue tablecloth and a pane of glass, and it was right by a large window. You felt on display. A waiter traipsed by and wordlessly dropped menus on the table. Everything felt unnatural.

“I hate how easy this is for you,” you said, opening a menu.

“That’s only because I’m at least making an attempt to have a decent time.”

“You don’t find this humiliating?”

“Why would this be humiliating?” he asked. “We’re having lunch.”

Why? Because it made you feel vulnerable, like you were tearing open a wound. You were sick of putting yourself out there. So many years you spent with a smile plastered on your face, eager to please, and for what?

“Because I’m over this shit, okay? I’m sick of appeasing people.”

“You’re in the wrong business then.”

The waiter came by and placed two glasses of water on the table.

“You think I don’t know that?” you groaned. “I just wanna write. That’s all.”

“What’s stopping you from doing that?”

“My reputation. Misogyny. Capitalism. That time I accidentally stepped on a service dog at a premiere,” you exasperated.

He laughed. “You’re too hung up on the past.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about it then. That’s what I do.”

“You say that like it’s so fuckin’ easy,” you hissed.

The waiter returned and took your orders. You were surprised and mildly disturbed to see that Zeke only ordered a cappuccino and some amaretto. He noticed the face you made and shrugged. You found yourself intrigued and repulsed by him. He managed to be disarming and utterly intimidating at the same time. It was disorienting.

“So why did you have your little tantrum?”

“Which one?” you scoffed.

“The one that made a very drunk Floch call me at two in the morning, begging me to make you look ‘normal.’”

Floch’s fascination with you coming off as normal amused you to no end.

“Oh, right… Uh, like, I was just over it. Like doing all that dumb shit. Smiling even though I wanna die. Wearing uncomfortable clothes to uncomfortable events. Being friends with people I despise, like those fuckin’ girls I used to hang out with. Not being taken seriously unless I co-wrote with someone else. I don’t know.”

“It got old.”

“Yeah. I used to be fine with it, going with the flow or whatever. But recently, I don’t know. I can’t be bothered. Like I straight up do not care. I spent way too much time giving a shit about what people thought about me. I’m done with that.”

You found yourself clenching your fists and took a deep breath to dull your rage.

“Fair enough,” he said nervously.

Your voice softened, hoping to put him at ease if only a little.

“I’m not really sure where it leaves me but… Fuck it. I’m past the point of caring,” you said before quickly shoving a piece of bread in your mouth.

The rest of the lunch was awkward and unremarkable. You hated how together Zeke’s life was. He was working on a short film inspired by his salad days filming skate videos. He played in a celebrity baseball tournament for charity. He planned on spending a few months in Aotearoa because he hated wintering in California. And he footed the bill even though you wanted to go halfsies.

“Alright. Well, this was weird. I’ll see you around I guess.”

You started to walk off, but he grabbed your wrist. His calloused hands revealed his past in the minor leagues. You turned to look at him and immediately regretted your decision. He looked so dreamy. His eyes exuded kindness. You didn’t deserve it.

“When can I see you again?”

You glanced to the side and tried to concoct an answer.

“I don’t know. Have your guy call Floch and they can set something up.”

“I—I’d rather us do the planning.”

“Why?”

This was a business transaction; there was no reason to make it personal.

“I want to get to know you without that guy up our asses.”

Zeke pointed out a paparazzo in an inconspicuous silver Tesla. He hauled ass down the street once he realized that Zeke spotted him.

He continued. “If you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

It was strange to see him so bashful. You desperately tried to recall the night you apparently blew him off, but that part of your life was a blur. A haze of cigarette smoke, maxed out credit cards, and ketamine. Too many nights spent flanked by socialites with fake voices and wannabe Kerouacs. That period of your life was one long night. A party you desperately wanted to leave. Something as angelic as him would have stood out amongst the filth and depravity you waded through. You would have followed him out of all that muck.

“I’ll think about it. DM me on Insta or something.”

You went to give him a hug goodbye, but he brushed you off.

“Guy’s gone. You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said.

A sad, little smile had laid claim to his face.

“Oh, right. Anyway, I'll see ya.”

You turned away as he quietly said goodbye. You hated yourself for your vague cruelness, but this was humiliating. Here was this great guy who was willing to put his career on the line and be seen with you, and yet you were a total downer.

But you weren’t surprised. This was your modus operandi: torching bridges while they’re being built, you standing alone on the smoldering beams.

You were incredibly thankful for the “therapeutic, nature walk.” The morning was calm. The sun drifted through the window, painting your walls with a creamy orange. You sipped coffee, scrolled through your emails, and slowly prepared yourself for your jaunt in the woods. Floch picked you up at eight o’clock in the morning. The drive up was peaceful. You kept the window down and relished in the needley wind pricking your skin.

“He only ordered espresso and fucking booze?” Floch asked, helping you up a particularly steep hill.

“It was a cappuccino. But yeah. Not like I did much better though. I just slyly ate bread, didn’t even bother touching the tortellini I ordered.”

Once you crested the hill you were greeted by a sea of ponderosa pines. Nature had a way of calming your soul, quelling the disdain that seemed to permeate your being. You fantasized about leaving the city and losing yourself in the woods. The further you were removed from the industry the better you’d feel. Maybe you wouldn’t be so neurotic.

“Why?!” He exclaimed.

“I hate eating in public. Let alone in front of someone I don’t know and a guy with a camera. I did grab a bánh mì after.”

Floch sighed.

“I guess that makes sense, but it’s still fucking ridiculous. Think about the food waste.”

You rubbed your temples and took a deep breath. You weren’t in the mood for such a conversation. You were aware of how odd your behavior was and didn’t need to be reminded of its environmental ramifications.

“Are you going to see him again?” he asked, taking a seat on a stump.

“He mentioned wanting to meet up again but on our, like, own accord.”

“Oh, so fuck me then?”

“Exactly,” you laughed.

He rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

You plopped down on the ground next to Floch.

“No idea. But probably something stupid and pretentious. He hasn’t reached out to me yet though. Maybe I scared him off.”

Floch flicked your temple with his thumb and middle finger.

“Stop overthinking it. Call him right now and make plans.”

You stuck your tongue out like a child. “Gross. I’ll just text him… Wait, do you have his number? I didn’t ask for it.”

“I thought you wanted to do this on your own accord,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“I’m adding a teeny addendum to that,” you snickered.

Getting a hold of Zeke ended up being more of a struggle than you anticipated. His voicemail was full and your texts were never read. The lack of response made a pit open up in your stomach. You tried to fill it with coffee and the occasional blunt, but nothing sufficed. He had no reason to get back to you anyway. You weren’t particularly friendly during your lunch.

That was always the worst part. The hangover from your behavior. You used to think nothing beat the shame of waking up after a night of binge drinking, cursed with only a vague recollection of the awful things you did. But when waking up stone cold sober there was nothing to hide behind.

It was a great relief when Zeke finally called you back. He apologized for being so busy, but his words felt rather hollow. You didn’t think he was lying, but you questioned how genuine he was being.

“Meet me at the skate park on 16th and Sequoia. I have some filming to take care of and I’m trying to work with natural lighting,” he rambled.

“Shots’ll look good,” you said, trying to sound knowledgeable even though you didn’t know much about filming.

You agreed to meet him on the grounds that he let you pay for coffee.

Once at the park you were greeted by a sea of teenagers and their cacophonous choir of expletives and shrieks. You waded through them until you found Zeke sitting on the floor, fiddling with a Sony Handycam.

“You seem a little old to be hangin’ with this crowd.”

“The whole point is that they’re young. Tell me, does that kid read late-2000s, maybe early 2010s?” he asked before standing up and grabbing a worn out board.

You stared at a boy dressed like an extra from an early Odd Future video.

“I guess. Please tell me you’re not gonna skate.”

“Of course I am! That’s how it’s done.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you do this?”

He sighed. “When you say it like that, it’s going to sound boring. It’ll just be an hour and then we can get coffee.”

A kid interrupted your conversation by kicking Zeke in the shin.

The kid barked, “Is Eren coming?”

Zeke shook his head to the kid’s disappointment. They dejectedly skated off without a word.

“You should have hit me up later. I could be at home right now and diving into the depths of Vine compilations.”

You pantomimed diving into a pool much to Zeke’s amusement.

Zeke skated off and exchanged pleasantries with the pack of hormone-addled youths. One of the girls set off and he trailed after her. It was a rather boring experience as a spectator. Zeke skated alongside her, crouching on his board, camera angled at her feet.

“Impressive,” you called out as Zeke reviewed what he filmed.

“Please, that was nothing.”

“Do something cool then. Do a trick.”

What happened next should have been expected, but somehow ended up being a complete surprise. Zeke attempted what you later learned was a heel flip. All you saw was him skate past you and then suddenly he was a mess of tangled limbs on the concrete, his board rolling off into a bowl. You ran to him while the kids keeled over with laughter.

“Shit,” was all he could say.

“Are you okay?” you asked, knowing damn well he was not okay.

“Help,” he coughed.

He looked so pathetic and small on the ground. You reached out and hoisted him up. Now that he was upright the extent of his injuries seemed to be reduced to a few raspberries and torn jeans.

“I keep bandaids in my kånken,” he winced.

“Knew you’d have one of these fuckin’ stupid ass, expensive backpacks,” you muttered.

You tended to his scraped knee, borrowing some bactine wipes one of the teens had on her person. Dabbing Zeke’s knee you looked up and found him gazing down at you, eyes teeming with longing. You instinctively glared at him like an asocial idiot.

“You look like you're proposing to him,” a boy slurred.

It didn’t take much to clean Zeke up, but his ripped jeans revealed his hubris. The walk to the coffee shop was spent with him slightly limping with his arm around your shoulder. You wondered if there were any paparazzi around to document this sad sight. Though maybe Floch decided he had better things to spend money on. You were left with only a wisp of paranoia.

“This is what I get for trying to show off,” he said, easing himself down onto a bench.

You took a seat next to him and couldn’t help but laugh as he iced his knee with his cold brew.

“Is that actually helping?”

“Kind of?” he replied with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, like you said, it’s what you get for showing off.”

“Come on. I’m injured. You should be nice to me.”

“I don’t have to be anything to you.”

He gulped and quickly let out a nervous laugh. You took a long sip of your drink and shifted your eyes to the side, staring into a rose bush.

Zeke sighed. “I hate to use an idiom, but you really are a tough nut to crack.”

You shut your eyes tight and fought the urge to spill all your secrets. Something about Zeke lent himself to it. Or rather you were looking for the opportunity to let it all out and projecting it on him out of sheer convenience.

He continued. “I’m not saying you need to bare your soul to me, but I’d like to get to know you. I want to get to know you.”

“I’m not worth knowing,” you droned.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I can and I am. Like not to be super fuckin’ dramatic, but getting to know people, letting them in and shit… It’s not worth the hassle.”

“Hassle? I’m not asking you to do hard labor,” he laughed.

“You don’t get it. I can’t just ‘get to know people.’ I—if you get to know me it’s like I’ve torn myself open.”

“What if I told you I just wanted to know your favorite color?”

You gritted your teeth and seethed, “You’re not getting it.”

He turned to look at you. You cut your staring contest with the rose bush short and gathered as much false bravado as you could. Gazing into his grey eyes would weaken you. You knew it for a fact and had to be prepared.

“You’re not really giving me a chance to.”

Damn. It. There was no preparing yourself for his patience, his kindness, even if it seemed a little phony. You held his gaze for a while before finally breaking the silence.

“It's like a piece of me is being ripped away… when I let people in... It feels like a weight. Or a void. Or both? I don’t know. I try to talk about it, but I fuck it up every time. 99% of the time I say something cruel or like dumb.” You took a deep breath. “And it’s… it’s not like I can actually be there for people, if I were to let them know me or whatever the fuck. Like what do I do? I gore myself for these people and leave them with… what? Viscera and trash?” Your thoughts were growing hazy, your anger obscuring your thoughts. “I don’t know. I’m a disease. My heart is a worn down mountain. I’m nothing more than the smoking, smoldering mine under that fucked up town that inspired, uh, Silent Hill.”

Saliva pooled in your mouth. Your inability to explain yourself was making you ill.

“Your heart is an eroded landform. And also, somehow, Centralia, Pennsylvania.”

“That is so reductive.”

“Listen. You’re not making much sense, but I think I want to underst—”

“I don’t need to fucking make sense! I… I’m just so sick of feeling like shit and not knowing what to do. Do I keep shutting myself off? Acting like a fuckin’ demon hermit that shrivels in the spotlight? Spitting and hissing at my contemporaries? Or do I go back to painting my face like a whore clown? Do I go back to making people feel vaguely at ease?! Or do I keep pushing against it?! How many hands are gonna crawl up my skirt if I go back to smiling and acting like I’m proud of the fuckin’ Kate Hudson vehicle I co-wrote with five other people? I can’t do that shit anymore. I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs.”

“Okay, Zelda Fitzgerald, take a breather,” he consoled or rather attempted to.

His arm hovered around your shoulder before finally patting it with his weighty hand. A small but welcome gesture. You snorted and wiped away the tears that had been collecting in the corners of your eyes.

You knew nothing you spewed made sense, but it needed to be said. It had been festering inside you. You still felt terrible, but lighter. You didn’t feel like Atlas carrying a bounty of self loathing and misanthropy on your back. For once you exhaled and there was relief.

“It’s green,” you said quietly.

“What?”

You spoke up. “My favorite color. It’s green.”

“You seem in good spirits,” Floch noted. “It’s weird. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“What?! No! I just, I don’t know, I feel decent.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“Ugh. No. I legit feel okay… esque.”

The park was crowded for a Wednesday morning. Usually your weekly walk around the lake was a calmer affair. Granted the park was dotted with everchanging oak trees and it was fall.

“All because of some guy. Wow.”

“That’s not why. But you know, he is pretty fun.”

“Uh huh.”

“Though maybe I only think that because he’s hot.”

You happened to glance at Floch and the cat-like grin on his face. Being embarrassed and saying “just kidding” crossed your mind, but it was true. You did find Zeke amusing and attractive.

“You like hiiiiiiiim,” he teased.

“I said he’s hot. That’s hardly… Shit. Fuck. Okay, maybe I like him a little.”

“This is great! Now all you have to do is make him fall in love with you and hopefully have that convince every stupid fucking studio to suck your figurative dick,” he cheered.

You frowned. You had momentarily forgotten about the transactional nature of this relationship. Floch immediately caught onto your disappointment.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t pursue this seriously. You could probably be his girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever.”

You froze, wide-eyed, letting a rogue jogger bump into you.

“I—I never said anything about that.”

“Your reaction just did the talking for you,” Floch said, punctuating his sentence with a smirk.

“It’s not like I stand a chance anyway.”

You didn’t consider yourself desirable, let alone Zeke’s type even though you honestly had no idea what that was. Your self confidence had been in shambles for months; anything was possible.

“Hm. Now that I think about it I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him dating anyone.”

“Hopefully his type is whatever all this is,” you sighed, looking down at your body.

“People seem to think you two are cute together.”

“Great, but what do the people that matter think?”

“Well… They kind of think a little less of him now that you two are dating.”

“Nothing ‘bout me though?” you asked flatly.

“Nada.”

“I mean that’s not too bad.”

“When are you seeing him next?”

“He invited me to some party at some guy’s house. All I know is there’s a pool and Zeke intends on pushing his brother into it.”

“Oh wow, sounds super romantic,” he snarked.

You stomped on a crunchy leaf. The party could end up being romantic if you tried. So far you made little attempt to impress Zeke and he was still drawn to you. If you actually did something, who knows what you could accomplish?

That night the driver Zeke hired to pick you up plucked you from your home and dropped you off at a glass windowed monstrosity nestled in the hills. It was owned by the editor of a marginally popular skateboarding magazine.

You were irked that he decided to go to the party early and not extend the invite. You hated shit like this and even more when you were forced to do it on your own.

You exhaled and your fist hovered parallel to the door.

“Just knock, dumb ass.”

Before you could the door was ripped open by a tanned, green-eyed man. He was wearing a red cut-off shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and checkerboard slip-ons.

“You’re not the weed guy,” he said, frowning.

“No. I mean, I have weed. Bu—but I’m not, like, the designated weed guy. I wish I was though. Like that’d be dope.”

He looked you up and down, and hollered over his shoulder, “False alarm.”

You heard a choir of groans and sighs from behind him.

“Uh… so, can I come in? Zeke invited me.”

You introduced yourself and quickly found out the man you were talking to was Eren, a professional skater and Zeke’s brother. He slid out of the way, granting you permission to enter. You stepped inside and stared up at the enormous foyer. A twinkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the vacuous space. It was sterile and everything blindingly white.

He led you into a room filled to the brim with people. You found yourself wanting to cling to him even though he was as much a stranger as everyone else.

“So yeah, I don’t know where Zeke is but I’m sure you’ll find him. Let me know if you don’t!”

And with that Eren disappeared. You were happy to see no one looked particularly glamorous, but it did little to quell your nerves. A Yaeji song seemed to blare from every corner of the house; it was inescapable. Doing this shit sober was never your forte.

“Hey! Over here,” you heard a familiar voice emanate from the crowd.

You pushed through and found Zeke surrounded by actors. You plastered on a sickly grin and hoped no one could discern your disdain.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii,” you sneered unintentionally.

Zeke slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you next to him. You wanted to puke.

“I’m glad you found your way here.”

“You had a dude come pick me up which, you know, made it pretty easy.”

He smiled at you like he didn’t even catch your snarkiness.

A guy you didn’t recognize asked, “You’ve always had a bit of a mouth on you, haven’t you?”

“I was literally born with one.”

“Do you know how to shut it?” he followed up.

“Nah, but I know how to shut yours.”

Zeke dug his fingers into your waist, his face still smiling. You held your tongue while the guy continued being an absolute asshole. This was the kind of nonsense you couldn’t stand. You zoned out, eyes looking outside at the pool. The voices around you melded into a singular drone you tuned out.

“Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “I asked you a question.”

You looked at Zeke for reassurance and saw that his attention was elsewhere. Your stomach dropped. He may have been standing next to you but he felt miles away.

“What?” you finally replied.

“Did you really fuck Magath to get a writing credit for that Jennifer Aniston movie?”

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Holding back wasn’t an option.

“It was a Kate Hudson movie. Why the actual fuck would I sleep with someone to say I helped write a Kate Hudson movie? Are you stupid or just trying to start shit? Because if your only way to make me feel bad is by implying I slept with someone to further my mediocre career, you need to try again because that ain’t gonna cut it.”

You freed yourself from Zeke’s grasp and got in the guy’s face, towering over him. He gave you nothing but stunned silence.

“Let’s get some air,” Zeke said a little too cheerfully.

Once outside you held your head in your hands, fighting the urge to scream. You should have acted unbothered, but weren’t good at faking. You kicked the air in frustration.

“What was that back there?”

“What was what?” you spat out. “You mean the dumb fuck inside?”

You dug through your bag for a joint and a lighter, sighing in relief when you found them with ease.

“You should have had my back,” you said, using the joint to point at Zeke.

“I didn’t even know what was going on,” he lied.

“You were right fucking there! You were literally right beside me,” you said, lighting the joint.

“What was I supposed to say?”

You took a hit and exhaled.

“Fucking anything,” you suggested. “Could’ve changed the subject. Could’ve said, like, ‘Go fuck yourself. Don’t talk to my fake girlfriend that way.’”

“Once that guy gets going there’s no stopping him.”

“You noncommittal piece of shit. You fucking Judas.”

“Don’t let something that inconsequential ruin your night.”

“Maybe it was inconsequential to you...” you said, taking another hit.

Zeke reached out for the joint, but you didn’t hand it over. He didn’t deserve it.

“But it wasn’t to me. Do you know how often I deal with shit like that?”

“You should be used to it then.”

You were rendered silent. You couldn’t even verbalize your rage. Words were incapable of capturing the essence of it.

So you opted to push him in the pool.

You stormed off back inside, lit joint hanging out of your mouth. The house felt like a maze, you could’ve sworn it got bigger, vaster. Everyone’s faces blended together. You felt like you were gradually traveling back in time, like you’d been here too many times before. This wasn’t the person you wanted to be. This wasn’t any better than the old you.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple people tending to a soaking wet Zeke, briefly making eye contact with him. Instead of glaring at you he smiled. You were happy he didn’t seem to hate you but it was infuriating all the same. He never dropped his facade. For the longest time you admired this ability but now it was a glaring flaw.

The relief that washed over you once outside was immense. You found yourself sitting on the curb, finishing off your joint. It was a clear night, colder than anticipated. The stars made your discomfort worth it even if most were drowned out by civilization.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have anything important in my pockets.”

Zeke stood behind you, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He was shivering.

“Bummer. I was kinda hoping I’d fuck up your phone at least.”

He laughed and sat next to you.

“I realize I could have probably been a bit more sympathetic.”

“I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted you to have my back. Toss out a witty retort that defended my honor or some shit,” you replied dejectedly.

“You held your own though.”

“That’s not the point,” you called out in exasperation. “I know I can hold my own. But… fuck, I don’t know. I needed you!”

He cleared his throat, his nerves revealing themselves.

“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll—”

“Ugh. Please. I’d rather fucking die than have a next time. I cannot keep doing this shit.”

You looked at Zeke and his pathetic form. You took off your jacket and put it over his shoulders.

“It gets so exhausting. Defending myself. It’s almost as bad as pretending everything is fine, like nothing is wrong,” you said sadly. “I feel like I’m talking in circles sometimes. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m going to mind. You pushed me into a pool about it.”

You groaned and stared up at the night sky.

“All of my self worth used to come from how fuckable I was because I thought that’s all I had to offer. I was made to believe that was the extent of my purpose. The writing was auxiliary. A nice surprise. And I cultivated that notion because I bought into it.” You felt yourself getting frustrated. “Do you know what that’s like?”

“No. I never had to concern myself with something like that.” He paused. “I suspect that was a rhetorical question.”

“It was, but I appreciate you being honest.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m too afraid to,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “I am not that scary.”

“That guy nearly shit his pants when you got in his face.”

“Oh my god! I hardly got in his face.”

“Just own up to it. You’re a little intense. It’s par for the course in this industry. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Fuck. Fine. Whatever. I’m a little intense.”

Both of you fell silent. You scooched closer to Zeke, hoping maybe your body would warm him. You wanted to make up for acting so childish.

“I could never be like that,” he muttered. “Though I'd like to be.”

“There’s nothing stopping you.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s just not my nature.”

“Ah yes, I forgot you’re such a gentle boy,” you teased.

He grinned. “Exactly. I’m too delicate.”

You hated how cute he was when he smiled; you wanted to kiss his crow’s feet.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked smoothly.

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

Zeke drove you home in his black Polestar 2. He cranked the heater as he sped down the freeway, still shivering. He tried to keep the conversation light by asking if you had been working on anything.

“I can’t even remember the last time I wrote.”

The realization made you nauseous.

“Why haven’t you been writing?”

You hung your head and struggled to articulate your vague, creative block. “I don’t know. Like why bother if no one wants to work with me?”

“Don’t you enjoy doing it?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s a reason to bother.”

“... True. It’s not like I need permission from anyone.”

“Just yourself.”

He had a point. Whether you wrote or not was one of the things in your life you controlled. There was no reason to hold your ideas hostage. You had every right to free them and let them wander the page.

When you finally reached your home you hesitated to get out of the car. For whatever reason you wanted to remain around the damp man beside you. The hearty yawn he let out though helped you make your exit.

You took your seatbelt off and turned to face him.

“Thanks for the ride. I would not have been as kind to you had you pushed me into a… pool.”

“I know,” he said wistfully.

“Well, uh, get home safe.”

“I’ll try. I hope you feel better.”

“Me too,” you sighed, stepping out of his car.

“When can I see you next?” he asked dreamily, his rough hand latching onto your wrist.

“I don’t know.”

“Ballpark it for me.”

His grey eyes were trained on your lips.

“Soon I guess. Go home, sleepyhead. You look damp and miserable.”

Zeke bid you a weak farewell before driving off. You couldn’t figure out why he put up with you. Why did he want to see you again? You, who had dented his reputation with such ease. All you seemed to do was make his life worse. And yet he kept coming back.

Floch wanted to wring your neck for the pool incident. Someone managed to film it and the footage went viral. The narrative surrounding it all was that Zeke tried to dump you and you simply could not cope with it. You were painted as a hysterical, scorned lover that couldn’t take a hint.

You had to laugh. You wished it was that simple

“You ruined everything. It’s fine. I don’t care, but I need you to know that,” he said over the phone.

Hanging up on him crossed your mind but you wanted to be mature.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I fucked it all up. But it can’t get any worse.”

“Don’t! It absolutely can!”

“Fine. I don’t think I can feel any worse. I think I had a breakthrough honestly.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Will this breakthrough translate into people trusting you?”

“Nah. But it did make me realize, like, I don’t have to do studio shit. I can just write whatever I want. Fuck my reputation. I mean, I know I won’t make money, but I’ll figure that out later.”

“As your friend, I’m happy for you. That’s fabulous. But as your agent, are you kidding me?!”

“Nope!”

Floch groaned and muttered a few indecipherable expletives before saying, “If this is what you really want, I’m up for it.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I think you got the talent to pull it off. I would have kicked your sorry ass to the curb if I thought otherwise.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to be so accepting,” you demurred.

“Listen I may be a fucking bastard, but I believe in you. I always have. If you don’t fuck around and get your head out of your ass, you can do it. I know you can.”

Elation couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. All the unnecessary pressure you put on yourself dissipated. You were free, lighter than a feather. You looked out your window at the soft, warm light of the moon. The oak trees’ autumnal leaves ebbed as a cold wind swept through them.

“Th—that really means a lot to me.”

“Alright, alright. I gotta go. Louisa and Reed are running around like wild animals when they were supposed to be in bed at 9pm which was… Three fucking hours ago?!”

He hung up before you could say anything.

“Dude has no phone etiquette.”

Just as you went to set your phone down you received another call. This time from Zeke. You couldn’t imagine why he’d be calling you at such an hour.

“What’s good?” you asked.

“Can I come over?!” he bellowed through the phone.

“You don’t need to yell.”

“I’m sorry. Can I come over?” he slurred.

“It’s a little late. I was gonna crawl into bed.”

“Ah, fuck. Well, I’m already here.”

You peeked out your window and saw him swaying in front of your home. He was drunk, practically wasted.

“Yeah, I see you. Uh… Hold on,” you said before hanging up.

You threw on a robe and greeted him at the door.

“How did you get here?”

“Whoa, whoa. One question at a time,” he leaned against the door frame, “cutie pie.”

“... How did you get he—”

“Caaaaab. Old school. Called ‘em up. That’s how I’m doin’ shit now. New year, new me.”

“It’s… It’s November.”

“I’m pregaming. Can I come in? You owe me.”

“Yeah, c’mon in.”

You let him inside, stifling a laugh as he stumbled through the door.

“I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did,” you replied, patting him on the back.

You led him into your living room and gestured for him to sit on your couch. He happily collapsed face down on it. You winced and decided to get him a glass of water. When you returned he was sitting up, his forehead a little pink from where it made contact with the cushion.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked, now holding his head in his hands.

“Yeah, dude.”

“You hurt my feelings.”

“Is this about the pool? See, I knew you were fuckin’ mad at me!”

“What? No. I don’t care about that.” He stared up at you over his glasses. “That party. The one where I tried to introduce myself. And you blew me off.”

You held the glass of water out to him. He snatched it out of your hands like a little gremlin.

“I don’t even remember that. Are you sure it was even me?”

He took a sip of water. “You’re very hard to forget for better or worse.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you think I agreed to do any of this shit anyway? My agent’s been on me about dive bombing my career, which that’s him being a drama queen, but that’s not my point. I, fuck… I like you so much. And I want you to like me too, but I get that you don’t and that’s fine. I don’t like me either. I’m fake.”

“You’re not fake,” you said, taking a seat next to him. “You’re not like… the most genuine person, but I wouldn’t say you’re fake.”

“No. Don’t. I’m a phony.”

“Oh my god.”

He groaned and took another sip of water.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whined. “I just… I hate that I can’t find it in me to be like you. You refuse to take anyone’s shit and have no problem sticking up for yourself. A director literally told me to ‘get the stick out of my himbo ass’ when I said he should treat his cinematographer with more respect. And you know what I did? I fucking did it… Not… No, I didn’t pull a stick out of my ass.”

“I figured,” you snorted.

“But I smiled and said, ‘I guess it’s not my place.’ Not a hint of sarcasm. I rolled over, showed that man my belly, and begged him to slice me open as a way to repent.”

“Belly? What belly? You mean your abs? Come the fuck on. Belly? Ha.”

Zeke lifted his shirt and examined his abdominal muscles. He shrugged.

“You know what I mean,” he said, pathetically leaning over and resting his head on your shoulder. “You wouldn’t have done that. You would’ve been said, ‘I’m about to pull the stick out of my ass and beat you with it if you don’t start treating them better.’”

“You’re not allowed to do that good of an impersonation of me. Not this early in our fake relationship.”

It was hard to hear Zeke being so drunk and vulnerable. You didn’t know how to handle him. Jokes and asides seemed to be the only thing flowing from your mouth.

“You are on my mind a lot,” he lamented.

“Trust me. I’m not exactly someone to admire.”

“Stop. You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to decide if you’re worth knowing, or worth admiring, or worth loving. I get to. Not you.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

Zeke exhaled deeply.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with you. I’m not that delusional, but… Fuck, just let me like you? Let me get to know you? I need to be close to you.”

His drunk ramblings were bathed in anguish with a tinge of hilarity. You felt bad for him, but it was an unexpected surprise for him to be so forthcoming about his pining. Never before had you considered anyone aching over your perceived indifference. You had to admit it boosted your ego a little bit.

“You’re practically sitting on me right now so we’ve crossed that bridge.”

He sniffled.

You kept speaking. “I’m gonna be real. I’m not exactly used to, uh, hearing shit like this so I don’t know how to—”

Zeke grabbed ahold of your face and kissed you; it was ripe with desperation. You momentarily reciprocated the kiss, leaning into him and his embrace. He tasted like tequila and cigarettes. His teeth clinking against yours pulled you out of the moment, letting you assess the situation. You pulled away and cleared your throat.

He was wasted and, as much as you wanted to kiss him, he was in no position to be doing anything of the sort.

“You’re drunk, Zeke.”

“I know. I should go. Do—don’t tell me about anything I said tonight.”

He tried to stand up before quickly resuming his previous position.

“Stay the night. We can get you home in the morning, alright?”

“Yeah?” he asked, taking off his glasses and rubbing his red rimmed eyes.

You nodded. “You can even sleep in my bed as long as you don’t act like a fuckin’ weird ass.”

“I assure you I will not be a fucking weird ass. I’m very anti-weird ass.”

“Good.”

“I’d—I would even say I’m bigoted towards them,” he slurred as you helped him up. “Weird asses have too many rights. We let them out in the world? They’re just skittering around, weird assing it up?!”

You started to crack up. He sounded so serious and intense. It was like he got possessed by Daniel Day-Lewis for a brief moment.

“Hush. Don’t get yourself all riled up.”

A faint smile crossed his face. It was markedly different from the ones he had worn before.

You couldn’t help but ask, “Are you smiling because you’re happy or are you compulsively masking your feelings again?”

“It’s a real one,” he said, his words all melting into one.

Regardless of their decipherability, you liked having verbal proof that Zeke genuinely smiled in front of you. The second you got him into bed he passed out. You crawled in on the other side, careful to keep some distance between your bodies.

When you woke up the next morning you found him cuddled up next to you. You slept on your back so you wouldn’t have felt compelled to curl up next to Zeke. But somehow in the middle of the night he managed to embrace you. His head rested on your shoulder and his arm was lazily draped across your chest.

You ruffled his hair and gently sang his name. He groaned and held you closer.

“Hungover?” you asked.

He yawned. “Just a tad.”

He rolled over onto his back and slowly sat up, his shoulders slumping forward. His eyes were barely open, protecting themselves from the harsh, autumn sun.

“Is your career really tanking because you traipse around with my dumb ass?”

His shoulders heaved as he gruffly chuckled.

“If I were a hyperbolic man, I’d say yes. Alas, I am but a normal guy so no.” He was interrupted by a hearty yawn. “People give me shit about it, but that’s hardly an issue. And, hypothetically, if chasing after you did take a massive shit on my career, I don’t think I’d care. Or I’d at least try really hard not to.”

“I guess that’s… admirable.”

“You know what would be admirable?” he asked flirtatiously.

He glanced over at you, clearly admiring your sprawled out limbs as the sunlight danced along your skin.

“What?”

Zeke’s face fell into despair. He froze and swallowed hard. His pallor took on a sickly greenish hue.

“I was going to say you should kiss me, but I don’t feel good at the moment.”

“Fuck. That’s so sexy,” you teased.

He gave you a wink before softly moaning as waves of nausea overtook him

“So, uh, now that you’re not wasted…”

Your words struggled to form sentences. You wanted to make sure Zeke meant the shit he said last night.

“Can I… Am I still worth loving? Wait! Or knowing or whatever you said? I can’t remember.”

You remembered everything. There was no use in pretending.

Zeke was quiet for a moment before a sly grin crept across his face. He fixed his gaze on you and simply said, “Absolutely.”

“Really?” you croaked out.

“Yes. I have one request though. I don’t want our agents involved or any industry people. We do this on our terms,” he orated.

You nodded and poked his cheek much to his chagrin. “Got it. We do it for us.”

He laid back down next to you, resting his head on your chest.

“Exactly. For us,” he replied softly.

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager fics #zeke jaeger fics #aot fics #snk fics #attack on titan fics #shingeki no kyojin fics #.fics #.aot #.zeke #x reader #reader insert

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milkb0nny · 7 months

Text

××× Soft Spoken ×××

Dean Winchester x fem!nephilim (OC)

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Summary: Sam discovered an unusual store in the city, dragging Dean along him. The shop possessed various books on demons, angels and other supernatural creatures. Sam decided to stay for a moment to search for further information on nephilim. Meanwhile, a woman entered the store, searching for protective sigils and spells. Dean quickly noticed that the voice sounded familiar. Again, the Winchester brothers met the nephilim and her identity crackled little by little.

Note: The next chapter will be more intriguing, as Castiel and Nevaeh will finally meet. I still enjoyed writing this one, covering the relationship between the brothers a little more.

Warnings: none

word count: 2.422

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, Sam stirred from his slumber to find the motel room devoid of his older brother. Panic momentarily gripped him as he feared that Dean might have been abducted during the night.

However, the sight of a note left on Dean's bed eased his concerns. It appeared that Dean had already left for the repair shop, which did nothing to assuage Sam's reservations about his brother's well-being. Still, Dean was ambiguous and the two of them had to get closer to the current events taking place in this city.

After a swift, warm shower, Sam dressed in his casual attire, donning a brown leather jacket to shield him from the morning chill. As he stepped outside into the crisp morning air, with the sun casting a warm glow, for a moment, he felt like an ordinary man embarking on a typical day. But the door he exited led to a motel room, and his destination was his hunting-obsessed brother. Sighing, he made his way.

The repair shop wasn’t that far from their place, only about ten minutes walking. During his leisurely stroll, Sam recalled the complexities of tracking a celestial being in a city where demons seemed to be the primary source of supernatural disturbances. He was unable to think of another cause of supernatural events, as no ghosts, shapeshifters or witches harmed anybody here.

Upon arriving at the repair shop, Sam found Dean already toiling away on the Impala, refusing assistance from the shop's employees.

Dean's attachment to the car was almost childlike, as if he needed to mend it with his own hands.

While Sam greeted the workers with a much more pleasant demeanor, his brother's irritable side was more apparent.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean huffed as he heaved the broken engine hood aside. He handled it with care but couldn't hide the pain he felt when seeing his treasured Impala in such a state.

“Good morning,” Sam replied, his gaze filled with concern as he observed Dean's tireless work. “Dean, you know you’re injured, right? Don’t you want to rest a little?” he asked him, worried about his brother's well-being.

Sam's pleas, however, seemed to fall on deaf ears. Dean, his face etched with determination and exhaustion, was quick to respond. “Sam, we don't have time to rest. This car's our lifeline, and we can't afford any downtime,” he insisted, highlighting the urgency of their situation.

While Dean was right about time running fast, he forgot that the injuries might worsen if he keeps up being so stubborn. Sam wanted to complain about this annoying personality trait of his brother, but that opportunity was denied.

Just as Dean was emphasizing the importance of their task, a deep, raspy voice interjected. A rather short yet robust man approached the brothers, his black hat and oil-stained clothes giving away his connection to the repair shop. However, it soon became evident that he was more than just an employee.

“Are you Sam?” he asked, pulling out his phone.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Sam responded with a hint of confusion. He mustered the man up and down, thinking, he was merely an employee of this garage. To his surprise, the stranger revealed himself as the owner of the shop.

“I’d give you and your brother some time here, to get your car fixed. Since you’re friends with Nev, I’ll charge you less. You’re free to use our tools but don’t break them. That'd be expensive,” he cautioned, while fumbling with his car keys.

Sam's inquisitive eyes landed on the man's name tag, which read 'Joshua Garden'—a typically American name.

“Thank you very much,” Sam smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the assistance.

Joshua grinned, inspecting the Impala. The labor of love and devotion that Dean had poured into the car did not go unnoticed by the shop owner. Though he didn't seem too keen on joining their conversation, his offer of help was warmly received. Dean was absorbed in his work, his hands and thoughts fully engaged in fixing their beloved car.

While Joshua inquired about how the car had ended up in such a dire state, Sam quickly crafted a plausible explanation. He mentioned a collision with a tree, caused by a random man who had jumped in front of their car. Joshua, perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the situation, chose not to delve deeper into the matter, accepting Sam's account as fact.

With the pleasantries concluded, Joshua excused himself, leaving the Winchester brothers alone for the time being. Sam took a seat on some nearby wheels, his eyes wandering aimlessly over the shops and houses on the other side of the street.

His eyes wandered through the various faces sitting in the cozy cafés, examined the various signs across doors and windows: Holly's Book Store, 24/7 Nightclub, Occult Shop, Betty's Flower Shop. His attention was abruptly seized by a tiny sign hanging from a dark wooden door. An Occult Shop? The existence of such a store in this seemingly ordinary city piqued his curiosity.

“Dean, do you see that shop there, next to the restaurant?”

Raising his head, Dean scanned the area until he spotted the shop his brother had mentioned. The small store appeared as bewildering to Dean as it did to Sam.

Nevertheless, whenever the two hunters stumbled upon such unique shops, they took the time to explore them in the hope of finding new information about supernatural creatures. Sometimes their visits yielded valuable knowledge and weapons against specific monsters, while other times they discovered nothing more than tourist traps.

Dean set aside his tools when his brother proposed taking a stroll through the shop. Although Dean wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, he agreed, acknowledging that his primary job was hunting monsters, not repairing cars. Perhaps they could use some assistance from the shop's employees.

“Yeah, I’ll take a break,” Dean conceded, and indicating that they should visit the shop owner. The brothers crossed the fairly busy street and entered the store through its old, creaky wooden door

The interior featured old shelves lined with books, offering a wealth of knowledge about witchcraft, the history of magic, crystals, and emanating a distinct, earthy scent. The shop owner, an elderly man who resembled a kindly college history professor, seemed to blend seamlessly with the ambiance of the store as if he had spent his entire life there. His friendly face welcomed the brothers but didn't immediately overwhelm them with his knowledge. Sam got the impression that the shop owner simply enjoyed the quiet appreciation of his wares, and the brothers followed suit.

Both stood behind a tall shelf filled with several books about demons and angels. Sam discovered a book detailing the history of archangels, covering aspects from the Bible and other religions, which he hoped might contain valuable information.

Suddenly, the door opened once more, and a soft chime echoed through the shop.

“Excuse me. Do you perhaps have any information on protective sigils and symbols against demons or angels? I've been…,” a soft voice hesitated, a voice familiar to the Winchester brothers, “researching some things again, and I could use some guidance.”

Dean surreptitiously peered around the corner, confirming his suspicions: the gentle voice belonged to Nevaeh, who was attired in her usual elegant fashion, albeit slightly more comfortable than her typical style.

“Welcome Nevaeh. I believe I have something that interests you, my dear. You might find what you're looking for in this ancient grimoire over here. It contains knowledge of various protective sigils and their applications.” he pointed to a thick, black book nestled in the far corner of the shop.

Nevaeh nodded appreciatively and replied, “Thank you so much.”

She reached for the book and began flipping through its delicate pages. Most of the sigils were already familiar to her, given her meticulous study. However, she wondered if there were new methods of protection she had yet to discover.

Dean, who had overheard the brief exchange, leaned over to Sam, who was deeply engrossed in the book, oblivious to the unfolding situation.

“Sam, did you hear that? Nevaeh’s asking about protective symbols. That's gotta be related to the nephilim,” he expressed quietly, gaining Sam’s attention.

“Yeah, uhm, alright. Then let's see what she knows,” Sam replied calmly.

He closed the book and placed it back in its original spot. Scanning the shop, he found Nevaeh sitting in an old chair, reading various pages. Dean, with a quiet admiration, approached her first.

“Hey there,” he greeted her, offering a friendly tone. Her serious expression gave way to a welcoming one, her hazel eyes now fully focused on the Winchesters.

“Oh, I didn’t expect to meet you here,” she said somewhat shyly, a bit intimidated by their presence. Nevaeh couldn't help but notice that whenever she encountered the brothers, something supernatural always seemed to be afoot. And here they were once more, in an Occult Shop.

Sam noticed her hesitation, trying to break her social resistance a little, “We overheard your question about protective sigils. We've been looking into something related to that as well,” Sam gently explained.

Nevaeh, still somewhat taken aback, inquired, “Oh, uh - So you’re saying that you’re actually into this stuff? That’s unusual. What are you looking for?”

Sam glanced back at Dean, who nodded his approval to share the true purpose of their presence in Rock Springs. While the Winchesters typically kept their hunting endeavors a secret from civilians, they believed Nevaeh could hold the key they needed.

Sam answered, “We're researching some supernatural occurrences here like unexplained events, strange symbols, that sort of thing.”

Dean chimed in, stepping a little away to create space for Nevaeh to feel comfortable in. In all honesty, the woman looked slightly frightened.

“We noticed that there is a lot of demonic activities happening here… And to be honest, this is kinda how we got into this accident yesterday.”

Nevaeh nodded, slowly closing the book and cradling it in her lap. She nervously adjusted her posture. “Wow uhm, so you’re hunters? That explains a lot.”

Sam expressed his genuine guilt,“I’m sorry we kinda lied to you, Nevaeh.”

She offered an awkward smile and replied, “No, no. I get it, it’s just not something… everyone does.”

Although Nevaeh appeared outwardly calm and composed, underneath her poised demeanor, she was in turmoil. She was silently screaming inside her own mind.

Nevaeh had unwillingly stumbled into an unfortunate situation, dealing with hunters whose prey was the very same demons she had been fleeing. Her emotions raced, and she felt lost, trapped in a sea of confusion. She questioned herself, wondering why she couldn't escape from the grip of these supernatural happenings. While she had distanced herself from her father, she couldn't help but contemplate whether he had motives other than exploiting her unique abilities. Maybe her father also loved his daughter and not only God.

“So, what do you want from me again?” She asked again.

Dean smiled, attempting to build a semblance of trust between them. “Is there any chance you know stuff about… a nephilim?

Nevaeh raised her eyebrows and averted her gaze, unsure about revealing her knowledge or her true nature, “Are you hunting one?”

“No, no—,” Sam interjected, seeking to clarify, “We’re trying to track it down, as it attracts so many demons. You know, before anyone dies because of the demons.”

A critical expression laced over her face, “Sure, but what should a nephilim do about that? It doesn’t need demons to guide over them or something. Such a creature is powerful,” she responded, growing increasingly annoyed as she indirectly referred to herself. She resented addressing her own kind as "it," feeling dehumanized and isolated.

“We don't fully understand the connection between demons and nephilim,” Sam clarified, but his explanation only seemed to heighten Nevaeh's suspicion. Her body language became defensive, signaling her growing discomfort.

“Let’s say you do catch it, then what?” she pressed.

Dean, sensing the urgency of their mission, cleared his throat and answered, “Well, we happen to be acquainted with an angel-“

Sam interjected, giving Dean a stern look, "You can't just tell her!"

“Yes, I can. you know how crucial this is,” Dean’s gaze headed back to the striking eyes of Nevaeh, who fumbled with her fingernails, “Look, there's an angel who is currently in a conflict with Heaven. Lucifer has been set free and is possibly attempting to exterminate humankind. We don't want to harm the nephilim, but we're hoping it can assist us in putting Lucifer back in his cage.”

With the brief yet informative explanation, Nevaeh visibly relaxed and gestured that she was ready to leave. The two men followed her, and as they walked back to the repair shop, a heavy silence enveloped them.

Nevaeh utilized this quiet interlude to ponder the brothers' request. She had no intention of revealing her true nature, as she held deep reservations about the Winchesters and their angelic ally, suspecting the angel might be deceptive.

However, she couldn't simply stand by and let her father unleash unspeakable horrors upon the world. The newfound information on the goals of Lucifer let her previous hope totally vanish, only bringing her rage to cook more.

Before they entered the garage, she stopped and turned to face the towering men, her expression one of distrust and concern.

“Okay. Then, you tell me all you know about Lucifer’s wrongdoings and I’ll research the nephilim for you, and I’ll accompany you both after your car was fixed. I have my personal reasons to help you,” she declared, making her intentions abundantly clear.

“Thank you so much, but you don’t have to come along,” Sam responded with a tone of care. Nevaeh shook her head firmly, her disagreement evident.

“Either this way or no way. Call me when you decided.” Her harsh voice said, before she entered the repair shop, only to pay the bills for the towing service and have a short chat with Joshua. Dean watched her silhouette as she went about her business.

He chuckled, his interest piqued, “I've got to admit, I'm intrigued. A woman who's not afraid to take charge? I'm all ears’.”

“Get a grip, Dean. Let's focus on fixing the car, and I'll take care of getting us some phones,” Sam suggested, breaking the somewhat odd atmosphere that lingered after their conversation.

The younger Winchester couldn’t help but question why Nevaeh was involved in all of this again and again. Though the answer still floated in the future.

#supernatural dean #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #sam and dean #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural sam #spn fanfic #spn

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unovan-gardener · 4 months

Note

[E-mail to Atley Deo]

Hello, Atley darling~! Been a while... I'm aware that you're probably not exactly fond of me after I had that unfortunate chat with your little... Science project... (And believe me, plant matter gilds at a different rate to flesh matter. I've made enough statues to tell the difference)

But! You and I both are well aware that it was the little arachnid who put him in the jaws of the Big Cat. Who is a danger to them, even - or perhaps especially - now, what with the odd behavioural changes going on... So! A proposal...

Is there anything at all I can do for you right now to mend relations and let bygones be bygones, such that we might have a working relationship going forward?

I eagerly await your response! Toodles~!

- Lucretia Minsk

@castelias-cat-queen

[E-mail to Lucretia Minsk]

Lucretia.

Funny, I thought you were still laying low after the whole...electrocution incident. Sorry for not keeping in touch, I've been a bit busy with... personal projects.

Did you enjoy the silvervine I had sent to your office? I added a few extra touches to it, and made it more potent. Figured you could have some fun with it.

I would appreciate it if you didn't equate my most Monumental Achievement to a Science Project mm? Restoring life to the dead is so demanding you know. Especially when they start thinking for themselves due to...pesky outside influences.

Speaking of pesky influences, yes the arachnid. Actually, your assumption about their danger to my child currently is entirely incorrect.

The Nuytsia Project is running as smoothly as it should. There have been a few...kinks, along the way but no matter. Soon my darling little Sprout will have wiggled its roots into the brain of the thing, and all will be well.

As for mending relations and letting bygone be bygones...

I would encourage you to stay out of my way. Every time you Meddle in my affairs I end up having to repair my Sprout somehow. It's beginning to get tedious, and I do not appreciate it.

I was under the impression we already had a working relationship mm? All my silvervine seems to be for naught, despite how you enjoy it so. Shame.

Yours in the Growth of our Business,

Atley Deo

#pokeblogging #rotomblr #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #irl pkmn #pokeblr #castelias cat queen #pater plantarum #the nuytsia project

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ppawmpkin · 1 year

Text

Wrong When It Feels Right…

Black Fem Reader x Riri Williams

A/N: This is not the one I originally said I was going to do, I didn’t like the way that one looked and I am still working on it. I really hope that whomever reads this will enjoy it!! Not Proofread, if you see an error, no you didn’t. 👀

He was a damned fool, one the of the biggest at that. How could he capture the heart of a woman such as you and yet, disregard it as nothing? A woman with so much love in her heart for him, a hollow shell of an man you referred to as your husband. Far too busy looking in other places for temporary satisfaction, while you offered an lifetime of all aspects. It pained her greatly to see you go through such a hassle, attempting to repair something that was beyond that because of the fact that you could not simply could not accept reality for what it was.

He didn’t love you, he never did. The image, that was all that remained of significance to him, having it branded in the minds of others that he had such a lady on his arms. Other than that, he had forsaken those scared vows you both shared countless of times, using empty promises to mend the pieces of your heart every time he would break you and you, you fell short with hope every time. Hopeless, bound by the strings of a love that was never returned unto you, dancing on the edge of what could’ve been.

That was until she met you and graced you with something more, what it felt like to be loved and you, you were completely inbound in the feeling. The euphoric bliss, paired with that subconscious lingering in the back of your mind telling you that you two were wrong. It had to be a drug of some sort, her love. How she managed to corrupt your whole being with such an feeling, one that ran deep. Your sense of morality had been compromised by the woman who made you feel like the only woman in the world.

⇨ Summary Concluded ⇦︎

“How badly do you want me?” She questioned, those smooth fingers of hers slipping through the lace hemming of your silk gown, dragging them to the middle of your chest. She knew the answer to her question, but something about hearing those words of want for her never failed to give her that sweet, sweet satisfaction she craved, the one that swelled within her chest and lingered in her mind for weeks at a time.

You sucked in a breath of air, one that proved much more of difficulty than it did before, feeling the warmth of her your body against her contrasting cooler one. That feeling alone was one to enjoy, to reminisce on. It was one you could drown in without care, just from the significance of her touch, one that gave meaning to even the smallest. You didn’t just want her, you wanted all of her even if it was just a little while longer.

You felt a increase of boldness swirl around you, your adrenaline clouding your senses. Your fingers found her cool cheek, staring into the intense abyss of her brown irises. “Badly.” You breathed, feeling that feeling of pure heat settled within your veins, knocking the air out of your lungs as it coursed through you like a raging, uncontrollable flame.

She found temptation in your words, the feeling gnawing at her even more now. Her hands found their way to your neck, while she stared almost teasingly at your plush lips, leaving you with the tightness of anticipation while you longed for her with every inch of you. Her lips soon found yours, intertwined within each other while you both engrossed yourselves in the moment.

And just like that, you were weightless. The ability to think escaped your grasp, all that lay on your mind was you two, both off in an infinity of your own creation, one where the outside world held no regard and nor did time. This, this was the intimacy you yearned for, the one she had conditioned you to love, the one that was to blame for those restless nights, wrapped under a blanket of stars, while those explicit times between you both, replayed in your mind like a broken record.

Riri hummed lightly against your delicate skin, her mouth moving to the crevice of your neck, the aroma of pure vanilla and strong lavender grazing her senses. You grasped, feeling her smooth fingers pull the strings of the gown, loosening it from the fitting of your frame. There was so much eagerness within her touch and yet, she was trying to take her sweet, sweet time with you, noting the countless hours she had but even with them she couldn’t wallow in you as she truly wanted to.

Her hand found the band of your sheer, lace panties, pulling the thin piece of fabric to the side with ease, exposing your aching core to the cool air that circulated through the room. She slid a finger down your center, collecting the sweetness on her digit. Watching as you closed your eyes, sinful sounds exiting your mouth while the only thought that plagued your mind at the moment was the anticipation of the release, how good it would feel to succumb to this feeling that ravaged through your whole body.

“So wet for me, hm? I’m gonna take such good care of my girl, ok?” She said, placing her fingers inside of your dripping cunt, watching in utter awe at how well your pussy managed to take her every single time, it was as if she were made just for your pleasing. That to her meant that it was hers, all hers. Hers to taste, hers to touch and hers to claim over and over again, whenever she felt so. “Fuck, it feels so, so good.” You moaned, the keenness for her increasing with every pump of her fingers.

She rubbed your clit with her thumb, adding to that bliss you felt. Drowning under a sea of elation from her actions, while she watched in pure apprehension at your unraveling beneath her touch. You were just that beautiful, that captivating in nature. Messiness, it accentuated you perfectly, highlighting all those “imperfections” that she thought were so ideal.

“You look so damn pretty right now, angel.” She coed, those words making your stomach tighten with that oh, so familiar coil. “please, please, don’t stop.” You begged, in the brink of closeness, your orgasm right in your reach. You didn’t have to beg to get her give you that though. She wanted you to, not only for yourself but for her, nothing gave her more than seeing her love unfold.

“Go ahead, let me see it.” She said, feeling that clench around her fingers, a dragged whimper escaping your lips as you let go fully. “thank you, thank you, thank you.” You slurred, the waves of pleasure colliding against the walls of your stomach, your body was electrified, lighting striking those turbulent waters that resided within you. “That’s it, sweetness, doing exactly what I wanted.” She kissed your cheek softly, a slight smile on her lips.

Your chest was still heavy, labored breathes like music to her ears. Those were the sounds that assured her that she was the cause of this, your undoing. Not him, but her. She had the right to be brash. To stare at that inconvenience of a man with a devilish grin on her face, knowing that she would take you under his roof, in his bed, so, so very soon. To make you forget. That was her goal and for just a while you would, tangled in her as the reminisce of your last session of passion wore off and all there was left was that soul-eating guilt once he would walk through that door.

For if it was wrong, why did it have to feel so good? Why did she have this hold on you? That magnetic pull towards someone who appeared to be your best friend and yet at the ungodly hours of night, she was your lover all over again. Two wrongs didn’t make a right. You knew that, but the fulfillment that this cycle gave you filled any negatives you had just as fast as they began.

And quite frankly, you couldn’t give a damn.

A/N: Y’all this took so, so long to write. I’m pretty sure out of the fourteen drafts (im lazy asf, don’t judge 😭) I’m surprised this one even made it out but, I preserved and we here now!! I hope this was enjoyable, I thank anyone who reads, reblogs or comments. Y’all and I swear I don’t support infidelity but, the husband had it coming for that ass. Love y’alll fr fr!! 💕💕

Taglist: @verachii @inmyheadimobsessed @mocha-aya @shuris-whore @demxnicprxncess @shuri-lvr @letitias-fav Lemme know if you wanna be taken off or added. 💕

#black reader #black panther imagine #bpwf #riri wiliams x reader #riri black panther #riri williams #riri williams x black!reader #riri smut #lesbian #dominique thorne #black panther wakanda forever #ppawmpkinpostedit #queen shuri

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ofstoriesandstardust · 1 year

Text

day 11 - i’m dreaming of a white christmas - bradley “rooster” bradshaw

a/n: i call this “kylie takes a plot of a christmas movie and does whatever she damn well pleases with it”. this has been a many weeks labor of love and is probably one of my top 3 pieces from ficmas so i truly hope you enjoy!! :)

summary: (white christmas!au) Years after the legendary Tom “Iceman” Kazansky retired from the Navy after a truly horrible accident, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw finds himself following his recently reconciled godfather, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell to the far remote corners of Vermont to visit an old friend.

He doesn’t anticipate meeting the notorious Iceman, whose legacies still stretch far and wide throughout the Navy, nor Iceman’s equally captivating civilian daughter.

What begins as a trip to continue to mend and repair his relationship with his once estranged godfather turns into a scheme to push his godfather towards happiness while maybe finding some of his own along the way.

In other words, the White Christmas!au no one but me asked for.

12 days of ficmas | main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist

warnings: swearing, kissing, fluffy fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, did i mention there’s fluff, mentions of depression, mentions of cancer, a dash of angst like the way all things in life should be, misunderstandings, minor Icemav, no mentions of Sarah Kazansky or Penny Benjamin, Bradley’s Bronco is invincible atp, kylie writes slider for the first time in her life, i stole the iconic dialogue, fuck if i know anything about the Navy

word count: 9,751

I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow

The sound of Bing Crosby’s voice crooning floats through the old truck. Bradley reaches out to turn the radio down, muting the man, as Maverick turns on to an old dirt road, turning off from the paved road they’d been following for miles.

“Where exactly are we going Uncle Mav?”

A faraway look appears in Maverick’s eyes, the same one that had appeared when he’d approached Bradley about going on this trip with him Thanksgiving morning. With the two having extended leave following their less-than-ideal crash landings and return from the dead, he’d had little better to do.

And Phoenix thought it would be a good idea, to get back on solid feet and mend his relationship with his godfather. So he’d agreed and packed up, getting into the Bronco to travel cross-country to Vermont.

“I told you kid, we’re going to see an old friend of mine.”

Maverick offers little more information for the rest of the ride as they travel along the road. Eventually, just when Bradley thinks his bladder might burst, they make another turn and pull up in front of a large home.

Bradley eyes the sign outside. “A ski resort Mav?” His godfather hums in response, turning the ignition off.

“Not so much as a ski resort as an inn for skiers.”

“But neither of us ski.” He pauses, looking around the property. “And there’s no snow.” Maverick says nothing, pulling off his seatbelt and slipping out of the car. He sighs, having no choice but to do the same, walking around the truck to follow his godfather up towards the house.

There’s a girl leaving the front door, a box in her hands. She notices them and sets the box down on a bench on the wrap-around porch, offering a bright smile. “Well, I was just about starting to think that the legendary Pete Mitchell my Dad talks so much about wasn’t real.”

Maverick laughs, pulling the girl into a hug. “Haven’t seen you since you were young kid. How have you been?”

You pull away, still smiling. “Good. Been quiet the past couple of years. Dad’s happy to have you here.”

Maverick steps back, putting his hands on Bradley’s shoulders. “This is my godson, Bradley Bradshaw.”

You offer him a smile, reaching out to shake his hand as you introduce yourself. He returns the gesture, grasp firm as he takes you in. “Why don’t you guys come on inside? Dad’s just in the lobby here.” You say, picking the box back up. You shoulder the door open and he reaches out, holding it open for you as you pass over the threshold. You give him a small smile. “Thanks.” He follows you inside, door shutting behind him as he stops, seeing the old man leaned over the front desk.

There’s no way-

“Well well well Pete Mitchell. I was starting to think you ran off on me.” The man smiles, moving out from behind the counter.

Mav lets out a light laugh, moving to hug the man. “And leave my wingman? No way.” The two embrace for a moment and then pull away, still holding on to each other. “Quiet business you’ve got here.”

He sighs. “I know, been a quiet couple of seasons. Not much snow-”

“Because of global warming.” You say and Bradley turns, watching you disappear back out the front door, box in hands. The man huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he and Maverick watch you leave once more. “What am I going to do with her?”

It’s then that Maverick catches sight of him, remembering his presence, and waves him over. “Brad, this is-”

“Iceman.” He breathes out, the man lining up to the pictures in every base, everywhere he’s ever been stationed.

Maybe just with more grey hair.

Before a forced retirement after an accident that left him unable to fly, Iceman had been the stuff legends are made of. The type of pilot you only hear about in a blue moon. The type of pilot like Mav.

He offers a sad smile. “I haven’t been Iceman in a long time kid. Just Tom Kazansky these days.”

“Sorry-”

Tom waves a hand. “No matter. It’s good to see you Baby Goose.” He straightens at the nickname, only ever having heard Mav use it. “Haven’t seen you since Nick’s-” He swallows, clearing his throat. “Haven’t seen you since you were a kid.” He smiles sadly at him. “God, you look just like him.” He whispers. He clears his throat once more. “Well, why don’t we get you both settled in? Bet it was a long trip. Pete’s crazy ass over here saying you’ll drive all the way out.”

“Dad’s happy to have you and your Dad here.”

He looks up, seeing you offering him a steaming mug as he sits on one of the chairs. He can hear his godfather’s laughter echo from the other room. “Not my Dad.” He says, accepting the mug from you. You shrug, setting your own mug down on the coffee table as you sit next to his feet placed up on the ottoman.

“I know, but from the way Dad tells it, it’s close enough.” He can’t bring himself to say anything, heart aching at the thought of all the years he lost out on over misplaced anger. “Anyways, I’m happy to have you both here as well. It’s been lonely up here, especially with the quiet seasons.”

“Take it you guys don’t see much business.”

“We used to, but with no snow, it means no travelers, which means no money. Dad started this place up on his retirement and pension from the Navy but he’s been thinking of shutting the doors.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

You sigh, nodding your head as you tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I think the only reason he keeps this place open is for me. It’s all I've ever known. This place is much as it is his as it is mine. I mean, after the accident, after Mom left, this was something that was ours, you know? Maybe it’s stupid to not want to let that go.”

He thinks about the planes he’d been fixing up with Mav in the days after their mission, how he always wanted help Mav out with his motorcycle growing up. How he just wanted to share in something with his godfather. “Not stupid at all.” He whispers.

You take a deep breath and look back up to him. “Sorry, this is probably too deep for a stranger. Just wanted to say that we’re both glad to have you out here.”

He takes a sip of his drink, noting the sweet hot chocolate in the cup. “We’re happy to be here.” He says softly.

You look down to his lap, where his book is sitting. “Whatcha reading?”

He shifts, showing you the cover. “A Christmas Carol.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a person who reads the classics.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not, but my friend Bob sent it with me when we left. Said I should read it since the holidays were coming up.”

Bob had also said it would help keep his mind off the ejections and crash-landings that had plagued him since he’d returned to the aircraft carrier very much alive, but he didn’t need to bother you with that.

“Well, it’s a good story. One of my favorites. Anyways, I’ll stop bothering you and let you get back to your reading. Just wanted to give that to you.” You say, nodding your head to the cup he’s holding as you pat his leg. You go to stand and he finds himself shifting, moving his legs off the ottoman.

“Wait, you don’t have to- We could- We could read it together, if you wanted.” You pause, looking at him. He scoots over, patting the spot next to him. “Here, there’s plenty of room next to me.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t want to intrude on your time-” He shakes his head.

“Please.” You nod, slotting yourself down next to him. It’s a tight fit, but not an uncomfortable one as he shifts, setting his cup down on the table next to him and allowing his arm to wrap around your shoulder. He passes the book to you. “Here, you read it to me. I bet you do good voices.”

He sighs once more, clicking the phone off. So much for staying in touch with his team.

“Something wrong?” Tom calls out from his walk around the property with Mav. He waves him off.

“No, just didn’t realize we wouldn’t have any service this far out.”

“Sorry Brad, the only way to communicate with anyone is by carrier pigeon.” Tom calls back.

“Besides, you don’t need to be texting or Facechatting anyone while you’re here. You’re supposed to be taking a break, remember?”

He almost sighs at his godfather’s lack of awareness with technology. They let him fly the multi-million dollar planes but he can’t figure out his way around an iPhone. “FaceTime, Uncle Mav. It’s FaceTime.”

His godfather waves him off, turning back around to take another lap with his friend as they continue to talk. He sighs, turning to go back inside. You’re leaned up against the front desk, sorting through some papers.

“Can I have a carrier pigeon?”

You look up, a smile forming on your face. “Come again?”

“Carrier pigeon. Your Dad told me it’s the only way to reach civilization. Although I suppose I could write a letter like in the olden days. Can I have some pen and paper in that case?”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “He used that joke on you? No, reception out here is shit but you’re more than welcome to use the landline.” You say, using the pen you're holding to point to the phone hanging on the wall behind you. It’s blue, just like the walls in the lobby. “About the only phone that picks up service out here.”

He nods, sticking his hands in his pockets as he watches you. “No worries, I can do it later. Just wanted to call my friend Nat. Let her know how the trip was going. What’re you up to?”

You collect the papers, moving them from his sight. “Nothing, just some finance stuff.”

He nods, getting a sinking feeling finance stuff couldn’t be good. “Well, uh, you wanna show me around? Didn’t get the full tour last night.”

You nod, extending an arm. “Come Bradshaw, welcome to my humble abode.”

there’s always tomorrow, for dreams to come true, believe in your dreams come what may

Your voice is soft as you sleepily sing along to the movie playing. He smiles softly at you as the screen flickers, the characters singing. After the tour around the house and property, you’d asked him if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with you, the holiday fast approaching. He hadn’t really wanted to, but you’d been so excited to start watching the films from your childhood that he’d said yes before he even realized what he was doing.

He can’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed the holidays this much, the last time he’d really felt the cheer Christmas was supposed to be all about. It had to have been before Mom passed.

You shift, yawning as you move to tuck your feet up on the couch. He reaches out for you, tugging you into his side. “So you can have a pillow if you fall asleep.” He whispers. He can’t tell for sure in the dark room, Rudolph being the only source of light, but he’s pretty sure you blush at the movement. He does too, but he hopes you don’t notice either.

The movie continues as his arm subconsciously reaches down, resting on your shoulder as his thumb rubs soft circles into your skin. You hum at the movement as you snuggle closer into his side. His heart flutters at the movement and he struggles to pull his eyes from where they’re admiring you, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, and back to the movie on the screen.

He’s near sleep when you speak again. “Your stomach is grumbling.” You comment. He has to blink a few times to bring himself back into the present, eyes adjusting to the light as the roar of the abominable snow monster echoes through the room.

“What?”

You lean up, hand pressing into his chest. “Your stomach is grumbling. It’s like, speaking its own language its so loud. It woke me up.” You move off of him and he feels cold at the loss of your touch.

“I’m sorry?” You shrug, rubbing your eyes as the blanket falls around your waist.

“It’s okay. I’m kind of hungry too. How do you feel about Christmas cookies? Unless Dad ate the entire tray I made today, we should have some in the kitchen.”

“Don’t think it’s your Dad you have to worry about, it’s Mav.”

Your raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Mav could eat anyone out of house and home and still be hungry.” You smile, shaking your head as the movie comes to an end. You watch the closing scene as you stretch. He’s too busy watching you to watch the toys jump from Santa’s sleigh, admiring the light reflecting off your face as your hair falls over your shoulder.

“Mmm, okay, let’s go.” You say, but not before you fold the blanket and return it to it’s home in the basket next to the couch.

“Would’ve just thrown it over the back of the couch.” He comments, sticking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants that he’d changed into before the two of you had started watching Rudolph.

You shrug, walking towards the kitchen as he follows you. “Yeah, but with business being so low, I’m the one cleaning this place, so I’d like to keep it as tidy as possible.”

He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You wave a hand. “No worries, it’s really not-” You pause as you flick on the light-switch, flickering to life overhead. He pauses behind you, looking over your shoulder to where you’re looking at the now-empty glass tray. “They did eat all my cookies!”

He chuckles. “Guess the elderly folk couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Well, I could make more? It’s easy, really, and I think I still have some crushed up graham cracker leftover from earlier.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be opposed. What are they anyways?” He asks, leaning up against the kitchen counter as you begin to move around the small space.

You pull the coconut out from the cabinets. “They’re really cookie bars, but they were a recipe from Dad’s Mom before she passed, so he always likes it when I make them. Makes him nostalgic. Can you go in the pantry and grab me the sweetened condensed milk?” He nods, pushing himself off the counter to grab said item. “And the chocolate chips?” You call and he looks up, grabbing the bag and bringing the items back into the kitchen.

You make quick work of making the cookies as he stands back to watch you move through the kitchen. Finally, when the tray is slid into the oven, it’s then that you finally pause, washing your hands. He walks closer to you as you dry your hands on a towel. He offers a hand and you glance at it, looking back up to him.

“Dance with me.” He whispers.

You look at him, slowly setting the towel on the counter. “But there’s no music.” You whisper back, even as the smile on your face grows.

“Don’t need it.”

You take his hand, allowing him to lead the way. The steps are practiced, comfortable, as the two of you move through the kitchen, the light coming from the dim kitchen light and the blue of the moon outside.

“You’re pretty good at this.”

He shrugs. “My Mom taught me before she passed.”

You smile. “My Dad actually used to teach me growing up too. At the end of the ski seasons, when the place was empty but there was still snow out. He used to teach me in the big ballroom out there that we use as the dining space. Probably some of my favorite memories.” It falls silent in the kitchen as the two of you settle into a comfortable swaying.

Too soon, the timer rings and he finds you pulling away as you move to pull the tray out of the oven. “They’ll have to cool for a moment and then we can put them on to a tray and go sit out in the ballroom, how about that?” He nods as you pull two cups down from one of the cabinets.

“What’re you doing?”

You toss him a smile over your shoulder as you pull the milk from the fridge. “Well, you can’t have cookies without a glass of milk, can you?” You pause. “Wait, you’re not allergic or anything? Probably should have asked...”

He shakes his head, smiling at the sheepish look on your face. “No, no allergies. The only food allergy I’ve ever had is when I tried to convince my Mom carrots made me deathly ill when I was six.”

You raise an eyebrow, unscrewing the top to the milk and pouring it out into the cups. “Oh? Did she buy it?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not a chance. She was too smart for that, although Uncle Mav got a kick out of it.”

You laugh alongside him as you move back to the cookies, moving the tray onto a cooling rack. “Here, will you take the glasses? We can just take the tray and eat from there.” He nods, grabbing the cups from your outstretched hands as you pick up the pan, careful not to touch the hot glass.

The two of you walk towards the ballroom when you hear the voices of your Dad’s. Turning the corner, he spots Uncle Mav sitting by the fire, head close to Tom’s as they laugh softly together.

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Uncle Mav look so happy.

You nudge him, nodding towards the side door. “C’mon, let's not bother them. Why don’t we go sit outside?” He nods, grabbing a blanket in the entry way as the two of you quietly slip outside the door, trying not to disturb the men. You set the tray down between the two of you as he sets the glasses on the ground, offering the blanket to you. You look up at him as you sit down on the bench. “You sure?”

He nods, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile gratefully at him as he takes the knife, cutting a small piece from the tray. “So talk to me more about your childhood. Sounds like you had a good time growing up.”

You nod. “Yeah, I was young when the accident happened. Five or six, maybe? Can’t remember. Dad fell into a depression after he was forced to retire and Mom couldn’t take it, leaving maybe a year later, if that. He took his money from the retirement and pension the Navy gave him and moved us up here, opened this place up. I remember growing up, fixing this place up, and turning it into what it is now. I honestly couldn’t imagine growing up any differently.”

He shifts on the bench. “You know, I’m surprised your Dad ended up all the way out here. People in the Navy still talk about him.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He hums in confirmation, cutting himself another piece from the tray. “Yeah, your Dad is what we consider legendary.”

You cock your head. “Interesting.” He glances up at you.

“Why?”

You sigh, settling back against the bench. “A few years ago now, my Dad reached out to the Navy. Wanted to get back in, wanted to do administration work. If you ask me, I think once the thrill of starting the business wore off, he needed something else to keep him preoccupied. To keep him from falling back into his depression, and, uh, the Navy told him they had moved on without him. Didn't need him anymore. Those are my words, but the letter wasn’t much kinder. Then, not too long after, he got sick, and that was the end of that.”

A pit of dread settles in his stomach as he turns to glance back at the men he knows are just inside. “Got sick?” He asks quietly.

Were they here because Tom was dying?

He shakes the thought from his head, turning his attention back to you.

No, no Uncle Mav wouldn’t do that to him. Not after he watched his Mom die.

“Throat cancer. It... It wasn’t good.” You say softly, turning to look at him. “He’s in remission now, and fingers crossed it stays that way, but it did a real number on my Dad. Physically and mentally. The bills drained the savings and he became depressed again, really badly. Kept saying he lost his purpose in life and couldn’t go on.”

He watches you talk, an urge to help the old man inside arising within him. Tom had no idea of the power he still held over the Navy, of the legacy he’d left behind. “Wow, that sounds... really tough. I’m sorry.”

“My Dad was invincible growing up, nothing could hurt him. But to see the illness take so much of him away, to make him so lost, it was... I don’t ever want to live with that again.”

He swallows, remembering watching Mav’s plane go down, no sight of a chute. A man he thought would live forever... gone.

He remembers watching him Mom wither away in front of him, nothing left than a shell of the bright women she used to be.

“I... can’t even imagine what that was like.” He thinks that maybe he could, but any other words are failing him as he listens to you.

You sigh, shrugging. “He’s slowly gotten better but the business has taken a hit and it’s been hard on his mental health and our finances. Pretty certain that this will be our last season open.”

He falls back on to the behind, crossing his arms. “Damn, really? I’m- wow.”

You nod, confirming. “He’s talking about moving to Canada now. Anyways, I’m sorry, this is probably a lot and you didn’t really ask-”

“No, not at all. Is there any way me or Uncle Mav can help?”

You sigh. “Unless you can make it snow and get us a house full of guests, no. Although you and Pete being here is really good for him. You guys coming out here for the holidays is more than enough. Less lonely, for the both of us.”

He sighs. “Alright, well if anything changes, let me know, okay? We’ll help in any way we can.”

You smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand back, returning the smile.

He knows you said there was nothing he could do but... Mav would know. Mav would know how to help.

They have to.

You shiver, pulling your jacket around you tighter as your feet crunch over another pile of leaves. Your Dad lets out a light laugh. “Cold there, kid?”

You nod. “’S chilly today. Chillier then it has been. Maybe we’ll finally get snow.”

Your Dad snorts. “That’s wishful thinking.”

You nudge him. “Hey, maybe it’ll be a Christmas miracle.”

He shakes his head, a sign he’s going to ignore what you’ve just said. “Well, maybe we need to go inside and have Brad warm you up.”

Your cheeks warm at the suggestion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he feigns an innocent look. “Nothing at all, just that you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anyone else to hang out with up here!” You exclaim. He scoffs.

“I’m not fun to be around anymore?” He asks, clutching a hand over his heart. You roll your eyes, moving to wrap your arm around your Dad’s, linking them together.

“Never, you know I always want to hang out with you.” He hums, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“If you’re tired of your old man, you can just say so.”

You return his gesture, knocking his shoulder with your own. “Shut up.”

He laughs softly as a silence falls between the two of you. You continue your walk when another breeze goes through, causing him to shiver this time. “Cold, Dad?” He shakes his head, a smile on his face as the two of you turn back to the house. “You know, maybe we should go inside and get Pete to warm you up.” You say, a teasing lilt to your voice.

“What are you talking about?”

You offer him a grin. “You know Daddy, if you like him...”

“He’s just an old friend!” Your Dad protests, even thought the blush coloring his cheeks say differently.

“Sure, you’re both old but doesn’t he just make you feel youthful, like love’s supposed to?” You tease to which he rolls his eyes. You squeeze his forearm, causing him to look down at you. “You haven’t dated anyone since Mom.” You say softly, looking at him honestly.

He sighs. “Because I had you sweetheart-”

“And I was your priority. And I love you so very much for that Dad. But I’m all grown up now. And I want you to have someone to grow old with. Or- grow older with. What is Pete, like 60?”

“I’m 62.” He responds indignantly. You roll your eyes.

“Whatever, you’re missing my point.”

“Wha- How do you even know I like men?”

You roll your eyes once more. “You’re not subtle. You make eyes at him.”

“I do not!” He protests.

“Yes, you do. And even if you didn’t, you only talk about your Navy days if you’re talking about Pete, and you talk like he hung the moon and the stars for you. I’m not stupid Dad, I am your daughter after all.”

He sighs as the two of you near the house. “Even if there was something—and I’m not saying there is—Pete and I- we had our chance and he wouldn’t- it’s complicated, sweetheart. He’s still married to the Navy and with the cancer, it wouldn’t be easy.” He whispers.

“I just want you to be happy, Dad.” You say as the two of you walk up the front steps to the house.

“I know, kid.” He says as you reach out to push the front door open, unlinking your arm from his. The two of you pause, watching Pete and Bradley fight over the phone, each speaking over the other.

Bradley sees you first, kicking Pete’s shin and wrestling the phone away from his godfather as Pete winces. “We’ll call you back.” Bradley says abruptly, clearly cutting off whoever’s on the other end, hanging up the phone as the two of them turn to you and your Dad, guilty smiles on their faces.

“Uh oh, that smile usually means you’ve gotten yourself in trouble with another admiral.” Your Dad says, walking closer to Pete. “Dare I ask what you’ve done now Pete?”

“Nothing!” He defends, voice two octaves too high and he clears his throat, a blush crawling up his neck. Bradley nudges him as both you and your Dad raise an eyebrow. “Really, it’s nothing Tom, just stuff with my pilots back home.” Your Dad nods, clearly not believing him. “Here, come to the kitchen, I was just going to change the light in there so it doesn’t flicker as much.” Pete says, turning on his heel and beginning the walk down the hallway.

Your Dad sighs, still following the man to the kitchen even as he protests. “You don’t have to do that Pete-”

“No, it’s the least I can do to help you out, since you refuse to let me pay you for letting me and Brad stay here-”

“I can’t charge family-” The conversation disappears down the hallway, falling silent as the kitchen door shuts behind them. Bradley watches them go while you remain standing by the front door, still eyeing him warily.

“So we agree those two are...” He trails off as he looks back to you. “What?”

“What were you guys doing?” You ask.

He offers you sheepish look, rocking back and forth back on his heels. “Nothing.”

“So you and your uncle just fight over a landline phone like that all the time?” He sighs, throwing a glance back toward the kitchen.

“Well, I- I can’t tell you. It’s nothing.”

You walk towards him a few paces. “So it’s nothing, but you can’t tell me?” He bites his lip, saying nothing more. You sigh, knowing you won’t get any more out of him. “Alright, well I’m going to go change.” You say, turning on your heel and towards the staircase. You hear him sigh again, catching the way he was leaned up against the wall, head resting next to the landline.

Yeah, they were definitely up to something.

The sound of the piano keys floats through the hall as you pad down the stairs. You bypass the kitchen, originally planning on going in there to get more water, but you head towards the noise instead.

You half expect to find Pete, because according to your Dad, he could do just about anything, including walk on water.

Instead, you find Bradley, pajama-clad, playing a few keys. Somehow, he manages to make red-and-black checkered pants and a grey sweatshirt look good.

You quietly approach the bench, creaky floor announcing your presence. He half-turns, eyes softening at the sight of you.

“Hey.” He whispers. “Nice slippers.”

You look down, seeing the fuzzy reindeer slippers you had grabbed before leaving your room. “Shut up.” You say, a whiny hint to your voice. “The floor gets cold in the winter. And Dad gave them to me. As a Christmas present. We have matching ones.”

He shakes his head, laughing silently to himself. “What’re you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You answer, sliding down on the bench. He scoots over, letting you join him, knees knocking together as you do.

“Me neither.” He whispers. “It’s cold here. Freezing my ass off.”

You snort. “There’s not even any snow on the ground, Bradshaw.”

He knocks your shoulder as you laugh quietly. “Shut up, ‘m from San Diego.”

You smile, scooting ever so closer to him. “Didn’t know you played piano.”

He smiles bashfully, ducking his head. “Yeah, uh, learned when I was a kid. Mom got me lessons. Makes me feel close to my Dad.”

You hum. “I’d love to learn to play but this old thing has always been just for decoration. Me and Dad don’t play. Uncle Sli probably has videos of me banging on the keys as a kid.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Slider? Like Ron “Slider” Kerner?”

You nod your head. “He’s my godfather. Why?”

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “I knew Slider growing up. He was pretty close with Mav. They still are, I think. Slider was there when my Dad died.”

You tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “He was the only one that came ‘round after Dad had his accident and we moved up here.” You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Frankly, I don’t think Dad told anybody else where he was for a few years and then just figured no one wanted to hear from him. But he’s a good man and I... I don’t see as much of him as I would like. Him and Dad had a fight, something real bad, quite a few years ago now. He still sends me Christmas cards but we haven't seen him since. Doesn't call much either.”

“What’d they fight about?”

You shrug. “I guess Uncle Sli found out that Dad called in a few favors leftover from his Navy days. Helped someone pull... something. Had to do with the Navy, which I’ll admit I don’t know too much about, mostly cause Dad doesn’t even talk about his Navy days.”

Recognition flickers across Bradley’s face as you talk, followed by a look of disappointment. He shakes his head before you can say anything, the look passing as quickly as it came. “Well, do you want me to teach you how to play?”

You shrug. “I’d probably be pretty bad at it.”

“Can’t be too terrible. Maybe all that banging as a kid was just hidden potential.” You snicker, ducking your head. Your eyes flicker up to his, realizing how close the two of you have gotten over the course of the conversation. His hand gently creeps on to your thigh, testing the waters. Your foreheads brush as his eyes flicker over your shoulder. “We have an audience.” He whispers. You sigh, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

Sure enough, there are your Dad’s, giving the two of you all-knowing grins. You groan, leaning your head to rest on Bradley’s shoulder. “Why are they so nosy?”

He snorts, shrugging. “Not a clue.”

“Oh, don't stop on account of us.” Pete calls out, smirking. You shake your head, standing up from the piano bench.

“Goodnight Bradley.” You say, cheeks warm under the watchful gaze of the men behind you. He smiles at you, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Dad, Pete.” You say as you pass them.

“Night kid.” Your Dad calls as Pete snickers.

They were going to be the death of you.

“Why’d you fight with Uncle Slider?”

Your Dad glances up from the chess game he’s playing outside with Pete as you stroll towards the pair. Your Dad exchanges an uneasy glance with Pete. “Kid-”

“No, I wanna know why I don’t get to see my godfather anymore.”

Your Dad sighs, rubbing his temple, but Pete beats him to the punch. “I pulled Bradley’s papers to the Naval Academy.” He hesitates, eyes flickering to your father. “Your Dad... he helped me.”

You blink once, and then twice. “Why would you do that?”

“That was Sli’s question.” Your Dad says, looking to Pete. “Always said we should’ve let Brad figure it out on his own. Maybe we should have. Maybe he was right.”

Your eyes flicker between the two men, dizzy with the force it takes to follow them as they uncover a decades-long buried secret. “What’re you talking about?”

Your Dad sighs. “Nick, Goose, Bradley’s Dad, was killed in an accident while we were at Top Gun. It was our jetwash, Sli and I, that they got caught in. Bradley was only four.”

You shake your head. “I’m still not following.”

Pete picks up where your Dad leaves off. “Carole, Bradley’s mother, when she died of cancer, asked me to ensure Bradley didn’t make it into the Navy. She didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. I agreed and pulled his application to the Naval Academy. It set him back four years.”

Everything feels off-kilter, realizing you haven’t seen your godfather in years because of some bullshit Navy business?

Your godfather didn’t come around anymore, didn’t call really ever, because of some decades-long disagreement over someone else’s kid?

“Sli was angry with me for not letting Brad make his own choices. Asked me if I would’ve done the same thing if you came to me wanting to join the Navy.”

Your eyes flicker to your Dad. “And would you have?”

Your Dad hesitates, and then sighs, shoulders drooping. “I... Probably. If not because of what happened to Goose, because of what happened to me.”

Your father, an ever firm man, says the words in a voice so soft and quiet, you almost feel your confusion and frustration dissipate.

Almost.

You splutter, suddenly angry over a hypothetical situation that had never occurred. You had no interest in joining the Navy, never had and never would, and you both knew it.

You stare at the two for a moment, searching for the words, before you decide you don’t have them and turn on your heel, stalking back up to the house. You push the front door open, finding Bradley excitedly chatting into the phone. “No, no, Mav’s gonna love it.” There’s a pause. “Yeah no, Mav heard back from Slider this morning. He’s coming too.”

Your breath catches in your throat at the mention of Slider. Of the godfather you hadn’t seen since you were sixteen.

What the fuck were they up to?

“No, it’s gonna be awesome. I’m so excited to have you all up here.” He pauses again, listening to the other person on the phone. “Yeah? Well, tell Bagman he better believe it. It’s the Iceman.”

Suddenly, you recall how Bradley had told you that people still regarded your Dad as a legend.

Suddenly, you recalled the conversation from a few days ago, Pete pretending they weren’t up to anything.

God, that- that had to be one of Bradley’s teammates on the phone.

Bradley turns his head, catching sight of you. “I gotta go. We’ll talk later. Bye.” He says hurriedly, hanging the phone up on the wall. He offers you a sheepish look, putting his hands in his pockets.

You wave a hand, not moving from your spot. “Oh, well you don’t have to hang up the phone just cause I’m here.”

He glances back at the phone on the wall. “No, just my friend Nat from home.”

You hum, crossing his arms. “Mmm, and just what did this Nat have to say?”

His eyes narrow at you. “Did I do something?”

You shrug. “Depends. What are you and your godfather up to?”

“N- Nothing. Nothing.” He stutters out, darting out of the room before the words are even fully out of his mouth.

You sigh, taking a step farther into the lobby.

What the hell were they doing? Who was coming out here? If this Nat person, his teammate, was involved, you could certainly suspect others in the Navy knew about their plan.

The Iceman? Were they setting your Dad up to be some kind of show pony for failed Navy pilots or something?

That thought is enough to make you dart down the hall, barely making it in time to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Pete and Bradley were bringing out all these people from the Navy, Slider included, all just to mock your Dad. Mock him for having to close what had been his life-long passion after flying had been taken from him. Mock him for what his life had become.

God, you don’t think you’ve ever met people more cruel.

It’s another week as Christmas approaches and you’ve gone out of your way to avoid both Bradley and Pete. You’re fuming at what they’re up to and you have half a mind to tell your Dad.

And yet, every time you go to tell him, you walk into a room where they’re together. Seeing them together, seeing your Dad so content and happy, it makes the words get caught in your throat.

It’s only on Christmas Eve, when the four of you are supposed to be getting ready to have a nice Christmas Eve dinner, that you make the resolve to tell him.

It’s bad timing, probably, but both Pete and Bradley had grown antsy last night, disappearing to their rooms early, and you’ll be damned if you sit by while they humiliate your father.

You stride across the house, black boots clicking against the floor as you leave the kitchen. You’d just pulled the turkey from the oven, having gotten changed into the nice dress that always sat at the back of your closet for occasions like this one.

It was velvety, soft to the touch, red. It paired well with black tights and the boots shoved at the top of your closet. It was a Christmas-only dress and Pete had convinced both you and your Dad to dress up.

You had half a mind to find Pete and bitch him out yourself, but you knew your Dad would do enough of that once he found out about what his “friend” had been up to. Once he found out about what he had done.

You’re envisioning the ensuing argument that ended the same way it had with Slider when you slow, spotting half a dozen people standing in your lobby.

“Can I help you?” You call. They turn, all dressed in dress blues.

You only recognize them as such because your Dad’s are tucked away in the back of his closet. Every once in a while, he’ll look at them longingly and then sigh, shutting his closet door.

The tall blonde responds first, smirking as he does. “Well, pretty lady, you can help me any time.” He’s answered with a smack upside his head from the lanky man with glasses as the female nudges him.

“We’re looking for Bradley Bradshaw.” The female responds.

You raise an eyebrow, realizing this must be who Pete and Bradley have been in cahoots with. You don’t get a chance to answer though as they spot him over your shoulder.

“Rooster!” The female exclaims and Bradley side-steps you to offer the girl a tight hug. Your brain is still processing the Rooster nickname when the blond sees someone he recognizes behind you.

“Hey Pops.” The blond says and you turn to see Pete.

“Hey kids, good to see you all.” Pete clasping your shoulder gently. “Hey, I’m glad I caught you. I need your help with something.”

“Why the hell would I help you?” The words are hot on your tongue, tumbling out before you can stop them.

Pete flinches, hand leaving your shoulder. “What-”

“Is that Pete Mitchell I hear? Short as ever I see.”

You go cold as the entire group turns, recognizing the voice of the man who’d given you piggy back rides and helped measure your height every time he visited appeared in your line of vision.

“Ron Kerner, still just as annoying as ever, I see.”

The two share a good-natured laugh, followed by a hug. “Good to see you alive and well Mitchell. Figured you’d end up at Tom’s.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete squawks, punching Slider’s shoulder. He smirks, taking a step away from Pete.

“Oh, you know exactly what-” He falters, eyes locking on to you. He clears his throat, pulling himself up to his full height. “Well, how about that? My favorite goddaughter all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to help us out.”

Had you not suddenly been so angry again, you probably would’ve reminded him you were his only goddaughter.

So instead you say:

“Go fuck yourself.”

The words are once again pouring out of you before you can stop them, and you turn, headed straight for your Dad’s room. Someone’s reaching out for your arm and you recognize the callused hands as Bradley’s as he pulls you back to the group.

“Please don’t do that, you don’t know how hard it was to arrange for everyone to be here.”

You scoff, pulling your arm from his grip. “Good, I hope it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, setting up an old man who’s already down and out about his life to be humiliated.”

“What’re you talking-”

“And you,” eyes flying to Pete and Slider. “-you are supposed to be his friends.”

Slider is staring at you with a dumbfounded look, but Pete walks forward carefully, testing the waters. “What exactly do you think we’re doing here?”

You wave a hand, gesturing to the group of Navy folk that have gathered around you. “You brought all these Navy folk out here to make a fool of him for what’s happened to him, as if he hasn’t already been through enough.”

The front door opens again, revealing a couple of men you might be able to place from old Navy photos that are tucked away in a shoebox in the basement.

“Well, Pete Mitchell, never thought we’d see you again.”

One of them with similiar stature to that of Slider’s, grins at the sight of you. “And if it isn’t ol’ Iceman’s daughter.”

The blond has a predatory smile on his face as he looks at you. “Well, even better, Iceman’s daughter.”

Nat, you’re pretty sure, smacks him upside the head, following with a hissed “Shut up Bagman.”

You shoot Pete a withering look as he cringes. “My point. And I’m not letting you do this to him, I’m going to tell him, I’m-”

Pete cuts you off, taking ahold of your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. “They’re here because I asked them to be. I wanted Tom to be reminded that there’s people out there who still care for Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. That his life didn’t end the day he crashed that plane.”

You go cold at the words, heart hammering your chest. “What?”

He chuckles. “Brad’s idea, actually. Wanted to help the two of you out. Figured we could get some business in here and remind your Dad just how many people care about his sorry ass. So I really hope you won’t ruin the surprise.”

You sigh, deflating. “I-”

Pete waves his hand, dismissing the fact that you don’t have words to explain your misunderstanding. “This is where you come in.”

You knock on the door, pausing to hear your Dad’s rough “Come in.” You gently push the door open, slipping inside. He glances up at you from where he’s sitting on his bed, a smile breaking out across his face. “Well don’t you look nice?”

You smile, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Well, Pete did insist we dress up...”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Why did we let him convince us to do that? My damn house and he expects me to dress up?”

“I take it you haven’t picked out what you’re wearing yet?”

He sighs. “No, I’ve decided I’m just gonna go in what I’m already wearing.” You glance at the grey sweatpants he’s wearing, a Vermont sweatshirt thrown on top. His reindeer slippers, matching with your own pair, adorn his feet. “It’s just the four of us.”

You frown, knowing he can’t, under any circumstances go downstairs wearing that. “Well... Oh, I know! How about you wear your dress blues?” You say, clasping your hands together. “Oh, would you please? Bradley and Pete are wearing theirs!”

He scoffs, shaking his head and standing up from the bed. “Of course Pete is.” He grumbles, walking towards the bathroom. You follow him, appearing over his shoulder.

“Please? For me?” You ask, pouting your lips and making your eyes wide. “I’ve never seen you wear them.”

He eyes you for a minute before shaking his head. “That look doesn’t work on me anymore kid.”

You sigh, shoulders deflating. “Fine.” You mumble.

He sighs. “Besides, I’m not that man anymore. I’m not a hero.”

You glance up at your father, taking a small step to stand next to him. You take his arm, squeezing it. “That’s not true.”

“Kid-”

“No, it isn’t. Your life isn’t defined by that accident, Dad. It doesn’t negate all the amazing things you did before it happened. It doesn’t change the fact that you were a legend and everything Pete and Bradley and Uncle Sli have told me confirm that. And not only that, but you raised me by yourself-”

“Slider helped-”

“By. Your. Self.” You say, stressing each word, making direct eye contact with him through the mirror. “You beat cancer, Dad. If nothing else, you should be proud of that.”

He sighs, turning to look at you. “I did good with you kid, didn’t I?”

You smile softly, looking up at him. “You’re my hero, Dad. You may not think anyone else still sees you as one or doubt you’ve ever been one, but you always have been. You will always be my hero, Dad.”

There’s a sparkle in his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. “I love you, kid.” He pauses for a moment, reaching his hands to rest on your shoulders as he looks at you, before pulling you into a hug. “Guess maybe I should wear them huh?” His voice is thick with tears as you wrap your arms around him, squeezing him in return. “Alright, give me twenty minutes to get changed and then I’ll go down with you.”

You pull away, beaming. “I’ll be just outside.”

You slip out of the room, shutting the door behind you. Bradley’s at the bottom of the steps, waiting anxiously. He looks up, a silent question hanging in the air. You give a smile and two thumbs up, causing him to smile and dart towards the main room where you know Pete and the others are waiting.

Your Dad’s good to his word, appearing from his door twenty minutes later, on the dot. You smile at him, adjusting one of his medals as he stands at a attention. “You’re the only person I’d do this for, you know?” He says as you pull away.

You roll your eyes, taking his arm that’s held out for you and begin to move down the stairs. “Oh that’s not true, a little part of you is doing this for Pete.”

“Am not!”

You snort, reaching the bottom step. “Sure.” You turn, entering the main room, knowing what’s coming next.

“Ten-hut!” Pete calls, the entire room standing to attention, saluting your father. Your father freezes next to you as you step back, letting him have his moment. The spouses of those military personnel who have joined you erupt into applause. Your Dad walks into the room, taking in Bradley and his teammates, friends of his from his Top Gun program, and others who’ve served under his instruction or alongside him. He finally turns back to Pete as the applause dies down.

“At ease soldier.” He pauses, swallowing. “What’s all this then Pete?” He asks, a certain sense of awe present in his voice.

Pete smiles, standing at attention, probably the best he ever has. “Just wanted to give a legendary general a legendary Christmas, sir.”

“You’re an idiot.” Your Dad says, fondness coloring his tone.

Pete beams up at him. “Only for my wingman.”

“You can be my wingman anytime, Pete.” He whispers.

“Bullshit, you can be mine.”

Your Dad pulls Pete into a tight hug as your eyes flicker over to Bradley. He gives you a soft smile and a short nod as your Dad lets Pete go. He turns to you, eyeing you as you walk forward. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

“Only just barely.”

“And that’s why you did all of this?” He says, gesturing to his attire. You shrug.

“Yeah, but I meant what I said, that you’re my hero.” You say, taking his arm. Pete chuckles, shaking his head.

Your Dad’s voice is once again thick with emotion as he turns back to his wingman. “So truly Pete, what is all of this?”

Pete sighs, taking your Dad’s other arm. “I wanted you to see how far your legacy has gone. That there are so many people, mostly pilots but not all, that have been impacted by you in some way. I wanted you to see how they still are impacted by you.” Pete adds at the end, nodding his head towards Bradley’s team.

Your Dad eyes Pete for a minute and then blows out a breath. “Whatever in the world did I do to deserve you Pete Mitchell?”

You walk around the kitchen, drying the dishes with a towel when a figure appears in the doorway. You glance up, catching the tall frame of Bradley as he leans against the doorjamb. “Hey.”

“You disappeared.” He says, crossing his arms. You shrug, looking away from as you pick up another plate from the soapy water.

“All the Navy folks and military personnel... not my scene. Figured I’d make good use of myself and tidy up the kitchen.”

He hums, lifting himself off the doorway. “Not your scene, huh?”

“No, no it’s one thing to know your Dad’s a legend and another to be surrounded by legends, knowing you’re just a glorified innkeeper from Vermont- hey!” Bradley’s taken the bowl you’re holding and dishtowel from your hands, setting them on the counter. You pull yourself up, placing your hands on your hip. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

He sighs, taking your hands. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a lot more than glorified innkeeper from Vermont.”

“Well-”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “You’re a legend in your own right. Don’t gotta be a top Navy pilot to prove it to me.”

You stare at him as you find yourself leaning into his touch, getting lost in his hazel eyes. “I-”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Okay.” You whisper, letting him take one of your hands, intertwining his fingers with your own.

You follow him out of the kitchen, past the main room where Slider is regaling Bradley’s friends with a tale from his days as your Dad’s RI. The man who recognized you as Iceman’s daughter earlier (Hollywood as you’ve learned his name is) adds a few snippets here and there. Bradley’s commanding officer, Cyclone, hangs on to Slider’s every words. It’s not hard to feel the deep admiration everyone in the room has for your Dad.

Bradley pauses, grabbing his coat from the rack.

“Oh, but you have your dress blues on and I-”

“I know, this is for you.” He says, flipping the coat on and slipping it around your shoulders. “Don’t want you getting cold.” He says as you slip your arms into the coat.

Bradley pushes the front door open, keeping his hand in yours as the two of you walk down the front steps. It’s quiet as the two of you walk around the property, the night air blowing right through you. “Thank you for doing this for my Dad.” You say quietly. “He- You don’t know how much I appreciate it. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you and Pete.”

“You don’t have to repay us. Mav and I- we wanted to do it for him. An old Navy pal and all that.”

“Well, it was still very nice of you.” You say, feet crunching over fallen leaves. “So when are you and Pete headed out of here? I can't imagine Cyclone’s wanting to sacrifice you and Pete for much longer.”

“Well, about that-” He pauses as you tear your gaze from the ground to the sight in front of you.

Your Dad grabs Pete by the edges of his dress blues, pulling him in close and kissing him. “Well, would you look at that?” You whisper. “They finally did something about it.”

He huffs out a laugh as the two break apart. “Only took ‘em 30 years.”

Pete claps his hands against your Dad’s chest, grinning and looking around as your Dad slips his hands into his pockets. Pete freezes, catching the sight of you and Bradley.

“Oh, don’t stop on account of us.” Bradley calls as you giggle, leaning closer into Bradley. “C’mon.” He whispers. “Let’s let them have their moment.” You nod as you and Bradley turn, walking in the other direction. “Well, it looks like we might be sticking around for a while then huh?”

You laugh, squeezing Bradley’s hand. “I don’t hate the sound of that.”

“For the company, right?”

You give a look, rolling your eyes. “Sure, just for the company.” You pause, feeling another breeze run through as you step closer to him. “Is Pete tying you down out here? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went back without him.”

He sighs. “Ah... no, I would rather be out here with him in all honesty. We didn’t talk for over a decade and I think it’s high time I start mending things with my godfather. You know, I think Tom got something right, when he decided to move out here.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking up at him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Before we came out here, Uncle Mav and I flew a mission we didn’t expect to come back from. We were lucky to walk away alive after all we had been through. And up here, where it’s quiet and slow, not so fast-paced and life or death, it’s maybe something us Navy pilots could use more of. Something I could use more of.”

You smile. “Well, we got plenty of it up here.”

“And, well, maybe I could just use a bit more of you.”

You pause your walk, turning to him. You go to respond when the first flake settles in Bradley’s hair. You blink, wondering if you imagined it when the second settles on your nose. You scrunch your nose at the cold bite of the snow. Bradley smiles, looking at you in child-like wonder as he places his hands on your waist.

“Well, what do you know, it’s snow.” He whispers as you look around at the snow falling around you. “Never seen it before.”

“Really?” You ask, eyes snapping back to his. He nods, confirming it, eyes moving over your face. “Well, we should get your friends out here, they should see it too-”

He stops you from moving, grip tightening around your waist. “Honey just- give a moment, will ya? Been trying to do this for weeks.”

“Do what? Oh.” You whisper as Bradley pulls you in for a kiss. His lips are warm, soft, against yours as the snow falls around the two of you.

“Yeah, could use a lot more of you.” He whispers, pulling away. You smile, finding your hands coming up to curl in his brown locks, admiring the way the curls framing his face mix with the falling of the snow. He snorts, bowing his head as you stand there.

“What?” You murmur, still in awe of the man in front of you. He shakes his head, smiling at you as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“Just finally got a white Christmas.”

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