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teyums · 1 year

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“I only want you.” | Neteyam Oneshot

wc: 2.3k

pairing: neteyam x fem! na’vi reader

warnings: none, contains fluff

a/n: this is a one shot, meaning there will be no part 2

Summary: You had a painfully long day of helping the elders with their tasks, and all that’s getting you through is remembering you’ll meet Neteyam at your spot later. However, when you get there you find him with another girl and feel a piece of your heart break. He finds you, and reassures you that you’re the only one for him, sealing his promise with the proposal you’ve been waiting for.

Today had been an excruciatingly long day. You spent majority of the sunlight helping with tasks bestowed upon you by the elders.

First, it was picking what seemed like a harvest’s worth of utumauti (canopy fruit) that would be used in a celebration for the war party’s successful raids. You agreed begrudgingly and trekked through the mossy forest, holding three baskets that were stacked into each other.

After spending hours hopping from branch to branch, at times to the highest point of the tree, you had finally gathered a sufficient amount to return to the village. You even surprised yourself with how many you had collected from the canopies, seeing as utumauti isn’t in season this time of year—hence why no one wanted to do the job in the first place and passed it onto you.

You wobbly trudged back into town, balancing one basket atop your head and holding the other two in your hands, they were painfully heavy. Once arriving at the elder’s quarters, you attempted to set them down as gently as possible, letting out a sigh of relief once realizing you could now take it easy.

But alas, you were foolish to think one task wouldn’t lead to another like always. It seemed like today was the day for every na’vi in an authoritative position to drop their responsibilities onto you.

Without even five minutes to take a breather, you were then tasked with repairing the splayed and broken strings upon the bows of the latest warriors who had returned. You stared down at the piles of splinted, battered wood that lay out in front of you, strings tangled into a jumbled mess. You tried your hardest to contain your agitated expression and keep the twitch of your eye at bay to avoid a scolding.

God, this was gonna hurt.

It took you over an hour just to detangle the strings, receiving specific instructions that forbade you from simply cutting them loose and replacing them all anew. Something about ‘respecting the great mother enough to not waste resources’. You spent another hour weaving new string into the bows that needed them. Looping the strings into the bow nocks over and over again proved to be an even more tedious effort than picking fruit.

By the time you finished, your fingers were terribly sore. Your cuticles were reddened and bruised, a few snags and hangnails forming in the delicate skin around them from dealing with rough wood.

You stacked the bows in a neater pile than you had found them, standing up and brushing the sawdust off your legs and loincloth. Finally, after hours of what seemed like endless work, you could now focus on what your day was really supposed to be about.

Him.

There had finally been a commonality in your schedules, so you and Neteyam had dedicated the entirety of today to spend with each other. Neteyam’s training had only picked up in frequency the last couple weeks, leaving less time for the two of you to spend together. This proved to be extremely hard on you guys, but especially you. You had been cursed with the love language of quality time and right now you were terribly missing the nights where the two of you would lay in each other’s arms, stargazing without a care of what tomorrow would bring.

You shooed the thought away, a small smile rendering on your lips as you reminded yourself that the hard work was done, and now the two of you could be together. Though you were bummed that your time would now be cut short, you relished in the fact that you would still be able to spend the evening with him, just like old times.

You skipped along the battered path that housed the ghosts of footsteps from your clan, trying to contain your squeals of excitement as you neared the spot Neteyam said he would be waiting at for you.

A small pond with bountiful vegetation surrounding the perimeter slowly came into view, as well as a head of long, black braids and a pair of strong shoulders that belonged to your lover.

You felt your shoulders relax for the first time today and started towards him. You used your hand to move a large anthurium leaf out of the way, your feet stopping dead in your tracks when you caught sight of someone next to him.

A girl.

Your mouth fell slightly agape at the scene in front of you, your brain rushing to make sense of things. She stood with her back to Neteyam, a bow in her hands and her arms stretched clumsily, feigning inexperience. You watched as he used his hand to tip her elbow upwards, helping her correct her form.

Okay, calm down. He’s just helping her. Right?

Neteyam was always known for being friendly, it being both his most admirable characteristic and biggest flaw. Because of his kindhearted, always eager to help like nature, it was hard for him to realize when someone had an ulterior motive to get close to him.

“Here,” he stepped closely behind her, both their gazes set down at the pond in front of them. “Straighten your back. You need a strong form.” His hand pushed against her mid-lower back to fix her posture, resulting in her arching it and repositioning her arms to shoot the bow the correct way. It was now excruciatingly obvious that she knew how to do this from the beginning. You felt your stomach flip.

There stood Neteyam, with his hands on another girl.

Your Neteyam.

“Like this?” She questioned innocently, in which Neteyam hummed as a response. He probably would’ve noticed how close the two of them were to each other, skin nearly touching; if he hadn’t been so focused on the fish darting around in the water below them

Maybe you were hallucinating, but you vaguely recall your heart plunging out of your chest and flopping around pitifully on the forest floor beneath you. You felt the painfully familiar feeling of your throat constricting, the burn of approaching tears following suit. Your face twisted like you had smelled something rotten and you turned away, not wanting to watch any more of this.

You had already figured he would have been a little bummed when you had to move the time of your date, but had he really been so upset that he couldn’t even wait for you? How long had this been going on before you found them and why the hell was he so close to her?

You backed away silently, wiping the tears you hadn’t noticed had fallen with the back of your hand and storming back to your hut.

Neteyam hadn’t been aware of your arrival, instead, his attention was set on the girl he now noticed had been faking.

“Ah,” He removed his hand as if her body burned and stepped back, putting a disrespectful amount of space between them. “It seems you do not need my help, after all.” He says, the unamused expression on his face matching the tone of his voice.

She smiled shyly and lowered her bow, tucking a braid behind her ear. “Fine, you caught me. I actually just wanted to spend time with you.”

“So we are done here, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting someone important.” He took a seat on the rock where he had previously been resting before the girl came up to ask him for help, resuming the sharpening of an unfinished project he had brought to keep busy.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Her head tilted curiously, not quite understanding his behavior. “I said I wanted to spend time with you, Neteyam.”

“I am not a fan of liars. Whatever it is you want, I cannot help you with.” He nearly interrupted her while continuing to shave the now forming spearhead. “You may go now.”

She scoffed, more out of embarrassment than annoyance. She stood there for a second more, his eyes snapping up to shoot her a pointing stare that had her turning on her heels and hastily exiting.

He sighed to himself and shook his head, silently cursing himself for even agreeing to assist her. He knew it was hard on you, having to listen to the girls of the clan rant and rave about who was soon to be your mate. He tried his best to avoid them, but there were times like this where they would take his kindness for granted, only to run back to their friends and exaggerate what really happened. He felt terrible now that he knew her main goal was only to have his hands on her for bragging rights.

He tore his attention away from his task, peering up at the sky and using a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. It was almost eclipse, you had told him that you would be done by now. If anything, you should have already met up with him. He gathered his things, wondering if you had made a stop home first and decided he would meet you there instead.

___________

You laid in your hammock silently, back facing the entrance as you picked at a stray hemp string to distract yourself from the immense wave of sadness that refused to stop crashing over you. The wooden steps outside your hut groaned from supporting the weight of footsteps, and an involuntary sigh left your lips when your nostrils filled with the scent of mahogany and petrichor. Neteyam.

“My love?”

The tall na’vi stepped through the flaps of your tent, and you tucked your body into itself further, successfully giving off the impression that you weren’t interested in speaking. You figured if you closed your eyes you could play it off as stirring in your sleep.

It didn’t work.

He immediately became worried when catching site of you, wondering if you had fallen sick and that being the reason you hadn’t come to him. He was across the room and by your side in an instant, taking a seat next to you to see your eyes shut.

Neteyam was observant, more than others at that. He knew how your breathing slowed a few paces when you were truly asleep, how your lips would stay parted just the tiniest bit, or even how your nostrils would flare here and there depending on how deeply you inhaled. Something was wrong.

“My love, what is the matter?” It took everything in you not to lean into his touch when you felt his gentle fingers brush the hair from your face, his digits grazing over your skin before cupping your cheek.

“I do not want to talk about it, Neteyam.” Your eyes stayed closed, an effort to remain withdrawn from the conversation.

The use of his full name instantly ruled out any other option he had been thinking of. You were upset with him.

“No, you know we don’t do that. Come on,” his large hands delicately took hold of your small frame, bringing you into a sitting position. “Open.”

Your eyelids reluctantly peeled apart, amber eyes streaked with red veins and eyelashes dewy from prior tears. His eyebrows furrowed with worry at your puffy appearance, gaze softening once he saw why. You had been crying.

“Princess,” his voice was pained, hands coming up to cup your tear stained cheeks and caress them with his thumbs. “What happened? Why are you crying?”

Your lip quivered and you felt that painfully annoying sensation creeping back in. You opened your mouth to speak but the tightening of your throat stopped you before you could respond.

He continued. “I waited for you, but you did not come. Why?”

“I saw you,” You sniffed, dropping your gaze down at the netting below you instead of his eyes. “With her.”

He appeared confused at first, his mind jumping through hoops to try and figure out what you meant. Then, his head fell to the side a bit and a deep sigh of realization joined afterwards.

“[Y/n], that was nothing. I promise. I was waiting for you, then she found me and asked me to show her how to catch a fish.” He explained, his hands now on your shoulders.

“You think she doesn’t know how to catch a damn fish? She just wanted your attention.” You spat, hating the way your voice was cutting in and out.

“I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was so excited to see you that I just helped her so she would leave. But as soon as I saw her true intentions I sent her away. It was nothing more than that, princess, I swear.” He took notice of you turning your head away from him and felt a pang in his chest. He hated seeing you like this, and it hurt even more knowing it was because of him.

“Do you believe me?” His voice was quiet and you finally peered up at him to see he looked just as hurt as you did. You nodded your head slightly, his tensed shoulders relaxing a bit the moment you did.

“Of course I believe you. But it still hurts.” A single tear fell onto your cheek and he was quick to clear it without a word, giving you time to express your feelings to him. “I cannot stand to hear the way they talk about you.”

He noticed your fingers starting to twiddle anxiously, taking both of your hands into his and holding them firmly. “But you know I am yours, only. I only want you. Those girls will never change that.”

“You don’t understand.” You shook your head and went to pull your hands away from him, but he tightened his hold. He was already one step ahead and knew how you preferred to run from conversations like this rather than have them.

“Please, help me understand.” His voice soft, warm yellow eyes pleading and seeing into the part of your soul no one else could.

“They laugh at me, when I tell them you are spoken for. They do not believe me,” You inhaled shakily, biting at the inside of your lip before continuing. “because we are not mated yet.” Your voice merely a whisper, like you were embarrassed to admit what had been ailing you.

“Oh, [Y/n]…” He pulled you into his chest and embraced you in his arms, placing a light kiss to the top of your head. He was so careful with you, it was as if he felt you would crumble to pieces.

You melted into his arms, you couldn’t help it even if you tried. He really was your safe place, and even if he had been the one to upset you, he made it known that you could always come to him no matter what. You felt him lean back and lightly pull you away.

“I had no idea you have been feeling this way. There is nothing I want more than to be with you for life, my love. I just didn’t want to rush you into it, in case you weren’t ready.” He smiled, his excitement written all over his face.

“Really?” Your eyes grew big, pupils leaking adoration and swelling in sync with your heart.

“Really.” He hummed.

The space between the two of you grew smaller as he fell in, your lashes kissing before your lips could. By the time your eyes fluttered to a close his lips were melded against yours, and with every second that passed you felt your doubts withering away— the passion from his embrace and his hands on your waist served as ample reassurance.

You broke for air, eyes dazed, bodies longing for more. “I’m sorry if I ruined our date, Nete…”

“Nonsense, you could never ruin anything.” He chuckled, pecking the tip of your nose. “Forget about that, just come with me.”

Before you could agree you were off the hammock and up on your feet, fingers laced as he led you out of your home.

“Where are we going?” You smiled.

“To tell my parents to begin preparations for our ceremony. I don’t want to spend another moment not mated with you.” He glanced down at you and gave your hand a squeeze, an elated grin overtaking his face to match yours.

Likes + Reblogs are much appreciated, thank you for reading! 💗

#neteyam #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam x reader #neteyam x y/n #neteyam fluff #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam avatar #avatar way of water #avatar 2 #neteyam fic #neteyam sully #avatar fanfiction #neteyam x you #avatar twow

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cocteaucherry · 20 days

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her way

summary- you were once on top of the world, unfortunately that was taken away from you, but all of a sudden two men, the best at their sports ask for help.

tags- 18+, mentions of bruises, anxiety, broken bones, anxiety attack, ooc probably for some characters, maybe some smut (or threesome) in further chapters. figure skating (can you tell I used challengers for inspo?) gojo x reader, geto x reader, female reader

a/n- (making my monthly comeback, also thank you for 200 followers every like and follow means the universe to me! debating on a chp 1

you once were on top of the world

Doing the thing you loved every day every second, the costumes, the flair, the elegance.

Your long time senior coach, Yuki, made sure to always support you, even.. if she usually made it to rehearsal thirty minutes late.

“Yeah yeah that was great! But make sure you’re more solid off your double jump!” Yuki smirked leaning against the short wall of the skating rink.

“Weren’t you on your phone half the time?” You raised an eyebrow panting loudly as Yuki gave you a coy laugh.

“See? Stop paying attention to me and you’ll land your jumps.”

Oh how cynical it would be for you in the future.

You had officially made it to the Grand Prix finals, the world's eyes battering down your whole back, at least that’s how it felt to you.

You sat stretching your legs, the world around you invisible until you went on in approximately nine minutes and ten seconds. Your nerves were particularly bad today but you couldn’t focus on that right now.

You were so out of it you didn’t even notice the figure approaching you, all you saw were long legs in dark sweatpants.

You peered through your eyelashes to see the figure standing in front of you, snowy hair and sunglasses inside? Sheesh, how arrogant could this guy be?

“Y/N, right?” A grin appeared on his smug face as his hands slid into his pockets, “yeah? Is there something I can do for you?” You grunted standing up your eyes physically widening as you saw how tall he really was, getting a good look at his face and you began to recognize the man.

“Wait.. you look familiar..?”

His face drained of color as he cleared his throat, “Satoru Gojo, two time gold winner?” He pointed towards his face, “Figure skating Mozart on the ice rink?- wait you seriously don’t know who I am?!”

“I was kidding, MAYBE I’ve heard of you,” you chuckled and he let out a huff of frustration, “You’re good friends with.. what’s his name? Suguru Geto correct? I’ve heard he’s the Prince of Ice, huh?”

“That’s correct, he’s also fairly talented.” Satoru hummed in an almost annoyed tone? You pushed it off not thinking much of it.

“Must be hard huh? I mean being best friends in this line of business and somehow you always come out on top?” You questioned staring closely through Satoru’s glasses, you could almost clearly see the bright blue of his eyes peeking through the expensive lenses.

“Ahhh,” he grinned, adjusting his shades, “Suguru and I don’t lose our minds over a little friendly competition.”

“The Grand Prix is a friendly competition for you?” You scoffed crossing your arms and he nodded bashfully, “when you have no one to compete against it’s not really a competition.”

“Right, well I’m gonna get going soon.”

You desperately wanted to cut the conversation short but talking to him seemed to ease your nerves tremendously, “Thanks for talking with me though!” you smiled brightly getting set to walk towards the rink.

Satoru wanted to talk more but his words were caught in his throat, “I’ll cheer you o-on!” His voice fucking cracked and he wanted to slam his head against the wall.

Yuki stood nervously and annoyed at your apparent “lateness”

“Y/N! What the hell? You were supposed to be here a few minutes ago?” Her face was red with anxiety it seemed.

“I'm still here on time! Don’t worry Yuki,” you groaned and a smile appeared on her face, “I know I know, you should’ve been here though I was just talking to a certain someone you should be interested in,”

“Really? Who?” You said enthusiastically but before Yuki could start your name was called over the intercoms to get on the ice, you slid your windbreaker off revealing your light purple bedazzled costume. “I’ll tell you after, get out there and don’t fuck up!” Yuki pulled you into a quick hug before lightly pushing you into the direction you needed to go.

“Awhh, cmon Yuki!” You groaned walking your way carefully onto the ice, your mind repeating your step and jump sequences in your head.

Your legs jittered but you took deep breaths skating to your starting position.

Your routine started and you were doing great, landing your jumps, your spins were fluid and solid and then the second half was ending. Your routine was coming to a close and all you had to do was nail a double jump pretty simple right?

Then how come whenever you were in the starting position something felt off..

you were in the middle of the air getting ready to land before your ankle had twisted in the wrong direction causing you to eat absolute shit on the ice.

A loud CRACK! Resounded itself along with the searing hot pain your ankle felt as you tumbled on the ice, Oh God let this be a bad dream please God..

Hot tears poured down your face as you heard the quick loud flashes of cameras and the loud whispers of the crowd, your heartbeat sped faster and faster and you swore you were going to blackout, which is what you did.

You woke up from the blaring fluorescent lights and the steady beeps of the machines around you, your mother and father sat next to you with bated breath as your mother immediately jumped to hug you crying into your shoulder.

You groggily searched the room for Yuki only to find her in the hallway talking to the doctor, this wasn’t gonna end well.

You peered down at the large cast encasing your ankle and the bruises that crowded your leg, you wanted to cry but no tears came out.

Hours later you finally decided to turn on the TV, wanting to avoid seeing you eat shit on 4K you were instead met with a different kind of news.

Males singles winners,

Bronze- Yui Haibara

Silver- Satoru Gojo

Gold- Suguru Geto

Satoru had lost? You wondered how he felt right now, sure a small smile was on his face but he was adamant on winning.

Just like clockwork Yuki had come in holding two vases of flowers, “How you holding up?” She asked walking to the counter placing the vases down,

“‘As well as you think, everyone’s kind though.” You’ve gotten multiple concerned texts from figure skaters and fans and while you greatly appreciated it your face burned in embarrassment. How could you have messed up horribly?

“Of course they are, Goddess of the Ice,” Yuki hummed, checking the cards attached to the vases, “Well look at that, flowers from both Gojo and Geto.”

“Really? I feel honored.” You smiled but it quickly faded, “Tell me how bad it is Yuki.”

Yuki sighed leaning on the counter, “Well, your ankle is pretty fucked up.. might be time for you to look at possibly retiring.”

Your coach’s words circled in your head as you took a plane trip back to your hometown, your mother and father agreed to look after you in the meantime as you sought out your decision.

The past few days you had been in limbo, just living but no substance you even spaced out mid conversation with your best friend Utahime.

She offered you a place in her family’s shop where you could spend your hours conversing instead of just sitting around the house.

“Okay! Would you rather take care of ten newborn babies or fight a judo boxer?” Utahime asked, flipping through the channels of the front counter TV.

“We’ve played this for twenty minutes!” You groaned, placing your head in your hands, “the ten babies sound great though.”

Utahime had childishly given you a coloring book but you didn’t complain, you continued to scribble, enjoying the blissful silence with the occasional talk of the TV.

The bell of the front door opening broke you out of your silence, but before you could look up the voice seemed to give it away.

“Y/N! Long time no see!”

Your eyes were brought up to see the familiar sight you were “graced” with 5 weeks ago.

“Think we could talk for a minute?”

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu x reader #x reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto angst #gojo satoru #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #geto x female reader #challengers #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujustu kaisen smut

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simpcityy · 11 months

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Where is My Freedom? (Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You went over to greet your new next-door neighbor only be greeted by a handsome and hunk of a man.

Disclaimer: I do not own Mavel or any of its characters! This is a 3-part series so the first part will feel incomplete because it is.

Word count: Around 2K

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), mentions of injuries, abusive husband, physical and mental abuse, Angst if it counts, Hot single dad Miguel 😉, being called wife.

Pt1 Pt2 Pt3

┍━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━┑

It was early in the morning, and you were up baking some welcoming goodies to your next-door neighbors who were busy moving in their boxes into their new home. You tensed feeling the creek of the stairs, it meant your husband was awake getting ready for work. You slowly calm yourself and continue on baking some chocolate chip cookies. “Look at you up early in the morning” Your husband mutters walking over to you, peering over your shoulder as you continue mixing the batter. You only nod, having no strength to answer back. He walked over to the window glaring at the moving truck “Damn neighbors making too much noise this early in the morning” He mutters while you only kept quiet. His boots make heavy steps as he walks around the kitchen, each of those steps making you tense more and more. “I’m going to be staying at the police station late tonight so don’t expect me for dinner.” He grabs his cup of coffee and heads to you, “Rex is asleep still” He mentioned your son. Oh, your sweet loving toddler who didn’t deserve this broken family. You only nod again, your mouth too dry to give a response back. He gently grabs your chin making you look at him “I told you if you did what you were told, I wouldn’t have to hurt you.” He whispers, “You know how much it hurts me when you’re in pain” He adds on before pecking your lips and walks to the door. “Make sure to give a great impression to the new neighbors, don’t want them thinking we’re rude or anything” He commands before closing the door. The moment your ears picked up the door being locked you took a deep breath. You wiped your mouth from his kiss and rubbed your chin with your long sleeve from his dirty hands. They were cleaned but you only vision his bloody hands ever since the first day he laid his hands or rather fist on you.

You resume baking, while the cookies lay on the tray in the oven, you take this moment to go upstairs and check on your boy. Hearing the laughter and sound of toys being thrown made you smile. Forgetting everything that happened not long ago with your husband, “Good morning!” You coo to Rex who only coo back happy to see you. “Let's get you dressed and give these cookies to the new neighbors!” You felt the imaginary shackle around your neck break whenever your husband was away from home, knowing he was the one at the end of the chain pulling you down from reaching the clouds of freedom. Your son only bounces on his crib waiting to start the day with his mashed peas. After getting the toddler ready who never makes it easy with his excitement, you finally placed the cookies into a nice platter and wrapped them with a plastic wrap. “Alright, let’s get this started. Remember to smile” You picked up the boy and grabbed the plate.

Walking down your front yard you saw a little girl playing with chalk on the sidewalk. Right away, you knew this young girl was your new neighbor. Looking around for her parents, you walked up to her after seeing no adult. “Hello there” You gave her the friendliest smile you could muster to not scare the girl. Once you had her attention you continued, “I’m your neighbor from next door, I’ve been wondering where your parents are so I can give you all a welcoming gift” You have to admit, the kid was adorable with what appears to be a soccer jersey. “My Name is Gabriella! “The girl stands up from the sidewalk before spotting the cookies, gasping “I’ll bring my dad!” She yells before running inside the house trying not to bump into the boxes that were placed outside in the lawn. You patiently waited smiling, finding her more adorable and wanting to pinch her cheek but stopped yourself before she ran off. Shifting your son on your hip you heard Gabriella. “Come on!”, “Ya Voy* Briella. A gruff voice response back to her.

Looking up you were stunned seeing a handsome man that appeared to be her father. He was much taller than your husband and definitely could tell this man works out a lot compared to your husband. You quickly shook those thoughts away ‘Bad (Y/N), he could be a married man and you are married yourself!’ you scold yourself internally before looking up giving a small smile “ I’m sorry if this is a bad time, I wanted to introduce myself.” You finally found your voice before losing it again when the man literally towers over you. It makes you feel weak in the knees and your mind starts to wander over to some little inappropriate thoughts before scolding yourself again mentally. Finding your voice once again once those thoughts were away, “I’m (Y/N) and my son Rex. We’re your next-door neighbor” You nod over to your house. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood” You lifted the tray of cookies to him. “I made cookies as well.” Gabriella held on to her father's leg smiling at the mention of cookies. “Gracias*, thank you.” He gently takes the tray before looking down at you. “I’m Miguel, thank you for the warm welcome. I know Briella appreciates the gift” He looked at his daughter smiling softly at her before a frown returned to his face. The only thing you could think was, ‘Wow. His resting bitch face is even hot.’

“Yes, thank you!” Gabriella says before hugging your waist. You only smile feeling free with this interaction with your new neighbors, a feeling you know won’t last that long. Letting out a soft chuckle, you pat her head “I made them this morning, so they are nice and fresh.” You put Rex down and held his hand getting tired from carrying him. “Was that your husband who left not long ago?” You tense hearing Miguel mention about your husband. Your mouth begins to dry up thinking about him. You only nod and let out a quiet yes. You look over hearing Rex giggle as Gabriella plays peek-a-boo with him. You smile at the interaction before calming down “Yeah, that was my husband, He left in a rush to work. He’s a cop so he’s super busy but I promise you…he’s a good guy…” You say the last part more quietly. You were never one to lie but you didn’t need your new neighbors to know how abusive this bastard was. “Policeman? I see, I guess he’s a busy man” He looks at you, his sharp eye making you go weak. You only nod before looking at Rex. “I should get going, I need to feed Rex.” You excuse yourself “I hope the cookies are to your liking.” Picking up your son, you walk to your door looking back waving as Gabriella waves back happily.

Miguel only stares as you walk in, the door closing behind you. He looked at the cookies, after being spider-man for 2 years now, he knew something was wrong with you. He saw how you tensed up hearing about your husband. He saw the way your husband glared at him when he walked to his car for work. It didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together. He sighs before looking at his daughter. “Vamos adentro*, let’s eat the cookies” He smiles at his daughter walking inside.

Afternoon stroll by and you were in the front yard cleaning up the toys Rex had left outside when you were gardening your flowers. After the busy play time, it knocked the boy out and it left you time to wind down. After putting the toys in the bin, you heard footsteps approaching you. Turning around you were met with Miguel blocking the sun with his height. “Miguel, how can I help?” You were surprised from forming a sentence without stuttering. Miguel lets a small smile that makes your heart jump. “I wanted to return the favor, toma*” You stand up seeing your plate with something in it. “Empanadas” He explains as you take the plate smiling. Thanking him, you smelled them. “They smell so good!” You beamed which made the giant blushed a bit before trying to return to his normal frown. “Fresh so it’s better to enjoy them now.” He looks at you watching the empanadas in amazement. You look up before grabbing his wrist gently. “What are you doing?” He panicked a bit before you gently made him sit down on the step of the porch with you. “I know you made them for me and my family, but I want to enjoy them with you.” You smile finding this courage in you to befriend the stranger, well handsome stranger in a way your husband would disapprove. Miguel lets out a quiet chuckle getting comfortable and grabs one empanada. “Ever had one?” He asked as you shook your head no. He lets out a small smile “I promise you’re going to enjoy them, vecinita*” He assures you.

Your husband drove into the driveway of your house. He came home earlier as someone else was covering his shift. He looks at the passenger side holding a box that contains a gift for you like he always does whenever he hurts you. He grabs it before crushing the small box seeing you smiling and laughing with Miguel, having a good time together. He frowns and gets out of the car leaving the gift behind. He walked up to the gate and put on a smile “I see you’re our new neighbor!” He waves at Miguel; he watches the color drain from your face as you hear him. You quickly stand up “Miguel, this is my husband” You look away quickly. Miguel looks at you, noticing the change in behavior. He looks back at your husband “Miguel, nice to meet you "His voice gruff as he was peering down at him. Your husband stood his ground shaking hands with him “I wish we could talk but I’m tired from a long shift. I hope to get to know you better.” He looks at Miguels eyes before turning to you, holding you by the waist. “If you excuse us” He guides you back inside. You only look back at Miguel before the door closes, signaling you that freedom is gone once again.

Midnight rolled and you sat in your backyard after having a heated argument with your husband. You applied some liquid bandage on your arm, he threw a glass at you, nothing new to you. You let out a sigh before hissing as the liquid burned when sprayed on. “This is my fault.” You whisper out loud as your husband's manipulation starts to work on you. He yelled how it was your fault wanting to ruin this family and how he works hard for this family. You only make things worse according to him.

“ You’re wrong”

You look up gasping at the voice above you. You hold the liquid bandage spray close ready to spray the intruder. “Easy, I want to be able to see” Miguel holds his hands up. You sigh in relief and put the spray down before looking at him “What are you doing here?” You whisper not wanting your husband to wake up. Miguel sat next to you and looked at the first aid kit, noticing how it’s almost empty. ‘I’m guessing it happens a lot’ He concludes to himself before speaking “I heard…the argument and I wanted to see if you’re okay.” He looks at her mumbling as his fangs get in the way. “So…estas bien*?” He asked. You only sigh “No…I…Yes I'm okay…who am I kidding…no I’m not okay but there is nothing I can do” You whisper, “ I’m stuck with him…I don’t have the money to leave him and…I know I need a stable job and place for my son or…he’ll take him away from me…everything is not okay” You whisper before crying silently having enough. Miguel only watches not knowing what to do before slowly embracing you. “Let it out…you’ve been holding it in” He rubs your back. You felt warm and safe in his arms. “I just want to be happy…I always question myself, where is my freedom?” You sobbed into his arms. Miguel only holds you close as he only met you for one day. He knows you need help, not because he’s spider-man but because he’s your neighbor and you look too sweet to go through this. “You just need the key…the key to that freedom” He whispers looking at you. You slowly calmed down thinking of what he said. Key? The key that unlocks the shackle around your neck. What can it be? You look up at Miguel, the moon shining his face making him breathtaking, “Key…” You whisper before looking at his eyes.

I think I found my key.

┕━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━┙

Author Notes: Thank you so much for reading and sorry for any grammar mistakes, I hope you all enjoyed it. As you can see...I fell in the Miguel O'hara loophole...I don't want to be save, I want to keep falling in it for a bit longer. Welcome to ask anything! Welcome to the Simp City population: 1 (me so far)

Spanish Translation: 1.Ya Voy - I'm going or I'm coming 2. Gracias - Thank you 3. Vamos Adentro - Let's go inside 4. Toma- Here or take this 5. Vecinita - Little Neighbor 6. Estas Bien- Are you okay or you good?

#miguel o'hara #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #spiderman 2099 spiderverse #across the spider verse fic #spiderman atsv

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appocalipse · 2 years

Text

Pancakes & Secrets | eddie munson x reader x steve harrington

Fandom: Stranger Things

Pairing: Eddie Munson x henderson!reader (female pronouns used) x Steve Harrington

Words: 2.8k

Summary: After witnessing enough mutual pining from the guy you’re in love with and his ex-girlfriend, you leave under the pretense of bringing food to “Eddie the banished”, as he likes to call himself. But things take a turn for the worse when Jason and his gang finally find out where Eddie is hiding, and you have to spend the night outside in the cold, with no way to let your friends know you’re okay, and only Eddie for company....but actually, maybe he is not so bad.

A/N: hello! it’s me again. this time I bring you a new series that (if you guys enjoy it) will eventually split into two “routes” — one for Steve and one for Eddie, following the events of season 4 and beyond. I’ll try to keep from writing the scenes we already watched, though, so I’ll only briefly explain what happened in said scenes when needed and focus on the scenes that involve Eddie x Reader or Steve x Reader for this chapters. Also, IDK why, but I’m obsessed with the henderson!reader concept, so it’s here once again lmao sue me.

---------

You take a look at Reefer Rick’s old house, plastic bags in hand, car turned off behind you, and wonder how on God’s green Earth you ended up here.

The answer, actually, is very clear: making bad decisions.

You move straight to the door, but hesitate; should you knock? By now, Eddie has surely heard the car, or your footsteps, and you’re hardly trying to hide your presence. But after everything he’s been through, you think it’s not fair to risk scaring him anymore, since you couldn’t even let him know you were coming because the walkie-talkie stayed with Dustin at the mansion — along with a few pieces of your broken heart, most likely.

You balance both plastic bags in one hand and use the other to gently but audibly knock three times, still thinking about all the stupid things you've been doing lately. Eddie opens the door two seconds later, looking like someone who has just seen a fish climbing a tree.

“Hey,” he says uncertainly, tilting his head to the side as if trying to decipher you. “Is something wrong?”

Eddie reaches out and indicates the bags, waiting for you to give him permission to take them. When he closes his fingers around the straps and you don't protest—in fact, you look relieved; it was a little heavy—Eddie takes both bags in one hand and politely holds the door open for you to walk through with the other.

“Thanks,” you say, also walking on eggshells. Your knowledge of Eddie ends with him being the leader of Hellfire Club and the newest idol of your little brother Dustin; you’re not exactly friends, to put it simply, but now you’re also hardly strangers. “And no, nothing is wrong. I just thought I’d bring you some...pancakes.”

You realize mid-sentence how absurd that sounded. Eddie is wanted for murder, and you thought it would be a good idea to make him pancakes of all things.

By the look on his face, Eddie thinks the same, though his tone is far from judgemental. “Pancakes?”

You take the frying pan out of one of your bags, now on the table where Eddie put them down for you. He watches you curiously as you take out all the items you would need. “You don’t like pancakes?”

“Love them,” he is quick to respond, in a tone that’s energetic and charming, very Eddie-like.

“Good.”

He sits around the kitchen table, resting his chin on his hand, trying to act casual as he watches you work. But Eddie Munson is not casual. He's not normally calm and patient, but under the current circumstances, it's a miracle he sits back and watches you long enough for you to at least finish mixing the ingredients—which doesn't take even five minutes. When you put the batter in the frying pan, however, Eddie's curiosity gets the better of him.

“So...don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have company and all, but...why are you here?”

You take a deep, annoyed breath — but it’s not his question that annoys you; it’s the answer. Because, for some reason, you end up saying the truth. Angrily.

“Couldn’t stand the mutual pining any longer, I guess.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot even higher, no doubt sensing something juicier behind what you just said. “Mutual pining?”

“Never mind,” your brain catches up to your mouth as you carefully flip a pancake; it lands perfectly back on the frying pan, and Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Impressive,” he compliments, genuinely enough. When you look at him over your shoulder, his expression reminds you of that of a small kid full of joy and dreams, and somehow you know he is genuine in his attempt to cheer you up. Eddie seems to be a glass-half-full kind of guy, and for a moment, you feel tempted to forget all about Steve and Nancy.

When the first pancake is all done, the right shade of golden on both sides, you place it on a clean plate and hand it to Eddie, hiding your anticipation.

He takes a big bite, eyes going dramatically wide, a satisfied smile on his face. Eddie then stops for a second and says, covering his mouth full of pancake, “You’re my new favorite person, Y/N.”

He sees when you smile; sweet and embarrassed in equal measure; but he also notices that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You look suddenly so sad for someone who just made the world's best pancakes.”

“I highly doubt those are the world’s best pancakes,” you say nonchalantly, but the longer his gaze lingers on you, the harder it is to keep the words at bay. There is a part of you that desperately wants to get it out of your system...Maybe it will help?

Before you know it, your mouth is opening, more than ready to spill the words way too quickly.

“Okay, fine, you win,” you shrug. “There is this guy I-” Love? “-like, but he is in love with someone else. There. Satisfied?”

There are a lot of things going through Eddie Munson's mind right now. First, you are not what he expected; of course, Dustin always made you seem nice when he talked about you, but he's your brother, so Eddie tended to take his opinions of you with a grain of salt — especially because he knew you had your fair share of admirers and you were far from being an outcast like him.

But now, seeing you up close, the smell of freshly made pancakes in the air, and hearing you confess to what is probably a big secret, he understands.

Honestly, he is glad to have something to occupy his mind with other than monsters and murder.

“Uh...would this someone happen to be his ex-girlfriend?” he asks, his curious nature once again getting the better of him.

You’re halfway through flipping a pancake over, the last one, and it almost falls to the floor as his words sink in.

“Sorry...I pay attention.”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, placing the pancakes on the table and taking the seat opposite him. “I guess it’s obvious.”

“Have you told him?”

You scoff. “No. Why would I?”

Eddie happily takes another pancake. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because. He is clearly into her and she is clearly into him...basic math there.”

Eddie smirks — he has a nice smile, you think, like sitting under the sunlight on a cold day; easy, comfortable. “You know, Henderson once told me his older sister wasn’t afraid of anything...does he have any other siblings I don’t know about?”

“Very funny,” you mock, letting out a forced laugh to further prove your point. “I’m not afraid of telling him. I just think it’ll get me nowhere.”

Eddie is going for a third pancake, seemingly very pleased with himself. “If you say so, Y/N.”

You are definitely afraid of telling Steve.

Eddie opens his mouth, and you think he's going to say more about your little crush on Steve, but then he stops; for a second you feel relieved, but Eddie freezes, trying to listen better, putting down the pancake he was about to take a bite of.

Something is wrong.

“Did you hear that?” he murmurs, color slowly draining from his face.

That's when you hear it— a car door closing, voices, loud angry voices, and then… footsteps. Eddie is faster than you. He reaches across the table to grab your hand and crouches down, bringing you with him, trying to keep you both out of sight of the kitchen window. A look outside confirms what you feared: it's not the police, but just as bad (or maybe worse): is Chrissy's boyfriend, Jason. And he's coming straight to the front door.

“Eddie-”

Placing a finger over his mouth, Eddie signals for you to follow him — although his fingers are still firmly closed over your hand, so there’s little you could do but follow behind him.

You get to the back door at the same time you hear the front door opening. Eddie points to the boathouse, all focused on the best route to get away; you nod. Then, you run — silently.

When the door is safely — and silently — closed behind you both, Eddie lets go of your hand to grab a hold of the walkie-talkie, hands shaking.

“Dustin?” he pleads, wide eyes reflecting your own as you wait. No answer. “Dustin...please. Are you there?”

Through the small window of the boathouse, you can see movement inside the main house. Jason and the others must be searching it right now, looking for any leads to get Eddie. You've never exchanged a single word with Jason, but you know the chances of him having any sympathy for you are slim; Dustin is part of Hellfire Club, and now you’re hiding Eddie — well, more like hiding with Eddie, but still. Trying to talk to him would be simply stupid.

“Let me try,” you snatch the walkie-talkie from Eddie, who only shrugs, moving away to look around for something you could use. “Dustin, c’mon. We kinda need help over here.”

It’s funny — he is always with the damn thing on his hand when you don’t actually need him to be.

“Hey.”

Eddie is holding the tarp that covered the little — and no doubt old — boat, the same in which he was hiding when you found him the first time, broken bottle in hand and all. He extends his hand to you. “C’mon.”

You stare at him. Then at the boat. Then at his hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope.” He gestures towards the boat dramatically. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”

He may jest, but beneath all that, there’s the desperation, the tension, the eagerness to get away. Not that you’re not feeling those yourself.

“Also,” he adds, as if reading your mind, “please hurry.”

“I’m not a fan of boats.”

He takes a step closer to you, hand still outstretched. “I’m not a fan of getting killed by high school athletes.”

Well...fair enough, you think. And take his hand.

–

In spite of all the ways you thought your night could end, this one slipped your mind.

It's dark and cold, and you and Eddie are walking to seemingly nowhere after witnessing what is probably the worst scene of your lives — well, it sure does make it to the top three for you, at least.

You let Eddie walk ahead, hurried steps but soft gaze every time he turns around to make sure you're following. The entire path you are walking looks the same to you, but he seems to know what he's doing. You don't protest.

What was his name again? You think, trying to keep the grotesque image of the last few minutes of that boy's life out of your mind, and failing miserably. Patrick, Jason had called him. Desperately, as every bone in his body began twisting and breaking...

A hand on your shoulder startles you, and you look up to meet Eddie’s concerned gaze, only then noticing you had stopped walking. “You okay?”

That’s what Eddie saw the night Chrissy died?

“Yeah.” No.

Eddie drops his hand, nodding. “Let’s stay here for a minute. I don’t think they are still following us.”

He sits down, leaning against a big, old-looking tree nearby, slowly patting the ground beside him. The moonlight is the only thing available to guide your movements as you sit down, hugging yourself, mind anywhere but there with him. You’re both still damp from the little dive you had to pull when Vecna made another victim, and you rub your own arms to fight the cold creeping up your skin.

Eddie stares down at you, feeling anxious, worried, and guilty all at the same time.

He’s not oblivious to the way you reacted when the boat shook and you fell down to the water. You look like you’ve just been through hell, wet hair sticking to your neck and hands shaking as you hug your knees to your chest. But what really makes Eddie worry is the look on your face; staring but simply not seeing...a look he knows well.

You feel more than you register it happening; a heavy — still very damp, but kind of warm — thing being gently placed over your shoulders. Eddie’s jacket.

He gives you a nonchalant wink when you look up at him.

–

Eddie didn’t mean to leave you behind. Not even for a minute. But, once he heard voices nearby, he knew the right thing to do was investigate. You two couldn’t keep sitting there in the forest forever; he needed to find a way to contact Dustin.

And so he did.

But, he had to leave you behind in the process. You had eventually fallen asleep, head against the trunk of the tree...and he just couldn’t bring himself to wake you up. What is the worse it could happen?

Just a minute.

When he gets back — fist closed safely around a newfound walkie-talkie he proudly and subtly stole, ready to use it — you’re not fucking sleeping where he left you.

He freaks out.

There is a sane part of his mind that says, maybe she just went home. Maybe she found her way out of the woods and left you here. It’s not like she is a police fugitive; it was dark yesterday, maybe Jason and his idiots didn’t recognize her?

He keeps calling your name anyway.

“HENDERSON, I SWEAR TO GOD-”

Eddie hears rustling...and then a small hand is somehow placed over his mouth. “Jesus fucking Christ, Munson. Yell a little bit louder. I don’t think they heard you all the way from California.”

He blankly stares at you, bewildered a curse word just left your mouth. You’re now wearing his jacket properly, arms through the sleeves, he notices. You drop your hand.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

“Where did you go?”

He lifts his arm, showing you the walkie-talkie. “To get this little guy.”

Finally, good news.

“You wanna do the honors?” Eddie is quick to tune in to the correct channel.

“No, thanks.”

He wastes no time. “Dustin, can you hear me? Wheeler?”

Not even a second later, you hear your brother’s voice through the radio, voice frantic, words slurred.

“Eddie, holy shit, are you okay? Is Y/N with you? She said she would bring you food yesterday and-”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

“Is she okay? What happened?” a voice frantically asks from the other side, but that’s not your brother’s voice.

It’s Steve’s. Eddie notices too.

You cross your arms. He gives you a meaningful look. “She is okay, man, do you wanna-”

You shake your head emphatically, sure he's going to ask if they'd like to speak with you. Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t insist. Girls. So complicated.

“I mean, she’s uh, she is sleeping now,” he says, shrugging at your unreadable expression. “But perfectly fine, I assure you.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief from the other side before Dustin’s voice speaks again. “Where are you?”

After directions are given and goodbyes are said, you and Eddie are once again left with no other thing to do than wait, and so you sit back down, hands running through your now almost completely dry hair. It’s not long before you hear rustling behind you, and turning around, you’re faced with none other than Steve Harrington himself, half walking, half running down the hill as he spots you.

“Y/N,” he says, relief clear in his features, gaze finding yours.

“Hi,” you utter, breath caught in your throat.

Somewhere in your mind, you register that the others are following behind him, beginning to come into view. Dustin first, then Robin and Nancy, Max and Lucas...the whole gang. But that information barely has time to sink in, because Steve steps forward and wraps his arms around you like it’s nobody’s business, so fast and firmly that you stumble back one step.

What the-

You want to say something, anything, but you feel like your brain is short-circuiting now, body suddenly stiff, lips parting to say words you’re not able to get out.

“We thought one of you had died,” Robin explains, catching your gaze from behind Steve’s shoulder. “Vecna made another victim.”

He pulls back, keeping you at arm’s length, eyes scanning over your face with intent. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

Then, his eyes fall over what you’re wearing — Eddie’s jacket.

“No, no, I’m okay.”

Steve may try to hide the frown that threatens to appear over his features, but Eddie himself is the first one to catch on to the puzzled look in his eyes; he could almost see the kinds of thoughts running inside his mind.

There, Eddie thinks, as Dustin is letting go of him to hug his sister next.

taglist: @sweet--em

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zoeykallus · 1 year

Note

Hello 😇 i have never made a request before and i don't know if you take them currently but if you do, could you make a one shot, headcanons - whatever you feel like fits more! of gender neutral reader sewing Wrecker's Lula after it got ripped? There's so few cool Wrecker fics/hcs 😢 but anyways hope you have a great day!

Aloha!

Ah, yes, I think I have an idea for this scenario 😊

Wrecker x GN Reader One-Shot - Tough Love

Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

_______________

Crosshair is minding his own business, as usual, rather quiet and withdrawn, and as almost always, Wrecker tries to draw him out. Pushing Lula in his face over and over again, Wrecker says, "Come on, Cross, can you stop cleaning that rifle for a minute?!"

"Get that thing out of my face!" snarls the Sniper, trying to dodge.

Wrecker doesn't back down, though, and continues to shove Lula in his face over and over again. You look up from your reading material, and see it coming before it happens. Crosshair grabs Lula at the same moment Wrecker pulls her back. With a ripping sound, Lula's arm almost completely detaches from the doll's body and the white filling spills out.

Both men are startled and more or less surprised at first. But when Wrecker looks from the battered Lula to Crosshair's face, the sniper has already put on his grumpy expression again.

He growls, "I told you not to do that! This is what you get!"

Wrecker looks so crestfallen that your heart grows heavy at the sight.

"Not cool", Wrecker grumbles meekly and retreats to his bunk with the destroyed Lula.

Crosshair sighs and says, "I warned you."

Wrecker curls up in his bunk, not responding to anyone who speaks to him, the broken Lula in his arms.

Later that night, when everyone is asleep, you sneak up on Wrecker, you are about to gently pull Lula out of his arms when you feel the barrel of a blaster at your temple.

You glance out of the corner of your eye at Crosshair, who is holding the gun to your head.

Your heart is pounding, but you say quietly so as not to wake the others, "Crosshair, I know we haven't known each other too long, but is that really how you think of me? That I would sneak up on you and your brothers at night to harm you in some way?"

The sniper hesitates. Finally, with a sigh, he slowly puts the blaster away and watches you carefully take Lula. He watches you with his brows drawn together critically and follows you to your bunk.

You whisper to him, "For often being so mean to your brothers, you're pretty protective over them."

Crosshair rolls his eyes and says just as quietly, "One doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the other."

You shrug your shoulders and say, "I was just making an observation."

You dig out your sewing kit, pick out a matching needle and thread, and get to work fixing Lula. Crosshair's brows move up in surprise, his expression softening. He watches you fix Lula. When you're done, she's as good as new. You hold the doll up with a smile, and you could swear you see a small smirk on his thin lips.

"That's very decent of you," he says softly.

You nod slowly and press it into his hand.

"Here's your chance to apologize to your brother".

Crosshair sighs, rolls his eyes, takes the doll and instead, carefully, stealthily places it back into Wrecker's arms. You shake your head, more or less amused, the Sniper may not apologize, but he very carefully covers his brother after putting Lula back in her place.

The next morning, as you open your eyes, you almost let out a startled scream. Wrecker's face hovers directly over you, something you didn't expect. He grins at you.

"Thank you," he says, touched, and holds up Lula.

Smiling, you ask, "How would you know it was me?"

Wrecker laughs softly and says, "I've seen you sew things before. Besides, neither of us can sew that well, not even Tech. The stitching is way too perfect."

You smirk, "Okay, you got me".

"Thank you" he says again, "That means a lot to me. Lula is not just a toy. She is a reminder that even we were children once, though not for long. No matter what happens on the battlefield, she always reminds me that there is still a human being in each of us, maybe even some innocence left."

Surprised, you look at the giant. The words surprise you, but they make a surprising amount of sense.

"I think I understand," you say softly.

Wrecker gently presses a kiss to the top of your head and says, "I won't forget this."

As he is about to leave, you say, "Wrecker, wait."

He turns and looks at you questioningly.

You say softly, "Crosshair loves you, he was annoyed, but he didn't hurt you on purpose by damaging Lula."

Wrecker smirks, "I know. Crosshair is difficult, but he is my brother. His love is tough sometimes, but it is love nonetheless"

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

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@darkangel4121

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@padawancat97

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@palliateclaw

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@jediknightjana

@pb-jellybeans

@starwarsnerd111

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #clone force 99 #sw tbb #crosshair #wrecker #wrecker fluff #wrecker x reader #bad batch wrecker #tbb wrecker #clone trooper wrecker #wrecker tbb #bad batch #star wars tbb #wrecker bad batch #clonelove #tbb x gn reader

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tatsumessy · 1 year

Note

HELLOO HOW ARE YOUU I hope youre open with requests, im obsessed with your writing, could you please do the bllk boys(with sae preferably) finding their s/o in the kitchen baking for them, it was a huge mess (i mean like batter all over the counter, dishes everywhere, ingredients that was spilled) so he tries to help s/o but they refused and when he finally tastes it, it was suprisingly delicous.

Ive been thinking about this for a while now bc i often bake messy id love to see their reaction TvT

THANK YOUU LOVE U SM <3

a/n: I’m doing so great my love 💕 I’m so glad you like my writing, I know I can be self conscious sometimes soooo thank you ☺️

ft: sae itoshi::rin itoshi

if you have any request for just ask, I don’t bite I promise 🤭

sae itoshi

you and sae had been dating for a few years and he’s always treated you like a princess. thankfully his birthday was tomorrow and you wanted to bake some brownies for him. now your oldest sister got the cooking and baking genes but that didn’t mean you didn’t know anything. while sae was taking a shower you were in the kitchen mixing everything together, when you dipped your finger in to taste it, it was lacking flavor. A LOT OF FLAVOR. spitting out the batter in the sink you grabbed your trash bag and threw it away. rolling your eyes you looked at you phone staring at the recipe your sister sent you for the sixth time.

“whatcha doing kitten?” sae asked wrapping his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss on your neck. he glanced down at your phone seeing the recipes then finally took notice to the mess around the kitchen. broken egg shells, flour all over the counter tops, oil on the ground. the kitchen looked like a pigsty but the only thing he was worried about was why you were so upset. “I’m trying to make you some brownies but they just aren’t coming out right.” you whined setting the phone back down in it’s former position. “why?” he asked moving from behind you to grab the bag of flour, sugar, eggs and every other ingredient. “it’s your birthday tomorrow, I just wanted to do something special for you.” his frown disappeared and he stepped away from you and grabbed the bowl full of old batter and cleaned it out along with the other dishes you used.

“what are you doing?” you asked watching him finish with cleaning, “since this is so important to you then I’ll help you with it.” you immediately stopped him and forced him to go do something else while you redid the brownies one last time, if this came out horrible then you’d just give up. once you finished with the brownies you took them out the oven and cut them into squares. sae was sitting on the sofa watching a soccer game when you appeared right next to him with one brownie on a napkin. “here, try it.” he glanced down at the brownie then back up at me, “no.” he resumes the game, you grab the remote and turn the tv off shoving the brownie back in his face.

“please…” he sighed grabbed the napkin quickly taking a bite out of the brownie. sitting there anxious he took another bite and in that second you could see a light blush on his cheeks. “it’s good sweetheart.”

rin itoshi

“why the hell are you destroying our kitchen?” rin spoke walking into the kitchen, and setting his bag on the ground and picking up a batter soaked napkin. “I was trying to make you a cake, and it didn’t turn out the way it’s supposed to look on the box.” you quickly responded accidentally wiping flour in your cheeks. rin unzipped his jacket and threw it on the couch while bunching up his sleeves. “what kind of cake?” he looked at the table then back at you waiting for your response. “Strawberry, your favorite.” rin’s cheeks started to heat up and he turned away covering his face and mumbling curses. “let me help you, you know baking is not your strong suit.” “you are an ass rin. we’ll see if I make you anything else, ass.” you responded throwing down the paper towel and starting to walk out the kitchen, but rin’s grip on your waist stopped you. “okay I’m sorry y/n. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. just forget about the cake.” you shook your head in agreement and the both of you left the kitchen to spend time with each other.

once rin was fast asleep you quietly got out of the bed to try the recipe once again. granted you messed up three more times but by the time rin woke up in the morning for workouts you just finished decorating the cake. “y/n what the hell. I thought we agree to forget the whole ca-” you shut him up by stuffing a small piece in his mouth. staring at him, you watched him chew and swallow then grab a cup of water to clear his throat. “so? do you like it rin?” he set the cup down then placed both his hands on your cheeks and pulled you in for a kiss, you could taste the remaining cake crumbs in his mouth.

“I love it.” he said pecking your cheek then bidding you goodbye before he left to go workout.

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howlingday · 5 months

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The Shattered God

Long ago, in a time now forgotten by even the oldest in Remnant, there were more than The Brothers. Together, the two ruling gods created other, lesser gods to watch over their world. True, the Brothers are powerful beyond measure, but they are not all-knowing, and thus created these lesser beings to watch and protect Remnant.

One of these gods that survived through oral tradition includes The God of Animals, who is said to be responsible for the creation of the Faunus. Using their power, The Brothers crafted a being that could communicate and tend to their garden of great beasts. However, what became of this god on the departure of the elder two is not known.

There were many others, but so few remembered as well as The Brothers. However, there is one god who was not only created, but was splintered by them. Upon their leave, they broke asunder the moon itself. Some stories claim it was an act of haste on the part of The Brothers, and there are some that claim the moon tried to stop their beloved creator, only to be broken by their disregard in more ways than one. One tale claims that when the moon is made whole that The Brothers will return to apologize to their children, beginning first with the moon.

---------------------------------------------

"Daaaaad," whined Saphron Arc, "why do I have to stay home tonight?"

"Because you are grounded." Nicholas Arc answered from his seat, looking to his scrolls for both review, and to avoid looking his daughter in the eye. "We've been over this Saphron."

"But Dad, all the girls at school are gonna be at this movie!" Said movie, The Scarlet Text, would be the romance to end all romances. Or, at least, that's what everyone at school, in the news, and was breathing kept saying. "I don't wanna be left out!"

"Well," Nicholas spared her a glance, "you should have thought of that before putting gum in your sisters hair." He furrowed his brow. "Sisters hairs?" He shook his head. "Vi and Indy's hair...s."

"This is the worst!" She folded her arms, pouting as she looked away.

"Tell that to your mother after she's done fixing their-" He stopped. Something in his heart pulsed. He looked outside to the rainstorm that battered incessantly on his windows. He blinked and his heart pulsed again, and he then knew for certain. He shut his scrolls and ran threw on his raincoat over his robes.

"Dad?" He turned to see his grounded daughter staring up at him, worry plain in her eyes. He twisted his mouth a few times.

"Stay inside with your mother, Saphron."

"But Da-"

"Stay! In! Side!" Nicholas stabbed each word into the air towards his daughter. He didn't wait for her to start arguing. Not when something this important was happening.

Nicholas left the house and ran through the pouring rain towards the shrine. For years, the pale white stone within had remained dormant, even when he was only a boy, and his father had been charged with protecting the shrine. For generations, it had been the patriarch's duty to protect the sacred stone from any harm. As he flung open the doors, he could feel it pulsing from inside. He watched in horror as the stone began to shift and shape itself like wet clay.

"Nicholas!" He spun to find his wife in the doorway of their home, calling to him over the storm winds. "Nicholas, what's going on?!"

"Stay in the house, Bella!" He called back to her. Turning away, he once again returned his attention to the pulsing stone. His wife never understood his task, though she accepted it as a sort of spiritualism he practiced. Once a week, he would tend to the shrine, and once a week it had been, even when it was his wedding day. But such nostalgia did little to help him now.

If only his father was still alive. If only he had a son old enough to help him, or even a son at all! Someone who could help him understand what was going on. Nothing in his teachings could prepare him for this moment!

A sudden splattering of mud from behind interrupted his thoughts.

"Dad!" Saphron shouted at her father over the howling winds. "What are you doing?!"

Nicholas then roared in anger. "I told you to stay insi-!"

The stone pulsed once more, this time with boom that knocked the father and his daughter to the ground. Before either of them could react, the stone reached for Saphron, a spreading with a splat against her chest. She screamed as it throbbed against her.

"No!" Roared Nicholas. "Get off of her!"

He struggled in vain as it continued to shift and undulate, even under his fingers. A thousand and one scenarios ran through his head, and none of them were good. Had the stone been an egg or a dormant biological lifeform, a parasite that now required a human host to survive? Should he strike it and risk harming his daughter? Nothing prepared him for such an eventuality!

Finally, the stone settled against Saphron's chest, growing down to her belly. It expanded like bread in an oven, then began dividing itself. It took a shape like a human child, with blond hair that began sprouting from it's pale skin, which then became darker until it matched the girl beneath it. When it was done shaping itself, the sight shocked both father and daughter.

It was a boy. A blond-haired boy with eyes that opened to reveal blue. He stared up at the father, then shut his eyes and rested his head against the chest of the daughter. His chest, bare as much as the rest of him, rose and fell as though he were breathing.

"Nicholas!" The man turned to find his wife running out, holding an umbrella. "Nicholas, what is going on? Who is that boy on top of Saph?"

Nicholas swallowed hard. What should he say? What could he say? She understood that the shrine was an important part of his family history, but he never went too deep into the details. Now he was to explain that the shrine held a rock that turned into this... this... this boy?

Suddenly, the rain stopped, and the cloud parted overhead. Looking up, he saw the moon, nearly whole, shining on the family. Looking down, he saw the boy reaching to the sky, his head still on Saphron's chest. Nicholas looked down and he found the words.

"This... This is our son."

#rwby #rwby au #son of the moon au #saphron arc #saphron cotta arc #papa arc #mama arc #jaune arc

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xxguardiantreexx · 7 months

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!!SPOILERS FOR OMFD S2 FINALE!!

I want to talk about the finale of OFMD, and specifically about why exactly Izzy's death makes me feel so despondent.

So I usually try to stay out of discourse, especially when it has a fandom as divided as this one seems to be now. And I sincerely don't want this to be taken as me being JUST ticked off or anything. But I feel like Izzy's death, while upsetting on it's own, speaks to a larger problem this season struggled with.

Season one, to me, was a gem. My mom's the one who discovered it and told me to watch it, we ended up watching it together and I was hooked (no pun intended) and flat out thrilled to be watching a show that so lovingly showcased positive queer rep and had a tight, hilarious, and touching storyline front to back. I was a wreck (why all the accidental puns today??) when it was over and couldn't wait for season two.

And season two WAS good! It was funny, I loved Buttons arc and Calypso's birthday and all the other great moments this season had. But to me, the biggest problem is that the pacing was really rushed and the writing too convoluted and crammed full of plot points that didn't fit together in the time allotted.

I've seen people on Twitter saying that the episodes never gave the story room to breathe, to let the audience finish reacting to One Thing before moving on to The Next Thing. They introduced new characters, villains, big monumental moments, and I never once felt like I had time to take any of it in with the love and appreciation I would have liked to because things just kept happening.

I don't know if this was a product of the writing itself being flawed on it's own, or HBO not giving OFMD the amount of episodes it deserves, or both. And just to be clear, I do not condone or agree with anyone harassing the creators for answers, or telling them they're dicks or whatever, because that's wrong.

But in my opinion, this season just didn't work. Season one did a great job of balancing it's episodic shenanigans with it's ongoing storyline, and while nothing is perfect, it was very well written and paced.

And that is why I have a big problem with how they handled the death of Izzy Hands being the completion of his character arc.

Here we have a very repressed, battered and broken man RELUCTANTLY coming back from the brink of death, struggling with his handicaps, damaged relationships and purposelessness on The Revenge. And we slowly see him begin to rebuild himself from the ground up. He creates meaningful emotional bonds with the crew he outright hated throughout all of season one, finds a place for his years of experience again when teaching Stede how to be a real pirate, and comes to terms with his relationship with Ed, and Ed's relationship with Stede. He makes peace with all of it and lets the love of the crew, of family, drive him forward for what little time he has left, because he was always on borrowed time by this point.

Ending a character arc with having said character die sucks, because it hurts when it's a character you care deeply about. But it can work, and it HAS worked. That's why writers keep torturing us by doing it.

The problem for me comes back to pacing.

It's the fact Izzy died by a random gunshot wound because he was standing in the wrong place. It's the fact Izzy died for what reads very much as a way to progress Ed's character arc, not end his own. It's the fact Izzy died and the reaction of the rest of the crew was shown so minimally, with nary a word said about it in the aftermath. It's the fact Izzy died and we were immediately swept off into the wedding scene and the introduction of the inn, without giving us, the audience, a quiet moment to grieve as well.

I'm not saying he necessarily needed a bombastic death scene, or for the season to end on an exceedingly somber note. But I feel like Izzy, for all he'd done this season and the growth his character attained, more than deserved a heroes death and clearer acknowledgement by his family. Not to give Ed, who's just kind of existed this season to me, a pep talk with his dying breath and for everyone to just move on immediately.

If there had been time given for this story to breathe, as much as it would have saddened me, I think this could have worked. I think Izzy could have died and it would have had more meaning, the meaning I'm sure they'd hoped it would when they decided to kill him off.

But it didn't work. Not to me at least, and I'm sad about it. A lot of us are sad about it, and will continue to be. Because we still need time to grieve before we can move on. I know it's just a show, and he's just a character in it, but it's a show that's meant so much to so many people, made us feel seen and accepted in a world where that's harder to come by than it should be. And to see a character so beloved get treated as a plot device to an extent at the end of his journey... I would have just loved better for him.

R.I.P. our brash, loud, exceptional unicorn, Izzy Hands.

#our flag means death #ofmd #izzy hands #israel hands

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barbara-herself · 2 months

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Womanhood in the twenty-first century in a predominantly Western culture has been a confusing experience to me so far. Having grown up in Eastern Europe, I have soaked in the habit of contradictions to my bones.

I know not to speak when not spoken to, but my mother taught me to fight the patriarchy. People around me said that girls don't swear and girls don't smoke and girls don't drink or do drugs, so I did all those things just to prove them wrong. They have said that I should not live with a man I'm not going to marry, so I also did that for a while. My teachers told me that girls shouldn't kiss girls, naturally I did that as well. I was taught I am fragile and emotional, but in my core I always knew I must be strong and better than everyone else to prove them all wrong.

People of my generation on the Internet send the message that I should be skinny or not skinny and healthy and have a journey that I share online with pretty pictures and high-resolution videos. I should be active and go to the gym and also read all these books on mental health and definitely see a therapist, but not that one, and also do yoga and mindfullness meditation and travel to new places and talk to friends and also be a career girlboss. I should be proud of my hairy legs and try microdosing LSD, I must be a vegan because otherwise I want the Earth to burst in epic flames, I must be a saviour to everyone, an empath and a strong voice. I must be all these things, but above all, I must be myself.

Don't get me wrong - I am definitely so happy about the fact that we are getting healthier and are taking better care of ourselves and our planet. I hope that one day we get to wake up to the news of Earth's temperatures not being record high that year and we come up with an energy-efficient way to remove carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and also use ecologically friendly packaging for everything. Nonetheless, finding my voice and understanding what I truly want has been incredibly hard for me in all the background noise.

Sometimes, I just think about how nice it would be if I could just tune it all out. Remove myself quietly from the party - no one will even notice, I'm a nobody, no one invited me here - and just breathe. How nice it would have been not to have a childhood spent on social media, constantly informed of Once in a Lifetime Cataclysms. How great it must be to hear your heart speak to you and then do the things it wants you to.

My heart's been battered and broken and it feels like trucks drove through it quite violently. Its voice is weak and breathy, but persistent. It tells me to create art, however I can, whatever it takes. I have no idea how Do I Do Art realistically without starving or being a burden to everyone around me. I'm not even that good. How do I be all those things I must be + be an artist + earn a living + have a social life and eat homecooked meals?

It's April, and I have shedded my old skin. One day, I'll be wise to know what to do after.

#writers on tumblr #writing #spilled words #words #spilled thoughts #writers and poets #writeblr #feminism #female writers #modern femininity #art #artists on tumblr

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chronic-ghost · 10 months

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Chapter 7 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11046

chapter summary: this is how the spiral ends.

chapter warnings/tags: physical abuse, depictions of overdose, dark themes, angst – lots and lots of angst, crying, hospitals

a/n: the song accompanying this fic is Foreigners God by Hozier. I had to physically restrain myself from using the lyrics as title because everything about that song fits so perfectly with this chapter. (title from x)

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Wondering who I copy

Mustering some tender charm

She feels no control of her body

She feels no safety in my arms

I've no language left to say it

But all I do is quake to her

Breaking if I try convey it

The broken love I make to her

- Foreigner’s God, Hozier

The desert does storms differently.

Los Angeles, while hardly considered a desert, is occasionally touched by the fringes of a powerful storm. Bloated, purple clouds. Lightning so full of heat that is almost palpable as it sparks across the sky. Rain in fat globs that splatter and spray. Grumbles of thunder so deep and loud, they’re almost animalistic. Sometimes it rains like the world is in mourning, in deep-seated grief. It’s a comfort, though, in the same way sad movies are cathartic – an expression of pain in a way that is so often hard to conceptualize. There’s a relief in it too.

Outside the hotel window, thunder growls, curling low like a jungle cat, as lightning cracks, warding off the onset darkness for just a moment. It’s been raining for hours, water flooding potholes on the streets below, gushing from drain pipes. This early in the morning, the few cars out that swim through the gloom have their lights on bright, trying hopelessly to cut back the encroaching deluge. People are nothing more than wet shadows.

The weather is throwing a fucking fit.

Thunder batters against the hotel windows again, groaning so loud he almost misses it. Almost misses that soft, quiet, little “fuck” that escapes your mouth. But he’s too close, too deep inside you, nose to nose, his elbows in the mattress by your head – he catches every movement your face makes. Every twitch of your lips, every stretch of your jaw. Every sigh. Every wail.

The pitch black room, save for the occasional flash of lightning, smells like sex. And it should. You’ve been at it for hours.

The skin on his back smarts where your nails dig into him, but that doesn’t get him to speed up or change his pace. Steady, slow, making you feel every inch that he stuffs up inside you. He kisses the curve of your sweaty neck as his hips roll as deep as the thunder outside.

“Oh, oh my god – Dieter–,”

He nuzzles your neck, nose tickling the back of your ear, sweat rolling from the back of his neck, over his shoulder, and onto your chest.

“Take it, baby, just take it. Let me have all of you,” he murmurs into your ear. Gently, he reaches under the covers at his back and pulls your leg up to his hip, maintaining that slow, tortuous pace. You breathe in on a high whine, the sound knotting his gut with pleasure. You shove your head back into the pillow, your face flushed, eyes wet as if trying to escape from feelings he inspires in you. You bite your lip and moan.

He’s been dragging it out too long. The both of you are on a fine, miniscule edge, neither wanting it to end, neither wanting to be separated from the other, but the tension is too profound, too great to hold onto much longer. He knows his knees won’t work for hours after this. His hips are going to be totally shot. He doesn’t fucking care.

You breathe in sharply and your cunt contracts around him once and he thinks he blacks out for a second, hips stuttering to a halt. That almost-painful flare of heat he felt must be visible on his face because you gasp, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob. There are tears in your eyes, but you don’t ask for it. You take it just like he wants.

“Sorry, baby, sorry–,” you whisper, your hand sliding to his cheek, then his mouth, your thumb against his lips. But he shakes his head, eyes shut against the overwhelming sense of submission, sliding back into his agonizing pace, and he presses his lips to the pad of your finger, lets your hand ease up into his hair.

“Don’t – don’t a-apologize. You just feel so fucking g-good.”

He says this but wants to say other things. He speaks to distract himself from the fact that his denied orgasm has sharp shocks sparking up his spine.

He clumsily kisses your cheek.

“Thank you, b-baby, thank you for letting me do this. For letting me fill you up. For taking me, as I a-am,” he stutters, his tongue too thick for his mouth. He really should just shut up and come, but when he opens his eyes, the look you give him – your eyes black and round from the Ecstasy – it pulls on the tendons at the back of his chest. Like the strings of a guitar – strum his heart and he’ll sing.

He had begged you to let him fuck you slow, like he did in New Orleans. They only had a few hours before the comedown hit and he wanted to spend those hours savoring you. Licking his fingers of your sweetness, carving away old memories to make room for the ones of you naked and trembling, steaming images of you to the inside of his brain with a sweating iron. With a stripped-bare willpower, he holds himself back because he thinks the longer you’re beneath him, the more of you he can take.

But this last one, this one he can feel pulsate in the cup of his skull, it’s too big. It’s too much to suppress any longer. He grits his teeth, and tries not to languish in the warmth of your thighs.

“Are you close?”

You nod, a single tear breaking loose and running from the corner of your eye to the sheets below you. “Y-yeah. I’m so close, Dee.”

He adjusts on his already shaking knees, pulling back and giving enough space between your bodies so he can reach down to touch you at the apex of your legs, but you frantically shake your head, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head harder.

“No, n-not like that.” You put his hand back by your head, then pull him towards you with your legs, forcing him onto his elbows again. You dig your heel into his low back. “L-like this. Just a bit faster, honey.”

Feeling swells so much and so fast in his chest as he watches you encourage him, tell him exactly what you want, and what you want is him – he feels like he can’t inhale.

There are things he wants to say to you, but they’re clogged up somewhere between his gut and his tongue. He nods instead, planting one hand flat against the mattress, his head tucking into the curve of your neck. He goes faster, just a bit, like you asked. Under the patter of rain, the bed squeaks, metal screws and cheap wood rocking together. The wet clutch of your cunt is making him dizzy.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna– I’m gonna –,”

He angles his hips like he knows you need, his pelvis against your clit, and you cry out, hands latching around the back of his neck, knees up by his shoulders. You wail and it breaks him wide open. He comes, deep inside you, gooey, pearly cum mixing with your release, your cunt so tight, he feels it all ooze back down his cock. He shudders at the sensation, his cock twitching almost painfully. His brain feels like the last bit of film flapping in the gears of a projector – thin, empty, overused. White noise.

Beneath him, he feels you sobbing, gasping against his throat. He uses his shaking arms to pull back, just so he can look at you, so he can kiss back your tears. That was intense and he wants you to know he’s here for you.

“Baby, you’re crying.”

Your gentle thumbs catch wet salt on his cheeks and he blinks, suddenly aware of the cold streaks his tears left behind. He shakes as he wipes his own face.

“Fuck.” The word out of his mouth is watery, thick, and you smile up at him, your own grin wet and overjoyed. “I didn’t even realize . . .” You finally laugh and he can’t resist kissing you. Your tears mix with his as you press your cheek to his.

This is the thing inside of him being quiet, being eased, coaxed down and put to rest. The want for you, it’s indescribable. He has you but he doesn’t. It’s not enough. The only time this black mass of desire inside him releases its pull is when he’s coming inside you. When his split soul in your body reunites momentarily with his. When he makes you his. Over and over and over again.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Outside, lightning flashes and you glow beneath him for just a second. This body is familiar because it’s his.

You make me happy, he thinks, so happy.

It has nothing to do with the drugs coursing through his blood, that sits in his cum drying on your thighs, on the mattress.

It’s been two weeks since the last round of press junkets and tours, one week before the Oscars. Chloe, of course, did not come on the rest of the trip, electing to go home before returning to Europe to help her father. At this point, he couldn’t care less. It became easier and easier to stop answering her texts, and ignore her calls. He was already starting his new life with you. After a party in SoCal two nights ago, when he was up to his eyeballs in booze and your tits, he got half-hard thinking about making the phone call to his lawyer to draft up divorce papers. Ecstasy is so much better when you have someone to do it with you.

He wonders if she could see the lie in his eyes when he told her he’d give her an answer when she came back. If the divorce papers will come as a surprise.

In a ring of thunder, he backs out of you, dragging the covers with him, and you shiver, exposed, skin damp in his sweat and your own. Eyes hazy, lips bitten, marks of him everywhere on your skin, you look raw, fucked out. He kisses your collarbone before easing out of the bed to take off the condom.

You’re already half asleep when he comes back to bed.

Sleep is oozing around his bones, making his muscles limp and pliable. He’s seconds away from passing out. He knows you both need to eat, but he can’t lift his eyelids long enough to find his phone. He crawls in bed behind you, the exhaustion a weight more demanding than gravity. He came inside you and all his energy left him. You hum as you curl up next to him. He doesn’t even make it under the blanket.

You say something to him, something that his body reacts to, but his brain doesn’t fully comprehend. Noise, soft, gentle, comforting noise. He wants to hear it, whatever it is you’re saying, but he can feel parts of his mind shutting off, going dark.

Instead, he turns your limp body onto your side, his own molding around you, a warmth he never before experienced expanding from his chest to the rest of his body. His fingers curve around your chest and he thinks he can feel your heartbeat beneath his fingers. It might be his instead.

He noses your hair.

“Never leave me.”

Sleep is a thing he is, not a thing he does. He drifts, untethered in blackness, for hours, maybe days, maybe years. He dreams and remembers and his heartbeat settles somewhere behind his stomach.

When Dieter wakes up, it’s still raining, but the bedside light is on, casting a warm glow over the clothes on the floor, the crushed up powder on the table, the tablets of E by the couch. His come down is making him itchy – he’d love a joint – but he’s more unsettled by his sudden loneliness. Your side of the bed is empty, still warm, and he hears the shower running, sees light from under the door. You’re close by. He settles. Easily, slowly, mindfully of his fucked up hips, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, his thumbnail carving out a line between his eyes.

He wants it to be months from now.

He wants the divorce papers signed. He wants you in his home, all your things there. He wants to trip over your shoes, move your purse from the countertops, smell your shampoo in his shower. He wants his time to become your time, wants to carve out hours of the day just to be with you and no one else. He can feel himself finding excuses to get away from his next gig, the next tour, from the next press circuit, canceling plans for parties and dinners, from everything that doesn’t have you in it. Nothing is as important as you are because nothing makes him feel like you do.

He needs you to come back to bed – he misses you. Thunder rumbles and he follows the noise out the window, his gaze briefly catching on the bedside table where you left your things. He spots the pill bottle and his skin hums. Flexeril. He wants to be under a little bit longer. He pops the cap off, rattles two pills into his hand, and throws it back, his throat pliant and obedient.

Sleep comes for him again. He hallucinates you, either dreaming or awake. A fix – love – whatever. They’re all the same to him.

It’s still raining when he lifts his head, sleep sloughing off him like relaxing overworked muscle, but it’s brighter out, the barrage of rain lessened. He has no idea how much time has passed and looking at the clock won’t help. He hasn’t kept track of time in days. Not since Chloe went away.

He’s suddenly aware of the warmth across his back. Your dainty fingers hang over his shoulder as if you tried to hug him and collapsed in place. Grinning, he rolls over, careful not to wake you, and sneaks his arm under your pillow, his other hand pulling you back against him. You smell like lavender and smoke and, wrapped up in his green t-shirt, a bit like him. He runs his nose the length of your neck to your ear – all mine – and lays down, tries to go back to sleep . . . only to realize what woke him up in the first place.

Buzzing.

Blue light from the bedside table.

Blinking through the headache the sound is giving him, Dieter leaves you and the perfect glow the outside light gives your skin. Sitting up, he blinks several more times at the name at the top of the screen.

Chloe.

And he’s missed four other calls from her, about five minutes apart each. She’s never done that before.

Swallowing and easing his feet to the ground at the edge of the bed, he answers her call.

“Hello?”

“Dieter.” Her voice is wet, water-logged by a salty brine. She’s been crying. He glances over his shoulder at you. Fuck, does she know where he’s been? You stir in your sleep, but don’t wake up. Over the phone, Chloe inhales, hiccuping, and then an explosion of words: “Dieter, something’s happened– I wanted to tell you in person but – and I know you said you’d think about it but–but, Dieter, it’s happened and –,”

His head this fogged from his hangover, from the last vestiges of E and the muscle relaxant still crawling around in his veins, he can’t parse out her words, every vowel and consonant flowing and butting up into the next. He can’t tell if she’s happy or upset.

“–and it’s so much sooner than either of us expected but–,”

“Chloe. Chloe,” he soothes, trying to be quiet and firm at the same time. You move again behind him and he looks at you just as you open your eyes. You smile at him and his heart skips. He turns around, trying to shield you from her. “Slow down. I can’t understand you. What’s going on?”

Silence.

Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below. Your small hand presses against the ridges of his spine.

“Dieter, I’m pregnant.”

Rain lashes the windows behind him. Thunder rocks the foundations of the building. Cars careen through the wet streets below.

Your hand pulls away from him.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.” Her voice is tinny through the speaker. She sounds far away. Everything sounds far away. “You’re going to be a father. Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

The phone falls from his hands to the floor with a clatter. It lands just right and the screen goes dark, the call ended.

His fingers feel spongy, rubbery, unreal. His heart beats up against his chest, but he hears it in his ears, like he’s been running for miles on end.

A baby.

His baby.

His lungs suck in air in short, sharp gasps and when he breathes in deep, he’s immediately hit by a wave of nausea. He fights to keep from hurling right onto the floor.

Go, he has to go – has to – his body is moving, shifting, but his knees give out. Weakly dropping him to the floor against the bed frame. The back of his skull tightens and retightens. With every pulse of his heart beat, he feels it in a different place on his body. His ears. His fingertips. His chest. God, there’s something in there, clawing to get out. It’s choking him.

“Dieter.”

His fingers pull at the invisible bonesaw cracking open his chest. “S-s-shut up. I can’t bre-eathe.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He can’t be a –

– can’t be his father –

Can’t can’t won’t won’t – not like this – not now –

He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want it.

This kid – they’re gonna have his fucked up brain, his fear of living, that oppressive, slimy voice that keeps him pinned to his bed for days on end with all the curtains closed – that weighs him down to the bottom of the fucking ocean –

He’s ruined them before they ever even had a chance. Because they’ll be his, a part of him. An unlucky splinter embedded deep under a caustic burn. It’s not fair.

His fingers dig into his hair and wrench.

“Dieter.”

There’s a hand on his face. It’s soft and gentle and he hates it. It strokes his tears before he turns away and snarls, clawing his way up the mattress, cornering himself against the headboard.

Don’t touch me

Your eyes, gazing up at him from where you kneel on the floor, immediately flood with tears. They crack and overflow. They drip off your face.

“So it’s true, then. What she said. It is yours. Your . . .”

Can’t can’t can’t won’t won’t won’t can’t do it

His nails scratch his scalp, hard. There’s liquid under his cuticles.

“What happens now? What are we going to do?” You beg him, your tiny hands clutching at the sheets around the edge of the mattress. “W-w-we talked about – have you sent her the p-papers – I thought –,”

Maybe that weight in his chest will finally collapse and swallow him whole. Cramping until his very existence is crushed under the gravity of a pole star as it dies. He pulls his knees to his chest, his fingers knotting deeper and deeper into his hair.

“I’m going back.” The words scald his mouth the instant they leave it. They taste like bile, bile that rots inside of him. “I-I have to . . . I have to be there for . . . B-b-but n-not now – not like this – not when I-I’m still –,”

There on the table, there’s a chance he can forget about all of this, just take it away a second longer – but he has to go back to – to her – his ba–

“But you promised.” Your serrated voice snares him and tears his gaze back to you. “Dieter, don’t do this. Please. Let me help you. We can figure out something together. You can’t go back. You don’t love her. There’s nothing –,”

“She’s the mother of my child, Natalie. Of course I have to go back to her.”

He almost misses the gasp from your lips. Almost.

That noise. The inhale, the crunch of air against an unwilling lung. The audible sound of understanding. Of clarity. Of the ground finally setting.

You on one side. And him . . . him out of your orbit.

He sees the flash of your white teeth, the sharpness of bone, before you open your mouth.

“You’d be doing both of them a fucking favor if you never showed up at all.”

He thinks he goes blind in one eye for a moment from the rage that burns up through his rib cage. All that blackness that was inside of him since the day he was born comes rushing, pouring to the surface.

“What?” he snarls, lunging down and snatching you up by the meat of your arms, his fingers digging into your flesh. His teeth snap near your ear. “What do you want me to do, huh?”

“Stop, Dieter, you’re hurting me –,”

There’s a loud, angry man living inside of him, that’s lived inside every room he’s ever been in. The things he did subdued the anger, but not the inevitability. There’s a loud, angry man inside of him, and he doesn’t have the courage to pretend anymore that the voices in his head don’t all sound the same.

He crushes you against chest, your nails clawing at his skin, as he hauls you across the room. Dieter shoves you onto the couch, pulsating with fury. You’re crying again as your fingers curl around the ashtray on the table. Your arm winds back and he jerks away the second before you fling it at him with a scream. The ashtray shatters the lamp, electrical sparks flying, clay shattering, and then —

“I hate you!”

“And I hate myself around you!” He snarls.

He watches the words collide with your very being, your eyes fluttering as though he had slapped you.

“We bring out the fucking worst in each other,” he goes on, like toxic drool spilling out of his mouth. “And you fucking know it.” He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Your mouth drops, lips trembling, skin going white, as though you drank poison from the cup of his hands. “You want me to abandon this kid for the mistake of just being born? You want it to turn out like you?”

Tears again and this time he cannot miss the gasp. The hiccup where air goes down wrong.

It’s all wrong.

“Fuck you, Dieter, GET OUT!”

“This is my hotel room–,”

“Get the fuck out or I’ll call the fucking cops!” You shriek.

Your shoulder knocks into his chest as you shove past him, snatching up his clothes and pitching them into his face. The bed behind you looks like a war zone, covered in shards of glass and clay and wires. A great machine disemboweled.

“Goddamn it –,”

His belt buckle grazes his cheek. You’re trying to draw blood. Your hair wild and mussed from sex and his abuse, cheeks enflamed, you breathe as though you gasp around a collapsed lung.

This was always how it was going to end. He’s come to the end of the spiral.

He thinks you and hurricanes share the same sort of powerful, thunderous beauty. The very sight of you glaring at him with such disgust and violence on your face makes his eyes grow hot.

“You are a fucking coward, Dieter Bravo.” You sniff, wiping something from your chin with the back of your hand. “You’re a coward and a fucking liar . . .” You swallow, vitriol wet in your mouth, in the curve of your shoulders, in the unsteady shake of your hands, “and you’re gonna be a fucking shit dad. You have no idea how to love anyone but yourself.”

You’ve done it. Stripped him down to his bare essentials and this is what you’ve found: a copy of a loud, angry man. A copy, blurred and blackened and smudged beyond recognition. And despite his best efforts, the copies would go on until there was nothing left but hot darkness.

Turning away, you take the sweating champagne bottle from the bucket and, stumbling towards the bathroom, you fall forward and lock the door behind you.

That blank, empty door will haunt his dreams for years to come — he just doesn’t know it yet.

He’s still shaking when he picks up his phone.

“Are you in Los Angeles? No. No – I’m not . . . remember the old laundromat off 1st? You have to meet me there. Now. Hurry . . . please . . . please.”

In the blue darkness curling in the back of the room, metallic drums in their square boxes churn, their heating coils humming as excess heat warms the tile, the cracking plaster on the walls. Not a soul insight, but the machines go on, diligent and indifferent. There are the eternal mountains, the infinite sea, and there are these machines, washing out dirt from clothes and towels and bedsheets, and warming the cold and wet and the damp, forever and ever and ever.

He lets out a shaky exhale. Tapping the gray ash into the empty soda cup between his legs, he takes another sip from the cigarette, his left knee bouncing fixed and tight, as he waits in the half-darkness, his back pressed up against the cool window. In front of him, the washing machines grumble, the only light giving them individual edges coming from the glow in the street behind them. He didn’t even bother turning on the overhead fluorescents when he came in.

The cigarette butt between his fingers joins the other three at the bottom of the cup before he picks up the packet and shakes out another one. The metal zipper of his hoodie feels cold against his bare stomach. His knee won’t stop shaking.

To his left, the double glass doors suddenly open, the cool brush of rain overwhelming the heat of the machines for a moment, and a frantic shadow spills through, its head swiveling in a panicked search.

“Dieter?”

Disbelief. Horror. His chest swells so sharply he thinks he might split open.

Heels clacking on the linoleum, she comes into the light of the window. Her mouth smeared bright red, blonde hair down and smoothed around her ears, she wears a black raincoat over silk red pants and black heels. She looks beautiful.

Except for the way her mouth twists in terrible anguish.

“Oh, shit.” Heidi says, softly. “Dieter, what happened?”

He works his jaw, his eyes hot and tight, he doesn’t even look up at her when he says, “you look nice. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Heidi’s mouth drops open as further bewilderment sinks in. She slowly lowers herself into the seat next to him. The plastic squeaks from the force.

“Honey, do you know what day it is?”

He shrugs, shakes his head.

“Everyone’s been trying to find you for days. The studio’s furious but . . .” she inhales and he knows the sound. It’s the sound doctors make when they tell parents their child has a terminal illness, when parents tell their children they had to put down the family dog, when his father told him he wasn’t welcome in the house any more. “I was on my way to the Oscars. It’s Oscars night, Dieter, and Recovery Road was nominated for best picture.”

The smoke in his mouth sucks out every droplet of moisture. He sees the room spin for a second. “Congratulations. I mean that. You deserve it.”

She inhales again, but it comes through perforated and broken. “Honey, you were nominated. Best Actor. That’s why we were trying to find you.”

He sniffs and drops the still burning cigarette into the cup, his palms rubbing frantically on his thighs, over his jeans, the smoke yanking his guts up into his mouth. He feels the acid burn his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone. I’m sorry you didn’t know where to find me. But . . . fuck, Heidi,” his voice cracks, “it’s gotten so out of control and I don’t know if I can fix it . . . or if I should.”

It’s her soft hand on his back that does it. Like she touched a pressure point that released the festering knot he had become and every sensation within him is pushed to an eleven, everything pushed to the brink, to the very line of sanity, and he breaks.

He leans forward and cries.

The single hand becomes two, then an entire body of warmth as she pulls him into her chest, not worried if he smudges her makeup or wrinkles her blouse. It streams from him, a dam unsealed and imploding under its own weight, and he cries, the wails high and loud and he could scream like this. He sinks to his knees and she goes with him until they’re on the floor, the seat of the chair digging into her back and his arms wrapped around her waist.

“I fucked up, Heidi. I fucked up so bad.” His fingers twist into her coat. “I’m so sorry, s-so, so so-rry . . .”

I fucked up

I am fucked up

I fucked up

I’m so tired of fucking up

She lets him cry out this thing that’s been choking him, grips him tight, holds him down, in the murky darkness of that laundromat, the machines churning and churning and churning in the quiet. He cries longer than he has in recent memory. Maybe in his whole life. Nothing has ever hurt like this because this is the culmination of every other hurt, every other wound. A grief compounded he never had time to mourn.

He cries until it’s all out, until there’s static in his head and his eyes ache and his limbs are heavy. Until, despite the pain, his mouth wet and gummy, he can breathe around the weight.

She waits for the flood to slow, for his breathing to ease, his skin still fire hot. She rubs the back of his neck and he shudders against her chest.

“Dieter.” His own name sounds alien to him. “Honey. Talk to me.”

She hasn’t called him that in half a decade. She uses her own sleeve to dry his cheeks and he turns away, mortified he’d ruin her pretty shirt. Heidi eases him back, resting against the chair. Her hand still holding the back of his neck, he finally looks her in the eyes. He can feel his breastbone bend under the weight of his failure.

But he tells her.

Mouth sticky and eyes dripping, he tells her everything – from the moment he knew you were taking drugs on set, to you showing up dripping and half-naked at his door, to the house in Albuquerque, the unsteady acceptance and balance you somehow agreed to – despite how you both felt, what you both wanted to explore – how heartbroken he was when you slept with someone else, how heartbroken he was when it became clear that Chloe couldn’t wouldn’t understand him because the love she felt for him was never enough to fill in the ache inside of him.

The few moments of unparalleled joy he experienced with you in that cottage in the crescent city.

Joy, fueled and fed and stimulated by drugs.

That was the hardest to admit. That hurt the most.

His hands shook, either from the comedown or the nerves or both. Not a single detail was omitted, a memory misplaced. If he didn’t discuss certain blocks of time, then they were never in his memory to begin with. He wanted it purged from his system, like flushing an infection with saline water. If he didn’t bare his soul now, he never would, would never have another chance to be this honest with her or himself about his many vices, his many addictions. How he thought he loved you so much his heart might burst. How he can’t tell if that love comes from inside him or the strings he uses to stitch himself back together.

What he had done to you in that hotel room. How he treated someone he loves with his whole heart.

“And Chloe, she’s – fuck–,” he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve against his palm, “she called me this morning and told me she’s pregnant.”

Heidi audibly swallows. Swallows down her disgust and horror. She knows what this means to him. Her silence reminds him exactly how fucked he is, how irrevocably changed his life is, and ice-cold, black-dread terror rockets up his spine, squeezing his heart. His stomach claws at itself, empty of anything to destroy. He wants to peel the skin off his fingers.

She wraps her hand around his forearm, pulling his hand into her lap.

“Was that something . . . had you talked about . . .” she stops and starts, plucking at the threads of what she is trying to ask. “Were you trying?”

He shakes his head, eyes itchy from the tears. He paws at his face with his sleeve, huffing. When he speaks, he sounds like he has a cold. “Last time I saw her was at the start of the press tour. She came back, asking if we could fix things, and at that point, Natalie and I had already . . .” he wraps his arms over his chest, willing it all back inside of him. “Chloe asked if I wanted to have a baby with her and that was it. I think any desire to remain her husband just evaporated that day, whether I knew it at the time or not.”

“Wait, I thought you said you were going back? Back to Chloe? If that’s not what you want, then why . . .”

He picks up a piece of that famous Dieter indignance and holds it in his fist.

“I’m not divorcing the woman while she’s pregnant with my child. Besides, if she thinks I can help, or if she needs me . . .” he inhales, unsteady and weak, “if she thinks me being around the kid will make things better and not worse, then . . .” The laundromat goes blurry, the truth of it cracking, splitting, chunks carving up his throat. He exhales and the tears roll down his cheeks. “Then I’m going to do it. I-I-I just don’t want the baby . . . to-to e-end up . . . like . . . me.”

“Oh, Dieter.”

Heidi slides around his back, her head against his shoulder, arms tugging his inward, as if she could take away his sadness, his pain, his shame. They both tremble as sobs wrack his body.

“You wouldn’t make things worse,” she murmurs to his shoulder blades, to the thin sweatshirt damp with sweat. “You wouldn’t, Dee, I promise.”

“But it’s there, it’s in me, Heidi. This capacity to hurt everyone I love.”

“Honey, they wouldn’t love you if you couldn’t hurt them.”

“A baby isn’t going to love me,” he says, softly, to her knuckles around his stomach. “It needs care, support, someone who’s around all the time. And I don’t even know what fucking day it is.”

“But you won’t always be like this.” Hedi squeezes him gently. “I saw the healthy Dieter, the focused one. The one who loves the movies, who loves being an actor. You can be that person.”

“Yeah and all the while wanting to fuck someone who wasn’t my wife.” He tugs on his hair and feels a few strands come loose. Gray, by the light behind him. Great.

“You’re never going to be perfect, Dieter. No one is. Therapy and rehab is not meant to make you perfect, it’s meant to make you healthy.”

She’s not seeing it — why can’t she understand that he’s permanently fucked?

He slides out of her arms, irritated, and curls up by the window, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“I was in rehab for two years and in an instant it crumbled. Everything they tried to teach me.” He rubs his palm in the divet of his nose between his eyes. “It doesn’t work. Not on me.”

“Then why’d you do it, Dieter?” Heidi asks as she stands, her hands on her hip. “Why do you keep going back if you think it’s pointless?”

“Because I want it to work!” He snaps up at her. “I don’t want to be like this forever. I went for Chloe, for you, for Mark, for everyone who–,”

“But not yourself.” She cuts him off and he feels the impact in his chest. With a sigh, she sits down next to him and drops her head against the wall. Heidi is quiet, observing the hunched washing machines, the spinning of the dryers, and a faint smile breaks across her face. “Do you remember that time we met that really cute guy here, what, fifteen years ago? Dark hair, blue eyes, hands the size of plates.” He nods. “And he was really into cycling, remember? So you and I would go down to that tiny gym twenty minutes from our apartment and join that fucking spin class at 6AM because you were determined to get his number . . . and then once you had it, after months of that goddamn class, you–,”

“I never called him.”

“You never called him, that’s right.” Heidi says as she laughs, Dieter chuckling with her. She watches as his fingers curl into his own hair.

“So, what, you’re saying I have problems with follow through?”

“I’m saying you are committed to whatever you want to do, if you want to do it.” She wraps her hand around his bicep and leans into his shoulder. They’re quiet, contemplating. “I remember thinking I’d die young, when I was in high school. And because of that, I was as reckless as I wanted to be. But then I met Lucy and as clichéd it is to say this, everything changed. Being with her, I was the most clear-headed I’d ever been in my life and I knew exactly what I wanted.” She glances up at him as the rain picks up again. Flat droplets splatter against the window near his head. “How do you want your life to make you feel? Do you know what you want from life, Dieter?”

Fame. Acclaim. Adoration. These things go off in his head as if they were a Pavlovian response to this kind of question, but then they fade, grow weak without sentiment.

Honestly?

At his core, his dark, deep secret is this: he wants to feel the way the drugs make him feel. Like he’s the happiest he’s ever been, or at peace with the universe, or the star of every room.

Like he’s loved. The drugs make him feel like he is loved and whole and that’s what he wants.

And there’s only one person on earth he’s ever felt that way with.

“Do you love her, Dieter?” The question is delayed, muffled against his shoulder.

He sighs. “Between you and me and these four fucking walls, no, I don’t. Maybe I did once, but what I feel for Chloe isn’t going to change or improve. I feel something for her, but it’s not the right kind of something to–,”

“I mean, Natalie, Dieter. Natalie.” Heidi lifts her head, her gaze serious, rimmed with worry. “Do you love Natalie?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t question it, doesn’t add addendums to it, conditions around whether or not he loves her only when he’s high, or not high. There is something there, something deep. Something that scared him at first, but he’s seen you now. He knows that if he reached out his hand, you’d take it. Because whatever is in your soul, it recognizes itself in his. A split soul, into two bodies.

Racing to the edge of calamity.

But then Heidi sits up, takes him by the shoulders and asks a question he’d never once considered, about anyone.

“Do you see a future with her?”

“I . . .”

No.

He tries to swallow around the knot in his throat.

No, because one of you is going to burn out too fast. One of you isn’t going to survive, not the way it’s going. Did Heidi mean marriage, kids, a fucking lawn with a picket fence? He’s not made for that kind of future either but that is okay because he was never going to make it there anyway.

I always thought I’d die young.

Something fundamentally shifts in his brain, as though an old reality suddenly winked from existence.

He thinks about that blank door you locked yourself behind. He thinks of your tears and how he broke you. He loves you, he knows it, but now he sees outside himself. He thinks of the carousel and his mother and the promises she made to him.

“I want her in my life,” he tells Chloe with certainty. “I can’t picture my life without her, even if I don’t know what that’s going to look like. Whatever we are, whatever happens with the baby or Chloe, I know now I can’t live without her. Without Natalie.”

The dusting of worry fades from her face and a crease appears between her eyes. The one that comes out when a scene won’t quite come together, or there’s a line of dialogue that needs reworking. When something is just a bit outside her understanding and she hasn’t quite settled on an answer.

“I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

“What face?”

“I . . . I don’t know. You just look different, when you talk about her.”

“I love her. I mean it.”

She turns away, some personal revelation coming too late. Her eyes are like flints, flecks of hard green stone, when she looks back at him.

“Enough to leave her?” Heidi implores of him. “Because what you’re asking, it’s cruel, to do that to someone. You get that, right?”

He bites the skin under his lip. “Yeah. I see that now. Or maybe I always have and I just didn’t want to admit it.” He’s cried enough for a lifetime, but his throat pinches and the backs of his eyes grow hot. “I just can’t stand the thought of us never speaking again. If something ever happened to her . . .”

“If you really want to stay with Chloe and raise this baby, then you might have to make that choice. Or she might make it for you, to keep you out of her life. Either way, you have to accept that.” He nods, a few drops sprinkling off his eyelashes. Heidi squeezes his shoulder and goes on, “but for right now, we’re going to start with rehab. Get you clean. You’re going to have to tell Chloe about the drugs, but as for the affair . . .”

“Do you think I should?”

Heidi’s lively green eyes dull, the stem of a flower as it wilts. “Honestly, Dieter, I have no idea.”

Before he can read what else may be written on her face, she stands, pulling him up with her. She eyes him with a teasing contempt as he zips up his hoodie.

“You really do look like fucking shit.”

“Yeah, thanks, I feel it.”

She takes his hand and holds it to her chest. “One step at a time, Dieter. Step one, we’re going to get you some food so you sober up. Then we go get your stuff.”

His stomach twists at the thought of seeing you when he has no idea what to say — apologies aren’t enough. “But–,”

“One thing at a time.” She takes out her umbrella as they stand at the precipice between the laundromat and the wet street. Her look is one of hope, a small thing, of uncertainty and promise. “One thing at a time.”

The rising of the hotel elevator syncs with the steady climb of his anxiety. His head hurts, even in the low lighting, and there’s some small part of him that’s looking forward to that white bed in any empty room. Folded up into the corner of the opulent elevator, eyes dark-rimmed, hair long and unkempt, looking every bit the addict he is, he swallows as the numbers in gold across the top of the double doors ding with every floor. His eyes fall to the watch at Heidi’s wrist. She stands in the middle of the elevator, her head held high, a slight frown on the crease of her forehead. He wonders what she’s thinking about but he isn’t sure he wants to know with certainty. It’s six thirty. They’ll all be seated now.

“Thank you.” He murmurs to her wrist.

Heidi glances at him, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes, his waxy skin. He had been so hurt by her apparent disinterest after she left the film’s production that when he called, part of him was sure that she wasn’t even going to answer. One by one his support network had been cut away, trimmed down until he was dangling by a thread. And yet, she came, without hesitation, on possibly the most important night of her life. If there is anything to be ashamed about, he figures, it’s that he ever doubted her. He should have called sooner.

“Thank you, Heidi, for everything.”

Her expression softens and she breathes slowly. She actually graces him with a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

We.

When he thought he was all alone.

His eyes sting as the elevator stops on the twenty-second floor, dinging cheerily when the doors open to the top, most secluded floor. It’s quiet, all five black doors in the hallway shut and locked. Heidi steps out with purpose and he drags himself after her, hands digging into his wet pockets to try and find his key, if he even managed to bring it.

And then he freezes.

Something’s not right. A sense. A chill in the air. An uneasy twinge in the stomach just before freefall.

Heidi stops, looks over her shoulder. “Dieter, what’s–,”

Behind the door to his room comes a loud thump. A scrambling. And then –

“Oliver?”

Those ice blue eyes snap up as the drug dealer stumbles through the doorway. Eyes bloodshot, skin gray, his immaculate suit is gone, replaced by black jeans and a loose shirt. His hands are trembling.

“Ah, fuck, Dieter.”

The blackness of his irises take up the entirety of his pupils. He’s high, out of his mind . . . and he’s terrified. Trembling like a child, his gaze bounds back and forth between Dieter and Heidi.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Oliver?”

“I-I-I . . . uh . . . look, she called me, and I, uh –,”

“Natalie called you?” Heidi’s eyebrows arch up her forehead. She frowns at Dieter. “What for?”

At that, Oliver’s cheeks flush red. “Look, it can’t be traced back to me. I’ve got a green card and I can’t lose that. I need it – I have to –,”

“What can’t be traced back to you?” Dieter steps forward, his pulse quickening.

Oliver actually whines when he looks back to his old friend.

“Look, I guess I didn’t realize how much she was t-taking. I was already high when I got here and just sort of let her h–have her pick –,”

Dieter’s stomach clenches.

Heidi frowns, still not getting it. “What are you talking about? Have her pick of what?”

“Oliver.” Those pale eyes jump back to Dieter, his entire body shaking. “Where’s Natalie?”

“I c-can’t be here, right now, ok-kay? They’re going to deport me if they f-find out that I–,”

Dieter thinks he hears the shower running.

The air in the hallway thins, a ringing settling between his ears.

The rest comes to him in flashes.

Tattered pieces flung into the air, raining down images. He snatches at them but they crumble in his grip.

Shoving Oliver out of the way.

Pills, liquor bottles, powders on the table. Ones he knows he didn’t leave there.

The white bathroom door.

This is the moment he realizes that blank door will haunt his nightmares for years to come. What he could have found on the other side. What he nearly does.

Your pale hand dangles over the side of the tub. That’s the first thing he sees. It brings him to his knees on the tiled floor.

Shower water pelts your gray face, black lines of makeup streaking your white cheeks. Oliver had dumped you in there still clothed in black underwear and his green shirt, possibly in hopes that the water would rouse you. But you don’t react to the water, or the sounds he’s making. You don’t react to him sliding down over the lip of the tub to you, his hand cupping your face.

You look small, broken and folded like a doll.

He had discarded you so easily.

But there, beneath the flood of water across your skin, he sees that you’re –

“Breathing,” he murmurs to himself, to you. “She’s breathing –,”

The ice cold water drenches his back as he pulls you out of the tub and into his lap. It’s not graceful, your knees and elbows knocking against the porcelain, but still you don’t move. You still don’t wake up.

He drags you into his lap like a lion drags its prey, selfishly, hungrily, snarling.

In his ears, the rushing of blood muffles all sound, everything happening in the room outside. He’s vaguely aware of movement, of running, of someone yelling.

But you still haven’t opened your eyes. He touches your face, fingers dragging back the damp hair across your forehead, and he thinks he feels your pulse slow.

No no no no no no no stop no not like this stop please i’m so sorry please don’t I’m begging you please please please please you can’t go you can’t leave me i’m so sorry please don’t leave me i’m so sorry please wake up wake up i’m begging you

please please please please

He doesn’t know what he keeps to himself or what he whispers out loud to you, arms wrapped around your back, limp head pressed tightly into his throat.

He holds you until the ambulance comes, as if his constant vigil will keep you from slipping away.

It was an accident, Oliver assured the police.

It was just a little fun that got out of hand. His stuff was more potent because it was made in a lab, not off the street. He didn’t remember to tell her and she didn’t know, Oliver said over and over and over again.

But that information came through Heidi’s contact at the police station, a contact that had been in the interview room when Oliver confessed everything in hopes of easing his sentence. But this was third hand gossip. A game of telephone that made Dieter nauseous to think about.

Maybe it didn’t matter why, only that it did. Only that you were hurt, that you were unconscious. That what he had done to you made you do this to yourself.

He watched the double doors from the hospital waiting room constantly.

Curled up in the back corner, his eyes remained glued to the swinging, open-and-shut, entrance to the admission rooms. Where they took you after the ambulance arrived. They didn’t let him go back with you. He was prepared to lie and push and use every ounce of his considerable influence to let him see you, but in the end, Heidi brought him down. Told him to let them do their jobs and all he could do was wait.

He paced the length of the waiting room, in the beginning. Shoulder curled, hands clenched across his body, nails bitten to the quick, he never took his eyes off that doorway.

The nurse at the station initially glowered at his frantic energy, but then something lightened her gaze. She recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t place it. Heidi tried to get him to sit, drink water, but he refused.

Her police contact called her, told her Oliver had been arrested and was selling out his suppliers left and right. For his sake, Dieter hoped they’d deny bail and keep him in jail, away from the public. Away from anyone who might come after him.

Heidi sits down next to him, now that he has settled, with a sigh, her second cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup from the machine smelling like burnt tar. She blows on it in a way that can only be described as calculating.

His sweatshirt dried cold against his skin. Why are hospitals always so fucking freezing?

“Dieter,” she begins but he grinds his teeth so hard, it’s audible.

“If you tell me to calm down, Heidi, I swear –,”

“No.” The word is heavy, cutting. It shuts him up immediately, even draws his dry gaze away from the doors. He looks at her, one of his oldest and only friends, with the coffee in her lap, thin pale fingers delicately holding the sides. Her eyes are unreadable as she watches him. “I want you to think about what you are going to say to her when she wakes up. And she will – that girl is tougher than you give her credit for,” she adds sternly. “But when she wakes up, that will be your one and only chance to do the right thing. The right thing for her. Not you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He chews on his tongue, which has suddenly grown three sizes and gone dry. The finality in her voice, it sinks into him. An ax falling into wood but isn’t removed. Left there, splitting the wood apart and letting the wet molasses ooze out of the crack.

It’s not fair, his heart aches. It’s not fair.

But it is right.

Dieter wipes his eyes as a doctor walks out of the double doors, the first in what feels like hours, and he approaches them in the corner.

He wants to ask, wants to open his mouth, but words have left him. What if it's bad news? What if –

Heidi stands to meet the doctor with an outstretched hand, Dieter shakily rising to his feet behind her. The doctor, a serious man with no facial hair and brown eyes, takes Heidi’s hand and returns the greeting. Dieter makes a fist in his pocket to keep his hand from trembling.

“You’re the family, then?”

Dieter wants to shake his head, no, this isn’t how families are supposed to be, but Heidi nods before he can confess his heart to an indifferent cause.

“We are. How is she? Is she–,” Heidi’s voice cracks despite her stern tone and Dieter’s skin at the back of his head pulsates.

“She’s alive,” the doctor says quickly. He wonders if that’s the information they have to give immediately. Some reassurance that all this time spent waiting wasn’t for nothing. That maybe something out there is kind and listened to his frantic begging. “But she will need to remain in our care for a few days. She’s going to be alright, but she very, very nearly wasn’t.”

The doctor goes on, describing what they had to do to save Natalie’s life. What poisons they found inside of her. What they took from her to piece her back together.

Wasn’t. There’s an alternative in that.

In a parallel universe, you died. You were gone.

But in this one, you lived. You were still here. There was still time.

“Can I see her?” He blurts out, cutting the doctor off from his long explanation. Those brown eyes harden like bird shells when they fall on him.

“She’s unconscious, heavily sedated, but stable. The nurse will show you back, but she might not be able to hear you.”

He nods. You might not hear him now, but you would, one day. You would know how sorry he is if it was the last thing he did.

The doctor waves at a nurse and Heidi turns and takes him into a hug.

“Tell her we’re all rooting for her,” she whispers in his ear. “Tell her I’ll be here waiting for her when she gets up.”

He pulls back, something about her phrasing squeezing his heart, he doesn’t like that he doesn’t like that at all —

But the nurse is opening the double doors for him, expectant.

She’s smiling but her eyes are empty as he lets go and steps back towards the long white hallway.

Your one and only chance to do the right thing.

He follows the nurse down room after room. He can’t bear to look into the rooms through the small windows, to flood his imagination with images of your possible fate, so he stares resolutely at the back of the nurse’s head.

She stops outside of room twenty two and opens the door for him.

“You’ve got ten minutes. You can come back in the morning during visiting hours.”

He nods, her indifferent gaze almost a relief. Pity, mourning, he couldn’t stand to see it. One more crack and he’d break. Shatter and spill like marbles across the floor.

He wants to thank the nurse, but the words get stuck and she walks off, handing him the responsibility of the door as she returns to the waiting room.

His hand shakes against the frame.

You were right. You always have been. He’s such a fucking coward.

Shaking, knees wobbling, Dieter falters as he goes into your room. It smells sweet, the air pungent and cloying. As if dead flowers had been sprinkled over filth.

There’s one light behind you, the curtains drawn shut, shadows heavy.

Where you had been a limp, lifeless doll in the bathroom tub, stretched thin in the small bed now you more resembled a weak, helpless child. Small, pale, ragged to the bone. As if someone had stripped back years of your life, revealing a vulnerability lost long into adulthood. A brush with death and you become humbled, glancing towards the light erodes your false pretenses until you lay bare at the end of time and at the beginning.

You look so, so sick.

His knees give out when he spots the skin beneath the arms of your hospital gown. The plastic seat beneath him all but holding him up right, he lifts the sleeve closest to him.

The skin is purple, green, in the shape of fingers. His fingers. He had done this to you. Of all the things he thought he was, thought he had become, this sort of monster seemed unfathomable. But he was wrong. He had become a special kind of monster.

His thumb trembles as he rubs the bruise, so sickened with himself his stomach churns.

As though pinched, you suddenly gasp awake, the machines monitoring you spiking and chirping. Twisting in the bed, eyes blurry, it’s clear you don’t know where you are, what has happened. You struggle until he puts his hands on your shoulders.

“Baby – baby, calm down. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

Your hair still hasn’t dried completely and it curls around your shoulders like tentacles. Easing back down, you look up at him, eyes fluttering as you try and focus your gaze. You blink and recognition suddenly sparks across your face.

“Dieter?” You cry out and suddenly your cheeks are flushed with tears. Your pale skin sparks pink as you sob wretchedly. “Dieter – I-I t-thought you l-left me–,”

A solid block of stone where his heart used to be, he pulls you into his lap, arms clutched tightly around you. You’re shaking and shaking and shaking as you mutter,

“Thought you were g-gone. Thought you left m-me fore-eve-r-r. L-left m-me.”

Dieter swallows, his chin on your head, aware of his own tears but doing nothing to wipe them away.

He lets you cry. Holds you tight and strong in his arms and, as he always has been, unable to offer any real comfort. Real support. He offered nothing real, nothing tangible, no promises kept, because he had nothing to give. He sees that now.

You slow in your cries, your wailing, but you’re muttering something else now. He can’t hear it with your face against his heart, so he eases you away, hand soothing your neck, thumb by your ear. Your eyes are closed and you immediately try to nestle into him again, like a kitten searching for warmth.

“I did it . . . it’s my fault . . . I did it . . .” You claw at his forearms.

“Did what, baby?” He tilts your head up, up to him, to the light. Your face is puffy and pink and your lips are covered in tears. They spill again, your skin slippery, as you answer:

“I ruined your life, Dieter.”

In his shock and horror, his grip loosens and that’s all you need to launch yourself forward into him again. Your arms hold him by the waist so tightly it’s like you fear he’s going to fade away, crying again, crying anew. His eyes flutter shut, against the building wave of nausea in his gut, against the soothing hum of your skin against his – this is where we’re supposed to be – against the acceptance of what’s to come.

He lets you cry, perhaps longer than he should but he’s determined to sear the memory of your skin, your shoulders, your hips, your head into every crevice inside of him, stuff himself full of you when he has nothing else to sustain him on. He’s still greedy, selfish, corruptible, when it comes to you.

And that’s the whole fucking point.

“Natalie–,” he tries and it comes out soft. “Natalie, I have to tell you something.”

You pull away from him, eyes puffy and red, your beautiful mouth twisted and gnarled in grief. But there’s something wrong with your eyes, your gaze blurry.

His stomach knots with the realization that you might not remember any of this, the sedatives too strong. Fighting against his trembling chin, he takes you by the jaw, gently, carefully, how you’re meant to be handled and he has done it wrong so many times before.

“Natalie, I’m going to go away for a while,” he says. Your eyes fill with tears, but they don’t spill over. Your mouth twists petulantly.

“For how long?”

“For a while. You’re sick and you have to get better.”

You turn your head, considering his words. “When I get better, can I come see you?”

His jaw twists, dropping your gaze, chin trembling and teeth clattering. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’”

“Why?” You’re crying again and, finally, so does he.

“We’re not good for each other. And I can’t keep doing this to you.”

“Do what, Dieter?” You aren’t sobbing like before, but you pale. Like a ghost. Like he’s killing you.

Inhaling through a wet mouth, he kisses you on the forehead, tears flushing out of the corner of his eyes. Your little fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

“Dieter, I love you.” You mutter to his collarbone and that makes him let go. Releases you.

Sets you free.

You lived and he still had to say goodbye.

He wants to tell you in kind, try and capture this roaring, expansive feeling in his chest and give it to you. Offer himself on the funeral pyre if it keeps you warm.

You suddenly can’t quite focus on him, the rock of your shoulders is unsteady. Either the medicine is kicking in or the brief bout of consciousness is fading.

“Go to sleep, baby.”

You nod, eyelids heavy, and he gently eases you back, into the pillows, your weight growing as sleep overwhelms you. By the time, he has you against the white sheets, you’re already gone. He recedes from you, grateful and furious and happy and screaming all at once. He gives you one final kiss on the curve of your eyebrow, lingering long after he should, before tucking your hair back and moving away.

His last image of you is deathly pale and alone.

Nurses and staff stride through the hallways, around gurneys and into supply closets. Disembodied voices call out doctors through the intercoms and machines make noise. No one stops him as he walks down the long hallway and through the exit.

The metal handle clenches loudly as he pushes through, out into the dawning morning. It’s purple and quiet and not a soul in the entire city moves.

The rain has finally stopped.

“You’re still watching that?” Dan probes her, his patrol of the hospital slow given how late it is. “It’s just some dumb award show.”

April makes a face at him, glancing down briefly to finish her notes before her shift is over. Her feet ache and she’s looking forward to the pasta in her fridge.

“I worked a double today. If I want to indulge in a dumb show, I can.” She caps her pen and takes off her nurse’s badge. “Besides, it’s not a dumb awards show, it’s the dumb awards show. The Oscars are kind of important, idiot.”

Dan smirks, their banter the thing he looks forward to the most in his days as a security guard.

Neither one of them notice the single man walking past the nurses station towards the exit.

“Did you even watch any of these –,”

“Shush, they’re announcing Best Picture.”

A woman on the stage in a golden floor-length gown, her smile as bright as the lights around her, opens the envelope in her hands.

“And the Oscar goes to . . .”

She lifts the card, extending the suspension in her inhale.

“Recovery Road!”

The crowd on the TV bursts into applause and April squeals, clapping excitedly.

“Oh, please, like you even saw that in theaters.”

April shoots him a dirty look. “Yes, I did! I loved it. It’s my favorite movie of the year – maybe ever! I cried, like, four times. ”

Dan’s expression softens as he looks at her. She can’t soothe the blush in her cheeks quick enough.

“You really like movies, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, ever since I was a kid.”

“Maybe I could take you to one sometime.”

She smiles at him. “I’d like that.”

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble 2016 #dieter bravo/f!reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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mariacallous · 1 month

Text

As all journalists know fear sells better than sex. Readers want be terrified. And here in the UK, there appears to be every reason to frighten them.

A country that was overdependent on financial services has been in decline ever since the banking crash of 2008. Then, from 2010 on, the astonishing Conservative policy failures of austerity, Trussonomics and, above all, Brexit further weakened an enfeebled state.

I was a child in a happy family during the crisis of the 1970s. Like all happy children I just got on with my life. But even I picked up a little of the despair and hopelessness of the time. That feeling that there is no way out is with us again.

In 1979, Margaret Thatcher came to power, and with great brutality, set the UK on a new path as she inflicted landslide defeats on Labour.

Obviously, our current Conservative government is heading for a defeat, maybe a landslide defeat.

But there is little sense that Labour will transform the country. The far-left takeover from 2015-2019 traumatised it. As recently as 2021, everyone expected Boris Johnson to rule the UK for most of the 2020s.

Johnson’s contempt for the rules he insisted everyone else follow and the great Truss disaster are handing Labour victory. But the centre-left appears to be the beneficiary of scandal and right-wing madness, not an ideological sea change that might inspire it and sustain it in power

Desperate to drop its crank image, battered by the conservative media establishment, fashionable opinion holds that a wee, cowering and timorous Labour party will come into power without radical policies that equal the country’s needs.

Just this once, fashionable opinion may even be right

And yet, and I know I will regret this outbreak of commercially suicidal optimism, there are reasons to believe that the UK’s position is not quite as grim as it appears.

1) The economy may revive

Although no one has been as wrong recently as the economists and central bankers who predicted that inflation would be a transitory phenomenon, it is finally coming down. Falls in energy prices may even bring it to the 2 per cent target this month. Interest rates will eventually follow suit.

Lower interest rates mean lower government borrowing costs. They will reduce the extraordinary debt bill Labour in power will have to meet.

Chris Giles of the Financial Times calculated this week that lower government borrowing costs improve the public finances five years ahead by almost £15bn (about 0.5 per cent of national income) for every percentage point reduction.

Meanwhile the Conservatives have raised taxes so high (by UK standards) a Labour government may not need to risk unpopularity by raising them further. Under Conservative plans the tax burden has risen from 33.1 per cent of gross domestic product in 2019-20 to 36.5 per cent in 2024-25 with further rises planned, taking it to 37.1 per cent by 2028-29.

If the 1997-2010 Labour government is any guide, Labour will be reluctant in the extreme to play into its enemies’ hands by raising taxes

It may not need to if economic growth leads to the revenue growth that would take the UK out of the rolling crisis that has afflicted it since 2016.

I wouldn’t be doing my job if I did not add that there are some pretty large caveats to make.

Economists missed the post-covid inflation surge because they forgot about politics. Russia’s unprovoked invasion of Ukraine upended the European economy. An extension of the war in Ukraine or the Middle East, or, more terrifyingly, a US-China confrontation, or the return of Donald Trump could all derail a new government.

In any case the IMF predicts growth of 1.5 percent in 2025, which is nowhere near the 3 percent we need to fund the state.

And yet, with a bit of luck there is a fair chance that our fortunes may revive, albeit modestly.

2) Labour is not as scared as it looks

Near where I live in London is the Union Chapel, a vast neo-Gothic hall.

Will Hutton was there recently to launch his new book This Time No Mistakes: How to Remake Britian. I have interviewed Will for the podcast, which should be out in a couple of days. For now, I’ll just say his book is a classic combination of liberal and left thought, and makes the case for radical reform. Keir Starmer arrived on stage to the cheers of the crowd and endorsed Hutton’s findings.

The fashionable view is that Labour has abandoned difficult policies so as not to alienate frightened voters, and I can see why people think that way.

The grand plan for green job creation has been hacked back after fears the markets would not wear it. The majority of people in this country, and the overwhelming majority of people who vote for opposition parties, now recognise that Brexit was a disastrous error. Year in year out it drags the country down. And yet Starmer, who once argued for a second referendum, is terrified of mentioning the subject in case he upsets a minority in marginal seats.

There was a depressing little vignette a few days ago when the European Commission laid out proposals for open movement to millions of 18- to 30-year-olds from the EU and UK, allowing them to work, study and live in respective states for up to four years. Labour joined the Tories in rejecting the offer.

It would rather squash the aspirations of young people than lay itself open to the charge that it was taking us back towards EU membership.

Yet Rachel Reeves, Keir Starmer and David Lammy talk about the need for cooperation. “Success will rest on forming new bilateral and multilateral partnerships, and forging a closer relationship with our neighbours in the European Union,” Reeves said as she explained her economic programme.

Meanwhile the UK has been ruled by Conservatives for so long our battered minds can underestimate how much the country will change when they are thrown out.

The new parliament will be filled with politicians who support renters, more home building and the EU. They will at least be interested in a land value tax and a universal basic income. Radical that ideas have been forbidden for years will soon seem normal.

3) The impetus for change

The last Labour government of 1997 to 2010 did not change economic fundamentals for what seemed at the time to be a very good reason.

When it came to power neo-liberalism worked. Indeed, is easy to forget now how successful the ideology appeared before the crash of 2008. Politicians like Gordon Brown and Tony Blair accepted much of what Margaret Thatcher had done because they thought they had no choice. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, that this was how you ran an economy.

None of that certainty pertains today. The Brexit nationalism that succeeded neo-liberalism has failed. Starmer and Reeves will not be like Blair and Brown: they will have no good reason to cling to discredited ideas.

That does not mean they won’t cling to them for fear of the Tory press or swing voters or because of their own intellectual failings. There is no guarantee that countries will turn themselves round. The UK could go the way of Argentina or Italy.

But the Labour leadership is made of serious politicians, and I keep asking myself why would serious politicians want to preside over decline? I can’t see why they would.

As I said, maybe I will regret writing this piece. But for the moment I think we can enjoy a rare moment of optimism.

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e-wills-afterhours · 4 months

Text

Vetrnaetr, Chapter 7

A/N: Another new chapter of Vetrnaetr! Sure, it's been like...a year. That's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine. I feel like I've lost my touch a little--but it is fine.

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Hiccstrid, Affairs AU

Start from the very beginning here.

-----

Of all the wild animals one could domesticate, dragons had to rank among the best in terms of versatility, companionship, and absolute undeniable badassery. The near-exclusiveness Berk enjoyed with the beasts was a thing of envy--and a secret closely guarded lest they welcomed war upon their island. A small, rather reclusive tribe of Norsemen with an army of obedient dragons at their disposal would raise a few eyebrows and undermine regional stability. They would be a threat to squash. Berk's greatest asset could easily be its undoing, should it inspire a covetousness in their enemies and fair-weather allies--and Chief Stoick considered all their alliances to be tenuous and conditional at best.

Astrid was glad that the threads of fate sought fit to place her on Berk. Her life, a mess though it was at the moment, was made rich by Hooligan culture now steeped in a fierce love of dragons. Once, the flapping of great, leathery wings and overhead shadows brought fear and death. Now, she hardly noticed a low-flying Gronckle, and dodged the Terrible Terrors that scurried underfoot with practiced ease. Berk used to be a place painted with ash and flames--but as the sun rose high over the island, her village seemed vibrant with colorful dragons at every turn.

Stormfly's unwavering loyalty was a great comfort amid the chaos of holiday busyness and faltering relationships. Astrid could not imagine life without her dragon, though such a life was all she had known a few short years ago.

But that was a whole different world that was slipping from memory, like the last vestiges of a nightmare broken up by the bright, new day.

Morning flights, evening flights. They still cleansed the soul, a respite for the mentally and emotionally laden.

The chill in the air, high among the clouds, was nearly intolerable. Astrid's teeth chattered and she shivered beneath her thick layers of wool and furs. Her fingers were numb in seconds, but her dragon's cries of delight were worth it as they took to the sky. Stormfly was nearly sing-song as she rolled over the waves and glided on the air currents, spotted wings outstretched like a great, scaly gull. In a couple of months, the dragons would leave Berk during their annual migration to warmer climates to breed. Astrid could not blame them. When winter was in full swing, she wished to join them. Instead, she counted down the days until they returned.

Astrid closed her eyes, breathing deeply, lungs filling up with icy salt air. It stung a little, but it was more freeing than the smoke from the hearth and sewing by firelight under her mother's critical eye. Indeed, flying in the bitter cold and biting wind was preferable to cooking under scrutiny, hoping to earn passable marks and an afternoon's reprieve from mandatory lessons in domesticity. For some reason, her mother seemed to suffer the delusion that she could fix her relationship woes with a hearty stew and needlepoint. Maybe perfecting her homemaking to the same degree as her combat skills would make her irresistible--a wife to be desired.

How laughable, when she did not want to be solely valued for such things.

"Go, Stormfly! Go!" she shouted, nudging her dragon into a sharp dive., the rush of frigid wind drowning out her thoughts.

Thunderdrums could be seen just below the surface, their spots peeking in and out of the tide, drawing ever closer. Such reckless flight and freedom sustained the troubled heart--Hiccup has shown her that. Astrid whooped, tears streaming from wind-battered eyes as they rushed toward the waves below.

Sometimes, she wondered what might happen if her dragon did not pull up at the last moment, skimming the white caps with her claws. If they kept diving, plunging into the depths, might they puncture the veil and end up somewhere else; a place where she could chart her own future without everyone else's input? She supposed such a place was for dreams: the impractical desires of youth that eventually crossed over into fond memories of a still wild and untamed imagination, before things like responsibility and duty beat it into submission.

She closed her eyes, sitting up in the saddle. With outstretched arms, it felt like she was flying, fast and low, and far away.

Peace. Finally, she was at some small semblance of peace...

"HELP!" came a scream over the roar of the ocean, piercing her reverie.

Astrid pulled back on her dragon's reins, and Stormfly came to an abrupt stop, hovering in midair as she glanced around wildly.

"HELLO?" she called back, reaching for her axe. Maybe, just maybe, she could put it to use for the first time in ages.

But she saw no one else among the stacks, other than the plump grey seals sunning themselves on the rocks scattered at the bases. The only answer she received was the squawk of the coastal birds going about their business, riding the air currents.

To her right was an inlet, cliffs sharply rising on either side of the mouth Agmundr's Sound. She and her father would take many camping trips there in her childhood, where she first learned to fish and to sail. Now it was a popular location for Berk's youth to spend an afternoon on the beach, away from their parents and responsibilities. It was also a fine place to strip down to one's undergarments and ride the Scauldrons that nested there in the summer, when the water was warmer, and the days were long.

The desperate scream echoed through the air once more, and this time, Astrid was certain the source was somewhere inside Agmundr's Sound.

She steered her dragon into the deep, broad divide that Odin cleaved out of Ymir when he fashioned Berk and all the world to his liking. Stormfly flew low as they searched the length of the sound, her reflection keeping pace on the gentler waters below. Fir trees lined the cliffside, but nothing stood out. All she could hear in the distance was the call of Berk's resident Timberjacks.

Maybe she had imagined someone calling for help? Perhaps stress was getting to her? She was about to call off her search, resigned to the notion she had misheard--when there, on the shore where the two cliffs diminished into rolling hills and met, she saw a great scar in the earth. At its end, was a familiar black dragon--and Astrid's heart skipped a beat. Toothless stirred up all kind of feelings by association, and she could not leave him in distress.

Stormfly landed gracefully on the beach, taking care to avoid the deep trench that had been gouged there from a rough landing. The black dragon's rider--the mystery screamer--also became apparent. Fishlegs sputtered, brushing the cold, damp sand from his cloak while Toothless growled at him--one did not need to speak dragon to understand the gist of the Night Fury's frustrations, and what he wished to communicate.

"I'm sorry!" Fishlegs pleaded with the dragon. Toothless was not the least bit sympathetic, turning his back to him in an indignant huff.

"Are you alright?" Astrid asked, dismounting.

Fishlegs gave a start. He had been too busy arguing with the disgruntled Night Fury to notice her arrival.

"Astrid!" he exclaimed, face brightening at once.

He trudged over to her, trying to shake the remaining sand from his clothes.

"Maybe you can talk some sense into him," Fishlegs whispered, jerking his thumb in Toothless's direction.

Astrid surveyed the scene: filthy clothes, a great plowing of the earth, and one bent tailfin.

"Did you crash?" she asked, though it was plain.

"It's not my fault!" Fishlegs cried. He hurried over to the Night Fury and pointed emphatically at the complex flying apparatus. "I mean, what?"

Astrid folded her arms beneath her cloak. "Didn't Hiccup leave you instructions on how to work it?"

"He did," Fishlegs replied, pouting. "They made a lot more sense on paper."

Astrid frowned and walked around Toothless, examining the intricate feat of seemingly impossible engineering that Hiccup made appear effortless. Toothless flashed her a gummy smile, tongue lolling out the side of his wide mouth. He began to wiggle with anticipation as she circled him.

"I don't think you've busted it beyond repair," she said, and Fishlegs breathed an audible sigh of relief. "But I'm not the expert in these things," she added.

His face faltered. "You're not going to tell Hiccup, are you? He'll be so mad!"

Astrid crouched down to hold up the tail fin, the most medial piece of ribbing bent at an odd angle. "Somehow, I think he'll notice," she replied flatly.

Fishlegs groaned, gripping his short, choppy hair. "He's never going to trust me with Toothless again!"

Astrid stood up, hands on her hips. "Don't take it personally. He doesn't trust anybody with Toothless. Not really."

"He trusts you."

Astrid remembered the days when Hiccup was still healing from his duel with Stefnir, arm in a sling. He offered her his good hand and brought her over to an impatient Night Fury in his complete rig. She had been confused; Hiccup had agreed not to fly until he was sufficiently mended--but he stepped aside so she could climb into the saddle instead. With patience and calm, he taught her each position of the tailfin until she could shift gears fluidly.

Then, he took large steps back as Toothless unfurled his wings, and said, "I trust you."

It must have been killing him inside to let go and grant her access to the final, most personal part of himself--but he exuded nothing but warmth, looking at her astride his dragon like she held his world together.

"He did trust me," she muttered to Fishlegs.

"He does," he corrected with an encouraging smile.

Outside of Toothless and Astrid, Fishlegs was Hiccup's closest friend. Perhaps he had found time to confide in the other boy between talk of dragons.

Astrid shook her head, heavy with self-pity. "Well, I've gone a made a mess of things, haven't I?"

Fishlegs was nodding along until pinned in her gaze. His eyes widened, and shifting awkwardly he said, "Oh! That wasn't rhetorical?"

She sighed. "Never mind. It's not anything I don't already know."

They stood in a heavy silence with the dragons considering them. puzzled. Fishlegs looked pained, like he had something to say, burning his throat, but something held it in. Or he wanted to vomit. Honestly, the expression was about the same.

Astrid waved her hand, dismissing the thought on the tip of his tongue. If some secret lingered there, entrusted to him by Hiccup, then she did not want him to be tempted into betraying that trust. Fishlegs was a good friend, but it did not take much to pry confessions from him--and Hiccup was already frustrated with her, plenty enough.

"Tell you what: I think Toothless can still manage to get home, though it won't be fast or with flourish. I will fly him for you, if you agree to fly Stormfly back to Berk for me," she said, patting the Night Fury.

"Thank you!" he practically cried with relief.

Even Toothless perked up at the prospect of flying with someone competent.

Stormfly crouched down and Fishlegs clambered up into the saddle. He struggled for only a moment, used to a dragon much closer to the ground. Astrid mounted Toothless and hooked her foot beneath the connecting peg for Hiccup's prosthesis. While it was built for him alone to operate smoothly, she could manage by flexing her foot to pull the peg up into position or rest her foot atop it to press it down. By no means was it a fluid process. She could not shift gears in that seamless way only Hiccup could--but she managed. At any rate, she was adept enough to fly Toothless safely home from Agmundr's Sound.

Stromfly stretched out her wings, ready to push off from the beach, but Fishlegs hesitated.

"For what it's worth," he began, "I've never known Hiccup to be happier than when you two are together. And--"

"Thank you, Fishlegs," Astrid interjected, "But you don't have to--"

"It will work out for you. It has to." He paused for a beat, then added, "I think he loves you too much. He doesn't talk about anyone else the same way."

Astrid did not say anything. Her eyes stung, and she told herself it was simply the cold wind channeled through the sound that also tossed her loose hair about. Fishlegs smiled, looking pleased with himself, as if his words alone would set things right.

"Just put Stormfly back in her stall, please."

"You got it!" Fishlegs replied, and Astrid watched him take off above the frosted trees.

She did not think it possible, but her heart ached all the more.

------

Hiccup was overjoyed to be leaving Helgafell at last. He had grown weary of snow, rock, and bare trees. As miserable as the journey home would be, captive on a boat with nothing to look at but his burly tribesmen and a vast expanse of rolling gray sea, each hour would bring him closer to home, to his own bed, belongings, to Toothless--and to Astrid.

The words of her letter, and that implicit ultimatum of hers, were branded on the forefront of his mind. He was a flurry of emotion to match the winter storm that blew in that morning as they packed up. No one asked, but he had to seem more distracted than usual. As he helped load their ship, he was equal part angry, anxious, and lovesick. He wanted to see Astrid, but dreaded the confrontation it would bring. He wanted to resolve their issues, but feared the implosion of their relationship if he said the wrong thing--and lately, it seemed every word he uttered was the wrong thing. He wanted to make her happy, get back what they had worked so hard for, but he did not know how to be anything other than himself; it was quite the conundrum.

"That's the last of it," Stoick declared, as the small crate of their rations was carried onboard. "Are you ready?"

Hiccup nodded, stepping onto the gently rocking ship.

As the rest of the crew followed behind him, he took one last glance out at Helgafell. The frosted temple towered above the dwindling tents. With camps being dismantled left and right, the island looked even smaller than it had before. The mysterious volva wandered among the stragglers, offering them any herbs and psychedelic fungi that might make the journey home more bearable.

Hiccup would've purchased the bunch if it could erase his memory the trip and the things he had learned. He could still smell the blood of the sacrificial animals and hear the resigned groan of dragon before it died. The distant stare of the volva haunted him when he closed his eyes.

They shoved off, and he felt a weight lifted. From the moment he had set foot on Helgafell, there had been an oppressive and ominous energy, as if he was one faux pas, one misstep from bringing hostilities on Berk. He played his part, the dutiful heir. While the island began to fade in the distance, shrouded again in fog and snow, Hiccup's heart was burdened by the realization that he would continue to play the part until it became the reality of him.

He sighed, leaning on his elbows set upon the starboard gunwale. Their ship ploughed through the waves, and he watched the sea ebb and flow, beating against the hull before exploding into briny mist. The deck creaked beneath familiar footfalls approaching him from behind, trying to be softer than their capacity.

Stoick cleared his throat, but it was unnecessary.

"With the wind on our side, we might see Berk half-a-day earlier than planned," he said, large hands coming to rest on the same faded red gunwale supporting his son in his best attempt to appear casual.

"That would be nice. Lots to do before Vetrnaetr kicks off, I guess?" Hiccup replied.

He pretended it was not so amusing to see his father's impressive red beard dancing about in the wind, catching snowflakes.

"There is, but I suppose Spitelout has seen to most of the preparations."

Hiccup nodded and the two of them gazed out at the ocean, churning and reflecting the dreary sky as if one might bleed into the other. His father was watching him out of the corner of his eye as he so often did.

"I know you did not enjoy the trip," Stoick spoke up after a very pregnant pause.

"Maybe it was all the talk of funding wars through trade or watching that dragon die such a pointless death for the sake of a man's ego that did it."

"I hope you realize how important it was all the same."

Hiccup straightened up, wrapping his cloak more tightly around his body.

He merely answered, "Yeah."

'"The world is a lot bigger and more complicated than you realize," Stoick said, patting him. on the shoulder.

Hiccup scoffed. "Bigger, I knew. Complicated? I think I already knew that too. But I didn't know how ugly 'complicated' could be. I am naiver than I thought. Or maybe I just convinced myself it would always be someone else's problem."

Stoick considered him, brow heavy with pity. "There is more to being the chief and keeping your people safe and provided for than what can be taught on Berk alone."

Hiccup sighed, and gave another, "Yeah."

Stoick gripped his shoulder turning him until they made eye contact. "You are the future, Hiccup. All of Berk's hopes rest on you. I know that you are up for the task."

Hiccup only ever shrank under his father's lofty expectations. That unearned, unrelenting pride shone down upon him was uncomfortable, and he was meant to carry it without complaint, without faltering. He could not meet his father's glowing stare.

Glancing down at the deck, he muttered. "I wish I was as sure as you."

Stoick did not waver. "There will come a day when you will be."

Hiccup had to turn away, and gaze back out at the ocean. he assumed his previous position, leaning thoughtfully against the gunwale.

He responded with a noncommittal, "Mm."

As Stoick walked away, satisfied with his final word on the matter, Hiccup reached into his cloak and took out the pendant he bought on Helgafell. He turned the cold metal over in his hands, studying the dragon there. The more he looked it over, the more he was certain the extra set of wings was not just the error of an unskilled craftsman.

"What kind of dragon are you?" he murmured, tracing over the image with his thumb.

-----

Sneaky returned home in the middle of the night. He was unscathed, as Astrid knew he would be. Hiccup would never have let any harm befall the little blue dragon, no matter how hostile toward dragons Helagfell might be. Perhaps it was a good thing she was only half awake to greet Sneaky, or the full weight of the notion that her lover had read her letter would have crushed her. She fell back asleep, Terrible Terror curled against her side, while vaguely aware of the uncomfortable squirm in her gut.

The next morning brought with it the full realization that an argument was heading her way, sailing home in two days' time. She tried to stay busy to stifle the dread. Maybe there would come the favorable resolution Fishlegs promised--but she did not want to suffer the heartache and pain to earn it. Hiccup was not often angry. Even rarer still was his fleeting foul moods directed at her. She's rather take a dozen blows to the gut than see those green eyes of his glare back at her with bitterness.

The prospect was enough to drive her mad, and she needed a steady stream of distraction.

She spent the next couple of days alternating between flying Stormfly in the mornings and flying Toothless in the evenings; Gobber straightened out the bent metal rod of Toothless's fin in no time at all. She did not mind caring for the two dragons, because it was a valid excuse to keep her out of the house, her mind of more pleasant things. Nobody questioned her with the Night Fury. In fact, the whispers and sidelong glances decreased when she was with her boyfriend's dragon. Astrid caring for Toothless seemed to be more right with the world than leaving him in the care of Fishlegs. To be close to the Night Fury was to be as close to Hiccup as she could get in his absence. Toothless also seemed fond of the arrangement, nothing but smiles and boundless energy for her. She wondered if he would put in a good word for her with Hiccup.

But alas, when she was not with a dragon, her mother kept her occupied with chores. That afternoon, she was hanging the laundry in near the hearth to dry as her mother boiled carrots, potatoes, and onions for the lamb her father was roasting over the fire behind the house. Meat could not be left unattended for long, lest Terrible Terrors make off with it. Sneaky was particularly skilled in this brand of thievery. Her father always had some choice words.

She had just poked her head outside to check on the lamb roast at her mother's behest, when a long, low, horn bellowed over the village.

"Chief Stoick is back!" she heard people call out. "They've all come back from Helgafell!"

Astrid froze. She met her father's eye. He stared back at her, knowingly.

With a small nod of his head, he told her, "Go on."

She spun on her heel and took off toward the docks, heart racing. Her cloak was left hanging on its peg by the door, but she did not notice the cold. People stood, waving at the ship as it pulled in, and Astrid weaved around them. She stopped short of running out ahead, slowing down to remain among the first row of onlookers.

Spitelout was there to catch the thick ropes thrown over the side. He and Silent Sven worked together to secure the mooring. Gobber and a couple of other able-bodied men received the items that were being unloaded and handed off to them: tents and the remaining rations, most likely. Perhaps even some exotic goods procured by trade?

Astrid imagined what might be found at Helgafell frozen shores: furs, metals, weapons, and wines--all things could promise a fun time during a harsh Norse winter.

Then Stoick disembarked, followed by Hiccup, and all daydreaming evaporated. Spitelout and Gobber pushed themselves to the forefront of the crowd and engaged the Chief in talk of festival preparations at once--what had already been accomplished and what was left to do. Hiccup had barely taken a step before he was rushed by a group of children: the newest of dragon-riders from that year's Selection ceremony--all excitedly shouting over each other about tricks they had learned, and new skills acquired. Hiccup smiled as they tugged on his cloak and his hands, all vying for his attention.

"Wow, really?" he said above the noise, to no particular child. "You'll have to show me."

The gaggle of his adoring, miniature fans all continued to talk at him unintelligibly, until someone called out," Night Fury!"

The mob of small dragon riders scattered with shrieks as a big black, scaly mass tackled Hiccup flat, onto the dock. Stoick, Spitelout, and Gobber reflexively stepped aside without as much as a hitch in their conversation. Toothless was all wiggles and aggressive nuzzling as Hiccup tried to sit up and catch the breath knocked out of him.

"Toothless! Toothless! Stop!" he insisted between laughs, trying to push the enthusiastic dragon out of his face, if only for a moment to collect himself. "For Odin's sake!"

As he sat up, the dragon let out a groan and rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. The children giggled at his antics.

"Oh! Is this why you missed me?" Hiccup teased, scratching Toothless's throat before moving over his chest. He adopted a tone reminiscent of how one might speak to a baby. "This is really why you missed me, huh?"

Toothless's tongue flopped out of the corner of his mouth and one of his hind legs kicked in delight.

"He really did miss you," Astrid spoke up, finally. She smiled despite their fighting. Her boyfriend's relationship with his dragon was endearing and infectious.

Hiccup glanced up, startled. His face faltered, and he scrambled to his feet. "Astrid! I, uh...I didn't see you there."

"Well, it is kind of hard to see anything else when Toothless demands attention."

He wouldn't meet her gaze. "Yeah. Right."

The uncomfortable silence that settled between them was disturbed only by a few sparse snow flurries, and the creak of the dock beneath Toothless as the dragon rolled onto his feet.

"I got your letter." Hiccup said, and Astrid felt the anxious twist in her gut. His Night Fury nudged him in the elbow, demanding his attention.

Facing him had not been so agonizing since that night on Dragon Island when they both were at their limit and had nothing to lose--that argument had a desirable ending. Perhaps, with the proper time and free of distractions, they might go two-for-two.

"Look," she began; and now she was the one who could not quite look him in the eye, "We need to talk. Badly. We've been open with each other before, and--"

"Are you guys fighting?" one of the children spoke up, loud and insistent.

Astrid gave a small start; she forgot they were there and desperately wished they weren't. Now, she was all too aware of the many eyes on them both, with rapt attention for a conflict they could not possibly understand. She frowned, and seized the rude child's helmet from his head, flinging it down the dock so he had to chase after it.

"Heeey!" some of the other kids obnoxiously cried.

When Astrid turned back to Hiccup, smug, he had already climbed into his saddle. Toothless unfurled his wings.

"Hiccup, wait!" she pleaded.

But he either had not heard her over the rush of his dragon taking flight, or at that moment, mending the hurt was not his priority. Either possibility left her standing there, watching her boyfriend and his dragon disappear into the low-hanging, dreary clouds as if she had not sought him out at all. The children wandered off, disappointed and suddenly uninterested in whatever transpired between lovers--boring and unknown things the future held for them too, but far beyond their capacity to care.

The wind picked up and the delicate snowflakes tumbled and twirled with renewed fervor. A shiver rattled Astrid down to her bones, and she held tightly to herself, painfully aware of just had cold it had become.

#hiccstrid #hiccstrid fic #affairs au #long fic

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