#*gesturing to them* CODEPENDENCY | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ruoshik0 · 8 months ago

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DP x DC: The al Ghul twins but with a twist!

Danyal al Ghul was- is a phenomenal actor. Always have been.

He was one of the best in the league for infiltration and espionage. None can deny that.

Along with his twin, Damian- whose skill sets are the complete opposite, they made for a terrifying pair of twins.

Ra's al Ghul saw that. He would have been a fool not to. The heir and his spare were talented in a completely different way.

So much so that Ra's decided to team them up. In the spotlight, Damian- the heir- would fight with raw strength and brutal power whilst Danyal- the spare- would strike from the shadows with amazing efficiency.

However, as much as they are better together, the twins must learn to be independent. To better themselves by being alone.

Relying on another encourages codependency after all.

And Ra's did not want such a pathetic thing to be a bigger problem than it is now.

So, he sent the spare to learn more about the Lazarus waters. A long term mission of infiltration and espionage. And while the League did not do such missions, he needed to learn more about the waters and it's properties to make better use of it. And simply forcing the two scientists to spill everything may result in a less than favorable outcome. Learning from the inside is better, really.

And whilst Danyal was away, he would further along Damian's training.

It was a good plan. Two birds with one stone.

And when Danyal arrived at his destination, he was a little worse for wear. Torn and dirty clothes, messy hair and acted beyond his years. He was in the alley right next to the Fentons' house when they first found him. They decided letting him spend a few days in their home to get ahold of a normal life before sending Danyal to the CPS was a good idea.

They quickly got attached to the cute and soft child beneath the always suspicious and hesitant orphan.

The Fentons immediately adopted him after deciding he would stay.

His name is now Daniel James Fenton.

Daniel was an average kid who acted like how you would expect an orphan who had lived on the streets for a long time.

His academic performance is above average in comparison to the other kids.

Even without the Fenton blood running through his veins, Daniel fit right in with the weird family.

As stated before, Danyal al Ghul is a phenomenal actor.

When he first arrived, he engineered a situation in which the scientists had no other choice than to take him in for a time.

When he was successful, he didn't stop to celebrate. Danyal immediately started working on making them warm up to him. Little gestures such as a hesitant hug and following them around like a little duckling worked like charms. Little giggles here and a little harmless prank there worked too.

Those psychology books and being near civilians more often helped him with these things. As well as the specialized training from the League.

When the child named Jasmine had fallen in his trap, it was easy to get the parents in too.

After getting adopted, although not before getting him a legal identity, he immediately started working who exactly he wanted Daniel to be and how people saw him.

A scared little child who jumps at any loud noises and a big interest in space and stars. Mostly because Danyal himself was a big space nerd and it's hard to fake enough interest to seem real.

Then he had gotten himself friends. A quaint life in a quaint town meant having less than 5 friends.

Samantha Manson and Tucker Foley were both viewed as weird and should be avoided. The new kid in town has befriended both and thus should be avoided by association.

He did not want to deal with even more obnoxious kids.

Danyal had lived a fake life with a fake personality. He trained whenever he can, and helped in the lab other times.

Weekly written reports to the League.

And learn as much as he can.

That was then. Now, Danny was no longer as alive as he was. And while it's a nuisance, his ghostly powers brought a lot of advantage.

When he first became Phantom, he fought ghosts. Acted like the wimpy yet still brave Danny in front of his friends.

Every few days, he would complain about the vigilante life and every other day he would use make up to worsen his appearance. A little darker dark circles and messier nest of a hair.

And while Danyal got the hang of his new abilities in a few days, Danny took a few weeks.

He purposefully dropped his grades because Danny couldn't find the time to study and Danyal knew Sam and Tuck would get suspicious if his grades remained the same.

Weeks and weeks after, learning more about the Lazarus waters, ghosts, and it's properties at a faster rate than ever before, Danyal decided that his little engineering and sciencing hustle should end. And by that, he means he should end the mission. So he started working on the last phase of his plans.

(He got too attached. Oh Ancients, he got too attached. He wanted to stay there and actually live like a normal person. He wanted to but- but... what about his brother...? He had to leave. Leaving means more suffering for them. His... friends and family.

He is so gonna miss the cat and mouse chase with the Fentons. He is gonna miss everyone. He hopes everyone forgets him so that he can leave feeling a little better)

First step, making those who are in the know about Phantom, warm up to the idea of him leaving vigilantism behind.

Every few weeks, he would joke about quitting as Phantom. That turned into months and Danny started looking even worse than when he first became Phantom. Danny wouldn't have a future if he didn't study more. But he couldn't because of vigilantism. And the stress caught up to him.

16 year old Daniel James Fenton decided he should stop when he was finally convinced by his two friends and two sisters.

(He hated how much he engineered these situations)

And while Danyal knew Danny didn't have a future, Danny himself didn't and thus acted like it.

It was hard trying so hard to rebut his circle of people when he just wanted agree right then there. It all ended in a messy and teary situation Danyal would have liked to avoid altogether.

(His tears were real. He didn't want to admit that he was crying. Mourning his loss before it happened)

The things he does to stay character.

Phantom quit after loudly announcing he was moving to another place to haunt.

And Danny's grades slowly went up to what it used to be before the ghost nonsense. He was finally relaxing again.

He was anxious. Anxious to the point of tensing. His League training thrown put the window)

Few months after, Daniel James Fenton went missing with little to no clues as to why.

Everyone mourned him. His ghostly core was happy when he had caught a glimpse of his grave while he was... visiting, for a lack of a better word.

(Finally, he was being mourned. Because he did die. Death touched him and he didn't even have a grave before this)

Now Danyal al Ghul returned from his long term mission. He could finally be himself again.

(Somewhere along the way Danny had become Danyal's real personality)

The League of Assassins was exactly as he had first left it. There were a few very glaring issues though.

First, Damian isn't here. He had left. Left Danyal alone. It took quite the willpower to not go out and track wherever Damian had gone to.

Second, Ra's al Ghul wasn't here. Grandfather had died and his body was nowhere to be found.

Third, Mother was leading. While it is not that much of an issue, Danyal is to be the heir and shall by crowned the leader in a few weeks time. Which is a big issue. Mostly because he was supposed to be in the shadows. Danyal decided that he did not want to be in the limelight like his brother.

Plus, he was already the Eventual King of another dimension. A rather infinite one might he add.

Ugh, more responsibilities.

He decided that he would greet his brother on their seventeenth birthday. A little terrorizing never hurts anybody.

Till then, he'd have to train his ass off.

(He’d do just about anything stop himself from thinking about Amity Park and its residents)

Sigh...

#danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #dp crossover #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #???? i guess #damian al ghul #danyal al ghul #help i know nothing about LoA

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denwritesandcries · 1 year ago

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The Wilderness Wants Us To (Kiss) – YJS

Pairing: poly!yellowjackets x fem!reader

Summary: You have experienced all kinds of weirdness ever since the plane crashed months ago, so why the weirdest thing so far is it seems like all the girls are suddenly courting you?

Or, a series of kisses between you and your dear football team.

Word count: 4,6k.

Content: cursing, kisses, fluff, suggestive, angst if you blink, slightly dark, intoxication, the doomcoming, the wilderness but nobody has been eaten (yet).

Note: They’re all weirdos in a romantic, toxic and codependent way.

English is not my first language.

Your life has stagnated into a familiar routine since the plane crash. To clean. Hunt. Eat. Exist. Survive. Doing the same chores in the cabin, the usual hunting trip, seeing the same faces every day, not dying of hunger. Not dying of boredom.

Nothing really seems to change other than the cultish trends that your friends seem to be slowly embracing, so if something different happens, you notice it immediately.

Once is an incidence.

Two, it could be a coincidence, but there are no coincidences in the wilderness.

Three is a pattern. That exists in the wilderness.

And the fourth is proof that there is definitely something weird going on – if you even have a sense of what is normal or not –, something that you have no idea what it is, but you know it’s there.

There's something wrong with your teammates. I mean, there's something wrong with all of you, but that's different even for them.

The thing is that you, thinking that maybe it was just in your head, only realized that you weren't imagining anything after the fifth time it happened and now that you know you can't stop thinking about it. Events keep coming back to you from times when this has happened before and you never connected the pieces.

You didn't notice at first, of course you didn't. Physical affection was becoming more common and normal between all of you every day and also because it was Jackie, the captain of your team, and physical affection on Jackie's part was already completely normal even before the plane crashed. She liked to pat you on the shoulder and hug you goodbye after classes and parties – as if she hadn't spent the day barking orders at everyone during practice, but it's Jackie and you really like her a lot, so it's okay –, you could always see her clinging to Shauna's arm, if not hers, then whoever was closest to replace her for a few minutes. Jackie likes to touch and you know it.

Receiving affection from her is like second nature, so you don't even blink when, on yet another boring and lazy afternoon, you give Jackie her old walkman, now repaired and working, and get a kiss as a thank you.

It was a silly treat to make her smile, just because she seemed so sad lately that it made you sad too. She squeals loudly and excitedly, before wrapping her arms around your neck and placing a kiss on your cheek.

She immediately runs off somewhere saying she was going to test it and show it to Shauna, completely abandoning the task of pretending to chop wood so you can complete it.

You only process what just happened when you hear a giggling coming from nearby, because of course Jackie would kiss you in front of your younger colleagues. One of them points at your cheek provocatively and you lift a hand to your face to feel the texture of pink and shiny lipstick marking your skin. Of course, silly you not to assume that Jackie Taylor wouldn't stop wearing makeup just because of some plane crash.

Whatever, you thought, not bothering to clean the mark. Jackie is sweet. She does things like that all the time, obviously you wouldn't think there's anything weird about it. It wasn't even the first time she kissed you. Kisses on the cheek were a thing long before you left civilization.

You only wipe the stain from your face, in a short and hasty gesture, when you return to the cabin and Mari makes one of her smart comments about it, because there really was no big deal, but the provocation still makes you a little nervous.

(Jackie wears lipstick a lot more often after that, even though she's quickly running out of the only one she has left, but you don't say anything. It would be really weird to imply that you noticed her lips that much. Which you didn't do, no way.)

The second time it happens shouldn't have left you as perplexed as it did, after all everyone knew that Shauna Shipman was never far behind Jackie in the things she did, but it didn't pass through your head that she would kiss you. It was Shauna. Even though she was never rude, you weren't really close and it was embarrassing to admit that you found her a little intimidating. She had a tendency to stare in silence for a long time, which made you avoid conversations whenever you could.

Well, it wasn't a kiss-kiss since it wasn't actually on the mouth, but seeing as you weren't expecting it at all, it could have been. You're learning that reading Shauna is much more complicated than it seems, making it difficult to know if what awaits you is a punch, a bite, or – the most recent discovery – a kiss.

It happened because of the thing that seemed to drive your little society: meat. Because the food was almost running out and no matter what you and Natalie brought, it seemed like there would never be enough. And Shauna was hungry. Painfully hungry.

She always seemed to get hungry more quickly than the others, craving meat with an almost drunken need and you didn't quite understand why, even though you had noticed this detail some time ago. So when you and Nat are seen arriving back at the cabin carrying a deer, a big deer, Shauna practically runs up to the two of you, basically ripping the antler out of the blonde's hands and making you stumble to follow her back to the meat house.

You offer to help her just out of politeness and how rushed she seems, without expecting a positive response since it was common knowledge that Shauna preferred to work alone.

However, she nods her head enthusiastically as she hands you a knife and you swear you've never seen someone look so happy to slit an animal's throat alongside someone else.

When the task is done, you end up at the door with a full tray ready to be prepared for dinner back and Shauna is right behind you, with that same enthusiasm and silent yearning. It's a little unnerving, but at least she's not staring at the back of your head like she's trying to burn you like she usually does. You guessed any progress was welcome.

You just didn't expect it to progress to Shauna pulling you by the elbow to face her and tilting your face towards hers. You're so startled by the sudden touch that you only feel your face heat up as hot, wet lips meet the corner of your mouth when Shauna pulls away, taking the tray from your hands as if it weighed nothing and continuing on her way, muttering a quiet and embarrassed “thank you” over her shoulder.

You stood there like an idiot, feeling your bottom lip and part of your cheek tingle where she touched you just a moment before.

So Shauna kissed you. Okay. Nice. Maybe she was just very grateful and very hungry. Twice, coincidence. Nothing more than that.

Right?

(Shauna looks away from you when she's caught staring at that night, which never had happened, but you attribute her red face to the fact that you're sitting by the fire.)

The third time is the one that makes you go “okay, maybe that's a thing now,” because apparently the kisses have nothing to do with Jackie-Shauna or simply gratitude – at least not entirely – and much more to do with the fact that it's you.

Which actually doesn't make much sense. Van and Taissa are together, why would either of them feel the need to kiss someone else? Why would they both feel? And why you? It's true they haven't told anyone yet, but you know. It's a little hard not to notice when they both disappear at the same time into the forest or behind the cabin so often, but still. You don't kiss other people when you're committed. It's a principle, damn it.

Anyway, it's starting to get cold, you think there's just over two months left until winter arrives, maybe less, which makes tasks much more complicated and annoying to do. Especially when it comes to washing clothes.

Luck – Mari's damn shuffle – decided that you, Tai and Van would be the ones to do the laundry this time and the three of you dragged yourselfs grumbling and complaining to the lake, carrying piles of clothes in your arms.

Now, of all the things you have to do around the cabin, scrubbing clothes in cold running water is probably the one you hate the most. Cold, wrinkled hands, chills running down your spine, ew. The fact that Van and Tai went with you makes things at least a little less boring, with the redhead happily filling the silence, her silly jokes making the task almost bearable to accomplish. Almost.

“Ugh,” You groan for what feels like the thousandth time in the last hour, “We’re gonna end up catching a cold like this.”

“You definitely will, if you keep annoying me like this,” Tai replies, swinging her arm towards you, cold water splashing in your arms, “I'm gonna push your dramatic ass into the river, I'm warning you.”

The drops make another chill run through your body, so just for the audacity, you straighten up and let your body fall against hers with the most done expression you can muster in a few seconds.

Tai screams your name indignantly when a wet t-shirt slips out of her hands and falls straight to the ground, but you don't pay much attention when lets out a loud and exaggeratedly long sigh, hearing Van’s laugh as she watches the scene.

And Van, wonderful, too sweet for her own good, Van, decides to finally take pity on your little show – maybe you really were spending too much time with Jackie – and finish what you had left of your part of the pile and you would definitely have jumped in her arms and kissed her for it, if you weren't, you know, in front of her girlfriend.

It turns out that blinking your eyes and sighing doesn't work as well for you as it does for Jackie, because as soon as you get ready to go back, bending down to pick up the heavy basket full of clothes, a familiar hand pushes your chest.

“Shit, Taissa!”

“I said I would do it, didn’t I?” She stands in front of you, hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised as she watches your form lying, shaking and soaking wet at the river's edge.

Van's laugh doesn't bring you that rush of happiness from moments before, since now you're sure that she only decided to help you because she knew what Tai was going to do anyway. That little shit.

You walk past them with the basket in your hands, a trail of water in your wake and a frown on your face.

The way back is completely silent, except for the sound of your fast breathing in your rush to get there and warm up and the girls' requests for you not to get upset over a silly joke. Whatever. You won't say a word to them no matter what they do.

“Oh, come on,” Van wraps an arm around your neck, “We didn’t want to make you so upset, right Tai?”

Tai moves closer, her shoulder brushing against yours, but you remain quiet regardless, even if your willpower to remain upset wanes a little.

“Right” she agrees, sounding very unconvincing, “What can we do to make it up to you?”

“We are so sorry,” Van reiterates, blinking innocently.

Your only response is a noise from your throat that sounds a lot like a petulant mumble and you feel the look they exchange over your shoulder.

And then Van's arm brings you closer and there are lips on either side of your neck. You freeze, breath hitches.

It's not fast like the other ones, but long and drawn out as if it's trying to prove you. A shiver runs down your spine and the baby hairs on the back of your neck stand up, even though you swear it's just because your skin is still damp from the fall. You can feel Van's hair tickling your face and Tai's breath is warm against your chin.

You blink and Van is walking away with a wolfish smile on her lips, whistling absentmindedly and Taissa has the basket you were carrying in her own arms.

“Aren’t you coming?” Van turns when she notices you still standing and Tai arches an eyebrow, as if to say 'so?' and you stumble after them.

“...Sure, whatever!” You stutter, face as red as your goalie’s hair, “But if I get sick, that’s on you!”

“You won’t!”

You return to the cabin with your head down, but for a completely different reason this time. You feel weird, embarrassed, even with your friends walking calmly beside you. It feels weird to just call them friends too.

(Three times – or was it four? It's a pattern. Definitely a pattern.)

You do, in fact, get sick and the fifth time feels more like a fever dream than anything.

Seriously. You survive a plane crash without any serious injuries, but a flu is what knocks you out. You end up in the attic, with a heavy chest, incessant sneezing and a high fever that won't let you sleep.

And of course, Misty Quigley hovering over you like a hawk.

In fact, all your friends seem to be hovering over you in an overprotective way these days, which might not be strange considering the situation, but other people in the group have gotten sick before, including the younger ones, and none of them have reacted like this.

Van and Tai spent the entire time staring like kicked puppies from across the room until Misty kicked them both downstairs so you could try to get some sleep. It wasn't doing much good, but the momentary tranquility was really appreciated.

Misty has been with you the whole time since your fever started and you let her ramble happily while she plays nurse, putting damp cloths on your forehead and helping you drink hot tea, even though you insist you're well enough to do so. She seems very happy to be helpful, so you let her spoil you as much as she wants.

You turn over on the cold floor, wrapping the blankets tighter around you as you sneeze again and Misty sits next to you, but there's nothing she can do at the moment to make you better, so she stays still, looking nervous and pushing her glasses on the tip of the nose with her fingers.

You think about how she seemed to have looked with longing and something that might have been envy when Jackie ran her hand through your hair in the morning before going outside with Shauna after leaving you another blanket. She looked the same when Lottie rubbed your shoulder gently and spent time by your side throughout the afternoon, leaving what appeared to be a half-cut crystal near where your head rested. It's just like she wanted something, but didn't know what or if she could do it. You don't know exactly what too.

Your ears ring and you think about your teammates, your friends and kisses. Four kisses on three occasions. Things that didn't happen before, but apparently happen now and that follow a strange pattern. You wonder who will be next to follow it.

You do what you do next in the fog of sleep and fever, because you'll never be able to actually sleep if you don't have a proper place to rest your head. It has nothing to do with the possibility opened in your last thought.

Her legs are soft under the blue and yellow shorts she wears when you crawl around and rest your head on them and it's certainly much more comfortable than the floor.

“Talk,” You mumble, clearing your throat at the hoarse voice.

“What?” She squeaks and you can tell it caught her in surprise by the way her eyes roam over your form, unsure of what she just heard and what's going on.

Misty is clearly alarmed, arms raised above her body as if she's afraid to touch you, her glasses falling onto the tip of her nose again as she looks down to face you, blonde curls falling across her face.

“What– What are you doing?” She asks.

“Weren’t you saying something about Plato?” You hold back a yawn as you fix yourself on her lap, ignoring her question completely, “Come on, keep going.”

She seems to ponder for a second, jaw dropped in confusion, but you don't move, so she picks up where you assume she left off. After a few minutes listening with your eyes closed, you feel her soft hand rest hesitantly on your back, running her fingers up and down when you don't protest.

You let out a sigh when you finally manage to relax, her voice calming the ringing in your ears a little and when you squint your eyes, Misty seems perfectly satisfied.

That's it, you think, that's what she wanted then.

Your body still has sporadic chills, but you feel like falling asleep, having lost track of how much time has passed with Misty talking to the walls about whoever the philosopher of the moment is. Your head feels heavy, you can barely keep your eyes open. It's good not to be alone when you're like this.

You're not sure whether or not you imagine the cold lips against your warm forehead when you sleep, but it counts as success for your little test. Five.

(You only wake up the next morning, feeling much better and more energetic, even without remembering a single word you said to Misty, just having fallen asleep on her lap for a while. The way she blushes and laughs after that, staring and following you around whenever she can, says that she remembers it very well. Coach Ben gives you a look full of sympathy when he sees her clinging to your arm, which you don't quite understand.)

The sixth time happens in the middle of the forest. It's windy, sun almost down, with Natalie walking beside you. It's the most peaceful moment you've had in your life in weeks, and it's also the moment you realize that maybe there's something wrong with you as much as the rest of the team.

Nat is talking, complaining about how Travis – the closest thing she'll have to a boyfriend in this place – is mad at her. He won't hunt or talk to her, much less touch her.

That's why you're following her, actually, the hunting part. You don't have much sense of your place in the group compared to the others, doing a little bit of everything when necessary, but Natalie seems to enjoy your company on these occasions, even if your aim with the rifle isn't as good as hers.

You spend so much time listening to her complain about mundane things like condoms and the flask of old booze she found in dead-mummified-guy's stuff that you feel the absurd urge to laugh. It's so strangely normal – except for the mummy part, but still.

Maybe that was what made you open your mouth after minutes of silence and broken snorts:

“So he can't get it up once and now he's mad at you? Damn Nat, if you need someone to make out that badly then I could help you with that.”

It comes out half as a mockery, half as truth, because that's what you do. Help people, fix things. But it's sarcastic, because it's just a stupid idea for Natalie to even consider.

Except she suddenly goes quiet and when you turn your head, she's looking at you. Eyes half-closed, mouth open, wanting.

When she kisses you, you're already waiting, longing for it, arms wrapping around you and pressing your body against the nearest tree. You think about how she was the only one who had the courage to chase your lips, to take what she really wanted.

The only thing you can feel is the weight of Nat's hands – cold, always so cold, even though winter is still a while away – on your hips, one sliding up your back to grasp the hair at the back of your neck, lips parting and tongue finding yours almost desperately and then you can't think about anything else but her. Natalie, who is much stronger than she looks and who also holds her own to stay sane in this place much better than anyone could imagine. Natalie, the bane of your existence and also your best friend. Natalie, who kisses like she hunts: with all the confidence her reputation demands.

If you close your eyes tightly and try hard, you can almost pretend you're at one of Lottie or Jeff's parties, listening to your friend complain about a stupid boyfriend, getting euphoric because she likes you better than the said stupid boyfriend.

And then she's pulling away, mouth swollen and hair completely messed up from where your hands had been placed. The moment ends and you come back to reality, picking up the rifle from where it was lying on the grass and looking around uncertainly. You guys didn't catch anything today. Food is running out.

You return to the cabin in complete silence.

(You don't see Natalie trying to talk to Travis after this, nor him with her, but you don't think she cares.)

You stopped counting after that, kisses and touches becoming a blur in your mind as the days pass and your worry increases. Whatever this is seems less important than what's happening at the moment: little food, few coats, winter approaching, a fucking baby coming.

However, it all comes back to them anyway, when you finally realize that you were right all along, that there really was something wrong with all of you and everything goes south quickly when someone decides to put mushrooms in the food.

It was an unspoken knowledge between you that the Yellowjackets would never be able to have a proper homecoming, so when the idea of a doomcoming came up in the conversation, even as a bad joke, you were one of the first to agree to it. A bittersweet goodbye sounded better than nothing.

You just didn't expect everyone to end up on drugs and acting like they were in some kind of cult. What did you miss that got you all to this point?

There is someone howling in the forest. Someone, not an animal. Or maybe they really were animals, given the way they're all chasing you now.

Just a moment ago you were genuinely enjoying the night, dancing with Ravi to Lottie's humming music and drinking fermented punch for who knows how long, even with a small feeling of being watched sent shivers down your spine at times. Then there was no sign of Ravi or Travis – nor Coach Ben, but he escaped somewhere in the woods with Natalie's canteen in his hand the second Misty's back was turned – and things started to get... confusing after everyone helped themselves to some stew.

Now there's someone howling in the forest and your head is spinning, hurried footsteps sound behind you as you end up back in front of the cabin after running in circles, a rabbit cornered by an entire pack.

Leaves are stuck in your hair, the hem of your dress is torn and covered in dirt, and you're sure you scraped one of your knees while running. There are also a bunch of dilated pupils focused on you.

Shauna is the first to approach, which surprises you so much that it gives the others time to do the same, big, sad, hazy brown eyes seeming to see deep into your soul.

“Why do you keep running away from us?” she asks, a pout that you can't tell if it's fake or not formed on her face, sliding a hand gently up your arm to your waist pulling you close and keeping her grip tight.

Jackie has her head cocked to the side and a smile painted red rather than pale pink like the first. She looks a little more composed than you'd expect, standing next to Shauna and bouncing in her step expectantly.

That was all it took to realize that you couldn't pull away even if you wanted to, melting against the scalding skin as if you had no problem getting burned.

“I'm not. I just… I don’t know what’s going on.”

The words came out slow and slurred on your tongue as if you didn't know exactly what you were referring to. This whole crazy night? Absolutely, but there are also so many other moments not recognized before.

You find yourself guided back to the cabin when you hear Lottie's voice in the background and Misty taking your hand to guide you. It all ends up there anyway.

You're unsure when you're placed in the pile of blankets and sheets on the floor, the lit fireplace warms the room like never before and there seem to be hands everywhere when Natalie enters your field of vision.

“I think you're a little too high right now, hun,” Nat scoffs, as if she's amused by your slowness.

You feel a laugh grow in your chest though you don't mean to, “You– you think so?”

“Yep,” she clicks her tongue, “The mushrooms hit hard.”

“Mushrooms!?” You let out a squeak of surprise when you're suddenly pulled back against someone's front, recognizing Taissa's nails scratching your back through your dress.

“'M sorry." Misty mutters disjointedly, tracing the lines of your palm like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

“What–”

You stop mid-sentence when you make a sound in the back of your throat as you feel Van's teeth graze the junction of your shoulder and neck, bright green eyes and a wolfish smile on her recently healed face. You knew right away who the hell was howling.

“Oh, come on,” Van echoes with the same provocation from the day in the lake, “Don't tell me you're afraid of It.”

“It?” Your breath hitches when a hand guides your head up and there she is.

Lottie Matthews looking down at you, an antler crown on her head that makes you slack-jawed and hazy looking, looking completely divine and you hesitate when you realize that the entire team has gathered around you, as if they were waiting for something. What the fuck is going on?

Lottie leans down to your level, face dangerously close to you, and you swallow hard when your eyes settle on her lips. She never kissed you, not like the others, something that always left a doubt in your head; an almost embarrassing curiosity to know what it would be like.

She meets your eyes with a malicious gleam, like she knows exactly what you're thinking and leans in a little more and just as you close your eyes to meet hers, hunger lips stray to your jaw.

“Lottie–” you squirm and the hands on your hips hold you tighter.

Nat silences you, running her fingers through your face provocatively while Lottie trails kisses down your neck, working her way down. Everything seems too stuffy, like you're melting at their touch.

“It's okay.” She reassures, cold, chapped lips finding your chest, teeth scraping the skin, “It wants us to, can't you feel It?”

You can't feel it, not really, you never understood this strange connection everyone seemed to feel with the wilderness that you didn't, but there are gentle hands caressing you, making you sink deeper and deeper and Lottie is finally kissing you, just like you wanted; lips stopping right over your heart, as if she wanted to devour it.

“Yeah," you say, “I feel it.”

You're sure the cabin is on fire, but you're the only one who's burning.

#yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews x reader #natalie scatorccio x reader #van palmer x reader #taissa turner x reader #misty quigley x reader #shauna shipman x reader #jackie taylor x reader #nat scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets show #denwrites

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the-oblivious-writer · 2 months ago

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With Her Die |8|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Eight: Mind Over Matter

warnings: mental health struggles (anxiety, depression, medication references), parental abandonment/rejection, references to death, more of shauna and reader's unhealthy codependency, suicidal ideation undertones, and cult-like/supernatural elements.

note(s): i still can't believe i've been confusing h and s for each other, smh.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The fever comes on suddenly, like most things in the wilderness. One moment you're helping to stack firewood outside the cabin, the next your vision blurs and the world tilts sideways. You don't remember hitting the ground, just the confused chorus of voices above you and the sensation of being carried.

"She's burning up," someone says. Shauna, you think. Her voice always carries that edge of controlled panic when it comes to you.

Cool hands press against your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. The world fades in and out, dreamlike and disjointed.

"Could be anything out here," Misty's clinical tone cuts through the fog. "Infection, some kind of parasite, plant toxin..."

"Just help her," Shauna snaps, and you feel her fingers tighten around yours.

You try to respond, to reassure her that you're fine, but your tongue feels swollen, your thoughts scattered like leaves in a windstorm. The ceiling of the cabin swims above you, wooden beams blending and separating in nauseating patterns.

"We need to keep her temperature down," Tai's voice, practical and measured.

Someone drapes something cool and damp across your forehead. You close your eyes against the spinning room and slip into darkness.

"I can't do this anymore."

Your mother's voice filters through the thin wall of your bedroom. You're thirteen, curled up on your bed with headphones on, but not playing any music. You've learned it's easier to hear them this way – they think you can't, so they speak freely.

"She's just going through a phase." Your father sounds tired, defeated before the argument's even begun.

"A phase? She's been like this for years. The anxiety, the mood swings, the constant need for reassurance. I can't breathe in my own house without worrying about how she'll interpret it."

You pull your knees tighter to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller, less substantial. Less of a burden.

"The medication should start working soon—"

"It's been three months. Three different prescriptions. Nothing changes."

There's a long silence, and you hold your breath, straining to hear.

"What exactly are you saying?" Your father's voice has gone quiet, dangerous.

"I'm saying I need a break. I'm saying she's your problem now."

The words land like physical blows. Your problem. Your problem. Your problem.

"She's not a problem. She's our daughter."

"Then why does it feel like I'm drowning every time I look at her?"

You wake with a gasp, sweat-soaked and disoriented. Shauna's face swims into view above you, her eyes wide with concern.

"Hey, hey," she soothes, brushing damp hair from your forehead. "You're okay. You're with me."

"My mom," you mumble, the words feeling strange and disconnected from your mouth.

Shauna's brow furrows. "What about her?"

But you're already slipping away again, the cabin dissolving around you like sugar in rain.

The fever dreams come in waves, memories and nightmares blending together until you can't tell what's real and what isn't. Sometimes you surface long enough to register snippets of reality – Misty changing the cloth on your forehead, Tai arguing with someone in the corner, Van bringing in fresh water.

Shauna remains a constant, her presence anchoring you when you drift too far. You catch glimpses of her – sleeping awkwardly in a chair beside your makeshift bed, her hand never leaving yours; arguing fiercely with someone while gesturing toward you; her pregnant belly a curved shield between you and the rest of the world.

In your more lucid moments, you notice the strain on her face, the dark circles under her eyes. You try to tell her to rest, that you'll be fine, but the words come out jumbled and strange.

"I'm not going anywhere," she always answers, as if she can understand you perfectly.

The fever spikes on the third night, and the hallucinations intensify.

You're standing in the clearing outside the cabin, snow falling gently around you. Jackie stands a few feet away, her blonde hair untouched by the frost that covers her eyelashes and lips.

"Why won't you join me?" she asks, her breath not fogging in the cold air. "Don't you love me anymore?"

"I can't," you try to explain, but your voice sounds wrong, distant.

"Everyone leaves eventually," Jackie says with a sad smile. "Even Shauna will. She'll choose the baby over you. You know that, right?"

You shake your head, tears freezing on your cheeks. "She wouldn't."

"Just like your mom chose herself over you?" Jackie's eyes are sympathetic but unrelenting. "It's what people do. They leave."

"Not her," you insist, but uncertainty creeps in like frost, numbing your certainty.

"Look," Jackie points behind you.

You turn to see Shauna walking away, her back to you, getting smaller with each step.

"Shauna!" you call, but no sound comes out. "Shauna, wait!"

You try to run after her, but your feet are rooted to the ground. One by one, the others appear, walking past you to follow Shauna – Tai, Van, Akilah, Misty, Travis, Javi, Nat. None of them look at you. None of them stop.

"Everyone leaves," Jackie repeats, suddenly beside you. Her cold hand slips into yours. "But I'll stay. I'll always stay."

"—not letting you near her!" Shauna's voice cuts through the nightmare, sharp and defensive.

"She's getting worse," another voice argues – Lottie. "I can help."

"Like you helped Jackie?" Shauna's tone is venomous. "No fucking way."

"That was different. The wilderness wanted Jackie."

"And what does it want from her? Another sacrifice?"

You force your eyes open, the effort monumental. The cabin comes into blurry focus – Shauna standing at the foot of your bed, her body positioned protectively between you and Lottie, who hovers near the door with what looks like a bundle of herbs in her hands.

"I've seen this in my dreams," Lottie says, her voice taking on that distant quality that makes everyone uneasy. "The sickness is more than physical. It's in her mind, in her heart."

"Get out," Shauna hisses.

"Ask her about the pills that never worked," Lottie continues, undeterred. "Ask her about her mother walking away. Ask her why she sees Jackie everywhere."

The room goes silent. You feel a chill that has nothing to do with your fever.

"What did you say?" Shauna's voice has dropped dangerously low.

Lottie's eyes drift to you, and you realize with a start that she knows you're awake. "The wilderness shows me things. Her past. Her fears." She takes a step forward. "She's afraid you'll leave too. Just like everyone else."

Shauna moves so quickly you barely register it – one moment she's at the foot of the bed, the next she's got Lottie pinned against the wall, forearm pressed to her throat.

"Get. Out." Each word is punctuated with barely controlled rage. "If you come near her again, I swear to god, Lottie—"

"What's going on?" Tai appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with a quick, assessing gaze.

"Get her out of here," Shauna demands, not releasing Lottie.

Tai steps forward, placing a calm hand on Shauna's shoulder. "Let her go. She's not worth it."

For a moment, you think Shauna might refuse. Then, slowly, she lowers her arm. Lottie doesn't cower or retreat; she simply looks at Shauna with something like pity.

"She needs more than you can give her," Lottie says quietly. "The wilderness knows what she needs."

"Lottie, enough," Tai interrupts, stepping between them. "Leave. Now."

With one last meaningful look at you, Lottie places the bundle of herbs on a nearby table and exits. The tension in the room lingers like smoke.

Tai turns to Shauna, voice low. "You need to get some sleep. You're not helping her by running yourself into the ground."

"I'm fine," Shauna insists, but even from your fevered state, you can see she's swaying slightly on her feet.

"Shauna," Tai's voice gentles. "The baby. Think about the baby."

Something in Shauna seems to crumple at that. She glances back at you, conflict written across her features.

"I'll stay with her," Tai promises. "If anything changes, I'll get you immediately."

After a long moment, Shauna nods. She moves to your side, leaning down to press her lips to your forehead. "I'll be right in the next room," she whispers, as if she knows you're listening. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

You want to reach for her, to tell her you heard everything, but your body feels impossibly heavy. You manage only to brush your fingers against hers before she pulls away.

As Shauna leaves reluctantly, Tai settles into the chair beside you. You let your eyes close again, exhaustion pulling you under.

"These should help with the mood swings and anxiety," Dr. Winters says, scribbling on a prescription pad. "But I want to see you back in three weeks to assess how they're working."

You stare at the white paper she hands you, not really seeing it. This is the third medication she's prescribed in as many months. The first made you feel like a zombie, moving through the world wrapped in cotton. The second gave you headaches so intense you couldn't get out of bed.

"What if these don't work either?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

Dr. Winters offers a professional smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Let's stay positive. Finding the right medication can take time."

Time. Everyone keeps telling you to give it time. But how much time do you have before your mother decides you're too much work, too much trouble? Before the strain you're putting on your parents' marriage snaps it completely?

"I think we're also going to increase your therapy sessions to twice a week," Dr. Winters continues, already making notes in your file. "How does that sound?"

Like another burden. Another expense. Another reason for your mother to look at you with that mixture of disappointment and resentment.

"Fine," you say, because what else can you say?

Dr. Winters pats your knee in what's meant to be a comforting gesture. "You're doing great. These things don't fix themselves overnight."

But some things never fix themselves at all.

The fourth day of fever brings a kind of clarity, albeit a distorted one. You drift in and out of consciousness, but the hallucinations take on a different quality – less nightmarish, more contemplative. You see your mother walking away, but this time, you don't try to follow. You see Jackie standing at the edge of the forest, but you don't reach for her.

Instead, you watch as Shauna moves around the cabin, tending to you with a singular focus that borders on obsession. Even in your fever-addled state, you can see how the others look at her – with concern, with wariness.

"You need to eat something," Nat says during one of her visits, placing a hand on Shauna's shoulder.

"Later," Shauna dismisses, not looking up from where she's wringing out a cloth in a basin of water.

"The baby—"

"Is fine." Shauna's tone makes it clear the subject is closed.

Nat exchanges a glance with Tai, who shrugs helplessly from her position near the window.

"This isn't healthy, Shauna," Nat tries again. "For either of you."

Shauna finally looks up, her eyes hard. "None of this is healthy, Nat. None of it. But it's what we have."

There's something in her voice – a razor's edge of desperation – that makes Nat back down. She sighs, placing a small bundle wrapped in leaves next to the bed.

"Travis caught a rabbit. Make sure she gets some broth at least."

After Nat leaves, Shauna sits beside you, her hand finding yours as it always does. You manage to squeeze her fingers weakly, and her entire face transforms with relief.

"Hey," she says softly, leaning closer. "You with me?"

"Always," you rasp, your throat raw from disuse.

A small, genuine smile breaks across her face. "There you are." She brings your hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "You had me worried."

"Heard Lottie," you manage, each word an effort. "What she said."

Shauna's expression darkens. "Lottie doesn't know shit."

"She knew about my mom. The medication."

Shauna goes still, her eyes searching yours. "Was she right? About your mom leaving?"

You nod weakly, not trusting your voice.

Something fierce and protective crosses Shauna's face. She leans forward, her forehead resting against yours despite the sweat and fever. "I won't leave," she whispers fiercely. "Not ever. Do you understand me? Not ever."

The conviction in her voice pierces through the fever fog, anchoring you to this moment, to her. You believe her, not because it's rational or because promises mean anything in this place of death and survival, but because Shauna has remade herself around your existence just as you have remade yourself around hers.

"The baby," you whisper, echoing everyone else's concern.

"Is part of us," Shauna replies without hesitation. "Not separate. Part of us."

The certainty in her voice should be comforting, but something in you recognizes the dangerous edge to it. This isn't healthy – this fusion of identities, this consuming need. But in the wilderness, health is a luxury none of you can afford.

"Rest," Shauna urges, stroking your hair back from your forehead. "I'll be right here."

As you drift off again, you think about Lottie's words – that the wilderness knows what you need. Perhaps it does. Perhaps this fever is a kind of burning away, stripping you down to what matters.

Or perhaps it's just another way the wilderness is trying to claim you, the way it claimed Jackie.

#shauna shipman x you #shauna shipman x reader #shauna yellowjackets #shauna shipman #jackie taylor x you #jackie taylor x y/n #jackie taylor x reader #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets

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g3ths3man3 · 1 year ago

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Sleep Token HC: being in a relationship with vessel

Hello, I hope you like my final HC for Ves. Fluff elements with highly NSFW ideas. 🤠 I’m always open to HC requests as well 🤭

Vessel, vessel, vessel—where do we begin?

Vessel the bf that is so deeply profoundly in love with you

If he could he’d rip his heart out of his chest for you and just hand it to you, he would.

His love languages would be words of affirmation and physical touch

He often battles with icky thoughts of himself, and you’re his ever radiant light in his bleakest days, so he would go out of his way to make sure it was known

Notes everywhere around your house, even a month and half into tour, you keep finding them

Praises in your medicine cabinet, crumbled pieces of paper at the bottom of your bags bc he know you won’t find them right away. Little Sonnets on your desk or on the fridge just so you know how much you are loved by him

Once you stopped finding them around the house or in your things, he’d start sending flowers or treats with love notes attached. Just because gestures especially if the night before you told him what a long week it was and knew you were struggling

You have so many of these notes, post its, scraps of paper you’ve compiled them in a scrapbook/binder and it’s on your bookshelf now

Texts for when you wake up reminding you to take your meds/vitamins, and to keep up with your water intake—voice memos too

Honestly he’d send you voice memos all the time like it was your own little podcast

Having black paint smeared on you because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself

Or would want you to apply his body paint before a show. Squirming underneath your fingers as you apply it because of your featherlight touches, listening to his quiet hisses when you’d go too low and gentle

“We’re not going to make it out of this dressing room if you keep doing that, love.”

Vessel would love to be big spoon, having you tucked underneath him or your back against his chest. Tracing patterns on your arms, hips, and thighs

He always loomed around you, everyone knowing if you were there, he was somewhere lurking around 95% of the time. He was a quietly protective man.

Coming up when you were talking with friends at an event, a comforting squeeze to the nape of your neck and a drink to quietly check on you

Wearing one of his extra robes backstage. It was so big and light, perfect for the hot and humid venues, a great blanket tbh where you could use the hood to cover your face

There’s a folder in his phone dedicated with pictures of you in many spaces of the venues they played just sleeping with his robe over you

Also the amount of videos of you two just frolicking around backstage, helping him with dance moves whilst in his robe that dragged on the floor, nearly tripping on it, when you wore it because it was so long on you

You liked to go into the crowd during the shows, enjoying the atmosphere of fans. Vessel would get a kick out of that, and you two would make it like a game almost

Instantly being able to spot you in the crowd through the lights and smoke. Always looking in your direction to lowkey serenade you and do little inconspicuous moves directed for you. In return, you’d run your hands through up and down your body swaying your hips to his voice. His own little siren in the sea of people

He loved watching you jam tf out with the fans so careless in your own world dancing with everyone or receiving bracelets from the fellow concertgoers (he would panic slightly watching you try to go into the mosh pit every time tho, one time he actually had to send a member of the crew to discreetly retrieve you.)

I imagine vessel being codependent af, and the simplest of tasks you were always requested to tag along

groceries, pharmacy trips, picking up takeout—he needed his emotional support person. Bribing and rewarding you with little treats to lure you with him thinking you’d say no how could you he’d hit you with the puppy dog eyes I just know he’s master at that

Staying up or waking up to listen to his late night rambles/dreams/conspiracies tucked under his arm while sharing a joint or bottle of spirits

Or sitting beside him as he wrote song lyrics, quietly running them by you for your opinion. You just blinking slowly in awe with what his mind created unable to provide the input he wanted

I thinks it’s a mutual consensus among us: Vessel loves to bite. He can’t help his carnal primal urge to. He does it with his friends, you… Everyone had a mark from him at this point

I don’t imagine him being into quickies (unless he was absolutely throbbing and thirsting for you) this man would take his time. Setting the pace all during the day teasing you

He loved nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, pressing kisses below your ear and whispering the filthiest things to get you flustered

“You look so good right now, I could take you right here.”

“I can’t wait to get you home and be deep inside you later, doll.” He would murmur, his hand squeezing your hip pulling you back into him feeling his already hardening length pressing in the soft flesh of your ass

Then when it finally happened, he goes at a nearly agonizing pace—he wanted to worship you. He didn’t like to fuck, he liked to make love.

intense and passionate, hips slowly rolling into you up til you were full of him. And he kept hitting that spot that made your eyes see stars and lulled to the back of your head.

He was not shy about how he felt, always moaning and praising you, but wasn’t too loud. Vocal fry as he quietly moaned about how good you made him feel

“You’re squeezing me so well,” rasping out, trying to look at where your bodies connected, resisting the urge to close his eyes

“Fuck, you look so pretty under me.”

He’s 100% a morning sex person

Not even letting either of you have a chance to get out of bed, one hand slipping down your front rubbing you softly while the other gripped your throat to turn your face so he could slowly kiss you—devouring your mouth with his—all in a blissed out half sleep stupor

Hehe, I woke up from my nap and chose violence horniness, sorry. Anyways thanks for the support and all the love on these 🫶🏻✨

#sleep token x reader #vessel #vessel sleep token x reader #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token imagine #sleep token headcanons #sleep token smut #vessel sleep token #vessel x reader #sleep token vessel #vessel smut #sleep token vessel smut #vessel x reader smut

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snowluvvie · 5 months ago

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₊˚⊹ ♡ . mutt!rafe cameron

MINORS DNI. | warnings — possessive behavior, toxic relationship, smut, oral (f. receiving), violence, blood, codependency, biting

mutt Rafe, who shows up on your front step with his hand in his mouth, chewing furiously at his fingernails, head hung because he had nowhere else to go

mutt Rafe, who offers to sleep on the couch in the most insincere, unconvincing tone of voice you’ve ever heard, and makes zero effort to hide his grin when you tell him he can just sleep in the bed

mutt Rafe who suddenly feels entitled to every inch of your house and everything you own just because you let him in. he eats whatever he wants out of your fridge, walks around shirtless, gets water all over your bathroom floor from shaking his hair out after he showers. you try to remind him that he’s a guest, but Rafe is too busy acting like it’s all his territory now

speaking of territory. you’re his and he won’t hear anything otherwise. he’s glued to you all the time when you guys are out—he doesn’t wanna do “his own thing” so he doesn’t see why you have to. why can’t he just be next to you all the time?

arm slung around your waist or over your shoulders, a cute back hug that turns into his bicep encircling your throat and squishing your cheeks together. he laughs like it’s a cute little show of affection, but you see the way his eyes dart around like he’s making sure other people see

bites you during sex, he can’t even help it. he gets so lost in rutting into you and proving he can make you cum harder than anyone else, when you’re in mating press with your legs over your head and he leans down to press open-mouthed kisses to your calves as he’s fucking you, they quickly turn into harsh bites that leave imprints that everyone will see tomorrow

when he’s about to go down to you, and he’s teasing you because of how much he loves to hear you beg, pressing kisses and licking stripes up your inner thigh, he also sneaks in a harsh bite. your thighs are so soft and inviting, how could he not? the way your back arches when you cry out in pain makes him so hard he gets dizzy

mutt Rafe whose bite pattern you’ve seen etched into your soft skin so often you could practically draw it from memory

mutt Rafe who sees a random guy bump into you and not say sorry at a decently crowded party and is immediately laying into him, dragging him outside by the back of his neck, kicking him until he’s crying. when you get outside and he hears you say “Rafe” in that stern voice, he stops immediately and leaves the guy on the ground to follow you as you leave

head hanging because he can tell you’re disappointed in him but he can’t figure out why. “I did it for you!” he’s following behind you and waving his hands around as he emphatically explains that “you don’t understand! I was protecting you, it was for you!”

if someone tries to hurt you, he has to put them down! that’s what you do when you love someone! you make the world a safer place for them, right? he assumes you just don’t understand what he’s saying, because he knows he’s right

you haven’t talked to him and you’re getting into bed in your cute little PJs, he looms in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, waiting. you roll your eyes and gesture for him to join you and he immediately clambers to get into bed next to you

you had planned on staying mad but when you feel his warm, hard body pushed up against you, his mouth against your cheek as he’s mouthing “don’t be mad” into your skin, your resolve shatters and you’re making out with him breathily. He keeps saying that—“c’mon, don’t be mad” through gasps and grunts the whole time he’s fucking you

mutt Rafe who eats more meat that anyone you’ve ever met in your life, yammering on about protein and iron intake. you don’t complain, though, when he brings home pounds of steak and cooks them for both of you

mutt Rafe who presents you with the most perfect medium rare steak, placing the plate down gently in your lap before he sits down next to you and subtly watches your face as you eat to make sure you like it

asks casually “was it good?” every time. so casually, putting on an oscar-winning performance of not caring, though when you hum “mm-hm” and say thank you with those eyes looking up at him, he gets a big dumb smile on his face as he takes both your plates to the kitchen

mutt Rafe who sulks around the house when you’re too busy to fuck him, which is made ten times more irritating by the fact that he always wants to fuck you and can’t seem to wrap his head around why you can’t be fucking twenty-four-seven

mutt Rafe who has zero concept of boundaries or personal time and doesn’t see why he can’t be with you whenever he wants? he feels entitled to your alone time, doesn’t see why you need it

mutt Rafe who slips into the shower with you so quietly you didn’t even know he was there until you see him, you screech at the top of your lungs and he laughs and has to catch you so you don’t slip and bust your head

he ignores your indignant fussing in favor of burying his face in your neck, and you’ve barely gotten in a single word before he has you pressed flush against the wall and has already buried himself inside of you with a low, satisfied moan

mutt Rafe who won’t get off of you, ever

mutt Rafe who pulls you onto his chest and squishes you into the crook of his armpit and is so, so warm and smells like leather polish and cologne and something else distinctly him

mutt Rafe who lays his head across your lap and stretches his shirtless body out across the whole couch. just to be annoying, at first, to get in your personal space and on your nerves, but his eyes drag shut when you start carding your fingers through his hair

mutt Rafe who gets frustrated when you won’t pay attention to him, if you’re laying in bed and reading or scrolling on your phone, he’ll stand at the end of the bed and yank on your legs, pull you down the bed and bite your feet and your calves as you screech with laughter and try to kick him

mutt Rafe who teaches you how to ride his dirt bike with hands guiding yours on the handbars and gripping your hips to guide your sitting position

when you take a tumble and bust your lip on the ground, blood running down your chin, he scoops you up off the ground like you weigh as much as a leaf. he squishes your face in his hand and gives you a sympathetic frown, telling you that “you’ll get it next time, yeah? takes practice.” he swipes some of the blood off your chin with his thumb and pops it in his mouth, like he wiped a little smudge of food off your face, and not your own blood

mutt Rafe who carries you home and leaves his dirt bike behind, and tells you you’re still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen even when your smile is stained with red

mutt Rafe who needs your reassurance that you’re proud of him, that he’s doing well, that he’s taking care of things, that he’s taking care of you. his eyes glaze over when you tell him you’re glad he’s around, he’s doing such a good job. he nods dumbly, head empty aside from the warm glow at your praise

mutt Rafe who watches you with intense eyes as you wrap a bandage around his knuckles. he decked someone for being mean to you again, so hard he almost broke his own hand and definitely broke the other guy’s nose

this time, you didn’t reprimand him. he’s trying to gauge your reaction, figure out what you’re thinking, but you’re keeping it tamped down because weirdly, you liked it a little this time. what does that say about you?

mutt Rafe who becomes junkyard guard dog Rafe—mean and singleminded and covered in blood—if you aren’t careful how you talk to him

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torturedtypewritersdept · 5 months ago

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a fucked up sort of eden - pt. one

✯ pairing:

firefighter!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

Rafe Cameron was good on his own, steady and sure, despite his adrenaline based nature; he was good on his own. His sisters long line of blind dates on his behalf leads him to you and from the very moment you walk out on the dinner, he knows he will never be the same again.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, heartbreak, domestic violence (not rafe), injury, ghosting, fluff and fear, firefighter!rafe, past abuse, awkward!rafe, firefighter lingo, smut, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this first chapter was originally posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity and i have rewritten + reshared it here and will finally be continuing the rest of the series :)

–

The drag of your sneakers across the cement is the only sound that could be heard, dirt and grime scraping beneath the white rubber as you closed your car door and grabbed your purse, your feet carrying you across the parking lot to the large tombstone shaped double doors of the restaurant. As you entered, the lights were dim, a small, iridescent glow over the brown leather-clad booth that the pretty waitress had led you to. You wondered for a brief second if the stranger you were meeting would think she was pretty, too. Or, if he’d be different; if his actions would be in contrast to the way Taylor behaved. You hoped it would. She moved her hands in an outward motion, instructing you to sit down with the gesture and you obliged awkwardly as the leather rubbed across the skin of your thighs where your dress stopped, the squeaking making your skin crawl. You instinctually kept your purse strapped across your body, making an exit an easy thought if this date with this stranger ended up being too much. Most of these endeavors you had deemed too fucking much. But, you still found yourself here, obliging the effortlessly beautiful yin to your yang, Sarah Cameron, in her useless attempts at finding you a match of the opposite sex. Her brother, her latest victim. She didn’t tell you anything about him, other than that he was a really good guy and from her, that wasn’t saying much. You’d heard it too many times out of her mouth, only finding it to be untrue. You found yourself engrossed in your phone when a shadow cast over you in the shape of broad shoulders and you seemingly looked up; meeting eyes with only who you assumed to be the stranger, your stranger. God, was he beautiful. Swallowing thickly, you forced a soft smile, as you angled your face up at him in such a way that the remnants of Taylor remaining in the form of healed, previously stitched up skin couldn’t be seen. You hoped he wouldn’t ask – they always fucking ask and then you’re labeled as a codependent puppy and you never get a second chance to prove that you’re not, to prove that that’s not you. Why couldn't a scar just be a scar? Why did it have to equate to the kind of person you were and not who you had been? You weren’t sure. You just hoped this time would be different than before, that this time Sarah had been right.

“Hi. Are you Sarah’s brother?”

You asked meekly and he nodded, looking down at his feet as he shuffled from side to side, still yet to tell you his name. You wondered if he wanted you to know it, to know him at all.

“You can sit, if you’d like.”

You said, the thickness of the air slowly started to rid your lungs of the little you had. But, you swallowed, slowly breathing in and out as you gave him the same hand gestures the pretty waitress had previously shown you, ushering him into the booth.He obliged, the same squeaking from before brushing against his jean-clad legs. Your ears hated the assault it gave them.

“You can call me Rafe or stick with Sarah’s brother, I'll answer to both.”

He said with a smile, reaching across the table to extend his hand to you. His palms were sweaty, the thought made you smile. Maybe he was nervous too.

“So, who do I owe the pleasure of speaking with?”

He asked and blush rose to your cheeks.

“Sarah didn’t even tell you my name, huh?”

You questioned cheekily, knowing she hadn’t told you his either.

“No, she’s not very good at the details.”

He replied, taking the menu in his hands. Your eyes scanned his form, landing on the veins and the singular gold ring wrapped around his pointer finger.

“Isn’t that the truth? My name is y/n.”

You replied with a chuckle.

“y/n – pretty name for a pretty girl.”

He complimented you, a good sign for a normal person. You felt ambushed by it, swallowing thickly, questioning his motives immediately because once Taylor had called you pretty and now, he had made it to where no one would think so again. So, what the fuck were this guy’s intentions?

“How do you know Sarah?”

He said after a moment, thinking that maybe you weren’t interested in him. He locked eyes with you for a brief second before they were on the table and then his hands as they sat in his lap again.

“We met in college, she’s a good friend.”

“I guess it’s weird she hasn’t mentioned you much then, huh?”

A lie and a shitty one at that. She had been talking his ear off on the way over; minor details about how pretty and sweet you were, never bringing her mouth together to form the syllables of your name apparently.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”

You said, seemingly anxious and disappointed that your best friend didn't even talk about you to her family.

That’s when he saw it – your scar – as you looked awkwardly around the room, fidgeting under his gaze uncomfortably. The last time he had seen you, you were covered in blood on the floor of the apartment you shared with his baby sister. Him – her safe space, her person to call in case of emergencies; doing so as she watched the man that was supposed to love you beat you within an inch of your life. You didn’t know Rafe and how could you? You didn’t remember him carrying you to the ambulance on the worst night of your life or the triage he did to your body as he watched you gasp for air. None of his emergency training had prepared him for that, for the screams of his sister in the hospital corridor, when they gave them the news. Whispers of “we’re doing everything we can” spout from the doctor's mouths and the only thing he was capable of doing was wrapping his blood stained hands around his baby sister. He had never heard from his baby sister if you’d made it, if you were okay and that he had carried with him for a long time – the not knowing. But, now he knew. Now, you were sitting in front of him and he had no words.

“Sorry, it doesn’t seem like Sarah’s very good at playing matchmaker.”

You said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, she’s kind of the worst when it comes to this stuff.”

You smiled fondly at him, though you had taken offense at his words, you knew he was right. At that realization, you stood, still gripping your purse tightly to your side.

“Hope I see ya around, Rafe. Have a good night.”

He was flabbergasted at how quickly you had come and gone. It almost felt like it wasn’t real at all. One moment you were there and just like that, he was left in the dust of your beauty and your sweet voice, immediately calling his sister to cuss her out for not telling him that the stranger was you.

–

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honeyryewhiskey · 1 month ago

Text

careful what you wish for, dean !

Ride on, Baby !

/┆\

-` under the hood ´- turns out baby is much more than a pretty little ride. thanks to missouri's reading and a mishap with a cursed object you take form as baby ! the real girl. dean's favorite. his constant. the one damn thing he refuses to lose. but how can dean—ever emotionally damaged dean—handle you becoming flesh and blood? especially when you know every scar, every secret, every song he's ever used to keep himself together. you were never just a car. you were home.

-` shocks n struts ´- canon divergence au, mutual pining, fluff / humor, mostly lore accurate elements, sam and dean banter, mentions of john and mary winchester 4.5k words

“Oh, I knew I could count on you boys,” Missouri sighs, giving each of their arms a gentle squeeze. The warm sun settles over them like a blessing, soft and golden in the aftermath of a clean hunt. Wins have been rare lately, too rare, and this one feels like breathing again. Like purpose. Dean needed this.

“Anytime you need us, we’ll be there,” Dean assures, nodding. He lets Missouri’s gratitude settle into his chest, warm and quiet, easing that ache that’s always sorta just there.

“Yeah,” Sam adds with a small smile. “Anytime.”

Dean can’t help it—he’s already thinking about the drive back. About slipping behind the wheel, cranking the volume up on his favorite tape. The songs he only plays when he lets himself feel… okay.

A soft laugh draws him back. Missouri’s turned to the Impala, one hand sliding affectionately over the gleaming black hood. Her expression shifts to that far-off look she gets when she reads an object. Like it’s whispering to her, letting her in on a secret.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, she murmurs, “Well, I’ll be damned… she’s got a soul.”

Dean blinks, scowling in confusion. “Come again?”

Missouri cuts him a sharp look. “You heard me.”

She pats the hood. Dean can see the word lashing building up behind her steady gaze. It’s one of the things he admires most about the woman, the natural maternal energy she carries. “Sometimes, if you love something enough, if you pour enough of yourself into it—grief, joy, rage, hope—a little life grows there.” She shrugs, gesturing around her, “everything reacts to human attention. But if you give enough of yourself to something… eventually, the wires spark.”

Dean scoffs, almost laughs—but it dies halfway. He glances at the Impala, at the way the sunlight clings to her curves, he’d never admit it, but even as a child he felt like the car was part of the family just as Sam or Dad were.

But a soul sounds far too much like the plot of a children’s story book. Yes, magic is real—strange things happen everyday in this life, but it’s never this pure. No, it’s grim. Unruly. Dean knows better than to sit in the daydream of his baby being anything more than metal and oil.

He scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. He doesn’t believe Missouri, but this isn’t a soapbox worth stepping on. “Great. So what you’re saying is I’ve been emotionally codependent on my car and now she’s got a soul?”

Missouri raises an eyebrow. “I’m saying you gave her more of yourself than you’ve given most people.”

Those words make the blood rush to his face—but he shakes the feeling before it can grow roots in his mind.

Dean lets out a low whistle, giving the Impala an appreciative pat. “Well, hell. Guess that makes her the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

“Probably the healthiest, too,” Sam mutters.

Dean’s flat expression is on his brother just as Sam starts to chuckle at his own remark, but Missouri just smiles, turning back toward her house. “You boys drive safe,” she calls. “And treat her with a little more respect. She’s been carrying your sorry asses for your entire lives.”

Dean watches her go, then turns back to the car—to his Baby—and mutters under his breath with a grin, “Don’t let that go to your head, sweetheart.”

Dean sits behind the wheel of the Impala, windows down to let the late afternoon breeze drift through. His FBI suit clings uncomfortably in the sun, but he barely notices—too busy absentmindedly rolling a coin through his fingers while waiting on Sam.

This coin is the reason they're even in this dusty corner of South Dakota. Word around town is that the local underground gambling scene’s been getting their wishes granted—so long as they’ve got this coin in hand.

It’s small, worn, with a faded face stamped on one side and strange markings around the edge. Dean knows it's old—how old, he leaves to Sam, who could probably date it down to the century and rattle off the dead guy’s name without blinking.

Dean glances at the coin, then at the dash.

He always talks to his car. Or, at the very least, thinks out loud when he’s in her. But after Missouri’s reading… it feels different. Like maybe, if he says the wrong thing, the Impala might answer—maybe through a flicker of static or a song that knows too much.

“You ever notice how this crap always looks the same?” he mutters, flipping the coin between his knuckles. “Some crusty seal, some guy who’s been dead a thousand years, some Latin no one’s translated since the plague—and somehow it always gives you what you want… right before it screws you.”

He pauses, listening to the birds outside. Not waiting for a reply—he’s not that far gone.

“Anyway,” he sighs, settling back, “we’ll salt and burn it like we always do, yada yada, save the town—and then it’s back to the road, Baby. Just you and me.” He smiles, affectionately running a hand over the steering wheel before tilting his head in thought, “well… and Sammy, too.”

He flicks the coin into the air a few times, watching it shoot up from his thumb and land cool against his palm. “Would be nice if these damn things made wishes come true without demanding a soul or some other evil crap.”

He lets out a bitter huff, “I’d wish for what Missouri said to be true,” he sighs, “that I could love something enough to make it real.”

He scoffs at himself, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping the coin back into its pouch and tossing it onto the passenger seat like it burns. “Jesus. I think the sleep deprivation’s finally caught up with me.”

He glances at the rearview mirror and raises an eyebrow at his reflection. “You know I’m only half crazy, right?”

Then he pushes the door open and climbs out, muttering, “I’m gonna find Sam before this gets any weirder.”

The Impala sits quiet and still behind him, her glossy black frame catching the sun. On the seat, the coin—unnoticed—begins to glow faintly through the fabric of the pouch.

Dean finds Sam pacing outside the motel office, phone pressed to his ear, mid-rant about pagan gods and enchanted coins. Dean barely catches half of it—his head still half in the Impala, half stuck on the strange weight the coin left behind.

“…and there’s an inscription on it in Latin,” Sam says, flipping through mental notes, “which I think translates to—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing. “Uh… Dean?”

Dean lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

Sam steps back a little, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell is that?”

Dean turns, following Sam’s gaze—and stops cold.

You’re leaned up against the Impala, checking your reflection in the side mirror like you’ve done it a thousand times. Then you straighten, one ankle crossing over the other, arms folded neatly across your chest as you watch them. You look… patient. Like you’ve been waiting.

Your hair glints in the sunlight, smooth and sleek like the Impala’s body. Your nails are silver and sharp, catching the light with each twitch of your fingers. And your outfit has Dean’s brain short-circuits for half a second. A little black babydoll dress, silk blouse beneath, bold red tights, glossy Mary Janes—you look like you just walked out of a 1960s dream.

And then your eyes glow.

Silver.

Dean’s already reaching for his gun. Because of course you’re not just some bombshell lounging against his car. That’d be too easy. He can’t shake how weird everything has been since they left Missouri’s. He’s not even surprised that this simple case of a cursed object has new creatures popping up in this sleepy town. His mind races with each step, not a vamp, not a werewolf, not a shifter—he’s sizing you up and hoping that whatever the hell you are, his bullets can do some damage.

The boys close in—scowls sharp, posture tense.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even blink. You just tilt your head, calm as a cat. You’ve never been on this side of those hunter-hardened stares. It almost makes you laugh, because you know them as the brothers that bicker and sing with each other within the same hour.

You know the fears they voice on dark backroads, when life gets too exhausting—even for them. The bravest boys you know.

The ones you keep safe. Everyday.

Dean growls, “What the hell—”

Because you’re their only semblance of home.

You hum softly, interrupting. “Took you long enough.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Do we know you?” Sam asks warily. His gentle skepticism makes you smile, you always did love how soft Sam can be. Even as a little toddler with few words in his vocabulary, he’d always find a way to ask if someone else is okay.

You glance between the two of them, then back at the car, back to them. “Only for your entire lives.”

There’s a silent stand-off and the boys look almost dumbfounded before the horror of realization dawns on the two. You have to bite your lip to hold back your laughter. John would probably slap them upside the heads for this little mishap, and your angered soul would burn a hole in the oil line just so that he’d have to take a trip to Bobby’s to fix it. Where the boys sprinted from the backseat and into the house, barely paying you any mind.

But that never bothered you when you’d catch glimpses of those smiles of theirs through the living room windows.

“No way,” Dean squints.

“Dean, what the hell did you do?”

Scoffing, Dean turns to his brother with his hands at his hips. “Why do you immediately assume I did something?”

Your eyes bounce between the two as you let out a huff, letting your head slump back. Clearly, they need a moment. When do they not need a moment?

Sam’s completely turned his attention to the side, having deemed you as not-a-threat, his anger is on Dean. “I left you with the coin. Who else would wish for his car to turn into a woman?”

“Whoa, hey,” Dean snaps, defensive. “I would never go all Geppetto on my Baby.”

Sam rolls his eyes, rubbing his brow. “Uh-huh.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “I may have… briefly thought out loud about what Missouri said…”

“Jesus, Dean.”

You can’t help it anymore, you chuckle, light at first but it quickly devolves to a laughing fit. Dean certainly wasn’t just briefly thinking out loud. At some point, maybe when he was twenty-six and it was just you—the car—, him and the open road, when his thoughts became a one-sided dialogue you didn’t mind hearing.

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” you say, gliding your hand along the Impala’s roof like it’s still part of you. “But it is nice to have some legs to stretch. Being the soul of a car does have its… limitations.”

Sam groans. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The motel room smells like stale air conditioning and something vaguely lemon-scented—and you love it.

You’ve only ever seen peaks through windows of what inside is like. Inside motel rooms, diners, Bobby’s, Jodi’s. The list goes on, and it never really bothered you much to be outside like some car-guardsmen. But now that you’re here, with your boys, you’re not sure how you could ever be satisfied as nothing more than a pretty piece of metal ever again.

Your fingers skim over the fake wood nightstand, flick the chain on the lamp, pause on the cheap notepad with the motel’s name printed in faded green ink. Everything feels small. Fragile. So… new.

You press a finger into the mattress and marvel at the way it gives under your touch. Softer than seat foam. Bouncier, too. And the pillows? Downright insultingly fluffy.

“Okay, okay—don’t touch that,” Dean snaps, snatching the TV remote from your hand just as the screen flickers blue. He groans. “Jesus. That could’ve been pay-per-view porn, Sammy. She doesn’t need to see that yet!”

You grin, already buzzing with amusement from watching Dean. Seeing him through real eyes is better, much better. And so isn’t making him blush. “Oh,” you quip, all wide-eyed, “but it’s fine when you stash those boob magazines in my trunk?”

Dean raises a brow, playing innocent but the color is drained from his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam, pacing with both hands buried in his hair, spins around. “Dean, focus. A cursed coin turned your car into a person. We need to figure out how to reverse it before—” he waves a hand at you—“before we find out what else she can do.”

You glance down at yourself, wiggling your fingers, flexing your legs. Everything feels warm—like an engine left running on a summer night. But softer. Quieter. Human.

“Uh, Sammy?” you start, gesturing to your very solid, very real form. “Pretty sure I’m just a regular-shmegular human. Got skin, a heartbeat, even blinked a few times. Just a hunch.”

Dean opens his mouth, ready with some smartass remark—then stops. Rubs the back of his neck like it personally offended him. “Well… at least she’s got jokes.”

That earns both of you a Sam-eye roll, “No, Dean, she has your jokes. She sounds exactly like you!”

You flash a grin, drop onto the mattress, and bounce like it’s your first carnival ride. “Guess I take after my maker.” You shoot Dean a wink. “Daddy.”

Dean chokes on air. “Okay—nope. Nope. Not doing that.”

Sam exhales sharply, dragging his hands down his face. “Okay! This is officially the weirdest night of my life, so why don’t we—no, actually, you two… stay here. Don’t touch anything else.”

Dean throws a hand up, indignant. “What, like I’m the one who wished my damn car into a person?”

“You literally were holding the coin!” Sam gestures between you two. “And you talk to her all the time! Missouri said your emotions were tied up in her. And now—poof. Flesh and blood.”

You wave politely. “Hi. Yes, that’s actually exactly what got us all here.”

Sam points at you, like you're Exhibit A in a trial. “See?!”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, jaw working like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out how. You watch him, amused.

“I wasn’t wishing, okay?” Dean mutters. “Like I said, I was just… thinking out loud.”

“Well, next time try not to think so loudly around cursed objects,” Sam snaps. “Because now I’ve got to figure out how to fix this before the universe does what it always does and bites us in the ass.”

You tilt your head. “So what’s the plan? You gonna turn me back into a car? Just shove me in reverse and hope for the best?”

Sam rubs his temples. “No. Maybe. I don’t know yet. But I’ve got a lead.”

Dean lifts a brow. “On what?”

Sam snatches his laptop from the table and slings his bag over his shoulder. “There’s a minor Roman god—Invictus. God of victory, the unconquered sun, immortality, wishes granted through battle or sacrifice—he’s connected to enchanted coins, especially ones like that.” He nods toward the pouch lying on the dresser like a live grenade.

“Invictus?” Dean repeats. “Sounds like a cologne.”

“Yeah, well, if your cologne starts rewriting reality, let me know.”

You lounge back on the bed, arms behind your head, tapping the toes of your shoes like you still can’t believe these limbs are yours. “So what—you think Invictus made the coin?”

“I think it’s connected,” Sam says. “There’s a small collection of Roman relics archived at Black Hills State. I’m going to the campus library—see what I can dig up.”

“Be back by dinner?” Dean asks, hopeful. He’s not sure how long he can stay with just you and him. It’s too weird, and he’s conflicted between shameful excitement and fear of whatever the hell this mean for you and what you are now.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Dean watches Sam head for the door, then glances back at you. You’re stretched out on the mattress now, studying the motel ceiling like it's the Sistine Chapel.

Sam pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder. “Dean, seriously—don’t let her go anywhere.”

Dean scoffs. “She’s a person, Sam, not a possessed toaster.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “You wished her into existence. That makes her your responsibility.”

The door slams behind him.

A silence settles between you and Dean. You sit up slowly, cross-legged now, your head tilting.

“So…” you begin. “What do people do when they’re not a car?”

Dean stares at you for a beat. He’s not even going to think about how that sentence has probably never been said before in the history of everything. Instead, he shrugs, “Eat. Sleep. Watch TV. Argue with Sam.”

“Sounds kinda boring.”

He cracks a faint smile. “Yeah, well. Welcome to humanity.”

It’s unnervingly quiet to be human, there's no settling engine noises or cars wooshing past on a nearby road. The big black box Dean didn’t want you looking at made noise, so you reach for the remote again.

Dean snatches it out of your hand like it’s a loaded weapon. “Nope. No TV. Let’s, uh… let’s get food. Yeah. You eat, right?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed. “No clue, man. I’ve only been human for like an hour. But I’ve watched you inhale enough burgers to kill a lesser species, so I’d love to know what that’s about.”

Dean mutters, half under his breath, “It’s like I’m talking to myself trapped in a smokeshow straight outta Mad Men.”

You clap him on the shoulder, breezing past toward the door. “Easy, Winchester. Try not to short-circuit. Let’s go.”

The diner’s tile floor squeaks under your shoes as you walk in, eyes darting across the booths and barstools like a kid seeing the world for the first time. You’re buzzing. Not with electricity like you used to, but something warmer. Quieter. You feel giddy.

Dean grunts as he holds the door for you. His eyes sweep the room, and he trails in behind you closer than necessary. “Try not to lick anything.”

You grin up at him. “Can’t make any promises. Everything smells so… greasy and mysterious.”

Dean gives you a look as he heads to a booth in the back. “You always this chatty in your head?”

You plop down across from him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. “Only when you’re playing AC/DC on repeat for twelve hours. A girl’s gotta entertain herself somehow.”

He smirks, opening his menu. “Didn’t realize I gave my car a damn personality.”

“You gave me a soul, technically. That’s on you.”

Dean freezes mid-flip of the menu, jaw tightening just a little. “Yeah. Guess it is. And hey—you sayin’ you don’t like my music?”

You throw your hand over your chest, fake exasperated, “I would never. I simply prefer twelve straight hours of Zeppelin, thank you very much." You know this man well enough to know his particular music taste is woven around his heart.

He looks up from his menu, cheeks tugging into a crooked grin, “good answer.”

You tilt your head, watching him. Feeling him out, he’s spent enough of his life with his hands wrapped around some part of you that you can sense when something is off. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” he says, a little too breezy. “Just tryin’ to wrap my head around the fact that I’m sitting in a diner across from my Chevy Impala, who’s now got legs, opinions, and sass.”

You raise your hand. “Don’t forget taste buds.”

“God help us.”

The waitress swings by, popping gum and scribbling orders. You get the same thing Dean does, because it feels like the right choice—like muscle memory in a body that’s never eaten before.

Once she’s gone, you rest your elbows on the table, looking at him with a strange softness. “So. What now? You planning to garage me? Take me for a walk? Teach me tricks?”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “You’re a damn menace, you know that?”

You smile. “You love it. Besides, this is weird. But we don’t have to let it feel weird, y’know? I mean, technically I’ve known you for as long as your parents have. I’m not a stranger, Dean.”

He meets your eyes for a beat too long. “Do you remember them, my parents?”

You pause, surprised he asked but not unwilling to answer. Your fingers trace idle shapes on the condensation of your water glass as you search for the right words. You’re suddenly grateful for the background chatter and clinks of the diner. Sound, distraction, something simple that can keep you grounded for the moment.

“Yeah,” you start softly, “I remember them.”

Dean doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. He’s biting down, trying to contain his expressions for whatever you might say. It’s both pain and relief to know more about his parents before that dreadful night in November. Something he wants to know, but it always ends up feeding that ache in his chest in the long run.

“Your mom,” you smile, “she had this laugh—light and fast, like she already knew the punchline to every joke. She used to sing to you in the backseat. Off-key, real sweet. Gosh, she was such a Mamabear, too. Nothing was gonna hurt her babies, that’s for sure.”

Your eyes flick up to meet Dean’s, and he winches at your words. They sound like a compliment, but her the manner of her death makes it feel more like an omen of how she met her end.

“Well, then there was your dad…” you trail off, struggling for a second to recall John before he was angry John as you often thought of him. “He was different back then. Soft. Kind. He used to talk to you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Dean’s mouth opens like wants to say something—but no sound comes, so you keep going.

“After Mary, um… was gone, it all changed. I watched him go from this gentle giant who kept a hand on the wheel and an eye on you in the rearview mirror, to someone… colder. Angry. He didn’t smile much. Started barking orders instead of saying good morning.”

Dean’s silent when you meet his eyes again. You take a deep breath, sitting back in your seat. It’s a quiet passing of though between you two. He looks smaller now, like the words are breaking him down where he sits. But gently, he nods.

“It was like someone flipped a switch,” you continue, “And I couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t stop it. And you—” you swallow the unfamiliar lump in your throat, eyes burning like salt on a rust spot, “God, Dean, you just… you tried so hard to be brave. Even when you were too little to understand why everything hurt so much.”

Dean just stares at you, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. Like hearing this from you—his one constant in all that chaos—makes it real in a way nothing else could.

He leans back, jaw clenched as he pinches at his eyes. “I always wondered what he was like before.” His voice is quiet, soft, and when his eyes meet yours again theres so much hurt swimming in those pretty green eyes it makes your chest hurt. “But at least something, or someone, I guess… noticed me. Noticed what it was like for me.”

You nod, fidgeting with the silky cuff of your sleeve, “he did love you, Dean. That never went away. I think it just got buried under a mountain of fear. It’s not fair… but I guess nothing has ever really been fair, right?”

He huffs a dry laugh, nodding in agreement. A quietness settles over the table. Not entirely awkward—just full. There’s too much history, too many feelings in this conversation. So you smile, soft and small.

“So… yeah. I’m not a total stranger. I’ve been riding shotgun for your whole damn life.”

Your words ease a genuine laugh from Dean, and he lets it take the stress off his shoulders. “Jesus, I guess so. What would I do without you?”

You shrug, already feeling the tension start to ease, “probably be stuck breaking down every other night with a much shittier car.”

The waitress swings back into the little world you’ve created in this corner booth, arms full of heaping piles of grease and carbs. Your eyes grow the size of saucers as you size up the food before you.

“Let me know if you two need anythin’ else,” she chimes before moving onto the table next to you. You’re still staring at the food when Dean clears his throat to get your attention.

“Alright, Baby,” he states, and hearing your name roll off his tongue with that serious tone of his makes your heart flutter, “let’s see what being human tastes like. And if you hate burgers, I’m driving you straight back to that coin.”

You sit up straighter, eyes wide with mock offense. “If I hate burgers, you’re gonna re-coin me? What is this, Pimp My Ride: Eternal Damnation Edition?”

Being the soul of a car is strange, but it’s the only thing you know. One thing you’ve always felt with absolute certainty was a deep fondness and love for this odd human across from you. Getting to join in on his play, his banter, is sweeter than you could have ever imagined.

Dean’s brow shoots up, and he’s looking just as excited to have someone join him in his bit. “I’m just saying, Baby, there are lines even I won’t cross.”

You gasp, “and here I thought unconditional love meant something to you.”

You pause, then lean in, grinning. “Besides, odds are if you like it, I’m hardwired to like it too. Might even need my own shiny weapon to start hunting with. I’m thinking a colt like you, but all sleek and black like my paint job.”

Dean groans, gutteral, like he didn’t mean for the sound to come out. It’s quickly fixed by the charming smile that claims his face as he chuckles. “As hot as that sounds, I’m not sure I trust your aim.”

“Can’t be that hard, besides, I’ve got you to teach me don’t I?” You wink back at him.

Dean’s shaking his head, half-laughing, but you’re not done. “Just promise me you won’t go all grumpy mechanic on me. I’ve seen what you can do with a crowbar.”

His cheeks color, a bit embarrassed as he winces at the memory. It was shortly after John passed that Dean let all that pent-up anger unleash onto the battered frame of the Impala. And unbeknownst to him, onto a little hidden soul that was sharing his pain. “Yeah… sorry about that, sweetheart."

You laugh softly and wave it off, “you turned around and made me brand new after that. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Dean’s smile softens, and he’s looking at you like he’s really seeing you for the first time. His baby, his silent comrade. You’ve always been there when he needs you, and you always will be. It’s up to Sam and Dean whether or not that happens in this human form, or as the beating soul of an old ride.

geeking on this one bc the silver details on reader are for the impala's silver details and she was made in '67 so helloooo 60s style fit for dean's favorite girl anyways this was fun hope y'all enjoyed it <3

tag list 𐚁 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @snowluvvie @flow33didontsmoke @figthoughts @tinas111 @fitxgrld @rubyvhs @stoneyggirl2 @faephoria @deans-yn @spiidergirlsworld @loverslantern comment to be added / removed !

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x fem!reader #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester au #dean winchester fluff

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dudeimjustagirll · 16 days ago

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Emotionally Codependent Prarie Dogs

Ao3 Link :p

You and Nightwing were practically soulmates.

You knew it, he knew it, and everyone who'd ever seen you both in the same room knew it.

It wasn’t something either of you talked about—not seriously, anyway. The word relationship had never once passed between you without being followed by a dramatic fake gag or a muttered “gross.” If someone dared ask, you’d wave your hand and go, “Dick? He’s just my best friend.”

Which would be a perfectly reasonable thing to say, if your best friend didn’t keep a toothbrush in your medicine cabinet and your favorite mug in his kitchen. If he hadn’t ordered takeout from your favorite place after every rough mission. If you didn’t show up to every Wayne gala on his arm in matching colors and with your hand on his waist like you were born there.

Your lives weren’t just tangled together. They were burrowed into each other, like a pair of emotionally codependent prairie dogs who’d set up camp in suspiciously similar apartments across Blüdhaven. His closet had two of your hoodies, which he had vehemently refused to ever let you see again. Your fridge had his favorite brand of orange juice—only pulp, because “it’s a texture experience, babe.” And his spare key sat permanently in your bag, next to your comms, lip balm, and the emergency burner phone only he ever called.

On Valentine’s Day, you always gave each other something stupidly thoughtful—so thoughtful, in fact, it bordered on romantic sabotage.

Like the time he showed up on your balcony after patrol, still in uniform, snow in his hair and a small, beat-up box in his hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked in, dumped his grappling hook by the door, and handed it to you like it was no big deal.

Inside was the vintage enamel pin you’d lost on a mission three months ago—your favorite one, the one you’d mentioned once, offhandedly, while peeling off your gloves and complaining that it probably fell into the Gotham sewer system. You stared at it for a full thirty seconds. Then looked up at him.

He just shrugged, cocky and smug and slightly winded.

“Guess it wasn’t that lost.”

No explanation. No big speech. Just that same dumb little grin he always got when he knew he’d done something that would turn your insides to syrup.

And then there was the cupcake incident.

You stayed up until 2 AM baking. You weren’t even sure why—he wasn’t even technically your boyfriend. You could’ve just high-fived him and moved on with your life. But instead, there you were, covered in flour and swearing at a stand mixer like it had personally wronged you, making sure the frosting-to-cake ratio was legally excessive.

You dropped them off at his place with a sticky note that said: Happy Romance Day, loser. Don’t die on patrol tonight.

They were rancid. Almost inedible, even. He ate all six.

Did you ever talk about it? God, no. Never. Did he tell you he kept the sticky note? Absolutely not, but you found it tucked inside his nightstand months later, folded carefully next to a picture of the two of you from some gala where he was looking at you instead of the camera.

It was always like that with you two.

Little gestures that shouldn’t have meant anything, but somehow meant everything . He gave you the things you didn’t even realize you missed. You gave him softness without ever saying the word.

You didn’t say “I love you” on Valentine’s Day. That would’ve been utterly ridiculous. What you did say, however, was:

“I hope you didn’t get me anything. Because I definitely didn’t get you anything.”

“Cool. That’s great. So you definitely didn’t leave a mug with the Nightwing insignia painted on it on my windowsill?”

“Nope. That was a gremlin. Must’ve been.”

“Damn gremlins. Always decorating dishware.”

And then he kissed your temple.

And then you tugged his sleeve until he sat beside you, sharing takeout under the “good” blanket while some terrible action movie played in the background.

And that was enough. That was always enough.

Because love didn’t have to be grand, or loud, or covered in glitter. Sometimes it just looked like an old pin. A batch of ugly cupcakes. A quiet night spent in silence that felt like home.

Because obviously .

You had routines without realizing it. Patterns. The kind of intimacy that grows not from passion but from proximity , repetition, and the quiet decision to just keep choosing each other.

He brought you coffee when your labs ran too long. You patched him up on your kitchen counter with a practiced ease that made it feel like brushing your teeth. If either of you so much as spotted a bruise, it was immediately being kissed. No matter how small. No matter how public.

Once, you’d barely had time to catch your breath before Nightwing was already crowding your space, gloved fingers brushing over a scrape with all the gentleness of a man who absolutely should not be this soft for someone he’s “just friends” with.

And you? You’d cradle his jaw like he might fall apart without you, murmuring something like, “Hold still, pretty boy,” as you kissed the bruise blooming on his collarbone—right there.

No one even batted an eye anymore. No one ever brought it up anymore, either. Partially because trying to get you two to admit anything was like trying to argue with a brick wall. But also because, deep down, everyone knew the truth.

This wasn’t performative. This wasn’t even denial. This was just you two being you.

And somehow, against all logic and odds and social norms, it worked.

And then, there was the New Year’s Party.

The countdown hit zero, and somewhere in the background, someone popped a party popper too close to the speakers. Confetti rained down. Champagne glasses clinked.

And in the middle of it all, you leaned over and kissed Nightwing.

Not a peck, not a cheek brush—an actual, proper New Year’s kiss. His hand curled naturally around your waist, your fingers found the back of his neck, and for about three seconds, the world narrowed to the soft press of lips and the familiar smell of his cologne mixed with the oh, so familiar smell of the city.

Then it was over.

You pulled back like nothing happened. Like it was just Tuesday. Dick was smiling, a little crooked, a little dazed.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured.

“Same to you,” you replied, knocking his shoulder with yours.

M’gann, across the room, holding two paper plates stacked with cookies, blinked at you both.

“Wait—did you just—did you kiss him?”

You and Dick turned to her in sync, like practiced professionals.

“Yeah?” you said, like duh .

“It’s New Year’s,” Dick added. “You can kiss your friends on New Year’s.”

M’gann stared. “You guys— that was a kiss kiss.”

You raised an eyebrow. “M’gann. Wow. Can’t believe you’re perpetuating the idea that men and women can’t be just friends.”

Dick gasped, fake-offended. “Really makes you think, dosen’t it?”

“Shameful, honestly,” you added, snagging a cookie off her plate.

She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream, spinning on her heel to go talk to Conner instead.

Dick leaned in again, just a little. “So... does this mean I can kiss you on Groundhog Day too?”

You shrugged. “I think you know the answer to that.”

If he got to your apartment before you? He’d let himself in, kick off his boots, and wait—sprawled out on your couch in a top and shorts, watching whatever trashy TV you’d left queued up. Sometimes you’d find him asleep there, mouth slightly open, one hand gripping the remote like it owed him money. You always smiled. Took off his domino mask if he hadn’t already. Covered him with the blanket you both called the good one and curled up beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was. For you both, anyway.

If someone had ever coined the term "heteroerotic," it would most certainly be to describe your relationship.

And the kicker? You both thought it was funny.

You went on decoy dates just to mess with each other. Fully sanctioned, absolutely unnecessary emotional warfare.

He’d mention some hot detective with this flirty, knowing glint in his eye, like he wanted you to react.

“She’s into acrobat types,” he’d say casually, stretching in that obnoxious way that pulled his shirt tight across his back. “Real flexible. Could be fun.”

And you’d smile, sweet as arsenic.

“Cute. I’ve got plans with that guy from the sandwich shop. You know, the one who always remembers my order and tells me I have great taste in mustard? We’re thinking about a rooftop dinner. Moonlight. The usual.”

Cue: sabotage.

He’d text you five times mid-date—first to check in (“Hope he’s not boring you to death”), then to insult the guy’s haircut (“Tell him to fire his barber. Immediately.”), and finally, a screenshot of a meme captioned “me watching you entertain your side quests when I’m clearly the main storyline.”

You, naturally, would respond by “accidentally” walking by his restaurant in heels and eyeliner like you’d just stepped off a Vogue shoot. You’d catch his eye through the window, give a soft little wave, and keep walking with the kind of swagger that said “I’m unbothered. You, however, look like you’re sweating.”

One time, his date mysteriously got a call from the precinct halfway through dessert. Some urgent case that didn’t exist. She left with an apologetic smile. Dick didn’t even look surprised.

“Weird,” he muttered, staring at his untouched crème brûlée.

“So weird,” you said later that night, when he showed up at your apartment unannounced, half out of costume and half out of excuses.

“Must’ve been a glitch in the system.”

He never asked if it was you. You never admitted it. Because that wasn’t the point.

The point was that he was yours. Just as you were his.

Not in the ways people expected. Not with rings or labels or speeches under the stars. But in a hundred petty, quiet, ridiculous little gestures that only made sense if you knew what to look for.

He didn’t really want to date that detective. You didn’t even remember the poor sandwich guy’s name. The jealousy wasn’t insecurity—it was performance art. Proof that you could pretend not to care… right up until the second it stopped being funny.

And when that second came? When the date ended, or the texts stopped, or the silence got a little too long?

He always came right back to you. With that sheepish smirk and a fresh scrape on his jaw, holding up a peace offering in the form of dumplings or boba or a new oversized T-shirt because “you keep stealing mine.”

And you’d let him in. Every time.

Because no matter how many dates you both faked, no matter how hard you tried to convince the world—or yourselves—that this wasn’t something real…

There was only one person you ever fell asleep next to.

Only one set of keys on your nightstand that weren’t yours.

Only one name your comms lit up with first when in trouble.

And it would always be him.

Because at the end of the day, no matter where you started, you always ended up back in each other’s orbit.

Slow dancing at galas. Movie nights tangled together under the same blanket. Him waiting outside your university lab at midnight with a thermos of hot chocolate and a tired smile. You pressing your fingers into the edge of his jaw, inspecting cuts and murmuring, “You scared me tonight.”

He’d just nod. Let you touch him. Let you see him. And maybe, maybe whisper, “You’re my favorite person, y’know that?” when the room was quiet enough.

Because being with Dick was never about the big declarations. It was about the way your heartbeat calmed the second he touched your wrist. The way he said your name like it was something sacred. The way he called your apartment “ours” without even thinking.

You loved him with the same certainty you knew your own name—with that quiet, constant ache that never demanded anything in return. You didn’t need a label. Didn’t want one. Because this?

This was everything.

And honestly? You thought it was kind of funny that everyone kept waiting for you to figure it out.

You’d figured it out a long time ago. You were just enjoying the ride.

And you knew. You knew you'd spend the rest of your lives together. That every morning, you'd wake up to his sleepy, handsome, drooling face.

Because that’s what friends did.

#nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson fluff #love him #dick grayson x female!reader

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twilightcitysky · 2 years ago

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Everything Is Meant (long S2 analysis, part 3)

Part one

Part two

There's SO MUCH excellent meta out there right now, and I'm going to try not to reinvent the wheel too much, but I want to keep going with tying the episodes/ elements up together because on first watch it wasn't entirely clear how everything fit. I also strongly recommend a rewatch, no matter what you felt about the ending... if you need to stop it 10 minutes early, do that, but you pick up so much more the second time around.

So: Maggie and Nina. I spent most of my first watch wondering why we were bothering with them, honestly. Later in the season Nina, and then Maggie and Nina, gave Crowley some insightful advice, but their actual relationship didn't progress despite all the meddling, and the amount of emotional investment BOTH Aziraphale and Crowley had in making them get together was frankly strange.

I started thinking in terms of mirror couples, since that was such a big deal in S1 and that's clearly what they were set up to be, but I made the mistake that all of us made on first watch: that Nina was Crowley and Maggie was Aziraphale. It still wasn't really coming together.

Then I put the psych hat back on and started to think about displacement. Displacement is a defense mechanism, and it consists of satisfying an impulse (usually an unconscious one) with a substitute object. At the beginning of the season, Aziraphale and Crowley aren't really in a good place, and I think on some level they know that. Aziraphale is trying to SHOW Crowley that he wants to take the next step through all the casual touches and phone calls and inviting him in, and feeling frustrated because Crowley doesn't seem to be taking the bait. (I absolutely think that Aziraphale tried to get Crowley to stay with him at the bookshop instead of living in his CAR, and Crowley said no. That's a whole other meta.) Meanwhile, Crowley, I think, is waiting for a Grand Gesture. Where did he go, as soon as Aziraphale brought up trying to get two humans to fall in love? Romantic tropes. Getting caught in the rain under an awning. A dramatic kiss that opens someone's eyes. That's the sort of thing he's always done, right? Big rescues, impassioned pleas on the street, fancy dinners, "give you a lift anywhere you want to go". He's defensive and guarded and unlikely to let someone in unless he's CERTAIN he won't be rejected, and Aziraphale's approaches are just too... quiet. No one's fault, they just don't speak the same language.

Then, they're handed the opportunity to make two humans fall in love, and they're both All In immediately. Look at Crowley's face when he summons the rainstorm. This is HUGE for him. Why? Because of displacement. Look at Aziraphale arranging the ball and being borderline deranged about it. They're both desperate to demonstrate what they think it takes for two people to move past their misunderstandings and fall in love. They can't do it for each other because the stakes are too high, and if either of them shows their cards unequivocally the vulnerability feels life-shattering. They're codependent and terrified of rejection and also, importantly, have no idea what they're doing when it comes to love. "Saw it in a film", Crowley says. Aziraphale's read about it in books. But they have zero practical experience.

Instead of learning to communicate, they try to say what they want to say through the medium of Maggie and Nina, up to and including the questionable moral decision to exert control over people's actions and thoughts during the ball. If I can just make this come out right, they both think, then things between us will be alright too. It HAS to come out right. They're attempting to gain some control over their own lives, over something that feels so overwhelming and shattering they can't look directly at it.

It doesn't come out right. Nina's relationship falls apart, but that doesn't mean she's in love with Maggie. While Crowley's stress-cleaning the bookshop to the music that played when Aziraphale got his books back in 1941 (just fuck me up David Arnold), they come in and tell him so. "I don't understand", says Crowley. Because it should have worked. Why didn't it work?

They tell him, of course. "You need to talk to each other. Say what you're really thinking." But here's the thing about communication: you have to learn it. You need to get the hang of expressing your feelings without blaming your partner, and separating intent from impact, and staying away from getting defensive and lashing out. No one has ever taught Aziraphale and Crowley how to do this. It's like Maggie and Nina put Crowley in front of a loom and asked him to recreate the Bayeux Tapestry. He doesn't have the skills; he's always going to get it wrong, even if he tries his hardest.

And he does try. But that's where Maggie and Nina the mirror couple, rather than Maggie and Nina the displacement relationship or Maggie and Nina the Greek chorus, come in. Aziraphale, as Nina, has just ended an incredibly toxic, invasive relationship with Heaven. A relationship that invaded every facet of his life, isolated him, and prevented him from being close to anyone else. "Rebound mess," Nina says. Aziraphale is a rebound mess. He's transferred the responsibility for his emotional wellness to Crowley. Crowley is the person he calls when he's in trouble, or (and this is key) when he wants to report a clever/ good thing he's done, or when he's bored. (At no point did Crowley reference Aziraphale calling him for a solicitous reason-- another problem.) Crowley is meant to take care of him. He forgets, I think, that Crowley is a person with his own wants and needs, just like Maggie and Nina are people with their own wants and needs who don't appreciate being messed with. (I think things would have been much different had Aziraphale BEEN THERE for Maggie and Nina's talk with Crowley, but he wasn't.)

And Maggie-as-Crowley? Lonely. Behind on rent, at risk of being evicted (it's important to note that Aziraphale saves Maggie from losing her record shop, as he couldn't save Crowley from losing his flat). Pining. Awkward. Revolving around Nina like a planet, to the extent that we don't get much of an impression of her otherwise. They realize, there at the end, that they both need to round themselves out before jumping into a relationship. Aziraphale and Crowley need that too. They need to take time apart and learn to be healthy on their own. Unfortunately they don't have the skills to get to that conclusion in a healthy way, so it all explodes in their faces and everything falls apart.

Aziraphale tries to teach Nina and Maggie to dance as a substitute for communication. Nina and Maggie try to teach Crowley communication as a substitute for the dance they've been doing around each other. That's the reason they're a part of the plot: they exist to demonstrate the way Aziraphale and Crowley might have succeeded in forging a better dynamic. Sadly, the boys' dance is too practiced and they got sucked right back into it.

It's okay, I think, that Nina and Maggie's storyline never really went anywhere. It wasn't supposed to. It's an allegory, not something that needs to stand alone.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #good omens season 2 #gos2 #good omens season two #crowley #aziraphale #maggie #nina #defense mechanisms #the psychology of good omens #everything is meant #ineffable husbands

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foryoupeko · 3 months ago

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Random sad things I've been thinking about, not really coherent thoughts as I type this at work

Peko must think something is wrong with her love

Peko is innately a caring person, she was always trying to be helpful throughout the game. Before the game, no one accepted her love. Fuyuhiko rejected Peko's help and animals were afraid of her. Anytime she tried to love something, they rejected her.

I know the common fandom interpretation is that Fuyuhiko pushed Peko away because he didn't want her to be seen as a tool. But Fuyuhiko also pushed away Natsumi. Fuyuhiko pushed ppl away because his inferiority complex made him not want to rely on people. And Peko knows this (she mentions it in her final FTE and at the end of ch2).

I want Peko's character arc to be her unashamedly loving something.

There's a lot of times where Peko wants to show her affection towards something but hesitating. She was taught that she was only useful for her strength but not for her love.

Fuyuhiko says "I need you", Peko thinks "that's a lie"

A lot of people thinks Fuyuhiko and Peko needs to be kept apart Post NWP and that's so short sighted.

It's so sad to me that the last thing Fuyuhiko ever said to Peko was "Please Peko, don't go, I need you, don't leave me" and people interpreted that as toxic codependency.

Imagine Peko being kept away from Fuyuhiko, and watching Fuyuhiko striving with the rest of the class without her. Peko's first thought isn't going to be "Wow I'm finally a independent free thinker". Wouldn't it be, "He was wrong. He didn't need me."

I think ppl interpreted "Fuyuhiko and Peko saw each other everyday" as "Fuyuhiko and Peko spends every minute together". Meanwhile there's like... no proof what so ever they hanged out casually (gestures above)

As I said before, Peko thought Fuyuhiko's last words to her (before her exercution) was going to be "I don't need a tool". Her last request to Fuyuhiko WAS JUST TO BE REMEMBERED. She really thought Fuyuhiko would just forget her.

This part is up to interpretation, but Peko did flat out say in ch2 that she believes Fuyuhiko hates her (this could be part of her ruse or could be base off fact). Fuyuhiko did not do anything that directly said he liked Peko (platonically or romantically)

Peko really didn't know Fuyuhiko needed her, and separating them won't help because they've been emotionally separated the whole time.

#danganronpa #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #peko pekoyama

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mosaickiwi · 8 months ago

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Home Away From

I love hopeless agony almost as much as tooth rotting fluff??

Post-kidnapping Angel adjusting (badly) to the new normal.

might do a part 2 where it gets even worse idk ← my last words before i get thrown out of the plane

Kidnapping, imprisonment, codependency, etc.

proceed with caution

Eyes straight forward, you had to keep yourself occupied fiddling with the edge of a couch cushion. Every single one had a few loose threads from how often you worried away at them.

Twelve… thirteen… fourteen neatly aligned book spines on the lowest shelf behind the dark haired man kneeling in front of you. A full, hardcover collection of your favorite webcomic, each book signed and dedicated to you. Maybe you'd force yourself to read them all again. For the third time since your arrival.

"Angel."

It was hard to keep track of how long you'd been here—in this house far removed from Corland Bay, with everything you ever wanted in a forever home. All those wild, fantasy-ridden dreams you joked about with Ren, and then [REDACTED], were true now.

And yet your supposed fiancé carried you over the threshold of that forever home kicking and screaming.

"Still not talking?"

His hand reached for yours, fingers gently lacing between your own before you eventually pulled away. You saw their real reaction in the corner of your vision. By now, you knew him as obsessively as he knew you—there wasn't much he could hide anymore. The pain in his blue eyes lingered for too long this time.

It hurt. You hated to see that look on his face. But you hated being trapped here so much more than that. Why couldn't he understand?

Realistically, a silent treatment would get you nowhere. A few hours had turned to days, then weeks, and he was still soft-spoken and doting towards you. There was hardly a difference in the man you proposed to, and the one that bolted the front door shut from the outside on the few occasions they left for supplies.

You were too used to domestic life, too docile compared to that first day—sometimes you'd lose yourself and forget you were a prisoner. All your old hobbies still occupied your days while he sat nearby, and it just felt natural to include the only person you ever saw. To call his name and read a passage from a book aloud for him to laugh, or casually scoot closer to him for warmth during a movie.

Those moments when you forgot felt like they could slot in between all your old memories with ease.

"I'm sorry, love. I only wanted t'keep you safe," he whispered.

His breath almost tickled your legs, followed by the feel of his forehead resting against them. The urge to brush a hand through their hair—an innocent gesture you did at least daily back home—hurt just as much to ignore.

Were it not for their words of apology, even now could've been another memory. Who could fault you for falling into habits of comfort with the one who lived for you, and you alone?

The silent treatment was the best you could do.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Tired and disoriented, you woke up alone in your bedroom. The pink haired plushie you normally cuddled had disappeared somewhere, probably tossed to a corner of the room in your fitful sleep. Your usual replacement for a space heater was nowhere to be found, either.

Had he stayed up late? You called their name. "Ren?"

A muted commotion in the hallway outside, then the door creaked open. "Angel?" your beloved hacker answered back cautiously.

"Are you coming to bed?"

There was no response for a long moment. But soon enough, his familiar footsteps sounded against the floor.

You sat up and pulled the blanket to the side for them. As he settled in, you cuddled close, resting one arm over their chest while your head laid in its rightful place atop his shoulder. You managed to lean up and find their lips for a quick kiss before closing your eyes.

Though you couldn't see his face, you imagined the blush that painted his cheeks at every piece of affection you gave. With the thought fresh in your mind, you drifted off.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Hours later you woke again, your rest this time far more peaceful in their embrace. A pitiful, lazy groan left you as you stretched, then opened your eyes to greet your partner.

[REDACTED] was silently looking down at you, propped up on one arm.

You reached up to cup his cheek and smiled at him. He leaned into your touch like always, but their usual loving gaze was laced with hesitation. As if waiting for something. Anxious of what could bother him, your hand followed the line of his jaw down to their neck, past the tattooed heart of your name, and settled on a piece of jewelry.

Was that correct? It felt off. A long moment passed as you fiddled with it, trying to figure out what was so out of place about that silver chain, until it hit you.

The golden ring was back on his necklace, instead of on your finger where it belonged. Where it used to belong.

Weeks, or maybe even months ago, when they kept you in a careful hold while locking the bedroom door behind them—you'd thrown that ring in his face the second he let you go.

For all the scratches and bite marks you'd put on his arm, tearing at skin that was already long scarred, he hadn't shown a hint of worry. Not until they bent down to get the ring that hit their chest and clattered to the floor.

It was the same worried face you saw now.

Your hand stilled, and before you could even whisper the words you wanted to yell, he slipped from the bed to give you space. The door clicked shut behind them to trap you in with your thoughts.

How could you be so stupid? Weak? They didn't have to try at all to wear you down; you did it all on your own. He tore you away from friends and family, yet here you were, forgetting yourself to play house with him. Then you took it a step further and let him sleep in your bed.

Nails dug into the pillow under your head, but instead of throwing it you squeezed it tight to your chest. You bit your lip to hold back the tears, glaring down at the empty spot on your ring finger that had only now begun to match the skin around it.

Another foolish dream to pile with all the others.

As much as you wanted to hope they would see reason one day and bring you back home to make things right—a thought far past irrational by now—you had to mourn the life taken from you.

You knew them, you knew them. Always seeking your favor so quickly that any argument quelled before it had a chance to begin, but stubborn when he felt it necessary.

If the first answer was a no… the next one and the next one wouldn't change. You should've accepted it the second he locked the door.

Ren was the only person you'd ever see again.

#14 days with you #14dwy redacted #14dwy #14dwy ren #momo writing #this is self indulgence too but the kind where i hate myself???#<- i mean this in a nice way ok #red title = no one has a good time not even ren #da color coding is mostly for me actually #since i WRITE TOO FUCKING MUCH i can't even find my own shit!!!#not using my own pinned post bc i just wanna scroll endlessly ooo i'm a little clown #yet again why am i like this

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 1 year ago

Note

Oh Oh what about 'H-how long have you been standing there?' Canon(-adjacent) Hurt/Comfort and Book? this list is actually so interesting there's so many good combinations

Thank you so much, it's been lots of fun seeing which combinations ppl picked and coming up with different story ideas. Hope you enjoy this one. 💖

True love's kiss

Rated: G

Words: 995

Tags: Post-Vecna; Everybody lives; Eddie Munson has a crush on Steve Harrington; Steve Harrington has a crush on Eddie Munson; Steve has migraines; Hurt/comfort; Love confessions

Eddie finds out by accident. It's one of the last days of summer, and the air has a sticky heaviness to it. He just wants to pick up some stuff he forgot after last night's campaign. Steve isn’t home, he knows for a fact. So what if he memorized his shift plan? It's perfectly normal, most definitely not a sign of obsession or codependency.

Anyway, the point is, Steve isn't home, so Eddie doesn't ring, just lets himself in and marches into the living room. And that's where his plans for the afternoon derail.

Steve is on the sofa in front of the television. Eddie's swoop of surprise is short-lived, however, because he isn't watching a movie or game.

The tv isn't on at all. The entire house is deadly quiet. The blinds on the windows are drawn and the air conditioning is on, the room dark and cold.

Steve is buried in the pillows. His shoulders are shaking.

“Stevie?” Eddie blurts. “What happened?”

“Eddie?” Steve croaks. One eye pokes out from the pillows, bleary and horrified. “I- … H-how long have you been standing there?”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He has already bridged the distance and is sinking down on the armrest by Steve’s head.

Steve sees the concern on his face and groans. “I'm fine. It's just … fucking headaches, don't worry.”

But Eddie does worry. Eddie is freaking out, which is only natural given their shared history. He makes a horrified sound, shooting up to grab the walkie from Steve’s room and call a code red.

“No, wait,” Steve says, holding him back with one shaky hand to his wrist. “‘s not anything supernatural. I mean they’ve gotten worse, after everything, but that's probably ‘cause I took a few hits too many. I've always had ‘em. Ever since I was a kid.”

Eddie lets that statement trickle in.

“Oh,” he then breathes, sitting back down and gesturing at the dark room. “You mean migraines?”

Steve, who has thrown one arm over his face, peers out at him.

“How d’you …?”

Eddie shrugs sheepishly. “My mom used to get them, before …”

He trails off, lost in the memory, fingers grasping to fiddle with something. He only realizes where they've landed when they start scratching at Steve's scalp, and a noise spills from his chest. Eddie flinches, stomach alive with an entire whirlwind of butterfly wings, and makes to pull back his hand.

“No,” Steve mumbles. He's pale, but some of the tension has bled from his features. His voice is slurred. “Don't stop. Feels good.”

And who is Eddie to deny him?

Nodding, he slides off the armrest to sit more comfortably, pulling Steve’s head into his lap to rub soothing circles into his temples. He only notices the book lying on Steve’s stomach when it gets jostled by the motion and almost tumbles to the floor.

“Hey, what’s this?” Eddie mutters, flipping it over to inspect the cover. “Fairytales?”

Steve takes a few moments to reply, and in the low light, Eddie imagines he sees two pink splotches bloom high in his cheekbones.

“My nanny used to read ‘em to me when I was sick. I was tryna, but … the fuckin’ letters keep moving.”

“I'll read you one.”

Another blink of those pretty eyes, pupils fuzzy and unfocused. “Really?”

“Sure,” Eddie nods, reveling in the smile he gets when he flips the book open. “Let’s see … Once upon a time, there was a king. He was beautiful and kind and brave, and everybody in the realm loved him dearly. But the king was cursed. He-”

“Wait,” Steve mutters. His lids flutter as he struggles to stay awake. “I don’t- … Which one is this?”

“My favorite,” Eddie replies. “Now hush, you’re supposed to be resting. Where was I? … The king had been befallen by an evil curse. He couldn’t love himself. He slaughtered many a beast, fought countless battles, hoping to prove his own worth to himself, but nothing lifted the shadow looming over him.”

Eddie turns a page, crinkling his brow in thought.

Steve stifles a yawn. His head is getting heavier in Eddie’s lap. “Then what happened?”

“Patience, I was getting to it,” Eddie scolds. “One day, a new jester arrived at the court. He was skeptical, having heard grand tales of the young king’s beauty and good heart, never quite believing them. Yet, the second he beheld the king with his own eyes, he was enraptured, and he vowed to-”

“En-whatchered?”

“Enraptured, Stevie,” Eddie sighs, setting the book aside in favor of combing his fingers through Steve’s hair again. “Smitten, enchanted, lovestruck.”

“Pffff,” Steve makes. “Love at first sight ain't real.”

Eddie scoffs half-heartedly. “It's a fairytale. It's not supposed to be realistic. And besides, I'm only telling it, not making it up.”

“Oh yeah,” Steve says. If his eyes were open, he'd be rolling them right now. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Eddie agrees, and losing himself for a moment in the lines and angles of Steve’s face, the feel of his hair between his fingers.

“How does it end?”

Eddie blinks. “Huh?”

“The story, silly,” Steve mutters. “How does the jester save the king?”

“Who said he does?”

Steve sighs, satisfied and exhausted. “‘s a fairytale. Gotta have a happy ending.”

Eddie shrugs. “Fair enough. What d’you think he should do?”

Steve stays silent for a long moment. Eddie is starting to think he fell asleep when he speaks again, so softly it's nearly lost under the rush of the air conditioning.

“How ‘bout a kiss?”

“Ah,” Eddie says around the lump forming in his throat. “Good one. Can't go wrong with true love's kiss.”

Steve hums in agreement.

“After the king sleeps, though.” His hand finds Eddie’s, interlacing their fingers. “Waited so long for this. Wanna do it without a headache.”

Eddie is left in the dark, listening as Steve’s breathing evens out, wondering how much of their conversation he'll recall when he wakes up.

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