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supernotnatural2005 · 2 months ago

Text

In The End - Part One

Pairing: Endverse!Dean x Reader

Summary: The year is 2012. The apocalypse has taken hold of the planet, and death lurks around every corner. Dean's holding on to whoever he has left, but even they are slipping from his grasp. At least he has you... doesn't he?

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), fluff, swearing, ANGST! Major character death. Mentions of death, slight gore, cannon death. (Sorry😢)

AN: Okay so this is a lot more on the angsty side 😅, but it'd been stuck in my head for a while. It derives a little from canon, but I tried to match it up with the timelines as best I could. Also, as I mentioned, there will be a part 2, but I'mma apologise in advance for this one 😬.

Main Masterlist

In The End Masterlist

2012

“Would you stop your worrying?”

Your voice pulled Dean out of his spiralling thoughts, but the feeling in his gut remained, twisting like barbed wire.

He sat against the headboard of the cot, his injured foot propped up on a pillow, watching you pack. Every movement you made was deliberate—checking each weapon, counting the rounds of ammo, securing the first-aid kit. You were focused, calm, prepared.

He should be too.

But that gnawing feeling wouldn’t let up

He couldn’t shake this feeling in his gut—a feeling he’d only had a handful of times. It was the same feeling he got after his dad had mysteriously dropped dead at the hospital, later learning at the hands of yellow eyes, or when angels had come knocking, shoving destiny down his throat. And, most of all, it was the feeling he got right before Sam…

No.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay in the moment, to focus on you instead of the storm raging in his head.

You were still wearing his t-shirt from last night, the fabric swallowing your frame, slipping off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of bare skin that made his pulse stutter. With every shift and reach, the hem of the shirt rode up, teasing him with flashes of your thighs, the curve of your hip.

It stirred something in his chest he thought was impossible in this world—even before it all went to hell three years ago.

The truth was, Dean had always cared for you. Even back when it was just running hunts together and living out of motels. He’d never admitted it—not even to himself—but there was something about you that had always drawn him in. Your fierce determination, your sharp wit, the way you had his back, no matter what. He’d always felt a pull toward you, but the timing had never been right.

Then the apocalypse happened. Everything changed and the world went dark. And somehow, through all the loss, it had brought the two of you together. It wasn’t just the end of the world that made him realise how much you meant to him; it was the way you’d held him together when everything else was falling apart. You were his anchor, the one good thing he had left, now Bobby was gone too.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose you. Not after everything.

That’s why he worried when you left for missions without him. He knew you could handle yourself; you were just as capable a hunter as he was, even before the croats took over. But he wanted to add to that layer of certainty, to be by your side. Together, he could keep you safe.

It was killing him that he had to sit this one out. He’d be a hypocrite if he kept you behind just because of a ‘bad feeling.’ Everyone had a job to do; he was the one who’d put that rule in place. It’s what kept the camp functioning.

Still, he didn’t have to like it.

“You know I can’t.” His voice is rough, the weight of it all pressing down on him. It had been that way for three days, ever since the plan was finalised.

The camp was running low on supplies. Well, they had enough to last two weeks, maybe more, but Dean liked to stay ahead. The world worsened every day. Who knew what tomorrow could bring? And this way of thinking had kept the camp going for as long as it had.

But since he’d injured his ankle on the last mission, fighting off a horde of croats, Chuck had declared him “not fit for combat”. That meant no missions until he could put weight on his foot again without grunting in pain. He’d argued, of course, but he knew the truth. He was a liability out there. Dead weight.

But the real problem was that it meant you had to go without him.

They’d already lost three soldiers this week on perimeter checks alone. The world was closing in, harder to survive by the day. And losing you… losing you would break him.

“I know,” you said softly. You stopped what you were doing and turned to face him. There was something unreadable in your expression, something soft and knowing. You crossed the room and climbed into his lap without hesitation, settling carefully over his thighs, mindful of his injury.

His hands found your waist like they belonged there, thumbs brushing the soft skin beneath the hem of his shirt. You were warm, solid, grounding. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he let his head rest against your chest, closing his eyes as your fingers threaded into his hair.

The slow drag of your nails against his scalp unraveled something in him, the same way it had a hundred times before. It was a simple gesture, one he hadn’t realised he craved so badly until now.

It reminded him of being a kid, the way his mom used to stroke his hair when she read to him. Safe. Loved.

But this was different. This was you.

You were his anchor, the only thing keeping him from being completely swallowed by the darkness closing in.

The warmth of you, the scent of cheap soap and something uniquely you—it was intoxicating. It settled deep in his chest, but the weight of his worry didn’t disappear.

“I scoped the place out two days ago with Marcus,” you murmured, voice gentle. “There aren’t too many croats, which means we won’t have to use as much ammo. It’ll be a quick in-and-out job.”

He knew you were trying to reassure him, but it didn’t help. If he wasn’t there himself, he wouldn’t be at ease.

“Hey, look at me,” you said, your voice firmer this time. You guided his chin up, your fingers gentle but insistent.

When he met your eyes, the early morning sunlight streamed into the hut, casting a soft glow around you. For a moment, you looked ethereal, almost angelic—a stark contrast to the broken, dark world outside.

“I’ll be okay.” You whispered, your hands framing his jaw on either side, thumbs running back and forth over the few day old scruff on his cheeks. “All you gotta do is this," you guiding the palm of his hand over his naked chest, right over his heart. "because my heart beats there too.”

Your words hit him harder than he expected, lodging deep in his chest. His heart fluttered, his stomach twisted—a cocktail of nerves and the overwhelming love he felt for you. Love he realised he’d carried for years.

Without words—he was never good with them—he tugged at the neckline of your/his shirt and guided your lips to his. He hoped the kiss could say what he couldn’t: I love you. I need you. Please come back to me.

You sighed against him, melting into the kiss, and for a moment, he let himself drown in you. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, nails scratching lightly, sending a shiver down his spine. It felt good, too good, and familiar, and then that same worry gnawed at him again, dragging him back into his fears of losing this, you.

As if sensing his thoughts, you shifted in his lap—rolled your hips just enough to press against him.

He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes snapping open, hands tightening on your waist.

A smug little smirk tugged at your lips. “You with me now?”

His breath hitched as you rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate. The heat of you pressed against the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, searing through him like a live wire.

His fingers dug into your skin, a growl rumbling low in his throat. “You really wanna test me right now, sweetheart?”

You hummed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. “Maybe I just want you to stop thinking for a while.”

Dean groaned, tilting his head back as your lips trailed lower, nipping at his throat.

Damn you.

Damn you for knowing exactly how to pull him from the edge. For being the only thing that could quiet the storm in his head.

For making him fall in love with you long before he ever realised it.

He exhaled sharply, tightening his hold on you, pressing his forehead against yours. “You better come back to me.”

You smiled, brushing a kiss over his lips—soft, sweet, final.

“Always.”

“Everyone’s packed and ready to go when you are, boss,” Frank called from behind you, after loading up your gear in the restored humvee, you and Dean had found abandoned a few months back.

You nodded with a tight lipped smile. It still made you cringe slightly to be called “boss,” but you understood why the camp looked to you and Dean that way. You’d both been hunters long before the croats. You had experience—more than most—and people trusted you to lead.

The sound of uneven footsteps pulled your attention, and you turned just in time to see Dean limping toward you. His crutch thudded against the dirt with every step his face set in a pained frown and you met him halfway. “I’ll be okay,” you told him again, standing on your toes to press a confident kiss to his lips.

His frown didn’t fade, even as he kissed you back.

“Don’t worry, boss, we’ll look after her,” Marcus called from the humvee, grinning from his spot in the backseat. Marcus was one of the youngest in the group, lost his family to the croats, like most had. But what impressed you is, despite all that, he still had fierce determination to survive and serve, and somehow found himself under your metaphorical wing. He gave you annoying-little-brother energy, but he was loyal and had heart. And in times like these, that mattered more than anything.

You huffed a laugh. "As long as you remember I’m not the target, we’ll be fine," you shot back, referencing Marcus’s last very fortunate near-miss with friendly fire.

Marcus groaned. "One time! That happened one time!"

Dean, however, was not amused. "That’s not funny," he muttered.

You held up your thumb and forefinger, measuring an inch. "It’s a little funny."

And just like that, Dean yanked you closer, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that stole the air right from your lungs. It was rough, desperate, and made your knees damn near buckle.

Your team, of course, erupted into cheers and obnoxious wolf whistles.

Dean, ever the charmer, flipped them off without even breaking the kiss.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his. "I’ll see you soon," you promised, voice steady even as your heart pounded.

Dean’s fingers lingered on your waist, gripping like he didn’t want to let go. "You better."

Four days.

It had been four days since you’d left for the mission. Four days of worry gnawing at his gut. Four days of sleepless nights, staring at the ceiling, every worst-case scenario clawing at his mind like a wild animal. Four days too damn long.

It was only supposed to be two. Tops. That’s what you’d said. That’s what he’d seen on the mission plans. Something had gone wrong.

Cas, Chuck, Risa—hell, everyone—kept telling him the same thing:

"It’s a long drive."

"This is Y/N we’re talking about."

"They’re fine."

"She’s fine.”

None of it settled him. None of it stopped the gnawing, the twisting in his gut. He’d given you one more hour before heading out himself. Thirty minutes in, he was already strapping on his gear, ignoring Cas’s protests.

"You’re not strong enough yet," Cas said, arms crossed, voice firm but eyes filled with concern.

Dean gritted his teeth, shoving a shotgun into his duffel. "I can bear a little weight now. That’s all I need."

"Dean—"

"Save it, Cas. If you think I’m sittin’ on my ass while she’s out there, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Was it reckless? Yeah. Was it stupid? Maybe. But this was you, and if that made him the dumbest son of a bitch on the planet, so be it.

Just as he slammed the tailgate shut, shouts rang out from the front gate. His heart kicked into overdrive. It had to be you. It had to be you.

Dean moved before his brain even registered it, pushing past people, his pulse pounding so hard he could barely hear anything else. The gates creaked open, and his stomach plummeted.

Marcus, bloody and barely standing, leaned heavily against Frank. But no one else. No you.

Dean’s legs moved on their own, closing the distance. He ducked under Marcus’s arm, helping to take his weight, barely feeling it.

Marcus lifted his head, his eyes glazed with pain, and something worse. Guilt.

Dean’s breath strangled in his throat.

"I’m sorry," Marcus croaked.

The world tilted. His ears rang. His vision tunnelled.

His grip on Marcus tightened. "Where is she?" His voice was raw, ragged, and barely controlled.

Marcus swallowed hard. "We got separated."

Dean's jaw clenched. His ribs felt like they were caving in. "You left her?"

“No!" Marcus's eyes widened in panic as his voice cracked. "We—we got ambushed. Lost control of the truck. She told us to go—she made us go. Said she’d cover us and meet us at the fallback point. But she never—" His voice broke, and Dean felt it like a punch to the chest.

He barely registered Frank speaking, barely heard Cas stepping forward. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, the suffocating silence in the places where your voice should be.

Dean turned on his heel, heading straight for the weapons cache in the back of his truck.

“Dean—" Cas started.

"Don’t," Dean growled, yanking open the trunk. He was already strapping a knife to his thigh, loading extra clips into his belt. His hands shook, rage boiling just beneath the surface. "She’s out there, Cas. Alone. Maybe hurt, maybe—" He cut himself off, refusing to let the thought take shape.

Cas sighed, his own concern for you etched in his furrowed brow. He wasn’t the same rigid, mission-driven angel Dean had once known. That version of Cas had unraveled under the weight of the world going to hell.

These days, he was powerless, looser and less rough around the edges. He swore more, laughed easier, even started smoking pot, which you’d indulged in with him a few times, passing a joint between you on the bad nights. It was the kind of thing that would’ve been unimaginable before. But now? Now, it was survival.

And yet, despite the changes, one thing hadn’t shifted—his loyalty. Cas stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean flinched, expecting more reprimands of his outrageous plan, but then—

"I’m going with you."

Dean paused, gripping the shotgun in his palm a little tighter, looking at Cas with a hint of surprise, but Cas’s gaze was steady.

"She’s my friend, too. A dear one." His voice softened, but there was no room for argument. "And you’re not going alone."

Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight, but he gave a sharp nod.

And that was that.

Because nothing, nothing was keeping Dean from getting to you.

The next 24 hours was a blur of desperation and simmering frustration. At himself, at Marcus and Frank? He couldn’t pin point. But he’d hadn’t slept, barely ate; running on nothing but adrenaline and the thin, fraying thread of hope that he could still find you.

Every second wasted felt like another inch slipping through his grasp. Marcus and Frank had marked the last place they’d seen you on a map, the paper now crumpled and sweat-stained from how tightly he’d held it.

The truck rumbled over uneven terrain, tires kicking up dirt and gravel, the roads long since reclaimed by nature. The silence inside the cab was suffocating, but Dean couldn't bring himself to fill it. Cas sat beside him, just as silent, just as weary, scanning the tree line as if he could will you to appear. Every shadow made Dean’s pulse spike, every gust of wind sent his fingers tightening on the wheel.

Then, he saw it.

The humvee was barely visible, half-buried in a ditch like a forgotten relic of a battle long lost. The sight sent a fresh wave of ice through Dean’s veins. He and Cas climbed out, boots crunching against dead leaves, and the second he rounded the front of the vehicle, his stomach turned. Blood streaked the ground, dark and drying. The bodies of Croats littered the area, headshots clean and precise. That was you. It had to be.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he followed the trail of carnage, deeper into the woods, through the thick, cloying stench of rot. His breathing was shallow, every step feeling heavier, as if the earth itself was trying to pull him back, to stop him from seeing what lay ahead.

And then he saw you.

Slumped against a tree, your body battered and broken. Three Croats surrounded you, dead. But they’d done their damage, had left their mark. The stillness shattered something inside him. The world blurred, went silent, the weight of it crushing down on him as he stumbled forward.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they hovered over your form, as if afraid touching you would make it real.

“Y/N?” It came out barely a whisper, choked and raw. His eyes flickered to the gun still clutched in your fingers, to the bullet wound at the back of your head. His breath hitched. You’d never wanted to turn, never wanted to put the camp—put him—in danger. So you made sure you wouldn’t.

Cas exhaled a sharp breath behind him, the sound laced with grief. He bowed his head, frustration and helplessness carving deep lines into his face as tears gathered in his eyes.

Dean gathered you into his arms, your body cold and stiff—so wrong, so opposite of everything you’d ever been. A strangled noise clawed its way out of his throat, a broken, keening sound as he pulled you against his chest. His tears soaked into your hair as he rocked back and forth, fingers fisting into your jacket like he could hold you together, like he could keep you from slipping away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Over and over again. "I’m so sorry."

The ride back to camp was a slow, agonising crawl through a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He sat in the truck bed with you in his arms, his grip unrelenting, as if holding you tightly enough might somehow bring you back. Cas didn’t try to talk to him as he drove. There was nothing to say and his own grief was new and relentless, a pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced before the end.

So he remained silent.

When they reached the gates, the camp fell into a hush. People stopped what they were doing, parted wordlessly, their eyes wide with sorrow, their mouths pressed into thin, grim lines. But Dean didn’t look at them.

Couldn’t.

Marcus and Frank stood among the crowd, their faces carved with guilt and regret. Their shoulders sagged under the weight of it all. The self-blame naturally creeping in.

They should have gone back for you. Should have fought harder. Should have saved you.

But they didn’t.

As Dean walked past them, his steps slow, heavy, like a man wading through thick, suffocating mud, Marcus fell to his knees, broken and ashamed. He didn’t try to speak. He couldn’t. He knew there were no words, no excuses that could make this right.

And Dean just kept walking.

That night, he dug your grave himself.

The earth was cruel beneath his hands—unyielding, frozen solid, as if the ground itself was rejecting what he had to do. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His fingers clawed through the dirt, blistering, splitting open, the blood mixing with the soil, but he barely noticed. Pain meant nothing. Not compared to this.

A part of him—that deep, desperate, selfish part—refused to give you a hunter’s funeral. If he burned you, if he watched the flames consume you, then it was real. Final. But if he put you in the ground instead, maybe—maybe—you’d come back somehow.

By the time it was done, by the time he lowered you into the grave with a care so gentle it didn’t belong to a man as broken as he was, something inside him gave way.

He stood there for hours, staring at the freshly turned earth, his mind trapped in an endless loop of you—every laugh, every kiss, the warmth of your smile, the way you loved him without hesitation. Each memory cut deeper, twisted the knife, shattered him in ways that even the pit never had. Hell had only scratched the surface. Losing you was ripping apart his soul. And then—

“You promised,” Dean whispered, the words barely more than a breath. His throat ached, raw and burning, his chest tight with the pressure of a scream he couldn’t release. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms deep enough to draw blood. “You fucking promised.”

His voice broke, and the grief cracked through him like a fault line splitting wide open. A sob wrenched its way free, then another, and another, until he was sinking to his knees, shaking under the weight of it.

After a long moment, he forced in a breath, his lungs burning with the effort, and slowly, almost unwillingly, his gaze lifted to the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, cold and distant, watching but offering nothing.

They brought him no peace.

Only the hollow, infinite stretch of loneliness in a universe without the people who mattered most to him.

A shudder wracked through him. His fists clenched tighter, anger flaring sharp and bitter—at himself, at you, at the whole goddamn world. His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached.

But anger never lasted. It burned fast and bright before collapsing in on itself, leaving behind nothing but the aching, endless void.

Dean knelt by your grave, head bowed, fingers pressing into the dirt as if he could reach you. As if he could hold you one last time, and whispered the words he should have said more often, words he should have said a long time ago.

“I love you.”

By the time the sun crept over the horizon, Dean Winchester was a different man.

The warmth in his eyes was gone, stripped away like flesh from bone. What was left was something colder. Sharper. He moved through the camp like a ghost, a man of few words, a blade honed by grief and fury.

The others noticed the change but didn’t speak of it. They didn’t have to.

Because they all knew.

2014 - Two years later.

The night was thick with silence, the kind that pressed in like a weight, smothering everything beneath it. Dean moved through the ruins of what used to be civilisation, boots crunching against dirt and debris, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The moonlight barely cut through the dense cloud cover, casting everything in muted grey. It fit. The whole world was one big goddamn graveyard now.

His grip tightened around the strap of his gun. This is what’s left.

Some nights, when exhaustion seeped into his bones and the silence grew too loud, he thought about ending it. Just one pull of the trigger. One last breath. And it would be over.

But then he’d hear you.

Not really, of course. Just the phantom echo of your voice—stubborn, unwavering, the voice of reason he never wanted but always needed. “Come on, Winchester, don’t be stupid. These people need you.” He could almost see the way you’d cross your arms, cock your head, daring him to argue.

And god, it pissed him off.

Because you got to check out. Whether you wanted to or not, you were gone, and he was the one still standing. The one still carrying all this weight, all this pain. And it wasn’t fucking fair. Easy for you to say, sweetheart.

But you were right.

You’d always believed in what they were doing here, in the camp, in these people. You were proud of the four of you for building something out of the wreckage, carving out a place that still felt like home in a world that had gone to hell. He knew how much it meant to you, how fiercely you fought to keep it safe, to keep them safe. That was the part that really got him.

Because even after everything, even when it hurt like hell, he couldn’t bring himself to let it fall apart.

So he never did it.

Instead, he let the grief hollow him out. Let it turn him into the kind of man he used to hate—cold, ruthless, willing to do whatever it took to survive. The Dean Winchester who had hope, who fought for more than just the next day, had died with you. Now he was just on autopilot, a cog in the machine that kept turning until eventually it stopped.

A low wind stirred the air as he approached the wreckage ahead—his usual patrol route, the same one he took every damn night. It brought him past what was left of Baby.

Dean clenched his jaw as his eyes landed on her—a stripped-down husk of the Impala he once knew. Rusted, gutted for parts. She hadn’t been drivable for years—too loud, too dangerous to take out on the road. But leaving her behind had stung like hell.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, when movement by the car caught his attention.

Someone was there.

Dean tensed, adjusting his grip on his gun, eyes narrowing as he took in the stranger’s frame. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a navy-blue jacket. There was something unsettlingly familiar about him. “Oh, baby… what did they do to you?”

Dean’s breath hitched.

No.

Before the stranger could react, Dean moved, fast and silent, raising his gun and bringing it down hard against the back of the man’s head. The body crumpled instantly, collapsing against the dirt with a dull thud.

Dean barely had a second to process what the hell just happened before a rustling sound from the nearby brush snapped his attention up.

He swung his gun toward the movement, finger on the trigger, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Boss,” Marcus called out, his voice tight, laced with something Dean couldn’t quite place. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Marcus stepped into view, but he wasn’t alone.

Dean’s grip on his gun faltered as he took in the sight before him.

Marcus had been patrolling too, keeping his usual perimeter, but now he stood frozen, his face pale, eyes wide with something close to fear. Not of the Croats. Not of whatever hell they faced daily.

No.

Marcus looked like he’d seen a ghost. Because slung over his shoulder, limp and unconscious, was a woman.

He hesitated before lowering her gently to the ground, his hands shaking as he stepped back.

Dean barely registered the way his breath caught in his throat, the way the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the still form in front of him.

No. No, it can’t be.

His blood turned to ice. His heart clenched, stuttering in his chest with a sharp, agonising pang.

Because there you were.

AN: Okay so I know I've left it on a bit of a cliffhanger but, you can see where I'm going from here? 😅 I hope you guys liked this one, and please let me know what you thought? 💕

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

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@rach5ive @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @amberlthomas @illicithallways

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #endverse!dean x reader #endverse!dean #spn #spn fanfic #jensen ackles #spnfamily

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revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

Hi Revel! Not a request or anything but I just wanted to send in an ask telling you how much I appreciate your works! There’s such variety to choose from and I’m constantly impressed with the storylines that you craft and everything you come up with! I love how much you’ve thought about each character and it really shows in your work. For example, you’ve gone into little bits here and there about how each of your Starscreams’ are different and you are just superb at showing it! (Your take on Armada Starscream is my absolute favorite!!) It’s really inspiring honestly and makes me want to get back into fanfiction again. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to checking your blog each day and seeing what you’ve been up to! Also your blog is so accessible! I cannot imagine all the links you have to put in and kept up with but I’m so grateful for it! Ah, sorry for the rambling but I hope life treats you well. :^] <3

Here’s a silly little photo for you! He is so little <3

Thank you! I’m glad you like my nonsense and go out there and write the things you love! 💕

Bee’s just a tiny bab.

Even If It Kills Me Pt 14

Armada Starscream x Reader

• Head lifting from where you’re idly drawing on his datapad, you go still at the smell of food. Actual, hot food not chips or cookies. And Runway chirps holding up a brown paper bag. Watching the other two try to seize it from him before Starscream huffs through his vents and picks you up to set down on the floor with the mini-cons. “How did you get fast food?” You ask as Runway pushes the bag in your hands and then drapes himself against your back when you sit crosslegged on the floor and open it, the other two creeping closer and openly curious.

• Wings lifting and falling as he retrieves an energon cube for himself and smaller ones for the mini-cons and joins you on the floor, he watches you remove little wrapped packages from the bag. “The mini-cons found it,” he says and you shoot him a look. “A human set it on an outdoor table in the park and Runway snatched it,” he admits with a grimace. You don’t look angry, though as you grab a fistful of little yellow sticks and shove them in your mouth, eyes closing. Watches Sonar and Jetstorm lean over to vent curiously, recoiling when you offer them a bit. “They can’t eat that. Unless you want them purging on you later.”

• “Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper to the mini-cons and Runway affectionately butts his helm against you before seizing one of the mini energon cubes Starscream is holding out for them. Because you’ve been wanting real food rather than the junk food Star keeps bringing you. Know he’s trying his best, keeps stealing things for you and he’s been working on something lately in a corner of his habsuite, the paneling of the wall and floor pulled up over there. Not sure what he’s up to since he gets flustered when you ask, making you think it has to do with you.

• “I’ve told you that you don’t need to thank me or them for that,” he mutters before taking a deep drink. Aware of you grinning up at him before you turn your attention back on the food, eating much quicker than you normally do to make him feel guilty. Because he’s almost certain he’s doing a terrible job caring for you and you’re just too nice to say anything to him. You seem happier at least with him. When you have your nightmares and he remembers the bruises on your face when he’d found you, the resignation, he thinks about returning to that home he’d found you at. Wanting to find whoever scared you so bad you still can’t shake the fear. Knows he’ll likely never be able to get revenge on his tormentor, but he could remove yours from the face of this world. But if he does and you ever find out, you may not look at him the same way anymore and he can’t risk that. Wants you to keep smiling for him. To be worthy of your trust.

• “I know,” you say, looking up to find him frowning at nothing like he sometimes does. That little show and tell of scars was the most he’s let his guard down and had been enough to understand that he understands you, because he’s suffered at someone else’s hands, too. That he’s been through not exactly the same thing, but something similar enough and he’d not been completely broken by it helps you keep smiling for him. He’s gruff and awkward, but he’s kind. And you want to protect him and that kindness, because it means everything to you.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #idw starscream

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silence-ofthe-llamas · 6 months ago

Text

More TexAid Mecha AU-AU stuff!

In this chapter - Vortex continues to be an oversized blender, First Aid has Quite Enough of it.

Pls excuse any errors, the tuxedo cat LOVES to sit on my lap and explore my keyboard when I write and I don't always catch everything.

The schedule board was a large, digital board that could be found in almost every major area. It was also available on their phones, easily viewed by all. The medics had one of the deepest levels of access to assess lone workers, and to track who should be where in emergencies.

And the schedule board was wrong.

PILOT: FELIX ANWYL

First Aid groggily rubbed his eyes at the bright light of the phone being shoved into his half-asleep face.

“Whuh?” He sleepily mumbled. His hand flopped around blindly for his glasses before he gave up and grabbed the phone, pulling it closer.

“You’re scheduled on as a pilot today?” Ambulon asked.

“I’m not a pilot.” First Aid pushed the phone away and flopped back down. “I was on the night shift.” He pointedly said.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Ambulon sighed. “I just can’t figure out why you’re on the list!”

“Someone must have made a mistake.”

It was not a mistake.

It was sabotage.

Red Alert glared hotly at them all as the announcement was made. The schedule had been hacked. Anyone with any information was to step forwards immediately.

The only reason First Aid had gotten away with just twenty minutes of grilling was because he’d been in the medical bay for the night shift, and then immediately gone straight to bed – the cameras showed him yawning as he clocked out at the time when the system was apparently compromised.

It couldn’t have been him, and there wasn’t anyone he could have asked.

First Aid felt the cameras trained onto him burning a hole through him, and tried his best to ignore it.

It kept happening. Every morning, his name would be right there on the schedule. They’d tried to remove it only for it to appear again moments later. Whatever it was, whoever it was, were sitting waiting in the system totally undetected. They couldn’t scrub them out. The mysterious morning memos changed too – songs about wanton longing were quoted instead.

A compromised system was unacceptable. In lieu of a functional digital system, they made the switch back to paper. Every morning, a thick ringbound stack of papers would be dumped in the main areas showing everyones shift patterns at precisely 5:30am. First Aids name had finally been scrubbed – but he’d seen correction tape on the pages by Vortex’s name. He was still managing to infiltrate the system.

Pilots feeling brave or lucky volunteered to pilot Vortex, to prove they were made of the right stuff. First Aid watched and winced every time Vortex staggered back into the hangar, doing that grinding tremble that he did when he was laughing, and having the smell of a corpse hit him even from the wrong end of the catwalk.

He’s consuming them, First Aid thought. They’re offering themselves as sacrifices, he’s an altar to them.

Pharma hadn’t allowed First Aid to go back into Vortex to extract the previous pilot (shovelling into a bucket was more apt now) since he’d been stuck inside. He’d not been caught when he’d sneaked into him that evening, but Pharma knew. Somehow, he knew – he’d changed the positioning of cameras in the medics quarters, he’d changed how the doors logged entry and exits. He’d know in an instant if he went. So, he stayed and had to hope that Vortex could see his expression from where he stood behind the gate.

Instead of being the one to extract them, he was often involved in assisting the autopsy. Pharma lead them alongside Ratchet – a way to keep him under watch and on his best behaviour. First Aid never let Ratchet see him step out of line – his disappointment would kill him. Pharma would look at him each time as he catalogued each part, every chunk and shard and unidentifiable puddle, as if to say ‘this is a warning’. As if to check that he was paying attention, that he would see that this would be what became of him if he went near the mech again.

Only First Aid didn’t believe it for a second. They had a deal. Vortex wanted his expertise, and First Aid wanted his body. His expertise was worth nothing if he was dead, if he were rendered to nothing more than mush that soaked into the fabric of the pilots chair and ran into the gaps between the plating.

The day that Vortex’s visor opened and sprayed the remnants of the pilot on the catwalk and the approaching trauma medics was the day that First Aid snapped.

“For fucks sake I don’t care - he keeps killing them!” He swiftly evaded the grabbing hands trying to restrain him. “Look, that cadet’s been scattered all over the catwalk! How are we supposed to autopsy that?!”

“Leave the worrying about that to the pathologists, Felix.”

“I don’t know about your conscience, but I can’t stand it on mine when I know I can do something about it. I’m going to talk to him.”

“Do you want to die? He’ll kill you.”

“He won’t, he promised.”

“And you trust it?” Disgust blended with disbelief. “That AI is rogue, Felix. It’s… it’s broken. I don’t think it will listen to a single word anyone has to say.” First Aid didn’t reply.

“Let me through.” He politely said to the guard. The guard looked between First Aid and the simmering Pharma behind him.

“I don’t think-“

“Let me through.”

“No can do, Felix.”

Pharma had a smugness about him. “See? Now, let’s behave-“

First Aid took a step back, assessing the height of the barrier. He could make that, right?

“Hey-!” The guards arms flew out to catch him as he jumped over, his foot catching and flipping him over. First Aid grunted as his jaw smacked the floor with a crack.

“Stupid boy!” Pharma scolded. “You’re still healing from the last time you got inside that mech! Don’t add to your injuries!”

“I don’t care!” First Aid snapped. “People are dying! We’re medics! Why aren’t you doing what you can to help?!”

“By climbing into death traps? Don’t be silly, Felix.” Pharma roughly tugged him up to his feet. “You’ll achieve nothing if you’re dead.”

“I’ll do a damn sight better if I go see the mech throwing a tantrum because I’m not in it.”

Pharma’s eyes were hard. “Your potential is not to be wasted on some hare-brained scheme. Do not test my patience again.”

First Aid swallowed hard, feeling his legs go numb. Maybe he’d pushed his luck too far - Pharma looked very serious indeed. He relented, relaxing as best he could into his hold, and mumbled an apology.

It seemed to please Pharma. He apologised to the guard for the trouble his charge had caused, and trotted him straight back to the medical bay.

Pharma made a mistake in thinking that was the end of it. First Aid had made the mistake in going to Vortex when he was still full of a disembowelled corpse.

Nobody minded the medic walking with purpose through the pilots quarters. His heart was in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears, as he hoped nobody recognised him as the medic who kept ending up on the pilots list. Pretend you’re meant to be here.

Pretend.

His target was a supply cupboard that held spare suits. It was still three hallways away when someone noticed him.

“What are you doing?” Their voice was sharp, piercing. “You’re not meant to be here.”

Perceptor. Of course he would pissing notice.

First Aid silently held up a blister package of paracetamol. He didn’t trust his voice to hold.

Perceptor was someone whom he had looked up to when he was younger - a member of The Wreckers, children far and wide knew their names, their faces, their stats on their Top Trump cards. First Aid knew he should have been more starstruck, that he should have asked for an autograph, but the adrenaline was gripping him so tightly he couldn’t think past the now.

Perceptor wasn’t buying it.

He opened his mouth to challenge him, frowning and folding his arms, cocking his hip to the side-

And the klaxon went off.

They both immediately turned to look at the nearest signboard.

FELIX ANWYL stared back at First Aid, glaring and red and flashing next to Vortex’s name.

Giving him a look that promised it wasn’t the end of it, Perceptor rushed off to answer the call. First Aid took a moment to recollect himself before utilising the chaos to plunder the stores and nab himself a god damn uniform. Passing through the crowds was strangely easy – he blended right in to the mass of bodies, and just his luck – another pilot was already rummaging in the cupboard when he had arrived.

“Can you pass me an S?” He asked. They didn’t even look at him as they grabbed it and shoved it into his hands, flicking through the carefully packaged uniforms as they hunted. First Aid quickly thanked him and shoved it into his bag before swiftly walking out.

It was all on camera. He felt them trained on him, watching his every move.

But he felt somehow assured that nobody would know. Vortex was watching. He’d make sure he left no tracks.

Vortex’s response time had tanked. It had never been so low, even when they were struggling to find seasoned pilots willing to enter his jaws. The brass were starting to sweat. Their sponsors and investors didn’t like mechs that inexplicably failed, especially when the mech was supposed to be the best.

Engineers and the maintenance crew confirmed that he was passing all of his tests – there was nothing mechanically wrong with him. His AI was responding as intended. There were no bugs, no faults, nothing out of the ordinary with him.

But First Aid knew what the problem was. Vortex was throwing a tantrum, and it was only the thought of letting anyone else get their teeth into the quintesson invaders before he did that got him out of the hangar doors. His need for blood always won out when it came down to it – and he’d make a show of it if he needed to.

First Aid wore the thin under-layer of the pilots suit under his medics uniform, and carried the thicker armour in his backpack. He stowed it under his bench, always within easy reach - he’d grab it and sprint as soon as the siren went off.

Vortex was always one of the last to launch. Finding a willing pilot to get inside of him was getting harder, and they’d had to start using new recruits. Fresh, green, and who didn’t have a damn clue who he was or about the rumours of his supposed haunting. And new recruits needed showing the ropes, needed to be shown how the helmet worked, needed to have the reason why his name was on the screen explained away.

So he had about three minutes to get to him whilst they plucked someone from the academy. The medbay was a three minute sprint away if you were an athlete. He could do it in five. It would have to do.

The first klaxon since he’d stolen the suit was a night time alarm. He was dead asleep in his quarters a good twenty minutes away – he was only aware that they’d launched when the alarm in the medics building went off alerting them to incoming casualties. He’d shrugged on his uniform and hopped onto the transport, ready to jet off to the medical bay, and silently cursed his bad luck. Vortex would be so mad.

And mad he was. Apparently, the pilot had been mauled before they’d even left the hangar, the mech continuing on with just a slowly dying nervous system connected to it. Blood had oozed from the visor, loudly splattering down Vortex’s chest. The instructor who had brought the cadet up had cried.

First Aid felt the cameras on him. It felt like Vortex was accusing him of something, but surely he was just imagining that. The cameras looked no different.

Perceptor hadn’t said a thing to him. He also hadn’t said anything to anyone – if he did, First Aid knew he’d have been frogmarched up to the top brass, chewed out until he was but a smear on the floor, and kicked out into the cold unforgiving world outside. Pharma had been the one to protect him when he’d been caught with the infant quintesson – he’d been the one to catch him, to pretend nothing had happened and handled his discipline internally. There wasn’t anything he could do when it came to him stealing a pilots suit.

Especially when one considered that Pharma had explicitly told him to not do this. He’d be watching his downfall with a glass of wine and canapés.

It ate away at him, clawing at his insides. What was Perceptor thinking? What was he planning? Was he waiting to see what he would do?

Relief came in the form of a distraction and of stars aligning. It had taken three alarms, three incidents, three deployments of their mechs, before First Aid was able to make it to Vortex. He had always been too far, off shift or dead in sleep in a building where they weren’t alerted to quintessons.

In the chaos of an attack, nobody paid much notice to the pilot who jumped the barrier. Overzealous, over excited. The guards shook their heads at him. First Aid didn’t catch his foot this time, and was audibly wheezing by the time he got to Vortex. He’d said it was a five minute sprint, but he didn’t say a thing about what state it would be leaving him in. He felt dishevelled. His hair was sticking to him. He’d never felt more awake.

The new recruit was there, bright eyed and excitedly drinking in the atmosphere. The instructor had a guilty look on her face as she let them take one last look at the facility, their last look at life.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here!” First Aid called as he slid to a stop. “I’m so late!” He gasped for breath, trying not to laugh in how giddy he felt. Pharma would murder him. Ratchet would be so upset. But Vortex had visibly shuddered, his canopy trembling, and he couldn’t suppress his giggle.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” The instructor looked perplexed. “I wasn’t aware the mech had a pilot assigned to them?”

“Felix. Felix Anwyl.” He smiled at them, still breathing heavily from his nose. Was he sweaty? He felt sweaty. He felt hot. He couldn’t wait to sit down.

“But-“

“Thank you for your diligence! Your service will be appreciated, cadet!” First Aid said as he jumped into Vortex, the visor snapping down behind him with a sound of finality. The lock loudly slammed into place, and First Aid threw himself into the seat as Vortex remotely began the start up procedures. The harness seemed to buckle itself around him, holding him firmly into the seat as Vortex roughly shoved off the dock and began to sprint.

“Woah- wait wait wait I’m not ready-!” His hands were scrambling for purchase on anything, hands slipping from the sweat of his earlier exertion.

Vortex shook with laughter.

[WELCOME ABOARD, DARLING~ <3]

First Aid lost himself laughing. “I can’t believe I did that! Look at what you’ve got me doing!”

[YOU’VE GOT BIGGER BALLS THAN I THOUGHT, I WAS STARTING TO THINK YOU’D NEVER COME BACK]

[DON’T WORRY ME LIKE THAT AGAIN~]

He was pressed firmly back against the seat as Vortex left the hangar, speeding up now that he was clear. In the distance, First Aid could see smoke.

The quintessons had arrived. They were closer than he thought they’d be – he’d never realised how close they got…

The adrenaline slowly wore off and the reality of the situation quickly sunk in.

He had disobeyed direct orders. He had stolen a pilots uniform, he had impersonated one, and he was currently in a mech he was not trained or cleared to operate.

“Pharma is going to kill me!” First Aid panicked. “Oh, I’m so dead, I’m so dead!” He pulled his hair in despair. “Oh!” He moaned, burying his face into his hands. “What is Ultra Magnus going to say?!”

[RELAX]

“Easy for you to say! You’re already dead! You don’t get court marshalled!”

[JUST PUT THE HELMET ON, I WANT YOU TO FEEL THIS TOO]

Bright blue blood splashed up onto the visor. First Aid scrambled for the helmet.

Pain shot through him and he cried out, tightly gripping the seats. It had been easier to handle when Vortex wasn’t moving, when he wasn’t busy twirling and slashing and slicing and running around, but there was so much data. So much information he had to take in, and he didn’t have the hardware required to filter it for him. He didn’t need to know that the panel on Vortex’s left foot right by the heel was slightly loose because of how hard he’d started to sprint, but it felt as if something were out of place on his own body and it was all that he could think about.

“Sorry about that, babe. I forget it’s a bit much for you squishies.”

Suddenly, the pressure crushing his head lifted. He breathed a sigh of relief, pressing a hand to his chest as if to hold his heart in place.

“How many did I miss?”

“Three.” He carved through another, the scream loud and cutting off with a wet gargle. “Four, if you count that one. Pay close attention – you’re telling me what to do to the next one.”

He was horrified, but he couldn’t look away. His words had stumbled and tripped, unclear and garbled, instructions lost in translation. He couldn’t think straight and Vortex was moving faster than he could keep up with – he had to. There were so many. It suddenly made sense why their pilots always came back exhausted, why their mechs always needed repairs. It didn’t stop.

But he was learning.

“Come on, honey, don’t make me regret sticking my neck out for you.”

“Can I take control?” His hands hovered over the controls, a joystick nudging itself into his palm.

“If it’s you I’ll allow it.”

The next kill was more like a dissection. The quintesson felt squishier than he thought it would, clasped in his hand. He held it up as he carefully inserted the sword with scientific precision, the blade slowly gliding down to reveal the peritoneum – it shone like an oil slick in the light of the slowly setting sun, and he could see one of its pulsing hearts straining against it. He was sure it was screaming, but he couldn’t hear over the thunderous beat of his own heart in his ears and the endless praise pouring out of Vortex.

“It’s got multiple hearts. That’s fascinating.” First Aid commented. “Okay, carefully does it…” he thought back to his first dissection. His little hamster, Lucky. The feeling of joy and wonder that he had had, the quiet worship that came when one engaged with the natural world around them in a way that left them feeling much smaller than when they had begun.

His hands hadn’t been as skilled back then. He’d struggled to get hold of a knife sharp enough without his parents noticing and taking it from him, he wasn’t even tall enough to climb up onto the counter top – he’d seen a documentary on TV about the palaeolithic and flint knapping, and a few days later had noticed a piece of stray flint on the beach. His parents had been happy for him to take it, thinking he was just excited to find an interesting rock. They never found out that he’d whacked it against the boulder that marked the end of their driveway to break off a piece sharp enough to cut flesh. He buried it with the hamster.

The quintesson dropped with a wet squelch, the peritoneum breaking and its internals spilling out over the fields. First aid tutted.

“Damn it, I didn’t mean to cut that deep.”

“There will be more to practice on. Look, the next one’s headed our way~”

“Am I in trouble?”

First Aid staggered out of the mech, exhausted and giddy and dizzy and bleeding. They hadn’t suffered a single hit – they were fast but Vortex was much faster – but the strain of the connection had proven too much again. Red dripped from his nose to the floor, splashing up onto his boots and the shoes of the opposing officer waiting for them to return.

“Yes.” Prowl said. “Yes, you are.”

Pharma didn’t look angry. Somehow, that made it even worse. He couldn’t look at him as he walked by - he couldn’t look at anyone.

He’d saved the life of the cadet, he told himself. He would saved the lives of countless more – if they let him, that was. The silence was heavy and oppressive.

The walkie talkie on Prowls hip crackled loudly. He slipped it from its holder and held it up to his ear, brow creased in a frown.

A series of short and long beeps proceeded to play. First Aid didn’t understand what the hell they meant, but he recognised it from documentaries on the war.

Morse code. Four letters repeated over and over.

Prowl stopped to turn and stare at Vortex. Water was starting to be sprayed on his exterior, glowing blue running down over his visor. A singular red dot pierced through it – a camera inside of his cockpit. He was watching them.

“What’re they saying?” First Aid asked.

“… Mine.” Prowl quickly turned and resumed a brisk pace. First Aid stumbled after him, Pharma catching him in a firm hand. Blood dripped onto his pristine white lab coat, blooming like flowers.

#tf mecha universe #llama writes #texaid #tf vortex #tf first aid #mecha pilot au

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crazylittlejester · 8 days ago

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Thanks, that was helpful! Open invitation to yap about hcs now! Especially in a whump setting hehe

ofc!!

- i hc Warriors is the most experienced medic of the chain. To me he had actual field medic training and has a little kit of tools on his belt. He’s the guy who’s going to figure out what’s wrong and how to patch ya up, Hyrule just has the healing spell. (and Sky to me is the equivalent of like a first responder, so he also knows a few things)

- Related to that: War is the first person who’s going to let everyone know he’s injured. He was the one who really had the importance of teamwork drilled into him and even if his shit self esteem leads him to believe he’s not worth wasting time and resources over, he knows that he needs to be held responsible for carrying his weight. If he cant function at full capacity because hes hurt and the others expect him to have their backs and he’s not able to and THEY get hurt because they didn’t realize the team was a little weaker, he’d never forgive himself. He’s the first to call that he’s injured or unwell, for their sake not necessarily his

- He’ll always prioritize whoever has the worst injury, even if that IS him, but again more out of ‘I can’t let me being injured inconvenience or harm anyone else’. He knows him dying would make the others really upset even if he doesn’t fully get why theyd love HIM so much. he finds himself irritating

- I hc he has a lot of anxiety around food. Assassination attempts and ingesting poison have made him really anxious to try new foods or even eat things he’s HAD before because what if it kills him? He’s been doing better since the end of the war, but he still has really bad days where he can’t eat anything but oranges. I hc those are his safe food because he can tell himself the peel protects the fruit and that little extra barrier makes it feel safer, even if oranges arent impossible to poison. He has an irrational dependency on them

- He has a high spice tolerance but can no longer mentally handle a lot of spice because it burns his tongue and makes it feel numb and that’ll freak him out a bit

- Incredibly light sleeper, if you drop a pin the next room over he’ll be up

- Someone you should NEVER sneak up on or touch without warning ever. His panic response will have him stabbing first and asking questions after his ‘attacker’ has already been stabbed

- I hc he doesn’t like things up close to his neck at ALL. He’ll have an instinctive reaction to start gagging and choking if something touches the front of his neck, no matter how much pressure it puts on his throat. This is why his collar is so open and his scarf is FIRMLY pinned in place. It’s not moving or going anywhere, it will not choke him

- He’s one of those people who can lock the fuck in and completely push emotions aside until he gets what he needs to done. Sky’s bone is poking out of his leg? Cool whatever, War can freak out about it later once the bone is set and healed up. This does cause him a lot of problems tho because he has to take time to go and process his emotions after the fact and if he doesn’t do that he gets really overwhelmed (I wrote a whole post about how I think when Twi was injured, Warriors immediately started grieving for him as if he’d already died so he could be ahead of the emotional hammer smacking him and be functional while the others mourned, and then when Twi LIVED he didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself because his emotions and brain were telling him Twi was dead)

- This one is pretty based on nothing but I hc War loves learning shit. He loves figuring out how and why things work and he LOVES history so getting to travel through all these eras has been the coolest thing ever for him and he has a journal where he writes down basically everything. It’s an extension of his brain, it has his thoughts his letters his observations his strategies EVERYTHING in there (and I hc he’s Brazilian so the whole thing is written in his first language Portuguese and therefore unreadable to everyone else. He guards it with his life but he doesn’t have to worry too much about it falling into the wrong hands)

- This poor man has not great vision and is clueless about it. All that squinting? the wide eyed clueless stare? yeah he can’t see anything in detail more than like 15 feet from his face if he’s not actively straining his eyes. he’s not the best shot- or the guy you want looking out for approaching enemies because at a certain distance he cannot tell the difference between a deer and a monster. and he’s completely oblivious to this and thinks everyone else’s vision ALSO just sucks ass like this

- genuinely one of the kindest and sweetest people, his fake personality he puts on makes him seem like he’s obnoxious but he’s actually very quiet and calm. i hc he’s one of the more introverted members of the chain

- The burns he got from Volga cover a decent amount of his skin, i hc the wall of fire hit him like sideways so the burns are on his forearm, a bit of his upper arm, a little of his side on his ribs and hip, and a little on his upper thigh. the severity of the burns varies depending on location, but in some places it burned him so bad he has a hard time regulating his temperature because he can’t sweat there anymore and it makes it hard for him to cool down. Wild has a larger area of skin that was badly burned so he has the same issue, those two are the first to overheat (War has some areas of the burn scar that are just a mark, the skin just looks a little different there but it wasn’t damaged enough to affect it long term, Wild is completely out of luck and all of his scarring destroyed just everything where the guardian beam hit him. he’s lucky he’s still up and running tho, because he really Should be dead)

- i know a few others who agree with this hc, but i personally think itd be hilarious if Warriors just couldn’t swim. He never goes in water at all in his game

#jes ask #jes headcanons #linked universe #lu warriors #lu headcanons

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itsabouttimex2 · 2 years ago

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I urgently need a platonic Yandere Keigo who finds the reader insanely hungry and crying and his only instinct is to feed the reader like a newborn baby bird

Natural Instinct

Almost every Quirk has a drawback of some kind. A person might have a Quirk that’s too strong for their body to bear, or one that can’t be precisely controlled and does more damage than intended. Some are outright entirely uncontrollable, incapable of being shut off. Sometimes those drawbacks are emotional. It’s not unheard of for a Quirk to be tied to the emotions of whoever bears it. Sometimes, they grow stronger with rage or weaker with sorrow. And for others, that drawback is mental.

Keigo Takami knows that his Quirk has afforded him a lot in life. He has so many different uses for his feathers that it can be dizzying to watch him in action. People would kill and die to have a Quirk so powerful and versatile. He himself wouldn’t trade it for the world.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t drawbacks. They’re a massive target, to start with. Every enemy he’s faced with half a brain goes after them first, more than a few managing to leave some serious damage. Sure, he can grow more later on, but losing them hurts.

It isn’t the only downside, though.

The bright red wings he bears have to be dispersed for stealth. It takes a lot of concentration to properly wield his Quirk to his full potential. All of his clothes have to be custom-tailored. And sometimes, just sometimes… he gets these strange thoughts.

People with animalistic Quirks often report strange instincts and unusual desires related to their Quirks. To hunt, maybe. Or to hide away in dark spaces.

Keigo knows the feeling. When he was younger, he used to preen his wings with his own mouth, delicately cleaning his feathers with his teeth and tongue. He’s long grown out of that habit, but the urge still persists. He’s also particularly drawn to shiny objects and has a tiny, tucked away desire to collect them. He satiates that urge with sensible things like bracelets and watches.

But what he’s feeling right now isn’t as easy to suppress.

There you sit, all curled up on yourself in the corner, tears dribbling from your eyes. Your arms are wrapped tight around your growling stomach, head buried against your knees.

And his brain tells him that there’s only one solution capable of solving this problem.

Feed you himself.

Of course, he’s not going to feed you like a bird. Even when his Quirk is working against him like this, pitting his brain against his heart, he stays rational. Keigo isn’t quite sure what the exact impact that force-feeding you by mouth would have, but he knows it wouldn’t be good. Potentially trauma-inducing.

It’s much easier and far more sane to gently sit you in front of himself as he navigates a fork to your mouth. He lets you take your time, working through the bowl with you one bite at a time. If you take too long, he doesn’t mind reheating it and sitting back down with you. It might be a little tedious and time-consuming, but he doesn’t really mind.

When he’s done feeding you he tosses the bowl and fork into the sink, not bothering to be gentle about it. He is, however, very gentle about pulling you into his lap, sitting comfortably with you as close as possible. You move to stand up and pull yourself away, but his arms catch you in a hug, snaring you in place. His wings then wrap around you, keeping you as trapped as you are warm.

It feels right, to have you here. To have you close. Your needs met, your comfort assured. Warm, safe, well-fed. What more could anybody want?

Certainly, you couldn’t want to leave the nest he had built just for you, right?

Not that he’d ever give you the chance.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere MHA #Yandere My Hero Academia #Yandere Keigo Takami #Yandere Hawks

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tentickletopics · 9 days ago

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Can I ask for some Elliot hcs? He's my favorite character in forsakennnn (still upset about his nerf and i hope they balance that)

also feel free to call me shadow anon!

HIHIHI!! hello shadow anon teehee

I can ofc give you headcanons, but NOT before I tell you about the buff he got just recently !! he doesn’t insta-heal anymore, BUT the slowness effect he had on rush hour is GONE. (thank goodness btw, he was the first one I’ve m4’d and I really didn’t wanna play him with all that going on!) he can also see players when they get hurt for ONE damage rather it being 12 minimum. The aura for it lasts longer (4—12secs) so he can properly see where people are. also his pizzas are glowing (they stay lit up so other survivors can see them, I saw one across the map just a few minutes ago!)

so yeah, our boy definitely got buffed back to normal!! it was about time too. whoever complaining that Elliot is hard to kill … well, that’s just a skill issue /silly

ANYWAYSSSS onto the headcanons!!!

ELLIOT HEADCANONS

GENERAL

— Oh boy, where do I even start with this?

— SILLY SILLY BOY. He’s so silly. I feel like being Forsakened may have scared him into hiding said silliness for his own safety but he definitely has a childish side to him. Guest and Chance see it the most.

— Tickle fights are so COMMON with this dude. That’s only mainly cause of his sister Mia. He just really loves to see her smile. No one is safe from this.

— Has freckles EVERYWHERE. This is important for later.

— A mixture between chubby and muscular - a perfect combination for … certain people. (COUGH LERS COUGHS.)

LER HEADCANONS

— Definitely the kind of guy who knows how to knock people down a peg or two.

— Elliot is SO SO SO good at teasing. He’s very observant with how people react, and he can tell even the SLIGHTEST change in reaction.

— “Oh, does this tickle? Sorry, didn’t notice.” Will feign ignorance just to mess with you. This works particularly well on Chance. Will also use baby talk. He’s got that older brother teasing down pat.

— His whole body reacts. Verbal teasing, physical teasing. It could be the raise of his eyebrows or a slight smirk, or even the way his hands just SLIGHTLY twitch. He’s gonna getcha.

— Prefers not to use tools. He thinks his fingers work just fine~

— And to add on to that, he doesn’t like holding down people either. Despite the cruel (wonderful) teasing he does, he doesn’t want people to be uncomfortable. The only thing he’d do is sit on their waist/legs/arms. And even then, he’s very careful with how much pressure he puts on the lee.

— Mainly does cheer up tickles, especially for the more heavy-hearted folks. (Guest, 7n7, etc.) Will occasionally just randomly start tickle fights if he’s in a mood to wreck someone, or if someone’s being a BRAT (Chance).

— He’s the master of squeezing in just the right areas. I mean, c’mon, dude makes pizza for a living — surely he can knead dough, right? … well in this case, it’d be skin… you know where I’m going with this,,,

— HE ALSO NIBBLES!! Nibbling is a thing he reserves for people he trusts. Usually does it on the lee’s torso or neck. He tried it on Guest’s hip once and got absolutely knee’d in the face (accidentally). He’s never doing THAT again.

— His nails!!! are also long!!! He doesn’t have time to take care of them considering he’s now Forsakened and mainly because of his job so they’ve grown to be long and he absolutely uses it to his advantage.

— Aftercare is usually just Elliot rubbing where he tickled to get the sensations off (which sometimes backfires with certain people), and if that doesn’t work, he just gives them a head pat and a bottle of water. Maybe pizza if they’re lucky~

LEE HEADCANONS

— This dude. Is so. Freaking. TICKLISH.

— His worst spots are his sides, stomach, right below his ribs, his feet and his knees. His hands are also very ticklish but because of the gloves he wears, it’s hard to know this little fact.

— His laugh is very high-pitched and squeaky despite his rather mellow voice. He is SO EMBARRASSED about it too. He thinks it’s too much when in reality, it’s very freaking cute.

— Snorts. A lot. Is also really embarrassed by this fact, but people seem to melt when it happens so,,, shrug.

— He tends to flail a lot, especially with rougher tickles but he’s also not very keen on being pinned down. Usually the ler just finds a way around it, mainly by attack a death spot and praying they don’t get accidentally kicked.

— Back to that freckle thing… lers LOVE tracing over them. They’ll just be complimenting how cute they look, and Elliot will firstly melt before dissolving into giggles and snorts. He’s so adorable I can’t,,,

— If you dig into his stomach just right, he shrieks. It’s right above his hip but just below his sides. When people (Chance) find this out, they love abusing it just a bit.

— His face will IMMEDIATELY burn bright red if you tickle him. He’s not subtle in the slightest.

— THOUGH!!! teases aren’t really effective on him. You can only get him to blush if you sneak up on him. He’s got the teasing down to a tee, so of course his own tactics won’t work on him!!

— Whenever the ler gets done with him, he loves cuddling up to them — it makes him feel safe and reminds him of when Mia used to fall asleep after he was done tickling her. (Can you tell I love the sister-brother duo yet.) There’s very rarely a time where he’ll ask for space afterwards UNLESS you take it a bit too far.

— And that’s all I got,,, hriwhdhwheh

let me know who I should do next,,, I hope I did fine (I’m sleep-deprived, stayed up all night drinking two monsters AND I have work here in THIRTY MINUTESSSS WHOOOO im so cooked).

#sfw tickling community #forsaken tickles #elliot tickle headcanons #lee!elliot #ler!elliot #euchahdhhw I hope I did okay #forsaken tickling #tickling headcanons

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lapis-caeli · 6 months ago

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Hii! I was wondering if you could do headcanons for draken with a reader who doesn't really like physical touch, but is trying to get out of her comfort zone?

Oh! This is quite an interesting request, perhaps even touching on something a bit psychological? Interesting, interesting... Well, let's proceed with it!

A small detail: I noticed the request specifies a female reader, but I preferred to write it without detailing the reader's gender so that everyone can feel represented, hehe.

Without further ado, here's your request!

ENGLISH

Regardless of whether it’s due to trauma or simply a personal choice, I feel like it wouldn’t have been difficult for Draken to adapt initially.

I think he shows his love in ways that are very different from physical affection, maybe by spending time with the person and supporting them above all else.

Whether it’s something physical, like helping you fix something or carrying the shopping bags even if you can handle them yourself,

or just being there to listen whenever you need him, even if he’s not the best at giving advice and often needs Mitsuya’s help for that.

I feel like at first, it would seem strange to him; his perspective on couples has always been of people who are glued together all day, kissing or hugging.

Let’s remember he was raised in a brothel; I feel like his first impression of what a couple and physical affection were wouldn’t be positive.

Until he saw Takemichi and Hinata, realizing how different a real couple is from what he’s been seeing all his life.

He’s also someone who seems to spend his life working on bikes, so I really don’t think it would bother him if his partner weren’t physically affectionate.

But he would really appreciate it if you tried to be more affectionate; deep down, this big kid wants love but is so stubborn he can’t bring himself to ask for it directly.

Thanks to Mitsuya, he’s more likely to express how he feels, so expect very sweet comments from him when he notices your efforts.

He’ll do everything possible to support you in your change, especially if it’s due to trauma or a psychological condition rather than just a personal choice.

Little by little, the two of you will become more affectionate, with you overcoming your discomfort and him getting used to the hugs and affection he probably hasn’t received as much as he deserves.

Going back to the psychological aspect, he would help you a lot, regardless of what’s causing your discomfort.

If it were related to trauma caused by someone else, he’d do everything he could not to talk to Mikey about killing whoever hurt you.

And if it were due to a psychological condition, like autism, he’d give you all the support and space you needed; after all, he’s your boyfriend, and that’s what he’s there for.

If you were seeing a therapist to help with that, he’d always go with you and wait so you could later go for a drink or take a ride on his bike—anything that calmed you down after a conversation about emotions.

He would be very sweet, though in a very subtle way. Many people might think he’s not doing much to help you, but you know it’s the opposite and, above all, that he’s always there for you.

ESPAÑOL

Independientemente de si es un trauma o una simple elección del lector, siento que no habría sido difícil para Draken adaptarse en un principio.

Siento que él muestra su amor de formas muy distintas al contacto físico, quizá pasando tiempo con esa persona y apoyándola sobre todo

Sea de forma física, como ayudarte a arreglar algo o llevar las bolsas de la compra aunque puedas con ellas.

Hasta estar simplemente ahí para escucharte siempre que lo necesites, aunque no sea el mejor para dar consejos y muchas veces necesite ayuda de Mitsuya para eso.

Siento que en un principio le parecería extraño, su perspectiva de las parejas siempre ha sido la de personas que están todo el día pegadas, besándose o abrazándose.

Recordemos que se ha criado en un burdel, siento que su primera impresión de lo que era una pareja y del contacto físico no sería buena

Hasta que viera a Takemichi y a Hinata, dándose cuenta de lo diferente que es una pareja real a lo que lleva viendo toda su vida.

Él también es una persona que parece pasarse la vida trabajando con las motos, de verdad no siento que le molestase que su pareja no fuera cariñosa físicamente.

Pero agradecería muchísimo si intentases ser más cariñosa, en el fondo este niño grande quiere cariño pero es tan testarudo que no se ve capaz de pedirlo directamente.

Gracias a Mitsuya es más propenso a decir lo que siente, así que espera comentarios muy buenos de su parte cuando se de cuenta de tus intentos.

Hará todo lo posible por apoyarte en tu cambio, sobre todo si es debido a un trauma o a una condición psicológica y no a una simple elección personal.

Poco a poco los dos os volveréis más cariñosos, tú superando tu incomodidad y él acostumbrándose a esos abrazos y cariños que posiblemente no haya recibido tanto como se merece.

Volviendo a lo psicológico, te ayudaría mucho, independientemente de que sea lo que te causa esa incomodidad.

Si fuera relacionado a un trauma que alguien te ha causado, haría todo lo posible por no hablar con Mikey para matar a quien fuera que te hizo daño.

Y si fuera por una condición psicológica, como por ejemplo autismo, te daría todo el apoyo y espacio que necesitases, al final es tu novio y para eso esta.

Si estuvieras yendo a un psicólogo para ayudarte con eso te acompañaría siempre y te esperaría para poder ir luego a tomar algo o a dar una vuelta en su moto, cualquier cosa que te calmase después de una charla sobre emociones.

Sería muy dulce, aunque de forma muy sutil, muchos pensarían que no esta haciendo mucho para ayudarte pero tu sabes que es lo contrario, y que sobre todo, esta ahí siempre.

#anime #manga #game #tokyo revengers #tokrev #tokrev draken #draken tokyo revengers #draken x reader #draken headcanons #ken ryuguji

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thisisallthehattersfault · 9 months ago

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Project "If Oda Won't Give The Rest Of The Whitebeard Commanders Personalities And Backstories I'll Do It Myself" continues

Blamenco is fourteen the first time he meets a pirate.

He’s also fourteen the first time he kills a man, since the second thing happens about a minute after the first. It’s hard to say who’s more surprised by this, Blamenco or the pirate, but later he’ll look back and figure it was probably himself, on account of the pirate was dead, and dead men can’t be surprised. Dead men can’t be much of anything, really. That’s sort of the whole thing about being dead.

Here’s how it happens: He’s in the woods gathering mushrooms with Lana, the pretty daughter of old farmer Scratch. Supposedly Scratch ain’t his real name, but Blamenco’s never heard nobody call him anything but, and usually when folks get an odd nickname they like to tell the tale of how it came to be. Blamenco’s never heard that neither though, so he figures probably the man’s name really is Scratch and folks just say it’s fake to give him a hard time for it.

Anyway. Scratch’s youngest daughter is two years Blamenco’s senior, pretty as a daisy, and sick as a dog more often than not. Seems every time the seasons change or the the rain comes down too hard or a pig farts within a hundred miles of the Scratch house poor Lana’s laid up in bed wheezing and coughing into her handkerchief. Makes her unfit for field labor, but she finds other ways to be useful. Old Scratch comes to the family farm once or twice a month to make trades and get drunk on the porch with Grandpa, and most times he’ll bring baskets and scarves and all sorts of other things Lana made while she was holed up in bed. Grandma sends him back with fabric and good thread and any leftover rattan or willow they might have laying around.

On the days when Lana is feeling well enough to move about she likes to find herself chores to do, and she’s real stubborn about it and won’t listen when her family all tell her she aughtn’t push herself, so it’s happened once or twice that Lana went off on her own to gather herbs or berries or to check hunting traps or what have you and then didn’t come home quick enough and a whole search party had to be whipped up to go and find her wherever she’d collapsed all fevered and exhausted, and that’s where Blamenco comes in.

It’s improper for a boy and a girl to be off alone in the woods like this, but their families have been friends for a good long while now, so nobody’s looking sideways at poor Lana for tromping through the woods with Blamenco at her heels, and he’s big and strong enough to pick her up and carry her back home if the need arises. Stubborn enough to make her take breaks and rest, too, which is more than can be said for Lana’s own brother, who’s bigger and stronger than Blamenco by a good bit but who’s too soft on her by far.

Blamenco doesn’t mind it. The weather’s nice out, all cool and crisp this time of year, and for all he and Lana can hardly seem to be in the same room together without bickering he likes her company, and she likes his. One of these days he’ll even get her to admit it.

So he’s following her through the woods, holding her foraging basket for her and giving her a hand when she needs to hop across a creek or climb over a log or lift up some heavy thing to check underneath. They’re playing Would You Rather, spinning silly choices out of the air to pass the time, and Lana’s got him stumped between licking peanut butter off a hobo’s foot or getting locked in a cage with hungry tigers, and he’s so focused on trying to decide which of those awful things he’d have an easier time enduring (he’s leaning towards the tigers) that it takes him a good while to notice the heavy footsteps tromping through the woods towards them.

He doesn’t think much of it, at first. It’s clear from the sound that whoever it is ain’t used to these woods — branches are crackling and crunching all under their big clumsy feet — but there’s hardly a reason to assume the worst of somebody just for doing some exploring, or maybe the poor fella got lost and is wandering confused trying to find his way back to the path, so Blamenco slows and Lana does too, and they both turn to see who it is causing all that racket.

And then, well. Blamenco knows for sure the man must be lost, ‘cause he certainly don’t look like the sort who belongs in the woods. He’s dressed all fine in a yellow frock and gold rings on all his fingers, and his hair’s even got gold chains braided into it. Damn near every bit of him is sparkling with some kind of pretty thing when he comes all stumbling past the tree line and lands flat on his face on the ground. Blamenco doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many fine things all in one place before, and certainly never all on one person. Lana’s eldest sister Marnie got married to the tailor’s son at the start of the year, and she looked like a real princess at her wedding, but this man probably could have bought her whole dress with just one of the baubles in his ear.

So of course when the man shoves himself upright again Blamenco bows, ‘cause that’s what you do with royals and nobles and rich folk, and says with all his best manners “Good afternoon, sir. Are you lost?” at the same time as Lana bursts out laughing.

Lana don’t mean no harm, but man gets all puffed up offended by it, and Blamenco’s not sure what she’s laughing at anyhow until she points to the ground and Blamenco looks and sees the man’s fancy brocade boots all caked in mud. “Sorry!” Lana gasps, not sounding as sorry as she probably should. “Sorry, just — your nice things are all ruined, sir! What are you doing out here? You didn’t wear hiking boots?”

It ain’t just the boots, ‘neither. The man’s got sticks and leaves all in his hair, and his pretty frock coat is torn like he’s snagged it on something. Blamenco can see why Lana’s laughing about it, all those fine things all done-in by a walk in the woods. They crawled right through a blackberry thicket to get to this clearing, and other than some snarls in Lana’s long hair neither of them are the least disheveled from it. Fancy things may look real nice, but they don’t seem to be all that practical.

That’s about where it all starts going wrong. The man doesn’t seem to take kindly to being laughed at, even in as harmless a way as Lana did it, and he looks angry. Angrier maybe than Blamenco’s ever seen just about anybody who wasn’t the bad sort of drunk. “No,” He says, all seething through his teeth about it. “I didn’t wear fucking hiking boots, you bumpkin!”

He’s slurring a little when he says it, and when he comes stomping closer Blamenco catches a whiff of strong rum off of him, so maybe he is the bad kinda drunk. It’d explain why the man is stumbling confused through the woods in the first place. He comes to a stop in the little clearing and gets his first proper look at Blamenco and Lana and his face does something Blamenco doesn’t like. Something kinda like how the tailor’s son looks at Marnie, ‘cept instead of all warm it’s cold. Cold and hungry.

The fancy man stands up tall and tries to brush some of the debris off himself. It don’t work well — he’s got prickers all stuck deep in his yellow coat, those ain’t coming out without tweezers and a good sharp little knife. He swaggers a step closer, and stumbles a little one the next. It’s early in the day for a man to be this drunk, but maybe nobles don’t have to worry about their chores getting done like working folks do. Either way, he misses the first time he reaches for Lana’s face, which is good, ‘cause Lana doesn’t much seem like she wants him touching on her.

“Hey now,” Blamenco starts. The man talks like didn’t even hear him. “Well well,” he says, all deep in his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, lovely, I didn’t realize I was speaking to such a beauty.”

Treating somebody nicer or worse based on how pretty or ugly they are is a dumb thing to do, but Blamenco maybe only thinks that ‘cause he’s ugly. Lana never talks much about looks — her own or anybody else’s — but she’s probably the prettiest girl Blamenco’s ever met, and she turns plenty of heads when she’s feeling well enough to go to town. When Blamenco goes with her to carry her bags and hold doors for her people laugh at the way they look together, with her all slender and beautiful and with her long dark hair looking like spun silk and him all pale and fat and following behind her like a troll. Lana always gets real angry when she hears people talking like that, and then she yells at them and tires herself out and has to go lay down with a cool damp rag over her eyes, but Blamenco’s never minded it much. He knows how he looks, and he’s not one to get all bent out of shape at being the butt of a joke. Folks like to laugh, and he’s an easy thing to laugh at. He laughs at himself too most days.

Still. There’s something about the way this man calls Lana beautiful that Blamenco doesn’t like, and that’s unusual. People are always calling Lana beautiful, and Blamenco’s always agreeing, but the fancy man says it like he means something else and more and more Blamenco’s starting to wonder if maybe he aughtn’t just scoop Lana up and take her home, even with this man still lost in the woods and her mushroom basket only half-full.

The fancy man says “What’s your name, pretty?” He tries to touch Lana’s face again. Lana backs away this time, and Blamenco gets a hand on her arm and pulls her behind himself. The fancy man blinks like he’s just remembering Blamenco even exists, and he looks at Blamenco with his face all twisted up and sour, but people look at Blamenco like that all the time, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He hopes Lana won’t try to yell at this man like she yells at the people in town, though.

This fella doesn’t seem like he’d take it well.

#One Piece #whitebeard pirates #Whitebeard Crew #Blamenco #One Piece Blamenco

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angelic-waffles · 5 months ago

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Thought everyone’s lotf ocs were cool so I plugged my girl Angie into the book ^^

Three hour drawing of her pre and post island- I think she would thrive lmao. Info on her bellow

She’s a bit of toxic honestly which, yk unsurprisingly makes island life a walk in the park

Pre crash- She lived with her dad Alexander who’s 28 (yeah fill in the blanks) Her mom left when she was a baby because she never really wanted to be a mom but Alex was an amazing dad for Angie, even if he was young, working two jobs and studying law all while raising a wild child. Her dad also had a habit of doing her hair every morning. For him, it was a way to bond. He’d always do it up in pigtails with yellow bows.

Post crash- She doesn’t have any strong convictions or connections. She makes herself useful to whoever is currently most powerful so they’ll return the favor. She doesn’t particularly like anyone, but she doesn’t particularly dislike anyone either. Naturally, she uses this neutrality to her benefit. She’d survive pretty long. Assuming we follow cannon and they get saved, she would survive the whole book. Assuming we go from the no rescue angle, she’d definitely get killed, just later on. The only person (or people) on the island she’s really loyal to are the littluns. She thinks they’re too young to be going through all they are, and she really just wants them to be able to have a life one day after all the chaos of the island. She doesn’t show this though. She calls them brats and plays with them, but sometimes she’ll put some fruit on lower branches, or make sure all the littluns are safe and without major injury.

General info- Angie is 12 years old, Latina, and uses she/her. Personality wise she lies almost compulsively. Sometimes about big things, sometimes about small things, but it’s an urge she has that she has a really hard time controlling. She’s also very energetic! She bounces from wall to wall and afterwards still has energy to do things like listen in on people’s bs or instigate something. Bringing me to another trait of her’s, she’s a terrible instigator. If she smells even a little bit of drama she’ll find out as much as she can. And if nothing is to be found? Well she doesn’t tend to lie here and there… But she’s not just some lying asshole, she’s very dedicated to things and people if you give her a chance, she also has a strong interest in fashion and music. Back home her walls are absolutely covered in posters or drawings of her favorite pop stars from the radio. All of them do seem to be women though, hmmmmm. I think of her sort of as an unholy blend of Regina Gorge and Kokichi Ouma

Aaaand as a little thank you for sticking around, here’s a screen shot of this hand because I love drawing pudgy baby hands but I can only justify it for my I’m so not Going to Heaven characters or kids, and thankfully she’s a kid! So yay chubby little baby hands

#I kind of dislike the drawing but I spent too long on it not to post haha #art #my art #drawing #artists of tumblr #artists on tumblr #oc #oc art #illustration #lord of the flies oc #lord of the flies #lotf oc #lotf

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sparklingcid3r · 7 months ago

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@redfielddoesthings this one’s for u babygorl bc i’ve had a dallypop roadtrip fic on my mind and i can’t write it yet bc finals are actually beating my ass atm so i’m putting my ideas in here until i can buckle down and finesse the writer’s block

- they’re headed to the bronx, where dally grew up. it’s approx 20 hours by car, so they drive to indianapolis first, break for the night, then drive 11 hours to the bronx w a bunch of pit stops in between

- first pit stop is at a gas station where soda takes the lead while dally tries to hide the fact that he’s never pumped gas before in his life

- he grew up in nyc that boy hasn’t even SEEN a real gas station until tulsa

- they get stuck in standstill traffic at some point so they get out and start praying to deities they don’t even believe in to get it moving again. they’re losing their minds. dally’s banging his head against the horn while soda’s going up to ppl’s windows and chatting with them. dally wants a gun

- they get back in the car and are hanging out, until soda notices something laying on the woods’ edge. since they aren’t going anywhere and the car is in the right lane, he gets out and runs over to it

- unfortunately traffic has started moving the second he’s out and dally has to scramble over to the driver side to start moving. in the side mirror dally sees soda sprinting along the shoulder holding a filthy stuffed bear that makes idle appearances for the rest of the fic. soda reaches the car before dally can hit 20 mph and he practically has to dive into the backseat

- soda vs the mississippi river

- once they reach indianapolis dally’s like “so we can either check into a motel or get fucking litttt”

- immediate cut to soda putting music on a jukebox and dally ordering them drinks

- dally gets plastered and insists on laying down in the truck bed on the drive to the motel. soda hits a speed bump as hard as he can and dally nearly gets launched out the back

- they’re on the road again but the poor truck’s been through it and it starts making some funky sounds until soda decides to pull over because he doesn’t like that noise. he’s no steve randle but he finds out they need to go to a repair shop and get a new part because the one they got now is literally gonna fall off

- so they’re stranded on the side of the highway

- soda decides to climb up on top of the truck because the weather’s real nice up there, and dally follows. he tries putting his thumb out but soda stops him, says he wants to sit and watch for a while. it’s pretty trippy, being so close to cars going 70 down the freeway. when a semi approaches, soda makes a right angle with his arm and pretends to pull a horn until the semi honks at them.

- that’s where a more heartfelt, raw conversation would happen amid the humor

- eventually they get their truck to a repair shop and get a new part! but not before they have like four hours to kill doing literally nothing but like mocking small children and playing i spy

- while they’re at it they also decide to call the house to check in on darry and pony and whoever else happens to be at the curtis residence at the moment

- and they’re back on the road!

- not thirty minutes later they hit a bird and have to pull over again because soda’s crying so hard he can’t drive

- they were playing music on the radio when that happened. the radio is off when dally pulls back onto the highway

- “it had a family.” “yeah, well.” “it had a name.” “alr i promise you it did not.”

- i haven’t thought about it yet but they pass at least one billboard that convinces them to stop and take a look at like the worlds largest rubber band ball or smth dumb like that

- dally hits a jersey slide so they don’t miss their exit and nearly kills a family of four in the process

- getting to see the new york skyline for the first time as they cross the bridge and it would be one of those emotional moments for dally who never thought he’d willingly go back. something about making new memories in the place where bad ones happened to take back your right to love that place again

- at the end soda surprises him with tickets to a yankee game

a lot of this works in my head because i’m imagining it like a sitcom lmfao who knows if i can translate it onto the page without rage quitting

#the outsiders #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders sodapop #sodapop curtis #the outsiders dally #dallas winston #sodapop x dally #dallypop

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cal-daisies-and-briars · 2 months ago

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🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁 for the story that makes you feel the best

🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁 for the story that was the most difficult to plot

🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁 for the idea that came out of nowhere

🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁 for the story that keeps you up a night

🤫 and maybe a bit for a secret story if you're feeling generous? :D

Love these! Some might double up!!

15 for the story that makes me feel the best - that would probably be ☣️ at this point because I’m proud of how it’s coming along and super fucking excited about it:

—-

“We-we have to get him help. We have to get out of here.”

Athena is in some sort of trance. She looks at the gate. Or, more accurately, beyond the gate. Buck gets it. He gets what she’s thinking. He knows what question must be eating at her. But now isn’t the time to ask it. Because Ravi needs immediate help. Ravi can help them figure out the rest later. But Buck will not fail him again.

“Athena,” he says again. “We can come back.”

She blinks.

—-

15 for the story that was the most difficult to plot - probably 🩸 because the initial idea was “fuck you guys, I’ll just make him a vampire.”

—-

Which is most hours. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He can’t really see ever feeling like himself again. Life pretty much fucking sucks.

But he’s actually been pretty functional, all things considered.

Bobby said they’d need him. The team. The people who they share. Shared. Past tense now.

He’d been right.

Chim has downright catatonic in grief and guilt. He needs Buck and that means Maddie also needs Buck. Ravi is traumatized. He needs a friend.

—-

15 for the idea that came out of nowhere - hmm none of them exactly but I will say the Harry fic came from a sudden revelation of how the show could keep Athena’s plot connected to the 118, so let’s do 👨‍🚒:

—-

Being exceptional and noteworthy was always May’s thing. But whatever. Harry had wanted to do right by it. Show whoever may or may not be watching from wherever that he took it seriously.

The point is, Harry knows he’s a good probie to have. If your station has to have a probie. He’s the ideal candidate. That’s not the fear. The fear is fitting in in a tight knit, very codependent team-slash-family who only months ago lost their captain and friend. And Harry was his stepson. Is? Was? When do you stop being something to someone when the connection was legal and marriage ends at death?

To Harry’s immense relief, Hen - Captain Wilson, now - doesn’t treat him like a kid on a field trip. He’s known her most of his life. She’s always sort of been like an aunt or cousin or something.

—-

15 for the story that keeps you up a night - for sure ☣️. I’ve been imagining it from everyone’s povs going crazy :

—-

Athena holsters her gun and walks over to the back seat of her car. She throws the door open.

“Get him in here,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“Got it,” Buck says. “Okay, Rav, I’m gonna lift you. That alright?”

“I can walk,” Ravi protests.

Well, he did just kill someone. Maybe that’s true.

“Okay,” Buck permits. “Lean on me.”

Ravi does. They separate, and Buck keeps a sturdy arm around him to keep him upright. They slowly shuffle over to the backseat and Ravi sort of collapses in.

—-

I GUESS I’m feeling generous 😉 15 for secret fic:

—-

Bobby watches while Eddie impatiently squirms in place, laser focused on the carousel. It does one more full loop, by which point it’s clear Eddie’s bag is nowhere to be seen.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Eddie mutters under his breath.

He turns and walks towards a help kiosk. Okay, walks is an understatement. He storms.

Bobby follows along anxiously. He’s worried. Eddie’s grief has always manifested in self destructive ways. A tendency Bobby can empathize with. But he doesn’t want it for Eddie. Not on account of Bobby.

“Hi,” Eddie says sternly to the kiosk attendant. “My bag didn’t make it onto the carousel.”

#daisies and briars writes

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restinslices · 10 days ago

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Jason and Nicky Headcanons; Coming Home To You

Plot is basically how they’d act after surviving the events of the gam. I’m gonna go based on Jazzygun’s gameplay where she got the best ending. Also I think that the characters would either be killed to keep everything a secret, or they’d be forced to be apart of a secret group like Leon Kennedy. For the sake of not ripping my heart out, imma say the latter happened :D

Jason joined the marines to find purpose in his life, so what the hell is he supposed to do when all of that is gone?

His life was already going downhill, and during 9/11 he was so stoned that he hadn’t even known what happened until a week later (Idk why my memory is saying he was drunk but whatever, the wiki says stoned)

The marines gave him a reason to keep going. It helped him straighten his life out. Now majority of his buddies are dead (I think. Pretty sure every unnamed marine died when the ground collapsed), he’s found out that there’s literal monsters roaming around, and the military is experimenting with those fuckers

Yeah, his faith is shattered. He still cares about everyone that’s still alive but that’s a fuck ton of shit to deal with

He’s glad to be home and back with you, but he’s noticeably different

I think the government would tell all of them that they can’t tell anyone or whoever they tell will get killed, so when you ask what happened, he’s just like “nothing I couldn’t handle”

I think he would slip back into old habits a little bit. He wants a moment where he’s able to relax and forget everything he’s seen

He starts smoking again and drinking

He keeps saying he’s fine but he’s clearly not the same Jason he was before

Absolutely refuses to say anything about what happened. He can’t risk you being hurt

Since he knows there’s monsters lurking, he becomes very protective of you and urges you to learn how to shoot a gun if you don’t already know how

It’d be a very noticeable shift, but once again he can’t tell you why he’s so worried about you knowing how to protect yourself

I think he’d be the best at pretending everyone is fine out of everyone in the group but that’s because everyone else fucking sucks at it

Nick was already noticeable different after the checkpoint situation

So imagine how he is now

Guilt, trauma, depression, it all comes back at him and seems like it’s never gonna leave

Also either ignore the Rachel subplot or pretend ya’ll are just close friends-

He disassociates a lot

You have to physically touch him in order to get him to snap back to reality

He smokes a lot more than he used to. He already smoked beforehand, but now he’s smoking an alarming amount of cigarettes to get his mind off things

The most he’d say about the mission is that Joey died in his arms and he saw Merwin die

You gotta help him take care of himself

He just doesn’t have the energy to do anything most of the time

I can see him becoming very clingy

You’re one of his comfort people, so he wants to be around you

He doesn’t talk. He just sits with you, listening to you talk or whatever you have on the tv

He wants to tell you so badly. It’s always on the tip of his tongue and it kills him that he can’t warn you about how crazy the world is

Definitely has nightmares

You say he can sleep in your room and at first he’s like “I’m not a charity case. I’m fine”

Wouldn’t take much convincing to get him to come to your room

Doesn’t do much sleeping though

He sees the people he love dies whenever he closes his eyes. So he just lays there, lights on, gun next to him, checking to make sure you’re still breathing

My babies. I love them so much T-T

I can do the others later if this fandom is still alive-

#House of ashes #the dark pictures house of ashes #dark pictures anthology #jason kolchek #nick kay

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captain-mj · 2 years ago

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Vampire Pt 5

CW: suicidal ideation, non typical self harm, smut, Ghost finally drinks from Soap

We're back!!!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Ghost stared at the new people. His discomfort was immediate but subtle enough that only the people who knew him would pick up on it. He immediately sought out the places of exit and sunlight before finding Johnny.

“Now. Why were you all scolding my familiar and why is there a werewolf in my home?”

Price stood up immediately. “Well, Simon-”

“Ghost.” He corrected, glaring down Farah. She shrank back from him, a healthy respect in her eyes. No fear despite here stance. When he noticed the shaking and unconscious woman in Alejandro’s hands, he realized why. She was protecting someone. He glanced at Johnny, partially for answers and partially to make sure he was there..

His little familiar stared at him and Ghost tried not to preen. It was just because he had never seen his face before. And judging by the dumbstruck look on his face, he was probably surprised by how much he was scarred. Soap definitely was wondering how great of a warrior he was. Unfortunately, those days were far behind him, though Soap’s reaction to him made him feel fearsome in a way he hadn’t in a long time. Later, he’d assure Soap that he never, ever had to be afraid of him.

Ghost had to look away from him briefly when he heard Alex bursting in.

“Ah. Damn. Nevermind, you’re on your own.”

“Alex!” Farah growled at him, sneaking glances at all of them. The atmosphere felt tense and incredibly awkward.

Ghost moved slowly. The floor creaked beneath him as he walked. He went closer to his Johnny and noticed how he was standing. Hands behind his back. Perfect posture like he only had when he had done something wrong.

Rather than call him out in front of everyone, he circled him.

His hands.

They had ash.

Ghost knew immediately something horrible had happened. But his friends were all here and very much alive. Whoever died… well.

They could cross that bridge when they came to it.

His own hands were ungloved. Now adorned with sharp nails. He wrapped his hand around Soap’s throat, careful not to squeeze. Ghost only wanted to feel his pulse beneath his fingers.

Soap let out a breath and everyone else tensed.

Farah immediately stepped forward. “Wait, I dragged him into everything. Alright? He didn’t even want to do it.” She had her hand up, eyes on Ghost.

Ghost hated when people looked at his face. The only thing worse than being seen was retreating though.

“I’m not going to kill him. You can all relax. I need him to make me a new mask anyway. My last one was ripped.” He twisted and leaned his head down to look at Soap and continued to speak only to him. “Shame. I really liked that one. You can replace it right?” His thumb rubbed gentle circles into his skin. The tan flesh of Soap’s throat made him feel warmer. Maybe there were multiple uses for humans.

Soap must’ve noticed his pointed ears and nodded. “I’ll find a way to work around everything, sir.”

Ghost moved so he was speaking directly in his ear. “Good boy. And later, we can talk about this, huh?” He grabbed Soap’s hands, discreetly dusting them off before turning to everyone else once again.

Interviewer: So how you feeling?

Soap: I’d never be so fucking horny in my life. He called me a good boy.

Interviewer notes that Soap is still flushed: Right. He didn’t even care that you murdered someone

Soap: He just covered it up for me! That’s so against Vampire Code but he just brushed my hands off. And did you see his face??

Interviewer: He’s prettier than I was expecting.

Soap: So pretty! I can finally draw him accurately. He’s a lot paler than I was expecting, but he is British. Also, he doesn’t have any scars. That also caught me off guard. He constantly mentions them but I didn’t see anything.

Interviewer: Maybe they’re not on his face? Or he means mentally?

Soap: He’s so dreamy. And when he put his hands around my throat… What a man.

Interviewer: You know what, I think we’ve covered everything for now.

Everyone was squabbling. Ghost used Johnny as a stress ball, squeezing his arm carefully before letting go and repeating. The louds noises and the air on his face was… what was the word Soap used that one time?

Overstimulating? That was it. Overstimulating.

“What do we do about the lady?” Alejandro held up Malika. “If someone finds out we were part of a plot to steal a familiar, it could mean banishment or being forced into the sun.”

Ghost considered their options. With the vampire dead, he would have to convince them not to take Malika back. They could just cover all of this.

Price nodded. “Well, obviously we have to take them back.”

“No. If we take them back, it implicates us. The best thing is to just get rid of her.” If she was gone, no witnesses.

Farah snarled at him. “Absolutely not.”

They’d have to kill two werewolves too. And then Laswell. Ghost did not want to get rid of Laswell. Neither did he particularly think they would be capable of killing Laswell.

Rodolfo hummed. “What if we just let them keep her? As long as everyone agrees to keep quiet, you can punish Soap and we can all move on.”

“Exactly!” Alejandro nodded. “No need to kill her for no reason. Clearly, Farah here went through a lot effort to get her back.”

“Wait, how do you guys know my name?”

“We’re good friends with Kate.” Price whispered to her, standing up. “Look, maybe I’m a little more traditional, but do you really think this is wise? Really?”

Ghost shrugged. “We knew nothing. It’s daylight. No vampire is going to be looking for her.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers together, feeling ash and bone dust. No vampire indeed.

Price shook his head. “I understand you got your claws and all, but I’m the oldest here. If someone stole Soap, would you seriously be okay with it?”

Ghost tightened his grip so fast Soap yelped in pain. “I’d never let my familiar get to such a state. I’d also never hold someone against their will.”

Price narrowed his eyes. “Implying something, Simon?”

Rodolfo gently pushed their guests to sit down. “Don’t ruin this for me. I’ve been waiting for these two to fight for ages.” He settled in. “There’s coffee in the kitchen as well as soda.”

Gaz materialized on the couch. “This is the perfect way to end a night fellows.”

Interviewer: What did you mean by that?

Rudy: They’ve been walking around each other for centuries. As long as I’ve known them, there’s been this… tension. I always assumed it was sexual ya know?

Interviewer: Uh, okay.

Rudy: But I’ve been waiting decades for them to just blow up at each other.

Alejandro: Anytime they’re alone with each other, it’s especially bad. It’s mostly from Ghost. I’ve been dying to know too. I think Ghost is angry about being turned.

Rudy: Why would Ghost hate being turned? Being a vampire is amazing. You don’t regret being turned, do you?

Alejandro: Mi noche, of course not.

Interviewer makes a note that Alejandro looks a little sad when Rudy put his arms around him.

Ghost hissed at him immediately. “Ghost. I told you my name is Ghost.”

“Will you let it go, Simon? You’re not human. I’m sorry that I was so selfish.” Price sounded so condescending.

“You were!” Simon shouted. “You were selfish!! I was supposed to die on that field. I was fine with it. A hero’s end. Cut down by an enemies blade.”

“I didn’t want you to die.”

“Why? Why not? What made you decide to change my fate there? I was just a soldier! I wasn’t important!”

Price shook his head. “I put so much time into you. Trying to make sure you were okay. Keeping you from dragging yourself into the sun. Do any of them know how many times I had to feed you because you ripped your own fangs out? Tore at yourself until you barely were able to heal? Why can’t you just be thankful you’re alive?”

“Because I don’t want to be!”

The awkward silence that filled the room was suffocating.

“I wanted you to let me die. Just give me a fucking reason. You told me it was because I was special and then that I was the only person alive which I know wasn’t true. Then it was that I respected you. Wasn’t afraid. What was the real fucking answer? What reason did you have from taking my humanity away from me?”

Price stared at him before sighing. “I didn’t have a reason. I saw you among the other dying men. And that was it.”

Ghost stared at him. He felt the pinch of his fangs. The agony of ripping them out by the root. Feeling cold blood fill up his mouth and gush out from between his lips. He was always careful not to swallow because of how horribly sick it would make him. Wouldn’t fucking kill him though.

“You weren’t special, Simon. I just noticed you, lying on the ground, bleeding out. I thought you’d be appreciative.”

Ghost felt his ears ringing. “You thought wrong.”

“Clearly, Simon.”

“Ghost. Simon died a very long time ago.”

Price had brought him people. Random victims. He remember being unable to control himself once the blood started flowing. Price had encouraged it. Had tried to teach him how to survive. Unfortunately for Ghost and fortunately for Price, survival instincts did eventually step in. A year of trying to kill oneself with no luck… it still does things to a person.

“I didn’t kill you. You’re still right here.”

Ghost scowled. “You made sure of that. The girl leaves. They can have her. You’re not part of this coven or this household. Do any of them people who belong to this house have an objection?”

Rodolfo, Alejandro and Gaz all shook their heads in sync. All five of them were enraptured. Malika had just started to wake up but even she showed some interest.

Price frowned at him and he quickly stepped closer. “I’m sorry. I went too far there.”

Ghost yanked Soap along. “Tell Kate I said hi.” He was starving. The second hand blood from Rudy had already been ran through. He would’ve been fine until tonight if he hadn’t been woken up. But now, he couldn’t wait.

Soap jogged to keep up with him. “Sir…” He sounded hesitant, hand gently coming up to clasp on to Ghost’s arm. “That was pretty… intense.”

Ghost grabbed him and yanked him into his room, lifting him off the ground like a marionette. He set him on his coffin. “Johnny. Take off your shirt.”

Interviewer: So what went through your mind in that moment?

Soap: God I hope I don’t cry during sex with him.

Interviewer: Dios mio…

Soap slowly slipped his shirt off like he was unwrapping a present for Ghost. He looked shy, as if he didn’t regularly walk around shirtless during the summer. Before Ghost could even comment, he snapped the chain of his cross necklace and tossed it to the side. Big sign of trust dedicated to a person who planned on eating him.

“I can’t wait until nightfall. I’m not going to take too much.” Ghost grabbed him by his hair and forced his head back. His nose pressed right against his neck, seeking out his jugular and each of the little veins. It wasn’t really a question, more of a courtesy heads up that he would be feeding from. While doing this, he pressed himself between Johnny’s legs, trying to close the gap between them. He was just stealing warmth and he could always blame it on being hungry and upset. Other people loved when Ghost talked about his feelings.

Soap flushed impossibly bright. “Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Take what you need from me.” He buried his hands in Ghost’s hair. “Is this okay? I don’t want to touch you too much if you’re no-”

Ghost’s fangs slid into his throat. Just to the left of one of his jugular so he wouldn’t puncture it. He worried it would bleed too much and Soap may black out. Or worse.

Blood was never sweet. It was always savory or salty. Diet was a big part of it too. Healthier diets tasted better. Salt filled diets meant saltier blood. So on. So forth.

Soap was… Good. Really good. It made sense. He took good care of himself. But it surprised Ghost just how perfect he tasted.

Ghost groaned and sank in deeper. A leech. Maybe a tick would be better. Clamping his jaws into Johnny. Holding him so tight and drinking him until there was nothing left. Stealing the warmth from his veins.

Soap whimpered and Ghost slowly retracted his fangs. He closed his mouth over the wound and started to drink. His arms cradled Soap to his chest, enjoying how soft and hot he felt. The hands in his hair tightened their grip but they pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.

“I got you, Ghost.” Soap muttered to him and Ghost melted into his grip. He pulled away slowly to lap at the wound instead. Blood dribbled down Soap’s chest and his head ducked to follow the droplets back up his chest with his tongue.

Soap’s breath caught and Ghost felt him pressed against his hip. Humans get turned on by the strangest things.

Ghost finished feeding and pulled away once he was sure there was no more blood coming from the wound. He thought of ignoring the little problem Soap was having, but he thought it would be more fun to bother him about it.

“Into biting?”

Soap blushed. “I… I…”

“It’s a normal reaction, Love.” Ghost didn’t move. They were pressed against each other. “Do you need help?”

Soap just stared at him as Ghost undid his zipper. Maybe getting older came with personality changes. Maybe he was just more sadistic than he realized. Or he was looking for a distraction from earlier.

Soap made real pretty noises when Ghost got his hand around his cock. He wiped his mouth to use the little bit of blood and spit still around it as lube. Ghost stared down at Soap as he slowly moved his hands up and down. When Soap tried to look away, he grabbed his chin and made him look at him.

“Johnny. You killed someone today didn’t you?”

“It was on accident. I swear.”

“I know. I believe you. My little bodyguard huh. Protector of the innocent.” He sped up his hand and the way Soap’s thighs trembled wasn’t missed. Every time he reached the head, he’d play with his slit, using his precum to make the slide even better. “Never would’ve thought you’d have that in you. Bet you have a lot of secrets from me.”

“No. No, Ghost.” Soap grabbed his shoulders.

“You hid you were a perv. Getting off on being bitten.” Ghost spoke calmly to him, watching those ocean blue eyes fill up with tears. “Broke your necklace you were so desperate. So desperate for me.” He slowed his hand and Soap keened. “You were delicious by the way.”

Soap thrust up into his hand and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Maybe I should feed off you more often. Litter your neck with bites.” Ghost sank to his knees and deepthroated him. He forced Soap to be still since it had been a while since he had done this. He bobbed his head once he had adjusted and he purred around him when Soap finally came.

Soap was mumbling something and suddenly Ghost’s skin burned. He yanked back with a snarl and sank his nails into Soap’s hips, making him cry out.

“Do not bring up religion right now.”

“Sorry.” Soap squeaked out.

“You’re lucky you tasted good.” Ghost got up with a huff.

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