#i know she has her own trauma from growing up + there is a history of mental illness in my family that goes completely unaddressed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eatommo · 6 months

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Like Real People Do [d.d]

Summary: You and Mando have a history of broken hearts and are both looking for a place to land in the galaxy you live in, but you'll always have each other.

A/n: Not beta'd! mistakes are my own! and look a Hozier song to a Pedro fic what's new! I love this. I hope you do too! 6.2k

Cw: Canon typical violence, mentions of human trafficking, use of weapons, mutual pining, discussions of loss, discussions of war, brief mentions of grief, Reader is from Alderaan (trauma that comes from that), the reader has some of my tattoos because we love a self-insert, broken glass, pubic hair?, unprotected p in v, mentions of marking, hickeys, mentions of oral sex m/f receiving, fingering, the helmet stays on, breeding kink if you squint, as always touched starved Din, themes involving depression and loss, takes place post season 3 but has a flash back to season 1, I probably missed something but let me know!

It had been ages since you’d seen him. You’re not sure how many rotations, but not a day has passed that you didn’t think about him. But there, just passing the entrance to the trading post, his shiny beskar helmet flashes over the crowd.

You put your head down, looking at the spare parts you were hoping to auction off for some measly credits at a holiday festival for some caf and to help you hopefully buy some piece of junk craft to get you off this dusty and dry planet.

Maybe you’ll be lucky and you can slink away, and evade an awkward reunion all altogether. You found an outcropping and a small table covered in different smoked meats and small roasted animals.

You try to sell the fact that you look busy while you think about the last time you spoke to him. Your conversation about the rebel symbol marred into your skin with black ink, Cara had done it herself, and you’d helped her put the very same symbol on her cheek. The pain felt good, it mirrored the grief that felt immeasurable and it almost felt like a release of all of the terrible thoughts of your family’s final moments. Had your family suffered? Did they even know what was coming for them?

You were young and had just gotten off the planet in search of something greater, a higher purpose. Something to believe in, and the empire stole everything you’d ever known in one simple explosion.

It had handed you a purpose, for a time. Working with the rebellion, standing with your Princess, and fighting and punishing the Empire for the loss of Alderaan. Cara and you were hiding out on Sorgan after leaving your post as shock troopers. You were in the fresher when they started to tousle outside, you expected some gruff Klatoonian who she sharked in a bet, as it often was. Instead, she lies on her belly, a blaster pointed at a chrome-covered Mandalorian, who is lying on his back with a weapon drawn.

The only thing that holds your attention is a little green baby holding a cup of soup, mirroring your amusement waddling up next to you.

He coos, looking between you and his companion like he expects you to save him. “Sorry bud, I’m with her.”

An aggravated harsh pant cuts you off, “Stay away from him.” The blaster shifts to you, but you raise your hands and keep an even temper. He looks between the two of you, who clearly have no intention or idea what he is in possession of, and offers to buy the two of your dinner.

He didn’t speak much at first, but as you and Cara drank away a flagon of spotchka and you shared your interest in his ship, having to grow up around the rebel's fleet and wanting to see such an old military craft, he offered to show you.

“It’s a short walk, the kid is falling asleep in your lap anyway.” You look down at the little wrinkled green monster, blinking slowly with his massive eyes as you stroke his ears, you can’t help but fawn over him.

“I can’t believe they’re hunting a baby.” Whispering, as you feel the warmth of his tiny body, heartbroken at the idea of an imperial remnant looking for children.

“He is older than I am.” His surprisingly playful voice almost startled you, he’d been quietly walking by your side as you carried the little guy nestled into your chest.

“He’s” you struggle to find words, but you can feel an energy emanating from the little creature in your arms “magnificent.”

The Mandalorian hums lowly, agreeing with you. There’s a pause for a few moments while you look over at him, “Did you find a lot of purpose? With the rebellion?”

It's your turn to be broody, “For a time.” Suddenly feeling subconscious you speak a little bit more quietly, “Just waiting for the next thing to believe in I guess.” You sigh, gazing down into the dark black ink just above your rebel stripes, “It feels like I could keep fighting forever, but hearing all this, seeing such a small child threatened by the same evil as I was, it feels like I already have.” You’re not sure if he understands you, or even what side of the war he stood on.

“You feel like there’s reasons to fight.” He looks down into the baby drifting to sleep in your clutches. “But afraid that you have no fight left.” You half expect him to be criticizing you. Mandalorians have lost almost as much as you have, but are warriors by nature and have fought and continue to be feared across the galaxy as mercenaries and bounty hunters. His voice is soft, and understanding, as if processing his words himself.

You spot the ship ahead, falling silent in your admiration you trudge through the leaves and sticks that have fallen from the ship clearing its landing. The ramp hisses as it falls open to welcome its pilot, but you stop outside to admire the twin engines and their decades-long wear and tear.

Walking around the ship to admire her heavy laser cannons and her yellow markings. He watches you with a quiet but proud silence, as you eventually shuffle up the ramp to set the little one into a floating pram. Your eye catches a glimpse of a carbonite freezing chamber, and a little anxious butterfly seems to stir in your belly, how much do you trust him?

“I always thought I’d die looking for a bounty when I got too old, too slow, or just in plain luck.” You turn heel to face him, heartbeat clipping unsteadily in your chest, but you raise an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. He hesitates and sets himself on top of one of the shipping containers. “But protecting this child has made me dream of a life I never thought I could fight for.”

You can feel your body soften at his confession, cursing yourself for thinking lowly of a man whose been nothing but kind and trusting of you. “I’m sure it's lonely.” You take a small but calculated breath, “He is lucky to have you.” The smile is soft, and you try to reassure him despite yourself.

He looks at you standing but a few steps away from him, and nods, “I’m just as lucky.”

The bustle of the holiday market slows to accommodate him, traversing through the stalls as all shapes and sizes scurry out of his way. You swear to yourself, turning away and buying some meat you can’t afford. When you hear your modulated name fall out of his mouth like a prayer, soft and delicate. He steers around the crowd, veering right into your path as a child walks in front of you blowing bubbles from the straw of a festive drink.

The Mandalorian approaches you with purpose, his walk deliberate and commanding as if everyone in the vicinity answers to him. “Mando.” you smile briefly, warmth heating your cheeks, and the never-fading crush you have on this man skipping around your belly. “Hi.”

His gaze stays fixed as he reaches for your arm, touching a patch of ink that not only is new to him but you completely forgot about. His glove runs over it and when it doesn’t smear it might’ve made his knees buckle. “The Crest.”

You peer into the helmet, glad to have him near you again, and realizing how much you missed hearing his voice, a rush of blood washes over your cheeks again. “Yeah,” you fumble around doubting your reasons for getting that tattoo in the first place, “I’ve been adding a couple of ships that are important to me.”

You hear a small noise but are unable to determine the emotion behind it, “I was hoping to see you on Nevarro,” your heart rate picks up in your chest, and of course, his helmet picks it up, “the last few times.”

“I’ve been moving around, looking for something new.” There’s a sleepy squeal coming from his satchel, “is that?” He swings it around to the front and opens the top of the bag to reveal your favorite green forehead. “Handsome man! I’ve missed you little mudscuffer.”

Mando chuckles under his breath as you pull the baby from his confines and offer him a piece of the meat you just bought. He swallows it down greedily. “I swear he eats. He just woke up.”

You smile and give him a playful look, “Is daddy feeding you enough munchkin?” You hand the baby another strip, Mando is glad you don’t see him adjusting his pants as the word daddy slips between your lips innocently, “Don't worry I’ll get you something sweet too.”

Mando rests his hands on his hips, and shakes his head in mock defeat, “He’s not gonna want to leave.” He follows at your back as you carry the child through the marketplace, sometimes letting his palm rest on your back to keep close to you.

He would not be one to admit but seeing you carry the child around reminds him of the times on Sorgan, of the weeks you spent together and his floundering inability to court you. Even now the way you look at him has him hiding behind his beskar helm like a foolish schoolgirl.

“He doesn’t have to, are you here for business?” You cast a look over your shoulder, “He can stay with me while you take care of whatever you need.” You find a stall selling some fruity overpriced drink for the planetary holiday.

You look into your bag, coming up just a few credits short, and cursing at yourself. Starting to walk away, “I’ve got it.” He cuts in front of you while gripping your shoulder and standing over the top of you, handing more than enough credits to the man in exchange for two drinks.

Yet another blush creeps into your cheeks, “No need to spoil me.” You offer the child his drink and he snatches it away from you eagerly with a screech.

“I want to.” That causes your brows to knit together and a deep ache below your belt to settle and warm.

You sip away at the luxuriously sweet drink, wishing you could at least share it with him. “I have a room at an inn,” you offer, “or we could go back to the Crest, and catch up.”

You lean against one of the walls so that you don’t accidentally traverse even further from his bounty. “I don’t have the crest.”

Your drink turns to ash in your mouth, “What? Is she in disrepair? I’m sure Karga-“

“It’s rubble on the planet Tython.” He’s sad, of course he is, but his hand finds the mark on your skin again, and you can’t help but mull over the memories, the connection you shared on that ship eviscerated.

“I’m so sorry.” You let your head hang low, remembering how many conversations you shared hoping he’d invite you aboard as crew. “I loved that ship. I mean not as much as you I’m sure.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing over the silhouette as he speaks, “You don’t happen to know how to rewire an N-1 starfighter engine?”

“I’m sure I could look at it, but I don’t think I’d be much help. Where the hell did you find one?” You’re a bumbling mess, wanting so eagerly for him to scoop you off this planet like he had before, but also knowing your heart couldn’t bear to watch him leave a third time.

“I didn’t think so but I have no idea what you’ve been up to and-“ he pauses, stopping himself to watch you take a sip of the drink after licking some whipped cream off of the straw.

“And?” You prompt him to continue, but he stares between you and the child who have matching bright red tongues and are both sporting some whipped cream out of the corners of your mouths.

You catch a hint of strain in his voice, “We can rest at your place for a while. He’s due for a nap.” You squint at him a little, easily reading his stiff body language and the change of subject.

At the word nap, the baby babbles away while chewing on the straw of his drink, “There’s a lot of sugar in this, so we might have to wait it out.”

Mando lets out an exasperated sigh, “What have you gotten us into.” You’re both sitting on the floor of a modest single room with the little one taking turns climbing up and over the two of you.

“You bought it,” raising your hands in defense, smile splitting ear to ear, “I was going to split one with him.” You reach out to try to grab his surprisingly quick body but he darts away with a giggle.

“He’ll crash, eventually.” You could hear him talk about the baby for hours, to sit with him and watch the two of them play together always felt like a treat on its own. “Get down from there.”

“He’s fine, this place is a dump anyway.” You smirk over your shoulder as he climbs up onto your bed, rolling around and giggling half to himself while chewing on the mythosaur skull pendant around his neck.

“How did you end up here?” Your face falls a little, but he’s kind, and soft, and you can tell he doesn’t want to pry but his curiosity is getting the best of him.

“I was tracking a bunch of smugglers, the republic got word that they were hauling children to Canto Bight, and exporting them maker knows where.” You continue, trying to keep your breath even, “Cara had asked me as a favor, but I had a run-in with a group of pirates who saw my stripes and stole my ship.”

“Does she know?” He shuffles closer to you, folding his knees in so that he can run a hand soothingly across the skin of your leg.

“I don’t know,” You clear the tightness in your throat, “At least I don’t think so.” You find the words pouring out of you as if he is comforting you into realizing something you’ve been fighting for a long time. “I don’t think I can fight like this anymore, and I don’t know how to tell her that.”

He is quiet, giving a simple solemn nod, before pulling the rising phoenix from his back, and laying it on the floor. He scoots closer to you, settling next to you as you both lean against the foot of your bed. His beskar shoulder plate is cold on your cheek, as you lean against him, seeking reassurance you haven’t felt in so long.

Silently a tear falls down your face, and as if prompted by his little superpowers the baby, climbs into your lap nuzzling your cheek and touching your face gently with a warm hand. There are a lot of things this child is capable of, things you can’t begin to understand, over a lifetime that is marred with more violence and confusion than you will likely ever know existed. When he touches you, you can feel his pain and loss, but he also shares with you a joy and unfathomable curiosity over the smallest things he remembers.

“I can’t take you on the N-1,” his voice startles you out of your stupor with the baby, “but if you’ll give me a few days, I’ll be back to pick you up, and you can stay with us on Nevarro until you find somewhere else, something else to do.”

Your breath is shaking, and you’re not even sure the last time you felt safe enough to cry. A small piece of you wants to run because that's what you've been doing for these last 10 or so years of your life. Running from the Empire, running after them, and then running from yourself. “I don’t think I could.”

“Why not?” he reaches for your shaking hand, setting his gloved hand on top of yours, driving the energy in the room with the ease of piloting a speeder bike.

“You’re a family, he has a routine, you’ve settled into this beautiful life that you’ve worked tirelessly for. I couldn’t impose.” You try your best to sound strong like you’ve got a plan ahead of you, and the idea of not being around the two of them doesn't make your heart ache.

He hums, and for a moment your cry is less of confusion and more out of pain. His hand is gone from yours, and the lack of his warmth feels like a slap into reality, as you pinch your eyes shut to stop yourself from being embarrassed even further.

You jump. There's a much larger warm hand caressing your cheek, and turning your head into the dark stare of his visor. You can see the tanned skin of his wrist as he turns your face slightly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “It is the greatest mistake of my life leaving you on Sorgan.”

You sniffle, the words sorting through the emotional fog of your brain, searching the blank emotionless canvas of metal for a hint of human connection, a flutter of an eyelash, anything. You can’t find anything, until you hear the faint sound of his breath from beneath his mask, stuttering and insecure, his chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a battle with his own emotions.

You feel it again, a swell in your chest of love and admiration and then you feel the tiny claws digging into the skin of your bicep. You look down at the tiny man as he steps between where your chests are separated by mere inches, “Could I have her come and get us?” You’re quiet as a loth cat, voice heady and rough. “I don’t think I could watch you go.”

He lets the little one settle into his lap after a moment, this time you can hear relief and a half-broken smile in his tone, “Let’s just wait until he falls asleep, I’ll go to the ship and send a transmission. I’ll come back with his pram, and then where we go. You go.”

You clear your throat again, wanting so desperately for this to be real and aching to touch him. “Okay.” your voice barely makes a squeak, he pressed the cold beskar helm to your temple.

Wondering if he feels as raw as you, you place your hand on top of his suppressing the need to comment on how large it is, and tangle your fingers with his. You stare at his hand, tanned and massive and warm. Human. You fold your legs in on themselves and shift your body so that you may properly look at him.

The glove sits in his lap, and he looks so imposing in this tiny half-furnished room, polished and chrome in the dingy and ill-lit space you've called ‘home’ for these last few cycles. You take his other hand, and look up to see if he’s going to stop you, but he is still and silent, so you slip the glove off his hand. You trace from the tip of his middle finger, down his palm and up towards the pulse point of his wrist.

He shudders beneath your touch, thankful for the mask to hide the crimson flush of his cheeks. He’s never had the opportunity to enjoy a tenderness like this, to feel his pulse quicken and the nervous butterflies he’s heard described during love stories on a holodrama. It’s terrifying, he feels like he could vomit, but the way your delicate fingers trace circles over the palm of his hand makes him want to run his hands over every last inch of your body until he knows it inside and out like his blaster.

The child settles into his lap, leaning his head against your arm as his head and eyes grow heavier with sleep. “Why don’t we walk to your ship together?”

Your eyes are bright, and he can tell by your posture that you feel better, but he can’t stop the audible grumble, not ready to let you or even your hand slip from his. He nods and swallows harshly to clear his throat, “Alright.”

You walk across the market again, and the crowd parts before the two of you except this time you are holding onto his hand, and rather than trying to avoid his gaze like every other soul walking the market, you cling to his him trying to suppress the smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

Nevarro has changed so much, you spend the first few days just getting accustomed to the new layout of the town. Dropping the child, ‘Grogu’ (it took a while but it grew on you) at school, and then going to spend time in the market picking up some rations and some of the seasonal veg you’ve been coaxing into the little one’s belly.

The domestic bliss that comes with living with Mando is both welcome and intoxicating. You’re awake at odd hours of the night, talking and sharing stories about Jawas and your run-ins with Ewoks, and sharing your dreams and hopes for the galaxy.

He shares stories about Mandalore, about visiting there for the first time and bathing in the healing waters, about Bo Katan seeing a Mythasaur alive. All things you heard about as a young child, and symbols that brought hope and purpose to the entire creed were real and were aiding to heal the planet and its inhabitants.

Then there were times when you both laid on the floor, watching the little one interact with a metal sphere, using his magic to hover it just out of your grasp and giggling himself to a peaceful sleep. You’d lay together, wrapped in the comfort and protection of his house, and stare at the little man as he sleeps occasionally peaking into the reflection of yourself in his helmet, and blushing when you catch your own heart racing.

You want to tell him how you crave to be with him, how addicting his presence and his mind are to you, but you’re afraid. Afraid to move too fast, to step over his barriers, but also knowing that each second without knowing the softness of his mouth is torture.

The first time you see him in his sleep clothes, a plain dark green shirt with three buttons on the top and loose-fitting black canvas pants, no metal aside from his helmet, you choke on your cup of Jawa juice. He’s large even without the metal beefing up his silhouette, his back broad and the fabric thin enough for you to see his muscles move as he opens a drawer for silverware. Even treating yourself to a glimpse of his waist and the way it tapers to his ass and hips.

It’s become more common, in fact when he gets home, he almost immediately strips out of the armor in favor of something more casual and comfortable.

Tonight the energy is different. The kid passes out early and you’re soaking a pot you used for dinner in the sink when he emerges out of his room. You hear his footsteps, but they’re muted and soft, he’s barefoot. As you glance over your shoulder as he offers you a glass from his bedroom you see he’s in briefs, (the house is admittedly warmer as the seasons change) but the shock is plain as day as you turn so quickly away the glass slips from your hand and shatters on the floor. But the image of his chest spattered with hair that trailed down his soft belly and into the top of his black undergarments.

You both are silent for a moment, hoping the noise isn’t loud enough to wake the baby, in his silence you swear, “Kriff, don’t move I’ll get a broom.” You shy away, looking to the ground for a safe path.

He cuts you off arm darting in front of you to halt your movement, “I’ll get it.” His hand comes to rest on your hip stalling your movements with his warm palm.

His other hand reaches out and before you can grumble in discontent he's lifting you onto the counter. You sit there, flustered with your hands tucked between your thighs as he fiddles with the control of his helmet flicking through to see which would help him find the scattered pieces of glass the best.

It's moments, but it feels like an eternity as he searches for a broom, sweeping the glass into a neat pile before discarding it into the bin silently. He settles between your legs, silent as a mouse.

“I'm sorry.” You smile sheepishly, struggling to maintain eye contact as he hovers in front of you, inches separating your face, and if it were any cooler you would’ve fogged the front of his mask with your breath.

He chuckles dryly, “Don’t be, I’ll take it as a compliment.” His posture is full of confidence, but also comfortable and relaxed. You long to touch him, to run your hand over his chest and abdomen, to feel the muscles shift in his back as he- “Mesh’la?”

You blink yourself out of a daze, “You should, you’re so handsome.” He braces his hands on the counter next to your hips and leans ever closer.

“Yeah?” His voice is hot like a pant, stroking a fire in the room that neither of you are able to ignore any longer.

“Yeah.” You smirk at him, emboldened and smoothing your hands up the strong plains of his arms, squeezing lightly around the muscles of his biceps. You let your foot run across his calf, urging him closer to your body, his hands find your waist, firm but careful as his thumbs stroke the skin just below your breasts. You curse yourself for even bothering with a bra band.

“I like having you here.” His head tilts, you can almost see the gears turning in his brain as he continues, “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” He uses his strength to pull you a little closer to him, so with each breath your chests touch and your core is flush to his abdomen. “Having you in my kitchen, sitting on my counter looking so pretty, so-” He swipes the hair off your shoulder exposing your neck and throat, “edible.”

Any chance you had of playing it cool is gone, you want nothing more than to bend to his will. His hand disappears from your side, and he tangles it in your hair, using it to fix your eyes to his through the helm, as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel completely safe, but there’s something about him thats dangerous, hungry even, and it makes your skin damp with sweat.

He sounds like he’s in agony, like each passing moment without consuming you is torture, and you ache for him in a way that astonishes you, embarrasses you, not even sure that you could stand on your own two feet.

“I need you.” He whispers, breath uneven almost a growl, “Tonight. Now.” He reaches between your legs, letting his fingers ghost over you ever so gently, as if asking, no begging, for permission.

You swallow hard, his helmet tilts, admiring you, and you hardly manage to stutter a yes. Part of you expects him to be quick, tearing at your clothes and taking you right here in the kitchen.

He doesn’t.

He goes slow, letting the crest of his helmet fall to rest on your forehead, taking his time to caress your hips, tracing up your sides and taking your shirt with it. His hands are warm, but bring goosebumps to your skin as he touches you, hands squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipple. You keen, pressing desperately against his hands. You lean in, placing a kiss to his collarbone, gentle and moving slow so he may stop you if he wants, but he drops his shoulder and tilts his head to expose his neck.

You kiss his collarbone again, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin, he’s vibrating beneath you. Trembling as you kiss the hollow of his throat and nibble at the skin of his neck. You run your hands down his chest, basking in the intimacy and living for the scent of his skin.

He lifts you in a fluid motion, whisking you out of the kitchen and into his modest bedroom. Laying you on the bed, he runs his hands down your legs and removes your pants. You blush, unable to hide your arousal but noticing the prominent tent in his briefs, your mouth waters and you get to consider getting on your knees for him briefly.

He’s faster than you, and not thinking about himself. Ripping your underwear from your body and running the tip of his index fingers through your folds. “All this for me?” He circles your entrance, gathering your slick before brushing across your clit with leg-shaking precision.

You chase his touch, the pleasure coating your tongue and fogging your brain even more than you can put into words. You beg for him to get closer, to press your bodies together until you weren't sure you'd ever part.

You're expecting to feel shorted by the absence of his mouth on yours. No taste of him, and not getting to hear his words directly from his mouth, but his touch is consuming. Like he's worshiping and waking each cell with caresses and adoration that's as palpable in the air as his sheets were soft on your back.

There are noises, words you think, that he is muttering between each supple squeeze and tease, words you've heard him say before but their meaning is only now defined by his actions.

Love. He loves you. You can feel it in the heat of his hands as he spreads your legs apart and admires the way you part for him, and he sinks two fingers into your fluttering pussy, pushing up and stroking something dangerous.

His erection is nestled against your leg, and he shifts his hips with every twist of his fingers for a few moments, pressed between your bodies he feels a glimmer of relief with a groan, as much as he wants to bathe you in attention, he thinks that if he waits any longer his heart might give out before the best part. “Mesh’la,” he twists his fingers as if to be sure you're listening, “Please.”

“Yes,” you nod, swallowing harshly as he slips free of his underwear, cock springing free of its confines. You gawk, unabashedly, as he did to you just moments ago. He's large, intact, leaning slightly to his left, and the skin is tanned brown, slightly darker than the rest of his body, thick and weeping out of the brilliantly flushed pink tip, the base adorned with sparse but dark hair that trails up to his navel deliciously. When he steps between your legs and lets it rest on your abdomen to press your forehead together again, you feel its heady weight against you and stoop so low as to beg, “Please.”

You're echoing each other's moans as he grinds against your folds, coating himself in your slick before sinking into you in a single brutally slow thrust. When he bottoms out, you do your best not to squeak as the girth of his member breaks you open, it doesn't hurt, rather it feels like you've both waited an eternity to come to this very moment, euphoric and fulfilling the needs of your body and soul.

He grinds his pelvis against yours letting his hand shift to cup your cheek, staring at you, he hopes somehow you can sense it. How he is barely able to stop passing between the pout of your lips and the deep pleading look in your eyes, begging him for the same thing his heart is calling for. He could weep, having finally shorn the armor to dedicate himself to you, because the truth is, all you needed was to ask. He would've dropped his creed, everything he had achieved, and the meek life he'd planned for himself to grovel at your feet for the rest of his human life.

Devotion, that's what it was called. He had felt at many moments of his life that he was in the right place, blessing along his journeys that started out as miracles, friends, familial bonds he didn't think he deserved. It felt misplaced, the little blessings that had entered his life so quickly that he swore they had to have been accidents. It had taken losing the child and abandoning you on that god-forsaken planet, for him to reflect, and to realize that the life he deserved was not determined by some blasters and an army, nor his home planet. He had the life he wanted in his palms once, and watched it slip through his fingers with the charred remains of his ship. His grip tightened instinctively, twisting the sheet in his fist.

It was you. You were the representation of all of the things he wanted but never thought he deserved. A family, a place to call home, and you even had committed something as passing as his ship to your skin with a permanence that scared him.

Here your skin was warm, surrounding him, nurturing him, squeezing him, and his mind was trying so hard to be a person, not a machine, loving someone else for the first time.

He found the words, he said it to you, over and over with his pelvis angled just right as he ground his hips into you.

He was throbbing inside of you, you could feel the slick slide and pulse of him with each thrust. The pleasure was so intense you were whimpering and mewling beneath him, wetness smearing onto your thighs and running on the sheets below.

You've had sex before of course, and now you seriously doubt you've been doing it right. You kiss at the hollow of his throat, and in response he hunches over you, arms on either side of your head, animalistic yet praising affirmations go straight to the building heat in your core.

You let your hands, come up to his back digging your nails into his skin. He moans in shock as his thrusts grow more frenzied, spurred on by the bite of pain at his back. He reaches between you and circles your clit with his thumb, pulling you headfirst into your orgasm. You're body goes taught and relaxes all at once, the pleasure blinding you as your vision goes white and each tilt of his hips makes you stutter out an overstimulated moan.

The fluttering of your sex around him would be enough to send over the edge but as you catch your breath you begin to beg for him to finish inside you. He does, still feeling you shivering through the after waves of your own, as he groans and revels through the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, complete with curled toes and a knuckle-popping grip on the sheets. He’s still looking at you, the rise of fall of your chests bumping into each other and your breath fogging the front of his helmet so much that when you kissed right over his eye, he could see the imprint of your lips for just a passing moment.

“I can’t believe we waited so long.” You chuckle, all smiles but looking as dazed and spent as he felt. A shiver coming over him as the small sounds cause you to tighten slightly around him as he softens, his body incredible sensitive.

“I’ll spend the rest of our life making up for it.” You note the sound of him speaking through the grit of his teeth, and do your best to lie still, not wishing to be parted just yet.

Months later, you’re married in a private ceremony in front of friends and his brothers and sisters of the clan. It's quick, and everything you had expected of a warrior’s wedding. You get the mudhorn symbol tattooed into the skin nestled behind your ear, wearing it proudly and with your vows you are made a family, a clan of three in front of all the important people you care about.

You’d be remiss if what had you most excited isn’t the filthy promises he’s made to you about that night, taking his helmet off and kissing you everywhere he can for as long as he wishes. Promising to leave a mark over your new clan sigil as he marks the rest of your body for him, as you’ve done to him many times over. You get to admire his face and the most handsome man in the galaxy who kneels before you with reverence and vows to take care of you with more than just his words.

#pedro pascal #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin #eatommos 🗞️#the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian smut #din djarin x reader smut #din x reader #pedro pascal fanfic

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cookie-crumblr · 2 months

Text

Lucky

Shy M!Reader x F!Yandere OC

Part 1~

Her Info: 🪓

Next Part>>>

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

CW: M! Reader, Reader has a penis, Reader referred to as he/him, psychological horror/trauma, reader is on meds for night terrors, blood, implied sh on FL, oral on M!, explicit language, partial handjob on M!, exhibitionism, non con cumplay, reader voms(not described), overstim, not proofread.

song rec: Personal Pornstar by Bludnymph <3 (lol it’s not the MOST fitting for this part, but i had it on replay for like 5 days and it’s def playing in Lucy’s lil head too)

anything in red reader isn’t aware of.

Your room is pitch black in a block wide black out and something… Smells off? There’s a rusty tang in the air. You try to close your eyes anyway. It’s just your imagination. It’s always just your imagination. That’s what they’ve always told you.

Why does your room always smell metallic?

It’s fake.

It’s not real.

Sometimes when you close your eyes your walls are bleeding, and sometimes there’s a woman crying blood above you on your bed… Sometimes, someone’s standing in the corner of the room with an axe, and that’s the one that really makes your heart beat loud, yet you have no idea why.

It’s just your night terrors.

That’s what the meds are for.

You reach around in the dark, fingertips tap against the pressed wood table, and slip down to find the knob. Before you can even pull it out-

*Creak*

You freeze.

A footstep down the hall draws your eyes to your doorway adjacent. You can’t see shit, but you know the door’s there. And wide open.

*Creak*

You’re breathing through your mouth as silently as you can, listening for anything other than-

*Creak*

It’s a night terror.

You’re asleep right now. or hallucinating while half asleep.

That’s all it is.

She’s standing just down the hall.

She feels like dancing, she’s really in your appartment!! and you’re in here! She can hardly contain herself!

If you saw who she was, instead of just a dark silhouette, you’d recognize her. She went to the same school as you growing up. She goes to your college now. And she’s always just been, around.

Lucy is really cute! and has a lot of the same interests from what you’ve gathered… She’s just extremely shy, so when you try to actually talk to her she either whispers, or just “eeep’s!” and runs away. She’s a trust fund baby. For one reason or another you never perused her, not that you never thought about what’s under her clothes, or wanted to get to know her more.

And now, she’s in your apartment, like she is most nights since the first day she saw you. Well in the beginning she was going into your parents house. Now that you’re all on your own, she gets free reign of your apartment.

She’s been getting bolder.

You pop a med and close your eyes.

The last time she was in your room she checked your browsing history, and found some porn that must’ve interested you!

She’d look again today, but she got carried away in her fantasies and cut the wires down the road!

You have at least one responsibility every day, but your college days only take up about 3 hours. So it isn’t that bad… You sigh.

When you get dressed, and pull a shirt from under your bed, something rolls out with it over the woodgrains…

Is that…

A glass bottle, about the length of your hand, full of blood??

You gag.

How did this get here!?

Maybe, you think, it was just here when you moved in! yeah… That’s probably it…

You end up throwing up into the toilet and throwing the bottle into a trash bag and immediately taking it out.

Lucy is already in class, she isn’t looking as giddy as normal. She’s glaring daggers straight ahead, not really looking at anything that you can see.

“Hey Lucy! you alright?” you wave gently.

“Y/N!” She peeps! “H-hey! Um, yup! I’m just a little sleepy today! sall…” She fakes a yawn and stretches, bringing her arms up over her head. Her very full chest bobbles as she does.

You sit next to her and she shakes for a second. “You sure that’s all?”

“Mhm!” She confirms.

“Okay, I won’t press you but i’m here if you need to talk”

“Th-thank you” She says as she shudders.

She’s always a little strange, but she’s nice, and probably means well.

“H-Hey Y-Y/N…” she audibly swallows.

“Hm?” You respond right before she puts her hand on your thigh, and even though the professor isn’t in yet, she’s staring straight at the board. her pale face already as red as a strawberry.

You look down, surprised, and back up, and down again.

Your pants feel tighter it’s unfair. All she had to do was touch you in one little spot so close to where you really need attention, but so agonizingly far.

You were never really friends, so there’s nothing there to ruin… If this is what she wants. She’s probably just messing with you anyway.

Even her ears are red, she has her orange hair over her other shoulder. giving you full view of the couple freckles that spot her neck.

Her hand glides over your lap until her hand has climbed Mt.YourPants and is now pressing down rubbing almost painfully through the fabric against you.

You put the back of your hand to her bare thigh and feel her jump, with a cute “ee!” Slowly you flip it over, caressing her with just the tips of your fingers. She shudders.

You press your palm flat against her skin, she’s soft and warm. Even her thighs have a few freckles. Slowly you slide your hand under the hem of her skirt, you pass over the jagged feeling of a long cut healing, and further up there’s a lot of big bandages.

“A-are you alr—”

“It’s nothing!” She assures you, but it doesn’t settle the feeling in your gut that something is off. She takes your hand shakily and puts it on your desk.

Immediately following, her hand moves back to your thigh and creeps back into place at your center.

You kinda forget about what just happened.

Her nails have little hand painted angel wings over pale pink polish. She’s so cute.

Your still half-hard dick against the fabric is really uncomfortable. She can’t be planning on taking it too far since you’re in class, so you try to relax a little, and you think this is probably the extent of it.

She turns in her seat, placing her other hand in your lap, and is now unzipping and unbuttoning your pants. You jump up a little and shoo her hands away. Your head frantically swivels around the room before turning back to her, “Lucy!” You hiss, “We can’t do that here!” Your face is hot.

“Why not…? I’ve seen people do it before.” She tries to match your volume, still just barely above her usual whisper.

“What!? Here!?” you feel bad that she even had to witness something like that!!

“You know what else i’ve seen…” The words exit her mouth ominously, and her face deepens a shade.

You gulp…. Do you wanna know? “Wh-what?”

She gets up, and scoots her chair back a little…

Then she climbs under the shared desk and gets in front of your legs.

“Wh-What are you doing!! Lucy!!” You try to keep your voice down, but you can’t help but raise it in a slightly higher pitch.

“What?… Do you not—I really want to… Please Y/N?” she looks down, her big brown doe eyes looking away sheepishly.

Your dick twitches. Her cleavage is on display just below you, and presses against your legs. She’s practically begging to play with your cock. But if you get caught… You gulp yet again.

Your brows are hiked up in worry, eyes locked on her chest and how red even they’re getting. “O-kay Lucy… B-but please be careful!” You cannot believe what you’re letting her do.. In class!!! Your dick must be talking for you.

Eyes now alight with pure joy and excitement, she opens your jeans and gets your cock out.

Your tip was really getting irritated in there! It feels instantly better even though it’s a little too cool— “Haaaah!!” She wraps both her hands around the base of you, fingers interlocked. She definitely doesn’t know what she’s doing, but you appreciate her enthusiasm.

Her thumbs massage the underside of your length, it isn’t too bad. They come up under your tip and press teasingly against it. She scooches even closer burrowing her way between your spreading legs. You slouch more in your chair, head resting on your thumb and finger as you try and look nonchalant.

She finally brings her hands up all the way and rubs them over your head. You aren’t looking so when you feel her hot breath on you, you can’t help but jump!

She kitten licks you first, just savoring your flavor, you think you feel her kiss your dick before you feel yourself get swallowed up entirely. She gags on you, so you reach under the table and place your hand on her soft hair. “Please, Lucy… Be quiet…” You start to shudder, her throat contracts around you and she’s sucking you so hard by the time she pulls back.

She’s eagerly licking up your pre and you even hear her slurp, it’s so hot, but someone is definitely gonna hear! “Mmmm!” She moans around you.

You look around and almost everyone has earbuds in. You sigh in relief and your dick starts to pulse and twitch more and more in her warm mouth. You almost let go in that moment, but it feels so good, you don’t want it to end.

Her tongue is flat against you and licks your underside. She keeps running it over your head, and teasing your slit and when she pulls away she sucks even harder, everytime you almost “Ooo” out loud, but you try to hold it in.

You hear her moan again and can’t keep it in this time, “Hnnng!” You shoot your load into her, which she seems to keep in her mouth…

She takes some onto her fingers from her mouth before swallowing the rest.

You feel her wrap her lips tightly around your softening, leaking dick again and knee the table in surprise. “Mm!”

“Okay Lu-Lucy!” You pat her head to tap out, but she keeps going. Your stomach flutters from overstimulation.

Your dick re-hardens without pressure building up, you just feel the excess of pleasure around you.

She presses her fingers against her tight pussy and rubs while she continues to suck all the soul out of your body.

She’s whimpering and shaking now, you imagine she’s fingering herself… You want to look.

You slouch further in your seat so that there’s a slit between the table and your body that you can see your dick completely swallowed up by a shuddering girl.

Her face is hungrily pressed against you, “mm!” her whimpers continue to vibrate around you, when is the last time someone’s been this enthusiastic about your dick?

You see her arm violently moving as she fingers herself with your cum.

She can barely fit two of her little fingers in her tight pussy, it’s such a stretch for her… And she’s imagining your dick inside her! Oh she really can’t stand it! The thought of you stretching her instead of her stupid little fingers.

“Mm!!” You watch her twitch and then settle, but she keeps sucking on you, it’s getting to be too much for you, you don’t understand this sensation, you already came, but you’re still hard and feeling extremely hot.

“Lucy…” you plead. You aren’t even worried about the other people in the room but your getting fatigued.

She pulls off of you with a small *pop* “S-s-sorry… Y/N… Hah… I g-got carried away…” She looks down, filled with guilt.

You find her chin with your hand and pull her face to look up at you. Your dick twitches between you two, and you feel embarrassed for a second as if she wasn’t just sucking the life out of you. “come back up here please,” You smile at her.

As she climbs back up her seat, you fix yourself, and the professor walks in.

From Cookie!

Lemme know how i did! this is my first ever x M! so i hope i can get better and make more!!! 🙈✨

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supernaturalscribe67 · 9 months

Text

Just Like Mama Used to Make

Words: 6,178

POV: 1st & 3rd Person

Pairing: John x Son!Reader - Dean/Sam x Brother!Reader [Platonic]

Warning(s): Language, John Winchester, Fluff, Mention of Childhood Trauma, Mention of Death, I think that's it??

Summary: Taking inspiration from his father, the reader starts his very own journal. For his first entry, he recalls some of the memories that shaped him into the hunter that he has become.

Request:

Hello, hope you are having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request John/Dean/Sam Winchester reaction to having a brother who looks like their mother and picked up hunting like breathing?

@xweirdo101x

A/N: My very first request! It kind of got away from me, but I really hope that I was able to do your request justice. Hope you like it!~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Hello

Hey!

Dear Diary

SEPTEMBER 2014

To be honest, I have no idea how to start something like this. I was never one for writing, nor have I been one who can easily express my emotions. I guess I got that trait from the Winchester side of my family. Still, I have thought a lot about Dad’s journal lately. The things that he wrote down. It’s not detailed. It’s nowhere near what it was like growing up with him, but it still provides Dean, Sammy, and me with some information and nostalgia from time to time.

So, I figured ‘Why the Hell not’, I might as well write down some things in my own journal. I’m going to die someday anyway, and I want people to read this and be able to see what my life was like. From the good times that I spent with my family to the bad times when I lost my family. Hell, maybe this journal will get me into a history book someday when someone else discovers the Men of Letters Bunker. Who knows. Maybe I’ll be famous after I die, or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.

This journal has already turned into a clusterfuck. I don’t even know what to write about. I can’t even think of things to write about. Should I say things about my life? Should I just write down random things I think of throughout the day? I don’t know how to do it. Even when I look at Dad’s journal for inspiration, there’s nothing to inspire in it. A lot of it is notes on how to kill monsters and other stuff is just a bunch of personal bullshit he was going through.

Well, we were all going through it.

I guess I’ll start by writing down some of the memories I’ve had. If I don’t like it, then I’ll throw this journal away and start another one. I don’t want future historians to think of me as some scatterbrained moron, despite what Sammy and Dean say at times. If you’re reading this now, I’m actually the smartest Winchester brother. Don’t believe a thing Sam and Dean say. I’m the brains of the operations and our day-to-day lives. I’ve saved them more times than I could count.

Then again, they’ve probably saved me just as much.

Alright, I’m getting side-tracked. I guess I’ll just start writing.

Should I introduce myself first before I do so?

My name is (Y/N) Winchester. I’m a hunter.

This is my story (God, that was terrible)

AUGUST 1991

I remember the first time I mentioned to my father that I wanted to be a hunter, just like him. I was six years old. Dad didn’t take it very kindly. He yelled, a lot. Screamed sometimes. I never truly understood why he would always get so upset whenever I would ask him to teach me how to hunt.

It wasn’t until I was a man that I understood why.

I look just like my mother.

I don’t know how I could have been so blind all those years. I have her hair. I have her face. I have her smile. All of these things have been said by my father before. Not necessarily when he was sober. I was always the one person that reminded my Dad of his wife. Of my mother. I think a part of him wanted to keep me safe, just so he could always look at me and remember what she looked like. Even when I was a child, though, I could see the hurt behind his eyes every once in a while when he would look at me. It made me feel guilty.

Still does.

I know that none of it is my fault, that he made himself hurt.

Still…

For months, I would ask my Dad to teach me about hunting. To teach me about the monsters that crept through the darkness. Each time I asked, he would reject my request and I would get scolded for asking such a stupid question.

So, one night, around the age of seven or eight (one of the two, I can’t remember exactly), I decided that school wasn’t very important. There were occasions when I snuck out of classes to go to the library of whatever town we were in at the time to search the limited amount of lore books that they had. There were times when I got caught by Dean before I was able to sneak out. Other times it was by Sammy. Sometimes, my father would get a call from the school because I had been reported missing.

I was a problem child, as you could tell.

It’s not that I hated school.

It just wasn’t my favorite.

And I wanted to hunt.

So, anyway…from town to town, I would skip class, go to the library, and learn everything that I could learn about hunting if there was anything to learn. Sometimes, I would ask Dean questions. Sometimes he would answer, other times he told me to not worry about it and to mind my own business. It used to hurt whenever Dean would reject any of the questions that I would ask, but I know now that it was so he didn’t get in trouble with Dad. I remember giving him a hard time about it, about not answering me. Dean, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for being a jerk.

Then again, Dean, if you’re reading this, you shouldn’t be reading this and expect some glitter to appear in your body wash.

No one knew about my secret research. No one knew the reason behind my skipping classes. I would constantly make up lies, most of them being about how much I hated moving around and just wanted to rebel against my father. Typical kid stuff.

It wasn’t until August of 1991, when I was ten years old, that I was finally able to put that research to use.

(Y/N) stared down at the paper that rested on a notebook in his lap. His eyes were wide and filled with stress, fingers tangled in his short hair, his back slouched ever so slightly. Dean sat a couple of inches away from him near the end of the bed, his homework in his lap, while Sam leaned against the headboard, a book in his hands that he had gotten from the school library. Dean looked up from his work, noticing the look of despair on his brother’s face before he glanced down at his worksheet. Dean grimaced and let out a hiss.

“Multiplying fractions?” He asked, a hint of sympathy in his tone.

Without looking up, (Y/N) gave a short nod. Dean pressed his lips together in a thin line before he set his pencil down beside him.

“Do you need help?” Dean offered.

(Y/N) lifted his head and looked at his older brother, giving a small, soundless nod. Dean offered a smile as he moved closer to him so that they were sitting next to one another. Dean craned his neck to be able to look at the paper, tilting his head as he studied the equations.

“Which one are you having problems with?” He asked.

“All of them,” (Y/N) answered.

Dean snorted. “Okay, so, it’s easy-”

“Wow, Dean thinks math is easy?” Sam mumbled, a smirk playing on his lips.

Dean lifted his head and glared at Sam. “Shut up, bitch,”

Sam shot a bitch-face towards Dean. “You shut up, jerk,” he retorted.

(Y/N) let out a frustrated grunt. “Will both of you assholes shut up!? I don’t understand this!” His voice was filled with annoyance and desperation.

Dean and Sam shot their brother a look. Sam rolled his eyes as he returned to the book. Dean looked back down at the paper, mumbling an apology under his breath. He then began to help (Y/N) with his homework, walking him through all of the problems that he had. (Y/N) still felt as if Dean was speaking in a foreign language, but he could understand the homework a little easier.

When the paper was halfway finished, the door to the motel room suddenly burst open, causing the three brothers to jump, their eyes wide as they turned and looked at the person who had just entered. John stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. He stomped over to the couch that sat in front of the small television set and plopped down on it. He ran his hands down his face and let a small growl emit from his throat.

Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) shared a glance, almost as if they were communicating telepathically. After a while, Dean and Sam both turned their attention toward their brother, their eyes locked on his. After looking back and forth between the two, (Y/N) let out a soundless sigh as he set his homework beside him. He moved off of the bed and padded across the aged carpet to the couch. Slowly, he walked around the sofa so that he could see his father.

John looked tired. Dark circles were prominent underneath his eyes. One of his legs was propped up on the couch while the other lay bent in front of him. His elbow rested on the arm of the sofa, his cheek placed against his right hand as he stared at the television in front of him. Nothing played. When (Y/N) came into view, John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye for a brief moment. He said nothing.

“Hey, Dad,” (Y/N) greeted. “Um…how were the, uh, interviews with the victims’ families?”

John shook his head. “Not great, kid,” he grumbled.

“No?”

“No.”

As (Y/N) stared at his father, he timidly moved over to the couch. John hesitantly moved his leg as (Y/N) sat down next to him.

“Did you…learn anything?”

“Why aren’t you boys in bed?” John grunted.

“We’re finishing our homework.”

“Then shouldn’t you be working on it?”

(Y/N)’s shoulders slouched. “I just…wanted to see how it went is all…”

“You want to know how it went?” John’s voice got deeper. “You really want to know how it went? Fucking terrible. That’s how it went,” John straightened himself out on the couch before he stood up. He began to pace around the room, his tone of voice getting more and more irritable. “I thought I had a good fucking lead going. All of the victims went to the same fucking bookstore a couple of days before their deaths and got the same book. Seems like a fucking coincidence, right? Then I go to the goddamn bookstore to see what the book was and all it was was something called Aradia or some shit like that. Some type of foreign book bullshit, I don’t fucking know.”

(Y/N) furrowed his brows as John continued to rant. He looked down and away from his father. He got lost, deep in thought, the words that John was speaking irrelevant to him now. Finally, he turned back to him, kneeling on the couch as he raised his brows.

“Did you say Aradia?” He questioned in the middle of John’s rant.

John stopped pacing around the room as he looked back at (Y/N). Dean and Sam’s attention immediately turned to him, their eyes wide. John’s jaw was clenched, the anger and irritation still emanating from him. “Yeah,” he replied deeply.

“Aradia…” (Y/N) trailed before he shook his head. “That’s not a foreign book, Dad! That’s only the first half of the title. The full title is Aradia or the Gospel of the Witches. It was one of the most influential pieces of literature in the nineteenth century to witches! You’re dealing with a witch!” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as a smile appeared on his face.

John’s expression went from furious to confusion. He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that book?” He questioned.

“I read about it in a library a little bit ago.” (Y/N) answered quickly.

John pressed his tongue into his cheek as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at Sam and Dean, who were still staring with wide eyes at their brother, and then back at (Y/N). He ran a hand down his face stressfully.

“You boys finish your homework,” he mumbled as he walked towards the door. “I have to make a call.”

Without allowing anyone to respond, John left the motel room, closing the door behind him a little gentler than when he entered. (Y/N)’s smile faded as he watched his father leave, his shoulders dropping. The three brothers sat in silence for a minute before they looked at one another.

“Come on,” Dean said as he patted the spot on the bed next to him. “Let’s finish these math problems.”

Even though Dad never told me, I knew I was right. I knew it was a witch that he had dealt with. We didn’t even get to go to school the next day. He had found and killed her before I was able to turn in that math homework. What a waste of time.

I would like to think that Dad was proud of me in that situation, but he never said anything. He never brought it up again as far as I can remember. It was something that he had put in the past, along with all of the other hunts that we had been on. However, even if he wasn’t proud of me back then, I was proud of myself. Proud that I was able to help my Dad even if I wasn’t beside him when he took that bitch down.

God, I hate witches.

MAY 1993

I didn’t touch a gun until I was twelve years old. By that point, I had stopped begging Dad to teach me how to hunt, because it seemed that the only answer I was going to be getting was ‘No’. I figured that I would go to the next best person for the job.

I had to ask Dean.

Dean was very protective of Sammy and me when we were younger. He still is super protective of us, even in our ripe old ages. But because of how protective he could get, he was very hesitant about teaching me how to shoot a gun. However, with Dad talking about Dean going on hunts with him more and more by then, I knew that I would be left alone with Sammy. I used the excuse that I needed to learn how to shoot a gun eventually so that I could protect the two of us when we were by ourselves. I couldn’t be expected to be safe when the only two people who knew how to shoot were away.

That reasoning caught Dean’s attention.

After the fifth or sixth time asking him, Dean had finally agreed. A couple of days passed and, when Dad was a couple of towns away gathering information for a hunt, Dean and I skipped school. Shocking, right? I think Dean used the excuse that I hadn’t been feeling well and he had to take care of me. He even wrote out a fake doctor’s note and everything. Back then, you could get away with a handwritten note. I’m not too sure if you could now.

Once Sammy had been dropped off at school that day, Dean and I walked to a creek a couple of miles away from the school. He had set up a couple of cans on a log, some recycled stuff that he had picked up along the way. He had brought one of Dad’s small handguns with him. When he gave it to me, it felt so surreal. So different.

I never really understood what the big fuss was about, though.

Shooting a gun was easy.

“No, you can’t have your hand that low! You have it that low and the gun is going to come out of your hand when you shoot it,” Dean grumbled.

Dean took (Y/N)’s hand in his and adjusted it so that it fits perfectly onto the grip of the handgun. He then took his other hand and placed it on top of the one that was already on the gun. (Y/N) furrowed his brows as he looked at the way his hands nestled against one another.

“This doesn’t feel right.” He said. “Why can’t I just hold it with one hand like the cops do in the movies?”

“Because you’re twelve, dummy. You’re not in your forties and have years of experience under your belt,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And that is exactly how you should hold it if you don’t want to get hit in the face with your weapon after you fire it.”

(Y/N) listened intently to what his brother was saying, giving him a small nod before he straightened his back up.

“Stop.” Dean held up a hand.

(Y/N) shot Dean a confused look. “What?”

“You’re standing wrong.”

“I’m standing wrong…”

“Yeah, here,” Dean walked over, pressing his hand against the top of (Y/N)’s back ever so slightly, leaning him forward. “If you have your back too straight, then you’re more likely to fall backward. You also,” Dean kicked (Y/N)’s feet apart. “Need to have your feet apart. Keeps you more ground.”

(Y/N) looked down at the ground for a moment, taking in the appearance and feel of his stance. The way his back leaned forward and the way his legs were spread. He nodded.

“Okay, now I shoot?”

“Is your safety off?”

“Safety?”

Dean sighed, moving back over to him. He took the gun from (Y/N)’s grasp and flashed the left side of the gun. “You see this little trigger?” When Dean received a nod from his brother, he continued. “If it’s facing side-to-side, that means the safety is on. That means the gun won’t fire. All you have to do is flick this little switch,” Dean turned the safety off. “Once it’s up and down, then that means it’s ready to fire.” He handed the gun back to (Y/N). “Now, get back into position.”

(Y/N) glanced down at the safety mechanism on the gun for a moment before he nodded. He got back into the position that he was in, spreading his legs apart the same length Dean had and slouching his back forward ever so slightly. Once he received a nod of approval from Dean, (Y/N) lifted his arms, cocking his head to the side. He aimed at the can farthest to the left. He closed his left eye and placed his finger on the trigger.

“Stop!” Dean said more abruptly.

(Y/N) jumped and moved his finger off the trigger, standing up straighter to face Dean. “What!?” He asked exasperatedly.

Dean shook his head. “You can’t have one eye closed.”

“Why not? Snipers do it!”

“Because snipers are far enough away from combat. They need to look through a scope to get a good shot. You, on the other hand, are feet away from whatever monster you’re dealing with. What happens when you’re facing more than one monster? You leave yourself open to being taken out on your left.” Dean’s tone was stern, yet calm. His arms were crossed over his chest.

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded as he grasped an understanding of Dean’s thinking. “Both eyes open?”

“Both eyes open.” Dean backed up a bit. “Back into position.”

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath before resuming his position. Legs spread, back bent, arms up, head tilted, both eyes open. His goal was to hit the used can of peaches that sat on the outside of the log. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest from anxiousness and anticipation. He was surprised the gun wasn’t shaking in his grasp.

His eyes were on the cartoon peaches that were etched onto the label of the can. More specifically, the pit that sat in the center of the peach. He wanted to hit the pit. He never moved his eyes from the pit as he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising. Finally, as he exhaled, his shoulders dropping, he pulled the trigger.

The can flew into the air and seemed to dramatically and unceremoniously fall into the creek. A small splash echoed in (Y/N)’s ears, accompanied by the ringing of the gunshot.

One thing that (Y/N) noted was that his hands ached, both from the vice grip he had on the gun and the recoil that he hadn’t expected. Sure, Dean had informed him about it before, but he wasn’t sure how it would feel. His hands would definitely bruise.

(Y/N) lowered the gun, looking over at his brother to see that Dean wore a stunned expression on his face. Dean’s mouth hung open as his eyes were glued to the can that lay in the flowing water. (Y/N) watched in silence as Dean walked over to the can. He reached down and picked it up by the opening, wincing from the heat of the bullet hole before he swapped hands. He studied the can. It seemed like too much time had passed before he turned the can so (Y/N) could see.

(Y/N) had gotten it on his first try.

The bullet hole?

Right in the pit.

(Y/N) raised his brows, a mixture of pride and surprise coursing through him. A wide smile appeared on his face. Similarly, a smirk appeared on Dean’s lips. Dean chuckled before he tossed the can into the water.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said, brushing his hands onto his jeans. “Let’s see if you can hit the other ones.”

I shot through the rest of the cans, the same as I had done for that can of peaches. Not to toot my own horn, but I was a natural when it came to a pistol. I don’t mean to sound egotistic about this, but Dean can back up any statement that I’m making about this story.

I could tell that Dean was proud of me that day. He never said he was, but the way he looked at me and the way he treated me afterward told me things that words couldn’t. It’s hard to describe, but it almost felt like he had gained some respect for me that day. It felt good. Even as I am writing about this story, I can’t keep the smile off my face. I always looked up at Dean, so it feels great to think that I had done something to bring a smile to his stupid face.

My hands hurt like hell after it was all said and done. I had gotten a couple of bruises near the thumb on my right hand that I brushed off to my Dad as something that I had picked up when I got into a fight at school. Dean had backed me up when Dad got on my ass about it. Dad told me that I had to get along with the other kids so I didn’t give the wrong impression at the schools I went to. It wasn’t like they would remember me anyway. Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I knew when to bite my tongue.

Dad never found out about the shooting practice. I get a feeling that he had a sneaking suspicion as soon as he took me to practice himself years later, but I never told him about it. I never told him that Dean had been the one to teach me how to stand correctly, or where to find the safety of a gun. I know that he knew it was Dean. A part of me wonders if Dean ever got in trouble for it, or if it was something that Dad even brought up. I would never ask Dean about it now, though.

Some things are best to be left in the past.

NOVEMBER 1999

By the time I turned eighteen, I had already been on several hunts with Dad and Dean. The majority of the time, though, I would stay back and watch Sammy. Even though he was a teenager and had the capability of taking care of himself, Dad expressed that he was still a kid and needed to be looked after. A part of me thought it was bullshit at the time, but another part of me was glad that I was able to spend time with my younger brother.

Now, I know the real reason behind my staying with Sammy was because some of the hunts that Dad and Dean went on were ‘rough’. A little ‘too hard’ for me.

Dad didn’t want to lose the son that reminded him of his wife.

At least, that was what Dean told me, and I believe him.

It was a blessing and a curse, come to think of it. There were times that I stayed behind and Dad called me up, needing me to do some research for the case that they were working on. He had said it would be faster if someone was working on the research while he and Dean were out taking interviews. In the end, it was more efficient. I would gather the necessary information and hand it off to him and they would be back at the motel a lot quicker than if they had been the ones to look up the information.

That was the system that we worked with for a while. After a couple of months, Dad informed me that he didn’t want me to do the research anymore. He wanted Sammy to be the one to do it. I remember him saying that Sammy needed to focus more on the hunting aspect of his life. That school was just a waste of time at that point. He was old enough to get into it.

Sammy hated the idea when I told him. He loved school. He was always such a nerd. Still is. An even bigger nerd if you can believe it. I knew how much school meant to him, and I didn’t want him to be discouraged from doing his schoolwork. He shouldn’t have been forced to do anything that he didn’t want to. So, I decided that I was going to do the research and just tell Dad that he had been the one to do it. Sammy was thankful.

That was until Dad called.

Dad wasn't as stupid as I took him for most of the time. He knew that Sammy hadn’t done any of the research, that I was the one that did it all. By the time he and Dean got back, he gave Sammy a verbal lashing. I tried to defend him, but nothing worked. In the end, Sammy gave in. He would do the research for the next hunt.

Like clockwork, when the next hunt rolled around, with Sammy and I staying back at the motel, Dad had called. He had given Sammy the information that he needed to research and we headed off to the local library. Once we got the necessary books, we took them back to the motel and he began to work.

I could tell that it wasn’t going well.

Sam sat at the small table near the motel room door, two books placed in front of him. His back was slouched as he looked from one book to another, flipping through pages frantically. He had been going at it for several hours by then, evident by the bags that were present underneath his eyes and the redness around his pupils. (Y/N) sat on the couch, watching some old western show. Now and then he would look at his little brother. He could see how tired and stressed he was about the entire situation. (Y/N) had never seen Sam that stressed out before, even when he was studying for a test in one of his AP classes.

Eventually, Sam pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, lowering his head, as if accepting defeat. (Y/N) studied his movements, and, after he saw that he had not moved in a while, he decided the best thing to do was to help him out. He picked up the remote and turned off the television before tossing it aside. He stood from his spot on the couch and walked over to the table. He grabbed the spare chair, pulled it beside Sam, and sat down.

“Having some trouble?” He questioned.

Sam’s shoulders rose and fell as a sigh escaped his lips. He removed his hands from his face and placed them into his lengthy hair. His eyes were cast down towards the table. He stayed in the same position for some time before he looked up at (Y/N).

“No,” he answered, pulling the books towards him. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said ‘I’m fine’,” Sam repeated through gritted teeth.

(Y/N) studied him with an expressionless face. Sam kept his eyes down, looking from one book to another. (Y/N) was able to see the stress that was emitted from his brother even better with how close he was sitting. He took one look at the books before he shook his head.

“I’m sorry Dad’s making you do this.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t be doing this alone the first time…” he trailed. “But if Dad found out I helped you-”

“You’d get in trouble, and so would I. Yeah, I know.”

(Y/N) pursed his lips. “You know, it took me a little over a year to get comfortable with translating Latin. I sometimes screw up from time to time.”

“Still?”

“Yeah, still,” he chuckled. “That’s why I got something that helps me out now and again.”

With that, (Y/N) stood from his spot on the chair and waltzed over to the bed in the far corner of the room. Beside the bed sat his black duffel bag. He picked it up and placed it on the bed. He began to rummage through it, sorting through clothes and weapons that rested at the bottom. Wedged into the corner of his bag sat a book. He picked it up and brought it over to the table. He took a seat next to Sam once more and placed the book in front of him.

Sam furrowed his brows as he studied the cover. It was a Latin-English translation book. It looked rather similar to the one that he had picked up at the library. The only difference was the color of the cover was a little faded and, along the outside of the book, between all of the pages, were multi-colored Post-it notes. Each Post-it note had different letter combinations on it, as well as notes written on some of them. Sam opened the cover and he raised his brows when he saw that the first page was replaced by a notebook-sized piece of paper, taped to the front page. There were multiple words in English on the left side with their corresponding Latin translation on the right.

“What’s this?” Sam asked.

“It’s a translation book I picked up a couple of years back at a bookstore. I figured since there were going to be a lot of things that needed translating, then I was going to have to make it easier for myself to find the words. The only problem is that most of these translation books are so damn compressed that it’s hard to find certain words without getting blurry vision. So, I took the liberty to mark down all of the times when the letters change in the words. For example, when the words that start with ‘AB’ transfer to words that start with ‘AC’. It always made it easier to find. Plus, I made a page at the beginning about common words that I have found in my research so that it would be easier to translate them.”

As (Y/N) explained, he gestured with his hand toward the book. Sam listened intently, taking in all of the information that he was given, nodding his head. Once (Y/N) was done talking, Sam looked down at the book and then back up at him.

“You did all this?”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) chuckled. “Crazy, right?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. Wish you put that much effort into your homework when you were still in school.”

“Hey,” (Y/N) leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “School was fine and all, but this is something I enjoy, and I’m good at it. I’m good at hunting research and you’re good in school.”

“And what’s Dean good at?”

“Being a pain in the ass.”

Sam smiled widely, his dimples more prominent than (Y/N) had seen in a while. After a beat or two of silence, the smile faded as he looked down.

“I wish Dad could see that I’m good at school.”

The corner of (Y/N)’s mouth curved downward. It was his turn to look down at the table. He reached over and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder comfortingly. “I know, kiddo,” he mumbled. “But Dean and I both see how much of a nerd you are. Don’t worry.”

A smile returned to Sam’s face, but it wasn’t as happy as the last one. They sat in silence for a little bit before (Y/N) lowered his hand and Sam moved back to the books.

“You got it from here?” (Y/N) questioned.

“Yeah, I got it,”

“Great,” (Y/N) said as he stood from his seat and patted Sam on the back. “Call me over if you need anything.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to call you over when I get to the part about multiplying fractions.”

(Y/N) glared at Sam and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“No, no I’m not.”

Sammy still teases me to this day about not knowing how to multiply fractions. Even though it was decades ago at this point, he still likes to tease me about it. Little shit.

With my help, Sammy was able to get the translations done a lot faster than he expected. I remember seeing the relief on his face when he had finished. Poor kid was so exhausted. Dad was more than pleased when he called and asked about it. Dad never found out that I had helped him out a bit, and neither Sammy nor I were planning on telling him. I just wanted Sammy to have an easier time than I did when I was first learning about research, specifically translations.

In the end, I would have to say that Sammy is better than me when it comes to research. He’s taken the reigns on many different hunts because of how proficient he is with technology. I’m good with old-fashioned ways of research, but Sammy’s the nerd when it comes to computers.

Sammy has told me once or twice, though, that I was the one that helped him the most when it came to his knowledge of research. That, without my help, he wouldn’t have been as good at it as he is now.

I call bullshit. Sammy has always been a smart kid.

He could do anything he put his mind to.

SEPTEMBER 2014

This is all I can write at the moment. Dean called me to the kitchen a couple of minutes ago saying that dinner was ready. I need to wrap this up before he or Sammy comes in here and sees what I’m doing. I know that I would get endlessly teased about keeping a ‘diary’. I need to make sure to hide this in a good enough place where neither of them will find it if they go snooping through my room.

Sam, Dean, if you guys are reading this, I’ll get you back.

But if you’re going to read it, I just want to let you know that I love you guys.

Not that I’m into chick-flick moments or anything.

I’m just glad that I have you guys as my brothers. No one could ask for a better family than you two.

Okay, that was cheesy. I wish I wasn’t writing this in pen so I could erase it.

Dammit.

I’m not too sure how to end this, so I guess I’ll just write again sometime when I can. Perhaps I could do like Dad did in his journal and write about all of the new monsters we have discovered over the years. Or maybe write more memories down. This journal is going to be so cluttered that no one is going to want to read it. There’s no way I’m going to get famous from this.

Dean just called me to the kitchen again.

Until next time.

Happy hunting. (That was stupid, think of something better).

WE LOVE YOU TOO - SAM + DEAN

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ezdotjpg · 3 months

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I have a silly little question about your silly little comic!! I love your versions of the Links so much. Loft is such a mood FOR REAL!!

anywho,

How did you come up with the original concept? If this is somewhat spoilery- then don’t answer it. But i’m more so wondering what let you to go

“i want to make a comic about the silly links accidentally breaking and fucking everything up. also trauma lots of trauma”

Did you come to the understanding of, looking at other peoples AU’s? Or was it something in the games itself? I’m just curious on what your thought process was when brainstorming originally yk?

Also, small bonus question/comment thingy

when making backgrounds- like Zelda and Wilds house or Lofts home with Zelda and Groose- did you base the backgrounds on your own ideas of what the characters would live in? Like if they’d have clutter or silly little notes in the background. I love how your backgrounds are just- chefs kiss- so simple but shows us a glimpse into the characters mental state (as all good rooms do *stares at my messy one*)

that is all, i very much so enjoy your comic. it’s gotten me through the bad Wednesdays of highschool. Keep going!!! i am excited to see it’s conclusion.

waugh thank you so much!!!!!

And I guess the answer to that first question is all of them above? Bonus Links is, of course, an extremely derivative work. LU was my first introduction to the links-meet-au format, so I’d be remiss not to give credit where credit is due! Probably many ideas I’ve absorbed from fics I’ve read, and headcanons I vibe with that come from the wider fandom. The idea for Bonus Link’s actual plot though originally started from my fascination with Skyward Sword’s lore. I know not everyone’s a huge fan of how much that game retconned, Demise’s “curse” in particular, but there’s a lot of ideas in that game that I find REALLY interesting, especially in ways that the game doesn’t really acknowledge at all. How would Skyward Sword Link feel, if he found out he truly didn’t finish the job? That the cycle continues on and on beyond him? That was the jumping off point.

Because it’s a cycle, I get a lot of ideas from like, which Links have experienced similar events, and how their experiences compare and contrast. What becomes history, and what actually happened? And I also use a lot of my own experiences playing the games as inspiration! I’d played as many as I had access to when I started the au in 2021, but I’ve made it my mission to play every single game a Link is featured in before they get introduced in the comic lol. Still got a few more to go, but I’m almost there!

As for the second question, absolutely! If I’m showing someone’s home in the comic, I try really hard to add details that tell you something about them. At the very least, I want them to look lived in lol

like, Slate still having the champion’s weapons on display in his house. Zelda’s mostly taken over the first floor as her workshop, even adding a Sheikah tech furnace somehow. She’s filled her room with pictures she’s taken on the walls. She’s got a sand seal plush from Riju, a Sheikah jacket from Impa. Her workspace is a little cluttered!

On the other hand, Slate’s room upstairs looks a little less personal. He’s got some pictures on the wall, and some plants growing from around hyrule (that Zelda has kind of commandeered for research lol) but otherwise he’s left it how Bolson and co furnished it. If anything, it’s mostly just for storage. He doesn’t actually spend much time sleeping here, but Zelda still doesn’t want to take it from him.

Loft, Groose and Zelda’s room is very cozy ( I should have added more blankets. Imagine like 4 times the amount of pillows and blankets) and tidy, but there’s still a little mess— shoes left out, basket of poorly folded clothes, etc. Cute knickknacks, mostly made by loft and groose! It’s not in this sc but groose’s comb is somewhere I think lol

Idk if iced shared this detail before, but Loft put a lot of effort into designing and carving (probably with some assistance) these columns for the house! Even though carving’s hard for him these days. It was his biggest contribution.

anyway, those are some of my thoughts!! I’m so happy to hear you’ve been enjoying the comic! Thanks for reading!!

#bonuslinksdotjpg #askdotjpg #long post

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tumblingxelian · 4 months

Text

Wednesday Fanfic Concept - The Traumatized Time Traveler

Summary: Enid watches as her new roommate stares her down, glassy eyes wide as she offers her hand, the words "Wednesday Friday Addams," Escaping her mouth in an almost pained whisper.

Smiling brightly she grasps it, not too firmly given Wednesday looks like she might be bowled over by a stiff breeze and she cheerily greets her.

"I'm so glad you're here Wednesday, I'm Enid asiménio oíko Sinclair."

Her gaze flickered to the adults and she could only wonder...

Why were they giving Wednesday such shocked stares?

Concept:

Wednesday failed. Everyone died, even if Crackstone was killed there was no one left to celebrate just a mass of cooling corpses beneath the Blood Moon.

Goody, uses a back up plan involving all the energy from the recently dead Outcasts, the forests she cursed and Blood Moon to send Wednesday back.

But this means she is no longer around and Wednesday... Well the experience has kind of broken her. What's more the story is told entirely from the outsider point of view of other characters.

Her confidence has basically been destroyed by having been played so deeply and failed so terribly. She's being eaten alive by guilt from the past life and by her indecision born of trauma in this new life.

She believes she will go insane, possibly soon because she has lost access to her ancestors. She is suffering ghost pains for wounds she never got specifically in her hand, stomach and head, which can be debilitating.

Let alone the unwilling mutism which emerges when she feels overwhelmed, or the stray panic attacks and shut downs when confronted by people like Tyler or Thornhill.

Wednesday knows who the enemy is and what their plan is, but she's so fractured that anytime she tries to take action she starts shutting down.

Worse still she takes all of this to be curses so even the stuff that psychologically or medication could help with is off the table at first.

From Enid's perspective her roommate is just like, this extremely delicate and not very expressive psychic who she becomes incredibly protective of from like minute 1.

Thing is trying to decode how or why Wednesday suffered such a violent shift in personality. He believes its visions but can that alone explain it?

Also Wednesday's trauma doesn't only manifest in her being more fragile.

I have this idea in mind where after her first therapy session (Which goes better) Weems tries to take her out for coffee to bond. She does not grasp how desperately Wednesday wants to avoid this until she was briefly separated from her and Wednesday either shuts down or legs it to the car when confronted by Tyler and his dad.

Cue Wednesday returning to her empty rom room and having a world class destructive meltdown. One where she destroys a ton of her own possessions in a rage before collapsing when Enid finds her, falling into a panic attack at the thought of her leaving,

Enid ends up having to coax her through it with Kinbott on the phone before basically keeping Wednesday snuggled in her lap for the next few hours. Which also involves a lot of self loathing spilling out as she vents about how "Broken" and "Not meant to be this way" she is.

Some other factors include:

Enid being set off by Thornhill early on cos the woman is insistent on barging into their room to "Greet Wednesday" despite Enid telling her she's gone to bed & generally being kind of pushy.

This ad her discussion with Thing once Thornhill has been harried out of the room and forced to give them both detentions before Wednesday fell asleep again, reminds Enid of some near forgotten history with the teacher.

Namely of she and Thornhill having once been very close but going past her boundaries with stuff like, "Maybe I can help you wolf out?" only to grow very distant when Enid said she had to contact her pack elders to discuss any medical treatments.

Basically, Enid was Thornhills first pick for "Pet monster" but while Enid lacked a good support network in family she has a strong sense of cultural loyalty to the pack & is subtly leery of humans.

The West Wolf Packs also did not approve of some human pushing in on one of theirs. Weems obscured it as mere cultural ignorance and the diverse cultural and psychological developments of Outcasts mean the grooming attempts were not quite picked up on.

Rowan probably hangs around longer as a threat or maybe avoids death, which only enchances ENid's protectiveness and presents a constant underlying danger.

Xavier's also much worse here because Wednesday isn't outright hostile to him thanks to the trauma and her guilt. Thus he feels that the only thing keeping him & Wednesday apart is Enid + Yoko/Bianca when Enid's not around.

Weems and the Addams do try to intervene and speculate on why Wednesday changed so much, most think some kind of traumatic vision response.

Morticia: We grew so worried that there was hushed talk of seeking to cancel her arrival at Nevermore and seek some other deal with the courts. But when Wednesday heard our concern it was like it lit a fire in her little black heart again she raged at being treated so delicately. I had hoped this a passing thing because of that, but it seems the wound is deeper than I realized.

Chapters:

I have more chapters in mind for this but in broad strokes:

Chapter 1: Enid is very excited if a touch nervous to meet her new roomie & find Wednesday to be a fragile and shy girl who needs space from crowds during the tour. They communicate by sign for a bit and Enid gets a version of the Piranha story and promises to set the record on Wednesday straight with her just protecting family and not killing. Wednesday is also subtly clingy and clearly very tried.

Enid skips the rest of class to help Wednesday set up their room, and discovers her shaking hand and helps sooth it thanks to her own nerve endings being unique due to the claws. Wednesday has an early night but Thornhill pushes in (Acting off outdated info on Wednesday's personality) and tries to make her feel 'special'

This only serves to panic Wednesday and she's borderline forced out of the room by Enid. She ends up giving her detention which does make Wednesday act, demanding she have one too. Thornhill plans to use said detention to try 'bonding stage 2' and agrees. Wednesday is coaxed back to sleep then Enid finds Thing and they chat and agree Thornhill feels sketchy.

Chapter 2: Wednesday's sleep is obviously quite troubled so even with an early night she doesn't seem super rested. But she joins Enid for breakfast and exchanges class info with Yoko & Divina who subtly agree to keep an eye on her in classes Enid does not share.

Enid needs to leave to speak with Weems and manages to basically char the principle into letting them off detention by being very careful with her words. This being one of the reasons Weems felt Enid would be a good room mate for Wednesday too.

While this was happening however Xavier approached Wednesday with his little spider drawing. Divina & Yoko's pre-existing relationship and Wednesday's seeming acceptance made them at first allow it. But it became clear he was making her uncomfortable and getting way to into her space and ignoring their attempts to make him leave.

Then Enid returns and jams her claws into the spider and in swiping the sketchpad off the table places her other claws at Xavier's throat moments before he could start properly yelling.

"Oh sorry!" Her voice is stretched thin like a dying man's scream, "I was trying to swat an uninvited pest." Her lips pull back unnaturally far revealing every pointed fang, "Want to give me a fleshier target?"

Suffice to say Xavier pisses off, but will return to continue being awful. Enid is worried she scared Wednesday but she instead the girl seems very relieve.

There is actually still a fencing match with Bianca and it actually goes on for awhile. Wednesday gets the first round (Thanks to knowing how Bianca will move) But Bianca picks up on the fact Wednesday was not reading her moves & goes full chaotic, and gets the second point. Then they fuel for the third for awhile before Bianca wins and they go off to wash off.

While in the showers though Bianca finds Wednesday's ghost pains playing up though they are not the reason for her loss but we see they confuse and distress her a lot and that she thinks they are a curse not trauma. Bianca is very much not hostile to Wednesday in this who is intern not hostile.

Chapter 3: Wednesday's therapy session with Kinbott goes better than canon. Her guilt over the woman's death does make her talk a little. Plus the negative reputation of Outcasts compounded with the circumstances of the attack (Pugsley) and Wednesday's delicate disposition lead Kinbott to think the reports were all exaggerating her behavior.

Weems takes her to the Weathervane and Wednesday struggles to speak to protest. Because Weems is there the pilgrim boys are not an issue. However Tyler gets a call to the Weathervane from Thornhill as ;apparently; Weems's phone is not working.

He uses this to try and approach Wednesday about a 'rumor' ad then his dad arrives to be all aggressive and posturing. Weems returns to either escort a near catatonic Wednesday out or to find she is basically huddled up in the car outside.

Wednesday returns to her room and has the ensuing meltdown with Weems calling Kinbott for advice. Enid forces her way in and terrified of Enid leaving her Wednesday both starts crying and having a panic attack. After that was soothed and it was promised Galpin would be kept far away from her (With Weems promising to look into his 'nonsense claims) Wednesday stays with Enid and gets the first good nights sleep she had in awhile.

They also have a little talk with Wednesday feeling worthless because she "Cannot do what she needs to" and Enid assuring her she doesn't need to do anything to deserve love. Which Wednesday returns regarding her transformation. Suffice to say, Enid s very adoring of her.

Also Rowan has likely made at least one murder attempt at this point.

Chapter 4: The school day goes well save for some 'accidents' and Wednesday has so far managed to avoid Thornhill who has been updated on Wednesday's disposition and is trying to re-calculate her strategy.

Wednesday also joins the Hummers and is very, very insistent Eugene never enter the forest alone. EVER.

The main focus is actually the harvest festival and cos she slept well Wednesday is closer to normal though be it still clingy with Enid and trying to be a bit more communicative with Yoko & Divina too.

Wednesday: Why does a town without farms have a harvest festival?

Enid: Oh I know this one! Basically, about 200 years ago, the land across the rver where Nevermore is built came ot life. Within a few weeks the forests had grown devouring fields and houses.

Divina: Naturally Outcasts were blamed, as though the land obeys our every whim.

Yoko: Though it could have been some ancient curse coming to life, or just the earth waking up. My Sire hints at this stuff but I won't know till I ascend.

Enid: Yhe point is, the town lost most of its farms and a collection of Outcasts with wealth bought the land, warded it and built Nevermore. Since then Jericho had to move away from farming and into other stuff, like tourist attractions and big game hunting.

Wednesday: I see... (Takes bite of hot dog) A rather apt microcosm of Americas evolution into a theme park dedicated to itself then.

All three laugh.

Tyler shows up again to try and give Wednesday a police report but gets chased off by the girls, but Wednesday 'has' a vision it was a police file about her father

They go om the Ferris wheel while Weems goes to speak with Galpin and there's some talked of calling Galpin with a false tip to see if he is obsessed with Wednesday's dad.

Small town cop is super bigggoted and has an agenda is much easier for them to buy than a monster murdering a guy they saw being alive. Rowan may make some attempts but does not succeed but there's definitely a sense Wednesday is in danger. Bianca may help.

Chapter 5: I have less clear ideas on this, but Wednesday's sessions with Kinbott continue. The general consensus is that Tyler's dad has some beef with Wednesday's. Also there is some subtle guiding towards investigating certain events that will be plot relevant later.

Also Wednesday helps the team with the Po-Cup perhaps. Not sure if she goes ahead t lay traps, or Yoko is snuck onto the island, or if Wednesday just alters the ship. Though I do love the idea of Enid fist fighting a Siren underwater and winning. Also Rowan may use this for another attempt.

After that things grow a bit more vague, hence my not writing it.

Note:

One thing I like exploring is Outcasts actually being, ya know, hated and feared and how this would inform and influence even perky characters like Enid.

Also Wednesday low key may fear Enid likes this version of her better. But does also know how far Enid went for her in the original timeline.

Though yeah she is low key dependent on Enid who doesn't quite realize it or know how to fix it and just wants to protect her.

#Wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday series #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #Wenclair #Text Post

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association-of-ideas · 5 months

Text

I watched Trolls Band Together and my immediate reaction was to start writing fanfiction. I have created a swap AU Viva and Brozone switch roles.

Essentially, Viva is the one that leaves and the bros get lost during their escape from the troll tree. It's heavily inspired by @year2000electronics fic, Brozone: World Tour. I absolutely love this fic so much; I recommend reading it.

Anyways, I've some stuff figured out, but it's not set in stone.

Swap AU (official name pending)

Before the Great Escape, it was highly encouraged for smaller groups and families to escape on their own, enough so that Pop Village had already been established before King Peppy and the rest of the Pop trolls escaped

After the death of her daughter (Cecily) and daughter-in-law (Juniper), Rosiepuff becomes the sole guardian of her five grandchildren: John Dory (15), Spruce (13), Clay (11), Floyd (8), and Branch (egg)

With King Peppy’s blessing and best wishes, Rosiepuff packs up her family and leaves with another escaping family

They’re discovered during their escape and the brothers are separated and scattered across the genres

With ⅘ of her grandkids lost to the sewers, Rosiepuff is crushed, but she pushes through for Branch and acts as the de facto leader of the Pop trolls

During that time, she becomes a guide for trolls seeking to escape and works with Peppy to devise the Great Escape plan

It's during the Great Escape that Rosiepuff is eaten leading the Burgens away from the others and Branch (5) still sees her get eaten, causing him to gray

At the same time, Viva (14) has seen more than any child ever should and the closer she gets to turning 18, the more pressure is put on her to be a good queen

Between the Burgens, escape plans, and her ever-growing stack of responsibilities, Viva cracks under the pressure

During the Great Escape, she splits off from the group after saying goodbye to Poppy (2) and runs away to find a place for herself

Their rushed parting leaves Poppy w/ bittersweet (mostly bitter) feelings about her sister and siblings in general

As an old friend of Rosiepuff’s, Peppy does his best to look after Branch until he's old enough to be on his own, at which point, he leaves to build his bunker

Growing up together gives Poppy more of a reason to want to be around Branch

Branch is also aware of Viva’s existence, but because of how everything went down, he assumes she was eaten and doesn't bring it up

As mentioned earlier, the brothers were separated and scattered across the genres

John Dory ends up in Volcano Rock City

He's found by King Thrash and raised alongside Barb as her older brother

The separation left him with severe trauma that shows itself on a daily basis as over-protectiveness, an unwillingness to venture beyond the kingdom, and a need to fortify it

Bruce find finds himself lost at sea before meeting the Techno trolls who help him to Vacay Island

He spends a week or so drifting across the sea by himself

Eventually, he's found by a pod of Techno trolls and they help find shore

He washes up on Vacay Island and gets a job as a busboy at the restaurant run by Brandy's dad

They meet, fall in love, and the rest is history

Bruce has a tendency to do head counts whenever he's anxious or overwhelmed

Clay ends up in Symphonyville

Clay is found half-conscious by an elderly conductor named Calliope

She takes him and while officially, he is her 'ward', everyone knows him as her grandson

The trauma of the separation leaves Clay w/ selective mutism, preventing him from speaking or singing

Instead, he learns to play the cello and focuses his energy on that as he slowly regains the ability to speak

While he eventually learns how to talk again, he can't sing nor does he want to

Floyd ends up in Lonesome Flats

After getting washed away in the sewers, Sheriff Brooks drags him out of the river and takes him back to town

From there, he’s adopted by the Sheriff and raised as Delta Dawn’s little brother

Being the youngest when he was separated and given the traumatic event itself as well as the physical damage inflicted during the escape, Floyd remembers the least about his family before coming to Lonesome Flats

I might make a separate post going further in depth on Viva's side of things if anyone's interested. I've also come up with character designs for the boys' moms.

#trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls poppy #trolls branch #trolls rosiepuff #trolls john dory #trolls bruce #trolls clay #trolls floyd #trolls delta dawn #trolls peppy #trolls viva #until i found you AU #uify AU

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wifegideonnav · 4 months

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do you think Pyrrha gets gender dysphoria from being in G1deon's body

What would that feel like when G1deon was someone she loved and who loved her, but she's inside him now and it's Wrong and Not Her

oh yeah i mean what a question. personally i feel like it's probably very complicated bc as you said its not just gender – its the fact that she's in a body that is Literally not hers, and in fact used to belong to the most important person in the world to her. the most straightforward answer i've got is yeah, i'm sure she hates being in her/g1deon's body at least some of the time, and i'm sure that there's a pervasive sense of wrongness based on both the sex and the pre-used condition of the body she's in.

on the other hand, there's the fact that she's had 10,000 years (not that she was conscious the whole time, but still, we literally have no idea what was going on when she wasn't awake in g1deons body) to adjust. if you think about it, she's been in g1deon's body far far longer than she was ever in her own. certainly in nona she seemed very comfortable in g1deon's/her body. and finally, even though pyrrha never properly lived in nine houses society, the current iteration of her never went through growing up on earth either. personally, i think she probably has very different ideas about gender and bodies than her pre-resurrection self or any of us. we have no idea how she would think about or define dysphoria, or whether that's even really a consideration for her.

and then, in a way, i wonder if it was almost a comfort at times. i'm thinking about my best friend, and if i couldn't be in my own body any more, i'd definitely rather be in theirs than anyone else's. there's definitely something to the idea of knowing that body's history – not like you know your own, sure, but more than you know other people's. g1deon and pyrrha were necro and cav, they spent their entire post-resurrection lives together until g1deon's ascension. so pyrrha would know what this scar was from, why that finger is crooked, the fact that these joints hurt when it rains. and now that g1deon's gone as far as we know and pyrrha is just left with his body, despite the immense grief that must cause, she can also hold up a mirror and see his smile again, hear him laugh.

so in conclusion, and i mean this is kinda a non-answer but, i think that we can never really understand the way that pyrrha feels about being in g1deon's body, especially when she's not the pov/we're not seeing inside her head. the most fascinating aspect of the og squad to me by far is the concept of how normal human trauma responses and grief processes get warped by the fact that the lyctors are living on a time scale that we cannot begin to fathom. and i think that's very much part of their identity as saints, as religious figures – they look like us, maybe they once were like us, but the things they've seen and done and been through have made them so alien that all we can do is theorize about what it might like to be them.

#asks #pyrrha dve

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nikethestatue · 9 months

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The weird fetishizing of Gwyn Berdara as some kind of stabby warrior bloodthirsty fiend who endlessly wants to spar, fight, clash and (did I mention) stab everyone around her is...weird.

Gwyn and Elain are needlessly compared to each other all the time, though they are completely different characters with incredibly different, yet similar histories.

Elain is presented as meek, weak and scared, abhorring violence and someone who 'can't handle Azriel's darkness'. Gwyn is presented as a valiant, brave, violent, sword and dagger expert, who is a bonafide warrior. She is a Carynthian. She is a Valkyrie.

The canon reality for both of these character is actually absolutely different from the headcanons that have been assigned to them.

Yes, Elain does not seek out violence. She is not a fighter, she doesn't necessarily like weapons or blood. Who does, though? Feyre couldn't bring herself to fight in the final battle, because it was so horrific, and she was a much more experienced fighter. Nesta wouldn't pick up a sword or anything, until she started training with Cassian. Yet it was Elain--the meek and weak Elain--who took Truth Teller from Azriel and rammed it into the king's throat. One ultimate act of extreme violence, which she partook in willingly. One brave moment to save her sister and her future brother-in-law and give a massive advantage to Prythian's armies.

It was the meek and weak Elain Archeron, who having been turned Fae, still volunteered to go and meet with Lord Nolan, while knowing that he had a grove of ash trees growing on his land, that he had violent dogs and guards. But it needed to be done. The meeting needed to happen, and she did it.

It was Elain who ultimately volunteered to go and look for Trove objects. She wasn't being forced to do it. Again, she knew that it needed to be done and she did it.

Her strength is in that she consistently overcomes her fears and her indecisiveness to make an impact. Yes, she gave back Truth Teller (which was lent to her) and no, she does not like violence. But Elain consistently steps out of the shadows--literally and figuratively--to make a difference. And that is a different kind of strength.

Gwyn was completely powerless at one point in her life--she was caught and she lived through the most horrific trauma imaginable. And Gwyn ultimately stood up for herself with her training, with the ability to learn how to defend herself, so she would not be powerless ever again.

But is Gwyn really the fearless stabby queen that her fans pretend she is? Who did she ever stab, exactly? Who did she ever kill?

She was unwillingly thrown into the Blood Rite and she survived. She lured the beasts to the warriors and they died. Do we assume that she ENJOYED that? That it gave her a bloody good rush to watch men (even violent men) be ripped apart? I doubt it.

Gwyn is a survivor. But as much as people don't like to see it this way, things HAPPEN to Gwyn and she reacts. Nesta invited her to train. Gwyn agreed. The catalyst for all of Gwyn's growth has been Nesta. On her own, Gwyn's done very little actively, other than find out about the Valkyries.

Not only is Gwyn still unable to leave the Library, but she is not even able to deal with Merrill in a mature way. She fears her, and Nesta needed to help her out with the misplaced book.

Elain not only survived the Cauldron (first), and per the King's comment, only the strong can survive it, but she survived the capture, she fought the naga with her bare feet and she insisted that Briar be saved, to her and Azriel's great detriment.

Do you always have to be a warrior to do great and valiant deeds? No.

Gwyn is remembered for her tenacity, her positive attitude, her acceptance of Nesta, her friendship and her intelligence. The whole 'stabby queen' is actually bullshit. She isn't.

The two of them are much more alike actually than different. They both were ripped from their former lives, both had their bodies and psyche irreversibly changed, both suffered at the hands of men and both found strength to go on. Neither is better or worse than the other. Neither one is a stabby queen. Neither one is meek or weak. They are both strong, in different ways. It's time to accept that.

#elain archeron #pro elain #pro gwyn

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andreal831 · 1 month

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I feel guilty: In some ways, I feel Hayley and the Mikaelsons set up Hope to fail. Now, with canon included, I think Hope did find her way - but ironically feel like her story should have been "Klaus, Hayley, and Elijah are what the remaining family tied to Hope but with the three dead - Hope is on her own, and having to navigate a world where she loves her dad but everyone is just as entitled to hate him and come into conflict with that". (Sorry, that's a long one). Basically because of how morally dubious the TVD gang (+ Dorian) could be - it makes sense that they know to separate Klaus's actions from Hope - but what about those who did not have that luxury and only remember a monster that was Klaus? I would use Tyler's story, but in a vague gesture: Hope needs to earn someone's trust after her father (or other relatives) brutalized them and has no way to defend or justify it. Essentially getting someone's trust for her as "Only Hope" and not the surname she's connected to. Or the more common arc, Hope realizing just because she loves her family doesn't mean she can overwrite the centuries of cruel history they left behind.

I'm not saying the Mikaelsons didn't love Hope, but Hope is unique (not just as a tribrid but the only living blood relative who hasn't been alive for a millennia) and had pressure on her that shouldn't be there. Hayley loved her, but should have warned her that living in a town that still had - living - people her dad fought with and hurt should have taken precedence over keeping a torch lit for their relationship. Klaus had his chance to be someone in this world, now Hope has to live in it and make something of herself - in his name or by herself.

(Sorry if this comes off anti. While I have anti thoughts and do like Hope, I think she could have stood to have a better characterized arc.)

I'll start by prefacing this and say that I haven't seen much of Legacies, I only know a lot of the show from edits.

But I agree that the show did a pretty terrible job with really diving into the cycle of trauma and pressures that were put on Hope since before she was even born. They were so focused on making Klaus redeemable and centering Hope around Klaus that they didn't allow for her character to have the development she needed.

I really like what I know about Hope's character and I even look past the wild hoops the writers had to jump through to make her existence possible. But for a show that centered around a magical, miracle baby, they sidelined her character a lot. The writers were so focused on setting up Legacies that they forgot to give the characters the development that was necessary for it to get there.

People love to say that Klaus broke the cycle of abuse with Hope, but he didn't. It just manifested in a different way. He never physically harmed her, but he neglected, abandoned, and emotionally harmed her repeatedly. This trauma is something that Hope doesn't even get to work through.

Hope at 7 years old seems more or less well adjusted. I think Hayley did a good job protecting her from everything. She missed her family in an abstract way because she didn't truly understand what she was missing. She had Hayley and Mary. Klaus allowing himself to be captured and held prisoner was the best thing he ever did for Hope. She was able to live for seven years safe and loved. I may get hate for it, but Hope was better off living as a Marshall away from the Mikaelsons.

I don't necessarily think Hayley was wrong for letting Hope grow up believing the best in her family. At that point, Hope was very isolated. She deserved to have a childhood without it being taken away by the Mikaelsons. But I do think Hayley should have had more conversations with her as she got older, especially if she was going to a school where it was likely to come up.

As soon as she is back with the Mikaelsons, her life once again revolved around what she can do for Klaus. I'm not saying they all didn't love Hope, but she was never allowed to just exist. The fact that she used to keep points when she was "good" or "bad" shows just how much she felt it. She had to be perfect because if she wasn't, she wouldn't be worth their sacrifice or Klaus might slip back into a terrible person.

I've talked about it before, but sending Hope to the Salvatore School made no sense to me. She was safer in New Orleans. She had her mother's pack, he vampires would protect her for Josh and Marcel, Vincent wouldn't let anything happen to her, and she had her mother. Hayley sending her daughter away to boarding school for most of the year made zero sense. I watched the first few episodes of Legacies before TO and I genuinely thought they all died when she was a child because of how she acted with Alaric and the twins. She desperately wanted a family, something Hayley had done a great job providing in the past, but sending her away to school made Hope feel neglected. She was already being neglected by Klaus, she didn't need to feel abandoned by both parents.

And, as you said, she is sent to a school that is run by a man who hates her father, in a town full of people who hate her whole family. She had to listen to people talking about how awful they were, and it was all warranted, which makes it worse for her. She didn't get to attempt to process that on her own. She had to do it while constantly being compared to her family. Alaric was always using it as a way to punish her. The adults clearly were not mature enough to separate Hope from what her family did and they had no business being in charge of her.

The entire terrible legacy of the Mikaelsons was put on Hope's shoulder and the show just ignored that trauma because if they didn't, they would have to admit that Klaus wasn't redeemed, everyone just moved on. So then the people who didn't just move on look like the bad guys. Alaric had every right to hate Klaus, Tyler would have every right to hate both of Hayley and Klaus. They don't owe the Mikaelsons anything, but it is also not fair that Hope has to take the brunt of their anger because Klaus died and got away with literal murder. Hope was a child and shouldn't have had to work to prove herself. She deserved love and support and understanding, like every other child. She deserved to have the space and support to sort out her feelings toward her family, the good and the bad. She deserved to yell at Klaus for abandoning her, to be angry at Elijah for putting that pressure on her, to be angry at her aunts and uncles for abandoning her after her parents died. She deserved to figure out who she was outside of the legacy of pain and torment her family left behind, but as far as I can tell, she is never given that time. All of this would have given her character more depth. Coming to the realization that her family were terrible people but she still loved them is a hard pill to swallow, but it was something she needed to come to terms with. Glorifying Klaus and erasing Hayley, did very little for her development except to play on Klaus' popularity for views.

I love the Mikaelsons but each and every one of them were terrible at being family and terrible people. Hope suffered because of this.

Thanks for the ask! Sorry if I just went on a tangent and didn't fully answer your question.

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my-mt-heart · 8 months

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Where's Daryl?

This was very difficult to write. It opened up a lot of old wounds for me, so if you read this, thank you. If my thoughts on this show haven’t been your cup of tea, that’ll most definitely be the case here as well, so maybe just move along. ***Trigger warning for discussion of childhood abuse***

For about a year and a half, Caryl fans asked Where's Carol? as a pointed reminder that the spinoff was always meant to be hers just as much as it was Daryl’s. Even though she's back now, her fans didn't always know she would be (nor did the EP's 🙄) so her absence during filming and promotion of the first season was a heavy burden to bear. The irony is, though “Daryl Dixon” sticks out like a sore thumb in that ridiculous font, he's the one who feels absent sometimes, as if important parts of his character development were lost when he washed ashore while other parts come and go as the plot demands.

Zabel talks about swapping Daryl's iconic vest for "old man" suspenders as a matter of pragmaticism i.e. they were the only clean clothes available. Norman says it was a choice he wanted for some unclear reason, but neither of them seem to consider the intelligence of their audience, particularly Carylers, to see it more symbolically. The costume change is our visual reminder that Daryl isn't himself. In some scenes he's chattier than he should be, far more trusting of strangers with personal details, and far more theatrical. Then in others, the differences are even more alarming. He calls a child cruel names, puts his hands on him, and feels conflicted about returning home to his family, to the woman he said he loved.

I mentally prepared myself for retcons, but the one I'm struggling with a lot right now, which I haven't seen anyone bring up yet, is the retcon of Daryl’s childhood abuse. Daryl tells Isabelle that he and Merle had to take apart engines and if they couldn't put them back together, their dad wouldn't let them have dinner. It's a milder version of the stories the scars on his back tell us, though I can buy Daryl omitting the worst of it like he did in the pilot. What I can't buy is Daryl saying his dad was "hardly ever" around and emphasizing it as the main source of his pain growing up. It feels contradictory for one thing. When we see Daryl's scars for the first time in S3 of the flagship show, it's implied Daryl was trapped in an environment that enabled his dad to physically hurt him often. Presumably that's why Merle felt guilty about leaving him behind. The revelation also seems like it's only intended to highlight the consequences of an absent father figure, explaining Daryl's fear of not making it home, but also justifying his "close" bond with Laurent. The best stories allow a character's emotions to drive the plot, but this just does the opposite, twisting Daryl's backstory to fit the current narrative.

Daryl's backstory made so many people root for him in the first place. It allowed Carol to see him when nobody else in the group could. It helped me process my own childhood trauma. The ways I got to watch him overcome his violent past gave me hope that masculinity could mean more than what I grew up around—more than anger, shouting, and swinging fists. Daryl taught me that men could still be tender, kind, and loving even if those closest to them in their childhood never showed them how. I imagine Daryl's representation has been important to boys and men too, specifically to those who were afraid to speak up about their abuse because of the stigma around it. The implications of this scene may not be easily noticeable to some, but they are to me, and I'm deeply offended by it.

I’ve talked at length on this blog about how it takes a village to make or break a show, though it’s usually the showrunner who has to answer for it. I've already mentioned that I do blame Zabel. His knowledge of French history has no value when he obviously didn’t bother to study Daryl’s history aside from reading old scripts and (maybe) watching the first couple seasons. That's incredibly irresponsible and terrifying for S2. I also blame AMC for their short-sightedness and their determination to save face no matter how much it costs them. I blame Gimple for his pettiness. I blame Greg Nicotero for his insensitivity to Melissa and her fans.

As for Norman, he's hinted very loudly that he wants credit for the show being "different," so in theory he should be prepared to take some of the blame too. I can't name all of the decisions he specifically made, but no matter what they were, I can blame him for not speaking up about the shipbaiting, Daryl's wavering loyalty, and the childhood abuse retcon, all things that hurt his character and hurt the fans. I genuinely don't know what else to think other than Norman didn't give either the consideration they deserve. The show has been treated like nothing more than a vanity project, and it’s unfortunate when you think about what he and AMC had to gain from the original Caryl spinoff.

I love the version of Daryl I knew before this whole mess, I love Carol, and I love the relationship between them. I want them to have the story they deserve in S2. At the moment, I don’t know how to reconcile that with the agony I feel over the damages to half of my two favorite characters. If Carol is going to cross the Atlantic ocean to find Daryl, I want him to be the man who threatened to punch holes in all the boats so she couldn’t leave and the man who told her he loved her before—ironically—leaving himself. I need to hear Daryl admit he hasn't been completely honest with the French characters, not because he was afraid of getting too close to them, but because he didn't want to face the pain of potentially living without Carol and TF. I need to hear him say that he can't be Laurent's father, which is okay because the kid has plenty of other family to take care of him. I need to hear him say, out loud, that he could never love another woman romantically because he's already in love with Carol. That's what I need to feel better about this story. That's where my investment is. I feel like Carol is safe in Melissa's hands, but I don't feel like I have anyone to rely on for Daryl. That’s a big problem because their stories are so intertwined. There’s no Daryl without Carol nor Carol without Daryl. If you ruin one of them, you risk ruining both of them, and that’s a possibility I really can’t bear.

#caryl #carol peletier #melissa mcbride #darylneedscarol #the book of carol #twd caryl

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narabea06 · 2 months

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Being friends with the creepypastas Nina addition? With reader being a scene kid like her? Something to bond over lol

So I didn't realize I didn't do enough with the specific request of the reader being a scene kid, but I did try my best- Hope you enjoy!

ALSO I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG-

Being Friends With Nina the Killer [with GN! Scene Kid Reader]

Nina is absolutely ecstatic to meet you the moment you walked into her life and saw your energy. It's extremely easy to befriend her thankfully so as long as you and Jeff aren't close, y'all are friends in no time!

Nina constantly loves to share gossip with you all the time, and will tell you all about her day down to the tiniest details. You know all the drama and all the rumors about everyone, and both of you eat that shit up every time.

She is extremely physically affectionate with you whether it's wrapping an arm around you for photos, hugging you whenever she sees you, holding your hand whenever you're nearby, booping your nose when you're being silly- She's really platonically affectionate with you, unless you set up a boundary about touch.

Nina does have a lot of abandonment issues due to losing a lot of people in her life and may get a bit paranoid that you or her other friends are going to leave her. She tries her best to never show you her worries but once you guys get close, she does eventually open up to you. She does need a lot of reassurance that you won't die or ghost her, but she does try her best not to be too clingy if you set up a boundary.

She absolutely loves getting all kinds of charms, jewelry, bracelets, hair clips, pins, stickers- She even gets you guys a bunch of matching sets and accessories, and sometimes if you're lucky, she even makes you jewelry by hands. Additionally to this, she will let you borrow any of her makeup and clothes as long as you bring it back in good condition. On the contrary though, she WILL steal your clothes if she wants to wear them.

They love to paint your nails together, but will absolutely never let you touch her nail polish and will always paint her nails for you. She'll let you use any of her other makeup, but the moment you try to use her nail polish, she will lecture you for hours. Any time your nails chip or you bite your nails, she will drop everything to repaint them for you.

She is very clingy, and oftentimes may jokingly get jealous about you spending time with other people or will text you a lot asking if you need anything or you're okay. Again, this is from a long history of abandonment issues and worries that you will get tired of her.

Nina will teach you Spanish whenever she can because of her being Mexican and bilingual. Due to trying to teach Jeff growing up only for him to give him half way through, she is very determined to get you to actually see it through and become fluent. In return, if you know another language, she will try to learn it too.

Nina gets incredibly protective over you, and while she tries not to be overbearing, she can a lot sometimes. She will often refuse to leave your side and parties and will argue with Tumblr users online for hours if somebody even says a single negative comment in your direction. She is your ride-or-die, she will gut a man if she has to for you.

If you get along with Jeff at all, that will cause a rift in your friendship big time, and may even break it up completely if you're not lucky. Nina will probably never tell the full extent of why she hates Jeff, especially since she doesn't like opening up about her trauma, but will consistently try to throw him under the bus for petty things to get you to stop hanging out with him.

Nina rarely asks for help with anything unless it's small, which leads to her getting extremely defensive if you try to help her with something she can do on her own. This is due to her mother raising her to take care of herself for years, and unless you call her out on this behavior, she will keep getting frustrated with you trying to help her with her hair, makeup, or any other random task.

If you can drive, she will literally beg you to drive her places, whether it's the store Toby works at, or the gas station, or to the mall- She always promises to pay you back for gas and even oftentimes gets you your favorite drinks and snacks as payment for it. Because of this though, she will wake you up at 3 AM to drive her down to Circle K because she's craving gummy worms-

She gives you music recommendations all the time, specifically Melanie Martinez, ICP, and 6arelyhuman. If she sends you a song, she expects you to listen to it immediately to share your thoughts on it. In return, she always listens to and saves every song you send her into a playlist of sings she knows you enjoy.

She will often copy your stims and gets really excited whenever she sees you happy.

Nina often tries to give you hair tips and share what she knows about hair care, but no matter what, don't listen to what she says, her hair is so incredibly damaged-

She is extremely hesitant to introduce you to Toby and BEN, mainly because BEN is an absolute menace of chaos and can be a lot even for Nina, and Toby is still trying to go about his new life. Between the two though, she'd probably introduce you to BEN first, and if not either of them, she'd introduce you to Liu.

She introduces you to Mary and Jane probably immediately after meeting you and will talk about them for hours if you let her. She absolutely loves her girlfriends and will want you to meet them as soon as possible. Jane may be a bit standoffish at first due to her being a bit protective, but will relax once she sees how happy you make Nina. Mary will probably warm up to you almost immediately.

Nina absolutely loves to rollerblade and will try to teach her how to skate herself if you don't know how to. It's a lot of trial and error though since Nina isn't a great teacher, but any bruises you get from falling down, she cleans out herself and apologizes for profusely.

She loves sharing food with you a lot and will always make you a separate serving of food if you walk in on her making something. She also enjoys introducing you to new foods.

She hypes up you constantly, though she isn't as aggressive about it as Jeff is. She's very gentle about your insecurities and will help build up your confidence as best she can.

You two have sleepovers all the time, and will often stay up late together for hours, and have pulled multiple all-nighters together.

Nina did eventually officially come out to you as transfem a few years into your friendship as a milestone for how much she trusted you. She was incredibly scared and even started sobbing, but was just happy she met someone she could trust with her identity.

She is very hyperaware of your body language and triggers, and will try her best to never purposely upset you, and will keep track of your mannerisms. She gets really worried about scaring you or making you not like her, and does everything in her power to not poke at your trauma on accident.

As you guys got closer, Nina starts to feel more and more safe with you, but still often tries to hide her mental health from you due to not knowing how to be more open about it. There are times though that you do witness her meltdowns or panic attacks, and often have to be there to comfort her or get someone to help.

Nina picks up your boundaries extremely quickly and will follow those boundaries EXACTLY. She tries everything never to cross a line for you and always hopes you'll do the same.

You guys will match profile pictures all the time on your social media accounts and will work together on making your accounts look all nice.

Nina absolutely loves taking photos of you two together and has an entire photo album on her phone of the two of you.

#creepypasta #nina the killer #being friends with creepypastas #jeff the killer #platonic x reader #scene kid #toby rogers #ben drowned #homicidal liu #nina hopkins #mary vaughn #mary x jane #mary x nina #jane x nina #nina x mary #nina x jane #transfem

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rozaceous · 11 months

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mariko, violence, and the meta of violence in fanfiction

ok so it’s apparently not enough that i write the most indulgent kind of fic, but now i’m writing an essay about my fic. this got so long, abt 2k total. if i said sorry, it’d be insincere, but at least no one is making you read it?

i want to piggy-back off the post i made earlier this week where i was talking about how mariko was not well-adjusted, and was, in fact, doing extremely poorly. what this post turns into, however, is an analysis not only of mariko’s relationship to violence and her subsequent trauma, but a meta-analysis of how violence is treated in canon more broadly, and how that ends up translating into fic. because, and i mean this in a way that is distinctly not about tooting my own horn, i’m approaching violence with a different lens than what i've found in a majority of fic, but also in a way that is unique to SI fic.

‘to continue being alive is also an art’ starts in medias res ch 1 with mariko haring off to the confrontation at the bridge in wave. we find out later, she’s fresh from just having killed people for the first time. kakashi and mariko have their little chat abt it in ch 2, but it’s treated as done and resolved afterwards. it was self-defense, she was protecting others, she was justified and shouldn’t lose sleep over it.

mariko also kills during the chuunin exams itself (members of the sound team) and during the finals (she on-screen beheads a foreign ninja). there’s a sort-of killing w the itachi puppet in ch 15, and a mention of sasori, but otherwise we don’t get any particular details of her killing people until the events of ch 17, where she kills danzo and the rest of the elder council, as well as whoever was caught in the bombings. (i’m going to word-of-god this for everyone right now and tell you that there were people caught in the bombings, just like i will confirm that she’s killed other people in the interim of the time skip.)

from a writing-level, i approached violence in a very specific way. most of the violence is off-screen and mentioned as a retrospective; what occurs on-screen i tried to keep brief and matter-of-fact. graphic, maybe, but not gory. i also try not to play violence as something that’s done for laughs, like how sakura will beat naruto up in canon when he annoys her. (we’ll come back to this.) and a lot of this has to do with how mariko herself deals with violence.

i mentioned in that previous post, that mariko grows up in a militaristic culture where violence is a norm and acceptable, as someone who is not actually a kid who can be acculturated into that thinking in the same way. mariko comes from a culture and personal history where interpersonal violence is abhorrent. she tries to duck out of canon events and any requirement of violence on her own part by being a medic, but the team assignments (the narrative/me, if we’re wanting to get meta abt it lol) prevent her from achieving this relatively more peaceful role.

when mariko gets assigned to team seven, she has to get real comfortable with violence real fast. she’s already befriended naruto (and hahahaha you may remember that she does so by punching a guy 🙂) and she cares about kakashi and sasuke. she’s come to the realization that this is her lot, these are her people, they are her responsibility. as she notes in ch 2, she’s not good enough to solve her problems without killing. this is also to say, she’s not good enough to problem-solve without violence. it’s beyond her capacity and skill when the stakes are as high as they are. let’s also consider that caring about everyone is a luxury that mariko cannot afford, widespread mercy is potentially a death sentence, and so she narrows that care down to a handful of people. and so if she’s taking the well-being of her teammates as her ultimate good, she will absolutely let the ends justify the means.

added onto any personal sentiment is that, as far as mariko knows, if anyone on team seven dies, the entire world is fucked.

mariko one hundred percent and sincerely believes that violence is wrong. even when it’s justified, self-defense, etc., mariko views it as ugly. there may be situations where she assigns herself less blame, but she is always blaming herself for being too weak to find another way, because her (somewhat unrealistic) view is that violence is the sign that you’ve run out of other options to get your way.

however, with the stakes being as they are, and with the world she’s in treating violence as a form of currency, mariko sees violence as a necessity.

so we can see the dissonance, right? she has to use violence to protect not only herself, but the people she loves, and the entire world. and mariko’s fundamental optimism is that people are worth helping and that the world is worth saving, because if she doesn’t believe in that with her whole heart, she’d literally just curl up and die. she wants to be kind and to help and nurture and build, but her most effective tools—once again, she views using violence as a failure—are the ones she hates the most. but she has to use them. more, she has to be very, very good with them.

this isn’t a small-level dissonance, it’s a diametric opposition. so in terms of narration, mariko can’t think too much about the violence she’s enacted because it would destroy her. she knows this about herself. she hates it. but it’s necessary. and so she doesn’t think about it. and if she does think about it, she’s very clinical and writes it off as unfortunate and necessary and—well, it’s done, no use crying over it now. she’s disassociated herself from it. and i wanted that perspective reflected in the way i wrote about violence.

the other aspect of how i wanted to handle violence is from how i approach the canon. we’ve all read the fics where konoha is a grimdark dictatorship, with death and torture around every corner. and, uh, it is? it’s a fascist war machine, plainly. it’s child soldiers and state-sanctioned assassination baked into the world economy? there’re multiple instances of genocide? it’s a fucking nightmare.

i, personally, am not able to brush aside those things. i like the meta and the reading-into-things and the what-if’s that happen when you don’t take things at face value. so for me, the writer, i can’t glorify violence. there’s a reason i wrote mariko walking through the uchiha compound in the way that i did. so i’m not going to write like killing a thousand people in one go is anything but horrifying (staring at you, minato), even if i’m not interested in directly interrogating every particular instance of violence within the narrative.

but canon doesn’t approach it from this angle. for canon, this is all the quirky backdrop, and violence and killing are bad, but very few people tend to die in a meaningful sense. violence doesn’t often have lasting consequences. (this is, also, the evolution that Naruto goes through as a series, where it starts off as a critique of the state and then turns into bootlicking, but that’s another meta that plenty of others have written better than i can.) in canon, the ability to do high-damage moves is considered a cool power-up. in fact, your power level is directly correlated with your physical danger level—ie, your ability to do violence.

moreover, casual violence is funny in canon. (we’re back to sakura beating up naruto and it being treated as a joke.) these things are entirely the conceit of reading/watching canon, and it’s what we do with every piece of media. this isn’t a judgment! we are suspending our disbelief and buying into the premise of the story that gets told. and i would hardly have written over 50k of naruto fanfic if i didn’t find it innately compelling and, yes, fun.

so this is where the presentation of violence in fanfiction can get dicey, because not every author is approaching canon with the same spirit that canon itself has. i also want to make the blanket statement that i don’t think any one interpretation is right or wrong, it’s that they’re all interpretations. i’ve read and liked fics of all varieties; i’m not morality policing, i’m trying to place myself and my own fic within a broader phenomenon of how fics present the morality of violence. i don’t personally care what one fic thinks is morally good, nor do i think that a particular presentation necessarily corresponds with what the author thinks in real life, or even that a presentation has to be consistent from fic to fic. these are all lenses/perspectives, and fanfic is inherently about playing with the little details of canon and going, “And?”

so on one end, you’ll have some fics that 100% correspond with the attitude towards violence that canon has and aren’t too interested into getting into the grittier moral quandaries of the canon past what canon presents as good or bad. on the other, you’ll have other fics that will rip the morals of canon to shreds. again, i like both! it always depends what the focus of your story is!

i feel like i’m somewhere in the middle. i feel like a lot of naruto fics commit hard to either of the above scenarios from the start and i...don't (as one commenter pointed out). there's a level of progression I'm trying to portray. and, i have to say, part of the comment that @vermillioncrown left on ch 17 really resonated: “She's sunk as low as them, she's just as fucked up in this second life despite knowing another moral framework and society. And she's mud-wrestling them down at ground level lol.”

mariko ‘knows better’ but isn’t better. she doesn’t feel like she’s a good person. arguably, she isn’t a good person. she has enough of an outsider perspective to see the system for what it is, but she is still inherently within the system. she is absolutely playing the game, and doesn’t have any moral high ground. she kills, she lies, she deceives, she betrays. she harms people. her intentions might be noble, but as tumblr loves to say abt causing others harm: intention isn’t magic. mariko wants better and is trying to achieve it, but she’s in the system and can’t get out of it because we all inherently live in a society, and removing yourself from society isn’t exactly as feasible as our ideals might like.

and because tcba is, mostly, from mariko’s perspective, her understanding of violence colors the narrative. because mariko is an SI/OC, her perspective is one that is ALWAYS going to be a negotiation of ‘canon at face value’ and ‘me personally doing an analysis.’ and i think that’s really cool and interesting, which is why i’m doing it!

but—and this is not me throwing shade or getting mad or singling anyone out—this is also a take that is a little counter to broader fandom habit that aligns with ‘omg she was so badass when she killed that guy!’ or ‘yes! fuck it up!’

reiterating that i’m not trying to scold or slight anyone, bc this is the ‘canon at face value’ take, where we are supposed to see these things as badass and praise-worthy, and often these are climactic scenes where mariko is ostensibly cast as the righteous victor! and if people don’t see what i’m trying to do as different to that take, that’s also on me as the writer, especially bc, as i already said, this is a story that is trying to negotiate those different perspectives on violence. but i also want to point out that there’s more than just ‘violence as badassery’ happening. this is also ‘violence as tragedy.’

and since the meaning and role of violence isn’t a theme that’s going to go anywhere any time soon, i thought it was worth discussing.

#this is not to say that i think the narrative doesn't reward mariko for mercy or generosity. zabuza and haku as the prime examples ofc #and i hope i made this clear? it got so long.#kudos also must go to verm bc it's our discussions that always filter through to everything and some of this was probably their words #but i so would love to talk more abt this if anyone is so inclined #tcba #tcba meta #rozisms

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