✿

just a lil place where i like to write out my thoughts ~ requests open!!

[good-griief]

welcome!

hi! welcome to my fic blog<33

before you keep reading please check this out!

20, they/them, and my favorite color is green!

i’m finally coming off my hiatus and i have some things i’m working on. you're welcome to send requests for any character, but please make sure to read my rules before you do!

masterlist 🍀 rules 🍀 get to know me!

[666sccrifice666]

[torradeironic]

OH MARI 😭😭

[maxinesgun]

it's the whiskey talking ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

abby anderson x fem!reader

drunk!reader, established relationship, abby has the patience of a saint (for you and only you), abby taking care of r, pet names, pure fluff. wc 1.5k ᡣ𐭩

“Abby. Abby. Abby.”

Your girlfriend wasn’t answering the door. So, really, it wasn’t your fault that you were here, knocking and calling out to her rather obnoxiously at what was likely an ungodly hour to be doing so. Frankly, you had no clue what time it was, and you didn’t really care. 

“Abbyyy,” you repeated, drawing out her name as if savouring it. Every word you spoke felt heavy and stretchy, like taffy in your mouth. “C’mon, I know you’re in there. You sleeping?” You yanked on the handle again, as if this time it would magically spring open, and stumbled a bit, catching yourself on the wall and cursing under your breath.

Okay, so you were drunk. Perhaps more than you’d initially thought.

You’d had a bonfire with a small group of friends tonight. It had been one of the rare occasions where none of you were held up with any assignments or patrols, and it allowed for a well-deserved and long-overdue break to loosen up and have a good time. With food, card games, and a bottle of whiskey Manny had snagged from God-knew-where, the night had passed by quickly. Abby had been absent in lieu of patrol duty that evening, and had urged you to go without her, assuring you that she’d be back before morning.

Sober you probably would have just gone back to your own dorm, assuming she’d gotten into bed and crashed after arriving back so late, but drunk you had decided that you needed to see her, to be wrapped in her arms, as desperately as you needed air.

You leaned your head against the door, sniffing dejectedly. “Okay, fine. I’m just going to sit right here, outside your door,” you called, a pout on your lips. “On the cold, hard floor. All by myself. Alone. And… lonely.”

“Hey, don’t stop now. I think there are some people on the ground floor who couldn’t hear you.”

The voice came from directly behind you, and it took you a few seconds longer than what was normal to register it before you spun around. You looked at Abby, standing before you with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, and felt your mouth drop open a little in surprise. “Oh.” You turned fully, leaning back against the door and allowing yourself a better view of her. The muscle tank she wore was certainly doing its job. “Hi,” you said innocently, a giggle bubbling out of you at your own foolishness.

“Hello to you, too.” Her eyes lingered over you with a curious expression you couldn’t quite name, sweeping down the length of your body before returning to your face. A faint smile was playing at her lips as she closed the distance between you. “I was just doing some training. Got back about an hour ago, but I was too amped up to go to sleep. I figured you’d already be in bed.”

She was right in front of you now, and you leaned forward to wrap your arms around her neck. “Mhm,” you hummed, not hearing a word of what she’d said. You were too busy staring at her adoringly, admiring the way her lips moved when she talked. They were the perfect shape, and so, so kissable. You reached to trace over her cupid’s bow lightly with a fingertip, which made her grin widen a bit beneath your touch. “You have pretty lips,” you told her, because it was important that she knew.

“Wow,” she said, her brows raising a bit in amusement. Her big hands came up to grip your waist firmly. “You are…”

“Beautiful? Hot? Gorgeous? Stunning?” you offered, grinning widely.

“I was going to say hammered,” she finished. “But all those other things, too.” At this, another giggle burst out of you, and those pretty lips of hers stretched into a wider grin. “You had fun, huh?”

“So much fun.” You leaned your head against her chest for a moment, closing your eyes. She smelled like the pine soap she religiously used. “Manny brought whiskey,” you added in a false-whisper.

You felt her huff a laugh, and imagined her rolling her eyes. “Oh, so I have him to thank for this, do I?” When you didn’t move after a solid few seconds and remained like that, head pressed to her chest contentedly, she patted the small of your back encouragingly, like one would a stubborn child. “‘Kay, let’s get you to bed, hm?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, your grip on her tightening possessively. “But I came here to see you.” You craned your head back a little to look at her, giving her a little pout. “You don’t wanna see me?”

“I always want to see you,” Abby said in a placating tone. She leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead before subtly maneuvering you over to the door and fumbling with the lock, one-handed. “You can crash here for the night. That way you can wake me up if you start puking your guts out or something.”

When she got the door open you finally relinquished your hold on her, bracing a hand against the frame a little unsteadily. “Can you walk?” she asked, her hand remaining lightly on the small of your back until you assured her you could.

The room was dark, and in your already-inhibited state, your sense of balance was more than a little off-kilter. You half-leaned against the wall, kicking lazily at the shoe rack in a poor attempt to get your boots off as Abby locked the door and began shrugging her bag and shoes off behind you. Your efforts were hopeless; with a sigh of frustration, you bent over to reach your laces. As you did, you promptly felt the ground tilt beneath you—the next moment, you were on the floor. You had hardly registered that you'd fallen until Abby was looming over you.

“Shit. You okay?”

“Fuck—yeah, m'fine. Are you laughing at me?” You had rolled onto your back, and could now make out the clear amusement on her face as she held a hand out to help you up. Her lips were fighting to control her obvious grin, and her shoulders were shaking slightly. “Shut up!”

“I’m not laughing at you, babe.”

“Yes you are!” you said indignantly, ignoring her offered hand and aiming a playful kick at her legs.

“No, no. I promise. There’s nothing remotely funny about you falling on your ass.”

Abby had momentarily given up on helping you up and had instead crouched by your feet, beginning to undo your boots for you as you lay sprawled on the ground. Your arms were stretched above your head, and you stared blearily up at the dark ceiling, thinking to yourself that the floor was actually pretty comfortable.

“I could have hit my head and died. Then you wouldn’t be laughing.”

“A trained soldier who fights infected, dying of a fall while piss drunk. What a way to go," Abby mused, tugging off your second boot and tossing it aside. Then she sat back on her heels, watching you with a look of mingled amusement and affection.

“And as my dying wish, I’d ask that my girlfriend would stop making fun of me in my last moments."

"Uh-huh," Abby agreed, humouring your drunken rambling. She patted your leg, then rose up to lean over you, reaching for your arm again. “Okay, come on. Up you go.”

Too out of it to protest, you obediently gave her your arm and let her tug you to your feet. Your limbs felt heavy and floaty with both the alcohol and sleepiness, and so you allowed her to lead you to the bed and press a cup of water to your lips; you took a few swallows before flopping back against the mattress unceremoniously.

Soon Abby was tucked in behind you beneath the covers, her arm draped over your torso and holding you against her. You could feel her warm breaths against your neck, slowed and deep. Oncoming sleep pulled at your heavy limbs as you snuggled closer into her embrace.

"Abby?" you murmured quietly, wondering if she was still awake.

"Hm?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"About to be." Her voice was a low mumble in your ear.

There was a short pause in which you listened to her breathing, felt the rise and fall of her chest against you. Then, "Abby?"

"Mm."

"You smell good."

"Do I?" she breathed a quiet chuckle. You could tell by the softness of her voice that she was just barely awake. "You been smelling me?"

"Yeah, but not on purpose." You yawned. Considered for a second. "Well... sometimes on purpose."

"Weirdo."

"'s not weird. I can't help it." Another pause. This time, a full few minutes passed. "Abs."

"Mhm."

"Do I smell good?"

"Do you smell good?" You let out a short hum. "Yeah, you do. You smell like strawberries."

"See? You smell me too," you pointed out triumphantly. Or as triumphant as you could manage to sound for being half-asleep. "Weeirdo."

You felt the breathless laugh against your neck, felt her lips curl into a soft smile. She gave you a small, tight squeeze. "Sleep."

[stormfeast]

Nothing straight about this

[girlwith1braincell]

I think Van would like Papa Smurf

they’re literally best friends, don’t you remember him in the second season when van picked him up??

[priyajoyy]

Cowgirl!can fic when??

[catssluvr]

dating adult van palmer headcanons <3

ᝰ.ᐟ Movie nights are the most common, watching mostly 90’s movies as you lay on the couch with a huge bowl of popcorn.

ᝰ.ᐟ The type of girlfriend to drive you around whenever you need, picks you from work or college and drops you off at wherever you need to go. Your car will be very much unused.

ᝰ.ᐟ Best thing about her driving is for sure getting to see her reach behind your seat to reverse, her arm flexing and giving you the perfect view.

ᝰ.ᐟ Loves it when you hang with her at the store while she's working, helping with organising tapes and giggling at the stupid jokes she makes.

ᝰ.ᐟ Incredibly flirty, even later into the relationship. Always making quips about wanting to get into your pants.

ᝰ.ᐟ Calls you 'babe' or a nickname of yours on a basis, never using your actual name to refer to you. Always calls you her 'lady' when talking to other people and has definitely let 'wife' slip at some point.

ᝰ.ᐟ You both like to lay in bed at night and watch the stupidest videos on your phone while giggling way too loudly for the time that it is.

ᝰ.ᐟ Lays with you on her chest, her fingers tracing shapes on your back while her breath fans your cheeks and eyelids in a shooting way.

ᝰ.ᐟ Is not amazing at cooking but actually makes some pretty decent pasta recipes and will cook them for you when she's feeling extra romantic.

ᝰ.ᐟ Van smells like pine and apple cider. This because her favourite soap and body oil smell like those and she applies them religiously after every shower.

ᝰ.ᐟ Loves to watch the corniest reality shows with you until late and gets super pissed when someone does something she doesn't like.

"now, why would you do that?!"

ᝰ.ᐟ Texts you randomly throughout the day to send memes or ask random stuff like where the cat food is. Never says anything serious via text, prefers calling for that.

ᝰ.ᐟ A master at boardgames, is sooo competitive and gets cocky as hell when she wins. Will be snacking on peanuts with a beer in hand the whole time like a full on dad.

ᝰ.ᐟ So protective of you, will literally call out anyone that looks at you weird or says anything that sounds slightly off.

ᝰ.ᐟ Is not normally jealous, she defininetly trusts you and your intentions. What she doesn't trust is other people, and if anyone gets too close she's for sure approaching you to put an arm around your waist and introduce herself.

ᝰ.ᐟ All smiley when you walk into a room, type of person the be looking for you in any crowd.

ᝰ.ᐟ You are her absolute lifeline and she will refuse to ever imagine a life without you in it. For sure intends to make you her wife someday and if you also want to, have kids.

ᝰ.ᐟ Making out in the storing room of her store even though no one would ever possibly walk in cause she claims it adds up.

"it's literally your store, van."

"you just don't get it, it's for the thrill :(“

ᝰ.ᐟ Van will have you against the wall while her hands travel freely, kissing from your mouth to your neck. Not exactly with second intentions, is a fan of just making out without wanting anything else.

slightly spicy ahead!

ᝰ.ᐟ Van is definitely a giver™!!

ᝰ.ᐟ Loves when making out with you sitting on her lap, her hands planted firmly on your waist as she guides your every movement. They’ll slide down to squeeze your thighs every once in a while in a teasing way.

ᝰ.ᐟ So freaking vocal and talkative and likes to hear your voice too, not giving you what you want until you give her an answer. Her hoarse voice just adds to the butterflies erupting in your stomach every time (even tho she gives you ‘more than just some butterflies’).

ᝰ.ᐟ Munch. Munch. Munch. Nothing else to add.

[wingedhallows]

could you write loser!reader x nat scatorccio where the reader is on the team but isn’t that close to anyone and nat develops a huge crush on them and tries to get close? also love your work !!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒

ᯓ★ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 pre crash! nat scatorccio x loser!reader / 0.7k words ᯓ★ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ᯓ★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 OMG THANK U !!! i hope u like it 𖹭

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

Practice runs late.

The sky outside the field is melting into deep purples and bruised gold, the sun dragging its last tired fingers across the horizon. You’re sitting cross-legged in the grass, still half-laced into your cleats, peeling a blade of grass apart between your fingers.

The rest of the team is packing up — some tossing their gear into duffel bags, others lingering to chatter in small, buzzing groups.

You don't really notice the figure that drops down beside you until a booted foot bumps your shin.

You glance up — and there’s Natalie Scatorccio, grinning at you like you just said the funniest thing she’s heard all day.

"You looked like you were solving world peace over there," she says, nodding at the shredded grass littering your lap.

You laugh, a little awkward. "Just... zoning out, I guess."

Natalie hums, drawing one knee up, resting her arms lazily over it. She's so casual about it, but there's a brightness to her eyes, something coiled and restless under her skin. Like sitting next to you sends little electric shocks up her spine.

You don't notice. Not really. Not the way she watches you when you laugh, or the way her gaze dips to your mouth when you mumble something stupid about how you "always ruin the field."

Instead, you just sit there, oblivious, letting the soft hush of twilight settle around you.

"You know," Natalie says after a second, nudging your sneaker with the toe of her boot, "you're kinda cute when you’re in your own world like that."

You blink at her, cheeks warming immediately. "What?"

Natalie smirks, tapping a cigarette against her thigh without lighting it. "Nothing. Just saying. It's, like, criminal how you don't notice half the people drooling over you."

You snort, shaking your head. "Yeah, okay. In what universe?"

"In this one, idiot," Nat says, laughing — but there's a breathless edge to it, like she’s balancing on a wire. "Seriously. It's... painful."

You fidget, pulling at a loose thread in your shorts. Compliments aren't exactly your strong suit. Half the time you don't even recognize them until someone spells it out.

Natalie watches you with this wild, fond look, like you’re the dumbest, sweetest thing she's ever seen. She leans in a little, close enough that you can smell her — that mix of grass, leather, and something sharp like smoke.

"You still don't get it, huh?" she murmurs, voice dipping lower, softer.

You look up, heart thrumming a little faster now. "Get what?"

Nat grins — wide, sharp, something reckless flashing behind her eyes — and before you can overthink it, before your brain can even catch up, she leans in and kisses you.

It’s not rushed, not messy. It's sure. Warm.

Her hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as she kisses you slow — like she’s waited forever for this exact second and she’s going to savor every single heartbeat of it.

When she finally pulls back, she stays close enough that her forehead brushes yours, her breath warm against your mouth.

"Obvious enough?" she whispers, smiling crookedly.

You’re pretty sure your brain short-circuits. Words fail you — totally, spectacularly — so you just nod, dazed and stunned and maybe a little bit in love.

Natalie chuckles, the sound rumbling low in her chest, and presses another quick, teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, like she can't help herself.

"C'mon, loser," she says, standing up and offering you a hand. "Walk me home."

You take it — of course you do — your fingers slotting into hers so naturally it’s like they were always supposed to find each other.

And as you walk off the field together, hand in hand, you can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — you’re finally starting to get it.

[tobesolnelyx]

I was thinking about a oneshot for Natalie x reader in the wilderness. Like maybe they were both friends because they were both outcasts and Natalie always defended reader from anyone who tried to be mean. When the plane crashed, their dynamic didn't really change : they were still sticking together, looking for one another. At first, it was quiet, almost peaceful, despite the dread of the wilderness. But then winter came. Jackie died. Maybe reader refusing to eat her ?(because that was their team captain, how could she ever eat her ? Treat her body like it was only meat?). And she started to be quieter, refusing food portions, not doing anything except the chores. She even started to drift away from Natalie, which worried the girl. And Natalie tries her best to keep reader alive, because that's all that matters to her, but it's so hard especially when reader doesn't look at her anymore. And Natalie sees reader starting to fade away and it's driving her crazy because she doesn't know what to do and she is afraid that reader isn't going to survive, or worse, letting herself die. And everyone on the team is worried, everyone noticed but nobody knows what to do either. And if it's too uncomfortable for you, maybe reader (actively or passively, the choice remains yours) trying to kill herself. Then someone on the team finds her on the brink of death and calls everyone and Natalie is the first one to rush by your side. And when reader finally wakes up, Natalie is still by her side, she never left, watching every breath, even if subtle. And maybe Natalie refuses to ever leave reader's side again, except this time reader actually accepts the help and she gets better (as good as you can be in the wilderness)

So maybe fluff at the beginning/end, hurt/comfort and angst ? Thx anyway <3

— how much tragedy? || natalie scatorccio x reader 🎞️ (pre-crash/wilderness)

a/n: thanks for req! honestly big fan of the idea — always a sucker for hurt/comfort! hope you like it <3

summary: natalie will do anything to protect you. no matter what it takes. even if it means broken knuckles and shattered lies. || angst. hurt/comfort. fluff

warnings: standard yellowjackets warnings (cannibalism, gore etc…), mentions of suicide, attempt of suicide

word count: about 3k

Natalie simply loved being close to you. Not in an overbearing way—at least not when it was just the two of you—but it didn't take a genius to see that this girl had fallen for you. Completely. And maybe, for the first time in her life, Natalie didn't want to change that. She couldn't even entertain the thought of a world where your presence might be gone in any way. Natalie could push everyone else away just to draw you in, closer and closer with each day.

And sure, there were nights when her fingers itched to pick up some random payphone on the street just to tell you it was over—but she knew that by morning, she'd be crawling back on her knees, begging you to take her in like some stray dog.

It all started when you moved into the trailer park. Life had already dragged you through enough that relocating to some shithole town like Wiskayok in New Jersey, didn't exactly feel like rock bottom. Money was tight. Your parents weren't exactly winning medals in the "doing what they should" category.

Word got around fast. Kids from your neighborhood didn't have it easy at school, so it came as a shock when you found out about Natalie Scatorccio. Natalie, who had zero tolerance for the bullshit constantly thrown her way. Natalie, who was so effortlessly cool you couldn't tell if you wanted to be her or be with her. Natalie, who strutted through the school halls with her headphones on, untouchable, unreachable.

Natalie—who one day offered you a cigarette.

It was late. You'd slammed the door of your trailer behind you after yet another fight with your parents. Your hands were shaking with rage and frustration. You collapsed onto the front steps, trying to calm yourself before having to listen to your dad's endless ranting again.

Then Natalie appeared. Of course, headphones on, dressed in her soccer gear. She walked the length of the park with heavy steps, a gym bag slung over her shoulder, lazily smoking a cigarette.

She was smiling. That's what made you stare—that crooked smile.

Then Natalie's gaze—like she knew someone was watching—landed on you. Shit. You must've looked wrecked, because she came over. The smile vanished, but she didn't replace it with that distant, blank stare you knew so well. You couldn't read her at all.

Without a word, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and gave you a look. The kind of look someone gives when they know what it's like to have shitty parents. What it's like to feel like a screw-up since the day you learned to talk back.

You blinked. Once, twice. Then finally took the cigarette from her hand, and she pulled out a lighter.

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, but before you could grab it, Natalie was already leaning in, lighting the cigarette for you.

"Thanks," you mumbled. Natalie looked, for a second, like she was about to turn and pretend the whole thing never happened. But instead, she dropped down beside you on the concrete steps.

She stayed.

And maybe that's why you couldn't ever let her go.

The rest happened pretty naturally. Natalie just started hanging around. At first with a hint of hesitation, then not even bothering to hide the stupid grin on her face whenever she saw you.

You started smoking more around her. One time she even passed you a joint, and after a few hits, when you were completely high, Nat couldn't stop laughing.

"I'm gonna throw up," you groaned, lying limply on her bed. Something by Nirvana was playing in the background, and the air was so thick with smoke it felt suffocating. You wondered if the smell would ever leave your clothes. Maybe it would cling to you the same way it did to Natalie

"Bullshit," Nat grinned. "And if you do, make sure it's outside."

She handed you the joint again. You looked at her through bloodshot eyes, your expression twisted in mild disgust.

"I hate you," you mumbled — but still brought it to your lips.

"Sure you do," she replied, and took your hand like it already belonged to her. Only to intertwine her fingers with yours and press them to her chest. She didn't even look at you. And that's when you knew — you were both screwed.

Natalie could've won an official title as your guard dog. Every time someone bumped into you on purpose in the hallway or threw a stupid comment your way, she was there. As if she had a sixth sense for when someone was trying to bitch at you, even just a little.

"You need to learn to defend yourself," she once said, while you were painting her nails. You frowned, not quite understanding why. Aggression wasn't... your thing. You endured the jabs and teasing because no one had taught you any other way to cope. And besides, the thought of breaking someone's nose didn't exactly thrill you.

"I have you," you replied, looking her straight in the eyes. Even if it was selfish.

"I won't always be there," Natalie said, staring at you. Not because she didn't want to. If anything, she was just waiting for an excuse to be near you. But she knew she couldn't always be.

A moment of silence. A pause. And before you could think about why you probably shouldn't, your lips found hers — brief, sweet. Nat accidentally smudged black polish onto your shirt.

Neither of you ever brought it up. Maybe because you were both terrible at talking about feelings. Still — Natalie didn't push you away.

Oh, quite the opposite. From that moment on, she may as well have been chained to your side. She even begged you to join the Yellowjackets just so she could crack jokes during practice and hear the coach yell at you both to focus, for Christ's sake!

You spent every spare moment together — drinking, smoking. Sometimes just listening to music. Sometimes Nat would sneak kisses from your mouth, even though neither of you ever defined what this was. You got used to it. Maybe it wasn't part of friendship, but you weren't complaining. There was some unspoken rule that you didn't talk about it, but neither of you ever considered being with anyone else.

You won states. Nat even convinced the coach to let you room together at the hotel, despite being a complete pain in the ass most of the time. He probably suspected Natalie would sneak into your room after curfew anyway.

And honestly? She didn't need anyone else when she had you.

Then the plane crashed. In the middle of nowhere. And as if that wasn't enough — help never came.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Almost peaceful. Natalie was near, and you were far away from that New Jersey hellhole, from the annoying parents. From fights, school rumors, real life.

Nat learned how to hunt. She often went out with Travis for hours, but when she came back — whether she had food or not — she always made time for you. Sometimes she insisted on taking you along, even though you knew nothing about shooting animals and were more or less useless.

Sometimes Natalie picked flowers for you. Sometimes you'd end up in the wreckage of the plane, making out for long minutes until you had to go back. It wasn't paradise, it wasn't easy. But it could've been a lot worse.

The avalanche started with Laura Lee. When she was gone, hope began to flicker out. Something dimmed. Everyone's posture changed, like something inside had slumped.

Then came Doomcoming. You remembered little. You weren't even sure you wanted to remember. It was easier not to.

Natalie found you on the ground in front of the cabin. She was panting like she'd just run a marathon — maybe she had. You weren't sure. You stared at her, trying to figure out whether she was real or just another hallucination.

"Nat..." you started, but she just led you to the lake. Helped wash the blood (God knows whose) off your dress and the dirt from your hands. She cleaned your cuts while you stared blankly into the distance, rinsing yourself off without much thought.

Natalie should have known that's when it started. That moment, when your eyes went lifeless for just a second — that's when you began slipping out of her hands.

She never told you what really happened. Maybe that, too, was her weird way of taking care of you.

Shauna and Jackie had a fight. Jackie stormed out, and you wanted to go after her — tell her not to be stupid and just come back inside. But Nat grabbed your wrist.

Maybe Jackie wasn't the kindest to Nat, but she was never cruel to you the way the other popular girls were. Sure, she cared way too much about gossip, but she never asked where you lived, never cared that your parents weren't picture-perfect or that you couldn't afford better clothes.

"Let her go," Natalie pulled you back. "She'll be fine. It's just one night. Maybe she'll finally swallow her fucking pride."

You didn't quite understand. Jackie didn't deserve that.

But then morning came. Snow had fallen. And when you saw Jackie's lifeless body, Natalie's words started haunting you. You threw her a look from the cabin doorway, but her eyes were fixed on the corpse. That was the third time you'd seen Nat look truly terrified — once when you kissed her, once when the plane crashed. And now this.

Something inside you shattered. Whatever little hope you still carried scattered like dust, and you stopped believing her when she whispered above your head at night, "It's going to be okay."

Jackie was dead. Winter had come. No help in sight. It was hell. And suddenly, you'd rather be back home enduring another screaming match with your parents than lying curled up beside Natalie.

And just when you thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse, one night you heard knocking. Coach limped frantically back into the dark cabin, panic written all over him. But Natalie wasn't with him. No one else was.

So naturally, you went to look for her.

Natalie, who at that exact moment was tearing into a strip of meat—ripped from Jackie's leg.

Jackie, who not that long ago had helped you do your makeup for Doomcoming.

You vomited on the spot, even though there was nothing in your stomach to bring up. There hadn't been much food for days.

The next day, you found Natalie in pieces. Sitting in the snow, staring horrified at what was left of Jackie. And even though you had never cared about anyone more in your life — you couldn't bring yourself to comfort her. The words stuck in your throat.

You walked past her. Some grim compulsion driving you to see what was left of Jackie's skull.

"Wait—" Natalie scrambled to her feet and followed you, like she was trying to stop you. Like she wanted to shield you from seeing the truth. You turned around and found you could barely meet her eyes.

"Tell me you didn't..."

Even though you'd seen it. Even though it was burned into your memory. Maybe it was just another sick dream.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, trying to pull you into her arms. She was repulsed with herself. She looked like she might throw up right then and there. "I had to, okay? We're starving—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Nat," you cut her off. "I'm starving too, and I haven't eaten a fucking corpse!"

After that, everything started to unravel. At least for Natalie.

The others noticed, but either didn't want another problem on their hands or just didn't know how to deal with it. They sent you looks, tried to reach out. But you never answered the way they hoped.

You simply couldn't take it anymore.

And the truth was: you began to vanish before their eyes. A little more each day. Natalie grew desperate.

You barely spoke. Not many people felt like talking anymore, but you — you only spoke when you absolutely had to. You refused meals. Maybe because the image of Jackie being devoured had made it impossible to eat. Or maybe because at some point, you just stopped wanting to live. Maybe you didn't care whether help came or not. What was the point of eating if you might end up like Jackie anyway?

You still did your chores. Quietly. Carefully. But your body was starting to betray you.

Natalie went feral.

You pulled away from her, and she couldn't stand it. She clung to you with everything she had, terrified of what would happen if you slipped away. She couldn't even imagine it. It would break her in ways she wouldn't recover from. She started hunting more. When she brought back a rabbit or two, you refused your portion.

She begged. Got on her knees. Pleaded with you to eat, just a little, because your wrists were getting dangerously thin. Because she could see every bone. Because your skin had turned ghost-pale, and sometimes you froze mid-movement — your body simply giving out.

You wouldn't even look at her. You scooted away on the cabin floor, just far enough that it felt like a knife in her chest. Natalie had only felt this broken once before — when her father died. Maybe that had been easier. His death was sudden, quick. This? This was slow. Cruel. She was watching you fade. Watching the life leave you, and she was powerless to stop it.

No begging helped. No touch. No voice.

The worst part was — you didn't want to live anymore. Your eyes were completely empty. And this time, not even Natalie could save you.

She was at the edge.

One day, you just drifted away.

Your legs gave out. Your body — worn thin from hunger, cold, and the never-ending fight to survive — simply stopped working. You were supposed to bring water back to the cabin that day. At some point, you just collapsed into the snow. Everything went black.

Like you were meant to share Jackie's fate.

When Natalie returned from the hunt and you weren't there, the air was already heavy with tension. She knew. Deep down, she knew something was wrong. And there was no fucking way she was letting you go.

Someone said something — Natalie snapped. Furious at all of them for letting you go out alone in that condition.

Eventually, someone found you.

Natalie nearly twisted her ankle tearing through the snow to reach you. The last time she ran that fast was during the game that got them into Nationals.

She refused. Refused to accept the idea that she might lose you. Decided the wilderness could go to hell this time, because she was not agreeing to this.

She dragged you back. Screamed at Misty, voice cracking between sobs, telling her to finally make herself useful and help.

She didn't leave your side. Not for a second. She watched for every breath, every twitch of your fingers while you lay unconscious. She skipped hunts. Obsessively checked that you were bundled in as many blankets as they had. You were still cold — but not as frozen as when she found you. You were still breathing. That was enough. Lottie could shove her wilderness truths in her ass, really.

Natalie stayed awake for nights. Slept in short, shallow bursts in case you opened your eyes. Her head had just dipped when she felt a sudden movement beside her — stronger than before. The fire crackled in the dark.

And finally, finally, your eyes opened.

"Hey," Natalie was by your side in an instant, on her knees. Her fingers gently brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. "You're safe, I promise." She clutched your hand, trying to warm it with hers, desperation bleeding through her voice. "I'm here. I'm right here. I'm never leaving you again, I swear—"

She whispered in the dark until the words collapsed into silence. Then she pulled you into her arms. You didn't speak, but that didn't surprise her. What mattered was that you were alive. Natalie still had a chance to keep you breathing — and that was all that counted.

When you drifted off again — weak, after hours of being rocked gently in her arms, lulled by promises and shattered reassurances — Natalie made a decision. She would get food into you. Even if it meant forcing it.

But before she could figure out how to do that, they organized a hunt. You and Lottie were both too far gone to be aware of much. There was no time to plan.

The next thing you remembered was waking to find Natalie sitting beside you, just like always — except now she looked worse. Shaking. Her cheeks streaked with dried tears, her hair a mess. You furrowed your brows, trying to take in the scene.

Jackie's necklace was hanging from Natalie's neck.

You were about to ask what happened when she spoke first.

"Please," she whispered, voice hoarse and cracked.

Your gaze dropped to her hands — a bowl of warm meat cradled in her palms.

"Please," she repeated.

And this time — you agreed.

You trusted her. Didn't ask where the meat came from. Wanted to believe that maybe, somehow, she'd managed to catch something. That maybe things were turning.

Natalie felt the weight slip from her chest.

She helped you sit up, carefully propping you against her chest. Her hands trembled as she fed you, silently praying you wouldn't notice that Javi was nowhere to be seen in the cabin.

She hated lying to you. Hated it more than anything.

But the thought of losing you was way worse.

And you ate. You let her help. You accepted the food.

So Natalie told herself everything else could wait.

That night, she whispered it into your ear like a secret.

"I love you."

Natalie loved you so much that she could accept the possibility of you hating her, once you knew. As long as you were still alive.

[tobesolnelyx]

my friend, im begging you, imagine me on my knees begging you for a part two of we can’t be friends (wait for your love). that was so sweet and delicate in a way that spoke to me. pleaseeeeee 😭🥺😔

— love, i’ll wait for your love || shauna shipman x fem!reader 🌀 (wilderness). part 2 - part 1

a/n: honestly, exploration of this dynamic and relationship brings me so much joy (no matter how does that sound lmao…)

summary: no matter how much shauna doesn’t like that, you work like a goddamn magnet for her. she just can’t help it. hurt/comfort. fluff.

warnings: standard yellowjackets warnings

word count: about 1.1k

Shauna had never truly considered that something serious might happen to you. Sure, life in the wilderness was no gentle affair—it came with brutal temperatures, relentless hunger, and trauma so thick it clung to your bones. Most of you had lost weight. A lot of it. You still had panic attacks. It was bad, but it could have been so much worse. And no matter how cruel it sounded—you'd found a kind of peace in it. Maybe it was the routine. Maybe the hope of rescue had flickered out so thoroughly that, shamefully, you'd grown used to the way things were.

Used to the grime that wouldn't scrub off no matter how hard you tried. Used to the summer sweat that clung to your skin and never seemed to leave. Used to sleeping under threadbare blankets in your hut.

But you'd never gotten used to the emptiness of it. To the absence. The lack of her. No Shauna voice, no gentle hands—untouched by blood once—and no trace of that soft smile. That emptiness gnawed at the corners of your mind. Not even the comfort of routine could dull it.

Sometimes your eyes would meet hers across the camp. She never looked away first. So you did. Every time. As if the moment stretched too long, she'd suddenly leap across the camp, knife in hand, and slit your throat.

You caught yourself watching her often—searching for something, anything, that proved she hadn't changed so completely. That maybe, if you tried hard enough, if you reached far enough, she wouldn't be so full of rage all the time.

But it got harder. Especially when the words clung to your throat like thorns, and your feet turned to stone the moment you convinced yourself to follow her.

And then one day, something shifted.

Melissa appeared.

And it didn't take a genius to see Shauna wasn't in love. You were certain she didn't even like her. You knew when Shauna liked someone. You'd seen it—that strange widening of her brown eyes, that softening in her gaze like she was seeing you for the very first time. She never looked at Melissa that way. Not once. So you didn't let yourself believe there was anything... real.

The next crisis came quickly. Not as brutal, not as jarring, but it stayed. It stayed while you tried to bury the memories of so many other things that had happened.

But the cave expedition unsettled everyone.

At one point, you were with the others. And then, in a blink, the torchlight vanished behind a bend and a hand caught yours in the dark. You knew that hand like your own. You clung to it instinctively.

Maybe it was just a hallucination. Later, you weren't so sure.

You didn't know how long you'd been unconscious, only that when you woke, you were somewhere completely different. The dark was suffocating. Water dripped somewhere near, and you were lying in it, soaked to your thighs. Your breathing was shallow, and the pain in your lungs was sharp enough to make you wonder if you could keep doing it—keep breathing.

Eventually, you got to your feet. Shivering. Terrified. But determined—because if you didn't find a way out, you'd die down there.

You had no idea where to go. Your legs trembled violently.

And then you heard her.

Shauna. Calling your name. Loud, though distant.

And you knew. Knew she'd gone completely feral. You weren't anywhere nearby.

She didn't care. She wasn't going to let the fucking wilderness take one more thing. One more person.

"Please!" Her voice cracked through the dark, tinged with something you hadn't heard in a long time. Desperation. Maybe even fear. Panic. "Say something!"

Shauna was looking for you.

So you screamed. As loud as your ravaged lungs allowed. The sound startled even you—it had been so long since you'd spoken at all.

"Shauna?!"

Her footsteps faltered, echoing through the cavern. Then they picked up again. Louder. Faster. You could almost hear the urgency, feel her sprinting blindly through the dark toward you.

"Don't move!" she called. Sharp. Breathless. But threaded with relief.

As if you could move. You grip the wall, focusing only on breathing, and listened for the rhythm of her footsteps.

"Talk to me, please—!" she screamed again, the words raw, tearing the silence. "I'll find you, just..."

She didn't finish. Probably didn't believe it herself. You shouted again, weaker now. But it was enough. Her steps quickened, turned frantic—and then, from behind a bend, came the light.

She nearly ran you over.

The torch clattered to the ground with a dull thud, forgotten. And then her arms were around you. You held her back, automatically, like muscle memory. She panted into your shoulder, her hands searching your body, needing to feel you, to be sure you were real. Not a trick of the mind. Not a cruel hallucination.

One hand tangled in your hair. The other locked tight around your waist, holding you like she'd never let go again.

You barely registered the others when they arrived. The torches lit up the cave again, filling it with breath and voices—but no one dared to approach. No one interrupted whatever was happening between you and Shauna.

You let out a long breath, resting your chin on her shoulder, and hugged her back just as fiercely.

She didn't speak. But she didn't need to. You knew. She had never stopped caring.

And in that moment, that strange aching weight that had haunted you for so long began to lift.

"I've got you," she whispered, barely more than breath. But you heard it. And that was enough.

That night, without a word, Shauna brought her things to your hut.

You'd just been drifting off when she came in, gave the place a slow once-over, and then—apparently satisfied—dropped her sheets to the floor.

She left again, only to return with the rest of things. Her journal. Her knife. Both landed with a soft thump beside your belongings. She quietly unrolled her bedding next to yours, careful to keep a respectful distance.

You watched her the whole time, not saying a word. This time, afraid you might scare her off.

But you would've been lying if you said you were surprised. Deep down, you'd always known—Shauna would find her way back to you.

"Still getting panic attacks?"

You flinched. Her voice was soft—softer than you remembered. Like she was afraid one wrong word would break you open again. Like that time she told you to fuck off.

You nodded. And she said nothing else. Just lay down beside you.

A silence followed. Cradled by the faint crackle of the fire outside.

Then her hand found yours beneath the blankets.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

[tobesolnelyx]

— we can’t be friends (wait for your love) || shauna shipman x fem!reader 🌀

summary: shauna changes. you don’t quiet know what to do with all that (pre-crash/during wilderness) — hurt/comfort, angst, friends to lovers (??)

warnings: mentions of cannibalism, grief, baby lost, slight gore, shauna shipman in general

word count: 1,7k (probably the fastest in my entire life lmao)

You'd always been sensitive. More than others. Always just a little more attuned—to sharp words, to tender ones, to loud noises that left a dull, echoing throb in your skull. To the world around you. Especially when it was quiet. That's why tears came easily—not just because it felt like the world was ending over the smallest things, not just because sometimes it was all simply too much.

But also because you knew how to appreciate. To truly feel everything around you. You could be moved by the gentlest rain, by every small thing that made you feel like, maybe, you belonged in this world just a little bit more. Because outside of those moments, you felt painfully out of place.

And then, amid all those people telling you you were being dramatic, Shauna Shipman appeared.

At first, you were convinced she hated you—when it turned out you shared English literature classes and you were just a bit better than her. You read a little more books, and most of all, you felt a little deeper. Maybe that's why Shauna seemed to shrink beside your interpretations. Hers felt flimsy next to yours, hollow. And so she greeted you with a series of venomous glances for that.

At least, you thought they were venomous. Shauna wanted them to be something as simple and stupid as hate. She wanted to ignore the tiny things you did, your habits, the way your face moved when you were thinking. But she watched. As if she was trying to memorize it all, down to the smallest detail.

Shauna never came up to you. Sometimes you caught her scribbling in her journal, stealing glances in your direction—but she never spoke, save for the occasional greeting or a question about borrowing a pen.

Until she did.

Until you met Jackie Taylor. Jackie, who was looking for someone unlike Shauna to spill her heart to. And you always listened—at the right moments, in the right way. You didn't offer scoffs, sarcasm, or barbed remarks like Shauna did. That's why Jackie liked you.

Shauna pretended not to care. It didn't work.

Before you knew it, Jackie had pulled you into the Yellowjackets tryouts. Before you could even stammer a response, she was beaming at you with a dumb grin, holding up your jersey and babbling about how great you'd be in midfield.

Next to Shauna.

And Shauna really wanted to hate you. She wanted to think of you as someone awful, someone stealing her place—top of the class, Jackie's friend, on center of the field.

But she just couldn't.

Not when you complimented her flannel shirt with that small, sincere smile. Not when you told her, genuinely, that her poetry analysis was interesting and had made you think. Not when you offered her your water bottle without hesitation when hers was empty.

And maybe—just maybe—Shauna could have twisted it all into hatred, squeezed out some kind of contempt, convinced herself that you were fake, insincere.

If she hadn't found you in the locker room that one day. Sitting on the bench, still in your kit, your water bottle dangling limply from your fingers, and she realized you were crying. And she couldn't walk past it.

She wanted it to be something she could roll her eyes at, something she could dismiss as overreaction. A bad grade. A breakup.

But no. Of course not. You had to say, in that soft, cracked voice, that it was nothing—that you were just overwhelmed, that there was too much going on, but you'd be fine.

Goddamn it. Shauna melted in an instant.

She couldn't even remember why she'd ever wanted to hate someone so defenseless, so achingly gentle.

Shauna felt awful.

Like she was trying to kick a puppy—one that hadn't even peed on her favorite rug.

And that's when Shauna turned her anger inward. Because how could she ever have thought of you that way? Let alone let herself care about you—which, inconveniently, complicated... well, everything.

Shauna sat down beside you and, without a word, offered comfort. A slightly clumsy, awkward hug—but it was enough. Enough for you to let yourself fall apart, just for a moment, before you could pull yourself together and make it home on your own two feet. Neither of you spoke about it, but after that day, Shauna was always nearby. Whether at school, where she'd casually bring her Walkman and let you borrow her mixtapes (which, by the way, she absolutely didn't share with anyone else), or later, at her house.

You both found comfort in silence. In each other's presence. In the soft scratch of Shauna's pen against the paper in her journal. She no longer looked at you like she was secretly calculating your disappearance. Her gaze softened with each passing day—when you came over to help organize her bookshelves, when she found you overwhelmed in the school bathroom and gently wiped your tears, when she nonchalantly tossed her jacket over your shoulders because she thought you looked cold, when she brought you your favorite candy bar from the vending machine.

Shauna still watched you. Always had. But now all her sharp edges had dulled, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling when you came by again, just to talk about another book.

Then the plane crashed.

And despite everything Shauna had done, and everything you'd come to learn about her—you just couldn't look at her the way the others did. With that particular something in their eyes, teetering between disgust, fear, morbid curiosity, and... pity. That last one might've been the worst.

In the early days after the crash, Shauna didn't leave your side. She made sure you got out of that damned plane (even if it meant dragging you by the legs) and obsessively checked your cuts and bruises—three times over.

Shauna clung to you. And you didn't complain. Whatever strange thing existed between you—it escalated there. And suddenly, the glances lingered too long, the touches came too easily, too often. But neither of you said anything.

Then the panic attacks started.

Shauna insisted on sleeping beside you. She'd wake up in the middle of the night to soothe you back to sleep like a child, when it felt like the world was ending. Somehow, she always managed to calm your racing heart, dry your tears, steady your breath. Somehow, Shauna always knew what to say, how to touch you, to make it better. And when you were certain one of those panic attacks would kill you—Shauna would pull you back, whispering that leaving her wasn't even an option.

"We're getting through this. Together." she'd whisper into your ear in the dark cabin, as moonlight crept through the window like a trespasser, catching the glint of tears on your cheeks. "You're safe with me."

Then you found out Shauna had been sleeping with Jeff.

You denied it. That wasn't your Shauna. Your Shauna would never hurt someone on purpose. No way. End of discussion.

Then Jackie froze to death. And you all began to starve.

Shauna drifted away. She started spending more time with Jackie’s corpse than with you—the still-living, shivering, terrified version of yourself curled up in that godforsaken cabin. And for the first time, you let the thought slip through: maybe Shauna wasn't your walking guardian angel after all.

Then Shauna gave birth to a stillborn son. And your legs gave out from under you.

She still spoke to you sometimes. Dropped extra blankets onto your lap. Made sure you ate. But beyond that? Shauna was... gone. And you couldn't even blame her. You didn't know how to reach her anymore. You weren't strong enough. The emotions swallowed you again, and you knew you'd regret it. Knew you'd hate yourself for not being there for her the way she once was for you—in those times that now felt cruelly distant.

Somewhere between the first bite of human flesh and the end of winter, you stopped speaking.

Not because you couldn't. You could. But words felt... useless. Saying them made everything more real.

You pretended not to think of Jackie when you chewed what might have been rabbit meat. Pretended not to feel the jagged edge of memory in every mouthful.

Words made you say what you were thinking. And that was too dangerous.

It became too much.

You still did what was expected of you. You hovered somewhere on the edges of everyone's orbit, but you stopped speaking. The others didn't know how to reach you—so eventually, they stopped trying. You didn't blame them.

Sometime after the cabin burned to ash and you'd all managed to build those makeshift huts, Shauna pushed you away completely. She pushed everyone away, really—but with you, it cut the deepest.

You only wanted to help. To finally return some small fraction of the comfort she'd once tried to give you.

"I don't need your fucking pity!" That's all she gave you when you pushed too hard—when you dared to stand over her son's grave and place a hand on her shoulder.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

She swung the knife like she'd already slit your throat a thousand times in her mind. You stepped back, not in fear, but with something far worse—disappointment.

Disappointment that Shauna couldn't bear to look at. So she turned away. And in a quieter voice—if any of Shauna's tones could ever be called quiet—she muttered:

"I don't need you. Okay?"

Her eyes fixed on the stone resting atop the grave.

You walked away. Because you didn't know how to process that. How to fix anything. How to bring back even a shadow of the old Shauna.

You went back and cried.

Shauna never spoke to you like that again. Not in that tone.

Afterward, you weren't sure if it was just in your head or if she still gave you the better cuts of meat, still quietly left extra blankets in your hut when the nights grew colder, still softened just a little whenever her eyes found you.

Maybe it was all in your imagination. Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe Shauna was still filling pages of her journal with thoughts of you, and in that strange ritual, she found something that almost resembled comfort.

[good-griief]

everytime i mention a van fic iget a request for a part two of that accepting sexuality fic LMFAOOAOAOAA IF I KNEW HOW TO WRITE IT IPROMISE IT WOULD BE OUT

[good-griief]

ok guys i NEED to write a van fic so please send requests😸😸😸

[lumons]

imagine you had sex with your fine as fuck girlfriend and it activated your sleeper agent blood thirsty other personality. happened to my friend taissa turner

[lotties-ashwagandha]

ellie, as ‘tough’ as she is, wants a tranquil love.

she wants to wake up late and pull you close to her — she’s the big spoon so that she can press kisses to your shoulder and neck while you sleep. she closes her eyes and listens to the birds chirping outside and the busy hum of jackson waking up. a chill comes in through the open window and she pulls the covers up over both of you, closing her eyes again and wishing for sleep, a greedy escape from your responsibilities.

ellie wants to play you some of the many songs she has written for you. in a different world she could say she had enough for an album to be produced, but those opportunities are gone. she is happy, though, to sit with you on the porch and play her guitar for you at sunset. it makes her nervous — she hopes you like what she has written — but above all she just wants to show you that she loves you.

ellie wishes she could tell you she’s immune. she wishes that her love could be without secrets or regrets, and that you could be comforted by the fact that she is not in quite as much danger as you think when you go out on patrol routes together.

ellie wants a love that is honest.

[pensthoughts]

home turf | v.p

pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: fresh out of college, you’re stuck in new jersey helping your niece while your sister’s away. taking her to soccer practice is easy—except for the part where her hot coach keeps distracting you.  word count: 2.1k contains: age gap, flirting, soccer coach van

you didn’t think “post-grad” would mean living in your sister’s mansion in new jersey, driving her kid to soccer practice in a mercedes you don’t pay the insurance on, and googling “freelance jobs that don’t suck” from a poolside lounge chair. 

but here you are. 

your sister, madison—42, divorced, high-powered tech exec—got told she was being pulled out to california for work a couple weeks after you graduated. “three months,” she said, breezily, over a glass of wine that cost more than your entire college meal plan. “you get a free place to stay. i get someone i trust with sophia. win-win.”

her mansion feels like a hotel lobby and smells like lemon and linen. every room has a different diffuser. your socks slide on the marble when you forget to walk like you’re rich. 

madison calls it the house, but it’s got seven bedrooms and two staircases and a backyard so big you could lose a child in it. even though she’s not home, she’s still involved. she facetimes like a sitcom mom, with her makeup done and perfect lighting and a voice all sunny and composed. 

you’re not used to it yet. not the house, not the way your niece says “we have a gardener”, not how quiet it gets when she leaves for school and you’re alone with your thoughts and the fridge full of green juice that costs as much as a car. 

but you said yes. because you love your niece. because your sister asked. because you just finished college, and money’s tight, and the rent at home was making you spiral. so now you’re in new jersey. living in your sister’s mansion, figuring out what comes next. 

madison is 20 years older than you, and it shows. she was married and pregnant by the time you were in the first grade. you grew up on opposite ends of the same childhood; her with your dad’s first wife in new jersey, and you with the second in a new york city apartment. you only overlapped when she came home for holidays, looking like someone off tv, with a different car and haircut every time. 

she helped raise you when your mom was sick, though. and after the funeral, she paid for the rest of your college like it was nothing. 

you’re not sure if she’s more your sister or your boss. but you owe her. and now you owe her daughter too. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

your niece is a phenom. that’s what the newspaper said. 

freshman starting varsity. number 9. seven goals in her first two games. she’s got madison’s determination and your footwork. you’d say it’s genetics, but mostly she’s just obsessed. wakes up early to train. watches tape. has her cleats lined up like museum pieces in the garage. 

you love her, even when she’s smug. especially when she’s smug. it’s familiar. a little too familiar. 

she looks up to you. you won nationals back in high school, after all. you were supposed to go far—college scholarships, olympic qualifiers, maybe even pro—but injuries happen. life happens. you haven’t played in years, but it’s in your bones. you can still see the angles on the field before anyone else can. you still dream in cleats. 

which is probably why you keep ending up at practice. 

it starts innocently. drop-offs. pick-ups. then she asks you to stay and watch. then she says coach palmer likes when the parents show up, even if you’re technically not a parent, and suddenly you’re in the bleachers four afternoons a week. 

you’d like to say it’s for your niece. but then there’s her. 

van palmer. 

coach palmer, to everyone else. forty-two. red hair always shoved under a hat. lives in sweatpants and track jackets like it’s a uniform. she owns a video store downtown called while you were streaming—yes, it’s real, yes, it somehow stays open—and she only coaches soccer on the side, “for fun” she once said, like running drills and barking from the sidelines is her version of a wine hobby. 

you notice her the first day. how could you not? 

she’s magnetic in that older-lesbian, scruffy-hot, fixes things with duct tape and charm kind of way. her voice carries. she swears under her breath and laughs like she means it and has this way of whistling that makes the whole field snap to attention. 

and she notices you too. 

you’re sitting on the bleachers one afternoon, sunglasses perched on your head, drinking some overpriced juice from madison’s fridge, when she wanders over during a water break. 

“let me guess,” she says, stopping just a few feet from you, hands on hips. “you’re madison’s little sister.”

you blink. “uh… yeah. how’d you—?”

“you’ve got her eyes,” van says. “and you’re not a student. unless they’re letting college grads back in with fake IDs.”

you snort, which is humiliating, but she just smiles wider.

“i’m van. palmer. coach,” she adds, jerking her thumb toward the field like you didn’t just watch her command the team like a general. “i went to school with madison.” 

you smile. “yeah. i’m not a parent. i’m the cool aunt.”

van grins. “ah, the most powerful of all family roles.”

you nod solemnly. “we don’t pay the bills, but we do buy the secret candy stash.”

“i respect that.”

there’s a pause. you both look out at the field, your niece arguing with another girl over who gets to take the next corner.

“she’s good,” van says. 

you smile. “she’s so smug about it.”

“i’d be smug too.”

you glance over. “is that a coach thing? or a former player thing?”

she shrugs. “both. played in high school. team was supposed to go to nationals.” her voice dips there—just slightly—and you catch something in it, like the weight of memory. 

you remember reading something once. a team that never made it. a plane crash. a rumor that felt too big to be real. 

but van’s already switching gears. she taps the bleachers with her knuckles. “you play?”

you pause. “used to.”

van’s eyes cut back to you, curious. “how used to?”

“high school. nationals.” you say, mentioning nationals makes you feel slightly odd, considering what she probably went through because of it.

her eyebrows lift. “damn. you win?”

“yeah. barely.” you smirk. “why, you wanna recruit me?”

she grins, wide and a little wicked. “only if you’ve got four years of eligibility and a fake birth certificate.” 

you laugh—genuinely this time—and van chuckles with you, kicking lightly at the grass with the toe of her sneaker. 

there’s a pause, then she says, “you’re gonna be picking sophia up most days? 

you nod. "until her mom gets back. i’m the live-in aunt-slash-temporary guardian.” 

van whistles, low. “big house for two people.”

you give her a look. “you been creeping on our property?”

“nah,” she says, grinning again. “small town. you can see the gate from the road.”

you roll your eyes. “it’s not my mansion.”

“but you’re staying there?”

“temporarily.”

“hm.” she tilts her head. “so what, you just hang out by the pool all day?”

you shoot her a dry look. “only when i’m not updating my résumé or submitting applications to jobs i’m underqualified for.”

“ah,” she nods sagely. “you’re in your ‘screaming into the void’ phase.”

“exactly.”

van smiles like she knows the feeling a little too well. then someone yells “coach!” and she turns her head.

“duty calls,” she says, “nice meeting you…?”

you give her your name, and she repeats it once, like she’s locking it in. 

“cool,” she says, “try not to distract the team with your whole…” she gestures vaguely toward you, “…vibe.”

you laugh, surprised. “my vibe?”

“i don’t know. you’ve got this sunglasses-and-smoothie energy. it’s very SoCal”

“i’m from new york.”

she whistles. “dangerous combo.”

she then jogs back onto the field without another word. 

you sit there, a little stunned, sipping your smoothie like it didn’t just become the most embarrassing beverage in the world. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

that night, your niece finds you in the kitchen. 

“so,” she says, casual as anything. “coach palmer talked to you today.”

you try to play it cool. “she talks to all the parents.”

“you’re not a parent.”

“i’m parent-adjacent.”

she snorts. “she totally thinks you’re hot.”

you almost choke on your water. “excuse me?”

“she kept looking at you. like looking looking. she never talks to anyone during water breaks.” 

you open your mouth, close it, and point at her. “you are fifteen. you are not allowed to have gaydar yet.”

she just laughs and walks away. 

and you stand there, in your sister’s designer kitchen, heartbeat loud in your ears, trying not to smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

whole foods is somehow both overwhelming and peaceful at nine a.m.

it’s a saturday, and you’re there with your niece, shopping for ingredients for a smoothie she swears by—"it’s what all the girls on the u17 national team drink"—when you turn a corner in the produce aisle and almost ram your cart into another. 

“woah—” comes a voice. “either you’re following me, or you’re trying to run me over.”

you look up. van, standing on the other side of the cart, a bunch of bananas in one hand and a lazy grin on her face.

she’s wearing joggers and a white t-shirt, no hat today, hair slightly messy, like she just rolled out of bed and still managed to look unfairly good. 

“maybe both,” you say, recovering quickly. “you looked like you needed to be humbled.”

“oof,” she says, holding a hand to her chest. “brutal. and here i was gonna compliment your fruit selection.”

you glance down. organic strawberries, overpriced peaches, some kale you regret grabbing. 

“it’s for her,” you say, nodding toward your niece, who’s already halfway down the aisle, pretending not to look but very obviously watching you both. 

“of course it is,” van says. “madison used to make smoothies like that. back in high school, she was the health queen. cheer captain, straight As, SAT tutor. i think she even ran a charity one summer just for fun.”

you laugh. “yep. that sounds about right.”

“you were raised in the city, though, yeah?” she asks, nudging her cart alongside yours as you move toward the bulk granola. “i remember you mentioned it. didn’t your dad move after the divorce?”

“yeah. me and my mom were in the upper west side until—” you cut yourself off, because you don’t usually say it so early in a conversation. but van’s watching you like she actually cares. so you finish, quieter. “until she passed.”

van’s expression softens. “sorry.”

you shrug. “it was a while ago. madison stepped up. she’s kind of intense, but she means well.”

van snorts. “understatement of the decade.”

you grin. “what about you? you grow up around here?”

“born and raised,” she says, grabbing some trail mix. “i left for a while. came back eventually. too many ghosts out west, i guess.”

you glance at her. there’s something under that. but she doesn’t elaborate. and you don’t push. 

“so what brings you to whole foods on a saturday morning?” you ask.

she shrugs. “needed coffee. and peanut butter. and apparently a run-in with a pretty girl in the fruit aisle.”

you freeze for half a second. pretty girl. you.

van meets your gaze, completely unbothered, like she didn’t just casually wreck your brain with a sentence. 

“do you flirt like this with all the aunts?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“only the hot ones,” she says, then winks.

your niece coughs loudly behind you. you whirl around.

“are we done?” she says, way too innocent. 

you nod, quickly. “almost.”

“coach palmer,” she says, smiling sweetly, “you should come over sometime. we’ve got a pool. and a grill.”

van raises an eyebrow. “is that so?”

“yeah. my mom would totally approve. she loves community engagement.”

you stare at her. she stares back, victorious.

“well,” van says, grinning. “i do like a good grill.”

you clear your throat. “okay. we’re gonna check out now.”

“see you at practice,” van says, and her gaze lingers for just a second longer than necessary. 

as you walk away, pushing the cart a little too fast, your niece smirks. 

“what?” you ask, trying to sound stern.

“nothing,” she sing-songs. “just saying…you’ve got game.”

“i do not have game.”

“you had her blushing. coach palmer. blushing.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm.

and later, as you’re unpacking the groceries in the massive lemon-scented kitchen, you realize you can’t stop smiling. 

you kind of want her to come over. 

you kind of want her to stay.