#co-dependency

Nancy Wheeler x Reader canon-compliant post-s4 (everyone lives), toxic!Nancy, possessive! Nancy, jealousy as a love language, emotional manipulation, slow-burn that aches, co-dependency, angst with microscopic cute moments, no upside down in the present timeline, reader is implied to be the same age as Nancy [2.7k] ---

You meet Nancy Wheeler on a Tuesday in third grade when she punches Tommy Hagan for calling you “four-eyes” because of the thick glasses your mom insisted you needed. She doesn’t apologize for the blood on her knuckles. She just grabs your hand and says, “Come on, we’re gonna be late for art.” You follow her. You always follow her.

By the time you’re fourteen, you’ve memorized the way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating, the way her curls frizz when it rains, the way she says your name like it’s punctuation—sharp, final, mine. You’ve also memorized the way she looks at Steve Harrington across the cafeteria, the way her laugh changes when he’s around. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re her best friend. That’s enough.

It isn’t.

Barb dies in November of ‘83. You hold Nancy while she screams into your shoulder in the parking lot of the funeral home, her mascara smearing black across your gray sweater. You don’t cry. You can’t. Someone has to be steady. She clings to you like you’re the only real thing left in the world. Later, when Steve tries to comfort her, she shrugs him off and finds you instead. You don’t say I told you so. You just let her fall asleep on your bedroom floor, her head in your lap, your fingers carding through her hair until dawn.

You think maybe this is what love is: being the place someone lands when everything else crumbles.

You’re wrong.

Sophomore year, Nancy starts dating Jonathan Byers. You like Jonathan. He’s quiet, kind, takes photos of you and Nancy laughing in the photo lab and never makes you feel like a third wheel. But Nancy still calls you at 2 a.m. when Jonathan’s asleep, voice small and cracked. “I had a nightmare,” she says. “About Barb.” You drive to the Byers’ house in your mom’s station wagon, park in the driveway, and sit with her on the porch until the sun comes up. Jonathan finds you both asleep against the railing, Nancy’s head on your shoulder. He doesn’t ask questions. He just brings blankets.

You start to notice the pattern: Nancy needs you most when she’s supposed to need someone else.

Junior year is a blur of college applications and SAT prep and Nancy’s growing obsession with the Hawkins Post internship. You apply to Emerson because it’s in Boston and far away and maybe—maybe—you need to learn how to breathe without her orbit pulling you in. She finds the acceptance letter before you do. She doesn’t speak for three days. On the fourth, she shows up at your house with two plane tickets to Chicago. “Spring break,” she says. “Just us. Like old times.” You go. You always go.

The trip is perfect in the way only disasters can be. You eat deep-dish pizza until you’re sick, get lost on the L, take Polaroids in front of the Bean. Nancy kisses you on the cheek for one of them and your heart stops. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy stealing your fries.

Back in Hawkins, she tells Jonathan about the trip. She leaves out the part where she fell asleep with her head on your chest in the hotel room, where she whispered “don’t leave me” into your skin like a secret. You leave that part out too.

Senior year starts with a miracle: Vecna is dead. The gates are closed. The world didn’t end. Everyone lives. The relief is so sharp it feels like grief.

You think maybe now things will be normal.

They aren’t.

Nancy gets into Northwestern. You get into Emerson. The letters arrive the same week. She opens yours first. Her face goes very pale. “Boston,” she says. “That’s... far.” You nod. “It’s a good program.” She doesn’t look at you. “You’ll love it.” Her voice is flat. You want to ask if she’s okay. You don’t.

The possessiveness starts small. She “forgets” to give you messages from the Emerson admissions office. She schedules study sessions during your shifts at the record store. She cries in your car when you mention visiting campus. “I just—I can’t imagine not seeing you every day,” she says. You hold her hand. You tell her you’ll call every night. She doesn’t believe you. You’re not sure you believe you.

Robin Buckley transfers to your English class in October. She’s loud, funny, smells like coffee and vinyl. She asks you to partner for the Great Gatsby project. Nancy finds out and spends the entire weekend “helping” you. She rewrites your thesis. She color-codes your notes. She sits so close her knee presses against yours under the desk. Robin texts you: your guard dog’s intense. You don’t reply.

The breaking point comes in March, the night of the spring talent show. You’re not performing—God, no—but Robin is. She’s doing a comedy set about working at Scoops Ahoy. Nancy refuses to go. “It’s stupid,” she says. “We have the chem midterm.” You go anyway. Robin’s hilarious. The crowd loves her. After, she finds you in the lobby, adrenaline-high and grinning. “Drinks at Steve’s? Celebrate my triumphant return to stand-up?” You hesitate. Nancy’s waiting in the parking lot. But Robin’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room, and for once, you want to be selfish.

You go.

Steve’s basement is crowded with familiar faces—Dustin, Lucas, Max, even Jonathan with a beer he’s nursing like it personally offended him. Robin drags you to the center of the room and announces, “This one’s my new favorite person!” Everyone cheers. You laugh. It feels good. Nancy isn’t there to see the way Robin’s hand lingers on your arm, the way you lean into it.

You don’t realise its late until 2 a.m. Nancy’s car is in the driveway. She’s asleep in the driver’s seat, headlights off, keys still in the ignition. You wake her gently. She startles, eyes wild. “Where were you?” Her voice is hoarse. “Steve’s. Robin—” “I called you seventeen times.” “I didn’t have service.” It’s a lie. Your phone’s been on silent since 8 p.m. She knows. You know she knows.

She drives you home in silence. When you reach for the door handle, she grabs your wrist. Hard. “You’re choosing her.” “I’m not choosing anyone.” “It feels like you are.” Her grip tightens. “I need you.” The words are a bruise. You pull away. “I’m right here.” “You weren’t tonight.”

You don’t sleep. You sit on your roof and watch the stars until they blur. You think about Boston. You think about Nancy’s hand on your wrist, the way it felt like a handcuff and a lifeline.

The next week, she apologizes. Sort of. She brings you coffee and a new notebook and says, “I was scared.” You forgive her. You always forgive her.

Prom is a disaster waiting to happen. Nancy’s going with Jonathan. You’re going stag. Robin asks you to dance during “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” You say yes. Nancy sees. She doesn’t speak to you for the rest of the night. Jonathan finds you by the punch bowl, tie askew. “She’s freaking out,” he says. “She thinks you’re leaving her for Robin.” You laugh. It’s not funny. “I’m not leaving anyone.” Jonathan looks tired. “You might have to.”

You find Nancy outside, smoking a cigarette she stole from Steve. She doesn’t smoke. “Nance.” She doesn’t turn. “Go back to your girlfriend.” “She’s not—” “I saw you.” Her voice cracks. “You looked happy.” You step closer. “I am happy. With you.” She finally looks at you. Her mascara’s running. “You won’t be. Not when you’re gone.” “I haven’t decided—” “You will. You always do what’s best for you.” The accusation stings because it’s true.

You reach for her. She lets you. Her cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Of what?” “Of being the thing you leave behind.” You don’t have an answer. You just hold her until the cherry burns out.

Graduation is in June. You give a speech about resilience. Nancy cries in the front row. You both get into your respective cars—hers to Northwestern, yours to wherever you decide. You haven’t told her you deferred Emerson. You haven’t told anyone.

The summer is a slow unraveling. You work at the record store. Nancy works at the Hawkins Post. You see each other every day. She brings you lunch. You drive her home. You kiss in her car once, twice, a dozen times. It’s never enough. It’s too much.

Robin leaves for Bloomington in August. She hugs you goodbye in the parking lot of Family Video. “You know where to find me,” she says. Nancy watches from her car, arms crossed. You wave. Robin waves back. Nancy doesn’t speak the entire drive to her house.

The night before Nancy leaves for Northwestern, she shows up at your window. It’s 3 a.m. She’s crying. “I can’t do this,” she says. “Do what?” “Leave you.” You pull her inside. She’s shaking. “You’re not leaving me. You’re going to college.” “It feels the same.” You kiss her then. Really kiss her. Not the stolen moments, not the almosts. She tastes like salt and terror and home. When you pull back, she’s staring at you like you’re a mirage. “Stay,” she says. “What?” “Stay here. With me. We’ll figure it out.” “Nancy—” “Please.”

You think about Emerson. You think about the life you almost had. You think about the way Nancy’s hands tremble when she’s scared, the way she says your name like a prayer. You think about Barb’s empty chair at graduation, about every time the world ended and you were the only thing left standing.

You stay.

Northwestern is two hours away. Nancy comes home every weekend. She calls you every night. She sends you letters on stationery that smells like her perfume. You enroll in community college. You tell yourself it’s temporary. You tell yourself a lot of things.

The first time she accuses you of cheating, it’s over nothing. You mentioned a study group. She heard “girl named Emily.” She drives to your house at midnight and screams in your driveway until your mom threatens to call the cops. You calm her down. You always calm her down.

The second time, it’s Robin. She’s home for Thanksgiving. You have coffee. Nancy sees the Instagram story. She doesn’t speak to you for a week. When she finally does, it’s to say, “I trust you. I just don’t trust her.” You don’t point out the difference. There isn’t one.

Christmas break, she gives you a necklace. A tiny silver locket with a photo of you both from eighth grade. “So you don’t forget,” she says. You wear it every day. You don’t take it off even when it leaves a green ring around your neck.

Spring semester, you transfer to UChicago. It’s closer. Nancy cries when you tell her. Happy tears, she says. You’re not sure.

You move into an apartment off-campus. Nancy decorates it with string lights and Polaroids. She has a drawer in your dresser. Then a shelf. Then half the closet. You don’t mind. You like the way her books look next to yours, the way her shampoo smells in your shower.

Robin visits once. Nancy is polite. Too polite. Robin leaves early. You don’t ask her to stay.

The first time Nancy says “I love you,” it’s during a fight. You’re screaming about boundaries, about space, about the way she reads your texts over your shoulder. She’s crying so hard she can barely breathe. “I love you,” she chokes out. “I love you so much it’s killing me.” You stop yelling. You kiss her instead. She kisses back like she’s drowning.

You say it back. You mean it. You’re not sure what it means.

Years pass. You graduate. Nancy gets a job at the Chicago Tribune. You get one at a small press. You move in together. The apartment is too small, but it’s yours. Hers. Ours.

Robin gets engaged. You go to the wedding. Nancy holds your hand the entire time. When Robin kisses her fiancée, Nancy whispers, “That’ll be us someday.” You smile. You’re not sure if it’s a promise or a threat.

Some nights, you dream about Boston. You dream about a life where you left, where you learned how to miss her without breaking. You wake up with Nancy’s arms around you, her breath warm against your neck. You stay.

Satoru feels Suguru’s cursed energy spike, going wobbly and all out of whack and he knows that something is seriously wrong. So wrong that he simply acts on instinct instead of thinking it through and between one blink and the next he finds himself right next to Suguru, in a small village, in a house with two crying kids and two screaming adults.

Fun.

“Satoru?” Suguru gasps out, apparently busy trying to keep a tight leash on his curses and Satoru stumbles.

Long distance teleportation really is a bitch.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes out and grabs his arm, trying to steady himself. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s—why would you ask me that? You’re barging in here, making me think something is wrong,” Suguru gives right back, his voice shaking the tiniest bit and carefully angles himself in front of the kids as if he has to protect them from Satoru.

It only adds to the strangeness of this situation.

“Your energy—it’s not right. What’s going on?” Satoru says, hoping that it explains enough and that Suguru is not going to ask why he always keeps a close eye on his energy in the first place but Suguru doesn’t seem to care too much about that.

Something cruel passes over his face, almost turning it into a sneer and Satoru flinches back.

“Nothing is right, Satoru; don’t you see?” he hisses, pointing at the kids and the adults, some of Suguru’s curses still trying to escape his control and Satoru doesn’t really understand what’s going on at all.

“I see something going wrong,” he carefully admits because the kids look beaten and they are locked up in a cage but it doesn’t give him the bigger picture.

It doesn’t explain Suguru’s behaviour.

“Don’t you dare judge me,” Suguru bites out and that is so far from what Satoru was going to do that he doesn’t even understand where Suguru got that from.

But it seems they are not at all on the same page of this conversation and so Satoru takes a deep breath.

“Tell me what’s going on here. Explain it to me,” he says, taking a step back and giving Suguru space to breathe because he seems decidedly unwell.

Suguru takes a measured breath and then a second and third and then it all just comes tumbling out of him; not only what’s going on here, right now, but also everything that has been going on with him since they lost Riko. He speaks so fast he stumbles over his words more than once and with everything he says Satoru feels more and more sick.

He has missed so much. He thought he knew Suguru best, was tuned in to him but he has missed all of this turmoil and agony and Satoru hates himself a little bit for it.

Understanding the five love languages can be a game-changer for those healing from co-dependency and toxic relationships. For Latter-day Saint and Evangelical Christians seeking guidance, the concept, introduced by Gary Chapman, becomes even more profound

This post about the five love languages as a tool for healing from toxic and co-dependent relationships, family dysfunction, and addiction is for information and education only. It isn’t meant to diagnose or provide therapy. It’s highly recommended that individuals seek professional counseling. Speak with your pastor, priest, or bishop. Establish care through professional therapy and mental…

For years now, trying to find information and help while coming out of the fog of being a decades long target of a covert psychological abuser, I was bombarded with the idea of my co-dependency "issues". Carrying so much guilt and shame of yet another thing that was wrong with me.

I will be spending quite a few posts tearing apart the myth that targets of intimate partner abuse are co-dependent. I am hoping to spend enough focus on it to completely solidify tis idea in my head, letting go of on more victim-blaming concept that I have been encouraged to internalize.

Today I am sharing a bit from an article that has really helped me:

The first part of the article is absolutely profound:

"Having been in the intimate partner abuse field for over two decades, I continue to be shocked that there’s still confusion about identifying abused women as codependent among the professionals committed to helping them. To see an abused woman as codependent is tantamount to blaming her for the abuse she receives. Such a judgment by a professional she turns to for support leaves her feeling alone, misunderstood, and without the right help for her to make a positive change in her life."

Yes, yes, yes!!!! This is exactly what I have experienced. So-called professionals pointing out my co-dependency only kept me in the fog, giving me yet another load of what was wrong with me, leading me to believe that it was my weakness that was keeping me trapped.

Part 3:

When Tobirama awoke all he felt was pain.

It was not uncommon for him to wake up in pain but it had gotten more infrequent in the last years of his life and he hadn't felt anything physical in his edo teinsei body.

So to say he was surprised might have been a slight exageration but only a slight.

He kept his breathing neutral and his eyes closed before thying to expand his senses and his chakra.

A deep piercing pain ripped throu him. the one one only feels when gone over the limit of having already been chakra exaustion.

he couldn't keep his pained cry inside and decided if where ever he was there were enemies, than they would already know now that he was awake and opened his eyes.

to open his eyes had been a mistake. he felt the hot sensation of light on his so sensitive eyes, that the seals on his face should have countered, and prompty started tearing up. an mechanism of his eyes to keep themselves protected that didn't really do anything.

then there appeared the face of a young child that he didn't know in his vision hushing him.

then there were giant hand lifting him up. he sees grey eyes and white hair, feels warmth envelop him. then his body gives out on him and the world proplty fades to blissful darkness.

The next time tobirama wakes he feels more rational. he finds out that madara's insane, what was new, plan and his seals apperently worked and he really was in the part. In the body of an infant. tobirama hates it.

the woman he saw was apperently his mother and the boy he guessed must be hashirama then.

the image of madara contoling that uchiha boy with a genjutsu to use his amaterasu to destroy the kage flashes before his eyes before he forefully surpresses it. this was not he time and he already had time to mourn them all.

at that moment his body remind's him that he is in the body of an infant and can't control his bodily fluids. gods he hates being an infant.

he spends a lot of his first year with doctors because of his bad eyes and a lot of his second and third relearing how to contoll and use his body.

during his second year back itama is born and tobirama spends the first week with hashirama at itama's side.

when he becomes four his training starts.

he is still four when the assasination of Uchiha Terumi, that he knows to have succeded, fails and his suspicion's that madara, too, has returned. He thinks it is a good thing that he can be by madara's side again soon, even if he doesn't need it as much with his family with him. but he still has the days where all he felt was the chakra of everything in one giantic globe that burned his senses. the reliev when he finally could feel something, anything other than that. how it hadn't mattered that it was madara as long as he was there. He isn't sure however. What if madara was still an insane monster, he scoffs at himself - what right has a demon to criticise a monster, or what if he hadn't returned and it was just a coincidene. He thinks if it were the former madara would be saner, now that he had his siblings. he doesn't know what to do if it were the latter.

like the last time, he focuses all his attention in being the most possible usefull tool for his father so that he won't have as big a need of hashirama. his assasination missions and other missions in the shadows begin when he's five.

when hashirama is ten and tobirama return blodied from a mission he grows a giantic tree, where the entrance to the west wing was in his anger.

their fathers attention is now more then ever on them and they don't have the time to stay at kawarama's side when he's born.

He is on his way to a mission in the and of iron, when he feels madara's chakra, weaker than he can remember him being at this time, not 10 kilometers from him.

He decides to take his chances and to see if this was really his madara, goes to where he knows madara will be in half an hour and readies his seals.

He knows that it doesn't matter if madara is weakened, he was stronger than him, even this young. and if he was wrong in his guess and this wasn't his madara he would most likely kill him or take him hostage. there was the chance that his madara would also do so but he was going to try. He also has the element of surprise on his side and experience in trapping so he's fairly sure in his succes. he prepares for defeat anyways.

In the end it's easier than he expected. madara's chakra levels were lower than expexted, so he didn't use his sensing and the seal tobirama created years ago for such occasions worked, like always, pefectly.

deciding to not reveal his identity in case he was wrong and to just go for it tobirama ask's him from a shadow - not behind, never from behind - what madara's opinion on zetsu was.

the immidiate lessening in the tension let tobirama all know what he needed to. the angry "tobirama?" that followed only proved it.

(Wow my writing get’s more like a story with every part i write lol.

No Idea when part 4 will be there. Maybe tomorrow? No Idea but for today I’m done with this au that now has a name btw: of a demon and a monster. what do you guys think?)