#“this is nothing to me” but about fuckin. everything

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Stay with me." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

@fluffy-dixon: I have a request for you ❤️ The reader is afraid of the dark, genuinely terrified but has learnt how to deal with it somewhat but something switches and they borderline have a melt down about it and Daryl is the one that finds out. Take it where you want, I know I'll love it but I thought it was a cool idea.

A/N: Hi, love! Thank you sooo much for your request. It was so fun to write so I really hope you like it. I changed it a little bit and added Merle being a good brother-in-law haha while being an idiot too. There is something hot about Daryl as your husband so here it is!

You are laying down sideways on the bed inside your cell, the warm colors of the candle flame on the small table fluttering softly on a silent night. The light fights against the darkness, wrapping you in a pleasant warmth. But when old terrors try to loom over you like the shadows in the small room, you try to focus on the small fire: every night as the sun comes down, you try to convince yourself that everything would be fine, but there are sometimes when your fears make you feel blind, like being trapped in a windowless world, drowning you in the absolute darkness.

However, in the midst of the infinite night, the door opens and closes, and his strong but serene presence comes in with him.

“Can’t sleep yet?” Daryl’s voice is a low and hoarse whisper as he takes off his vest and his shirt, kicking his boots off next to lay on the bed next to you, using his right arm as a pillow, the other one finding the soft skin beneath your t-shirt. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

He is around all the time, but you learned to heal your own wounds just so as not worry him.

“It’s nothing. I just can’t sleep.”

Daryl looks at you with his usual calm expression, but you can feel him getting worried behind his gaze.

“Ya sure? Ya can tell me.”

His unnecessary concern makes you smile a little, because behind his tough personality, it is hiding the man who always talk soft to you, who tries to protect you even from a simple nightmare. Some things are impossible for him to control, but for things he can, Daryl was always there for you.

But when your right hand makes contact with his cheek, so soft and intimate, it makes him lean to your touch.

“You are such a sweetheart.” You tease, making Daryl growl low in disagreement, but he uses his own hand to keep yours on his cheek, loving how warm it feels.

Daryl didn’t know how to be the man who gave flowers and chocolates; he never was that kind of man, but he was always a loving husband in his own way.

“I ain’t a sweetheart, peach…” His parted lips capture your wrist, in a hot way as he goes down a little bit, kissing your skin using his hot tongue. You find yourself licking your own lip, looking at him as he finishes his little game. “But I do love ya so fuckin’ much.”

You chuckle looking at his playful eyes as he comes closer to you, kissing you in the same way he kissed your hand. Being married to him was not a romantic novel, but it was kind of perfect, in its own little way.

However, the complete darkness in that abandoned house makes you walk blindly. The run that had to be simple had gone wrong. But like a never-ending tale of terror, you walk and walk without reaching the exit, without being able to walk into the light you can’t see.

Suddenly, the tears on your face are burning your skin when you wake up, and your worst fear catches you like a cage. Your hands cover your face because you don’t want to see the abyss that darkness leaves, although it is not really there because of the light from the endless flame of the big and thick candle.

After a moment, you can finally hear Daryl’s voice.

“Hey. S’okay, sweetheart…” Using his elbow as a support, Daryl keeps repeating that everything is fine as he strokes your belly under the blanket, giving you the time to calm down. “It was jus’ a nightmare. Okay?”

It feels like you are drowning, but you use your hands to wipe your tears away, and when you drop your arms, Daryl uses his thumb to gently slide it over your skin one last time to make sure there are no more trace of sadness in you.

“It ain’t matter what it is, peach, it ain’t real.”

You lay down sideways, closing your eyes.

“It felt real.”

Laying back down, Daryl slips his arm around your body as he strokes your back.

“Wanna tell me?”

Putting that fear you think you were overcoming in his head isn't a good idea.

“You don’t need to hear it. It’s nothing really.”

Daryl nods, not wanting to push you to talk when you are not ready, so he just holds you tight, resting his forehead against yours.

“Okay. But I’m right here with ya in case ya need anythin’. I won’t leave ya. Ya heard me?”

“Yes. Thank you.” You say softly, and Daryl smiles slightly even through his own concern.

“That’s ma girl.”

But come on, marriages are not perfect.

The moment Daryl enters the prison that night; you stay behind just for a short moment before sinking into the solitude of your cell. The world is so big in the outside, but it feels so little on the inside, almost suffocating, like a hand around your throat. However, when you take the first step into the prison’s dining room, the image in front of you is like a new way of breathtaking. It is not the first time Daryl holds baby Judith, but it is the first time he actually feeds her as some people of the group gathers around. And he is all smiley, loving the idea of having a baby even when in the beginning he was not founding to the idea of having kids.

But when you see Merle smirking from the other door, the one that connects the dining room to the cell blocks, you want to punch his stupid face as you walk pass him.

“Are yer ovaries startin’ to itch for a baby, honey?” He chuckles, following you to your cell.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Hey, ya kiss ma baby brother with that mouth?” He laughs. You have a love-hate relationship with your brother in law: he was an asshole in the old world, an asshole in the new one as well, but when his hand holds yours to stop you, you can see his worried expression when you turn around, even though you were actually ready to punch him. “Ya okay, darlin’? I was jus’ messin’ with ya. Ya know it, right?”

You sigh.

“Yeah… I know. And I’m okay, thank you.”

It is the same old lie you told everyone. But they asked if you were okay because they were kind, or because they really wanted to hear the long monologue of the no, I’m not okay?

“Ya ain’t lookin’ okay. Somethin’ happened with ma idiot brother?”

“Actually… I always thought you were the idiot in that weird relationship you two had, but hey… what do I know, right?” You chuckle, making him roll his eyes. “We are okay… or something like that, it’s just…”

You look away for a moment, and he breathes out a little laugh, but his blue eyes keep looking at you as he discovers the truth in your shy gaze.

“Shit. S’happenin’ again.”

You gulp, looking back at him.

“I don’t get it.”

Merle sighs, but that condescending expression he always used with everyone turns into a soft one he only had with you.

“That thing ya have with darkness.”

“I…” Merle was the only one who knew about that, but it only happened because during the weeks that Daryl spent working nights and you slept with the lamp on, he accused you of wasting electricity in the apartment you all lived, even when it was you and Daryl who actually paid the bills. Merle was an asshole 99% of the time, but he also was the person who told you that you should tell your husband about it, although you lied telling him Daryl already knew about that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you jerk.”

You turn, heading towards your cell, missing out the way Merle shakes his head before he starts walking towards the patio. The once quiet night now fills with the heavy growls of walkers on the other side of the fence, but he ignores them as Merle sits next to his brother at that old desk.

Daryl is smoking, without paying attention to Merle until he speaks.

“I can see ya’re being a son of a bitch again while yer wife is being a pain in the ass.”

Daryl frowns, not understanding the reference.

“What the fuck are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Merle chuckles.

“S’a quote from that stupid and girly movie (Y/N) made us watch once. The school book or some shit like that.”

“It was the notebook, ya dickhead.”

Merle laughs with sarcasm.

“S’the same shit.”

"Ummh." Daryl lets out smoke from his cigar before speaking again. “We’re fine, we jus’ had a small fight.”

Merle nods, thoughtful.

“’bout what? Ya started talkin’ shit again and she was ‘bout to kick yer sorry ass?”

Daryl looks away for a moment, internally debating whether sharing his thoughts with his brother is the right thing to do.

“S’not of yer business.”

Merle rolls his eyes, hating that Daryl and you are acting like assholes. Funny, isn’t it?

“Suit yerself. I’ll leave alone so ya can share yer fears to the moon like a damn baby.” He laughs, but then, Merle stops, realizing something. “Ya got more candles for (Y/N). Right?”

Daryl frowns, again.

“What?”

“Yeah. We ran out of ‘em and I see that she's become afraid of the dark again.”

Daryl is speechless for a moment.

“What do ya mean again?”

“Shit. (Y/N) told me ya knew.” Merle clears his throat, but now that your secret had been exposed because of him, he already could hear the insults coming. “She’s afraid of the dark, brother, terrified ‘cause the son of a bitch of her dad used to punish her with it when she was a child. She has been fine for years but it seems like her trauma kicks in every now and then.”

In a second that feels eternal for Daryl, he leaves his brother behind as he runs inside the prison, dropping the cigar, cursing under his breath for not know it sooner. He was angry because you never told him that, but in his way there, he tries to understand your reasons when he had his own demons hiding in the shadows. The difference was that Daryl was no longer afraid of the shadows since he met you.

But the moment he finds you sitting on the floor, knees against your chest and your hands covering your eyes, Daryl can hear your rapid and heavy breathing.

“Peach, hey, I’m here, sweetheart.” He sits on the floor too, taking you in his arms. “S’okay, ya’re okay.”

“I’m okay, I’m okay… I just need a minute. I promise.” You say, soft but unsecure words you try to hear to convince yourself you are going to be fine. One of his hands holds your head against his chest, but his heart is beating so fast and so loud you can hear it clearly. “You’re fine, Daryl, you’re fine, I promise.”

And amidst the turbulent fears he harbors, Daryl finds the strength to chuckle, a somewhat incredulous little laugh as he attempts to meet your gaze.

“Ya’re really worry ‘bout me right now?” He rests his forehead against yours, again, breathing fast because the mere thought of seeing you in pain made him feel like a scared child. But Daryl is trying not to love that much the way you always worry about him. “I think I was a fuckin' saint in other life to have found ya in this one, ma love. I really am one lucky bastard.”

Daryl always had pet names for you, but that was the first time he called you my love, and it was so funny and sweet that it makes you smile a little bit through your tears.

“Ya’re holdin’ a lot inside of ya, sweetheart, but ya can always lean on me. We got this, okay?”

You nod softly, because that is the first time when the word we don’t feel like you are bringing someone else down with you, and there, you want to believe, to trust that life wouldn’t look so dark from now on.

[rambleonwaywardson]

First Christmas

A Clegan Astronaut AU One Shot

Summary: Takes place ~15 years before To the Moon and Back, at the very start of Gale and John's life together. It's the end of their first semester of college, and they're leaving for winter break. John takes Gale home with him for Christmas.

Author's Note: I have no concept of if I'll ever write a prequel or if anything pre-TTMAB will be confined to little one shots like this. But here's a small something. Happy holidays ❤

---

“Fuckin’ finally!” Bucky sighs dramatically as he tosses a suitcase onto the bed. Gale’s bed, actually, since his is the lower bunk in their too-small-for-two-grown-men dorm room. With little to no rhyme or reason, Bucky starts pulling clothes out of his small dresser and even smaller closet – jeans and sweatshirts and sweaters and mismatched socks. He tosses them into or around the suitcase in a haphazard way that would never lead a single person to believe that he was in ROTC. 

It’s the end of their very first finals week, and John and Gale both have just stumbled back into their dorm room after a hell of a physics exam. No final, they have decided, under any circumstances, should be scheduled for 4-6pm. Especially not one as hard hitting as fucking physics. First year engineering students are exhausted enough as it is – it’s cruel and unusual punishment to expect them to perform well under these circumstances.

They don’t call it a weed-out class for nothing.

“My brain is mush,” Bucky complains. “I don’t think I was even readin’ right by the end of that exam. None of the numbers made sense anymore. Hell, I could barely remember the kinematics equations. I’m sure you were just fine. Me? Let’s just… hope and pray I even make a passing grade.”

Bucky pauses long enough to glance over at Gale, who’s sitting casually in his desk chair, twisted around with his elbow propped on the back and his chin in his hand as he watches the spectacle that is his roommate. He kind of smiles tiredly at Bucky and shrugs, and that’s all Bucky needs to go on. He knows he’s right. No doubt Gale barely batted an eye at the questions that had Bucky drumming his fingers on the too-small lecture hall desk in a panic. 

“What’s done is done,” Bucky says, shoving clothes into the suitcase with zero organization. It almost makes Gale physically wince. Like most teenage boys, he’s not always the most organized guy in the world himself, but there’s something to be said for keeping some semblance of tidiness. That, and his father raised him like a military man. Clean room, neat corners, smooth fabrics… He has half a mind to shove Bucky over and pack for him, save his nicer shirts from the criss-crossed creases that are sure to form the way they are now. He also wonders if he should bother telling Bucky that he actually found the exam hard, too. Would that comfort him or would he think Gale was just trying to make him feel better?

Bucky doesn’t notice Gale’s general air of consternation. He’s too busy trying to move on, move forward with his life, get away from here. Gale tries not to take it personally. Just because he has nowhere to go doesn’t mean Bucky can’t be eager to leave for break, like every other student on campus. 

“God, I can’t wait to get outta here,” Bucky says, like he’s read Gale’s mind. He really should’ve packed last night like Gale urged him to, instead of waiting until the very last minute and just hoping he remembers everything he needs, but he was too hyper-focused on trying not to fail the exam today. “Gonna see my dog, my family. Eat a real home-cooked meal.” He stops his frantic packing and looks up at the ceiling, inhaling as if he can smell Christmas dinner or a batch of snickerdoodle cookies. “Five weeks of not having to think about any of this. Can’t fuckin’ wait, Buck.”

Bucky steps back over to his dresser and grabs some underwear, which he dumps into the suitcase, and then his hands freeze. He looks over at Gale, squinting. His roommate is still sitting at his desk, which is adorned with books and notes, a model plane, a small model of the solar system. He’s a little more slumped now, eyes trained on the floor. Bucky stares at him for a while without him noticing. 

Bucky realizes that, even though he urged Bucky to pack, Gale hasn’t made any move to pull out a suitcase of his own. Hasn’t set out any neatly folded clothes to stow away for a trip home. He hasn’t expressed any relief to be leaving this college town, to be heading back to his family, or to anyone at all. 

He thinks about the very little Gale has ever talked about his family. Small anecdotes here and there. His mother is gone, Bucky knows. No siblings, just his best friend Marge. He doesn’t talk much about his dad. He wonders if Gale even has a dog. 

“Hey.”

Gale looks up, blinking away some deep thought that he masks behind an arched eyebrow and tired but curious eyes. He motions to Bucky’s suitcase. “Your clothes are gonna get all wrinkled like that.”

Bucky glances at his scrambled luggage, scrunches his brow, decides it doesn’t matter, and he looks back at Gale. He doesn’t really know how to ask this delicately. Delicacy has never been part of the John Egan repertoire of charm. Neither has subtlety. He frowns and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“You, uh… you’re not goin’ home are ya Buck?”

Gale shakes his head quietly. “Don’t got much of a home to go to.” His voice shakes a little, like he doesn’t want to be saying this, like he’s embarrassed to admit it. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a wry smile as he looks at the floor again, and Bucky catches the incorrect grammar, the little slip into a western drawl that he’s learning only comes out when Gale is stressed or upset or really fuckin’ tired.

“Why didn’t ya say?”

Gale shrugs and kicks his shoes off, leaving him in socked feet, a final, decisive move that confirms it: he’s not going anywhere. 

Bucky leans against the post of their bunk bed, crossing his arms. “So, what? You’re stayin’ here? Alone?” Bucky can’t stand the idea of staying on this campus when it’s a ghost town, none of their friends around and limited access to the dining halls. He can’t stand the idea of staying here for any longer than he has to.

But he has somewhere to go.

Gale nods. “Yep. Got the approval and all.”

“No,” Bucky finds himself saying. He doesn’t even take a second to think about it.

Gale almost scoffs. “Don’t got much choice, John.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You can’t stay here alone, Gale. I won’t let you do that.”

“S’not a big deal.” Gale turns away, towards his desk. Too deliberately, he starts peeling sticky notes of definitions and physics diagrams off the wall. The result of hours and hours of studying. 

“What do you mean it’s not a big deal?” Bucky pushes. He marches across the room – two whole steps across their tiny dorm – so he’s standing beside Gale’s desk, close enough to be in his line of sight again. He reaches out and puts a hand on Gale’s, stopping him from unnecessarily shuffling his notebooks around his desk.

Gale freezes. “I’ll be fine,” he whispers, his eyes locked on their hands. He doesn’t really mind the idea of being alone on campus. It’ll be quiet, peaceful. He can catch a bus to the grocery store or the movie theater or head downtown. He can read and study and keep up with his exercise regimen. Go for walks around campus. Really, it’s fine… He’d rather be here, after all, than spend five weeks in the same house as his father. He’ll miss Marge, sure. But she’ll forgive him. She wouldn’t want him to go home either. 

“Gale.”

“It’s fine, John.”

They sit in a tense silence, Bucky hardly aware he’s still holding Gale’s hand and Gale hyper-aware of it. Bucky’s fingers are warm compared to his. They’re softer than he’d expect. He likes the contact. It sends something fluttery through him. 

“Come with me.”

Gale’s eyes shoot up to Bucky’s. “What?”

Bucky nods, squeezing Gale’s hand tighter. “Come with me! You can- you can just come home with me. Mom will take good care of you, and we can just relax and have fun for a few weeks. Buck…” Bucky sighs. He smiles, and Gale doesn’t quite like the look of sad pity hidden behind it, but it’s sweet enough to make his heart beat too fast anyway. “You can’t be alone for Christmas. Please.”

“I-I couldn’t.”

“No one will mind. They’ll love you more than me, even. Adopt you like another son.”

Gale looks again at Bucky’s suitcase. His chest swells with the idea of spending Christmas with a family. With John. With people who don’t smack him around if he burns the pancakes or asks the wrong questions or sleeps in too long. 

Bucky grins and ruffles Gale’s hair. “Yep. You’re comin’. Come on, we leave in an hour. Get your suitcase out.”

— 

Gale doesn’t cry the first time he walks through the front door of the Egan household. It’s a stereotypical farmhouse, with a simple but lovely exterior, a stone front walk, and a fresh Christmas wreath hanging on the front door. There’s a dog watching them through the window, and, not for the first time, Gale wonders about the difference between a house and a home. He shuffles in, shy and awkward, behind a boisterous Bucky, who flings the door open and loudly calls out “we’re here!” with such a lack of decorum that it makes Gale flinch, his brain still wired to the house in Wyoming. 

“Hi honey!” A light voice drifts through the house, and it’s not unlike Gale’s mother’s voice. The way he remembers it, at least. 

That, combined with the smell of cookies baking in the kitchen, shoves a lost memory to the surface of tugging on his mother’s skirt until she offered him a spoon of raw cookie dough. It has him so taken aback that he doesn’t notice the dog running at him until it’s too late. He nearly gets knocked off his feet by the force of two big golden paws colliding with his torso, causing him to stumble back a step, wide eyed. 

“Down boy!” Bucky reprimands, but he’s laughing, his commands futile. “That’s Buzz. He likes people.”

Gale can’t help but smile despite his nerves, and he kneels down to the dog’s level, scratching his ears and letting Buzz lick his face. He manages to just barely keep his balance against the way the golden retriever surges toward him. “Buzz Aldrin?” He asks, trying to avoid the dog’s tongue as he glances at Bucky, and he can’t quite understand the look in his roommate’s eye. 

“Finally!” Bucky says. “Someone who understands that it isn’t Buzz Lightyear.” Then he yells out, “Ma?”

A short middle-aged woman comes frantically around the corner, and Gale shoots to his feet, trying to smooth out his sweater and jeans again. He tries to remind himself to hold his head high, shoulders straight, make a good impression.

Without even a second thought, though, the woman bypasses her own son, her eyes landing right on Gale. No appraisal, no critical eye toward what he’s wearing or if his hair is too shaggy. She just beams at him, reaching her hands out to immediately pull him into a hug. “You must be Gale.”

Gale awkwardly returns the hug. “Yes ma’am.”

He does not cry at the feeling of a warm, motherly figure who smells like cookies wrapping him in her arms. 

When she steps back, she rests her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arm's length. It seems a little awkward with how tall Gale is, even if Bucky won’t let him forget the small size difference between them. He finds it amusing how, with Bucky being even two inches taller than he is, his mother can’t surpass 5 foot 4. But Mrs. Egan doesn’t seem to mind, and Gale wonders how often she does this to her own son.

She looks him up and down, studying him, and Gale tries not to feel too embarrassed or nervous. Stand up straight, he reminds himself. He’s military after all. It shouldn’t be hard. He braces for some critique, some conclusion that he isn’t good enough. For what, he isn’t sure. To be here, perhaps. But it doesn’t come. 

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” Mrs. Egan gushes instead, shaking her head fondly. She lifts one hand even higher to cup his cheek, and Gale raises an eyebrow, letting himself smile back at her. 

“Thank you?”

“Ma, you’re embarrassing him,” Bucky groans. He’s never seen Gale blush so much.

She shoots a glare over at him before looking back at Gale. She squeezes his shoulder gently. “We are just thrilled to have you,” she says. “John talks about you all the time, you know.”

“Oh,” Gale says. He looks over at Bucky, who is rubbing a hand over his eyes in exasperation. Gale’s smile gets a little wider, a little less meek. “Thank you so much for letting me join you for the holidays,” he tells Mrs. Egan. “It means a lot.”

Bucky’s mom gives him another quick hug before turning her attention to her son, hugging him tight and bombarding him with questions about school that Bucky insistently avoids, saying they can talk about everything later, after he helps Gale settle in.

—

Gale doesn’t cry over the way the Egans move mountains to make sure he feels comfortable and welcome in their home. 

They set him up in the guest bedroom, which is just one door down from Bucky’s room, which is not unlike his half of their dorm room with the exception of several more remnants of a happy childhood. Bucky’s bedroom is adorned with space travel posters and baseball posters, and Gale can even see where some are missing – the ones Bucky chose to take with him to college. There are little gold baseball trophies lining a bookshelf in the corner, and a photo of him and a couple of his teammates in high school, boyish grins on their faces and sweat soaking through their hats, fresh off a championship win. 

Gale wanders around the room when Bucky leads him inside, inspecting the trophies and the photographs. There’s a lego set of the Saturn V rocket, glow in the dark stars pasted to the ceiling, stacks of books about history and science and adventure strewn around the bed and the desk. All the little pieces of John Clarence Egan, a whirlwind force of nature with his eyes on the unknown. 

There’s a dog bed on the floor for Buzz, but the dog takes to jumping up on the bed in the guest room instead, keeping Gale company every night. 

Bucky wonders what it is about dogs that help them know which people need a little extra love.

Gale marvels at the fact that even the guest bedroom feels homey and cared about. The queen sized bed is the biggest bed he’s ever slept in, with a nice mattress, a selection of pillows, and warm blankets. There are original paintings hung along the walls, beautiful images of the forest and the lake and countryside done by some mysterious artist. There are family photos framed on a bookshelf which is filled with an assortment of books, from science to romance and everything in between. There’s even a string of Christmas lights strung around the room, which Bucky turns on for Gale, looking all giddy about it.

Gale doesn’t cry over how Bucky is patient and kind in a way that isn’t exactly unexpected but also isn’t exactly expected. He lets Gale cling to him, whether it’s sitting down for dinner with the family or hiking through a snow-dusted countryside to watch the sun set or sitting sprawled out on the living room couch with a couple of good books and mugs of hot chocolate. Bucky asks Gale if he needs any extra blankets, and he’s gathering them up from the closet before Gale can even answer. He asks Gale what he likes to eat for breakfast, and the next morning Gale’s favorite cereal is in the pantry and there’s even some fresh pastries – which Gale never would have dreamed of asking for – sitting on the counter. Bucky asks Gale if there’s anything he wants to read, and the next day the book he sheepishly mentioned has appeared on the coffee table. 

He brags about Gale to his parents, telling them all about how smart he is and how much he’s helped Bucky this semester. He tells them about how Gale is already excelling in the toughest major in the school all while impressing everyone in ROTC, keeping Bucky in line, and being a humble, easy going guy to boot. 

Gale doesn’t cry when Mr. Egan expresses genuine interest in all of his astronomy and physics knowledge at the dinner table. Gale’s own father always wanted him to be a pilot. He never cared much for the rest of it.

He thought academics made his son too soft. 

Mr. Egan tells Gale it’ll make him unstoppable. 

—

Gale doesn’t cry when he accidentally drops a glass of water in the Egans’ kitchen, sending it shattering across the tile floor in a splash of crystal constellations. He comes damn close, a hot wave of panic rising in his chest at the same time that biting pain blossoms across his skin. His cheeks heat up as he blinks rapidly and tries to figure out how to go about cleaning up this mess all the while bracing for some kind of punishment. And those tears sure come close to actually falling when Mrs. Egan whisks into the kitchen with worry all over her face, wanting to know what the racket was. When she sees the mess, she reaches for Gale. Gale winces, closing his eyes, but all he gets is a firm, guiding hand on his shoulder, accompanied by a gentle voice. “Oh honey, you’re bleeding.”

Gale blinks his eyes open, the tension on his face beginning to drop away as he looks down and realizes all of a sudden that his feet are bare. He doesn’t remember his feet being bare. He vaguely wonders if the red on his pale skin is associated with the stinging feeling in his foot, radiating up to his ankle. 

“Don’t move quite yet,” Mrs. Egan says. Her hands are still on the sides of his arms, keeping him standing in one place. “Don’t want you stepping on any sharp bits.” She turns as John comes rushing around the corner. “Johnny, can you get Gale some shoes to-“

Before she can even finish, Bucky, clad in old ragged Converse himself, marches right up to Gale, flakes of glass crunching under foot, and plucks him out of the center of the debris. Just picks him up in the air like he weighs no more than a feather before marching him to the kitchen entryway and plopping him down. Gale stares at him in shock, his brain not quite catching up with everything that just happened. 

“I’ll get the vacuum,” Bucky says to his mother, but he’s looking at Gale as he says it, some sort of mischievous little smile on his face, and Gale feels his cheeks turning pink again. 

When Bucky leaves the kitchen in search of the vacuum, Gale tries to step away from the wall he’s been placed next to, holding a hand out toward Bucky’s mother. “Mrs. Egan, I can clean-”

“Nonsense.” She waves her hand dismissively, then looks down at his feet, still bare. “You stay right there until John comes back with the vacuum.”

“I’m so sorry about the glass. I didn’t mean-”

“Gale, darling. I don’t give a damn about the glass.” She steps over to him and clasps one of his hands between both of hers. He doesn’t cry at how genuine and concerned she looks. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up and make sure you don’t need any stitches.”

—

Gale doesn’t cry when, on Christmas morning, as all the presents under the tree are being handed out, there’s a few with his name on them. He, John, and Mr. and Mrs. Egan are gathered in the living room, all still in their pajamas. Even Buzz, who can’t seem to sit still and has been making rounds around the room with his tail wagging, has a green and red Christmas bandana around his neck. He keeps stopping to look at the stockings above the fireplace, where he has his very own, filled with dog treats that he has to wait until the end to get. 

Bucky, who is passing out the gifts from under the tree, is wearing a Santa hat along with his gray sweatpants and blue Yankees sweatshirt. Gale laughs a little bit every time Bucky makes any sudden move and causes the pom pom on the end of the hat to whip around. Bucky tried to put it on Gale, but was adamantly shoved away. It looks far better on him anyway.

Gale, in green and gray flannel pants and a dark gray university sweatshirt, is sitting on the floor beside the Christmas tree, where Bucky said he himself usually sits. He tries not to ask for the third time if Bucky is sure he doesn’t want any help. Having found himself increasingly comfortable with the Egans over the last week, he instead scratches Buzz behind the ears and laughs as Mr. Egan sings along to the Christmas music playing on the radio. He doesn’t really know what he expected out of this morning – being included is enough; being with a family on the biggest holiday of the year is enough.

So when, once all of the gifts have been passed out, Bucky stands in front of Gale with a stack of wrapped boxes, Gale just blinks dumbly up at him. When Bucky insistently shoves the collection of gifts at him, Gale looks around the room, then starts to shake his head in confusion as his hand falls away from Buzz’s soft fur. “A-Are these for me?” he asks, genuinely confused as he takes the small stack from Bucky and stares down at the name tag on the top package. 

“That’s your name ain’t it?” Bucky teases. He takes his seat between Gale and the tree, where he’s amassed his own collection of presents.

Gale nods and looks over at him, eyebrow raised. Bucky tilts his head toward his parents, who are sitting cuddled up on the couch, watching with kind smiles on their faces.

“Couldn’t leave you with nothin’ to open on Christmas morning,” Mr. Egan insists. “You’re family, now.”

Gale swallows thickly, tracing his finger over his name, written in neat script. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he’s worried it didn’t come out at all.

“Well you better open one,” Bucky laughs. He’s sitting so close their shoulders nearly brush. “Youngest goes first.”

Gale tears into the pretty red and white wrapping paper of the first gift. He feels his heart beat too fast in a terrifying but exhilarating way as he peels back the paper, revealing a beautiful, hardcover edition of A Brief History of Time, complete with illustrations. It’s the exact type of book that he would have stared at longingly in a bookstore, knowing he’d probably never have it. He looks up at John’s parents, who are watching him eagerly, and he doesn’t cry at the joy on their faces or the kindness of the gesture. “This is amazing,” he tells them. “Thank you so much.”

He’s so taken with the book, staring down at it and running his fingers gently along its spine, that he barely registers the new video game John gets, or Mr. Egan’s new sweater, or Mrs. Egan’s new romance book. It’s only when they circle back to him, Bucky shoving another gift into his hands, that he really comes back to himself, and he wonders what he did to deserve such kindness.

By the time they’re on their final gifts – Gale had been told to save a specific one for last – Mrs. Egan stops him and Bucky before they can start unwrapping. “Now, Gale, we have a tradition,” she explains. She points to the Christmas tree. “Every year, we each get a new Christmas ornament, and we hang them on the tree. There are ornaments up there from almost every year of John’s life.”

Gale looks at John, then back at the tree. This piece of knowledge runs through his head again, and again, and his eyes fall back to the last little box, wrapped in silver snowflakes. He blinks at it. “Is this-”

Gale almost flinches when Bucky’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but he doesn’t. The touch has become familiar. He knows it’s safe. “We got you one, too,” Bucky whispers, and Gale nods.

Bucky slowly unwraps his own ornament, and Gale starts to follow his lead. He watches Bucky pull out a little astronaut with a gold visor, sitting on a crescent moon. And oh so carefully, Gale’s fingers loop through a gold string, and he lifts out a matching astronaut, this one with a blue visor, sitting on a crescent moon of its own.

“Would you look at that.” Bucky grins, and he bumps Gale’s shoulder as they hold their ornaments up beside each other.

“Thank you,” Gale finds himself saying again, and he wonders if his voice sounds thick to anyone else. He doesn’t even comprehend the fact that he’s standing up, stepping over to Mrs. Egan. She readily accepts his hug, though, and she lets him cling on, the astronaut resting against the back of her shoulder where it’s clutched in his hand. 

He and Bucky hang their ornaments side by side, two little astronauts shooting for the moon.

—

Gale doesn’t cry later that morning, when Mrs. Egan places a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him and tells him that John mentioned those were his favorite.

He doesn’t cry that afternoon, when Mr. Egan asks to take a look at that book, or when Mrs. Egan asks if he wants to help her with the final batch of Christmas cookies, or when Bucky tries to teach him how to play his new video game.

He doesn’t cry when they ask if he wants to watch a Christmas movie with them, and he finds himself curled up on the couch munching on a cookie with Bucky’s head on his shoulder and Buzz splayed across his lap.

He doesn’t cry at dinner, when Mr. Egan includes him in his prayer, asking the lord to watch out for both of “their” boys.

He doesn’t cry when Mrs. Egan says goodnight to them both late on December 25th, gently kissing the top of Bucky’s head, and then doing the same to Gale.

He holds it together pretty well, he thinks. He laughs, and he finds himself smiling, a warm feeling trying its best to settle in his chest as the good and the bad memories go to war with the perfect reality he’s been met with today. He pushes down the lump in his throat and lets himself, just for a little bit, feel loved and cared for and protected. He loves them all back. He lets himself act like he could be a part of the family, even if he doesn’t quite believe it.

—

Late on Christmas night, after his parents have gone to bed, Bucky steps quietly into the hall and creeps toward the guest room like a child up past his bedtime. He knocks on the door with one knuckle, listening closely.

“Come in.” Gale’s soft voice sounds off, a little uneven. Bucky frowns as he turns the knob and pushes the door open.

Gale is curled up at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard with his knees pulled to his chest, his pillow laid neatly on top of the one beside him. Buzz, having officially traded Bucky in for Buck, is sprawled on his side with his head resting on Gale’s bare foot, right over the bandage from the water glass incident yesterday. The lights are off, and Gale is staring up at the colorful Christmas lights lining the room, as if it’s a sky full of stars.

“Buck?”

“Mmm?”

Bucky walks around to the side of the bed. It’s only when he gets close that he really notices: Gale’s been crying. His eyes are red, his cheeks flushed, his hair messy. When he lifts a hand to rub at his face, Bucky notices that he has the sleeves of his shirt wrapped around his fists, wet spots marking the fabric. 

What’s wrong? Bucky wants to ask. Are you okay? Why are you crying? Did I do something? Do you need anything?

He doesn’t ask any of those questions. 

He shoves the pillows down next to the dog and climbs into the bed, settling back against the headboard so close to Gale that their shoulders touch, his legs crossed in front of him. Buzz stretches his head forward to lick his knee, and he reaches out to stroke the dog’s head in return. 

“He reminds me of my dog,” Gale says. “He was a mutt, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Dunno if I’ll ever see him again.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. Neither of them are looking at each other, both of their eyes trained on Buzz. “Why not?”

Gale takes a deep, sharp breath as his whole body tenses, and Bucky worries it was the wrong thing to say. They sit in silence as the seconds tick by. “I haven’t had a Christmas this nice since Mama died…” Gale finally says, something like nostalgia, or maybe resignation twisting through his voice. Sometimes, the line between those two is quite thin. “Well. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a Christmas this nice.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. What is he supposed to say? He thinks he’s put enough pieces together over the last few months to understand a bit about his roommate’s home life since his mom died, but Gale’s never said a thing about it out loud. 

Gale shrugs uncomfortably in response to Bucky’s silent question, which hangs in the air between them without any words being spoken at all. “Dad wasn’t a… well… I-I guess…” His breath shakes. Bucky presses closer against Gale’s side, wrapping an arm over his shoulders. Gale sinks his weight into the hold, and Bucky finally looks directly at him when he hears quiet sniffling, feels Gale’s fingers latch onto the front of his shirt. 

“I don’t plan to ever go home again,” Gale says quietly. His face twists into something angry and sad, but he fights against the expression like he doesn’t want Bucky to see how he’s feeling at all. Bucky wonders if it’s the first time Gale’s ever said this out loud, the first time he’s let such an idea be heard by the world. He wonders how long Gale’s been thinking about it in silence. Days? Weeks? Months? Maybe since the moment he closed the door behind him when he left for college. 

“I’m not goin’ home,” Gale says more firmly. “I… I don’t think I’d mind never seein’ him again.”

Gale’s shoulders tremble almost imperceptibly with rattled, unregulated breath, and when he goes still, it takes Bucky a moment to realize that he’s not breathing at all anymore. He’s holding everything in to keep himself from shaking, from crying, from feeling. 

Bucky wraps both arms more fully around him, holding him tight like he’s trying to hold him together, trying to hold some invisible weight so Gale doesn’t have to. Like maybe if he takes the burden of keeping Gale in one piece right now, then there will be enough space to breathe again. “You need to breathe, Buck,” he whispers.

Gale turns toward Bucky and wraps his arms around him, and his fingers curl into the back of Bucky’s shirt like he’s grasping for something steady but half expecting it to vanish. His breath hitches when Bucky stays, and his fingers curl tighter into the fabric. Buzz whines and crawls further up the bed, pressing his nose against Gale’s thigh.

“Breathe,” Bucky says again. He rubs Gale’s back in what he really hopes is a soothing way. He hasn’t often found himself in this type of situation, having to find a way to make the world keep turning for someone else. He didn’t know he ever could be that person. “Just breathe.”

It takes a few minutes, but Gale’s breathing evens out, his grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens, and the silent, stubborn tears that he so obviously didn’t want Bucky to see clear out of his eyes. By then, he and Bucky have slid down so that they’re laying on the bed, Gale’s face buried in Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky finds that he doesn’t mind, not one bit. When Gale shifts away, no longer trying to hide, Bucky grabs the pillows and puts them back under their heads where they belong. And they stay there, just them and the dog, staring up at the Christmas lights. 

“I’m sorry,” Gale says eventually. The sound of his voice is clear again, but still quiet. Bucky looks at the clock on the wall and sees that it’s officially December 26th, no longer Christmas day.

Bucky shifts so his arm is behind his head, and he glances over at Gale. “For what?”

Gale isn’t looking at him. “It’s not your job to-“

“That’s ridiculous, Gale.” Because it is. Ridiculous. 

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Bucky frowns and squints up at the lights. He wonders how he’s supposed to say that he doesn’t care without it sounding weird. He wants to see Gale in every mood, every condition, every emotion. He doesn’t care. He wants to help Gale through everything. He wants to make him feel better when he’s sick or tired or scared or putting himself down. He wants to take away any pain he ever feels. He wants to protect him from everything bad that’s ever come his way even though he knows full well how strong and capable he is on his own. 

It’s a lot for a college freshman to feel about a person. It’s more than Bucky’s ever felt about anyone before, and he doesn’t really even know what he’s supposed to do about it. So he reaches out and puts his hand over Gale’s, and he fights back a smile when Gale turns over his palm and lets Bucky rub his thumb across his fingers in reassurance. “I’m glad I came to check on you.”

He hopes that says enough. 

“Thank you for… everything.” Gale finally looks over at Bucky, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

“This really has been the best Christmas I’ve ever had I think. I- I can’t… thank you for including me.”

“You’re family now.”

Gale’s face goes blank, and Bucky knows he has no idea what to say. So he squeezes Gale’s hand once, and he looks back up at the ceiling. “Merry Christmas, Buck.”

They fall asleep like that, laying on the bed and looking up at colorful, LED stars that reflect off the ceiling and the walls, the light bathing their faces in red and green. Gale’s head rests over Bucky’s chest, where he can hear his heartbeat, steady and calming.

That’s how Bucky’s mom will find them in the morning. She’ll knock softly on the door after realizing her son isn’t in his own bedroom, and then she’ll quietly push it open. She’ll see Bucky, asleep on his back with Gale curled against his side. Bucky will open his eyes tiredly, looking at his mom in confusion as he realizes where he is. His mom will nod, closing the door quietly once again, and then she’ll lean against the wall outside the guest room. She’ll smile to herself, and she’ll thank the universe for bringing her boy someone good, someone to love and to love him. 

Bucky will look at Gale beside him, and he won’t even be able to imagine everything that comes next. He’ll hope, and he’ll wonder, and he’ll give it his all, but he won’t know for sure that this was only the beginning. Their first perfect Christmas.

[trashy-tries-writing]

Hiii its me again 🍄 anon! And i got more ideas for Ravine writing!

Ok so what if like we have a scenario where maybe Ravine gets caught off guard, like someone unexpectedly came up from behind him(I honestly doubt that would actually happen but just for the sake if the post lets just say it happens) and Ravine's first instinct/reaction is to grab whoever's behind him and throw them over his shoulder (WWE style-) then proceeds to almost blow there head off with whatever firearm on him at the time.

If it wasn't for whoever got bodied to snap Ravine out of it there would have been a blood soak floor. When said person gets up they ask him what that was about and as per usual, Ravine says nothing but just stares at them before walking away.

I just think it would be funny seeing people like Ghost and Price get bodied/thrown around like it was nothing. And honestly seeing König get decommissioned in seconds would be hilarious! He's probably so used to being feared by everyone/being build like a fuckin truck that having someone casually just flip him would probably throw him for a loop.

Anyways thanks for listening to my dumb rambling again! Ravine always makes me feel better! This is 🍄 anon and ill see you next time!

Also Ravine could do that to me and i would fuckin thank him-

Watching Young Justice League- (or the crash course bc I can’t find full ep.) and realizing they skipped so much stuff. Maybe I should’ve started with comics instead of a TV series. Anyone have recommendations for someone who’s just getting into DC? (I already have like- a character that turns from a normal boy into a meta-human into the moon- I meAN WHAT- Too much fun with angst. I swear I try to write fluff, I swear I am. XD)

Also Spiderman??? So much angst on top of angst on top of angst- Like "Spider-man: No Way Home- WHAT DO YOU MEAN?? PETER MY CHILD OMG 😭 Fuck that I'm gonna make a character where the magic didn't work on him. Fuck u Marvel for making every Spider-man sad 😭 (Anyone wanna read that? 👀👀)

Hi hi 🍄 Anon👋, thank you so much for sharing this because I had so much fun! XD And it's not dumb I love your rambles! Let's just say that it was on a day where Ravine was thinking of the past. Problem solved😌 I hope you enjoy this and see you around 🍄 Anon👋💕 Omg same– WHAT WHO SAID THAT! Also merry christmas everybody! Hope you’re having a wonderful holiday! 💕

He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t. But that didn’t stop his reflexes from working faster than his brain. Ravine should’ve known to stay inside if he was going to be taken over with his thoughts.

Simon Ghost Riley

Ghost had been walking around the base for too long, just trying to find the giant of a man. How is it possible to not know where someone that big was? It’s not like he can hide with his size.

Or can he?

He has a feeling that Ravine can do so much more than he has already shown TF 141, and Ghost was eager to know when that would be.

Ghost blinks when he sees Ravine’s slouched body leaving the weapon room, a box under his arm with mechanical parts sticking out if and his attention stuck to the papers in his other hand.

Of course he would be working on something.

When was he not?

But Ravine was so deeply rooted inside his head, he wasn’t reading the documents or even looking at it correctly when he felt it.

Someone was behind him.

Someone-

Ravine feels his skin crawl, his mind playing tricks on him and-

Ghost feels gravity leaving him as Ravine yanks him over his shoulder. With his vision upside down, a silent gasp leaves his mouth. The air gets knocked out of his lungs as he lays on the cold ground with his hand in Ravine’s tight grip, his eyes swimming.

“Argh! Ravine, it's me!”

CRASH

Ravine drops everything as he falls to his knee, hands now softly brushing over Ghost as he sits up. He groans as he leans back on Ravine’s bent knee. Ravine twitches at the contact before lightly placing his hand on his hurt shoulder.

Ghost tilts his head towards Ravine’s chest, he can almost hear his heart beating out of his ribcage from guilt as he tries to catch his breath from being thrown around.

Despite the situation and the physical ache, Ghost finds Ravine’s reactions hilarious. (Don’t tell anyone that.)

Ravine doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to put his other hand as it lingers around Ghost who’s clenching and unclenching his fist, testing if it’s sprained or not by the firm grip Ravine had it a few seconds ago.

Ravine wants to leave, walk away as if he didn’t just hurt his teammate because of his wild instincts.

"What was that-"

Ghost’s shoulder aches and he blinks at the hand mark slowly forming on his wrist.

“-Bloody hell…”

Ravine tenses.

Ravine lifts Ghost up with ease, a little too much ease to the latter's taste as he hurries through the mess of fallen mechanical parts and loose documents.

He calmly walks through the base, getting Gaz and Soap’s attention as they pass the lounge. Gaz’s eyes widen while the water leaks out from Soap’s gaping mouth onto his shirt.

“What- Was that- Did…???”

“Ravine carrying Ghost? Yep definitely was them.”

Price could only stare as Ravine barges into his office with Ghost looking a little too comfortable in his arms as if he could take a nap right there and then.

The captain pulls his lips into a thin line, slowly slurping from his coffee mug as he squints his eyes at them.

“Let me guess…”

“Yes.”

“Oh boy.”

Ravine looks down at Ghost who’s leaning his head further into his chest, secretly enjoying the situation and then at Price who stares as if it’s a normal Tuesday.

Later they get told by the doctor that Ghost’s shoulder is injured due to being almost pulled out of his sockets and his wrist was now branded with Ravine’s hand for who knows how many days- weeks even.

Ravine couldn’t face Ghost for weeks- months if it wasn’t for Ghost and Price cornering him like they did the day Ghost met Ravine for the first time.

Ghost has a sense of déjà-vu.

(Sometimes brushes his hand over the purple-bluish bruise and compares his hand size with Ravines.)

John Price

It happened while they were still getting to know each other in the early days when Price found him inside that… room.

He knew he had to tread carefully with the burning man. He was like a wounded animal, cornered with nowhere to escape with his fangs bared at anything that breathed too loudly or at all.

But Price believed they had crossed over that line as Ravine didn’t react when he had to sit down in a room full of people or inside the tiny car he had to fit in to go on missions. (Price voiced out how too soon it was to send Ravine anywhere. But orders were orders.)

Ravine didn’t react to anything at all anymore. A perfect weap- soldier as Shepard liked to call him.

And so when they arrived back to base after another successful mission with Ravine making it so much easier with his fast killing and stealth, Price had only wanted to praise him for his good work.

But maybe, just maybe it wasn’t a smart idea to suddenly come up from behind him right after a tense operation-

Since Price found himself on the ground, his body having been flipped into the air like he weighed nothing as he landed with a loud ‘BANG’ echoing off the walls and on the ground.

Laswell gasped in surprise, jumping from her seat as Ravine took a step back as if realizing now what he had just done.

The gun that he had pulled out from his holster was now lowered instantly. Ravine’s body was tense, freezing still in his spot.

Price gets back on his feet, leaning slightly onto Laswell as he groans, trying to downplay the situation for Ravine.

“Shiiiiiit… You sure know how to use that strength of yours., don't you?"

Silence takes over the room before Ravine vanishes from his sight, quickly marching away from them with nothing to say. It makes Price sigh loudly.

Laswell chuckles underneath her breath. “Well that was a sight.”

“Will not happen again, so enjoy it while it lasts.” Price breathes out, hands on his hips as he bends his back forward with pain. “Damn it, I need to see the medic…I think I broke something.”

He ends up with bruised skin on his back, even fractured bones that puts him out of commission.

Price eyes the doctor, “...Well I’ll be damned.”

Price never thought that he would end up getting slammed into the ground like the enemies Ravine sometimes threw over his shoulder. Luckily for him Ravine didn’t use as much force as he did with them as they were directly knocked out of their consciousness...and then shot to death.

‘Now where is…’

It took a few months for him to finally get a real conversation with Ravine.

König

He shouldn’t be feeling like this, he really shouldn’t. But König continues to scream into his head, cheeks flared up with his thoughts stuck from the earlier occurrences.

König leaves the training facility, a towel draped over his shoulders as he makes his way to the showers to relax his muscles from the workout. Soon enough his stomach rumbles and he changes his mind of going back to his room to relax.

Rounding the corner, he sees Ravine staring through the window, his arms crossed over his chest, making his back muscle tense.

Feeling a little confident to try talking to the soldier who was just as tall as him, sticking out like a sore thumb in the team with… shorter people, König approaches the quiet man with a small smile.

“Hey Ravine.”

Surprised that the man didn’t react like he usually would when called, König tilts his head as he reaches a hand out.

“Rav-?”

A startled yelp escapes his lips, the world tilts and he finds himself staring at the swinging lights hanging from the ceiling. His body twitches uncomfortable and aches in pain as confusion swims in his eyes.

With his breath knocked out of him, shock taking over mentally and physically as Ravine slowly releases his steel grip, König tries to choke out something but he could only gasp. 

“…W-Was..?” -…W-What..?

Pain radiates through his left side but as König sees Ravine’s body loom over him, pressure withdrawn from his stomach and arms, and the realization that he had been so easily decommissioned in seconds, has left a new kind of warmth rushing through him.

König slowly rises to his feet, hand shooting up to rub his shoulder. The man stares confused when Ravine is now checking him over with what he guesses is worry, since there isn’t much to find out with his face covered and the silence in his throat.

“I-I’m fine, you just took me by surprise.”

Ravine brushes his fingers over the bruise forming on König’s wrist and König doesn’t know why he suddenly felt he should leave.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I er- I’m going to eat now. Yeah…now.”

However, with his food sitting in front of him, fork in hand, König stares silently in front of him, confusing his teammates in the dining hall and creeping others with his unblinking eyes. And just as quietly as he came he robotically goes back to his room.

That’s when he flops down on his bed, face pushed into his pillow, his face reddening when the situation with Ravine finally hits him.

Ravine had swung him over his shoulder like nothing and had pressed his knee down on his stomach, keeping him in place with his arms over his head with a grip that left handprints on him that were bruising.

König was used to being feared and manhandling others- others as in targets to eliminate- but being tossed around like a toy by someone else is-

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH-’

Both were evading the other’s presence without the other’s knowledge until they were put back together for a mission.

-----------------------------------------------

@livinglifebesticanlol @jackiebluh @cumbermovels @agspgrwasb

I hope you enjoyed this! If anyone has any other imagine, scenarios, headcanon, etc. Feel free to send it to me, I love reading what you guys have in mind ❤️

[lesbianfakir]

Y’all I’m so sad. I keep playing video games made by one or two people and now I want to make a video game soooooooo bad so I can design my perfect game and more importantly make the art. But!! Programming is my mortal enemy she and I do NOT get along. Maybe I could make something simple in terms of programming like a visual novel but I want more involved gameplay :,( I really want a fun video game project now

[inkprincesse]

Hating on pop music is so basic and I am so bored of it, there’s always this undertone of being so much Better than people who like the mainstream thing, like they’re dumb lemmings for falling for it and you are the intellectually superior sage for being too wise to like something just because it’s “catchy”

“It doesnt MEAN anything” so?? Not every song has to be packed with meaning? Sometimes humans just enjoy music for fun??

If you dislike something popular, vocalizing that every time it’s brought up is not going to help. You’re just being obnoxious and making other people feel bad so that you can feel better about not being able to participate in the conversation.

(You know why? Nobody knows what to say in response. “I hate this thing you like.” Okay? Unless they’re in the mood to have a debate about the merits of their taste—which most people aren’t—that’s a conversation ender.)

The person I’m vagueing about here also immediately added “ohhh no I’m losing followers for my opinion”

No buddy, you’re losing followers because you’re a hater, and most people don’t love being insulted for their taste when they are on the Special Interests website.

Like if you want to post about that all the time I can’t stop you, but I can tell you it’s going to make you miserable.

Try talking about things you like instead. If you want to talk about pop music being meaningless, brush over that and focus on the songs you like that DO have meaning. People will take what you have to say a lot better—because you’re actually contributing something to the conversation. Not just telling them you think their taste sucks.

[jinxed-sinner]

Alright here's my full (possibly hot) take on redesigning Hazbin Hotel characters and making a video showcasing those redesigns while you criticize the official designs.

First and foremost, you are redesigning someone else's OCs. Hazbin Hotel is, in essence, a passion project for Viv. How she talks about it makes that incredibly clear to me. The only difference between Hazbin Hotel and, for example, the story I'm developing surrounding some of my D&D OCs is that Hazbin Hotel got picked up by a streaming service and is significantly more popular than most passsion projects get.

Personally if someone wanted to redesign my D&D OCs, I wouldn't mind it, in fact I'd probably think it was really cool that someone would want to redesign one of my OCs to be closer to their tastes in terms of what they like to draw. I would, however, be made incredibly uncomfortable if someone made a video redesigning them where they also pointed out everything they thought was wrong with the designs. I didn't design these specific D&D characters to be 1-to-1 accurate to their classes in D&D or to look professionally designed. I designed them how I wanted them to look for the story I'm telling because I don't plan to ever play them in a campaign. The main character Avlan is a paladin, and I can acknowledge that his design might not look exactly like a paladin. One of the tabaxi in the story (Ice) is a bard and the other (Spark) is a ranger, and I acknowledge that their classes might not come across well in their designs. The single tiefling I've designed for this story (Tragedy) is a cleric but might not come off as one in their design. But I specifically designed them to be easy for me to draw because I want to be able to tell this story through my art. Having someone say "oh, Avlan's armor isn't paladin enough!" or "Avlan's fur colors and patterns should be closer to a wild rabbit's because harengon shouldn't be based on domestic rabbit colors!" would fucking hurt (especially because I'm so attached to Avlan, but it would hurt just as much if similar comments were made about Ice, Spark, or Tragedy). I am so passionate about these characters and being told their designs are bad or wrong in some way would be like a stab in the heart, and it would still feel like a stab in the heart if this story ever got a massive fandom behind it. Giving Avlan more complex armor because you think it'd look cool or just want to see what it'd look like? Sure, if I could draw more complex armor I'd give him more complex armor too. Giving him more complex armor but also shitting on the armor I decide to draw him with? My motivation to draw him in his armor, potentially draw him period, would be dead for WEEKS.

Why is it suddenly okay just because someone's passion project was picked up by Amazon Prime? Why is it suddenly okay to be "fixing" someone's character designs just because the project has a much bigger budget than most artists get and is on a popular streaming service? It's not. I don't care if you're a professional character designer, or think a specific character would look better with certain traits, or just don't like the character designs.

Hazbin Hotel is still Vivienne Medrano's passion project, and redesigning her characters and making videos talking about everything you think is "wrong" with them is, honestly, disgusting. You can make videos explaining your choices in your redesigns without putting down the designs that already exist, whether you like them or not. Me thinking Lucifer looks better with his tail not restricted to his full demon form doesn't suddenly mean I don't like his official design, because I fucking love it. If you wouldn't do it to an artist whose passion project is just a webcomic here on Tumblr, don't fucking do it to an artist whose passion project got picked up for a cartoon by a big streaming service (or any company for that matter).

[spacedlexi]

saw your reply about wanting to draw s1 and s2 art more often, would literally die for Lee and Carley in your style... i skim through your stuff often as well, probably one of my top three fav styles, and cant wait for your post s4 clemvi story, i know ill enjoy that as much as i do your art. have a nice holiday and happy new year friend :)

ive drawn lee before so if you mean more in a shippy sense then.. possibly? (im partial to both lee/carley and lee/lilly myself 😏 like i see it) i need to draw carley anyway im making a promise to myself to draw the ladies from the other seasons at Least once..because i love them and they get no attention (except for when theyre getting yelled at amirite). fucked up women of twdg my beloveds

so much kenny nick and luke art out there i will bring balance to the ecosystem 😔🙏

byut shdfkshjkd 🥺💕 THANK YOU!!! im excited to finally finish it and im making illustrations to go with it as well i just havent decided how many to do yet. i hope you have a happy new year too anon!!

[strangerhands]

mmmmm heyyy👁️. ive basically been gone from tumblr for over two days because ive been feeling like a shitty piece of shit. BUT. i finally saw dune part 2 and ohmygoddddd it was so so good. but yes. i was missing leto so bad the entire time. Father come back pls. i need you.

[knightelf]

i could turn jacob seed. i could make him forgo his brothers orders and see through him for what he was evennn if he was maybe right about montana getting nuked whateverrr like what everrrr okay

[snekdood]

i feel weird even claiming my family used to be considered "rich" bc a lot of yall immediately jump to having summer homes, 20 yachts, and enough money to save a country

[arashi-no-saxlphone]

I made the mistake of watching an Ant vod post nerfs and he is, of course, like "Nah it's my fault I lost I played poorly and covered the wrong options and I still habitually charge" as if that last complaint isn't literally like... fucking absurd to have to do at all LMAO. My brother in christ... I WATCHED the "new" Rainwater fail to pick up like the patch said it does like... 3 fucking times in the set.

I'm going to be so real: people whined and never learned the Axl matchup for 4 fucking years and are STILL PLAYING LIKE SHIT AGAINST HIM! It's so fucking absurd. I'm watching supposedly good players just ram their face into Axl not even TRYING to analyze the Axl and the way they're zoning or even do the most basic fucking counternavigation when an Axl is just spamming rensen. Over and over. I AM WATCHING PEOPLE GET HIT BY THE RENSEN AFTER OTG 2H! IN WHAT FUCKING UNIVERSE ARE YOU NOT BLOCKING A FUCKING MEATY 4 YEARS INTO THE FUCKING GAME?!

I'm so fucking sick dude. I'm fucking ill. My own fucking fault for caving and watching Axl vods on the new patch. Fuck me. Not a single one of you are seeing heaven. I will point out that there are at least some people who are saying they're not happy with the Axl changes either cause it just gutted his "sauce" so at least I have that. Not everyone has been lobotomized. Yet.

[todayisafridaynight]

(gaiden and iw spoilers) hiii i finished infinite wealth and I'm kinda insane about it hope you don't mind

i can't stop thinking about how disappointed i am in iws story :( especially with how the jimas they just get thrown under the bus all the time

what bothers me the most is that i was so hopeful after that scene where the four all fought together at the end of gaiden(when daigo says the No Balls line)

after he says that and kiryu has given him a little speech about how he's proud of him, majima and saejima nod at each other, and JUST THAT tells you so much about how he's talked to them about how insecure he feels about dissolving the clan, going into hiding and all that stuff, it made me so hopeful for a proper talk between daigo and kiryu, for kiryu to finally change his ways and actually try to help him out instead of asking for shit without giving anything back all the goddamn time

it's really fucked up how we got that subtle story telling and then just. oh they're fishermen. oh kiryu's asking them to do stuff for him again. oh he got pissed and beat them up and then left without doing ANYTHING again after not seeing them for three years. oh they don't get to come with when kiryu's dying in a fucking helicopter

being a 3jimas fan is suffering we could have had so much man. how did they even get to that village. why is it abandoned. why didn't we get to do anything with them we just left

i'm so tired oh my god

i've ranted Extensively with My Cabinet about how much i'm annoyed and disappointed by IW's story and handling of characters, and how the 3jimas were handled is one of them- tbh mostly daigo since he had more of a presence in the plot but perhaps because of that its awkward to see how the game handled majima and saejima as well

to just focus on daigo, it genuinely was really annoying how we were given SOME semblance of finally getting a scene where daigo breaks it all down for kiryu about how much the past twosome decades have sucked and that kiryu was abysmal for just dumping (AND CONTINUING TO TRY TO DO SO) problems onto daigo and others and maybe JUST MAYBE kiryu gives a right proper apology or realizes he's being selfish (again). like the build up was great, but it just falls flat when kiryu just. LEAVES after the fight after making them all feel like piss about themselves so the jimas pull through at the tower anyway

[britneyshakespeare]

Also wasn't the 2020 election so miserable with how we were all waiting for results for literal fucking days??? Oh my God...

[bpdohwhatajoy]

Oh I am SO over people coming back just to try to selfishly get closure for themselves

[watery-melon-baller]

lads i might have fucked up

[grilledkatniss]

So I realized a while back I had this internalized nagging resentment towards Beyoncé and the beehive and I think it's coming down to a few factors that piled up over time. And none of those have anything to do with Beyonce herself but everything to do with her fanbase.