#i have too much to do to add something else | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eregyrn-falls · 2 days ago

Note

^^^^^^ !!!!!

There's so much I'd like to add but it would be carrying coals to Newcastle. Great post! (And a lot of great tag-rants in the notes, too.)

I did want to add one thought to this set of tags from @achromaticegoist, about the punch in particular.

It took me a long while to realize it, but not only is the punch reflective of a whole lot of things about Ford's state of mind on his arrival back through the portral... but, it also serves as some really interesting closure (and I'm not even sure the writers realized it).

In the episode, it's told out of order, so we see the punch FIRST. But later in the ep, when we see the fight that led to Ford going through the portal in the first place, what happens is that he and scan are scuffling, and there's that moment when Ford pushes Stan off with his foot and inadvertantly presses Stan against the glowing (apparently red-hot) symbol on the side of the control panel.

Stan screams in pain, of course. And immediately, Ford is suddenly worried, and contrite. He says, "Stanley! Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! Are you alr-"

And Stan punches him in the face.

That punch is what sends Ford stumbling out into the portal room and falling against the activation lever; and landing inside the danger zone. Ford does get up, but before he gets a chance to say anything else, Stan shoves the journal into his chest, Ford begins to float, and the disaster unfolds from there.

We don't spend enough time thinking that, basically, from Ford's point of view (if he replayed those last moments over and over in his head, as he probably did), the last things that Stan did to him was: punch him in the face, and then shoving him into the portal. The latter was accidental (though disastrous); but the first kind of wasn't. Ford stopped fighting, switching to concern and apology. While Stan lashing out due to the pain is understandable, Stan's punch is what prevents the fight from being over.

Ford coming out of the portal 30 years later and immediately punching Stan in the face kind of creates a book-end with that earlier punch from Stan, doesn't it? Ford getting to hit back the way he didn't (wouldn't?) 30 years ago. (He stands up, but he just stands there angrily staring at and listening to Stan as he approaches. He doesn't try to leap at Stan again or try to wrestle him for the book, etc. Was Ford, effectively, done fighting the moment Stan got seriously hurt?)

As I said, I'm not sure the writers were thinking about that consciously. I don't remember hearing them comment about it (i.e. that Ford's punch was a mirror of the punch that Stan gave him 30 years prior). But I do like to look at what's written and think about it in terms of, these scenes are deliberately written, the way it goes and the details included are chosen, often at the end of a long process of collaboration. I think that what's chosen for the final version is always very interesting.

And I just don't often see people discuss that moment where Ford stops fighting, and immediately becomes worried and apologetic. Not least because, like... up to that point in the series, we haven't seen Stan be apologetic very often. A few times, yes! And it's always notable when he does it. It clashes with the exterior he presents to the world; the man for whom saying "Please" gives him physical pain, etc. Some of which is meant for laughs, too! And some of which is just the product of being hardened by experience and so on.

It tells us something, I think, that Stan truly getting hurt, and screaming in pain, is enough to end Ford's desire to fight. That even after 10+ years of estrangement, he's that ready to be concerned for Stan; and that he's that ready with an apology. Later reads of Ford (post-portal) will portray him as the man who won't say "thank you", and I have other thoughts and feelings about that. But getting back to this, it's the show's choice to have Ford stop their fight and make a slight turn towards a sort of reconciliation. When they could have easily just had him and Stan keep fighting and struggling and the portal turn on because of that. It's such an interesting writing decision; and I just don't hear people dig into what it means for the characters very often.

What's your stance on Ford as a person? Honestly, I believe that for thr majority of canon he is a bad person. But I believe he grew. Still not great though XD

(Love him anyways obvs)

I disagree entirely! I think he's equally as good a person as any of the other main cast.*

*Except Mabel, who, as we all know, is always right about everything.**

(**This is a lighthearted joke. For the love of god, I don't want Mabel discourse in my inbox.)

His biggest sins in the show:

After telling his brother that he was thinking about changing their shared life plans, and then discovering that his brother had gone to the high school that night for no good reason and gone to the science fair for no good reason and messed around near Ford's science project for no good reason and broke it and didn't tell Ford about it... Ford believed Stan did it intentionally and held a grudge for it. You know what, it WOULD be pretty damn hard to believe it was an accident.

Hilariously ill-equipped to cope with Fiddleford's mental health. A guy who responds to "I have anxiety" with "have you tried yoga, it helps me" isn't a bad person, he's clueless. "Character cheerfully enacts a bad idea while a loved one in the background goes NO PLEASE DON'T DO THAT" describes half the episodes of Gravity Falls.

Was successfully manipulated by a professional manipulator into believing his best friend wished him ill. Man, what a terrible person Ford is for being manipulated by a manipulator and saying cruel things to somebody he'd been genuinely convinced was trying to harm him.

??? Didn't say thanks to a guy he was still mad at after the guy fixed a problem he himself had caused. This is a solitary example of stubborn bad etiquette, jesus christ. There's half a dozen different reasons why it makes perfect sense Ford wasn't in the right mindset to feel grateful, this is not something worth indicting his entire character over.

He had high ambitions, which everyone seems to lambast him for, but high ambitions that wouldn't have required doing anybody harm! (Until the professional manipulator started manipulating him into harming the people around him, but we are going to demonstrate some reading comprehension and not blame Ford's underlying morality as a person for things he never would've done if not for Bill's bullying, con artistry, and outright lies.) Like, what is it that he wanted to do with his life? Use his talents to get rich and famous? Shit, that's exactly what Stan wanted to do with his life. It's what Dipper fantasizes about doing with his life. Even Mabel, who thinks about her long-term future the least, dreams big with her art & performances and is already making big money off cheap-ass commissions. What terrible people they all are, for—let me check my notes here—uhhh... unrealistically fantasizing about achieving success in life by doing the things they're good at.

When their dad accuses Stan of lying as a child, Ford puts his entire summer on the line to defend Stan even though he knows Stan is a habitual liar and has no reason to believe Stan is telling the truth this time.

When his new college roommate he barely even knows gets laughed at for proposing an outlandish scientific theory, his first emotion is outrage at this injustice and he drops everything to convince his already-despondent roommate that he was right and help him prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

When he moves to a new town, he tries again and again to befriend his new neighbors, and fails not because he's rude or a jerk, but because he's awkward as hell, tells terrible jokes, and sucks at identifying phoenixes.

When Fiddleford gets hurt around him, he cares about it, feels guilty about putting him in that position, doesn't want it to happen again, and tries his best to help even though he's bad at helping.

When he gets kidnapped by a weird holiday folklore creature, he concludes without even thinking about it that he's now in charge of protecting and rescuing the kidnapped kids. Yeah, then he immediately starts hollering at the folklore creature for trying to impose his religious beliefs on Ford and the kids—but like, Ford was right tho, he just had bad timing.

When he discovers that the Northwest family committed atrocities against their poorer neighbors a century ago, his first instinct is to march up to their house, find the first Northwest he can locate, and give them a piece of his mind for it. Like, this won't even FIX anything. He's just THAT OUTRAGED over the injustice.

When he sees what he thinks is a fortune telling fraud conning the people, he attempts to debunk her because he's mad to see someone cheating other people with lies—and when he can't debunk her, he just leaves her alone rather than harass her about it. Typically, if assholes think somebody's doing something wrong but don't have any proof of it and fail to get proof when they look, they decide they're right anyway and keep giving that person shit. Ford doesn't give her shit. That's the opposite of an asshole move.

When he discovers his Portal To Knowledge (And Fame & Fortune) is actually a Portal To Doom (But Still Possibly Fame & Fortune, Maybe Even Godly Power), he isn't tempted for a second to keep working on it anyway. There is no moment where Bill manages to tempt him. No matter what Bill offers, no matter how long Bill offers, never, at ANY point, does Ford have a SECOND of "but what if I did make a deal with the devil?" the way so many heroes in similar situations often do.

You ever notice that? So often moral moments in the show are presented as choices the characters make. Will or won't Dipper give Bill a "puppet" in exchange for knowledge. Will or won't Stan fight a pterodactyl to protect Mabel's pig. Will or won't Mabel hand Bipper the journal. Ford is never given a "will or won't he" moment over Bill's threats, offers of friendship, or offers of infinite power—he steamrolls straight past them without a second of consideration—because, to him, the selfish, cowardly, easy choice ISN'T EVEN AN OPTION. He doesn't even SEE it as making a choice because the possibility of doing the wrong thing is invisible. A character who wavers first before turning Bill down would look more noble for "overcoming" temptation—it's harder to notice just how much stronger Ford's moral compass must be to not even feel temptation in the first place.

Greed and pride never tempt him to join Bill's side. Exhaustion, despair, and fear never tempt him to give up. He bears up under weeks, possibly months of extreme sleep deprivation, physical torture, psychological torture, emotional torture, threats of death, threats of brainwashing, threats to his family. He doesn't hold up so that he can pat himself on the back for being a hero—if that was all it was he would've gone "screw it, this isn't worth it and nobody would know I'm the one who gave up" a week in—he does it because he simply knows it must be done and because he's so isolated (half because of Bill's influence!) that he believes he's the one who must do it, all alone.

Thinking he has to do it by himself isn't egotism or pride; it's helplessness. He thinks no one else stands a chance. He thinks he's alone.

And, when he discovers his Portal To Knowledge is a Portal To Doom, he immediately feels guilty. No trying to deny the situation to protect his ego. No shuffling the blame off to someone else. No "maybe the apocalypse could have a silver lining!" No locking the door and trying to ignore the problem. He blames himself for being fooled—he IMMEDIATELY takes full responsibility for his actions—and he CONTINUES to take responsibility FOR THE NEXT THIRTY YEARS.

He takes more responsibility than is even warranted—he treats himself like he's an idiot for believing in an APPARENT GOD who's been practicing manipulating humans for thousands of years and who had never given Ford reason to believe the portal was anything but what Bill said it was. He beats himself up to no end every single time his past with Bill comes up. He even keeps beating himself up thirty years later when he's shoving warning notes to future readers in Bill's evil unkillable book!

When he falls into the multiverse, he dedicates his entire life NOT to finding a way to rescue himself, but to finding a way to permanently stop the CHAOS GOD who's still at the threshold of destroying Ford's world and countless others. He makes himself a hated criminal in the process, just to stop Bill. He's ready to spend the rest of his life trying to protect a world he doesn't think he'll ever see again. He does it because, as he sees it, somebody has to stand in between the children and the obnoxious folklore cryptid menacing them, and he's the only adult in this damn cave with the skills and knowledge for the job.

When he gets home, he doesn't tell his family about Bill and his quest because he's afraid that doing so will get them involved and endanger them too—and because he's too deeply ashamed of himself and his mistakes to stand the thought of his family knowing about the horrible things he's done (AGAIN, WHILE BEING MANIPULATED BY THE GOD OF MANIPULATION).

He loves his great-niece and great-nephew the second he lays eyes on them; he nevertheless tries to steer away from them to keep them safe from Bill; and yet he caves to the very first temptation to emotionally bond with his great-nephew he gets, because in spite of his noble "keep them safe" intentions, he wants so so badly to be close to his family.

As pissed as he still is at Stan and even though neither of them can look at each other without hissing like cats, he still makes an attempt to start bridging their divide by inviting him to play DD&MD.

When the apocalypse happens, he immediately puts his life on the line to try to kill Bill.

And when he's captured, isn't fazed for a second by Bill's offers or threats... until his family is threatened. The exact thing he'd been trying to avoid & prevent from the very start.

And when he's reunited with Fiddleford, his immediate reaction is to point out that Fiddleford's well within his rights to hate him—which isn't a new revelation, it's not like Ford had to do any soul-searching to reach this conclusion, he'd concluded that 30 years ago the instant he realized Bill had played him and that he'd been lied to about Fiddleford.

And then he tries to kill Bill again.

And then he's ready to sacrifice his own life to kill Bill—and the only reason he doesn't is because he has a metal plate preventing him from making the sacrifice... but, Stan doesn't have a plate. If Ford hadn't had the metal plate, he would have gladly done the exact same thing Stan did—and he would have thought it was right for him and only him to make that sacrifice, because it's VERY clear he feels (and has felt from the start) that this is all his fault and he's obligated to fix it.

Over and over and over, these are Ford's two defining character traits: getting so pissed off at injustice that his common sense shuts off and he goes into terminator mode until he's righted this wrong as best he can, even when he can't actually do anything about it; and feeling like he's Atlas, weighed down with the full responsibility of fixing everything he's done wrong and made to believe that, for everyone else's sake, he has to do it all alone. Even when doing so puts himself in harm's way, even when he has to put his entire life on hold for it, even if it might cost him his life. Scrape off his awkward social skills, his loneliness, his nerdiness, his endless curiosity, his zealous love of the strange, his starry ambitions, his yearning for recognition and success—scrape his personality down to the bone and that's what you're left with. A man who believes in defending the exploited so strongly that it makes him a little stupid.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that you probably don't think Stan's fundamentally a bad person, and that you probably think that isn't even worth questioning. Stan's made a whole career out of swindling people, conning them out of as much money as he possibly can, stealing, lying, committing a long list of goofily-named crimes, and attempting douchy pick-up artistry on women; and to cap it all off, he held the safety of the entire universe hostage to demand a goddamn "thank you." Don't send me any "But he had reasons—" "But it was only to—" I don't need it, I don't want the essay, I'm not arguing that Stan's a bad guy, it's fine.

But. You can look at Stan's moments of cruelty and unkindness, his uncharitable thoughts, his character flaws, and think, "that doesn't define him. He's more than his cruelest moments and worst mistakes. He's imperfect, but he cares so much and his heart's in the right place, and beneath all the flaws his core is good."

And if you can't do the same for Ford, it's not because he's a worse person. It's because we got two seasons with Stan and five and a half episodes with Ford—and while we saw Stan yearning to fish with the kids or encouraging Mabel to whoop Pacifica's butt at minigolf or crying over a black and white period drama or punching zombies to save his family, we only saw Ford at the worst moments in his life and under the stress of a prolonged apocalyptic crisis—and, it so happens, all the moments he was pissed at the guy we spent two seasons learning to love.

Ford's got moments of cruelty and unkindness, uncharitable thoughts, and character flaws. But, at his core, he's a good person, and he always has been, and he still is.

#gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #meta #i've been around for so many years arguing in Ford's defense #so in this latest outbreak of discourse i've just been... so tired #it often feels not worth it to try to argue when you've made the same arguments so many times over the years #but there's always a new person popping up to disparage Ford who hasn't ever seen those arguments #you get tired of whack-a-mole after a while #but bravo to the folks still willing to tackle it!#long post

550 notes · View notes

mooshkat · 1 day ago

Text

i haven't watched the episode. don't really care to. but apparently eddie is looking at houses in el paso?? and i've always related way too much to buck and the way people in his life leave so much so.

listening to 'please don't go' by abbey glover while writing this is devastating btw. highly recommend to add to the hurt.

tw for suicide attempt.

Buck drops Eddie off at the airport and then just...doesn't go home. He doesn't think as he drives, taking turns and just alert enough to be safe on the road, but honestly? He has no fucking idea how he ends up in the mountains, parking in the small dirt lot at the end of the hiking trail.

Everything feels numb. Static fills his brain and spreads down his neck, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

He turns off the Jeep and takes out the keys. Drops them carelessly into the cup holder.

He should've seen this coming, right? People leave; they always have, and always will. Everyone from his own sister to his ex-girlfriends, and his ex-boyfriend. Now his best friend.

There's just something buried deep into his very being, something built into the coding for Evan Buckley, that makes people leave him. No matter how much he clings and wants to fight for it, they'll walk away from him and his love.

It's him, it has to be.

Buck leaves behind his wallet, his keys, his work bag. Everything is left in the Jeep except for his phone, because no matter how much people leave him with barely a goodbye, it goes against everything that makes Buck, well, Buck to do it himself.

He knows this trail. Tommy and he have been on it before, once or twice after Buck dragged him along with him. They'd stopped at the top, where a small cliff overlooks the beautiful scenery with LA off in the far distance.

He remembers the way Tommy pushed him against a tree and sank to his knees, looking up at Buck with an adorable, bright grin with scrunches up his nose. Buck misses that grin fiercely.

The sun is just beginning to rise as Buck starts his walk. He doesn't go up the mountain with a specific plan in mind, didn't wake up to take Eddie to the airport at four in the morning, and think I'm going to kill myself today, but the higher he gets on the trail, the more he knows.

It's early enough that he has the trail to himself. That's good. It's not, he needs to turn around and go back to the Jeep, go home but his feet keep moving him up, up, up. There's nobody around who will have to see what he's about to do and be traumatized by it.

He's seen more than his share of deaths through work, he knows how badly it can fuck you up. He doesn't want to do that to someone else.

When he gets to the top, Buck stops and just breathes. The air is fresher up here, cleaner. It makes some of the buzzing in his head quiet down. He can feel his fingers again, feel the way his heart pounds from the cardio workout of climbing, and make his hands throb.

He walks to the edge of the cliff and sits down, his feet dangling over the edge. There's a boulder a few feet away from the edge that holds memories of him leaning back against it as Tommy kisses him, holding Buck's hips with hands hot enough to brand him.

His very soul feels branded by Tommy. His chest aches every day, making his stomach sink with a homesick feeling he hasn't had since before he moved to LA. His apartment is still full of the baked goods that he creates every time he has to try to not call or text him.

He doesn't stop himself from calling him today.

Buck almost thinks it's going to go to voicemail before it's picked up at the last second.

"...Go for Kinard?" Tommy answers, clearing his throat. His voice is sleep-rough and deep, and Buck hasn't heard it in so long that it's like applying balm to very shattered, torn edges of a wound. "Hello? Who is–Ev—Buck?"

"Did I ever tell you," Buck starts, and he sounds just as rough, but he's more awake than he ever has been, despite the bone deep tiredness that fills him, "about the fact that I was made to be a savior baby for a brother I never met? My parents made me in a science tube so that they could use my bone marrow to heal my brother, Daniel, but it didn't work. I thought for a little while after I found out that it was because I was defective, but I get it now."

Sheets rustle on the other line before Tommy sits up again. "What are you talking about, Evan? What's wrong?"

Buck continues talking, bowling over Tommy's questions like he didn't hear them. "I think there's something inside of me that's toxic. Toxins drive people away, it makes them sick, it's the only thing I can think of that makes sense for why everybody I love gets sick of me and leaves. It has to be me, right? Nobody stays, not forever. There's something wrong with me and I've finally figured it out."

"No, Evan," Tommy says, voice soft. He can hear the concern, though, the urgency hidden under his tone. There's the sound of jingling keys and a door opening and closing. Tommy's too far away to stop him.

"Sometimes, people leave. It's just what they do, it is nothing about you or what you've done. It's them. Their problems. My problems, that we should–we should sit down and talk about. Evan, where are you? I'm worried."

He almost doesn't want to tell him, but maybe it'd be better for someone to come out and collect his body so he doesn't ruin the trail. Leave it as you found it, or whatever. He gives Tommy his location and ignores the way it starts a mental countdown in the back of his mind. He doesn't have long now.

"It is me, Tommy. I want to believe you, but I can't. Not when hard evidence for almost my entire fucking life says otherwise. My parents emotionally left before I was even born. Maddie. Abby. Other girlfriends. I even lost the 118 at one point–thanks to that stupid mistake with the lawyer. Everybody leaves. And–and now with you, and Eddie. I'm tired, Tommy. I'm so goddamn tired."

Tears drip down Buck's cheeks. It's exhausting, viewing every relationship as a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, waiting for them to exit left out of his life. He thought things might be different with Tommy, it was one of his longest relationships, but he was wrong.

"You know, when you broke up with me that night, you said you'd be my first, but not my last. You were wrong. I-I love you so much, Tommy, even though you broke my heart. I hate you for leaving just like everyone else, but I also love you. You'll always be my first and last now. It's my turn to leave."

"Evan!" Tommy shouts into the phone and Buck cringes. "Evan, please, don't do anything. I'm on my way, okay, baby? Please just sit still and wait for me and we can talk–about everything. Please."

It'd be so easy to lean forward and let gravity do the work to drag him off the edge. The side of the cliff digs into the bottom of his thighs and he kicks his feet, knocking against some of the dirt and watching it tumble down.

His phone starts buzzing insistently in his hand with texts. Tommy must have sent out a message. He doesn't look at any of them as he pulls his phone to set it on Do Not Disturb before putting it to his ear again.

He doesn't know what to do. He wants the hurt to stop, he just wants it all to stop, but he's afraid. What if he's too weak to commit? Just like he's too weak to not let people back into his life, even if he knows they'll just leave again.

Weak and toxic.

He drops his phone onto his lap and hunches down, elbows pressing into his knees as he covers his face. He can hear sirens in the distance getting closer.

A strangled sob rips its way from his throat and he makes his decision.

"Okay. I'll wait for you."

There's an audible sigh of relief from Tommy. "Thank you, Evan. I'll be right there, okay? Keep talking to me, baby."

He doesn't know what to say anymore and tells Tommy as much.

"That's okay, Evan. I-I heard from Howie that you were baking lately? What have you been baking?"

Buck knows what's Tommy's doing. He's stalling so that Buck doesn't kill himself before Tommy and the first responders can get to him. He's done it dozens of times before to people on the edge while he's rescuing them.

"A lot of bread, really. Pumpkin bread, banana bread, butternut squash. I even, uh, have a sourdough starter that I've been feeding for a couple of weeks now. I named it Billy because it looks sometimes just like the, uh, boils I got from the curse when it expands."

Tommy lets out a watery laugh. "Of course, you'd name your sourdough starter." He clears his throat and the sirens are suddenly much louder in Buck's ears before they cut off abruptly. Quiet, rushed talking that Buck doesn't understand before Tommy starts running. "What else?"

"I made baked Alaska pretty soon after we broke up. It took me hours to make, and the entire time it was setting in the freezer, I had to bake other things to stop myself from calling you. I-I don't know if Chim told you that's why I started baking, but it is."

When Tommy responds, it's not through the phone. He comes to a stop beside him. "It sounds like your coping mechanism was more productive than mine, at least. Want to get away from the edge for me, Evan?"

He holds out his hand and Buck takes it with a shaky laugh. "Oh, yeah? What was yours?" The knowledge that Tommy was moping just as bad as Buck makes him feel...something.

"Eating entire pints of ice cream by myself on the couch while watching rom-coms." Tommy pulls Buck to his feet and wraps his arms tight around him. Buck can feel how badly Tommy is shaking. "Thank god you're okay. Thank you so much for calling me, Evan. Fuck."

Buck hugs him back and ignores the paramedics lingering behind him. He knows he's going to be taken away in the ambulance and put under a 72-hour hold because of this. He doesn't think about that, or what it means for his job when he's let out.

He focuses on Tommy and the way he clings to him. He came back. Sure, maybe he'll leave again when the initial scare of everything fades away, but it's more than most people have done in the past.

Tommy pulls away first and holds Buck's face gently in his hands. There are tear tracks on his cheeks and more spill over as he looks Buck over. "I love you too. I didn't say it earlier and didn't say it then, but I am now. I love you so much, Evan Buckley.

It doesn't fix everything, doesn't even scratch the surface, but it raises something dangerous in Buck's chest.

Hope.

#bucktommy #tw suicide attempt #katie.txt #moosh worbs #what is fanfic but therapy through osmosis or some shit #uploading this to ao3...tomorrow or smth #911 spoilers

141 notes · View notes

daryltwdixon · 1 day ago

Note

hello dear!! i dont know if your are still taking requests or not, but if do you i would really love to see you write something fluff with a drunk daryl and reader, where he totally forgot that they are dating and just start acting shy and awkward around her, i know its cliche but i really love how you write daryl and think it would be so cute to see something like that written by you😭, but i totally understand if you are busy, i hope you are having a great day!🥰

A drunk Daryl grows uncharacteristically shy around you, forgetting for a moment that you're together.

author notes: I just want to say its not v common for people who are drinking to forget who their s/o's are, but anything for you lolol, enjoy!!! x

thank you for the love!!!

The Alexandria dinner party is louder than usual, laughter spilling out into the quiet night. Someone had insisted on opening the last few bottles of wine, and you watch with amusement as Daryl, leaning against the far wall, swirls the red liquid in his glass like it’s some kind of trap.

“Never took you for a wine guy,” you tease, stepping closer. His eyes dart to yours, and the flush on his face deepens. You figure the alcohol’s working its magic, though Daryl had always been shy about these kinds of things—especially in a crowd.

“Don’t even taste right,” he mutters, setting the glass on a nearby table like it might bite him.

You grin. “Then why drink it?”

He shrugs, glancing at you sideways. The usual ease between you feels a little... off. His gaze flicks to your face, then away again, like he’s avoiding something. You tilt your head, trying to figure out what’s wrong, when his voice breaks the quiet.

“You look real nice tonight.”

The words come out low and shy, almost like he hadn’t meant to say them. You blink, surprised, but before you can respond, he fumbles to add, “Not that ya don’t always, but... I mean, yeah.”

“Daryl,” you say, trying to catch his eye. He’s looking anywhere but at you now, cheeks burning. “Are you okay?”

“‘M fine,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. But the way he shifts on his feet, the nervous way he rubs the back of his neck—it’s not like him. You step closer, studying him, until something clicks.

“Oh my god.” You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. “You don’t remember, do you?”

His brows furrow, lips parting in confusion. “Remember what?”

You can’t believe it. “You’re acting like we just met or something.”

Daryl stares at you, his eyes swimming with haze, but he blinks hard, trying to piece it all together. His eyes widen slightly. “Wait... we’re—?”

“Yes, Daryl,” you say, trying to suppress another laugh. “We’re together, at least I thought so,”

The realization hits him like a brick wall. His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he just stares at you, dumbfounded. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I—uh... forgot.”

“Obviously,” you tease, stepping even closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “Should I be worried you’re forgetting about me already?”

“Nah,” he says quickly, his voice quiet but insistent. “Just... too much wine. ‘S all.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too wide at how bashful he looks. The Daryl you know is rarely this unguarded, and it’s endearing. But as you watch him glance down at you—his face still flushed and his nerves practically visible—you catch something softer in his expression. His hand drifts to the back of his neck again, but this time, a crooked grin follows.

“You’re... somethin’ else,” he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. “Must be the luckiest som' bitch,”

The words catch you off guard, and warmth blooms in your chest. “Damn right you are,” you say softly, but there’s no teasing in your tone anymore.

His lips twitch, and he finally dares to meet your gaze. “Guess I don’t mind that.”

You smirk, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The move makes him freeze for half a second before his face turns a deeper shade of red, but his hand brushes yours in a subtle, almost instinctive gesture. Even drunk, even shy, Daryl Dixon couldn’t hide how much he cared.

“C’mon,” you say, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s get you some water before you forget anything else."

#ask daryltwdixon #artsynana #daryl dixon #the walking dead #twd daryl #daryl #the walking dead daryl #daryl x reader #daryl twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl one shot #daryl dixion imagine #Daryl Dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #Daryl Dixon fluff #fluffy #fluffy one shot

146 notes · View notes

op-sys-chaos · 2 days ago

Text

Alfred explains Tim’s birthday to Jason and Damian in a cold, unfeeling manner. As if reciting a long-ago memorized quote rather than recounting a horrific thing done to a child.

Bruce sits there and does nothing.

Jason yells at both of them for it.

Bruce does nothing.

Damian stands up and tells Bruce that Tim is right and Bruce should have stopped Damian from trying to murder Tim. Damian didn’t know better then, but he does now and he wishes Bruce had taught him sooner.

Bruce does nothing.

Jason and Damian lock eyes and nod. Then they leave together. They go to a restaurant - not the Thai one, but one across the street, and they sit in the window where Tim and Dick can see them. Jason and Damian take a selfie, caption it “fuck Bruce Wayne,” and send it to the group chat. When Cass, who missed this whole event, expresses confusion, Jason replies “Turns out B fucked us over more than we realized. He hurt Tim deeply. And Damian too. Tim via some REAL fucked bullshit, and Damian by not teaching him not to kill fast enough.”

Damian adds “I have regretted trying to kill Tim since the moment I saw the harm in it. I am upset at Father for refusing to stop me sooner. Tim has far more right to be upset about it than me, though.”

Dick pulls out his phone and reads the messages, turning to the boys across the street and giving them a small smile. Tim reads it too, but his expression remains blank.

Babs texts back a minute later, saying “hacked the manor cameras and watched what happened. Jason, good on you for screaming at Bruce. You should’ve been far meaner about it, though. That was fucked UP of them to do it Tim.”

Tim’s phone alone pings with a direct text a moment later, giving him the link to Jason’s scream fest and telling him “next time Bruce pulls something like that I’m forcing my dad to adopt you instead of letting Bruce keep you.”

Bruce remains silent in the group chat too.

Jason and Damian are furiously typing. Tim glances at them across the street and sees it, and wonders what they’re typing. He finds out when, half an hour later, the most beautifully written apologies he’s ever seen arrive in his text inbox. Tim analyzes the messages; the two clearly asked for help from Dinah on how to make the apology sincere because they didn’t know how to say it. They even mention that they never said it before because they didn’t know how, and they would’ve tried if they realized how bad Tim was hurting about it. Jason says he was still calling Tim “replacement” as a joke at this point, and thought Tim knew. That he’ll stop now. Damian says the same about the casual insults; he didn’t know how else to act but sees how it’s wrong and will work harder on stopping.

Tim isn’t ready to forgive them. He tells Dick as much, and Dick nods. “I get it,” he tells Tim. And realizing that the time is right to speak up, he finally apologizes for the “giving away Robin” incident. He tells Tim the truth; it was Alfred. He didn’t know how to say it before now, not wanting to shatter his brother’s view of their pseudo grandfather. But now? Now he knows he can say it. And he does. And still, even though it’s not on him, Dick apologizes.

Tim forgives Dick a lot faster.

Bruce still is silent in the group chat.

The meal ends, and Dick pays for him and Tim’s food. Then, Tim walks across the street and walks up to the hostess stand. He doesn’t speak to his brothers, but he hands over his card and asks to pick up their tab.

It’s not forgiveness. Not by a long shot. But it’s a start.

—

The bats, besides Batman, don’t go out that night. They don’t even return to the manor.

Bruce Wayne goes out to work the next day and Alfred goes out to get groceries. They come home to find themselves locked out with a note on the door that says “no jerks allowed” in purple crayon.

Bruce nods and heads for a safe house instead, Alfred in tow. The two sit down and brainstorm. Within two hours, a car catalogue arrives at the manor, with a handwritten note that says “what we should’ve given you for your sixteenth birthday. Pick any one you want, if you want.”

Tim burns it and sends Bruce a video of it burning.

Too little, too late.

—

Jason comes up to Tim the next morning with a handwritten note. He gives it to him. It says “IOU literally any favor you ever want, as long as it’s not doing the dishes”

Tim laughs and pockets it. He uses it an hour later to get Jason to come and get him the remote from two feet away, even though Jason was across the house. Jason does it. Tim smiles. Jason passed his test. Jason smiles. Tim took the step and was willing to ask.

Damian gives Tim a painting that evening. He’d been working on it for months now, but finished it in a rush that day because it was needed now, not on Tim’s birthday. It’s a portrait of Tim and his team, smiling and laughing. Tim hangs it on the wall in his room with a smile.

That evening, since Alfred is still banished, Steph and Jason cook. Damian and Jason eat at the kitchen counter and serve the other three at the table. After a minute, Tim walks in, grabs their plates silently, and puts them at the end of the table. Not their normal spots, not across from him. But at the table nonetheless. It’s a start.

The only bats on patrol that night are Batman and Spoiler. Gotham newspapers can’t stop reporting on Batman being covered in purple glitter the next day. People keep asking what he did, especially since some reported hearing Spoiler shout “Justice! For Gotham!” as she pelted him with glitter bombs.

Cass returns from her away mission the next day. She breaks into Bruce’s safe house, says “I’m disappointed in you,” and leaves before he can say anything. She tries very hard not to laugh at the glitter still clinging to him as she does it. She comes home, gives Tim a massive hug, and refuses to leave his side for the rest of the day. She also hands him a small journal she’d written. She’d kept observations of when her siblings were having a hard time, and she’s marked instances showing how guilty Jason and Damian were feeling around Tim.

Knowing the apologies were sincere, Tim’s leaning more towards forgiveness. He’s not there yet. Not by a long shot. But he is more sure that they’re genuinely remorseful.

—

Tim goes on a mission with his team two days later. Kon mentions how Jason reached out to him to ask for advice in apologizing to Tim. Not realizing Jason had asked more than just Dinah, Tim smiles. At that, Kon also mentions that Jon said Damian asked him for help too. Knowing how hard asking for help is for Damian, Tim’s soft smile widens further. The others ask what’s up, and Tim tells his team.

Bart hears about the birthday thing and makes Tim a promise. If time travel shenanigans ever happen again, Tim can call Bart and ask him to verify them, and Bart will drop everything to check with the Speed Force. Tim appreciates it, and promises to call.

Cassie promises to punch Bruce the next time she sees him. Tim appreciates the thought but asks her not to.

Bruce receives a call the next day. Superman, Wonder Woman, and Flash have proposed a motion to put Batman on Justice League probation. If he cannot get his act together, he cannot be a league member.

Bruce protests the probation. He sends a message asking to be reinstated as a full member, saying this is a misunderstanding.

Black Canary calls him and verbally rips into him for THIS being the thing that gets him off his ass.

After she hangs up, she puts forward a motion to have other league members take over Batman’s duties training the Gotham crew. They all agree, and Batman is removed as a mentor and emergency contact on League files.

Bruce calls to protest this too, even harder now. The league take turns yelling at him, having heard from their protégés about what happened this week in Gotham. He doesn’t know how to respond. So he doesn’t.

Dick gets assigned Superman as a mentor. Jason is assigned Wonder Woman as a mentor, to his delight. Cass gets Green Arrow to learn how to do distance fighting rather than just her short-range expertise. Tim is assigned to Flash because of his detective work pairing well with CSI work, which he’s okay with.

Damian, meanwhile, is assigned to Black Canary, who offers to train him in social situations rather than combat. He accepts enthusiastically after hearing her plan, telling her that he wishes someone had taught him sooner, saying how maybe he never would’ve lost his brother Tim’s love and trust if he’d had these lessons. He would have considered Tim a brother far sooner too. Tim, who Damian doesn’t realize is in earshot, beams. Damian considers him a brother? He’s never said that to him or around him before.

Their emergency contacts are all each other.

The League doesn’t tell Bruce this, but his reinstatement depends on one thing and one thing only. Forgiveness from his children.

Every. Last. One of them.

—

Soon, Bruce is allowed back into the manor, but none of the kids stay there. They decided they can’t keep him out of the house, but they don’t have to stay there. They also take all of their stuff out of the batcave, relocating it to Tim’s safe house (with his permission).

Alfred, a week after Bruce’s banishment from the League and the day after he returns to the house, arrives at Tim’s doorstep with a box of cookies and an apology. A good, sincere apology.

Tim doesn’t forgive Alfred. But he does accept the cookies. And he does let Alfred drop by to hand over homemade dinners every once in a while.

—

A gala rolls around. Everyone notices that none of Bruce’s kids are there. He claims they’re all busy.

That excuse only works twice before people start asking questions.

At the third gala, Bruce shrugs and says nothing at all, brushing past the question. His kids have all been seen in public, just not with him, so rumors start to fly.

Dick, with his sibling’s permission, goes to a newspaper and gives an interview. He tells the paper that his siblings are all mad at Bruce over family drama and refuse to go to galas until it’s sorted because they didn’t want to harm Bruce’s public image. He’s still a good guy and the charity work he does is still important, Dick says. Bruce just needs to learn how to give proper apologies when he makes mistakes, especially big ones, and all of his kids are trying to teach him that lesson, hence them staying away from galas.

News spreads like wildfire. The city still loves Bruce, of course. But they’re all aware that his parenting skills leave something to be desired. They start talking about the importance of mental health and teaching kids, especially boys, about vulnerability.

Bruce is proud of his city.

But he still hasn’t spoken to his kids.

—

Jason and Damian have gone above and beyond for Tim recently. Being the brothers he always wished they’d be to him. He wishes he’d spoken up sooner. And they tell him that they wish they’d gotten the kick in the pants they’d needed to get their shit together sooner too.

Slowly but surely, he forgives them.

—

Alfred is still on thin ice, but whenever Bruce is out of town, the family will go over to have a nice, Alfred-cooked meal.

—

It’s been three months since Tim spoke up for himself. Bruce still hasn’t said a word to his kids. He’s tried to send Tim gifts occasionally. Tim burns the letters and donates the gifts to charity.

Jason, Damian, Dick, and Cass refuse to speak to Bruce. On patrol, they steer clear of him. Babs warns Tim in comms if Batman is approaching so he can leave if he wants. He always does. The only time they’ve helped him is when he was about to die. Jason stepped in and killed all of the bad guys. He later told Tim that he made sure he was the one to save Bruce because he knew Bruce hated Jason’s methods. Tim cackled at that.

Bruce doesn’t go off the deep end like he did after Jason’s death. He has learned that lesson, after all. But he’s not as efficient alone, especially since Babs won’t help him anymore either unless it’s life or death. He can’t help but miss his gaggle of kids. In trying to keep part of his family close, Bruce lost all of his kids in the process. All because he never learned how to say “I’m sorry.”

—

Six months have passed since Tim spoke up. Everyone in the family is closer. Except for Bruce. He’s still not on the League roster, and they’re doing fine without him; any time they’ve needed him, they call his kids instead. They don’t like involving kids but refuse to let him return for his kids’ sake. He keeps trying to get them ti let him come back. They keep telling him to put that energy towards fixing shit with his kids.

J’onn eventually gets sick of it. He knows from seeing Bruce’s mind how much the man regrets it but also sees how much Bruce struggles with remorse. So he gets Clark to drag Bruce to the Kents. They spend a week teaching him how to parent, to apologize, to own up to his mistakes.

Meanwhile, J’onn shows the Batkids how Bruce feels. Tim isn’t ready to forgive Bruce. Damian is for his grievance with Bruce, because he knows that Bruce couldn’t teach him what he didn’t know how to teach. But he still wishes Bruce had recognized it and gotten help teaching it. But Damian holds out on forgiving Bruce until Tim’s ready for it.

After a week with the Kents, they help him draft an apology. He can’t bring himself to say it. He mails it to Tim instead. Tim sends Bruce a video of him burning the letter, same as always.

Tim’s closer to ready to forgive Bruce. The letter was actually very sweet. But until Bruce can verbalize it, Tim won’t know he’s made enough mental progress to never pull that shit again. So he’s still holding out.

An apology without change is manipulation, after all.

That’s the breaking point for Bruce. He cries to Clark, saying how badly he fucked it up and crying about how much he misses his kids.

Clark lovingly tells him to get his shit together. Not to stop crying, mind you, but to let himself cry more. “Get your shit together and stop trying to hide from your emotions, Bruce,” he says. Bruce decides “fuck it” and asks Dinah for therapy.

—

After a month of therapy, he’s finally capable of it. He goes to Tim and offers a groveling apology. For everything, not just what Tim brought up. Bruce apologizes for his behavior after Jason’s death. He apologizes for letting- no, making Tim feel unsafe in his own home. He apologizes for all of it.

Tim tells Bruce he doesn’t forgive him, but this is a start. Bruce accepts that answer with grace, telling Tim he’ll keep trying to make up for it. That helps Tim forgive him a bit more.

At the next Wayne gala, Tim attends. Bruce nearly cries from joy when he sees Tim walk into the room. “Bruce finally learned how to apologize,” Tim tells the gala attendees who ask with a grin. “I went to therapy,” Bruce responds when people ask how he did it. Tim stays away from Bruce the whole night, but he’s there, and it’s a start. Bruce texts Tim to thank him for attending and for giving him another chance. He celebrates Tim’s appearance in his next therapy appointment. Dinah congratulates him, but there’s still more work to do. Bruce tells her he’s excited to do it. This is what he wants; what he needs.

Gotham’s mental health program gets a lot of funding from the Waynes and everyone starts getting invested in therapy, after people start learning how much it helped their beloved Bruce Wayne.

The following gala, all of Bruce’s kids (including Steph and Babs) are there. Bruce doesn’t even mind when Steph pranks him or Jason glares at him from across the room. They’re there.

—

Tim has forgiven his siblings; they’ve made an effort to make Tim feel like their brother, rather than their target.

Tim has forgiven Alfred; he’s continually apologized to Tim and insisted on helping Tim avoid Bruce until Bruce got his shit together.

Tim’s still working on forgiving Bruce. But the more the man goes to therapy, the more he sees what he did wrong, and the harder he works to fix it. Not just with Tim, but with all of them.

—

One year after Tim yelled at everyone, the family is whole again. They have a dinner with their old seating, and Tim is actually okay with it now. After all, those aren’t his attempted murderers anymore. Those boys have made constant effort to be Tim’s brothers, and they’ve earned that title.

Also, Bruce is allowed back on the JL, and insists on counseling for all of them. The JL agrees, seeing how it helped Batman.

Things may not be perfect. But no person ever doubts their place in the batfamily again, and no one harms another family member without instantly apologizing and making up for it.

They’re a family. Thanks to one little conversation.

"I'm angry at you" Tim forces out.

It's been a long time coming, the words that have been circling his mind for years. Rotting the back of his throat.

Jason is Bruce's son in a way that he will never be. It's just a simple fact.

Maybe he could have picked a different time maybe a family dinner wasn't the place, but he was the one that spent year's of his life having to dodge bullets and murder attempts. He had to spend month's in physical therapy after the tower.

The place he felt safe was ripped away because Jason who is traumatized he hasn't forgot that fact, decided to hunt him down and hurt him.

Maybe Robin isn't a child, but Tim Drake was.

He turns to Bruce who's face is of course blank he's the one who wants Jason here yet not an emotion in sight.

Turns back to look Jason in the eye the man who's sitting next to Damian sometimes he wonders if Alfred does it on purpose a way to remind Tim that his murderers will always have something he doesn't.

He will look him in the eye he will not falter today.

"I was a child, I should have never been the exception to your rule. Say what you will about Robin being something else but you didn't care about Robin you cared it was me"

Silence it's funny how comforting it can be.

"I should not have to sit at the same table as two of my attempted murderers and pretend that it's ok. You are both traumatized I understand that but it will never be an excuse for traumatizing me. I see the Red hood and Robin in my nightmares."

He turns to look at Dick who as always is to the right of him once again pointing to Alfred doing this seating on purpose.

"You are a hypocrite who has never shut up about drying but goes out his way to kill another Robin."

He sees Alfred step forward closer to Bruce he wonders what the point is will he say anything, not likely but why move he almost asks yet if he doesn't finish he never will.

"This was your home first it still is, but I have bled and given more than you will ever know to secure my place here. So Bruce I do not ever want to partnered with either one of them in the field. You or Dick are the only options. You will not argue with me this is me laying my boundaries which I am entitled to."

He stares at Alfred loosing the blank look to let some of the anger out. He wants him to know.

"You will also never again force me to sit at a dinner table across from them again. Whatever British Passive-Aggressive gesture this is. You have no right to do. I will never forgive you for my birthday."

Dick goes to interrupt he doesn't let him.

"Bruce and Alfred have my full permission to discuss the psychological torture they put me through as my birthday present. But from now on none of you get to treat me as if I am some replacement or placeholder. I am a person with feelings, I will not be treated like a doormat."

He makes eye contact with each of them Alfred, Bruce, Jason and Damian.

Before turning to Dick for the last part.

"You are the only person here who has never deliberately hurt me, your my brother and I love you. I want to spend more time with you and I am specifically requesting that you come with me when I leave this table. We can get dinner or hang out but I need you to leave with me."

----------

Bruce is speechless.

How did he do this, his child is sitting at his table trembling and he can't move.

His child who just spent ten minutes defending himself and he is doing nothing.

Dick interrupts what he can admit is a pity party.

"Your my brother, I will happily follow you to the ends of the earth and if we leave now we can go to the Thai place that you like."

He can't let them leave he has to say something.

Tell Tim that he loves him, that he can fix this that this isn't the end. That it matters but before he can there gone.

His boys leave.

His precious sons, one loyal to a fault and one hurt beyond measure and what did he do nothing.

What he always does nothing.

#Bruce and Alfred bashing #but they kinda deserve it tbh #look. I’m a firm believer in the fact that Batman is not and should never be abusive #his whole thing is beating up abusers!#but for some fucking reason the writers have decided to make him a jerk to his kids #and so #here we are #for some reason writers write him as a shitty guy #so this exists now #I’m either writing this or begging you to send me your version #also you know me I must give them a good ending #so enjoy some make it worse then make it better hurt/comfort content

394 notes · View notes

theoncomingchaos · 2 days ago

Text

Who loves Rook: Spite or Lucanis

I've been seeing a lot of discourse about this, and I just want to add my thoughts.

I might be totally wrong about this, but here we go. When Spite was put into Lucanis, he was still Determination. The fact that he changed throughout the torture, forced insertion, and imprisonment suggests to me that they have been put into a speedrun of a similar situation to Anders and Justice/Vengeance where they have started to meld. (As Anders put it, you wouldn't know where one begins and the other ends). Just like Anders and Vengeance, Lucanis and Spite can have separate consciousnesses and even disagree about things, but their core values have started to influence one another and become a part of one another- heightening certain aspects.

I think this melding is why we see some dialogues where Rook tells Lucanis that he sounds like Spite and similarly it's also the reason for the shared attraction- which I fully believe is coming originally from Lucanis.

I'll be honest my first time through I romanced Lucanis and was very disappointed. I didn't even see him and Neve ever flirt (she only ever encouraged us!) But still, it seemed to go from 0 to 60 with him. Now, I am on my second playthrough and I only just met him, but I am starting to see some really subtle looks and dialogues that suggest that Lucanis wasn't lying later when he said he was attracted to Rook from the beginning, but was afraid to really pursue anything or even acknowledge the possibility of being with them. With his fear of trusting people, ptsd from the prison, failed history in romance, and his new situation with Spite that he still hadn't worked out yet, he never thought anything would or could ever come of his feelings. We know Lucanis loves romance stories and likely longs for one of his own, but in such a situation it must have seemed truly impossible and terrifying to let someone else in. Especially someone you really care for and are starting to trust. So, he pushed it all down. Rook flirts? Maybe a small smile, but then quickly lock it all up with everything else he can't handle. Focus on work. Don't think about Spite, or Rook, or anything difficult.

However, if the melding has already happened as I suspect, then the feelings Spite is expressing are shared with (and likely sourced from) Lucanis, he's just better at expressing it directly- which makes sense for a spirit that was once Determination. When you first talk to Lucanis after the rescue, the thing Spite says about Rook changes accordingly to your tone, but to me the responses still sound like they come from Lucanis and are then echoed in Spite: "He doesn't want to hurt us." Even the "He's more fun than you" is something Lucanis seems to think about himself as he is fully aware that much of his life has not been his own and believes "all he knows is death."

Leading back to the main point, Lucanis's trust and interest in Rook would be heightened by Spite the way Anders' anger towards the templars was heightened. Even though they are finally free from the prison, their is a sense of constant suffering from still feeling trapped by fear, regret, and pain- Spite feels that suffering too. The elements of determination are still within him the same way justice is another side to vengeance. Both spite and vengeance are the results of failing to achieve their goals of Justice and Determination. Spite sees Rook as a way to free them from pain and restraint, a glowing and beautiful key to the prison door, and he is determined to do what needs to be done to solve the problem. That's why he doesn't hesitate. He has no fear. He wants to talk to Rook. He wants Rook to come in and free them.

After Rook has freed them, they become a source of comfort and safety, once they encourage Lucanis and Spite to find a way to cohabit comfortably, the two continue to meld, and the need to protect Rook, to love Rook, to keep them, is very deeply shared. Now, IF Spite was somehow removed or even somehow restored (Both of which I think are impossible) that would likely change. Determination outside of Lucanis would likely become more like Compassion. He would likely forget the horrors he experienced to return to his original purpose.

So, that leaves some final questions, particularly one Hawke helpfully asked Anders- Is Spite an unwilling party in the threesome?

That's up to everyone's own morality. While both Spite and Lucanis didn't have a choice to become like this, it is the situation they are in and the way they have to find a way to accept and live with because there really doesn't seem to be any real way to change it. Through their time together, Lucanis and Spite have influenced each other and grown into something new. Part of that is Spite also loving Rook. In that way, for those who are feeling (rightfully) underwhelmed by Lucanis's romance, Spite can almost be seen as a symbolic expression of Lucanis's love.

All that being said, I think there were some small things they could have done to make the romance more satisfying over all...but I'll save that for another post.

#Dragon Age #DA:TV #dragon age the veilguard #DA4 #DA:V #lucanis dellamorte #spite dragon age #dragon age rook #lucanis x rook #lucanis romance #spoilers #Maybe I'm missing something but this currently where I'm at with trying to digest things and figure out what the goal was with this romance

65 notes · View notes

sonicfanthenightfury5099 · 2 days ago

Note

Hello hello!

If it’s not too much to ask, may I please request some fluff/comfort reactions with Thomas, RZ Michael, bubba and whoever else you wanna add?

It would be about the reader going Into their room and ask the boys if they can spend the night with them because they experience real bad panic attacks at night. It sometimes get so bad that the reader fears that they will lose oxygen as they panic. (As someone who experience those regularly, it’s terrifying, so having our favourite big boy’s comfort would be great)

That’s pretty much it! :) hope this is okay❤️ thank you so much if you do get to this request, I love your writing so much!

As someone who also had panic attacks in High School I can see some of the boys spending the night with Reader.

Sorry this took so long to write this, I tried to figure out what write. I juggle alot in my head example I'm currently working on a rough draft of my future Webcomic

Enjoy this

Slashers Spending the night with You

Summary: You ask your boyfriend to send the night so they don't go through a really bad panic attack during the night.

Characters: Michael Myers (OG, RZ, and Peepaw), Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Saywer, Brahms Heelshire, and The Sinclairs Brothers

CW: Cuteness from the boys

Michael Myers RZ

When you ask him if he can stay home for the night, he gave you one his head tilts

He would usually go out and you stay home, but trying to sleep is hard

You tell him you get really bad Panic attacks at night, which have you scared of not be able to breathe

Alright I'll stay for the night

He seeing people having Panic attacks at Smith's Grove, especially one passing out from a attack

Wrapped in blanket and something warm to drink

A old monster movie playing on the TV as he puts his arm around your waist

Thomas Hewitt

Automatic Mama bear mode when you tell him you get really bad Panic attacks at night and have a fear of losing Oxygen as they panic

You can hold on to him like a teddy bear

Back rubs

You'll be falling asleep with him holding you close

Vincent Sinclair

Like Thomas, Mama Bear mode active

Warm blankets wrapped around the both of you in his bedroom

Candles lit to make it comfortable for you

Bo better not cause you to have an Attack

Brahms Heelshire

Before he showed himself has seen you have attacks at night (Brahms being Brahms) holding on to the doll

He eventually showed himself when you have a really bad episode

One extremely confused about a guy just came into your room, and Two who is he? Is it Brahms? You where told he died a long time ago

"Brahms?" You asked, he nodding as his reply

"Could you stay with me tonight? I need some comfort." You ask. "Yes." He replied in his child voice

He's holding on till the sun comes up

Michael Myers OG

Much like RZ Michael, your going to get one of his famous head tilts

Michael would just leave you home and when he gets back your still awake waiting for him

So that's why you stay up waiting for me, when you explain him about your Panic attacks at night

Guess he'll wait another night to hunt

He has became your weighted plushie in bed

He fell asleep afterwards

Bo Sinclair

Don't we sleep in the Same bed darlin?

He was going to check the gas station for a bit

"Is that why you have trouble sleeping?"

How about this, you can wear one of my shirts, I'll go down to the station and we can do anything you want

He comesback and your making popcorn while wearing his grey tee on

Watching a Documentary on the TV on Penguins

You fell asleep after that and he carry you to bed

Bubba Saywer

Relatable

Blanket Fort in the bedroom with some snacks

Watching a rerun on the TV in the bedroom

I recently watched the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the anniversary day

Lester Sinclair

"Oh my they get that bad?" He said when you told him about your really bad night Panic attacks

He normally doesn't go out at night but sometimes his brother ask him to come to the gas station to help out it

But tonight he can say in and listen to the radio

Snacking on jerky till you fell asleep

Jason Voorhees

Oh you poor bean

Much like Thomas and Vincent, Mama Bear Mode active

Warm blankets and warm drinks while having a Fire lit in the cabin

Eventually falling asleep next to the fire

Peepaw Michael Myers

Old man Head tilt

"Please stay in tonight Michael, I dont want to be alone tonight." You said to him

Putting on a old cheese romance movie to ease your nerves

He gags at some of the parts which makes you giggle

His turn, an old monster movie The Fly from 1958

He rubs your back while started to fall asleep

He carried you to the shared bedroom to sleep cause he started to get sleeply too

67 notes · View notes

amethystarachnid · 2 days ago

Note

Hey rose! I hope you're doing alright! I absolutely adore your Tony stark fics!! I hope you'd write one for Steve Rogers or loki. Can you write something with any one of them where their partner (reader) is very emotional, like cries at tv shows and books, can never NOT tear up when any of them say anything romantic or meaningful. And as much as they don't want their partner to cry, they feel really appreciated. Just loads of fluff! Thank you!<3🩵

P.s. ofc feel free to change or add anything you fell like. Appreciate it!

HAPPY TEARS

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Summary: You have always been the sensitive type, crying over movies and every sweet thing Steve did for you, and that's one of the reasons he loves you so much but, at the same it, it gets him worried for your possible reaction to the question that has been in his mind for sometime now.

ᯓ★ Word count: 8K

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing just pure fluff and just like a few words about a passionate night

ᯓ★ As always, since reader's gender isn't specified in the ask I'll write it as fem!reader because I'm a girl and it's what I'm more used to write, but if you want it to be with another gender are sure to specify it in your ask and I'll write it! <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, warm and inviting. It greets you before you even open your eyes, a little luxury of the life you’ve built together. Your sleepy mind pieces together the familiar sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen—the soft clink of the coffee pot returning to its base, the gentle scrape of a plate across the counter.

He’s making breakfast.

The thought alone tugs at your heart. After seven years together, Steve Rogers still finds a way to make every morning feel special, no matter how ordinary. You pull the blanket tighter around you and close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of his hums blend with the noise of the city beyond the window. It’s moments like these, the quiet ones, that remind you just how deeply you’re loved.

By the time you shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he’s plating up pancakes. He’s not wearing a shirt, just his gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and his blond hair is damp and tousled like he’s already gone for a run. It’s infuriating how good he looks, even at this hour.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you that boyish smile, the one that makes your stomach flip even now.

You give him a sleepy grin in return, padding toward him on bare feet. His hand automatically finds the small of your back as you lean into him, your cheek pressing against his chest. For a moment, there’s no one else in the world but the two of you.

“You didn’t have to get up so early,” you mumble against his skin, your voice still thick with sleep.

“You were out like a light,” he says, his hand running gently up and down your spine. “Figured I’d let you sleep in a little.” His voice is low, affectionate, and entirely too effective at making your heart melt.

When you pull back, he tips your chin up with one finger, his blue eyes scanning your face like it’s the first time he’s seen you. “Coffee?” he asks, already stepping away to grab your favorite mug from the counter.

You watch him pour the coffee, a soft smile playing on your lips. He’s careful, deliberate, like he’s handling something precious. And you suppose, in his eyes, he is.

As he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours, sending a spark of warmth through you. The gesture is small but thoughtful, the way so many of his gestures are. Seven years, and he still makes you feel like you’re worth all the time and effort in the world.

The first sip of coffee is heavenly, and you sigh contentedly as you sink into one of the kitchen chairs. Steve sits across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table, and slides a plate of pancakes in your direction. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says. “Thought you might want something sweet today.”

Your eyes go wide. “You made these just for me?”

His laugh is soft and teasing. “Who else would I make them for?”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and before you can stop it, tears start to blur your vision.

Steve freezes mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. “Hey,” he says gently, already moving his chair closer to yours. “What’s wrong?” His hand lands lightly on your knee, his thumb stroking small circles there.

You shake your head, letting out a watery laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You glance down at the pancakes, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. “You made me pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, clearly not understanding why that’s enough to turn you into a mess. “And?”

“And you made them the way I like them,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes. “With the chocolate chips on top, not mixed in, because you know I like the crunch.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you look up at him, feeling ridiculous for crying over pancakes. “You’re too good to me.”

His expression softens instantly, a mix of affection and bemusement. He moves his chair even closer, until his knees bump yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs catching the stray tears. “It’s just pancakes.”

“No, it’s not,” you insist, your voice a little shaky. “It’s… it’s that you always think of these little things. You always go out of your way to make me happy.” You gesture toward the plate, then to him. “Even after all this time, you still do stuff like this.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, leaning in to press his lips softly against your forehead. “I hope you know I don’t do any of this because I feel like I have to,” he murmurs. “I do it because I want to. Because seeing you happy is worth it. Every single time.”

His words are a balm, soothing the tight ache in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, congratulations,” you say, trying for levity. “You made me cry before breakfast again.”

“Again?” he echoes, chuckling softly. “I’m starting to think it’s my superpower.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, even as you swipe at your damp cheeks. “You’d give Tony a run for his money.”

“I’ll let him know,” Steve says with a wink, sliding the plate closer to you. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

You roll your eyes, but the teasing warmth in his tone makes you reach for your fork. The first bite is everything you expected—soft, sweet, and rich with the perfect balance of flavors. You moan appreciatively, and Steve grins at the sound, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Good?” he asks, resting his chin on one hand as he watches you.

“Good,” you say around a mouthful of pancake, the tension in your chest easing with every bite.

For a while, the two of you eat in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from years of knowing and loving each other. Steve tells you about his run—how Sam gave him grief for being late to their meeting spot, how the park was unusually crowded this morning—and you listen with a soft smile, chiming in occasionally with little jokes or questions.

But even as the conversation flows, you can see the way Steve keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like he’s still trying to puzzle you out. He’s always been like this, endlessly patient, endlessly curious about the way your mind works.

Finally, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, studying you. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how sensitive you are.”

You pause mid-bite, your fork hovering just shy of your lips. “Is that a bad thing?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Not at all,” he says quickly, his expression earnest. “I mean it in the best way. You feel everything so deeply, and… I don’t know. It amazes me, I guess. How you can look at something as simple as pancakes and see all the love behind it.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you glance down at your plate. “I don’t mean to make a big deal out of things,” you mumble. “I just… I can’t help it. When you do something sweet, it gets to me.”

He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. “I don’t want you to help it,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I love that about you. I love that you cry over movies and surprise gifts and little things like pancakes. It reminds me to slow down and appreciate those things too.”

You blink at him, your throat tightening all over again. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “So, if you feel like crying over pancakes or anything else, go ahead. I’ll be here to catch the tears.”

It’s too much—his words, his presence, the unshakable love in his eyes. Before you can stop yourself, you’re crying again, this time out of sheer gratitude. Steve just laughs softly and moves to your side, pulling you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you,” you whisper against his chest, your voice trembling.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head. “More than anything.”

Friday nights at the Tower are sacred—a time to unwind, laugh, and for Tony Stark to force his eclectic taste in movies on the rest of the Avengers. Tonight, the team has assembled in the massive home theater, complete with a state-of-the-art sound system, plush recliners, and enough snacks to sustain a small army.

You’re curled up next to Steve on one of the oversized couches, your legs tucked beneath you and your head leaning on his shoulder. His arm is draped casually around you, and he’s absently playing with the ends of your hair as Tony prowls the front of the room, remote in hand, his enthusiasm palpable.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony announces, dramatically pointing the remote like it’s a scepter, “tonight’s feature presentation is the cinematic masterpiece, Titanic.”

Groans ripple through the group.

“Tony, again?” Natasha asks, leaning back in her seat with a smirk. “You have a billion-dollar movie collection, and you keep picking this one.”

“It’s called having taste, Romanoff,” Tony retorts, tossing her a packet of Red Vines. “Some of us recognize greatness when we see it. This movie has it all: romance, drama, social commentary, and the single greatest piece of floating debris in cinematic history.”

“It’s a door,” Clint says flatly.

“It’s art,” Tony snaps back, dramatically clutching his chest like he’s been wounded.

Steve chuckles under his breath, squeezing your shoulder gently. “You okay with this one?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “We can always sneak out and watch something else.”

You shake your head, giving him a small, teary smile. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m probably going to cry.”

“I know,” he says softly, brushing a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay.”

The others are still bickering as the lights dim and the iconic opening notes of James Horner’s score fill the room. You take a deep breath, already bracing yourself. You’ve seen Titanic before—enough times to know that you’re in for an emotional ride—but somehow, the anticipation makes it worse.

It doesn’t take long. By the time Rose boards the ship and gazes out at the ocean, your eyes are already brimming with tears. The sheer scale of the doomed ship, the haunting foreshadowing—it all hits you at once.

“Uh, are you okay?” Bruce whispers from the seat next to you, looking genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice thick. “I just… I know what’s going to happen.”

Steve, unfazed, reaches into the bowl of popcorn and pops a kernel into his mouth. “This is normal,” he explains casually to Bruce, his tone as calm as if he were describing the weather. “She gets emotional during movies. It’s just how she is.”

Bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to understand. “But… it’s barely started.”

“She’s a big feeler,” Steve says with a shrug, pulling you a little closer as your sniffles grow louder.

“Is someone crying already?” Tony hisses from the front row, twisting around to squint into the dim light. When his eyes land on you, he raises an eyebrow. “We haven’t even hit the iceberg. You know that, right?”

“She knows,” Steve replies evenly, not even looking up from the screen. He grabs a tissue from the box he always keeps nearby during movie nights—specifically for you—and hands it to you without missing a beat.

Tony’s jaw drops. “You brought tissues specifically for this?”

“Of course,” Steve says, as though it’s obvious. “It happens every time.”

The group exchanges looks, equal parts bewildered and amused, but Steve just leans down to kiss the top of your head. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “Just let it out.”

“Wow,” Clint says, his tone dripping with mock admiration. “You’re a braver man than I am, Rogers.”

The movie marches on, each scene tugging at your heartstrings with surgical precision. Jack and Rose meet. They fall in love. They dance in third class and spit off the back of the ship. By the time they’re standing on the prow, their arms spread wide as the wind rushes around them, you’re openly sobbing into Steve’s chest.

“Am I supposed to do something?” Bruce whispers, looking helplessly at Steve.

“Nope,” Steve replies, rubbing slow circles on your back. “Just let her cry. She’ll feel better afterward.”

“I’m not sure that’s how crying works,” Bruce mutters, but he stays quiet, occasionally passing you another tissue.

Tony, meanwhile, is watching you with thinly veiled amusement. “I’ve gotta ask,” he says during a quieter moment, “do you cry at every movie, or is this one just special?”

“Not every movie,” Steve says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “But most of them. Especially the ones with tragic endings.”

“That’s an understatement,” Natasha says dryly. “Remember Finding Nemo?”

Clint snorts. “Oh, that was legendary. We weren’t even five minutes in, and she was already bawling over the mom dying.”

Tony looks scandalized. “Finding Nemo? That’s a kids’ movie!”

“And yet…” Clint gestures toward you, now hiccupping softly as Jack and Rose sneak into the cargo hold for their iconic steamy scene.

“She just feels things deeply,” Steve says, his voice laced with affection. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

Tony groans dramatically, throwing a handful of popcorn in Steve’s direction. “You’re making the rest of us look bad, Rogers. Stop being so disgustingly wholesome.”

“Not my fault you guys don’t bring tissues for your girlfriends,” Steve shoots back, his smirk widening.

By the time the ship hits the iceberg, the mood in the room has shifted. Even Tony has gone quiet, though he’s clearly trying to maintain his composure. You, on the other hand, are a wreck. The sight of the passengers scrambling for lifeboats, the haunting wails of the violinists playing “Nearer My God to Thee”—it’s too much.

Your sobs reach a crescendo as Jack and Rose cling to each other in the freezing water, their breaths ragged and visible in the frigid air. Steve adjusts his hold on you, tucking your head under his chin and murmuring soft reassurances.

“I’ll never let go, Jack!” Rose cries, her voice breaking.

You lose it completely, clutching at Steve’s shirt as though your own heart is breaking. Steve strokes your hair, his voice calm and steady. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Tony, meanwhile, is blinking rapidly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “What?” he says defensively when Clint raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s allergies. Big-screen projectors always make my eyes water.”

Natasha snickers. “Sure they do.”

As the credits roll, you’re still hiccupping softly, your face buried in Steve’s chest. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hand moving in a soothing rhythm along your back.

“Okay, that was… intense,” Bruce says, looking around the room like he’s not sure what just happened.

“I’m pretty sure I lost three pounds in tears,” Clint adds, tossing an empty box of tissues onto the table. “Do we have a hydration station somewhere?”

Tony sniffs loudly and stands, stretching his arms overhead. “Well, folks, that’s how you do cinema. Epic. Heartbreaking. Unforgettable.”

“Admit it, you cried,” Natasha says, smirking at him.

“I did no such thing,” Tony replies, looking deeply offended. “Unlike some people…” He gestures dramatically toward you, still snuggled against Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says with a shrug, his tone as casual as ever. “She’s passionate. It’s one of the reasons I love her.”

“You’re an actual saint,” Clint mutters, shaking his head.

You finally lift your head, your cheeks streaked with tears but your eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks for letting me cry all over you,” you say softly to Steve, your voice still wobbly.

“Anytime,” he replies, his smile warm and unwavering. “You know I’ve got you.”

Tony groans loudly, throwing his hands in the air. “And this,” he says, gesturing wildly at the two of you, “is why I’m never inviting you to movie night again. You two are too cute, and it’s ruining the vibe.”

“Tony, you’re just mad because you cried,” Natasha quips.

“I did not cry!” Tony protests, his voice rising an octave.

Bruce chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Whatever you say, Tony.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, Steve leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You okay now?” he asks, his voice just for you.

You nod, your heart swelling with love for the man who always makes space for your emotions, no matter how messy they are. “I am,” you whisper. “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling you close. “Because we’re definitely sneaking out before Tony picks another three-hour tearjerker.”

You laugh through the last of your sniffles, feeling safe and loved in his arms. As far as you’re concerned, there’s no better way to end a movie night.

After the emotional rollercoaster of Titanic, the Avengers agree on one thing: no more movies that could make you cry. Steve, ever the supportive boyfriend, gently suggests a comedy for the next round, earning nods from everyone in the room. Even Tony, slightly miffed from being accused (rightfully) of shedding a tear during Rose’s tearful farewell to Jack, throws in his agreement.

“Alright, team,” Tony announces, striding to the movie library with a flourish. “Since apparently, I’ve been overly ambitious in my cinematic choices, I’ll keep it light. Comedy. Laughs. Penguins falling over or something. Nobody cries at penguins, right?”

“Right,” you say with an encouraging smile, though your earlier sob session has left your voice hoarse.

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulder, his lips brushing your temple. “You sure you’re up for another movie?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I’m good. Something funny sounds perfect.”

The new movie is a slapstick comedy involving ridiculous pratfalls, a few over-the-top explosions (Tony’s insistence), and a hilarious subplot about a cat that keeps stealing its owner’s Wi-Fi password. It’s everything you need to decompress from the earlier emotional onslaught, and soon the room is filled with the sound of laughter.

Even Steve, who isn’t always in sync with modern humor, is chuckling at the absurd antics on screen. You’re curled up next to him, giggling into his shoulder as a character accidentally sets his kitchen on fire trying to make toast. Across the room, Tony and Clint are reenacting a particularly ridiculous dance scene, complete with exaggerated hip thrusts.

“See?” Tony says triumphantly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “This is how you do a movie night. Fun! Light! No tears.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics. “Give it time, Stark. We’re not done yet.”

Hours later, after the comedy has ended and a few rounds of drinks have been poured, Tony somehow stumbles upon a nature documentary titled The Journey of Life. The cover features an adorable penguin waddling across a snowy landscape, and Tony declares it “perfect background noise.”

“This,” he slurs slightly, pointing at the screen, “is what we need. Penguins. Cute, waddling, ice-sliding penguins. No emotions. Just vibes.”

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Bruce asks cautiously, but Tony is already pressing play, plopping down on the couch with a fresh drink in hand.

Steve looks at you, his eyebrow raised in question. “You okay with this?”

“It’s just penguins,” you reply with a shrug, snuggling into his side. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

At first, it’s exactly what Tony promised. The documentary opens with breathtaking shots of snowy mountains and vast, icy plains. The narrator’s soothing British accent describes the challenges of survival in the harsh Antarctic environment as a colony of emperor penguins waddles across the frozen landscape.

“Oh my god, look at them!” you exclaim, your eyes lighting up. “They’re so cute!”

“They’re ridiculous,” Tony says with a chuckle. “Like tiny, overdressed toddlers. I love them.”

Everyone relaxes, lulled by the majestic scenery and the gentle cadence of the narrator’s voice. Even Steve seems to be enjoying himself, his hand absentmindedly stroking your back as you watch the penguins slide on their bellies and huddle together for warmth.

It starts with a single penguin chick—fluffy, wide-eyed, and impossibly adorable. It stumbles away from the group, its tiny feet slipping on the ice as it struggles to keep up with its parents. The narrator explains, in heartbreakingly calm tones, that not every chick survives the journey to the feeding grounds.

“No,” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth as the camera zooms in on the chick’s desperate waddling. “No, no, no. Someone help him!”

“It’s nature,” Clint says uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. “It happens.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to watch it!” Tony snaps, his earlier bravado evaporating. His face is red, and he’s gripping his whiskey glass a little too tightly.

Steve sighs, pulling you closer as your sniffles begin. “It’s just a documentary, sweetheart. It’s the circle of life.”

“Circle of life my ass,” Tony grumbles, his voice thick. “That chick deserves better.”

As the chick stumbles farther away, your tears begin in earnest. “He’s lost! He’s so little! Steve, he’s not going to make it, is he?”

Steve pats your back, his voice soft but resigned. “Probably not, sweetheart.”

“Why are we watching this?” Tony demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Bruce. “You should’ve stopped me! You’re the smart one!”

“I didn’t know it was going to get sad!” Bruce protests, throwing up his hands. “It’s a documentary about penguins!”

By the time the chick’s fate is sealed (you can’t even bring yourself to look as the narrator solemnly declares that it’s “a tragic but essential part of the ecosystem”), you and Tony are both a mess. You’re clutching Steve’s shirt, sobbing into his chest, while Tony sniffles loudly into his empty glass.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, your voice muffled. “He was just a baby!”

“I know,” Tony says, his voice cracking. “He didn’t even get a chance! He deserved a chance!” He gestures wildly at the screen. “Why didn’t they save him? Someone could’ve—”

“It’s a documentary,” Natasha interrupts dryly, though even she looks mildly uncomfortable. “No one’s interfering.”

“That’s barbaric,” Tony declares, wiping at his eyes. “I’m calling PETA.”

Steve kisses the top of your head, his hand running soothingly along your back. “You want to stop watching?” he offers quietly.

“No,” you hiccup, though you’re clearly still devastated. “I need to see if the others are okay.”

The documentary continues, alternating between moments of lighthearted penguin antics and devastating tragedies. Each time something sad happens, you and Tony are reduced to tears, much to the bemusement of the rest of the team.

By the end of the film, when the surviving penguins finally reach their feeding grounds and triumphantly slide into the water, you and Tony are clinging to each other like war survivors.

“That was horrific,” Tony declares, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. “Whoever made that documentary is a monster. I need a drink.”

“You’ve had several drinks,” Natasha points out, rolling her eyes.

“Not enough to erase that from my memory,” Tony replies dramatically. He glances at you, his expression softening slightly. “You okay, cry queen?”

You manage a shaky smile. “I think so. That was just… a lot.”

Steve, ever your rock, kisses your temple and pulls you close. “I don’t think we’ll be watching documentaries again anytime soon,” he murmurs.

“Seconded,” Tony says, raising his glass. “To no more emotional devastation disguised as education. Who’s with me?”

“Agreed,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No more penguins. Ever.”

As the team dissolves into laughter and lighthearted teasing, you snuggle deeper into Steve’s arms, feeling safe despite the emotional rollercoaster. No matter how many tears you shed — or how often Tony joins you — you know you’ll always have the world’s most patient boyfriend by your side.

The tower is unusually quiet after the emotional whirlwind of the movie night. The penguins have long since waddled off the screen, the room cleaned up from the chaos of snack wrappers and spilled drinks. You’re asleep now, curled up on the couch with your head resting in Steve’s lap, the faint remnants of tears drying on your cheeks.

The others linger, nursing drinks or settling into the comfortable post-movie quiet. Steve’s hand moves gently over your hair, his touch instinctive and protective as he listens to the idle conversation around him.

“Poor thing,” Natasha says softly, nodding toward you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cry so much over a documentary.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint retorts, jerking a thumb at Tony. “He went through an entire roll of tissues.”

Tony, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand, glares. “It’s called empathy, Barton. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Empathy,” Natasha repeats dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe whiskey?”

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Tony mutters, waving her off. His gaze flicks toward you, then back to Steve. “You’ve got the patience of a saint, Rogers. How do you do it?”

Steve chuckles softly, looking down at you with a fondness so deep it’s almost tangible. “I love her,” he says simply, his voice quiet but steady. “She feels everything so deeply, and yeah, that means a lot of tears, but it’s also what makes her so special. She’s got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Aww,” Clint says, his tone mocking but not unkind. “Cap’s going all gooey on us.”

Steve shakes his head with a smile, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression, something weighing on him. He glances at the team, then back at you, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, after a moment’s hesitation, he clears his throat.

“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you all about,” he begins, his voice low. “I want to ask her to marry me.”

The room goes still. Natasha blinks, her eyebrows lifting slightly. Bruce, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, looks up with a small, surprised smile. Tony leans forward, suddenly all ears.

“Well, that’s not shocking,” Clint says, breaking the silence. “You’ve been together, what, seven years? We were wondering when you were going to pop the question.”

Steve nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve known for a long time that she’s the one. But…” He hesitates, his eyes dropping to your sleeping form. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Bruce asks gently.

Steve lets out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing. “Her reaction. She’s so sensitive, and she gets overwhelmed easily. What if I ask and she has a panic attack? Or starts crying so much she can’t even answer me? I just… I don’t want to put her through that.”

Tony snorts. “You’re worried she’s going to cry? Newsflash, Rogers: she cries when you bring her coffee in bed. This is a proposal, man. Of course she’s going to cry.”

“Tony,” Natasha says, shooting him a warning look. “He’s being serious.”

“I am serious,” Tony retorts. “Look, she’s emotional, yeah, but she’s not fragile. She loves you, Rogers. That’s the whole point. She’s not going to freak out because you ask her to marry her—well, not in a bad way, at least.”

Steve looks unconvinced. “I know she loves me,” he says quietly. “But I also know how overwhelming things can be for her. I don’t want to put her in a position where she feels pressured or out of control.”

Natasha tilts her head, studying him with that sharp, analytical gaze of hers. “So don’t make it overwhelming,” she says simply. “You don’t have to plan some elaborate proposal. Just talk to her. Make it quiet, intimate. Something that feels safe.”

“Yeah,” Bruce adds, his tone thoughtful. “She’s not the kind of person who needs a big show, is she? She’d probably appreciate something small, just the two of you.”

Steve nods slowly, his mind working through their words. “You’re right. She doesn’t like big gestures. She always says the little things matter more to her.”

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “So make it one of those little things. Something simple but meaningful.”

Tony, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past minute, suddenly speaks up. “And if she does cry,” he says, his voice unusually soft, “it’s not because she’s scared or upset. It’s because she loves you so much she doesn’t know how else to show it.”

The room falls silent at that, the weight of Tony’s words settling over them. Steve looks around at his teammates—his family—and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” Natasha replies, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

The apartment is quiet, the kind of warm, serene quiet that feels like a cocoon against the bustling world outside. It’s just the two of you tonight, the city’s hum dimmed by the thick curtains and the steady rhythm of the life you’ve built together. Dinner was simple but perfect—Steve made your favorite meal, and you couldn’t stop laughing when he got flour on his nose halfway through baking the dessert. Now, the dishes are done, the candles still flicker softly on the dining table, and the scent of warm vanilla lingers in the air.

Steve’s been acting a little off all evening. Not in a bad way, but in that telltale way that you’ve come to recognize over the years. He’s quieter than usual, thoughtful, his blue eyes darting to you and away as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle in his head. You’ve asked him twice if everything’s okay, and both times he’s smiled at you and said, “Of course,” before steering the conversation somewhere else.

You’re curled up on the couch now, a blanket draped over your lap as you sip the last of your wine. Steve sits beside you, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, soft and reverent, like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Steve,” you say, turning to him with a playful smile. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” he replies, though he doesn’t look away. His lips curve into that small, lopsided grin you adore, and your heart does its familiar flip-flop in your chest.

“Yes, you are,” you tease, nudging his leg with your foot. “What’s on your mind?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and deliberate, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you. Then he leans back slightly, his hand slipping into his pocket.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” he says, his voice calm but carrying a weight that makes your stomach flutter.

Your brows knit together as you sit up straighter. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” he says softly, and there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes now, a vulnerability that catches you off guard. He shifts, moving from the couch to kneel in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.

Your heart skips. “Steve—”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. The sight of it steals the breath from your lungs, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as tears instantly pool in your eyes.

“I know how you’re feeling right now,” Steve says gently, his voice steady despite the faint blush creeping up his neck. “And I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?”

You try—really, you do—but the tears are already spilling over, and a choked laugh escapes you as you press your fingers to your lips. Steve smiles, his thumb brushing over your knee.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of affection. He opens the box, revealing a stunningly simple yet beautiful ring—a delicate gold band with a single, glittering diamond. It’s understated and timeless, just like him, and it’s so perfect you can barely breathe.

“Y/N,” he begins, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve loved you for seven years. From the first moment we met, I knew there was something about you, something I couldn’t let go of. You’ve taught me what it means to live in the present, to love with my whole heart, and to find joy in the little things.”

Your tears are flowing freely now, and you’re shaking your head as though you can’t believe what’s happening. Steve chuckles softly, his own eyes glistening.

“You’ve stood by me through everything,” he continues. “Through battles, through doubts, through all the times I’ve struggled to figure out where I fit in this world. You’ve always been my home, my safe place. And I can’t imagine spending another day without you by my side.”

He pauses, his voice catching slightly, and for a moment, you see a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I know how deeply you feel things, and I know this might be overwhelming for you. But I promise, sweetheart, you don’t have to say anything right away. I just need you to know how much I love you.”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. “So, Y/N,” he says, his voice trembling just the tiniest bit. “Will you marry me?”

The question lands like a thunderclap in your chest. You’re crying so hard now that you can barely see him through the blur of your tears. You try to speak, to form words, but they come out in a jumble of half-sobs and gasps.

“Steve—oh my god—I—” You press your hands to your cheeks, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through you. “I—I don’t—”

Steve waits patiently, his hands still steady on your knees, his expression soft and understanding. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he says quietly.

“I love you,” you finally manage to choke out, your voice trembling. “So much. You don’t even know—I just—”

Steve smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I think I have an idea,” he says softly.

You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as you try to pull yourself together. “Yes,” you finally gasp, your voice breaking on the word. “Yes, Steve. Of course, yes.”

His breath leaves him in a rush, and his smile widens into something radiant as he slips the ring from the box and gently slides it onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you stare at it through your tears, your heart bursting with so much love you think you might actually explode.

“I love you,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, your face buried in his shoulder as you sob into his shirt. He holds you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist.

“I love you too,” you whisper against his neck, your voice muffled and shaky. “So much. I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Always.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your tears still streaming but your smile brighter than the stars. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice trembling. “I don’t deserve you.”

Steve shakes his head, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “You deserve the world, Y/N,” he says simply. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you.”

You laugh again, a soft, breathless sound, and Steve leans in to kiss you, his lips gentle but full of promise. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the kind of love that feels eternal.

When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, your hands cupping his face as you whisper, “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Steve’s smile is soft, his eyes shining with unspoken emotion. “Me neither,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”

The morning sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in a golden light that feels impossibly warm and perfect. You stir under the rumpled sheets, the fabric soft against your bare skin, and the memories of the night before come rushing back. It had started tender, Steve’s hands moving over you with a reverence that left you breathless. But the sweetness had given way to something deeper, more passionate—an expression of love so consuming that it had left you both utterly undone.

Beside you, Steve shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good morning, my beautiful bride-to-be,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and full of affection.

Your heart clenches immediately, and before you can stop yourself, tears well up in your eyes. You press your hands to your face, a choked laugh escaping as you try—and fail—to keep it together.

“Oh no,” Steve says with a chuckle, propping himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t even say anything that emotional this time.”

“You called me your bride-to-be,” you manage to say through your tears, your voice trembling with joy. “How am I supposed to handle that, Steve?”

He laughs softly, his hand brushing over your hair as he pulls you closer. “Sweetheart, if this is how you’re going to react every time I call you that, I’m in trouble. Because I plan on saying it a lot.”

You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin is warm and familiar, and his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek feels like home. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I don’t mean to cry so much. I’m just… so happy.”

“I know,” he says gently, his fingers trailing soothingly down your back. “And I love you for it.”

After a while, your tears subside, and you lift your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are soft and full of love, and the way he’s looking at you makes your breath catch. “Good morning,” you say softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “My handsome fiancé.”

His grin widens at your words, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet. “I like the sound of that,” he says against your lips. “Fiancé. And soon, husband.”

You feel your cheeks heat, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I can’t believe this is real,” you say quietly, tracing a finger along his jaw. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be a dream.”

“It’s real,” Steve assures you, his tone steady and full of certainty. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

The moment stretches between you, filled with a quiet, glowing warmth that feels too perfect to be real. But it is real, and as you lie there in his arms, you can’t imagine anything more perfect.

Eventually, Steve glances at the clock and sighs. “We should probably get up,” he says reluctantly. “The others are going to want to know.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Do we have to tell them today? Can’t we just stay here a little longer?”

Steve laughs, pulling the blanket off of you just enough to expose your shoulder. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, they’re going to find out eventually. Might as well tell them now before Tony starts making bets.”

You sigh dramatically but can’t help smiling as you roll over to look at him. “Fine,” you say, your tone mock-annoyed. “But if I start crying again, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he promises, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

An hour later, you’re dressed and ready, though your face is still a little puffy from all the happy tears. Steve holds your hand as you step into the elevator, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin. You feel nervous for some reason, though you know the team will be thrilled. It’s just that sharing something so personal, so precious, feels a little daunting.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, squeezing your hand. “It’s going to be fine. They love you.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the common room. The Avengers are scattered around the space, Tony sprawled on the couch with a cup of coffee, Natasha and Clint engaged in what looks like a very serious game of chess, and Bruce flipping through a book at the kitchen counter. Thor is munching on a Pop-Tart, his expression as cheerful as ever, while Sam lounges in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone.

Tony is the first to notice you. “Well, well,” he says, setting his coffee down and smirking. “If it isn’t our golden couple. What’s with the glowing faces? Did Rogers finally tell you about his collection of antique baseball cards?”

“Tony,” Natasha says without looking up from the chessboard, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Let them talk.”

Steve clears his throat, his hand still firmly holding yours. “Actually,” he begins, glancing at you with a small, encouraging smile. “We have some news.”

At that, everyone looks up, their interest piqued. Clint leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “This should be good.”

You feel your cheeks heat under their collective gaze, but Steve’s presence beside you keeps you grounded. “We’re engaged,” you blurt out, unable to keep the words in any longer. “Steve proposed last night.”

The room erupts. Natasha and Bruce smile warmly, their congratulations genuine and heartfelt. Thor lets out a booming laugh and claps Steve on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. Sam grins, shaking his head as he mutters, “About time.” Clint whistles, looking impressed, while Tony raises his coffee mug in a mock toast.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tony says, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “Congrats, lovebirds. I guess this means I need to start planning the bachelor party.”

Steve groans, and you laugh despite yourself, leaning into his side as the team continues to shower you with affection and teasing remarks. It’s chaotic and overwhelming, but it’s also full of love, and as you look around the room, you realize just how lucky you are to have this family.

Later, when things have settled down, Steve pulls you aside, his hand resting lightly on your waist. “See?” he says softly, his blue eyes twinkling. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “No,” you admit. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

He leans down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. “I love you, future Mrs. Rogers,” he murmurs, and once again, you find yourself wiping away happy tears.

The day has arrived. Months of planning, fittings, tastings, and a thousand little decisions have all led to this moment, and yet, standing in the bridal suite of the church, you feel like you might burst into tears before you even set foot down the aisle.

You’re wearing the dress you spent weeks obsessing over. It fits like a dream, a shimmering vision of white and lace that flows around you like a fairytale. Natasha, your bridesmaid—and perhaps the most patient person you’ve ever met—stands beside you, hands on your shoulders, trying to keep you from falling apart.

“Y/N,” she says firmly, her green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’ve got to hold it together. You’re going to ruin your makeup if you start crying now.”

“I know, I know,” you say, fanning your face with trembling hands as you try to will away the tears. “It’s just… everything’s so perfect, and I’m so happy, and—oh my god, Nat, what if I trip?”

“You’re not going to trip,” she says, her voice calm but decisive. “You’ve practiced this. You’re wearing sensible heels. You’ve got Tony holding onto you like a lifeline. You’ll be fine.”

At the mention of Tony, you glance toward the door, where he’s pacing just outside. Your “man of honor” had insisted on walking you down the aisle, and though he’d tried to play it cool, you could see the emotion brimming behind his bravado. He’d barely been able to get through the rehearsal without tearing up, and now you’re both in danger of becoming sobbing messes before the ceremony even begins.

“I saw him wiping his eyes earlier,” you say with a sniffle, a hint of a laugh breaking through. “If he cries, I’m done for. I’ll start sobbing right there in the aisle.”

“Then don’t look at him,” Natasha advises, picking up a tissue and dabbing at the corners of your eyes. “Keep your eyes on Steve. That’s the goal, remember? Just make it to him without crying.”

At the mention of Steve, your chest tightens with a rush of love so overwhelming it’s almost too much to bear. You picture him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you, his blue eyes soft and full of adoration. The thought is enough to make you inhale sharply, and Natasha quickly steps in, snapping her fingers in front of your face.

“Focus,” she says sternly. “Breathe. You’ve got this.”

You nod, taking a deep, shaky breath as you try to calm yourself. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.”

Natasha gives you a small, approving smile. “That’s my girl.”

The door opens slightly, and Tony pokes his head in, his face immediately softening when he sees you. “Wow,” he says, his voice unusually quiet. “You look… wow.”

“Thanks, Tony,” you say, your voice wavering. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t you dare,” Natasha warns, pointing a finger at him. “I just got her under control.”

Tony steps into the room, straightening his tie as he tries to compose himself. “Okay, okay, no crying. But seriously, Y/N, you look… breathtaking. Steve’s going to lose it when he sees you.”

The lump in your throat grows, and you press a hand to your mouth, willing yourself not to cry. Tony steps closer, taking your hand in his and squeezing gently. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’re going to be amazing. And if you cry, who cares? It’s your wedding day. You get a free pass.”

You laugh through the tears threatening to spill, nodding as you squeeze his hand back. “Thanks, Tony.”

He grins, his usual bravado creeping back in. “Besides, if anyone’s going to cry, it’s me. I’m already a wreck. You’ll have to carry me down the aisle at this rate.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “You two are a mess,” she says, shaking her head. “Come on, it’s time.”

Tony offers his arm, and you take it, your fingers trembling slightly as you hold on. The doors to the bridal suite swing open, and you catch a glimpse of the decorated aisle, lined with flowers and softly glowing candles. The music starts, and your heart pounds in your chest as you take your first step forward.

The church is full of familiar faces, but you barely register them. Your eyes are fixed on the man standing at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked onto yours. Steve looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, his expression a mixture of awe and love that makes your knees weak.

As you and Tony make your way down the aisle, you hear him sniffle beside you. “Damn it,” he mutters, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I said I wasn’t going to cry.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, your own tears threatening to spill again. But Natasha’s words echo in your mind, and you keep your focus on Steve, drawing strength from the love shining in his eyes.

Finally, you reach the altar, and Tony steps back, giving your hand to Steve with a small, emotional smile. Steve’s hands are warm as they take yours, and his voice is steady as he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

And that’s it. The tears spill over, and you laugh through them, shaking your head as Steve gently brushes them away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

“I don’t mind,” he says softly, his voice full of affection. “I love that you feel so much. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

The ceremony begins, and though the tears continue to flow, they’re tears of joy, shared by more than just you and Tony. By the time you say “I do,” the entire room feels wrapped in the warmth of the love you and Steve share, a love that shines brighter than any tears.

we need more soft fics in this sea of smut! (I like smut fics too but like...sometimes I just want something fluffy)

55 notes · View notes

igglemouse · 3 days ago

Text

Monday feels like the perfect day to make pancakes, banana pancakes, to be more specific! Then again, isn't every day perfect for pancakes? There's something about them, maybe it's the scent of them that fills the kitchen with a warmth only associated with morning, maybe its how soft they are and how, coupled with syrup, they just melt and fit perfectly on your tongue and aaaahhh...This new house with its spacious kitchen has brought a spark back into my cooking!

As usual, Pascal makes it over to the table for breakfast, a tradition at this point, but today there is something different. It's his clothing, he's all dressed up, buttoned up, crisp pants, no sweat. Did he miss his morning workout? Is he sick? Injured? I won't press, maybe he's finally realized he pushes himself too hard, no, I have something else on my mind.

"I was thinking about our last convo," I start hesitantly, ignoring the temptation of my pancakes for a moment. "It might be a sooner rather than later kind of thing." I'm surprised to say it because the thought of having another baby feels overwhelming. I mean, my Watcher, it's a lot to go though. Does it get better the second time? Am I really ready to submit my body through that again?

"Oh, Frida," he says just before taking another bite of his pancake. "I see that look in your eyes," he teases.

"What?!"

"That look!" he teases again, a grin growing on his face. "All you have to do is ask!" Oh, that's what he means. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks already.

"Pascal, I'm serious!" I shoot back because I am! This is a serious subject! "I just mean...if Flora is to have a little brother or sister, shouldn't they be close in age?" That's better for them, right? Allows them to bond a little better, I would think but I think by now Pascal is thinking more about the practice of making babies than the end result of it.

"Mmmhmm, they should..." See?

"Look! Ugh, nevermind!" I huff, giving up and waving away the now corrupted conversation we were having. "Do you even like your pancakes? You've barely touched them," I add, trying my best to steer it away from him and his morning wood.

"Oh, yeah," ugh, that grin is back on his face, I can't help but giggle. "No condoms moving forward then, right?"

"Pascal!" I blurt out with my fork clanking against the plate.

Alright alright, I wouldn't admit it at the table but I'll admit it to you now. I'd like another. Maybe just one more! My little Flora can't be an only child, she seems to enjoy attention a little too much but isn't that just all babies? They need so much love! Still, two feels right.

But for now, the rain is going to keep me inside which gives me a perfect chance at just sitting down and working on my socials. This is what I do now. Promote my social media, push my videos, and just try to grow my audience little by little. My first video does alright, nothing amazing or viral but a solid debut. It gives me enough hope to continue and to maybe think that there might be a future here for me with this. At least I won't have to worry about some old man trying to ruin my business.

And yes, I do spend some time working out because, I can't help but worry about my weight. I know I shouldn't, it's completely normal to add weight after creating a complete human being, but the thoughts creep into my head anyway. I just worry about Pascal out there playing a road game in some faraway city and at some night club before a pair of boobs gets put into his face and...yeah, let's end that thought right there. I want to look my best, not just for him, but for me too!

But maybe I've pushed myself too hard today because now I've broken out in a rash! Red little splotches all over my arms and legs and just everywhere! Not a good look. I don't imagine this is attractive but thankfully there's medicine for it.

By the way, I called Anthony. Or at least I tried. I'm not sure why but I felt like he should at least know. He'll never meet her, that I'm sure of, but I don't know, I feel like my grandparents, my mama, you know, people I've never known, would tell me that I should. It's fair for him to know. Just to know. It feels like if I don't tell him it'll be something I'll feel slightly guilty about for the rest of my life. If what Candela said is true, he saved my life, whether he meant to or not, so he should know that I'm doing well.

But the joke was on me, he wasn't available. A guard or someone, don't know, answers instead and asked if I wanted to pass along a message and in that moment I froze. I told him never mind and he told me times in which Anthony had phone privileges if I wanted to call back. I don't think I will now. The moment has passed. Maybe its just fate that he'll know.

Back to happier things, like making dinner for my new familia or at least trying to. Pascal made it a little harder because he walks right into my kitchen in nothing but his swim trunks which is incredibly distracting. I pause mid chop just to stare, wondering what he was up to and then figuring this is probably the continuation of our conversation from this morning. He's trying to tempt me! I can't help but chuckle because its both cute and endearing.

"Mi querido, what are you wearing?" I challenge, rising an eyebrow as he turns to face me which only makes it worse because I've always been a fan of his body and suddenly I'm reminded why I did fall for him. His goofy charm and his smile!

"My swimwear!" he announces with pride. "We do have a little pool and I wanted to check it out!"

"Must you walk around in it?"

"I think you should walk around in yours a little more!" He fires back with the cheesiest wink I've ever seen in my life, it brings a reluctant smile to my own face.

"I-I don't know! I'm still a little hefty, I might not even fit my old stuff. Maybe a one piece or something like-"

"I'd love you all in one piece!"

Ah well...well, we will eat dinner first and maybe we'll see about that later.

But unfortunately, after our dinner, little Flora had her own demands which naturally comes before my own desires. So, instead of spending some intimate time with Pascal I was called to feed her and change her diaper and just play with her and let her know that she is loved! Just the things a mama must do!

But while Frida was attending to the needs of little Florencia, Pascal was attending to his. Every day his Social Bunny account would light up with interest, messages from a variety of different women, all thirsty for his attention. They knew he wasn't single and knew he was a father, but for some, that made him all the more enticing.

Usually, Pascal ignored them, thinking of them more as annoyances and distractions, but one in particular stood out to him. Sofia Prats, a model and aspiring actress located in Del Sol Valley. She was a striking beauty with dark hair that seemed to contrast perfectly with pearlescent skin and a full smile that sat perfectly before observant eyes. She carried herself with a bold kind of confidence, a woman who was used to getting her way. She had sent him a few messages, wondering if they could meet. Pascal didn't answer, not yet at least, but he did spend some time scrolling through her Simstagram feed and enjoying her pictures...

Frida Varela - Next Episode 9.3

#The Sims #The Sims 4 #ts4 #Sims #Sims 4 #sims legacy #my sims #generation 1 #soot #sims of our time #frida varela #pascal alcocer #anthony varela #sofia prats #florencia alcocer

32 notes · View notes

cryptid-killjoy · 1 day ago

Text

Everything was going wild. Everything seemed fun and pretty typical until they couldn't decide if they should try and cover up the body or not. The Laveaus weren't the types to let a little crash and burn disrupt their fun. It was all part of it. Anywhere else they understood the usual rules though. They knew the aftermath murder code. Autopilot had a way of taking over. Still, if they could get away with not doing things the methodical way they'd take the out.

Scout was focused on her phone waiting her dad's answer out. Grinding someone down and eating them up was a messy and time consuming task. If they could get out of it they'd like to know for sure. Logic was telling them maybe in Feral where rules were lax it might just be okay to not go through the usual precautions. They also didn't want to do anything wrong and upset their hosts either. They just weren't used to the Feral rules, if there were any.

While all these converstions were going on between Koda, Chip, and Dale, and Jetsam not giving two shits all hovered over the stranger digging one of their eyes right out of it's sockets. Old habits died hard. He might have been dead but he noticed they were a cool color and couldn't help but want to harvest them as if he might add them to the collection he didn't have anymore. Maybe he'd start a new one?

"Weenie-balls." He was laughing. "That's the name of my new collection. I'll get a new set every Halloween. Keep 'em at your place, Chipper."

Scout broke in, "I can do it. I can keep them for you, Dad." She was trying so hard to be a part of it still wanting to be a part of his life as she watched Jet shove the wet thing into Chip's hand.

Then there was Koda who was trying to hold up under Chip's arm since he'd just been through a wreck. Chip was also still in slow-mode. Zombie-ish mode. His reflexes weren't back. He was looking at Scout like he wanted to respond but nothing was coming out. Jetsam took his silence as a yes because his hand held onto the eyeball unable to do much more quite yet.

Then there was GoGo. She came in and Dale was gazing at the sky when she came in out of nowhere and Smack!

Incoming.

Thack!

"Hey?!"

GoGo went off. She was practically barking at him. She kept going.

Dale's sore arms went up trying to protect himself but it was too late. She'd already hit him before he managed to sheild himself at all. A bloody third WOMP.

"Damn it!" Dale's body rolled and cringed away ready to jump up and ... and do... do something... he wasn't sure what... stop her he supposed but she stopped herself as he managed to roll over onto his side.

Scout stared at her as Dale managed to push himself off the ground holding his ribs, covered in the dismembered arm's splattered blood, and got his feet. It happened so fast. It had every hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Then GoGo even yelled it out. Something about loss. It was bone chilling.

Once Dale was on his feet he limped over, red faced, wide eyed.

Dale's initial reaction was anger. Pain and anger.

Then he saw her face.

Okay, maybe he was still angry, but fuck. Then he just pushed through the pain, stormed through it actually. He hadn't wanted to move at all. The adrenaline had made him jump up and next when he saw her face, he rushed forward and forced a hug on her.

"Fuck you. Are you trying to finish me off, GoGo?"

Damn, the hug hurt. Yelling hurt. Breathing hurt. He didn't care. He squeezed her in.

"Fuck you so hard."

He groaned over her shoulder, "You push me away. I'll squeeze harder. So fuck right off. I'm staying here."

All Scout could see was the fragility of human life, something she wasn't anymore. It was scarier than it used to be. It was the sort of subject she never thought about until her family fell apart. They used to feel so indestructible. Thomas built it back up so strong. She wasn't sure what this feeling was watching her brother and GoGo. Next to them was her zombie bit brother touched by death who caused the crash. Next to them was her actually dead parental who she'd been dying to see for years now, missing him, and conflicted feelings were still stirring. She watched him not pay attention fully focused on gouging out that second retina from the socket.

Before she could get much deeper in those thoughts her phone went off and Thomas's text came in. It shook her back to the present.

"Okay guys. Dad says it's not a big deal to just dump it here. GoGo's probably right. We can just blame it on a zombie. Looks like we don't have to take the time out for disposal here. We're good guys." She said taking the lead on the situation which under normal circumstances would have been a much bigger situation had they been anywhere else.

Jetsam stood up with his second eyeball in his hand grinning, "Told ya guys. Fuck it all." Then he kicked the corpse's eyeball-less head.

She saw Koda looking behind him and she gave him a little peace sign with her fingers, bursting the bubble with her tongue. She watched her own rearview mirror and playfully moved to swerve next to the VW, her open window meaning that she could reach across and ruffle Dale’s curls.

After that, GoGo sped on ahead, feeling her groove the same way that Kuzco did when he had a guitar in hand, the same way that Valerie did with a microphone, the same way that Delta did when she had her wings out, the same way Frank did as he kicked at a suspended reporter, making his body sway on the hooks while he read.

GoGo had been a girl who fell in love with cars, a real engine geek, and didn’t have much love left over for people. Not even her family. Once it was clear that they weren’t going to understand her, that they were going to try to dictate her life as if she was anyone else, she had given up on them. They became roommates. They didn’t do family dinners, or going out together, or even celebrations of birthdays.

It had taken a while for the Laveaus to permeate through that. It wasn’t even as if Go-Go had big walls up, the way that Elsa did, trying to protect herself or thinking that she was protecting others. She just hadn’t even realized that there was a door that they could even knock on. But it had opened and - now, she couldn’t imagine a world without them, the same way she couldn’t imagine a world without cars.

Loud music coming out of stereos, the noises blending together during the split seconds that they were near one another. Her eyes would dart over to see who it was, and would make faces over at Scout if it was her, and then would chuckle to herself. Her heart was beating with the engine, almost feeling like they were one. As she went up in speed, plowing through a zombie or two, only flipping on the windshield wipers as her reaction, she thought to herself, ‘This is better than masturbating.’

Unlimited speed. No cops. No sirens. No one telling her to slow down. If someone got in the way, hit them. This is just what the Autobahn must be like.

The sounds of gunshots weren’t even unwelcome. They echoed through the empty streets, with no one looking out windows, or running for cover. They would be heard up from the tower, where Frank and Delta were busy, but weren’t bothering them much either. As long as it wasn’t pointed towards them, or their people, Frank didn’t give a fuck. He was too deep in … well, a fuck.

She would have kept going when Dale was out of the window, but realized a moment or two later when there weren’t any more headlights in her rearview mirrors. Curiously, she turned her own car around and encroached on the scene. She had her own window down and climbed out through her window, exactly like Dale had been sitting when he had been ejected.

It was rough seeing Dale laying on the ground, like a piece of roadkill. It was rough seeing Chip behind the crumpled hood of the car, the windshield broken, pieces of glass. It triggered something in her. She couldn’t move for a moment. It felt like she was underwater. She could just about hear the garbled voice of Dale talking to Scout, and Chip’s eyes being open as Koda got him out of the car.

Tadashi. The outline of him, the silhouette, against the fire as he had run in like he thought that he was fireproof. Like he was immortal. Like he was a goddamn hero. The situations were different but the feelings were the same in that moment, a clenching around her heart and her stomach, a sense of loss. Everyone was, thankfully, preoccupied with the twins and the body and texting while she had her moment or two of panic before she felt like she was able to breathe again.

She wasn’t thinking the clearest though. She climbed off of the car door, walking around the glass-littered ground, the blood-soaked asphalt in her bare feet, and approached Dale, still on the ground. The panic was still in her eyes, the tenseness of her bones, all of it. And what she did was lean down and gave Dale’s head a smack.

“You don’t get to come close to dying, do you hear me?” She said, and then realized that her own little hand was barely going to do anything to Dale’s head, not through those curls anyway. She took a short march towards the dead body, picked up an arm that had been driven over, detatched at the shoulder, and then used that arm to hit Dale again. “You stupid, egg-headed shitpuddle!”

After hitting him a third time with the arm, she threw it down and then ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it out of her face to try to calm herself, taking deep breaths. “I’m not losing another friend,” She said in a quieter tone this time. It was only then that she seemed to realize what she had done. That there was a detatched arm beside her that had been attached to a body only seconds ago. She leaned down and then wiped her hand on Dale’s shirt because she wasn’t going to do it to her own dress.

While this was happening, Scout’s phone would get a text. Thomas was paying attention to his drunk wife, but also to his phone because he had meant what he had said when he offered to pick Ches up, all she had to do was text. Same with Scout, but that went without saying.

‘If Chip doesn’t want to eat it, I’m sure just tossing it into a sewer or something is fine? Just don’t leave a big mess.’

Go-Go was coming down from that short-lived panic attack. It hadn’t gone full blown, just enough for her to go full-throttle rather than her more subdued self. She was a bit embarrassed so decided to gloss over what she had just done rather than address it, and move onto the next topic.

“If anyone asks, zombies did it?”

#scoutxgogo #dalexgogo #chipxgogo #jetsamxgogo #kodaxgogo

78 notes · View notes

howlsofbloodhounds · 2 days ago

Note

I need to see more content of Color matching Killer's freak, and not just in terms of suggestive themes.

Obviously he's not direct or loud about it, obviously it's not easy reading that off of a person like him, but I imagine Killer would pick up early that Color's a bit of a freak cause why the hell else would he be trying to help him so much? Freak recognizes freak. Freakception. It's just kind freak on fire vs knife freak, that's what this has become.

Color is the subtle kind of freak. There is always a 50/50 chance that if Killer's got an urge, Color's gonna indulge it and act like he always does in the process. He is a "go with the flow" kind of guy on the surface until he decides to rip off that facade. His friends already know how freakish he is to a certain extent but it's people like Killer, Epic, and Delta that truly do vibe with it in their own ways.

Killer would want more of it and look for ways to encourage Color's "dark side", Delta would compete with it, and Epic would think of any punchline to add to how hilarious he finds it.

This is a group of equally as unhinged men.

The signs of Color's freak would be evident to Killer long before he decides to take up Color's offer in leaving Nightmare behind. He would pick up those signs and use them against him, specifically during arguments or fights where Killer accuses him of having crude ulterior motives.

And Color giving him little to no reactions on that basis would not only infuriate Killer but also fascinate him even more than he already was. Cause he can't always tell whether or not a comment set something off in Color's mind, or if there really was nnothing.

And then as time continues to pass, that is when Killer's observations start to make sense. He and Color are a lot more alike than he previously thought, well beyond the "we both used to be Sans and got fucked over by the same stupid kid" commonality.

They both have deeply-rooted trauma from two of the same fucking child. While Color was eventually provided with the resources to start healing, Killer was routinely denied those resources.

Perhaps Color has one of those warped bouts of hyena-like laughter too, except while Killer has it casually, it's a red flag coming from Color as it's indicative of a panic attack, complete breakdown, or weak attempt at stress relief following either of those things.

They both struggle at showing vulnerability because of their trauma. Killer hides that in multiple shitty ways while Color has had several years of therapy and a solid support system and because of that developed a stable "fake it till you make it" mask for only the worst case scenarios where he can't catch a break soon enough. (He's had to use that mask A LOT in dealing with Killer before he left Nightmare)

Think Stage 3 doesn't have enough reasons to regard Color as a source of safety? They've both got distinct animalistic traits and behaviors, and Color dedicated the patience and time to let Stage 3 learn that at its own pace. Stage 3 finds a mutual understanding with Color that it can't with anyone else BECAUSE of the effort and comfort Color provided.

And what about the fact that they've both lost their sense of identity and since gaining freedom had to gradually make a new one with the shards they managed to salvage? They both aim to keep some aspects of "Sans", but can never truly be "Sans" again. They've both grown past the point of ever being the exact same as they were decades, perhaps hundreds of years before.

In various ways both before and after escaping their traumas, they are both in constant physical, mental, and emotional pain. Some conditions simply have no cure, no medication to soothe their symptoms.

They are so similar yet so different. So of course Color would match Killer's freak. Under calm and casual circumstances he'd agree with (Stage 2) Killer's accusation of him being a masochist and Killer would be caught off guard because he was aiming to make Color angry. But instead Color gives him that simple admission with no strings attached.

Like golly gee fuck, Killer, it's almost like he has to be one in order to cope with the amount of agony he deals with every day. Speak for yourself, motherfucker.

Unhinged freaky old men is where it’s at.

People look at the chromatic crew and think Color’s the odd one out, that he’s the hinged one, but definitely not.

Bro probably finds it comforting and reassuring when killer licks away his tears 💀. Mans would be so willing to indulge nearly anything killer wants to try or do, and he’d likely enjoy most of it.

Need more of Color matching Killer’s freak and rolling with it. Wonder if Color ever surprises Killer sometimes.

47 notes · View notes

pullthehilt · 8 hours ago

Text

Reader is Yuu with an implied family with siblings. Not re-read or edited.

One day you realise that there is just a bit too much food on the table. It takes eating with the others to truly notice, but it starts with Grim complaining.

"We've been eating the same thing for days now!" And you laugh because it's true. After eating it fresh the first day, you tend to pack up and store the rest equally in the fridge and freezer because, yes, it's a lot. Dishes that are soups, or meals that are cooked in the larger pots and pans. Food that is to be served with rice on the side, portions that are bigger than your face. That isn't to say that you had a lot of thaumarks on you as you're just good at making bulk purchases worth it.

Everyone laughs at Grims moping, remarking of how he should be greatful you're feeding him at all. The banter is great.

But you're picking at your packed lunch now.

Why do you cook so much? Why do you reach for the bigger pots and pans? Why are your portions always for more than one?

From the fog of your mind, you see... your kitchen. Or you think it's your kitchen. It's not the kitchen back at Ramshackle, but the one from before Ramshackle. You're bustling around the counter, chatting to a faceless figure by the table, and reaching for seasonings without even looking. You're opening cabinets and finding what you need easily and asking the figure to make some rice to accompany whatever is in that pot. There's the squeals of children and hearty laughter from the other room. And hands, there's a hand at the small of your back and you think it's a motherly touch because how else can you describe the gentle way they press you to the side of their body.

For the next few days you can't eat properly. There's weight at your gut that substitutes for food and you don't make anything more. When your friends come over to invade the living room of Ramshackle, you don't have much snacks to offer them.

Peering into the fridge only reveals the stacks of containers of food you were eating days prior. You're mulling about maybe something you can make for them when,

"Whoa, talk about excess. Grim wasn't kidding." Ace's voice is right behind you.

"Ugh, sorry guys. i don't think I have anything proper to really feed you guys--"

"Is that some sort of egg salad?" Deuce's hand slithers forward to grab at one of the containters. "You have bread?" Nodding you gesture to the other cabinet. "Then I'll snack on this-- Er, if you wouldn't mind."

Epel peers from the doorway. "You don't happen to haf' some meat in 'er do ya?" Your fingers linger, before meekly pulling out a corrisponding tupperware.

"It's a bit stiff though, Epel."

"Hah, I'll jus' throw it on tha' stove or somthing. If it's still tough, I dun' care. Sometimes just gotta eat the greasy foods." He takes the tupperware and slaps it into a pan to heat it up. The aroma of sizzling meat is quick to attract both Sebek and Jack who add to the noise of chatter amongst the others, the former mostly.

You find yourself to the side, watching as they scour through your leftovers, opening and nodding at the meals inside before choosing which to heat up. And it's loud, but not grating. They're navigating through your space with expertice, slipping past each other and peering into cabinets. Jack's making rice and Sebek is counting the plates (whilst also making sounds whenever he sees a chip in the odd one or two). Over the stove Epel and Ace are jerking their hands into the pan, nipping their fingers to the corner pieces of the meat to just 'check if it's ready to eat'. Gathering the spoons and forks, Deuce nibbles on a piece of his egg salad sandwich before disappearing in the living area where everyone is setting up.

The dinner table has been set. You don't feel entirely there, floating to a cushion on the floor as your left overs are bought over to the table plate-by-plate. Everyone sits around you, Grim settled into your lap as he nibbles on a piece of fried fish, and they're passing the dishes around.

You've eaten these things before but you've always eaten them with Grim or alone when Grim takes his naps early. Instead of one set of cutlery scraping at porcelain, there's multiple sets-- a symphony playing to their hunger as they gather more to pile onto their plates.

#and then i didnt want to write anymore #JDSIFASF just a thought fr #i was talking to my friends who moved out for uni and we were all just talking about meals and specifically family meals #i got really sad just thinking about it #in my culture we dont really have individual meals and instead have meals where its quick and convenient that can feed quite a few #and we eat it with rice so its like long lasting too icl #anyways i have a lot of thoughts but my writing is soooo bad lol #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #x reader #jack howl #epel felmier #ace trappola #deuce spade #sebek zigvolt #grim #twst yuu #>hilt.rambles

44 notes · View notes

fictionalcharactersaremypassion · 1 day ago

Text

Liam and His Ickey

Set around s5 I guess

In the show, Liam doesn't really talk until he's older so he doesn't really say much here

4 +1

///

“Carl, don’t shovel it in like that, you’re going to burn your mouth,” Fiona frowns in disapproval. She’s made a big batch of potato soup for dinner, and honestly, it’s really fucking good. Mickey’s not used to home cooked meals. Him and his siblings are either eating what little is around the house or whatever they manage to steal.

“I’m hungry,” Carl says in between mouthfuls.

“Jesus,” Ian mutters.

It’s mostly quiet around the table. Debbie chatters about school and fucking Lip adds in a thing or two about his own life that Mickey couldn’t find it in himself to give two shits about.

Even so, it’s kind of...nice he supposes, to sit around the table like this. Fuckin’ weird, but he’s never really had this. Back when his mom was around, they never ate together. She was always sprawled out on the couch, passed out and intoxicated.

Ian’s fingertips leave a ghostly trail on his leg. The electric current shoots up Mickey, leaves him tingling, and he flushes, hoping nobody else notices.

“Mmm,” Liam says suddenly. He looks up at Fiona with a toothy grin, soup around his mouth. “Mmm.”

She laughs. “It’s good, huh?”

He nods and mmms, again.

“Well, at least I have Liam’s approval,” she says to the rest of them humorously.

“He’s just trying to get on your good side,” Ian teases, “so you don’t give him a bath.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Fiona groans. “I think it’s my turn.”

“Glad it’s not mine,” Debbie says. “I hate doing it now. He splashes too much.”

“I don’t mind,” Carl pipes up now that he’s almost done with his bowl. “He makes it look like a waterpark in there.”

“Yeah, that’s just what we need,” Fiona deadpans.

Lip wipes his mouth, takes a drink of his beer. “I think Mickey should have a turn,” he says, and Ian and Mickey’s head swivel in his direction. “It’s only fair now that he’s living here.”

Fuckin’ asshole. Mickey glares at him.

“No fucking way.”

“Come on, Mick,” Lip must have a fucking death wish. “Haven’t you bathed a kid before?”

“Lip,” Ian says warningly.

“What? I’m just saying. We always rotate the chores.”

“Mickey helps out around here,” Ian says firmly. Yeah, he fucking does. Doin’ the laundry, the dishes and other shit. He never did any of that at home. “If he doesn’t want to bathe Liam, he doesn’t have to.”

“Ian’s right,” Fiona agrees. Huh, Mickey takes a second to blink. “He doesn’t have to.”

“Okay, okay,” Lip grumbles, holding his hands up in surrounder. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Yeah, a stupid ass one,” Mickey interjects. Lip rolls his eyes.

Silence falls over them again. Their spoons clink against the bowls, chairs creaking whenever someone shifts.

“Ickey,” Liam pipes up again. All heads turn his way, expressions flicker with confusion.

“What did he say?’ Ian asks.

“Ickey,” Liam repeats.

“He said Ickey...” Debbie furrows her brow. “Is he trying to say Mickey?”

“Ickey,” Liam emphasizes. This brings forth a laugh from Fiona and Ian.

“It’s fitting,” Lip quips. Mickey scowls.

“What the fuck ever.” He digs into his bowl, taking a large scoop and ignoring them all.

Fucking assholes.

Mckey thinks it’s a one and done kinda thing. For a while, Liam doesn’t say it again, and the others make a few jokes for a couple of days before they move on to something else.

Of fucking course it isn’t that simple. Liam waits for the perfect opportunity to strike. He’s a fucking sadist, Mickey’s sure.

Today, Colin and Iggy drop by. His brothers are starting to be around more since Mickey came out. It’s uncomfortable as fuck, even though Ian beams like it’s the most fucking precious thing he’s ever seen.

His boyfriend really is gay as hell.

“What do you fuckheads want?” Mickey demands, His words don’t have as much heat to them, not really, it’s just how he talks.

Iggy tosses a plastic bag his way. “He’s more of your clothes, Stupid.”

“What brought what we could,” Colin shrugs. “Terry burned most of it.”

“Asshole,” Mickey mutters.

Iggy nods a little too enthusiastically. “Shoulda seen it. He made a huge fire pit in the backyard.”

“Whoop de fucking doo.”

He’s pretty sure both his brothers are complete idiots, because Colin glances around, not even trying to be subtle here. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

There’s this change to his tone at the word boyfriend, like it’s this strange new thing for him to grasp. Mickey supposes in a way it is.

“None of your damn business, that’s where,” he retorts.

“Cool it, Mick,” Colin rolls his eyes. “I’m just askin’.”

“He’s just protectin’ his boy, ain’t that right?” Iggy grins.

“Do you wanna fucking die?”

He staggers back when Colin uses the palm of his hand to push his chest.

“You forget that we changed your diapers,” his older brother snorts. “We’re not scared of you.”

Iggy nudges Colin. “Remember when he used to get mad if he thought we didn’t hug him enough before bed.”

“I never did that!” Mickey snaps, his ears going pink.

“God,” Colin shakes his head. “He used to throw the worst tantrums. Worse than Mandy ever did.”

He doesn’t need any of that information to get back to the ears of any Gallagher. “If you don’t have anything else for me then get the fuck out,” Mickey orders.

“Aw, Mick-”

“We were just messing around, dumbass.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mickey folds his arms.

At that moment, they all hear thudding coming down the stairs. Mickey assumes it’s Carl until he turns to find Liam all dressed in his pajamas.

“Liam, come on. It’s time for bed,” Fiona’s voice is getting closer. Kid musta ran right outta the bathroom.

Unfortunately, he has really bad timing. He spots Mickey, beams and says,

“Ickey!”

Fuck, Mickey sulks while his brothers crack up laughing.

“Did he just call you Ickey?” Colin howls.

Iggy is laughing so hard he leans against Colin for support. Liam giggles too, even though he probably doesn’t know what’s so funny.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Mickey sneers. “It’s real fucking funny.”

“Ickey.”

“Mickey,” he enunciates slowly. “Quit forgetting the M, kid.”

They’re sitting at the kitchen table where it all started, just him and Liam. Ian comes down the stairs, shooting Mickey this shit-eating grin. He comes over to the cabinet to get himself a glass, filling it with kool aid.

“How’s the spelling lesson going?” He asks lightly, taking a seat beside him.

“Fuck off.”

Liam just doesn’t listen no matter how many times he tries. Mickey thinks it’s a Gallagher trait.

“Mickey,” he repeats.

“Ickey,” Liam says solemnly.

Ian snorts. Mickey contemplates strangling him.

“It’s not Ickey,” Mickey says through grit teeth. “It’s Mickey.”

Liam does not agree. “Ickey!” He exclaims defiantly because that’s all these Gallaghers knew how to do.

“No!” Mickey barks.

“Has anyone ever said you’d be a good teacher?” Ian says.

Fuckin’ Gallaghers.

“I’m never touching your dick again if you don’t shut the fuck up,” Mickey threatens.

“You make a really compelling argument,” Ian says, not at all sincere.

Remind him again why he chose this dumbass?

“You know, if you keep bringing attention to it, he’ll keep doing it,” Ian continues. “Just ignore it.”

“No,” Mickey shakes his head. “Cuz he’ll think he’s won and he didn’t win.”

“He’s three, Mickey.”

“So what? You think your ginger ass wasn’t annoying at his age?”

“You didn’t know me at three,” Ian says, amused.

“Don’t have to know you. You’ve always been fucking annoying,” Mickey says. “Nah, I ain't gonna acknowledge it unless he says it right.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Seriously, Firecrotch.”

“You’re at war with a three year old, you know that right?”

Mickey ignores that. He knows he can win this. He ain’t gonna be outsmarted by a damn kid.

It goes quiet. Liam loses interest in the conversation so he goes to color in the living room. Mickey accepts a beer that Ian offers him, and they just sorta sit there, close and enjoying that the house isn’t currently being overrun with a million Gallagher brats.

Few minutes or so pass when Mickey feels a tug on his jeans.

Liam has a picture he wants to show him. “Ickey, look!”

So he deliberately turns away.

“Oh my God,” Ian mutters.

“Ickey,” Liam repeats. He frowns when Mickey doesn’t respond in any way. “Ickey!”

“Seriously?” Ian sighs.

“Ickey!” Liam starts to poke him incessantly. Mickey takes a deep breath. He won’t let himself be bothered.

Except it does bother him.

Poke, poke, poke.

“Ickey, Ickey, Ickey-”

“What?” Mickey explodes, whirling around in the chair to face him. His outburst startles Ian a bit but Liam is unfazed. He’s grinning and holds up the drawing.

“Look!”

Ian stands up, bringing the cup to his lips as he passes by to put it in the sink. “I guess Liam won,” he comments nonchalantly.

Now he’s not just goin’ around calling him Ickey. He’s been sayin’ My Ickey too.

“My Ickey,” he’ll say at random times, just pointing to him.

Maybe it’s because they’re around each other a lot. Him and Gallagher stay at the house whenever Mickey’s not working while Ian tries to get adjusted to these new meds. So he sees them two more than anybody else.

Ian says Mickey is partly to blame, he shouldn’t be saying, “No!” whenever the kid says it because it’s just encouraging him.

What the fuck ever.

Like now, while they’re trying to watch TV, Liam decides he should be the one in the middle.

“My Ickey,” he says to them seriously.

“You wanna sit next to Mickey?” Ian grins. Liam nods.

“Too fucking bad,” Mickey says blandly. “Stay there, Red.”

“He’s just a little kid, Mick-”

“So what?”

Liam becomes impatient from a lack of action. He pushes his way onto the couch, trying to separate them. Ian laughs and scoots over. Mickey wishes he wouldn’t. He’ll fucking murder somebody if they knew but he liked having his redhead right there with him.

Once there, Liam leans into Mickey, hugging his arm. “My Ickey,” he says, strangely firm for a kid.

“I think I have competition,” Ian snickers.

“Ay, Kid,” Mickey tries shaking his arm but Liam has a good grip on it. “Let go.”

Liam ignores him.

“Face it, Mickey,” Ian says cheerfully. “You’ve won the hearts of two Gallaghers. How’s that feel?”

“Fuckin’ great,” Mickey deadpans, although there might be some part of him that warms ever so slightly. It’s not like he’s used to people seeking him out other than Ian.

That warmth floods him from head to toe when Laim squirms his way into his lap, his head against Mickey’s chest. He’s pretty sure Ian’s giving them those heart eyes right now.

Whatever. This Ickey shit still has to go.

He’s trying to sleep. He’s nearly there when he feels a tug on his shirt.

“Wha-” he mutters sleepily.

Liam’s beside the bed, clenching a stuffed bear that’s seen better days.

Ian’s sleeping soundly as is Carl. Mickey sits up slowly so he won’t wake his boyfriend. “What’s up, Kid?” He yawns.

“Ickey,” he chews on his lips. From the moonlight, he can see tears in Liam’s brown eyes.

“You have a nightmare?” Mickey says, hushed.

Liam nods.

“Fine. Go on,” Mickey jerks his head towards the bed Liam’s using, the one that Carl used to sleep in back when Lip was here.

The kid climbs onto the bed and Mickey follows. Liam’s been having a lot of nightmares recently, and with no one else up at this hour to tend to him, that falls on Mickey.

“What happened this time?” Mickey whispers.

“Monster,” Liam sniffles.

“Ay, it’s okay,” Mickey pulls the blanket up so it’s covering Liam again. “There ain't no monsters here. No unless you count that goofy ass red giant over there.”

His words do little to comfort the kid.

Come on, work with me here, he thinks.

“Look,” Mickey says, “even if there were monsters, we wouldn’t let ‘em get to you, alright? We’d let ‘em eat Lip if we had to.”

This makes Liam giggle. It makes Mickey start to smile unconsciously.

“You good now? Think you can go to sleep?”

Liam considers this, and nods.

“Good.” Mickey doesn't kiss him goodnight or anything, he just starts to get off the bed when Liam throws his tiny arms around his neck to hug him.

“My Ickey,” he whispers.

Mickey sighs, a smile emerging against his will. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, for once not at all annoyed like he should be. “Your Ickey.”

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #liam gallagher #shameless fanfiction

23 notes · View notes