#someone laugh at this so I don't feel so bad about it

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Paper Cuts." CH1—Daryl Dixon.

Summary: Two encounters and one feeling produced in his chest seem to be enough to make Daryl want to get closer to you.

A/N: Sorry if this is bad. It's about 8am in Peru and I haven't slept, but I really hope you like it! Thank you so much for giving it a try♥ (I'm sorry for the grammatical errors, I'll correct them)

Intro

Silence.

Just three seconds of infinite peace that quiet down the chaos of his world, seconds in which Daryl captures your gaze in his blue eyes before you look away, dropping the gesture of your hand and your smile. And alone again, Daryl finally swallows the water inside his mouth (taking a break from that frown that lingered on his face all that tedious day) his world becoming noisy again with all the sounds inside the motorcycle repair shop, and the throbbing pain in his head thanks to the hangover that seemed to have no end. But with a smooth movement, as if you could blend into that faded place, Daryl watches you stop behind the owner of the '92 Honda he'd been fixing the past few days, but there's something captivating about the way you listen to the owner of the place talking to your brother, how your gaze deepens with the color of your eyes, as if you've never overlooked anything. Unwittingly, Daryl films everything about you within his eyes, a memory in his mind of someone like you, from the way you tilt your head slightly to pay attention, to the way you are dressed: you're wearing a loose white cardigan, but somehow, that simple garment, makes you look younger, almost innocent.

"Hey, Dixon..." Calls Tomas, the owner, waving his hand. "Could you explain the details of the bike to the gentleman?"

No, Daryl thinks bitterly, nodding. The path is short, but in the first few steps he takes while wiping his hands on his pocket square, your brother takes his cell phone out of his pants while whispering something to you, walking away after leaving that affectionate kiss on your temple.

Daryl's frown reappears as he stops beside you, so you simply shrug.

"Sorry. Looks like you're about to give me the diagnosis of my brother's baby."

"Yer brother." Right there, his face relaxes again as he processes your words in a split second. You nod, but it's almost funny how his strong features reach, almost, the point of innocence while he looks back at you (although nothing about him seemed innocent), adopting that almost accusatory stance again. "No offense, but I don' think ya’ll understand what m’ ‘bout to explain to ya."

“Wow, that's pretty bold of you, and so condescending.” You frown with irony, but there's no annoyance in your expression, only a reflection of the mocking comment you're about to make. “Well, it's a '92 Honda, isn't it? CB750. As for its ride quality and brakes: it has a high, I'd say upright, seating position, wide handlebars, and a good turning circle that sounds good for city work when my brother wants to play the ‘bad boy’ card, but the bike is heavy, and this can detract from it, but I guess girls don't know that when they just want to ride it—and the person riding the motorcycle, of course. And I'd explain, but I don't think you'd understand. No offense, though.”

And to his own surprise, Daryl finds himself listening to his own short laugh, which mingles with that scoff he used to use to dismiss others (however, he can't help but show that hint of surprise on his face before it disappears as quickly as it came).

“So ya know ‘bout bikes?”

"No. Only about this one, but I wanted to see if I could shut you up."

And for some strange reason, as Daryl begins to explain the almost solved problems of the motorcycle, for a fleeting moment, a nervousness like no other invades him the second you look away. It's stupid, he thinks, but maybe it's his own surprise at seeing someone like you, who looks so cultured and educated, probably with a nice diploma from some expensive university. And it's funny how the person who was always judged by his appearance would judge someone else for the exact same reason, but maybe, bad habits are the hardest to break.

When Daryl finishes, you nod again, plastering on a gentle, grateful smile, without a hint of sarcasm this time.

"Okay, I'll let my brother know. Thanks for your time, Mr. Dixon."

A second or a lifetime while you turn to leave, there's something about the way your lively eyes seem to sparkle with sincerity over something so simple, as if a simple thank you could mean so much, and that has Daryl swallowing the uncomfortable lump in his throat to find his voice as he sees you walking away.

"M’ Daryl, by the way."

You pause at the end of another step, turning around to lock eyes with him, as if his deep voice holds some charm.

"(Y/N), nice to meet you." Then, you’re gone.

Daryl Dixon had always been a solitary person: since the time he was a child, when he had to survive life's adversities instead of living his childhood and adolescence like any other child or teenager. Daryl had literally made his way through life, getting into so many fights that it was normal for his mother to see him come home with bruises from time to time growing up, though nothing compared to the beatings his father gave him while his mother watched silently, doing nothing to protect her own son. Over time, the fears and insecurities Daryl harbored inside, like any normal child, abandoned him from a young age when he had to face solo a world that showed him only cruelty, leaving him like an iceberg, as cold as the color of his eyes, a the deep ocean that can drown you in its waves. It's majestic, yet deadly dangerous.

The moment Daryl closes the door to his old apartment after a day of work that should have ended at 7 instead of 9, the gray walls feel cold against the exposed skin of his sleeveless shirt, with the paint peeling with time and the fact that neither of the Dixon brothers cared to repaint it, oblivious to a place that was never home, only a house while living in their own world. Daryl drops his keys on the entryway table, ignoring the way Merle, sitting on the couch, barely notices his existence as he walks all the way across the living room to the dining area behind the couch.

"I thought ya weren't workin’ today, lil’ bro." Merle sips his beer, eyes fixed on the TV.

"Why?" Daryl frowns, grabbing a bottle from the refrigerator.

"I heard ya bitchin’ around as ya dragged yerself to the bathroom. Told ya not to drink durin’ the week."

The youngest Dixon snorts.

“Like ya were a fuckin’ role model, asshole.”

Daryl disappears down the hall with the beer and an empty stomach, missing the way Merle laughs, raising the bottle in salute before drinking it all.

With no protective figure in sight at home and at the mercy of a dictator with the title of dad, you tend to go out when the coast is clear, when the cop with the alcohol problem is stuck on night shifts. With a promise to behave and another kiss from the only man who didn't imprison you in a glass cage, you venture out into the streets of a city that, once the night had swallowed the sun, glows with its own light thanks to the neon signs. Sometimes your world is dark, despite the blinding lights of some clubs, and it's filled with your fears, as if they're out to get you, but it's comforting to hear your best friend speak, and how her voice, with a touch of sweetness, masks her wild and childish heart. And something, that turns your saddest days into the sunniest.

"I need to sleep on a bicep tonight." You laugh at her words, shaking your head, keeping your hands protected inside your jacket pocket, but offering her stability as she links her arm with yours. "Do you want to try your luck in the lucky one?"

You scoff, mocking the bar's ridiculous name as she pushes the door open, sinking into loud music whose lyrics you can't quite understand as she guides you to an empty table. People all over the place seem to be enjoying themselves with their own fun conversations, like an elderly couple who remind you of your grandparents, a young woman with pink hair that pops beautifully, and a young man with familiar eyes who catches you in his gaze (a few brief seconds for you to realize his hair is dark blonde, but with a look of a slight, innocent surprise on his face when he recognizes you) before you look away.

As you sit in the window seats, you also notice he's with a young man who works at the repair shop too, though Daryl didn't seem like the kind of person who went through life with anyone other than his own shadow: and just his name makes a current run through your body.

"Are you okay, honey?"

Sam's worried frown disappears when you dismiss it with a nod.

"Can you order something with colors? I want people to think I'm fun."

She laughs at you, standing up, the warmth of her fingers sliding over your chin.

“You’re funny. Sarcastic as hell, but funny, except that so far no man has come along who can handle that.”

She leaves and quickly returns, leaving a tall glass on your table. To you, all drinks taste strong and a little bit disgusting, but you gulp a sip all the way down your throat, hating it, but savoring the numbness that will soon follow. For a few minutes, everything is peaceful until someone always notices how Sam glows with her own light even in the darkest night, as if people can easily see her bright colors, like the young man with the wild hair that commands her full attention, enjoying themselves in the dance floor, with the sway of a few bodies dancing here and there, too. You chuckle when Sam points to the young man’s bicep, but you move from the table to the bar on the other side of it, as if that puts a barrier between you and the rest. The bartender smiles at you, handing you another glass when yours runs out after a long moment.

“Hi, darling.” A young man bringing you back to the present, sitting next to you. Blond, with green eyes like the cat you had as a child, and dressed in a grey suit that shines, but it looks so expensive. “Are you new in this bar? It’s the first time I’ve seen someone as pretty as you around here.”

His flirting and smile are cheeky, not funny for your moment of self–pity, and you don’t want to do this right now. Pretending to care.

“That’s very kind, but I’m waiting for someone and—”

“Oh…” He stops, and his smile almost fades. “Your boyfriend?”

You don't like lying, but the blush gives you away.

“Yes.”

“Liar! You overthought it.” He laughs. “My name is James…”

He extends his hand. Accepting it would give him the wrong idea, but you were taught to be polite, to never forget your manners, so you do.

“(Y/N),” you say, letting go because even his skin looks expensive, because maybe his skincare routine was more expensive than yours. “Look, I don't mean to be rude—”

“Come on, babe.” He leans forward, interrupting your rejection as he invades your personal space. “I'm just trying to start a conver—”

“Hey, babe...” You glance over your left shoulder at the sound of a raspy voice, and you're stunned to see Daryl next to you, but he’s looking at James. “Sorry, bro, she's already taken.”

Even you can feel his aura around James as if it stretches for miles towards the end of the world, so scary it frightens the young man, forcing him to back away with a nod until he's out of sight.

You clear your throat.

"Uh, thanks for that. If it weren't for you, I could have stayed with him all night."

"Yeah. No problem." His voice is deep, but pleasant when he talks to you, and so are his eyes when Daryl finally looks at you. "Have a good night."

He walks away, taking with him that blue gaze that seemed to reflect the ocean and all its dangers. So why do you clear your throat again to say something, even though you know you can't swim well, knowing that a wave could pull you into the depths?

"Hey..." The sound of your voice stops him and makes him turn, looking at you thoughtfully. "Do you want to sit down for a while? I think you're as lonely as I am."

Daryl looks at you, seriously considering whether it's worth it, but in the end, without a particular expression, he sits back down in the seat James had been occupying. He really tried to keep his distance, but you seem like a mystery (something exciting) in his simple, boring life, like a work of art in the middle of nowhere, (surprising) but at the same time, it's like watching a princess in her best ball gown wandering through the woods.

The bartender comes back.

"A glass of whiskey. Thanks." His gaze is deep even though Daryl doesn't seem to want to read all of you, not knowing if he really wanted to know what secret you were hiding. Perhaps it wasn't favorable for someone like him. "May I ask what yer doin' alone in a place like this? This part of the city is trash."

You chuckle at his words.

“Have you been told you tend to judge people just by just looking at them?” Daryl snorts at your question, but he can’t hide his smirk because there’s no sarcasm this time, just a simple joke, not an attack on a lifetime of judgments for being a redneck. “But I don’t blame you. People don’t see beyond appearances, which is sad, because then we miss the best part of them, the things we don’t fully see when we blink.”

And for the first time all night, Daryl has a friendly look on his face, as if he were no longer defensive, always ready to attack verbally, or even physically. He knew better than anyone that appearances are a powerful force, and apparently you do too.

"I see ya."

The look in his eyes fascinates you when his most honest side comes to the surface, enlightened by his determination, and intriguing at the same time as Daryl rubs his lower lip with his finger, his elbow resting on the table as if trying to hide his indifference, nodding to the bartender as he puts down his drink.

"Okay.” You nod. “Try it. I dare you."

Daryl feels a pang in his chest, but he smiles slightly through the pain, sideways.

"From the tattoos on yer wrists... ya love animals." He takes a sip of his drink, but you're surprised he noticed them, even though you don't let him know. “If ya got lil’ animals tattooed all over yer skin, I dare to say yer studyin’ to be a vet or ya wanted to be one… Ain’t that right?”

He looks at you with confidence and a touch of condescension, like the first time a few days ago.

“Maybe.” You say, wiggling your head gently. “Anything else?”

Daryl leans back, his nervous fingers gripping the glass, but fully immersed in the game.

“The tattoo on yer knee…” His gaze travels to the opening of your ripped jeans, to the word 'serene love' tattooed in red ink. “Did ya find it?”

“No.” Your voice is flat, but devoid of any sadness at not having found someone with such impossible expectations.

“Ya don’ have a boyfriend.”

You shrug, although his words are a statement, not a question.

“Monotony scares the hell out of me.” You laugh somewhat sadly, convinced that all relationships end the same way: whether couples break up or decide to stay together out of habit… like your parents. “I guess you don���t have a girlfriend.”

“I don’ do the girlfriend thing.” Uncomfortably, Daryl looks away and finishes his drink in one gulp while hiding the distaste of the taste as he looks back at you. "So... whatcha looking for now?"

"Honestly... nothing, but whatever comes my way, I'll take it in the best way possible, even if the experience only leaves me with my heart in my hand and a life lesson.... excuse me.” You look away from him to take your phone out of your pocket, ignoring the way Daryl rests his gaze on you with glass against his lips as hundreds of questions weigh on his thoughtful expression. It’s your brother, asking you to come home because your dad is coming back in two hours. Austin was your cover, but if your Dad came back… “I’m sorry, Daryl, but I have to go.”

Daryl can see the obvious distress on your face as you shove your phone back into your pocket, and though he tries to force himself to stop before he says something stupid, the words are easy to pronounce after a couple of drinks in his system that give him the courage he could never acquire sober.

“I can give ya a ride if ya want. Ma bike is outside.”

You weigh his words with the speed of a second, but you and Sam have gone your separate ways before, though she wasn’t your main concern at the moment.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Daryl stands, pulling some bills from his pocket before placing them on the table. You want to protest, but you push it to the back of your mind as you make your way to the entrance of the place, catching Sam's gaze on the other side, giving you a thumbs–up in approval when she sees Daryl near you. You shake your head, breathing in the cold air from the change in climate outside once you pass through the door. When Daryl reaches you, he points to the motorcycle a few steps away, which is similar to your brother's, maybe a couple of years newer.

"You know, I wasn’t joking when I said the girls wanted to ride the bike and the person riding it."

Daryl snorts at your chuckle, handing you the helmet.

"Ya have a sassy mouth, y’know?"

"Well... I think it's a nice compliment, so thanks." He shakes his head before climbing onto the motorcycle, but like a flash, a concern fills your mind. "Don't you wear a helmet?"

"Nah." He shrugs, dismissing the danger. "Where do ya live?"

You sigh.

“I know we've only just met, but I don't want anything to happen to you, you know?”

Your voice is a whisper as you give him your address, but you can't hide that affection that was born naturally, the protective instinct that Daryl doesn't know how to interpret as you climb in behind him, your own nervous hands clinging to his shirt, not touching too much. Like a mental note before driving away, thanking the fresh air that blows against him, he tries not to feel too much the warmth of your fingers on his thin sleeveless plaid shirt, a touch that seem to pierce through that single piece of clothing of his. The streets are dark without the fake light of the neon signs, and although the lampposts emit an amber glow, the darkness swallows everything in the shadows, but in that moment, it's a good cover for you. Though now, it's funny to think how you walked into that bar empty–handed, but walked out with something more meaningful (even if it's just for a moment)

The leafy trees are good cover too when you ask Daryl to stop before you reach your house. The ride makes you dizzy, but you step firm on the ground as you take off the helmet.

“Sorry. My dad has a policy of not letting anyone near his kid. Kind of medieval, but what can I do?”

Daryl frowns, confused, but starting to feel offended.

“People like me?”

“What do you mean, people like you?” You chuckle, but the question confuses you as you frown, tilting your head slightly to the side. Although to Daryl, who’s always had the knack of misguided misinterpretation of others’ words, he can also see that you have no idea what he’s talking about. Shit. You honestly weren’t judging him. “People in general, Daryl. No one. Absolutely no one.”

“Why?” He asks, filled with genuine curiosity.

You shrug.

“I don’t know. I’m like the princess trapped in the glass castle, so I can only go out at night or when he’s not around.” You hand him the helmet as a sign of farewell, smiling, and even in the dimness, your gaze seems to shine, as if you’re refusing to let the darkness swallow you up, too. “Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Daryl Dixon.”

You’ve only taken a couple of steps away, going to your own home, your hands tucked into your jacket, but why does Daryl feel that pang in his chest again? Since when does his body recognize pain after living numb for so long? It was a damn mystery, but for the first time, he doesn't want to be left wondering about anything: he wants to find out why your gaze always seemed to be full of life, even in the little things, even when you looked at him as he was someone.

“(Y/N)?” His voice is shy, but as you turn around, stopping there, you're still too far from his private life to recognize his tones, the shift and meaning in each word spoken, and the growing nervousness in his chest as he speaks. “Maybe we can meet another day. Any day ya can escape the castle.”

There's confusion in your voice when you answer, but also a hint of amusement.

“Are you asking me out?”

Daryl sighs, hating the heat on his cheeks.

“Are ya gonna make me spell it?”

You chuckle, just to cover your own nerves, but, just as there's something terrifying about letting him into your life, there's also a twinkling thrill that you had perhaps never felt in your life.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Daryl gulps before he speaks. “Okay. Uh, ya like the woods?”

You love it, but it’s still unusual.

“Are you trying to take me there to kill me?”

He does his best not to roll his eyes.

“When?”

“Saturday maybe? I work until noon so I can pretend to work more.”

Daryl nods, more aware of what’s going on, because the last 10 seconds feel like a dream or a hallucination.

“Okay. I’ll pick ya up at 2.”

You nod back, calling it a night.

“Bye. And just… be careful on your way home.”

There it is, the ache in his chest as he laughs in a mocking tone, just to hide the fact that you were the first person in his life asking him to be careful with his own life, which, up until that moment, had felt… meaningless.

“Look at ya, worried ‘bout me already?”

You press your lips together tightly, holding back your laughter, which was equal to his.

“Whatever.” You say cheekily, but without sounding rude, as if only you have the power to be both cute and sarcastic at the same time while you turn around and head home. “Goodbye.”

Daryl is left alone, sinking into his own thoughts so deep he fears he can't see the end in his eternal night, his feelings teasing him, only for them to finally prove to Daryl that there was something there inside him all this time, that he wasn't always empty. Or maybe not now that he has your gaze to look at him with that color of your eyes shining like a gem.

Nah. It's too soon to feel that crap, right?

If you don't want to be tag, please let me know :) It's okay, promise!

@spookygothmommy @walkingtalkingsomething @m1nda0 @fluffy-dixon @stunkbiggu @kurogxrix @ffsjustletmesleep @kaz11283 @daryldixmedown @enretrogue

[huskyscc]

lacy

pairings - jenna ortega x g!n reader (no pronouns specified)

wc - 2100+ (not proofread)

warnings - none

summary - you thought jenna was someone with the perfect life, she seemed happy enough. you just didn't know how bad she was struggling with everything.

masterlist

» [Lacy by Olivia Rodrigo now playing] «

1:45 ────〇── 2:57 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

for the longest time, all you could remember was her talent and carefree nature.

you remember a lot about her, actually. how she would laugh over stupid things and not have a care in the world. when her natural talent was brought up, she always remained humble about it and even made small jokes about it. you loved her confidence, but you yearned for it. at least something along those lines.

it started ever since you were kids, seven or eight years old at least. you and Jenna were best friends, stuck together like glue at the hip 24/7. there was never a day where you two would be separated or apart. it drove your parents crazy.

You two would spend everyday hanging out together, and as you grew, so did your bond... though, your play dates and sleepovers were always canceled early because Jenna usually had to do something along the lines of acting or of some sort.

It was just a few times every few weeks at first, then almost every week, then daily. it cut the time between the two of you, causing your distance to become thicker as she spent more and more time away from her childhood era.

some days, you would just spend sitting on the sidewalk along Jenna's home as you waited for her, knowing she wasn't going to show up. the feeling never went away, the yearning for her to return. you were 13 when she came back.

by the time she did come back for more than a few days, she was... different. not in a bad, mean way, no. she was different in her demeanor and how she acted.

she was especially different with how she talked towards you. her eyes roamed you experimentally, as if studying you for a moment before she spoke. you finally went to cut the silence, though she beat you to it.

"You've... grown." Jenna spoke softly in a soft murmur, her eyes still glancing at you as if recognizing- no, remembering you to memory. you tried to catch up with Jenna, but her news was much more interesting than you catching a few frogs here and there and crashing your bike.

you wanted to be a good friend, listening intently as she spoke so highly of her new career that she enjoyed. you saw the way her eyes sparked - the way they hadn't sparked like that since before she left made your stomach turn in anxiety.

it was a small grow in your belly at first, though you ignored it with the feeling of success for Jenna. you showered her constantly with affection and amusement.

you continued to push the feeling away, though it only seemed to gnaw harder at you as you both continued to grow.

───

Jenna was leaving for the night. she had told you previously a few days back that she would be hosting SNL monologue, which you were impressed about.

"It's a bit weird, don't ya think? I mean, not this place. I love being here," Jenna gestured to the comfort of the shared hotel between the two of you.

"you mean weird as in...?" you perk, your mind curious as you glance at her. she looked up at you and gave an awkward smile, "uh.. not being home?" she took a breath before slumping beside you on the couch.

you nod in agreement, sniffing as her perfume hit you. "yeah, but not too weird. I like being here with you, anyway." you say in a lighthearted tone, to which Jenna gave a warm smile to.

"are you gonna watch my monologue? what if I forget it? what if someone else forgets their part?" she started rambling, her brain working 100 miles per hour as each what if theory grew within.

"Jen." you say in a gentle yet firm tone, trying to ground her once more. she gave a look of slight embarrassment but nodded in question.

"yeah..?" she inquired. you chuckle slightly as you move a stray strand of hair from her face. "you're overthinking this. you know how great you are!" you say with a soft expression, honesty gleaming in your eyes.

Jenna gave an honest, lighthearted smile at your words as she slowly nodded her head in agreement. "yeah," she took a deep breath in. "I probably am just overthinking this," she laughed it off.

Jenna was always on the more talented side of things when it came to remembering and acting out things. you were just... there. you weren't excellent at anything, you were just there for Jenna and she was there for you.

as Jenna prepared to leave, she gave you a small hum of goodbye. she stammered out the apartments as you call out to her, "see you! and i'll watch it, promise!" you promised her, to which she gave a warm smile of gratitude before she finally left for the night.

The glow of the TV was bright against the dimly lit room. you were slumped into the couch, wearing a pair of shorts and a hoodie that you found on your floor. most likely Jenna's.

you had watched Jenna's monologue, to which she did amazing with, no doubt. you just... felt that pit in your stomach once more.

you wanted to excuse it, trying to convince yourself that you were feeling excited for your friend as you watched her grow into the woman she is today... but you would be lying if you said that.

that was far from the truth. it's not that you were jealous of Jenna and her success, you were jealous of how carefree she seemed to be and how at bay she looked 25/8.

you, on the other hand, were almost always stressing about your job and if you'd get fired based off something as small as forgetting to move a box from one place to another.

Jenna loved her job from what you had heard, and it even gave her more opportunities. way more than you ever got. Jenna just seemed more talented than you in everything.

It seemed that she poisoned every little thing that you did with her own charm, causing you to have no effect on anything or anyone.

you didn't know how to handle it, you just wanted that ache in your stomach to disappear.

you give a long exhale, pressing your back into the couch cushions with a hum of contentment. you turn the TV off, slipping a blanket up to your chest as you got comfortable whilst waiting for Jenna.

It wasn't much longer until she came, giving a small yawn as she walked through the door. she seemed tired. you turn your head in an instant, humming at her presence. "hey! I told you that you'd do good." you say.

Jenna gives a hearty laugh, her dimples evident before she threw her bag aside and crawled onto the couch with a slump onto the cushion. "I'm so exhausted." she murmured.

initially, you took it as a more rhetorical statement than serious. you figured she was just tired from doing so much today - you didn't consider the fact that it might be her expressing how mentally drained she was.

you give a small chuckle at her words, turning your head to look at the brunette girl as you toss the blanket over her, as well. "is that so?" you perk an eyebrow, as if not believing her. "you're naturally talented. surely, it can't be too hard?" you offer.

Jenna gives a shake of her head, her expression puzzled as she eyed you. "too hard?" she scoffed slightly. she gave a small huff, her brows pinched together in confusion as she glanced at you. "i'm exhausted." she empathized the word now, her eyes softened in a drained way. she gave a small frown.

you glance at her frown, then back up to her eyes. "...you mean, like, mentally?" you perk quietly, as if afraid to say the wrong thing to the girl, who nods her head. your expression falls flat as realization hits you like a train. was being naturally talented and pursuing it really that hard? your stomach churned.

"this is so tiring. I feel like I don't get to hangout with you anymore because of work- even if we live together!" she carries on her words with a small droop of her shoulders. she shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, and you could see the sadness building up inside her.

you gave a small puzzled look, not expecting this from her. talented, carefree Jenna... maybe you should have expected it. I mean, no one is perfect? "but-" you began, though, your mouth remained stuck open as your throat dried and your words died out.

Jenna looked at you, curious as to what you were going to continue saying with hooded eyes. it was just then you took notice of Jenna. real notice. you took in her appearance at once, your eyes flickering with concern and empathy.

her eyes were worn and seemingly empty, showing little to no expression as the eye bags under her eyes are evident when her face is studied. her hair is ruffled and there's a bit of torn skin on her bottom lip, indicating her anxiety getting the best of her.

"oh, baby..." the words slipped from your tongue as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jenna gave a small wince as you moved, her eyes tired. "c'mere," you breathe softly as you open your arms up for her, your chest burning with sympathy for the brown haired girl.

Jenna looks up at you before crawling within your grasp, her heartbeat staggered as she rested against you. you open your mouth to speak, your words coming out softer and weaker than intended. "i'm sorry- I had no clue you were so... tired." you say gently.

Jenna shakes her head against the fabric of your hoodie, her gaze unwavering as she looks up to you. "y/n," she sniffled. "I- I didn't know how to tell you. I thought living together would be the perfect solution but-" her voice chokes out as it creeps away.

"perfect solution to what, Jen?" you asked softly, trying to grasp an understanding of how her mind exactly worked and how her thought process brought her to this moment.

"the perfect solution for feeling so... empty and lost." she exhaled. she brought her gaze to the ground below, messing with her fingers in an anxious state whilst hiding from your gaze, as if scared.

you frowned at her honest words, rubbing her back softly as she choked out her words. "I should've noticed. don't feel bad, Jen." you coo gently, trying to calm her nerves. yet, she still shook her head, her eyes brimmed with tears.

"I am so tired. all the time. I want to be the best for you and for everyone else who's looking up to me, like my fans! but, i-" you cut her words off with a sigh. "Jenna." you say, a bit stern.

She gives you a hesitant look, her gaze curious as she glanced up at you. "yeah?" she said in a breathy voice, her eyes softened as her gaze met yours.

"you don't have to make anyone the happiest besides yourself. if you aren't happy, you shouldn't push yourself until you're emptied out... you should take a break." you whisper softly, as if nervous that if your tone was a bit higher, she'd be scared off.

Jenna nodded slightly in understanding, her movements slow as she took it into thought. "but, my fans-" she started. "forget your fans. just for now. worry about yourself so your fans don't have to, yeah?" you say with a small, reassuring smile.

Jenna listened with an intent glare, taking every word to heart. "yeah... yeah, okay." she muttered quietly at last, her gaze soft as she looked up at you.

you give her a ruffle of her hair as you pull her beside you, allowing her to be enveloped whole by the blanket. you wipe her eyes of her damp tears, giving her a concerned yet caring glare.

Jenna looked at you once more before taking a small breath, inhaling and exhaling deeply before nuzzling into the side of the hoodie. she took in a whiff of your scent, her body easing against yours as she closed her eyes. she was tired.

you whisper sweet words, small promises, and even heartfelt comments as she drifted off. you toy with her hair for a bit longer before moving your fingers away, holding her against you like a lifeline as you closed your eyes, as well.

oh, how wrong you were about someone who seemed to be made of perfect angel dust.

[raven-unkind]

hii, congrats on the 200 followers ❤️ i really like how you write niki for your smau so i was wondering if i could get prompt 1 with him? maybe loser riki who's down bad for reader? 🤭

˚₊‧⁺⋆❤︎ annoying ft. riki nishimura

riki nishimura x fem!reader

wc. 1419 words

200 followers event: “You pierced my ears. That’s like, automatic couple material.”

tw. highschool!au, fluff and crack, inspired by my own high school (gotta love em american highschools 😭), the main situation is loosely inspired by smt that happened to me and my friend (yes we helped some guy in our school pierce his ears. pls dont do that). Saw this prompt on pinterest and I just HAD to add it to my event. 

a/n. This is so long, I couldn't bring myself to stop yapping 😭 anyways I’d like to thank everyone that sent in their requests for the event & those who are supporting me!

If someone told you that helping someone would have resulted in being followed around by your school’s resident bad boy you would have laughed. Since freshman year, Riki Nishimura, had seemingly been doing everything to build himself the reputation of a delinquent. Getting into fights, skipping classes, never wearing his uniform correctly, and somehow always being late as if he didn't live 10 minutes away from school. 

…

It was 4th period – physics class. Now not only did you hate the teacher – Mrs. Makenzie – but you also had absolutely no idea what the hell was even going on in this class. So the best solution? Skipping in the bathroom. Not very exciting but still, it's better than sitting through a 1 hour lecture about thermodynamics, slowly feeling your brain melting away. So you found yourself in the girls bathroom, hidden away in a stall, scrolling on your phone. That’s when you heard it. A string of curses from the boys bathroom. Something you never understood about your highschool was the weird design of the bathrooms. The boys’ and girls’ bathrooms weren’t exactly private. The wall on which the sinks and mirrors are were shared, and said wall doesn't go all the way up to the ceiling; instead, there is a gap at the top, roughly 60 cm wide. That made it impossible to avoid overhearing everything happening in the other bathroom. You could hear conversations, the echo of footsteps, and even the sound of sinks running, as if the space between the two was just one continuous room. It was always a bit awkward, especially if you heard something you weren’t supposed to, like this time. 

“Come on hyung? Please.” The first voice said. “Absolutely not- Thats unsanitary and I don't wanna be responsible if it gets infected- I’m out.” Another one said. You narrow your brows, unable to fathom what in the world these 2 guys could be doing in the bathroom. You shake your head, deciding it might be best to ignore whatever that was. You heard footsteps leaving the bathroom and assume they’re both gone. That's until about 5 minutes later when something falls on the ground, and again, a string of curses. “Fucking- I cant fucking do this.” That makes you raise your head from your phone, that noisy part of you interested. There’s a beat of silence and you can't help but let curiosity get the best of you. “You okay?” You ask, hoping you were loud enough for him to hear.  

“Uh yeah.” Their voice was quick, almost stammering. Flustered is exactly how you’d describe it. Cute, you think. He clears his throat. “Hey uh… any chance you’d be down to help me pierce my ears?” You blink, phone completely forgotten in your left hand. “...Like now?” “Yeah.” You pause, thinking. That explained why the other boy you heard earlier so adamantly refused to help him. School bathrooms aren't really known to be sterile. You couldn't help but feel bad for however was on the other side; so you asked a little hesitant. “Do you have a piercing gun? Or are you like… free handing it with a needle or something?” “Nah- I bought a gun on amazon.” he answers with a chuckle. You nod, even though he can't see you. “Okay sure. I’ll help.” you get up and open the stall. You only accepted for 1 reason. He has a cute voice and he sounds a little shy. Giselle would most definitely laugh at you if you told her that but still, you couldn't help yourself. So imagine your surprise when you peek in the boys bathroom only to find no other than Riki Nishimura, leaning on the bathroom counter, dark cyan piercing gun in hand. 

You stop in your tracks and Riki turns his head towards you. He gives you a lazy smirk, one you’ve seen many times before in the 3 years you’ve been stuck in the same classes as him. “Hey-.... Y/n.” “Uh hi….” The shyness of the voice you heard seconds prior to entering the bathroom is gone, if anything, he sounds pleasantly surprised that you’re there. You shake your head and step into the bathroom, extending a hand towards him. He hands you the gun. “So what ear do you wanna do?” “Both.” He says cockily, eyes not leaving your form. You nod, gesturing for him to get to your height.

The whole ordeal happens pretty fast, without anything going wrong. Tak, tak and done. Both his ear lobe red but you can't lie, the earrings did look good on him, great even. After that, he had given you an intense look, like it was his first time really seeing you and you had excused yourself, eager to escape whatever that look meant, which brings you to your current predicament. 

Riki started following you around, almost like a puppy following its owner. He would appear at the most random places, bring you food and worst of all, flirt with you in the most random moment with the most ridiculous pick up lines you ever had the misfortune to hear. To make matters worse, it seemed the entire school had taken notice of the situation, people going as far as betting on their main story how long it would take for you to accept Riki's advances. 

“I'm never being nice again.” You mutter under your breath. You were trying to enjoy your lunch – keyword is trying – when Riki sat next to you, turning so his body faces yours, a smile on his face. “How are you doing, pretty girl?” You look at him with a deadpan expression and he smirks, clearly not affected. “I changed them look.” He says, bringing your attention to his ear lobes. He switched the silver studs for small silver hoops, one of them with a cross dangling from it. And yeah, shocker – well not really – but it did look great. You give him a blank look and he pouts. Riki fucking Nishimura who claims to be nonchalant and does everything in is power to be cool fucking pouts at you. “Ignored by my own girlfriend.” He whines and you roll your eyes, exasperated by the childish behavior and weird infatuation he seemed to have developed for you in the past month or so. 

“Riki, I'm not your girlfriend.” You deadpan, playing around with your food. “Why not?” You blink at him, finally giving him your full attention. Is he being for real??? “What in the world gave you that idea, you didn't even-” “You pierced my ears. That’s like, automatic couple material.” You can do nothing but gape at him. “THAT'S your reason???? He shrugs. “You held my hand through it. Pretty romantic if you ask me.” You sigh deeply. “Riki. Just because I held your hand doesn't make me your girlfriend. It's not like you asked or something-”  

“Okay- Can I be your boyfriend then?”... “What? NO- I barely know you.” “How about a date then? If you don't like it, I'll leave you alone.” He counters.  You can do nothing but stare, lips parted in surprise. He continues to stare at you, waiting for an answer. Oh. Oh he’s being completely serious. The seriousness of the situation finally dawns on you, the possibility of Riki having genuine feelings for you sounding more and more plausible. Riki fiddles with his left earring under your gaze, awkwardly waiting for you to either accept his proposal or reject him. 

“... Okay.” His eyes snap to yours, full of hope and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Wait really?” You nod, trying your best to look exasperated. Riki is beaming, like a kid who’s been told christmas is coming early this year. “I promise you won't regret it” “I like tulips. Pink or yellow.” He nods. “Tulips. Pink or yellow. Noted. Anything else princess?” You shake your head both at his question and the pet name, but you can't stop the smile forming on your lips. “I’ll text you the details.” He says, getting up.  You narrow your eyes. “Where are you going Riki? Lunch ends in 15 minutes” “I'm going to buy you flowers? I’m taking you out after school.” You let out a soft laugh at the answer. You get up and press a kiss to his left cheek. “I'll be waiting at the gates, don't be late.” He gives you a lovesick look that makes you feel bad for unknowingly torturing the boy for an entire month. “I won't.”

©RAVEN-UNKIND

reblog, comments and likes are appreciated!

taglist: @annybah

[hoiststowline]

_bluestreak x reader

"You would tell me if something was wrong, right?"

proposed to ease your nerves, though it only was accepted as a opportunity to deny it even more, kept willingly under lock and key. it was uncomplicated to draw up a facade, if it could even be defined as such. to feel so effortlessly at peace in someones presence was more than enough of a problem solver, if only momentarily. not a permanent solution, but one could pretend as long as they'd have your poor company.

"I'm fine," you insist, as an awkward smile appears, though transparent to see the candor within your expression.

"Yeah, and you just avoided the question." bluestreak counters, indisputably seeing directly through your horrible front.

owlishly blinking, you pause, searching to remember just what he'd asked. "What do you mean?"

"You can say you're good all you want, I'll listen even if I don't agree. But if there really was something upsetting you, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?" he’s being somewhat pushy, aware of his building forwardness, yet there’s something just below the surface to be uprooted here. bluestreak can see it well in your eyes, a shred of glassiness that returns when you fall silent amongst conversation.

every so often, you cast a glance to his mirror, as if to display that you were listening and not avoiding such a parley. it was only adding to his unease, recalling the approach of not meeting someones eyes when not speaking the truth. it didn't happen often, not at all, he can properly recall one time before this and that was over something so trivial that he laughed out loud afterwards.

it's a tactic he's familiar with, it's not just adhered only to organic psychology. cybertronians do it as well, bad liars even more than the average tearaway. bluestreak's no stranger to your mannerisms, but this one remains foreign enough to question, troubled regarding your sham of a show of being 'fine'.

“I…would, yes.” carefully considering your choice of words, molars find the inside of your cheek to lamely bite down.

bluestreak doesn't immediately reply, perhaps thinking you would let go of a little more information than that. silence overcomes the cabin, and for the first time it's uncomfortable, shoulders dropping from your ears after you've realized how tense you had been.

hoping you’ve dodged a bullet, you move to redirect the discussion with half-parted lips, anything else but this on the tip of your tongue.

never quite far from where it consumes you whole, you freeze at his next question.

“You swear?”

now contiguously locking gazes with the mirror, there was no amount of guilt that could sway you to lie, even if you couldn’t presently see his face. while every temptation begged you to let this one die here, to escape such an interrogation, it would be in vain. the end result would be irreparable damage, bending an unspoken promise about honesty and trust that you knew were very important to bluestreak.

as if he read your mind, bluestreak’s dashboard crackles with frustration, immense concern and worry piling within his chassis. “So why are you lying?”

he’s right. bluestreak has been right for the past hour, gently nudging you to try and spill whatever had you trapped like a vise.

your behavior was helping nobody.

“I’m not lying,” you try, to which he returns a grumbled thrum. “Bending the truth a bit, sure.”

“That’s not funny, if it’s supposed to be a joke,” he replies, to which you turn toward the window at the passenger seat, drawing your knees to your chest.

eyes going mildly wide, you then immediately spin back toward the dashboard. “You just passed my street.”

“Oops.” is all he says, more of a deadpan than a jest.

if you thought for one second that he was going to drop you off and let this go, you were sorely mistaken. how could he in good conscience? especially since you’ve just admitted that something was a amiss, why would he give you proper route to dodge the exchange any longer?

swallowing thickly, you dare to ask the question you already know the return to. “Are you going to circle back or...?"

"No," bluestreak answers, moving back toward more local roads. "I'm good, thanks."

you can feel a sensation of melancholy rise to your chest, so proudly even after you'd done the absolute most to keep it at bay. it didn't feel good to unload your problems to the next person when they didn't deserve it, in particular bluestreak.

"Let's try this again,"

you go to object, but he promptly continues. "Sorry, I don't take suggestions for the topic at the present, but you're welcome to complain about it later."

he wasn't trying to be comical, but delivery was more witty than he had originally calculated. what bluestreak didn't expect was for you to laugh, softly at first before riling up into a full blown fit.

he gives you a moment to recover, but you don't extend any sort of explanation concerning it.

"What?" he rumbles, a breath of a laugh within his words as well. "What did I say?"

"You're just...really funny," you hum, relaxing a bit back into the leather of the seat. "Okay, fine. Promise you'll take me home if I tell?"

bluestreak pretends to mull it over, but it only takes three seconds to sputter out his reply. "I'm not ready for you to go home just yet. So maybe a few more laps around town after you spill?"

"Deal." using your hand, you wipe away some of the happy tears that had gathered on the rim of your eyes.

[michimars-room]

Confessions & Love Languages

with the Sinostra Ghouls 🎰🤑

so uhhh... it feels illegal if i don't tag Auburn if im posting about Ritsu... so @cloudcountry ♡ here's more sweet ritsu thoughts!!

Taiga’s��

love languages ♡ quality time, physical touch

✵ So, you're gonna have to REALLY spend a lot of time to stay relevant in his mind, or else he's not going to remember you, silly! You will need to confess first. It's terrifying in general to open your heart, but when it comes to someone as unpredictable and unhinged as Taiga? Of course, you're extremely nervous. He will laugh and tease you, pointing out how fidgety you are… but after you tell him, his whole demeanor changes. He pulls you onto his lap and squeezes you tightly, his breath fanning on your neck. Your presence grounds him and is soothing for him, especially when you glide your hands through his hair, nails gently scratching his scalp. He wants to keep his kitty cat close and safe! He gets upset when you leave his side too long >:(

✵ To him, any time spent together is quality time - whether that's curling up and falling asleep together, sitting in the casino at a table with him. Craves your comfort and touch, that man would kill (genuinely) for his kittycat. Everyone will be extra nice, NOBODY wants to get on Taiga's bad side - ESPECIALLY when it comes to you.

Romeo’s...

love languages ♡ acts of service & gift giving

✵ God, if you chase after him, it would feed this man’s ego if you confess first. If you don’t he will literally go insane. But on the flip side, he’s already going insane seeing you spending time with the other ghouls (whether you have to for missions or just hanging out). Prepare for him to become extra mean… Which in turn, only makes it easier to keep away since he seems to be in a pissy mood when he IS around you. You’re gonna have to be able to stand your ground in this relationship, god willing… I hope you’re good at reading between the lines & his biting words <3. Either way, you are going to be forced to confess first - on your own accord or wait for his mind to break from jealousy. Him calling you repeatedly, texting you over & over again, “come here, I need your help with something.” As so, you go, begrudgingly… you’ve fallen in love with someone who can be so insufferable all because he refuses to acknowledge he has feelings for you. He needs to hear you say it, though. One particular comment on how you are so stupid for not being able to do something makes you snap back, gathering yourself before going to walk out the door. shit he really fucked that up, didn’t he. tugs on your hand lightly, voice softening mumbling out a rushed apology, “I’m sorry please don't go.” so quiet you almost missed it. His facade breaking, showing you his true self made you pause, “You’re lucky I love you…” You muttered, extremely annoyed but he didn’t dwell on that part. Of COURSE you love him, it only made sense! You have wonderful taste 🙂‍↕️. Now his ego is inflated, aware you feel the same… he’s not letting you get away.

✵ He expects mutual pampering, absolutely ADORES going on shopping trips, and buys you the most luxurious, expensive clothes, jewelry, shoes, makeup, skincare, perfume - the list goes on. He’ll show you off on his arm, but god forbid someone, look at you a second longer than he deemed acceptable. If looks could kill… he would have multiple life sentences. Expects you to give massages and vice versa. (He’s actually sooo good at giving massages).

Ritsu’s...

love languages ♡ quality time, acts of service

✵ He will get the hints, but wants you to be clear. Not one for flings, he wants to be with someone who he can see himself with long term! He tries to keep his work & personal life separate, but it's hard when his partner is just so cute. He starts showing appreciation for the little things you do to help him out, and that snowballed into him returning the favor - mostly not during office hours. Him spending his free time with you is a confession in itself. Although he does get flustered when he realizes his feelings, he doesn’t hesitate to voice them actually! Clarifies that he has romantic feelings and is attracted to you - this is to prevent the relationship's lines from becoming blurred and also so you don't feel uncomfortable by the palpable shift in energy between you both…. He's direct with you, leaves you with no room to think otherwise.

✵ After work hours? Oh, he is glued to you ready and willing to do all the couple/romantic things you have in mind (that you've suppressed during working hours…) He will also take the initiative and plan dates outside of working hours - secretly reads romance novels and articles (he's researching shut up) to get date ideas and to keep things in the relationship exciting and interesting, which is VERY important when considering long term relationships.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖ .

[creaturefeaster]

Who would you say is the more emotional one between TyVson and Uppsulka? I remember you said something that implied TyV is definitely the more impatient one.

TyV, definitely. He's an honorary member of the Drama Club after all. TyV feels with his whole heart, nothing is ever half-done with him. If you tell him a good joke, he's laughing full chested. If you annoy him, you will absolutely hear about it. If someone he cares for has a booboo, to him it was a near scrape with death.

He likes to maintain a positive outlook on much of life though, so it's hard to get him in a bad mood. You know, for as much as he loves his literature and prose, he doesn't tend to pick up on subtext (at least, not correct subtext. Sometimes he likes to guess and it's rarely correct). His view is very superficial. If you being passive aggressively nice to him, so long as you are presenting yourself as nice, that won't make him mad, he just won't pick up on any underlying spite. But if you make your hate visible, or vocalized, he is sure to react in vehemence. This is to say, he is much more emotional than Uppsulka. You just don't see a lot of it because he's always so :].

That's not to say Uppsulka is flat. She is a wild and free spirit, but much more analytical. She can restrain herself and her emotions if she understand there is reason to do so. TyV doesn't tend to do that.

[bodyintheabyssy]

The One Where Ravi Calls Out The Bullshit

The next shift Buck looks rough , like he has not been sleeping. Which should not be the case unless something went south after he left him with Tommy.

Buck keeps zoning out in downtime, and glaring at Ravi. He thinks it is intentional.

Chimney of course picks up on it. “Buck, leave Ravi alone. He probably didn’t do anything , unless he like puked on you the other night or something.”

“Yeah something.” Buck mumbles.

Ravi crosses his arms and goes over to them. “I guess you are blaming me for a bad night? When you dragged me out and was being a drunk sap?”

“Whoa!” Chimney holds his hands up, “What happened?”

Buck frowns, “Yeah I guess I am. Sure I had a few drinks but you dragged Tommy over, knowing how much I am still hurt over the breakup.”

Hen winces, Chimney shakes his head , “Oh Ravi. Matchmaking isn’t for everyone, you need to do it under better circumstances, and some grace.”

“I wasn’t trying to match make ; I just wanted a break from Buck.”

Buck frowns, “Well fuck me for trying to make new friends.”

Ravi sighs, “That is the problem! You weren’t trying to be my friend! You talked all night about how much you miss your best friend! Yes , Eddie is gone and I am sure that sucks for all of you. Imagine how I feel as his shift replacement! Even Bobby called me Eddie ! I am not Eddie and I am not trying to be!

You never wanted to ‘hang out’ before in all the years we have worked together. So yeah I didn’t want to hear anymore about Eddie and hang out with you when I could be with my actual friends.”

That makes everyone lapse into silence. “I am sorry Ravi. You are right, I have not been a good friend to you.”

Ravi sits down, “Buck, you don’t have to be my new friend. You just need to find a work-life balance. Join a book club, start a new hobby, try out new groups. Make friends that are separate from your job.”

All three of them loom at him like he is asking for something crazy.

“My god you people are helpless. You can have a life outside of your co-workers and romantic partners. It is possible. I am very good at it, many people have social circles outside of work. You all have just woven yourself into a concerning co-dependent web of work friends that attract danger. Do you guys have any friends outside of work? That you still keep in contact with?”

“Damn Ravi.. with the cold hard truth.” Chimney sighs.

Bobby comes into the room, “Ravi, I apologize that we have not been considerate of your feelings into this transition and made fitting in hard. I am sorry we made you feel excluded. I will do better to try to connect with other team members going forward.”

Ravi nods, “With all respect captain, I don't really want to be a part of your work family. I am afraid if I do get initiated my life will get considerably worse, I don’t want that unpredictable energy in my life.”

Chimney laughs, “Are we that bad?!”

“How many times have you almost died, each?” Ravi responds.

“That is irrelevant.” Chimney mumbles.

Ravi looks at Buck who is deep in thought, “Look I get it, making new friends is hard and scary but you are going to be fine once you get used to it. I am sorry things didn’t work out with Tommy the other night but that had nothing to do with me. You could have left, or talked things over when you weren’t drunk.”

Buck nods, “Thanks Ravi I needed that reality check.”

Hen then nods, “We appreciate you Ravi.”

“We need someone to call us on our bullshit. How are you wiser than us?” Chimney smiles.

“I was surrounded by more adults than kids my own age growing up.” Ravi shrugs.

Chimney nods, then looks to Buck, “Wait, what happened with Tommy?”

Buck groans and takes another sip of coffee.

Later on before their shift is over Buck comes to talk to Ravi.

“Look man, I am really sorry. I have been thinking about how I acted abd it was not cool. I didn’t really listen to your interests and was not very present as a friend. Believe it or not I don’t make friends easily. I feel like I have to act cooler than I am . I can get pushy and clingy.”

“It is all good. Really.” Ravi smiles.

“You did make me realize that even though the firehouse feels like family , I really have not branched out. But I am going to sound ridiculous,” He pauses, “How do I start? Everyone my age is married with kids , have friends from childhood and college or doing adult shit.” Buck laughs.

Ravi nods, “It isn’t a personal failing Buck. A lot of people have trouble making new friends as adults. Especially finding people you don’t see everyday like work friends. You just gotta put yourself out there.”

Buck sighs, “Out where exactly?”

Ravi chuckles, “You have interests right? Maybe try looking up groups online that meet in person. Something like pickup basketball that you actually enjoy. You like learning stuff right? It is old school but maybe see what adult events the library has to see what kind of stuff you are looking for.”

“That is really helpful. Thanks. How did you get so good at this?” Buck smiles.

Ravi pauses a minute, “I missed out on so much as a kid. I was in and out of school for treatments, and couldn’t do sports. I couldn’t keep up with my classmates, so I stopped trying to. I found out what I like and spent a lot of time playing games , watching movies or fucking around online. Then I started looking for people who liked the same stuff and just kept going to events. I warn you it can be awkward as hell. Like going to a bar where everyone already knows each other or has a date. Even just showing up is better than nothing. There may be social groups for a lot of stuff online too. It is LA ! People do a lot of weird shit here.” Ravi laughs.

“Thanks man. You are a good guy.” Buck pats his shoulder.

“No problem. Good Luck out there & have a good weekend.” Ravi smiles.

[baffledandbewildered]

“I don't really know how to end this,” Evi says, laughs, and to Betty’s ears it sounds a little broken.

Betty is glad she isn't the only one who feels that way.

She takes a breath, chokes on tears, tries again, until she can say the words in her head. “You can just walk away, Evi,” she says. “You can just walk away. I’m not going to. You made this choice. You walk away.”

Evi flinches. “Hell no.”

“You've got Pollocks here, your teammate.”

Evi stares at her silently.

“You wanna leave? Then walk away.”

In one quick movement, Evi equips their elytra and flies away. Betty is probably the only person who notices how their hands shake. And now she is left alone - it's raining, she realises. She hadn’t noticed.

Movement to her right makes her startle - she'd forgotten they had an audience, four people watching one of the worst days of her life.

Ace takes another step towards her, and Betty flinches back. She can't meet anyone's eyes - Poll, Ace, Seri - even fucking Cogmented is here gods this is -

“Not everything on this damn server has to be dramatic and deadly you could have ended it quietly -”

“I’ve thought about this for a while,” Evi says. “I didn't want to end it quietly. Would anyone have believed me if I had?”

“Did you not think I might have wanted to end it quietly? This isn’t just about you. I might have wanted it to end quietly.” She’d stopped, then, winced. “But would anyone believe it. Yeah.” And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Or one of them - Betty has a reputation for lying. ‘More than anyone’. Would anyone have believed them? Probably not.

Still. She doesn’t - it hurts, so bad, she hates that people are seeing her this way it’s wrong and she hates it -

Betty stumbles back - her inventory is a mess, spare gear and unsorted potions and she's still missing a few items but her unsteady hands manage to grab her e-chest and wrench it open, tug on her elytra and take another step away from all the watching eyes.

“I'm sorry I’m sorry I need to - go -” 

A firework sparks against her hand and she's gone, up into the rain clouds above them, away from the staring watching judging eyes behind her. 

She can't - how is she - how is she meant to -

The other watchers probably didn’t notice, but it seems it hurt Evi as much as it hurt her. She's bitterly glad of that.

She flies down from the clouds and - her luck. Her fucking luck - she finds herself gliding towards the Jestvu wedding pavilion and oh gods she doesn't want to be here, not at someone else's wedding venue when her own spouse - she lands heavily outside the portal and runs through. 

On the nether roof, there's no rain, and the heat makes her face burn - she probably is burnt, the side of her forehead throbbing - respawn doesn't heal all injuries and usually she wears anything she gets from Evi with pride but today it makes her feel sick.

BettyIsBaffled was slain by evi4 using [i'm sorry]

The parallels are haunting - both to her first death, a false betrayal that sent Betty on such a different path than she ever expected, and the death that finally revealed the ruse. 

But those deaths she'd asked for. Those deaths she'd - people think she likes dying and maybe she's a little weird about it but it's not the dying she likes it's the trust of it, putting her life and heart in another's hands - and today that trust was broken and there's a missing heart in her chest and she doesn't know what to do.

There's so many furious messages in her communicator, Ace had watched so now the whole alliance knows and Evi and Poll have left the group chat and - she begs her teammates not to seek revenge on her behalf but she isn't sure either is going to listen.

She doesn't know how to explain how much the thought of Evi4 dying for her sake hurts - she understands why he felt he had to leave, he told her before, he warned her so many times he was going to betray, it's not - she's not angry at him.

It just hurts.

She thought - things weren't great, fuck they were kinda awful really, Evi had never been fully on board with the End plan and had been kinda thrown into the alliance without a choice purely by association with Betty, but - she'd told him so many times it was his choice that was what this was all about, really, making their own choices where other people were determined to take them away from them - they talked about it so much and so often she talked to Evi more than anyone other than Sin - how had he decided to do this regardless -

It hurts.

She doesn't think she deserved this.

And that is so wrong because - she's spent so long the last few weeks hurting and hurting and knowing it was her own fault but -

She tried. Betty tried so hard to show Evi that she loves her and she knows that feeling is returned -

“I love you despite this. Despite everything. It just had to be like this,” Evi had said quietly. “I don't agree with anyone's morals - I don't agree with this allyship but I honestly stayed because I wanted to be alongside you.”

And gods didn’t that break her heart more than anything.

“I love you too,” Betty said desperately. “I thought you loved more than just me - I thought you liked being with all of us -” She stopped, shook her head, swallowed down tears. “Maybe I shouldn’t have expected that of you, maybe I shouldn’t have expected you to stay in a place like that but I offered you a way out - I know I said I didn't want to lie again but I would for you.”

And she would. She would - she’d thought, earlier, that Evi wanted that, she thought - she’d realised moments after her death that this was different, something was wrong - she’d seen the mace coming, sure, Evi wasn’t subtle, he even missed the first hit, but…

He’d told her earlier he was going to betray her today. She thought he was joking, or talking about something faking a betrayal. She'd offered to let him kill her, if he really -

It was only after she died and she was sitting in her respawn point after begging for instructions that she realised something was wrong.

evi4 whispers to you: i dont think you even know why i did that

… No. She didn’t.

‘I have a book for you!’ Evi said in general chat, as Betty was rifling through shulkers trying to cobble together a kit from the random bits and pieces of gear she had in her e-chest - she hadn’t had a full spare kit for quite a few deaths now, too busy with other stuff, too uncaring of the consequences - she was regretting that now, she didn’t even have gapples or a water bucket gods why was she so stupid. Eventually she decided what she had was good enough and pulled on her elytra to fly back to spawn.

Betty stepped through the portal. She asked for the book. Evi4 hesitated. “I just don’t think this is the time.”

“I want to read it. Evi I want an explanation.”

“You’ll get one. Later.”

“Evi I want to know I don’t know what to do -”

“There’s nothing you can do this has been doomed from the start. I've told you over and over again I’m betraying this is just how it was going to end.”

Evi never did give her that book, Betty realises. 

Does it really matter, though? Evi said enough. They made themselves pretty clear. They - gods.

“I don’t belong there.” ... “I disagree with you guys on so many things. I want to do things in a way that I have control over and honestly so many people in that alliance just. Don't particularly like me.” ... “I want us to find our peace. And I think. Neither of us can find that with the morals we have. We’re such different people.” ... “I wouldn't feel right staying like this.”

Betty feels so - stupid, stupid - she - the worst thing is she knew this she knew Evi felt this way they spoke so much and so often about everything - how had they got to a point that Evi thought this was his only option?

Betty thought they were good at talking - she thought - there’s a sign room, so far away she can’t even remember where and she wishes she could because she hates the thought of that place being found, now. They'd talked, earlier today.

issue #1: COMMUNICATION

They'd talked. Evi had built that place for Betty because they knew Betty needed somewhere to write down all her terrified confused angry thoughts -

She wants to destroy it. She wants to encase it in obsidian forever. It's not the first place she and Evi have built together - it might be the only one that remains.

But she doesn’t know where it is. So it’ll just have to remain.

She’s been flying aimlessly around the nether roof for a little while when she spots a familiar sight - gods, her luck - regardless, some sick masochistic thought has her landing outside the portal. 

There’s a stronghold near her day 1 base - months ago, she’d told Evi and Poll the truth about her and Sin. Betty can’t remember why they chose this place now, but Evi decorated it as she spoke and then many weeks later the group that would eventually become the Thousand Suns Alliance met to explain the many weeks of lore Pollock had missed.

She’d told Evi earlier today that she wanted to visit a stronghold. Wanted to see with her own eyes the wreckage of a plan that her teammates had worked so hard on, that they’d all sunk so many hours into, that Betty had relied upon when -

She'd wanted to see. This wasn’t how she was planning to do it, but… 

She steps through the portal. The room is empty - five frames remain. The flight across the nether roof had dried her tears but now they start anew.

It’s symbolic, maybe. One of the last remaining remnants of her and Evi4’s time together, gone. A hope lost, a relationship lost. 

Betty hates everything about this.

She tries to remember what it looked like - she’d made a platform out of stone. Mossy brick stairs, signs on the walls - glazed terracotta by the portal. A heart on the wall - that one is still there, and she doesn’t know if she’s grateful. But the rest - she can remember elements, she can remember it distantly but thinking of the whole thing is - maybe she doesn’t want to remember. Maybe it’s for the best that this place is gone.

She thought they were good at talking - even if they didn’t agree it didn’t matter because they talked but -

“We won't agree with each other. We don't agree with each other on a lot of things and we've lived so differently I can't understand where you're coming from.”

Obviously not.

Obviously not.

She starts the climb back to the surface - the portal is broken, and it’s far too easy to bump into people on the nether roof anyway. It’s cold, here, the stone under her hands sending stabbing pain through her fingers but eventually she’s pulling herself onto the icy surface of a frozen river. 

She’s retrieving her elytra from her e-chest when she glances at her sentimentals shulker. It’s filled to the brim with references to Evi4 - a shield she gave her while they worked on gear together at Animal Crossing, eight pieces of renamed gold, a flower from before they were even allied - Evi’s wedding vows.

Betty hesitates - then slams the shulker lid closed and backs away.

Gods. There’s a wedding ring on her finger - there’s tiny pieces of diorite and emerald inset and it’s so ugly but she loves it so much there’s so much memory there - it hurts. It hurts. She can’t bring herself to remove it, though.

“I hope we can find peace even in a time like this. Even if we’re on opposing sides or I’m not agreeing with what you do, I only want the best for you.”

“This was not what’s best for me,” Betty had choked out.

“I love you,” Evi4 said quietly.

“I love you too.” It was automatic, but… still true.

Betty wishes it was untrue. Maybe then this would be easier.

[spr1ngtweaks]

Headcanon: You and William Afton (Chubby ver.)

You are the only one who can "bully" him.

William always has a warm, friendly appearance, a businessman who can easily blend into the crowd with a confident smile. But you know very well that behind it all, he has a bit of arrogance and pride. So, you tease him about his weight in a playful way, knowing that only you can do that.

You: "Oh my, who is this? A giant stuffed rabbit?"

William: (gasping, placing a hand on his heart as if betrayed) "How could you say that to me? My heart… is too hurt."

He acted deeply, turning his face away as if he were in utter agony, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried to hold back laughter.

Sometimes you even lightly poke his cheek, feeling the softness and giggling:

You: "William, do you know your cheeks are bouncy? Just like a steamed bun."

William: (sighs, places his hand on your head, gently rubs) "Hmm, I thought you loved me for my intellect and talent… it turns out it's just because of my chubby cheeks."

He likes to pretend to be hurt, but when you hug him and smile, telling him he's cute, he never pushes you away.

He has a habit of hugging you like a pillow.

With his large and warm body, he loves to hug you when resting—no matter how much he pretends to resist.

If you lie on the couch or bed, he will quietly pull you closer, resting his head on your stomach or hugging you like a big pillow.

William: (sleepily) "Quiet now… feeling very warm…"

You: "So who is the plush bunny here?"

William: "…Shut up." (But he won't let go.)

William easily blushes when you hug him from behind.

Even though he is a big and seemingly confident person, when you wrap your arms around him from behind, he will hesitate slightly. Especially if you press your cheek against his back, he will feel awkward for a few seconds before gently holding your hand, quietly squeezing it.

If you keep whispering and teasing:

You: "You are the softest pillow."

William: (pursed his lips, pretended to be serious but his ears were slightly red) "… I will not comment on that."

If anyone else teases him about his weight—he's done for.

If someone else calls him "fat" with bad intentions, his expression changes immediately. His silver eyes darkened and became empty, the smile vanished, and the atmosphere around him dropped a few degrees.

William: (in a low and dangerous voice) "…Really?"

No one dared to say another word. But if you stand there, pinch his cheek, smile and say he is cute, he will just sigh, wrap his arms around your waist, and mumble something about you being spoiled.

He will never say it directly, but he likes you to touch him.

He can pretend to hate it when you stroke his cheek, hug his waist, or rest your head on his stomach, but if one day you stop doing that, he will be a bit annoyed.

There was a time you tried not to tease him anymore, not to hug him or pinch his cheeks all day. By evening, he frowned, crossed his arms, and looked at you.

William: "…Don't you have anything to say to me today?"

You: "Huh? What's wrong?"

William: (frowning more) "… Is there nothing?

A moment later, when you burst out laughing and hugged him tightly, he finally exhaled and muttered:

William: "Hmm. I knew it." (But his arms also tightened around you.)

[polyjacketpockets]

little jackie hcs

pre-crash canon compliant headcanons

tags: sfw agere, boyre, autism agere, hints of petre, masking, comphet, agere jackie, she/he pronouns, caregiver shauna

tws: mommy issues & implications of addiction

childhood

jacqueline taylor is her mother's doll, trussed up into girlish dresses. growing up, she learnt quickly to bend to her mother's whims with a smile. arguing just made things worse, there was no point, especially when her mother had too many uppers/wine and got hysterical.

going over to the shipmans jackie was always jealous of the amount of freedom shauna's mom gave her. shauna was allowed to wear boys clothes, bring in wriggly worms and she got barely a scolding for drawing scary pictures. it wasn't fair! jackie often told shauna off for acting bad bc someone had to!

jacqueline grew up going to country clubs filled with gossip. every move, every outfit was analysed, beauty and purity was a necessity of being loved. slipping up was a one-way ticket to being an isolated, unloveable creature.

the only time within those country club walls jackie felt like herself was when lottie would come from new york, becoming more frequent when she moved to new jersey for good. lottie knew all the best hiding spots, so they'd hide together and whisper to each other until jacqueline's mother would find them.

the first time jackie showed shauna pictures of her at the country club, shauna laughed and bluntly asked, "were you constipated or something? you look uncomfortable, jax, like in literal pain." jackie would laugh it off like she had no clue what shauna was talking about.

jacqueline never truly had a childhood of her own.

teenhood & agere

the first drop jackie ever had was after her first date with jeff. her body felt wrong throughout the whole date and when she got home her mom asked her all sorts of questions that made her feel itchy. running up the stairs, jackie called shauna immediately blurting out, "mama." embarassment set in, hanging up before shauna could answer and rolling over to cry himself to sleep.

except, shauna didn't let it go, climbing in through her bedroom window later that night. "jax?" she asked, gently. the only answer was a sniffle. shauna wrapped jackie in her arms, filled with questions but not wanting to overwhelm her. "mama's right here," she muttered, a little unsure. it seemed to be the right thing to say, jax's breathing slowed, becoming less frantic.

they didn't talk about it in the morning, jackie refused to, face bright red. but when things got too much, too loud, too bright, too icky, too big, shauna was her first call and she'd come over for an impromptu sleepover, sneaking out in the morning. neither of them really knew exactly what it was, shauna just knew jackie needed it, even if she would never admit it.

it's not like shauna minded, with the start of high school she'd missed her best friend being all hers. slowly, shauna started to learn more (jax didn't speak much, so she picked things up through experience): jax loved fruit, he was a little fruit bat, jax didn't like when the lights were on, jax clawed at the dresses he came in, jax liked her flannels, jax followed shauna around everywhere she went like a puppy, jax liked playing farm games and making animal noises. the biggest thing, was that jax would cry and cry and cry, over anything, all the time, the only thing that calmed him down was shauna's cuddles.

"sometimes i find myself missing jax when jackie is i don't know big? jackie is so uptight, i can't escape how stiff she is now i've seen her free and honest. i just don't understand why jackie won't tell me when she's big, i know the lights affect her, i can tell. why won't she just fucking talk to me? does she think i don't know? i'm not stupid," shauna would write in her journal.

[moonchild-in-blue]

No more teeth to bite with 😔

Had a horribly funny thought but I'm too sleepy now. Someone remind me in about 9 hours 👍

[siena-sevenwits]

.

[bxriles]

Lmao okay wait. I got asked that question about Feyre/Bryce/Aelin and I went down a lil rabbit hole and somehow ended up on a subreddit of people arguing over who would win in a fight if it were Feyre vs. Aelin.

And I am CACKLING right now because it seems like the bulk of people on that thread think Aelin would win, and the people who think Feyre would win are SO. UPSET. Like they are BIG MAD that anyone would think Aelin would win hahahahahaha

I'm cackling. I can't breathe I'm laughing so hard omfg. People really do 100% project themselves onto Feyre. They really think they ARE Feyre!!!!! I'm crying. Send help I can't breathe 😂😂

[psychopomp-namine]

I was thinking the other day that man, kokuto neji is such a character and I haven't liked a writer character like this since... shang qinghua?

which naturally led me to this thought: jj fic with svsss-style au where neji transmigrates/gets isekai'd into the world of havenna. as domina, of course.

it's extra fucked up imo because at least when sqh transmigrated in his book, he made up all of those characters and they mostly stayed in the realm of fantasy. like, sure, lbh was kinda based on himself in some ways and mbj was his ideal fantasy, but they still mostly stayed fictional, you know? sqq (sy) had to fix his plots because the characters sqh wrote strayed too far from their original plotlines

but theater makes a fictional world a bit too real and personal, especially when you use real people as inspirations for your writing. with neji, he'd be looking at rukiora and see three different people (mitsuki acting as rukiora; rukiora who was written based on a younger version of neji; rukiora who is her own person in this weirdly real world of havenna). neji would see fugio and to him that is both sou acting as fugio and the fugio who grew up with poison flowers. miguel is both fumi and the guy who ran away from his neshiromi fields. the only constant would probably be chicchi. she is too much like kisa in that... well. neji didn't really have a backstory for chicchi. chicchi is a blank canvas just like kisa is as an actor.

anyway. yeah, very sv-style character arc where neji, much like shen yuan in sv, is forced to humanize the villain. except this villain was his creation and is also tied to a bunch of personal issues for neji that he Doesn't Want To Think About and also he doesn't? really understand the character he wrote tbh?

isn't art supposed to process your emotions for you!! why must he process these himself!!

can you imagine neji, who always casts himself as a seer of some sort (fortune teller, ushinoko) or someone who generally has some control over his future or his "creation" (who is mary if not just another side of neji anyway; she's takihime redux, and takihime is also. neji). imagine this dude being transported inside the play he wrote but he doesn't understand it and he has no control over it and everyone's acting both in character and out of character. he both knows and doesn't know these people. they're fictional but also... real? does he treat them as real people? is domina real? he wanted his actors to imbue parts of themselves into his characters. are these people really just characters from a script? are they his quartz classmates? is he allowed to even hope that that's the case?

it's both THE improv exercise of his dreams and also. a nightmare

[zooblesbutchpuppygirl]

Thinking so much right now about Zooble loving the sound of my laugh <3