#proof of resurrection

[pastorhogg]

When Seeing Still Isn’t Believing

A Year in the Life of Jesus Some requests sound spiritual on the surface but reveal something darker underneath. That’s what we see in Matthew 12:38–42, where some of the Pharisees and teachers of the law approach Jesus with what seems to be a harmless request: “Teacher, we want to see a sign from you.” Sounds reasonable, right? After all, He’s been healing the sick, casting out demons, and…

[helenofblackthorns]

the Blackthorn family crest being a wreath of thorns and Centurions all having their crests on their jackets..... Tiberius Nero Blackthorn is going to be walking around with a wreath of thorns of all things on his jacket..... Jesus Christ

[waitineedaname]

also on the topic of mxtx couples, i love that all three of them have a the love interest be like "even if you're rejected by society and shunned by those in power, I will follow behind you because you have suffered enough and I will love you regardless of the opinions of others" but in svsss's case, it's shen qingqiu who does this

[hjemne]

Babygirl I have 38 thousand words of incomplete trigun fic spread across 8 wips and have no idea how to even start dealing with it

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Paul Preaches in Athens

16 While Paul waited for them at Athens, his spirit was moved in him to see the city given to worshipping of images. 17 Then he disputed in the synagogue with the jews, and with the devout persons, And in the market daily with them that came unto him. 18 Certain Philosophers of the Epicures, and of the Stoyckes disputed with him. And some there were which said: what will this babbler say. Other said: he seemeth to be a tidings bringer of new devils, because he preached unto them Iesus, and the resurrection, 19 and they took him, and brought him into Marce street saying: may we not know what is this new doctrine whereof thou speakest. 20 For thou bringest strange tidings to our ears. We would know therefore what these things mean. 21 For all the Athenians and strangers which were there gave themselves to nothing else, but either to tell or to hear new tidings.

22 Paul stood in the midst of Marce street and said, ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are somewhat superstitious. 23 For as I passed by and beheld the manner how ye worship your goddes, I found an altar wherein was written: unto the unknown God. Whom ye then ignorantly worship, him shew I unto you: 24 God that made the world, and all that are in it, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, he dwelleth not in temples made with hands 25 neither is worshipped with men’s hands, as though he needed of any thing. Forasmuch as he giveth to all men life and breath every where, 26 and hath made of one blood all nations of men, for to dwell on all the face of the earth. And hath assigned times appointed before, And the ends of their inhabitation, 27 that they should seek God, if they might feel and find him, though he be not far from every one of us. 28 For in him we live, move, and have our being, as certain of your own poets said. For we are also his generation. 29 Forasmuch then as we are the generation of God, we ought not to think that the godhead is like unto gold, silver, or stone, graven by craft and imagination of man. 30 And the time of this ignorance God regarded not: but now he biddeth all men everywhere repent, 31 because he hath appointed a day, in the which he will judge the world according to righteousness, by that man, whom he hath appointed, and hath given faith to all men, after that he had raised him from death.

32 When they heard of the resurrection from death, some mocked, and other said: we will hear thee again of this matter. 33 So Paul departed from among them. 34 Certain men clave unto Paul and believed, among the which was Dionysius a senator, and a woman named Damaris, and other with them. — Acts 17:16-34 | Tyndale New Testament (TYN) Holy Bible, Tyndale New Testament (written in olde English), copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 1:1; Deuteronomy 4:7; Deuteronomy 10:14; Deuteronomy 30:20; Deuteronomy 32:8; 2 Kings 19:18; Job 12:10; Job 12:23; Job 22:2; Psalm 9:8; Psalm 96:13; Isaiah 40:18; Isaiah 45:4; Jeremiah 23:23; Jeremiah 38:16; Mark 1:27; Luke 24:47; John 4:22; Acts 2:10; Acts 4:2; Acts 5:42; Acts 9:20; Acts 13:43; Acts 14:16; Acts 17:15; Acts 18:1; Acts 23:19; Acts 25:19; 1 Corinthians 15:12

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Notes: Paul's preaching in Athens, as documented in Acts 17, is a pivotal event in the early church's history. Paul, provoked by the city's idol worship, engages with Greek philosophers and the people on Mars Hill (the Areopagus) to share the Gospel. He challenges their beliefs about gods and the nature of the divine, emphasizing the true God, the creator of all things, who has appointed Jesus to judge the world.

[faroreskiss]

Resurrection Gone Wrong

Read on Ao3

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Summary: Link finally accepts the truth about himself out loud, and more.

Chapter 4 - Acceptance

“And as for your memories… the Slate once again will be the key. Journey to the lab in the village of Hateno. They will know more about how and why this happened. Take the contents of the chest with you, and go.” 

_____

Right when he was about to ask Impa and Paya where this Hateno Village is, Impa spoke to him again.

“Link,” she said, as she pointed to a picture of a… swamp? It almost tickled his brain. It was such a vibrant green. He was, of course, as motionless as before right after he turned back to her.

“Does it look familiar?” Impa continued. “From this village, you should be able to get there in half a day’s time.” She motioned to Paya again, and instructed her to give directions to Link. 

He was on the way once again. 

Despite his confusion and loathing towards his own ‘condition’, Link pressed on. Whatever the type of that thing they gave him, it kept him sated longer than he expected. At least he didn’t get tired, and he didn’t need any sleep, even though he could if he wanted to. 

When he attempted to doze off, he was haunted by disturbing dreams, even in such a short time. He saw himself ripping the throat of that woman in the stable and drinking her delicious-…

No more naps then, he decided. Not like he got tired. 

As the sun was finally gracing the sky with its rays, the village started to come into his view. Even though it was still at least a few kilometers away, he could already hear the waking villagers slowly starting their day. Though there was something else he could feel as he neared the gates, something sinister. It wasn’t bothering him exactly, but it felt like it wouldn’t be an exactly welcome presence by the other heavenly forces he already interacted with.

When he entered the village, Link tried his best to not interact with anybody. 

Even though he was now relatively sated, being near this many people was dangerous, for them. The dryness in his throat was making itself  more noticeable as the amount of people who woke up and went out in the village increased.

Will it ever go away? He perhaps knew the answer, but never dared to respond to it even in his mind.

Unfortunately, he had to talk to somebody in the end, an old guy near the inn, to ask where the lab is. He found it easier to interact with older people when he was in this state, it felt as if their bloods were flowing a miniscule amount slower, their hearts not pumping the delicious liquid through their veins as rapidly compared to the younglings.

As they spoke, he could see the concern in the old man’s eyes. Worry. He was worried for him, thinking him weak and malnourished. Link was just trying to focus more on what he was saying, instead of what was inside him. He thanked him for showing him the way, and started walking towards the steep road uphill. 

“Oh poor boy…” Link heard him speak behind him later, though the old fellow was just mumbling to himself.

He should have been worried about his life instead.

_

The lab was relatively far from the village, placed on a hill. He could already feel two heartbeats from the cabin, two adults, one of them being significantly older.

After gently opening the door, he doubted his own eyes and newly found sharp senses. A child? This little girl absolutely registered as the older adult to his senses, or at least her metabolism did.

Right when he was about to speak, the strange little girl with her odd glasses started speaking in a kind of a monotonous voice. She had a mischievous yet tired look in her eyes. She felt at least as old as Impa. 

“Hello!” she said, with her hands on her hips, “This is the Ancient Hateno Lab. Do you have some business with the director?”

“That’s right” he nodded.

“The director is in the back,” she replied again plainly, though Link could hear the smirk in her tone.

As Link walked back to the guy at the back near the bookshelves, the man turned to him and after taking a look at Link’s Slate at his hip, he started yelling in excitement.

“Director! Listen Ms. Director! This is a REAL Sheikah Slate!”

“Director?” Link asked quizzically. 

“Oh, that’s right,” he started, and nodded. “I haven’t introduced our director, Ms. Purah happens to be right there”

Purah. That was whom he was looking for! But there is only the strange child there-

Oh.

“Check it!” Purah cheerily jumped. “Are you surprised? Heh.” 

Link raised his eyebrows.

“The director of the lab is not Symin, it’s me!” 

“...” Link was still busy trying to register what was going on. Granted, this wasn’t the strangest thing that happened since he woke up, but it could definitely make the top 10.

“Come on Linky! Impa sent you here, right?!” she spoke cheerily again.

Linky?

“...Linky? What’s with that look, you do still remember me, right?” She inquired with an intense look and expectation in her eyes.

“Even though 100 years ago I was the one that put you into the Shrine of Restoration?”

“Uhm… I don’t remember..” he answered with regret in his voice, “But… Aren’t you a child?” he finally gave in to his curiosity.

“How rude!” she snapped, surprising Link but then laughed it off. 

Apparently it was due to a failed experiment. This woman was also over 100 years old. 

And she knew him. She knew things. A glimmer of hope sparked in him.

But Link simply couldn’t get a word in in the conversation, he was already trying to avoid talking or breathing unless it was necessary, and this wasn’t helping. 

First, Purah made him carry some strange blue fire all the way to the lab, then played around with his Slate, activating some “runes”. Whatever she had in the lab, looked like the same ancient structure he saw in the shrine where he woke up. 

Finally, she activated some functionality in his Slate which unlocked some pictures, she claimed that he might perhaps remember stuff if he visited these places, apparently they were the places where he accompanied Princess Zelda.

Zelda… How familiar it felt to hear that name.

“Oh yeah, the ‘lost memory’ thing can be troublesome, of course,” Purah tittered. She was avoiding the topic he was trying to bring up, he realized. Instead, she entirely focused on ancient materials, ancient this ancient that… Sure, they were important, but she really wasn’t letting him talk or change the subject. 

He could feel her gaze on him, on his fangs, his pure skin, pale complexion. The way he barely moved, his chest not moving at all from breathing. Information about his memory loss was absolutely not the only thing she was noting down.

Link was finally able to get a word in.

“Purah.”

“Yes, Linky?”

“Please…” he sounded desperate. 

“Oh?” she feigned ignorance, but Link could see she was shifting uncomfortably.

“Impa sent me here because she said you would know what happened to me.”

Purah pursed her lips and pretended to look through her notes again and then she sighed. 

“Tell me from the start, Linky. What you did, what happened so far. I want to know every single thing first before I explain anything.”

As Link was about to start, she held his index finger high to stop him for a moment.

“And do not try to censor anything. Understand? No judgment here,” she winked.

Reckless, so reckless this woman was. She sent him to the village even if it was for a brief amount of time, and then spent hours with him. There was no way she knew anything if she was this relaxed about it, or she knew everything but was simply crazy.

But again, Link didn’t have anything to lose. So he started from the moment he woke up, the voices, the “potions” he had versus the incident he had at the stables, his conversation with Impa.

“Mhm-hm,” Impa hummed as she took notes and compared them with the ones she had.

“Alright, Impa already explained the legends to you, so let’s get that out of the way. The creature she is talking about is a ReDead, and that’s not what you are, you are too alive for that,” she chuckled. She chuckled!

Link simply nodded, as he really expected her to continue.

“So Linky, even without your memories, I’m sure you still have your wits. You already realized what you are, yes?” 

Of course he did, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He gulped again, feeling the drought in his larynx.

“...’a slave to sanguine hunger, a creature of the night’, though I think we already established that you are definitely okay under the sunlight! Fascinating!” Purah continued. How was she this calm?

“Purah,” Link tried to keep his voice as low and as calm as possible, but his worry and frustration was making themselves known. 

“Yes, Linky?~” Purah replied playfully, she was drunk on the science of things.

“How are you this calm? I am a Hylia-damned vampire!” he finally snapped.

There was a silence of a few seconds which felt like an eternity for Link. He finally said it out loud. The hope he had for himself, the lie he had been feeding in his head, the charade finally ended. He was a monster that fed on the blood of living beings. 

“Oh Linky,” Purah was startled, but wasn’t scared at all. He was in agony. 

“You won’t hurt me, I know you won’t.” she said calmly, as a matter of fact.

“How do you know?” Link asked again.

“Well, you remember the four bottles you found and then the one Impa gave you?”

Yes, he did. Those four bottles were what he rationed, as he was still trying to fool himself to believe they were some type of red potion. By the time he made it to stables and tried to drink an actual red potion, he knew what they were. However, he didn’t stop the lie. What shattered everything completely was when Impa gave him “a drink”. 

Even then, he had hope. 

Oh how arduous and torturous it was, each time he had a twinkle of reverie, to have it shattered. Where was his resolve coming from? What was this hero complex?

“Before we put you into the shrine, the princess knew the risks. Yet, you almost lost your life saving hers, and she just couldn’t leave it alone even though… Well, even though the shrines could have also been affected by the Calamity.” Purah started explaining.

“There was of course, never a guarantee that you would recover, even though I am a Sheikah myself, the technology is ancient and we didn’t know much about it really,” she just shrugged casually as she kept examining Link meanwhile visually. He felt exposed yet safe at the same time.

“Ah, do you mind?” she asked while pointing towards his mouth. “I wanna take a closer look,”

Link instinctively recoiled but then composed himself. “Uhm… Okay,” and opened his mouth slightly to give Purah a better look on his fangs. 

“Yeah so, we prepared the bottles just in case, right after we placed you in the shrine. But again, the blood in the bottles is of course not just any blood.”

“Shom shyntetic blad, then?” Link tried asking while his mouth was still being examined by Purah.

“Oh no, we don’t have that technology! It is actually your own blood!” She spoke so casually, Link’s mouth opened even more.

“Ah good, lowering your jaw helps me to see a bit more!” she mumbled busily.

“Anyway, right when we were about to place you on the altar, I took a bit of your blood and distributed it to the small potion bottles, you know, ah, in case,” she shrugged. Apparently since Link was pretty much dead at that point anyway, she didn’t think it would be a big deal. 

This woman…

Still, Link was glad. He was shocked yes, but knowing it was his own blood he consumed made his conscience for some reason feel better. It was his fault that he failed, why would he also take the blood from somebody else?

“But again, that’s not the reason that I’m not afraid of you. Well… Of course, you are Linky and that is a reason, but then there are also two other facts.” She withdrew and sat down again and  started flipping through her notebook.

Link looked at Purah after running his tongue through his new fangs again, it was such an odd feeling, yet it still didn’t feel foreign.

“You know, you are the chosen hero, you pulled the Master Sword and all, though Zellie took it back to the woods after uhh, you know, the incident.”

For some reason, instead of making him feel better, the facts bit him. He was a chosen hero that failed, that was the only thing he could focus on. It was the only other thing he could focus on other than the dry itch in his throat. He tried dismissing the thoughts.

“You must have noticed though, after the bottle Impa gave you, your thirst must be even more under control. It should last a while, but at some point you will still probably need some uhm, nourishment. Luckily, you are going to the castle as soon as possible to help Zelda anyway, right?!” Purah was speaking like an Octorok spitting rapid stones.

Of course that was his plan. He wanted to help Zelda, even though he didn’t remember much, he knew it was his duty to do so. It was almost compelling, disturbing.

“What is in it? How can I have more?” He sincerely wanted to know. Compared to what he drank, his own blood, though the feeling of it had been icky, what Impa gave him was better, and he was able to control his urges better. He was able to go through the village, even while slowly walking, and he was able to focus on just carrying the torch. He didn’t think about the delicious treat flowing through the veins of the villagers…

No. 

“Oh, well… That’s of course Zelly’s blood!”

If Link wasn’t already in a statue-like state, he would have frozen.

[poetess-trobadour]

hold my hand,

make me tea.

am I a child?

am I too much?

should I pretend?

should you not see?

is it wrong to cry

at mere human touch?

but oh, it aches:

my head, my ribs;

give me a kiss,

I have nothing.

next day, I'll wake,

go do my bids;

no notes amiss

but one heartstring.

of tea & aches, November 2024

[kneworder]

i have all these draft documents of half finished fics full of lines i love but that are so fundamentally flawed i can't figure out how to finish them and can't kill my darlings mercilessly enough to get past the roadblocks so i just reread them over and over and think damn this is kinda fire. wish it was anywhere near shareable.

[kgdrendel]

Do We Have Any Evidence of the Resurrection? A Critique of Skepticism and Proof

People confuse proof, as in a mathematical proof, and proof, as in an offer of evidence that tends to support a proposition.

Some people say that we have absolutely no evidence for the resurrection (and no evidence that God exists in the first place). Nothing could be further from the truth. We have evidence. The issue isn’t a lack of evidence; the issue is how we approach the evidence and weigh it it. A person who approaches “supernatural” phenomenon with purely materialistic assumptions will weigh the evidence…

[bills-bible-basics]

Jesus is Seen After His Resurrection Graphic 08 #JesusSeen #PostResurrection #Resurrection "Jesus is Seen After His Resurrection" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse673.html "Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse448.html "Our Resurrected Bodies" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse055.html "Resurrection and Rapture" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse286.html "Firstfruits of the Resurrection" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse109.html "We Have Passed from Death unto Life" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse434.html "Resurrection of Life or Damnation" KJV Bible Verse List: https://www.billkochman.com/VerseLists/verse507.html https://www.billkochman.com/Blog/index.php/jesus-is-seen-after-his-resurrection-graphic-08/?Jesus%20is%20Seen%20After%20His%20Resurrection%20Graphic%2008

[markmcole]

The Proof of the Resurrection of Jesus

One of the most profound claims in all of history is this: Jesus Christ rose from the dead.If true, it validates everything He said about Himself—His identity as the Son of God, His victory over sin, and His power to give eternal life. But is there proof of the resurrection? Or is it just a beautiful myth? Let’s explore the compelling evidence that points to the resurrection of Jesus as a…

[the-big-picture-bible-blog]

Is Jesus the Messiah? A Look at the Hebrew Scriptures

For centuries, the Jewish people have awaited the arrival of the Messiah—the anointed one who will bring redemption and establish God’s kingdom. But what if the Messiah has already come? What if the very scriptures of the Tanakh (Jewish Bible) reveal His identity? The apostle Paul, a devout Jew trained in the Torah, wrote extensively about the Messiah in his letter to the Romans. But his…

[toothlickpick]

i read the conclave book in less than a day and watched the conclave movie twice and i feel like i can say edward berger definitely read the book and thought "you know what the problem here is. not enough benitez as a jesus allegory content"

just a few changes to showcase this:

1. In the book Benitez is constantly portrayed being welcomed by Filipinos, Africans and other nations due to his reputation. Multiple times the book has shown Benitez being dragged into groups and numerous nationals listening intently to what he has to say, which is why he rose so slowly but prominently.

In the movie, Benitez is almost always alone--the scene where Lawrence finds him looking at the late popes turtles alone was originally Benitez talking to a group but deciding to leave to speak to Lomelli instead. The movie frames Benitez in the same quiet but thoughtful work as it does the nuns and all the important female figures in the Church--watching, listening, saying nothing until the spirit moves him to speak the truth. The book shows Benitez still being involved in the politics of the Conclave, dragged around his social groups, whether he wants to be or not; the movie expressly separates Benitez entirely from the politics, placing him in a kind of objective, angelic watcher position.

2. Jacopo Lomelli's name is changed to Thomas Lawrence. The book is likely referring to Jacopo as Jacob, the man who wrestled God, but in the movie he is clearly focused on being Doubting Thomas, the man who interrogates and sees proof of Jesus's resurrection from an abdomen wound. Guess who Lawrence was interrogating about the treatment of an abdomen wound in the movie

3. Speaking of the treatment, the movie changed Benitez's condition from having a fused labia to having ovaries, and also changed the way he found out from a car bomb explosion injury to an appendectomy. Again. This is probably an allusion to Doubting Thomas checking out Jesus's wound. But the fact that even this major detail was changed to fit the "Benitez as a Jesus allegory" narrative is hilarious to me

4. This is my biggest, funniest observation of the Conclave Book vs Movie Benitez. Book Benitez is determined to make Lomelli win. He gets up and speaks after the discovery of the terrorist attack to expressly say that the conclave has already had a majority vote (Lomelli) and that all the 24 people who voted for Benitez should vote for Lomelli instead to strengthen the church. He doesn't outwardly express any disdain for the conclave, just that he wishes they could work together to strengthen the Church. Movie Benitez is VASTLY different because he just straight up says sth along the lines of "all of you are petty and weird and know nothing about the conflict youre getting into and i cannot wait to go back to kabul and do some actual good for this world instead of being stuck here with all of you. " its just such a holy takedown of the church that clearly separates Benitez not as a member of any faction but as a voice of God

I love both the movie and the film for completely different reasons and I think everybody who reads or watches one should check out the other just to get a complete picture of both visions

[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.

[theskywithin]

Why Love Feels So Hard, Based on Your Natal Chart

Love isn’t just hearts and poetry. Sometimes, it’s a mirror. Sometimes, it’s a storm. Some souls come into this life with love that is effortless, gentle, uncomplicated. Others come with lessons to learn, cycles to break, wounds to heal. If love has felt like a battle, a question, or a wound that never quite closes, your birth chart may hold the answer.

Venus-Saturn Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

There is something about love that feels distant, delayed, or just out of reach. Maybe you were never taught how to receive love. Maybe love always comes with conditions, if you work hard enough, if you prove yourself, if you hold yourself together no matter how much it hurts.

People with this aspect often experience early heartbreak, abandonment wounds, or relationships where they feel unworthy. They may attract partners who are cold, unavailable, or emotionally distant, not because they don’t deserve love, but because they are learning how to believe they do.

✨ Your lesson: Love is not a debt to be repaid, a task to complete, or a reward for perfection. You do not have to prove you are worthy of it. You already are.

Venus-Pluto Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

You don’t just love, you merge, burn, destroy, resurrect. Love is not a soft place for you. It’s a wildfire, a black hole, a gravitational pull that you can’t resist, even when you know it will ruin you.

You attract relationships that dig into your deepest fears. Betrayal, obsession, jealousy, power struggles, these are not coincidences, but karmic lessons. You are here to learn how to love without losing yourself, without breaking yourself to keep someone else.

✨ Your lesson: Love should transform you, but it should not consume you. Let go of the belief that suffering is proof of love. Love should heal, not hurt.

Venus-Uranus Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

You love like lightning, intense, electric, and gone before you can hold onto it. Maybe it’s you who runs, maybe it’s them. Maybe you crave love, but the moment it feels too predictable, too steady, too certain, something inside you resists.

You may find yourself in relationships that start with a spark but fade fast. Or in love with someone who is always out of reach, physically, emotionally, or both. Commitment feels suffocating, yet loneliness feels unbearable.

✨ Your lesson: Love does not have to be chaotic to be exciting. You can have love that is both freeing and grounding. Do not mistake stability for stagnation.

Venus-Neptune Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

You fall in love with ghosts, illusions, and ideas of people rather than who they truly are. Love, for you, is a dream, beautiful, intoxicating, but often unreal. Maybe you see the best in people. Maybe you give too much. Maybe you fall for potential rather than reality.

With this aspect, love often comes with disillusionment, heartbreak, or one-sided devotion. You attract unavailable people, not because you enjoy suffering, but because your soul is learning how to see love clearly.

✨ Your lesson: Love is not meant to be chased or sacrificed for. Let yourself be loved in the real world, not just in your fantasies.

Moon-Saturn Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

You grew up believing that your emotions were too much, that love had to be earned through self-sacrifice, that no one would stay if you weren’t strong.

People with this aspect often feel unloved, unseen, or emotionally repressed. Relationships can feel like emotional deserts, partners who cannot give you what you need, or the inability to express your own desires.

This placement often brings delayed love, real love comes later in life, after deep healing. But when it comes, it is stable, lasting, and worth the wait.

✨ Your lesson: Love is not a burden. You deserve love that nurtures, supports, and stays.

Moon-Pluto Aspects: (Especially conjunction, square, or opposition)

Your emotions don’t just run deep, they run into the underworld. Love, for you, is never lighthearted. It’s raw, transformative, a collision of desire and destruction.

You attract relationships that force you to confront your fears of abandonment, of betrayal, of losing yourself in someone else. You don’t love softly, you love like a hurricane, a fire, a secret you don’t dare say out loud.

People with this aspect often experience deep emotional wounds from childhood, which replay in their relationships until they face them head-on. Love, for you, is both your deepest wound and your greatest source of power.

✨ Your lesson: Love does not have to be a battlefield. Let love heal you instead of break you.

Venus in the 12th House:

You love quietly, secretly, in the spaces between words. Love, for you, often feels like a dream you once had but can’t quite remember. You long for something you cannot name.

This placement often brings hidden or unspoken love. Relationships that are secret, forbidden, or left unfinished. You may love people from a distance, fall for those you can’t have, or feel like love is something you must sacrifice.

But Venus in the 12th House also carries a deep soulmate energy. Love, for you, is something ancient, something that transcends lifetimes. When you find the right love, it will feel like something you lost long ago finally finding its way back home.

✨ Your lesson: Love does not have to be hidden or sacrificed. Let yourself be fully seen.

Neptune in the 7th House:

You are a dreamer in love, but dreams are not always reality. You see people through rose-colored glass, fall in love with their potential rather than their truth.

Neptune in the 7th House can bring romantic illusions, unrequited love, or relationships that slip through your fingers like smoke. You may attract people who are mysterious, unavailable, or who leave without warning.

But this placement also gives you the ability to love unconditionally. To see the best in people. To believe in something greater than just ordinary love.

✨ Your lesson: Love is not about fantasy. See people for who they are, not who you want them to be.

South Node in the 7th House:

Love, for you, is familiar. Too familiar. Every relationship feels like you’ve been here before, like you are repeating something that happened lifetimes ago.

You attract lovers who feel like unfinished stories. People who enter your life with intensity, only to leave just as quickly. Love can feel fated, magnetic, but also draining, as if it is keeping you from something else.

This placement often indicates past-life connections, love that is beautiful but heavy, karmic but unfinished. You may feel like relationships are holding you back, keeping you in the past instead of moving you forward.

✨ Your lesson: Love is not meant to repeat itself forever. Let go of what was, so you can step into what could be.

♾️ Karmic Aspects:

Certain aspects indicate karmic love, souls that have met before, unfinished business, love that feels fated but difficult. These relationships feel undeniable, magnetic, and often painful.

💜 South Node conjunct Venus or Mars – A lover from a past life. Familiar, intense, but rarely meant to last. This love teaches you what to release.

💜 Vertex conjunct Venus or the Descendant – A destined meeting. Fated, unavoidable, but often fleeting. This love shifts your life in ways you never expected.

💜 Chiron in the 7th House or conjunct Venus – Love as a wound and a healer. This placement brings deep pain in love, but also the opportunity for profound healing.

💜 Saturn conjunct the Descendant or Venus – The relationship that feels like fate, but requires immense effort and maturity. If both souls evolve, this can be a lifelong bond.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Sooooo because I’ve been seeing connections to Bobbys arc in all the Halloween episodes it got me thinking about the costumes from this seasons Halloween episode and how I thought at the time they were meant to be relevant to each characters arc for the season because it’s something the show likes to play on - giving hints through the set and costumes - I just hadn’t figured it out and then didn’t really think on it more because we got Eddie dancing and Buck escaped his dull, uninspiring relationship and I got distracted like the audhder I am!!

Then I saw something on twitter and Bluesky earlier and all the dots connected and I was right - the costumes are all about each characters arc for the season.

Mad scientist Hen - upcoming biohazard arc

Chim as Jason - a serial killer - Maddie getting kidnapped and nearly killed by one! (Which was also why Doug used the name Jason back in s2 - it was a play on the same thing!)

Vampire Bobby - vampires are undead and lore says they sleep in coffins - Bobby is about to be buried alive in a coffin - it’s a play on death and resurrection both catholic and vampiric (proof he won’t die!!)

Werewolf Eddie - transformation and identity - in modern literature and tv/film the werewolf has become connected to the idea of hiding who you are and being othered - and that has been taken up by the queer community because it is something they identify with - so Eddie’s arc about his identity and who he is, is clearly a queer one.

Cowboy Buck - hiding behind a giant stache - it’s about Texas but also about recklessness and impulsivity - which are considered cowboy traits, and in the uk a cowboy is someone who is false or dishonest - which with the theme of the season being lying and fakeness - would fit with the idea that Buck is hiding his true feelings (behind a moustache too big for his face!), that he’s not being honest about them - and that is connected to Texas because we’ve started to address that concept now that Eddie is there - because that’s where his heart is. Even Tommy is part of this costume led arc nod - Buck finds a corpse (which he thinks is fake but turns out to be real - which is a subversion of the real/fake thing and is also why in part it is dressed in something similar to Eddie’s bachelor party outfit - because it’s all about subversion and Buck having things the wrong way around) which is a representation of Tommy and why he sleeps on the couch like a corpse - which was clearly a direction and not his bad acting!! Billy was already a Tommy metaphor - losing his posse etc in the same way Tommy is feeling the loss of not being a part of the 118!!

I really do love the costume team so very much - they just keep on knocking it out of the park at every opportunity!