Summary:Sweet and tender Amy wants to be your partner…would you like that?
Type: Romantic, Headcanons
Warning:traumas, nightmares
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Living with Amy is like having a home filled with light, even in chaotic Pacific Bay.
She's incredibly organized and loves decorating the apartment with personal touches: photos of the two of you in pretty frames, plants she religiously tends to (and gently chides you if you forget to water them), and a corner dedicated to her cats.
In the mornings, she has an adorable routine: she gets up first, makes coffee with foam designs (hearts or smiley faces), and wakes you with soft kisses on your forehead while whispering, "Wake up, my love… today we're going to solve the day together." Free weekends are sacred: she makes pancakes in fun shapes, they put on soft music from the '50s or '60s (her favorites), and end up snuggled up on the sofa planning picnics or walks on Pacific Bay beach.
Amy is very thoughtful: she remembers important dates, leaves you positive notes on the bathroom mirror or inside your jacket before a tough case.
White peaks...it's something that you have to talk and you know that
After the traumatic events in White Peaks (the mountain district and everything related to her brother Duncan), Amy visibly changes.
The optimistic and somewhat naive girl becomes quieter at times, with heightened anxiety and a fear that the people she cares about will end up hurting or betraying her.
At this stage, you become her main anchor.
There are nights when she comes home with red eyes from crying in the car and just wants you to hold her tightly for several minutes without asking any questions. She tells you, little by little, how she feels guilty about what happened to her family, how her mother Miriam's words still echo in her head ("you were always too soft"), and how she's afraid she won't be strong enough for the job.
You learn to read her signals: when she obsessively cleans the apartment, it's because she's anxious; when she sits quietly staring out the window, she needs space but also closeness.
Amy greatly appreciates you listening to her without immediately trying to "fix" her. Over time, thanks to your constant support, she starts going to therapy (although at first she struggles to admit it) and becomes stronger. She says things like, "I don't know if I could have continued being an officer without you," and she hugs you like you're her lifeline.
Amy isn't toxically jealous, but she is sensitive.
It hurts her a little when you spend a lot of time alone with Roxie (because of her strong personality) or with other officers. She doesn't make a scene, but she gets quieter and then talks about it openly: "I know it's silly… but sometimes I feel like I'm not as interesting or brave as them."
Arguments are infrequent and almost always stem from tiredness or accumulated stress.
Amy hates fighting; she tends to want to resolve everything quickly because she's terrified that "something will break." She always ends up apologizing first (even if she's not entirely at fault) and sealing the reconciliation with long hugs and kisses. You learn that with her, it works better to talk calmly and affectionately instead of direct confrontation.
As time goes on in Pacific Bay, Amy starts talking more about the future. She wants to get married someday (she likes simple but emotional weddings), adopt more cats, and, if they both want, have one or two children.
“Imagine… a little boy or girl running around the house, with your smile and my curiosity,” she tells you one night while you’re in bed. She’s excited and nervous at the same time, because she still carries the fear of repeating her mother’s mistakes. She talks about wanting to create a healthy family, where there’s lots of communication and support. She also dreams of traveling together when they have long vacations: going to see classic films at festivals or simply escaping to the beach.
Amy is very affectionate. She loves holding your hand in public (even if it's discreetly at work), giving you quick kisses, and snuggling up to you when it's cold. She's the type to steal your t-shirts to sleep in.
She constantly motivates you. If you're having a bad day, she reminds you of all your accomplishments and tells you that you're an unbeatable team.
You have a "classic movie night" every month. Amy prepares healthy snacks, and you discuss the films together.
Thanks to you, Amy gains confidence. Thanks to her, you learn to see the positive side even in the darkest situations.
. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ [How do My Favorite Yanderes react to falling in love with you...??] ࿐ྂ
a/n:
Type: Reaction/One-Shots,Romantic
Warning:...none?
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Billy Loomis
Billy doesn't believe in love. He's seen too many horror movies to know that love is the first mistake the victim makes before dying. Love is weakness. Love is what killed his mother, or something like that.
But then there's you.
You're at Woodsboro High. Billy's leaning against the lockers, surrounded by Stu and his little entourage, when you walk by. You don't look at him. You don't feign interest. You don't laugh at his jokes or get impressed by his horror trivia. You just walk past, books pressed to your chest, completely oblivious to his existence.
And Billy feels something.
It's a sharp little prick in his chest that shouldn't be there. His eyes track you until you turn the corner, and when Stu asks him something, Billy doesn't answer. He's too busy processing.
"The hell was that?"
It's not attraction. He's felt attraction before. This is different. It's a hungry curiosity, a need to know who you are, where you came from, why you didn't look at him. That night, while rewatching his horror tapes, his mind drifts back to you over and over.
"Shit," he mutters in the dark of his room. "This can't be happening."
But it is. Billy Loomis, the future Ghostface, just fell in love. And he doesn't know whether he wants to kiss you or kill you. Probably both.
Alastor Hartfelt
Alastor is in the radio booth, wrapping up his late-night show. The jazz fades out and he removes his headphones, rubbing his tired eyes. It's been a long day. Another night in New Orleans, another night alone.
Then you walk in.
You're nobody important. A courier, maybe. Or a friend of the station owner. Or just someone who got lost in the wrong hallway. But you step into the booth with an apologetic smile and say something like "sorry, I got lost," and Alastor is speechless.
Him. The radio host. The man who always has something to say.
"Can I help you?" His voice comes out softer than intended. He clears his throat. "I mean, may I assist you? With directions. Or... anything."
You talk. He listens. But he's not really listening to your words. He's listening to the tone of your voice, the rhythm of your breathing, the cadence of your laugh when you joke about your terrible sense of direction. It's like hearing a new song. One he's never heard before. One he wants to hear forever.
When you leave, Alastor stays seated in the booth for ten solid minutes, completely still.
"This is ridiculous," he tells himself. "I don't even know their name."
But his heart — that muscle he thought had died in the trenches of the Great War — beats with renewed strength. And for the first time in years, Alastor isn't thinking about the past. He's thinking about you. Only you.
Himiko Toga
Toga is in her observation phase. She's always observing. From the shadows, from rooftops, from alleyways. People are so interesting when they don't know they're being watched.
But you're different.
She sees you for the first time on an ordinary afternoon. You're doing something mundane: buying bread, reading on a park bench, helping an old person cross the street. Something normal. Something Toga has seen hundreds of people do without caring.
But with you, she cares.
She catches herself following you. Not to hunt you. Not to hurt you. Just... to watch. To watch you smile. To watch you tuck your hair behind your ear. To watch you laugh at something a friend said.
"So pretty," she murmurs, hiding behind a corner. "So, so, so pretty."
That night, Toga can't sleep. She tosses and turns on her futon, clutching an old plushie. Your image repeats in her head like a broken record. Your smile. Your voice. The way you moved.
"What's wrong with me?" she wonders. "Why can't I stop thinking about them? Why does my chest hurt? Am I dying? Is this what dying feels like?"
It's not dying. It's falling in love. But Toga doesn't know how to tell the difference. For her, love has always been tangled up with blood and knives. But you... you don't make her want to hurt you. You make her want to hold you. Kiss you. Become you.
And that terrifies her. And excites her. And obsesses her.
"I'm going to learn everything about you," she promises in the dark. "Everything, everything, everything. Until no one in the world knows you better than me."
Peter Dunbar
Peter didn't expect to fall in love. He'd accepted long ago that love wasn't for him. Too complicated. Too risky. Too many variables he couldn't control.
And then you moved into the neighborhood.
He saw you for the first time on a Saturday morning. You were unloading boxes from a rental car, your hair messily tied back, a smudge of dust on your cheek. You were a mess. You were perfect.
Peter stood at his window watching you for far too long. Far longer than socially acceptable. He couldn't help it.
"New neighbor," he murmured. "I should... welcome them."
At first, he lied to himself. It was politeness. It was curiosity. It was the duty of a good neighbor. He brought you biscuits. He offered to help with the boxes. He smiled at you with that shy smile he never used with anyone else.
But then he started memorizing your routines without meaning to. What time you left. What time you came back. What kind of music you listened to (he could hear it through the walls). What meals you cooked (he could smell it from the hallway). And one night, lying in bed, he realized he couldn't fall asleep without hearing the sound of your television through the wall.
"This is... more than curiosity."
He sat up in bed. His heart was beating too fast.
"I'm in love. With my neighbor. With someone I barely know."
It should have scared him. It should have made him pull back. But Peter Dunbar doesn't pull back. Peter Dunbar researches. Plans. Prepares. That night, he opened a new folder on his computer. He titled it with your name.
And he started filling it.
Ayano Aishi
Ayano doesn't understand what's happening to her.
She's in class, staring out the window, when you walk in. And suddenly, everything changes.
Literally. The world — which has always been gray, gray walls, gray sky, gray people — floods with color. A color she didn't know existed. A color that radiates from you.
Ayano forgets to breathe. Her heart — that organ she thought was useless — starts beating. Hard. Too hard. She presses a hand to her chest, confused.
"What... what is this?"
The teacher says something. Her classmates move around. But Ayano doesn't hear any of it. She only sees you. The way you sit. The way you yawn. The way you smile when a friend whispers something funny.
It's the first real emotion Ayano has ever felt in her life. And it's overwhelming.
For days, she doesn't know what to do. She follows you from a distance. She watches you at lunch. She memorizes your schedule. Your name. Your friends. Everything. Because being near you is the only way to keep feeling that color. And when you're gone, the gray comes back. Darker than before. More unbearable.
One night, sitting in her room, Ayano writes your name in a notebook. She stares at it for hours.
"This is love," she concludes finally. "It's what the books describe. What the movies show. What normal people feel."
There's just one problem. Ayano isn't normal. Ayano doesn't know how to love in a normal way.
"I'm going to make you love me," she whispers to your written name. "Or I'll die trying. Or someone else will die. Probably someone else."
And she says it without malice. Just determination. The determination of someone who has found their only purpose in life.
Andrew Graves
Andrew doesn't believe in love at first sight. That's movie bullshit. Love is work. Love is pain. Love is Ashley telling him no one else will ever want him.
But then there's you.
You're in some shitty place. A dive bar. A dead-end job. That apartment building where all the windows are broken. Andrew is there, looking like he always does — dark circles, messy hair, face like he hasn't slept in three days — when he sees you.
You don't approach him like the others. You don't look at him with pity or contempt. You just... look at him. And smile. And say something stupid like "long day, huh?"
Andrew doesn't know how to respond. He stammers something. Probably something idiotic. Probably blushes. But in that moment, something in his chest cracks. Like a dry branch finally snapping after years of tension.
"Shit," he thinks. "Shit, shit, shit."
That night, Andrew lies awake until the early hours. Ashley is in her room, probably planning something horrible, but he can't think about her. He can only think about you. About your smile. About the way you looked at him without fear.
"This is dangerous," he tells himself. "If Ashley finds out, she'll kill them. Or kill me. Or both."
But he can't help it. The next day, he finds excuses to see you again. And the next. And the next. Until one day he realizes he'd do anything for you. Anything.
"I'm screwed," he mutters, with a broken half-smile. "Completely screwed."
But for the first time in years, he doesn't mind.
Pierrot
Pierrot doesn't remember the last time he felt something real. His life is an eternal performance, a loop of canned laughter and empty applause. People come and go, the audience changes, but he stays the same. Always the clown. Always the show.
But then, among the empty seats of his circus, you appear.
You shouldn't be there. The circus isn't open to the public today. But somehow you've wandered in, eyes wide, wearing that expression of wonder that no one has when looking at his faded tent anymore.
"Is this a real circus?" you ask.
Pierrot was going to throw you out. It's his protocol. Intruders are not welcome. But your voice stops him. Your voice is different. It's not the prerecorded laughter of his ghost audience. It's real. It's warm. It's human.
"Real," he answers. And his own voice surprises him. It's not the clown's voice. It's his voice. The one he hasn't used in years.
You spend the day at the circus. You watch his tricks. You laugh at his jokes — the bad ones, the ones no one laughs at. And when you leave, promising to come back, Pierrot stands alone in the ring.
"How strange," he murmurs. "My heart is beating. Is this an attack? Should I call a doctor? Do clowns have doctors?"
He sits on the edge of the stage. The carousel horses watch him.
"I think... I think I like them."
He doesn't quite know what that means. He doesn't know if it's love, obsession, or just loneliness. But when you come back the next day — because you do, you promised — Pierrot understands that he can no longer imagine the show without you.
"I'm going to make you the greatest show on earth," he tells you. "Every day. Until you get tired. Until you stay. Until you're mine."
And his eyes, for the first time in decades, truly shine.
Homelander
Homelander doesn't fall in love. Homelander possesses. Homelander conquers. Homelander takes what he wants and discards it when he's bored. He's a god. Gods don't fall in love with mortals.
That's what he tells himself when he sees you for the first time.
You're in Vought Tower. You're nobody special. A new employee, maybe. Someone from marketing. Or janitorial. Or one of those interns who tremble when he walks past. But you don't tremble. You look at him directly. No fear. No worship. Just... politeness.
"Hello, Homelander."
Hello, Homelander. Like he's just some coworker. Like he's not the most powerful goddamn superhero on the planet.
At first, Homelander is offended. Who do you think you are? But then, that night, while floating above the city, he can't stop thinking about you. About your voice. About your gaze. About how you didn't flinch when his blue eyes scanned you.
"Why aren't they afraid of me?" he wonders. "Why don't they adore me? What's wrong with this person?"
He sees you again the next day. And the next. And the next. He starts finding excuses to pass by your department. To run into you in the elevator. To hear you say "Hello, Homelander" again, and again, and again.
One night, he realizes he's smiling alone in his penthouse. Alone. Smiling. Like an idiot.
"Goddammit," he says, dropping out of his levitation. "I'm in love. With a mortal. With a nobody."
He should be angry. He should crush you for making him feel this. But instead, he starts planning. How to approach you. How to impress you. How to make you look at him the way he looks at you.
"You're going to be mine," he tells the reflection of the city on his window. "Sooner or later. One way or another. You're going to be mine."
And Homelander always gets what he wants.
Lila Rossi
Lila doesn't fall in love. Lila uses. Lila manipulates. Lila approaches people only when she can get something in return. Love is a fairy tale for idiots. She's far too clever to fall for that.
That's what she tells herself when she meets you.
You're at a party, or at school, or at some social event where Lila is working the room as usual. Flattering this one, lying to that one, building her web of favors. And then she sees you.
You're not on her list of targets. You're not popular, or rich, or influential. You're just there, leaning against a wall, drinking something non-alcoholic, watching the scene with a slightly cynical smile.
Lila decides to approach you. Out of boredom. Out of curiosity. "Hi, do I know you?"
You look at her. You're not dazzled. You don't fall at her feet like the others. You just say, "I don't think so. But you're Lila, right? The one who always has some incredible story to tell."
It's a double-edged comment. Lila catches it. And instead of being offended, she laughs.
"Touché."
You talk for hours. Hours. Lila doesn't talk to anyone for hours unless she's manipulating them. But with you, she's not manipulating. With you, she's... enjoying herself. Genuinely. No mask.
When she gets home, she stares at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed. Her heart is racing.
"No. No, no, no." She points a finger at her reflection. "You don't fall in love. You don't feel things. This is a strategy. A game. It's... it's..."
But she can't finish the sentence. Because for the first time in her life, Lila Rossi isn't lying. And that terrifies her more than anything.
"Fine," she tells herself at last, recomposing. "I'm in love. With an idiot who wasn't even impressed by me. Great. Perfect. Wonderful."
She smiles. But this time, it's a real smile.
"I'm going to make you love me. My way. With lies or without them. Because I always get what I want. And now... I want you."
if only you’d taken my hand, pulled me into a private alley way, and pressed yourself onto me. opened my mouth and bloomed my petals. breathed me in and hissed it out. fluttering fingers and groping palms. tequila soaked intentions mixed with nervous anticipation, if only you lifted my skirt up and found my moonlight…
