#as for the robot thing his tears seem real

[luvjunie]

— trust who?

pairing: e-42!miles x 1610!fem!reader

contains: angst, mentions of death, yandere?miles

summary: you were taken from him a year ago, and now it seems the universe has given him a chance to do things differently— and this time, he’s not letting you go. no matter what. wc: 1,648

a/n: i got a lil carried away w this one won’t lie, lol. i love this song, and i put a little twist on it to match the plot. song lyrics are in small, bold italics

🎧: Not You Too - drake (ft. chris brown)

“trust- trust who? trust me and i can set you free. left your man came straight to me you the real mvp, my love.“

dimmed hues of red lights spotted your vision as you came to, eyelids heavy as they peeled apart to reveal the room you assumed would be the setting of your demise. your head snapped up when you finally regained consciousness completely, fright-riddled eyes darting around to scout out an escape plan. but just as you went to move, you heard chains clink from above as your body swayed, and realized you couldn’t. you looked down to find your legs bound by rope, as well as your hands, as well as the rest of your body to a firm, stuffed sack.

feet dangling from the ground, you let your head fall back against the punching bag, defeated, and settled for your only remaining option. “help!” you yelled, voice rasped and weak. “help!” you tried again.

“don’t bother, can’t hear a thing down here.”

an artificial, robotic voice sounded from above, warranting your eyes to meet a masked man who resided on a high beam, crouched in place, watching you. how long had he been there?

he jumped down, catching himself and effortlessly hanging from one arm before his sneakers met the steel floor. they were untied, you noticed.

fear permeated your entire being as he strolled over to you, a semblance of uneasiness coursing through your veins, pumping into your blood and rendering your spine straight as the ominous figure stopped just in front of you.

“ple—please, i don’t know why i’m here,” the words tumbled out in a broken heap of suffocated, stifled sobs as tears welled in your eyes.

“shh, it’s okay,” he shushed you, a hand reaching out to gently pinch your chin, lifting your head back up after it’d fallen. his touch was delicate, like he was scared he’d break you.

“i’m not gonna hurt you, mi vida. i’d never hurt you… you know that.” the voice distorter cut out, your breath catching in your throat and your eyes fluttering over every inch of this strange mask. it reminded you of a ventilation mask you’d seen in miles’ room once, a mask used to protect your lungs from the fumes of spray paint.

as if your mind were working against you, you found yourself… calmer than you were just a few seconds ago, and even more confused. why did the voice sound so familiar?

something wasn’t right.

“who— who are you?” you gulped.

“you don’t remember me?” the shield over his face pulled back, the quiet sound of mechanical whirring as it revealed his face drowned out by the heavy thrumming of your heart in your ear drums.

here stood your boyfriend in front of you, the same features, but… different. his entire demeanor had shifted since you had last seen him just prior to whatever time it was now, to something sinister. his hair was longer, pulled back and braided. an accent, almost resemblant of his mother’s lingered on the tip of his tongue, dripping within the words he spoke. his face was harder, etched and carved like the weight of the world had chipped at it piece by piece, only to settle on his shoulders, leaving him with no time for himself.

this couldn’t be right.

“miles?” you choked out, mouth gaping to find your voice. “w-why… what am I—you’re, you… but different? what is this? where am i?”

a puff of air shot through his nostrils, his best effort at a laugh as a small, smile lifted the corner of his lips, braids gliding over his shoulders when his head tilted to the side.

“you came back to me, mi amor. and god…you’re even more beautiful than i remembered.” he breathed, eyes flickering with sorrow for just a moment as they studied your face, a moment that was almost too brief for you to catch.

when he’d encountered you and his counterpart on the roof with his uncle, he swore his prayers had been answered. somehow, someway you’d been brought back to him— the pain of witnessing the bullet that pierced through your chest that fateful night just a year ago drifted from his mind, and replaced itself with the all consuming, peaceful, sleeping image of you the minute he’d picked you up and cradled you in his arms. it pained him to inject you with the needle to sedate you, but he had no other choice, he could never truly hurt you. no, he would never do that.

“i missed you so much.”

“first time in a long time hurtin' deeply inside”

the hand sporting his mechanical gauntlet lifted towards you, fingers bending so the claws wouldn’t scrape your skin as he let the cold metal brush against the swell of your cheek. the sound of the steel joints ticking made you flinch, chest stuttering for breaths you couldn’t keep within your overworked lungs as you turned away from him.

you looked at him with so much fear in your eyes, when all he’s ever wanted to do was keep you safe, to protect you, to make you feel comforted and secure. and he failed at that before, he knows that, but he’s ready this time. he’d been given a second chance, and he’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers again.

“it’s me, hermosa… it’s okay, you know me. just trust me, and i can set you free, and then we can be together. just like old times.” his brows furrowed, his tone one of sincerity as he assured you, but it did nothing for your racing heart.

“trust—“ you sputtered, voice wavering when you spoke. “trust who? you? how can i when you have me tied up like this?!” you balked, your bewilderment such a stark contrast from his bleak, seemingly unmoving disposition.

“yeah… i’m real sorry ‘bout that. uncle aaron made me, so i tried not to make ‘em too tight. you know something like this would never, ever be my idea.”

you shook your head, was this some kind of sick joke? why wasn’t he understanding a single word that was coming from your mouth?

you grew frustrated, time was not on your side, and honestly you were getting tired of this game.

“i don’t know anything about you, i don’t even know who you are. you might have his face, and—and his body,” you looked him up and down. “but you… you are not my miles.”

he felt a pang in his chest, the words you uttered, the way you said ‘my miles’, as if he wasn’t right here, as if he wasn’t right in front of you. the version of himself he’d buried in the ground with you just last year wanted to jump out and yell at you, plead with you, anything to make you see he could be just like your miles, because he was your miles.

“oh,” he pulled the skin of his cheek between his teeth as he turned away with an agitated nod, extending his arm out to point towards your miles, who was still unconscious, chin dropped to his chest as he hung from another punching bag.

“him?” his voice raised in volume and broke apart with desperation, a humorless chuckle unintentionally escaping his trembling lips. “what’s the difference? huh? tell me.” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he tried to maintain his composure, staring deep into the eyes of the girl who would’ve burned the whole world down with him if he asked. the girl who was in his grasp, right in this moment, yet still so far from his reach— reserved for the one who had everything that belonged to him.

your head whipped to where he pointed, and the moment your eyes landed on your boyfriend your blood ran cold, a pained gasp rippling your chest. “miles! oh god, please!” you called out for him as you struggled against your restraints, his counterpart interrupting you by blocking your line of your view with his body.

“cálmate,” he hummed, “he’s fine, just unconscious. i’m not cruel. is that how you remember me, mamí?” he questioned, voice bleeding with hurt.

your gaze drifted over to your miles again, hope swelling within you when you heard him groan.

“no, no, princesa. don’t look at him, look at me.” he urged.

he didn’t understand. you always used to say you would love him in every universe, that you’d find him in every lifetime, what happened to that?

“please, we need to get home, if we don’t… he won’t be able to save his father, he—he’ll die. you have to understand.” you pleaded, the tears finally bubbling over your waterline, streamlining down your cheeks.

“you are home! it’s me, mi amor, i’m right here. what about everything we went through?” he asked tenderly, voice full of hurt and eyes still soaking in the slight difference in your features. he was too distracted by the fact that the girl he thought he’d never see again, was right here in front of him to even try and comprehend what you were trying to say. “please, don’t cry. you know i hate seeing you cry.”

nothing else seemed to be working, so you settled for empathizing with him. he was still miles, after all, different universe or not, he was still the same person deep down. and from the way he was looking at you, love flowing from the eyes that held so much anguish within them, you knew some version of you had loved him, too. in the same way you loved your own.

“look, i’m sure i-“ you stopped to correct yourself, “she, loved you, but i’m not her. i’m not from here, and i’m sorry she’s gone, and i’m sorry you have to live with this pain, but, please… you have to let me go.” your tone was forbearing, words teetering off into a hushed plea, your lingering apprehension threatening to tear through the seam of your heartfelt spiel.

“let you go?”

you nodded tentatively.

he moved closer to you, to unbound you from this elevated prison, you assumed. because maybe, just maybe you’d managed to get through to him.

but this wasn’t your universe, and this… this was not your miles.

for the first time in your entirety of knowing miles morales, you felt your heart stop— and not in the way that brought a flurry of warmed, passioned butterflies to flutter within you— but in a way that invited his words to settle like ice in your bones, allowed panic and dread to inhabit your senses, clutching you in a selfish grasp of resentment that had no intentions of letting you go— you realized, as this time, his gloveless hand swiped away yet another tear you hadn’t even noticed you’d shed.

“why would i do that?”

“I've given you enough time. hurtin' deeply inside.“

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms!

likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated 💗

©luvjunie 2023

[earpskeeper]

trigger warnings - panic attacks, self harm? - very very minimal

word count - 4.8k

this is part 2 part 1 can be found here

The days after the match blurred together.

You trained. Quietly. Relentlessly. But the vibe around the facility had shifted. Coaches talked to you less. Drills seemed to skip over you. The other keeper (younger, newer and hungrier) started getting more reps. And Leila noticed it all.

And when matchday came, you sat on the bench.

And the next match.

And the one after that.

No explanation. No confrontation. Just silence and clipped glances from the coaching staff. You didn’t ask. You already knew.

Then the call came.

You saw Sarina Wiegman’s name flash across your screen and your chest tightened. Leila was beside you, her eyes flicking toward the phone. You forced a weak smile and stepped out to take it.

“Hi Sarina.”

“Y/N” Sarina’s voice was calm. Controlled. “I’m calling about the upcoming friendlies.”

You nodded to yourself. “I’m ready.”

A pause. Then, “You’re in the squad. But I need to be clear with you… This isn’t because of recent performances.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

“I’ve brought you in because you’ve always been dependable. But I can’t ignore what’s happening. You’re not getting minutes. And if that doesn’t change, I’ll have to look elsewhere ahead of the Euros.”

Silence hung heavy between you.

“I understand,” you said softly.

“I hope you do,” she replied. “Because it’s not personal. But it is real. Get minutes, or I can’t promise anything that could happen.”

When the call ended, you stood frozen, staring at the black screen.

Leila stepped into the doorway. “What did she say?”

You swallowed. “She said I’m only going because I used to be good.”

“That’s not.”

“She said I need to play, or I’m out for the Euros.”

Leila moved toward you, but you were already walking past her. “I need to train.”

“Y/N, it’s late, you can’t”

“I need to train.” You said with a robotic tone about you, and you walked out without casting a second glance back.

You trained until your legs gave out. Morning sessions with the team, extra gym work after. Sprints in the rain. Ball drills under the floodlights when the facility was nearly empty. No rest days. No breaks. Just you and the creeping fear that your career was slipping through your fingers.

Leila begged you to slow down.

You didn’t listen.

Until your knee twisted awkwardly during a dive. Just a tweak. A soft pull. But enough.

The physio ruled you out of the upcoming camp. “Two weeks max, if you rest it properly,” he said.

But all you heard was: You’re not going to camp.

And in your head, that meant one thing: You’re done.

Leila found you in the bathroom that night, sitting in the dark against the tile, ice on your knee, tears falling in quiet defeat.

“This isn’t the end,” she whispered, cradling your head to her chest.

But you didn’t believe her, and when Spain called her up, she was adamant she didn’t want to go. 

“You need to go,” you told her.

Leila just shot you a disapproving glance, “I need to be here with you.” 

“You need to be there. For you. Please.” You tried pleading with her. 

Leila looked like she didn’t trust the quiet in your voice. But you kissed her hand and gave her your best attempt at a smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

You weren’t.

You hated the crutches. Hated the limp. Hated the waiting.

Two weeks, they’d said. Light physio. Gradual return.

But “gradual” wasn’t enough. Not when your international spot was slipping through your hands like water. Not when Sarina’s voice still echoed in your skull: If you don’t get more minutes, I will have to look at someone else.

So you pushed.

Hard.

Exercises twice a day. Balancing drills, resistance bands, light jogging before you were cleared. You iced it, you taped it, you lied to the physio about how it felt. Told yourself pain was progress. That if you could just move, you could make yourself worthy again.

But your body wasn’t ready.

And on the fourth day alone, you learned that the hard way.

Lauren Hemp wasn’t even supposed to stop by.

But Leila had texted her — a quiet, desperate message that read… 

Can you check in? She won’t let me help from here. I’m scared she’s not okay.

So Lauren showed up. Knocked. Waited. Knocked again.

You were halfway through another circuit; side steps, squat holds, lunges and that's when your knee gave out. No warning. No drama.

Just a snap of weakness.

And then you were on the floor.

Flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, wind knocked out of you.

You tried to get up.

Your leg screamed.

You tried again (hands trembling, teeth grit) but your knee just crumpled under you, sending a jolt of white-hot pain up through it.

“Fuck,” you hissed, voice breaking.

And then came the worst part: not the pain. Not the fear.

But the stillness.

You couldn’t get up.

You couldn’t get up.

Lauren let herself in a few minutes later, following Leila’s quiet, worried instructions to check in again. She wasn’t expecting silence.

“Y/N?” she called, stepping deeper into the flat.

Nothing.

The TV was off. No music. No sounds from the kitchen.

Then a faint thump echoed from down the hallway.

“Y/N?” she said again, louder, heart beginning to race.

She found you sprawled on the living room floor, one hand clutching your knee, the other shaking as you reached for the edge of the couch.

“Shit! Hey! hey…stay still!” Lauren rushed forward, crouching beside you.

You flinched when she touched your shoulder, eyes glassy with a mix of pain and humiliation.

“I, I was fine,” you gasped. “I just… I slipped, I’ll get up, I’ll be fine” you announced in your stubborn tone. 

“Y/N, stop.” Her voice was gentle, but firm. “You’re not okay.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them away furiously.

“I have to get better. I have to…”

“You will” Lauren said softly, “but not like this. Not by breaking yourself.”

She helped you sit up, propped you against the couch, fetched your water and a cushion for your knee, all while keeping her phone tight in her hand.

Then, when you were settled and your breathing started to even out, she stepped just far enough away to dial.

Leila answered on the first ring.

“Tell me,” she said. No greeting. Just immediate panic.

Lauren’s voice dropped. “She collapsed doing her physio exercises. Pushed way too hard. Couldn’t get off the floor when I found her.”

Silence.

Then a sharp inhale. “Is she okay?”

“She’s shaken. Scared. But stable. I’ve got her sitting up. She’s…hold on.”

Lauren turned her phone slightly. “She can hear you.”

You froze. The sound of Leila’s voice, even over the phone, cut through your chest like a knife.

“Mi estrella?” Leila’s voice cracked. “Are you there?”

You couldn’t answer.

You just nodded, eyes wide, lip trembling.

“Estrella? Y/N?” her voice turning more to a panic second by second. “Are you there?”

Lauren, realising you weren’t able to speak yet, spoke for you. 

“She’s listening Lei.” Lauren spoke softly, “She can hear you.” 

This made Leila realise just how serious the situation was and the only thing she could think to do was apologise. 

Her voice softened to a whisper as she began to say “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry.”

And that was it.

The dam broke.

You sobbed (loud, broken, guttural) and buried your face in your hands. Lauren wrapped an arm around you as you folded in on yourself, phone still clutched tight to your chest, Leila’s voice continuing through the speaker, calm and steady even as it wavered with emotion.

“I’m on my way,” she promised. “As soon as I can, I’ll be there. I’m not leaving you to fight this alone, okay?”

“I tried,” you sobbed. “I tried to be better. I tried to get strong again and I just… I can’t…”

“You don’t have to fix everything right now,” Leila said, her voice fierce and tender all at once. “You just have to hold on. Just hold on for me.”

You let the phone rest against your heart, hands shaking as Lauren pressed a comforting kiss to your hair.

Several hours had passed when there was a frantic knock on the door. Not the kind you ignored.

You were still curled up on the couch with Lauren still beside you, her arm a silent comfort around your shoulders.

She stood first, heading to the door. “That’ll be her.”

You hadn’t moved.

You couldn’t.

But the second the door opened and you heard her voice, your whole body reacted.

“Where is she?”

Leila didn’t wait for an answer. She stepped in, eyes wild, hair still damp from the rain, her travel bag slung over one shoulder.

Then she saw you.

And everything in her went still.

You looked so small on the couch, pale and tired with your knee now elevated on a pillow. The guilt in Leila’s eyes was immediate and brutal.

“Mi estrella” she breathed, crossing the room in seconds.

You didn’t have to say anything. Just reached for her like instinct, and she was there, dropping to her knees beside you, arms wrapping around your waist, holding on like she'd been drowning and only just broke the surface.

“I’m here” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve got you now.”

You clung to her silently, forehead pressed to her shoulder, the relief almost too much to bear.

Lauren stepped back, giving you space, then gently excused herself. “I’ll let you two be.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Leila finally pulled back enough to cup your face in her hands.

“You don’t get to scare me like that again,” she said softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “You’re not alone in this, baby. Not ever.”

You didn’t answer, just leaned into her touch, letting her hold the pieces together when you couldn’t.

You didn’t argue when Leila said she was coming with you to your physio session.

She carried your bag. Walked at your pace. Kept a steady hand at your back to steady you discreetly as your limp had obviously worsened.

The facility was quiet when you arrived with the majority of players still out on international duties. A few players and staff alike nodded greetings, but no one said much.

You were relieved for that.

Inside the physio room, Leila didn’t wait for permission. She followed you straight in and crossed her arms, fierce and focused.

The physio looked up in surprise. “Morning. Wasn’t expecting you in so early.”

Leila didn’t smile.

“She collapsed,” she said plainly.

The physio blinked. “What?”

“Last night,” Leila continued, voice tight with frustration barely contained. “At the flat. She was training on her own, pushing way past her limits and she collapsed. Couldn't get up.”

The physio turned to you, eyes narrowing with concern. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to miss more time.”

“You weren’t cleared for that kind of activity yet…”

“I know.”

“She thought her place was at risk,” Leila interrupted again, her voice shaking now. “She thought she had to earn her spot back in two weeks or she'd be forgotten.” Her voice broke. “She was terrified.”

The physio’s expression softened. She crouched in front of you, her voice gentler now.

“Hey. I get it. But pushing through injury like that? That’s how careers end. And yours doesn’t need to. Not now. Not like this.”

You nodded faintly, shame burning under your skin.

“We’ll reassess,” she said. “Properly. No more guesswork. We’ll take care of the knee, and we’ll take care of you, alright?”

Leila finally sat beside you, lacing your fingers together.

“I’ll be here for every session,” she said, quietly. “Even if it’s just to hold the ice packs.”

You managed the smallest smile. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she said simply. “But I will anyway.”

The physio was still crouched in front of you, her hand gentle on your knee, when she hesitated.

“There’s one more thing,” she said carefully. “We’ll need to inform Sarina.”

Your whole body went rigid.

“What?” you whispered, voice small.

“She’s been checking in regularly,” the physio explained. “About your recovery, your progress, she’ll need to know what happened. That you’ve had a setback.”

Your ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no.

You shook your head before she’d even finished speaking, hands gripping the edge of the bench like it might stop the spiraling.

“She’ll drop me,” you said. “I didn’t even go to the last camp. I’m already hanging on by a thread.”

“She won’t…”

“She will!” Your voice cracked. “She told me I needed more minutes. That I wasn’t impressing her anymore. If she thinks I can’t even manage my own rehab then!...”

“Hey, hey,” Leila said quickly, sitting up straighter beside you.

But it was already happening.

Your breathing came faster, shallower, like the air had thickened and your lungs forgot how to work. The room tilted, your vision narrowing, static creeping in at the edges.

You felt like you were drowning.

“No, no, I can’t! She’s… she’s going to drop me! I ruined everything!”

Leila moved instantly, her hands on your face, her eyes locked on yours.

“Estrella, Look at me. Right here, okay? Just me. Breathe with me.”

You were shaking now, hands trembling so badly your fingers curling around your arms, pinching your skin as if the pain was the only thing keeping you grounded. 

Leila took your hands and pressed one flat against her chest.

“Feel that?” she whispered. “That’s me breathing. I want you to match me. In and out. Come on amor. You’ve done this before.”

She breathed in slowly, deeply, her chest rising beneath your palm. You tried to follow. Failed once. Then again. Then, on the third try, your lungs obeyed, a shaky inhale.

“Good,” she murmured. “Again. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

You focused only on her. Her eyes. Her voice. Her steady breathing beneath your touch.

Eventually, the shaking slowed.

Eventually, the panic ebbed.

You sagged into her, forehead pressing to her shoulder, utterly drained.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Don’t be.” She kissed the side of your head. “You’re allowed to be scared. Just don’t shut me out when you are.”

You nodded weakly.

Back at the flat, everything felt quieter than it should’ve.

You hadn’t said much on the way home.

Leila had kept her hand on your thigh, rubbing soft circles with her thumb, keeping you tethered to the present while your thoughts dragged you elsewhere, to letting everyone down and Sarina’s disappointed face.

You dropped your bag just inside the door and sat on the sofa like your body had finally given out. Leila followed you in silence, slipping off your shoes and bringing you a glass of water you didn’t ask for but took anyway.

Your knee throbbed faintly beneath the compression wrap. Your chest still hadn’t fully settled.

“I can text Sarina,” Leila offered gently, crouching in front of you. “Explain things.”

You shook your head. “No. It should come from me.”

She nodded, smoothing your hair back from your face.

“You don’t have to call tonight.”

But something inside you, some stubborn flicker of self-preservation, knew waiting would only make it worse.

You reached for your phone.

“I’ll just text her and say that I’m okay for a call. Tomorrow, maybe.”

But before you could even finish typing, the screen lit up with her name.

Sarina Wiegman Incoming Call.

Your stomach dropped.

Leila saw it. She moved instantly, sitting beside you and gripping your hand in both of hers.

You stared at the screen for a beat too long.

Then answered.

“H…hello?” You hated how small your voice sounded. 

“Hi, Y/N. It’s Sarina.”

Her voice was calm. Not cold. Not stern. Just measured.

“I spoke with the club this afternoon. I heard you’ve had a bit of a setback.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yeah. I’m… I’m really sorry, I…”

“Stop right there,” she said gently. “This isn’t a disciplinary call.”

You blinked, thrown off.

“I’m calling to check on you. Nothing more.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your hand trembled slightly around the phone, and Leila’s thumb brushed along your knuckles like she knew what was coming.

“You’ve been under pressure,” Sarina said, not unkindly. “You’ve been pushing hard to prove something. But that’s not what I need from you. Not like this.”

“I didn’t mean to overdo it” you whispered.

“I know you didn't,” she replied. “But you’re not helping yourself by training through pain or isolating. That’s not resilience, that’s desperation. And I want more for you than that.”

Your throat clenched.

Sarina’s voice softened even more.

“You haven’t lost your place. But you will lose your career if we don’t start approaching this differently.”

You closed your eyes.

Leila’s hand shifted, coming to rest over your heart like she could hold it steady.

“I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t trying,” you said, voice cracking.

“I know how hard you’re trying,” Sarina said firmly. “I’ve always known. That’s why you’ve been part of this squad. But this team, the staff. We don’t throw people away because of bad luck or a rough patch. I’m not giving up on you.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your shoulders sagged.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

There was a pause on the line, and then:

“You have the skill, Y/N. You’ve proven that. But now you need to prove to yourself that you deserve care, too. So take it. Let the physios guide your recovery. Let your people support you.”

Your eyes welled again.

You weren’t even sure what to say.

“Are you safe?” Sarina asked gently. “Emotionally, I mean.”

“I am now,” you said quietly, glancing at Leila who offered a soft, reassuring smile. “Yeah. I am.”

“Good,” Sarina replied. “You’ll be back. But only when you’re ready. Not when you think you should be.”

You let out a soft, tearful laugh. “You’re a lot nicer on the phone than when I miss a clearance.”

Sarina chuckled lightly. “That’s coaching. This is care.”

The call ended soon after. No pressure, no deadlines and no ultimatums.

Just her promise that this wasn’t the end.

You set the phone down, suddenly so full of emotion it cracked through you in one broken sob.

Leila pulled you into her chest immediately, arms locked around your shoulders like a shield.

“She didn’t drop me,” you whispered against her collarbone. “She didn’t drop me.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Leila murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No one who matters is going anywhere.”

Training had gone well. Better than expected.

You’d moved sharp. Reacted fast. Taken a few tough shots and held your own. The physios had cleared you. The staff were impressed. Whispers had been circling, but nothing felt real until the coach called you over after the final drill.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead, breath still coming in short bursts, your heart pounding from the last save.

The coach glanced around, then gave you a rare smile.

“You’re starting this weekend,” they said simply.

You blinked. “I… What?”

“We’re trusting you to step back in. You’ve earned it.”

And that was it.

They turned to speak to another player, already moving on. Like it wasn’t the biggest news you’d heard in weeks.

But your body… didn’t take it as calmly.

Your lungs suddenly felt tight. Too tight.

Your chest squeezed, ribs locking. The world swam at the edges of your vision.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

But your body didn’t listen.

Your breathing became jagged. Too shallow. You dropped to the ground, gripping the hem of your training top like it might anchor you. You tried to slow it down. Count backwards. Think of Leila’s voice. But it wasn’t working. It never worked fast enough.

And then someone noticed.

“Hey, you okay?”

A couple of teammates gathered, unsure, shifting nervously.

“She doesn’t look right.”

“She’s not breathing properly, should we get someone?”

One of them reached for you, panicked.

You flinched.

“Go get Leila,” another said quickly. “Now.”

Footsteps pounded across the pitch, echoing against the stands, and a few seconds later:

“Where is she?!”

Leila’s voice tore across the training ground like a thunderclap.

She didn’t hesitate. The second she saw you curled in on yourself, arms trembling, breath ragged, her expression cracked wide open - part fear, part fury.

She dropped to her knees beside you in one fluid motion.

“Estrellita. Look at me. Breathe with me. Come on, baby. In, out. Just like we practiced.”

You tried. Tried so hard.

She grabbed your hands and placed them on her chest.

“Feel this? Match me, okay? Just feel me. You’re safe.”

Behind her, your teammates lingered, wide-eyed and frozen.

“What the fuck happened?!” Leila barked suddenly, turning her head just enough to make them flinch.

One of them stammered. “We didn’t, she got told she was starting and then she just, she started panicking…”

“And none of you thought to warn her?” Leila snapped, voice low and dangerous now. “None of you thought, maybe she’s not ready to hear that without support?”

“We didn’t know she’d react like that!”

“Exactly. You don’t know. So next time? You think. You ask. Or you come get me first. Don’t just stand there while she breaks.”

The guilt on their faces was immediate. One mumbled an apology and stepped back.

Leila turned her full attention back to you, softer again, hands cradling your face now.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you. Deep breath with me, alright? In… hold… out… good.”

Little by little, your breathing steadied. Your muscles stopped shaking.

You blinked, eyes heavy with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t,” she said instantly. “You don’t apologize for being human. You’re not weak, you’re still healing.”

You nodded against her shoulder, your voice almost too quiet to hear.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that. I thought I was okay.”

“I know,” she murmured. “It’s okay not to be okay. But I’m here. Always.”

She stayed on the ground with you long after training had ended, arms around you like a shield, her heartbeat steady in your ear - louder than the panic, stronger than the fear.

You might be starting the next match.

But you wouldn’t be doing it alone.

The tunnel buzzed with energy, boots echoing against concrete, shirts clinging to nervous skin. The weight of your gloves never felt heavier. The stadium lights seemed brighter. Louder. Hotter.

Your heart hammered in your chest like it was trying to warn you.

The velcro of your gloves were tight. Your breath came in short, uneven bursts as you waited to step onto the pitch for your first game back.

It wasn’t just any match, it was a close rival. A Manchester derby that held high stakes and an even higher attendance number. It was the kind of game that could shift a whole season.

And you were the one in goal.

You redid the velcro on your gloves again, and again. Tried to steady your breathing. But the pressure crept in, quiet and cruel.

What if I’m not ready?

What if it happens again?

What if I fall apart and there’s no one to catch me this time?

Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted your gloves, and the voices of the crowd became white noise.

Then a voice belonging to your vice captain cut through, calm and familiar.

“You’ve got this,” Laia said, bumping your shoulder gently. “No one else we’d rather have back there.”

You nodded, but your throat felt tight as if you couldn’t quite let yourself believe it. 

The game was chaos. End to end. Scrappy. Fast.

You made a few early saves — solid, nothing spectacular — but your legs still felt like lead, your thoughts just a half-second behind your instincts.

By the second half, it was 1–1, thanks to an out of the box strike by Ella Toone in the 23rd minute and a corner headed home by Kerstin in the 44th. 

Every time the ball came near, the panic surged. You could hear your own breathing, too loud inside your helmet of fear. Every cross felt like a test. Every shot, a judgment.

And then, extra time.

United earned a corner. One last chance. One last shot to steal the win.

Grace Clinton stepped up to take it and you stood on your line, heart in your throat, fingers twitching.

The crowd roared. The ball curled in, dangerous and fast.

A united player rose from the crowd of bodies aiming to head it in the top corner. 

But you. You didn’t think. You moved.

And for the first time in months, it wasn’t fear that powered you.

It was instinct. Muscle memory. You.

You launched yourself, arm outstretched, fingertips brushing the ball — just enough.

It smacked off your glove and away from the goal.

The final whistle blew as you hit the ground.

Silence. Then, chaos.

Your teammates screamed. 

They surged toward you like you’d just won the entire damn league. 

Boots thundered. Arms wrapped around you. Someone tackled you to the grass. Another kissed the top of your head.

“SHE’S BACK!” someone yelled.

“YOU ABSOLUTE WALL!”

“THAT’S MY KEEPER!”

The crowd roared, caught up in it, and for a moment, it didn’t matter that it was just the one point. It didn’t matter that you had only drawn and not won. It felt like the whole world was celebrating your survival.

Back in the changing room, the energy was still electric.

Music blasted. Players and staff alike congratulated you. Sweat, joy and disbelief in every corner of the room.

You sat on the bench, shell-shocked but grinning like you hadn’t in weeks.

Someone poured water over your head like champagne. Someone else shoved a protein bar in your hand like it was a victory cigar.

“Player of the match, no question!”

“I knew she still had it!”

And then the music dipped.

You looked up.

There, at the doorway, Leila.

Arms crossed. That familiar smirk tugging at her lips. Her eyes soft, but so full of pride it almost hurt to look at her.

She didn’t say anything.

She just waited.

And when you stood up, she opened her arms.

You walked straight into her, like you always would.

She wrapped you up in a hug so tight it made your ribs ache the good kind of ache. The kind that said safe. The kind that meant home.

“Mi estrellita” she whispered into your hair, voice cracking with emotion she tried to swallow. “Qué parada, mi amor. I’m so proud of you. So fucking proud.”

You held onto her like you never wanted to let go.

Because in that moment - in her arms, with your team still laughing behind you - the panic was gone.

You were still standing.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed you deserved to be.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

never truly gone

words: 2k

alternative universe where rafe was the one to fake his death instead of ward

warnings: funeral, discussions of death and grief, established relationship, murder confession (canon murder), implications of smut (no actual sex)

you are barely tuned in to the words being spoken at the funeral, lost in the haze of grief. dressed in the same outfit you wore for your one year anniversary with rafe. it was his favorite. was. the word hits you like a ton of bricks.

it didn't feel real for the longest time, part of it still doesn't, the feeling in your gut that your boyfriend isn't truly gone, but as you pick your head up and look around, you realize you have to get over the stage of denial.

“are you okay?” your mom whispers, reaching over to squeeze your hand. you rip it immediately out of her grip. of course you're not okay. who could be after their first love, their high school sweetheart, blew up?

“now is the time that we invite anyone who would like to say a few words up to the mic.” the pastor says, looking out into the crowd, members of rafes family having already spoken.

ward turns around to look at you. he invited you to sit in the front row when you first arrived, but you didn't want that kind of attention, your every reaction being scrutinized, if you’re crying too much, or not reacting enough.

“would you like to speak y/n?” 

you look at the crumpled, tear stained piece of paper with some words scribbled on it.

“i-i don't know if i can.” you admit. ward seemed so strong when he spoke, the same pillar of community he seems to be when speaking at town halls or midsummers.

“whatever you say, im sure rafe would appreciate it.”

you nod, take a deep breath, then stand. your mind seems to blur as you walk to the front, the pastor greeting you with a soft hug then leading you to the podium.

you clear your throat before looking down at the paper. 

“i never imagined a life without you. you were the first man i ever loved and i can't… i can't see myself ever having that same love again. we changed each other so much. we went from kids to young adults planning out their life together. i love you so much, rafe. i always will no matter how much time passes.” you vow.

your next words turn robotic, talking about the family he left behind, his accomplishments, things that don't actually matter to you but you know should be said. you recount the five years you were together, knowing someone is no doubt scoffing at how little it is, but it was your whole world.

you manage to hold in your sobs until you sit back down. you spend the rest of the funeral with your head down, unable to look at the pictures hung around the church.

-- 2 months later --

you let out a groan as you turn over in bed, not wanting to wake up, wanting to spend another day rotting under the covers.

“it's almost noon.” your mom says, peaking in to the door.

“yeah.” you say, sniffling as you see the photo on your nightstand when you go to look at your alarm clock. you can't bring yourself to move it, even if it makes you cry every time you see rafes smiling face. “i know.”

“maybe we could go out to dinner. or order some pizza? you need to eat, baby.” you know your mom is just looking out for you, but the thought of food makes you feel sick, eating at this point when your stomach truly needs it.

“yeah, maybe.” you pick your phone up off the nightstand and unplug it. “im gonna take a shower and get dressed.”

“that's good.” your mom says. “i love you, y/n.”

“love you too mama.” you pause for a beat when she doesn't shut your door. “thank you.”

you mom nods before exiting. you open up your phone to the gallery that causes you as much pain as it has joy, flicking through your final photos with rafe before sighing and getting up to shower with him fresh in your mind, determined to not forget a single thing about him.

--

you're about to go to sleep, pass out and hopefully not dream of anything. you went out for dinner like you promised your mom, trying to keep a brave face for her. she didn't even mention anything when you came back from an extended trip to the bathroom with tear stains on your cheeks and red eyes.

you grab your phone, swallowing harshly to stop yourself from crying again as you click on your messages, rafes contact still pinned to the top. 

you click on your messages. the last text was rafe saying he loved you. you never got to text him back, but you know he was aware of how much you loved him.

you scroll back for a bit, smiling at his jokes even with the tears in your eyes.

you lock your phone and place it on your chest, looking up at the glittering stars through your skylight. “i miss you so much, rafe. why'd you have to leave me?”

your phone vibrates. you almost ignore it, not caring who it could be from, you've practically ditched all your friends, hoping they won't hold it against you when you finally feel good enough to hang out again, if that time ever comes.

something in you makes you pause when you go to plug your phone in, makes you hesitate and open up the text.

baby, im so sorry. please meet me outside, im at your dock.

love, rafe

you frown at the text from the unknown number, considering ignoring the obvious prank as you fling off your covers, body now fueled with rafe, but when you look out the window, there is an unfamiliar boat tied to your dock.

you slip on your shoes, not really thinking of a plan as you head outside, rushing through the yard to find out whoever is playing tricks on you.

the moon barely lights your steps as you stomp down the wooden dock until you're close enough from the boat for them to hear you and far enough from your house to not wake up your mom.

“this isn't fucking funny!” you scream. “whoever is pranking me, you're fucked up!”

a figure steps out of the boat and onto your dock. it takes your eyes a second to adjust, to really take in what you're seeing, to know it's reality.

“n-no.” you take a staggering step back. “im-im seeing things.”

“it's really me, baby.” the word hits you like a bullet as you fall to your knees, not caring that they dig into the wood. “i can explain everything but-but can i touch you? ive missed you so goddamn much.”

“this isn't real. you're- you're dead. im dreaming.”

rafe moves closer, dropping to his knees as well and pulling you into a tight hug. it isn't until he touches you that you know that it's not a dream, hes real and warm against you.

“oh, god.” you begin to sob, clutching onto rafe, clambering closer to him, climbing onto his lap and hugging him so tightly it's like your bodies could become one.

“im so fucking sorry baby. i love you. i love you so much.”

“i love you.” you sob, pulling back to look rafe in the eye. “i-i love you and you can never leave me again.”

you'll demand answers later, but now you're just happy your initial gut instinct was right, your boyfriend is right here, alive and well.

“can i kiss you? you're probably pissed at me but-”

you don't wait for rafe to finishing, surging forward and smashing your lips against his, all the passion and feelings of the past two months without him, but also the past five years of love, put into your bodies as you kiss under the moonlight.

“baby-” rafe gasps after a minute. “i-i need to get back on the boat. just in case i’m seen. come with me.”

“okay.” you're not sure what it means, but you're not going to let rafe out of your sight.

rafe climbs onto the boat before helping you, hand carefully stroking over yours as he leads you into the cabin.

“did you tell anyone that i messaged you?” he asks, sitting down on the bed and pulling you to his side.

“no.” you shake your head. “my mom doesn't even know.”

“that's good.” rafe nods. “i faked my death.”

“i can tell.” you giggle, unable to keep away for much longer as you press your lips against his in a quick peck before curiosity has your tongue loosening. “how? why?”

“my dad planned it for me. the boat was rigged to explode and i went and suited up in scuba gear. the why…” rafe hesitates for a moment, and you can read every emotion on his face.

“just tell me.” you say. “you can't hurt me. you can't make me mad at you, not when i just got you back.”

“i killed sheriff peterkin.” rafe swallows harshly. “it was to protect my dad, but of course nobody would believe me.”

“i believe you.” you tell rafe, tucking your head into his neck. “that must have been so scary, but i know how you'd do anything to protect the people you love.”

“my dad didn't want me to tell you at all. i agreed to wait until after it happened, but it all moved so fast, and when i got to where i was supposed to hide out for a while, i realized i had no way of contacting you. i had to steal a phone and this boat and leave the safehouse.”

“what's the plan now then?” you ask.

“have you come back to the safehouse with me. it's in the caribbean, on a gorgeous island. i will provide everything you need, we won't have to hide there.”

“and what will i tell my family? tell everyone?”

“well, your mom loves me.” rafe smiles, knowing he's right. “i think we can trust her to keep the secret. as for everyone else… maybe you just need some time away from the outer banks after what happened. maybe some cousins in michigan or something?”

“whatever.” you shake your head. “i just need to be with you.”

-- one week later --

“when you said safe house…” you look around the mansion. “this is not what i was picturing.”

“the locals here think im a cousin of the cameron family. allows me to stay here without much suspicion. i do keep a low profile and stay out of touristy areas just in case, but we can do whatever you want here. the ocean is right outside our doorstep.”

“and money? do i need to get a job?” you've never worked before, having grown up wealthy, but you're willing to do anything to keep your life going with rafe, having told your mom who didn't believe you until rafe stepped into the room. she saw the spark in your eyes and recognized it as the same one in hers when she looked at your father, and her time was also cut short when he passed young.

she made you promise to call and to let her visit every couple months, just enough to not be suspicious.

“no.” rafe shakes his head. “my dad funnels me money. cash, so no one gets suspicious.”

“honestly, i could just stay forever in the house and in the backyard.” you laugh, wrapping your arms around rafes shoulders, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“my dad will figure something out eventually, i don't expect you to hide for the rest of your life.”

“okay.” you shrug. now that you're with rafe, you don't care. you're going to be happy no matter what after feeling the pain of losing him.

“there is one more room i want to show you…” rafe picks you up, your legs slotting around his waist like nothing ever happened. 

you laugh as you kiss his neck, knowing exactly where he's taking you.

sfw tags: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie @ladyinbl00d @ethanthequeefqueen @drewsephrry

[kittykattysstuff]

Warning: Incest.

Gojo satoru x fem!reader

“Let’s get married”.

Satoru declared as soon as you both were left alone. And those three words changed your world completely.

Being the sister of ‘The Strongest’ was far more difficult than people would have thought. It was not glamorous, as all your friends used to think. Yes, Satoru-nii was the best big brother you could’ve ever asked for, and you had no complaints whatsoever about him. However, the rest of the Gojo clan wasn’t as perfect as they liked to show to the outside. No. Far from it. In reality, they were a bunch of conceited, hypocrite and misogynistic senile people, whose only concern was to ensure Gojo eventually had an heir to keep the family legacy.

Your brother, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about getting married and giving the Gojo clan the heir they oh so desired. No, he was more concerned with pissing them off and, on the rare occasion he actually bothered to visit the family estate, dote on you.

You see, you were nothing compared to your big brother, who had inherited the most powerful family techniques in centuries. Despite having cursed energy, your abilities were average, nothing special. Therefore, your parents deemed you of no use, and didn’t let you attend Jujutsu High. You were a porcelain doll, collecting dust in the corner and just waiting to be married off to the best suitor your parents could find. To your utmost dismay.

They already had had the perfect heir. You were just an unplanned nuisance. Satoru was the real deal. And you were absolutely fine with that. Really. You saw the pressure your big brother had been subjected to from the moment he was born and opened his eyes.

The expectations the higher ups had on him, the way they wanted him to be a perfect little robot and follow their orders blindly. Satoru’s rebellion, however, was the last thing they expected. And that was your favorite thing about your brother. He never listened to anyone, only ever doing as he pleased. He knew no one would oppose to him. He was the strongest, after all. What could they really do?

As you two grew up, you were always joining Satoru-nii’s mischievous plans of ways to piss your parents off. You were his greatest ally in your household, and he was yours. Satoru-nii was the only thing that made life in the Gojo estate bearable. You were each other’s best friends.

The day he left to attend Jujutsu High, you were a wreck. You remember clinging to him for as long as you could, refusing to leave his arms, and when he got settled into his dorm and it was finally time to say goodbye, you were a sobbing mess. He was just as bad. The last thing he wanted was to leave you behind with your shitty parents, but he had no choice. And, with a heavy heart, tears rolling down his cheeks in a rare moment of vulnerability, he promised he would come back to you and when the day came, you would never be parted again. He pressed a tender, chaste kiss on your forehead to seal his promise. Which leads you to your current predicament.

“I’m sorry, what?”

You asked as you tried in vain to process his words.

“Let’s get married”.

Gojo simply shrugged, a smile on his face as he looked at you through his dark shades.

“How can you say that so nonchalantly? And what are you thinking about? For fuck’s sake, we’re siblings Toru-nii!”

“Oooh, swearing now, are we? You really became a big girl while I was away, huh”. He hummed, shaking his head amusedly.

“Focus, Toru-nii. Where’d you get this crazy idea from?”

You tried to make your big brother come to his senses. You were on the verge of having an aneurysm from the way he seemed so at ease with the whole thing. That wasn’t the worst thing, though. You were more worried with the fact you did not find the idea so bad. What was wrong with you? Maybe all those years living with your family had made you go insane. You shook your head, trying to get rid of such unholy thoughts.

“The higher ups are pressuring me to get married and have an offspring”.

Satoru said seriously, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat on your bed. You followed suit, sensing the shift in the atmosphere as you sat across from him, hugging your pillow close to your chest in an effort to create a wider gap between your bodies.

“They always have, nii-chan”.

You said softly, sympathizing with his displeasure.

“They’ve been trying since you became of age, and you always managed to avoid it in the end”.

Gojo groaned, taking off his sunglasses and rolling his eyes. If the situation wasn’t so serious, you’d be laughing from his childish antics.

“Ugh, I know. But this is not like those stupid dates they used to settle. They actually gave me an ultimatum”.

“Nii-chan-

You tried to placate his anger, before he cut you off.

“I know, right? Like, how dare they threaten the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in recent history?! The audacity of the old farts!”

He started to complain nonstop. This was your time to roll your eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to get out of this situation, Toru-nii. You always do”.

You smiled encouragingly. Your big brother was just blowing it out of proportion, exaggerating and making the details seem worse than they actually were.

“Except that this time I can’t, little sis. They said that if I don’t find a wife in one month, they will find me one themselves”.

Satoru looked you straight in the eyes, and damn, those baby blue eyes of his still made you weak in the knees. Ever since you were kids, he would always talk to you without a blindfold or sunglasses when he wanted you to do something for him. And you caved. Every. Single. Time. Of course, the bastard knew it all too well. Still, you kept your resolve.

“I don’t see what’s the matter. They’ve threatened you many times, and it never worked. Why’s it so different now?”.

“Mom and dad found you a suitor”. He declared, straight to the point.

You gaped at him. How did he know? It was partially true. Although your parents had already decided on the perfect husband for you, it had not been made official yet. And, until the announcement was formally made, you would hold onto every last shred of hope you had.

“It’s not official”. You replied, stubbornly.

“Come on, they already scheduled a date to make the announcement public”.

He said it with such certainty, you knew Satoru couldn’t be lying about this. Fear settled deeply in your heart. They had really scheduled a date? If your nii-chan wasn’t lying to you, and you knew he wasn’t, he never once did, then you were helpless.

“I-I’m sure that if I talk to them…”

“What, they’ll listen to you? They’ve been dictating your whole life since you learned how to walk, sweetheart”.

Unfortunately, Satoru was right. Trying to talk to them would be absolutely useless. You were stupid for even entertaining the idea.

“I know it is not ideal, sweetheart, but this is the best solution for both of us. Do you really want to marry the pervert Zenin Naoya?”.

You grimaced. That was totally repulsive. You could never marry him. The men from the Zenin clan were even worse than your own family.

“But, Toru-nii, this is wrong. We’re siblings!”.

You still tried to reason with him, but the words didn’t seem so firm coming out of your mouth. At this point, you knew you were trying to reason with yourself more than your brother. Oh God, you were just as sick. Picturing yourself getting married to your very own brother shouldn’t feel so good.

“Darling, I thought we had already crossed that line a long time ago”.

Satoru smirked, getting closer to you, your knees touching as he took the pillow from your hands and threw it over his shoulder in the bed. You gasped, eyes huge and mouth open like a fish out of water. You two swore you would never speak of this again.

“Toru-nii!”

You admonished him, refusing to face his bewitching blue orbs, instead focusing on the sage green wall in front of you.

“Oh yeah, I still remember when you came to my room in the middle of the night, wide eyed and with the cutest pout on your pretty little lips, begging me to teach you how to kiss-“

You put both hands on his mouth, silencing him.

“I was just fifteen!”.

“Well, you came to the right person. I’ve always been a great teacher, if you know what I mean”.

Satoru winked.

“Ugh, stop being so cocky”.

A beat of silence passed before Satoru cleared his throat.

“So, what do you say, sweet sis? It’s either you live the rest of your life in a loveless marriage, or you become the wife of your mature, amazing, sexy Toru-nii…”.

“Okay, okay, I get it!”. You stopped him before he got carried away.

“Say, if I agreed to this”. You eyed him carefully.

“Mhmmm”. Gojo encouraged you to continue.

“How would you make it work? I mean, last time I checked, marrying your sibling was illegal”.

Your nii-chan smiled widely, already knowing he had won the discussion.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got it all covered!”. He clapped, pleased with himself.

“You arranged it all before knowing whether or not I would agree?”.

“Is that a yes?”.

Satoru leaned even closer, playing with a strand of your hair while watching your face intently all the while. You immediately felt your cheeks grow warm. Being close to Toru-nii always made you nervous. He looked like a predator analyzing its prey, a hungry expression on his handsome face. You gulped.

“Toru-nii, stop teasing me”. You pleaded.

“You need to say the words, sweetheart”.

He whispered, face mere inches from yours. His hand was now caressing your cheek.

“Yes, nii-chan. I will marry you”.

“Good girl. Now, how about we put the lessons I gave you back then to use? I don’t want my future wife to feel neglected”.

Those were the last words he said before he pressed your lips together.

[dcdreamblog]

Okay, so. I've been doing some research on Superman lately, like, he's been around for a zillion years and I was curious about the history, you know how it is.

Anyway--I've always known Supes as an upstanding guy, the absolute best to have in your corner when you need help. But in some of these older reports, he seems like, well...a real dick. And it's not like these are just old tabloid articles, one of the things I found was a police report detailing him tearing down tenement housing and leaving 300 people homeless. He said it was to help lower crime, but how exactly does that help?!

So what's the deal here? There can't possibly be that many people with super-everything running around. Was he controlled by Luther or something?

Ok so you are striking on something that generally resembles truth, has been blown out of proportion by the whims of pop culture history and capped it off with one REALLY bad example that I am going to have to fully contextualize. FUN!

"Super Dickery" as its called is more a phenomenon of pop history than it is actual history and the reason come down to this magazine right there.

(An issue of DC's comic magazine "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen) Some of DC Comics' most successful magazines in its history were basically dramatized tabloids "Superman's Girlfriend Lois Lane" and "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen" taking newspaper reports and other real life stories surrounding two of the most interesting people in Superman's life and puffing them up a little. Adding a little more flair, a little more drama ESPECIALLY when it came to the covers which were as often as not totally fabricated or exaggerated to the point of lunacy creating some TRULY bizarre reading that comes when you try to DRAMATIZE the life of a man like Jimmy Olsen.

The story above was pushed up from a human interest piece showing Superman and a younger Olsen participating in Metropolis' annual Father-Son Picnic, leading first to a rumor that the Man of Steel was actually adopting Olsen and then constructing a massive conspiracy narrative as to why that didn't end up happening (Note that Olsen isn't even an orphan. These magazines were coming out on a monthly basis and even the famously camera friendly Olsen eventually got sick of his every word being taken out of context and stopped talking to the people working on them which only made the details more tenuous and the fabrications more outlandish. And that's on top of the fact that a lot of what Superman has had to get up to in his career is ALREADY outlandish! He's been replaced by robots, masqueraded as his friend Clark Kent to catch gangsters, been subject to a betting pot as to which Metropolis criminal could kill him, battled a giant ape with Kryptonite vision hanging off the Daily Planet villain and GOD knows what else and some of these things are not fully explained to the general public until they're over either because events are happening too fast for him to give a quote or to not compromise an ongoing investigation. Sometimes Superman is spotted attending the theater with a lion head and we all have to content ourselves to reading about it in tomorrow's Planet. And that last example is just not what it looks like in any fashion. Superman demolishing a tenement DID happen...at the requests of the tenants because the entire area was a slum that had been declared unfit for human habitation YEARS beforehand. City Hall was dragging its feet on doing anything about it especially because the area was poor and most made up of immigrants. Superman knocked an entire block down in order to stick a boot up the ass of the city government and force them to DO something about. Within six months the area was filled to the brim with brand new, rent controlled bodegas and apartments that now make up the core of Metropolis' middle class New Town neighborhood. This entire event is WHY that neighborhood is CALLED New Town! None of the residents were ever homeless because the Daily Planet conducted a large scale fundraiser that put the block's residents up in local hotels for the length of construction on each building. The Daily Planet does things like that all the goddamn time, there's a reason the paper is so beloved. The entire stunt was preplanned between the tenants, Superman and the Daily Planet as a protest action and it WORKED. Superman is not some perfect angel from on high, some of the things he's done in public are weird, or shocking or even a little cringe but you should always check your sources. And when it comes to the Man of Steel, check the Planet first.

[lonelyl00n]

wildflower. (billie eilish)

billie eilish x reader

summary: you begin dating your best friend's ex, but the guilt is tearing you apart.

❀ 🎕❁

I remember the night when she laid her golden-brown curls on my chest, sobbing and heaving while all I could do was tell her how much her ex didn’t deserve her. The same ex of hers whose arms wrapped around my waist at some random influencer party she dragged me to. Her ex, the one I’d now been dating for five months.

I had always been aware of Billie, I had been listening to her SoundCloud since middle school, she was in my friend group, and had dated my long-time friend, Odessa, on and off for about a year before they called it quits. Even after their breakup, I would occasionally run into Billie wherever I went it seemed, at random movie premieres, at friends who I didn’t even know we shared birthday parties, at the grocery store.

At first it was a bit awkward, I mean, THE Billie Eilish never seemed to shy away from blabbering to me about the most random things. ‘I saw a squirrel that looked just like you’ or ‘That new bakery had some AMAZING banana pudding, I like banana pudding, it’s really good. Do you like banana pudding?”

Eventually, she started to grow on me. Our one trip to the bakery turned into going to every restaurant in town twice a week, to making dinner at her house every other night. It was on the night where we burnt our third attempt of tofu fried rice that we laid down on her bed, munching on PB&Js, that I turned to look at her to find that she was already looking at me. Her eyes gazing at mine before glancing down at my lips.

“Do I have peanut butter on my mouth?” I covered my face with my hands, licking the area around my face. Billie only smirked, taking my hands into her and leaning in. My mind didn’t seem to be working and before I knew it, the two of us were exploring each other’s mouths. Suddenly, realizing the gravity of the situation, I grabbed my bag and ran out the door. I had broken the number one rule of girl code: NEVER KISS YOUR BEST FRIEND’S EX-GIRLFRIEND.

I did the only reasonable thing I could do; I called Odessa.

“Hey love,” Odessa’s raspy voice was heard over the line instantly.

“Hi." I responded. Already a choked-up mess sitting in my car outside an empty Walmart.

“What’s up, is everything okay.” She spoke noticing my silence. If there was one person I was never shy with, it was Odessa.

“I-“I paused. If I told her, it would kill her, rather, she would kill me. She’d hate me, and I’ve heard firsthand all the vulgar thing she would say about the people she hated. Could my heart handle hearing her precious voice, my comfort, say those words to me. “I’m sorry.” I murmured before hanging up the phone. No, I couldn’t.

That leads me back to tonight. Those familiar curls bounced up and down in that short black dress that I bought her a few years back. She looked stunning, she always had. Smiling and dancing with her friends, once our friends, looking as carefree as ever. My gaze lingered on her and so did Billie’s. Her mouth slightly agape, the blinding lights from the compact room making her eyes sparkle like jewels. She’d never looked at me like that before. Never.

There had always been a small yet present feeling whenever the two of us did anything. It was like she was a robot. Oh, we were in public! Her arms awkwardly appear at my side. Oh, I mentioned being hungry, well she knew I liked strawberry banana smoothies from the shop down the street. Nothing felt real, and if it was, then it didn’t feel genuine, it didn’t feel meant for me.

But it all made sense. Odessa and I grew up practically attached to the hips. Most of my favorite foods were her favorite foods. Most of my hobbies were her hobbies. A lot of my love language was also her love language. I was a replacement.

I gently pried her hands off me. She turned to look at me, her eyes silently asking, “You good?”

“Restroom.” I mouthed out. She glanced at me with an unsure expression but nevertheless let me go. And right on time as tears formed in my eyes as I fought through the crowd, set on making it to the restroom. Not noticing a pair of eyes watching my distraught figure.

I’ve always hated public restrooms. They stink and there’s too many germs, yet there I was sitting on the wet tiled floor of a big stall, trying and failing to keep my composure.

The sound of knocking on my stall door broke me out of my daze. “Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.” I choked out.

“Honey, it’s me.” An angel spoke. The voice that had comforted me since I was seven years old, the voice whose calls I’d been avoiding for four months straight.

“Please, just let me in.” Odessa pleaded. I stood up walking over to unlock my stall, and there she was, Odessa A'zion, in all her glory. Her eyes widened in shock for just a little before speaking again. “Well, you look fucking awful.” She teased.

“Thanks…” I studied her as she stood in front of me. She wasn’t angry, that was good. She wouldn’t be joking with me, but she sure as hell didn’t sound happy either.

“Here,” She took my hand pulled me out of the stall, forcing me to hop on the counter. “Let me fix you up,” She pulled out her fuzzy makeup bag from her purse. She gently rubbed my face with a face cleanser.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked as she began working.

“You’re right, why am I doing this? Why am I helping my so called ‘best friend’ who’s been avoiding me on purpose for months. I mean, do you know how much I’ve missed you, how worried I’ve been about you, babe?”

“But I’m dating your ex, you hate me.” Odessa sighed and looked me directly in the eyes.

“I could never hate you, I love you too much to hate you.”

“But Billie-“

“Did I ever tell you why we broke up?” I shook my head. She hadn’t, even on that night she came over crying she never did.

“We were never official. We would mess around, tell each other things that were probably a little too intimate, but it was never truly real. Then one day, me, you, Quen, and Billie were hanging out together and I started to notice a few things: whenever she would tell a joke, she would look at you first, not with a simple look, but with a longing gaze, the same one I had for her. I realized she loved you before she did, and so, being the world’s greatest friend, I broke up with her.”

She helped me down as she finished applying lip gloss on me. “And you know what, I’m glad I did because I would have never met Drew.” She smiled sincerely. “Don’t lose that girl, okay?” She held my hands in hers. “You two are so much more alike than you realize.”

“How?” I laughed.

“Well, for starters, the two of you are the most awkward people I’ve ever met, you both think too much about everything. Secondly, you both are too scared to be vulnerable. Do you know that the last time I saw you cry was on the night of our junior prom?”

“Ouch! Don’t remind me of that.” We both laughed.

“And lastly, you two are some of my closest friends. I care about the both of you deeply, and though it hurt seeing the photos of you two frolicking along Hollywood Boulevard,  I knew that it was for the best. Don’t ruin what good you two have going on. Communication is another one of you two’s flaws.” She joked.

“Stop!” We playfully hit each other.

“Am I interrupting something.” Billie’s velvety voice entered into the restroom, her eyes looking back and forth between Odessa and I.

“Took you long enough,” Odessa turned to look at her before eying the both of us. “Talk!” She said before leaving.

Where do we even begin?

Billie stepped forward and pulled me close, “I love you.” She spoke into my ear.

At least that’s a start.

|

an: I wrote this during back in February, and totally forgot it was there until I started procrastinating on my philosophy essay, so I hope you enjoyed!

[creativewritersposts]

a damn poet - Connor Bedard

requested; @chericherilvr 💓

summary; Connor Bedard x reader

Connor is so busy trying to have his best season that he forgets about things that really matter. He needs to learn how to be a poet to save your relationship.

warning(s); angst! fluff, argument, maybe grammar errors

author's note; it took me hours to finish this one. It was an honor for me to write this request. ♡

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

Deep in your heart you know how Connor feels for you. He wouldn't invite you over another continent, joining his world championship, if he wouldn't love you. But something inside you breaks. Seeing all these hockey couples with cute pictures, sending their girlfriend flowers and the players screaming from the rooftop how much they love their girlfriends.

Connor is not like this. He loves you, he cooks your favorite food and watches all movies you want to watch. He's so focused to play the best rookie year he could do and lost the focus on his private life. He doesn't want to post your relationship official, because of his fan base.

You're self-evident for him.

"Hey love", you smile with big eyebags, touching his shoulder as he walks in the hotel room. It's your first time after three days having a real conversation with him.

"Hi", his mouth is straight, kissing your temple and waking in the bathroom. You're exhausted from love-bombing him. You're so tired of being so upset.

"How was your day?", you ask him, hearing the shower. "I can do better", his voice echos back. "You're already enough, my love", you shout back and throw your body into the bed. You spread your arms apart, your legs are on the ground.

Connor comes out after a few minutes ago in a towel, his hair is still wet and he's looking fine.

"What is that?", he grabs a paper from the desk.

"So I hold onto your shirt, as I stain it with blood

Will I finally find my own peace?

Clear my mind out of my thoughts, then state that I'm in love

Tempted with the idea of dying in these sheets"

"I'm writing songs ", your voice shakes. Connor never noticed this because he's always busy and you're asleep when he comes home. You're working full-time in a job you don't like and at night you're writing songs. Hopefully to live from that one day.

Connor looks up from these lines, "since when?", he breathes in. Hid eyes get red. Red like crying. "over a year", you sit up on the bed, your arms are supporting your back.

"Why didn't you tell me, babe?", he sniffles.

Babe. How long didn't you hear this nickname?

"You were busy", you tell him the truth. Maybe he'll break up with you. Connor sobbs, "are you really feeling this way? Finally finding your own peace?", his blue eyes searching yours, you can see how much it burdens him.

"your lyrics are professional, they're so good", he cries and tries to hide it. Whipping his tears with his wrist, face to his bag with all clothes.

He's putting a shirt on, turning around. "I just need time to realize this, babe", he kisses your lips, you taste the salt from his tears.

"You have an important game tomorrow, I'm ok with that ", you response. He nods and lays down. Without a kiss, hug or this comfortable feeling.

He lays down and let you alone with all these thoughts in your head. He doesn't seem to care much about you. Maybe it's time to leave.

Next day Connor feels like shit, even in his hockey clothes, nice fans around his team. He slept surprisingly well, but feels like the night after silvester.

It burns in his chest, you don't feel happy. But why? Since when you're writing songs? as a good boyfriend he should know. What is he missing in this relationship.

He's not shitty boyfriend, he didn't know it's hurting you. He thought its okay that he's having a strict time schedule.

"Concentration, Bedsy!", his teammate hits his shoulder to wake him up from daydreaming. Like a robot Connor played his best game but the celebration feels like a crime.

"Yo Connor are you going out with us?", some boys asking him in the cabin to celebrate their win. "No", he wants to see you. He forgot how stunning you are. How hard working you are. You're a poet and he had no clue!

He walks in your hotel room, lights are out. Just some papers all over the bed. He grabs one paper, reading the lines.

'He grabs me by my neck

Puts a dagger to my heart

Tells me I'm a mess

That I'll never be enough'

Gosh, it hits him. You are more than enough. You're his safe place. He reads every paper, focused about what you feel. It's time to hear out what you need.

He grabs his phone, calling you.

"Hello?", your voice sounds happy. "Where are you at, babe?", he asks interested. "I'm at the whirlpool inside the hotel, I'll come over in 5 minutes, okay?", you're scared he's mad when you're late. You thought he's celebrating with his team and won't come to bed until midnight.

You pack the stuff and walk back to your shared room.

The opened door shows you the sort out papers with your lyrics on your bed shelf.

Connor lays in bed, smiling softly. It's typical Connor, he's a clean guy.

He smiles. He smiles at you without talking about hockey. "Congratulations for winning, I'm proud of you", you stutter.

This view feels so surreal, having a relationship after months. Having a boyfriend waiting for you.

"You look beautiful", he grins angelic.

You stopped the last step, "what did you say?". Maybe you have issues with your ears.

"You look beautiful and I love you", he talks loud.

"Love you too?", your honest reaction. The last time he said it, he broke is jaw and was out of his mind because painkillers. Months ago.

"Uhm can we talk, please?", he pets your hand, when you lay down with him. It feels like home. Smelling his perfume, hearing his breath and touching you.

"Sure", you get insecure what's coming next.

"Ok it's not easy for me", one tear runs down his cheek. You're frightened, just able to nod.

"Why do you write songs with me as enemy?", his voice is distanced and cold.

"Oh I'm sorry I don't write lies!", you defense yourself.

"I'm a good boyfriend!", he argues, "you treat me like I'm self-evident!", you yell your frustration out of your lungs. So much pain inside your chest wants to come out of your mouth. So much unsayed words.

"No-", he argues back, more tears are coming out his blue eyes.

"Yes Connor! Yes, it's true! I love writing songs and I hate my job so much! I am crying every night because my boyfriend doesn't care about me and I'm all alone and you're hiding me from fans because you could have a ruined career, I get it!", you sob under choking your salty tears. You're outraged.

You take your pillow and lay down on the floor, Connor looks down, "come over".

"No", "god damn come over!", he huffs.

"You have practice tomorrow, good night!".

That's the last time you saw him for the next two days. He's busy. Semifinals are tonight and Connor posted something on Instagram, you're too upset to check.

One WAG comes to you at the game, giggles and tells you, "never thought Bedsy is a poet!". The game is already on fire but your fingers are like a magnet, they want to switch what he posted - even if he's an idiot.

He posted a picture of you reading a book in the garden, laughing at you without pressure, without hockey and in his caption;

"You can feel, when someone traces your skin

You can kneel, run, jump and also can spin

And when I close my eyes I wish I was just like you"

[kirishima-l0ver]

"Oh." Bakugo x Reader (Angst) (NOT FOR THE SENSITIVE)

Warnings: Self harm, attempted su!c!de, cheating, angst, sad ending

"Oh."

That's what you said.

That's what you said when you found your boyfriend kissing and making out with another girl on your bed.

Why did he do it?

He doesn't know.

But he regrets it.

It was like jamming a fork into an already weak electrical outlet. He expected the outcome. He knew it was only going to hurt you.

But it hurt him back.

He was the only one who noticed how you stopped being energetic.

How you became more quiet, even when doing group projects.

How you looked more skinny and pale.

How you gained heavy bags under your eyes.

How, when you were hanging out with the girls, you wore a sweater, even when it was fucking melting outside.

Yet you stayed with him.

Because you didn't want to be alone.

He tried to talk to you about it, but that didn't work.

He tried to comfort you, to tell you how beautiful, how useful you are, everyday.

No use.

He hated himself for it.

He wanted you back.

He already had you back.

But he wanted the real you back.

The energetic, enthusiastic, loud, grinning, bubbly, happy, you back.

He felt selfish for wanting the old you back. Because he was the reason that you changed.

Every day,

Every night,

Every noon,

Every evening.

He misses you.

He felt like you were gone completely. Like you were replaced by a robot.

One day, he came into your dorm to talk to you. To do his daily comforting, to hug you, hold you, and kiss you.

But he stopped dead in his tracks like a deer in headlights.

You were lying there, knife in your opened palm, bleeding from your wrists, and a slit on your throat.

You committed to it.

His eyes widened as big as saucers, and he ran to you, sliding on his knees and cradling you against his chest, looking at your fatal injuries.

"No... No, no, no... FUCK! Y/N!" He yelled out, tears quickly streaming down his cheeks and onto your limp body.

He let out a few choked sobs, his hands shaking as he held you. He stood up, rushing to Recovery Girl. She was the only thing he could think of.

Obviously, Recovery Girl immediately took you to an actual hospital, she's absolutely not going to be able to fix you herself.

It's been a week.

You're still in your hospital bed.

Eyes closed.

Breathing shallow.

Hair messy.

Unconscious.

Bakugo was sitting next to your hospital bed, sobbing silently as he held your hand tightly.

"You idiot..."

"Why did you do it...?"

"I miss you..."

Those were the three sentences he always said in between his choked sobs that caught up in his throat each time he visited you in the hospital.

Until one day.

Flatline.

That long, beeping sound that lasted forever.

There he was, being comforted by his mom and class 1-A while he sobbed on his knees.

Now, it's been 9 years.

He's a pro hero now. He shouldn't still be caught up by some teenage love.

But here he is.

Kneeling down to your grave.

"I loved you." He whispered.

It seemed like every day that he placed flowers on the dirt and pots next to your grave.

You always watched him whisper his love and apologies to you.

Except you watched him from above.

"I still love you."

[bitchinbarzal]

Don't cowboy me 😔

- pinterest anon

It started on a Wednesday.

Iris was sitting at the kitchen counter, flipping through her math workbook, chewing on her pencil like she always did when she was nervous.

Nico was checking his calendar, half-listening to Arlo babble in the high chair, Luca humming to himself on the floor.

“I think something’s wrong with Mama,” Iris said quietly.

Nico glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“She’s different.”

He frowned. “She’s just tired. She’s been busy.”

“She’s always tired,” Iris replied. “But she used to smile. She hasn’t done that in a long time.”

Nico blinked.

“She doesn’t laugh at Luca’s jokes,” Iris continued, voice soft but steady. “She forgot Arlo’s new word yesterday. She didn’t even hear it.”

Nico felt it like a fist to the ribs.

“She’s still here,” Iris said. “But she’s not really… here.”

He found her folding laundry in their bedroom later that night. The light was low. Her face was blank. Her motions robotic.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She didn’t look up. “Hi.”

“Can we talk?”

She nodded once, set the shirt in her hand down.

“Iris said you seem different,” he said carefully. “That you haven’t smiled in a while.”

Still no reaction. No denial.

“I didn’t notice,” Nico admitted, shame heavy in his voice. “That’s on me.”

She looked up then.

And her eyes were full.

“I’m not mad,” she whispered. “I’m just… tired.”

He moved closer. “I know.”

“No, N.” Her voice broke. “You don’t. You think I’m tired like I need a nap. I’m tired like I’m disappearing.”

Nico’s chest tightened.

“I get up early. I handle the kids. I juggle work and laundry and school forms and the calendar you don’t check. I say I’m fine because I know you’re busy. But I’m not. I’m not fine.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it fast, like she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“I feel like I’m living next to you. Not with you.”

Nico reached for her hand. She let him hold it.

“I love you,” he said, voice thick.

“I know you do,” she whispered. “But I need more than love. I need a partner.”

He knelt in front of her, forehead to her knee, heart pounding.

“I hate that I made you feel like this. That I let you get this tired without seeing it. That I didn’t fight for you before you slipped away.”

She cried then. Quiet, shaking sobs that she tried to hide behind her hand.

Nico didn’t speak.

He just held her.

Because this wasn’t something he could fix with flowers or apologies. This needed action. Change. Every day. Forever.

He’d do it.

Because he wasn’t going to lose her.

Not again.

It didn’t happen overnight.

Nico didn’t expect it to.

He’d stopped trying to say the right thing and started doing the right things instead. Packing school bags. Unloading the dishwasher. Taking Arlo out for walks so she could answer emails without a baby on her chest.

He set alarms for preschool pickups. Made Luca’s dentist appointment. Reorganized the calendar on the fridge.

She didn’t comment. Not at first.

She was quiet. Watching. Waiting to see if it would last.

And he let her. Because she’d earned that right.

Two weeks into the offseason, she had a pitch meeting over Zoom. Big client. Big ask. It was one of the first times in months she sounded energized.

Nico kept the kids outside the whole time—Luca with a soccer ball, Iris reading under a tree, Arlo passed out in the stroller.

When they came back in, the meeting was done, her laptop closed, her shoulders lighter.

She stood in the kitchen eating cold strawberries straight from the container, still in her glasses, hair in a messy bun.

“Hey,” he said, brushing past her to grab a snack for Luca.

She looked up just as he accidentally knocked the entire tub of blueberries off the counter.

They hit the floor like tiny marbles rolling under chairs, bouncing off the fridge.

He froze. “Shit.”

And then—she laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a tired exhale.

A real laugh. Warm and sudden and hers.

Nico straightened slowly, heart hammering.

“You okay?” he asked.

She was still laughing, shaking her head, wiping her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I cleaned the bathroom today, so…”

She smiled, breathless.

And it hit him like a wave—he was getting her back.

Not just her presence. Not just her parenting. Her.

The love. The softness. The version of her who believed she was allowed to rest. To laugh. To be cared for.

He knelt to pick up the blueberries, and she joined him on the floor.

Their hands brushed, and this time, she didn’t pull away.

That night, it was quiet.

The kids were asleep. The lights were low. Nico lay on his back in bed, one hand resting on his chest, the other still warm from where she had touched it hours ago in the kitchen.

He didn’t expect her to come to him.

But she did.

Slow and silent, she crawled into bed beside him, then curled into his side like she used to. Head on his shoulder. Fingers brushing the hem of his t-shirt.

He didn’t move. Just breathed.

She sighed.

“Today was better,” she whispered.

He smiled into the dark. “You laughed.”

“Don’t push it,” she murmured, but he could hear the smile.

He turned his head, kissed her hair.

“I want to take you away.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I already asked my mom and Nina. They’ll watch the kids. I want a week. Just us.”

She sat up slightly, searching his face.

“Nico…”

“Somewhere warm,” he said. “Where no one calls you ‘Mama’ or asks you for juice or wipes anything on your shirt.”

She laughed again. Quiet, breathy, surprised.

“You really planned that?”

“I already booked it.”

She stared at him.

“You deserve to be cared for,” he said. “Not just when you’re falling apart. Always.”

Her eyes filled. She didn’t fight it this time.

“You’re not going to lose me again,” he whispered. “I won’t let you.”

She slid back into his arms, tighter this time. Certain.

“I missed you,” she murmured.

He held her like he was never letting go.

“I missed us.”

She wore white linen and walked barefoot in the sand.

The sun kissed her shoulders, and Nico followed in her shadow like a man remembering how to breathe.

She wasn’t rushing. She didn’t have a diaper bag or a schedule or sticky hands tugging at her legs. Just a thin cotton dress swaying in the breeze and sunglasses she barely used because she kept turning to smile at him.

Nico swore he fell in love again every time she did.

He kissed sunscreen into her shoulder on their first morning, hands slow, reverent. Her skin warm from sleep. Her laughter breathless as she murmured, “You missed a spot.”

He didn’t.

They swam in the ocean until their fingers pruned and their minds quieted.

They napped on the beach like teenagers, limbs tangled under a single towel, her head on his chest, his heartbeat steady again for the first time in months.

They touched like they hadn’t in so long—not hurried, not tired, not giving out what was left after everyone else had taken their share.

No. This was slow.

Intentional.

His hands memorizing the curve of her back. Her lips against his collarbone. Their hips finding each other in silence, again and again, like a language they hadn’t spoken in too long.

There were no dishes.

No school calendars.

No media calls.

No guilt.

Just Nico and the girl he chose at twenty-one and still woke up wanting every day after.

Just Mama—not as the center of everyone else’s world, but as his.

[oceantornadoo]

mad max: the 141 (price x f!reader)

ch 1: the trade

canon-typical violence, sexual violence is referenced (but will not happen), general misogyny. the 141 are the good guys, just a bit rough around the edges

series masterlist (also has more world building info)

set in the mad max world, the 141 are a notorious group of outlaws. they've been stopping shipments between fortresses until an agreement has been reached for a trade.

—

“pack your things, you’re leaving.”

your stepfather burst into your room, eyes gleaming with excitement. “what for?” he started shoving things into a bag, flowery lingerie and your lightest dresses. “sellin’ you off to those outlaws. they’re helping me take down the citadel.” your mouth gaped. “i thought i was going to the citadel. to be a wife.” he shook his head and threw your shoes at you, forcing you up from your chair. the citadel was an oasis, a farm where everyone got their food. your father ruled gastown, a gas pumping area necessary for any mode of transportation. “got a better deal, more bullets and food for me. come on, don’t leave them waiting.”

ten minutes later you were standing in front of the most famous outlaw group in the wasteland, the 141. except… “isn’t there supposed to be four of you?” you interrupted their negotiations, your stepfather getting angrier by the second. “shut up, girl.” he growled.

“soap died. jus’ tha three of us now.” one of them spoke, gaz. he wore a typical outfit of tactical pants and a leather jacket, but his face seemed devoid of any emotion. there were smile lines on his skin, proof of past happiness, but whatever kindness had existed there, the wasteland had destroyed it, like it destroys everything. you nodded to his response.

you were standing near your stepfather’s throne, the “king” of gastown. the outlaws stared back with stoic gazes. “she’s th’ insurance?” the large one, hidden behind a mask of human bone, spoke up. ghost. “my most valued investment. you get her and gas, you help me take down the citadel.” this was all becoming too real. you were leaving your only home to go with three men, alone, no guards to protect you. you’d become their possession.

“father, please.” you bent at your knees, turning on the tears. “please i don’t want to go, ill be yours here, it’s a waste of resources i-“

he responded with a backhand to your face, choosing to use his mechanical arm. “stop crying, you’re wasting water.” you almost fell down the stairs to his throne, caught so off guard by his violence. he was an angry man, but never did anything to hurt your physical beauty. until you weren’t his anymore. gaz dragged you back, robotically helping you stand, more out of practicality than kindness. you were used to gruff ways, but it still bruised a small part of your heart.

“she’s not yours to hit anymore. deal’s set, we’ll be leaving.” finally, their leader had spoken. all muscle under his clothes, lengths of bullets across each shoulder. he was so notorious he didn’t have a name, just the captain. his size spoke to being well fed, to having food, and you hoped you’d be included in that care, no matter what you had to do in return.

suddenly there you were, on the back of gaz’s bike, head turned to watch the only home you knew fade into the sand of the wasteland. their motorcycles cruised along the desert efficiently until gastown was no more behind you. and then, they stopped.

“off.” gaz patted your leg and set you scrambling off his bike in fear. was this the part where they got what they bought you for? you, well nourished and clean like no other woman, the sheltered princess of gastown. was this where they broke you?

the three men were staring at you, eyes trained on your lower half. you looked down in confusion. were you bleeding? all you saw was the end of your white dress, your leather chastity belt peaking out and your feet encased in sandals. nothing out of the ordinary.

“they got you wearing that?” gaz spoke up. he was the first person to actually address your existence, you realized. “my dress?” he rolled his eyes, suddenly a bit playful, so far out of reach of the man you saw back in the throne room. “leather panties.” the captain clarified. your face burned. panties. such a dull word, but when it came out of his mouth, you had to stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together. ghost tossed the captain a tool and he approached you with it. you backed away, suddenly afraid. were they going to hurt you?

“calm down, love, s’ me. want to get you out of your torture chamber.” he pointed with his bolt cutters to your chastity belt. “oh.” this was it. this was what you were sold for. you turned your face away, hands covering your eyes. if he was going to take you right here, in front of his men, you didn’t want to witness it. instead, he clicked his tongue, rough hands caressing your hip as he found the metal piece that connected the two pieces of leather and cut it with a loud scraping sound. his hand ghosted over your stomach as he turned you the other way, cutting the belt off on the other side. his thumb brushed your hip bone for a torturous second before he stepped back, handing the boltcutters to ghost.

you felt so light all of a sudden. you only went without your belt when you were bathed, which had been happening less and less as water supplies dwindled. “glad to be free?” ghost piped up, his voice like motorcycle tires over gravel. you gave him a smile despite yourself, not noticing the captain’s face grow cloudy. “yeah.” you nodded vigorously. “i’ve worn that belt since i got my first monthly course.” oops, that must have been too much information. the outlaws stared back at you in confusion. “you get your period?” the captain asked, hand rubbing over his beard. you nodded shyly. it wasn’t common for women of the wasteland to get their period since everyone was so malnourished. yours was like clockwork, courtesy of the extra food your stepfather would give you in order to be a more fertile wife one day. the captain swore under his breath and gaz and ghost made eye contact, something hidden passing between them.

“you can’t ride in a dress.” ghost spoke up again. “oh, it turns into a jumpsuit. if you’ll let me go change…” you trailed off as the men stared back at you. there was no shelter in sight. you had forgotten you were in the desert again, too used to the shelter of your walls. “can’t have you runnin’ off on us, love. go’on.” the captain gestured at you, intrigued. his men both stared respectfully in the distance, keeping you in the corner of their eyes but giving you privacy. the captain, however, was intently focused on you, a spark of fire gleaming in his eyes. you nervously untied the fabric of your dress, hands working fast. you wove the fabric like thread, magically knowing where to tuck and pleat. two minutes later, you had transformed into a jumpsuit. you had tried to do it as quickly as possible, turning this way and that so the captain couldn’t see your bare parts, but he’d definitely gotten an eyeful. “done.” you announced loudly, trying to disperse the tension. gaz hummed thoughtfully at the utilitarian design, and that was that.

“hands on me at all times, yeah?” you were now on the captain’s bike, your wider range of movement making it easier to ride with the larger man. he placed your hands on his waist, but you still struggled to connect them all the way. he wasn’t as big as ghost but he was still thick, like the trees you’d heard of eons past. you could feel his muscles working under a slight layer of fat, proof once again of his plentiful resources. the bikes were moving again, and with your cheek resting against his back, eyes facing strings of bullets, you contemplated letting go. letting your body fly off his machine, to die on impact on the desert floor. the captain moved his left hand on top of yours, as if he could read your thoughts. he gave it a slight squeeze, the most comforting gesture you’d received from a man in years. and for some reason, you decided to stay.

--

for the reader's outfit, i was thinking of a traditional sari where its one long piece of fabric. reader doesn't have to be indian (obvi) but those were my thoughts and a way to add a bit of my culture in :)

[corvusblackk]

i shifted again help- two times in three days after robotic affirming for one week.

i affirmed that i accidentally shift every night to random realities and also my drs, like constant shifts every day, and it’s starting to happen as i’ve clearly noticed.

this time was a minishift for some minutes to a random fame dr but it was cool anyway :) and i did it via lucid dreaming.

in the dream I was lowkey desperate to shift because of some issues going on in my cr, so I looked up to the moon and prayed her to allow me to do it (so i was of course talking directly to my subconscious), and suddenly this guy appears and takes me far away on his motorcycle and I find myself in a supermarket with my dad, we were going towards the exit but my steps stopped and I couldn’t walk any further, so I said "please let me move" thinking that if I had walked beyond the exit I would have shifted, then after crying people around took my hands and helped me walk out and I tried so hard and I finally succeed and went out with the help of those kind individuals, and I find myself in a parking lot with two women and I was still sick because I thought I was still dreaming so I cried, then the two asked me what's wrong so I explain it to them and they tell me "no you're not dreaming, you've shifted".

(this is gonna be in present tense because i wrote it in the notes app after coming back).

then i shifted, and everything suddenly becomes clear and detailed, I feel the wind on my face and the cold and rough texture of the floor under my hands, the locks of hair on my cheeks and the tears on my face that are drying with the wind, so I cry even more and I'm like this shocked that I don't have memories yet, then they call me “Nicole?” (so apparently I was a woman) and I see that the people around me are looking at me strangely so I try to recover but it seems impossible because I have made it, and at that moment my phone rings, I don’t recognise the name so my hypothetical two friends tell me to hurry up “come on answer it's him!” so I pick up and I see this asian guy on a video call who calls me a nickname (that i won’t share cause it’s personal and cringe but it’s okay cause it was in an ironic way) then I panic thinking that at this point it was my boyfriend so I decline the call then someone else calls me and I hear the voice of a woman who I understand is my manager but I don't get anything at that moment and I still don't have the memories and at some point the woman on the phone asks me annoyed "what's wrong with you?" then I suddenly say that my boyfriend asked me to marry him and at the same time my two friends also say the same thing, so it was a memory of mine that was resurfacing and actually I had to get married for real and he was a famous guy and I was too. and then I came back probably because I was too agitated.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

cannot dream of returning to dust: marcnaia [m]

Marc dabs the corner of his mouth. It’s blood—stark, rusting, red.

He looks at Pecco. Startles after a disjointed moment like an old, whirring computer, too little hardware to contain the leaden software of his racing instincts and the bike data. And his soul too, but Pecco isn’t one for theatrics as much as he is for punishment.

“You alright?” He prods clumsily. He can’t not.

Marc shrugs—a disquieting thing to watch. Everything is half a second off, and his body jerks unevenly. “’s fine,” he spits, sharp, all at once. “Long day. But it is good.”

It was, technically.

He won.

Pecco doesn’t know how, exactly, but surely he’s long past asking that. Staring at Marc’s data is like staring at that little phial of fresh, millennia-old blood in the Naples Cathedral. And worse yet, if they tear the wiring out of Marc’s veins, Pecco thinks he’d still be Marc. Miraculous, except their kind isn’t in the business for that.

It’s not flattering. Being close to him at all isn’t flattering.

Marc keeps watching him. The whites of his eyes are too white. His fingers—carbon fiber, dented, dusted—spasm at his side, with a staticky hiss. There’s old blood on his upper lip.

“Here,” Pecco says, automatic. Hands him the towel wrapped around his neck.

One day, it won’t rake its nails through his nerves and sensors, the sheer fucking suffocating awkwardness of existing close him. Marc picks it up warily, wipes down his face twice. Pecco wants to twitch. The hardware embedded in his flesh feels like it’s groaning, overwhelmed, overheating.

“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Then: “I'm fine. You don't have to worry.”

Probably not. And probably impossible. Pecco huffs out a noise that can pass as a snort—reedy as it sounds. “Ok.”

It doesn’t settle anything.

Marc’s motorhome seems three sizes too small for them. Walls scraping against his shoulders, the ceiling too low, Marc everywhere he looks. Marc, Marc, Marc—distrusting, cagey like a kicked dog down to the hard line of his shoulders. Pecco picks at his cuticles until they bleed. The tips of his fingers ache, swollen.

The podium champagne is heavy in his stomach. He feels nauseous—faintly. Maybe they downloaded nervous puking along with his first riding augmentations.

Pecco crumbles on Marc’s sofa. He feels gritty, slow. Like there’s circuit rot in the hollow of his chest, melting his wires together and getting the signals to blur. Marc follows. Sits so close he might hear semantic errors piling up, the stutter of ram processors in overdrive.

He’s a pitiless thing through that—grabs Pecco’s hand and puts it on the crook of his elbow. The flesh one. When Pecco runs his fingers over the skin there, fragile, there’s only the faint knob of a sensor port, as familiar as the shape of his bones.

It’s too much, suddenly.

“You are excited for Sachsenring,” Pecco says. An abrupt, lumbering way out. Next weekend, more racing, easy stuff.

Marc barks out a laugh. Light, airy. “Of course.”

Of course.

“King of the ring. Right.”

It comes out—strained, maybe. Settles all under his skin with a red-hot kind of humiliation, of awe. The fans in this frenzied delirium. Ducati whispering among itself, that he’ll be splendid, glorious, like Pecco hadn’t been winning for them. As much as he humanly could, even.

The problem is that Marc might not be human—Valentino said it first, he remembers. After Argentina. That Marc is too much chromium and stainless steel and copper wirings and doesn’t care for the rest of them. There was a hanged cardboard robot in one of the Misanos, once.

Or he’s too human. The last great thing of real meat and real talent. A modern rider Agostini can admire. A rider from before the current, palatable bikes and the seamless lines of seamless implants.

“Pecco,” Marc says, urgent, gravelly.

When Pecco turns his head, Marc is right there, blinking up at him, looking miserable—pale, wan, cheeks gaunt—and handsome about it.

They’re both very good at miserable. In opposite directions.

Pecco doesn’t see it happening. It’s like an overtake—he only breathes out when it’s done and doesn’t ask questions. He curls his palm around the back of Marc’s head and kisses him. Chases the coppery bite pooling on his tongue with his own.

Marc makes a noise, hard, wanting. Then he’s on Pecco’s lap, wrangling him like a Ducati on the corners, all ten fingers digging into his shoulders. Those little flashes of pain scramble his thoughts, makes his systems fumble in every direction, frizzing.

“Can you,” Marc trails off, sighing against his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco mutters, halfway to delirious, the taste of blood and naked wires clinging to the insides of his cheeks.

He flips them around, presses Marc against the couch, boxing him with his knees. He knows what Marc wants—and doesn’t want to say why he knows. This is a terrible idea, but it was a terrible idea the last ten, eleven times too.

Pecco splays his thumb on the sharp cut of Marc’s cheek. He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Doesn’t make it any less devastating when he turns his head to the side and sucks his finger into his mouth.

He tries to not think about spraying champagne on his face. Fails. Tries to not think about Marc, on his knees, lips spit shiny, and—

Fails too.

So Pecco kisses him again to stop himself, reckless, feverish, and Marc’s hands go under his shirt, the horrible red of it. He fucking hates it. The heat of Marc’s touch, how it flays him open. The mortification and amazement sizzling in his throat. The jealousy.

That Marc gets to be a mechanical haunting and still—still win. That he got bishops calling him a freak, and the Pope pleading sports to cease their fiddling into God’s own most beloved creatures, and Valentino branding him an enemy, and he just keeps going. Keeps winning. Godless twice over, and yet.

That Pecco—sleek carbon fiber, updated processors, the new deal—can replaced by an ugly, bleeding Frankenstein of wrong parts and outdated code.

“You are thinking,” Marc hums, face flushed pink and lovely, the bite of his prosthetic fingers unyielding on Pecco’s waist. It lilts like a question. “Francesco.”

“Hmmm,” he manages to pry out. He hates it a little less now. “About you.”

Marc laughs. “All bad things, I hope.”

And so Pecco laughs too—almost unwillingly. Chokes on it when Marc rocks up, grinds their cocks together.

That close to him, Pecco is washed out. Perfect, passionless.

But at least Marc is also less. There’s an electric hiss, and his entire body jolts. He’s in pain, probably. Parts two generations ahead of him and ancient wires misbehaving together.

If Pecco opened the panel on his back, he’d get to see what massacre of limits stripped and repeating signals is acting up, he thinks. What is hurting him.

Marc clings to pain like he’d cling to a naked razor, though—all maniac glee. When Pecco hesitates, hovering above him, he surges up for the kill. Bites down on his bottom lip, licks hotly into his open mouth. He’s fumbling—greedy and insistent—with his jeans.

“Marc,” Pecco tries protesting, tries slowing him.

The name breaks into a groan. Marc flattens his palm against his cock, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, his tongue between his teeth, sweat gathering along his forehead.

Fine.

Fucking fine.

He has to be in pain, and Pecco is—wired and nauseous and waiting for the moment when the spiral over second place will sharpen him. They are—it has been said—very good at their own types of torment.

Pecco gets to work on Marc’s pants, shoves his own down unceremoniously. He spits on his own palm and wraps it around both of them. It’s smooth, the good synth stuff over his ports and sensors—and, ha, isn’t that a win.

Marc relaxes a fraction. Lets out this tiny, breathy sound. He buries his face against the hollow of Pecco’s neck, his nose brushing against the small, closed panel there. His hips sway in odd lurches, rub them together anyway.

It’s good. Pecco would like to say he’s above liking it, but he isn’t. Can’t lie.

Christ.

His tongue is plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his fist, sinks into the sensation of the head of his cock rubbing against the patch of rough hair between Marc’s legs. Into the absurdity of this, Marc quiet and wanting and greedy under him. Wide-eyed.

“Pecco,” he whispers, clumsily, and then cuts himself off. Kisses the wild flutter of his pulse on his neck rather than speaking.

“It’s fine,” Pecco shushes him, runs his thumb over the vein on Marc’s cock so he stops talking. He has no idea what else this could be.

Proof that they’re human, maybe. They act outside their code and don’t grind to a halt.

[pelibirdie]

Posting sci-fi Kuras for a discord event (hence why Kuras looks so close yet kinda far from how he actually dresses)

I also wrote a quick drabble about it. Enjoy :)

Tw: choking, a hint of medical gore and violent Kuras under cut.

Your vision got blurry as your conciousness slowly slipped away. You never thought the day you would feel the kind doctors' hands around your neck, suffocating you with pressure unfitting for his frame. Fingers unmoving. Grip made out of steel. Your cheek touched the cold moulding wall as you tried to break free.

Nobody knew how old the doctor of Lowtown was. All they knew was that he never seemed to get old. Never seemed to fall ill. Was always in top condition. People speculated him to be a cyborg but his skin felt real. Too real. So warm and incredibly human.

You punched away, trying your best to weaken his grip with the mechanic hands he claimed to have fixed for you.

"Kuras.. please..."

You were rapidly losing conciousness. Your thoughts were slipping away from you. Limbs weak, your arms could barely frind the strength to hold onto him.

"It was so easy. You could have just not followed me. Done as I had said." Kuras spoke, a robotic indifference in his tone.

"I offered you health. I offered you a restart on your journey." You were no longer thrashing around. You had no strength left to. "This...rudeness is uncalled for. I merely offered you my help. What do you do in return? You break into my laboratory. You interrupt my experiment and worse of all: You tamper with my spescimen."

Kuras was creating...things. You didnt know what if was, but in your small expedition in the laboratory below his clinic you saw organs. Beating organic matter stored in tubes with a phosphoric liquid substance. Bones made out of metal. Frames of skeletons and joints made out of steel. Mechanic, atudy and perfectly mobile. Any yet there was no clear origin as to where anything came from. Either he was growing these organs himself...or worse.

"Kuras, the man who could heal or build any body part."

An alarm went off- the steady beeping sound that filled the lab suddenly errupted into a long singular beep noise. Startled, Kuras ran towards the tube, looking to see the issue. His golden eyes flickered over what looked terribly like a human. It was so close- but its limbs were abnormally long, the skin and muscles didn't seem to develop well.

You fell with your back against the wall, air rushing back to your lungs. Your mechanic hands lightly hugged your neck protectively. While you were recovering, Kuras already seemed to have solved the issue. The heartbeat-you realized- was constant again. The little graphics on his screen no longer went haywire.

Kuras fixed his posture, running hands through his hair. His long pristine coat did not look as white under the laboratory lighting. It got muddier as he approached you. With an eerie calmness, Kuras’s right hand reached for your face. His hand held your face, just a few centimeters closer and he would be covering your mouth entirely. He kneeled slightly, just to be on your level while you sat on the floor. You look to his piercing eyes for "Speak of this to none. If I even hear a single whisper on the street, a murmur, just know: I have built bodies for every. Single. Person in this city. No one you can confide in is safe. Nowhere you can hide in is out of my reach. Either you keep your mouth shut, or this secret dies with you. Understood?"

The clinical coldness in his tone sent a chill down your spine. His grip forced you to look at him, unable to tear your eyes off his focused gaze.

"...yes."

"Good. Don't mistake my kindness for weakness."

The doctor let go of you, wiping his hand off. Kuras turned to walk to the doors to the clinic upsatairs.

"Oh and one more thing: This never happened. "

You nodded to him. His eyes went back to the cat like mirth they always had around you. Now for a different reason. His back turned, the corner of his dyes traced your slumped form one last time before going back upstairs. He left only the doors open, urging you to leave.

A/N: i did the art in 3 hours. I speedrsn it so hard and i think the quality reflects that. Idk how but i also mare a fuckass bg for this like ik this isnt my best piece but im impressed to say the least. Its supposed to be the scene were kuras is locked in on you. It was in drafts that i had him with his back turned, but that meant i had to come up with a scifi Kuras design. Anyway draw ur mcs being choked by kuras on a ungerground laboratory 🖋🧍‍♀️ (joking, do not)

If i do write the smut i will address the molding wall in the lab don't worry.

[daisyjonesgf]

the river (5) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: the Capitol has taken you away from Finnick, the life you've been trying to build together and now he has to fight to get every part of you back

previous chapter / next chapter

masterlist

4.2k words

warnings: angst, fluff, this is very fluff heavy as a gift for me being slow and so angsty all the time, self destructive behavior, mentions of death/violence/trafficking, unedited, no use of y/n, Captiol brainwashing, my attempted fluff

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Eventually they did in fact let you see Peeta, his own Capitol hijacking has been hindering the process more than your own. Finnick was glad that it might provide you some comfort, but it still hurts to think that you were more instantly open to talking to someone else then you were with him. Maybe there would always be someone sweeter, more patient, more calming than he was for you. Yes, Conway was gone, and Peeta, no matter what the waters said now, had Katniss, but who could say when all was said and done that there wasn't someone else out there for you to quell the turmoil. Finnick was just as hurt, just as bruised, you deserve someone who could devote themselves to you and that you wouldn't feel the need to attend to instead.

Despite this, maybe he could convince himself that when a love burned like yours did it was meant to be. It was meant to be for him, even if you were worthy of so much more. So he waited patiently outside of Peeta's medical room. They couldn't convince him to do any other duties, follow a schedule, or train. Not without you by his side.

The doctors had tried to debrief you about what Peeta was going through to which you were quick to remind them that you knew all about it since you were the one with him in the Capitol. Before finally they let you in, which Finnick couldn't help feeling antsy about. If Peeta had choked out Katniss, what would stop him from snapping at you as well? The domino effect could be treacherous to any progress made.

“Peeta." You said softly and he looked up, so frail, so unlike himself.

“Are you-" Knock knock knock knock knock. Your fist lightly on the doorframe. Peeta repeated the pattern on the sheets next to him before he seemed to relax. “They're keeping you locked up too?"

"Keeping myself locked up.” You were so vulnerable, so honest. Part of Finnick wished he could have been in the Capitol with you, that you would've instantly been like this with him, so he could've just comforted you without the roadblocks. “Wouldn't let me see you though.

Peeta seemed to get slightly agitated, “That's because she, Katniss, manipulated them! She-" Knock knock knock knock knock. The tapping of your knuckles halted him again and he repeated the pattern. It pained Finnick to know that you could communicate with Peeta, but not the one person who knew you inside and out, who would dedicate his life to memorizing each part of your story.

You pulled a chair forward, foot tapping, “So they've had you stuck in here, poking and prodding?” Peeta nodded robotically.

“He doesn't want you dead, it's all part of her plan, she's a mutt. Trying to tear everything apart.”

This was a bad idea, you'd feed into each other's delusions. Finnick wanted to beg the doctors to call the whole thing off. "The only one tearing things apart is me, that's why he wants me dead. Not because of her, she's leaving for District 2 anyways, if she wanted to hurt you she couldn't." You're getting weepy, knees pulled up to your chest in the chair. “Peeta we said we'd remind each other of the truth, the only thing we have to be sure of.”

Peeta began shaking his head,"That was before they showed me the truth, we only have to worry about yours now.”

"Peeta-”

"Finnick doesn't want you dead, he'd never want you dead."

“Peet-"

He'd become snappier, “We have to say it."

“Katniss doesn't want you dead, she would never want you-"

“No, that's a lie, it's not real. They didn't show you the truth like they showed me!" He was getting more irritated, moving around more.

“If we freak out they'll just sedate us again, I can't be sedated again Peeta. Gives me too much time to think.”

"They'll sedate us because of her, I'm too close to the truth, they don't want me to tell the truth about her. She's a mutt!” He was so earnest that it broke Finnick's heart, but he was also relieved that they hadn't done whatever number they’d done on Peeta exactly to you. There was fear, uncertainty, distrust, left with you, but Peeta seemed almost unrecognizable in his hatred of Katniss.

You buried your head in your knees, hitting your forehead with your hands as your head shook. “Katniss loves you, Finnick loves me, he wants me alive, she wants you alive. Real, real, real.”

Your muttering was drowned out by Peeta’s insistence of otherwise, “She's a mutt! A mutt! A mutt! A mutt!" The doctors took this as their queue to enter, before he became even more hysterical in his persistent utterings. You were reluctantly guided out of the room so they could calm him down and for a second you just stood on the other side of the door. Glancing back at Peeta as you silently contemplated something, brow furrowed. Finnick didn't want to interrupt your thoughts so he quietly observed, skilled fingers once again unknotting the rope.

“Finnick!" He eagerly met your eyes when you said his name so fondly and was shocked to find that you almost instantaneously had your arms around him.

“Hi, sweet girl." It had been so long, but having you initiate something as small as a hug made him feel like he was in heaven. The way your hands crept up to cradle his face soothed the constant heat he radiated, and he could see more of a sparkle of you.

You stayed like that for a while, his arms wrapped securely around you. It was so right, everything was so slowly slipping back into place. “You're here, you're real, you don't want me dead." Your voice was slightly muffled, the sound sending vibrations through his body. The way it was supposed to be.

"I'm here, I'm real, I don't want you dead.” Finnick affirmed, lips pressing against the top of your head.

“Here, real, don't want me dead."

“Here, real, don't want you dead, sweet girl." You slowly nodded before pulling away which he hated, the moment your touch was gone he longed for it. He'd been starved of it for so long.

“They should have let me see him before, to remind me what they do." Tears were bubbling up in your eyes once again and Finnick wondered if you would let him wipe them away like you used to. “I know they're in my head, I know that, I just don't even know the fake and the real anymore."

“I'm right here to help you, I promise I'll always be around. I've got you, even if you forgot who I was or hated me, because I know it's still you. My girl, my wife, my gorgeous, gorgeous wife.”

"Finnick, I love you."

“I love you too." You were back in his arms, sending a pleasant buzz of happiness through them. “More than you know." Everything about you was all consuming, your smell, the feeling of your skin, the chill of it on his, the way you hugged that nobody else could ever compare with.

No, nevermind, this is what the universe meant to happen. You fit too perfectly in his arms for it to be any other way. He could stand here for eternity holding you without any regrets.

“Finnick?" He hummed out a response, he was too lost in the feeling of you. Of how open you were being right now and reaching for him first. “Do you think we'll be able to go home?"

Home. The home where you'd made the bed, where you'd arranged flowers and decorated with the seashells you'd both collected, where his fishing rod was so carefully placed in its spot every day, where every few months you'd pick out a new color and the two of you would paint a room. Well until you'd so much as yawned and he'd insist you sit down and just look pretty for him instead while he finished. Home. Was it even still around? The rest of your home maybe. The beaches you walked, the hot sand where you'd both lay in, talking for hours, the waters that comforted you both. Home. You. If you were here anywhere could be home, but not the same home where you'd both created an illusion of bliss from the harsh realities by playing house in it.

“Yeah. When this is over. Maybe not the house, but District 4, home." In the end all he needed was you to have some semblance of that, but being where it all began certainly wouldn't hurt.

“Finnick?"

“Yeah, sweet girl?" He moved his head to look at you, into your eyes where he could see the whole universe. For the first time in what felt like an eternity your lips were on his, it was like starlight was bursting through his body. He was endlessly proud of you for hugging him, kissing him, but he was occupied with the way his heart was racing like he was a teenage boy all over again. He reveled in the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of them. The way you made his entire body light up with life and joy was unmatched. Slowly you pulled yourself away from his lips and he swore he could kiss you forever. “I really do love you and I'm sorry that I'm not the person you need me to be. I don't want to be a guessing game or all over the board, I really do want to trust you.

Finnick pulled you in closer before moving his hands to carefully hold the sides of your face, "Hey, it's okay, angel. You're exactly the person I need you to be, the person I love. I don't expect you to trust me right away, I'm willing to work and fight for it. Look at you, honey, you've already come such a long way already and I'm so proud of you, you're so strong.” He felt freer, like he could trust how he read you. So he allowed himself to place tiny kisses around your face. Enjoying the way your skin felt against his lips, how soft it was.

“You're too sweet to me."

"No, I just give you the love you deserve and tell you the truth. You're too harsh on yourself.”

"Agree to disagree.” There. There you were. The way it made him want to leap with joy, he was sure his eyes lit up when he smiled, a grin bearing his teeth, as he chuckled and quickly kissed you again. He missed every nuance of you incomparably and each time he saw a sliver return it was like a reward for his persistence.

“You can't disagree with a fact."

“Then stop disagreeing."

“You're so ornery."

“That's a terrible accusation to make about your wife." His wife. You said it yourself, and it was true in your souls and the sea. It still made him giddy though because it meant you were acknowledging it as more than something people told you that you were. You were his wife, he was your husband, what a wonderful way for things to be.

“It's not an accusation, as your husband I know, for a fact, that you are guilty." A kiss to your cheek, “Guilty." A kiss to the other cheek. “Guilty." A kiss to your forehead, he couldn't get enough of kissing you. One taste, one reminder, and he had no choice but to dive back in.

“Well my husband missed a spot.” You'd pulled one of his hands away, playing with his fingers.

Finnick's brow scrunched together in faux concern, “Where? Here?" He kissed your nose.

Your nose wrinkled and so dramatically your eyes rolled. “No."

“What then? Here?" So close, as he pressed his lips to the side of your mouth.

“So close to being on target.” You shook your head.

"Here?” Before he could move his lips to the other corner of your mouth, you used your free hand to pull his face closer and do it yourself. The intricate dancing of your lips only interrupted by a heavy handed cough which turned out to belong to Plutarch.

“Not to interrupt, although it'll definitely help, President Coin and I would like to talk to you both."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"I'm not ready to die.” You whispered in the dark of the night, cold body pressed against Finnick’s in the silken Capitol sheets.

“You're not going to die, angel, don't talk like that." He moved to find your eyes in the darkened room, to try and communicate with his own. "I'm not going to let that happen.”

"You don't know what'll happen in the arena, you can't control that. Remember the year the avalanche fell? Or when the rain was acid? Finnick, I'm gonna die, I don't wanna die yet.” He was quickly moving to wipe away the tears cascading down your face and rubbing circles in your back to try and relax the way you were shaking.

"That's good because you aren't going to die in there. Come on, sweet girl, we already have a plan, don't we? You're so smart, you can do this. And we're gonna go back home and be together, make up for lost time. Promise.” He was holding back his own tears, you needed him strong.

"Don't promise me things you can't keep.” He'd keep it, he had to keep it. "I don't know if I can do it, Finn, I can't kill him, he's my best friend.”

"You don't have to kill him, he'll keep you safe and someone else will do it, okay? Sacrifice or something, just don't worry about having to kill. Focus on the strategy and you've got this.”

"It's terrible for me to even have thought about lying to him like that. How am I supposed to keep that up?”

He firmly grabbed your face to steady it, "You have to in order to survive. Everybody wins differently and it'll work for you. I need you to win, sweet girl. I could barely live knowing you were alive but that I couldn't be with you, I don't know if I could knowing you were…” He choked on his own, held back tears, gulping them down. “Your family needs you, the money could stop your mom from ever being sick again. You can't focus on him, just yourself right now. I'm so proud of you for coming up with a plan like that in the first place because it'll keep you protected as long as possible."

"If I win, you'll stay with me? I can't survive if I'm supposed to go back alone, I can't do it." You were hiccuping on your constant stream of tears.

Finnick's fingers softly began tracing around your face, “Of course, angel. I'm never gonna leave your side. Gonna stay with you forever, love you so much.”

"Promise?” You sniffled.

"I promise.” He pulled you further into him, your arm laying across his chest and you buried your face into the side of it.

“Missed you." Your voice vibrated through his chest and it made him feel like he was radiating sunlight.

“Missed my sweet girl so much, was always looking out for you though, don't want you to think I ever stopped."

“I know. No matter what you said I always knew.” Your legs intertwined with his.

"I'm sorry I said that, I should never have said that. Didn't mean it and it wasn't true, I am so, so sorry, angel. So sorry.” He could feel the tears coming, now inescapable. You could die, you really could, and it would be in a universe where he broke your heart, said things that could tear it to shreds, and never got to show you how much he really loved you to make up for it.

"It's okay.” You said weakly. Always masking your true feelings, trying not to hurt him. You were too sweet, he was addicted to how sugary it was.

“No it's not, I know that. It hurt you, it hurt me, and I'm sorry. You didn't deserve it and I love you so much. In every lifetime I know I must be searching for you.”

"You found me and I love you. I've always loved you.”

Maybe in another life he has been Orpheus and Hades was still punishing him by always keeping you both in a constant loop of tragedy. How could you love someone so much, yet the universe be taking every turn possible to tear holes into your happiness?

He hated seeing Conway think he was the one for you. The way it seemed like he truly believed you both were soulmates. But Finnick pitied him too because there was nothing he could do to save him, he didn't deserve to die, but he has to save you. There was no other option but to save you. He'd already begun contacting the highest paying contacts who would funnel money into his sweet girl in exchange for his time, which he would happily give for you to be alive. He could easily focus on the idea of finally being able to be happy with you to power through all of it. To others he spoke endlessly of your praises from day one, how effortlessly charming you were. Panem wanted entertainment and you could certainly hold your own on screen. You didn't need to know the lengths he would go to ensure your survival, he needed you to focus on your own plan.

He needed you to convince him to be jealous, that you loved Conway romantically, at least a little bit, that way all of Panem would buy into it. Who could resist sponsoring a tale of tragic love? It would all be worth it when you could be in his arms for the rest of time. He was sure he could help you overcome any hurdles from being a victor because anything was better than a world where you were dead.

So he couldn't stop the anxious knot on his stomach, the way his heart dropped, his fists clenched, and the tears welled when he watched you through a screen rising up into the arena. The moment it was fully on screen he'd already developed a list of potential environmental threats and what you'd need to find. It was sickening to hear the countdown, to know that there was nothing he could say to you or do except get more sponsors. None of which was helped when the time was up and the wretched female tribute from District 8, he knew he shouldn't be judging her when he'd want you to do the same to survive, but he couldn't help it, had taken it upon herself to tackle you. Finnick could swear he saw his life flashing before his eyes as he watched her hands curling around your neck and he'd never felt so helpless in his short life.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“I promised you a big wedding, with any dress you wanted, a real ring. You deserve more than a propo wedding from District 13." Finnick exclaimed, leaning back in his chair as his hand held yours.

“She can have a dress and a ring, but it will also help the cause!" Plutarch smiled trying to reason with him.

"Well, the details will be figured out later down the line. Right now we just need to know if the two of you are in agreement.” Coin clarified. That made it worse, the first time had been in desperation so you hadn't been privy to the proper wedding things, but now it would be expected all over again.

“Finnick, we have our whole lives to get a ring and anniversaries or vow renewals. This is fine." You smiled slightly, trying to push away tensions.

“See!" Plutarch was too excited.

“You deserve more than fine."

You stared at him fondly for a while and he hoped you understood it wasn't that he didn't want the legal marriage, he just wanted you to get the wedding you'd dreamt about. He despised the idea there'd be yet another ceremony that wasn't exactly what you wanted. “I'll get married for the propo-" You held up a hand before Plutarch could add his piece, looking towards President Coin. “If I can have a dress, music, dancing, and as close to the traditional ceremony from home as we can do.”

"We'll see what happens and what we can do.” Coin said she was too even and didn't seem at all like she planned on allowing half of it.

"No, I'm saying if I don't have it then I don't want to do it again. Watching two people sign a marriage certificate won't inspire anyone, so it serves no purpose." You shrugged, “Finn, is there anything else you want?"

You squeezed his hand, “No, I just want you to be happy with it. I wish it could be perfect for you, the type we used to talk about."

“That's okay, things rarely turn out the way we want them too. You being there and having as much of a proper ceremony as possible this time, is good enough for me.”

“In District 13 we value practicality, this is a time of stress, could be perceived as extravagant." Coin reasoned, he'd despised her from the beginning. Her eyes were too cold.

"It's a wedding, Coin! To show them that we are doing well, a little extravagance drives this point home.” Plutarch argued.

"I don't want something extravagant like the Capitol, not even a new dress, just something I chose.” Years of the Capitol playing dress up with you made both of you sick of the way each outfit had meticulously designed to show you off.

“Our traditions aren't that way either." Finnick resented the idea that wanting what would have been considered a relatively normal ceremony at home could be dismissed as too lavish here. “We don't need much."

“Yes, have them give us a list of the needs and then you and I will figure out all the smaller pieces to really make the propo." Plutarch nodded along.

Coin stared long and hard, it unsettled Finnick. She wasn't the type of freezing you were, with you it was like the perfect companion to his heat, with Coin it felt blistering. “Okay, give us a list."

Finnick was quick to grab the pen and paper, “The children's choir for the song."

“A children's choir?" Coin sounded unamused.

“Yes, we'll teach them the song. We know it and it's important." You chimed in.

Plutarch kept smiling, “Children! The future, a long lineage to support freedom, it's symbolic as well." Finnick couldn't help but feel glad that the man was on their side and finding ways to prove their wants.

“A musician, music’s important." Finnick continued, “Some sort of net to cover us. Salt water. She picks out her own dress. An officiant."

“If there's no one from our district that's okay, but there's a certain way it's done back home and so if we can't be there I need at least the feeling of it." You said and Finnick rubbed circles on the top of your hand.

“Is that all?" Coin’s voice was too smooth, too without fault to feel human.

“They need a cake." Plutarch interjected.

“If there's a cake then Peeta has to make it. He's good at it and it'll help him focus on something else." You scooted further backwards into your seat.

“Brilliant! It'll show Snow that Peeta is well enough, regardless of the hijacking, to do something like that."

“Fine." Coin relented in her icy tone. “Is that everything?"

You nodded slowly before looking at Finnick, "I think so?”

"Yes, that's all we need.” He affirmed, smiling as he gazed back at you. “All the small details belong to you."

And as you two were leaving he couldn't help but smile when you grabbed this hand and told him, "Now all I need from you is a ring."

The two of you agreed to fall back into the normal schedule of District 13 only if it was aligned. Each hour, each table, all of it to ensure any breakdowns he'd be there for you. Until the wedding you'd stay in the hospital wing so the doctors could also be on the lookouts for any moments where the good days began to get so difficult.

Finnick didn't care about the bad days though because for every one step back you seemed to take three steps forward in your progress. He would keep taking it all for you even though the continuing work for the rebellion would threaten that stability. All the struggles had to be worth it in the end, as long as you were both again able to just be in the warm sands of home in the arms of one another. Where the wind and water had always intended you to be, even if it was volatile enough to sweep you away.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you all for reading this long awaited chapter! I'm not great at fluff so it took me so much longer to navigate ideas that weren't heartbreaking but trust we have a lot to come 💋 as always feedback, comments, likes, reblogs are all very very appreciated and my ask box is open, I adore hearing all your thoughts and ideas so so much. requests are open even if I'm like a snail with them. love y'all sm and thanks again 💋

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[car-o-line]

sorry if I already made a request but I want to try to have a danganronpa ultra despair girls a platonic warriors of hope with a very maternal reader who’s also a child just maybe two years older or one year basically they are the closest to an actual loving mother and they have also been wronged by adults in some horrible way and takes care of the kids how they wished their parents did

We actually love a motherly y/n🎀, honestly I wished more people wrote for the hope hoe kids cuz like there’s literally so much potential☹️

Warriors Of Hope kids with a motherly reader who’s also like traumatized😋

TW: trauma, abuse mentioned, self harm, Monaca, and spoilers, its danganronpa what’s expected😭

Okkk so basicallyyyyy, ur only a year 1/2 older than them because I couldn’t choose :’(

I think the kids are like 12 ish, so y/n would be 14?? Let’s just go with that-

Also what happened to y/n won’t be said because my brain will not think and yeah😁

ily guys

Daimon Masaru:

Honestly, he kinda treats you like you’re his actual mother.

Like oh, Kotoko called him a perv? “Y/N KOTOKO KEEPS CALLING ME WEIRD NAMES!!!”

Nagisa keeps correcting his wrong narrative? “Y/N TELL NAGISA THAT I DON’T WANT HIS HELP!!!”

He feels like he could talk to you about anything, he doesn’t know why though. But he only knows that you’re a trustworthy person and it’s rare to get that for him.

He’s a bit(really) stupid so he’s kind of oblivious to your situation as a whole, the only things he’s knows is that adults weren’t all that kind to you, which makes him upset. Like, he just couldn’t understand why someone as kind as you be subjected to such torture by those, those disgusting demons.

He never bothered to ask what happened to you, it wasn’t that he didn’t care(well maybe tbh) but he just didn’t feel like it was his place to actually ask you directly.

If he ever hurts himself like how he did before his battle w/the robot, he’d always feel a bit guilty whenever you’d rush up towards him and almost start tearing up at the sight of his injuries. But at the same time, he likes it when you start to patch him up with bandages and comfort him. It makes him feel cared and loved for, and he appreciates that.

He’s probably called you mom at least twice, and none of the others let him down about that.

He forces you to play soccer with him🤩

Kemuri Jataro:

You’re the nicest one to him, so he’ll take that and RUN with it.

Though sometimes he compares you to own real mother, which upsets you slightly but you have to remind yourself that he’s basically saying that you’re good and she’s bad.

He sometimes even has the slightest urge to take his mask off around you, when it’s just the two of you. But then he remembers how “ugly” he is and doesn’t want you to witness such a thing.

He knows you’d never judge him, and he only knows that because you wouldn’t stop yappin about how god awful his mother was to him and that the things she did was not okay whatsoever, or how you’d reassure him by placing both of your hands on his mask and telling him that he didn’t have to remove it around anyone if he didn’t want to but that he needed to remember that he’s beautiful no matter what other people think.

(he didn’t listen but oh well)

You’re the first person he shows his..art, too. It takes a lot of effort not to seem appalled by his creations.

You scold him for doing stupid stuff.

And from saying degrading things but he won’t stop so what’s the point-

Utsugi Kotoko:

You’re her favorite adorable lil thing<3

Out of all the Warriors of Hope she’d probably be with you the most. It’s not her fault, you're just so adorbs!

A kind of obvious one but she’d make you play dress up with her, or just sitting down and eating UNPEELED chestnuts together.

She’s definitely more intelligent than Masaru and Jataro and is also more pushy than them so she’d definitely try to figure out the reason you despise adults. Though, to her dismay you just wouldn’t answer her. Telling her that your situation was not as bad as everyone else’s and to worry about the next part of the “kid paradise” plan.

She sometimes doesn’t realize that you’re technically older than her, like even though the age difference is basically nothing she sometimes just thinks you’re her exact age and when Monaca refers to you as a “potential demon” in the future, she gets all defensive about it but then relearns that you’ll be an adult before all of the Warriors of Hope.

She tries her best to impress you with her acting and singing skills, such as for any show she wants to put on she’ll make sure you approve of it first. Saying things like, “Could this be better!?” Or, “Noo! You’re just being nice! Be as cruelly honest as possible!”

Shingetsu Nagisa:

The most mature and most reasonable one out of all of the WOH, so he’ll probably be the one you’d go to if you ever need anything you could do.

It’s kind of hard to make a deep bond with him which makes you a bit upset. But knowing what the boys been through it makes a bit more sense.

He’s the most knowledgeable one out of the five children so you sheepishly go to him whenever you need help, you kind of thought you were a bother to him. Always asking him if he needed anything or scolding him when he never got enough sleep. But he secretly appreciated it quite a bit.

It was rare when someone came to him to check on his wellbeing, he brushed it aside at first because he only believed you did it to just seem kind. But after a while he came to realize that you truly cared for him and the others and even placed their needs before your own.

So in return he likes to do his own little check-ups on you. It’s nothing heartfelt or affectionate or anything, it’s just to make sure you’re physically and mentally healthy.

Like sometimes if he thinks you’re not sleeping enough he’ll just go up to you and just tell you to go to sleep. Even if it’s the middle of the day, anything you say back to him other than an “okay” or “yeah” would just be meant with a scolding. He takes sleeping schedules VERY seriously ngl.

Sometimes you both parent each other, even if you’re just a little older than he is.

Towa Monaca:

“Monaca believes Y/n will be saved and kept as a real mother when she turned into a demon.”

“…Monaca I’m a year older than you.”

Yeah just cause she likes you and all but it doesn’t make you safe from her when you turn 18🤩

She scares ts outta you.

Like you could be gently explaining something, not even scolding her and she’d just start whining and crying that you’re bullying her. Just to try and make you mad<3

It never works tho, you’re more confused than upset. You’re too much of an angel to get mad at her<3

She kind of treats you like a servant, but like a favorite servant. Hope that makes sense😭

She really likes to rant to you about how great “Big sis Junko” is, she literally will not stop talking unless you say you have to leave.

Also mentions how you’re going to be the next “Big sis” as well, so have fun with that!

I’M SORRY THIS IS REALLY LATE I LITERALLY DO NOT HAVE THE MOTIVATION SO ANYTHING RN😭 ahem, i know Monaca’s is short but I literally do not know what to write-

[n0nexist4nt]

This is just me writing out a bit of the Teleported!Billy x Reader headcanons, go check that out first if you want to.

Teleported!Billy x Gn!Reader ONESHOT

Yummy hurt/comfort shit. One of my favorite things to write aside from fluff and angst.

Cw: Sad Billy, derealization. Btw you live in a city in this.

The thunder outside boomed as lightning flashed through your large apartment window. You sigh as you lean into your couch, eyes closed. Work today was exhausting, the drive back was exhausting, life in general was exhausting. At least your couch was comfortable.

Life was chaotic right now. Well, it was calmer than it was months ago. It’s almost been a year since you had found Billy on the streets of your city. He was doing better since then. Sure, little moments happened here and there and— What was that?

You open your eyes, snapping back to reality. Sure enough, you heard some tiny sounds coming from what was previously the guest room of your apartment. What was the room now? Billy’s room, what else would it be.

You stand up with a sigh and walk up to the door, hearing small sniffles and sobs through it. You frown as you knock on the door, “Billy? You alright in there?”

It was silent for a second before there was a miserable sounding, “..Yeaaaaaah…” How convincing. You lean against the doorframe, frowning, “What’s wrong? You sound fucking miserable.”

Silence. Other than Billy’s small sobs- You waited a bit before sighing, “Can I come in?” There were some shuffling sounds, and then some footsteps, and then a click as the doorknob’s lock was twisted. “Come in..”

You push open the door and step inside, frowning at the robot’s tear-covered face. You reach a hand up and cup his cheek, wiping away a few tears, “Is it one of those moments?” He nodded slightly, not wanting to accidentally bump your hand away.

Your hand was removed anyways as you walked over to his bed, sitting on it. You pat the spot next to you, “C’mere…” Billy walked over and plopped himself next to you, slumping into you as he sniffled. Really, he was only making sniffling sounds- But shh.

You wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his side a bit. He shuffled closer, trying to find a spot to bury his face so you wouldn’t see him crying. To him, it was embarrassing. He was either strong and reliable or dorky as hell, he wasn’t supposed to be sad like this. You understood that, but of course reminded him that it’s normal to feel emotion-

You laid down with him, his face burying into your chest as he started sobbing again. “I miss them,” You heard him sob, “A lot.” You held him close, eyes closing as you let him bawl into your shirt.

Your fingers were soon running through his hair, your other hand rubbing his back. He seemed to like it, his body a tad less tense. He sniffled a bit more, “..This is actually real, right-? I.. still get those weird feelings that I don’t actually exist.” You nod and ruffle his hair a tad, “Mhm. You’re actually here with me. You exist. I exist.”

Billy seemed to calm a bit, his sobs ceasing over time and his body loosening up more. You pressed a small kiss to the top of his head, “You okay now?” His faceplate shifted on your chest, you knew that because you felt it. Billy gave a quick nod, moving so he was practically laying on top of you.

You grunted a small bit from all of the sudden weight, patting his back with a small chuckle, “You’re goofy. I love you-“ He lifted his face up a bit, looking a lot happier. “Heheh, I love you too. You’re comfy.”

“..You want to watch Starlight Knight now? I told you we could watch some on your phone sometime this week.” You smile as you watch his eyes light up, “HELL YEAH!”

Insert really happy ending here

I’m not proofreading this shit