#maybe they were at some point maybe they were always different. who knows with all those time shenanigans

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

I'M (NOT) FINE!

a/n: requests are open!

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: fluff fluff fluff

summary: You absolutely loathe being sick—the sniffles, the coughs, the shivering... And Jude? He hates seeing you in that state even more. So, what's the solution? Simple: pretend you're fine. You put on your best “everything's okay” face, a face that could fool everyone... except Jude. Yikes. With his signature mix of teasing and tenderness, he refuses to let you suffer alone. He'll keep pushing, pestering, and caring for you until you finally admit you're not as fine as you want to be. And in the end, it’s his care and persistence that makes you feel a little less miserable.

You should’ve known better than to let Jude stay up so late watching Netflix with you the night before. Or maybe it was you who needed to rethink staying up until 2 a.m., curled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn between you two as he whispered silly commentary into your ear.

Today was different, though. As the morning crept in through your bedroom window, an unusual weight seemed to settle behind your eyes. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and a tickling cough bubbled up every time you tried to swallow. But you refused to acknowledge it.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows, hinting at the kind of day that makes you want to burrow into blankets and disappear. Jude sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling absently on his phone, his focus darting to the ticking clock as he waited for you.

He hadnt miss that you’d been odd this morning—quiet and sluggish, the kind of quiet he noticed instantly. You weren’t the type to miss a chance to tease him over breakfast or steal sips of his coffee, so when you shuffled past him earlier, mumbling something about needing first a long shower, it planted a seed of worry.

He didn’t like when things felt off. Especially not with you.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and face freshly washed, you looked almost fine. Almost. Your usually bright eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, your cheeks were a bit pale and you were wrapped up in a hoodie far too big for you. One of his, of course.

Jude’s cheerful voice rang through the apartment as you shuffled into the kitchen, pulling your sleeves over your hands. “Babe, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Just toast,” you mumbled quickly. Your voice cracked on the last word, and you froze. Oh no. Jude turned to look at you, brow furrowing ever so slightly.

“Feeling all right, love?” he asked, his brow creased as he leaned back in his chair, studying you.

You smiled—quick, small, practiced. “Yeah. Fine.”

You walked straight for the kettle to pour yourself some tea, deliberately avoiding him. You could feel his gaze on you, like a silent interrogation. Your boyfriend lingered near the counter as you plopped two slices of bread into the toaster, biting the inside of his cheek like he always did when he didn’t believe you. He didn’t say anything, though—not yet.

Jude Bellingham was many things, you thought to yourself, but oblivious wasn’t one of them.

Unfortunately for you, that made this whole charade harder.

“Didn’t look like you slept well,” he said, pushing the conversation gently.

“I slept fine,” you replied too quickly, taking a sip of hot tea and keeping your eyes on the mug.

“Well, you look... I don’t know a bit tired.”

“I am tired. You made us stay up late.” You shot him a pointed look, hoping the deflection would work. It almost did. Almost. “But really, I slept fine.”

Liar. Liar.

He frowned, but before he could press further, you turned, flashing him a look that you hoped was convincing. “I promise, Jude. Don’t start getting all dramatic.”

“What? Dramatic?” He placed a hand to his chest, feigning offense, but his eyes never lost that sharp edge. “I’ll let it slide this time. But you’re not fooling me, you know. You’ve got that thing going on.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re trying to act normal, but you’re just a little bit too normal.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You sound insane.”

He sounded just right.

“I sound attentive,” he countered, grinning, though his voice was still soft.

You turned back to your tea, gripping the handle a little harder than necessary. In truth, you could feel the early signs of sickness creeping in—your throat tickled, your head felt heavy, and warmth pulsed at your temples like a faint drumbeat. It wasn’t bad yet, but you knew it would be soon.

And that was exactly why you couldn’t let Jude in on it.

He was attentive—almost painfully so—and you knew he’d go straight into overprotective mode the moment he suspected something was wrong. He’d fuss. He’d worry. He’d probably cancel his plans and hover over you for hours like a mother hen.

You didn’t want him to cancel his plans. And you really didn’t want to be the reason he stressed.

So, when he looked away to grab his phone, you took the opportunity to stifle the cough that clawed at your throat, turning your head quickly and clearing it in a way you hoped sounded natural. A master plan.

But when you turned back, Jude was staring. Staring into you, frowning a little and questioning you with his eyes.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That sound. Did you just cough?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “No? I don’t think so.”

His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as if to call you out, but you were already ahead of him, changing the subject. “Are you still meeting the guys later?”

He eyed you skeptically for a beat longer, before reluctantly sighing. “Yeah. We are supposed to meet at nine.”

“Good.” You smiled sweetly, though it was mostly a distraction. “Don’t let me keep you from it.”

The shift in his expression was subtle, but you caught it anyway—something in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered a second too long on you. Jude had spent enough time with you to know your tells, and he wasn’t stupid.

He let it slide, again. For now.

The hours went on, and your act grew harder to keep up.

Jude had been in and out of the living room while you lounged on the couch, buried under a blanket and claiming you just wanted to “relax.” You were also clutching a steaming cup of tea that Jude had made for you. You hadn’t even asked for it, which was a sign he was already onto you. You scrolled your phone lazily, trying to appear normal, but you could feel him watching you.

He plopped onto the couch beside you, spreading his long and fit legs across the coffee table. “You’re acting weird.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“You’re imagining things.”

He shot you a look. “You’re wearing two hoodies, a blanket, and you’re sipping tea in 26-degree weather. It’s summer.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then came the moment you’d been dreading. You were mid-scroll when an itch seized your throat. You tried to suppress it—tried to swallow it down and breathe through your nose—but it was no use. The cough escaped, sharp and sudden, your body shaking slightly with the force of it.

Jude whipped his head toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash.

“Got you.”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up to see Jude next to you, arms crossed and an annoyingly smug look on his face.

“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head.

You sighed, sinking lower into the couch. “It’s just a tickle. Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? No no no. Babe, you’ve been hiding that all day, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been hiding anything,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“Alright, that’s it,” he said, scooting closer. “Let me feel your forehead.”

“No!” you blurted, immediately shrinking back into the cushions. “Don’t touch me. I—uh, I haven’t washed my face. Gross, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Like I care.”

“Jude, I swear—”

“Stop being stubborn and come here.”

You hugged the blanket tighter, as if it could protect you. “I’m not coming, Jude.”

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he shot back, though his voice was tinged with affection. “Let me feel your forehead.”

You recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a fever.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me feel your forehead,” he moved closer to you.

You squirmed away from him, practically sliding down the couch as he reached for you. He only managed to grab your ankle, pinning you in place.

“This isn’t fair! You’re bigger than me!” you yelped, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the two of you must look—him holding onto your leg while you squirmed like a fish out of water.

“I don’t care. You’re not getting away from me.”

You gasped for air as you finally gave up and collapsed back onto the sofa. Jude grinned in victory, his palm landing gently on your forehead before you could protest further. His grin faded as quickly as it appeared.

For a second, you both stared each other down, and in that moment, you realized how ridiculous this little standoff had become. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or amused, his head tilting slightly.

“Y/N, you’re burning up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Think again then cause you are.”

“Maybe I’m just hot,” you tried to joke weakly, but he wasn’t having it. His lips set into a thin line.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he demanded softly. His tone wasn’t angry—just disappointed. Somehow, that was worse.

You bit the inside of your cheek, your resolve wavering. “Because I don’t want you to worry.”

His expression softened instantly, and your heart sank.

“Babe,” he said, crouching down in front of you so he could look you in the eyes. “You know that’s not possible, right? I’m always going to worry about you. You’re not invincible, no matter how much you try to act like it.”

You swallowed hard, guilt and affection swirling in your chest. You didn’t want to admit it, but part of you was relieved that he’d seen through you.

“I just didn’t want you to cancel your plans,” you muttered.

Jude rolled his eyes fondly. “You think I care about plans more than you?”

You didn’t answer, because the look in his eyes told you he already knew what you were thinking.

“Come on,” he said finally, standing up and offering you his hand. “We’re taking your temperature.”

You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “Jude—”

“You’re done arguing.”

“Jude, I don’t need the thermometer,” you grumbled, but he was already standing up, mumbling something about how he would decide that. You slumped back against the couch with a sigh, pulling the blanket higher around your face.

“Up.”

You shot him a glare, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you off the couch. You knew you’d lost this round, but as you followed him into the kitchen, you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

And you couldn’t help but smile, too.

Ten minutes after, you both stared at the thermometer, you chewing the inside of your left cheek nervously, while Jude crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing deeper by the second.

“38.9,” he read aloud, his tone flat but edged with concern.

“It’s not that bad,” you muttered, trying to wave it off, but the tightness in your chest and the dizziness that followed the cough made the words feel hollow.

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and unyielding. “Not that bad? That’s literally a high fever.”

“Barely,” you quipped, attempting a half-hearted shrug, though the effort made your head feel heavier, and your limbs suddenly felt like lead. You had no choice but to lean against the counter for support.

“Y/N…”

“Jude, I’m fine,” you argued, turning to put the thermometer back on the counter like it didn’t just confirm his worst suspicions. “I don’t need a doctor, and I definitely don’t need you hovering over me.”

His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue clearly sharp, but he held them back. Instead, he took a deep breath, his frustration melting into something softer, his gaze still filled with concern. Jude wasn’t having it. He stood up suddenly, towering over the couch where you moved and where now curled up. “That’s it. You’re going to bed.”

Your head whipped around, eyes narrowing. “I’m not going to bed.”

“Yes, you are,” he said firmly, already reaching for your hand to pull you up. “You need to lie down properly, not camp out here on the couch like you’re hiding from something.”

“Jude, no.” You tugged your hand away, shaking your head. “I’m fine here. I like the couch. It’s cozy.”

He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “The bed is cozier.”

“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” you said stubbornly, sinking deeper into the cushions as though you could become one with the furniture.

“You’ll feel better if you rest properly,” he argued, his tone soft but insistent. “And the sooner you rest, the sooner you’ll get better. That’s logic. You can’t fight logic.”

“I’m not fighting logic. I just don’t want to go,” you insisted, pouting slightly for effect. “The bed is boring. I’ll just lay there staring at the ceiling, and then you’ll make me drink disgusting medicine. No thanks.”

Jude exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead in that way he always did when he was losing patience. You knew exactly how far you could push him, but it didn’t feel good to see that frustrated look in his eyes. You hated making him worry, but part of you didn’t want to be stuck in bed just yet, even if you could feel the exhaustion weighing you down.

“Jude, please,” you said, your tone softening, almost pleading. “I don’t want to be stuck in bed. I’ll rest here, I promise. Let’s just watch something, yeah?”

You offered him an innocent smile, though it quickly wavered when you felt another cough building. You turned away, covering your mouth as you hacked into the blanket. Jude’s hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t press the issue—at least, not yet.

When you finally caught your breath, you glanced up at him warily, half-expecting him to scoop you up and carry you to bed despite your protests. He looked like he wanted to, but instead, he sighed again and sat back down on the edge of the couch.

He sighed deeply, clearly torn. His jaw worked as he considered your plea, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. Finally, he relented with a short nod, though his eyes still carried a hint of warning. “Fine. But only because I know you’ll sulk if I make you move.”

You flashed him a weak smile, already pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

“But the second you look worse, you’re going to bed,” he added firmly.

You opened your mouth to say something, probably to complain, but another coughing fit cut you off—deep and rattling, like your body was staging a mutiny. Jude was on his feet in seconds, disappearing into the kitchen as you tried to catch your breath.

When he returned, he was holding a fresh glass of water and a bottle of cold medicine. “Here,” he said firmly, handing you the water first.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. But when he held out the medicine, you grimaced. “Do I have to? I mean, maybe in a couple hours this will wear off...”

“Do you want to get better, or do you want to keep hacking like a 90-year-old chain smoker?”

“You’re so mean,” you groaned, narrowing your eyes at him.

“And you have high fever. Take the damn medicine.” He was loosing his patience, but it returned every time you smiled at him.

Reluctantly, you unscrewed the cap and took the tiniest possible sip, immediately pulling a face. “This is disgusting.”

Jude snorted. “Medicine’s not supposed to taste like candy.”

“It should,” you muttered with a dramatic pout, glaring at the medicine bottle like it had personally wronged you.

Jude rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin as he took the glass from your hands. “Well, when you invent miracle medicine that tastes like chocolate, let me know. Until then, take it properly.”

You groaned but relented, though your face twisted in disgust. “I swear this stuff is just punishment in a bottle.”

“You are such a dramatic,” he countered, leaning back against the couch and crossing his arms with a smug expression.

“I’ll get you back for this,” you threatened weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

Jude’s grin widened. “I’m counting on it.” He settled back down beside you, his hand finding its way to your back, rubbing slow circles that felt unexpectedly soothing. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote and flicked through channels, trying to find something to watch since you were clearly avoiding the idea of going to bed—much to his dismay.

The movie started playing, but you weren’t really watching it. You were fighting the drowsiness creeping in, but your body seemed to have other ideas. The fever had started to set in fully, and it made every movement feel sluggish and lethargic. You burrowed deeper into the blanket, your skin hot and clammy, and instinctively you leaned into Jude’s side, seeking the cool comfort of his presence to counter the warmth suffocating you.

He didn’t miss it. His arm immediately instinctively curled around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, as if he could offer some comfort against the fever that seemed to consume you. You shifted, nestling your head against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. His hand gently brushed against your arm, the coolness of his skin providing a brief relief from the heat radiating off yours. You closed your eyes, too tired to keep up the act, but you could still hear the sound of the movie playing softly in the background.

He could feel your body trembling, your warmth pressing against him in a way that only made his concern grow. “Baby, you're shivering,” he murmured softly, his voice low and filled with worry. His hand moved to your forehead once again, his fingers cool against your skin as he traced the lines of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You didn’t have the energy to argue, too tired to offer your usual deflections. Instead, you let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes as the weight of your body seemed to pull you deeper into the couch. Your breath was slow but labored, each inhale a bit more shallow than the last.

Jude didn’t miss the way your body seemed to sink into him, the way you let yourself fall into his arms without resistance. The quiet, unspoken admission that you needed him, even when you refused to admit it aloud.

“And you are burning up,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

“I know, it’s okay,” you mumbled, though your teeth had begun to chatter slightly, betraying your words. You buried your face against his shirt, feeling the slight chill of his body against yours.

He shook his head, tightening his arm around your shoulders. “It’s not really okay, love,” he whispered, voice full of concern. The touch of his hand against the back of your neck, cool and soothing, sent a wave of comfort through you, but it didn’t stop the shivering.

You tried to smile up at him, but it was weak. “I’m fine here, Jude. Honestly.”

He wasn’t convinced. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, and the way you were leaning into him for that extra bit of coolness only confirmed what he already knew.

He stared down at you, a mixture of tenderness and frustration swirling in his gaze. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. His hand lingered, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a softness that contrasted with the firm set of his jaw.

You tried to smile, but the effort was half-hearted, your lips barely lifting.

“Right. That’s enough,” he said suddenly, untangling himself from the blanket and standing up.

“Juuude,” you protested weakly, trying to clutch at the soft fabric as if it could somehow shield you from the inevitable.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted, shaking his head with a small but stern smile. “I let you win with the couch thing before, but now? Non-negotiable.”

You glared at him half-heartedly, the fever clouding your ability to stay upset. “You’re so smug.”

“And you’re so stubborn,” he countered with a grin, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His hands rested gently on your knees, his gaze steady as he met your eyes. “Come on, love,” he said, his voice quiet but insistent. “Let me take you to bed. You’ll sleep better, and I’ll stay with you. Okay?”

You hesitated, staring up at him through fever-fogged eyes. There was something so comforting in his touch, in the way his thumb brushed over the inside of your knee as if he could ease the discomfort from your body with just a gesture.

“Can’t we just stay here a little longer?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, vulnerable and tired. You were falling asleep in the couch.

Jude’s heart ached at the sound of it, but his resolve didn’t falter. He reached down, gently cupping the back of your head and pulling you up to your feet. “No more fighting, baby.”

Before you could protest further, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, one arm supporting your back, the other under your legs. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning against him as if your body could draw strength from his.

“Jude!” you gasped in surprise.

“Shh,” he soothed, walking you toward the bedroom with gentle steps. “You’re not getting out of this. I’m taking care of you.”

You pressed your cheek against his shoulder as he carefully laid you down on the bed, tucking you under the covers with the same tender care he always showed. As he reached for the blanket, smoothing it over your shivering form, you closed your eyes, feeling a sense of safety that you didn’t want to admit you’d needed.

“Promise me you'll rest,” he said after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might disturb the fragile quiet between you.

He brushed his hand across your forehead, feeling how much warmer you were now that you were lying down. His fingers lingered, caressing your skin in slow, soothing motions. He let out a quiet sigh, looking down at you with a softness in his eyes.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let out a quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his hand caressing you. It felt so comforting that you couldn't resist, your body finally surrendering to the heaviness of your fatigue.

“Promise me,” he repeated softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.

“I promise,” you mumbled, your voice thick with the weight of exhaustion.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he replied, his voice low and tender. He leaned down and kissed your forehead lightly, the feeling of his lips against your skin almost a promise.

You felt your eyelids grow heavier, and the warmth of his presence slowly lulled you into a deep, feverish sleep. Jude stayed beside you, his hand resting protectively on your back as he settled beside you, never once breaking contact.

And as you drifted off, you felt a quiet sense of gratitude wash over you. You were sick, yes, but you were also cared for in a way that made everything feel a little more bearable. With him so close, it was hard to stay awake, and soon, your breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

[lacydollette]

BLESSING IN DISGUISE — CHAPTER SIX

PAIRING rafe cameron x lovely kook!reader x jj maybank

WARNING(S) trauma, flashbacks, alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, verbal fights, rafe being a dick, suggestive content, explicit language, angst, slight fluff between reader and jj

SUMMARY after days of painful silence, with Rafe pulling away and you still drowning in the aftermath of the incident, the annual bonfire becomes the breaking point. unable to hold back any longer you confront him, but rafe’s cold, detached demeanor cuts deep, leaving your heart in pieces.

“Waah, john b stop!!” Sarah screeched as her boyfriend chased after her, running around the sand like little kids. Oh, they were so in love. jj was nursing on a half-empty beer bottle leaning back in the sand like he didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone looked relaxed, like the weight of the world wasn’t sitting on their shoulders.

Everyone except you.

You sat a little off to the side, poking at the sand with a stick, dragging lazy patterns that the waves would eventually wash away. Your head felt fuzzy, likeyou were watching everything through a haze, the sounds of Sarah’s giggles and crashing waves muffled and far away. You knew you should be here, should be present, but you weren’t . You were somewhere else—thoughts still messy after the incident with Nate a few nights ago.

Of course the lack of your usual sunshine smile and teasing behavior didn’t go unnoticed, reverting back to the pogues questioning you and asking if you were really okay. You weren’t. But somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to them about it. Cause if you were to talk about it, you also had to talk about Rafe. And you couldn’t.

It wasn’t fair, but your brain kept circling back to him. The way he’d looked at you that night, torn between fury and guilt, like the whole thing was his fault. And maybe it was, in some sick and twisted way, but you couldn’t let yourself go there. Not again.

Suddenly jj’s smooth voice broke through your dissociative haze, “Yo, earth to y/n,” his laugh cutting through your spiraling thoughts like a knife. You blinked, looking up just in time to see him toss a beer to john b, who caught it with a slick motion. JJ’s grin was infectious, his whole face lighting up like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. For a second, you felt your lips twitch, almost smiling. Almost.

“You good over there, sunshine?” JJ asked, leaning back on his elbows to look at you, his blue eyes practically glowing under the late afternoon sun. “You’ve been, like, a hundred miles away all day.” You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just tired, I guess.”

JJ raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. He pushed himself up, brushing the sand off his hands as he scooted closer, closing the distance between you until he was right next to you. “Tired? Or, like, tired tired?”

“What’s the difference?” You asked, your voice coming out sharper than you meant it to. JJ didn’t flinch, though. He just tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t figure out. His hand brushed against your knee—not in a creepy way, just JJ being JJ, always touchy, always close. And usually, you didn’t mind. But today, it made your skin prickle, like you were too aware of everything.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his voice softer this time. You forced a smile, knowing he wouldn’t let it go until you gave him something. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a huge fight with my parents yesterday. You know how it is.” JJ made a face, clearly skeptical but not wanting to push. “Parents suck,” he muttered, leaning back again. “Tell ‘em JJ Maybank says to chill out, or I’m coming over.”

That finally got a real smile out of you, small and fleeting, but real. JJ grinned, clearly proud of himself, before turning his attention back to sarah and john b. But even as the conversation shifted, as JJ joked and teased and kept the energy light, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being… disconnected.

It wasn’t just Nate, the incident or the weird distance you felt with your friends lately. It was Rafe.

You two hadn’t spoken since that night. Not a single text, not a glance, not even one of those tense run-ins you always seemed to have. He’d disappeared as quickly as he’d came, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t held you while you were shaking, hadn’t promised to keep you safe.

It hurt. And while you had slowly tried to piece yourself back together, he had distanced himself from you further.

Rafe thought it was his fault—just like he thought everything was his fault. The fight at Midsummers, the way you’d both blown up at each other, the reason you were even out that night in the first place. In his mind, he’d set the whole thing in motion, and now he was punishing himself for it.

The images were haunting him at night, you, crumpled in the dirt, nates bloody face gasping underneath him. The fear in your eyes. And worst of all—himself, standing there, realizing it was all his fault. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. How it all traced back to him, like a sick domino effect.

He tried drowning his thoughts with the usual, alcohol and coke. It hit hard and fast, just how he liked it, but it didn’t do much to quiet the voice in his head—the one telling him that you’d be better off without him.

That was why he hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t tried to see you since that night. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. Every time his phone buzzed, every time he heard a car door slam outside, his heart jumped, hoping it was you. But he didn’t deserve to see you.

Because this was just like before. Every time he got close to you, every time he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be good enough for you, he proved himself wrong. He was like poison, toxic and consuming, dragging you down with him no matter how hard he tried not to.

So, he stayed away. He told himself it was for your own good, that he was doing the right thing, even if it felt like hell. But the silence was unbearable. And that’s why he was going in and out of every bar on the island—spending almost every night in places like that, drowning in alcohol, drugs, and meaningless noise. He thought maybe if he leaned into the chaos hard enough, he could lose himself in it. He thought maybe he could forget. But it wasn’t working.

He couldn’t stop picturing the way you’d looked at him that night—so broken, so fragile, but still trusting him enough to let him carry you home. The way your hands had trembled as you patched up his knuckles, comforting him while you were the one hurting.

The way you’d pulled back, hesitated, like you didn’t know if you could let him in again. And who could blame you? He’d screwed up too many times to count. He wasn’t sure why you’d ever let him in to begin with.

He hated himself for what had happened to you, hated himself for not being there sooner. But mostly, he hated that even after everything, some selfish part of him still wanted you.

Wanted to see you, to hold you, to tell you he’d do better this time—even though he didn’t know if he could. But that part of him was buried under the guilt, the anger, the deep rooted belief that he didn’t deserve you. That he never had. So, he stayed here in the dark, hiding between drinks and strangers, telling himself it was better this way.

For you. For both of you. Even if it was killing him.

the gravel crunched underneath your shoes as you walked to the annual bonfire, the kind of event that blurred the lines between Kooks and Pogues. It was the one night that made everyone forget the labels, at least for a little while. You were standing with the Pogues, tucked close to JJ as his arm casually looped around your shoulders. His warmth was comforting, familiar even, and for the first time today, you let yourself relax into it.

But no matter how hard you tried to focus on the moment—on JJ’s laugh echoing through the crowd or Kie’s attempts to roast a marshmallow without setting it on fire—your eyes kept wandering, scanning the crowd like your body couldn’t help but search for him.

Where is he?

You told yourself you were just curious. That’s all it was. But deep down, you knew better. It was like he’d vanished entirely, except you could still feel the weight of him pressing against your chest every time you closed your eyes.

And then you saw him.

Rafe was standing near the edge of the crowd, a bottle in one hand, the other shoved into his pocket. He looked the same but different—his jaw tense, his shoulders hunched like he was holding something back. And just then eyes caught yours across the fire, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Every part of Rafe screamed at him to stay away, to let you have the life you deserved, but when your pretty doe eyes pierced through his, the air was sucked from his lungs. For a moment, everything else disappeared—the music, the voices, even the ache in his chest. All he could see was you.

You felt your body temperature rise, cheeks burning up. The pull of him was undeniable. It always was. You needed to talk to him.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” you mumbled to the group, pulling away from JJ’s arm. “I’ll come with you,” the blonde offered, his voice easy, like he didn’t notice the shift in you. “No, I’m good. Be right back.” JJ shrugged, distracted by Pope’s latest story, and you slipped away before anyone could stop you.

Your feet carried you in the direction of Rafe, each step faster than the last. By the time you found him, he was leaning against the side of a column. Yet you hesitated for a moment, nerves twisting in your stomach as you reached closer.

“Rafe,” you said, your voice cutting through the noise of the bonfire behind you. His eyes flicked to yours, forcing his features into something cold, detached, hoping it would keep you at arm’s length. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Why are you hiding out over here?” He let out a hollow laugh, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. Your boldness had always disarmed him, even now. Especially now. “Not hiding. Just avoiding the circus.”

“Avoiding me, you mean.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed, his gaze dropping to the ground. Don’t do this. Don’t let her in, he thought. “Maybe you should take the hint.” His words hit like a slap, but you didn’t back down. “You don’t get to do this, Rafe. You don’t get to disappear and act like nothing happened.”The flash of hurt in your eyes nearly killed him, but he held firm. Better to push you away now, before he dragged you down with him.

“Nothing did happen,” he snapped, the lie lingering bitter on his tongue as he was still avoiding your eyes.

“What is your problem, Rafe?” you sighed, the frustration in your voice obvious. “One day you promise me that you’ll keep me safe, that you would stay by my side and now you can’t even look at me?”

Rafe laughed, but it wasn’t the kind you remembered. It was bitter, empty. “Look who’s talking. You seemed pretty cozy with jj back there.” He hated the words even as he said them, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was easier to let anger take over than to admit the truth—to admit he wasn’t strong enough to stay away from you.

Your mouth fell open, stunned by his accusation. “Are you serious right now? JJ’s my friend. He’s just—”

“Sure he is,” Rafe cut you off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “this is how you thank me? By fucking around with a Pogue?” Your chest tightened, tears burning at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. “Go to hell, Rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt.

But then you noticed it—the red rim around his eyes, the way his body trembled faintly like he was barely holding himself together. It wasn’t just the alcohol in his hand. He was using again, spiraling. But before you could say anything, JJ’s voice cut through the tension. “Hey! What the hell are you doing talking to her?”

You turned to see JJ storming toward you, his face dark with anger. He stepped between you and Rafe, his chest puffed out like he was ready to fight. “Back off, JJ,” Rafe said, his voice low but dangerous. “Or what?” JJ snapped, his fists clenching at his sides, “She’s with us now. Stay the fuck away from her.”

“y/n is not a damn possession,” Rafe snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to decide who she talks to.”

“Oh, and you do?” JJ sneered. “At least I don’t fuck up everyone I get close to.” The words hit their mark. Rafe’s face darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He took a step closer, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You don’t know anything about me, Maybank.”

“Yeah? I know enough,” JJ shot back. “Like how you treat everyone like shit, especially the people who actually care about you.” Rafe wanted to hit back, to make JJ feel even a fraction of the pain he carried every second. But then your voice cut through the chaos.

“Enough!” you shouted, stepping between them, trying to cut the tension between the boys while no one seemed to notice the rising tension between you and Rafe except Sarah, who was standing a little further away, her eyes narrowing as she watched the scene unfold.

Rafe turned his attention back to you, his face twisting with anger and something deeper—something like pain. “You don’t get it, do you?” he spat, his voice cracking. “You’d be better off without me.”He saw the way his words cut you, saw the way you fought to keep your composure, not being able to look away from him. But it was true. He couldn’t give you what you deserved. And the only way to protect you was to keep you as far away from him as possible.

“Let’s go,” JJ said, grabbing your arm gently but firmly. “He’s not worth it.” You let JJ pull you away, your mind spinning as Rafe’s words echoed in your ears. But as you glanced back over your shoulder, you caught one last glimpse of him—standing alone, his body stiff like he was trying to hold himself together.

Sarah was looking at you as you returned, her brows furrowed as she pieced everything together. You knew she’d ask questions later, but for now, you let JJ lead you back to the group, his warmth steadying you even as your heart ached for the boy you couldn’t seem to leave behind.

LINKS .ᐟ series’ masterlist

TAGS .ᐟ @gibson-g1rl @beausling @littlelamy @rafescokewhore @starkeysprincess @starzify @rafeysbunny @rafeslacy @whinyangel @dolcekissy @httpsdrewstarkey @cherrygirlfriend @drewspinkbunny @rafesangelita @drewspinkbunny @rafey-baby @cameronsprincess @maybanksbaby @nativegirltapes @lilithblackkk @maybankslover

[gossippool]

fuck it 1.5k words of logan exposition that's part of the first chapter of an unpublished fic i won't be done with anytime soon. this backstory is partially inspired by the origin comic. tw mentions of violence, death, child death, self-harm etc. etc.

-----

The first time Logan killed an innocent, he was ten years old. He could name many moments in his life that felt monumental—'canon events', or whatever shit Wade calls it—but if he really had to name a point of no return for him, it would be then. All the way back then. He wonders about fate, often. If it was possible that things could ever be different. Then he remembers. His past comes back to him in flashes still, even after two hundred years. His ribbed, rough bones splintering the skin between his knuckles for the first time, the deafening quiet of the night broken by his howls and his mother’s screams, the gunshot before that, as if all the world had been contained in that one room. Her body underneath his, wounds gaping—maybe her throat, maybe her chest, or her stomach—and guzzling dark, dark wine. His grandfather’s mouth moving, the spit on his tongue. The words made no sound—he couldn’t remember what his grandfather had said, nor what he'd sounded like. But he'd known. So he'd run.

He'd had a decent childhood, before it all. Decent enough that he hadn't thought of life anywhere else, at least, or maybe that spoke of something that was the opposite of decency. Regardless, he'd felt… clean. He hadn't known about his claws then. How could he? His own mutant brother had been cast away, erased from the family legacy, with no explanation as to why. But now his claws resided in him like an itch under his skin, dead weight when he moved. He felt their presence in his fingertips even when they were retracted, and now when he thought back to the before, before he'd had the claws, he thought that maybe he'd felt them then too. He just hadn't known it.

It had been an accident, killing the mother he'd longed to see, the one he'd missed even when she was alive. But it being an accident changed nothing.

He'd been filled with a quiet sort of rage since then, the kind that simmered low in his blood, unnoticable on some days but intrinsically a part of him nonetheless. His anger was its own organ that kept his body running unprompted, and if he let himself accept that he was angry, let himself feel it, it took everything in him to not claw his way through the anger. To not claw at himself until he reached bone, to hear the unnatural, inhuman screech of metal against metal.

He'd released it in increments, chopping wood and lugging wheelbarrows and running with the wolves, and beating up the occasional man who deserved it. That was in the early stages, when every exhale released puffs of anger into the cold air.

On bad days—the bad days were the normal days—he wondered if he had been born defective. Not just in his claws, but born to be full of fear and hatred, to not know where to put any of it. Born to reap the consequences of his brother's failures in the form of neglect and frigid silences, of the bond of family only through blood and nothing more. In unleashing himself, he'd become his brother, maybe. A mantle of generational disappointment passed on for him to bear.

On worse days when he hated himself to the point of self-mutilation, he recognised that it may have been inevitable. A buildup of pressured anger in centuries-long microdoses that eventually forced its way through his fissures and burst out of him, destroying everything in its path.

He sits in this bar now, indistinguishable from all the others, unwanted again, always running. He bears the looks and the whispers like a wooden cross, dragging the weight of it on his back down Gethsemane streets—sacrificing himself for what the people feel it right give him, what he knows he deserves: contempt. The bartender pours him another drink with what looks like anger, but also pity. Pity is kinder than anything he’s been dealt for the past few years.

He holds the shot glass like a communion cup, imagines that in it is his mother’s blood. When he drinks it, he thinks forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me of my sins. But he knows he won’t be forgiven. He doesn’t know anymore if he even wants to be. Because his sins have been building up for two hundred years, clawing at each other to get to the insurmountable top. He is sin. Every inch of his body, from the roots of his hair to the skin under his fingernails, has been stained with blood that he has washed off over and over again but still feels. If he’s forgiven, if all his sins are taken away, he doesn’t know if there would be anything left of him but metal and a hardened heart.

It may absolve him of some guilt, he thinks, if he could say he remembers them all—all the people he’s killed, all the ways he killed them. He doesn’t. They hadn’t been important enough to him then, besides the life that they held in them that he starved to take away. And when his claws pierced through their flesh and muscle and bone, he drank up the lifelessness in their eyes like morphine. The high kept him alive, and rotted his insides. It quenched his thirst, but it didn't make him feel good. Then again, when does addiction ever?

He can't even remember the X-Men. When he had, when they'd crossed his thoughts in passing when they were alive, he could see them clear as day in his mind, vivid in saturation and detail. Now when he tries thinking of them, all he sees is questions written in blood.

He does remember one of them, vaguely, of those he's killed. All of his past is a blur now, memories seen through a fogged-up window or in a yellowing photo album. But this one he sees with slightly more clarity: a girl with dark skin and darker hair, a carbon copy of her mother. He'd killed them both twice over. It was the first time he killed a child.

And he remembers her because he’d liked it when he killed her. The tabooness of it, the special sanctity of a child's life that he had forced away, so easily. Something that people hardly dare to do. Look, he remembers yelling, to dead bricks and corpses in a dead-end alley. I'll fucking show you. They’d thought he couldn’t go lower than he already had. They'd thought they couldn't hate him more. They had no idea what he was capable of.

He remembers her screams, bloodcurdling but still unmistakably a child’s, and then her eternal silence. He remembers her mother's begging, his own mother's begging. He remembers that he had not felt an ounce of guilt in that moment, nor remorse, nor any of the gravity of her life.

Now whenever he drinks, he drinks enough to kill himself a little, in remembrance of her.

Not that that's the only reason. Because underneath it all, despite it all, through it all, he is nothing but a selfish bastard. And it's fucked up, he knows it is, but when he stopped killing people it had felt like withdrawal. More potent than any withdrawal he could get from drugs like a normal person. It was a withdrawal he's stuck with because he's more tired of kiling people than he is thirsty to sate his urge. Not the urge to kill—just the thought of it now makes him sick, clogs his throat with blood—but the urge to take all his despair and anger out on something. Everything. And oh, he's tried. Not even killing the world and filling oceans with blood was enough.

So he drinks, because nothing can satiate that urge, and the alcohol makes him forget that it even exists. You can't think about anything when you're blackout drunk. You can't see how other people look at you when you're passed out. But even in unconsciousness his body remains wound tight and tense, and he wakes up sore through every muscle.

He doesn’t believe in God, but he’s lived long enough to know enough. And he knows that God wouldn’t differentiate between the good and bad people he's killed. Blood is blood is blood. The blood of the innocent mixes with the blood of the evil, turning the lake a plagued, undrinkable scarlet all the same.

And this isn't a children's book, a bedtime story, a movie where everything gets wrapped up in a nice little bow and they all live happily ever after. He fucking wishes.

All of it remains in the back of his mind like a prowler, laying dormant and ready to pounce, when Wade drags him out of that bar; when he decides to save that asshole's timeline; when Laura tells him he's the wrong guy until he isn't; when Wade says he's the best Wolverine. He looks around him, and all the world is still black and white and bleeding red.

[acupofinkedblood]

Biografts and Blackrock worker reader

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

• Working in Blackrock isn’t the best type of work for those who wishes to socialize and encounter more interactions with other fellow demons. And certainly when you are stuck in the robot manufacturing and inspection area — especially when it’s your job to keep an eye out for the Biografts before sending them away to be tasked with their assigned duties — and that just makes you even more lonely when the entire facility is almost all yours. Sure, there are still other managers like you in different parts of the department, but they have their own issues to get over with. That alone has summed up your current situation, no?

• At your first day at work, you can help but feel so out of place. The only time you can have a proper conversation with a living being is when your boss is telling you how to do this or how to deliver that, basically just tutoring you for the basics. You are presented with a newly created Biograft that is supposed to require your primary source of attention. It’s simple, your job, I mean. You are the inspector, it’s your job to make sure all the Biografts are properly functioning. And to do that, you just need to run a few tests in order to note down their responses as well as see if any of them needs a quick fix or a reboot

• Once you grasp all the things that you should know, your boss just hasta la bye bye you almost immediately without a trace. The way you are being left alone in the middle of a new environment by your boss like how one leave a kid in the daycare without looking back is absurdly hilarious to some extent, but once you get back to reality, it’s just you for now

• Only the sound of the mechanical automatic production line and the sound of your own breathing is available in the moment. And of course, the Biograft in front of your eyes. The people who are supposed to deliver it are outside. And honestly, they won't even bother to chat with you. That's how quiet people are in this specific department, expect for the big boss that is obnoxiously loud that you wish you don’t have to cross path with him twice because goddamn- that man literally speaks like a glitchy speaker that doesn’t know how to shut up

• Anyway, back to the Biograft. You always know the drill: It’s just a cold machine that is awaiting for your orders. You did what you were told: Run the tests, check up their parts, call the transporters as the Biograft has passed the trial and then another Biograft is sent to you. Again and again, batches over batches, your day just passes like that before your shift is up

• Soon enough, you don’t bother to look up at the transporters and wave them a goodbye like you did before since you know too well that they just walk away without a single thought. Hell, they are even more automatic than any other machines you have come into contact with, and the fact that they are still alive living demon is just- damn. You just stick your eyes into the files and the Biografts. You honestly feel like this repetitive task you are supposed to do everyday will probably lead you down to the path of self-isolation

• That is until you have enough of talking to yourself internally like a schizophrenic patient at work. You desperately yearn for some sort of interaction with a proper acknowledgement, not just a nod and go on anymore. Maybe you’re just too bored at this point, because then you start to think that maybe you might as well just go ahead and talk to the Biografts that are under your inspection. I mean, they do know how to respond to your words and all, technically that is enough for you to cling onto your last hope of interacting with someone or something that isn’t just your imagination

• You know that the Biografts can speak through a secondary function that lets it mimic the speech patterns of demons, and it can even copy your way of speaking or even other’s voice. That is a part of your trial to test their functioning abilities, aside from their obedience and their accuracy when performing a certain mission. That means they aren’t just a bunch of metal that will stay quiet all the time. Although you are probably the first person they ever interact with in a proper way, you have your hope up for their default setting. And that’s how you throw away all the other doubts and just strike a conversation with some of the Biografts

• It’s not like you have any reputation left to lose. This whole facility is all yours and others are too busy minding their own business rather than paying attention to your odd behavior. And hey, talking with killing machines casually isn’t that bad like some people think!

• You have spoken to a lots of them in the previous trials before, certainly when some comes back for inspection, they remember you. That just fuels your will power even more at the goal of befriending the Biografts. Thankfully that their data allows them to learn and to speak with certain calculations, it does resemble a normal conversation somewhat. Although it’s pretty simple, the way they talk since most of the time they just state their presence or answer your questions dutifully. But well, you can live with that

• It is a good thing that it’s the Biografts’ nature to be curious about its surroundings, which includes you and some of your actions as well. They watch over everything you do like a hawk, careful pay attention to you as a source of new knowledge to be aware of. They don’t have an actual personality, you know it well. The artificial intelligence inside their chip allows them to get access to a certain fields of knowledge from continuously learning new information each days. The Biografts can even form a beehive type of mindset, when a Biograft can exchange the thing it has learned to another Biograft through collective messages. It’s their nature to continue to learn and to adapt, mostly for combat-related situations

• Nonetheless, they have proven to have little a sense of self which is portrayed through the way they view the world around them. Curiosity is such a miracle in which it can achieve the impossible, and the same principle can be applied to these Biografts. They do notice at you too, and wonder the thing that is related to you. You are their inspector after all. Moreover, you are probably one of the only few person who they spend a time with after being born into this world

• While running through some tests for them, you will be faced with certain questions regarding of what are you doing. What is the reason for you to want them to do this or do that? What do you mean by your choice of words? How do you do this specific thing that seems new in their minds? Questioning is a form of self-taught, that’s why they can’t help but to question you. Your gear is also on the topic, whether it’s for combat or not. Sometimes they might even ask why are you so insistent on having someone to talk to. You just shake your head with a slight grin at how embarrassing your reason sounds like

• Of course, you can speak to them freely and will be given an answer for everything you have mentioned. You can just talk about your days to them, tell them about your personal opinion of some certain topic or just mess around with them jokingly. Although asking them tricky questions are highly not recommended unless you want to see their data going overloaded because of what you said. You don’t want to accidentally make them shut down just because you have asked them what is the color of an electric sheep, right? It won’t be a pretty sight to the eyes

• One thing that you shouldn’t do too obvious is to try and get them to understand the concept of freedom or life or basically anything that will jam with their whole purpose of existence to serve in war and conflict. You are the inspector, yes, you do have quite the impact on them. Though if you still want to do that, just do as you wish, but keep it subtle. There are still cameras that can record your voice in its database. Surely Subspace won’t like it when you try to get his creations to oppose him, he isn’t going to let it happen. You might even get the warning from the Biografts themselves to be aware of your words. So just a head up, it’s a risky thing to do

• You adore all of them. Growing fond of a bunch of Biografts really mess up your mind. You don’t just give them nickname, oh no no, that’s too common and you don’t have that much nicknames for over a thousand Biografts out in the wild. You literally call them by their series number in details without biting your tongue. SFOTH above, you have mesmerized all of their series numbers by heart. Every single one of them, there is no way for you to ever forget which one is the one you are looking at in the moment despite them being all identical

• The way you’re so focused on the Biograft as if they are an actual living demon is almost absurd. Yet that’s still what you do, no? To think that you even recognize each of them enough to the point that you have pick out some of them to be your favorites, that’s definitely some unique talent you have there

• It’s ridiculous when you see them as some sort of individual with different purposes. Some you see as friends — who you can chat the days away before they have to leave after you have done inspecting them — that title is usually used for the Biografts that you have known before and had the chance to see them again, either while they are being maintained or sent back to you for certain reasons. Some you see as your children, which are usually referred to those who you have only met the very first time before while doing your job. Of course, you don’t baby them because that’s just weird, though you do look out for them more than usual

• The Biografts aren’t exactly dull on its own. They have grown familiar with your presence aside from their creator. You hold an important position in each other their mindset, someone that isn’t just a typical demon. Although they will always see Subspace as the top priority since he is their cereator, his orders will be the upmost command that none dares to oppose. Still, they do view you as someone who is somewhat as equally significant as their creator. You’re just a tad behind Subspace, trust me. They are — for the lack of better words used specifically for robots — congenial, around your presence. Easy to talk to than others, at least

• You definitely get questionable looks from other managers when you waving the Biograft a ‘bye bye’ like a parent sending their child away after they have grown up. People might start a rumor on how you seem to lose your sanity quicker than anyone else in the division, but you don’t give a damn anymore. You know that you care for them a bit too much, then again, what else are you supposed to do?

• You know that they are just heartless machines, yet you can’t help yourself but grow attached to all of them. They provide you better company than any other demon in the division can ever imagine. You have found comfort in seeing them, talking to them everyday at work like they are alive in flesh. From friends, children and family — the Biografts manage to fill all the important roles you need in your life: You talk to them like how friends do, you care for them like how a parent would to a child, and you form a deep connection with them like they are actually your family. Is that odd? Definitely. Do you need a therapist? Maybe. Will that stop you from enjoying their presences? Hell no

• Sometimes you just wish that you can keep at least one of them beside you for company on the daily basis. Of course, there is no way Subspace will grant you that privilege. You can only dream about it whenever you take a break from your shift. Seeing them surely makes you feel better. For the time being, you just need to look forward to seeing the Biografts again when a new day comes

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Note: There’s not much I can write about the Biografts, so sorry for the limited quality(๑•́ -•̀)

Note 2: A friend from afar of mine is calling me to listen to his gossip with his friend to make me feel better, it works because the tea is HOT

[opiopal]

one thing that often crosses my mind, is the brothers watching mams fall in love with Mc and they just can’t bring themselves to be upset about it,

Because all of a sudden he’s getting lost in thought staring at them, he starts to actually save some money just to buy things for them, he gets bashful whenever they’re around and tries extra hard to tell a story or two were he seems cool.

At first they think it’s laughable(and maybe a little pathetic), but every time they go to tease him about it the only thing he can really manage is a simple “shut up” before continuing on, mostly because he knows they’re right. He’s inlove with a human.. and so what!? He’s the Avatar of Greed! One of the seven lords! The Great Mammon! He can do whatever he wants, however he wants, whenever he wants!

but as time passes he doesn’t even say anything back to them when they go to tease, maybe one day asmo leans over to ask what he could be staring at- only for mams to not even mumble anything back or look his way, because he’s just so occupied with staring at Mc who’s just across the room. Maybe they aren’t even doing anything, maybe they’re in class and the teacher called mc up to do a problem on the board- or maybe they’re at diavolos place and mc is chatting with someone. Whatever it is, the look in mammons eyes is enough to not make asmo offended from being blatantly ignored. Sure he knows he couldn’t understand what mams see’s in that human, but knows love when he see’s it. so, over time as asmo starts to watch his brother and the human, he gains a small appreciation for their dorky little relationship… though the appreciation stops being small since he fan girls whenever he see’s them holding hands or whenever mams rushes over to gift mc something small, only for mc to gush and act as if he just gave them the entire world! They’re both just the cutest together!! And he has no idea how he didn’t see it before!? Sure it’s funny to his older brother acting a fool,(when is he not?) but it’s adorable to watch him stumble over himself when doing something as simple as walking Mc to class! It’s just so cute!!

asmo then starts defending mams whenever the others say something or try to tease, maybe at first it’s a quick, “oh don’t say that,” “they’re cute! Don’t be so rude!” “Oh guys don’t tease,” But one day, when mc and mammon both leave the dining room, maybe to go grab something or to do a task that clearly doesn’t need two people, and asmo pipes up, ”you know, im serious,”

everyone turns to look at him a little confused,

“..as in they’re absolutely adorable together!”

“oh barf.” Levi says, not looking up from his phone, a few others mumble in agreement,

“what! You guys seriously can’t say you haven’t noticed how mammon is around them, it’s the cutest!”

There’s a moment of silence at the table and Asmo huffs,

“come on, when was the last time any of you saw him saving his money to buy someone ELSE something?? It’s clear he’s taking this seriously!”

they all take a second to think before exchanging looks with each other,

then from that point they all start to really pay attention- honestly, I could imagine mc and mams not really being quite open with their relationship when they finally do make it official, but they are REALLY bad at hiding it. so the entire household takes notice once the two start holding hands more often, giggling at seemingly nothing at all, running off together randomly at different points in the day, sitting much closer together during meals, and the two are always touching each other, from a full on grab to just leaning on each other. So of course instead of mocking mams for his feelings.. the teasing moves on to flustering the two about their very obvious not-so-secret relationship. Even luci joins in, occasionally asking mc when they’ll marry his little brother, which flusters the both of them. And unfortunately causes the others to join in.

at least they’re supportive<3

[20001541]

There's a small theory that I've had for a while but recently felt more validated after seeing what Hori said on the popularity poll livestream

The thing he said being this:

Which is interesting because we all know he infamously said back in 2018 that he planned on revealing Hisashi at some point in the story. Which as we know today never happens. So, it leaves us with the question, what happened?

Because in order for him to say this he must've had something in mind at the time for what he wanted to do with Hisashi. The first time we learn his name is in the BNHA Ultra Archive book that came out in 2016. Never officially translated into English btw so this is all we got.

Anyways this means he had something in mind for Hisashi for a while then, but then he changed his mind and kept him out of the story. He feels he put everyone and he wanted to put in the story and wouldn't change anything.

My theory is that he might've planned to make DFO a thing initially but decided it would be best if the story goes a different route and kept it out.

Because why else would you say you plan to reveal who is Hisashi is at some point only for your story to end with no sight of him? Not even a tiny mention. Let us not also forget how people pointed out that Inko's birthday 07/04 spells out nana shi in Japanese which is like Nana's name. It's also canon that All Might pointed out how her hair reminds him of Nana. So I wonder if he also planned on her being Nana's daughter and had AFO target her as a result. This was also something I found to be rumored among some Japanese fan forums. Even though the translations I got weren't great the little I could understand suggested it.

And even though I lost interest in DFO and stopped believing before the story ended this one panel has always stuck out to me.

Hori is insanely detailed oriented, like during Dabi's first appearance he's in front of a hair salon which foreshadowed that the hair colour he has now isn't his real one and was used as proof in Dabi is a Todoroki theory. So the fact that Hori chose to place the "my only family" bubble over a shot where Izuku is watching everything unfold stands out to me even now. Keep in mind this chapter released in 2018 which was the same year Hori said he planned to reveal Hisashi. Maybe could be me reaching, but still something to consider.

I'm not entirely sure of all of this actually and could be wrong. But it's an interesting theory as to what could've happened behind the scenes.

Another theory that I'm less sure of but can see it being possible is that the elements of the reveal he intended for DFO ended up being used for the reveal with Tomura.

Think about. It's actually crazy how similar the Tomura reveal in 419 was similar to what a lot of DFO fans were hoping for all these years.

AFO took on a whole new identity to get close to a civilian, he helped build the home Tomura would live in, played a part in Tomura's conception, he took away his original quirk, set Tomura up as a successor, and AFO had a big reveal moment that left Tomura devastated... like I remember several posts that theorized things like this about Izuku. The reason why AFO targeted Kotaro in the first place was because he was Nana's son and I remember that Inko being targeted for being Nana's daughter was a big part of the Inko Shimura theory.

I don't know for sure if this reveal was built off of his ideas for a DFO reveal he had initially planned. Really it depends on when he first created the idea of AFO being behind all the terrible things in Tomura's life and if he even had DFO in mind in the first place at some point.

But it's fascinating either way. Either DFO fans were right in how they interpreted some aspects of the story to suggest DFO were true and correctly guessed some aspects of the story that were recycled for a different reveal later on, or they were completely off the mark and by coincidence some of their theories for DFO ended up being eerily similar to how the 419 reveal ended up being.

[red-doll-face]

You're much younger than Arthur. Maybe he doesn't mind as much as he thinks he does...

Low-High Honor Arthur Morgan x fem. reader who is younger than him.

Some head canons that ended up way too long 😭😔 hope you don't mind too much! I am 23 currently so these are really in the mind of reader being over 18 at least. At 23, Arthur is still way older than me so I guess it's just what does it for me! Includes both high and low honor versions. Thanks for reading!! and please let me know if you like them 😭

Warnings: NSFW 18+ only pls, Daddy Kink, Innocence Kink, Corruption Kink, nasty boy low honor arthur being toxic and manipulative (not too badly tho) its ok sweetie arthur is here to balance it out 😳💖💓🥹😳😭

:High Honor:

He had convinced himself that he was way too old for you and quite honestly shut that shit down the second he found his mind wandering to how pretty you were, your own natural beauty catching his eye. He can think you’re sweet and nice, that you understand him and go out of your way to talk to him. Doesn’t matter, he mentally smacks himself for thinking of you past anything like “mentor” or something. He might steal a glance once in a while but he feels bad about it every time. It’s just that, stolen, because in his mind, you don’t belong to him and you never will. He’s more than 10 years your senior, it makes him feel like a dirty old man. Arthur has a strange conflicted energy around you, like he wants to spend time with you but also doesn’t want to come off as creepy or too attached to something that can never be. If you make efforts to be around him, he does appreciate it and will stick around but he always cuts it sort of short. 

Will subtly try to remind himself how young you are, referring to you as girl or kid to others or even to you. He has no idea you think that’s kinda hot. Will jokingly say you’re too young for certain things and thinks it’s cute if you pout and try to fight back against him. Holds alcohol out of your reach and clicks his tongue at you. When you point out the other young women in camp, he’s giving in but only a little, he still watches out for you. He’s protective in the sense that he does see you as someone who needs protecting. He can lie and say it's because of your age but really he just likes you and doesn’t want to admit it.

Anytime you try to get him to understand that you think of him as more than a vague father or brother figure, he’s missing the signs, straight over his head. Light jabs at his age, like calling him Mr. Morgan; make him roll his eyes a little bit but you can catch an endeared smile on his face. Truly a bit hard headed when it comes to noticing that you tease him with more than poking fun in mind. You have to find reasons to touch or kiss him on the cheek. He still might miss physical signs, real dumb dumb behavior. It’s impossible in his head that you would think of him like that. 

If you can get him to open up, having emotionally charged conversations with him is a good way to get him to understand that you care about him at least. Arthur just likes to feel like you’re listening and that you like him enough to care about his thoughts and feelings. If you offer comfort to him in hard times, he’s lowkey simping for you…He can be very closed off, not all too willing to share his truths, especially with someone who may not even understand but if he can be himself around you and you don’t judge, he can forget his feelings about your youth for a moment. 

It’s hard for him to initiate because he’s convinced that if anything were to happen between the both of you, it would be wrong or perverse in some way. If you tell him you like him, he might try to tell you otherwise, trying to get you to think differently of him. Suggests you find someone closer to your age or someone who hasn’t led a life like he has. It’s all really sad because he’s also insinuating that he’ll ruin your life in some way. 

The first time he kisses you will be way too gentle, you’ll hardly call it a kiss. He thinks of himself as too rough for you so he holds back like 99% in an attempt to seem more like a gentleman. It takes you grabbing onto him and deepening your kiss for him to give you more. He’s gentle, hands on your cheeks, holding you like you’ll break if he squeezes too hard. 

Expect a whole lot of “this ain’t right,” or “I’m too damn old for this,” at first. But once you get him to give in, there’s no going back. He gives you his all, no matter what. He does get a bit bashful making things official, especially when there's something to be said about it. John calling him something terrible for being with you like cradle robber or something puts a sour look on his face but he tries his best to power through it. “She ain’t a goddamn baby,” “She might as well be, how old are you again? Or did you lose count?” “Shut the hell up, John.” Hugs and kisses from you definitely make it worth it. He gets a bit used to it, letting things like that stop affecting him so much. 

He thinks he doesn’t deserve you and some small part of him will always believe that you could still be better off with someone else but he gets greedier and greedier with you, the more you love on him, he doesn't want to even think of you with anyone else. He's still so confused that you think he is attractive at his age. He’ll show you pictures of him when he was young and he sort of expects you to say that he was more appealing back then. But you don’t; you just pet his face, his scratchy beard and his sun kissed skin. Arthur lets you see his soft smile when you say you love him right now, more than anything. 

Taking your firsts might put a weird (not bad though) taste in his mouth. First kisses or virginity, he’s nervous he’ll come up short and not be what you're expecting. But his best is more than enough to make you happy. He wants to make your first experiences feel special and memorable, the last thing he wants is to put pressure on you, he just puts way too much pressure on himself. He ends up being just a little too gentle. He needs a lot of praise, a lot of egging on to get more confident. If you beg and plead for more, he can’t say no, he always gives you what you want. Getting him to be more “out there” is a little more difficult. He’s embarrassed to admit he might like when you playfully call him daddy or your old man. The guilt kind of turns him on but he has a hard time coming to terms with that. At his own pace, he’ll indulge more if you’re into it. You’re crossing some weird wires in his head, he swears. If you say it to him in the right context, he’s giving you a shocked look and a halfhearted scolding as he tries not to get turned on in the middle of what he’s doing. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl,” makes you giggle at him. 

:Low Honor:

He might also be somewhat against it but for different reasons. He thinks girls like you have high expectations and it annoys him. But if he thinks you’re pretty that’s what he thinks. He doesn't let anybody get too close so if he’s thinking about you as more, your age is not something that stops him from doing so. It does just take him some time to think about letting you close enough for anything more than his usual rude demeanor and standoffish personality. 

The only way he'll know he likes you as a bit more than another thankless and ungrateful face in the crowd of people he begrudgingly provides for is if you thank him for bringing money or things back to camp. He gets a little quiet, trying to suss out ulterior motives but he thinks you’re quite adorable. Looks away and says it’s nothing. He’ll indulge you, doing things that are just for you, just to hear you say thank you again. 

He teases you more, emphasizing how young you are, in a way that rubs him the right way. Calling you little girl, intimidating you with his size, or keeping you away from certain things like cigarettes. “These are for grown ups, sweetheart,” If you’re a brat around him, he likes a bit of brat taming. “Dunno, might need to take you over my knee if you’re gonna act like that,” has you gasping and stuttering out a clumsy response.

It’s easy to sway him into taking things further with you. He isn’t one for hanging around the camp, so close to everyone else anyway, he likes his alone time. Catching him when he’s by himself, smoking a cigarette, is a good time to get on his nerves enough to force his hand a little bit. Stand too close to him and run your fingers over the handle of his gun and ask if you can hold it, he’s so close to snapping. The look in his eye under the shadow of his hat makes you feel 5 degrees warmer. “You better quit playin’ games with me, girl. Not sure you know what you’re askin’ for,”  Maybe not the best idea to defiantly ask him to show you.

Then you’re sat on his knee, he’s pressing his mouth into yours, sloppy kisses with no regard for whether you think it’s too much for you or not. He’s shoving his tongue into your mouth, one hand to steady you and the other groping your tits. He’s mostly trying to get you to be as noisy as possible. 

He’s really not guilty at all. Maybe a little but he doesn’t let guilt affect his actions. It may be true that maybe you could be with someone better than him but if you’re with him, you know what you’re in for. You’re his girl and there isn’t anyone else for you if he’s your man. Arthur may not admit it but in the back of his head, there is a voice that whispers to him that one day you’ll leave him behind. He overcompensates for it, doing what he can to see you smile, rather reluctantly asking if you’re happy with him once in a while. If you ask why, he’s unclear, “Jus’… makin’ sure,” your enthusiastic yes, followed by a kiss on his cheek actually flatters him a little, rubbing his neck, a quiet ‘good’ is all he has to say. 

If he gets shit for being with you, he brushes it off. He might get flack from some well meaning people, Hosea or Abigail might tell him to leave you alone, that he should know better. But he thinks they should know better too, Arthur has very little restraint. So if a young pretty thing wants to be his girl, he’s not saying no. Any notions of how guilty he should be don’t come from him. He may think he’s a sinner and a bad man but those things don’t stop him from wanting you. And Arthur always gets what he wants when he can help it. 

Arthur has never given too much thought about what women think of how he looks. He certainly doesn’t think too much of himself and knows he isn’t exactly in his prime, looks wise at the very least. He’s not too confident about his looks or his body really, he’s more confident when it comes to his abilities and skills. So if you tell him you like the way he looks, he isn’t gonna argue, just pleasantly surprised if he happens to believe you. There’s a chance he thinks you're lying. He knows there’s something perhaps a bit off with you, most girls your age don’t give him a second glance but does it stroke his ego when you stare at him, bite your lip when he grabs his belt, pulling all of your attention to the size of his hands and his crotch. 

If you’re softer about your affections for him, he’s happy to accept them too, you’re his little angel, but he has every intention to pull you down from heaven to make you his. You can start with soft touches over his face, rubbing up over his shoulders and chest but he’s quick to pull you deeper with him. His teeth nip softly at your lips, his hands roam all over you.

He's eager to take your firsts, in his twisted little head, he knows he can regulate what you think is normal. He doesn’t have to play gentle and sweet, he bites and sucks marks on you, slaps your ass pretty hard. Arthur’s happy to have himself be the man that ruins you for other men, he’s your first and your last. 

Sorry but he’s kind of toxic, he likes the way you do things like kiss him, or touch him, take him in your mouth; but sometimes he puts on a little bit of an unimpressed face, not exactly bored or anything, just enough to see you try harder to please him. He always gives in; especially when he can tell you’re trying. His proud little smirk and affection are something you might have to work for. Your inexperience is the perfect opportunity to have you eager to make him happy. 

Huge innocence kink, he loves to corrupt you, teach you about what a man does with a woman he likes. Even better if you have no clue, or you think babies come from kissing or something, god is he eager to fuck all of that up. He’s all for you calling him daddy too, the guilt or the imagery or whatever doesn’t do it for other people just makes it so much more appealing to him. Most of the time, he likes to keep your affairs private but once in a while, he’ll show out, just to show who you belong to. If people happen to overhear the racy things you two talk about and they give you a weird look, he just has a knowing smirk for the eavesdropper.

Can you tell that I think age gaps are hot? RDR let me fuck that middle aged man right neow!!! When will they let RDO be about dating Arthur Morgan??? 😔😔😔😔wish he was at least a fuckin stranger mission or something SIGHHHH anyway Thanks for reading and pls let me know if you liked it! Otherwise I'll feel like a freak LMAO

[peachhcs]

i feel like she’s got to realize at the end of the day she got two national titles with the school and three great seasons that’s so much she got there that she should take the offer because it’s her future and if she turns it down she may never get another offer

the side plot has begun 🤗 and my cliff hangers have returned

au masterlist

“wow..this is amazing, sweetie. we’re so proud of you,” ellen rushed out after reading the lengthy letter from the head coach. jim reread it more closely after looking at it from over his wife’s shoulder. samy embraced her mom, the excitement not as prominent on her features.

“this is so big for you. wow, i have no words,” the older woman laughed as she looked at the letter again, but she finally caught her daughter’s somewhat solemn expression.

“you don’t seem as excited?” ellen pointed out.

“no, no, i am. i am. i just..i guess i’m still processing it all. they’ve been looking at me since my freshmen year and they want me right away..” the girl trailed off a bit. she couldn’t believe a program like theirs had eyes on her since she was 18 and now they wanted her. of all people they wanted her on their team right away.

but at what cost? if samy signed on, she’d lose her last year at mich. what about all the friends she’s made? hannah? the two had plans for a house already next year. her teammates? she couldn’t just abandon those girls she’s spent so much time with? they needed her for her last year.

“are you thinking about not taking the offer?” jim approached the subject and samy flushed, burying her face into her hands.

“i don’t know. my mind’s been all over the place,” the younger girl admitted. she thought driving home to talk to her parents would help lead her in the right direction, but samy still felt incredibly lost.

“what would make you not wanna take it?” ellen wondered, her hand rubbing her daughter’s shoulder.

“everything i’ve built at mich. my senior year of college? hannah? the team? my last collegiate season with the program i basically helped build? there’s a lot,” samy rambled off and her parents exchanged a glance.

“and what would you lose if you didn’t take this offer?”

“maybe my only chance to go pro at a sport i love and have devoted my life to since i was like 12,” the brunette laughed a bit sadly.

“honey, we want you to make the best choice for yourself. this is such an amazing accomplishment right here. there’s people who see your talent and the skill you possess. remember when we were having a similar conversation about if you wanted to stick to hockey or take on soccer full time? back then, there wasn’t a pro league for women’s hockey yet and you knew soccer would bring you a lot more opportunity in the future. this is one of those moments, babe. a full offer right in front of you,” ellen said gently and samy sighed. she eyed the invitation again and everything in her mind was pulling her in two different directions.

“have you told your brothers yet? will?” jim asked and the girl shook her head.

“i haven’t told anyone except you guys.”

“maybe you should call them. they might have some insightful advice or a different perspective we aren’t saying,” her dad offered and samy knew he had a point.

her brothers always had something good to say, but she also knew they would tell her to take the opportunity. she knew will would tell her to because then they’d be closer if she moved out to california.

“yeah, i probably should,” samy nodded and her parents squeezed her shoulders.

“we’re gonna be proud of you no matter what you decide, okay? don’t think you’ll disappoint us if you decide to stay or go,” ellen whispered before sending her upstairs to have some space.

the brunette wandered back into her room, collapsing on her bed to just breathe for a second. she found her phone and trailed to the sibling group chat—a wash of deja vu hitting her back when she was calling her brothers to help her decide what college to go to. it was all so familiar being home in her childhood bedroom with no one but her parents downstairs.

luke joined the call first and then jack’s face appeared a second later in the same frame, “what’s up pop?” jack grinned.

“hi moose, hi rowdy,” samy smiled seeing them. luke readjusted his phone so she could see both of them on the couch together.

quinn connected a second later in his own apartment. he waved, “what’s up crew?”

“hey q-tip,” jack snickered at the nickname making quinn roll his eyes.

“i thought we talked about not calling me that,” the older boy said.

“we did, but i’m still calling you it,” the middle hughes snickered.

“i miss you guys. i wish you were here,” samy smiled sadly.

“uh oh, whenever baby hughes gets sappy, it means something’s wrong. what’s wrong?” jack immediately said and the girl flushed at how well he knew her.

“nothing bad..i just..” she trailed off and eyed the letter now on her desk, “i got an offer to play pro out in california,” she finally got out.

the three boys’ eyes widened in disbelief.

“no fucking way. holy shit, samy! that’s awesome!” luke quickly exclaimed.

“what team?” quinn asked.

“bay fc. apparently head coach montoya has been watching me since my freshman year and he wants me on,” the girl explained briefly which only heightened her brother’s excitement.

“holy shit, pop. that’s amazing. i always knew you had it in you,” jack grinned.

“but he wants me on right away which means i forfeit my last year at mich to move out to san francisco,” samy explained the downside.

“ah, the catch. there’s always a catch,” luke tsked.

“i mean that’s basically what moose and i did. we played at mich for two years before going pro. it sucks it has to be your last year but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” quinn rambled a bit and the girl nodded. she bit at her lip and luke quickly caught onto her expression.

“are you considering not taking it?” he voiced his thought out loud.

“you have to, sam. bay fc is a wicked good team. they’re like top eight right now. if the head coach has been watching you since freshmen year that has to mean something,” jack quickly cut in.

“i know, i know, i guess it’s just a lot to process right now. i mean how do i leave a program i helped build and bring two national titles home to? hannah? my teammates? my last year at mich in general. that’s not something i can just easily walk away from. it may be easy for you to say, jack because you never went to college,” the last part was a harsh dig and samy knew that.

“okay, okay, you’re right, pop. walking away from a team like that isn’t easy,” quinn stepped in before an argument escalated.

“sorry, i didn’t mean it like that,” she quickly backtracked. her emotions were definitely getting the better of her right now.

“i get it, it’s not easy. you know everyone would want you to take it though, right? that team, your coach, hannah, they’d all want you to take that in a heartbeat after everything you’ve done for the school and the program,” jack came a little softer.

“does will know?” quinn wondered and the brunette shook her head.

“i haven’t mentioned anything. i drove home after getting the letter to tell mom and dad. you guys are the only people besides them who know right now.”

“well, he’s gonna be ecstatic that you’ll be so close by,” luke grinned and the girl flushed.

“but don’t make a decision just because you’ll be close to your boyfriend,” quinn said and the girl rolled her eyes a bit.

“and when have i ever done that?” she said, but the older boy shrugged.

“just reminding you.”

“what do you think i should do?” samy asked her brothers honestly.

“you know we can’t answer that for you, pop. it’s your choice. your life. your dream,” jack said and the girl nodded.

“but if you were me, what would you do?”

“i’d remember the really great three years i’ve had with my teammates and friends and let that carry me into the next chapter in my life. the legacy you’ve left there isn’t gonna be one anyone forgets, samy,” luke hummed.

the younger girl sighed knowing she had a lot to think about in the next three weeks. it should’ve been such an easy decision for her, but the idea of leaving behind everything she’s ever known in a place that’s built her family wasn’t as easy thinking about.

[gosteon]

TWO! OF! THEM!

[deoidesign]

Can you make a tutorial on how you world build and make ocs? I can't seem to make any people in my brain, but then when I try to come up with environments jobs, beliefs and little details to slowly come up with someone, I think: well I don't really know how people have influenced the world- it's a weird loop

To be honest, I don't think I can! Writing is an extremely personal process. The way I write is directly related to how I process things, what I find important in stories, years of my own analysis of my and other's writing, etc... The way you write will be unique to you, as well. But I can explain how I personally think of it.

The short answer:

Write. Write anything and everything, it's a tool to explore your ideas. Analyze your own writing, and write more. Then, as you discover which ideas you want to develop, write more to explore them more. You won't know what you want otherwise!

The long answer:

I think this kind of loop is common. It's easy to feel like everything needs to be done "at once," because our job as writers is to make elements logically fit with each other for our readers. But as you've discovered, developing multiple elements simultaneously isn't really possible, or at least is extremely difficult.

Personally, when I think of writing, I break it into three major elements; characters, world, and plot. As much as possible every scene explores one or more of these, and as much as possible these three things tie back into what I personally consider most important: theme.

Everything I do is in service of the themes I want to present. Without them my events feel aimless. It can take a while to discover them, but they're the core of my work. You will have to discover what you feel is the core of yours. Analyzing other media helps with this too.

Concepts in your brain exist in a state of infinite potential. But when you start writing you have to start making choices, which removes potential as you move forward... But you have to move forward anyways. If there's ideas you want to explore later, you can always explore them later.

What this ends up meaning, to answer your question, is that I don't think of my characters as "people in my brain" or my worlds as something people have influenced... Not at their core, at least. They are tools that I use to represent specific ideas. Obviously they're also my blorbos, but mostly they're serving a specific narrative purpose.

So above all else... Write. Write, and discover what you're writing about, and then start over and write with that in mind. Keep doing this. But you have to write!

[sunsetzer]

On one hand, I want a final fantasy 6 remake, because the game is criminally underrated and the amount of fan content (which is all absolutely fantastic btw) is Not Enough for my neurodivergent, hyperfixating brain.

On the other hand, that would inevitably encourage more people to join the fandom, which would be great, except it seems these days the bigger a fandom gets the more toxic it becomes, and I really like what we have going on over here in our little corner. We all just love the game and its characters and nobody fights about who should and shouldn't date who or who you shouldn't like because they're ~problematique~. Nobody's trying to make one ship morally better than another, nobody's calling anyone names or threatening to doxx people who don't agree with their opinions. It's so peaceful and I love that for us. We're just vibing. Moisturized. Unbothered. In our lane. Flourishing.

[bayofwolves]

how did abeke take care of her braids when the team was on a mission is what i want to know

[mainfaggot]

just watched challengers at the cinema w my little sister. it was so intense wtf

[featherymainffins]

Sometimes I think I must be a weird author because everyone keeps making "haha writing the middle part of the story is so hard haha the start and the ending are so easy baba" jokes but I never know how a story will end.

I start and then I write the middle, and then a logical conclusion happens.

[icewindandboringhorror]

everyday I miss miitomo .. aaa

[frog-with-no-therapy]

That villain scientist peter parker au won't leave my head

Worst of all is that it's evolving to something more, much more, and there are some twists?? And character development?? Found family that may end up tragically??

Also somehow Felicia Hardy, Johnny Storm, and Miles Morales become something of a main characters themselves in this, and their interaction with peter is sweet, funny, a bit tragic, and found family vibes over all

And listen I love this a lot but I also know that if I let this be any deeper I may start taking things into my own hands, and I absolutely can't afford nor the time nor the effort for that so please for the love of god someone take this off my hand and write something for it please