#SORRY SORRY LAST POST OF THE NIGHT I PROMISE.

[tequiilasunriise]

OMGOGMGOGMGOG WAITTT YOURE COOKING YOURE COOKING!!!!!

Zoey taking Mira’s “There is no we, Zoey. I don’t get to have a family” as a lashing out breakup. Losing Rumi already crushed Zoey beyond measure- but her partner angrily snapping at her and saying she doesn’t see them as together? That there is no WE? Mira with a hard line in her shoulders storming away from Zoey and leaving her alone, the weight of the promise ring burning and heavy from where it sat in her jacket’s inside pocket and pressed against her heart? OHHHH MANNN THE DEVASTATIONNNN!!!

Mira walked away from Zoey so easily, without a lick of hesitation- is she really that easy to walk away from?

Was- was everything she and Mira had together so meaningless Mira didn’t even bother to look back?

Is this really happening, is Zoey really going to be left all alone just like that?

Of course she is, because she’s too much, and not enough.

“If the Honmoon turning gold means it’s going to last forever, then I want our relationship to be just like that…” and now the Honmoon was broken beyond repair. And now they were broken beyond repair. The world is ending for everyone else- but for Zoey? Her world has already ended, because her world said, “There is no we, Zoey.”

On godddd can y’all imagine the post-movie Zoemira heart to heart??? Mira deeply apologizing for lashing out at Zoey, yes it was largely influenced by Gwi-ma’s shame manipulation but still, and then Zoey’s choking up. Her voice is cracking with rising sobs as she admits how she took what Mira said as Mira breaking up with her, about how watching Mira walk away felt like the floor suddenly shattered under her and swallowed her whole, and and and, “It was- it was so hard to even breathe, Mira. It just- that was it. We were over. Rumi was gone, and then to lose you too like, like that? It- I- it felt like dying. You w-weren’t coming back, a-an-and I was dying.”

Your honor where’s the extensive hurt/comfort post-canon scene of Mira near launching herself at Zoey and hugging her so, SO impossibly tight and Zoey scrabbling to dig her fingers into the soft fabric of Mira’s clothes and cling onto her like her life depends on it? Mira frantically spouting a thousand apologies for fucking up and hurting Zoey so insanely badly, tears streaming from her own squeezed shut eyes and she can’t even bring herself to beg for forgiveness because in what world would she ever be good enough to receive it??? Mira doesn’t beg for something that would make her sick in the stomach to receive (trading the shame Gwi-Ma gave her of “you don’t get to have a family” with her own self-inflicted guilt of “you don’t get to be forgiven”), instead she apologies over and over again, each “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry” punctuated with an equally hoarse and heartfelt, “I love you, I love you Zoey, I love you so, so much” because she needs her to know. If nothing else, Mira needs Zoey to know that she is loved. Zoey is so deeply and desperately loved- beyond measure, beyond language, to the point where Mira can’t ever hope to find the words to express it properly but please, god please, you need to know how much I love you.

I hurt you and I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, but I didn’t mean it.

There is a we, Zoey, and I love you.

Please believe me.

Please.

And Zoey can’t even say anything back because she’s got her head buried into the crook of Mira’s neck and sobbing away all the heartache and fear she felt that night as well as the lingering doubt she’s been grappling with during the hiatus. Yes, she’s happier than she’s ever been now that Rumi is truly herself nowadays and fully letting her and Mira in, and yet. And yet, despite the whole hopeful future ahead of her, Zoey couldn’t help but wonder, and worry, and pick at her thoughts like a scab. Zoey loves Mira, and she trusts her, or at least she wants to. But after that fateful night, Zoey’s been unsure whether or not Gwi-Ma made Mira say those awful words, or he simply amplified what was already there hiding under the surface. The idea that Mira has been secretly harboring, “There is no we, Zoey” this whole time until Gwi-Ma shook it out of her, well, it’s like a knife twisting her heart with a blade sharper than any she’s fought with.

But here? In Mira’s room, in Mira’s arms? She hears what Mira’s saying- “I love you, I’m sorry, I love you so much, I’m so, so sorry, please please please-“ and.

And she believes her.

Zoey’s voice is wrecked, her entire body heaving with each intense sob, and she nods, because she believes her.

They're wearing promise rings, your honor

In Korea, there's a tradition where couples will exchange promise rings- known simply as couples rings- on the 100th day of the relationship to signify their deep commitment to each other. These rings are oftentimes worn on the right ring finger, as opposed to the left, in order to avoid confusion for a wedding band while still maintaining a very significant weight + meaning.

Notice how Zoemira are wearing matching gold rings. On the same finger. The right ring finger, to be exact. Hm. And with NO other accessories. Hmm. Even though we have seen them accessorize with multiple rings before. Hmmmm!

I'm just saying, the animators made a choice and I am noticing said choice. I will now be imagining one million scenarios revolving around Zoemira promise rings, walk with me here.

One of them shyly proposing with a golden ring on the 100th day of being together, "If the Honmoon turning golds means it's going to last forever, then I want our relationship to be just like that..." and then the other rushes to grab her own box with her own golden ring and, laughing with tears in her eyes, offers up the ring with a choked up, "I was thinking the same thing."

Zoemira being very, very, VERY careful when taking off their respective rings and tucking them safely with their clothes when they go to the bathhouse together. When they're done bathing, it's the very first thing they check on and immediately slip back onto their finger before putting on any clothes.

They can't wear their promise rings during shows, public Huntrix outings like fan signings, etc etc lest they catch heated speculation from observant fans and paparazzi alike (dating is a hugeeee no-go for idols unfortunately), but that doesn't mean they don't have them on their person at all times if they can help it. Secured into inside pockets of their clothes, long stringed necklaces that stay underneath their tops, so on and so forth. I like to think, despite it being the easiest solution to avoid rumors and speculation, they choose to forgo wearing their rings on a different finger. These specific rings have a very specific symbolism- it's either gonna be on their ring finger or no finger. And if it's not gonna be on a finger, then they're still going to have it on their person in some way because unless absolutely necessary you best believe they're never taking those rings off.

^^^^Which is why they like to wear 'em when out in public when disguised!! Yay they can properly wear their promise rings and not get fleck for it!!! Like yes hold on Rumi we’re gonna go to the tonic doctor but we gotta get blinged up first. These matching rings are SUPER vital to the disguises and it’s INCREDIBLY important they’re worn properly ie on our ring fingers specifically. Don’t look too deeply into it (yeah I’m of the boat Rumi never realized Zoemira were already together pre-canon, to be fair girly had a lot on her plate to deal with) (she’s also never noticed their flirting attempts to get her to be their third but that’s neither here nor there).

Give me disguised!Zoey grabbing disguised!Mira by the hand to drag her through a busy and crowded marketplace, speed yapping through the one million lyric ideas she's recently come up with while mindlessly rubbing Mira's promise ring with her thumb, and in turn Mira intently listening and hoping her girlfriend doesn't let go of her hand anytime soon.

Give me Zoemira pinky promises featuring the promise rings. Oftentimes, Zoey will playfully challenge Mira with a, "Oh yeah? Pinky promise?" and stick out her pinky. Mira would then hook her own pinky with Zoey's and reply, "I promise" before rotating her own hand and in turn rotating Zoey's hand (since their pinkies are still hooked together), and as she's bowing her head and titling it a little not unlike the MOST dashing and charming she/her prince to ever grace this Earth, Mira maintains flirty eye contact with Zoey as she presses a sincere kiss to her beloved's promise ring as if giving a seal of approval punctuating how serious she is about keeping her word. It doesn't matter if this is the tenth or hundredth time Mira has pulled this move on her (Zoey has her make pinky promises often, what can she say she's just a silly little guy), the rapper's heart still bursts with warm, fluttery affection every single time. The way she'd giggle as Mira pulls back and shifts her hand so that their fingers are intertwined, oh yeah girly is SWOONING (and on god I can not blame her. Mira Huntrix is the high fashion prince charming she/her boyfriend. God bless handsome femmes).

Give me any and ALL content related to Zoemira promise rings because I got the typa greedy hunger talked about in the bible.

If you made it this far, thank you for coming to my TedTalk. I will now scream and cry in a corner now.

[lynnieverse]

I miss u girl

I miss y'all too omg. so sorry I've been gone for so long, I've been working THREE jobs this summer to pay off my car! now that classes are starting back up again I should be posting more regularly (no promises lol). as a thank you for sticking with me, here's a new one shot ;)))

also this is lowkey based on true events in my life between me and the KILLER so maybe i’ll write the happy ending i cant get 😛

lmk if you want a part two!!

friends don't // rafe cameron

oneshot

bsf!rafe x crushing!reader

synopsis: friends don't... but we do.

1.6k words

You stare down at the dim light of your phone, the words practically echoing in your head. 

good night y/n

Simple. To the point. Definitely not something that should make your heart almost beat out of your chest. 

You let your eyes fall closed as you take a deep breath, trying not to overanalyze like you always do. 

You and Rafe are just friends. That’s all. 

But friends don’t…

No. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’re in and click your phone off. Part of the problem is others feeding into your delusions, so you decide against texting your friends this time. 

Instead you roll over, the duvet crinkling satisfyingly at your movement, and hug a spare pillow tight against your chest. 

After dark is when you become a master director of all things make believe. Daydreaming is nice, but concocting a storyline about your life to fall asleep to is what you’re best at. 

This time you imagine his hand sliding into yours, pulling you down the beach with a secret smile that lights up his twinkling eyes. The scene fades to black and you’re in your living room, tucked against his side watching some RomCom. Your song starts playing through the speakers. You giggle, pulling him to his feet so he can twirl you around on the carpet. He has so much love in his eyes, and he kisses you as Taylor Swift fades to the background.

You can picture it in your head as clear as day. 

“And so it goes, you two are dancing in a snow globe ‘round and ‘round…” 

No; friends definitely don’t do this. 

Fuck.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

The next day you’re meant to meet Rafe early to talk about some upcoming surfing tournament he wants to enter. You must have overslept because the next thing you know the sun is blinding you through a crack in the curtains and someone is pounding on your front door. 

Grabbing your glasses, you stumble down the stairs with a yawn. Whoever decided to disturb your beauty sleep must have a death wish. 

You grip the brass knob and wrench the door open, interrupting Rafe mid-knock with an almost animalistic growl. 

“What the actual fuck, Rafe?!” 

He looks pissed, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a scowl. You’re suddenly aware of how awful you must look. Pajamas askew, hair a mess, and you hadn’t even taken your pimple patches off yet. Warmth floods your cheeks, but Rafe doesn’t notice. 

“I thought you died, Y/N, what the hell!” 

“Died?” your nose scrunches in confusion. A bead of sweat tickles your hairline and you usher him inside quickly. “It’s too hot to be letting all the air out, come on.” 

He follows you to the living room where you sit on the couch expectantly. “Well?” You ask.

“I’ve been calling you all morning, you were supposed to meet me and you just didn’t show up. What was I supposed to think?” 

You roll your eyes. “That I overslept? Literally anything else other than death, Rafe.” 

He blows out a harsh breath and runs a hand over his buzzed head. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry, though. I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” you say, biting your lip. No sleep from thinking about you.

His eyes soften and he takes the seat next to you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up… Well I did, but I wouldn’t have if I’d known.” 

You laugh lightly, patting his leg before immediately retracting your hand. “You’re all good, Rafey.” 

Was that too much? That was definitely too much. 

“So about this tournament…”

You groan, letting your body fall back into the cushions. “Do we have to talk about this?” 

“Okay drama queen. You’ll want to hear about it when you hear what first prize is.” 

You perk up, raising an eyebrow. “Go on.” 

“A trip to Hawaii, all expenses paid, for a week,” he smirks, knowing he piqued your interest. 

“Shut up! That’s so cool!” 

He watches as you bounce in place excitedly, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. 

“Yeah, so I really want to win this. Plus I get to take someone with me.” 

“Holy shit! Who would you take? Sarah? Topper?” You try not to bring attention to how close you’d become, your knee almost brushing his thigh. He gives you a look, eyebrows pulling together slightly. 

“You are really dense sometimes,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s rude, Rafe,” you say with a pout. He smirks but doesn’t reply, and you don’t push. That’s usually how your conversations went; one person would push a boundary, the other would ignore it, and time went on. It’s exhausting. 

“Why would I take my sister to Hawaii?" He throws his hands up. 

“Well I don’t know Rafe, why would you take me?” Your mouth snaps shut in immediate regret. You both maintain eye contact before someone looks away, silence washing over the room. 

“Okay,” Rafe clears his throat. “I guess that’s all I wanted to tell you.” He stands, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He takes his time walking to the door, jangling his keys to some unknown rhythm. You follow him silently, watching his T-shirt stretch across his flexing back. Shaking your head you push down those thoughts, the ones reserved for your pillow. 

Rafe stops with his hand on the knob, turning his head back to look at you. “We could—uh…we could go surfing later? You could give me some pointers?” 

You want to laugh. What a ridiculous notion. You give him surfing tips? He has at least a few years experience on you, and he knows it. But his puppy dog eyes keep you from pointing that out. 

“Um, yeah. That sounds like fun! Let me just eat some lunch and get ready; I can meet you there?” 

He smiles, dimples making your knees weak. “It’s a date.” 

Your eyes widen. 

Why does he say shit like that?

He has to know it kills you every time he gives and pulls away. 

His smile falters, but he keeps up the act, winking at you and slipping out the door. You were hoping to get a little space from him. From everything he encapsulates. But of course you folded like a house of cards. 

You always do. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

After surfing Rafe somehow convinced you to have a couple drinks at the local dive bar. 

You’re still in your damp bikini top, one of Rafe’s T-shirts from the trunk of his car hanging from your shoulders. The air smells like stale beer and Pine Sol, an odd but oddly comforting combination. The jukebox in the corner is humming some sixties tune, and Rafe’s leg is pressed against yours. The booth is small, but it feels intentional, and it’s making your head spin. 

“I’m telling you, Y/N, I think I inhaled half the ocean out there.” 

You snort into your drink, salt-crusted hair falling into your face. Before you can blink, warm fingers tuck said hair behind your ear. You snap your head up in surprise, but he takes his time pulling his hand away. His touch lingers, softly tracing the line of your jaw. His eyes flick to your lips—cheeks flushed from the alcohol, pupils blown. 

“What?” You whisper. 

His breath hitches. “I just… I love—” A glass breaks behind the bar, startling you both. It snaps the rubber band of tension between you instantly. You shift in your seat, Rafe rubs a hand down his face. 

“You were saying?” 

Rafe’s eyes cut to you, and he takes a deep breath. “I love this bar,” he says finally. You instantly deflate. “Yeah, we should play that next! I’m going to go queue it up, be right back,” he rushes out, practically sprinting across the room in the name of Toby Keith. 

You stare after him, drink sweating in your hand. 

“I love this bar,” you mutter under your breath. “God, you’re so full of shit.” You try to act normal, swirling the melting ice around in your glass. A minute later Rafe comes back, a smile on his face like nothing happened. 

You feign happiness for as long as you can. You laugh at his stupid Toby Keith impression. You even toast your glass to his. But the buzz is gone, the warmth evaporated. Soon after you’re in an Uber, leaving Rafe with his thoughts at the bar. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

You’re startled awake by the shrill sound of your ringtone in the middle of the night. You groan, feeling around your nightstand before gripping the phone in your hand. 

“Hello?” You squint through the darkness, eyes heavy with sleep. 

“Hi.” 

“Rafe?” You check the caller ID and confirm it’s him. “What the hell, dude?” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.” 

“Wait, wait. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing. Honestly I shouldn’t have called… I couldn’t sleep and you’re the first person I wanted to talk to.” His voice is quiet, and something about the way he spoke dissipates all previous annoyance. 

“That’s sweet, Rafey. What’s keeping you up?” 

“What do you think?” 

Time stops. Your heart stutters. Rafe goes quiet. 

“Rafe…” You whisper.

“Forget it,” he sighs. 

“Why did you call me?”

“We’re friends aren’t we?” 

“Friends don’t do this,” you manage, practically choking out the words. 

“No, they don’t.” A pause. “We do, though.” 

Your eyes fall closed with a pained sigh. 

“Yeah…we do.”

[romanwitchgirl]

The Reveal

aka you and jason reveal your relationship to the world, and to your best friend

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

j. todd x fem!reader

genre: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF

background birdflash, timkon, stephcass, and damijon but all of them but birdflash can be interpreted as platonic i think

wc: 4.3k

notes: here it is, my first official x reader. this has been proofread to a certain degree, but only with as much brainpower as 2:30 am allows. I LOVE JASON OKAY. i literally have no posting schedule for this, so uh good luck i guess.

prodigal son 'verse || masterlist

warnings: swearing, sibling violence i guess, reader wears a dress and heels, a wayne gala (but it's very sweet promise), college(?), inaccurate phd study information probably, no use of y/n, reader has dads (but it's not super relevent)

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Nightborne City was no stranger to its share of drama. You had everything from towering skyscrapers, wealthy families with secrets, and a good deal of crime. Among those in the crime community were the vigilantes. The world liked to proclaim them heroes, but that wasn’t quite right. 

You, unfortunately, fell into two of those categories. The public knew you by day as a Dahservauth, the heir to the wealthiest family in Nightborne; by night, they knew you as Enchantress, a crime-fighting vigilante armed with wicked moves with a bo staff and ancient magic. For you, this was a lose-lose situation.

With the dismissal for your last college class of the week, you were free to do whatever you wanted over the weekend. You and your friend Althea had planned to go see a movie, maybe stay up until ungodly hours in the morning ranting about stupid people in your respective classes since your two PhDs didn’t have much crossover. Alas, a girl can only dream. 

You made it out the door but still on the main campus, Althea at your side and walking to your apartment in the city, before things went wrong. You heard the rumbling of the motorcycle before you saw it. Althea was rambling on to you about something or the other some twatwaffle had done in her American History class earlier this week before the bike pulled up to the end of the sidewalk. 

Shit, there was a gala this weekend, wasn’t there. 

Here’s the thing about vigilantes and superheroes: there were a lot of them. Gotham City, it seemed, harbored a staggering amount compared to the rest, including your not-yet-public boyfriend, Jason Todd. The “not-yet-public” part was important, because when you were a high society member and your boyfriend was also a high society member, things like dating tended to get the tabloids rolling. 

“Anyway, this dumbass decided to challenge a professor…” Althea’s scathing voice drifted off to a more curious tone as she saw the bike, and the rider, “who the hell is that?”

Jason, the smug bastard, let down the kickstand and took off his helmet, eyes already on you. 

“I still stand curious and more surprised. What is Jason Todd doing here?” Althea muttered, “And why is he looking right at you?”

You raised a placating hand towards Althea, accepted your fate of a long string of texts in all caps later tonight, and walked up to your boyfriend. Your frown and crossed arms met his smirk and lazy posture. Oh, he was so going to get it later. 

“Jason, what the hell are you doing here?” You know what this looks like. What happened?

The man shrugged, leather jacket shining a bit under the spring sun. “We had plans, obviously. You must have just forgotten to check your annoyingly overdone calendar.” We didn’t have plans. I didn’t think I would be here today. I know you don’t forget.

You turned to Althea, an apologetic smile already on your lips. “Sorry, ‘Thea. We’ll have to put a rain check on the rant session and the movie. I’ll text you later?”

Althea was already mock-glaring at you. “Oh, we will be texting,” she said with the force of a mother scolding a child.

You decided to leave it at that before settling on the back of the bike behind Jason, not flinching as the engine roared back to life. He passed you a helmet and got his own back on before taking off, your arms comfortable around his waist. 

“Jason, what happened?” you said through the helmet.

Thankfully, they were outfitted with some revamped version of the comms system they used so the two of you could hold a conversation. 

“There’s a Wayne Gala tomorrow in honor of the Justice League; Bruce just announced it last night. I called ahead to your dads and decided to pick you up early.”

“And jeopardize our relationship in front of the University?” Okay, so maybe jeopardize was a harsh word. 

Jason tensed, just barely. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He took a breath. “I think we should announce our relationship to the public at the gala.”

You watched the cars streak by as they passed the two of you on the highway as Jason elaborated, “I know we wanted to keep it a secret as long as possible, but I also don’t want it to blow up in our face. As far as publicity goes, one of Bruce’s galas is probably the safest place to announce it, at least enough that people will get the hint.”

“Okay, so that’s the logical reason. What’s your reason, Jay? And I’m not disagreeing with you, I think it would be nice,” you replied.

Jason huffed out a half-laugh and half-groan. “I guess—I guess I’m just sick of not being able to show you off. Like, not in a bad way, but I want the world to know what you mean to me. I’m sick of not being able to be at your side during galas and public events because of the scandal of it all, you know. We’re both from important families and I’m sick of protocol. I just want to have you, no matter the event or place or what the public thinks.”

“Two families, both alike in dignity,” you started with a small smile, grateful that Jason couldn’t see the blush rising to your cheeks. 

“You are not quoting Romeo and Juliet to the in progress Literature PhD right now,” Jason laughed. 

You chucked too before becoming serious again. “I think announcing the relationship at the gala is a great idea, Jay. And for the record, I’m also sick of not having you at my side. Besides, the press will have an absolute field day with it. Just imagine the headlines!”

The heavy weight that had settled over the two of you cleared up, unlike the now cloudy sky as they neared Gotham. You were really going to do this, weren’t you?

“Nightborne’s Golden Girl and Gotham’s Bad Boy: Match Made In Heaven? The front page issue of the newspapers would be filled. Do you remember Dick and Wally’s announcement? They went crazy with that,” Jason said as they pulled onto the winding road that led to Wayne Manor.

“Oh, this is going to be awesome.” You grinned under the helmet. 

You spent the rest of the now short drive in comfortable silence as the Manor’s looming gates soon came into view. Jason cut around to a side road just as the tips could be seen through the trees, headed down towards the Batcave. He slowed the bike as the doors came into view and subsequently opened, leading the bike through the kind of driveway and into chaos. 

You could hear the argument between Tim and Damian already, the two younger boys on the sparring mats. 

“Seriously, Drake, train more so you don’t embarrass yourself during patrol,” Damian chided.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “For the last time, Damian, not everyone has assassin training.”

You took Jason’s hand and stepped off the bike, took off your helmet, and watched with amusement as the boys continued to bicker. The clang of metal started up again between Tim’s staff and Damian’s katana. Bruce, who was pointedly not looking in his two youngest’s direction, stayed resolutely staring at the Batcomputer. 

Jason put a finger up to his lips and grinned, sneaking up dramatically behind Bruce before slamming his hands down on the back of his chair. 

“Hello, Jaylad,” Bruce’s deep voice rumbled out, no surprise evident. “I figure you’ve brought her?”

You walked up to the computer. “Hey, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed, the why-did-I-become-a-father sigh, as Damian screamed in the background, followed by the thump of a body hitting the sparring mats. “The others are upstairs. Damian and I are leaving for patrol in a couple of hours, you’re welcome to join if you’re not too tired.”

“I’ll consider it, thanks for the offer. Depends on how likely Damian is to kill me later,” you said in response before Jason tugged you up the stairs. 

Unfortunately, the Manor was no less chaotic than the Batcave. On your way to Jason’s room, the two of you passed Dick running down the hallway, only slowing down slightly to say hello, followed by a very determined Steph with what looked to be a glitter bomb. Cass hadn’t been far behind, a small smile on her lips that was honestly terrifying. Duke was in the kitchen with Alfred making food while talking about his latest patrol stories, which was probably the most normal thing happening. Wally was sitting in the lounge, not acknowledging his fiancee’s cry for help. Kon and Jon were there too, playing some sort of video game on new controllers Tim had designed to prevent any more Kryptonian strength button mashing incidents. 

Yeah, it was going to be a nice weekend. 

)|(

Later, after Bruce and Damian had decided to patrol (without you, when you realized that school took a lot out of you this week), most of the residents of the Manor had calmed down to have a movie night. Everyone had chosen a spot on the lounge’s many couches and chairs, some on the floor. You and Jason had claimed one of the side couches, Jason’s head on your torso with your legs in a tangled mess. Your hand combed through Jason’s curls as the group watched Pride and Prejudice, since it was Jay’s pick. 

Alfred checked in every now and again since he wasn’t on comm duty tonight, instead bringing the occasional snack up to the group. By the time they had cycled through a couple of movies and the clock ticked closer to midnight, it had been made clear that nobody was actually going back to their rooms. Bruce and Damian had found them all in some sort of cuddle pile; Bruce took the last stand alone chair and Damian went over to Jonathan, who had an arm waiting. 

You reveled in the soft, peaceful moment in the usually loud Manor. Everyone’s face was relaxed in sleep—bar Bruce, who fell asleep last, each time—and it brought a sense of fondness to the room. Cheeks were squished on shoulders, legs were tangled together, and bodies were piled on top of each other. You fell asleep not too soon after. 

)|(

Jason, unfortunately, was one of the first to wake up. The only others awake were Bruce, Alfred, and Wally. Bruce ran on some weird sleep schedule none of them could figure out, Alfred was Alfred, and Wally was the early bird to Dick’s night owl. Somehow he and you had flipped around during the night, your back to his chest as you both laid on your sides. If Jason had to take a guess, he’d say that you were probably one of the last to fall asleep, so hopefully you could catch some more sleep before all of his siblings and eventual in-laws caused a ruckus. 

Duke woke up for his day shift and thankfully had some sense to stay quiet, leaving the room after shooting Jason a look. You’d think after he and you had been dating for almost two years now they would stop. But no. 

As the rest of his siblings rose and reanimated, you stayed peacefully asleep and unaware of the ever-growing noise in the Manor. Jason kept his arms around you, shooting glares at any of his siblings who dared to say anything. You had stolen one of Jason’s T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants for pajamas—if that wasn’t the cutest fucking thing then Jason didn’t know what was. 

When you did eventually wake up, you first swatted him for not waking you up sooner, then kissed him good morning. Yeah, Jason was well and gone for you. The two of you got up and joined everyone downstairs for breakfast, which was about as chaotic as it sounds. All of the kids and their significant others all at one table? Yeah, no. 

But when Jason looked around at them all; Dick and Wally looking at wedding stuff, Tim still half-asleep on Kon’s shoulder with a cup of coffee, Steph, Cass, and Babs (who had shown up earlier in the morning) solving the crossword with Bruce, giving insane answers, Damian and Jon muttering quietly to each other about something or the other, and the girl next to him, your hand over his on the table, Jason realized he wouldn’t change a thing.

)|(

The real highlight of the day was going to be the gala. Or, rather, the moments between. Like now, as Jason watched you pin up your hair, folding and twisting it into a bun. It was soft, how you managed to just exist in each other’s space. 

Jason had already changed, rocking a dark suit with a red undershirt that matched the shade of your dress. Was it a bit on the nose? Yeah. Jason didn’t care too much. If the public hadn’t found out that Bruce was Batman after how many years, he didn’t think that his secret identity was in any trouble. 

Speaking of your dress, it was beautiful. It made Jason’s girlfriend look even more like a queen, in his opinion. It was skintight, but still allowed space to move. The dress gave you one sleeve and one arm bare, creating contrast between two sides. Your jewelry was all diamond, and Jason loved it when he got to attach your necklace clasp behind your neck, leaving a kiss there for good measure. He also helped with your shoes, red as well. 

Jason admired you in the mirror. “You look so gorgeous.”

You smiled when Jason’s head landed on your shoulder. “You don’t look so bad yourself, handsome.”

They’re lips met in a brief kiss before a knock came at the door. “I swear, if you two don’t hurry up the limo is going to leave without you,” Tim said through the wood. 

“Does it really matter if we’re late to a Wayne gala? Like, there’s gotta be an exception there, Replacement,” Jason yelled back. “Also, how did Dick and Wally beat us? I swear they just spend most of their time making out.”

“We were just heading down, Tim,” you said to placate the two of them.

)|(

The gala was in full swing when the Waynes and their plus ones got there, but time seemed to halt as their limousine pulled up to the red carpet. Bright flashes and quick camera clicks flooded the atmosphere, news outlet anchors started to speak and broadcast out, and paparazzi crowded the barriers. Used to it or not, the pure chaos at these events was overwhelming.

Bruce, ever the bachelor, went first. He talked to a good amount of press for the gala and his publicity, playing up the Brucie Wayne act for the people. Charity this, Wayne Enterprises that, and a sprinkle of Justice League funding. Dick and Wally went next, their engagement automatically sparking conversations and questions from the news. Dick, ever the fashionista, got to happily show off his engagement ring, which was silver and sapphire. Wally beamed proudly in the background, smile sharp but eyes fond. 

Then it was your turn. Jason had previously thought that all the relationship at galas bullshit was just for show, but with you finally at his side for an event like this, Jason couldn’t be happier. Ever the gentleman, Jason stepped out of the limo first and left his hand low for you to grab onto when you exited. He firmly believed his girl could do anything in heels, but he also wasn’t a douche. Besides, those stilettos were really tall. You met his grin with a smile of your own as they linked arms, presenting yourselves to the red carpet.

You and Jason posed for a few shots that would probably be in the paper tomorrow before heading over to the news interviewers, much to Jason’s dismay. He was not ready to answer their invasive questions about your relationship. You squeezed his arm from where you held it gently, as if to remind him you were there. 

I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere.

As if I could ever forget you. 

A blonde woman in front of a news camera got to them first. “Why choose now to reveal your relationship?”

“Well, when you have as big a public status as the two of us have, we wanted to announce it on our own terms. Not by some grainy stalker photos from a traffic camera saw us leaving a restaurant together. At the gala for the union between Wayne Enterprises and the Justice League, we thought we'd add another pairing to the list,” Jason answered.

Distantly, Jason heard more camera clicks behind them, signalling Tim and Kon’s walk down the carpet.

“How long have you been dating?” another reporter asked.

You smiled. “For almost two years now.”

“Wow! That’s a long time to keep something this big a secret. How did that impact you?” the same one goaded.

Bordering on an invasive question there, lady. 

“It posed its challenges, but Jason and I liked having something to ourselves, especially when it was new. It allowed us to figure things out on our terms rather than what the public expected of us,” you answered again. 

As Tim and Kon arrived, you and Jason left the scene as quietly as possible, not attracting more attention than needed. Behind the loud pulse of his heart in his ears, Jason could hear Tim rattle off something or the other as the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Good, let Tim handle the press. 

“Wow, I hate the press. They really have no tact at things like this,” you complained when they got into the ballroom. 

Jason moved his arm to wrap around your waist as you leaned into him slightly. “Well, we only have a few more hours of this before we can make a somewhat rude but still acceptable exit.”

“Not so fast, cowboy,” you said with a grin as you turned your head to look at him, “you owe me some dancing.”

Jason groaned in mock dismay. “Do I have to?”

He didn’t have any more complaints when you kissed the pout off his lips. Actually, Jason quite liked dancing with you, but much preferred it to soft lighting in your kitchen than at a fancy gala. 

The two of you lingered around for a while, accepting congratulations on their relationship announcement and more business talk. A few times you were asked about the Dahservauth Companies and your dads, likewise with Jason and Bruce. It was late enough after Jason’s “release from witness protection” that people had stopped asking rude questions, but a few still checked in to see how he was doing after a couple of years. By the time they had made their rounds, Jason could count that at least half of his siblings wanted to go home. 

Bruce made a quick announcement and his usual speech, this time with the addition of some Justice League stuff that Jason really didn’t care to listen to. The only thing he was focused on was you, pressed up against his side with your head gently laying on his shoulder. One of your hands was gently laying on his back in return, the other holding a glass of Bruce’s special not-champagne. It was effortless how you fit together, something soft between them even in the daunting moments. 

At the end of Bruce’s speech, the musicians in the corner struck up a dance. Jason could feel the way you perked up next to him, hurriedly disposing of your drink and dragging him to the dance floor. Your eyes were alight with excitement and hardly concealed fondness at the opportunity presented to them, and how could Jason refuse such a request?

Dancing, in kitchen light or not, was second nature to the two of them. Well, second nature to you after going to so many galas. Jason was a bit rusty, but it made for some fun moments.

“How do you keep tripping? Compared to your nighttime activities, you are a clutz on the dance floor,” you said with a laugh and full smile. 

“It’s not like the dancing in our kitchen really lives up to gala standards, sweetheart,” Jason muttered back. 

“Just relax, Jay. Dancing won’t kill you.”

“Easy for you to say, Miss ‘I've been waltzing since I was five’.”

The last couple hours bled together between dances, banter, and the occasional snack break. Somehow, the two Kents had managed to convince Damian and Tim to dance, some of the most antisocial people on the planet. Damian and Jon were actually managing well enough to pass off as competent, while Tim and Kon mostly argued about who did what when. Thankfully, though, all the batkids could manage a slow dance.

Your hands made their way to the back of Jason’s neck while his hands found your waist. They were probably pressed too close for what the publicity of these things usually allowed, but since when had Jason ever cared for rules? The two of you curled into each other, like two ends of the same quote. The world faded away as Jason existed just in this moment, his head buried in your shoulder and his arms around you. You pressed a soft kiss, just barely there, to his temple and let your weight fall together in a mess no one could see. 

Fuck public decorum. 

)|(

The clock struck eleven after the last dance concluded, giving the Wayne’s their leave. Bruce would stay for another hour or so before making his own swift exit. The ride back to the Manor was silent, a peaceful ambiance settling over the kids. Even if Dick and Jason were in their twenties, Tim and the girls in their teens, and Damian’s whole “I was never a child” schtick, they were still kids. Some part of them was, anyway. 

It was the part of Dick that still came to Bruce when he had a particularly bad nightmare. It was the part of Jason that still looked in the case of the Robin suit, unchanged and wholly different, wishing for magic. It was the part of Cass that found comfort in actions that she didn’t have to read. It was the part of Tim that still kept his camera in his room, film always being developed. It was the part of Damian that was still searching for childhood that he refused to go without living, as much as he denied it.

Wally, you, Steph, Kon, and Jon could all see it. You found yourself mourning for something you didn’t know sometimes, when you remembered the tragedies they had lived through. But here, under the Gotham lights in the back of a limo after a gala, you could feel the blanket of peace settle over them. You could feel how Jason’s breaths measured out the more he fell asleep on your shoulder, ready to be done for the night and tucked into bed. It brought a warmth to your heart as you glanced around, everyone in their own bubble but still existing around each other. 

It was love.

)|(

Althea: YOU’RE DATING JASON TODD???

You: I see you’ve watched the news

Althea: YOU SON OF A BITCH

You: You can yell at me later for it

)|(

Monday rolled back around, much to your dismay. You could feel Althea’s barely restrained violent curiosity from here, and you and Jason hadn’t even left the Batcave yet. Your first class on Monday wasn’t until later in the afternoon, thankfully, so it wasn’t an early drive. You and Jason had spent the morning cuddling instead, a much more important activity in your book.

With poorly contained irritation, you pulled the bike helmet over your head and loaded your stuff onto the side of the bike. 

Jason, the bastard, chuckled under his helmet, voice coming through the comm system, “Don’t want to face the music?”

You held up a finger, rant mode initiated as you climbed on the bike after your boyfriend. “I don’t give a single crap about the rest of the student body. Althea is the one I’m worried about. We had one text conversation on Saturday night and that was it. I feel as though I’m in for another ‘Tell Your Friends Important Things’ lecture.”

“Well, glad to know our relationship made it onto the gossip session list now,” Jason joked. 

You glared, even if Jason couldn’t see it. “Jason Todd, you are a menace to society.”

“Mm, but I’m your menace, love.”

“That you are.”

)|(

When Jason and you pulled up to the sidewalk, Althea was waiting. 

“Don’t you have class?” you asked as you took off the helmet.

Althea huffed and crossed her arms. “You cannot think that class right now is important compared to this.”

You grabbed your bag from Jason’s waiting hand, accepting your fate and dragging your feet over to your best friend. 

Jason coughed behind you. “Forgetting something?”

He held your phone in his hands. That was just in your pocket. You raised a brow at your boyfriend’s antics and walked back over, but instead of getting your phone back, you got a peck on the lips first. You smiled softly and gave Jason a tight hug, one he reciprocated. 

“I’ll miss you. Is your weekend free? Just us and no annoying siblings this time,” Jason said.

“I’ll miss you, too. And I’m sure I can make room in my schedule for you, Jay,” you responded.

Jason shot you a smirk after breaking the hug. “Good. Love you.”

A smile broke out on your face as Jason climbed back on the bike and put on his helmet. “Love you, too.”

You watched Jason drive off before turning back to Althea, whose face was in a strange mix of exasperated fondness and disgust. “That was somehow the sweetest and grossest thing I’ve ever seen.” The girl pivoted on her toes and walked towards the building, the one she didn’t even have a class in. “Well don’t just stand there, Dahservauth, you have some explaining to do.”

fin.

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[wonderlandwalker]

Hell or High Water

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cowgirl!abby anderson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby's been waiting on this moment for forever, but something about it just doesn't sit well with her. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mdni, light smut, mostly fluff and yearning

𝐚/𝐧: sorry this took longer than expected, was never quite happy with it until i deleted like half of the fic yesterday and wrote this instead. I promise more is coming, I just can't promise when.

You kiss her first.

It’s soft—testing, sweet, like you’re savouring the taste of her, like you’ve been imagining this just as long as she has. Your lips brush hers, warm and hesitant, and for half a second, Abby freezes. Not out of hesitation, no. Out of sheer, damn want, the kind that’s been simmering between you two for weeks—in stolen glances across the bar, in the way her calloused fingers lingered just a second too long when she passed you that beer, in the way you’d laughed at her stupid jokes like they were gospel.

She shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the thought that’s been rattling around her skull all night, even as her knee brushed yours under the table, even as her fingers lingered a second too long passing you the bottle. You deserve better—better than some half-drunk fumble in the dark, some hazy memory you’ll question in the morning. Abby Anderson doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do careful—has never needed to—but for you, she wants to. For you, she’s trying.

Her breath hitches. You can feel the fight in her—the way her hands twitch at her sides like she’s physically holding herself back, like she’s braced against a fence post resisting a storm.

And then she breaks.

One rough hand cups your jaw, the other finding your hip like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she doesn’t hold on tight. Her kiss is nothing like the gentle tease of yours—it’s hungry, messy, all heat and teeth and the sharp tang of alcohol still on her tongue. She kisses you like she’s been drowning and you’re air, like she’s spent months convincing herself she didn’t need this and now that she’s got it, she can’t remember why she ever waited.

She groans, low in her throat—a rough, broken sound, like she’s lost some battle with herself—and deepens the kiss. One hand slides up to cradle your jaw, her calloused fingertips dragging against your skin like she’s trying to map every shiver she pulls from you. The other finds your hip, fingers digging in just shy of too much as she yanks you closer, until the worn denim of her jeans grinds against your thighs and the buckle of her belt bites cold through your shirt.

Abby kisses you like she’s been starving for it, like she’s trying to memorise the shape of your mouth before you come to your senses and pull away. Her teeth catch your lower lip, just shy of rough, and you gasp into her—her grip tightens, as if the sound alone might wreck her. 

The scent of leather clings to her, mixing with the sweat at her temples and the woodsmoke still tangled in her hair from last night’s fire. God, you want to drown in it. You can feel the way her breath stutters when your nails scrape the nape of her neck—like even this, especially this, is more than she bargained for.

The kitchen is too hot, the air thick with the bite of antiseptic from your bandaged hand and the smoky smell of a burnt-out scented candle. The flickering bulb above the sink casts everything in gold and shadow, painting the sharp lines of her face like something out of a hymn—all fire and devotion. 

Her thumb swipes over your cheekbone, rough and reverent, and for a heartbeat, she pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, lips wet, like she’s trying to sear this moment into her bones.

Every other thought melts away, blurring at the edges like whiskey in water. Laughter fades into the sticky night air, friends stumbling out the door with drowsy goodbyes and boots scuffing the porch steps. The last dregs of bourbon burn slow in your chest, but it’s nothing compared to the fire licking up your ribs when Abby’s calloused thumb brushes your palm—rough and deliberate, like she’s counting every heartbeat under your skin.

You can barely remember how you even got here.

One minute, you’re pressing a dish towel to the cut on your hand—courtesy of a shattered wine bottle—and the next, she’s hauling you onto her kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, muttering "Goddammit, hold still" as she digs through drawers for gauze. Just the two of you, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, and the way Abby’s gaze keeps catching on your mouth.

You should say something. You should.

But all you manage is a shaky exhale as her thumb swipes over your pulse point—a slow drag of skin on skin that feels more intimate than any kiss. Her other hand braces against the counter, caging you in without touching, like she’s still giving you an out. Like she’s not sure she trusts herself to press closer.

And then you’d kissed her.

Not soft. Not careful.

Abby’s mouth crashes into yours like a storm rolling in off the plains, all heat and hunger and no apologies. Her teeth catch your lower lip, tugging just shy of too much, but you don’t pull away—you melt, arching into her with a whimper that goes straight to her gut. Her hands—rough from work, from fighting, from living—slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and Christ, you want her to. You want her fingerprints branded into your skin, want her to know she can’t hold back, not with you.

Abby’s not thinking about tomorrow. Not thinking about the way this’ll ache in the daylight. 

Her hips press forward, pinning you where she wants you, and the groan she tears from your lips undoes her. One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back so she can drag her mouth down your throat—sucking, biting, claiming—like she’s trying to rewrite every bruise the world ever gave you.

For the first time in years, Abby Anderson isn’t bracing for the hurt.

She’s just… feeling.

And god damn, does it feel good.

She didn’t realise how big this thing had grown in her heart. How deep the roots had dug, tangling around her ribs, curling tight around her lungs until every breath felt like yours to take. Until the thought of pulling away was like trying to hold back a river with her bare hands—futile, fucking painful.

So she doesn’t.

She can’t.

Not when your fingers curl into her shirt, twisting tight like you can’t stand the remaining distance, like you’d carve a path through her chest just to get closer. Not when your breath hitches, shaky and raw, as she finally—finally—slides a calloused hand lower, her palm spanning the dip of your spine like she’s mapping the one place she’s allowed to touch.

And definitely not when you sigh, soft and sweet, and melt against her like you were made to fit there.

Like every ragged edge of her was just waiting for you to press into place, to settle into the hollows of her like rainwater filling thirsty earth. Like she’s been walking half-alive for years, and only now, with your body warm against hers, does she remember what it feels like to be full.

Her other hand finds the nape of your neck, rough fingertips catching on flyaway hairs, and she thinks—wildly, stupidly—that she could live right here, in this breathless, blasphemous space between your mouth and hers. That if this is ruin, let it be yours.

Let it be this.

The way your teeth graze her bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, and she groans like a sinner at communion. The way your hips roll against hers, deliberate, and she chokes on your name, her grip turning desperate. Her thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up, and for a heartbeat, she just looks—at your swollen lips, your blown pupils, the flush creeping down your throat.

Her hands find your waist, grip bruising as she yanks you flush against her, your thighs bracketing her hips. The noise she makes is all hunger—a ragged, broken thing, halfway between a growl and a prayer—as she crashes her mouth back to yours. She kisses you like she’s trying to brand the shape of you into her bones, like if she doesn’t, you’ll slip right through her fingers like smoke.

And fuck, you love it.

You arch into her, gasping as her teeth scrape your jaw, her breath scalding against your throat. “Abby—”

Her name spills from your lips like a plea, and she shudders, fingers tightening in your hair. “Know,” she grits out, voice raw. “I know.”

Abby’s never been good at praying, but right now—with your heartbeat thundering against her ribs, with your lips parted and swollen from her teeth—she thinks this might be as close as she ever gets to divine.

Your voice is rough yet sweet, dripping with intent, and it ruins her, like a spark catching dry tinder. "I need you, please."

And God, she wants.

She wants so badly it aches—wants to let you push her down onto the cracked tile, wants to feel the cold press of it while your hands burn her alive. Wants to let you take whatever you’re asking for, whatever you’ll give her, until there’s nothing left but the slick heat of you and the bruising grip of your fingers and the ragged, shuddering way you say her name, like you’re begging her for salvation itself.

She’s imagined this a hundred times—a thousand—in the quiet dark of her room, in the hazy stillness of afternoons when the sun bled gold through the curtains and her thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t. The way you’d sound when you sighed her name, breathless and broken. The way you’d feel under her palms, warm and willing, trembling just for her.

But not like this.

Not with wine staining your tongue and your movements too rushed, too desperate. Not when she’s dreamed of taking you apart slow, of learning every hitch of your breath, every shiver she could pull from your skin with her mouth alone.

"Darlin’," she rasps, voice frayed at the edges.��"You ain’t thinkin’ straight."

Your teeth catch on your bottom lip, and she whimpers, half-convinced she’ll wake up any second—that this is just another cruel trick of her longing, another dream she’ll have to shake off like sweat-damp sheets in the dead of night.

But then—

Your hands slide down her waist, possessive and sure, and the noise you make—her name, ragged and wanting—sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through her.

No dream ever felt like this.

No dream ever made her shake. No dream ever had your fingers digging into her hips like you’d carve yourself a place there. No dream ever left her this ruined, this reckless, this close to forgetting every damn reason she shouldn’t be doing this.

But—

But.

You’re drunk.

Not tipsy, not buzzed—drunk.

And Abby? Abby’s only had enough to feel loose-limbed and bold, enough to let her hands wander where they usually wouldn’t—along the dip of your waist, the curve of your jaw—but not enough to lie to herself.

Not enough to pretend this is okay.

She tears herself away with a guttural noise, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Her hands, still trembling, rise to frame your face—not to pull you closer, but to hold you still, to put that precious, terrible inch of space back between you.

“Sweetheart,” she rasps, voice wrecked. “Look at me.”

The words are rough, but her thumbs stroke your cheeks like you’re something fragile, something sacred. Like she’s memorising the feel of you even as she lets go.

“We can’t.”

Because she knows you.

Knows the way you second-guess yourself when you’re sober, the way you chew on every decision like it might unravel you if you choose wrong. She’s memorised the flicker of doubt in your eyes, the way you retreat into yourself when you think you’ve made a mistake. And she’s seen—God, she’s seen—the way your face falls when regret hits, the sharp, self-loathing twist of your mouth when you think no one’s looking.

The thought of you waking up tomorrow with that look in your eyes— With the ghost of her hands still on your skin and a hollow pit in your stomach— Makes her chest ache like a fresh bruise.

She pulls back. Just an inch, just enough to break the feverish spell of the moment. Her fingers linger at your hip, trembling with the effort of restraint, her grip tight enough to leave marks—and isn’t that the problem?

She wants to mark you. Wants to ruin you. Wants to be the reason you come apart.

But not like this.

"Wait."

Her voice is barely more than a breath when she catches your wrists, strained and trembling as she halts your eager fingers just before they can undo the button of her jeans. The sudden stop makes your breath stutter—her grip isn't tight, but it's unyielding, the calluses on her palms rough against your softer skin.

Your pupils are blown wide, dark with want, lips kiss-swollen and parted—God, you're beautiful like this, all heat and impatience, and it destroys her to hold you back when every nerve in her body is screaming at her to let you have her. To take. To show you exactly what you're asking for until you're screaming her name as both praise and mercy, until the neighbours hear and she doesn't give a single damn.

But then your breath hitches. Confusion flickers across your face, then hurt, raw and sudden, and fuck, it's worse than she imagined. That wounded look cuts deeper than any blade, and for a wild moment, she nearly caves, nearly drags you back against her.

But she doesn't.

Her thumbs sweep over the delicate bones of your wrists instead, a silent apology, a plea. The air between you is thick, suffocating—not just with want now, but with the "not like this" lodged in her throat like cement, with the memory of your drunken laughter earlier and how your words had slurred just enough to matter.

Because she wants you—

Christ, she does—wants you sober and sure and looking at her like she's the only god worth praying to. Wants to earn those soft sighs, not steal them. Wants to remember every second of it without the sour aftertaste of regret poisoning what should be sacred.

"I’m sorry, sweetheart," she murmurs, her voice rough as gravel roads at midnight. One hand lifts to brush a stray hair from your forehead, the gesture unbearably tender compared to how she'd been touching you moments before. "Ain't goin' nowhere. Just...not tonight, yeah?"

Not when she can’t be sure you’d do this if your head were clear.

And she needs you to remember it in the morning.

Needs to know that if—when—she finally gives in, it’s because you chose her, fully and completely. Not because the alcohol made you brave. Not because the buzz in your veins drowned out the doubt.

The fight leaves your body slowly, your shoulders slumping as exhaustion finally catches up. 

But you’re relentless, pressing closer, your breath hot against her neck as you murmur something desperate, incoherent—her name, a plea, a prayer—and her resolve cracks.

For one terrifying, exhilarating second, she almost lets you win.

Almost.

Her hands, which had been pushing you gently away, freeze—fingers digging into your waist like she’s caught between throwing you off and yanking you closer. The sound she makes is raw, torn from somewhere deep in her chest, and she turns her face into your hair, breathing you in like she’s trying to sear the scent of you into her lungs.

The pout you give her is lethal.

Bottom lip jutting out, slick with the remnants of whatever concoction she’d lost count of pouring you hours ago. It makes her throat go tight—bowstring taut, arrow notched—but she doesn’t let herself exhale. Not yet.

You slump against her shoulder with a whine that vibrates through her ribs, humid where your breath soaks into the thin cotton of her shirt. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt, clumsy but determined, tugging her closer until her nose brushes your temple. The scent of you—warm and a little drunk, sugar and salt and want—hits her like a punch to the gut.

"Abby," you murmur, voice slurry but soft, "please."

Just that. Just one word.

And just like that, the fight bleeds out of her.

Her hands, which had been braced to push you away, slide up your back instead, pulling you flush against her. It’s not surrender—not quite—but something darker, sweeter. A compromise between what she should do and what she’s terrified she’ll never get again.

"Let's get you to bed," she rumbles, lips pressed to your hair.

Her voice is rough, but her hands?

Her hands are gentle.

The rational part of her—the part that’s kept her alive through back-alley brawls and bad decisions—screams at her to call you a cab. To march you to the door with the same military precision she uses to clean her guns, to tuck you into the backseat with strict instructions to text when you’re safe. She can already hear the lecture she’d give one of her boys in this situation: Never let drunk pussy cloud your judgment, Anderson.

But your fingers are knotted in her flannel like you’ll dissolve if she lets go, nails catching on the frayed seams. And your scent—God, your scent—wraps around her like a noose, pulling tighter with every ragged breath she takes. Her resolve—that iron-clad Abby Anderson resolve everyone thinks is unshakable—cracks at the seams with an almost audible splintering.

She exhales through her nose, already knowing she’ll hate herself tomorrow.

"You can sleep here," she mutters, the words softer than she intended, and it’s the closest she’ll let herself get to I want you to stay.

Her hand moves without permission, fingers dragging through your hair with a tenderness that would embarrass her if anyone saw. The calloused pads catch on tangles, but she works through them gently, like she’s handling something sacred.

And maybe she is.

Because the way you melt into her touch—like you’ve been waiting for this, like you trust her—makes her chest hurt. Your breath evens out against her collarbone, warm and damp, and for a wild, reckless second, she considers carrying you to bed. Not just letting you sleep there, but tucking you in, smoothing the sheets around you, maybe even pressing her lips to your forehead like some lovesick fool.

This is dangerous.

The thought of you in her bed—even just sleeping—sends a forbidden thrill down her spine that has nothing to do with chivalry.

Her arm slips around your waist, fingers splaying wide against the dip of your hip—too familiar, too possessive—but the weight of you against her side feels terrifyingly right. The thought sends a bolt of something hot and reckless down her spine, and she tightens her grip just to keep you upright. 

You giggle, breath warm against her neck, and God, she should’ve poured herself another drink. Should’ve drowned the part of her that’s hyper-aware of every shift of your body against hers—the way your thigh brushes hers with each unsteady step, the way your fingers clutch at her shoulder like she’s the only solid thing in a spinning world.

Then your hand slips under the hem of her shirt.

Fuck.

Your fingers skate over the bare skin of her waist, and it burns—a brand searing straight through her self-control. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, her pulse hammering so loud she’s surprised you can’t hear it.

"Easy there," she grits out, steering you toward the stairs like she’s handling live ammunition. "One step at a time."

It’s a miracle her voice stays steady. A miracle she doesn’t pin you against the wall right then and there, doesn’t drag her teeth over that spot below your ear that makes you shiver. Doesn’t let herself take what she’s been craving for months.

But then you stumble, your body swaying into hers, and her free hand flies to your back to steady you—only to find warm, bare skin where your shirt’s ridden up. Her fingertips freeze, caught between the urge to pull away and the need to press closer, to map every inch of you like she’s been dreaming about.

Her bedroom is quiet, the air thick as molasses, the only sound the creak of the floorboards underfoot and the ragged pull of her own breath. She digs out an old shirt for you—soft from years of wear, still smelling faintly of her detergent, something warm and woodsy that clings to the fabric like a secret—and tosses it onto the bed. "Here. Change into—"

But you’re already peeling off your top, fabric sliding over your shoulders before she can finish the sentence.

Abby freezes in place.

Turn around. Look away. Be a goddamn lady about this.

But her body refuses to obey.

Moonlight spills through the curtains, painting silver over your collarbones, the slope of your stomach, the lace clinging to your curves like it’s barely holding on. And then—worse—you smile when you catch her staring, slow and knowing, like you’ve already unravelled every filthy thought she’s choking back.

Her pulse roars in her ears, a thunderous, traitorous rhythm that drowns out every scrap of reason left in her skull.

You’re drunk. She’s not. This isn’t right.

But when you reach for the hem of her borrowed shirt and drag it over your head, the fabric catching for one heart-stopping second on the swell of your breasts before it falls into place, all she can think is:

I’m so fucking fucked.

The shirt hangs loose on you, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, and Abby’s mouth goes bone-dry. It’s her shirt, her scent on your skin now, and the possessive heat that coils low in her gut is enough to make her lightheaded.

Then, because she’s a goddamn masochist, she sits you down on the edge of her bed—the quilt worn thin, the same one her mama stitched for her when she left home, threads fraying at the corners like her resolve—and carefully wipes the smudged makeup from your face. The damp cloth is warm, the water scented faintly with pine from the soap she keeps by the sink, and you sigh into her touch like it’s the first kindness you’ve been shown in years.

Your cheek presses into her palm, seeking warmth like a stray cat that’s finally found shelter, and Abby has to bite the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes copper. Don’t, don’t, don’t—

But her thumb moves anyway, stroking once, twice over the apple of your cheek, smearing away the last remnants of eyeliner like she’s erasing evidence of the night.

She shouldn’t be this close. Shouldn’t notice how your breath hitches when her fingers graze the sensitive spot behind your ear, or how your lips part just slightly, still glossy from whatever lipstick you’d worn tonight. The pad of her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth—accidental, unforgivable—and your tongue darts out, just enough to wet your lips, and—

Christ.

It would be so easy to tilt your chin up, to—

No.

She jerks back, the cloth crumpled in her fist, her pulse hammering loud enough to drown out the crickets outside the window. 

"Better?" you murmur, voice syrup-slow, fingers toying with the hem like you’re daring her to look again.

Abby swallows hard, her throat clicking. "Yeah," she lies.

Because nothing about this is better.

When you’re finally settled under the covers—her covers, smelling like her, Jesus—she turns to leave. Because that’s the right thing. The safe thing. The thing that won’t have her waking up at 3 a.m., sweating through her shirt with your name on her tongue like a prayer she’s too ashamed to finish.

But your hand darts out, fingers wrapping around her wrist with a strength that surprises her. Your grip is warm, insistent, your thumb pressing into the frantic pulse point beneath her skin—as if you can feel how fast her heart is racing just from touching her there.

“Where’re you goin’?” you murmur, voice sleep-soft but edged with something that makes her stomach flip.

“Sofa,” she says, like it’s obvious. Like she hasn’t just spent the last twenty minutes memorising the way your lashes flutter when you’re fighting sleep, or how your collarbone catches the dim light when you shift under the sheets.

You make a wounded noise—small, desperate—and tug at her arm. “Just stay. Please?”

The please undoes her. It always does.

Her breath stutters, her resolve crumbling like dirt under a boot heel. For a heartbeat, she just stares at where your fingers curl around her wrist, her skin burning under your touch. She could lie—say the couch is more comfortable, say she doesn’t want to crowd you—but the truth is simpler, uglier:

She’s afraid.

Afraid that if she climbs into that bed, she won’t just sleep. She’ll reach for you. She’ll pull you close. She’ll bury her face in the curve of your neck and breathe you in until her lungs ache.

But then your thumb strokes her pulse point again, slow and deliberate, and Abby breaks.

“Alright,” she rasps, the word scraped raw from her throat. “Scoot over.”

It’s a surrender. A confession. A promise she’s not sure she can keep.

The old floorboards creak beneath her boots like they're laughing at her. Weak, they seem to say with every step. Weak, weak, weak.

And maybe she is.

The mattress dips under her weight as she sits, the springs groaning like they're passing judgment. She keeps her body rigid, careful not to touch you, but the way you immediately curl toward her heat betrays her efforts. 

God, she wants to wake up with your leg thrown over her hip like it belongs there, with your breath warm against her collarbone and your fingers tangled in her sleep-soft shirt. She wants it so badly her teeth ache with it—wants you to carve out a space for yourself in the hollows of her ribs and decide to stay.

Because she is weak.

The realisation settles in her bones like a familiar ache. She could bench press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat, could take down men twice her size without blinking, but when it comes to you?

She'll always be weak when it comes to you.

Abby exhales sharply through her nose—a sound that's half frustration, half surrender. She's losing this battle. Has already lost, really, the moment you looked at her with those heavy-lidded eyes, all soft and pleading like she was the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.

"Alright, but no funny business," she grumbles, already knowing it's a lie. The warning lacks its usual bite, coming out rough but tender, like she's trying to convince herself more than you. 

She leaves a careful, respectable space between you—or at least, that's the plan, that's what she tells herself as she stares resolutely at the water-stained ceiling, her hands clasped stiffly over her stomach like she's lying in a coffin rather than her own bed.

Until.

Until you immediately roll over, pressing into her side like a sunflower chasing daylight, all warmth and unapologetic need. Your head finds its place on her chest like you've done it a thousand times before, like you've mapped the exact spot where her heartbeat thrums loudest against her ribs. Your knee nudges between hers with terrifying familiarity, your arm drapes over her stomach with possessive ease, and—Christ—your breath fans warm against her collarbone, slow and steady like you've already decided this is where you'll sleep forever, consequences be damned.

Abby's breath catches, her whole body going rigid for one terrible, exhilarating second. Every muscle tenses—not to push you away, never to push you away, but because if she moves even an inch she might do something stupid like curl around you, might bury her nose in your hair and breathe you in until the scent of you replaces the oxygen in her lungs.

Somewhere around 2 a.m., when your breathing has gone deep and even and your grip has loosened just slightly, she finally—finally—gives in. Her arm comes up to circle your shoulders, her hand splaying across your back to feel the steady rise and fall of your lungs. 

The last coherent thought she has before sleep claims her is that she's already in trouble—deep, irreversible trouble—because having you this close feels less like temptation and more like coming home.

@abbyily @uminitasitdown @abbyscoochiecruncher @1i1z @fridayf1ghting I wasn't sure if you wanted to be tagged in all the works for this AU

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Family Man 6

No warnings except that this is NOT a dark fic. Non-dark fics will be tagged as lightficsyouneveraskedfor but will be posted on this blog.

Character: Jake Jensen (The Losers)

Trope: Single-dad

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who reads this unusual posting from me. I typically swing in the other direction on fics but something lighter was calling.

Please reblog and leave some feedback if you read. You are appreciated and adored 🩷. Please have a wonderful day, week, year, etc.

You feel a bit childish. Sitting in your borrowed clothes on the rainbow sheets with Elita. She’s nestled in close next to you on the twin mattress, beaming at her dad as he reads from the well-worn book. You’ve read it before but not in ages. 

“... You have a traitor there, Aslan," said the Witch. Of course everyone present knew that she meant Edmund. But Edmund had got past thinking about himself after all he'd been through and after the talk he'd had that morning. He just went on looking at Aslan. It didn't seem to matter what the Witch said...” 

Jake is animated in his retelling; with a boisterous voice for the lion, a creakier one for the witch. You can’t help but smile at him. Elita says he does this every night. That’s an effort, a consistency, you can only envy. It makes your heart throb to think of how much love he has for the little girl. 

She’s enthralled but not enough to stay away. You feel her jerk next to you. Each time she catches herself nodding off, she catches herself and sits up higher. 

Jake pauses as he notices. He checks his watch. He smiles softly and marks the page. 

“El, I think it’s time for bed.” 

“Nooooooo,” she whines and can’t help a yawn. “Daddy, it was just getting...” she blinks long. “Good.” 

“We’ll read more tomorrow. It’s no fun if there’s no suspense,” he smiles and leans for. You press yourself against the headboard as he kisses her forehead. “Good night, El. I will be checking to make sure your light isn’t on in twenty minutes.” 

“Daddy,” she harrumphs and crosses her arms. 

“You know what, El, I’m beat too. I was about to fall asleep,” you stand and stretch your arms. 

“But...” she pouts. “Aren’t you going to sleep in here?” 

Jake chuckles, “honey, the bed’s too small. Besides, you need your sleep. You got soccer tomorrow.” 

“Oh, yeah... Oh!” She perks up. “Is she coming?” 

Jake hugs the book under one arm, “El, she’s been here all day.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” you promise. “Good night, El.” 

She nods glumly. “Night.” 

She slides down in the bed and Jake sets the book on her nightstand. He pauses to click on a light next to it. A glowing ghost. 

You follow him to the door and flicks off the overhead. The ghost gives a soft hue to a space. It’s cute. 

“Nighty night. Don’t let the orcs bite.” Jake says. 

“Daddy...” she grumbles and rolls over.” 

You step into the hall and he shuts the door. You sway listlessly and look around. You back up as you rub your arm. 

“You know,” Jake speaks quietly. “You can tell her no. I do enough. She’s used to it.” 

“I... I know,” you look down. “I can’t help it. I’m a people pleaser.” 

“Oh, you are?” He gestures past you. 

You turn and head down the hallway to the front room. There’s a pillow and stack of bedding on the couch waiting. He gets there first and grabs the sheet. 

“Well, I can be,” you say. 

“Uh huh...” he clucks thoughtfully as he spreads the sheet and tucks it in. “So when you said you liked my Spidey shirt--” 

“I meant it,” you blurt out, notably lowering your voice on the last word. “I’m not a liar.” 

“I know,” he sniffs. “I wasn’t meaning.” 

“Here,” you grab the comforter. A kid’s blanket with Aladdin and Abu on it. He grabs the edge next to your hand, his warm shocking you. You both fan it out over the couch. 

“Sorry, didn’t have anything else. We use this for camping.” He says. 

“Camping? Oh? Fun.” 

“Haven’t been this year. Too busy.” He hums. 

“Oh...” you chew your lip and step back. He puts the pillow in place. 

“Not because of you. And even if it was, I’d rather have you around.” He assures then his smile petrifies. He clears his throat and backs up. “Erm, for Elita. Right.” He turns awkwardly as he opens and closes his fist. “Good night, honey. I mean... just good night.” He stops in the doorway keeping his back to you. “I’m tired.” 

You hold back a laugh. “Night, Jake.” You call after him. “I like being here too... so you know.” 

He puts his hand on the door frame then taps. He nods and walks away. Your heart races. Did you say too much? 

💜

There’s a boiling sensation under your skin. Not uncomfortable, more consuming. You squirm as the hand runs up your stomach and dances along the curve of your chest. Fingertips tickle your neck and you tilt your head back at the delicate kiss. 

You sigh and sink into it. You open your mouth and moan as your tongues mingle. You brush your hand up his thick arm and his groan rolls into your ear like music. You gasp as you squeeze. You want more. 

You wake with a start. You sit up, almost breathless, and look around the living room. It takes you a moment to remember where you are. To piece together yesterday. 

You brush your hands around your face and cringe. The man in your dream was faceless but it was him. That voice. Jake. 

Your lip trembles. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to. It’s just your subconscious. 

You shudder and make yourself get up. There’s no way you’re going to get back to sleep. You take your time folding up the bedding and plop the pillow on top. 

You go to the kitchen, padding softly as the house is quiet. You don’t want to overstep but you need to keep yourself busy. Your head keeps going back to the dream. Just a dream. 

You ease the cupboard open and search around. Pancakes will be a nice surprise. You hope. 

You’re getting too comfortable here. Anxiety needles in your neck as you silently gather ingredients. You should probably just head out. Jake has enough on his plate with a daughter like Elita. 

You slide the skillet out from between two others but not carefully enough. The mental ting makes you pause. You exhale and slowly stand, setting it on the stove. 

“Morning,” Jake startles you as he enters the kitchen. 

You gasp but keep from screaming. You turn to him and laugh. “I was... going to surprise you and El. Pancakes.” 

He smiles. His hair is sticking up in all angles and his eyes are lined with fatigue. 

“You don’t have to do all that,” he says. 

“I don’t mind.” You insist. “Unless you do?” 

He stares at you then shakes his head. “I’m just going to make some coffee.” 

“Sure,” you back away, giving him space. 

He tinkers with the machine. Every noise seems louder as you measure out your ingredients one by one. He snaps the lid down and you wince. 

“You want some?” He breaks the silence. 

“Maybe just a cup. Please and thank you.” You stir and chuckle again. “Elita’s reminded me of my manners these days.” 

He snorts, “yep. She’s a good kid.” 

You pour batter into the pan and watch it spread. You put the bowl down and step back.  

“She has a good dad,” you say. 

“I try,” he mutters. 

You turn to him. “Really. You’re really good. I can see how much you love each other.” 

“Well, I’m all she has. No,” he shakes his head, “she’s all I have.” 

He looks down grimly. You smile nervously. Your eyes skim over him and catch on the stray hair jutting out behind his ear. 

He looks up and startles you. “You okay?” 

“Um, I wasn’t saying anything, was I?” You cringe. “Good, I just. Your hair.” 

You motion to the side of your head. His eyes go wide and he tries to smooth out his locks. “I used to keep this short but...” 

“Can I?” You offer. 

“Uh, sure,” he gulps. 

He stands still, almost like a statue. You could laugh. You near and reach to smooth the stray hair. It’s stubborn and pokes back up again. 

“Mm, doesn’t wanna stay down,” your eyes flick from the hair to his gaze. He’s watching you. 

You freeze. Your fingertips stay on his soft strands as you stare at each other. You’re trapped. You know you should back off. That you need to. But you can’t. 

You weave into his hair before you can stop yourself. You stand on your toes and press your lips to his. It’s just like your dream but better. 

You gasp and tear away from him. You cover your cheeks with your hands and spin away. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Hey, it’s...” he stammers. “Er. Well... it’s uh--” 

You go to the stove and twist the dial off. You move the pan off the hot burner. 

“Sorry. Uh... I gotta...” your adrenaline is surging, pulse racing as it tamps out all sound and sense. “Go.” 

“Wait--” he calls after you. 

You hurry out of the kitchen, mortified. Why did you do that? There was no reason. You went and spoiled it all. Because you’re stupid. Oh god, oh god, oh god. 

You swipe up your purse from beside the door and race out without your shoes. You’re terrified to look back. Too scared to stay. Because even if you did, one day, he might not. 

[jxstsxgx]

𝙹𝙰𝙲𝙺 | 𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙼𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Eddie Munson x gf! Reader

Word Count: 874

Summary: Drunk you. Drunker Eddie. One heartbreak. A man named Jack.

Contains: Established relationship, Delusional, Jealous!Eddie, drunken misunderstandings, you crying for no real reason, dramatics, very chaotic energy, alcohol use/consumption so MDNI!, zero confessions, you're both idiots in love, classic Eddie nonsense, no resolution (yet, lol)

A/N: Another drunk Eddie coming through! Here's a short one to make it up after almost two weeks of not posting.

masterlist |

“Me or Jack, babe! You have to choose!”

You blink.

“Wait, what?”

Eddie is swaying like a pirate on deck, hair tangled, flushed all over, and emotionally combusting in your living room like someone just played a breakup song at full volume inside his brain.

He points an accusatory finger past your shoulder.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he slurs. “I saw the way you were talking about him tonight.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Drunken brain still processing.

You turn back to Eddie, only to find him fuming, chest heaving, curls bouncing with every impassioned breath.

“Who?” you manage, genuinely lost.

“Jack!”

“…What?”

“Yes, I’m talking about Jack! That sleazy, smooth-talking bastard you’ve been talking about all night!”

You freeze.

And the most dangerous thing of all happens next.

You try to think.

It goes poorly.

Because you are also very drunk.

The room spins just a little and Jack, whoever he is sounds familiar and threatening and maybe he did talk to you tonight, maybe he was really charming and you were too bubbly and now Eddie is upset and maybe you did mess everything up.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes going wide and niw tearing. “I’m so sorry.”

Eddie looks startled. “You… you are?”

You nod rapidly, bottom lip wobbling. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear. I don’t even know who Jack is, but if I did, I promise I’d tell him to go away. I didn’t want to fall in love with him. I didn’t even know I did and now you’re mad and I’m just... I’m a bad girlfriend, Eddie.”

You sniff, tears streaming dowm your flushed face, genuinely apologizing for something you don’t understand.

Eddie looks like he’s watching someone confess to a crime they didn’t commit.

“No,” he says, slurring a little but with increasing emotional vigor. “No, baby, you’re not the bad girlfriend. He is. That smug guy.”

You start to cry. Soft and pitiful.

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know I was cheating! I didn’t know who he was!”

“You didn’t cheat,” Eddie insists, dropping to his knees in front of you, both of you crumpling like two sad pancakes on the carpet. “You didn’t cheat, you just… you forgot I was right here. Loving you silently. Like an idiot.”

You cried even more. “Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“No, Eddie, I’m the villain in this story!” You wailed.

“No, you’re the tragic heroine,” he says, brushing a dramatic curl off his forehead. “You were misled by temptation.”

“I am a temptable person!” (I honestly don't know if this is a real word)

“I know!”

The two of you collapse into each other on the floor, emotionally exhausted by your own imaginary love triangle.

You wipe your nose on your sleeve. “I just… I just want things to go back to how they were before Jack came into our lives.”

Eddie nods solemnly. “Me too."

The bottle of Jack Daniels sits, inanimate and uncaring, on the table.

Neither of you notice.

Eddie throws an arm around you, sniffling like a war widow. “He took my girl and I let him.”

You cling to his denim vest like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. “I didn’t mean to go.”

“You never meant to,” he whispers, pulling you tighter. “You just wandered.”

“I didn’t even see him coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Another long pause.

“Tell Jack I hope he chokes.”

You whimper dramatically. “Me tooooo.”

And that’s how the two of you end up falling asleep on the living room rug, limbs tangled and damp faced, united in your mutual hatred of an imaginary man.

Neither of you realizing that Jack never had a heartbeat.

Just a label.

And 40% alcohol by volume.

THE POOR, INNOCENT JACK IN QUESTION..

[aaesuki]

he doesn't post you for girlfriend's day

pairing: atsumu x reader

cw/tw: angst D=

wc: 1.5k

a/n: i'm sorry atsumu. i promise this isnt targeted. his personality just makes it really easy to write him as a bad boyfriend. happy belated gf's day to every girl out there regardless of relationship status. your friends love you!

August 1

7:39 PM

You drag your finger down the screen, staring down the loading circle as it spins round and round before it disappears. You sigh at the lack of notifications. The day was a hard one with the stress of upcoming deadlines, but they were the last thing you could focus on. Instead, you watch the clock as the minutes tick past.

9:14 PM

Your eyes drift down to your phone for the 16th time in the past hour. Its black screen reflects your frustrated face back to you. It was silly to be so ruffled over this, you tell yourself. It was just a stupid made up “holiday” and you had no reason to be upset. However, your heart still burns at the thought of Atsumu ignoring the various girlfriend day stories his friends posted. You turn your attention back to the irritatingly bright laptop screen in front of you.

10:37 PM

Your phone rings with a notification and you jump from the couch to grab it from the table next to you. Your heart beats in anticipation, hoping to catch a glimpse of his name and the adorable picture you had chosen for his contact. The racing of your heart turns into a rush of disappointment when you see it was just your friend sending a TikTok with too many laughing emojis to count. Your hand rubs on your cheeks and you want to scream. You want to throw a fit and cry and rip your pillows apart. The weight of defeat begins to drag down at your shoulders but you resist. There’s still about an hour and a half before the day is done.

11:06 PM

Your phone is warm from gripping it like it owes you money and watching too many YouTube videos and. You sigh, plug in your phone, and lay your head down on your pillow. The disappointment hasn’t gotten any lighter. In the darkness of your room, you close your eyes and hope you can sleep the pain away.

11:36 PM

You can’t sleep. Your heart is beating too fast for your mind to shut down properly. You take a peek at the digital clock on your night stand. 24 minutes. Though you know it’s not happening, you still foolishly hope that Atsumu will pull through and surprise you.

11:42 PM

You’ve given up on rest. At this point, you just hope that your body will let go of hope when midnight strikes so you can finally fall asleep. However, your mind races with insecure thoughts. Why hasn’t he posted anything? More importantly, why hasn’t he said anything at all? It would be better if he didn’t know, to be honest. At least you would be able to give him the benefit of the doubt but you know you’ve reached your limit. You had given him enough chances.

August 2

12:00 AM

Your tears fall from the corners of your eyes, tracing their way around your ears. The waiting is over, yet you don’t feel any bit of relief. Rather, now the heaviness of what you’ve decided comes next sits on your chest. You grab your phone, check it one last time, and smile bitterly when his profile stays empty of the pink circle.

10:23 AM

You find it a bit ridiculous. Your phone shouldn’t have the power to send your adrenaline into overdrive but while your finger hovers over send, your mind tries to drag up any last excuse you can make for him. Maybe he was tired, and he completely passed out when he got home. Maybe his phone ran out of battery halfway through the day. He did have a habit of forgetting to charge it. But you know better. You hit send and watch the text bubble rise.

“we need to talk”

You want to burst into tears when he replies a few minutes later with “wanna call?”

Your fingers shake while you type out your response.

“I’ll come to your apartment”

He sends a thumbs up.

10:54 AM

Every muscle in your body is straining to stop you from screaming and yelling. “No, ‘Tsumu, it’s not just about the post! It’s everything that’s been happening!”

He matches your tone and pulls at his blond hair. “I don’t get it! Do you want me to post it or not?” His eyes are fixated on your painful grimace.

“It’s too late! The day’s already over,” you cry. “There’s no point of you doing it anymore.”

“Then what do you want me to do? Why are we even having this argument?” Atsumu groans. Yesterday, he passed out immediately after practice and woke up after receiving your text, confused and admittedly quite nervous. You were always patient with him, and he knows he’s been walking on a tightrope.

He knows that the scarce dates, the silence between texts, and the forgotten birthdays had been piling up on you. Hell, he barely had time to celebrate his own birthday. Instead, he opted to have a quick drink with his teammates during a game abroad despite the happy birthday text you sent at midnight. He told himself every time that he would get back to you when his hands weren’t full, but he was always either too tired or simply forgot. He really didn’t mean to put you through all this but as an athlete, he didn’t have the luxury of stopping.

You truly thought you’d be able to handle it. As long as the love was there, nothing would be able to get between you and him. You knew a relationship with Atsumu would be different from a typical one, but somewhere along the way, he had pulled too far ahead. When you adapted to his schedule, it would change. There were more practice sessions or physical therapy sessions. And when you adapted to that schedule, it would change again. Every time he apologized for his late reply, you cried less. Before long, “sorry” lost its meaning.

He avoids your teary eyes and averts his gaze to the pillow beside you. You do the same.

“You’re always so busy. You don’t even have time to think about me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says but he knows how futile it is. He should’ve done something about it weeks, even months, ago.

“Sometimes I wonder if you even want me here anymore, if you still love me.” Your tears fall faster, racing down to your chin. All the hurt that had been growing and tangling finally allows itself to unravel.

“Of course I do,” he sighs. He can feel his head getting heavier and the sound of his heartbeat getting louder. “It’s just been hard.”

“You give your all into your training and work, and when you get home there’s nothing left for me. All I get are the scraps, if there are any at all.”

“I can’t give up either of those. You know that.”

“Then what am I still doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. His sniffles grow louder, and you realize. Atsumu is trying to stop himself from crying. In front of you sits the man you have loved for years, yet it’s difficult to reconcile the fact that you’re the reason he’s crying with all the care he’s shown you before cracks started to show. You remember the third date when he asked if he could hold your hand and when you jokingly rejected, he was visibly disappointed for the rest of it. You remember the first fight. He had slept in, forgetting he was supposed to pick you up for a date at the aquarium. You were annoyed, sure, but it dissipated when he showed up at your door with treats from a bakery and a nervous smile. Still, you pretended to be upset so he would pamper you with affection.

You hate being angry at him. Of course you do. You love him and you don’t want to be upset with him but you can’t handle the loneliness anymore. You have to stop the suffocation of neglect from turning into resentment.

“I understand if you’re done. I know it’s unfair to you.” He finally looks at you, eyes full to the brim with adoration and anguish. How can a person love you so much yet break you beyond repair? “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more. I just wanted you to be happy and I lost track of things. I know it hasn’t been easy for you. You’ve been nothing but patient with me and—"

You stand, make your way to the couch he sits on, and wrap your arms around him. He instinctively fits his head into the crook of your neck and sobs. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. I know you love me very much,” you whisper into his hair. You can feel him sharply breathing in and out. For once Atsumu is quiet, barring his cries, and allows himself to lean on you. The great Miya Atsumu has been brought down to his knees by the second greatest love in his life.

[oynonrings]

guys daniils thoughts are really interesting insights into his psyche

[teacupsandcyanide]

btw i saw people on reddit who genuinely believe that poppy is belinda's "actual" daughter and always was and that it's just that the series was set mostly in the wrong universe, the Doctor got us back to the right one and then in the last scenes had his memory "resettle" of the "real" universe

despite the fact that:

The Doctor met the real Poppy in Space Babies. So if she was always Belinda's child, how is she also Captain Poppy? Am I supposed to extrapolate, via the same incredibly generous methods of interpretation, that it's just double-casting and another massive coincidink?

Even if that's the case, spending the majority of the story with "Belinda 1" then ending it with "Belinda 2" and never finding out what happened to "Belinda 1" and being left with the possibility that she just stopped existing is a bizarre and awful writing choice. Unless it's framed as a horror story, which it wasn't.

Literally none of that lines up with anything else and I genuinely don't think it was RTD's intended meaning, I think he meant that the Doctor retconned the universe so that Belinda always had a baby, which is a different, equally stupid thing

Even if he did actually mean what the redditors believe, he was so ineffective at communicating this through the story that he may as well have daubed it on a cellar wall in Ancient Latin using his own shit. The redditors are all explaining it to each other too which is a real testament to how "obvious" an intended meaning it is

[north-noire]

henry emily and william afton doodles

[crossbackpoke-check]

blessed be (lorscher bienensegen) | telling the bees (wiþ ymbe)

"Bees" [remixed, abridged], Claudia Emerson // "Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now" [remixed, abridged], Matthew Olzmann // "Letter to my Great, Great Grandchild" [remixed, abridged], J.P. Grasser | Len Redkole, Nina Weiss, Brian Babineau, Christian Peterson, Mitchell Leff, Dave Isaac, Megan DeRuchie

[cookies-after-dark]

So I just had the sexiest yandere Shadow Milk Cookie dream last night; buckle up, you all are in for a ride

[cherrygummybears]

hope compilation

sources:

in a big country - big country // various storms and saints - florence + the machine // things can only get better - howard jones // free - florence + the machine // youtube comment from breaking down by florence + the machine // youtube comment from shake it out by florence + the machine // stop crying your heart out - oasis // instagram comment + replies from reel by __we_love_you_ // youtube comment + replies from hunger by florence + the machine // you get what you give - new radicals // youtube comment + replies from dog days are over by florence + the machine // instagram comment + replies from reels by morecorecore (2x) // instagram comments from reels by morecorecore (3x) // light of love - florence + the machine // discord message written by @corrode-in-repose // discord message written by @blue-dreamers-eyes // discord messages written by me // Night Walk from East Boston, 1996 - Franz Wright // instagram reel by __we_love_you_

[harpuiaa]

persona 2 doodles

[wistfullywaiting2]

I love the father figure Dazai headcanons as much as the next guy but please if Dazai was a father he’d be the dad that your mom divorced because he kept cheating on her and he blames her for ruining their marriage in front of you every chance he gets when you’ve never heard her say so much as a mean thing about him to your face.

He has visitation rights every weekend but most weekends you spend sitting out by the curb outside of your house for 6 hours because he said he’d come pick you up and never did so your mom has to eventually tell you to come inside and eat the reheated dinner you rejected an hour ago because you thought you’d eat dinner at dads house. And after you go to bed that night you hear her argue on the phone with him about how you deserve a father figure in your life.

But when you do go over to his house you get to spend the weekend eating nothing but hamburger helper’s, Mac and cheese, and baked beans with boiled hotdogs, you also get to do nothing but sit on the floor next to the one folding chair he owns in front of the milk crate that has his tv and beat up ps4 on it while you watch him play call of duty.

[softodettes]

call me Xaden Liarson the way i lie about updating my fics