#someone needs to force me to go back to writing..

[rainrot4me]

First the compliment: your writing is much better than mine when i was at your age, props for writing creepypasta hcs like YOU imagine them while still making it feel like it could absolutely pass off as canon/in character. Thats some talent right there.

Can i request the creeps with a reader that tends to escapism/ suffers from maladaptive daydreaming? Thanks in advance!

Thank you so much!!! As someone who uses daydreaming to get away from the hectic cycle of life, this was very fun to do :)

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

At first? Jeff’s annoyed.

“Earth to space cadet,” he snaps after the third time you don’t respond when he calls your name. Jeff has always been a face-value guy, so it’s hard to understand why someone he wants to talk to doesn’t always want to talk to him. But eventually, he realizes it’s not disrespect, it’s protection.

And after a while, he starts watching you during those dissociative moments, leaning in close, not to scold, but to anchor you. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice unusually soft. “Where’d you go just now?” He wants to know where and what it is that takes you away, what makes that other place so much better than where he is?

Sometimes he’ll jokingly insert himself into your fantasy, “If you’re gonna vanish, at least imagine me shirtless and feeding you grapes or something.”

But other times, when he sees how hard you’re clinging to your daydreams, his voice gets quieter. “You don’t have to run up there anymore,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You got me now. Let me be your somewhere else.”

✦ . ticci toby

Toby understands.

God, does he understand. Dissociation, checking out, needing the dream version of life just to make it through the real one? That’s been his whole survival method. He doesn’t interrupt your spells, he just sits with you, quietly. Maybe fidgets with your hands or hums under his breath so you know he’s still here.

When you come back around, he doesn’t push. Just gently says, “You drifted again… You okay?”

If you let him, he’ll join you in your mental escape. “What’s it like in your head? Ca-Can I come too?” He wants to build you a safe world outside your mind, even if it’s messy and full of shadows, he just wants you to feel safe inside and outside of your head.

“I’ll be your anchor, if you want,” he says once. “Just tug on me when you need to come back.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Jack takes a clinical interest at first, but it turns personal fast.

He notices the signs—the unfocused stare, the half-listening answers when he asks you questions, the barely-there smile like you’re living in a different timeline. “You’re retreating,” he says one evening, gently. “It’s a protective response.” It’s more like he’s evaluating exactly why more than letting you know.

But instead of shaming you, he asks questions. “What does it look like, in there? Are you safer there? Happier?” He’s not offended, but he does want to know why your mind works the way it does without feeling like it’s an interrogation. He’s happy when you let him into your personal space.

Over time, he starts helping you ground—hand on your thigh, blanket over your shoulders, little sensory tethers that ease you back to him without abruptly dragging you from your headspace.

“You don’t have to leave to feel okay,” he tells you. “Let’s make the real world something worth staying in.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Tim has no patience for it at first.

He’s from a world where zoning out gets you killed. “Stop checking out,” he growls during a heated moment. “You can’t afford to float off.” But then he sees the aftermath, the guilt in your eyes, the way you cling to your sleeves like they can shield you.

And suddenly, he sees himself in you. He sees that scared man who was being ripped apart at the edges by some horrifying force out to get him. It hits him like a guilt-filled truck.

Next time, when you space out, he doesn’t snap. He sits next to you in silence, lights a cigarette, and murmurs, “It’s not real, whatever’s happening in there… but I get it. Sometimes you just need out.”

He’ll stay for as long as you’re gone, making sure that nothing and nobody bothers you. He’s protective, so when someone he cares about is vulnerable, he’s sure to have their back. Eventually, he’ll nudge you gently. “Come back. I miss you when you go.”

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Brian recognizes the signs immediately.

He’s been there—lost in thought, lost in nightmares, lost in anywhere-but-here. He never interrupts harshly. Instead, he waits for you to return, then meets your eyes behind his mask. “You were somewhere else again,” he’ll say calmly. “Did it help?”

Sometimes, he sits beside you and just says nothing, letting you wander mentally while he holds your hand. He’ll build rituals to ground you—soft touches, steady sounds, warmth.

He doesn’t force you to stop escaping, but he does give you something to escape to instead of from. If it’s silence you want, he’ll offer that, but if it’s noise and activity, he’ll offer that too.

“When you need to drift,” he says, “make me part of the dream. I’ll keep you safe in there.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate’s response is quiet at first.

She sees you drifting off and doesn’t call attention to it, just places a hand on your arm and keeps it there until your eyes clear. There’s no need to rush anything, she’ll take all the time she needs to bring you back. She feels honored that you feel comfortable enough around her to zone off.

But one day, after a long silence, she speaks, “I used to do that too. Escape—into stories, into people, into a version of me who didn’t have to fight so hard.”

She doesn’t try to fix you. But she will make sure you’re okay. “You don’t have to explain where you went. Just… come back when you’re ready. I’ll still be here.”

Eventually, she starts narrating things to help keep you present. She knows it’s easy for you to slip away, so she wants to make sure you’re always being attended to. “We’re in the woods. It’s dusk. You’re holding my hand. We’re walking back to the mansion.” Because with Kate, she makes sure you are never forgotten.

✦ . ben drowned

Ben lives in fantasy.

He’s half code, half memory, always just slightly unreal. So when he finds out you’re a dreamer too? He lights up. “Finally,” he says, half-grinning. “Someone who gets it.”

He’ll ask you about your worlds, your characters, your imagined futures. He wants to play there with you—build kingdoms, bend the rules, dream impossible dreams.

But when it becomes too much, when you start forgetting to eat or sleep, he gently reins you in. “I know it’s beautiful in your head,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek. “But you’re beautiful out here, too. I need you with me.”

He enjoys spending time with you, inside your head or out, but there’s no way he’s going to let you ruin yourself. “…Besides, you’re way cuter in person.”

✦ . clockwork

Natalie notices the disconnect, but she doesn’t get angry.

Instead, she plants her palm against your chest and says, “Hey. You still in there?” If you don’t respond, she waits. And when you do, she doesn’t make you explain yourself. She’s patient. Fierce, but patient.

“You’re not weak,” she says. “You’re surviving however you can. I respect that.” She becomes oddly motivating and supportive.

But she’ll challenge you when the daydreams start taking over your real life. “Tell me what your dream self has that you don’t. Go on. I’ll wait.” Because she wants to help you become that person—here. Now. With her.

“I’ll fight the world for you,” she says, gripping your hand. “But you gotta stay present enough to fight it too.”

✦ . laughing jack

Jack is fascinated.

“You escape into fantasy?” he says, tilting his head like a raven. “What’s so wrong with this twisted little circus we call life?” Jack is a being of the dreamworld himself, but that’s a control tactic, something he uses to lure victims and churn feelings, not an escape.

But then he sees how much pain you’re hiding, how deeply you need the dream world. And strangely, something shifts in him. “Fine,” he says. “Then I’ll make the real world just as colorful. Let’s paint the walls with glitter and scream at the moon. Let’s make this place worth living in.”

He pulls you out of your fugue states with humor, with chaos, with surprise. But always with a touch of care. Whenever you slip, he’ll make sure to lure you back with the sweet smell of baked goods or the wonderful sensation of a dryer-warmed blanket, anything to bring you back to him.

“You don’t have to go to Wonderland, darling. I’ll bring Wonderland to you.”

✦ . slenderman

Slender is eerily in tune with your disassociation.

He can feel when your presence flickers. He doesn’t speak, but his tendrils will coil protectively around you. He grounds you with texture, sensation, pressure, drawing you back into your body.

When you return, he gently cups your face in his clawed hands. “Your mind is a vast, haunted forest,” his voice echoes. “But even the wildest forests need a path home.”

He never demands you stop dreaming. But he offers reality as something beautiful, terrifying, and shared. He understands slipping away for a while, but he’ll always make sure to stick close to keep a watchful eye over you. Nobody is allowed near, at least not until you’re back again.

“If you must wander,” he says, “let me walk with you.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[revelboo]

omg revel i think you need a masterlist of all your continuity masterlists at this point

there's probably a convention's worth of robot fuckers here, all lurking around and feasting on your writing every day over here like you set out cans of wet food for stray cats

🤣 I keep trying to streamline stuff and Tumblr keeps thwarting me with post limits

Worker Bee Pt 32

Waspinator x Reader

• Still tied up in the stupid curtain, you swing slightly from your big, dumb puppy’s mandibles as Waspinator keeps backing slowly up the wall until his butt hits the corner in his giant wasp form while the black and white mech who’d herded him into what you’re pretty sure is an interrogation room just stares. And you get that expression on his face completely, the alien managing to give off the tired resignation of someone forced to deal with the stupidity and paid far too little to deal with this shit. The big blue and red one that had introduced himself as Optimus just looks worried. Most likely that Wasp is going to drop you, which is very valid.

• Wings buzzing a warning, his optics flick around the space, looking for a way to escape. Because they’re trying to lock him up, trap him in this room. What if they take you away from him? What if he can’t find his little mate? “Waspinator, was it?” Optimus calls out. “We really just want to talk. Can you come down before you drop your… human?” And he bristles. ‘Waspinator not drop mate,’ he hisses, nearly dropping you and flailing to snag you with his front limbs, dragging you to trap you between his frame and the wall.

• “I think we should hear them out,” you say, mainly because you’re now mostly upside down and he wouldn’t mean to drop you, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it by accident. And you see the look the two mechs exchange at Wasp calling you his mate. Probably thinking he’s a weirdo for being with a human when he’s definitely not human. “And all the blood is rushing to my head, sweetie,” you add.

• “Talk,” he growls, trying to shuffle you right side up without dropping you. “Not coming down.” Glances at the closed door and wonders if it’s locked. If he could batter it open slamming himself against it and unwilling to try while he has you. Doesn’t like being trapped as he shuffles along the top of the wall. Came here for help, but he doesn’t really trust the Autobots. Not when they hate him as much as the Decepticons. Everyone hates him but you. “Safe here.”

• “Hi?” You call out, squirming to try to get loose from the curtain and Waspinator rubs his big head against you, mandibles brushing your hair. Possibly chewing on it. “If you guys can back off, I can get him off the wall.” Probably. He’s so freaked, he might not listen to you, but it’s worth a try. “And we can talk like normal… people.” And the big guy actually listens, shooing the black and white mech out and hesitating in the doorway. ‘You’re sure you’re okay with him?’ Optimus asks so solemnly it’s adorable. “I��m sure.”

• “Trapped,” he hisses as the door closes and you make a sharp noise that makes him flinch, antenna back. ‘Wasp, listen to me. I need you to untie me. And get us down, okay?’ And he hesitates but you lean and press your mouth against a mandible and he’s climbing down with you. Transforming, he uses his claws to carefully rip the cloth you’re tied up in to free you. Head turning nervously back toward the door, he whines when you cup his face in your palms and make him look at you instead. ‘You brought us here because these guys are okay, right? So let’s hear what they have to say.’ Venting on a whine, he leans his head against you, antenna sliding through your hair. Maybe they’re okay? Doesn’t know. Just didn’t know where else to go. If the Decepticons are hunting him, he needs help. Why couldn’t they have just left him alone? Ignored him like they normally do?

Previous

Have some Beast Wars Wasp panels I found. Puppy has one brain cell to his name and still managed to get two degrees with it

[photo1030]

A Cup of Coffee

Summary:  What do you do when the love of your life doesn’t feel the same for you?

Word Count - Just over 10K

A/N - This is inspired by the song by Garbage. I got this idea after reading all the amazing mini prompts by @pinescent-and-gingerbread.

Supposed to be a short, one-shot but, as usual it got away from me. I hope you can stick it out to the end. A lot of emotions going on here and it is not a happy one, just be warned. I cried quite a bit writing this one.

Masterlist

*This beautiful image is from @rdr2gifs

You sit with your back against the old gnarled walnut tree, picking at your nails in nervous frustration, your head clearly somewhere else. This is “your spot” where you always go when you need a moment to yourself. The giant tree is like an old friend, its massive branches like arms providing you shelter, shade, and a quiet place to reflect. It’s damn near a pet to you.

“Why you actin’ all pissy lately.” Arthur kicks your boot to garner your attention, his face turned down into an annoyed scowl. 

“No reason,” you reply dismissively, maintaining your averted stare out into the forest that rings the camp. 

“Bull shit.” Arthur rounds to the other side of you, filling your view with his massive trunk of a body so that you’re forced to look at him. “You’ve been moping around like a goddamn wet rag. What’s your problem?”

��I said it's nothing!” you snap back, making you instantly cringe as your response has more venom that you intended.

“Yeah, whatever, fine. Don’t tell me, then,” he pouts, waving his hand in the air in surrender. 

Your legs instinctively curl in towards your body, a vacant look settled upon your stormy face while you stare off into space again. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

A slight head shake tosses his honey-brown locks as his mouth opens to say something, but no argument comes out. A gloved hand scratches the back of his neck in confusion as to what could possibly be so bad that you won’t talk to him. “Is this a ‘lady thing’?”

But the moment your eyes shoot wide open, Arthur knows he’s guessed wrong. “What?! Jesus, Arthur, no it's not a ‘lady thing’!”

‘“Then why can’t you tell me!”

“Because!”

“Because why? You tell me everything else!” he pushes.

“Because it's about you, jackass!” And your eyes go wide as the full moon at the realization that you just opened Pandora's box to your deepest secret:  you are hopelessly in love with your best friend, one Mr. Arthur Morgan. 

But the problem is, not only is he oblivious to it, he is in love with someone else:  Mary Gillis, now Mary Linton. And despite her having broken Arthur’s heart and married someone else, the man is still carrying a smoldering torch for the woman, the flames fanned back to life ten-fold when a letter from this ghost from his past showed up for him a few weeks ago.

Arthur’s large body flinches back slightly at your vague revelation, his arms folding across his broad, rigid chest. “What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing, forget I said anything,” you mutter, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert, your stomach twisting into knots and wishing with every fiber of your being that this conversation wasn’t happening right now. 

“Now, hold on!” His azure eyes flash at you, and it's obvious he’s not going to let this go. “If you’re pissed at me, I deserve to know why.” He looms over you now, his thumb jutting back into his chest at his demand. 

You take a deep sigh and rub your temples with your thumb and forefinger, trying to reel your swirling emotions in before you say or do something you’ll regret. “I’m not pissed at you, Arthur.”

He raises a taunting eyebrow at you. “You sure about that?” 

Your much smaller frame draws up defensively, your chin dropping in warning. “I said I’m not mad, Arthur,” you caution, the words slow and careful, “but I’m gonna be if you don’t stop flappin’ your damn mouth.”

Finally, Arthur recognizes your encroaching breaking point with each twitch of your lips and makes one last attempt, extending his hand to you to find out what has got you wound up like a hornet. “Oh, come on, Y/N. What’s going on?”

“I said drop it!” Your cheeks flush red-hot and you storm off, brushing past his shoulder, leaving him staring after you in confusion. 

—----------------------------------

Your tantrum with Arthur leaves you feeling like a boulder sits in your gut. Trying to hide away from facing the inevitable, you spend the rest of the afternoon out riding your horse. You take to the open fields, letting the warm summer winds engulf you. You push your horse at full speed as if you could outrun your feelings for Arthur. But all this does is make you realize that there is no going back now. You’ll have to confront this sooner or later. 

Slinking back to camp, you find the one person who knows your little secret. You talk to Abigail about it and, of course, she encourages you to tell Arthur how you feel. “Everyone wants to know they are loved,” she rationalizes. 

But the idea of exposing your heart terrifies you, even if it is to Arthur. Your hands clench open and closed, your breathing becoming short. “What if he don’t feel the same?” you ask, your voice sounding pathetic and small. “He’s still hung up on Mary.”

But your answer does not deter Abigail’s opinion. “Maybe he’s still hung up because he doesn’t know he has options.” She leans forward to catch your eye, her gaze burning into yours. “You’ll never know until you tell him.”

Your eyes glisten as you close them and pull in an expansive breath, holding it before slowly pushing it out between trembling lips. Abigail is right. You can’t win anything if you’re not willing to risk for it. What if he says ‘no’? But, what if he says ‘yes’? And you sweep her into a tight hug which she gladly reciprocates.  

—------------------------------------

The next morning, you find Arthur sitting quiet and content outside his tent writing in his journal. You stop to admire how his brows knit slightly, consumed with whatever he is committing to those pages. 

Your mind skips back to when he handed you a journal of your own after you inquired about his. It was a gesture that meant the world to you, because not only did someone bring you a gift, but he was extending to you a glimpse into his own world. He was offering you the same opportunity that he had, sharing his passion with you. This was something that he has not done for anyone else, making this a singular thing that he only shares with you and no one else. The thought makes your heart flutter, honored at this trust, and you take a deep and steadying breath to propel yourself forward. 

“Hey, can I talk to you a second?”

Arthur looks up from the worn leather book on his lap, surprised to see your timidly smiling face greeting him. 

A small grin of relief tugs at the corner of his lips when he realizes you aren’t snapping at him anymore. “Hey… yeah, sure.” 

You sit down next to him, the morning sun kissing his profile, gently heating the worn wooden chair as if it is waiting for you. You hand him a steaming-hot cup of coffee as a peace offering. His tired eyes instantly brighten as he catches the hints of cinnamon mingling with the strong, smoky aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans. 

No one makes coffee like you do. Arthur has no idea what you do or how you do it. It could be witchcraft for all he knows. And he doesn't care so long as you share your efforts with him. He takes a deep sip, the almost-scalding liquid cascading over his tongue, savoring the caramelized, earthy notes and humming in contentment. “Now, that��s a good cup of coffee.”

His compliment makes you smile despite the butterflies in your stomach as you partake from your own cup to quench your parched throat. 

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry I’ve been a crab-ass lately. It’s just that…” Your eyes cast down to the dark brown liquid, as if trying to find the courage to continue in the steam that gently dances in the air under your nose. 

Arthur is quick to pick up on your fidgeting again. “Just what? Y/N, are you ok?” His face turns down in concern. You are never one to show weakness, so this sudden display of odd behavior doesn’t sit well with him. And worse yet, the fact that you can’t talk to him about it is unsettling. ”If something’s wrong, you know you can tell me.“

You finally tear your gaze from the cup in your slightly shaking hands to meet his. Why does he have to be so sweet? Maybe this is a good sign? Maybe he does feel the same?

“No, nothing’s wrong. At least, I don’t think so.” Your lips get pulled into your teeth.

“Then what in the hell is eatin’ at you?” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, they are delivered with a softness that echoes concern. 

“Arthur,” You swallow hard and close your eyes for a moment. Just say it!, your mind screams. Quit dicking around and do it, for Christ’s sake! 

Arthur’s whole body is rigid as he leans forward on his knees, nervously waiting for whatever bad news it is that you are about to tell him. But what you say next is NOT what he is expecting to come out of your mouth. 

“I’m in love with you.”

Your proclamation is met with stinging silence. And you anxiously wait in anticipation for his answer. And when it doesn’t come, your breathing stops, your knee bouncing slightly as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. 

“Wait…what?” His face screws up, trying to decipher what you’ve just said. 

“I’m in love with you, Arthur, have been for awhile.” You nod in acknowledgement, the sentiment hangs soft and vulnerable in the air like the summer fireflies. 

The outlaw shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his hand along his jawline as he finally comprehends what you’re telling him. And then, the reality of it really sets in. “Shit.”

Your mouth falls open as you clutch the coffee mug in your hand as if it were a lifeline. “What's wrong? Is that a bad thing?”

But Arthur won’t look you in the eye at first, searching for the words that struggle to come. “I just…I just didn’t think I’d ever have to worry about that sort of thing with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Your eyes begin to sting, causing you to start blinking rapidly as you try to figure out the meaning behind his statement. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs haplessly. “I just never thought of you as a woman like that, I guess.”

Shit, he may as well have slapped you across the face. It would have stung much less. A huff of exasperation expels from your nose as your head quickly draws back. The anger from yesterday begins to surge within your belly again. You feel stupid, embarrassed. 

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head and abruptly stand, ready to storm off again before he sees the tears rimming in your eyes.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!”

You spin on him, then, the frustration displayed all over your features. “Then what did you mean, Arthur? Huh? What, that you don’t even see me as a woman?!”

“No, that’s not-”

“That's exactly what you said!” you bite back, cutting him off.

Arthur is quick to his feet to explain himself. “You and me, we’re friends. Best friends.” He motions emphatically between you two. ”No bull shit, no games. And I always liked that, relied on it. Respected that, even. I’ve never had to watch myself around you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you challenge back. “Why does any of that have to change?” You step closer to Arthur now and look up into his face, desperate for an explanation that makes sense to your rapidly- breaking heart. 

“Because! I’m not good at that sort of thing,” he says sheepishly, hand coming up behind his neck.

“I’m not either. But that’s why it could be so good for us.” You reach over and gently take his hand in both of yours. Your voice softens to a level Arthur has never heard from you before. “Regardless of how we got here, Arthur, the fact of the matter is, I love you. So, I’m askin’ you, is there a chance that you love me too?”

He stares into your expectant face, your eyes wide with adoration and anticipation. And Arthur knows that what he has to say next will be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. 

“I’m sorry, but…I don’t….I don’t feel that way.”

Despite the softness of his voice, the words are deafening. Your chest feels like a thousand daggers have been plunged into your flesh, wedged between your ribs as it knocks the breath out of your lungs just the same. Your skin flashes burning hot before turning ice cold.

But the look of sheer pain in your eyes cuts him. Arthur has fought alongside of you for years. You’ve been through hell and back together, and never has he seen that look of pain and devastation on your face. And to know he’s the cause of it makes Arthur want to die. 

You stand motionless, numb and not sure what to say or do. Exposed and vulnerable, you took a chance and gave yourself to him. And he denied you. 

As if struck by lightning, you turn on your heel to bolt away, to find a shadowy corner of the world to hide, but Arthur is too quick and his arm shoots out from his side and grabs your wrist. “Y/N, wait, don’t go like this.”

Like a wounded animal caught in a trap, you yank your arm from his grasp, bristling at the feeling of his dry, calloused hand on your skin. ”You’re a goddamn fool, Morgan,” you seethe at him. “You’re still going to hold out that she’ll come back to you, aren’t you?”

But you instantly regret bringing up Mary. You shouldn't have done that. Despite your devastation, it is a low-blow and you know it. A tidal wave of apprehension fills your body head to toe when shock darkly scatters across Arthur’s features. The fact that you’d throw his greatest weakness back in his face in retaliation suddenly sets him to anger as well. 

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” he growls out defensively, eyes narrowing at you.

“Tell me you want me. I want you to tell me you want me, Arthur. Tell me you feel the same for me that I feel for you,” you cry desperately, eyes now red as the tears begin their descent down your cheeks. 

A sigh of resignation ripples through Arthur’s lungs. “But I don’t,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t lie to you like that. Not about this.”

Your palm comes up to cover your mouth before you get sick in the grass. Your eyes screw shut as you back away from him, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “I’m such an idiot,” you whisper with a broken voice. “I should have known I wasn’t good enough.”

“It’s not about that, Y/N.”

“Then what in the world could it be, Arthur? I’ve never been beautiful. Never been ‘dainty’. Never been sugar and sweetness. I’m covered in dirt and smell like my horse. But I had hoped that you, of all people, could see past all that.” Your hand floats up to land over your heaving chest. “To see my heart. And see what I could give to you.” 

But as you stare into Arthur’s ocean-colored eyes, you realize now what his answer to your confession is and that he has no intention of changing it. The tears stream freely down your face, and he watches as they drop one by one off the edge of your trembling chin. “But you don’t want it, do you?” 

“Ah hell, Y/N. I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. You can see the look of guilt and remorse in his eyes. And you know that he is not trying to be mean or cruel. Arthur would never intentionally hurt you. And that is what makes this even harder to endure.

“Don’t. It's okay.” You hold your quivering hands up to hush him from saying anything else, as one more word from his perfect lips may push you over the edge of your sanity. “I shouldn’t have said anything. ‘Cause now I’ve ruined everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything.” He reaches out to try to reassure you, but you are quick to step out of his grasp and he smartly doesn’t pursue it. 

“Oh, but I have, Arthur. Because how can we even be friends with this oddness between us, now?”

With a heavy heart, you walk away from your friend, all motivation evaporated from your soul. This magnificent thing between you and Arthur took years to build and only moments to destroy.

As you head to your horse, desperate to get the hell out of camp, you halt and make a bee-line for Abigail who is hanging the morning laundry. 

“Thanks for your stupid advice!” you holler at her. 

Abigail startles at your outburst, eyes wide with confusion. “Y/N, are you alright? What happened?” 

“What do you think happened? Now everything has gone to shit. I should have just left things as they were!”

And before Abigail can protest, you are out of earshot and on your horse, headed out of camp.

—------------------------------------------

The days that follow are awkward and ugly, to say the least. You avoid Arthur at all costs and won’t even speak to Abigail. But even worse, you become withdrawn and depressed, a shadow drifting through the camp rather than interacting with it. Gone are feelings of camaraderie between you and the gang, for Arthur IS the gang. His presence is known and felt everywhere within it. And Arthur is the last person you want to be around right now. 

But it doesn’t just stop with the camp interactions. After Arthur’s rejection, something within you breaks and you quickly become less like yourself and more of a ghost, a shell of what you once were. Or maybe you’ve just learned to channel your pain and anger to become someone else altogether. 

You become reckless, taking chances that you would normally never have in the past. You hang out in the bars and saloons, rather than coming back to camp at night. You’ve even started going upstairs with strange men on the nights where you’re too drunk or too heartbroken to care. You do jobs with Bill and Sean instead of Arthur, wanting nothing to do with him. When Arthur returns to camp from his own jobs, you’ll immediately leave. You can’t stand to be in the same place at the same time anymore. And, of course, he notices. So eventually Arthur avoids you altogether, as well. What was once a strong, unrelenting friendship has become nothing more than passing strangers. And when you two are in camp at the same time, you both keep your eyes averted, never looking at each other. Because of course you can’t be friends when you still feel like this.

Dutch, on the other hand, loves it. You become another “Arthur”, hard and fearless. A force to be reckoned with. And now that you and Arthur are not speaking, there is no more distraction and he can split the two of you up to be more efficient, two alpha leads to be sent out on jobs. But you have little-to-no regard for your own safety. Every time you return to camp, there’s another wound, another bruise. Your clothing becomes more and more tattered. The more dangerous the job, the better as far as you’re concerned. You’ll take any job Dutch hands you without question. 

While some in camp consider this bravery, others begin to see it as suicidal.

The self loathing takes its toll on you in a most nasty way. You’ve always had self doubt and low self esteem. But you feel in your bones that no one could ever love you the way that you yearn for. You’re hot tempered and ill mannered. You are far from what most men consider beautiful. But despite that, you and Arthur have always had a connection. He’s never judged you, never made you feel less than what you are. If anything, Arthur makes you feel better about yourself than you ever could on your own. He has always accepted you just as you are, embraced it, even. And he was your only chance, your only chance, at being loved. But if even he can’t bring himself to see you in that tender, loving light, what hope do you have to find love anywhere else?

It isn’t long before everyone in camp avoids you and your toxic attitude. You constantly get into harsh arguments with Grimshaw, standing nose to nose and shouting at the top of your lungs. During one altercation, she slaps you when you won’t back down, to which you immediately respond with an equally hard and fast slap of your own, causing her to reel back at the audacity of your actions. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again.” You point your finger in her face, inches from her nose. “Or I will put a bullet in you. Do you understand me, you old crone?!” 

But it doesn’t stop there. At some point, Sean ends up with a black eye when he makes a joke at your expense. You even pull a gun on Micah in camp when you’ve hit your limit. Hosea tries to pull you aside to talk to you about your reckless behavior, but all it does is throw you into a rage, like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on.

And then one day, it all comes to a head. You end up getting caught in town and are set to be hung. 

You are drowning your sorrows at the end of a bottle as usual in the saloon and one of the patrons gets too rough with one of the working girls, smacking her around. Watching the young woman’s head snap violently to the side with a sharp cracking sound causes something to fracture in your brain. Time stands still, all color draining from your vision except red. 

The woman barely has time to stand up straight again before the sound of gunfire ricochets within the small room. Without a moment’s hesitation, you pull your gun and shoot her attacker between the eyes, no questions, no remorse, nothing but a look of emotionless disgust plastered on your face. 

When others try to intervene, you shoot them too. No one is spared from your blind wrath. It is as if you have no control over what you are doing, your body moving of its own destructive accord. You launch your fists into faces that you don’t even take a second look at, and break chairs over anyone who dares to get in your way. It isn’t until you feel something hard shatter against the back of your skull that you stop. The whiskey bottle knocks you off balance just long enough for two men to take advantage of your weakness, each grabbing a dangerous arm. 

It eventually takes five men to bring you down. They beat you into submission, kicking you in the ribs once they have you on the filthy wooden floor of the saloon. Angry faces look down over you and spit on you, jeering and taunting you relentlessly. You are only half conscious by the time they drag you down the steps of the saloon. 

————————————-

Arthur is making his way back to camp and decides to stop for a drink, when he catches the tail-end of the brawl. Before he can even enter the saloon, he can hear the hollering and commotion of broken furniture from the street.

At first he keeps his head down, not wanting to get involved, as whatever is happening inside sounds bad. But his stomach drops when he sees two men dragging someone one out of the saloon, and instantly recognizes it’s you as you continue to hurl insults despite being dragged through the mud. Hand on his revolver, Arthur is about to intervene, but a mob has quickly formed around you. Arthur can’t do anything by himself right now, so he decides to wait until nightfall to break you out and get you out of town. “Goddamn it, Y/N,” he sharply mutters under his breath.

The outlaw gives it a few hours before he creeps along the building walls, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. It’s quiet out, no one walking about as the moon sits high, casting its silvery shadows along the world below. It doesn’t take long for him to scout the jailhouse where you are being held. 

Cautiously approaching the premises, Arthur peers through the barred window to find you leaning out on your elbows onto your knees, head hanging. Your face is bruised from where they beat you and your clothing filthy and torn from where they drug you through the street to the jail house.

“Jesus,” he whispers sadly, the word escaping his lips without him even knowing it.

You lift your head at the sound of his voice outside your window. It is a siren song that always sits in your ears just so. Even in your darkest hour, after everything that has happened between you two, Arthur’s voice still makes your heart beat a little faster. 

He is relieved to see your eyes are still surprisingly bright, still burning with that fire that no one could ever extinguish. He holds your gaze as you slowly blink at him, your left eye swollen and red from the broken blood vessels. He can’t believe it’s come to this. 

“What are you doin’ here, Arthur?” you asked tiredly. 

Arthur swallows thickly, resolve settling into his veins. “I gotta get you out of here.”

“Don’t bother.” You shake your head, leaning back against the wall.

“What? Quit being ridiculous. Now, help me figure out a way to get you out of this mess”, he hisses sharply. 

You do your best to hide a painful wince that radiates from what is most likely a broken rib as you shift your weight on the hard bench. “I said don‘t bother. I’m not your mess to clean up. I deserve to be here, Arthur.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you nod slowly. ”I shot that man. I caused that ruckus in town. And I deserve to hang for it.”

“Y/N, quit screwing around!” Arthur punches the wall with his palm in frustration. “This is serious!”

“I know it is. And that’s why I’m in here. Hell, I’m just as bad as Micah Bell.”

Hearing such a thing cross your bruised lips crushes Arthur’s heart. “You are not seriously thinking you need to be cast with his lot?”

“Why not? I have no shame for what I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, too. Besides, they ain’t gonna let a crazy woman like me just walk out of here. The men in this town like to keep their women in line. They plan to make an example of me.”

Arthur’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin-lipped frown. “I asked around. You were protecting that woman.”

“Nah. That was just the catalyst, I’m afraid.“ You wave him off with that smirky grin of yours.  “And, besides, I’m done, Arthur. I’m at the end of my rope. Literally“, you chuckle. 

Your comment lands like a gut-punch to the seasoned outlaw. “That ain‘t funny.”

“Wasn't meant to be.“ You tilt your head slightly as you take in the sight of him, committing to memory all of the details of his handsome face, every little mole and freckle, the crow’s feet along his beautiful eyes, every little thing that you have dreamed of in the privacy of your tent. For you know that this will most likely be the last time you set your tired eyes on him. 

A ragged, exhausted sigh of resignation escapes your battered frame. “But go on, Arthur. Go back to Dutch. Go back to Mary.”

A spark of anger ignites Arthur’s weathered face. “Is that what this is about? Jesus, I can’t believe we’re still on this.”

“No,” you answer him calmly. “This is about me being sick and tired of being ‘sick and tired’. Tired of fighting. Tired of fighting what I can’t change.”

“So you’d rather die if you can’t be my woman? Is that it?”

“I guess so,” you shrug, acting as if this was nothing more than you losing a game of dominoes to Hosea. 

Suddenly Arthur’s tone changes from authoritative to panic as he realizes he’s not getting anywhere and you’re not going to cooperate. Intimidation is his specialty, what he’s known for, was bred for. But it is a tactic that has never worked on you. And all of the anger and resentment of the last few weeks melts away as Arthur realizes he’s going to lose you. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

”Y/N, please,” his voice cracks in desperation. “I’m begging ya. Don’t do this to me. I can’t stand to see you swing.”

But all you can offer him is a sad smile. “Then don’t watch.”

“Goddamn it, Y/N! Will you stop this?!”

Gathering what little energy you have left, you slowly pull yourself from the hard metal bench, taking a moment to get your balance, and walk to the window, standing just a few inches from him now. You can smell the cigarettes and leather on him, filling your nostrils and intoxicating your broken mind.

Arthur is overcome with unease as he gazes into your haunted face. “Look, I know things ain’t been good with us lately. But now’s not the time to be worryin’ about that,” he pleads. 

“It's too late for me, Arthur. But I’m okay with it. Really. I’ve made my peace.” Your unsettling calmness makes him shift his weight, his palms turning clammy and numb. 

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?” Arthur desperately searches your face for any signs of hesitation, any inclination that you will concede to let him help you. 

“Like I said, I’m tired. And I can’t keep watching you from afar, Arthur. That’s not fair to you or me.”

Arthur rushes forward, reaching to grab your hands through the bars. “Please, Y/N. Come back with me. We can talk about this.”

Your gaze falls to your entwined hands, startled at this show of tenderness. Your fingers flex slightly under his, relishing the feeling of them and burning the sensation of it into your memory. Arthur’s hands are warm, always so warm. 

After a brief indulged moment, you pull your hand out from under his and raise it to float up to cup his bleak face. Arthur’s bearded skin sits in your palm, your thumb hovering slightly over his plump bottom lip. God, how you’ve dreamed to hold him as tenderly as this. But you know in your heart there’s nothing to talk about. You only want one thing and it's the one thing that he cannot give you. You’ll never be happy without it. So what’s the point to all of this?

Another wistful grin ghosts across your lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” And before he knows what’s happening, you lift your chin over your shoulder. “Guards! There’s a man at my window!”

Panic makes Arthur’s blood cold as he gasps, clamping down on your hand even tighter as if you are about to be taken from him. “What are you doing?!”

“You better go, Arthur, and fast, lest they catch you, too.”

“Shut it in there!” rings a voice from the front of the jail. 

“There’s a man at my window!” you yell again with more urgency, but never taking your eyes off Arthur’s. “You better get in here!”

Arthur’s fearful eyes quickly dart from you, to the door and back, his mind scrambling to grasp at straws on how to get you out of here. But he’s out of time. 

“Damn you,” he whimpers brokenly, a slight tremble to that chiseled, scarred chin of his. 

Your eyes. Arthur never realized just how striking and beguiling they are, until he watches them flutter like fairy wings for just a fraction of a second at his statement. 

“Yep. Damn me, alright.” And you gently pull your hands back from him entirely and walk backwards back into the darkness of the cell like a stone being dropped into the lake. 

He can hear the rustling of feet and the jingle of spurs along the floor just on the other side of your wall. And reluctantly Arthur takes off before the guards can catch him. 

With his heart racing like a wild mustang, Arthur ducks into an alley, trying to think. He throws himself back up against a brick wall, his mind swirling to try to come up with a plan. He can’t let this happen. He has to get you the hell out of here. If only Hosea was here, he’d know what to do. But Arthur doesn’t have time to race back to camp for reinforcements to free you as you are due to be hung at sunrise. And the town is crawling with lawmen and mob mentality. He won’t be able to spring you on his own. 

For once, Arthur Morgan is helpless.

———————-

The next morning, the crowd gathers at the gallows, the fractured sunlight catching the wooden platform, making it glow like an ominous sentinel looming over the town. You squint slightly as they drag you out into the street, vaguely aware of the rope that bites into your wrists that are bound behind you. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, a bizarre calm settling over you as you take comfort that this will all be over soon. But as you shuffle through the mob, you don’t look up. You know he’s out there somewhere. And you can’t even begin to think of what your heart will do if you see him. You just need to get to the end and your suffering will finally be over. 

Arthur stands in the middle of the crowd, watching as they march you from the jailhouse to the platform. “C’mon, girl. Look at me. Look at me,” he mutters, willing you to acknowledge him. His heart beats fiercely within his chest and his palms sweat. Guilt begins to ravage him. Did he make a mistake? He doesn’t feel that same way about you, but he can’t stand idly by and let you get hung for it. But what happens if he rescues you? For what? More unhappiness and loneliness for you? 

You are now set in place upon the gallows for all in attendance to see. A slight breeze whistles past your ear, lifting the wisps of hair from your neck. The damp smell of mud and horse shit carries in the air. There is a strange silence hanging in the crowd, as if everyone is waiting with baited breath to see if you’ll beg for your life, try to escape, anything relating to the fire you have shown them. But you won’t give them that satisfaction. You meant what you said to Arthur:  you’re tired. You’re ready to go. 

The sheriff asks if you have anything left to say.

“No,” you say calmly. ”Not that anyone cares to hear.”

You step forward, your boots scraping softly on the sun-dried wood. The sheriff places the worn noose around your neck, pulling your hair back and away from your face. 

As the slightly-frayed rope tightens around your neck, you steal a glance upward. And like a magnet to steel, you find those blue eyes amongst an ocean of indifference in the crowd. They are filled with fear and long-standing friendship. You can see his heartache in those eyes. The heavy, worrisome crease in his forehead bearing the weight of your actions in his shoulders.

Your lip quivers slightly, eyes turning glossy knowing that the last thing you will see in this life is Arthur’s face. He looks scared, hurt. You suddenly feel a sharp pang of guilt for causing him this pain. You’ve never wanted to hurt him. You always protected him. Protected him from the harshness of your world, protected him from those who would hurt him. Even protected him from himself at times. But you can’t protect him from this. And you are the one to inflict that pain. 

Maybe you’ve been too selfish in your own misery. But you didn’t want Arthur to see this, to see you dangling from a rope like a fish. Everyone in the gang knows this is a reality of your lifestyle. But still, it's not an easy thing to see. And Arthur sees the apology in your gaze. 

“Wait…” you suddenly whisper, your wilted plea hanging on the soft breeze for a fraction of a moment as all goes quiet. A sharp ache pierces through Arthur’s ribcage when he sees your attempt, your eyes going wide with an acknowledgement that you truly know what’s happening to you, now. But it's too late. The sheriff throws his weight into the lever and the floor creaks as the door drops beneath you. 

“NO!!” Arthur reaches out for you, but the weight of the crowd in front of him swallows his effort.

The sickening crack of your neck is drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Arthur watches in horror as your body comes to an abrupt halt, harshly jolting in an unnatural movement, before swaying gently back and forth. Thankfully, your neck breaks instantly from the force and you don’t have to hang there, lingering and choking. A quick, violent spasm of your small frame and it's over. 

“No”, Arthur whispers brokenly. His gloved hand comes up over his mouth. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening! Your face goes slack, eyes bulging slightly and almost closed. One could see the color of your eyes should they care to look. Your proud shoulders hang limply, your head tilted at an abnormal angle to the side. And it's almost like a smile sits lightly on your face. A smile of relief. 

Suddenly, you don’t look so terrifying. You look small, fragile. Gone is that hellcat that the law had to cage to contain. You look just like anyone else. Funny how death is the great equalizer of us all. 

This whole thing is just so surreal to Arthur. His mind is screaming and yet void of any coherent thought all at once. You’ve always been like a fox, always able to talk your way out of anything or squirm your way through a crowd. But either way, never have you been caught before. It never ceased to amaze Arthur how you could do that. And a thought suddenly cracks through his thoughts, shattering Arthur’s collective reasoning:  what if you let yourself get caught on purpose? What if this was part of your plan all along?

Arthur tries to swallow the churning of his stomach. He’s failed you. You were the one person that he could always count on and he couldn’t even offer the same to you in return. The one person who was always unquestioningly at his side. His partner, his trusted gun, his confidant.

His one true friend.

And now you are gone. What will he ever do without you?

When the crowd disperses, Arthur gathers his wits and slowly staggers towards the platform. Despite the gruesome sight, he can’t take his eyes off your lifeless body. He stands before you, eyes casting up and down over you, taking in your bluing skin, before bringing his trembling hands up to rest on your boots.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N.” But the words ring hollow in his chest as he knows full well that it’s too little, too late. 

“Do you know her?”

The nasally drawl of the local sheriff cuts into Arthur’s thoughts, bringing him back to the waking world. “Yeah.”

Thankfully, the sheriff recognizes the emotional toll overtaking the man standing before him and wisely chooses a respectable tone. Truth be told, he wasn't all that sorry you took care of those idiots back at the saloon last night. “You family?” he gently asks.

‘You family?’ A simple question in of itself, yet laden with so much meaning behind it. “Closest she’s got,” Arthur manages to mumble out. 

“You want the body, then? For burial, I mean?”

Just the slightest movement to be considered a nod comes from Arthur. “Sure. Yeah, let me take her home.”

————————-

Never has Arthur been so reluctant to return to camp. He sits listlessly in his saddle, shoulders hunched to his ears. Despite being summer, the air carries an unnatural chill to it, the wind snapping at the nape of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Never once does he turn back to look at the burden atop of your horse that he leads behind him. That would make it all too real, and it’s a long ride home.

It’s late afternoon by the time he crests the hilltop, sighing heavily and preparing for the onslaught of questions and shock that he does not want to deal with. 

“Took you long enough!” The deep baritone of Dutch’s voice is first to reach Arthur’s ears. “Where have you b-” but Dutch’s admonishment is cut short when he sees Arthur’s face and then the wrapped body on the back of your horse.

The gang leader's dark eyes widen in confusion. “What the hell happened?” he says in hushed shock. “You were supposed to go get her.”

Arthur pours himself out of his saddle, keeping his eyes forward and careful not to look back towards your horse. “Yeah, well, I did. And I brought her home where she belongs.”

The next few hours are a blur as the gang prepares to bury you. It didn’t take much discussion of where to lay you to rest, either:  under your walnut tree, of course. Everyone is distraught. Tilly and Mary Beth cry. Karen turns to drinking. Abigail is angry. She doesn't want to blame Arthur, but it is his fault, as far as she’s concerned. If he wasn’t so damn hung up on that other woman who wants nothing to do with him…

After the men help fill in the grave, they quietly meander back to the fire and raise a toast to your memory. It is a solemn sight, a few shared stories, but mostly discreet eye rubs and the occasional mournful sniffle fills the atmosphere. Javier strums a sad, gentle melody that reminds him of you on his guitar. The soothing melody helps to calm his grief-stricken friends. You could be a total pain in the ass, smart-mouthed and obstinate, but you were always one of them, through and through. 

But Arthur remains at your grave, refusing to join the others. The bottle he grabbed from the provisions wagon quickly empties, as gulp after gulp pours down his throat, burning its way down, hoping to chase away the pain until he feels nothing at all.  

Regret hangs heavy on his soul as he stares at the mound of dirt before him. Flashes of your lives together dance in his mind like someone flipping pages of a book. How the morning sun speckled across your face when you drank your coveted morning coffee. How you hated getting wet in the rain. How you bit through Arthur’s belt when he had to pull a knife out of your thigh after a job. How you’d stand back to back with Arthur in a gunfight, a whirlwind of controlled chaos. How he’d bring you tea when your stomach would knot up at your time of the month. How you tended to his bruises when he’d get into bar fights. And, of course, how you held him when he sobbed on your shoulder when Eliza and Isaac were taken from him. Seems like a lifetime ago and yet, at the same time, like it only happened yesterday. So much has happened in your brief time together on this earth. And now, Arthur can’t even fathom one second without you in it 

Hosea knows his son well. He quietly watches from afar and can see Arthur’s heart breaking as he sits motionless under the oak tree just as you used to do, the guilt eating him alive the way scavengers pick apart a carcass. No one dares approach Arthur in this state. But the old man won’t let him wallow like this for too long. He quietly makes his way back to your grave-site, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he lowers himself to the ground next to him. 

The two sit in silence for a bit, the birds chirping overhead, the occasional nickering from the horses off in the distance. 

“She was my best friend, Hosea.” The broken sound of Arthur’s voice hangs in the air without him looking away from your grave. “And I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed. How could I do that to her?”

This whole thing is harder than Hosea thought it would be. And that’s saying a lot. He draws a quick sniff to collect himself before he even tries to speak, swallowing the painful knot lodged in his throat from his own grief. 

“I’ll admit, I didn’t understand it myself, sometimes, how you two couldn't find your way to each other. You and Y/N were two peas in a pod, two halves of an apple.” A lamenting smile graces the older man’s weathered lips. “She understood you better than you understood yourself.”

“She was the only one who could hear all the things I never said,” agrees Arthur. 

“But she wasn’t ’the one’, was she?”, Hosea asks gently. 

“She shoulda been,” Arthur spits out bitterly. ”If I wasn’t so damn stupid! So damn selfish!”

“You can’t do that, son. The heart don’t work that way. It just wasn’t meant to be. And Y/N got caught in the fire.”

“Just like everyone else who gets caught up in my life.” Arthur just sits, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Hosea’s grey eyes settle upon his son. “Were you in love with her, Arthur?”

He sniffles, thinking on the question. “I cared for her.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“What the hell difference does it make now?” Arthur finally breaks his dazed trance to look at Hosea. 

The anguish in Arthur’s eyes almost breaks Hosea. “It made a big difference. To her, at least.” Hosea points an arthritic finger at your final resting place. 

“I could’ve tried harder,” croaks Arthur. “Maybe she’d be alive if I would’ve just…”

“Just what? Pretended to be in love with her? Now, you and I both know Y/N was too smart for that. In fact, that would’ve been worse.”

“Worse than her being dead?”

Hosea lets out a deep sigh and brushes off the imaginary dust on his pants. “She made her choice, Arthur. You’re going to have to accept it, no matter how hard it is.”

Arthur’s only answer is an unsatisfied scowl as he turns back to you. With a heavy heart, Hosea pats his shoulder once more before standing to give leave and let his son grieve in peace. 

——————

The girls carefully sort through your things, no sense wasting anything. Arthur can hear them talking in hushed tones as they reminisce, sometimes sweet, often sad.

It’s been two days since Arthur brought you home. And he’s been sitting under that damn tree ever since. At first, everyone just let him be, let him mourn for you in peace and quiet. Then, it became more of a “don’t poke the bear” situation. But when he refused to eat, Ms. Grimshaw made it a point to bring him food. But no amount of coaxing would pull Arthur from your graveside. 

Before long, Abigail tentatively comes over to him with a look that he cannot place. She lingers just out of arm’s reach, her blue eyes darting nervously as she clears her throat. 

“We’ve sorted her things. Thought you may want this.” Abigail’s hands reach out, offering him a small book. Your journal. “Since you gave it to her, and you two were best friends and all, I figured you may want it.”

Arthur’s belly somersaults as numb fingers take the leather book from her. He stares at it for a moment, his rough fingers gliding over the smooth leather binding. 

“Right, then,” she mutters softly, trying to be careful not to provoke him. Abigail hesitates before walking away, trying to find words of comfort that she knows will fall on deaf ears. “I’m sorry about Y/N. I really liked her.” Abigail sniffs back a rogue tear that threatens to unravel her composure. “I will miss my friend, dearly.” 

Arthur tears his vacant eyes from the journal to meet Abigail’s, but she’s already shuffling off, her hand covering her mouth to muffle the sobs wracking her chest. 

Arthur sighs deeply, filling his lungs with the humid summer air. His crystalline blue eyes flit to your grave before back to the book in his hands. He hesitates a moment before pulling back the cover and the very sight of your handwriting leaps from the pages and makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. In the journal are your private thoughts and sketches, just like his own. 

Arthur proceeds to spend the next few hours reading through your journal. And to his surprise, it brings him a bit of comfort. The pages are filled with your anecdotes and adventures together. He smiles despite himself at the memories, can hear your voice and personality within the words on the page. But then he begins to see the passages where you’ve written about your feelings for him. 

He notes how it started out as shy and confused notions that, in time, developed into something so much deeper. And as he continues to read, Arthur realizes just how much he was unaware of your true feelings. He had no idea how intensely you felt for him down in your heart. A brief wave of anger washes over him. God, how he wishes you would have said something sooner. 

This was so much more than a crush, more than a love, even. Arthur begins to see how you saw him through your eyes. Words like “artist” and “tender soul” reach his gaze. “Bravest person I’ve ever known”. He sees that you had found parts in him that he didn’t even know existed, things he could never see about himself.

It’s not just what you talk about in your writing, but how. You notice the most ordinary things about Arthur and act as if they are things of wonderment. His eyes, which are mentioned multiple times, are described as “blue as sapphires with flecks of sunset gold”. His hands are written to be “strong and unyielding, large compared to most. And yet can be so tender and careful.” Arthur stops for a moment and looks at his hand, flipping it over, trying to look past the dirty fingernails and slightly bruised knuckles to see what you’re talking about. 

But it is your longing that sharply startles him. Passage after passage talks about how lonely you are and how you long for touch, long for that sweetness and devotion that other women seem to find so easily. But most of all, you crave it from Arthur. 

You believe you have found the missing piece to yourself in Arthur, and firmly believe that it is him, and only him, that will complete your soul. “I’ve heard tell that you will know if the right hands hold your heart by how it feels. And I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands around mine than Arthur’s. I love him with the fire of a thousand suns. He has found the wildness within my heart. But instead of trying to tame it, he tore open my cage and set me free. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

And on and on it goes. Dreams of what your life could be together fill the pages. Everything from simple moments of waking warm and safe in each other's arms, to leaving the gang altogether to start somewhere new, together just the two of you. “Maybe even a family to replace the one he lost years ago. I could only pray I’d be able to provide something so beautiful for him, as he so rightfully deserves.”

Arthur starts to think that maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought, as he is now seeing you in a whole new light. Apparently, you had the ability to look through a lens of shattered dreams and hard realities and still managed to see love.

Just as he sees himself reflected and remade in your written words, he realizes a whole new depth to your soul that he was robbed of and didn't even know it. Here, buried in your journal, Arthur has discovered a love that he never believed anyone could ever feel for the likes of him. It is a love that, like you, he craved for himself but never felt he deserved. And it was you who held the key all along. 

But of course, it makes perfect sense, now that you’re gone and your walls are down, exposed for anyone to see. Of course, it would be you. Who else in this world would it ever be? 

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” Arthur mutters, sniffling back tears that threaten to reveal the depth of his sadness as the profound realization hits him. He feels like such a fool. How could he be so blind? Everything he has ever wanted was right in front of him all this time. 

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” But Arthur knows exactly why. He’s always hung Mary out in front of himself like a carrot in front of a horse. And you had to sit there and watch it, listen to his belly-aching while your own gut twisted with the realization that you’d never feel that sort of love and affection from him for yourself. 

Eventually he finds the entry of the day you confessed. “I told Arthur today. Sat him down and told him the truth over a cup of coffee. But sadly, he don’t feel that way about me. I guess deep down I knew that would be his answer, but I still hoped I was wrong. Funny how it took a cup of coffee to prove that he don’t love me. Maybe this will be where our story ends.”

If only he could go back in time. So much time wasted, so many missed opportunities. All gone now. 

As Arthur flips to the last few pages, a piece of paper flutters out and into his lap. Arthur picks it up, flipping it over and his breath catches in his throat. It’s a photograph of you and him. God, he forgot all about that day. It was something that he indulged you in after a successful job. A few drinks had encouraged him to sit still long enough to get your portrait taken together. You had pretended to be a couple for the photographer. Maybe that’s why he forgot about it. He thought the idea was ridiculous at the time, which is probably why you’ve kept the photograph tucked away, a guilty pleasure of a daydream you saved for yourself while he went about his business like it was nothing. 

Arthur can’t take much more of this. His movements are slow like molasses as he rubs his forehead with numb fingers, shaking his head in utter disbelief.  With a deep, shuddering sigh, his gaze falls to the last entry in the journal. He freezes as his stomach roils with a sour, bitter feeling. It’s a letter. A letter you wrote to him. 

“Dearest Arthur-“ The words almost cause him to retch into the grass right then and there before he can read another damn word.

“Dearest Arthur

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, one way or another. I’m hoping you can make some sense out of all these pages. Lord knows I never could. 

I know I could have loved you like no other if you would have just given me half a chance. Maybe we could even have been happy for a bit. But I know now that your heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t mine. It never was and never will be. That’s why I told you I understood how you feel about Mary, to love someone who tries but can’t love you back the same. I know that heartache because that’s how I feel for you. 

Silly notion, ain’t it? People like us, trying to find love in this cold world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch that flame and feel its warmth on my skin. I had hopes once, but I now understand that that is all it is, hopes. And I can’t live on hopes and dreams anymore. Can’t afford to. So I let you go, Arthur, and myself along with you like a dandelion seed on the wind. No hard feelings, I promise. 

I know you and you’ll brood and be ugly over this for awhile. But don’t be. I’ll think of you fondly and hope you’ll do the same for me. Remember the good times we had, riding out in the prairies, getting into trouble at the saloons, or even just sitting quietly by the fire. 

Take care of the girls for me and make sure John stays in line. Tell Hosea to take his medicine and rest like he should. 

I will miss you something terrible, Arthur. But I will carry you in my heart forever, wherever that may be. And I hope you will do the same for me.

Yours always

Y/N

Arthur chokes out a sob, burying his face in his left hand while he clutches your journal to his chest with his right. He didn’t know a heart could be broken so badly. His countenance crumbles like an avalanche, uprooting and tearing apart everything in its wake. His fingernails dig into his scalp as he clutches his hair in anguish. He wants to open up and scream to the heavens, let his agony bellow out into the air, for it is too painful to keep contained in the flesh and bone of his chest. Arthur is about to break, driven to the brink of madness, because right now, he doesn’t want to feel anything. And yet, even in death, you make him feel everything. 

“You were so right, Y/N,” Arthur sobs. “I am a goddamn fool.”

———————

When he’s sure the tears have stopped and he’s too exhausted and worn out to suffer it any longer, Arthur tears himself away from your grave. He has to leave you eventually and can’t handle sitting on the hard ground for much longer. 

Slowly standing, he brushes the dirt from his pants and places his hat back upon his head, brim pulled way down low to cover his bloodshot eyes. He looks up into the branches of the walnut tree, squinting at the peppered sunlight skipping through the leaves, making them glow warmly. The branches sway gently with the wind as if waving goodbye, thanking him for grieving your loss with it.  Arthur’s lips purse in silent acknowledgement before he stumbles his way back into the camp. 

“Mr. Morgan!” 

The sound of Mr Pearson’s voice cuts into Arthur’s brain like a spike being driven through his temple. He stops, looking briefly at the portly man who rushes over to him. 

“I have something for you. Was in town getting supplies and whatnot and this came for you.” The cook hands him an envelope, but quickly shuffles away, lest he get caught in the aftermath of Arthur’s ongoing foul mood. 

Arthur flips the letter over in his hands in confusion. And then his breath stops altogether as he realizes who it’s from. 

Mary.

The letters of his name blur as angry tears threaten to flood his vision yet again. The sight of her perfect, script handwriting is a sign of Fate’s cruel mockery, ever trying to torture him for his mistakes. 

Arthur takes one look at it, then looks back over to the mound of fresh dirt that hides you from him, keeping you safe for all eternity now. His sad eyes linger, heavy with regret and self hatred. 

He reaches over and tosses the unopened letter into the fire. The flames quickly wrap around the delicate paper and Arthur watches as the handwriting disappears into the ether, reduced to ashes.

Just like his life. 

*This amazing image comes from @papaue00

**If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! I'm kinda proud of this one, actually.

Tagging: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4 @kayleigh--23

[rekilover]

Sieun x reader fic about him trying to confess.

(english is NOT my first language so feel free to correct me if I write something wrong )

Love.

That feeling that appears in romantic series where two people want each other’s presence more than anything else in the world. Where they hold hands and confess their affection without shame, where their lips meet in passionate kisses and…

“What the hell is this?” Sieun thought, turning off the TV with annoyance as he watched that romantic TV show put on by his mother, become more and more explicit.

—Sieun, it’s time for you to go to school. I don’t want you being late in your school record, university’s don’t like people who aren’t in time, you know that? — his mother said from the kitchen, in a tone so falsely kind that it erased any trace of tenderness.

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and put on his shoes in silence, his mind still trapped on a thought more annoying than that ridiculous show. The fact that, to his misfortune, he had fallen in love with Y/N.

Accepting that feeling wasn’t easy. For weeks, he denied any possibility that it was real. He tried to ignore it. But his body betrayed him: his heart raced when he saw her, his hands sweated, and his mind clouded. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he felt it. And that drove him crazy.

When he arrived at the classroom, his friends were already there, happily chatting about what the day’s menu would be. Everyone was present except Y/N, who had started feeling a bit sick as classes began, so she went to the nurse’s office to rest.

“Maybe… they could help me,” Sieun thought, looking at them carefully, analyzing the possible scenarios of asking for advice.

Baku would probably suggest something cliché and embarrassing. Hyuntak, something exaggerated like confessing his love with a bouquet of flowers outside her house. And Juntae… maybe Juntae could be useful.

— Juntae, can you come here for a moment? I want to talk outside.— Sieun said with such tense seriousness that his friend paled, feeling a chill run down his spine.

—Wow! What could our dear Juntae have done to provoke Sieun?— Joked Baku, bursting out laughing along with Hyuntak.

Outside the classroom, facing each other, Sieun looked away. First at the ceiling, then the wall, and finally back at his friend, who looked at him with growing discomfort.

—You..— Sieun murmured, scratching the back of his neck, uncomfortable — I need your help.

— My help? Did you fail a exam?— Juntae asked, tilting his head. Then he laughed. —That can’t be it, you always get good grades. So…?

Sieun stared at him, the silence stretching between them. One minute. Three. Five. Juntae began sweating, wondering if he was about to get punched.

—Y/N. — he finally said, with a more deep tone than usual.

Juntae straightened, curious, and leaned in a little to listen better. — Y/N? What about her?

—I want to tell her I like her .—Sieun confessed almost in a whisper.

Juntae’s eyes widened. He covered his mouth with one hand, surprised.

—You like her? Sieun… do you know what it means to like someone? It’s not like having a friend, it’s… you know.— he said, giving a wink so forced it was more embarrassing than reassuring.

Before Sieun could respond, the classroom door slammed open. Hyuntak and Baku came out, both striking exaggeratedly firm poses as if preparing for battle.

Baku pointed directly at Sieun with determination.

—SIEUN!— he exclaimed loudly. —In thanks for everything you’ve done for us, I declare that today begins… the Operation Love Confession!

Sieun’s eyes went wide, looking around desperately to make sure no one else had heard. He ran to cover Baku’s mouth.

—Are you crazy, idiot?! What the hell are you saying?- he whispered through clenched teeth, red with embarrassment and anger.

—Our dear Sieun… in love. What a beautiful discovery— Said Hyuntak solemnly, raising his hands to the sky as if witnessing a miracle.

—Don’t embarrass him!—Juntae intervened, standing between Sieun and the other two, dragging him back with him. —Sieun never asks for help. We have to do this right.

Sieun stared at the floor, frustrated, jaw clenched. He hated that they knew, but above all, he hated what that feeling was starting to cause.

Once class ended, the four boys were alone in the classroom.

—It’s decided. This afternoon, after school — Said Baku, marking a poorly drawn plan with a red marker on the club’s whiteboard. —Sieun will come with us to the station’s minimarket. He’ll buy a peach juice and a strawberry chocolate.

—What does that have to do with confessing to me?— Sieun asked from a corner of the room, sitting like a prisoner.

—Everything, my dear lover. Because that’s her favorite snack — replied Baku with a smile worthy of a war general. —She’ll like that you remembered.

—What if she rejects me?

—Then you eat the juice and chocolate yourself. Double emotional loss, but zero waste. —Hyuntak gave a thumbs-up.

Juntae, much more rational, sighed as he erased part of the “emotional roadmap” Baku had drawn on the whiteboard.

—We don’t need a scandal. We just have to create the ideal atmosphere. Nothing cheesy, nothing ridiculous. Just you, her, and honest words.

Sieun swallowed. Honest words? How was he supposed to organize his thoughts if he couldn’t even look at her without feeling like his heart would explode?

—What if I get stuck?

—Then you make a gesture, like… this —Hyuntak winked grotesquely and gave two thumbs-up. — That never fails. Women love body language.

—God… why did I ask you guys for help?

That day, after school, Sieun stood outside the nurse’s office, his hands sweaty and the minimarket bag his friends had given him trembling between his fingers. Juntae was beside him, lightly patting his back with an expression somewhere between emotional support and medical concern.

—You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.

Sieun didn’t answer. He looked down the hall where Y/N had just left the nurse’s office, her uniform spotless and her hair loose.

Their eyes met for a moment.

—Sieun?

Everything stopped, the air, his heart.

— I-I have something to give you — he said, stepping forward awkwardly, as if his feet didn’t know how to walk.

He held out the bag, she accepted it with curiosity.

—Peach juice and strawberry chocolate? How did you know I loved these? — She smiled.

Sieun opened his mouth, but no words came out. Juntae, hiding behind a column, frantically made hand signals: Now! Speak! NOW!

—Y/N, I…—he finally said, lowering his gaze — I hope you are better now, that’s all.—He spoke firm.

His friends, silently watching, let out soft sighs of frustration, clearly disappointed the plan didn’t work.

Y/N noticed their presence and, thinking they had just come to check on her, she approached them with a smile.

—I’m better now, isn’t that better? —she said proudly. — I felt a bit dizzy when I got here, but it’s gone now.

She expected some verbal response but only received pats on the shoulder paired with disappointed expressions, and her friends walked away without saying anything else.

—Y/N, patience is a virtue you need to learn to practice— Juntae murmured from afar.

Watching the scene, Sieun could only mentally resign himself. Confessing was much harder than he had imagined.

[this-acuteneurosis]

One thing that struck me when I started dlb was the care that is taking to putting focus on female characters' internality in a way that is so rare in fandoms like star wars. So often I see writers try to compensate for a series' misogyny by portraying women as flawless BAMFs while still not really putting any effort to make them feel like real people with interiority and complexity. In particular it really stood out to me how Shmi is written in relation to themes of motherhood, how she is not the perfect blank slate angelic mother figure but someone who has been through deep trauma that informs her relationships with herself and her children, and the things that motherhood means to her. You're a wonderful character writer and I'm so excited to see more of this fic.

Inviting me to talk about the portrayal of women in Star Wars is very risky business. I'll skip most of my thoughts and head straight to: the women were the whole point of this series.

The plot for Don't Look Back was thrown together one night while I was talking at my friend while she was cooking dinner, as I ranted about how (in the fics that I'd encountered) there were basically no stories that centered politics, and when they did, they did not center the female characters who were actually politicians in the story. This was infuriating to me because--especially in the time travel fix-it genre--it made no sense to me that no one really wanted to address the complexity of saving the Republic as a failing government entity. I don't really have much if any love for the sequel trilogy, but the fact that it basically said "And 30 years later defeating the Sith did not save the government from descending right back into authoritarianism," was the most horrifyingly on point, accurate direction they could have taken things. Minus, you know, whose fault that was. I ranted for probably a solid hour and a half about what I would do to rewrite Padmé Amidala back into being an actual politician, because she needed to be way more politically and diplomatically savvy if the Republic was going to be saved. The Jedi, even if the Order was completely changed, were in no position to do it. And, most importantly for all the characters and organizations, no one could do anything alone.

Sitting on the couch and weaving that narrative into Leia's story of grief and recovery, I was so excited to tell a nice little tale about the importance of community and cooperation. My ideas about good and evil in the Star Wars universe, about power and the Force, all revolved around these two things. No individual's power was a substitute for them. The very nature of the Sith was to eliminate connections, to cut people off from help. And Palpatine was a master at luring people to the edge and making sure there was no one there to catch them once they realized they were tipping over.

Sure, this was a little ambitious. But I felt confident I could write a decent, moderate length fic on the subject. The narrative threads were right there. How could I not write this story? And what better place to start than preventing Shmi Skywalker from being cut from the narrative? Someone who knew, down to her bones, how important helping others was, and how it had to be done in a community, because it was so easy to make an individual powerless.

Anyway, the whole thing obviously grew way out of control and five years and (oh dear mercy) 750k words later we're still not done yet. But yes. We are here for the ladies. We are here for Shmi's buried anger and Leia's escalating grief and Padmé's long held resentment and Ahsoka's courage and enthusiasm and Satine's compassion driven hypocrisy and Shea's detached ethics and Jamillia's kind and decisive political maneuvering and Jobal's fears for her too-brave daughter and Bo-Katan's reckless determination and Adi Gallia's overwhelming and conflicting duties to the Force and to the Order and all the handmaidens trying to maintain their sense of self while recklessly offering themselves up as sacrifices for Padmé and Naboo. 

We're here for the other characters too. But yeah. There's a reason this series was named after a line from Shmi.

[snnowwpheenix]

imagine the Jujutsu Kaisen men reacting to their child, who normally loves kindergarten, suddenly clinging to them and saying, “I don’t want to go anymore…”

🍬 Gojo Satoru

“Wait, what happened to my happy little backpack gremlin?” 😢 Gojo crouches to their level, giving them a playful smile even though he’s low-key worried.

“You used to love showing off your finger paintings… did someone mess with my baby?” If there’s even a hint of bullying? He’s ready to march in and throw hands with a 5-year-old (or their parents). But first? He’ll take the day off and say: “Let’s have a daddy day today. And tomorrow, I’ll walk in with you. We’re a team, yeah?”

🕯️ Geto Suguru

Soft concern floods his face. He gently rubs their back and says,

“That’s not like you… Can you tell me why?” If they can’t put it into words, he watches their body language closely—he knows how to read emotions. He’ll write a kind but firm email to the teacher asking for insight. Until then? He keeps them home a day or two, sits with them drawing, saying: “You don’t have to explain yet. I’ll wait. But I’m always here to listen, alright?”

💀 Sukuna (in Yuji’s body)

“...You’re joking. You love that place.” At first, he brushes it off—thinks they’re just faking it. But when he sees their eyes watering? Screams, sobbing clinging? He goes still.

“Tch. Fine. Talk. What happened?” It might sound gruff, but he’s listening. And if someone made his kid uncomfortable? Let’s just say someone’s getting a very unfriendly parent-teacher meeting. He might grumble, but he lets them stay home—and carries them around like a protective dragon hoarding treasure.

💼 Nanami Kento

He kneels down, instantly serious but warm.

“You love school. This must be something big. Do you feel safe there?” He doesn’t push—but he’s not passive either. Emails the teacher, schedules a quiet meeting, and prepares a full plan in his head. At home, he makes their favorite snack, sits beside them, and says: “You’re not alone in this. I’ll make sure whatever’s wrong gets fixed. You have my word.” Gentle dad mode: Activated.

🔪 Toji Fushiguro

“…Huh?” He looks confused, because his kid has never said no to anything before. When he sees their little hands gripping his shirt, he panics silently.

“Okay. What’s wrong? Who hurt you?” He’ll drop everything, even a job, to figure it out. Doesn’t force them to go back—just observes, listens, and tightens protection mode x1000. And if it’s a teacher or other kid causing problems? Good luck to them. For real.

🐺 Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi would feel so helpless at first.

“But you were so happy last week… What changed?” He doesn’t pressure—he’s a quiet comfort. Just picks them up, lets them cry into his shirt, and holds them silently for as long as they need. Later, he asks thoughtful questions while playing with them, like: “Is someone not being kind to you? Is there something we can do together to make it better?” He becomes your kid’s safe place—no matter what.

💉 Choso Kamo

He immediately drops to his knees and holds their face gently.

“Why, baby? What happened?” There’s panic in his voice, but he’s focused on soothing them. If they can’t explain it, he keeps them home and says: “We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do anything alone.” He doesn’t sleep much that night, worried and overthinking—but he’ll be their shadow until they’re okay again.

🍓 Itadori Yuji

Big soft panic.

“Wait, what?? You love your teacher! Is someone being mean to you?” Yuji scoops them up and carries them around all morning like a koala. He tries to make them laugh with silly faces, but when he sees they’re really upset, he gets serious. “Okay. You don’t have to go today. Let’s talk to your teacher together, alright?” He’s 100% the “march into the school with juice boxes and an emotional support bear” type of dad.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

LI. “ambrosia”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: bittersuite domesticity suddenly isn't as bittersweet.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, fluffy fluff fluff

words: 8k

a/n: hiii lovelies!! back for another installment with these two lovebirds <3 as I’m writing this, tomorrow is my last day of school EVER !!! what !!! then I have a Master’s degree !! writing that in the notes of a battinson fic has me feeling like that meme of ‘I lowkey have a Master’s degree’. lmao. enjoy !!

“This is how sleepovers start?” 

You grabbed his other hand and started painting the black polish on his thumb; it took every ounce of energy left in your wilting body to keep your breathing regular and thoughts from spiraling. His fingers were always softer than you thought they would be, especially so when you held them delicately, like now. 

“If they’re fun.” 

The floor was starting to hurt your crossed legs, but you trucked along with only three nails left. Your thumb and forefinger tilted his hand to the right before the polish flooded the side, and Bruce complimented your technique. It was crucial, actually, that he didn’t say words like ‘technique’ while you took in the size and shape of his fingers. 

The stale lighting of an overhead bulb that hadn’t been changed in half a decade was barely enough to have a proper look at your craft, but more than enough to illuminate the depth of his inky hair as it grazed his cheek. Your dad had bugged you to change the light before leaving to Gotham two years ago, citing your future self’s gratefulness at not having to change a bulb the first day you came back from graduation. Now, you couldn’t imagine how you’d function if you were seeing Bruce in high definition. 

Two years. Two years? You barely knew about Bruce Wayne before moving; just enough to know that he was a sort of celebrity, and it hit you all at once that the man was now sitting here, in your sleepy little town, letting you paint his nails. What the fuck? 

Two more.

Ring finger… painting this one felt different. Childlike electricity pulsed through you as you imagined a metal band adorning it. You loathed to know it could never be you. Plagued by how intensely you wished things were different. If you let yourself digest just how intensely, it would end in a state of tears and disbelief. 

Bruce’s eyes followed yours like they were his own, flicking from the nail to your face with an encouraging grin. You rushed through his pinky, your body filling with a vague sense of anticipation that bubbled up all types of emotions you’d tried to stuff down the past hour. 

While you capped the lacquer, you reminisced on how scared he’d looked at the thought of having sex with you. So scared, in fact, that it nullified your original hypothesis (and left you reeling—he didn’t want to fuck you?). If not to control you, dominate you, what the hell did a billionaire want with the one person who knew his biggest secret? As much as your mind wanted to run away with alternative explanations for why this vigilante was sitting pretty talking about girly sleepovers, none took. He’d been trustworthy on every other front, so what reasons did you have to think he was lying now? Your own insecurity? 

Still, the visceral sensation of forcing someone to ‘go along’ with your interests made you a bit sick. If you hadn’t offered to paint nails, it wouldn’t have happened. If you hadn’t needed a flight home, he wouldn’t be here. Who was to say he wasn’t just humoring you? Perhaps in it for the long-con? 

He was smart enough for it. God, his mind worked like a whip. The ease with which he switched into Appeasing Bruce in front of Oz, the way his posture and cadence changed the few times he’d addressed a group, and the mere fact he’d been going out nightly as a fucking vigilante for four years and not one person was onto him. For how antisocial he was, he could transform into a chameleon at a moment’s notice. 

What if he thought appeasing you was the only way to safeguard himself? Your heart fluttered. Could he cry on cue? Get his eyes to look as tender as they did whenever you tried to leave?

Too late you realized you’d gotten lost in your thoughts. And like the softest yet sharpest knife you’d ever felt, Bruce waited patiently. His mouth was even sloped to form a soft grin. 

“You can choose what we do next.” You clasped your hands around your knee, subtly rocking your hips to self-soothe. He glanced at the box of polish, confused. 

“You don’t want yours done?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to.” 

He laughed like you’d challenged him, and it entered you like fresh, cool air whistling through your tight chest. “I’d love to.” 

Something had shifted when he mentioned your friends. On the drive back, instead of silence, he’d asked how often you came here, what you liked about this road, if you knew any constellations, and occasionally to ID a tree when the headlights illuminated one. He held the front door open for you on arrival, and was already halfway to Walter’s bowl when all you’d done was mention that he might be hungry. Not to mention: tolerating this. 

Your friends had always disliked Walter. Complained about how ‘needy’ he was, and walked through the house without worrying if he was underfoot. They stepped on his paws and tail and knocked the side of his head when they’d walk down the hall, to the point you’d had a breakdown the last time they’d visited. Cradling him, crying and sniffling over how careless they were. Bruce paused every other step, letting Walter weave through his legs as much as he pleased. You didn’t even know if Bruce particularly liked you, and the bar was disastrously low, but you would’ve married him on the spot for that alone. He’d never been more attractive.

It hadn’t even been an hour since his shell cracked open, and you wondered who would cave first: you confessing how wonderful he was, or him burning out and reverting back to his old, man-of-few words ways. 

Bruce thumbed through the various tones and textures, and you told him he could pick. He pulled a few shades out and held them to the side of your face, analyzing. First a green, then a red, then black, then: a shimmer. His brow cocked almost imperceptibly. “You like glitter, right?” 

You’d crack. You’d absolutely crack first.

You nodded, and the anticipation bubbled into something almost unbearable in the space between uncapping it and him grabbing your hand. Was there some law of the universe that allowed only enough space for one of you to be talkative? Because since he’d started speaking, it’d become increasingly difficult for words to materialize. Like some sort of spell.

“The makeup you wore at March’s rally.” Bruce took your hand and gently pulled your fingers toward him; at this point noticing how softly he touched you read like an oxymoron. Who taught him to be so tender? Your breath came sparingly, mesmerized by the sheer force of what sat in front of you. “It looked like this.” 

“You know,” you cleared your throat, tightening your core to reign in a tremble from cascading down your arm. “It’s intimidating how observant you are.” 

“Could say the same to you.” 

“I’m not an infamous detective.” Somehow the words were falling out, and thank god, because any longer of this tension and you would’ve blurted something unhallowed. He just grinned, and very precisely placed a stripe of shimmer on your thumb. It was slightly cold, and stunk more than the black you’d put on him. He was so precise… even with his own wet nails. 

Said detective moved to the next finger, eyes twinkling with something unsaid you really wished he’d name. Was he having fun? Was he miserable and covering it up? You searched his face for any giveaway, but he looked almost peaceful. Taking his time with the painting, taking his time to respond. “Aren’t journalists the same? Never know when you’re on record.” 

“So we’re both intimidating.” 

“Very.” 

And there you sat for the next few minutes while he finished, the longest silence since stargazing. You couldn’t grasp where to focus your attention, with both hands wet and the only things in your point of view being Bruce and your bed. Which… you couldn’t focus on too much, not while he was literally being the sweetest, most attentive man alive sitting cross-legged, staring intently at your fingers as he painted them with unparalleled, meditative focus. 

But your mind wandered, unable to resist the temptation of learning he’d not only kissed someone before, but fucked them. You’d assumed so with someone like him, a miserably attractive billionaire in the big city, but it clung to you differently since he’d confirmed it. An undisclosed number of people walked around with the memory of his body on theirs, knowing how he looked, sounded, felt… was there anyone he’d gone back to?

“You okay?” 

“What?”

“Your breathing changed, wondered if we needed to open a window.” 

You looked down to see two fingers left. I can manage. I’m good. I’m so good. “Like I said: observant.” 

“Yeah, well,” he moved to your ring finger (only one left, fuck!) and sighed. “When one of my first memories of you was how you nearly stopped breathing,” he dipped back into the shimmer. “I started paying attention.” 

Oh, this man… “That’s why you brought the Benadryl to City Hall.”

Bruce tapped his upper thigh with the heel of his palm, careful not to smudge. A slight outline of a rectangle became apparent through the faded black fabric. “Just in case.” 

You blinked. Swallowed. This much consideration was excruciating, and decades of mistreatment washed over you at once. It would’ve been so simple to give you what you’d always wanted; someone to sit with you, really, truly sit and consider you. Enjoy you. Cooper had, but then she left. Never to be seen again. 

“Talk to me.” He flicked a well-executed stroke onto your pinky and covered it in one fell swoop, placing the polish back into the box. 

“It’s the same old shit.” That I don’t want to burden you with, so please, stop looking at me like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted to do. 

“Then say the same old shit.” 

“I don’t want them taking up time.” You waved your hands around to try to stave off the trove of energy that launched into you, hurry up the process of the nail drying, and direct his attention anywhere but your face. None of it worked. “They just never cared about any of it. This, peaches, Walter.” 

“Walter?” He balked at it, eyes practically bugging out of his head. 

“Bruce, stop.” His name sat strangely in your mouth, like it was rapidly taking on a different meaning. 

“Stop what?”

“Handling me with gloves.” 

“I’m not.” He stared at you plainly, unwavering, and you felt pinned. He blinked a few times, then broke the contact to stare at the carpet. You let out a heavy breath. 

Silence stretched between you like a wide, empty field. You couldn’t begin to fill it, so you sat, willing your lips to stop trembling, and tears to stop forming, to no avail. He didn’t call attention to it, which you appreciated. His consideration was like a rose’s thorn, smelling so sweet but cutting through thinned skin.

“I think we have similar problems with people.” 

Such conviction. You stared into him like he could save you from slipping and asked a question that already had an answer. “Pity?”

Despite the exhaustion you were certain was wearing him down, his eyes were clearer than they’d ever looked. You wanted to tell him to get some sleep, let himself relax, but he wouldn’t listen. Apparently you not buying the concept of him liking that you knew his biggest secret was horrifying to him, instead of basic sense. He was steadfast on his mission of trust, like any mission he set himself on, you were learning. 

“I’m not pitying you, you’re not pitying me.” Bruce surprised you when he held out a pinky, so out of character you almost didn’t track what it meant. “Truce?”

Leveling the playing field. You hesitated. “But what if it’s not pity but it’s still something bad—”

“Y/n.” He said your name with a sigh that blasted through your eardrums; a sigh that was kind, that straddled the line between amused and apologetic. 

“Bruce.”

The moment stalled, and he was caught between two choices: tell you it, tell you it all, to take you out of this momentary suffering and clear the air that was so tangible, that you were so right about; or keep you from what it might mean. Keep you safe. This was strange, he could tell you knew it, and he could tell it was affecting. He was here with things below the surface, sure, but it wasn’t an ulterior motive. Just… keeping a secret. One that helped you.

Your eyes glittered with tears, and all deliberation left his body as he was struck with the realization that keeping you safe would win every single time. No matter what. 

Eventually the silence hung too thick and you took his pinky in yours, moving quickly to put away the polishes like you were running from the promise. Meanwhile, all he could do was barely keep himself afloat from the incessant touching and the intensity of your eyes when they locked onto his. 

“What’s next?”

“Uh,”

He attached to the hesitancy in your tone and dismissed it, pressing on. “What are you thinking?”

“I have an old jewelry kit I never opened, but it’s babyish,”

“Bring it.” 

You tinkered around in your closet, then plunked a plastic kit down on the floor. You stared at it. Then laughed. You mimed lifting the lid and heaved a sigh as you sat back. “Too wet. So disappointing.”

Jesus… what the fuck did I just say? Peeking at him showed he wasn’t reading into the diabolical innuendo, or at least he wasn’t showing it.

“We can wait.”

Could you?

Bruce and you sat in silence without anything to distract. You pretended to be very interested in the tree branches swaying outside your window, one you could barely make out through the streams of moonlight. The whisper of the kitchen clock ticked, and you concentrated on a leaf hitting the window’s glass. After you felt your body would implode from the tension, you tapped the edge of a nail and felt a slick smear. Like it’d only been two seconds. 

“What do you want to make?”

He rarely interrupted the silence, and it startled your wound-up spirit. Which magic word made him spill? Was he so offended by the notion that he just wanted to fuck? 

“There’s only a few things. Braided bracelets, beaded bracelets, or a necklace I guess if you get long enough string.” You tilted the packaging with the back of your hand to squint at the side label. “And stud earrings, but it’s probably nickel or some shit. Can’t do it.”

Bruce didn’t miss a beat. “I’m willing to try.” Nickel. You can’t have nickel jewelry. Allergic?

You barely heard him, seeing on the side in colorful cursive: Summer Edition, which apparently meant beads of apples, peaches, pears, and bananas thrown in the mix. Your stomach flipped, confronted with the memory that Rose had gotten this one for you way back when. She’d laughed with Gabbi and Lara when you thanked her, and you hadn’t known why, you just knew their laughter didn’t feel good. Maybe Bruce was right: they’d never cared. 

“Hmm?” 

“Earrings.”

You scoffed. “I’m not piercing your ears.”

“Way ahead of you.” 

You looked up expecting to see him brutally stabbing his ear with a stray pin or special gadget, but he just used the back of his hand to show a microscopic dot in the middle of his earlobe. 

“Pierced them in high school.”

“No way!”

Evidently your shock had alerted the only other resident of the house, and Walter came careening in. You shot your hands up and quickly told Bruce to stop his movement to pet him, or else his nails would be fuzzed to hell. Walter thought this was a game, and started jumping to reach the nothing that was in your hand. 

Standing became the only option, and you managed to squeeze your way out the front door to the windy porch. Bruce followed in tow, peeking behind him while he shut the door with the back of his calf. You held your hands up to catch the breeze, feeling the whoosh against your damp nails and your cheeks you had no idea were that flushed. 

Deep breaths brought the tension in your chest to a simmer. With shut eyes, you tried to pretend you didn’t feel him behind you like a physical touch. Slow and even, fresh and cooling, all that mattered right now were the breaths getting in and leaving. 

Part of you flooded with guilt at even thinking about something as trivial as sex while your mom was hospitalized. Another part argued through a stabbing feeling of defiance, reminding you that she was alright, that she was in some ways, once again, better than you thought before the call. That right now would be perfect; fuck around and get the grief out of your system on one of the last days you had the house to yourself. Fuck around and let yourself become a billionaire playboy statistic.

Bruce stepped to the edge of the porch, glancing at you in a way you knew was another wellness check before facing the road. Your heart strangled in your chest. This wasn’t just a ‘fuck around’ thing for you, and the mist was starting to clear around his intentions, too, in a way that sent your mangled heart to the back of your throat. A ‘fuck around’ perspective might not track here if he actually cared. 

You focused on the flicker of the driveway light for courage. Pretended like you were speaking to nothing but open air. “I’m sorry about what I said.”

“About what?”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I mean.” The flicker was frustrating, so you stared at the rusted, dinged windchime instead, remembering so clearly the day your mom set it up. “Thinking you wanted to have sex.”

“It’s okay.” He hadn’t let your sentence linger for a second before blurting a placation. He ached thinking about how you’d described it: power fantasy. Even if you were apologizing now, that had come from somewhere that wasn’t just gone. No wonder he couldn’t get a pulse on you; you might’ve thought you were evading a lion when to him, it was nothing more than casual conversation. 

“You probably get that a lot, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, not knowing what to say. He did hear it a lot, in some variation; people mistaking his introversion for being a closed-off loser looking for nothing more than a conquest. He winced thinking about how many people treated him like a toy, a scandalous story to run and tell their friends about; and how long it took him to realize that was happening.

Bruce looked downtrodden, and a hole was drilled into your chest. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

The longer this continued, the greater the likelihood of him turning his filter back to full power. He shot you a grin that was weak, too weak, hoping that you wouldn’t press it, please god, and changed the subject. “Looking forward to the next item for tonight.”

“If my nails ever dry.”

Bruce gripped the front of the porch, its wood paneling weathered and splintered. It was hard to believe anything moved out here. That time even passed. 

The pause between was physical pain. 

Nothing marked the passage of time here. No ambulances, no cars, the only light source a dim porch light and half-dead carport bulb. Thoughts were hard to form. Nothing, absolutely nothing served as a distraction. And he’d committed to stepping up for you, so he couldn’t very well crawl inside of himself. 

What to say?

What to say?!

You drummed your fingers on the feathered wood, the edge of your shirt catching on a splinter. For some reason, it reminded him of Alfred.

“Alfred texted, by the way. Said they got everything.”

“Nice.”

What were you thinking about?

He couldn’t tell if you were upset. Did you feel trapped having to come back to his place? When he’d offered it, did you feel obligated to agree? When else had you ever felt obligated to agree with anything he ever said? 

“You don’t have to stay tomorrow. I’ll be fine if you want to head back.”

Oh. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does.”

You wondered how this might feel if people had chosen you at any other point in your life. If this wasn’t the first time someone was persistent in their want to be around you, would it sit differently? Would it feel soothing, would it feel normal? right now, it tempted to piss you off. He said no ulterior motives, but it was so foreign you couldn’t enjoy it for what it was. Pity reared its ugly head. 

“You might be right about the pity thing.”

“Hard to swallow?”

“Don’t say that.” 

“A lot of innuendos tonight.” He said it so plainly, giving you no choice but to surge forward to excavate meaning.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

“Just worried about you.”

“So because someone talks about sex it’s worrisome?”

“You never talked about it before your mother was hospitalized, and we were completely alone.”

He wasn’t terse, or rolling his eyes; in fact, he wasn’t saying it how you could so easily imagine he would’ve if it’d only been a month prior. Spoken in an accommodating tone, with gentle curiosity, and it threatened to piss you off. Ants crawling on your skin. A feather kissing the back of your neck. 

“What’s your diagnosis, detective?” Flustered. Annoyed. 

“I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

He fucking looked at you again, and you were set to liquify unless you steeled yourself. You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. “I don’t.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I can hold my own boundaries, Bruce.”

“I know you can.” He faced the outside of the porch, and you couldn’t tell whether he was staring at the concrete or the car’s trunk. “But when you start talking about power fantasies, I start thinking about how long that’s been festering.”

“Where did all this chatter come from?”

“You’re deflecting.”

Fuck. Couldn’t his generosity extend to not calling you out right now?

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk about sex.” Saying the word around him still felt blasphemous, like every time was an invitation. He didn’t react, again, like the concept of sex was the most benign thing. You glanced at his lips, and realized the concept of kissing him felt even more intimate. At least right now. It was softer. More… romantic. Can’t think about that right now.

“I’m pointing out something I’m seeing.”

“Which is pressure?”

“Are you denying it?”

You huffed, steepling your fingers against the aged wood. “I don’t get how this turned into an argument.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“Don’t like how you said that.”

“There’s a lot going on, you don’t need to feel pushed.”

Don’t tell me what I need. “I don’t.”

“Actually?” 

“You can’t believe that someone would want to hang out with you without wanting to fuck.”

“Isn’t that what you accused me of?” Bruce turned toward you, and you burned. A rush of throbbing, untended grief only barely covered by rapidly slipping defiance. His blue eyes pulled you in, but you resisted. Weakly. 

“Whatever.” 

Another standstill; where one was right, and the other didn’t want to accept it. Your shoulders tensed then relaxed when he leaned close, his smooth rumble in his voice soothing your eyes shut and coaxing tears out. “I’m trying to check in.” 

Tears smeared across your arm as you swiped at your cheeks, sniffing up snot before it could dribble. The air was no longer breezy, slicing through you with a vengeance. You felt his eyes right on you though you fought to avoid them, and him, and the very fact that you were here now when you didn’t plan to be, but you had, but you’d forgotten, too busy with Bruce to remember your sick mom. You should be in bed, sleeping, or thinking about Bruce, not standing here in front of your empty house with him because your mom was, but she didn’t, she was, everything was fine. 

You shoved words from behind your teeth. “‘A lot of innuendos tonight’ doesn’t sound especially caring.”

It was his turn to be silent, giving you time to shove your tears in a bag. Still, still still still, his presence was an undeniable force that let no other thoughts visit. 

“It feels awkward to be straightforward.” 

His candor made you laugh, then pause. How many layers did he have up, then, because you never knew him to beat around the bush. “You had no issues being blunt when we first met, Batman.”

“Things were different then.”

“How?”

“Before I cared what you think.”

Per usual, in a way that was quintessentially you, you rolled your eyes at any sign of compliment. He smirked. “Fine. Blunt.” 

Bruce leaned forward, the arm of his shirt brushing yours. You were so… you. “You’re not used to people saying they care.” 

“Maybe I’m not.”

“It’s so impossible to think someone actually cares that you can’t hold it.”

Fingertips brushed goosebumps as you tried to cover them with crossed arms. Couldn’t he get off your back? “Psychoanalyzing me now, huh?”

“We have the same problems with people.”

A shy grin tugged at your lips. Air shot into Bruce’s chest. “… you are Bruce Wayne.”

“You do know.” He didn’t know what he meant by this next part, but he said it nonetheless, because it was teetering off his tongue. “Does that make this impossible?”

Your grin was now a smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe not.”

It faltered. “Says the person with all the power. To someone who does know.”

“I know.” 

You remained tense, and if anything, his response had made your shoulders scrunch in on each other. Did he know? 

A small knocking sound signified the late closing of the screen door. A peek over his shoulder and his eyes immediately locked onto the worn black handle, slightly warped and rubbed down to its base metal tone from decades of use. It was thin, and didn’t have a lock. The front door was sturdy, but singular. One lock, one deadbolt. Hell, this porch was available to anyone at any time. If something happened to you, you’d be wide open. This wasn’t an even field. Whatsoever. 

“But I don’t.”

The last piece of it all thunked into place. Standing here in the middle of your life, seeing how quiet and tight-knit things were, the wear and tear, the life of it all, it had never felt so fragile. 

You weren’t. Your family wasn’t. But it was. The container that held you. 

“I don’t know.”

Relaxed. You finally relaxed. All of this fighting, all of this wanting to bridge something so impossible; no wonder you’d been so pissed off each and every time. Everything felt different here. You sounded tired. Of course you did. Of course. “How could you?”

“By not spending all my time with stockbrokers.”

“So I’m a growth opportunity for you?”

“No,” he winced, having meant it as a joke, but why was he joking right now? Why was he so uncomfortable? He felt like fucking Mount Everest. “But you are helping me get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you don’t like me.” 

You spun to glare at him like he hadn’t reflected what you’d told him from the beginning. It was like he’d thrown a brick at you. “You think I don’t like you?”

“Of course you don’t like me.” 

“You don’t like me!”

“I do.” Bruce’s heart began to pound. Did you like him? Suddenly, he felt a pint of lukewarm Phish Food in his hand and the breeze of a dingy alleyway.

You laughed. Just like stargazing. Like it was ridiculous. Hadn’t he made himself clear? Too clear, in fact?

“You’re fun to spend time with.”

“What’s fun about me?”

The pounding built to a goddamn racket. “How stubborn you are.”

“Now I know you’re kidding.”

“I mean it. People aren’t usually like that with me.” It dawned on him that that might have been the reason he always argued back. With Alfred he tried to leave, the man was too firm, not passionate, always sounding like a parent. 

“So you like arguing all the time?”

“I like someone vehemently disagreeing.”

Billion-dollar word. The flushing that just died down was warming your cheeks again. 

“I like your perspective on politics, too.”

“So we can argue about politics all the time, got it.” Should’ve taken him for a masochist.

“I like hearing you talk about your family. How you like animals. Nature.”

“Sounds like the most basic Tinder profile.” Throw, deflect.

“I like how easy it feels around you.”

You swatted that one away the instant a tingle ran up your spine. “You’ve spent most of the time I’ve known you either avoiding me or actively telling me you don’t want me around.”

The wounds from those times were still fresh. Yelling at you in the kitchen. The car. Glaring you down like you were gum stuck to his shoe. Avoiding looking at you. Grimacing when you’d show up. The scowls and clenched jaws. They were all branded into your skin. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Yeah, sure.

“Hey,” he tapped your shoulder, and only then did you notice you’d shifted away from him, absentmindedly staring at the concrete. You knew when you looked up that he’d…

“I wish I could take them back, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” An apology. An apologetic face. Apologetic tone. Like he actually meant the damn thing, and meant it so thoroughly you couldn’t reasonably ignore it. “I’m not used to you, and that’s not an excuse” 

“So I’m an acquired taste?”

“You have a rebuttal for everything.” He was standing across the U.S., thousands of miles away from people who needed him, right NOW, and he was hellbent on having you know he liked you. His world had become backwards in a matter of weeks. 

“Maybe I do.”

Honesty was the best policy here, right? Outside of blurting that he liked you, like a fucking middle schooler? He chose his words carefully. “I didn’t think I could enjoy someone’s company so much.” 

While the compliment struggled to grip, your heart fluttered like it wanted to accept it. So much? A war broke out in the few seconds it took you to conjure a response. The familiar refrain spun your thoughts of if he’s mean to you, that means he likes you. But that was bullshit. Entirely bullshit. Throw it back at him. “So you secretly like everyone at City Hall?”

“I pretend to.”

“I should be honored you’re an ass to me, then?” You raised an eyebrow at him, sizing him up. “Because at least you’re not pretending?”

“Do you want me to pretend?” 

To you, it felt like he already was. “You’ll just treat me like you do when Oz is watching.”

“Do you want that?”

“So concerned with what I want when you’ve rarely given me it.”

The air clumped together and thickened like clouds. 

“And what’s that?” His mouth was dry as the Sahara, his tingly, numb arm moving to rest on the handrail. 

It could’ve been something raunchy, and your mind landed there initially. I want you on top of me, I want you inside of me, I want to know what you taste like. But what you really, deeply, truly wanted, was to know him. “To figure you out. To know you.” 

“Our interests match, then.”

“Someone to match your stubborn?”

A roguish grin dazzled you. “I’m known to be very flexible.”

“Another innuendo.”

His laugh was lemony—bright and sharp—like you’d read into his smile a little too excessively. You inhaled slowly, then exhaled hard. 

“So you’re a fucking Wayne, I’m not. You know that.”

Could be, Bruce thought, but held it close to his chest. 

“I know shit that you don’t want to get out, and that makes me second-guess everything, too. You’re antisocial and I’ve been basically bullied by my friends since forever.”

“Well said.”

“Shut up.” With a twinkle in his eye, like you were so amusing to him. It was a lost cause stifling the laugh erupting from your belly. “Like actually, this is the most you’ve ever talked and it’s weirding me out.”

“I can be stoic.”

Another giggle. So he was self-aware. “I like it. It’s just new.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop.” Your cheeks scorched, strong as a hot flash. 

“What?” Bruce played innocent, soaking up the way it plucked at you in just the right way to make a laugh rumble.  

“I know it’s the same thing you’re saying.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh my god.” Rolling your eyes. Shaking your head. The apples of your cheeks becoming prominent as you fought showing him a smile. Such normal things eliciting such an intense response; he always wanted to do this to you. 

“I want you to know me.” 

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is. I want to talk like I write.” To you. With you. No one else. 

You recalled a stack of old journals taking up considerable portions of his desk. Titled Notes and Observations: Gotham Project, you hadn't exactly thought he was spilling his personal guts. If you had, you might've snuck a guilty peek. You only thought you'd been named there because it related to Batman. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” You slapped the wood, and Bruce wondered how your palm wasn’t covered in pointy fibers. “But I know you want to go.” 

“I said I want you to know me, not that you already did.” 

You shot a playful glare at him, equal parts pleased and annoyed at his newfound comfort. “You said before that I know you better than most people.” 

“I did.” 

“One is still better than zero, so.” You scrunched your nose at him and moved to open the door. “Neither of us is technically wrong.” 

A satisfied sound accompanied the successful tapping of your now-dried nails. “Let’s bake.”

He caught the door on its wide swing. “Bake?”

“You cannot drop this, Walter can’t have chocolate.”

Glaring beeps signified the oven had preheated. In his squinting at the neon-green numbers he apparently moved the bowl slightly off from the middle of the pan, and you scoffed, swiftly grabbing his wrist to reposition the batter. 

“Ever made brownies before?” You took the bowl from him and licked the back of your thumb, tossing the bowl in the sink before spreading the batter to each side of the glass pan. 

Bruce filtered a snide comment about salmonella. “I’m still a human.”

“Didn’t know if Alfred was the only person to ever cook.”

“My mother didn’t want me to be spoiled.”

“Is that why Alfred gets Breyer’s and not overpriced custards?”

A spoonful dropped in the utensil’s journey to the sink. Walter, who had been watching at a very close distance, was narrowly intercepted by Bruce’s elbow.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “She says you can’t have it.” 

Completely oblivious to the conversation you were interrupting, you finished rinsing the bowl and mused aloud. “You’ve had Betty Crocker?”

“Oh, yeah. All the time.”

A glance over your shoulder saw Bruce wiping his hands with a paper towel, nonchalant. Too nonchalantly. You turned off the water and stared at him until he broke, giving his head a little shake. “Knew it.” 

Walter suddenly caused a commotion, snagging his claws into Bruce’s pants. He jumped, scaling up past his knee until he plopped onto the ground, meowing and trying to re-claw. Bruce looked mildly alarmed, a single step back ramming his hip into the counter of the small kitchen. “Um,” 

“He hasn’t done that since he was a kitten.”

The kitchen lights appeared to dim when he bent down to pick him up. Correctly. Bruce’s hands under Walter’s armpits, hoisting him up to rest on his shoulder. He flopped in his arms and batted at the frayed edge of Bruce’s tee shirt collar. Faintness threatened to overwhelm you. “He really likes you. Are you sure you didn’t sneak in catnip?”

“Impossible for someone to like me.”

He moseyed to the living room, putting half a wall between you. Did he wink? Had he even been looking at you? 

This wasn’t kind to your heart. Ever since watching the recording from the club, it’d been run ragged. Not only was now no exception, it might’ve been the worst outside of stumbling the hospital hallways. It was the only thing which felt tangible and real; Bruce certainly didn’t, and not having your mom laughing in the other room had her disappeared like quicksand. 

Closed eyes. Puffing breaths. Time moved too fast, packing too much into a moment. Brushed shoulders, shared gazes, navigating a shared kitchen. The warmth propelling from the oven reflected a surge of kindling he’d placed in your chest. Unprecedented—this was unprecedented. 

A strong wind sought to fell you, striking you at the knees from behind. Something felt close. Too close. You gripped the counter for balance and tried to breathe through it. Accept it, whatever the hell it was. The atmosphere was too warm. So inviting it loosened your filter, rapidly breaking down the walls between what was said and what was known. 

Walter thumped and jumped in a race around the living room, a back paw sliding onto the linoleum as he regained traction. Bruce’s low, rumbly chuckle swaddled you in warm cotton. Despite how weird it felt, it felt… 

Walter slammed his paw on the wall precisely where the laser was pointed. 

Steady. 

Despite it all, Bruce was steadfast, and holy hell did that feel great, and terrifying. So great that you wanted to run up, grab him, and never let him go. Let yourself talk for hours, knowing that he’d actually listen. And terrifying: he’ll actually listen. It injected lead weight into your words. After so long of no one seeing you, it felt like a magnifying glass beneath the sun. 

The oven beeped again. On autopilot, you put the brownies in, cleaned the bowl, and bit your lip when Bruce emerged, asking if you needed any help. Walter sat beside him, tail flicking, eyes bright and dilated. God, he’d never liked anyone as much as Bruce. “What do you want to do now?”

“Jewelry?” 

“Eh.”

“Talk?” 

You wiped your hands on a dishtowel, his offer reminding you of how much he had back home and he was just sitting here, doing what you wanted. “Do you want to talk about the journalism student stuff? The people we housed, or Oz, or Morrison, or anything about your work?”

Work. No one had called it that before. “Not right now.”

“Are you sure? I know if you were in Gotham right now you’d be… patrolling?”

He would be. He needed to be. Guilt nipped at his frayed nerves. Only a few days. Only while you needed him. “If I need to talk about it, I’ll let you know.” 

You rested your weight against the fridge, crossing your arms like it might protect you from his charms. He filled the space, of course he did. His stamina was shocking. 

“Now: where are you taking me tomorrow?”

“I thought we’d drive and walk around.”

You measured his expression for signs of disappointment. There were none. 

“What’s your favorite place in town?” He mimicked your body language, pressing his shoulderblade into the side of the doorframe and crossing his arms. 

“This field down the road. We can bike there to start in the morning.”

‘This field down the road’, and you looked about to burst at its mention. He could do this forever, even with the frame jamming into his back. “What do you like about it?” 

What did you like about your favorite place in the world?

“It’s quiet. But a good quiet. Like no one could bother me, or see me, and there’s this little creek that probably has a billion different bacteria in it, but it’s pretty. Lots of trees surrounding it. Big open space, lots of grass, some wild plants. Blackberries grow near the creek. I’d get sick eating so many of them and my mom would have to ban me from going, or check my fingers to see if they were stained.”

Bruce swore you didn’t even take a breath rushing it out. He also swore he’d never known the word ‘invested’ until looking at the crinkle in your eyes. “Did you find a work-around?”

“I’d squish them off the vine with a leaf, and open my mouth super wide so it didn’t stain my lips.”

He swore his smile would break his cheeks. 

“I think they’re still in season, so you might get to try them.”

“You’re setting a high bar. Don’t know if they’ll measure up.” 

There was a comfort in his teasing—a billowiness that caught wind. “I like when you’re not overthinking yourself.”

He eyed you. “Sure you won’t regret it?”

You nodded, sealing fate. 

The glimmer in his eye intrigued you. “I really think we should revisit that kit.” 

“I really think you’re humoring me, but I’ll allow it.” 

Crossing the threshold from the hall to your room, guilt grabbed you by the throat. It squeezed your cheeks together, put pressure on your teeth, and made your skin hot. I’m lying to him. He wouldn’t act like this if he knew. 

You grabbed the box, and the instant you brought it to your chest, Alfred bobbled in and out of your psyche. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

Steeling yourself with the memory of that and Bruce telling you—vehemently—that he’d never be upset about safety, you made your way back to the table. Walter stared at the tabletop like the secrets of humanity lied just out of reach, and Bruce pulled up the seat to your left. 

No one had ever sat in that seat. You’d never realized how empty it was.

He took the initiative and opened the kit, snagging the leaflet to peruse. He kept one hand holding a packet of beads, zooming through the instructions to not waste a lick of time or show a grain of hesitancy. You wanted to make jewelry, and suddenly that was all he ever dreamed of. Out of the corner of his eye he noted you ogling at the back of his chair, and shifted in his seat. Was he sitting in some sacred space? 

He cleared his throat. “‘Friendship Bracelets’, hmm.” 

“We don’t actually have to follow the instructions.” 

“I think it’s required.” He fixed his face with a deep concentration, scouring the page in a flurry. “Says here there’s two sets of each ‘specialty bead’.” Leaning in, he placed a finger on an imaginary line, squinting at it for good measure. “‘If you’re making brownies, specifically at a sleepover,’”

“Bruce,” your mouth twitched.

“‘It is critical to use each set together, or the knot won’t hold.’ Crazy tech they got in this.” 

You looked away, hiding your smile. So fucking ridiculous… 

“This is serious business, Y/n.” He was trying to stay serious, and shit it was impossible, but he managed a confused, affronted look; he held the pamphlet to you. “Do you want to read it?”

“Fine.” You snatched it from him. “Since the kit will blow up if we don’t, what do you want to make?”

“Hm,” he reflected on it, feeling the smack of Walter’s paw at his ankle. “I believe the owner of the kit has to pick.” 

The moment was almost too saccharine; the twist of your mouth as you swirled beads in your cupped hand, the subtle scent of chocolate wafting from across the room. He let his muscles relax, the chair creaking as he rested against it. He watched as you discarded blue, then purple, then green. 

A delicate sound hummed from your chest. He longed to bottle it up. Bead picking was evidently deeply significant; he saw your thoughts whizzing by like a comic strip. He felt Gotham slip away into the buttery melt of being with you. 

Apples, pears, bananas… apple? Peach! 

It clicked, and you poured two of each into your palm. “Since I almost died from them the night I found out about you, one peach each.” 

Two more. “And apples for the mulligan…”

“Mulligatawny.” 

“Yes! Also because they’re ninety percent of your diet.” 

It felt absurd to enjoy something this much. Just a table, circles of plastic, and some words. Simple materials for such ambrosia. 

“I’ll make yours, you make mine?”

“Red and… pink?” Orange wasn’t a bead color, making him very aware that citrus had been excluded from the affair. You knotted the bottom of your string, and he followed suit. Wrapping it around your wrist, you clipped it an inch further, then slipped it to him. You got straight to work, alternating beads with practiced ease. 

Pink, red, pink, red. Having a purpose to the beading that wasn’t just getting discarded in your jewelry box put you into hyperdrive. Each clink of plastic on plastic fueled the sunlight spearing through your ribs. Maybe he wanted to be here. Maybe you could trust it. 

He fell behind two thirds of the way through, struck by the crooked smile creeping up on you. He’d judged you too quickly. If not for your persistence, he wouldn’t be here. Enjoying this. Feeling this. 

“Which wrist do you want to wear it on?”

Done already? 

Carefully setting down his work-in-progress, he held out his left wrist. You pulled the bracelet on; it fit with the perfect amount of slack, the peach and apple nestled together in the middle. He knew the second your hands left that he’d wear it until it fell apart. “I love it.”

You beamed, securing a long-awaited triumph. Feeling impossibly silly, you got up to metabolize the rush prickling your fingertips. “I’m gonna check on the brownies.” 

Ripping his attention from you to the task at hand, he hurried beads onto string with manic focus until he: “Finished.” Pride circled him until he noticed his mid-job pause resulted in a solid chunk of pink too deep to redo. 

You walked over and held out your right wrist. He apologized for the mistake, but you told him that was the point: “It’s homemade. I love it.” And your smile sold it to his anxious heart. 

The coolness of the hollow plastic stuffed your head with static. Not even a couple hours in and he’d accomplished his mission. A silly little thing, so pathetic you wouldn’t dare name it aloud. You’d forgotten about the kit. You’d forgotten this part of you hurt. 

“Peaches and apples go well together.” Pads of your fingers caressed the perimeter of the fruit, speaking just loud enough to travel the silence. “Never thought they would.” 

You left him sitting there, breathless, swirling in repose as you grabbed a knife. His rose-colored glasses bloomed crimson. 

“I like to cut them immediately so there’s less crumbs,” you pulled the dessert out and fussed with a hard edge, accidentally flipping a chunk to the floor. In the space of placing the knife down, your hand collided with Bruce, already knelt in front of you picking up the pieces. It was suddenly too loud, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

“Thanks,” you breathed. 

Bruce sunk into a calming bath under your praise. Blush shrouded his skin in words he couldn’t say as he pulled himself to his feet. As he tossed the brownie in the trash, the weight of the bracelet shifted. The first anchor he’d felt in twenty years.

taglist: @noisylime @jonathancranesgf @hedonisticwomen @vampiresvengeance @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sarcasticwalrus0 @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[jessesluvr]

heyyy do you write angst? the ending can be whatever you like, even fluff!!!!!! i was thinking of jesse and dina being done for good and jesse and reader are already friends and start trying it out yk dating and stuff and them 2 months later they are so in love and everyone can see it until dina shows up saying she's pregnant and jesse was the last man she been with. reader tries to keep going and accept the situation but she can't help but thinking she can't do this, being a stepmom and knowing that if her and jesse ever get pregnant jesse will already have experienced the whole thing and this makes her sick and sad since she wants kids and has mentioned wanting a boy. she tries to keep going but a few months in jesse and dina says he thinks it's a boy she breaks down and say she can't do this. i think that's messy so i'm sorry

first, not mine | jesse x reader

author's note : to the anon that requested this.. COUNT YOUR DAYS?! you're my number one enemy now. i did this for you ! jk jk, i love you to bits, please enjoy this absolute heart shattering oneshot (at least to me). do other authors SOB at their own works, and feel their heart absolutely break, because mine did.

summary : after falling deeply in love with jesse, the reader’s world quietly unravels when dina reveals she’s pregnant with his child, forcing her to confront a future where she’ll always come second. despite trying to stay, the reader ultimately walks away, unable to bear the weight of a dream that now belongs to someone else.

word count : 3.7k

jackson’s nights were quiet in the way that made people nervous. too much silence often meant a storm was coming — literal or otherwise — but tonight, the wind was easy and the moon was low, casting gentle light on the muddy trails near the stables.

you had the early patrol tomorrow, but you found yourself lingering.

jesse stood beside you, leaning his arms on the top rail of the corral fence, boots scuffed and shirt rolled to the elbows. his skin glowed faintly in the lantern-light, bronze and shadowed, his eyes tracing the horizon like he was waiting for something to arrive. or leave.

neither of you spoke for a while.

not because there was nothing to say — but because there was finally nothing that needed to be said.

“i heard eugene found another old comic stash in the radio tower,” you said eventually, breaking the stillness with a lopsided smile. “swore he wasn’t gonna let anyone touch it, but i think ellie bribed him with jerky.”

jesse huffed a quiet laugh, glancing at you. “she probably threatened to melt his snow globes if he didn’t give her first pick.”

you chuckled, and his grin widened at the sound. there it was again — that little flutter in your stomach. it had been coming more often lately. every time he looked at you too long. every time your hands brushed when passing tools. every time he waited for you after patrol, even when you had nothing to do.

you hadn’t expected it. you’d been friends with jesse for over a year — long enough to know his tells, his sense of humor, the way his mood changed with the weather.

long enough to remember how he looked when he was still with dina.

they’d been over for a while now. nobody talked about it much — not even jesse. they still saw each other around town, made polite nods, exchanged words like they weren’t bitter in the back of their throats.

but jesse hadn’t gone back. he hadn’t waited around, either. instead, he started standing next to you more often. sitting beside you on watch. sharing meals. laughing longer at your jokes.

you didn’t know when friendship became something else — only that it had.

“tomorrow’s gonna suck,” you muttered, tugging your jacket tighter around you. “rain’s supposed to start around sunrise.”

“i’ll bring extra coffee,” jesse said. “you take cream, right?”

you blinked, surprised. “i didn’t know you noticed that.”

“i notice a lot of things,” he said softly, and your stomach turned to heat.

he pushed off the fence then, standing close. not too close — not assuming — but close enough that your hands almost touched in the dark.

you looked up at him.

it should’ve been awkward. but there was nothing unsure about the way jesse looked at you — only warmth, only patience, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

so you reached for his hand.

and he let you.

you didn’t tell anyone at first.

it wasn’t about hiding. it was about keeping something soft. something untouched by the rest of the world.

jackson had a way of putting its nose where it didn’t belong. couples were everyone’s business. breakups even more so. and jesse… jesse had always been at the center of things — trusted, reliable, always smiling. it made people curious. gossip slipped like frost through the streets, and you didn’t want to be part of it.

so instead, you kept it simple. quiet touches. shared lunches. books passed back and forth. you kissed only once that first week, in the corner of the library when no one was looking — a hesitant, hopeful thing.

he kissed you like he wasn’t used to being kissed gently.

and you kissed him like you were terrified to wake up from it.

two months later, it didn’t feel like hiding anymore.

it felt like home.

you found comfort in the routines — early morning rides, mid-day fencing repairs, jesse waiting for you with two mugs of bitter coffee and that stupid grin that made your knees wobble. it didn’t matter if the days were long. he made them lighter.

and everyone noticed.

maria had caught you two talking by the greenhouse and raised an eyebrow that said finally. ellie gave you shit for it, but it was the fond kind — the kind that meant she approved, even if she’d never say it directly. tommy started putting you on patrols together more often.

even dina… well, dina hadn’t said much.

she was still around, of course. she never left jackson after the breakup — just stopped being part of your circle. she kept to herself. took late patrols. worked in the armory when you weren’t there.

you crossed paths sometimes. she’d nod. you’d nod. but she never lingered.

it didn’t feel hostile. just distant.

jesse didn’t talk about her much. you never asked him to. but sometimes you caught something in his expression — a flicker of guilt, maybe. regret. not for being with you, but for how much time had passed in the in-between.

still, those thoughts faded when he pulled you into bed at night, hands warm and words soft in the dark.

he touched you like he was grateful you existed. like you were something good in a world that rarely allowed it.

you’d fallen for him so fast, it scared you.

and somehow, he always knew when you needed to be held tighter.

you talked about the future once.

lying in the tall grass behind the orchard, sun high overhead, a blanket beneath you and jesse’s hand tangled in yours.

he was telling a dumb story — something about ellie mistaking a raccoon for a dog — and you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt. when the laughter faded, you said, without really meaning to:

“i always thought i’d have a little boy someday.”

jesse’s brow arched. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “one of those loud, scrappy kids. always falling off things. covered in dirt. would probably drive me crazy.”

jesse grinned. “you’d make a good mom.”

you went still for a moment, startled.

“i mean it,” he said, voice gentle. “you’ve got a big heart. and you’re tougher than half the people in this town. any kid would be lucky to have you.”

you turned your face away before he could see the tears.

you didn’t know what the future held. but for the first time in years, you hoped for something more.

the day started like any other.

light rain fell in the early hours, turning the dirt paths of jackson into soft mud. you’d just finished restocking ammo at the armory when jesse came in, soaked from the waist down and grumbling about wet socks. he looked boyish like that — cheeks flushed, hair a mess, and smiling just for you.

you kissed him behind the workbench, hands resting on his chest, fingers grazing the damp fabric of his jacket. he tasted like rain and warmth and something safe. he hummed against your lips, then whispered something about dinner at his place.

it should’ve stayed that simple.

but then, halfway through your shift, maria stuck her head into the room.

“jesse,” she said, her voice unreadable. “dina needs to speak with you. privately.”

the way she said it made your stomach tighten.

jesse straightened slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans. “where?”

“she’s over by the supply depot,” maria said. her eyes flicked to you, something hesitant in them. “said it’s urgent.”

you didn’t say anything.

jesse looked at you then — really looked — and offered a soft squeeze to your shoulder before stepping out.

he didn’t come back for an hour.

by the time you got to his house that evening, the rain had stopped. the sky was bruised purple, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

you knocked once and let yourself in. his place was warm — always a little messy but lived in. you liked it that way. a guitar leaned against the wall, one of ellie’s old drawings pinned to the fridge. your scarf hung on the back of a chair. you’d forgotten it there days ago.

jesse sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the wood, head in his hands.

he looked up when you entered.

something in your chest tightened.

you pulled off your coat slowly. “hey… everything okay?”

he didn’t answer at first.

you moved closer, setting your gloves down, brows drawn. “jesse?”

he stood abruptly and walked to you — not urgently, but with that kind of restless energy that made you brace. his hands landed on your arms, grounding you, and his expression was conflicted. kind, but distant.

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” he said quietly.

“what happened?”

his jaw flexed. “it’s… dina.”

your stomach dropped.

“she said she’s pregnant.”

silence. cold. breath caught somewhere in your chest.

you stared at him, unsure if you’d heard correctly.

“she—what?”

jesse exhaled hard, his grip tightening slightly. “she said she didn’t say anything sooner because she didn’t know for sure. she’s a couple months along. she said… i was the last person she was with.”

your thoughts were slow. sticky. refusing to form the right shapes.

“she’s been here. in jackson. this whole time.”

jesse nodded once. “yeah. i didn’t know either. i mean, i saw her around, but… i figured she just wanted space. she didn’t even look at me. until today.”

something cold crawled down your spine.

it wasn’t betrayal. he hadn’t done anything wrong. but still, you couldn’t breathe right.

you took a step back, folding your arms, trying not to show how shaky you were.

“are you sure it’s yours?”

“she’s sure,” he said, quietly. “and i believe her.”

you nodded slowly. once. twice. “okay.”

jesse stepped forward, alarm in his eyes. “hey—no. i don’t want this to change anything between us. i’m with you. that hasn’t changed. i didn’t know.”

you nodded again, tighter this time. “i know.”

“i mean it,” he said, reaching for you. his hand hovered at your waist. “we’ve built something together. i’m not walking away from that.”

you leaned into his touch before your body could betray how sick you felt.

a baby.

dina was pregnant.

and jesse was going to be a father.

you remembered the orchard. the tall grass. that quiet moment when you said you wanted a boy someday. the way he smiled at you and said you’d make a good mom.

you wondered if he still believed that.

or if that dream — the one you barely let yourself whisper aloud — had already come true for someone else.

not you.

her.

“i’m okay,” you said, and it sounded almost convincing.

jesse’s face softened. “you sure?”

you kissed him before he could ask again. just once. just to stop the words.

but deep in your chest, something cracked.

you didn’t cry that night.

you lay in jesse’s bed with his arm around you, your cheek against his shoulder, and listened to the rhythm of his breathing. you studied the pattern of his freckles in the moonlight. counted the beats between heartbeats.

his child. growing in someone else.

you wanted to want to be strong.

but all you could think about was how your first time wouldn’t be his first time. how when your child came — if they ever came — it wouldn’t be something new. something shared. it would be second. a repeat. a retread of footsteps you’d never walked.

you closed your eyes.

and for the first time in a long while, you wished you hadn’t let yourself hope for more.

you didn’t leave him.

not right away.

you stayed, because you loved him — because jesse was kind, and steady, and still looked at you like you hung the stars. and for a while, that was enough to keep the ache from swallowing you whole.

you helped him fix up his place in preparation for the baby. just little things: building shelves, reinforcing the porch railing, collecting blankets that didn’t smell like old mold and leather.

you didn’t go with him to see dina. that was an unspoken agreement. their conversations happened quietly, behind closed doors. jesse always told you afterward — not everything, but enough. you never asked for more.

he said dina was calm. mature about it. that she didn’t want to interfere in his life, or with you. she only wanted what was best for the child.

you believed that.

it didn’t make it easier.

dina never said a cruel word. never glared. never got in your way.

but she didn’t have to.

her presence was enough.

you saw her more often now. brief glimpses — around the greenhouses, at the bartering stalls, in the hallway after patrol meetings. she never approached, but her eyes followed you. not with bitterness.

just... quiet knowing.

and you hated that it made you feel small.

jesse was gentle.

he made tea when your hands were shaking. left notes on your pillow when he had early shifts. made you laugh even when your heart felt bruised.

he’d talk about baby things sometimes — like he didn’t notice the way your body tensed.

“they’re measuring a little ahead,” he told you one night over dinner, stirring stew with the back of his spoon. “dina thinks it’s a boy.”

you nodded, and your throat closed so tight you couldn’t speak.

“she said she’s sure. don’t know how, but… i kind of believe her.”

you smiled. or tried to.

“that’s good,” you said, eyes on your bowl.

jesse reached across the table to touch your hand.

“you’re not saying much.”

you forced a breath. “i’m just tired.”

he watched you for a long moment.

but he didn’t press.

the nightmares came back.

not the kind with blood or clickers or fire — but the quiet ones. dreams of holding a child who never opened his eyes. of standing behind glass, watching jesse with someone else’s family. of telling a boy he wasn’t yours.

you stopped talking about kids.

jesse noticed.

but he didn’t know what to do.

you kept trying. you really did. you helped him sort baby supplies, sat with him when he read parenting books he borrowed from the library, helped repaint a dresser drawer he said might be good for diapers.

you held it together when people smiled at the two of you and said things like “he’s gonna be such a good dad” and “you’ll make a great stepmom.”

you nodded and smiled and bled on the inside.

the worst part?

you were starting to believe that maybe this was your role now.

not mother. not first love. not partner in some new chapter.

just support.

just next.

a few months passed.

dina was showing now. she wore loose clothes, but it was obvious — the slight curve of her stomach, the way she moved slower, how people started offering to carry her baskets.

jesse was with her more often. not alone — not like that — but enough to make your chest ache when you saw them talking outside the food hall. close. familiar. once in love.

he always came home to you.

but you stopped asking what they talked about.

you didn’t want to know.

the night it broke, everything felt too normal.

you and jesse were curled up on the couch. he had his arm around you, warm and steady, thumbing through a well-worn map. you were half-asleep, your head on his shoulder, when he murmured:

“she’s still sure it’s a boy.”

you stilled.

“she said she had a dream,” he continued, smiling faintly. “said he looked just like me.”

you sat up slowly.

he didn’t notice at first. “kind of funny, huh? wonder if he’ll have my stupid hair.”

you stared at him.

your mouth moved before you could stop it.

“i can’t do this.”

jesse’s smile faltered. “what?”

you stood, suddenly too warm, too raw, wrapping your arms around yourself. the room spun a little. you took a shaky breath.

“i thought i could,” you whispered. “i really, really thought i could. but i can’t.”

jesse sat up straighter, alarmed. “hey—hey, what’s going on?”

tears came before words did.

“i can’t be the one who comes second,” you said. “i can’t smile and pretend i’m okay while you’re… while you’re having all of this with someone else.”

jesse stood, moving toward you. “you’re not second—”

“i am,” you cut in, voice cracking. “i’m after. i’m everything that comes after. you’re already doing it, jesse. you’re already becoming a father. you’re getting the firsts. the first son. the first baby. the first experience. and it’s not with me.”

silence.

you tried to breathe.

“i wanted that,” you said, quieter now. “i told you once, remember? that i wanted a boy someday. a messy, loud little kid that looked like you. and you smiled, like it was something we might share.”

jesse’s voice was hoarse. “we still can—”

“but it won’t be first,” you said. “it won’t be ours. you’ll have already done it. and i’ll always know. i’ll always wonder if it compares. if i compare.”

you looked at him, eyes wet and broken.

“i love you,” you said. “i love you so much it hurts. but i’m not strong enough for this. i thought i was. i really tried to be.”

jesse stepped forward, face pale, throat working.

“don’t walk away,” he said, voice shaking. “please.”

you wanted to run into his arms. god, you wanted to forget everything and stay wrapped in his warmth.

but the ache in your chest had grown roots.

and you couldn’t unfeel it.

not anymore.

you didn’t pack much when you left jesse’s place.

a scarf. a few books. the necklace he’d carved for you — a wooden bead shaped like a little star, now tucked in the bottom of your coat pocket like a secret you didn’t have the heart to throw away.

you didn’t move far — just a cabin on the east side of town, near the lookout post. it was smaller, colder, and lonelier than the warmth of his bed and his arms and his steady heartbeat at night. but it was quiet. and you needed quiet now more than anything.

jackson was too small for heartbreak.

people noticed.

they tried not to stare when they passed you in the market, or when you sat alone by the firepit outside the dining hall. but the whispers came anyway.

“did you hear…?”

“she was with him after dina, right?”

“i thought they were solid.”

you hated how much your own name sounded like a question now. like an interruption in a story that had already been written without you.

dina never gloated. never rubbed it in. but you saw her sometimes — out walking slow, one hand cradling her growing belly. jesse was always a few steps away. close, but never touching.

he still looked for you.

every time you crossed paths — every time your eyes met across the yard, or inside the town hall, or at the stables before patrol — he looked at you like someone trying to wake from a bad dream. like if he blinked hard enough, you might still be there.

but you weren’t.

you couldn’t be.

not when your chest still ached every time someone said “the baby.”

not when you still dreamed of a son with jesse’s smile — a dream that now belonged to someone else.

the worst part was that you missed him even in the anger.

even when you tried to build a wall out of everything you’d felt — the jealousy, the loss, the fear of not being enough — some part of you still ached for him in the quiet moments.

when the first snow fell, you thought of how jesse used to race you back to the porch, brushing flakes from your hair and calling you slowpoke with a grin.

when you found a bent nail in the fencepost, you thought of how he always had a spare tucked behind his ear, ready to fix things with those calloused, gentle hands.

when you heard music drifting from ellie’s porch one night, you remembered jesse’s laugh — the sound he made when you pretended to hate his singing, even though you secretly loved every off-key second.

you didn’t go to him.

but god, you missed him.

weeks passed.

spring threatened the edges of the sky, melting the frost from the windows. the smell of wet earth returned.

and then came the letter.

a note, folded twice, slipped under your door.

meet me at the orchard. please. just once.

you stared at it for an hour before moving.

the orchard was just starting to bloom.

not fully, not yet — but the buds were there, small and pink and brave.

jesse stood beneath the same tree where he’d kissed you that first time. the same one where you’d told him you wanted a boy. the same one where he’d said me too.

he looked older now. tired.

but still jesse.

you stopped a few feet away. said nothing.

he spoke first.

“i know i don’t have the right to ask for anything.”

you stared at the bark.

“i just… i wanted to say that i’m sorry. for everything i put you through.”

your throat tightened.

“i didn’t know how much it was hurting you,” he said. “i thought… if i just kept choosing you, that it would be enough. that maybe you wouldn’t feel second. but i get it now.”

you closed your eyes. the wind stirred the branches above.

“i never meant to make you feel replaceable,” jesse whispered. “you never were. you aren’t.”

silence.

when you finally spoke, your voice was softer than you meant it to be.

“i know.”

he stepped forward once.

“i still love you,” he said, simply.

you didn’t answer right away.

because you loved him too.

but love isn’t always enough to heal the parts that broke.

“i believe you,” you said at last. “but i can’t come back. not yet.”

jesse nodded.

“i’ll wait,” he said. “as long as it takes.”

you looked up at him then — this man who had been your warmth, your safety, your home. and for the first time in weeks, you smiled. it hurt, but it was real.

“take care of your son,” you whispered.

he nodded once. “i will.”

you turned and walked away, heart full and empty all at once.

because some stories don’t end with a kiss.

some end beneath a blooming tree, where the ghosts of what could’ve been still linger like petals in the wind.

and maybe, one day, you’d walk this path again.

but not today.

today, you kept walking.

and let yourself mourn the boy you never got to name.

[geminiwritten]

what is your writing process like? how do you write so much so fast and how do you not lose steam? (i love everything you write and tbh you’re inspiring me to finish one of my wips)

AH OMG THANK YOU!!! i am inspiring you??? gah, that makes me so happy 🖤

ooh, okay... my process haha WELL once i have an idea or outline, i'll usually info dump into a word doc or notes app. it's absolute nonsense, but it gets me excited and sometimes forcing myself to write through the whole summary will help me discover all the little bits that tie everything together.

then once i've done that, i'll (usually just in my head or notes app) break it up into scenes / moments (this is the part that REALLY helps me stay on track and not burn out, because each scene or moment is exciting so i look forward to the next)

e.g., let's look at my fic 'the plan' (this is literally how i planned it) 1. apartment with phoenix, payback, and fanboy: introduce reader's crush on bob and come up with "the plan" 2. the run where he sees her underwear 3. the sleepover: tension (games), cream pies, borrowed clothes 4. in the kitchen (almost kiss) 5. brief intermission to revamp "the plan" 6. montage of jealous moments 7. group setting to tease bob and get his pov 8. the beach / the finale

so you can kind of see that each scene or moment has something delicious or tense that happens between reader x bob.

THAT is what keeps me going. breaking it into 'moments' where i know something fun is going to happen. sometimes the in betweens and bridging bits are unexpectedly good (when hangman joins in on 'the plan') OR sometimes they're boring... and sometimes (a lot of the time) i just put a dash (-) and cut to the next moment because i feel like a bridging bit will make the fic too long.

and that's pretty much it! i struggle big time when i don't know what's coming next, which used to happen a lot. i used to just start writing and see where it went, but now i feel like i've got the rhythm down!

i know 'planning it' sounds like... duh. but planning out moments is what works. moments that lead up to the BIG moment. and making each little moment delicious is the best part!

other tips and tricks! (that help me, so maybe they might help others)

TALK DIALOGUE TO YOURSELF (i do this when i walk my dog or clean the house or shower, it helps SO much especially with fight scenes or big confession scenes where characters need to bounce off each other, because you can naturally respond without thinking too much which is what would happen with the characters if they were real! then don't forget to write it in your notes or something)

if you're not sure about your 'moments' use headcanons / tropes!!! or watch movies / shows with two love interests who have a similar dynamic to your characters (i get lots of cute moments from friends, b99, the office) even small bits of dialogue that you could build a moment around!

WRITE A FULL SCENE OR MOMENT, THEN READ IT BACK / EDIT. don't lose the momentum to edit as you go, but also i like to edit each section before i move on so i know it's flowing well. then i do an overall re-read / edit a day or so AFTER finishing.

take breaks! watch edits! go for a short walk! it all helps, because once you're not staring at the screen, it'll probably come to you

in saying that though... i write BEST when i'm at a desk, in my study, no noise. so if you're struggling on the couch with a movie playing and someone talking in your ear... i'd say give the quiet a go! (although, i'm a bit of a hermit and i talk to myself so much while writing, i can't possible be in the company of other people)

I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS WAY LONGER THAN IT NEEDED TO BE BUT I LOVE SHARING AND I LOVE HELPING OTHER PEOPLE TO WRITE WHEN I CAN SO I HOPE SOME OR ANY OF THIS IS HELPFUL 🖤🖤🖤

[angelyuji]

sugar daddy husband

so i was planning to make everything into one post but then each one got too long... whoops. i also wasnt sure which character to write for each of these scenerios, but then i closed my eyes and talked to god and he was like angelyuji... check out these visions my dawg and then i had a straight up conjuring possession and then started cooking.... so here you go

18+!!!!!!!!!!! MINORS DNI!!!!!!

cw // yandere/toxic behavior, implied kidnapping, asshole tony stark, noncon, manipulation, power imbalance, gender-neutral reader

yandere tony stark x gn!reader

his hands were cold, sending chivers down your spine as he zipped up your outfit. "you're going to have to play along today. can you do that?" you watch tony through the mirror. his eyebrow quirks up as he stares back. you nod, letting him dress you up. you were tired. tired of him, tired of this place, tired of everything. tony smiles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "gorgeous." he waves over pepper, whispering in her ear. you don't bother to listen into their hushed conversation. last time you did, tony made sure to correct your misbehavior. she nods, walking back to the hall. the door closes, softly, and you startle when tony's cold hands force you to turn. tony's eyes return to you, looking you up and down. he whistles, "i always know exactly what to buy for you. don't you think?"

"sure." you turn, resigned. tony rolls his eyes. he taps his cheek and you lean in. tony pulls you in, catching you by surprise.

"gimme a good one." he whispers, arms tight around you. you scowl and he laughs. "come on, babe." you lean in and tony closes the gap. his mouth was hot, a stark contrast from the rest of his body. you let him take dominance, already annoyed.

you could feel his hands squeeze your butt, pressing you further into him. wrapping your arms around his neck, you grind your knee between his legs. tony moans into your mouth, retaliating by biting into your bottom lip. you hiss, shoving him away. "there's that fire." he laughs. you grit your teeth, forcing yourself to calm down. he enjoyed it. enjoyed your pain, your anger, your anguish. it gets him off, breaking you. tony comes closer and you back up against the vanity. he grabs your arm and pulls you back, pressing your mouth against his. his tongue laps up the blood staining your lips.

"tony. you guys need to get going or you'll be late." pepper doesn't come inside, choosing to save herself from watching the vulgar display.

the ride to the event went by quickly. he had left you alone in the car, keeping your hand clasped in his. the lack of tony's usual perversion left you on edge. the event itself started smoothly. everyone came up to you to kiss up to tony, believing that somehow you were the key to having an in with ceo of stark industries.

"you look lovely today!" "you look even more gorgeous than usual!" "have you and tony considered marriage yet?" "how about kids?"

you fend off the questions with polite chuckles and move to the bar. you can still feel his gaze, but you gesture to the bartender to give you something stronger. you feel your skin prickle. something was wrong.

"hello! hello! i'm so glad everyone could be here today. to give to charities in need and to celebrate another ground-breaking achievement for the avengers." you whip around, watching tony puff his chest as he continued. "i actually have one more incredibly important announcement... this was something that i've been wanting to do since i met them." you feel someone grip your arm and pull you towards the center.

"no no no no wait" you let out panicked whispers, but the security team leave you stranded in the middle. tony jumps down from the stage with a grunt, waving off the security. you feel your blood run cold as his hand goes to search the inside of his jacket pocket.

"oof so embarrassing for me, huh." he lets out a chuckle as he finally pulls out a box. tony gets down on one knee in front of you, grabbing your hand. "(y/n), you are my everything-" you could hear your heartbeat, pounding loud and fast. it could've been the tight grip tony had on your hand or the rest of the avengers planted strategically around the venue, but it took everything in you to stop yourself from running out of there. "-your heart, your soul, and your body belongs to me. and i to you. will you marry me?" tony takes off his glasses, before looking back at you, lifting the ring up to your hand.

he waits for your response, but you couldn't speak. you could feel a sob choking your words. tony's shit-eating smile falters and he whispers so only you could hear, "don't fucking embarrass me, (y/n). say yes. now." you nod, unable to speak and the crowd erupts in cheers. tony forces the ring onto your hand and lifts you up, spinning you around in glee.

you didn't see pepper when the two of you got home, but you couldn't check since tony hadn't put you down since he proposed. "can i go to sleep now." he had placed you on the bed and started to undress you. tony takes his time: lifting your hips up to pull down your clothes, carefully taking your shoes off and massaging your soles. tony's hands are soft, delicately touching you.

"no sleep, we're enjoying our engagement." tony's starts to kiss up your neck and you push him away.

"i don't want to enjoy it. i want to go to sleep." tony's eyes darken and you suddenly feel how naked you are. you try to cover yourself and you see his jaw clench.

he shoves you and you fall back onto the bed. your bottom lip quivers as you remember what comes next. he grabs your jaw, "i don't care if you don't enjoy it, sweetheart." his hand gropes your chest, "i've allowed a lot of your bullshit this far, but we're getting married soon." he pinches your nipple and you moan, unable to stop yourself, "so things are going to change."

tony forces two fingers into your mouth, gagging you. you try to speak but he tuts. "messy, messy." you could feel your saliva start to coat his fingers, slowly dripping down the sides of your mouth. tony smirks, "be good, (y/n), cause i'm not going to hold back anymore."

[sirxlla]

HALLLOO i love ur writing! could i request one about mainly dick, but u can do the others too, having a nightmare abt reader breaking up w them, and its so bad they run a fever 😭 lol js had the idea at 1 am. KISS KISS

Please Don't Leave Me

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

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Prompt: ^^^^^

Notes: female reader, italics are actions and thoughts.

Requests are open btw.

-With that said, it's all under the cut-

"Because I don't love you anymore, that's why!" Dick screamed at you in the middle of the kitchen while you made dinner for you both. It was weird, he came home and started spouting off about how he doesn't love you anymore.

"You don't just stop suddenly loving someone, Dick. Why didn't you tell me you had issues before?" You asked as tears poured down your face, never once had he mentioned that there were issues in your relationship. To you, it's entirely a cookie-cutter style life, the two dogs and a loving fiancé.

He had just asked you just a few weeks ago to marry him, how did any of this make any sense? Things just don't go to hell in a handbasket in such a little amount of time. "What's going on?" You tug at the neck of your shirt, feeling claustrophobic, it's hard to breathe.

Dick keeps yelling but you cant hear him over the tightness of your shirt coupled with the heat. It's like your skin's boiling, you try to breathe, but it's like the air turned to fire, and you have no choice but to cough and wheeze.

"Wake up, I'm not joking, Y/N! God damn it! You never listen." Dick grabs your face and forces you to look at him, the look on his face just makes your heart ache, the anger, the hate. "I don't love you anymore, you hear me? I thought I could handle it the rest of my life, but I realize I can't! I've never loved you, there's no one I can't stand more than you. Don't you get it? Wake up!" Dick claps his hands infront of you face and you finally wake up, shooting up making the sheet pile at your hips, your shirt soaked in sweat.

You wheeze and cough over and over which prompts Dick to sit up with you, he's been trying for nearly five minutes to wake you up. His hand rubs against your back gently.

"Hey, hey...There's no need to cry, Doll. It's alright..." Dick attempts to soothe you. You hadn't realized, of course, but your face is damp, and somewhere between coughs and wheezes are a few sobs.

"Please- Dick- please don't- don't leave me." The first words you can get out that are broken up by wheezes and sobs.

Shock and worry covers Dick's face as he hears you say that. Why would you think that he wanted to leave you? He just asked you a few weeks ago to marry him? He's confused but pushes it to the side to comfort you, reaching over to gently grab you and pull you to his chest when his hand brushes your forehead. You're burning up. No wonder you're coughing so much. You're sick which probably gave you a nightmare.

"Baby, I'm never leaving you. Okay?" He asks you as he grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles, the blue gem sparkling on your ring. It matches his eyes. He let you pick it out, and when you explained you fell in love with his eyes cause they'll never change, he just got more tightly wound around your finger.

"But you're burning up, Honey. Do you feel bad?" He asks as his other hand brushes through your hair trying to calm you down from your nightmare. Dick hears you mumble but can't make out what you're saying.

"No, I just feel sad." You shake in his arms, trying to match your breathing to his, your ear pressed to his chest.

"It's alright, I love you, I'd never leave you but I do need to get you some medicine and a wash cloth, Sweetheart." He gently pulls away from you so as not to cause a worry. Dick quickly races around the house to get you all the necessary things you need to bring the fever down.

He returns swiftly with a cold, damp washcloth, cold water, and some cold medicine as well as some tissues.

Cough medicine is one of the worst tastjng edible things ever created so thankfully Dick being the angel he is got you the berry one that didnt taste like cherry vodka shots on a Friday evening. He gave you the medication and some water to wash it down before he helped lay you down. He places the washcloth on your forehead, the fever making you a bit dizzy and very drowsy.

Dick crawls in the bed when you start to whine for him. Of course, you're whiny, you just had what seems to be an awful dream, and you don't feel good. He's always understanding, and it's one of the things that makes you so in love with him.

"Shhhh....I'm here. I'm not leaving, you're mine, you remember that." He says as you squish your face against his chest, which makes him smile. Dick adjusts the washcloth and plays with your hair once again. "That's it, listen to my heart. It beats just for you, always. Honey....Get some sleep."

-> Masterlist

-> Send me requests/prompts if you'd like

[what-even-is-sleep]

thinking about Bodkin again bc I mean,,, ALL THE SYMBOLISM OHHHHHGH. i NEED some tumblr film analysis hobbyists to watch this show and tell me all the themes n such

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[bonestrouslingbones]

now realizing that i haven't seen an edgepuff fic any longer than a oneshot since fucking. 2022. and not even a oneshot since 2023. god.

[passerinesoncaffeine]

I'm actually going to gnaw my own hand off.

[tytonnidaie]

people who are starved of stories that make them feel things to the extent they groan and writhe like a worm HATE being told that they might have to read technically poor writing. like grammar is that important