#and come back together stronger and better

[yoitsjay]

batboys and brat taming reader who is their best friend(whom they treat like a sugar baby) 👀

The wording confused me a little bit but I think I got it-

I'll take care of you.

Summary: your a brat, a best friend, and a pampered little whore. What else could you want?

Warnings: alluding to smut but none written, spoiling you rotten

Bruce Wayne:

You had known ol’ Brucie a long time. You liked to think of your friendship with him as quite stereotypical. A rich kid who befriends the poor, lowlife kid of a criminal who somehow managed to go to Gotham Academy.

Ever since you were children Bruce always took care of you, he supported you in whatever career path you chose, and when things didn't work out, you could always fall back on him and he would deal with it all. He'd offer multiple times for you to come live at the manor with him but you refused every time. (the bratty part of you just wanted to rile him up and see when he'd snap)

As you two got older, your friendship never wavered, in fact it only got stronger… and that's when the benefits really attached itself to the friends label. Bruce began refusing no for an answer, especially after a really rough run in with one of your abusive exes. He dragged your ass to the manor and set you up with a room, he started paying off any debts you owed, and he got you anything and everything you could ever want.

Yet you were still a brat… he could handle it though, because in the end he knew that your loyalty was his, and he would never betray that trust. He never wanted to lose you.

Dick Grayson:

Whether you were a family friend, or some stranger he saved / met on the street, you and Dick had become really close friends in such a short amount of time. You were both bratty in a way, and each had your fair share of breakups that you could complain about to each other.

You and Dick had a routine where you'd get together after each breakup, either at his house or at yours. You would show up with ice cream, snacks and other things.

and by the end of the night he'd have his cock shoved up your cunt, or your mouth and you both let out your frustrations.

Dick also spoiled the shit out of you. He paid your bills, and was more than happy to do so, he also bought you whatever you wanted, similar to Bruce, and you didn't even have to ask for half the things that he gifted you.

You didnt concider yourself a sugar baby, not until your friends were gossiping about Dick, and told you that he either wanted you to be his girlfriend, or he wanted to keep fucking you, so he spoiled you to gain favor.

either way you shrugged. “And in the end my bills are paid, i have no debt, and i'm happy and have an awesome friend. Sugar baby, girlfriend, I'm taken care of either way.” You told them, and they just laughed and carried on.

In terms of brattiness, he's the brat, always whining, clawing at you for attention, you gotta put that boy on a leash just to get a break, though you found a way to get him to do what you want…

just a spread of the legs.

Jason Todd:

He has no time for brats, he's a busy man, and he could easily have anyone else to have fun with, but he wanted you, wanted to hang out with you. You were Jason’s friend for who knows how long, so he learned how to deal with your attitude long ago.

Food, most of the time, more often than not, something shoved in your mouth… like his fingers… or his cock.

Just something to suck on, that's all you needed to be satisfied.

Though, he always goes out of his way to make you feel good too, maybe he doesn't spoil you with material items, i feel like Jason is a bit more sentimental, so instead he takes you out to nice restaurants, amusement parks, rage rooms lazer tag- anything and anywhere as long as he gets to spend time with you.

He has no need for a girlfriend either, because he has you, his best friend that he gets to fuck- whats better than that.

Tim Drake:

You're his assistant at Wayne Enterprises, you had been working under him for the past couple of years, since you were about 16 and started your internship there. You both went to the Academy too, so it was easy for you and Tim to fall into a routine together. He'd come to your place and pick you up every morning, you'd get coffee then go to school on the weekdays, then when you worked on the weekends he would come pick you up again, and instead you'd go to work.

You were and are the best damn assistant he's ever had, you had a fiery spirit and didn't let anyone talk down to you, you made people see you as an equal, always. Even Bruce appreciated the way you stood up for yourself and those around you.

You were also attentive to all of Tim’s needs. Yeah that's what an assistant did, but you did way more. And because of the things you did, he would give you constant pay raises, or bonuses for your hard work… Then he started picking up little nick nacks that he knew you liked, he started paying attention to your coffee order, and he'd go buy you coffee.

Best part was, you didn't even notice that he was spoiling you, but your coworkers sure did, and they started the gossip train about you being Tim’s sugar baby.

When it finally reached yours and Tim’s ears, you kind of gave each other a look from across the office.

And then you fell into another rhythm… every day at 2 o’clock during his facetime meeting, you'd be under his desk…

if you could make him break, he’d give you his black card.

This was an arrangement you could get behind.

Damian Wayne:

For some reason you caught his eye. Don't worry, it baffled him too. He didn't understand why he found you so exhilarating.

He hated it.

He talked to you, but he'd degrade you,make fun of you, every chance he got, but he'd always use it as an excuse to get close to you.

When it was time for the senior dance, he found out that you had a few guys asking for you to be their date.

He didn't like that.

One day in the hallway, he walked up to you and he practically shoved you into the lockers. “your going to be my date to senior prom.” He demanded.

You stared at him, an unimpressed look across your face. He stammered. “I- i mean…will- will you go to senior prom with me?” he corrected his sentence-

corrected his sentence! what have you done to him?? This cold, bratty batboy, the richest kid in gotham- and he was groveling at your feet from just one look on your face.

You've reduced him to- to… a simp.

Blasphemy.

Tag list:

All: @francesfarhadi @only-my-unexistent-fiances

Batfam:

BW: @ilaiise

DG: @ilaiise

JT: @ilaiise

TD: @ilaiise

DW: @ilaiise

[circeyoru]

Love Trial _ Part 2

[Sung Jinwoo x High School Ex-Lover!Reader]

Part 1 ― Part 2 (here)

“I’m sorry. Let’s break up.”

“I understand. I wish you happiness, Hunter Sung. May your days be nothing of smiles and content.”

At the time, there wasn’t much to it, nothing that would make him take it back nor chase after your fleeting form. He, too, turned and left, returning to his work as a Hunter like usual. There was nothing personal, just that he felt like the distance and connection between you two was weaker than what he and you first had all those years ago. 

Well, the difference in your circumstances could be the reason. He was a Hunter and you were a citizen. As bad as he sounded, you two were in different worlds and you both knew it deep down. Yet both of you continued to cling to the hope and familiarity of what you two once had during the peaceful days of school and study. 

The distance felt stronger and farther when he first had the System. He put everything into growing stronger and securing his place so his family would have an easier time. He was grateful for your understanding and the space you’ve given him, but part of him wanted something more, something he can’t place. He was content with you in his corner when things were rough, he thought he was content with that.

More. More. More.

He craved for something more. Like his continuous growth in power and levels, he also wanted his relationship with you to grow. However, as he put more time into the System and its mission for his growth, he should have given you the time of day. Not that he realized until you two met up and told the other what happened recently. 

Shamefully, he kept the System and the power boost he had a secret from you and only told you about the dungeons he cleared. How he was better now and could afford things like medical bills and rent, so you didn’t need to lend him a hand. Effortlessly, you told him everything was going on with your life without many secrets he could sense; it was all so natural to you. Even the part about some colleagues asking you out.

It got him thinking. The situation between you two. Can one really call it a romantic relationship? When the two of you met up after so long, you two shared a meal and he found it hard to even share his mind and situation. There wasn’t much romantic love going on, more like close friends getting together. If people were to see the two of you on the streets, unless you two were holding hands or Jinwoo have his arm over your shoulder, you two looked more like friends.

Just friends. Maybe best friends..?

That’s why he did what he did without remorse. Without realizing his fault. Without realizing the heartbreak he gave you.

Jinwoo thought it was fine to just downgrade you to the status of ‘friends’ instead of staying loyal as your romantic partner. Instead of even trying to revive this distant and strained relationship.

When Cha Hae-In appeared in the picture, he thought ‘This is love’, so he pursued it. A unique bond and connection unlike any other. He was slow to it, but it was worth it, he thought. There was that skip in his heart and minor butterflies in his stomach, so it had to be, right?

A date with Hae-In in the amusement park proved otherwise.

“What a coincidence. Didn’t expect to see you two here.” Choi Jong-In smiled while coming over with an ice cream cone and cup in his hands. “On a date?”

“Guildmaster.” Hae-In bowed his head in respect, though one could notice the blush on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“A causal outing with a friend of mine.” Jong-In answered. He raised his hands to gesture at the icy treat. “Was put on ice cream duty cause I flinched during a roller coaster ride.”

Hae-In laughed, “How does anyone notice that? They’d have to be staring at you the whole time.”

Jong-In nodded along with a smile, “You’re right; this friend of mine really was doing that the entire time, only cause staring at me was better than the ride and wanting free ice cream. I’m happy to oblige either way.”

“Jong-In! What’s taking you so long?!”

The familiar voice made Jinwoo’s head snap over to the side. There you were, walking through the crowd, panting a bit from a suspected run and dodging other people. He did notice a mid-freeze from you, but you continued to walk in his direction.

“Speak of the devil.” Jong-In chuckled and met you halfway, “Slow down, I’m not going anywhere.”

You glared at the fire mage and snatched the ice cream cup, “I’m scared my ice cream would melt! I didn’t care about you!”

“Ouch.” Jong-In playfully acted hurt.

You looked over Jong-In’s shoulder to see Jinwoo and Hae-In. You nodded your head in their direction and greeted them, “Hunter Sung and Hunter Cha. It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Hae-In nodded, while Jinwoo only managed to nod without a word of exchange.

There was silence in the air, Jinwoo can’t help but stare at you, making you nudge closer to Jong-In’s side. A flame burned in his chest at your actions. He didn’t fail to notice how you tugged at Jong-In’s sleeve before the fire mage spoke up, “Well, it’s about time we head our way. Have a good time you two.”

Ironically, this time when you turned and left him, he wanted to chase after you. Just as he took one step and his lips parted, a weight on his arm grounded him. He looked down to see Hae-In shily smiling up at him. “Do you want to try what they did? Sounds fun!”

Right, you have had the best ideas to light up your times together. You can turn dull activities to something worthwhile.

“Let’s.”

As time passed, he found himself longing for your presence more and more. He’d see you while it was Hae-In he was spending his time with, scroll through your past chats with him (he’d see you online and offline from other chats presumably), and even hesitate to call you from time to time. He was always able to stop himself from actually calling you or texting you at the last second, swiftly coming to a sense of guilt. 

Then he buried himself in fights. Dungeons, worldly events, extra quests from the System. Anything to keep himself and his mind off of you, to remind himself why he said those words to you in the first place. It was his Hunter role that made things different, so he thought he’d be happier while attaching himself with a talented Hunter like Hae-In. However, in the end, all he only managed to do was foster more and more guilt and ache from his decision to be apart from you.

His blasted mind kept going back to the scene of you with Jong-In. He did know of your friendship with the man, that you had met him during your college days, an experience that he had to cut short due to his urgent need for money. Thinking back, why you didn’t first break up with him to go to Jong-In was a miracle. Since he was a lowly E-Rank and Jong-In was a successful S-Rank.

What a fool he was to give you up just like that.

He made attempts to see you again; the least he could do was treat you as a friend when he was such a heartbreaker. Through the eyes of his Shadows, he searched for you. Yet, every time, you were busy with your work or you were with some friends of yours. It looked as though you were well off without him, while he was wallowing in his own self-created sorrow. Your smiles without him was like a stab in his heart time and time again. Why did you stay with him when you were far better without him?

Silently, he sent his Shadows to protect you from any dangers. Call it a sixth sense or something, there was this uncanniness of you always glaring in the direction of where his Shadows were, as if you could tell he was looking at you and when.

.

.

.

“Will you allow me to call you mine?” Jinwoo asked the big question on his knee while you stared at him with your hands covering your mouth, obviously hiding a gasp. 

! NOTIFICATION

[WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTART THE WORLD?]

YES NO

Words wouldn’t form and your eyes started to water. The only thing you managed to do was nod your head repeatedly, showing him that dazzling smile of yours and the echo of your laughter surrounded him.

! NOTIFICATION

[WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTART THE WORLD?]

YES NO

Jinwoo rose to hug you. His arms opened and reached for you, yet the moment you were within arm’s reach, you faded to nothing. The smile on his face and the giddy feeling in his chest all disappeared like it was never there, replaced with an ache in his heart.

Jinwoo’s hand clenched as he stared at the spot where you once were. Imprinting into his mind that that was a reality he should have made come true and not here. “I know that all of this is an illusion…”

.

.

.

When the war was won and the Monarch of Destruction was no more, he had kneeled down in exhaustion. His mind hallucinated that you would be there to hug him. His ear would be against your chest as you would hug his head to close to you, you had always used your own heartbeat as his calming music after the deadly raids. It was the most melodic tune he had ever heard in his life. It would be fast initially, then slowed down to soft beats that his heart would follow. 

Of course, he’d never have the luxury of that anymore.

If only he had one more chance. “Just once more.” If only he hadn’t been so stupid to make that mistake. Your presence, your voice, your heart, your smile, your love. He could have it all again. If only he had a chance to start over. “Could I use the Cup of Reincarnation just once more?”

Soon. He’ll see you again.

.

.

.

My nightmare is over, and now, I’m with my younger sister, my mother who’s healthy, and my father who didn’t disappear. I was given the last chance to set everything right. I won’t lose this opportunity. I can now rewrite the future that is to come. But, just for a little… Isn’t it okay for me to just treasure this peace that I’m feeling? As a reward for myself.

He knew his duty and he knew when he’d meet you. High school was the fated time and place where the two of you left in love and started going out. This time, he’d fall in love with you and cherish you. Only you. Without the whole thing with gates and Hunters, he wouldn’t have to leave you to attend college. This time, he could attend college with you. By your side.

First. He has to deal with the Monarchs.

.

.

.

Jinwoo stayed seated as he stared at the melting buckles of ice cream he left untouched. The sweetness from the cold dessert had lost its flavour. To be thrown away after one’s purpose is fulfilled was a terrible feeling. Was this for you left when you were abandoned by him all that time ago? He hated this feeling and he hated himself for not realizing it sooner.

Just then he turned his head to the side, the glass showed the streets outside and the people that crowded it because of the giant gate he made for his return. His eyes weren’t mistaken. It had to be. There you stood, a younger form from what he recalled, but definitely you. You were staring at the ice cream shop’s menu with a thinking face before looking down to your phone and started moving once more.

He practically leapt out of his seat and ran to the doors. He saw your back disappear into the crowd and the call of your name from someone, someone he didn’t think would be there with you. Then you were gone again. He could have sent his Shadows to search for you or follow you, but it wasn’t a meeting that would do him much favour. In time, he’d meet you in high school. 

To wait a while longer then…

Manhwa Scene Used (just in case any of you wanna re-read): 161 (illusion with Reader), 179 (Jinwoo’s return & ice-cream shop)

Note: A bit longer, but it's cause Jinwoo's POV is bits and pieces since he needed to balance his depression and saving the world. You know, hero/MC stuff.

This got dragged on for posting cause I got annoyed with the people asking when/where's part 2 when there are responses above theirs already. Please just check before you ask something. It's not that hard, guys...

Part 3 in the works, no promises on when it'll be out

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: @my-arietta @mydearestbeloved @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @the-dumber-scaramouche @mochinon-yah @waka-babe @ditmemay1234 @mangooes @cottonbeeeeeeee @gurlie919

[goddessinnerglow]

Become Your Best Version Before 2025 - Day 31

The Beginning of Your Best Year Yet

My beautiful goddesses… where do I even begin? Sitting here writing this final post feels surreal. For 31 days, we've shared this space together, growing, learning, and becoming. But today isn't really an ending, it's your launching point for everything that comes next.

You've proven something incredible: that small, consistent steps can create meaningful change. That you're stronger than your doubts. That you're capable of growth, even (especially!) when it feels uncomfortable.

Remember when we first started? That spark of possibility you felt? Guess what, it's still there, and it's growing stronger every day. Every tool you've gathered, every insight you've gained, every small win you've celebrated, they're all part of your foundation now.

Before we look ahead, I want us to pause and honor this moment together. Let's create a simple but powerful commitment ceremony right where you are. Find a quiet space, light a candle if you can, and take three deep breaths. Now, place your hand on your heart and speak these words aloud:

"I honor the work I've done these past 31 days. I celebrate my courage to show up for myself. I commit to carrying these lessons forward. I promise to be patient with my progress. I choose to believe in my potential. This is my commitment to myself."

Take a moment to really feel the weight of these words. Let them sink in. This is your moment of transition, from learning to living these principles.

As we step into January, here's what I want you to remember:

Progress isn't perfect, it's personal

Your journey is uniquely yours

Small steps create big changes

You're never really starting over

Community makes us stronger

And let's celebrate your wins! Take out your journal right now and write down:

Three ways you've grown since Day 1

Two habits you're proud of building

One insight that changed your perspective

A moment when you surprised yourself with your strength

Keep this series somewhere you can find it. On those days when motivation fades (they'll come, and that's okay), revisit the posts that resonated most. Let them remind you of how far you’ve come and why you started.

Your next chapter is waiting. It might not look exactly like you imagined, it might be even better. Trust the process, trust yourself, and most importantly, keep going.

As for me, I'll be taking some time offline to rest, reflect, and set my own intentions for 2025. I'll be practicing what I've been sharing with you, prioritizing self-care, honoring my needs, and preparing for an amazing year ahead. I'll be back in a few days with fresh energy and new ideas to support your journey.

And please know this: I believe in you. Not just in who you might become, but in who you are right now. Every effort, every try, every step forward (and yes, even the steps back) – they all matter.

Before you close this page, take one final moment. Stand up, put your arms out wide, and give yourself the biggest hug. You've earned this moment of celebration. Feel proud. Feel strong. Feel ready.

See you in 2025! Remember, becoming your best version isn't about reaching a destination, it's about embracing the journey of growth, one day at a time.

♡ ☆:.｡ Keep glowing, babes! ♡ ☆:.｡ With love, Goddess Inner Glow.

[littlemissgeek8]

I worked so darn hard on this, you have no idea. Between writer's block and a migraine and having the sudden asexual panic of "HOW ON EARTH DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY FLIRT?" it seemed like the universe didn't want me to write at all! But, hopefully I ticked both boxes. ^^;;; Even if the "angst" is more "wallowing in self-pity," hurt/comfort is my JAM. Once again shoving the bulk of the story behind a cut because it's almost 2000 words, oops.

=====================================================

Not for the first time that day, nor even that week, Varric cursed the name of that Maker-forsaken pony. It made sense to travel by horseback--you could carry your equipment better, you could go further in a single day than you could on foot... and, apparently if you were Varric, you could get brushed off your pony and sprain your ankle. Luckily, they'd been almost back to Skyhold, and somehow he'd managed to stay on the pony afterwards long enough to get home.

Still, he never could find a way to get along with the blasted animal, even though he'd been assigned to ride her for months. She sucked in air when she was saddled and nearly dropped him on his head the first time he mounted. She found every. single. branch. to smack him in the head with. She'd even folded her ears back and tried to nip him a few times before he started avoiding her head like the plague.

And she had the audacity of having the same name he'd given Hawke's sister.

Now, he was holed up in his quarters at Skyhold, stretched out on his bed, with a pillow under his foot and several more tucked behind his back. And, though he wouldn't admit it even under pain of torture, he was absolutely sulking.

He should be writing, but his desk was across the room and moving was a lot of work. He wanted to be down in his usual spot in the great hall, curled up in a comfortable chair by the fire. It was the best place for people watching, and of course all the juiciest gossip got whispered about right near him. The table was perfect for writing too, either working on his serials, jotting down notes, or writing the occasional report about their most recent excursion.

The great hall, of course, was a much further walk than his desk, and down more than one flight of stairs too. So instead, he lay in his bed with a scowl, doing absolutely nothing at all.

A knock at the door poked a hole through the gloom of his self-pity. It was timid at first, as if the person knocking was afraid to bother him, then followed by a louder set of rapid-fire knocks. Apparently the person outside had decided to get it over with all at once. Unfortunately, the gloom settled back in stronger than before.

"What do you want?" Varric called from the bed, his voice an irritated growl. A part of him deep down twinged at the harshness of his words. But he shoved it back down, burying it under his frustration at his situation and the layer of pain that swirled up whenever he moved wrong. He wasn't really in the mood for pleasantries or visitors, truth be told.

"Varric? I wanted to check on you, are you all right?" A soft feminine voice came from beyond the door, draped in the flatter tones of a dwarven accent. Inquisitor Cadash, the Herald of Andraste. The woman wrapped in a warning of "look, but don't touch" in his mind.

"No," he answered flatly. Then, after a momentary pause, "The door's not locked." The door opened with a creak, and the Inquisitor's round, curious face poked in. Her brown hair was braided as usual, but this time she had it coiled and pinned at the base of her neck. Not a bad look at all, really, if one was looking at her like that. Varric told himself he definitely wasn't. He was just getting the details right, that's all.

"Sorry to bother you, I thought it must be frightfully lonely up here all alone." She hovered at the doorway, hands hidden under her cloak and probably clasped together out of nerves if he knew her right. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Its your fortress," Varric said bluntly. At least she asked, he thought to himself. Not everyone who had that kind of power would. "Don't worry, I'm decent." He'd managed to struggle himself into a loose pair of breeches earlier, when he thought he might try hobbling off to the main hall. It was after he moved his ankle just wrong in the process that he decided to stay in his room. The breeches he'd kept on out of stubbornness, but he hadn't bothered with a shirt.

The Inquisitor saw his chest hair on a regular basis anyway, this shouldn't shock her, Varric reasoned.

Still, her cheeks took on a reddish cast as she entered, looking at everything in the room but him. Her hands were still tucked under her cloak, and Varric sighed. All the confidence the Inquisitor had developed during Haven seemed to have cracked after they arrived in Skyhold. At least, as far as he'd seen--she'd been so comfortable when they'd spent time together in Haven. Had Corypheus's attack really unnerved her so much?

"So, what's so urgent you came up here to find me? I can't go on any wild adventures right now, sorry. Doctor's orders." Even with his valiant efforts, his usual sarcasm came out harsh. He wasn't really wanting visitors today anyway, even one as easy on the eyes as serah Cadash. It was frankly hard to wallow in self-pity when there was someone around whose feelings he cared about. Somewhat cared about, he told himself, even if it wasn't exactly true.

The Inquisitor laughed softly, her eyes crinkling up as she glanced at him. "No adventures this time, I think you've had enough trouble for a few days." Carefully, she walked across the room to his writing desk, before she finally moved her hands out from under the cloak and placed a covered object on the desk. As Varric sat up a little, he saw her remove the quilted cover to reveal an attractive silver coffeepot. Then, she slid her hands into the bulging pockets of the cloak and took out a pair of silver cups to go with it.

"Coffee?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The Inquisitor glanced back at him with a smile.

"Well, you're not much for tea, if I remember right, and it's too early for alcohol, and you didn't seem interested in that cocoa stuff Bull had you ship in..." Before Varric could ask why that mattered at all, she produced a cloth bundle and set it on the desk before unwrapping it to reveal a selection of baked goods. It was a little hard to see from the bed, but when she held one up, Varric recognized the crunchy, wedge-shaped almond pastries he'd taken a liking to back in Kirkwall.

"Oh," he said, eloquently.

"I thought I remembered you liked these," the Inquisitor said, untying the strings of her cloak, "but I'm afraid you'll have to get up if you want some."

Flames. He did, in fact, want some of those tasty little pastries, and she knew it too. Someone must have put her up to this, maybe Nightingale or Ruffles. He'd have suspected Chuckles, but he knew the two didn't get along. He pressed his lips together into something vaguely resembling a tight smile, and steeled himself in preparation to get up.

The floor was cold and his feet were bare, and the slightest touch made him recoil at first. But, bribery is a powerful motivator, and soon both feet were over the side of the bed as he prepared to stand. Somewhere in the room, the crutches he'd been given lay where he'd discarded them in a fit of frustration. They were awkward to use and walking around like that hurt his pride even more than his ankle. Instead, he pushed himself into a standing position with a bedside table and what little leverage he could get from the bed itself, before lurching sideways to lean against the wall. The stones of the wall felt even colder on his bare arms than the floor did against his bare feet.

Step by agonizing step, Varric made his way across the room to his desk out of pure stubbornness. He only half registered that the Inquisitor had pulled his chair out before he half fell into it. Lifting himself up with his arms, he settled into the chair and shot a glare at the woman beside him. "That was cruel," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry," Inquisitor Cadash said softly, before shooting him a sideways glance. "Would it have been better if I let you wallow in bed all day?" There was a teasing quality to her voice that gave Varric pause. She'd teased and cracked jokes before, yes, but this felt different. Once again the "Look but don't touch" warning rang out in his head, and he busied himself by pouring some coffee.

The kitchen staff must have added sugar and a bit of cream to the pot itself before sending it up, because it tasted just the way he liked it when he took a sip. Odd, he hadn't known they kept track of his tastes. The almond pastry was just right as well, the dryness offset by dunking it in the coffee. A smile crept over his face despite his dark mood, before he noticed the Inquisitor watching him nearby with an expectant expression.

Varric cocked his head to the side a bit with a questioning expression, and Inquisitor Cadash took a step back. "Was it right? It looks like it was right..."

"Were you behind this?" He asked, an amused chuckle sneaking out of his throat.

The Inquisitor shoved her hands into her pockets and took another step back, bumping into the end of the bed and sitting down with a thump. "I... knew you were feeling down and I didn't do it without help. But the cooks downstairs let me do some stirring and I added the almonds... and I hope I remembered how you like your coffee."

The unbidden chuckle had given way to a genuine smile, one that softened his eyes as he leaned against the desk with his cheek cradled in one hand. It was always a slightly terrifying ordeal, to be seen. Varric had long relied on stories and fabrications and outright lies to keep himself guarded, but at this moment being seen wasn't scary at all. "Do you treat all your friends like this, your Inquisitorialness?" he asked, quietly pushing down a wish that the answer was no.

The Inquisitor elected not to answer, chewing on her lip and refusing to meet his eyes again.

Varric took one of the almond pastries and held it out to her. "Why don't you try one? They came out pretty good." Her grey-blue eyes met his for a moment as she took the pastry from his hand, then she stood up and put her hand on the coffee pot.

"Uh, do you mind?" she asked, indicating the pot.

Varric shook his head in reply. "I thought you didn't like coffee," he said, watching her pour a small amount into the other cup. "Something about it being 'too bitter,' wasn't it?"

The Inquisitor focused on dunking her pastry in the coffee, before glancing back up at him through her eyelashes. "It's sweeter with company," she said softly with a smile.

Varric couldn't argue with that.

Writing Challenge

Alright now that I was both sincere and pedantic(warned y’all I’m almost always both) here’s your writing challenge for the day. Don’t forget there’s no time limit to these, if you find it in a month I’ll still reblog it. I’ll take pretty much any BW fic not just DA. Reblog, tag, or link me!! My ask box is always open as are my DM’s! Without further ado:

I want flirty dialogue without physical touch OR flirty touch without dialogue.

OR OR

If romance like that isn’t your thing I want angst. Give me the longing. Give me the hurt/comfort. I yearn for yearning. Emotional distress???? I love that shit. I’m leaving this one wide open. Bonus points if you manage both categories. Look for mine later.

[fortuneforsaken-if]

if you're not following my main blog (which you should, i make funne joek sometimes lol) then you should know that my kitten massacred my charger cable to the laptop and i've yet to get a replacement.

in lieu of an update, here's a concept piece about how you would've met maluset for the first time in game. it's scrapped now for something better (hopefully) but it's still an okay piece of writing if i do say so myself. think it was some sort of a fever writing so let's not look too close okay.

It's cold. The mansion is always cold, of course, but this feels unnatural. Like the sun itself blotted out, a chill that seeps into your bones, a freeze after submerging in icy water.

No. You stop your steps and scan your surroundings. The mansion is quiet as well, void of the hustle and bustle of the maid always scurrying around. Something has shifted. 

"What the fuck is going on," you hear the voice from atop of the grand staircase, the keeper of your chains aggravated as they tie the sash around their bathrobe. "What the fuck did you do?" They hiss, each step down the staircase filled with anger, theyr eyes on you in accusation.

But you didn't do this, did you? A cursory glance at your hands, and they're shaking. Why? Why can't you stop them? A tug at your heart could be anything; fear, exhaustion, panic, but those are emotions you've long buried. No, there is something else too. A familiarity, a longing, you felt it for the first thousand years, but it has since lain dormant. 

"I-" you begin, interrupted by the rumble you feel underfoot. It's minimal at first, barely there for you to sense, but it grows stronger, stronger, until a vase perched on a side table crashes into the floor. 

The heir grabs onto the bannister and curses. Another figure falls against the bannisters upstairs, a familiar, exhausted visage now with frantic eyes looking across the room, eyes meeting yours in question. 

It peaks and recedes, slowly, shakes becoming tremors, and tremors becoming subtle vibrations. The heir stomps up to you with a finger raised, but they get no word out before Rami is down the stairs and grabs their arm. "Wait, do you see -"

"Rami, you're my brother, but I will break every single one of your fingers if you so much as touch me aga-" and he does, grabs them by the head and turns them to look at the front entrance, the massive windows that show an opulent garden outside.

Or they should, but there is nothing. Only darkness. 

Oh. You feel the realization creep up your neck like a soft desert breeze, warm in midst of the cold that has otherwise settled. It cocoons you like your mother's hugs, protective, adoring. Alive.

"What the fuck," the heir offers eloquently yet again, bare feet stomping to the door and yanking it open. Light that should spill out from the open door sits still at the threshold. "That's not normal," Rami mutters, but you can only stare into the abyssal darkness. 

At the sand collecting at the porch, grains coming together to form a vortex before it solidifies into a figure. 

The heir stumbles back with a cry, landing on their behind as they scurry back. You stand still, hands ny your side, but you want to reach. You want to welcome an old friend, but you get no chance. 

He's here. After so many years, he's here. The robes fall effortlessly over his shoulder, the moving glitter of starlight the only differentiating element from the darkness beyond. A divine vision clad in shadows, the human features swirling as if not keen on being in that form. You see the galaxies in his eyes consolidate into an iris, the full weight of it set on the heir sprawled in the ground.

"Ashar tehk nuḥ senet akhet."

Your breath stutters at the inhale. It's been so long since you heard your tongue spoken, the words like an old-forgotten hymn you thought you'd never hear again.

I have come to retrieve the one you have stolen from me.

You could think he came for a relic, or anything else of material value. The spark of hope you've nursed flares to life when he turns his eyes to you, the vastness behind them softening as he takes you in, his shoulders easing only a fraction. Another gust of a warm breeze flows over your cheek.

He really did come for you.

[kikyoupdates]

Infatuated ⭑˚💌⭑ 𝑡𝑜𝑥𝑖𝑐 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑠

yandere!bnha x reader

yandere, reverse harem, bnha x fem!reader, slowburn, slowburn yandere

Your Quirk is rather unique. It plays out almost like a game, giving you missions and goals that help you become stronger. On top of that, you also have the ability to charm those around you. It sounds innocent enough on paper, and you can’t help but revel in the attention everyone keeps showering you with. But what happens when their feelings give way to something more sinister?

previous | story masterlist | next

You hate having to pick sides.  

Over the years, the relationship between Katsuki and Izuku has gradually become more strained. The three of you are childhood friends, so of course, you hoped that things would get better after a while. That Katsuki would grow out of his callous phase and rekindle his friendship with the freckled boy who’d always looked up to him. 

Sadly, that didn’t happen.  

Instead, the animosity between them only deepened. Now, as middle schoolers, you are at the point where Izuku can hardly get two words out before cowering in front of Katsuki out of fear. You aren't children anymore. This can't simply be written off as ‘kids being kids’. It's bullying, and you are the one who sees firsthand the effect it has on poor Izuku.  

Although you've all naturally matured over the past ten years or so, Izuku is still heavily dependent on you, and unfortunately, you don't realize just how serious of an issue this is. You feel like its only natural for your best friend to care for you and rely on you. It feels natural to defend him, and it also feels natural to make compromises every now and then in the interest of keeping him happy.

Izuku doesn't even realize it himself, but he is manipulating you into doing whatever he wants. If he's ever upset about something and needs you to stay by his side, he'll drop not-so subtle hints about how he's feeling.  

“Aw,” he sighs on one occasion, head drooping disappointedly. “Are you sure you can’t come over today?”  

You offer him a weak smile. “Sorry, Izuku. I still haven’t finished the project that’s due tomorrow. My group members are expecting me to turn my part in soon, so I’ll have to work through the night to finish on time.”  

“Alright. I understand. I just really wanted us to hang out tonight. But I guess it can’t be helped... I’ll just be alone, since you’re my only friend.”  

You feel incredibly guilty, but there's really no way around it. School is essential, after all. You can't very well just drop all your assignments and other responsibilities as you see fit. Your parents still expect you to put in a good effort and take your education seriously.  

Needless to say, sometime later that same night, Izuku calls you while choking back tears. 

“[N-Name],” he whimpers. “Kacchan and his friends prank-called me again. He said some really awful things... and I-I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I just can’t calm down. Please, is there no way for you to come over tonight? I just don’t want to be alone right now...” 

How can you call yourself his friend if you abandon him after hearing that choked-up, gut-wrenching voice of his?

So, you rush straight over to his house, even though you haven't yet finished up your portion of the project. You spend the better part of the night calming him down and watching funny videos together in the hopes of cheering him up. By the time you finally make it back home, it's almost the crack of dawn, and you are absolutely and utterly fucked.  

“What the hell, [Name]?” one of your group members for the project grimaces. “You totally screwed us over. The rest of us all worked our butts off and pulled an all-nighter to finish in time. Why couldn’t you just carry your weight?”  

You give them a weary look of remorse, having run out of time. Your chunk of the project isn't entirely complete, and your group members don't hesitate to run straight up to the teacher and whine about how you didn't take the project seriously. Naturally, he penalizes you for your lack of effort, and you end up needing to do a make-up assignment to earn back some of the marks you’d lost.

Izuku is visibly torn up about it. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps. “This is all my fault. All because I couldn’t suck it up and deal with my problems on my own. Please don’t hate me, [Name]. I promise I won’t bother you next time. Just please don’t hate me.”  

“It’s not your fault,” you reassure, wrapping your arms around him. “I didn’t manage my time properly, and there were other people in my group that were counting on me. If I’d been more organized from the start, this wouldn’t have happened. Don’t apologize, Izuku. You know I’ll always be there for you whenever you need me.”  

You're a good person—or at the very least, trying to be—and so you don't realize that every time you keep giving into Izuku’s whims, you are perpetuating the toxic relationship that has already begun to form.  

Self-sacrifice is the essence of a hero, and while it can be argued that you're just acting out the role you decided on, with certain people, it's still important to set boundaries.  

Especially when there are some truly dark emotions at play.  

Your Quirk is much more powerful than you even realize. It not only charms people and makes them momentarily blinded by their affection for you, but there are lasting effects, even outside your Quirk’s usage. People that already feel rather strongly about you—such as Izuku—find that their emotions have been amplified a hundredfold. It brings out jealousy, possessiveness, and other concerning traits in people, ones that normally wouldn’t have existed.  

Your Quirk is a ticking time bomb, and you are none the wiser to it.  

The only thing you do know is that it's a hell of a hassle to get used to. In the many years since it first manifested, you’ve been presented with various missions, completely at random. It's frustrating because the system seems to dictate when or how you get to hone your strength. You don't have much free reign over it, which you suppose is one of its main drawbacks. Virtually all Quirks have some weakness; some factor that either makes them difficult to wield, or briefly hinder their user.  

Still, you are diligent in your efforts. You make sure to complete every mission, so long as it's actually possible. Some of them involve charming people, but others are different challenges altogether. There were a few missions that went unfinished, of course. On one instance, you were required to run the length of a marathon, and it was a time-based mission, meaning that it needed to be completed within the same day it was issued. You had attempted it, but unfortunately, couldn’t manage to see it through till the end.

You have gotten stronger, though. There's progress, little by little, and you're relieved that your Quirk also allows you to improve your physical parameters. It's a bit frustrating to make sense of, and even now you still haven't totally figured it out, but it's still better than nothing. If applied correctly, you'll be able to save a lot of people with this Quirk.  

Right? 

“Alright, kids,” your teacher announces. “I was going to distribute these papers for you fill out your desired career paths, but then I realized... you’re all aiming to become heroes, aren’t you?”  

It's a day like any other, and you're currently in class. Of course, you don't yet know that this day is actually incredibly special. It will become a pivotal moment in not only Izuku’s life, but yours as well.  

“Come on, sensei,” Katsuki chuckles arrogantly. “Don’t lump me in with the rest of these shitty extras. They can’t ever hope to get on my level. They’ve all got weak-ass Quirks, through and through.”  

So far, it really is just an ordinary day. By now, you are no stranger to Katsuki’s open displays of egocentrism. Your classmates all know that he's incredibly full of himself, but you know it even better than them, especially after having grown up in the same neighborhood. You know him on a personal level. You're more than aware of what he is truly capable of, and more often than not, it results in Izuku crying. 

Even so, a part of you still yearns for those days in the past, when everything was happy and carefree. There's no doubt that he's a bully, but you want to believe that deep down, he's still the same boy who welcomed you to the neighborhood with an infectious grin and an admirable personality. 

That's why, no matter how far he falls from grace, you still can't bring yourself to resent him. 

You watch attentively as Katsuki proceeds to go on and on about how much better he is  than everyone else, and how he will one day surpass All Might and make history. Perhaps if anyone else was saying such things, it would sound like total nonsense, but Katsuki is strong. With his Quirk and ambition, you have no doubt that he'll keep pushing for the very top.  

For the time being, he's aiming for U.A, the most prestigious hero school in Japan—in the whole world, even, because it's All Might’s alma mater.  

It's the same school that Izuku has always dreamed of attending, and Katsuki loathes hearing about it.  

“Piece of shit Deku,” Katsuki growls, sparking an explosion that knocks Izuku all the way back from his desk. “Are you fucking braindead, or what? You’re a Quirkless loser! In what world can you possibly imagine putting yourself in the same arena as me? Well? Explain it to me, asshole!”  

Your gaze flickers tiredly towards the floor. Yeah. It really is like any other day. Time and time again, Izuku is ridiculed. Not only by Katsuki, but the rest of your classmates as well. Katsuki is a bully, no doubt about it, but the others are no better. Pretty much everyone you’ve ever met looks down on those who are Quirkless, and it makes you angrier than you can even put into words.

Everyone laughs and sneers at Izuku while he's backed against a wall, with tears brimming in his eyes. You can't possibly stand watching any longer, so you stand up and open your arms up to him. For just a moment, it looks like he's hesitating. As if he doesn't want to seek out the comfort of your embrace and prefers to shoulder everything on his own. 

But in the end, he gives in, just like always.  

You hug him tightly, casting a glare towards the rest of the class. “You’re all a bunch of losers. What’s so fun about ganging up on someone? If he wants to apply to U.A, it’s none of your business. Please just cut it out.”  

“Great, [Name] to the rescue,” one of them sighs.  

“She’s always fussing over him. It’s like she’s his mom or something.”  

“Nah, she’s not his mom. She’s his girlfriend, duh. They’re always making googly-eyes at each other. I swear they would both die if they were ever separated.”  

It looks like you've also become the target of their ridicule, but that's nothing new either. For the most part, you avoid using your Quirk on your classmates. It's a lot easier to practice with a close friend, like Izuku, and they're all quite wary of you anyways. They know that you have to kiss someone to use your powers, so they've long dubbed you as some kind of pervert. If you wanted to, you probably could charm them and make them act less awful, but controlling people for your own benefit feels really slimy. Apart from missions, you decide that your Quirk should be reserved for villains that needed to be put in their place, or dangerous situations, like whenever Katsuki gets violent with Izuku.  

“S-Stop that,” Izuku works up the nerve to cut back, but he's still clinging to you, unwilling to let go. “Don’t make fun of [Name]… she hasn’t done anything wrong.” 

You roll your eyes. “Ignore them, Izuku. They’re just butthurt because they don’t know what it’s like to have real friends.”  

The whole time you hold Izuku in your arms, Katsuki has gone awfully quiet. He isn't creating explosions anymore. He just stands there, crimson eyes perfectly fixated on you. His mind is reeling with furious, unspeakable thoughts.  

Whenever Katsuki is so angry that he goes silent, it's never a good sign.  

The situation escalates to the point that once classes are over for the day, Katsuki makes a show of walking over to Izuku’s desk and blowing up one of his hero analysis notebooks.  

“You’ve really been pissing me off these days,” he spits, and much to Izuku’s horror, proceeds to toss the notebook out the window. 

“Katsuki!” you fume. “What the hell are you doing?! Go out there and bring it back!”  

“Shut up. You’ve been pissing me off too.” He steps closer to you and grabs you by the collar of your uniform. The fabric squeezes painfully around your neck, cutting off some of your circulation. “You and Deku both make me sick,” he grimaces. “Always walking around holding hands and shit. Are the two of you already married, or what? You’re so pathetic. When I first met you, I never thought you’d turn out to be this pathetic, [Name].” 

You furrow your brows and push him back. “Stop it,” you warn.   

“Or what?” he challenges. “What, you’ll kiss me? Go ahead and try it. Don’t think I’ll fall for your brainwashing any longer. I’m strong enough to resist your shitty Quirk. Come on, then. Try it. I dare you.” 

It seems like he's challenging you, and you don't know what'll happen once you actually call his bluff. Perhaps you'll be able to act quickly enough to actually charm him, or maybe he’ll beat you up for even trying. You just assume that whatever the case, he's going to make you pay.  

But in reality, Katsuki just wants to feel your lips against his skin. He's mortified by his thoughts, and he'll never admit to them—not even if he's held at gunpoint—but he truly and undeniably wants you to kiss him.  

The fact of the matter is that he doesn't hate you. He’s never hated you. What he really hates is the way you treat Izuku so much better than him. It doesn't make any sense, and there are moments where it actually pisses him off more than Izuku himself.  

He's better than Izuku, or rather, Deku, in every sense of the word. So then, why? Why do you coddle Izuku and embrace him at almost every waking moment? Why is it that it's been so long since he's seen you direct a smile his way, yet you show it to Izuku more times than he can even count?  

Katsuki has long harbored a crush on you. He is a jealous person by nature, and the influence of your Quirk certainly doesn't help. In fact, it can no longer simply be called a crush.  

It's already an infatuation.

“Give it a rest,” you eventually sigh, deciding not to give in to his provocations. “I’m not going to use my Quirk on you, Katsuki. Just stop it. Please go get Izuku’s notebook back. It’s the least you can do after ruining it.”  

Katsuki is incredibly angry. He's so angry, in fact, that he yearns to just yank you by the hair and slam his lips against yours. Better yet, he wants to make Izuku watch. It's the number one thing he fantasizes about. The day that shitty nerd is forced to watch you be torn away from his grasp is the day that Katsuki wins once and for all.  

But because he hasn't yet lost all reason, he doesn't force a kiss on you.  

Instead, he turns around and punches Izuku in the face.  

You wail out at the top of your lungs, and to be honest, it's practically music to Katsuki’s ears. He laughs cruelly as Izuku desperately tries to stifle his sobs, hands flying up to clutch at his throbbing nose, which has already started to bleed.  

“Why?” is all you could think to say. You stare at Katsuki in utter disbelief. “I really thought... you were better than this. I wanted to believe you were. But it’s like you’ve turned into a fucking monster.”  

Katsuki grits his teeth. A monster, huh? So, that’s what you think of him. Fine. If being a monster is what it takes to punish Izuku for constantly stealing you away, then he's more than happy to be a monster.  

“That was a warning,” Katsuki glowers. “Don’t even think of going to U.A, shitty nerd. I’ll seriously kill you. Actually, why don’t you go ahead and jump off the roof while you’re at it? If you’re lucky, there might be a Quirk waiting for you in the afterlife. Ha.”

Katsuki buries his hands in his pockets and trudges out of the room, and even the two underlings that always follow him around look slightly horrified by what just unfolded.  

You are left alone with Izuku, and the most you can do is frantically dab at his bloody nose with a napkin. 

“Izuku,” you whimper. “I’m sorry. I should have acted quicker. M-Maybe if I’d actually used my Quirk, he wouldn’t have hurt you like that. This only happened because of me. I’m so sorry...”  

Izuku has every reason to be upset. One of his treasured notebooks is now in tatters, he's just been told to kill himself, and worse yet, his face is aching uncontrollably. Tears slide down his freckled cheeks, and you can hear how shaky his breathing sounds. 

But despite all of that, the situation isn't entirely bleak. 

Because you are with him. 

His big green eyes, even while blurred by tears, are wide as they gaze upon you. He admires how your chin trembles ever-so-slightly, and that little crease in your brow that conveys how worried you are. He especially likes the the way that your chest jumps up and down as you desperately try to keep it together for him. 

You are so important to him. His best friend in the whole wide world. The only person who’s always stood by his side. And just earlier, you chose him over Katsuki. For so long, Katsuki has always had everything Izuku dreamed of. A powerful Quirk, amazing confidence, and the ability to push through any obstacle that stands in his path.  

But Katsuki doesn't have you, and in that sense, Izuku has him beat.  

That's why, even with the blood dripping from his nose and the sharp pain in his heart, Izuku is still able to smile.  

“I’m okay,” he says, tentatively grabbing one of your hands in his. Your fingers are so soft. He loves the way they fit so naturally against his own.  

Everything hurts, but... with you here, it hurts a lot less.

“As long as you’re with me, I’ll be alright,” Izuku beams.  

In a way, it's somewhat of a threat. Because if you ever leave him, that is the moment everything will fall apart.

Enjoying the story so far? Read more on Quotev!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

💌 main masterlist ♡ oneshot masterlist

[thompsborn]

no because like i have a fic i started that’s a super in depth heart shattering fic exploring harley and peter breaking up and spending 12 years apart and then coming back together and how it would explore them as individuals and as partners and

and also i have this little fic idea where peter and harley break up but also they had this plant that they took care of together and a week after breaking up peter shows up at harley’s door like “if that plant dies i will actually strangle you with my bare hands” and they begrudgingly post break up bitterness have to be around each other a few times a week to share custody of this fucking plant and that somehow leads to them falling in love again

and i plan to write both it’s only just a matter of time and how long it takes me to write them

[doyou000me]

"I realised that the time I thought would last forever had come to an end."

[introspectivememories]

timbern interconnected fates but not like by chance but like bernard wrestling with destiny to make sure he gets to have tim in his life

[walking-loather]

When it comes to hygiene tasks and self care with disability and chronic illness, its pretty much a constant case of: don't let perfect be the enemy of the good.

Basically: it's better to do something, than to do nothing at all.

TLDR: Just because you can't do something "properly" doesn't mean you shouldn't do it at all. Do it half-way. Do it shitty. Do it barely. Do it on a technicality. But do what you can. Just try, because doing something will help you.

If you don't have the energy to scrub your body with a sponge, just rub soap over your skin with your hands.

If you don't have the energy to wash your whole body with soap, just hit the places where sweat accumulates, or where you're smelliest.

If you don't have the energy to wash with soap AT ALL, just sitting in water is better than nothing. It will wash away dirt and oils.

If you can't bathe or shower at all, a warm wash cloth is your new best friend. If that's too much, then try bath wipes. They're a bit bigger than regular wet wipes, and a bit more heavy duty. They're designed to help keep bed ridden patients clean in hospitals.

If you don't have the energy to dry yourself after a bath or a shower, just put on a bathrobe and get into bed. If you don't have the energy to get dressed afterwards, just don't. It can wait until you can.

If you don't have energy to brush your teeth for two minutes, honestly, just a cursory scrub is better than not doing anything.

If you can't brush your teeth twice a day, brush in the evenings. It will help take away the build up of food from the day.

If you don't have the energy to brush AT ALL, honestly, just take a cloth and wipe the plaque off your teeth. Rinse with mouth wash after if you'd like. Something is always better than nothing.

If you can't floss twice a day. Try once. If that's too much, try a few times a week. If that's too much, try setting aside a day once a week as a goal. If you can't keep a schedule, do it when you're able to. Hell, I keep some floss next to my bed so that if I forget and don't have the energy to go get it, I can just reach over.

If you can't iron your clothes, don't bother. Wrinkles are fine. Wear jumpers over wrinkly t-shirts. No one will know, and honestly, most people won't even care. If it's really wrinkly and it's A Big Deal And It Needs To Be Ironed, here's my life hack. Step 1: take a spray bottle, and spritz the item of clothing (while you're wearing it is easiest) until it's lightly damp. Step 2: use a hair-dryer on the clothes until they're dry. It gets rid of creases like nobody's business, it's easier than lugging out the iron and ironing board, and you get to have nice toasty warm clothes afterwards.

If you can't fold your clothes, try just hanging them up. It's less commitment. It's quicker to do. Granted, you need to have the space in order to do this, but it is also good at helping you downsize, and lets you visualise exactly what you have.

If you can't put your clothes away, invest in a couple of laundry baskets, and then just keep your clean clothes in the baskets. You can then separate washed clothes into underwear, pants, and shirts baskets. You can just leave them like that. I'm giving you permission to never fold your laundry again if you can't. Just leave it unfolded. Who's going to care? Something is better than nothing. If you can, try to put those baskets into your closet so that you can keep the clutter out of sight, and give yourself a more restful environment.

If you can't separate your clothing out into different categories and wash them "properly" (whites, warm tones, cool tones, darks, delicates / switching between hot & cold washes / paying attention to laundry instructions on the label) then just don't worry about it. If you cold wash your clothes, colours won't bleed. Maybe gradually over the course of dozens of washes there'll be some changes in hue, but it's really not as high stakes as the One Red Sock In The Whites Turns Them Pink trope makes it out to be.

I've pretty much come to the point in my life where if a piece of clothing can't survive the washer and dryer, then it's just not meant to be. I colour separate my clothes, and if I have the energy/remember I'll take my bras and jumpers out of the washing machine to drip dry. But otherwise, I leave it to the universe.

If you can't separate out your recycling, then don't. If you have a large amount of rubbish you need to get rid of but the idea of separating it out properly is stopping you from doing so, then just don't worry about it. I know it's not ideal, but if you have garbage in your room/house and you need to get rid of it, please just get rid of it. Don't let the problem get bigger and harder to deal with. Don't let "doing something properly" get in the way of keeping your living spaces clean. Please. Give yourself understanding.

If you can't wash your dishes, get paper plates. Obviously, it's not ideal, but it is better that you eat food than skipping meals. It is better that you have a clean kitchen, rather than having dishes piling up and making it harder to look after yourself.

If you can't prepare meals for yourself keep making the tasks easier and easier. If you can't do recipes, then simplify. Use pasta sauce from the jar instead of making it. Eat canned soup. Buy food you can just stick in the oven. If you eat fish fingers and microwave veggies every night, it's better than not eating anything at all. It's better than having to fork out money on take-out. If you need ready-made meals, then get them. If you're literally just eating a raw cauliflower for dinner; 1) I see you, 2) me too, sis, 3) something is better than nothing.

These are the basic things you need to do every day to function as a person. They are your activities of daily living. Brushing your teeth. Bathing or showering. Using the bathroom. Getting dressed. Eating. Drinking. Sleeping. Keeping your environment clean. You don't need to do these things perfectly, but they need to happen in order for you to have a decent quality of life.

And it breaks my heart, because I know that so many disabled people can't do these things every day. I'm not saying this to guilt or judge, I'm saying that these are basic needs; you deserve these things. These things bring dignity. If a disabled person is unable to do these things, it diminishes their quality of life. It robs them of dignity.

If you need help to do these things, Its okay to ask for help. It's okay to need help. But if you can't get that help and you have to do these things by yourself -- or you just plain want to be independent and do it without help-- then don't hold yourself to standards you can't meet.

Don't let perfect be the enemy of the good. Doing something is always better than doing nothing. Even if it's not perfect. Even if it's not done well. Do what you can.

[wylldebee]

Gimme a new Hellsing anime that combines the og anime and the ova/manga, and the animation is done by the ones who've done the Castlevania series. The scene of Seras going blood crazy for the first time? Alucard vs Anderson or Incognito? Seras vs The Captain? The attack on Hellsing manor and Seras becoming a true vampire? The attack on London? Everything? Please. Please, I need to see this happen.

[candor-creator]

only realized after posting that last drawing that I never showed off my mortal/revived radi design, and then realized that i’ve never actually drawn it in full detail

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about Ghost being a better boyfriend than your ex, even without establishing that title....

This is a continuation of part one.

warning: mention domestic abuse

💀

Simon was there every night you worked. You never gave him your schedule, but he'd show up and settle onto one of the stools like clockwork. Soap often joined him, and while they carried on like always, you knew Simon's gaze lingered on your body. You could practically feel the weight as you took drink orders and pulled pints. It wasn't unwelcome. In fact, it made everything easier knowing you weren't alone if your ex dared show his face.

When your shifts ended, Simon would walk you back to your new place. The one time you insisted he didn't need to do that, he grunted and said, "What if I want to?"

You didn't mention it again. Instead you got into a routine of giving him a fifteen minute warning when your shift was going to end, and you'd head out into the cold night with him at your side. He was mostly quiet while you chatted about whatever was on your mind. When you'd ask him about himself, he'd reroute the conversation back to you. Then he would wait while you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

You always had the urge to invite him in, but you were taking up so much of his time already. And what would you do with him anyway? This hulking military man with kind eyes? 

You thanked him and gave him a little wave before ducking inside, and you knew he always waited until he heard the sound of your door locking before he left. 

"Y' alright, love?" he asked one night when you were starting to feel particularly good about yourself again. Your split lip had healed which required less makeup. You felt stronger for having left your ex in the dust. You were wearing a new top that made you feel sexy.

"Yeah. I'm alright, Simon. I feel really good, actually."

You served him a drink and refused to let him pay. You really ought to make him stop tipping you at this rate. He was doing so much for you and getting nothing in return. He was doing all of the boyfriend duties just as he had promised, but he never so much as touched you other than the occasional hand hold.

What if you wanted more?

He broke into your thoughts as he said, "I can tell. Ya' been smiling more. Almost ready to go?"

Tonight you felt like you were floating along the dirty sidewalk with your hand tucked in Simon's massive paw. He was keeping you warm without doing anything, and he listened to your nervous rambling as you tried your best to work up your courage. But the two of you reached your front door all too quickly.

"Get inside," he said, voice deep and tender in spite of the command. "An' lock up."

When he started to pull his hand away, you didn't let him. And you didn't budge when one of his eyebrows inched higher. "Not quite yet," you whispered, toe tapping the cement step you were standing on which put you slightly closer to him in height. "I have to tell you something."

Simon's lips pressed together in a tight line, and his chin dipped in a slight nod. "I need to tell ya' something, too. Just don't want to."

"What?" you asked immediately, the lightness you'd been feeling instantly replaced with a lead brick inside you.

"I'm leaving. Late tomorrow night. Not until after I make sure ya' get home from the pub."

"Leaving?" you whispered, heart pounding faster. He was in the military. Some sort of special mission involvement. You knew that much. And you could read between the lines to know that someone who looked and behaved like he did was probably about to risk his life, not for the first time. "Simon, where are you going?" you asked with tears in your eyes even though you figured he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Simon shook his head, his lips curling into a soft smile. It was a rare sight, and it made you dizzy. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be worried 'bout me." You wanted to tell him you would be. You'd worry nonstop until you saw him again. You'd come to rely on him, but mostly you liked how you felt when he was around. "There'll be someone to walk ya' home from work every night. I can promise that."

You wanted to lean in and kiss him, but instead you threw your arms around his neck. He was so solid and warm, and the scrape of his facial hair on your cheek was somehow comforting. "But I'll see you tomorrow, right?" you asked, voice breaking on a sob.

"I'll see ya' tomorrow, love."

He didn't move an inch as you extracted yourself, and the sound of his receding footsteps could only be heard once you'd locked yourself inside.

💀

Part three

[nereidprinc3ss]

you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all. 

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him. 

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back. 

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep. 

Or so he’d like to think. 

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately. 

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it. 

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him. 

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank. 

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

You don’t make another sound for hours. 

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time. 

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back. 

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot. 

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand. 

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway. 

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums. 

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak. 

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts. 

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes. 

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue. 

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression. 

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. 

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way. 

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now. 

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you. 

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid. 

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper. 

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like. 

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat. 

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake. 

Spencer is too stunned to follow you. 

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous. 

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction. 

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal. 

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. 

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief. 

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent. 

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out. 

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow. 

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away. 

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door. 

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom. 

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins. 

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed. 

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back. 

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist. 

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion. 

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t. 

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with. 

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt. 

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.  

[dollishmehrayan]

# “WHY ARE YOU CRYING LAIN.” ── .✦ ( what it takes for batboys to cry about their s/o btw I don’t see this as angst!reader but I’m writing a angst fic soon!! )

a/n: this is a request by (here) anyways 620 followers under a month?!?! What the hell tysmm this was shocking to wake up to anywayss um yeah here, I genuinely think this was like only a general hcs of what only batboys cry over but I turned it into like a s/o hc too so sorry tags: ( batboys x s/o )

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Losing You, Even Momentarily: Dick is the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, so the idea of losing you whether you’re hurt, missing, or even distant emotionally breaks him in ways he doesn’t know how to hide. If you were ever critically injured during a mission or got caught in the crossfire or a health scare, he’d hold you in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he begs, “Don’t you dare leave me. I can’t lose you. You’re everything to me.”

When You’re Hurt Emotionally: Dick is empathetic to his core. If he ever caught you crying, struggling silently, or feeling like you couldn’t talk to him, he’d break down too. “Why didn’t you come to me? You’re not alone—you’re never alone.” His voice would crack as he hugs you, feeling helpless because he wants to fix it but doesn’t know how.

A Fight That Goes Too Far: Dick hates arguing, but sometimes even he loses control. If words were exchanged that hurt you, he’d cry after you left, clutching his face in his hands because he knows he messed up. He’d spend the entire night trying to fix it because the thought of you being upset because of him kills him. (He has a bit of people pleasing tendencies like me 😭)

JASON TODD ── .✦

Thinking He Doesn’t Deserve You: Jason has deep-seated feelings of unworthiness, and if he ever felt like you deserved better or like you might leave because he’s “too broken,” he’d quietly lose it. You’d find him sitting on the edge of the bed, tears in his eyes as he mutters, “Why are you even with me? I don’t want to ruin you too.”

You in Danger: Jason prides himself on protecting the people he loves, but if there were ever a moment where he couldn’t save you where you were hurt or out of his reach he’d shatter. Holding your unconscious body, he’d whisper through gritted teeth and tears, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m sorry—I should’ve been faster. Stronger.”

Fighting and Losing Control: Jason fears becoming the worst version of himself. If you ever fought and he lost his temper, saying something he didn’t mean, he’d be crushed afterward. He’d cry silently in his room, replaying the fight over and over in his head, scared you wouldn’t forgive him.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

You Pulling Away: Tim doesn’t always know how to balance his work and love for you. If he noticed you drifting away or feeling neglected because of his vigilante life, he’d hit a breaking point. One night, he’d find himself sitting alone, staring at his phone, tears silently falling as he whispers, “I don’t want to lose you. I’ll do better—I promise.”

When You’re in Pain: Tim’s logical brain often protects him from his emotions, but seeing you in pain—physically or emotionally would be his undoing. He’d try to keep it together for you, but once he’s alone, he’d sit at his desk, head in his hands as sobs wrack his body because he hates seeing the person he loves suffer.

If You’re Gone (Even Temporarily): If you ever went missing or were presumed dead, Tim would break in ways no one else would see. He’d bury himself in work, desperately trying to find you, but in the quiet hours, he’d collapse on the floor surrounded by papers and maps, tears streaming down his face as he murmurs, “Please come back to me. Please.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Failing to Protect You: Damian is fiercely protective of the people he loves, and if you were ever hurt on his watch, it would destroy him. He’d stay at your bedside, barely speaking, but his tears would fall silently as he holds your hand and says, “You are strong so much stronger than me. I am sorry I let this happen.”

Realizing You’re Hurt by Him: Damian doesn’t always know how to express himself, and if he ever unintentionally hurt you—through sharp words or coldness—he’d crumble. He’d isolate himself, his back to the door as he mutters to himself, “I am unworthy of their love. I am no better than the monsters I fight.”

If You Were Gone: Damian doesn’t cry easily, but if he lost you, he’d lock himself away for days. No one would hear his sobs as he grips something of yours—a sweater, a necklace and whispers, “I failed you. I should have been stronger. I would trade anything to bring you back.”

GENERAL ( WITHOUT LOSING YOU OR GETTING HURT YK? ) ── .✦

Dick: He’d cry watching you do something incredibly mundane—like laughing at a joke or helping a stranger because he realizes how lucky he is to have you. The thought of a life without you, even for a second, shakes him to his core.

Jason: He’d cry when he thinks about how you’ve accepted him so completely. “You don’t look at me like I’m broken,” he’d say through tears, pulling you into a hug. “You love me. No one’s ever loved me like this before.”

Tim: He’d cry in relief after a near-miss—maybe you were almost hurt on patrol, but you’re okay. He’d break down in your arms, holding you tightly. “I can’t lose you. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

Damian: He’d cry quietly while watching you sleep, overwhelmed by how much he loves you. He’d brush your hair from your face and murmur, “You are my heart, beloved. Without you, I would have none.”

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

The Fear of Losing You: Bruce has already lost so much his parents, allies, and people he couldn’t save. If you were ever gravely injured or put in harm’s way, he’d be stoic at first, tending to your wounds or making sure you’re stable. But when the danger is over and he’s alone, the walls would finally break. He’d sit in the Batcave, hands trembling, staring at the blood on his gloves and whispering, “I can’t lose you too. I couldn’t survive that.” His tears would fall silently because he rarely lets himself cry but for you, the thought of losing you would be unbearable.

When You Break Down First: Bruce is emotionally guarded, but if he ever saw you crying really crying because of something he caused or something he failed to protect you from, it would destroy him. He’d pull you into his arms, his voice shaky as he mutters, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear on everything, I will never let this happen again.” When you’ve fallen asleep, he’d sit beside you, quietly crying to himself because the person he loves more than anything is in pain.

During a Rare, Heated Argument: Bruce doesn’t lose control often, but when he does, his words can cut deep. If a fight escalated to the point where you walked away, leaving him standing there in silence, the guilt would eat him alive. He’d find himself sitting alone in the dark manor, hands in his hair as he whispers, “I can’t believe I let that happen. I promised I’d be better.” He wouldn’t hesitate to apologize immediately, but he’d cry later when he realized how close he came to pushing you away.

Realizing You’re the Light in His Life: Bruce is haunted by his past, and sometimes, the weight of his mission makes him forget the beauty in life. But when he sees you—laughing, smiling, or simply existing—he realizes you are the brightest thing in his world. He wouldn’t cry in front of you, but in a rare, quiet moment alone, he’d sit in his study with tears in his eyes, overwhelmed. “I don’t deserve them. But I won’t let anything happen to them. Ever.”

If You Were Gone: Bruce would completely unravel. He’s already built his life around loss, but you? You were his hope, his reason to believe in something beyond the cowl. Without you, he’d wander the manor like a ghost, sitting by your favorite chair or staring at a photo of you for hours. In the dead of night, when no one is around, he’d finally let himself grieve—hands gripping the edges of a desk, shoulders shaking as he whispers your name like a prayer. (Madonna ref?)

MOMENTS WHERE BRUCE GETS EMOTIONAL ── .✦

Seeing You Safe After a Scare: If you ever came home late or after a dangerous night out, Bruce would hold you tightly, kissing the top of your head and murmuring, “You’re home. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.” His voice would crack slightly, betraying the emotion he tries to hide.

When You Remind Him of His Humanity: Bruce isn’t always good with words, but when you’re there—kissing him goodnight, teasing him about his brooding, or cooking something terribly but with love he remembers what happiness feels like. He’d quietly brush a tear away as he watches you, thinking, “They make this life worth living.”

If You Call Him Out on His Guilt: If Bruce ever tried pushing you away because he thought you’d be safer without him, and you confronted him with a heartfelt speech about loving him no matter what, he’d break. He’d pull you into his arms, tears falling as he whispers, “You don’t know how much you mean to me. I can’t lose you. I need you.”

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - NINE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of leukemia; death; pregnancy; abortion.

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe had been through a ton of traumatic bullshit by the age of fourteen. 

His mom had been battling leukemia since he was ten, it started off as an infection—but it turned into one of those long, drawn-out wars that tricks you into thinking there’s hope when there isn’t.

It would go away for a bit, just enough to make everyone think the fight was over, and then it’d come slamming back worse every time.

When he was fourteen, it finally took her for good, when he’d been silly enough to believe she might pull through. 

To be fair, he was only a little kid waiting on a miracle, praying she’d wake up one day magically cured.

Now, when he looked back on it, he hated himself for being so naive. The signs had been there all along, the nurses whispering in the hallways, Ward turning into this void of a human, who looked at him like he didn’t know how to fix it anymore. The talks his mom would have with him about how “no matter what happens, you’ll be okay.”

That phrase haunted him for years.

Her death didn’t wreck him; it tore him apart and left him in tiny pieces that didn’t fit together the same way. He wasn’t the same kid afterward, not even close.

He got angrier, distant. 

He didn’t recognize who he’d been before it all—some kid who really believed in happy endings.

He didn’t believe in much after she died, people let you down, life ripped everything good out of your hands. Why bother holding on to anything at all?

It wasn’t just the grief; it was the guilt.

He’d get mad at her, sometimes, for being sick. He’d slam his door and cry into his pillow because he just wanted a normal life, a mom who wasn’t always tired or in pain or hooked up to some machine.

He hated himself for that. 

The day of her funeral, he remembered everything, even though he wished he didn’t. The church smelled like old wood and lilies, that smell that never left you once it sank in.

People kept coming up to him, patting his shoulder, saying things like, “She’s in a better place now,” or “Stay strong, buddy.” 

He wanted to yell at them, shake them, make them shut up. She wasn’t in a better place. A better place would’ve been here, alive, laughing at his dumb jokes, or rolling her eyes at him for leaving his shoes in the hallway. It wouldn’t be six feet under, locked in a box, shoved into a hole in the ground like she never existed.

He didn’t cry, not when they opened the casket for everyone to say their final goodbyes, not when his dad stood up and choked through some half-assed speech that was mostly apologies and memories, not when they lowered her into the ground, the ropes creaking as her casket disappeared into the earth. 

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead, as if he wasn’t even present. Inside, though?

His his chest was on fire. 

He refused to let even a single tear fall, it felt pointless, it wasn’t going to bring her back. It wasn’t going to fix anything. And deep down, he thought he didn’t deserve to cry, if he’d been stronger if he’d prayed harder, or been a better son, she’d still be alive.

The sound he remembered the most was the thud of dirt hitting the coffin after the service. It was final, loud, the earth itself mocking him. People around him sniffled, hugged each other, wiped at their eyes, but Rafe just stood there, staring down into the hole, fists buried in his pockets until his nails dug into his palms. 

He kept thinking about how wrong this all was, this wasn’t where she was supposed to end up, and none of this was fair.

She should’ve been there.

She should’ve been standing next to him, arm around his shoulder, telling him to stop slouching, whispering something to make him laugh in the middle of all this sadness. Instead, she was in there, soon the dirt would cover it up, and that’d be it. 

Gone. Just like that.

After the service, Rafe didn’t try to stick around for the house gathering, he wasn’t going to survive that. All those people crowding the living room, balancing paper plates of casserole, acting like they gave a fuck about his mom. It was fake, all of it. 

They’d forget about her in a week.

He slipped out when no one was paying attention, cutting through the side yard and heading to the only place that felt halfway normal—the old skate park behind the rec center. It was run-down as fuck, but he and his friends used to hang out there all the time, sitting on the busted ramps, talking trash, or just doing nothing.

When he got there, it was empty, which was exactly what he wanted. He climbed up on the old half-pipe, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked pavement below. 

He couldn’t stop replaying the day in his head, the casket, the dirt, the stupid better place comments. His chest felt like it was breaking in a million tiny pieces, but he still couldn’t cry, his body just wouldn’t let him. 

Instead, he just sat there, wishing the world would leave him alone for five minutes.

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

He thought about running—didn’t need anyone seeing him like this, especially not now. But then you spoke.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Well, congrats. You win the prize.” 

He wasn’t in the mood to be nice, even to you.

But you didn’t flinch, you never did. That’s one of the things he liked about you—you didn’t get scared off when he got like this. You just climbed up next to him and sat down. 

You didn’t try to say all that comforting bullshit people had been feeding him all day, and he was grateful for that.

“You okay?” you asked eventually.

He snorted. “Do I look okay?”

"Sorry, stupid question."

He sighed, hating that he was being asshole to his best friend, "It's fine."

When he finally glanced at you, you were watching him, trying to figure out what to say. It made him nervous, the way you looked at him. You always did that—you cared about what was going on in his head, you saw more than what he let people see.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I know what you’re feeling,” you said finally. “But you don’t have to do this alone, Rafe. You know that, right?”

If only you knew what you would be going through just three short years later.

He wanted to snap at you, tell you to leave, he was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stared down at the pavement again, “Feels like I do.”

You didn’t say anything, just moved closer, close enough that your arm brushed against his. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel…something, less alone.

Rafe didn’t know how long you both sat there, could’ve been ten minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t feel real anymore, you didn’t push him to talk, which he appreciated more than he’d ever admit, you didn’t throw out any of those awkward “it’ll get better” lines. You just sat with him. 

“You can talk to me, you know.” 

He shook his head without looking at you. “There’s nothing to say.” His voice was rough, flat. “She’s gone. That’s it.”

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t suck."

He clenched his jaw, staring at the pavement like if he looked at you, everything would break.

“What’s the point?” he muttered. “Crying’s not gonna change anything. It’s not gonna—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to force it back.

“Rafe.” You sighed, and this time “You don’t have to hold it together for anyone, okay? It’s me.”

That broke him, actually broke him. His chest felt tight, suddenly he couldn’t keep it in.

His breath hitched, his shoulders shook, and before he knew it, tears were sliding down his face. He tried to stop it, to hide it, scrubbing his hands over his face, but it was no use.

“Shit,” he choked out, his voice cracking once more.

“Hey, hey,” you said quickly, and before he could pull away or do something stupid like tell you to leave, you scooted over.

He froze for a second, unsure what to do, but then he remembered the funeral, the whispers, the dirt hitting the casket, all the things he couldn’t stop thinking about—he just let it all out.

The first sob ripped out of him so suddenly it startled him, he hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands gripping his hair, as if he could physically stop himself from breaking. But it didn’t work.

Another sob followed, and then another, and soon they were pouring out of him—loud, messy, completely out of his control. He couldn’t stop it, and he hated it.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and just cried. When he felt your arms instantly wrap around him, pulling him into a hug as if you’d been waiting for his permission, he shattered completely.

“She’s—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to stop, gasping for air as the tears kept coming. “She’s gone. She’s gone, and I—” He broke off.

It was ugly and loud and nothing like how he’d pictured himself breaking down, but he didn’t care. You didn’t tell him it’d be okay or try to make him stop, just held him, your arms tight around him. 

“I miss her,” he whispered, his voice so small it barely sounded like him. “I miss her so much, and I—I don’t know what to do.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this, and part of him hated how exposed it made him feel. He hated crying in front of people—anyone. But right now, with you, he didn’t feel embarrassed. 

“I know,” you nodded, your hand moving in small circles on his back. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I—” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I can’t—this isn’t—it’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” you didn’t want to scare away the fragile pieces of him that were finally surfacing. “It’s not fair. None of it is.”

He couldn’t stop shaking or gasping for breaths that hitched in his chest. The more he tried to push it all backdown, the harder it fought to claw its way out. For years, he’d kept it buried—buried so deep he thought he’d never have to deal with it.

“I hate it,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a jagged mess. “I hate that she’s gone. I hate that I didn’t—” He stopped, gripping his hair harder. “I didn’t do enough. I should’ve been better, done something—anything.”

“Stop. You can’t do that to yourself.”

He shook his head violently, “But I did. I gave up on her. I stopped believing she’d get better, I—I got mad at her for being sick. What kind of son does that? I didn’t even say goodbye the way I should’ve. I just—I left the hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore, and then she—” His voice cracked again, and his hands dropped from his hair to his lap, clenched into fists “She’s gone, and I left. I wasn’t there when she—” His breath hitched, and he buried his face in his hands.

“You’re a kid. It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is.”

“But it feels like it is,” he shot back, “I should’ve done something, anything. I just feel so—” He stopped, letting out a shaky exhale. “Empty. Like nothing I do matters anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way you said it, so certain—He didn’t know why, but it cut through the noise in his head just enough to let him breathe again.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” he admitted, “I don’t know how t-to live without her.”

Growing up, Rafe had always been a momma’s boy. 

She was his safe place—the one person who didn’t make him feel like he had to be someone else. With her, he didn’t have to try so damn hard to be tough, or perfect, or whatever the hell his dad wanted him to be. 

Ward wasn’t the kind of dad who let his kids cry on his shoulder or told them he loved them every day. No, Ward was the kind of dad who believed in rules.

Men didn’t cry. Men didn’t show weakness. Men didn’t mess up—or, if they did, they sure as hell didn’t admit it.

He expected Rafe to follow those rules like they were gospel.

The worst part? His rules about what it meant to be a man stuck with Rafe, even when he didn’t want them to. When his mom got sick, he found himself choking back tears in the hospital bathroom, staring at his reflection and hearing Ward’s voice in his head: “Crying doesn’t solve anything. You’ve gotta be strong, for her, for your sisters.”

He had this idea in his head of what Rafe was supposed to be—strong, dependable, successful. He didn’t yell or lose his temper like some dads back then, he just made him feel like shit in this fucked up way.

Rafe tried, shit, he’d tried, but it felt impossible.

Every time he looked at his mom, pale and tired but still managing to smile at him like he was her whole world, he felt like he was dying too, then he’d feel guilty—for being so weak, for wanting to break down when she was the one fighting for her life.

It didn’t help that Ward had always had a soft spot for Sarah. Everyone could see it, even Rafe. She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, the one Ward went out of his way to protect. 

If Rafe screwed up, it was a lecture or a punishment, but if Sarah did? Ward would just shake his head and say, “She’s still young. She’ll learn.”

It used to piss him off more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he hated her—she was his sister, and he loved her. But how could he not resent her? He felt invisible when she got all the attention and the understanding, while he was expected to man up and deal with it.

After her funeral, things changed.

Rafe became quicker to snap, to walk away from anything that felt too hard. He was only himself around you, behind closed doors, never for preying eyes. Sarah grew colder, retreating into her own world where everything was controlled and distant.

Every time they spoke, it ended in shouting matches, slamming doors, or long stretches of silence that neither of them attempted to solve.

Except when you were there.

Ward got even colder, the grief had frozen whatever part of him used to care. He threw himself into work, making sure Sarah was okay, and barely even looked at his son. When he did, it was usually to tell him to pull it together, or to stop being so “moody.”

Rafe started to wonder if he even cared that he was falling apart, if he ever noticed the nights Rafe stayed out too late or came home smelling like booze. If he saw the way he avoided talking to him, how he flinched whenever Ward brought up his mom. But if his dad noticed, he never said anything. 

He thought it was just Rafe being Rafe—angry, unpredictable, a disappointment.

Fast forward to the present, and he hadn’t felt this helpless since that day at the funeral, not even when Ward’s died four months ago. 

You weren’t in his life anymore—hadn’t been for a while and you were possibly pregnant. 

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but it made sense, everything lined up with that possibility. He thought back to everything you’d been through together, the times you’d been there for him when no one else was, how you’d seen the pieces of him no one else cared to.

Now, you were having his kid—and he was hearing about it from Topper?

Rafe spent the first hour after Topper dropped the news pacing his bedroom like a caged animal, his heart wouldn’t stop racing and he felt like a ticking time bomb. 

The Rafe—the one who flew off the handle, yelled, broke things, and pushed people away—was begging to get out. But Topper’s voice kept replaying in his head, he had to act right, be calm, for your sake. To prove himself.

The problem was, that staying calm wasn’t his strong suit. 

He’d spent years burying every emotion he couldn’t control under layers of anger, and now he was supposed to sit with the hurricane in his chest and figure out how to make things right. 

For the first time in a long time, he realized he didn’t even know where to start.

That night, he locked himself in his room, ignoring his phone, his friends, everyone. None of it mattered anymore, the only thing he could think about was you—and the baby. 

He spent hours pacing, running his hands through his hair, trying to think of what the fuck he was going to say.

What was he gonna say after everything he’d put you through? After the fight, the distance, the way he’d shut you out when you’d been nothing but good to him until that point?

He sat down on the edge of his bed, head still in his hands, and let himself feel everything he’d been avoiding. The fear, the regret, the anger at himself. He thought about you—how you used to look at him like he wasn’t just a mess of a person, you’d stuck by him even when he’d given you every reason to leave.

You weren’t here anymore.

He’d pushed you so far away you hadn’t even told him about the situation yourself. Why would you anyway? He ghosted you and the next time you saw him he was with someone else. He could still see the look on your face when you saw him that night—arms slung casually around Sofia, while you sat in your car, eyes wild, you hadn’t tried to step outside, hadn’t yelled or made a scene, you simply drove off. 

It wasn’t until an hour later and terrible text message to you, that drunk and pissed at himself, he realized just how badly he’d screwed up. But by then, the damage was done, and he’d been too much of a coward to fix it. What followed was a sea of bad decisions and nights he couldn’t remember, trying to drown out the ache of losing you. 

He’d been drinking for Ward’s death until that point, now he did it for you.

Everything was catching up to him—the way he let his dad’s voice in his head drown out his own, making him let you slip through his fingers.

He didn’t deserve you—he knew that.

By sunrise, Rafe was still wide awake, sitting on the floor of his room surrounded by half-crumpled pieces of paper. He’d been trying to write down what he wanted to say to you, but everything sounded wrong. He’d never been good with words, not the kind that mattered.

He wasn’t a dad, wasn’t even close to being the kind of guy who could be a dad. 

What the fuck did he know about raising a kid? Changing diapers? Teaching someone right from wrong? Being patient? But the thought of you—of you carrying his kid—hit him differently.

At first, it had been pure panic. You hated him, what if you didn’t want him involved? What if he was just like Ward—cold, distant, always expecting too much? What if he screwed the kid up the same way he felt like he’d been screwed up? 

He pictured it without meaning to: you holding a tiny bundle in your arms, your face soft in a way he hadn’t seen in so long. A kid with your smile, your laugh—but his eyes. Or his messy hair. It scared the shit out of him.

What if she doesn’t even want to keep it?

Rafe hadn’t let himself go there at first, it was a lot to wrap his head around, the idea that there might not even be a child to fight for. 

The thought of you going through this, struggling to make a choice that he couldn’t help with, made him feel useless. 

Frustrated, he grabbed his keys and headed out, needing to clear his head. The island was silent this early, the kind of calm that used to make him feel trapped, but now, though, it was a relief. He drove aimlessly for a while, the salty air whipping through the open windows, until he found himself parked at the beach.

He didn’t know why he’d come here—well, you’d always bring him here when he spiraled. He sat there, watching the waves crash against the shore, feeling a weird sort of clarity that he hadn’t felt in months. 

Perhaps it was the silence, or the way the ocean didn’t care about all the fucking mess in his head, but something about it made him stop spiraling for a second.

He started to think about what Topper had said—not just about staying calm, but about proving to you that he still cared. That wasn’t something he could do with words alone, not after everything. He’d have to show you, he’d have to be the version of himself you used to believe in, the one who wasn’t ruled by his worst impulses.

Rafe knew the first step before he could even think about talking to you: he had to end things with Sofia. They weren’t official, but they might as well have been. 

People talked, made assumptions, and sure, he’d let them. It was easier that way—less explaining, less having to deal with the uncomfortable truth that he’d only been with her to fill the empty space you left behind. It was cruel, but at the time, he hadn’t cared. 

Sofia wasn’t you, but she was there, and more importantly, she didn’t expect anything from him. Keeping things going with her wasn’t just a bad idea; it was disrespectful. To you, to her, to himself. He couldn’t pretend he cared about her like that—not when his heart had never really left your orbit.

When he showed up at her place that morning before work, she didn’t seem surprised—not even a little. She’d seen the writing on the wall for weeks now, but tonight, seeing him standing there, just confirmed what she already knew.

She watched him like she was waiting for him to get to the point, but not impatiently—just resigned, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Can I come in?” 

She let him in without a word, she wasn’t mad, not really. If anything, she felt sad—mostly for him, a little for herself. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this without sounding like the worst person alive?

“You okay?” she asked quietly, she wasn’t being polite—she was trying to read him, figure out where this was going.

Rafe didn’t sit, didn’t take off his jacket. He stayed standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to find the words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you about something. 

She raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing together in a tight line. “Be honest.”

“This...this isn’t fair to you,” he started, his words tumbling out fast, “I should’ve been real with you from the start, but I wasn't," He swallowed hard, “You deserve better than me using you to forget someone else.”

Sofia didn’t say anything at first, just crossed her arms loosely, not making it easy for him, but she wasn’t making it harder, either.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” he continued, forcing himself to look at her. “It feels wrong and it’s not because of you. You’re great. You’ve been...you’ve been more patient with me than I deserve.”

Her lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that wasn’t quite happy but wasn’t cruel either. “But you’re still in love with her.”

He didn’t know why it shocked him—Sofia had always been perceptive—but hearing her say it out loud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“I—” He hesitated, but there was no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I knew,” She nodded like she’d been waiting for that confirmation. “I figured. I told myself it didn’t matter because—because I thought maybe you’d move on. Maybe I could help you move on. But you didn’t, and I—” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head as her arms tightened around herself.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, the movement almost casual. 

“Because I really like you,” she admitted, “I knew. The party? When you got blackout drunk after seeing her leave? Or the country club, when you nearly started a fight defending her? I know you drove her to the hospital too. I kept hoping—God, I kept hoping you’d see me, that you’d let me be enough.”

He’d known she cared—he wasn’t blind—but hearing her saying like that made him realize just how he fucked up. She wasn’t wrong. He had been trying to numb himself, to drown out the reality of losing you, and she had been the collateral damage.

He looked away, guilt twisting in his chest. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“No,” she agreed, her tone firm but not unkind. “It wasn’t, but I don’t think you meant to hurt me either, you were trying to hurt yourself. It's still stupid of me to try, knowing you need to figure your shit out, but you don’t have to end things. I know what I signed up for, Rafe. I’m not asking you to choose me over her—I’m just asking you to try."

There was no anger in her voice, no bitterness—just exhaustion. It made him feel like a piece of shit because she deserved to feel angry, to lash out at him. But instead, she was still trying to give him a way out, a way to make this easier on himself.

“I’ll take whatever part of you I can get.”

It wasn’t desperate or pleading—it was resigned. She already knew the answer, but she couldn’t help saying it out loud.

Rafe shook his head, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. That’s not me.”

“Why not?” she pressed, her tone insistent.

“Because all of me already belongs to her,” Rafe admitted, his voice breaking at the end. “It always has, it always will.”

Sofia blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but she didn’t look hurt—just...sad. She nodded slowly, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

“I hope she knows what she has, and I pray you show her," She stood up and motioning toward the door. “We both deserve better than a guy who drinks himself to death after seeing her at a party. So do you.”

Rafe didn’t move right away, unsure if he should say something more, apologize again, explain himself better. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“Don’t thank me,” she replied, “Just do better.”

“I shouldn’t have let it go on this long,” he confessed, “I just—I didn’t know how to stop.”

Her expression softened just enough to show the tiniest sliver of empathy. “For what is worth, I think she still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now.” She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn around, “Next time, please don’t do this to someone else, and don’t do it to her again, either.”

She still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. The faint possibility, that you might still love him, it meant he had a chance but it also meant he could screw them up even worse.

He stood slowly, “Thank you,” he repeated,“For...everything.”

She didn’t look at him, but she nodded, opening the door and holding it for him. “Take care of yourself,” she said, and it wasn’t cold or angry—just sad.

By the time he got back to his car, he knew she wasn’t wrong, about any of it. 

She hadn’t screamed or cried or made him feel like the asshole he knew he was, that made it worse. If his mom was here, she would’ve smacked him across he head for hurting two amazing women at the same time. 

He hadn’t been ready to deal with his feelings for you—not when he started whatever the fuck it was with Sofia, not when he ran into you at that party, not when he defended you at the country club.

He’d been running, hiding, trying to bury everything under distractions that only made him feel emptier.

He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes, and for a moment, it was like he was fourteen again, sitting on the edge of his mom’s hospital bed while his mom teased him.

“Come on, sweetheart” she’d said, her voice playful, even through the weariness. “You’ve been talking about her birthday for weeks. I think you like her more than you’re letting on.”

Rafe’s head shot up, and his ears burned red. “Mooomm,” he groaned, dragging out the word, “it’s not like that, she’s my best friend.”

“She’s your pretty best friend,” she’d corrected, smiling at him in that knowing way only she could. “You’re gonna pick out something nice for her, right?”

“I already did,” he mumbled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and holding it out like it was some great secret. Inside was a delicate bracelet he’d saved up for, something special, something he thought you’d like.

His mom’s smile had softened, the teasing fading into something more tender. 

“She’s lucky to have you,” she’d said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Even if you are a little knucklehead sometimes.”

He’d ducked away, embarrassed but secretly pleased, tucking the box back into his pocket.

“M’m not a knucklehead,” he complained, but she just laughed, and it was one of the last times he remembered hearing her laugh like that—free, unburdened, just his mom.

“She’s a good one. You’ve got good taste.” Her smile softened, and the teasing faded into something gentler. “I hope I’m still around when you get married. I’d love to see you happy like that.”

The words were a punch he hadn’t expected. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he even say to that? He wanted to argue, to tell her she would be, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

She knew. She always knew.

He just nodded, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Me too.”

She squeezed his hand. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said without thinking because he meant it.

“When you find that person—really find them—don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

He nodded again.

Years later, standing in a stupid fucking car alone, those words haunted him. He’d found that person, he’d had her and he’d let her go.

“God,” he muttered, the self-loathing reaching a new high, “I’m so sorry, mom.”

As terrifying as it was to think about being a dad, to think about raising a kid when he was still trying to figure out his own life… the idea of losing this chance—of losing you, or the baby, or both, for good —scared him even more.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt something close to hope, but it was tainted in so much fear and uncertainty, that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The rest of the day, he forced himself to slow down. 

He went back home, cleaned up the disaster of a room he’d been holed up in, and tried to think like a normal guy instead of a walking disaster. He even let Topper come over, though his patience for his relentless commentary wore thin fast.

“You’ve got one shot at this, dude,” Topper said, perched on Rafe’s desk like he owned the place. “If you go in there guns blazing, she’s just gonna think you’re the same old Rafe. And honestly? You can’t blame her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue, Topper was right, as annoying as it was to admit.

He spent the evening coming up with a plan—just enough to make sure he didn’t go in blind. He practiced what he’d say in his head, pacing the kitchen while the sun sank below the horizon. Every time he started to panic, he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was doing this.

By the time 24 hours had passed, he didn’t feel ready, but he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The thought of you sitting somewhere, thinking he really didn’t care or that he wouldn’t step up?

That was worse than any fear he had about facing you. So he grabbed his keys, and headed out, this time, he wasn’t running away.

Rafe stood by your door, he’d gotten in the property using the gate’s code, one he’d hoped you had changed to keep him out, but you hadn’t.

He’d never been good at patience, never needed to be—not when he could push his way into anything. But this was different, you were different, always had been.

The wood under his hand was cool, in a way that pissed him off because it reminded him that there was a barrier between you and him, again, always.

He wanted to scream, kick the fucking thing down like the old Rafe would’ve, or instead use the keys you’d given him years ago. Instead, he stood there, swallowing his pride because you were worth it, even if it was tearing himself in half.

His knuckles dragged down the frame, fist clenching as if the pressure would ground him, keep him from losing his shit. He wasn’t here to fight, wasn’t here to make your life harder, no matter how much you thought he was. 

The door rattled slightly when he pressed his forehead against it, eyes squeezing shut. “Five minutes. Please.”

Nothing.

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the words he wanted to say but couldn’t, not if he wanted you to open the door. He couldn’t do this anymore—the back-and-forth, the lies. He wasn’t sure what broke first—your resolve or the knot in his throat. 

When you didn’t answer again, he sank to sit on the porch, back against the door like he could still feel you on the other side. You were there—close enough to touch if there wasn’t this fucking door between you.

That was his fault.

He used to be the guy you’d let in without thinking twice, shit, there was a time when he didn’t need to knock.

He was in, part of your life, part of you.

Now, you were holed up, scared of him. Yeah, that ate him alive. He’d earned that fear—every cold shoulder, the slammed door, he deserved it.

He should’ve been different, been better, been someone you didn’t have to lock out. You were scared, and it killed him because it wasn’t just fear, it was him. He was the reason you didn’t feel safe enough to let the secret out, the reason your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

He had put that look in your eyes, the one he couldn’t unsee, no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He could almost hear you breathing, shakily, like you were preparing yourself to outlast him.

He wanted to push. Fuck, he wanted to shove the door open, make you look at him, make you tell him everything—but that was the old Rafe, he took what he wanted, and bulldozed through whatever stood in his way.

Where had that ever gotten him? Nowhere but here: on the wrong side of a door, the wrong side of you.

He exhaled, long and slow, hand falling limp to his side.

What the hell was he doing? Forcing his way in, forcing answers—that wasn’t going to fix this. It never did. You’d push harder, build the walls higher, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of you hating him more than you already did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “I get it.”

He didn’t know if you could still hear him, perhaps you were blocking him out completely. Maybe you were curled up with your hands over your ears. He hoped you weren’t crying, though the thought twisted and turned something deep in him.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he said, hating how defeated he sounded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He ran a hand down his face, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together.

“I just... I just want you to be okay.” He hesitated, then pressed his palm flat against the door, wishing he could reach you somehow, without scaring you, “Baby or not.”

He waited, hoping for something—a sound, a movement, anything, but the silence was absolute.

His heart clenched as he pushed off the door and took a step back, his shoes scraping against the porch. He didn’t want to leave, he never wanted to leave, but this wasn’t about what he wanted. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, almost to himself, "I'm so sorry. I’m sorry it took me this long, okay?”

He stopped halfway, looking back, hoping—praying—for some sign. A light flicking on, the sound of the door creaking open, your voice calling his name, anything.

But the house stayed still, it had already moved on from him. 

He didn’t remember deciding to drive to Poguelandia; he felt it in his gut, in the pit of his chest, this pounding certainty that Sarah knew something he didn’t. You wouldn’t tell him—but Sarah? You’d chosen her to drive you home from the hospital just a few days ago.

She was the only person that could lie to his face properly, he couldn’t fucking figure her out, she was always deflecting shit wherever they talked.

By the time he pulled up to the pogues’ little hideaway, the sky had darkened, the place lit only by the glow of string lights and the hum of voices inside. He sat in the truck for a second, staring at the house, willing himself to calm down.

Barging in—loud, pissed, impulsive—wasn’t going to get him what he needed. But fuck, it was hard not to.

He climbed out, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to feel better for half a second. The screen door creaked as he stepped up to the porch, and he could already hear them inside—Sarah’s laugh, JJ cracking some dumbass joke, the rest of them chiming in like they didn’t have a care in the world.

He hated this, hated how they all looked at him, as if he was some ticking time bomb ready to explode. They weren’t wrong.

Rafe knocked, hard and sharp, the laughter inside cut off instantly. Footsteps approached the door, hesitant. A second later, it swung open, and there she was, his sister, looking at him like he was the last person she wanted to see.

“Rafe,” she said, one hand still gripping the door. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”

Her brows pulled together, suspicion creeping into her expression. “Now? Seriously?”

“Yeah, now,” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice low enough to keep from drawing the others’ attention. “Don’t make me say it in front of them.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the voices in the living room. “Rafe, I don’t think—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, his tone sharper than he meant. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to soften, to keep it together. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

She glanced back again, then sighed, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. He was already pacing, hands twitching at his sides, hardly able to contain the energy inside him. 

The way she looked at him—wary, guarded—only made it worse.

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked, crossing her arms, like she was already bracing for a fight.

“My problem?” he barked out a laugh, sharp. “You really wanna play dumb right now? You’ve been keeping something from me, Sarah. I know you have.”

Her brows knit together, feigning confusion, “Dude. What’s this about? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” he hissed, stepping closer, “Don’t lie to me. I already know, okay? I know about the baby.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t confirm a thing, just stared at him like he was some wild animal.

“Where did you get the idea that she’s pregnant?”

His mouth opened, then closed. It felt wrong to snitch on Topper when he’d been one making him pry a little more.

“Well?” she pressed, “Answer me. How did you come up with that?”

Saying it out loud felt like admitting he’d been just as reckless and intrusive as everyone expected him to be. His hand ran over his face, trying to stall.

“I didn’t just make it up.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her patience waning. “No shit. So where, Rafe?”

He glanced away, then back, his voice defensive. “Topper said something, okay? He heard—he thought—” Rafe stopped, knowing how weak it sounded.

 “Topper? You’re taking life advice from Topper now?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it!” Rafe was quick to defend him, “He just... he mentioned some things, and it got me thinking. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Sarah repeated, “You barged over there because Topper mentioned ‘some things’ ? Jesus Christ.”

His hands flew up in frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t hear it? Ignore it and hope it went away? I needed to know!”

“No, you didn’t,” Sarah shot back. “You wanted to know. There’s a difference, and it’s the difference that keeps getting you into this shit.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rafe pointed a finger in his direction, “Like I’m crazy or something. I’m not stupid.”

"You’re just not worth the energy right now."

Instead of crying like he wanted to, he let out a dry laugh, pacing back and forth in front of her.

"Right. Sure. I can see it all over you, just say it."

She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither does Topper.”

“Stop lying!” His voice rose, loud enough to echo into the dark yard. “Just stop. You know something.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Rafe thought he’d finally cracked her. Except instead of giving him what he wanted, she just let out a slow breath, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made him feel like a child fighting for his favorite toy.

“You want to know the truth?” 

“Yes,” he bit out, his chest heaving.

She stepped forward so they were only inches apart. “The truth is, you don’t deserve to know. Not yet.”

Everyone kept telling him the same thing, couldn’t they see he was already trying?

He staggered back a step. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, that whatever you’re looking for, whatever answers you think you deserve, they’re not yours to take. Not until you can handle them without breaking everything you touch."

He flinched, her words striking something inside him, “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, almost desperate.

“I’m not deciding anything,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve spent these last few months making everything about you. Your pain, your anger, your needs.”

He glanced away, “So, what? You don’t trust me?”

Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

“You don’t,” he murmured, the realization bitter in his mouth.

"I don’t," she agreed, “You’re still not the person she needs you to be, and until you can prove you can do that—without me, without anyone holding your hand—you’re better off not knowing.”

“I’m trying. I swear to fucking God, I’m trying. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“She’s scared you’re going to hurt her again—whether you mean to or not. You’re dating someone else, for god’s sake.”

“I ended it. This morning.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Doesn’t change the past, Rafe. And it sure as hell doesn’t make everything better overnight.”

Rafe flinched, the words sinking into him like stones. "Why the fuck do you think I’m here? I don’t want to hurt her—I can’t do anything if she won’t even talk to me."

Topper still had that number. 

You hadn’t hidden it well enough, he hadn’t done anything with it, but it was tempting. All he had to do was call, just to confirm, he told himself. Not to pry, simply to know for sure.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. This isn’t something you can force your way into. She would never forgive you, please be smart.”

His first instinct was to lash out, fire back some venom-laced retort that would sting as much as her tone. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” He dragged a hand through his head, “I know that, I know. But I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I need to... I need to show her I can do better. That I am better.”

“You need to crawl through hell to understand a fraction of what she’s going through; you need to stop thinking about what you want and start thinking about her.”

His hands fell to his sides, limp, the fight suck out of him. She was right—he hated that she was. This wasn’t about him anymore; it never had been.

 “What can I do?”

Her expression softened, not with forgiveness but something sadder—she wanted to believe he could. “You start by fixing yourself, then you wait. Until she’s ready, if she’s ready. You’ve got to mean that, Rafe, you screw this up again..."

"I won’t," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I can’t."

“Okay.”

“What if she’s not ready?”

He had no right to demand more.

“You keep going, keep trying. Not for her, not for anyone else—just for you.”

By the time he got back in his truck, the hurt in his body hadn’t lifted. His mom’s words echoed in his mind one more, “When you find that person, don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

Maybe that started with learning to be the person who deserved to hold on.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt