righteous babe!

Ro, 20 - CISMEN DNI >:(

[littlelittlebear]

𑣲i write over school breaks! i truly dont have time for it during the sem :< but heres my m.ist

𑣲sapphic! cishet men dni, i block thee, you displace me from a holiday humour, i will ne'er like enough to consent. (and be sweet dont be mean or gross even in a flirty or funny way.) ☮️

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 I'm Ro! (like the boat) (20, she/her) I'm femme, and also a princess. I love people, places, things, actions, names, and forms of punctuation! But sea-shoreee if you wanna get specific ~

𑣲dcu's peacemaker; rnf's nevermore; arcane; my little pony fim; tlou; life is strange; stranger things; d&d; critical role/dan and phil/smosh; heavy metal stuff!; project hail mary; lesbianism!; lifting(gym kind not the liftblr kind respectfully); rock climbing; makeup!; riot grrlisms. I just sort of happily vomit my disposition on here.

🌼🧸🩷⚔️🐚Anyhoo I love everything raised to voguple including chatting yayy! Friendship is magic. 🦋🎠💐🪩🥳

[littlelittlebear]

Roy sibs wip! Rome, Ken, and Thing from the addams family

[nevermorewebtoonnews]

RnF Respond to Critique, Implement Changes

Once again, critique in the Nevermore fandom has become prominent, driven by a small but vocal subset of the community. While this is nothing new, the result is- author Kit "Red" Trace and artist Kate Flynn are ready to stop defending themselves and instead listen and learn.

"I realized that it was just as the people online have been telling me. I haven't been doing my best, and the onus is on me to change," said Red to our reporters. "These fans love Nevermore so much that they simply want it to be the best it can be. They've said themselves that anyone who listens to them has to admit they have a point- well, I'm listening."

After reading through the comments left and discussing, the pair announced how they plan to fix the comic.

"We struggled," admitted Flynn. "Really, we think it's best to redo the entire comic, but we can't figure out how to do so in the way we want. We get critique for taking time off to perfect the art, but also if we rush the art we get that critique as well. Ultimately, we decided to keep the art as it is and simply change all text to make it align with the community's vision."

Of course, going forward, both art and writing will be changed and will continue to evolve in response to any and all community feedback. Promising to no longer be "cowards," as some of their best and most loving fans have accused, the creators have committed to being mere vessels through which the readers can create the story they most want to see, rather than pushing their specific and clearly flawed creative vision.

"Doing it our way regardless of what readers want was selfish and problematic," Flynn told our reporters. "We're changing now because it's all we can do, even if we know it will take years if ever to regain the trust we lost."

As for the first critique they're starting with?

"The latest discourse seems to be about whether putting characters in pants eroticizes them," said Red. "We want to be safe, rather than sorry. No more pants. From now on, all characters will be drawn completely nude below the waist."

Nevermore will continue to release Thursday nights at 9 PM EST.

[littlelittlebear]

There are 2 wolves inside me and my girl. Evolved agent of kindness and emotional terrorist

[miwiheroes]

btw i dont really give a gaf about what the script says, what your eyes saw on the screen should be what's canon, not what they originally wrote bfore changing it up. your interpretation through acting choices and such is still valid.

[reluctantbylerblog]

I notice that often, fans tend to take scripts as some ultimate distillation of the truth of a visual work. if it is or isn't in the script then surely that's what was intended, and whatever ends up on our screens should be filtered through that intention, right? I find this trend unfortunate, but I also don't blame fans who fall into this line of thinking.

I think in cases like these, the term "paratext" is important. paratext is considered as anything outside of The Text (in this case, The Show) such as: promos, trailers, interviews, etc. imo, scripts fall under this category. and the thing about paratext is that it can really color how a person perceives certain aspects of the text, and once those perceptions have been gained, it's hard to take yourself back to your original perceptions, before they were shifted by said paratext.

that all being said, paratext is, by definition, NOT text. I think paratext can be an excellent secondary source when strengthening an already existing interpretation of the text. but what paratext should not (and imo cannot) do is override anything already present in the text.

the perfect example of this is will's look during the snowball-avalanche scene. absolutely no one with functioning eyeballs would call that expression "worry." the script simply cannot override the fact that what will was feeling in that scene could be interpreted as: curiosity, reflection, realization, but not worry. if the script had the ability to override that then there wouldn't be a point in having actors, set designers, lighting, blocking etc. because if the script had that power, then why have a tv show at all?

so yeah, scripts are cool little tidbits for fans, but try not to take scripts as gospels of truth above what you are perceiving with your own senses.

[littlelittlebear]

Denying canon byler is like saying the folgers incest commercial wasn't incest

[littlelittlebear]

*scrolling past the nastiest smut i've ever caught a glimpse of* it's from that doctor show isn't it

[littlelittlebear]

Is my headache because i didnt drink water today

[bluebutterflytattooed]

ONYX

rich!abby anderson x stripper!reader

content: strip club environment, sex mentioned, SLIGHT age gap

word count: 2,304

No girl grows up dreaming of being a stripper in a high-end club, except for the crazy ones. Most girls grow up dreaming of being a princess, and the closest they can get to that is wearing a plastic-y crown and getting called ‘princess’ by sleazy men on Saturday nights as they dance on a pole.

You tell yourself that often, almost every single night as you paint your eyelids with glitter and pray that your thong stays on throughout all the lap dances you’re about to give. Your one saving grace is that the club you work in, Club Onyx, is full of rich sleazy men, men who live on the upper east side and like to spend thousands of dollars whenever they want to spend a night away from their wives. This has let you afford an apartment, a cat, and as many pairs of heels as you could desire. Your life is glitz, glamour, men inviting you to yachts and buying you nice lingerie. On the other hand, it's the desire for partnership, that same dream of being a princess.

Every night, colorful lights flood your skin and the stage you stand on. Tonight is no different. You keep your head down for a moment, taking deep breaths, telling yourself ‘this won’t be forever. This won’t be me forever’. Somewhere deep inside of you, you’re afraid that this will be you forever. But the moment music starts playing, you push the feeling away, smiling like this is your dream, this stage and these bills and all of these men. You’re their dream, they will become yours for tonight.

You fall into dance moves that you could practically do in your sleep, spinning on the pole slowly, seductively, saving your fancy tricks for later in the night or when you’re dancing in a studio in front of a mirror, just for yourself. The more into the dancing you get, the more bills come flying at you, higher and higher bills than the ones before. It’s like you’re being bid on, whoever throws the biggest bill will get you for the night. This is not true, but you won’t let them know that.

You’ve let the music wash you away, eyes hooded to far they’re almost closed. Your heart beats steadily, and it’s all you focus on, letting it synchronize with the song. At the last few notes, you scan the room with your glitter-covered eyes, searching for men who’ve begun to beckon you over for a private dance. Your gaze falls on your manager, Brian, a big man with a deep love for silk shirts unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’s locked in conversation with a tall, suit-clad figure, almost taller and stronger than he is. They both look over to you, causing your breath to catch in your chest.

The figure is a woman, a wildly muscular one with a sharp smirk and an impeccably tailored suit. It must’ve cost thousands of dollars, almost as much as the Rolex on her wrist. You swallow hard, watching her exchange words with Brian, before he beckons you over.

You gracefully leave the stage, smiling at a few patrons and swaying your hips as you go over to the pair. Another girls gets on the stage to take your place. Brian smiles at you, placing a large hand on your shoulder. “This is Ms. Anderson,” He introduces you to the woman, who is even taller up close. You feel miniature next to her. “She’d like a dance with you.”

You narrow your eyes at him, knowing there are other men waiting for you. You’re a club favorite. “She’d better get in line then.” You purr, looking up at Ms. Anderson and batting your eyelashes. Your flirting is interrupted by Brian squeezing your shoulder harshly, glaring at you.

Money, he mouths. So she’s rich, which you already could tell. You nod at him, giving in.

“Well, come on then, Ms. Anderson,” You reach for her tie, wrapping it in your grip to lead her to a VIP couch. She grins, grabbing her whiskey off the bar as she follows you.

“You’re a bossy little thing,” She says, her voice low and rough, as she takes a seat on the lounge, manspreading widely as if it’s the most natural thing in the word for her. It probably is. She’s commanding, just by existing, and you can’t help but be a little nervous to make a wrong move around her.

“I can get a lot bossier,” You smile, heartbeat thudding fast as she unbuttons her suit jacket. The buttons of her white shirt under it seem about to burst, as if she’s too muscular to fit in it. You can’t let this woman distract you from your goal here, to get her money in your pockets by the end of the night. So you let the music overtake you, your body moving naturally before straddling her massive thighs, giving her a lap dance as you would with any other customer.

But looking into her hooded hazel eyes, filled with something hungry, you decide you can give her a little extra attention. You loosen her tie, getting closer to her than you should. “So… Ms. Anderson, what do you do for work?” You purr, draping your hair over one shoulder.

“You know, doll, I’d tell you if I wasn’t so distracted by your tits bein’ in my face,” She says casually, her gaze lowered to your chest.

Your face flushes, which is unusual for you. “You asked for the dance, it comes with the package,” You lean closer, rolling your hips against the woman. You pray that she doesn’t discover how shockingly wet you’ve become by checking her pants later. Her hand comes down to grasp your hip, but you smack it away. “No touching.” You giggle at her in a sing-song voice. She takes it away, looking at your face now.

“You’re real pretty too. Bossy, but pretty,” She withdraws her wallet from her pocket, removing a $100 bill. “Can I give this to you? Gotta touch you to do that.” You nod at her, dollar sign flashing in your eyes.

“Yeah.”

She gently tugs at the lace waistband of your panties, tucking the bill under the band before draping her arms over the back of the couch. Just for that, you’ll give her more attention. You fully lower yourself onto her lap, feeling the warmth of her body against your thighs. Acrylic nails drag up her body, feeling the solid muscle under her too-tight shirt. “What’s your name?” She looks up at you.

You laugh at her, genuinely finding the question funny. “I can’t tell you that. Against the rules,” You grind hard down on her lap, wanting the dance to last forever. “You can call me whatever you’d like, though.” Something flashes in her eyes, maybe irritation that someone is doing what she asked them for once.

“You’re too mysterious for your own good,” She lets her hand wander to your hip again. This time, you let her. You feel another bill being slipped under the lace donning your body.

“You’re spoiling me.”

“You deserve it. I’ve got a lot of money to spend on pretty girls like you.” Your face turns bright red, and you pray that she can’t see it under the flashing lights of the club. Ms. Anderson’s hand remains on your hip, hot and steady, as you move your hips back and forth. It’s almost as if she’s guiding them now, and a scene of you riding her, but not in the club, back in whatever penthouse she surely lives in, flashes through your mind.

Suddenly, the two of you are shockingly close, almost no air left between your bodies, only a few inches between your mouths. Her eyes are lidded, your breaths are quick and-

“Hey!” Brian appears behind the VIP couch, motioning for you to hurry it up. Other clients, he mouths to you.

“I’ve got to go, Ms. Anderson,” You pull away from her, practically tugging your heart from your chest. “Other people to see, I’m a busy woman.”

“I can see why,” She muses, smirking and looking you up and down as you climb off her and step away. She presses a third hundred dollar bill into the cup of your bra, goosebumps appearing on your skin as she does. “I’ll see you around.” She smiles, eyes never leaving you as you walk off to the next customer. Your heart thuds in your chest almost painfully.

You aren’t supposed to get close with clients. You aren’t supposed to let them touch you, or tease them. You aren’t supposed to let their words make your heart stop, and you definitely aren’t supposed to hope that they come back again and again and again.

——————————————————————————

She comes back again, the very next night. You’d worn your favorite lingerie, dark red lace, and your overly expensive perfume just in case she did. The moment you stepped off stage, already speaking with a client, you saw her standing across the club. Ms. Anderson had a drink in her hand, amber liquid in a crystal glass, and she wore yet another black suit but with a black button up and no tie. The sight of her made your mouth go dry and between your thighs go wet.

You stuttered a thread of incoherent words to the man you had been chatting with before practically running over to her and almost breaking your ankles in the process. Stripper heels are no joke to run in. “Ms. Anderson!” You say, standing in front of her awkwardly, all aura you’d had previously- lost. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I told you I’d see you,” She smiles. “How about another dance, doll?” You nod at her, smiling and beckoning her over to a different VIP section than before, this one upstairs. “Good color on you.” She comments as you lead her upstairs.

Pride fills you, your ego growing with the knowledge that you made the right choice. “Thank you,” you push her chest so she falls back into a seated position on the couch. The dance begins, slowly swaying your hips and gazing at Ms. Anderson. Unfortunately for you, she looks dissatisfied.

“Sit down already, pretty, don’t tease,” She orders. Your eyes widen, shocked by the request. Usually, you wouldn’t listen. But as you’d already discovered, things happen around this woman that shouldn’t.

So you sit down on her lap, straddling her and grinding against her. “Hard day?” You ask, sugary sweet from years of making small talk while in the most sexual situation possible.

She sighs and nods. “Yeah. No one fuckin’ listens to me sometimes, gotta get mean with them. I don’t love being mean.” You nod at her, sympathetic as your hands unbutton the first three buttons of her shirt. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the strong, commanding woman underneath you blushes. Your chest swells with pride.

“I’ll listen,” You purr through glossed lips.

“Sure you will, bossy,” She laughs at you, a low, rumbling noise. She repeats her actions from the night before, pulling out her wallet. This time, she tucks two bills in the lace of the straps around your thighs, then lets her rough palm rest on the soft skin there. Your movements stutter for a moment of weakness. “Tell me your name, I’ll beg you for it.” She looks at you, hazel eyes starved for you.

You swallow hard. “Tell me yours first. That’s my rule for you.”

“Okay, I love a woman who knows how to get what she wants,” Her tongue runs over her bottom lip quickly before she speaks. “Abby. That’s my name.” Abby.

“Abby,” I repeat, trying the name out in my mouth. You tell her your name, breaking your greatest rule ever. Names start connections. You are not supposed to have a connection with a client. Brian will have your head if he learns.

“Pretty name,” She tilts her head. “How old are you?”

“How old are you?” A grin spreads across your lips and you turn around, your back to Abby’s chest. Her hands grasp your hips, you can feel her breath down your spine.

“Thirty-three,” She says, her voice sending shivers through your body. It’s gotten deeper, rougher. “You have a tattoo. Here,” Her finger runs down your spine before returning to your hip.

“Yeah, I do,” A chain of Lilly of the Valleys. “I’m twenty-four.”

“And you’re working here? What about college?”

“Couldn’t afford it,” You shrug, grinding your ass back against her. A groan comes from deep in her throat.

“You’re too fuckin’ pretty, shit,” You feel her tuck a hand full of bills into the lace of your panties, letting her hands travel up to your waist after. “Take this.” A thicker piece of paper presses against your skin alongside the bills. “Are you working tomorrow?”

You shake your head. “No, I don’t work Mondays or Tuesdays.”

“Call me then. It’s on the card.”

You glance down. There is at least $600 in cash on your body, tucked next to a business card. Gold symbol, black lettering. This is not supposed to happen. But you push that thought aside.

“Okay,” You say softly, turning around again to play with the collar of Abby’s shirt, undoing one more button and catching a glimpse of freckles disappearing into a sports bra. You could practically moan. “You’re pretty,” The words fall from your lips before you can stop them.

Her eyes widen and for the second time tonight, she blushes. “Thank you.” Your name from her mouth sounds like a prayer.

When the dance is over, she gazes at you, straightening her shirt. “You’d better call me, doll. You said you’d listen.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that you will.

——————————————————————————

well look who’s back!

i had this idea and i couldn’t get rid of it so i cooked this up in like two days. i’m SO excited about this and i actually have a plot laid out this time!! do NOT expect regular updates, but i will try my hardest😭

i've missed writing for you guys so much, please let me know what you think!

let me know if you'd like to be added to or stay on my taglist

and also i need a talking stage BAD oh my goshhh

love, blue

[wonderlanderings]

This now lives in my head rent-free cause holy fuck

[wonderlanderings]

Hooked on a Feelin'

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cowgirl!abby anderson x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.3k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: Abby's down bad, mostly fluff, some insinuations but nothing explicit, Ellie being a smart-ass 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby Anderson is a morning person. You are not. When you fall asleep in her arms, she learns something about herself she didn't expect: she'd burn the whole day down just to stay a little longer.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: short but sweet (i hope)

You like to sleep in. Always have. Abby learned that fact about you early on—how you'd grumble and burrow deeper into the pillows if the sun so much as dared to creep through the curtains before nine.

Abby, though? Abby's been up with the roosters her whole life. The kind of up-and-at-'em that her daddy drilled into her before she could even reach the tractor pedals. By five AM, she's usually laced up and halfway to the barn, coffee in hand, already planning out the day's chores.

But her eyes have been open for twenty minutes now. Maybe thirty. She's not sure, because she keeps losing track of time every time you breathe.

The first pale gray of dawn is bleeding through the gaps in her curtains. Somewhere outside, a barn swallow's tuning up. In the distance, a cow lets out a long, low moan—breakfast's late, and she's letting everyone know it. There's hay to haul. Stalls to muck. A fence line Abby meant to check yesterday. All of it's waiting, same as it always does.

But you're here. And suddenly none of that feels urgent.

Your face is smushed into the crook of her neck—smushed being the only word for it, because there's nothing elegant about the way you sleep, and Abby's never loved anything more. One leg's hooked over hers, lazy and possessive even in unconsciousness. Your fingers are loosely fisted in the front of her threadbare henley, like you were holding on when you drifted off and never let go.

You're so warm. So soft. Every breath you take puffs slow and steady against her collarbone, and Abby swears she can feel it all the way down to her bones. Down to the marrow.

She's not gonna move.

Not to check the fence. Not to feed the stock. Not for anything short of a five-alarm fire or the Second Coming. Because this—this right here—is the quietest her head's been in years. The barn, the chores, the endless list of things that need doing—it's all still there, but it's like someone turned the volume down. Muffled it behind a door she doesn't have to open yet.

Abby looks at the clock on the nightstand. 5:23.

She looks back at you.

And something in her chest goes tight—not painful, exactly, but aware. The way a muscle feels right before it gives out. The way the ground feels when you've been on horseback so long you forgot what standing still was like.

This is how it starts, she thinks. Not with grand gestures or dramatic confessions. But like this: lying awake at dawn with a woman in her arms who makes her want to blow off the only life she's ever known.

And fuck.

She should move. She knows she should move. The chickens won't feed themselves, and the horses get ornery if breakfast runs late—especially that chestnut mare, who'll bang her feed bucket against the stall door until someone pays attention. Ellie's already gonna give her shit for sleeping in past six. 

Abby shifts just slightly. Tries to.

And you make this sound. This tiny, unconscious mmmpfh of protest, your brow furrowing for half a second before your arm tightens around her like you're anchoring her to the bed by sheer will. Like you'd wrestle the sun itself back below the horizon if it meant getting five more minutes.

She actually laughs under her breath. Soft. Low. Just a huff of air through her nose, because Jesus, you're not even awake, and you're already bossing her around. Already telling her no, stay, you don't get to leave yet.

Abby's resolve crumbles like a biscuit in gravy—instant, messy, and so damn satisfying she doesn't even try to put it back together.

Her chin comes to rest on top of your head, and she breathes you in deep: your shampoo—something floral, she'll have to ask about it later—your skin, warm and soft against her lips, the faint sweetness of whatever perfume you'd been wearing last night that's still clinging to your collarbones.

God. She's gonna smell like you all day now.

The thought does something dangerous to her chest.

The morning light is barely starting to filter through her curtains—pale gold and soft grey, the kind of light that makes everything look like a dream she's not ready to wake up from. Dust motes drift lazy through the air. Somewhere outside, the world is waking up, starting its noisy, demanding, get-to-work morning chorus.

But in here? In here, it's quiet.

And for the first time in her entire goddamn life—the first time since she was a little girl falling asleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof, safe and small and untroubled—Abby feels her eyes grow heavy again.

Not restless. Not wired. Not that familiar hum of anxiety under her skin that's been there so long she forgot what silence felt like.

She's so comfortable. You're so comfortable. Like you were made to fit right here in her arms, like the universe carved out this exact space just for you and spent the rest of eternity waiting for her to find it. Her shoulder cradles your head like a missing puzzle piece. Your knees slot between hers like they belong there. Every breath you take nudges you closer, and every time, Abby just holds on tighter.

Her muscles—usually strained with the day's first tension, already braced for whatever needs hauling or fixing or wrangling—go slack. One by one, like dominoes. Like her body's been waiting for permission to stop.

Her mind—usually already racing through a to-do list a mile long, jumping from feed stock to check fence to call farrier before her feet even hit the floor—goes quiet. Not empty. Just… still. Like a pond after the wind dies down.

All she can hear is the soft rhythm of your breathing. The occasional sleepy murmur you make when you shift. The distant crow of a rooster she's now fully committed to ignoring.

Abby's eyes flutter closed. Then open again. She glances at the clock—5:37—and for a second, the old habits twitch. Get up. Get moving. Don't waste daylight.

But then you sigh against her neck, content and soft, and that voice gets real quiet real fast.

Tomorrow, she tells herself, I'll be responsible tomorrow.

It happens about an hour later—or maybe two, or maybe three—Abby's lost all sense of time buried under you like this. The morning light's shifted from pale gray to something warmer, golder, spilling across the foot of the bed like honey. She's been drifting in and out, not really sleeping, just being. Listening to you breathe. Counting the tiny flutter of your lashes against her skin when you dream.

She's never done this before. Never just… stopped.

And then it comes.

The first knock.

Not a gentle one, either. A full-on, knuckle-busting bang bang bang that rattles the damn door in its frame. Abby flinches like she's been caught stealing.

"Anderson!"

Ellie's voice. Of course it's Ellie. Sharp, teasing, way too loud for this hour—or any hour, really.

Abby's eyes snap open, disoriented for half a second before the last few hours come rushing back: you. Her bed. The fact that she has never missed morning chores. Not once. Not in years. Her daddy used to say you could set your watch by her, and he wasn't wrong.

"You alive in there?" Ellie calls out, rapping again, harder this time. "It's past seven!"

Past seven.

Abby's internal clock screams in protest—a visceral, full-body betrayal. The horses are probably staging a revolt. The chickens have unionized. 

She should've been mucking stalls an hour ago. Should've hauled hay, checked water troughs, done about fifteen things she hasn't even started.

But then you stir.

Just a little. A soft, sleepy sound muffled against her neck—not quite a word, not quite a whine, just this tiny mm of protest at the noise. Your nose burrows deeper into the crook of her shoulder. Your fingers flex against her chest like you're holding on tighter.

And Abby's whole body goes rigid.

Don't wake up. Please don't wake up. 

She needs Ellie to shut up. Right now. Immediately. Preferrably five minutes ago.

"I'm fine," Abby hisses toward the door, voice low and rough with sleep—and something else. Something that sounds almost like begging. "Go away."

"The hell you are," Ellie fires back, completely undeterred. "You've never been late a single day since I've known you. Dina's taking bets on whether you got abducted by coyotes or finally keeled over from a protein overdose."

Another bang on the door. Louder this time. "Seriously, Abs, you okay? I'm coming in—"

"No—don't—"

Too late.

The door swings open with a groan of old hinges, and Ellie barrels inside like she owns the place—all smug concern and messy ponytail.

She takes two steps in. Three.

Then freezes mid-stride.

You're still curled around Abby like a koala—no, like a vice, like you're trying to fuse your body to hers in your sleep. Your face is tucked into her shoulder, half-buried in the collar of her henley. One of your legs is hooked over both of hers. One of Abby's hands is splayed flat across your back, fingers spread like she's been guarding you. The other is tangled in your hair, frozen mid-stroke, like she fell asleep like that and never let go.

Ellie's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"Oh," she breathes, drawing it out into about four syllables. Her eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline.

Abby's already bright red. The flush has crawled up her neck, flooded her cheeks, probably reached the tips of her ears by now. She looks like she's been standing in a field fire.

"Don't," Abby warns, voice low and dangerous.

"Oh my God."

"Ellie, I swear to God—"

"So this is why you didn't show up." Ellie crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she's settling in for a show.

"Keep your voice down," Abby hisses, glancing down at you—still asleep, thank every god she doesn't believe in—and then back at Ellie with murder in her eyes. Actual murder. The kind you read about in true crime podcasts. "She's still sleeping."

Ellie's grin somehow gets wider. It's almost impressive, honestly—like watching a cat stretch before it pounces. She looks at you, then at Abby, then back at you, and her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. There's a long, deliberate pause, the kind that's meant to make Abby squirm.

It's working.

"Holy shit," Ellie breathes, her voice pitching up with pure, undiluted delight. "You're domestic."

"I will end you." The words come out strangled, half-threat, half-plea. Abby's grip on you tightens instinctively, like she's protecting you from Ellie's chaos—or maybe holding on for emotional support. Hard to tell.

"You're in bed." Ellie jabs a finger toward the tangled sheets like she's presenting evidence in a courtroom. "Cuddling." She draws the word out, savoring every syllable. "Look at you. Big scary Abby Anderson, built like a brick shithouse, can deadlift a baby cow, and you're the little spoon."

"I am not the little spoon—"

"You're literally wrapped around her like a goddamn blanket." Ellie gestures broadly at the two of you.

"Get out of my room."

"You haven't even heard my favorite part yet."

"I don't want to hear your favorite part—"

"Your face is the color of a fire truck." Ellie's grin is practically feral now. "Like, full-on tomato territory. I didn't even know you could blush. I thought your blood was just, like, tractor grease or something."

Abby's face is on fire. Not metaphorically—she's pretty sure actual flames are licking up her neck, across her cheeks, probably setting her hair on fire at this point. She can feel the heat radiating off her own skin.

She grabs the nearest pillow—one of the ones that got shoved to the foot of the bed sometime in the night, victims of all that restless shifting before she finally settled down with you—and hurls it at Ellie's head with embarrassing accuracy.

Thwack.

Ellie catches it—catches it, the show-off—laughing so hard she's practically wheezing, and holds it up like a shield. "Okay, okay, I'm going! Jesus." She's backing toward the door, but she's not done yet, because of course she isn't. 

"Personally, I was rooting for alien abduction, but this is way better."

"Out."

Ellie holds up both hands in surrender, still cackling, and slips through the doorway. But she pauses there, half-in and half-out, her laughter dying down to something quieter. Something real.

Her expression softens, just a fraction—just enough for Abby to catch the genuine warmth underneath all the teasing. The way Ellie's looking at her isn't mocking anymore. It's almost… proud. In a weird, Ellie-shaped way.

"For real, though," Ellie says, quieter now. She jerks her chin toward the door, toward the rest of the ranch, toward all the chores and responsibilities and people who are definitely gossiping about this right now. "I'll cover for you. Tell Jesse you've got the flu or something. Tell Tommy you're doing inventory." A smirk tugs at her lips. "Tell 'em you're busy."

Abby blinks, her flush finally starting to fade from "volcano" to just "embarrassed human." "You will?"

"Yeah, well." Ellie shrugs, that crooked grin softening into something almost kind. She glances down at you—still curled up, still dead to the world—and something flickers across her face. Recognition, maybe. Or memory. "If I had her in my bed, I wouldn't wanna leave either."

She's gone before the pillow Abby throws next can connect.

Abby exhales—long, slow, embarrassed, and weirdly grateful—and lets her head fall back against the pillow. Her heart's still pounding. Her face is still warm. Her entire body is still humming with that strange, unfamiliar feeling of being seen.

She looks down at you.

Still sleeping. Cheek squished against her shoulder, mouth slightly open, lashes fanned out across your cheeks like little crescent moons. Your breathing is slow and even, completely undisturbed by the chaos that just unfolded six feet from your head.

Still perfect.

Still completely oblivious to the fact that your existence just derailed her entire morning.

[lovelyladylaudanum]

Why is no one talking about how in TGWDLM:R during the scene where Bill is freaking out about needing to rescue Alice, Ted is waaaaaayyyy more depressed than in the original version?? To me it feels like he's dealing with the realization that Peter is infected and that what's the punt of Bill trying to save Alice when it's going to be the same situation. He also probably is trying to talk Bill out of going cause Ted isn't brave enough to go looking for Peter on the of chance he wasn't infected (Paul never tells him Peter was at Beanie's)

[jayzhine]

I’m back in the building 😭

[genderfailure]

[phoskitty]

so I want to know why no one told me there was a free to watch musical that was cattered to me and my special interests specifically

[buggirl-lunesta]

[littlelittlebear]

Conformitygate was honest to god psychosis

[alloftheimagines]

cradling a bottle of ice just to feel something

[darlingofthecrypt]

drunk reader trying to make out with Ellie in the backseat of a taxi x mostly sober Ellie trying to get her to settle for tender affection because of the driver

ohhhh to be in this position with her 😩 TW: lazy writing

“wowwww, thank you uber driverrrr” you slur, climbing into the backseat of the car. your girlfriend grips your arm tightly in her hand, trying to keep you balanced

the driver gives you an irritated stare that you don’t seem to notice, but ellie picks up on it

“sorry about her. i’ll leave a good tip” ellie laughs, getting in the car behind you

you lean in close to her, grabbing her by the collar of her shirt, you pout as she shrugs you off

“seatbelt” she says like a demand

“mmmphhh” you whine, ignoring her and pressing your lips just under her ear “you smell so good”

“you’re wasted” she smirks “sit in your seat” she says it in her serious, no bullshit tone

“baby” you whine, moving your kisses down her neck

“how’d you even get so drunk? i swear i only took my eyes off you for twenty minutes” she teases

“m’ not drunk” you lie hopelessly, still leaving sloppy kisses on her skin

“oh really? totally sober, huh?” she jokes, pushing you off her gently

“kiss me” you pout

“babe, be respectful. seatbelt. now.” she demands

you scoot back with a pout on your face “you’re so mean”

ellie leans over and buckles you into your seat “there, look how pretty and safe you look”

you lift your legs, resting your feet on her lap, needy for any contact

ellie starts to massage your calves “do your feet hurt?” she asks. you always wear the worst shoes, and you never learn your lesson

“mhm” you frown, looking down at your heels

ellie frowns back at you “I’ll rub ‘em when we get home, okay?”

“will you make me pasta too?” you ask, clearly pushing your luck

“you’re spoiled, you know that?” she teases as her hands move higher up on your legs

“I’m not spoiled at all, you won’t even kiss me” you complain stubbornly

she takes your hand in hers and brings it up to her lips, placing a slow, tender kiss on your knuckles “i know. i’m so evil. but yeah, pasta. whatever you want, it’s yours… when we get home”