do you ship abaddon with anyone?? if so abaddon x whoever for prompt #1 (I'm curious, so sue me)
Meg can’t remember if the world is always spinning this quickly, or if she’s just loaded. Okay, okay, that’s a lie: she knows she’s just loaded, as she stumbles down the hallway of her building, half leaned against the wall, the teeth of her jacket’s zipper scraping a long line through old cream coloured paint as she careens forward.
The sixth shot of whiskey might have been a mistake. The ninth almost definitely was.
Meg reaches her front door, and it’s locked, because it’s three in the morning and her roommate was probably asleep hours ago. She’s cute, but a goody goody; insists on getting her beauty rest before teaching arts and crafts to middle school punks. Meg tries to fish her keys from her purse quietly, but it slips from her hands, and lands on the floor with a thunk. Her keys fall next, with a loud, metallic clatter, and Meg flinches. Well, at least she tried.
Meg falls onto her ass next to her keys and her purse and leans her head against the door. She feels less sloshed like this. She closes her eyes and bangs on the door.
"Hael!" Meg yells. "Yo, Hael, let me in. Muh— my keys aren’t working." She doubts she could get them in the lock right now, anyway.
She keeps knocking until she hears movement on the other side of the door and the sliding of a lock. The door swings open, and Meg loses her balance and falls onto her back with a snorting giggle. Her eyes are still scrunched shut. “Thanks, Hael,” she mumbles, and even she can hear her own words slur.
"What the fuck do you want?"
Meg’s eyes pop open. She doesn’t recognize the woman standing over her, but it sure as heck ain’t Hael. She looks fierce and imposing, arched brows and a full mouth and a tumble of curling red hair. She also looks pissed. Meg scrambles to her feet. “Do I know you?” she asks, still foggy-drunk.
"You don’t," the woman replies. She still looks mad, but there’s curiosity softening it now, unlikely, Meg realizes, and so, so welcome. "Abaddon," she offers, like it pains her to be polite. And maybe it does; it is the middle of the night. But Meg squints into the distant space of Abaddon’s apartment, flooded with light, a record playing low, whiskey and wine bottles littering the coffee table, and thinks that there’s no way she’d been sleeping.
And Meg wants her, she realizes, in that loud, impulsive way you want strangers when you’re drunk. “Rock on,” she says, and pushes past Abaddon and into her apartment. Abaddon squalls something, probably a protest, but Meg ignores her and turns the music louder. The Doors.
"Love this song," Meg shouts. She hears a loud click when Abaddon closes the door.