#Kate Writes

[thychesters]

wave after wave. zolu ; 4k ; post-thriller bark

“Zoro’s been asleep for a while,” he says, more to himself than his audience of one. Zoro always sleeps, that’s nothing new—he’ll twitch when Luffy pokes him in the cheek, crack an eye open right before he can yell ‘lunch’ in his ear—but never like this.

Zoro’s always run warm and now his hand is cold when Luffy touches it. 

“I don’t like it,” he says. He waits for an eye to crack open—an eye that’s green in the early morning sun, or gunmetal gray when the sun’s setting.

He wants to reach out and touch him—his arm, or his hand, something solid, something that tells him Zoro’s still here and tells Zoro he isn’t alone. But there’s barely a part of his body that isn’t bandaged, and with what exposed skin there is he isn’t sure if a simple touch would hurt him even more.

Now he sits beside him, and he is not a patient man, but he will wait for Zoro.

read on ao3.

[aceghosts]

Be Mine Forever

Summary: On Valentine's day, you reminisce about your former lover, Albert Wesker. A series of memories set through your time at S.T.A.R.S. Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death; Canon Typical Violence; Sexual Harassment (Very brief and the dude gets what's coming to him), Grief/Mourning, Boss/Employee Relationship, and Possessive Behavior. Let me know if I need to tag for anything else. Words: 3.8 k Author's Note: This is a gift for @mydisenchantedeulogy as part of @carlosoliveiraa's My Bloody Valentine's Day Gift Exchange! Amanda, thank you for letting me participate! Sugar, I really hope you like this! I had a lot of fun writing this.

AO3

Snow crunches beneath your boots as you head home from your late shift at the police station. Your breath comes out in misty puffs in the cold February air, gloved hands shoved in your pockets. A gust of wind blows, shivering as it tosses your hair in your face. You brush your hair out of your face, lamps lighting your way home as you walk along the crowded city sidewalk. Passing by a local restaurant, you catch sight of happy couples through the window, enjoying romantic candle-lit dinners. Stepping out of the way of other strangers on the sidewalk, you stop, an overwhelming sadness encompasses you. Those couples look so happy, so in love, especially the pair closest to the window. He gazes into her eyes, full of adoration, holding her hands with no regard for others around them. That should have been you and him. You should have been gazing lovingly into his cold blue eyes, holding his hand as he talked. Just the two of you together. Why couldn’t this be you and him?

Because he had chosen another path, one where you could not follow him.

Letting out a mournful sigh, you begin your journey home once again. Valentine’s Day, a holiday you once merely tolerated, was now a day of pain. All because of Albert Wesker. You hear his voice in your head, shaking it off. It was no use thinking of him; Albert was dead, and even worse, he had betrayed S.T.A.R.S., you included. When you spoke with your former team members, you pretended to be angry, yet that anger came from a real place, a different place. They were angry because of his betrayal. You were angry that he chose death over you. He chose ambition and power games over you. Yet, your heart longs for him, wishing to feel the warm comfort of his arms around you once again. You couldn’t help but mourn the man you loved; mourn the future you envisioned with him.

“Why Albert? Why?” You ask quietly, knowing no one will answer you. As you walk, memories of your days with Albert and S.T.A.R.S. play out.

—

A position on the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team was something you dreamed of and fought like hell for. Irons thought you didn’t deserve to be on the team, but Enrico vouched for you, asserting that you were the right fit, that you could carry your weight. Wesker, your Captain at the time, accepted you as a member of the team reluctantly. He would later admit, when it was just you two in bed late at night, that letting you on the team was one of the best decisions that he ever made. He would pick you to be a part of the team, again and again. Unfortunately, not everyone felt the same way.

Paul was a pain in your ass from the moment you met him, a bully to everyone around him. He hated you the most, believing you stole his spot on the Alpha team.  Fortunately for you, he was terrified of Wesker, slinking away whenever he saw the Captain. Paul would also back off (albeit reluctantly) when Barry or Chris stepped in. As you hit the punching bag, alone in the station gym late at night, you hear a familiar annoying voice. “Hey!” You stop, turning to find Paul striding towards him. You give him your best glare, one that would frighten most. “What? A fellow officer can’t say hello?”

“What do you want?” You really wish Wesker was here. Or Chris. Or Barry. Hell, you would even settle for Brad, who was slightly intimidated by Paul.

He sneers, crowding into your space. You step back, knowing there is limited room between you and the bag. “You too good for the rest of us now, huh? Being part of S.T.A.R.S. has really gone to your head.”

You don’t think you’re too good for anyone. (Well, you might be better than a few people, Paul included.) “I am, or at least, I know I’m better than you, Paul. I earned my spot on the team.” You really shouldn’t push Paul’s buttons, but God, does it feel so good. 

“Fuck off,” He says, hands clenching into fists, “You probably had to sleep your way onto the team, huh? You sleep with Wesker to-.” Red colors your vision, anger flaring in your chest. Wesker might be a hardass, but you respect the hell out of him, and you won’t let anyone besmirch his name.

Without thinking, you throw a punch, catching Paul in the stomach. He coughs, doubling over with a wheeze of pain. As he stumbles back, he curses, “you fucking asshole, I’m going to-.”

“You are going to what?” A familiar, cold voice cuts in, and as you look over to your left, you find Wesker watching the both of you intently. His posture is a little tense, compared to the normally controlled discipline. You feel something radiating off him, something akin to a frosty rage.

Paul straightens up quickly, playing the victim. “Captain Wesker! I was just asking them what they were doing here, and they attacked me!”

Wesker smirks. “Is that what happened?” He asks, coming next to you, “From where I was standing, you were harassing one of my officers. What was it you said? That they had to sleep their way on the team?”

Color drains from Paul’s face.  “I-I wasn’t-.”

He holds his hand up, cutting Paul off with a sneer on his face. “I think it’s time I made something very clear: you never had a spot on the Alpha team. You were never considered for a number of reasons, and,” Wesker places a hand on your shoulder, “They have proven themself to be a true asset to the team. I am proud to serve as their captain. If you were on my team, I would quit.” Wesker’s hand leaves your shoulder as he steps closer to Paul. “Now, are you going to leave them alone? Or do you need more encouragement?”

Paul nods, swallowing fearfully as he backs away. “Yes, Captain,” He says, before turning tail and fleeing.

Letting out a relieved sigh, you say, “Thanks for helping. Paul’s been a pain in my ass since I started.”

Wesker nods. “Why did you punch him?” He asks, a note of genuine curiosity. You notice he is more relaxed now that Paul is gone.

Your cheeks heat up, feeling slightly embarrassed. “He insulted you by saying that you slept with me for my spot on the team.”

“Not for yourself?”

Shaking your head, you say, “I really like you as a Captain. I’ve learned a lot being a part of Alpha team, more than anywhere else. I respect you a lot.” It’s more than respect, but you aren’t about to admit that. You swear you catch a look of delight on his face as you pause for a second, before asking, “Did you really mean it when you said that I’m an asset to the team?”

Wesker nods. “I do,” He says, giving you an approving look, “You’ve proven yourself to be a fine officer. I had my doubts when Enrico suggested you, but you continue to surpass my expectations everyday.” His words surprise you, but delight you, especially the surpassing expectations part. Smirking, he adds with a rather teasing tone, “I look forward to you continuing to do so, but please don’t punch anyone else on my behalf.”

You nod, letting out a small laugh. No more punching anyone on Wesker’s behalf, but you’ll still defend his honor verbally. Never said anything about putting someone in their place with a well-timed tongue-lashing.

A few weeks later, Paul disappears. You hear something about him accepting a job at another police station, wishing his new coworkers the best.  

—

At S.T.A.R.S., you continue to make Wesker proud, determined to be the best you can be. You work harder than you ever have, putting in blood, sweat, and tears. Wesker demands so much more of the team and more. His training is rigorous, but you feel prepared for whatever may come your and Alpha Team’s way. And as much as you loathe to admit, a part of you yearns for praises from Wesker. When he tells you that you’ve done well with a slightly approving tone, a rush of pride overwhelms you, a faint heat on your cheeks. And you swear that you’ve caught him smirking at that once or twice, especially in after-hours training where he’ll lean down, speaking the words of praise into your ear. It always sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine. And, it definitely doesn’t help with that tiny crush you have.

One night, late after the rest of your teammates have gone home, you return to the station to pick up the book you were reading, left in the top drawer of your desk. As you reach the door of the S.T.A.R.S. office, you find Wesker alone, his office door open. He looks frustrated as he stares down at the paperwork, sunglasses on his desk. His hand runs through his hair, a few platinum blond strands falling loose. Wesker sighs, and your heart twinges a little. You can’t do Wesker’s paperwork for him, but you want to help in whatever way you can. A thought pops into your mind, and you head to the staff break room, ready to put your plan into action.

“Wesker?” His head snaps up, looking at you with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.   

“What brings you to the station this late at night?” Wesker asks, placing the pen down as his gaze lands on the cup of coffee in your hand. He snorts. “Surely, the station coffee can’t be that good…”

You shake your head. “I came back to pick up my book, but I saw you, and…” you trail off slightly, feeling slightly shy, “I thought you could use a cup of coffee.” You hold out the Styrofoam cup of coffee for Wesker to take.

Suspicious, Wesker looks between you and the cup in your hands, eyes narrowed as if you might have poisoned it. Eventually, he relents, taking the cup from your hand. His fingers briefly make contact with your fingers, sending a spark of pleasure through you. Taking a sip of the coffee, Wesker looks pleased, raising an eyebrow. “This does not taste like the normal sludge that comes from the break room.”

“I know where all the good creamers and coffee are hidden,” You say proudly, taking a seat at Wesker’s desk.  

Wesker smiles, taking another sip of coffee. “A hidden talent perhaps?’

“I have many hidden talents,” you flirt, a devilish smile on your lips, “Maybe, I’ll show you sometime.”

He smiles, a darkly hungry look in his eyes. “Perhaps, you will.”

That damn man. How unfair he make you feel this way. One of the loose blond strands of hair briefly falls in his face, and you’re struck with the need to push it back for him. Impulsively, you rise and lean over the desk, your hand reaching towards him. You gently push his hair back, your fingers grazing his skin softly. Wesker grabs your wrist tightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place. His lips are slightly parted, pupils wide. “I’m sorry,” You apologize, hoping you didn’t cross a line, “I wanted to help.”

Wesker releases your wrist, allowing you to draw your hand away, the ghost of his touch still haunting you. “Don’t apologize.” Sitting back down in your seat, you’re relieved to see that Wesker isn’t upset. Rather, he seems delighted by your touch. “I did not expect it, but,” he emphasizes that word, “That does not mean I did not like it.”

Your heart leaps at those words, butterflies in your stomach. “Good,” You say softly, before deciding to change the subject, “Do you need help with something else?”

“No,” He says, shaking his head, “I should be done soon, especially thanks to your coffee.” You straighten up with pride, always hungry for the tiniest bits of praise. “You should go home for the night.”

Heeding his advice, you get up from your chair. “Have a good night, Wesker.”

“You as well,” He replies, a teasing smirk on his face, “Sweet dreams.” What a cruel man. Like that isn’t going to haunt you for the rest of the night.

—

You sip your beer, watching Jill lineup her shot as you lean against the bar. Tonight, you’re at one of the local bars in Raccoon City with the Alpha and Bravo team, watching your teammates play Pool.  It’s not a bad way to spend a Friday night; you actually like the rest of your team and don’t mind spending a Friday night with them every once in a while. Even better, Wesker is here with the rest of you at the bar tonight, a rare occurrence.

Someone leans against the bar next to you. Looking over to your right, you realize it’s Wesker, beer in hand as he asks, “No interest in Pool?”

You shake your head. “I have fun playing Pool, but I thought I would sit this round out.” He nods, the silence settling around you two. You can’t help but wonder why Wesker is here. He always seems so busy, like he’s got something that he is hiding from the rest of you.

“You seem like you have something to ask,” He says, taking a sip of his beer.

Letting curiosity get the best of you, you ask, “Why are you here? You don’t normally join us,” before adding quickly a moment later, “not that anyone is complaining.” Well, that’s a lie. A few people did complain, namely that they would have to be on better behavior since Wesker was there. You definitely weren’t complaining; you were very happy to see him.

“I wanted to be here.”

Tilting your head, you wonder why Wesker would want to be here. No offense, but the cheap dive bar that Alpha and Bravo teams hung out at never seemed like his type of place. Wesker always stood out, like this was all beneath him. “Really?”

He nods. “Are you surprised?”

You shrug. “Kinda. I thought you might have something else to do. Or maybe, someone waiting for you at home.”

“There is no one waiting for me at home,” he slides closer, your breath catching in your throat, “And you? Is there someone waiting for you?” 

Shaking your head, you reply, “No, I’m single.” Since you met Wesker, most potential partners hadn’t measured up to him. Maybe it’s the beer or maybe it’s being so close to him, you decide to take a chance. “But there is someone that I’m interested in.”

“Do tell.”

You swallow nervously, your heart pounding. “Well, he works at RCPD with us.”

Wesker groans. “Please tell me it isn’t Redfield.”

“It’s not.” Chris was a good friend, nothing more. “He is a member of S.T.A.R.S.,” Wesker raises an eyebrow, “Everyone thinks he standoffish, but I think they’re wrong. He expects the best and settles for nothing less. I find that very attractive in a man.” He takes another sip of his beer, but you get the feeling that Wesker has already caught on, with that knowing twinkle in his blue eyes. “But I can’t ask him out.”

“Why would that be?”

“I don’t know if he would say yes,” You admit honestly, finding Wesker difficult to read at times, “And he’s my boss.”

 “Would you like to get out of here with me? Perhaps dinner?” He asks, placing his beer on the bar as you watch him with eyes wide. Was he really-?

“Yes,” you nod your head, excitement rising in your chest, “Yes, I would love to.”

“Good. I’ll leave first. Leave fifteen minutes after I do; I will be waiting for you outside.”

You watch him leave, on cloud nine. Holy shit, this was happening; this was really happening.

—

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart cracking into pieces. Albert, your Albert, was a plant for Umbrella. Or he used to be one. Apparently, Albert was moving on to bigger and better things. But he only had one problem: S.T.A.R.S. He lured you and the rest of S.T.A.R.S. to Arklay, to die here, your fates unknown to the rest of the world. You tremble, taking shaky breaths as you blink back tears. Was your whole relationship a lie? A helpful cover to make Albert seem normal? “Albert…” His name slips from your lips.

Albert focuses on you, a sneer on his face. “Sorry, you had to be here for this, Dearheart. Perhaps, things would have been different for us in another life.”

Bullshit. The way he says it so flippantly makes you angry, red coloring your vision. “Fuck you,” You snarl, “You can make things different now. You don’t have to do this!”

“I don’t want to, Dearheart. It was always going to happen this way.” You wince, the words cutting deeply. Behind Albert, the glass splinters, the giant tyrant behind him awake. With a swift swipe, its long claws bury themselves directly into Albert’s chest. He gasps in pain, his eyes still on you. You see the fear in his eyes, and maybe due to a little wishful thinking, you see something like regret. Albert coughs up blood, dribbling down his chin onto his shirt. His hand twitches, slightly in your direction. That thing simply tosses him aside like a piece of garbage.

“ALBERT!” You scream, a painful howl of grief and anger. You step towards him, attempting to run for him. Despite everything he had done, he was your Albert, and you still loved him.

Jill grabs your shoulders roughly, holding you back from Albert. You try to scramble from her grip, but she holds tight as you scream. “Don’t! He’s dead!” She says, her fingers digging in as she tries to pull you back. Logically, you know Jill is right, but your heart desperately wants you to go to him, to run towards him. Maybe, Albert really isn’t dead. Maybe, you still have a chance to save him. “Barry, get them out of here.”

Barry nods, pulling you away from Jill. “Come on, we need to get out of here.” He looks over to Jill, who is only focused on the tyrant, her face determined.

“I’ll take care of this guy and meet you upstairs.”

He guides you away from Jill and the tyrant, back towards the door. “Be safe, Jill.” Your eyes are still on Albert, lifeless and motionless in a puddle of blood on the floor. His eyes are hollow, devoid of the intense storm of emotion you saw in his eyes. Why? Why did he have to do this? To leave you alone?

As Barry pulls you out of the lab, all you can think is: Is there some way you could have changed this?

—

Opening the door to your apartment, you let out a relieved sigh, stepping into the darkness. Flicking on the hallway light, you close the door behind you, dropping your keys into the bowl. You hang up your coat and scarf before eventually discarding your gloves on the table beside the bowls for your keys. Heading towards your kitchen, you glance over towards your living room. Stopping dead in your tracks, shock washes over you as your heart pounds loudly in your ears. That-that couldn’t be….

“Hello Dearheart,” Your former boss and lover says, sitting in your oversized armchair. He stands, shrouded in the dark of your apartment.

“This-This isn’t real…,” You try to rationalize it, tears welling in your eyes, “We watched you die. I watched you die.”

“I’m very real, Dearheart. Would you like to see for yourself?” He holds out his gloved hand for you to take.

You approach him cautiously, fearful that this might be your lonely heart playing a trick on you. Yet, this vision looks so much like your Albert. Sounds so much like him. You place your hand in his, allowing Albert to draw you close. He feels real as his other arm wraps around your waist, a familiar smirk on his face. He feels so much like your Albert. “Albert, is that-is that you?”

“Yes, I promise I am myself, Dearheart,” He replies, releasing your hand. His hand comes up to your face, gently wiping away tears that you didn’t know were falling. If this is a dream, you don’t ever want to wake up, even if he was a goddamn asshole who betrayed you. You want to stay here with Albert forever. Yet, something about him still feels off, not quite right. You need to see his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. Your hands reach up, gently taking his sunglasses off. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare into his eyes, once blue, now a molten gold against a burning red. His eyes are feline-like, reminding you of a panther. They’re so inhuman, yet something about them is divine. “Scared, Dearheart?”

“No.” You shake your head. You should be, but you aren’t. Albert is back, and you don’t care if some things about him are different. And you like the way he looks at you, utterly possessive, utterly adoring. “Is this why you’re still alive?”

He nods. “One of the few to survive the process.”

Another thought comes to you. Why come back? He was content to let you think he was dead for so long. Why come back to you now? “Why come back for me, Albert? I thought I didn’t matter to you.”

“I believed I did not need you, Dearheart, but I was wrong. I want you; I need you.” The words roll off his tongue naturally, sounding so believable. You so desperately want to believe him, to believe that he came back for you. “You belong to me, Dearheart. I always come back for what belongs to me.”

“Is that your way of asking me to come with you? To leave everything behind?”

He nods. “Come with me. Be mine forever.”

“Yes.” You don’t need to think about it; you want Albert-you always have. You drop his glasses, taking his face into your hands as you kiss him roughly. With both of his hands on your waist, he pulls you against him, eagerly returning the kiss. Albert is overwhelming, your head dizzy and your legs slightly weak. He bites your bottom lip, your mouth opens for him. You missed this; you missed him so much.

You whine as he pulls away, desperate and in need of him. “We will have time for that later, Dearheart, but we need to leave. Now.”

And you don’t look back, allowing Albert Wesker to whisk you away to a new life.  

[darkwing-katy]

The Spider and the Fly Part II

Pairing: Eventual Leland x Reader (sorta? You’ll see what I mean)

Word Count: 3,943

Summary: All you want to do is get through your online courses and keep your best friend from making bad choices in men. But there’s this creepy therapist who is absolutely insisting on you making an appointment with him. Who the hell is this Leland Townsend, and why won’t he leave you alone?!

Part two of seven. Takes place sometime around seasons one and two.

The series is inspired heavily by my favorite poem, “The Spider and the Fly” (1829) by Mary Howitt. This poem is in the public domain.

Tagging: @primosflowergarden; @vi-er

Part One

——————————————————————————————————

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin.

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly truck you in.”

You hang up your phone with a smug grin. So this Dr. Townsend thought he could intimidate you? Fuck that. You weren’t about to let that happen, and you’d made sure to give a fake last name, fake address (that you verified to make sure it wasn’t easily google-abley false), and left a fake phone number. It wasn’t the first time you’d done something like this—you’d made up fake names in bars when you saw creeps hitting on women (and men) who were clearly uncomfortable. One time you’d made up a whole elaborate backstory about being the adopted sister of a woman who was being harassed and that was why you looked so drastically different. The drunken creeps had bought your little story, and the woman had been so grateful for the help.

You’d scheduled the fake appointment with Dr. Townsend for a week from now, and you had such a great time imagining the pissed-off expression on his face when you never showed and he found that he’d wasted his time on you. Why the hell had he been so adamant about you meeting him, anyway? You didn’t need a therapist; if anyone did, it was Betty, who was already on the rebound with a guy she met on tinder. You loved your friend, but by God, she needed to take some time to figure herself out. Maybe she’d do that when she went to her parents’ place for the rest of the summer.

Life goes on, and you put Dr. Townsend out of your mind as you work your job at the bookstore and come back home to the apartment you and Betty share to work on your creative writing coursework. Your latest course assignments consist of reading multiple books in your preferred genre of writing, but they all have to be by different authors. You also have to keep a journal that you write in first thing in the morning, three pages, and a few things involving figuring out what your goals are as a creative person and what kinds of thoughts hold you back. It’s all very introspective, which was hokey at first, but you’ve learned some things about yourself, and you find that you actually enjoy the exercises…even if they feel silly at times.

You come home from work on Thursday to an unfamiliar car parked in front. That alone is enough to send your nerves tingling, but the real shocker is when you step into the apartment to see Betty sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea…with Dr. Townsend seated across from her.

What the actual fuck? you think as you stare at the scene before you. As if he’d read your mind, Dr. Townsend turns his head to look at you, a warm smile on his face that does not reach his eyes in any way, shape, or form. “Oh, hello there, (Y/N)! Betty was just filling me in on her latest boy toy problems. Man, that James sounds like such a wonderful fella, doesn’t he?”

From what you’ve heard of James, you already hated the guy, but you weren’t about to declare that in front of Betty. You’re not sure what your face looks like, but whatever expression you have seems to give Dr. Townsend some form of satisfaction because he leans back in the small wooden chair and takes another long draught of his cup of tea.

“Yes, Dr. Townsend was telling me that I shouldn’t be so quick to judge guys by their profiles,” Betty said with a wide smile. Hers is authentic, you note grumpily. “I know that you said I should investigate James some more, but Dr. Townsend thinks I shouldn’t be afraid to take chances and explore the unknown instead of going into a relationship knowing everything about a guy.”

“Please, call me Leland,” Dr. Townsend says, flashing what seems to be a friendly smile in Betty’s direction.

Betty titters, a weird sound that you do not like hearing from your best friend. Oh, God, she’d better not be crushing on this asshole. It’d be just like her to fall for his charm and try to hit on him, even with the age gap.

“Alright, Leland,” she repeats, her cheeks pinking. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but you need to stop this conversation right now.

“Betty, don’t you have to get to your Zumba class?” you say, your eyes darting to the stove clock. Her Zumba class isn’t until 5:30, but it’s close enough to now that she should be leaving, especially if she’s hoping to chat with her buddies in the class.

Betty jumps up from her chair, the legs scraping the floor as she turns her head towards the clock. “Oh, shit! Yeah, I gotta go!” She gives you an exasperated look. “I’m not even ready for it yet! Danny is gonna kill me if I’m late again.”

“Then GTFO,” you tell her, glad that she’ll be leaving the apartment. Of course, that means that you and Dr. Townsend—Leland—will be alone, but you can handle him. You just don’t want Betty to be collateral damage.

Leland the Loser keeps the smile on his face, but you doubt that Betty noticed that it never reaches his eyes, which are icy and fixed on you. You walk into the kitchen and lean against the counter to wait for Betty’s footsteps to head into her room. Leland opens his mouth to speak, but you hold up a sharp finger at him, and he clamps his mouth shut, though he looks irritated about being cut off.

You refuse to say anything until Betty’s gone, the door slamming shut behind her as she rushes out. The moment the door closes, you whip your head at Leland. “What the fuck are you doing here?” you demand as you glare at him. 

Leland tilts his head at you innocently. “You never showed up to your appointment yesterday, (Y/N),” he replies in a honeyed voice. “I was concerned.”

And that is very fucking disconcerting. You’d given his office a fake address, a fake name. How the hell had he found you? “I think we both know I had absolutely no intention of meeting with you, Dr. Townsend,” you say in a flat tone.

“Please, call me Leland.”

“Fine, Leland. How the hell do you know where I live, anyway?”

His face changes. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s there, a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Ahh, yes. You gave my secretary a false address, false name, the whole dang shebang, didn’t ya?” That eerie glitter is back in his eyes. They’re just so damn blue. They’re not even a light blue; they’re dark and that makes them all the more off-putting. “It might’ve taken me much longer to track you down, but you made the mistake of using your own cell phone to call in.”

Oh, shit, you realize. “You tracked my cell phone?”

Leland smirks. “No, I just asked.” He doesn’t sound apologetic about it, not one whit. “I admire the effort, though. Not that it matters that much. If I wanted to find you, I would’ve found you.”

“Clearly,” you mutter as you scoot along the counter edge. Your kitchen knives are by the microwave, and something tells you that you might want them close. If this guy is so determined that he’s willing to figure out where you live and coerce your friend into letting him into the apartment…then he’s dangerous. 

His eyes catch your movement, and in less than a second, the smile is gone, replaced by a sneer. “You mind telling me why you’re so determined to avoid me, (Y/N)? Why you’re so…” his eyes dart to the knives and his lips curl, “afraid?”

You stop. You’re closer to the knives, but you’re also closer to him. What if he’s fast enough to get to you before you can grab a knife? You need a new plan. You mentally catalogue everything in your kitchen that you can use as a weapon. How fast can you unplug the microwave and throw it? “Well, you were pretty weirdly insistent at the coffee shop, and now you’re sitting in my kitchen. I think that’s reason enough to be suspicious of you,” you reply.

“Don’t tell me that you’re actually afraid of little old me?”

He sounds like he wants you to say yes, to admit that his presence makes you very, very afraid. Like hell you’re gonna admit that, especially if that’s what he wants.

“Concerned? Sure. Afraid, though?” You force yourself to chuckle. “What is there to be afraid of?”

He doesn’t respond, and the silence says volumes. You feel the goosebumps prickle again, but at least this time, you’ve got a light sweater on, a habit from your workplace. You’ve never been so grateful that the bookshop is kept at a freezing temperature as you are now.

Who the hell is this guy? You start to cross your arms but stop, knowing it would only make you look more defensive. Instead you put them on your hips. “The hell do you want with me?”

Leland adjusts the chair so that he can face you, and you curse internally at him. He knows you’re going for the knives and he’s telling you that he’s watching. “Like I said—I think we could do great things together.” He sets his mug down. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about you, you know.”

You purse your lips. “From who?” you ask.

He smiles, but there’s no kindness in it. “Oh, from some associates of mine here and there. They’ve hinted that you’re…quite imaginative when it comes to hurting people.”

“I don’t hurt people,” you snap. “I don’t do shit like that.”

Leland doesn’t look bothered by this revelation at all. “Alright, so then you don’t torment the men who hurt your friends? You’ve never done anything to the assholes who break your heart?” He raises his eyebrows, and you feel your breath catch.

How the hell does he know about that? Not even Betty, your best friend in the whole wide world, knows the extent of what you’ve done, the psychological vengeance you’ve exacted on each and every one of those dickwads. It’s almost a game at this point—you rank the men on how easy it is to scare them, on how elaborate your schemes need to be to terrify them. You’ve already started working on plans for James if he turns out to be just as shady as you expect him to be.

“No,” you lie, and Leland’s face twitches, like he expected you to do that. But how could he possibly know? You’re excellent at covering your tracks. There’s a reason you’ve never been caught by any of the exes.

“Why are you lying, (Y/N)?” he asks in a silky voice. “You’ve done some fun stuff. You’re allowed to brag about it. This is a safe space.” He waves his hands at your kitchen and you scowl.

“No, it’s fucking not,” you reply, a touch too aggressively.

Leland sighs dramatically and rises to his feet. You ready yourself for—for what? Is he gonna attack you in your own kitchen? “What would it take to get you to come to an appointment, (Y/N)?” he asks, and there’s an odd wistfulness to his voice. You’re confused. You barely know the guy. Why does he care so much? Why do you matter to him? “I’m serious—I think you’d be surprised at how beneficial it could be for you.”

He’s just…standing there, waiting for you.

So you take a step forward in the hopes that maybe you can scare him off. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t even look nervous. 

“Nothing—I repeat, nothing—is gonna make me come to an appointment with you,” you tell him, your voice firm.

He sighs again, looks away from you for a moment as he seems to come to some sort of conclusion. “Alright, then. What about this?” He looks back at you, and you do not like the way he’s looking at you. You want to back up, but backing up would mean giving in, even if it might be safer to do that. “How about you come to an appointment, and I don’t slip into here in the middle of the night—or day, I’m not picky—and slit your friend’s throat?” He nods his head towards the empty chair that Betty had been sitting in when you’d arrived home.

His tone is amicable, pleasant, but the words are jarring enough that you do take a step back. “Uhm, what?” You say, certain that you must’ve misheard him.

He gives you a cordial smile, and his entire face is lit up with glee at garnering a reaction from you at last. “I mean, unless you want me to. God knows she’s a whiney little bitch who really needs to make better choices in men. It’s probably a lotta work keeping her protected from all the assholes of the world.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’d prefer it if she was gone. I can get rid of her body, too. Easy-peasy.”

There’s a queasy feeling churning in your stomach. Your heart is racing, and you’re trying to keep your breathing steady, but it’s hard when he’s talking like that—he’s fucking talking about murdering Betty, for Chrissakes! You have to breath in through your nose to keep it from shuddering.

You take another step back, this time on purpose. You need those knives now.

“What? You don’t like that idea?” Leland takes a step towards you, his face contorted into a mockery of concern. “You don’t like the idea of coming home to find that your roommate has disappeared without a trace?”

Your mouth opens and closes. You don’t know what to say, but you need to think of something, and fast, or else he’s gonna realize you’re feeling behind you for the knives. What would a final girl say? What would they say in the movies? “Uhm…thanks, but no thanks?” You say. Your voice is faint, and you hate it, because it’s betraying how worried you are. You suck in a shuddering breath. “I, uhm.” You shake your head in the hopes that it’ll clear your thoughts. It helps, if only a modicum. “As annoying as Betty might be at times, I’d, uh, appreciate it if you don’t, you know, murder her. Rent in New York is a real bitch.”

Alright, that works, you think to yourself. That’s morbidly funny, right?

Leland snorts in amusement, and you relax juuuuuuust a hair. He hasn’t yet noticed that you’re feeling around for the knives, and your fingers brush up against the wooden knife holder. “Great! So I’ll see you next Thursday at 3?” He chirps.

You blink as you lick your lips. “I, uhm. I work until 4:30.”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “Fine. Five, then.”

You nod. “Sure. Five.”

He holds up a finger at you. “Thursday! Don’t be late!”

You flash him the biggest smile you can muster as your hands wrap around one of the knives. “Thursday at five. I’ll underline it on my calendar.” You nod your head towards the magnetic calendar that’s hanging on your fridge, and when Leland glances at it, you strike.

On second thought, charging at the man probably wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had, but the fuck else are you supposed to do when he’s casually talking about killing your best friend?! It’s clumsy and dumb, but it’s too late; you’re committed to this. You lunge at him, the knife turned outwards. You’re really not sure what you’re meaning to do—intimate him? Slice him? Kill him yourself?—but it doesn’t even matter, because Leland has weirdly fast reflexes and he slaps the knife out of your hand easily. It doesn’t even fricking graze him, the son of a bitch.

The knife clatters to the floor. You try to duck down to grab it, but he grabs your arm and pins it to the table. You swipe at him with your other arm, but he manages to avoid it and pin that arm down, too. Now you’re both face-to-face, glaring at each other. You do the only other thing you can think of—you headbutt him, hard. He yelps in pain, but that wasn’t the best choice ever either because now your head hurts, too.

He releases your arms, but at the same time, he’s got the wherewithal to kick the knife away, and somehow you two have rotated in the kitchen so that he’s the one with his back to the rest of the knives and you’re the one with no other weapons.

Plus your head hurts like hell.

You’re huffing, breathing heavily, and he’s doing the same, but there’s laughter mingled in as Leland catches his breath. “Alright, that was fun! Not how I wanted our first session to go, but…” He raises a hand to you, not in retaliation, and you see that there’s red across his nose where your headbutt pushed his glasses into his nose.

You stare at him, dumbstruck, heart thudding in your ears. You’re genuinely not sure if you need to run away. You probably should, in all honesty, but then Leland moves, and you get ready to fight him again if you need to. 

But Leland doesn’t show any signs of wanting to keep fighting. Instead he reaches up to his cut nose, dips his finger in the red blood, and brings the finger to his mouth, where he slowly licks his own blood off of his finger.

And dammit all to hell, as fucked up as it is, it’s kinda sexy. You immediately shut down that line of thinking because what the fuck, brain, he just threatened Betty and for all you know, he might be planning to murder you after you just attacked him, you should not under any circumstances be attracted to that!

There’s warmth pooling in your lower belly as you watch him, and you have to wrench your face into an expression of horror to hide your true thoughts. God, what the hell was that?

Leland finishes licking his blood off of his finger and gives you a sultry, smug grin. “Oh, yeah, this is gonna be really fun,” he drawls, and there’s something in his voice that makes you flush, and you hate it. Betty is the one who falls for the shitheads. You’re the one who protects her from them. You do not put up with this kind of crap.

“Get out of my apartment,” you growl in a low voice, ignoring the throbbing in your forehead. You’re gonna have a lump there, you can tell.

His grin widens, and you catch a little splash of red on his teeth. He adjusts his glasses, wipes his nose. There’s no blood on the back of his hand, which means you didn’t headbutt him hard enough to break his nose. That’s unfortunate. “I can’t wait to see how next week goes. Maybe we’ll get to talk about Jordan.”

The name drop is casual, but the sensual warmth that you’d felt vanishes in a split second at the mention of your ex. You’ve been single for six months now, almost seven—Jordan was a disaster that fucked you up for a solid month and a half. How the hell does Leland know about him, though? You’ve taken great care to delete any and all traces of him. 

You don’t have time to ask that—not that you want to know, either. Leland Townsend has done his research on you and you hate it, but the sooner he’s out of your apartment, the sooner you can do some research on him.

“Get out,” you snarl. 

Leland looks pleased that he’s touched a nerve. “What’s the magic word?”

You glare at him. “Oh, my bad,” you say, forcing yourself to sound sweet. “I meant to say, ‘Please get the fuck out’.”

Leland laughs at that. “Alright, since you asked so nicely.” He turns his back on you, and you’re tempted to lunge for the knives and just stab him in his stupid creepy back, but he probably wants you to try that, and you can’t risk his stupidly fast reflexes, so you don’t. You stand in your spot, stiff, unblinking, only moving to make sure he’s actually going out the door and not trying to stay behind. “See you next week at five!”

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter. He flashes you yet another wide grin, one that you return in the most shit-eating way possible. His eyes are still cool, but they’re tinged with amusement. He enjoys your anger, the sicko. 

The moment the door shuts behind him, you rush to it and lock it. You also go to the window and watch him get into his car. He turns his head towards you as he opens the door and gives you a wave, which you return with a middle finger and another falsely bright smile. You see him laugh at you before he climbs into the car and drives away.

“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” you ask as his car grows smaller and smaller, the distance between you and him growing greater. “What the fuck is going on with me?”

You turn away from the window and take a seat at the kitchen table, your eyes landing on the knife on the floor. You kick it, sending it spinning across the kitchen and under the fridge, which makes you groan in frustration as you drop to your knees to retrieve it.

When you’ve tossed it into the sink, you turn to the rest of the kitchen. Leland’s empty mug is still sitting there on the table, and you scowl at the sight. You’d love nothing more than to smash the mug, but it’s your favorite one. How the hell had he wound up with that mug, of all the coffee mugs in this place? It’s like he somehow knew that you’d want to smash it when he left, like this is some kind of sick test of your self-control.

Well, screw that bullshit. You’re not gonna smash your mug, but you’re not gonna take this lying down, either. You’re gonna research the hell outta this guy, and then once you figure out his weaknesses, you’re gonna scare the fuck out of him before he can do the same to you.

You make yourself pick up the mug and put it gently into the sink. There’s a smear of red on the rim, and you’re reminded of the way he’d looked at you as he’d sucked the blood off of his finger.

That warm feeling returns, and you hate yourself for being just a little turned on by the memory.

To stop yourself from reminiscing any further (you will not catch feelings for this psychopath), you turn to your writing assignments. Maybe writing about you feelings will get them out of your system, and then you can turn your full attention to researching this blue-eyed bastard.

You’re also gonna have to give Betty a talk about letting strangers into the apartment. A very strict talk.

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said

They never, never wake again, who rest upon your bed!”

————————————————

Part Three

[the-widow-miller]

March

(Joel Miller x F!Reader, Tommy)

*TLOU2 Major Spoiler*

Summary: You wait for news.

Word Count: 1120

Warnings: ALL the angst, some fluff, mention of sexy times, implied character death, something else that I don’t want to give away.

A/N: My first fic in many years. This is something I’ve been wanting to write for a while. I hoped it would help me come to terms. Did it? Yet to be determined. Let’s be honest… nothing will truly prepare us.

…………………….

It was snowing again. Thick, dark clouds hung heavily in the night sky. The world outside the window glowed an ominous purple-orange, unnaturally bright, light reflecting off the fallen snow. The wind howled outside the solid walls of your home in Jackson.

You’d been standing at the window for longer than you realized, staring out into nothing. Waiting. Hoping. A street lamp flickered across the road bringing you back to the present. Blinking, you shook your head and inhaled deeply. Your knees were stiff from lack of movement. The pain in your hips and lower back returned as you stirred from your trance. You placed both hands on your lower back and leaned back into them, desperate for some relief. But it did nothing.

Only his hands, large, warm, and strong, provided any comfort now.

You laid naked, facedown on your bed, with your arms folded under his pillow. Your clothes and his tossed haphazardly around the room. Hot, autumn sunlight, soothing and syrupy, streamed in through the open window in the bedroom. Kneeling astride your thighs, his hands pressed into your back, kneading your sore muscles. Eyes closed, you focused on the strength of his touch and the smell of your bed linens: you, him, sex. When he finally lifted his hands from your back, you grumbled. He laughed softly as he placed his hands on either side of you and leaned forward. His warm lips placed a gentle kiss on your right shoulder before trailing a line of kisses towards your neck. A small moan escaped your lips as he nipped that spot at the base of your jaw; the familiar white-hot heaviness growing at your core. You turned your head to look up at him, your lust-filled eyes meeting his, dark and needy. The corners of his mouth curled up into a small smirk. Turning over on to your back, you placed your cold hands on his chest, and smiled back up at him. Shifting his weight, he raised his hand to your neck, stroking your jawline with his thumb. Heat radiated outward from his fingertips, warming your very soul. He lowered his lips to yours and kissed you feverishly.

Your cheeks burned briefly at the memory before the cold seeped back in. You swallowed thickly and turned away from the window. Your living room was frigid and bathed in that strange purple-orange light that only ever made an appearance in winter. So deeply lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t turned the lights on or started a fire before the sun had set. You toyed with the idea of turning on the lamp closest to you and maybe making a pot of tea. But as quickly as those thoughts came, they fled, replaced by that sinking feeling of dread. It had been building for hours. Crawling its way into the deepest recesses of your brain, like frost creeping across a pane of glass. You caught yourself slipping and took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts back again, keeping them at bay. You crossed the room, grabbing his favourite quilt from his chair and wrapping it around your shoulders. A cloud of his scent enveloped you. Musk, wood smoke, whiskey. Sinking down into the worn, plush couch, your eyes drifted to the empty seat beside you. His spot. A memory of you curled tightly into his side as he strummed the guitar flashed in your mind. Without thinking, your eyes snapped to his guitar, immediately regretting it; you had been so careful. It sat in the corner, alone, bathed in the cool, winter light. A thin layer of dust covered its surface. He should play more. Again, you felt the dread creep back in and your eyes fill with tears.

It had been too long. Their usual patrol of the lodge had never taken this much time. But you knew. Deep down, you knew.

……………………

A loud, hesitant knock startled you awake. The stagnant room was still cold and dark. Your head shot towards the door, relief flooding your insides momentarily, before you reprimanded yourself for your own stupidity. Why would he be knocking on his own front door? The fear quickly replaced your self reproach. Someone was knocking again. Your mind was telling you to run as fast as you could to the door, desperate for news. But your body was paralyzed. You knew.

You licked your dry, chapped lips and uncurled your limbs. Your body was stiff and cold. Standing up from the couch, you grabbed the edges of his quilt and wrapped them even tighter around your shoulders, desperate for warmth and comfort. And for him. The hardwood floor creaked under your bare feet. Reaching the door, you grasped the metal doorknob, and turned. A strong gust of icy wind pushed the door inward and swirls of snowflakes blew in through the crack. You took a step back to allow the door to open fully.

Tommy.

His face was sickly pale, his brow furrowed, his eyes glazed. You frowned and stared deep into those dark eyes. They had such similar eyes. But in that moment, you remembered Joels’ were splashed with a trace of amber. Even his eyes exuded warmth. Tommy’s hands reached out and grabbed your own from the edges of the quilt. Your immediate reaction was to pull back from his frozen touch but he held firm. He took a deep breath, slowly closing and then opening his eyes, steadying himself.

That was all you needed. The confirmation you’d been waiting for. You cursed your intuition. The intuition that had kept you alive more times than you could count. The intuition that alerted you to the changes almost seven months ago. You just knew. Your body started shivering uncontrollably then. Your eyes filled and you swallowed repeatedly, not allowing the tears to fall. Tommy watched you carefully, unsure if he even needed to say it. The words he’d been rehearsing in his head. You stepped back suddenly and ripped your hands from his. The threadbare quilt fell to the floor behind you. The frigid wind and blowing snow continued to invade your home through the open door. But you didn’t feel it. You felt nothing. Emptiness. Numbness.

A kick from your insides, strong and hot, suddenly jolted you back to reality. Your hands instinctively pressed to your swollen belly as you stared straight through your brother-in-law, unseeing. Another kick directly under your palm. Tommy stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Silence blanketed the entryway. He bent down and picked the quilt, Joel’s quilt, up off the floor. Gently, he placed it back over your shoulders then wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

Then, and only then, did you let the searing tears fall.

………………………

[lapetitechatonne]

sick in bed and contemplating the complex relationship between Dick and Jason.

like they’re brothers. they’re strangers. they’ve almost killed each other. they’ve almost died for each other. they would kill for each other. they’ve known each other at their worst. at their best. seen what the other is truly capable of and refused to walk away. but they have walked away. and came back. time and time again, no matter what, they come back. they understand each others trauma because they lived with Bruce too, and Bruce is known to make the same mistakes. they crave family, but they’ve pushed away the only one they’ve ever known at times. Dick shines in the light and Jason thrives in the dark. they both want to be better than Batman and do what he never could, but they have fundamentally different views of what that looks like. Dick tried to fix the police from the inside. Jason tired to fix crime from the inside. they struggled to understand the other because at times, they are foils. but even in their differences they are so similar. because they’re brothers.

[sherlollyandspoilers]

We're worth it, Chapter 27, March 20th

Chapters 1 through 26 of We’re Worth It can be found here Here be Dragons is the original fic that this fic is a companion piece for - HBD timeline: Chapter 18, before the epilogue

March 20th, 2017

“It was very burnt…Mina is still picking on him about it,” Molly giggled, thinking about all the snarky comments their daughter had been making about Sherlock’s failed attempt to bake a pie.

“Why were you baking a pie so early?” June asked, laughing.

“It was Pie Day,” he said simply but she raised an eyebrow in question. “March 14th, three one four, it’s one of the ways to note the date.”

“Ohhh, three point one four.” June nodded in understanding. “I am surprised that you acknowledge that way of noting the date.”

He shrugged. “Bad science pun. Plus, Mina thought it was funny…at the time,” he mumbled the last few words. The two women exchanged a look, stifling giggles.

“Soooo,” June dragged it out, indicating the shift in conversation, “did you talk with your therapist about your stag party? About trusting yourself?”

Sherlock nodded as he leaned forward. “It was a good session. I don’t think – ” he sighed, cutting himself off before taking a deep breath. “I will always be an addict, but for right now, am in a very good place and with Greyson starting to sleep through the night my concern that I might be triggered is very low.” Both Molly and June nodded in understanding. “We talked about how my drug use is not just a simple impulsive act but a deep rooted, toxic coping mechanism for my self-hatred.”

“Buzz words…” Molly whispered, making June giggle quietly.

“Hush,” Sherlock scoffed at her, but smirked. “Obviously, I am not going to walk into the middle of a drug den right now – bad idea – but I am also not in the middle of withdrawal, nor have I had any cravings in months.” He shifted in his seat, an indication, June had learned, of him striving to get his wording accurate. “Right now, I need to focus on my self-doubt when it comes to being a husband and a father.”

“Focusing on that will help you feel more secure in your sobriety?” June asked and he nodded. “Okay.” Looking at Molly, “It’s been a while since you have needed an individual session – any concerns with dissociation, triggers, feeling overwhelmed?”

Molly shook her head with a smile, “No, I’ve been feeling great! Really focused at work…haven’t cut up the wrong dead body yet.” June smiled at her, glad that Molly had become comfortable enough with being herself in session. “I’ve been doing my best to review my warning signs list at least once a week and I practice my skills with Mina.”

“I love hearing that – she will be well set up in the future to help herself regulate, that’s great!” She paused a moment before continuing, “With the wedding next month, unless you two can think of something more urgent, I say we focus today’s work on how you two as a couple can help Sherlock with his self-doubt.” They both nodded in agreement. “Let’s start with how things are going with being mindful of sharing how you are feeling with each other.”

Molly sighed, “It is possible to check-in with your significant other too often?”

“Nope,” Sherlock popped his lips.

She turned to him, gaping. “You asked for two check-ins an hour last night.”

“Oh,” June nodded in understanding. “Yeah, that can be a lot of checking-in and emotional sharing.”

“SO MUCH!” Molly huffed, but June could tell she wasn’t really mad. “I don’t want to limit us being open,” she held her hand out and he took it, “But I don’t need to tell you that I am having the same emotion 7 times in one night either.��� She squeezed his hand in emphasis.

He thought for a moment. “I may have over done it last night.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I will aim for no more than 3 check-ins a night…on average.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Thank you.” Molly shook her head.

June looked between the two of them, “That is a really good compromise for you two.” She turned her attention back to Sherlock. “Can you explain what you meant last session when you said,” she checked the notebook on her desk to make sure she got it right, “I mess up when things are good?”

Sherlock nodded but stayed quiet for a moment while he thought. “All of our problems started…” he stopped when he noticed June’s frown. Clearing his throat, he continued, “One of the first moments of this in our relationship was when I choose to stay at Baker Street after I got out of the hospital instead of going home.”

June nodded when she realized he thought he had explained himself fully, “Okay…I think I am going to need more of a connection than that, especially since we have talked about this decision in a different context before – can you expound?”

“I know I’ve brought up that I was angry at myself for that decision because in reality it did nothing for Molly and Mina’s safety, nor did it assist in my working of the Magnussen case.” He paused to take a deep breath, “The reality is that I got in my head and told myself that my presence in their lives was a risk…and that I was not worth the risk.”

June opened her mouth, but Sherlock was staring at the ground so when she noticed Molly frown and turn her head to look out the window, she kept quiet, watching them. Molly’s brow furrowed deeper, and she gave an angry sigh through her nose, before turning back to her fiancé.

“You have always been worth the risk.” Her words were intense, and her expression was hard, serious. Sherlock looked up at her, taken back by her severity. “Sherlock, I helped you fake your death for fucks sake.” Righteous anger rolled off her. “Do you remember asking me why I was risking everything for you?” He was silent as he nodded yes, of course. “I told you then that you were worth it.”

“Molly, it’s not that I don’t believe you, I just – ” he started but she cut him off.

“Oh, I know you believe me!” Tears were streaming down her face. “I am not angry with you. I am angry with the situation – I am furious that your brain constantly lies to you about how I feel about you.” She roughly wiped her face. “I chose you a long time ago and if everything we have been through so far hasn’t changed that, nothing will.” Grabbing his hand, she forced him to look her in the eye again. “I choose you.”

He was silent as he stood, pulling her up with him, and gathered her in his arms, silently burying his face in the crock of her neck.

June smiled to herself as she turned her gaze out the window, giving them a moment.

After a minute or so, she heard Sherlock quietly tell Molly that he chose her too before releasing his hold on her. They took a moment to adjust themselves and get settled back into their chairs.

June nodded to them both. “It has been a long time since we discussed affirmations, but I think in light of this conversation, that it would be a good idea to add it back into your daily routines.” They both nodded. “Good, I think it will also help you feel really solid as you go into the wedding as well.”

[katestrophic]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar, Cardan Greenbriar/Original Character(s) Characters: Jude Duarte, Cardan Greenbriar, Original Characters Additional Tags: Don't read if you love Cardan, Horror, Creepy, Murder, Cannibalism, Unsettling, Attempted Murder, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied Murder, Creepy Neighbors, Horror Elements, Psychological Horror, Unconventional Method of Disposing of a Body, POV Child, POV Third Person Omniscient, OCs - Freeform, Don't read if you love Jurdan, well they range from normal to quirky to weird to creepy, a character cameo, he's not listed because he's not too important, halloween fic, Title is from a video game Summary:

Trinity cooked too much today. She has her daughters hand out the leftovers to their neighbors. But the real question is: where is their dad?

(Based off the game of the same title)

@rikusqueenofhearts

This is a fic I wrote for spooky day. Happy Halloween everyone!

[katetheworm]

Naud Bui Amarth

Note: hi hi hi, welcome to another part in this lovely adventure with Cefrey and Aragorn. I was planning on adding a whole other scene to this but it would have made it very long and kinda unnecessary, so here we are! I hope you enjoy and please feel free to chat or send in asks! Also! A little while ago I commissioned another piece of Cefrey, go check it out!! Reblogs, likes, comments, etc are always welcome, but please remember reblogs >>> likes Other Sites: Ao3, Quotev Pairing: Aragorn x Original Female Character/Reader Warnings: none for this chapter Rating: T Words: 3748

Part Six (Masterlist)

The morning after Cefrey and Strider’s conversation was quite eventful. Elrond had summoned many people from all across Middle Earth to discuss the fate of the Ring, and, much to the mage’s surprise, she had been invited as well. Gandalf assured her that it should not have come as such a shock since she was there, protecting the Ring from falling into the hands of evil. And while Cefrey understood his train of thought, she still was not sure what to think of it. She was simply a human, yes she was a human with magical abilities, but she rarely spoke to others and… The mage sighed. Her mind was just trying to get her out of going to the meeting, a meeting which she had every right of attending. 

Gathering herself, Cefrey rose out of bed and donned another dress that was gifted to her by the elves. This one was a two piece with an off-white chemise and a forest green cover, it had a corset like top and flowed down the sides and back of the chemise. Fixing her hair by pinning it on the sides with two beautiful elven clips, the mage took in a deep breath. This was a meeting to decide the fate of Middle Earth. Cefrey was not used to such grand undertakings, preferring solitude and the embrace of nature compared to civilization. But this was different, she decided, this was important beyond her regular comforts. 

She finally moved to leave her room, glancing at herself in the mirror one last time before setting off to join the Council of Elrond.

The room where the council was to take place had many chairs surrounding a white pedestal in the center, most likely where the ring would be placed, as well as a larger chair at one end where Cefrey noticed Lord Elrond resided.

She walked up to him as she seemed to be the first one there. “Good morning, Lord Elrond.”

The elf’s countenance shifted from one of deep contemplation to one of soft care at the sight of the mage. “Good morning, dear Cefrey. I see that you are quite early to this meeting.”

Cefrey laughed. “Yes, well it is nicer to be early rather than late, don’t you think?” 

Before Elrond could respond, more people funneled into the room, taking their respective seats. The mage bowed her head at the elf, leaving to take her seat as well. Much to her joy, Frodo had decided to sit between her and Gandalf. She smiled down at the quite anxious looking halfling, resting a hand on his shoulder to try and ease his nerves. He looked up at her, grateful for her support. 

Once everyone had been seated–Cefrey caught the eye of Strider as he sat across from her–Elrond stood and began the meeting, “Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.” He glanced over at Frodo, nodding his head, “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

The young hobbit hesitated a moment, gazing up at Cefrey and Gandalf who both gave him a firm movement of their heads, encouraging him to do as Elrond said. He stood and walked over to the plinth, carefully placing the Ring down on it before turning and going back to his seat. 

Cefrey gave him a quiet look of consolation as he sat back down beside her. A tight feeling wound its way around her heart as her gaze moved away from the hobbit and towards the tiny piece of metal before her. It… it seemed as if it was trying to speak to her, attempting to twist her morals and her thoughts into more sinister and evil things. Furrowing her brows and inhaling a sharp breath of air, the mage pushed those thoughts away. Those thoughts of power and greed, of using her magic to make all in the land bend to her will. She was stronger than that, she would not let him win.

Thankfully her thoughts were interrupted as the man with dirty blond hair that Cefrey saw the other night stood and walked closer to the Ring, “In a dream,” He paused. “I saw the Eastern sky grow dark, in the West a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, your doom is near at hand,” The man took another step closer to the Ring, Cefrey’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Isildur's bane is found.” Cefrey glanced over at Elrond, then at Gandalf as the man neared the Ring, his hand reaching out, “Isildur's Bane…”

“Boromir!” Elrond jumped to his feet, his voice filled with rage and fear at what the man might do.

Cefrey’s hands gripped tightly at her dress. The fear in the elf lord’s voice and the desperation in Boromir’s, scared her. This evil was stronger than she could ever have imagined. And she knew at that moment that this evil ring must be destroyed, lest it destroy them all. Before anyone could do anything–or perhaps before Boromir could continue his cursed train of thought–Gandalf stood quickly, the air around them growing dark and cold as he spoke.

“Ash nazg durbatuluk,” His deepened voice caused all around him to wince in pain, the man staggering back to his seat. “Ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”

Sighing in relief once Gandalf finished and the light returned to the room, Cefrey looks at Gandalf, her brows furrowed, emotions running haywire. Lord Elrond then spoke the very words that were running through her mind, “Never before has anyone uttered words of that tongue here in Imladris.”

The talk continued as Gandalf warned the entire council of the Ring’s evil. Cefrey understood that none could wield it except for Sauron, but decided to not say anything… yet. Boromir disagreed. He believed it to be a gift, a tool to use to save Middle Earth, to protect Gondor from harm. 

Cefrey had half a mind to stand up herself and tell Boromir how idiotic he was being, she instead tried a softer approach as she knew men like him, men that would not care to listen to others when they are so set in their ways. She sat up straighter then, her eyes locking with Strider’s once more as some unspoken words passed between them. 

“None here can wield the Ring, my lord, not you, not I, none but Sauron.” Her voice held a conviction she had never experienced before, and yet it felt right to say such things to this man. 

Boromir narrowed his eyes at her, unsure of what to fully make of this wandering mage, but still displeased at her outright argument towards him. “You are but a maiden, unaware of the hardships of life around you, why should I believe what you say?”

A certain ranger spoke up rather quickly to Cefrey’s defense and she could hear the annoyance in his tone, “Cefrey is right, Boromir, and I believe you know what she says to be true as well. You cannot wield it. None of us can.” Strider’s voice slowly lost its anger as the knight of Gondor turned from the mage to face him, a deep scowl on his face. “The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

Boromir scoffed at Strider’s remark, his glare intensifying. “And what would a ranger know of this matter?” His words reflecting what he had said to Cefrey just moments before.

The mage raised a brow at that. Yes, Strider was a ranger, but he was invited to the council just as Boromir was. Once again, Cefrey wanted to speak up but was interrupted as an elf – Legolas from the Woodland realm if she recalled correctly – stood abruptly.

“This is no mere ranger.” That was interesting, Cefrey thought. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

Cefrey’s eyes widened. Isildur’s heir? Heir to Gondor? That was who she had been traveling with, who she had grown close to, trusted with her life? Her green eyes landed on his gray ones, confusion and shock laced in them. It took him a minute to return her gaze, after he told Legolas to sit and Boromir’s disdain for the ranger only grew. His eyebrows were furrowed, a look of… guilt, or perhaps regret on his face. It was not Cefrey’s business to know exactly who he was, and she understood that, but then why did it hurt her so? She had not divulged all of her past to him and there was no reason for him to do so either. And yet she still felt saddened by the fact that she only found out his true name from someone else, at a time where neither could speak to each other about it. 

Changing her expression to one where she hoped to convey that they would talk about it later, Cefrey's attention was then quickly switched over to the dwarf as he stood and smashed his axe onto the ring, only for his weapon to break rather than the Ring itself. Lord Elrond told Gimli then that there was only one way to destroy the Ring; by bringing it back to the very place it was forged. Mount Doom.

Boromir interrupted after that, "One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the great eye is ever watchful. Tis a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this." He shook his head. "It is folly."

Soon practically everyone stood from their seats and began arguing. Cefrey’s eyes landed on Aragorn again, a thousand words passing between them as they listened to the commotion. The mage was surprised as even Gandalf joined the fray, her green eyes widening only to fall onto the quiet hobbit beside her, his voice barely being heard.

"I will take it."

Frodo glanced at the sorceress, his countenance filled with doubt. She gave him a sad yet reassuring look before squeezing his hand and nodding. It wasn't that Cefrey wanted the halfling to go on such a perilous quest, but she also knew that anyone else–including herself–would be too easily corrupted by the Ring's power.

Emboldened by Cefrey’s encouragement Frodo stood taller, his words rising over the din of voices around them. She noticed Gandalf’s resigned look then, as he heard the hobbit too. 

“I will take it.” He took a step forward, hands clenched in a tight fist by his side. “I will take the Ring to Mordor.” The entirety of the hall stopped and stared at Frodo, looks of fear, suspicion, confusion, but mostly awe, all focused on the young halfling and his strong choice of words. Cefrey noticed his eyes go over each and every person who stood, staring at him, making his previous courage dwindle a bit before he spoke again, “Though, I do not know the way.”

A soft smile spread across the mage’s face as she stood as well, stepping forward until she was in front of the hobbit. Gandalf came up beside her, his eyes still conveying a deep sorrow, yet he did not convey it outwardly. The grey wizard spoke first, “I will help you bear this burden Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.”

On any normal day, under any normal circumstances, the mage would much rather have simply gone back into nature, enjoying her simple life. But these were not normal times, they were dark times, trying times, and she knew that she had to help anywhere she could. She already swore to protect this young hobbit and she would not back down now. Perhaps it was because she had grown to feel rather protective of Frodo, or perhaps there was something else drawing her to do so, either way, she knew she had to. Cefrey felt, in the deepest parts of her being, that this was what she must do, in spite of the dangers, of the hardships they will all face, the stark difference from her previous life to this, she will help him. 

Kneeling down and taking his small hand in hers, Cefrey held Frodo’s gaze, a resolute look on her countenance. “I, too, will aid you on this quest, young Frodo, my magic is yours to wield.”

As soon as she began to speak, she heard a rustle behind her as Strider… as Aragorn stood as well, causing the sorceress to rise from her kneeling position and move to stand behind the halfling. Seemingly without even a conscious effort, Cefrey’s eyes landed on the ranger’s, and while his gaze was fixed on Frodo, for a brief moment it moved to her, an emotion behind his grey eyes that she could not understand. 

“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will” Aragorn walked up to the hobbit while talking, kneeling before him as he spoke again, “You have my sword.” His words echoed the ones Cefrey had uttered before.

Legolas took a step forward as well, his countenance grim yet determined, “And you have my bow.”

Another came forward beside the elf, “And my axe,” said Gimli, son of Gloin.

“You carry the fate of us all, little one,” Boromir spoke and took a step forward. “If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.” Despite his previous misgivings, the mage felt as though he would be crucial to their journey and deemed to hold no ill will towards the man.

Cefrey smiled at the group that was forming as a thought graced her mind; perhaps this quest did have a fighting chance–

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, as out from the bushes came a shouting Samwise Gamgee as he ran up next to Frodo, “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me!”

With a glint of bemusement in his eyes, Lord Elrond shook his head at the headstrong hobbit, “No indeed. It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

“Wait!” Two more hobbits burst forth, completing the group of four halflings that Cefrey helped guide to Rivendell. “We’re coming too!” Exclaimed Merry, Pippin not far behind, much to the elven lord’s astoundment. “You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us.”

“Anyway,” Pippin spoke, with much conviction and confidence in his voice. “You need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing.”

Merry shot him an unamused glance, “Well that rules you out, Pip.”

The mage chuckled at their antics before stepping in line beside Aragorn, and with the rest of their interesting group.

Elrond’s gaze wandered over each person standing beside Frodo, a faint, proud smile curling on his lips, “Ten companions…” He nodded resolutely. “So be it! You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!”

“Great!” The youngest hobbit spoke yet again, “Where are we going?”

.

The meeting having ended, the recently formed fellowship disbanded with their respective groups to gather their things, to say goodbyes, and to prepare for the upcoming journey. Cefrey was amongst those ten companions, a fact which continued to astound her. Her, a wandering mage of unknown origins, who spent most of her life simply living, especially after all that she had been through. A woman, in the end, a simple woman who lived longer than other women she knew, who aged differently because of what? Her magic? Some outside force? It couldn’t all have been fate that created her, that led to her having such a strange life. 

The woman sighed heavily, those thoughts had been running rampant through her mind for the past few days as one strange occurrence after another continued to happen to her, around her, because of her. Cefrey rounded a corner, the trim of her dress brushing against the stone floor as she walked through the halls of Imladris. Her mind still going a mile a minute, the mage came to a stop as her eyes focused on a man just ahead of her. His back was turned slightly, but she could tell it was him almost immediately. Strider… well Aragorn as he should be referred to as now, stood a mere distance away, hands clasped tightly behind his back, from what she could see of his expression, it seemed contemplative, in a way. Perhaps he, too, was dealing with troublesome thoughts that refused to go away. 

At the sight of the ranger, Cefrey was reminded of how his identity was rather abruptly thrown in her face at the meeting just hours before. They had not been able to speak about it since, each having their own duties and ministrations to attend to, but the desire to was definitely there. At least for Cefrey it was, she could not speak for what Aragorn thought.

Approaching Aragorn, the mage clasped her hands in front of her, a few ways of broaching the topic of his identity ran through her mind until she settled on one, “I wondered why you had looked upon those shards of that forgotten sword so despondently before, and now, I suppose, I know why.” Her tone was not one of displeasure or hurt, she did not hold his secrets against him. “The heir to Gondor, and here I thought I was merely traveling with a common man.”

The ranger sighed but did not seem displeased at her company nor her comment, simply resigned to it. “That sword and those titles carry a burden I am not sure I wish to bear.” His grey eyes lifted to look into her green ones, and Cefrey could see the pain and the guilt he felt, all because of men he was distantly related to. “How can I, a common man as you say, hope to repair the mistakes made so long ago, mistakes that are coming back to light, mistakes that I feel the need to help rectify.”

“Mistakes made by men you have never met, by men that are not you, Aragorn.” The mage furrowed her eyebrows, sympathy and kindness in her face and voice. She did not understand why he carried such guilt for things he did not do. “Do not let those who came before you dictate what you will do in the future. Your fate is in your hands to do with what you will.” 

She wanted to say more, to say that she saw his kindness, courage, his empathy for others. That he could never be like his ancestors, that she knew, in her heart and soul, that he was better, and that he would change the world in such wondrous ways. But she felt that it was not her place to say such things, at least not yet. They knew each other for mere days, and she also believed that these were things he must figure out on his own, that he would not believe them yet as he has not said them to himself.

Aragorn huffed a quiet laugh, “You are wise beyond your years, Cefrey the Green.” 

His comment held some underlying meaning to the mage, he took her words to heart, yes, but she did not think that he fully believed them yet. Perhaps they should switch to other topics, she thought, ones that were not so melancholy.

“Wise beyond my years, you say?” Her tone and body language shifted to a more playful disposition. “I suppose that depends on how old you think I am.”

At that, she saw the ranger’s expression change as well, he definitely knew that she was trying to switch the tone of their conversation, but he was also curious at what she meant by that. “Is this some trick to get me to stumble over trying to guess your age?”

Cefrey laughed openly at that, “I would never do such a thing, I would never make you guess a lady’s age in such a way, nor do I think you would get it right.”

“And why is that?” The ranger questioned.

“Because… I am seventy eight.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly and it was not difficult to guess why. While the Dunedain aged slower than most men, and the mage was certain Aragorn was older than he appeared as well, she was most definitely not one of the Dunedain, which made her age peculiar, to say the least. However, somehow, due to her magic that flowed within her, she was also able to age much slower than others. There was not much else she could explain as to the reasonings or the science behind her aging other than her magic. She explained as such to the ranger and he took it rather easily–in spite of his earlier surprise.

Cefrey hummed, her eyes glancing at the scenery around them before landing on the man before her once more. “We both have held secrets from one another, ones that, I hope, have not ruined what trust we have formed between us.” She placed a hand on her chest, “I hold no ill will towards you for not revealing your true identity, we both have things we wish to keep close, and I respect that.”

Aragorn bowed his head towards her, a silent showing of that same respect he has for her. “You are much too kind, Cefrey the Green, and while your kindness is your virtue, I still feel as though I should have been the one to tell you who I am, not have it be revealed to you in such a manner.”

A small smile graced her freckled features, “And your chivalry and wisdom is your virtue… Aragorn.”

Saying his true name felt right to her for some reason unbeknownst to her. Cefrey bid farewell to the ranger then, unsure if their conversation should continue even though she wished it to. As much as she wanted to simply sit and talk to him, this man she met not days before, she knew that they did not have such time to do so. There was a darkness looming on the horizon, a darkness she was afraid would soon consume them all if they did nothing to stop it.

[inexchangeforyoursoul]

Figured I'd drop this short DabiHawks thing I wrote for the discord anniversary?

Here is the Ao3 link, too.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Touya, as people insist, cannot believe his ears. Did he hear that right, or is he just that out of his mind after a second coma lasting almost an entire decade?

“Hawks? Really?”

But no, even the name card is echoing the same thing in perfect confidence.

It sounds like a sick joke.

The two of them are left alone for the briefing; Touya takes a look at the hero who has never been as much of a phony as he is now. The man has remarkably intact skin for someone that received at least two ugly facial injuries in the past, and has eye bags for days. He looks up from his phone with slight confusion to spare a look at Touya.

“What?”

“Why the fuck are you still using that name?”

The president — the fucking PRESIDENT of the SAFETY COMMISSION — shrugs, as he ought to.

“Because I have no other.”

An intact nerve twitches painfully under Touya’s eye as it tries to stretch his skin. Hawks was all about the wings… but this guy has not a single feather. He’s not even active as a hero; even if he still has a license, it’s for decoration only. He’s just a salaryman with a pointy stick strapped to his back.

“Your name is Takami Keigo.”

He is as incredulous as he's pissed and flabbergasted.

They should know.

“Ah… You remembered,” comes the answer balancing between total indifference and being impressed after a moment of surprise, which only eggs the freshly hatched rehab villain on.

“They say it’s been over eight years,” Touya hisses.

“Yeah. Your memory is quite remarkable,” laughs ‘Hawks’ as if there weren't a colossal elephant in the sickly green and white room.

Touya’s already had to stomach a meeting with his parents, and this cuck… his blatant replacement, never got referred to as anything else, but Touya just assumed they were saving face. However, the blackbird kid had just run into this idiot outside the room and wanted to force some small talk before realizing that ‘Hawks’ had been busy. He wasn’t here on business, and yet…

Of all people, he really should know.

Touya feels his handful of arm hairs churn as nonexistent flames are lit on his skin.

Him not disclosing it to just anyone is one thing, but this…

“Are you telling me that no one has ever cared to ask your fucking name?”

Do they really not know?

The fake hero’s face remains frozen in a perpetual smile. His reaction is hidden in his nonreaction; Touya knows the question hit a sore spot.

Upon ingesting the disturbance, the blonde’s voice spills venom.

“Why, have you?”

It’s Touya’s turn to have a budding smirk of ‘gotcha’ freeze onto his face.

Satisfied with his comeback, ‘Hawks’ turns to the clipboard in front of him.

“Anyway, have you decided what kind of odd jobs to take? With how limited your ability to move around is, I made sure not to include anything more taxing than paperwork and the like. Honestly, the worst kind of punishment.”

Instead of answering, Touya blurts out the summary of his own questions:

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Nothing about this guy adds up.

Nothing.

“Nothing for you to care about,” ‘Hawks’ says with a twirl of a pen, echoing his thoughts. He then crosses a box a few lines in as if he had developed future sight and could see a list of things yet unsaid.

“You use an alias as overglorified state personnel,” Touya continues with no regard to anyone’s expectations. The world outside is too hazy for him to be doing this, anyhow. “Your work is the epitome of white collar bureaucracy bullshit, yet you carry yourself and that thing around as if there was no bigger dick in a ten mile radius. What even are you?”

“Nothing, Dabi,” the man says with unusual finality and emphasis, either completely forgetting or ignoring that he’s saying a taboo word. His face is dead serious as he finally looks at the captive, and the pen in his hand squeaks in pain. “I’m nothing. I’ve always been nothing to anyone, and always will be. Now answer the question or go back to your cell. I still have a stack of paperwork to get through.”

There is something deeply unsettling in the emptiness staring right into Touya’s soul.

Every remaining hair on his body rises in unison as a nonexistent chill sweeps across the stuffy room.

That doesn’t sound right.

“What about Twice?”

That doesn’t sound right at all.

‘Hawks’ sighs and, surprisingly enough, deflates. Touya almost expects him to admit to being in the wrong.

“I was too eager to praise your memory, it seems… Didn't you ‘hear everything,’ trademark, that had happened before barging in?” he drawls. There’s just a tiny change in the way he carries himself, but nothing in the other’s voice indicates guilt. “If you had, you’d actually know that I was nothing more than a pity project. Really, if even someone like him cannot muster an ounce of genuine care for me, who else?”

Once again, Touya cannot believe his ears.

“People lie.”

People lie a lot.

He does it all the time.

Hawks does it all the time.

Jin did, too.

“Why take everything he’s ever said at face value?”

He had multiple personalities, for fuck’s sake, and one of them was as rude as Dabi.

‘Hawks’ straightens himself with a suppressed sigh. “Look. You wanted Hawks, and that’s exactly what you got. Too little, too late to be arguing about this anyway, don’t you think?”

Touya thins his eyes as much as he can, considering the faceless monster sitting across the table.

“True.”

It’s a moment’s decision, but Touya goes with the flow and continues a split second later, even if his tongue finds finishing the sentence one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

“Hi. My name is… Todoroki Touya.”

The blonde freezes up, staring at him. He lifts a brow in confusion. “What is this about?”

“I’m introducing myself. What’s your name, dipshit?”

“This is pointless,” ‘Hawks’ sighs after another pause upon realizing the other’s intentions. He pinches his brows. “We don’t even get along. At all.”

He almost sounds like he’s whining.

Exasperated.

Defeated.

Tired.

Thankfully, quirk suppressors have become way smaller, because Touya wouldn’t appreciate not being able to cross his arms at all. Granted, the cuffs don’t make it easy, either.

“I won’t answer your question unless you answer mine.”

The other squints back at him, long and hard.

“I will make a bingo card to see when you give up on me,” ‘Hawks’ says then from behind his palm; equally stupid and childish.

Touya rolls his eyes.

“That’s beside the point. What will it be?”

The other shakes his head and turns back to his mostly empty file. “Don’t say later that I didn’t warn you. Call me whatever you like. Now answer the damn question already.”

Touya may not have gotten what he wanted, but… it’s a start.

“Put me in charge of bedtime stories, Keigo.”

A specific sort of smile appears on the blonde’s face, one that tells of a small, but smug victory.

“Knew it.”

[i-put-the-bi-in-suibian]

Hi! I’m Kate, the author of Wanxian fics  Restraint and Realization,  Fate and Choice,  Thirty-three Lashes and many others and 

I WROTE A BOOK

It’s a M/M romance that takes place in a post-apocalyptic world. If you enjoy gay fanfic, you should check it out.

I need your help!

The MDZS fandom has been a great place for me so I’m hoping to find support in there. Since I decided to take the self-publishing route, I need to market my book myself. My plan was to promote it on TikTok but the app screwed me over and I seem unable to get the 1000 followers needed to share a link. That’s why I’m reaching out.

PLEASE FOLLOW ME ON TIKTOK AND SIGNAL BOOST THIS POST

All I want is to be able to add the link

If you are interested in the book and my writing, you can also follow my writing blog @winglesswriter​

[thychesters]

There may be grooves worn into the railing at this point, or the grass matted down in this particular spot—it’s prime for sitting in the midday sun with just the right amount of shade, for being in the middle of the rest of crew, far enough to doze but close enough to pick up on any notes of distress.

He’s slipping into that comfortable, hazy in-between of consciousness and not when Luffy starts shifting around in his lap, and he grunts when a knee and then an elbow digs into his stomach. He drops a hand to squeeze his shoulder, and Luffy huffs to slump against his chest.

Zoro sighs, head tilted back against the balustrade, and he’s granted a full six seconds of relative silence—nothing but the waves, creak of rope and gentle breathing—before he feels knuckles ghosting down the side of his face.

“Zoro’s getting old,” Luffy murmurs when he looks down at him, tracing a nail along the lines he knows are starting to form at the corner of his eye. The quiet days leave him sun and sleep-warm and sea-worn, skin dry and calloused with a life lived free and out on the sea. He drags his fingertips down his cheek, following the indent and scratching at the beginnings of stubble.

“If you put your finger up my nose I’m going to break it off.”

“I’m rubber,” Luffy hums, sounding rather pleased with himself. “You can’t break my fingers off.”

“First time for everything,” Zoro mutters, settling an arm around his waist when he squirms again. Fingers drum on his jaw before they drag back up the side of his face, along a thin scar on his cheek and toward his hairline where they still, and he can feel rather than see Luffy frown. He cracks an eye open at him, only for him to twist and dig his knees into his hips, grabbing his head with both hands and wrenching it to the side like he means to yank it off his shoulders. “Oi! The hell is the matter with—”

Luffy’s nose bumps against his ear, and Zoro’s left glaring at his shoulder, hands hovering over his sides. “Zoro is old.” In his peripheral he catches the edge of a wide grin, and then he’s shoving his face into his. “Zoro has gray hair.”

He blanches and shoves at him, but it has about the same impact as pushing against the tide. “Shut up, no I don’t.”

“Yes you do!” he croons, wiggling on his lap and squishing his face between his hands. As they curl, his fingertips drag through his temples where there are small strands of gray peppering through the green. “Zoro has gray hair!”

He closes his fingers around his wrists, grip loose though his thumbs presses against his pulse points; Luffy’s smile is wide and as bright as his eyes, blocking out the sun but leaving Zoro blinded all the same. He shifts closer, close enough he could worm his way into his coat and between his ribs in a blaze of heat.

“It’s a good thing. I like it,” Luffy says with a nod, and all Zoro does is stare at him for a moment, nails scratching against his scalp. “Getting old is a good thing, right? Means you’re strong, that you’re still alive and keep fighting.”

And he wants to yes, sure, but only if Luffy gets old too—and he. He can’t say that. Rather than make a fool of himself he leans forward—hands cupping his face and all—to tuck his face into his chest, breathing all of the words left unspoken against the scar that blossoms across it. The scar that says he’s strong, too—like Zoro always knew he was, though it’s a pain he never should have had to face, least of all alone. Luffy laughs, and he can feel the sound reverberate, can feel it thrum through his veins, nose pressed to his sternum, and he remains there, warmed by the sun while Luffy drags his fingers through his few gray hairs.

[aceghosts]

DEAD MAN WALKING

Series Summary: In February 2005, Captain Hunter Delaney is tragically killed in action on a BSAA mission in Northern Canada. After their death, scientists and BSAA agents related to the mission start to die. Albert Wesker intends to find out who is killing them, hoping to use this stranger to his advantage. Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon typical violence, Body Horror, and unethical experimentation on humans. Mentions of a corpse, death, and torture. This is a horror fic with eventual romance; you have been warned. If I need to tag for anything else, please let me know.  Words: 3,341 words.  Author's Note: Chapter title comes from Placebo's Infra-Red. I didn’t mean to take this long between the first chapter and the second chapter. Good news is that I hope to have another chapter out for you at the beginning of November.  AO3

CHAPTER 2: FORGET YOUR RUNNING, I WILL FIND YOU

A few months later…

Albert parks the black Mercedes in front of the two-story brick house. Hidden out of the way in this idyllic neighborhood, the quaint home was perfect for someone portraying himself as a simple family man. It was a terrible hiding place if you were Dr. Jeremy Fuller, a man stupid enough to steal from Albert Wesker. Perhaps, Jeremy wanted something familiar, knowing he was living on stolen time. From time to time, animals had been known to crawl back to their hovels, seeking comfort in their impending death. Jeremy must be like them; he certainly was as pathetic as a dying animal. Stepping out of the sedan, Albert closes the car door behind him, striding toward the front door.

Wait…He stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing behind dark shades. The red front door is open, showing no signs of forced entry. Had Jeremy already left with his family, hoping to avoid Albert? Or was poor, naive Jeremy simply setting a trap for him? Albert quietly tuts, shaking his head. Jeremy was only prolonging his suffering. The more annoyed Albert was, the more he would draw out Jeremy’s demise. He silently stalks towards the front door, hand slipping beneath his long, black coat, resting on his Samurai Edge.

Pushing the door open, Albert keenly listens for the sound of movement inside the home. He only hears the slow drip of a faucet, most likely from one of the upstairs bathrooms. The home is unnaturally quiet, devoid of any life. As he steps inside, Albert glances around the doorway, noticing the small unusual details, particularly that there were no signs of a frantic exit. Men’s dress shoes and a leather messenger bag are left by the door, presumably by Jeremy in preparation for his day at work. Albert kneels, inspecting the bag more. Jeremy’s laptop is still there. He must not have run, not at least without the laptop. Now, Albert had only one question: where was Jeremy?   

Starting his slow ascent up the stairs in the foyer, Albert eyes the family photos on the beige wall. Each photo is of Jeremy and his family, Jeremy looking so proud. He scoffs at Jeremy’s foolish pride. Relationships were weaknesses to be exploited. Albert used spouses, children, siblings, and grandparents to advance his agenda. People were so easy to manipulate, especially when they had someone to care about. One of the photos, a photograph of Jeremy and his family at breakfast, brings a memory back to Albert’s mind.

—

Albert unlocks the door to the Birkin home, stepping inside. Will gave him the key the moment Will and Annette had moved into the house. Albert pulls his boots off, dropping his bag beside them. Hearing the sounds of Sherry’s laughter, Albert heads towards the kitchen, wondering what mischief Sherry and William have gotten into now.

As he reaches the kitchen, Will turns, spotting and smiling at him. “Hey Al! Here for breakfast, huh?”

“Uncle Al!” Sherry exclaims, excitement shining brightly in her blue eyes. She runs over, hugging him tightly. After Will and Annette, Albert was Sherry’s third favorite person. She spent almost as much time with him as with her parents, which wasn’t much.

“Good morning, Sherry,” Albert greets her, petting Sherry’s head as she fondly releases him. He shakes his head. “No, I’m here to make sure you go to the lab today. We have more work to do.”

Will groans. “We would have more time if you didn’t have to play pretend with S.T.A.R.S.”

“That isn’t my choice. Spencer needs a man inside,” Albert replies, sliding a chair out and taking a seat next to Sherry, as she sits, vibrating with excitement, “We won’t have to do this much longer.”

“I hope so,” Will grumbles from the kitchen.

“Albert.” Annette greets him coolly as she strides into the kitchen.

“Annette.” Turning to Sherry, Albert asks, “How was school this week?” He catches Will giving him a ‘You got yourself into this’ look as Annette smirks.

Smiling brightly, Sherry launches into a long-winded explanation of how she aced her test, beating everyone in her class. As Albert takes in the simple domestic scene around him, he can’t help but feel slightly at peace here with his friends and their daughter.

—

A low growl escapes Albert as he shakes the silly memory from his head. He never asked Will if he regretted marrying Annette and having Sherry. Something like that would have been an off-topic subject for lifelong friends. Besides, Albert knew the answer. Annette and Sherry had been a weakness, costing Will his life. Even if Albert longed for the companionship of another, no one would be his equal, especially not after his transformation.

As Albert makes his way to the master bedroom, he passes the other rooms of the home, occasionally glancing towards the bedrooms. Jeremy’s son’s bedroom, Alan, looked as if he planned to return that afternoon. So did the daughter’s, Lizzie’s, bedroom. Interesting.

Reaching the master bedroom, Albert silently pushes the door open, surveying the room. No one waits for him in hiding, the bedroom completely empty. On the neatly made bed, Albert spies a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen lying beside it. Striding over, Albert picks up the pad, noting the deeply indented words marked on the paper. Narrowing his eyes, he notes that it is Jeremy’s handwriting, hastily scrawled, almost as if it were under duress. It appears to be a list of names, with the final name circled: Dr. Charles Griffin. Placing the legal pad down, Albert questions what Dr. Griffin had to do with this. As far as Albert was concerned, Dr. Griffin was an annoyance. An idiot masquerading as a genius. Dr. Griffin, delusional, believed his work would change the world. That honor would belong to Albert alone.  

Looking to his left, Albert notices the door to the master bathroom is slightly ajar. He approaches the bathroom, the damp carpet squelching under his feet as he nears the door. Albert raises a blond eyebrow, slowly pushing the door open. The tan bathroom tiles are slick with water as the tub faucet drips. Turning slowly, Albert finds the body of Jeremy Fuller, hands zip-tied behind his back as he kneels in front of the tub, face submerged. Fury rises in Albert as he stomps over to the dead body. Grabbing Jeremy by the collar, Albert pulls him out of the water, confirming it’s really the man he was looking for. He is going to kill whoever did this. If someone killed Jeremy, they were most likely after his sample. And Albert Wesker did not take kindly to thieves.

He releases Jeremy, who flops back face first into the water as it splashes over the edge of the tub. Stomping out of the bedroom, Albert swipes the legal pad from the bed, hoping that he isn’t too late to recover what belongs to him. If it was, this thief should hope that someone else gets to them first.

—

SLAM! His gloved fist dents the desk, pure fury pulsing through Albert’s veins. Everything, all of it, was gone. Jeremy’s monitors and towers were riddled with bullet holes, rendering whatever information Albert might get useless. The refrigerator, containing some samples, was a hollow husk, a grenade thrown in it first before someone deemed it appropriate to riddle it with bullet holes. It was all gone, including the stolen sample. A low growl escapes him, anger threatening to consume him. No. Albert was smarter than this. There had to be a clue about who had destroyed Jeremy’s lab.

As he heads back towards the stairs to the main level, he catches sight of a small door, slightly ajar. Pushing the door open, Albert finds a monitor hooked up to the security cameras, focusing on the outside of the property. He smirks, knowing that this might be the clue he needs. Flipping through the footage for a few minutes, Albert finds who he thinks might be responsible. The monitor’s grainy footage shows a tall figure approaching the property. They look up towards the camera, dark bangs peeking out from the red hood of their black and red sweatshirt. Most of their face is covered, most likely to protect their identity from anyone who would come after them. Someone like Albert Wesker. The figure is too far from the camera to make out any real identifying features. It’s also several feet up, well above anything that a normal human could reach. The stranger will most likely use their gun to destroy the camera.

Within the blink of an eye, the figure crosses the lawn, now in front of the camera. The stranger leaps up, face coming close to the camera. He briefly notices their faded green eyes, freckles splattered across their face, and a scar on the bridge of their nose, peaking out from underneath the mask. Eyes narrowed, the figure reaches for the camera, and the footage suddenly ends. Interesting. If the footage is correct, this individual shows a heightened capacity for speed and jump beyond any human. Were they infected? Possibly. He couldn’t decide either way until he had absolute proof. However, he did always wonder if there were others like Alex and himself, especially with abilities like his own. Most who underwent the transformation of their viruses were monsters, slaves to their own madness, and whoever held the other end of their leash. A small flicker of hope lodges itself in his chest, feeling slightly more optimistic. But he could not get too optimistic; he needed more proof.  

After copying the footage of the mysterious stranger, Albert heads back up to the main floor. He walks towards Jeremy’s messenger bag, wondering if he may find more information there. Kneeling by the bag, Albert rifles through it, finding Jeremy’s work cell phone. He smirks as he flips it open. The cell phone beeps, indicating someone left a voice-mail. Albert presses play, an unfamiliar voice speaking aloud:

“Jeremy, where are you? Dr. Ortiz is going to have your head on a pike! Please tell me you didn’t take up that psychopath, Griffin, up on his offer. I know he’s your old boss, but he isn’t worth it! Especially with those samples of that dead BSAA Agent!” Albert hears shouting in the background, presumably Dr. Ortiz. “Fuck, just get in here Jeremy!”

Dead BSAA Agent? Samples? The mystery thickens, and Albert wonders how this mysterious stranger fits in with the dead BSAA Agent. Revenge for a lost loved one, perhaps? But what need would they have to destroy Jeremy’s work? And what role did Dr. Griffin play in all of this?

—

Illuminated by the glow of the screen, Albert flicks through the Umbrella archives, courtesy of the Red Queen. Umbrella has little on Jeremy or Dr. Griffin. Jeremy appears to be one of Dr. Griffin’s known associates, an interesting coincidence. Umbrella has little information on his work but indicated that it would be a strategic move to recruit Dr. Griffin and his team. In fact, they appeared to be recruiting him when Raccoon City fell, taking Umbrella along with it. How unfortunate for them. His file did note that Dr. Griffin may need to be dealt with, especially if he refused their offer to take another opportunity at one of their competitors. The end of the file notes Dr. Griffin and his teams’ attempt to work on something to rival the Progenitor virus. An interesting note, clearly still unsuccessful.

Steepling his fingers, Albert wonders if Dr. Griffin finished his work on the virus. Was he successful? And how did this stranger relate to it? Were they cleaning up Dr. Griffin’s mess, on his or his employer’s payroll? Or were they working for someone else, a simple pawn on the chessboard? And what role did the dead BSAA agent play in all of this? No matter, Albert would make the stranger an offer they could not refuse. And if they did refuse? He would make sure they were removed from the game permanently. However, he needs to find the individual, and Dr. Griffin was his only lead.

A preliminary search shows that Dr. Griffin is under the watchful eyes of the BSAA. Interesting. What had the good doctor done to bring the BSAA down on him?

Getting into the BSAA files was easy. Agencies, like the BSAA, were always behind when it came to security, and like every other major player, Albert had his own men within the BSAA. Finding Dr. Griffin’s file, a photo of the man appears. Dr. Griffin frowns in his photo, pretending to portray a serious yet misunderstood genius. He snorts; Will was a genius, not this fraud. Dr. Griffin’s file lists his work, noting that he may be a serious threat. Albert smirks; Dr. Griffin is nothing compared to him.

He moves on to Dr. Griffin’s work, much of which is mediocre. Yet, Dr. Griffin’s current research sparks his curiosity as Albert pulls up a video, a recording of one of Dr. Griffin’s test subjects. A man in his late twenties-early thirties paces around the cell, clearly in distress.  “What did you do to me?” He wheezes, swaying as he paces back and forth. Something grumbles, and the man groans, hunching over as something ripples along his spine. Albert leans closer, inspecting the subject closer. Is-Is something moving beneath his skin? Fascinating. “WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” He screams, a melodramatic shriek of pain. Another howl escapes him, and the subject mutates, bones cracking and skin ripping as he evolves. The subject writhes as his body transforms, movement eventually ceasing. A few seconds later, the subject moves, imperceptible to the human eye. His movements increase, the subject rising to its feet, two long appendages protruding from its wrists. The mutation marred the subject’s face, his body distorted from the transformation. It had turned him into a tyrant, not dissimilar to the ones Albert had worked on at Umbrella. The Tyrant looks up at the camera. With a quick motion, it whips one of the appendages, causing the video feed to cut out.

Disappointing. Dr. Griffin’s virus clearly needed more work, more than Dr. Griffin could ever hope to achieve. He pulls up the report regarding the BSAA’s capture of Dr. Griffin. The report lists five members as part of the team who arrested Dr. Griffin:

Agent Arthur Edwards-Alive Agent Patrick Hoffman-Alive Agent Natasha Russell-Alive Agent Kevin Zhu-Alive Captain Hunter Delaney-Deceased

Albert raises an eyebrow. Is Captain Delaney the dead BSAA agent that Jeremy’s colleague referred to in his voicemail? He searches Captain Delaney, pulling up their file, only to be greeted with a familiar pair of faded green eyes. In their file photo, Captain Delaney wears a confident smile, proud of their work. Albert snorts. What a fool. The BSAA was exactly like the entities it swore to fight. It was bloated by corruption, infected with spies from numerous organizations. His thoughts return to Captain Delaney, noting the two scars on their freckled face. Across the bridge of their nose runs a deep scar, only to be outdone by a large, gnarled scar on the left side of their lip. The scar on their nose seems similar to the one of the mysterious stranger.

Captain Delaney’s file notes that they had a promising career in the U.S. Air Force until a B.O.W. attack in Belgium in 1999. Thanks to the Captain’s leadership, their team made it out alive with a few civilian survivors, but something changed in Captain Delaney. Reports from their superiors note their warnings about bioterrorism, starting to become a pain in Leadership’s side. Captain Delaney seemed smart enough to recognize the potential threat that bioterrorism would become. Yet, they decided to play for the wrong side, leaving the Air Force to join the BSAA in 2002. If the U.S. Government was willing to let them go during the beginning of the war on terror, Captain Delaney must have kicked up quite a stir. What had occurred during the mission with Dr. Griffin that led to Captain Delaney’s untimely death?

Scrolling down to the mission reports, Albert opens Agent Arthur Edwards’ report, Captain Delaney’s second in command. Agent Edwards writes in his report: “Captain Delaney was infected by Dr. Charles Griffin with the prototype of his virus. Dr. Griffin informed the team that there was no hope for curing Captain Delaney. Captain Delaney’s infection progressed, and they started to mutate. To protect the team and ensure no further infection, I acted, terminating Captain Delaney. Due to my quick actions, no other members of the team were infected.”

Infected? Interesting. The figure in the grainy video showed no similarities to Dr. Griffin’s previous test subject. They appeared in perfect health, seeming mostly human. That was assuming that it even was Captain Delaney infected with the prototype virus. Glancing over at the yellow legal pad, Albert notes the names. All scientists who worked on the virus that killed Captain Delaney. This stranger was after Dr. Griffin’s team and most likely, Dr. Griffin, himself.

He mulls over the idea of this stranger being the dead Captain Delaney. Albert could not discount the physical similarities between the deceased Captain Delaney and the stranger. It would also mean there was another like him and Alex. Would they be as strong as he was? As fast? Albert’s mind races with many possibilities, eager to meet another tyrant like himself. So many of the other tyrants were rudimentary, animalistic creatures acting on pure instinct. None were the next step of humanity’s evolution like him. He smirks, knowing it was imperative to find this individual as soon as possible. The BSAA would have no idea what to do with a subject of this value, and Albert could not risk the chance that a rival corporation would get their hands on this individual. Albert would do whatever is necessary to gain the loyalty of this individual, possibly being too rare to eliminate if they were like him.

Taking out his cell phone, Albert dials a number. The phone rings a few times before the Lady in Red answers. “Wesker?” Ada Wong asks, her voice controlled. Yet he notes the slightest hint of nervousness. Did she think that Albert had finally come for her, to end her once and for all?

“Ada Wong,” He greets pleasantly, in control, “Long time, no talk.”

“It’s been a while,” She replies, slightly on edge.

While Albert would love to play with Ada, something more important was at stake. “I have a mission for you.”

“What do you want, Wesker? I’m already working on another mission.”

“I’m willing to double what your current employer is paying you. This mission is a priority. And,” Albert stresses, ”You owe me.”

Ada swallows nervously over the phone. “You must be desperate if you’re willing to up my fee,” She tries to play off her fear, but Albert knows she will obey, “What is this mission?”

“I need you to find someone. They may be dead.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You need me to retrieve a dead person? What’s the catch?”

Clever girl, he thinks. Ada was always able to look past the bigger picture. Yet, it was a double-edged sword, especially when it came to that annoyance, Leon Kennedy. “This dead person may have killed someone: a Dr. Jeremy Fuller. I need you to bring them to me. If you bring this dead person in quietly, you will receive a bonus. I’ll also overlook your little indiscretion.”

“Deal.” No hesitation in Ada’s voice.

“Good. I will send you the information. I expect you to bring me results.”

“Don’t worry, I always deliver.” Ada hangs up, leaving him alone in the silence of the dark room.

Anticipation rises in Albert at the thought of Ada bringing Captain Delaney to him. If Albert was right about Captain Delaney being alive, they would be of great value to his research, but an even greater ally. He would make them one, no matter the cost.

Writing Taglist (Opt In/Out): @bbrocklesnar, @tommyarashikage, @voidika, @alexxmason, @sergeiravenov,

@clicheantagonist, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @imogenkol,

@carlosoliveiraa, @theelderhazelnut, @strangefable, @direwombat, @cassietrn,

@derelictheretic, @cloudofbutterflies92, @spookyrares,

[darkwing-katy]

The Spider and the Fly Part V

Pairing: Eventual Leland x Reader (sorta? You’ll see what I mean)

Word Count: 3,703

Summary: All you want to do is get through your online courses and keep your best friend from making bad choices in men. But there’s this creepy therapist who is absolutely insisting on you making an appointment with him. Who the hell is this Leland Townsend, and why won’t he leave you alone?!

Part five of seven. Takes place sometime around/between/during seasons one and two.

The series is inspired heavily by my favorite poem, “The Spider and the Fly” (1829) by Mary Howitt. This poem is in the public domain.

Tagging: @primosflowergarden; @vi-er

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

—————————————————————————————————

The Spider turned him round about and went into his den

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;

So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly

And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly

It’s been a long few days. You’ve switched to the opening shift so your afternoons and evenings are free, and you stayed up until midnight two days in a row getting all of your coursework done for the next two weeks. You know you’re going to need as much time as you can get if you want to accomplish this. 

And thus the stalking began. You now know where Leland lives, which is fitting because he knows where you live, too. You also know that he attends church rather frequently, though you can’t for the life of you imagine why. There’s no way in hell he’s a religious person, not with the things he’s said to you. There’s something else going on, and you decide you’re going to find out what.

You’re waiting outside for him to leave, if only so you can be certain that he’s not about to walk in while you try and glean his real motives. You’ll wait as long as it takes, your favorite coffee in hand. It’s warm outside, but it’s evening, and there’s a nice wind that’s breezing pass you every now and then, winding between the buildings and bringing the scents of pizza, hot dogs, sewage, and people. The scents of New York.

Ah! You see him. Leland steps out of the church and pauses for a moment. You can’t see his facial expression from here, but you’d bet almost anything that it’s a smirk or a sneer. He shakes his head in what appears to be glee from a distance as he goes down the stairs and makes a right at the sidewalk. You watch him disappear into the city and count to twenty before you leap up from your bench and rush to the church. You take the steps two at a time in your haste—you want to make sure he doesn’t double back and find you here. The sooner you’re inside, with those ornate doors closed behind you, the better.

You are now in the sanctuary of the church. It’s big and ostentatious, but there’s something about it that reassures you. You can be safe here. Leland can’t get you here.

It’s not true, of course, but it’s nice to feel the illusion of safety, even if you keep your eyes and ears alert as you walk down the aisle way to the front altar. Your eyes make note of anything interesting, which…is simultaneously a lot and very little. The interior of the church is beautiful, but there’s absolutely nothing here that screams Leland Townsend at you, nor is there anything that seems worthy of his attention.

So why the hell does he keep coming here?

You sit in a pew and prop your elbows up on the wooden pew ahead of you as you purse your lips in thought. What does Leland want? you wonder. There’s no way he’s here for God. So then…what?

“Can I help you?” a deep voice asks from your left.

You jump in your seat, your pulse racing. It’s not Leland’s voice, which is comforting, but the fact that he’s got you so paranoid is infuriating. You twist to see the speaker. It’s a tall man with dark skin and a bit of a beard. He doesn’t have on a clergy outfit—just a navy zippered sweater (that looks extremely cozy) over a nice button-up and jeans. He does wear a cross rosary, though, and his entire demeanor radiates peace.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says with a small smile. 

You immediately like him. “It’s fine,” you reply with a flippant wave of your hands. “That’s what I get for watching too many scary movies, I guess.”

He chuckles and indicates the pew you’re sitting in. “May I?”

You nod, and he takes a seat next to you, though you notice there’s room between you. Another green flag—he’s not trying to get all up in your business; he’s keeping a respectful distance. “Are you a priest here?”

He gives a casual shrug. “I’m working on it.”

“Ah.” You look away from him, back to the front of the church. You’re not sure what to say, so you say the first thing that pops into your head. “It’s peaceful here.”

“I’m glad you think so.” You turn back to him as he extends a hand. “My name is David Acosta.”

“(Y/F/N) (Y/L/N),” you reply as you accept his hand. He gives it a firm shake, a friendly one, before releasing your hand. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Are you new?”

You shake your head with a snort. “Not really. I was, uh, just looking for someone, I guess.”��Would David know who Leland is? He’s not a priest, but he seems to be knowledgeable about this place. He noticed I’m not familiar, which means he must recognize familiar faces, right? 

David shrugs. “Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help. I work here,” he adds by way of explanation.

You decide to chance it. “Uhhh, Leland Townsend?”

David stills, and his eyes narrow, though it’s not so much accusatory as it is curious. “Why are you looking for Leland Townsend?” he asks, not unkindly, but there’s an edge there.

You turn so that your whole body is facing him, your legs half on the pew, half dangling off. “You know him?”

David gives you a slow nod, his lips pressed together into a thin line. The edge has spread to his eyes, but to his credit, he’s still looking at you with warmth. “You could say that,” he murmurs. “How do you know him?”

“He’s my therapist,” you grumble, and David’s eyes narrow even further. Now he’s giving you a suspicious look. “Or at least, he insists that he is.”

“You feel otherwise?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “I fucking hate the guy,” you hiss. Your eyes widen as you realize what you just said. “Oh, wait! Sorry. Probably shouldn’t say ‘fucking’ in church. Oh, shit, I did it again!” You put your hand to your mouth. “Sorry. He just—I just—he’s so awful,” you finally grit out. “He won’t leave me alone and I’ve been trying to figure out why and so I followed him here and waited for him to leave and—,” 

David holds up a hand to stop you, the hardness in his gaze gone. “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else,” he says in a low voice. You watch him rise and motion for you to follow him, which you do. 

You hadn’t meant to blurt all of that out, but you’re just so fucking done with the situation, and judging by the way David is reacting to the mention of Leland’s name, he knows full well who your stupid therapist is and how shitty of a guy he is. 

He leads you to a more private conference room. You take a seat at the long table in the center while David closes the doors. When he’s done, he sits down across from you and gives you a look of concern. “I’d like to know exactly what you know about Leland Townsend, if you don’t mind telling me,” he says. “How do you know him?”

You suck in a deep breath before launching into the whole shitstorm that’s been your life over the last few weeks. You try to censor yourself, not wanting to curse in front of a priest-in-training, but a few choice words slip out, more often when you arrive at the end of your tale. You’re too wrapped up in your anger to think about the words you’re using, and honestly? David doesn’t seem to care.

“And he threatened Betty again, and I’m just so fucking done with it, so I said, ‘Ya know what? Fuck it!’ And started following him everywhere because it’s not fair that he knows everything about me when I know nothing about him, and he keeps coming here—which makes no fucking sense ‘cause I seriously doubt that asshole is religious at all—so I came here to see if I could figure anything else out, but I don’t even know where the hell to start. All I know is that I’m done with it. I want him and his stupid pretty blue eyes out of my life.” You’re breathing heavily. Your chest rises up and down as you gulp in air, your heartbeat racing in your ears, but there’s something relieving about sharing all of this with someone else, even if he’s all but a complete stranger. A weight has been taken off. It’s not all the way gone, no, but it feels bearable now. You’re no longer alone.

David has listened patiently the whole time, asking a prodding question here or there to help you find more details, but otherwise, he’s sat there, his hands folded, his chin resting on top of his hands. When you’re done, he gives you a warm smile, and that smile breaks you. You feel a few hot tears slip out and swipe at them. “Sorry,” you mutter as your cheeks heat up. “Don’t mean to cry.”

There’s no judgement in his face, only understanding. “It’s okay. Leland has an ability to get under people’s skin, and you’re not the only one.” You sniffle. “You won’t be the last, either. But…” he hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should be telling you this.

“What?”

“You are the first person I’ve heard of who’s tried to get away from him. From what I know, most of his patients seem to…” he drifts off again.

You can fill in the blanks yourself. “Buy into his bullshit about human darkness and violence and stuff?”

David laughs. “Yeah.”

You chuckle. Something about that feels reassuring. “Well, maybe that’s why he keeps harassing me and threatening me.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow as David leans back. “Why don’t I what?”

“Why don’t you buy into his…methods?” he clarifies.

You think for a moment. You don’t really have an answer, other than you’re not an idiot and you’re not power hungry. Sure, it’s fun to torment Betty’s boys, and you’ve gone on a power trip or two with your own exes, but you don’t want to do it all the time. You love the thrill of discovering what scares a person, but you have other things you enjoy, too, like your creative writing. “I dunno,” you admit sheepishly. “I just…don’t.”

David gives you a gentle smile as he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket. “Is it alright if I make a phone call?”

It’s sweet of him to ask you for permission, even though he doesn’t need to. It’s so different from how Leland treats you, all sneers and aggression and slamming you against walls and blood—oops, now you’re picturing him with the blood again and this is not the time or place for that.

You’re in church. You will not be thinking about the attractive psychopath that’s constantly terrorizing you. You will not think about the gleam in his eyes as he rips you to pieces with his words, slices you apart in the hopes that you’ll lash out at him.

You will definitely not think about the dreams you’ve been having with him lately. The dreams where you two are fighting for dominance in the kitchen, you with a knife, him laughing every time you swipe at him. The dreams that end in blood and clothes on the floor, in bites and snarls and moans.

You are in church, for fuck’s sake. 

So why the fuck are you still thinking about it? Your cheeks are flushed, and you exhale in a pant. David has left the room, presumably to make his phone call, so at least he’s not here to witness you. 

You glance around the room in an attempt to distract yourself from thoughts of Leland. There’s a massive window that takes up the whole wall at the opposite end of the room from the door, a crucifix dangling on the wall, and another set of wooden doors behind you. Above you, the room raises to a point—very church-like. Ornate lanterns dangle down, lit up with soft warm glows. You smile at them before rising to go to the window. It’s still daylight, but the sun will be setting soon. You can see people walking down the street in front of the church—a woman with her dog, a man getting out of a car on his phone, a woman pushing a stroller with a toddler sitting in it, both of them licking ice cream cones. You smile at the sight and think that maybe you’ll get yourself an ice cream when this is over. You deserve a sweet treat of some sort, at least. 

And maybe more canned margaritas. You can’t go wrong with more margaritas.

A dark shadow catches your eye at the end of the street. It’s a dark figure stepping into an alley, but before it steps out of your line of sight, it turns and you swear it’s looking towards you. Then it’s gone, and you rub your eyes. 

“I need more sleep,” you mutter to yourself.

You linger at the window for a while longer, allowing your people-watching to distract you. By the time David returns, though, you’re back in your chair. He grins at you. “I have someone I think you should meet,” he tells you as he pulls out his own chair and sits in it.

You cock your head at him, curious. 

“Her name is Kristen, and she’s had several…incidents with Leland as well. But, like you, she’s managed to come out unscathed, and I think that she can help you deal with him.”

You feel your own face split into a grin. “Alrighty then,” you say, “let’s meet her.”

Less than a half-hour later, Kristen is sitting in front of you alongside David. You instantly like her, but in a different way than you do David. Whereas he feels safe and comfortable, Kristen feels like she’s strong, someone who doesn’t take shit from people. She gives you kind smiles as she asks you questions about your interactions with Leland, and you hold nothing back, not even Samantha’s suicide, a detail you hadn’t shared with David.

Neither of them offer any judgement on you for what you’ve done, and it’s nice, even though you still feel no guilt over it. It’s like sharing this secret part of yourself is lifting Leland’s hand from you, and you suddenly realize that he’s been using that knowledge to keep you under his thrall. By sharing it openly with these two strangers (can you really call them strangers, though?), you’re loosening the noose he’s tightened around you. 

Your spirit lifts a little higher. You can beat him. You can outsmart him.

And then, there’s the cherry on top.

“Leland Townsend is not his real name,” Kristen explains. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes, not unlike the light you’ve seen in Leland’s every now and then.

“What’s his real name, then?” you ask. “I’ve tried digging into him and found literally nothing.”

There’s a wry smile on her face as she spills Leland’s darkest secrets—who he really is. The entire time, you’re paying rapt attention, memorizing everything that comes out of her mouth. She tells you the sad tale of Jake Perry, the awkward boy from Des Moines, Iowa who has had two failed marriages and is pretending to make pacts with demons to reinvent himself. You could kiss her in thanks with how much material she gives you on him, and honestly, you’re considering it because it’s just so good. This is what you’ve been missing, the puzzle pieces that will allow you to kick him to the curb once and for all. 

Kristen escorts you out of the church when all is said and done. “Are you okay?” she asks, giving you a concerned look.

You look up at the sky, pink and purple clouds rolling in with the night. “I am now,” you reply as you inhale deeply.

“Are you sure?”

You look at Kristen. “Why?”

She gives you a small smile. “Because I know what it’s like to have him in your head, (Y/N).”

You put your hands in your pockets. “Did he ever come to your house?”

She nods. “Yes. Once. He came out of it with stitches and hasn’t come back since.”

Your admiration for her grows. “That’s badass.” You frown as you remember that he seems to like that kind of thing. “But I’m pretty sure he’s into that.”

Kristen makes a face. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he is,” she agrees. “But he’s never shown up there again.”

“Are you saying I just need to stab him and kick him out?”

She laughs at that. “No, no. Not at all. But…” she glances behind you at the towering church, “if you feel threatened...” she trails off as she returns her gaze to you. “You know what? I want you to call me if he shows up again.” She hands you her phone. “Please.”

You take the phone from her and put your number in. You also add your address. Kristen doesn’t seem like the type of person to abuse this information in any way—and it does make you feel better knowing that you have a warrior on your side. When she receives her phone back, she sends you a message with her name so you have her number, which you promptly save. 

The two of you descend down the steps together. “Kristen?” you ask before she gets in her car. 

She looks at you, her short hair tossing in the breeze. “Yeah?”

“Am I—should I be worried about him?” You hate how small your voice suddenly is, how fragile. You’d vowed to not let him make you feel this way, but now that you have people helping you, people who understand, you’re finally allowing yourself to feel a little scared. Leland scares you, dammit. He’s unpredictable in so many ways, he’s aggressive, and you’re all alone in your little rental place. 

Kristen tilts her head at you, her eyes soft with—pity? concern? You’re not quite sure what. Then she walks back up to you and puts her hand on your shoulder. She gives it a gentle squeeze, and the sensation almost brings tears to your eyes again.

David had mentioned that she was the mother of four little girls. Maybe she was just going into mom-mode. Or maybe she senses that you need someone else to talk to about this, someone who understands.

Whatever the case, you accept her reassurance.

“He’s just a sad, pathetic old man who likes to make himself feel big by threatening people. He’s all talk and no bark,” she tells you.

You wish you could believe her. “He’s hurt me, though,” you reply, your voice still sounding small, insignificant, puny.

“Hit him back harder,” she replies. “Kick him in the dick, get away from him, and call me the second you see him lurking around your house again. I’ll come over and we’ll deal with him together.”

You hate that your eyes are still watering, but God, this feels so good. Kristen pulls back and fixes her dark eyes on you. “Do you want to come over to my place tonight? I can drive you to your house and you can pack up some stuff.”

You’re so, so close to saying yes. You’re lonely without Betty, who won’t be back for a few more weeks. But at the same time, you don’t want Leland to take your home from you. You’ll lock the doors, barricade them, and sleep with a steak knife under your pillow, but dammit, you’re not letting him scare you out of your home.

“No,” you say, and at least now your voice is stronger. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.” You give Kristen a weak smile.

It’s clear that she doesn’t believe you, but she gives you a nod. “Let me take you home, at the very least,” she offers, and you accept. 

Waving goodbye to her when she drops you off is hard, but you genuinely appreciate that she comes in to inspect your place with you and make sure Leland isn’t lurking around. She doesn’t judge your mess of homework that’s been scattered across the kitchen table, nor does she comment on the amount of canned booze that litters your trash can. If anything, the sight makes her chuckle and tell you that she drinks the same thing, which gives you a little more hope. If she can chase Leland away and she drinks canned margaritas, then dammit, so can you!

When she leaves, you do exactly as you said you would. You lock every door and window and barricade them. You’re not taking any chances that Leland will break in tonight, even if he can’t possibly have any reason to do so. When you’re done, you grab a can from the fridge and sit on the couch. You pull up your favorite music streaming channel and put the playlist on shuffle. Almost immediately, ‘Vigilante’ by Taylor Swift starts. Draw the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man…

You listen to to the words, let them soak into your brain along with everything Kristen and David have told you tonight. By the time the song ends, you’re ready—ready to set a trap to snare the fly known as Jake Perry. After all, don’t get sad, get even is a fantastic motto to have.

Then he came out to his door again and merrily did sing,

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing!

Your robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head,

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”

Part Six

[hisserpentqueen]

A Taste of Home, Chapter 8

Chapters 1 - 7 can be found here

Chapter Eight

By the time he had dropped Betty off, gotten back to the apartment, and into bed it had been all of 3am, so when FP knocked on his door at 7, it was indeed an early morning for Jughead.

It was a beautiful ride as they drove towards Riverdale. Pulling over after a couple hours, FP grabbed out the breakfast that he had packed for the two of them. They were both quiet as they started eating but Jug could feel FP's eyes studying him.

“You had a late night,” he finally commented. Jug smirked and dropped his gaze to the pavement, not saying anything. “Oh, come on boy!” FP laughed. “I know you and I know there is something between you and Betty.”

Jug sighed, but a smile stayed on his face. “I really like her, dad.” Then a furrow formed on his brow. “Things have been…complicated between the two of us and last night something shifted but I don’t know if that means things will be better or not.” He looked up at FP.

He smiled at his son. “Life is complicated, Jug, but if you wait to tell her what you want, she could slip through your fingers…a woman like Betty doesn’t wait around forever.” Jughead nodded in agreement. “What does complicated mean, anyways?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he shook his head, “next topic…when are you going to tell Alice about my book?” FP opened his mouth to say something but shut it quickly. “It’s complicated?” Jug asked sarcastically, his eyebrow raised.

“You know what, shut up and eat your damn food!” FP laughed.

They finished their breakfast and talked more about Jellybean and the Serpents before they said their goodbyes and headed in opposite directions.

--

When Jug got home it was almost noon. He had an informal meeting with the agent the publisher wanted him to work with that afternoon at 4 and as much as he wanted to go talk to Betty he knew he needed sleep if he was going to be coherent during the meeting. So instead of jumping in the shower and thinking through exactly what he wanted to say to Betty, he pulled the blinds in his room and buried himself under the blankets, letting sleep overtake his exhausted mind.

--

Jughead sat nervously as he waited for the agent to join the Zoom call. He wasn’t sure what he would need, so he had gathered several different sized notebooks, three pens and two pencils, a glass of water, and had even gotten a large drawing pad he found at the bottom of his chest. He had the folder with all his stories open in the background on his computer and had all of the printed copies of his random works sitting in a pile next to him.

He knew he couldn’t be any more physically ready if he tried, but he couldn’t shake the fidgety feeling he had. Closing his eyes, he let out a long-held breath between his lips before inhaling deeply through his nose; he repeated this several times until the fidgety feeling had subsided. A moment later a man who appeared to be in his mid-50s logged onto the call and introduced himself as Samm. The meeting went very well, and Jug made a mental note to thank Betty for teaching him her relaxation skill.

--

After cleaning up from his conference call, he had texted Betty, asking if she wanted to meet up for lunch the next day, hoping to talk about what had happened between them the previous night. But she had texted back saying that she had promised her mom to spend the day with her and that she would see him at work on Monday. He had started to let his thoughts run wild with assumptions of how Betty was feeling but he shut them down and opened his most recent project, setting his mind to a task.

He woke before his alarm on Monday, ready for the day. Not wasting any time around the house that morning, he was 15 minutes earlier to work than usual and used his nervous energy to get everything set and ready for their morning rush.

Hearing the front door unlock and the buzz of their open sign start, he took a deep breath, ready to see her. “I was surprised you weren’t already here when I got – ” he stopped short when he saw Ethel grabbing an apron.

“Morning Jug!” She smiled brightly at him.

“Ethel, what are you doing here?” He attempted to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“Betty messaged me yesterday and asked if I could cover for her this morning – she has some kind of appointment and will be in by 10.”

“Oh.” He forced a smile and asked how her weekend had gone.

The morning seemed to drag on and as 10 o’clock approached, he found himself checking the clock every few minutes. Finally, the door chimed and Betty walked through, making his heart do flips in his chest.

“Hey guys.” Betty gave an exhausted smile. “Ethel, thank you so much for the short notice cover.”

“Any time!” She handed out the drink she was working on. “I can stay till the afternoon coverage comes on, if you need.”

Jug held his breath. Talking with Betty at work was difficult enough with the come and go of the customers, but having a third person behind the counter would make things nearly impossible.

“That’s very sweet of you Ethel, but I just need to check a few things in the back and I can get you out of here in a few minutes.” Betty hurried to the office and Jug had to stop himself from following her like a lost puppy.

As Ethel was leaving a wave of midmorning customers swamped them as a nearby plant was on their morning break and left them with little time for chit chat. As the last of the rush cleared out, they both heaved a sigh of relief and looked at each other, giving a small laugh looking around the now completely empty café.

“I, uhh, hope everything was okay with your appointment this morning,” he started.

“Oh, umm…” She furrowed her brow and he shook his head, not wanting to overstep.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Turning away from her, he grabbed a rag and started cleaning up the chaos from the rush, wishing he had just kept his mouth shut as a wave of regret washed over him.

Feeling a hand on his back, he stopped and looked at her, trying to keep an expressionless stare.

“I met with my therapist,” she shared. His face tightened into concern as he turned to face her head on. “I’ve…” she swallowed hard and lifted her hand, showing him the healing self-harm wounds, “I’ve been avoiding my feelings lately and I haven’t been dealing with it the best.”

Jug cupped her hand in his and brushed a finger over her palm, avoiding the cuts. “I’m so sorry you’ve been struggling.” He couldn’t help but worry that their arrangement was making things worse for her and at the very least, it wasn’t helping things. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”  

“Juggie – ”

The front door’s chime rang out and they sprang apart.

Betty controlled her emotions and forced her customer service smile on her face. “Afternoon, what can – ” but the words died on her lips as she turned towards the patron.  

“Elizabeth.” A man with light brown hair and an expensive looking suit stood smiling at her.

“Glen?” She squinted at him, not wanting to believe that he was standing in her café on today of all days. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t bother to keep the annoyance she was feeling upon seeing him again out of her voice.

He gave Jughead a once over and what Betty perceived as a look of dismissal, but Jug didn’t move.

Glen cleared his throat, “I was hoping we could have a moment to speak in private. I remembered that there was usually a calm after the mid-morning rush.” He gave her an expectant look and added in a hushed tone, “You haven’t returned my calls.”

She suppressed the desire to chew on the inside of her cheek while she thought…

Saturday Morning

Betty felt sore as she rolled over, blinking at the harsh morning light. Looking at the clock she could see that it was almost 11 and she was surprised her mother hadn’t barged into her room hours ago to wake her. Sitting up, she almost slumped back down at her pounding head. Assessing the rest of her body, not only could she feel the pain in her back from the long bike ride yesterday, but her knees were screaming in protest at what she had done to them last night on the dock.

The dock.

She knew the look he had given her last night would be burned into her memory for the rest of her life no matter what happened between them. If things ended and she met someone new, marrying him, building a life with him, having children and grandchildren, nothing would be able to remove that look from who she was now…not 20, 30, or even 50 years with someone else could touch that memory.

And that scared the hell out of her.  

Getting dressed, she thought back to the night he had first kissed her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had feelings for him then, but she was afraid of putting her darkness on him...of letting someone get that close again. But hadn’t he proved to her that he could handle her past? That he had his own darkness that he had been working through and was better for it on this side of things?

But that didn’t change where he was from. Where home was for him. Riverdale. She wasn’t sure how her mom and Polly had found it so easy to go back there after everything…but then again, they had always been alike while Betty had been…

She shook her head, doing her best to clear her thoughts, and walked downstairs. Her mom had left her a note saying that she and Polly had left early to get in some shopping that morning and that they should be home after lunch. She sighed and grabbed some fruit before turning on her computer to look through the online catalog of business classes. Her last class had ended and while she had easily passed it, she had been bored out of her mind every minute of it. As she continued to search the catalog, the nagging voice in the back of her mind saying she was going down the wrong path, for many things in her life, was starting to grow louder.

Betty was relieved when her mother and sister got home as their chatter filled her mind, giving her a break from all the doubt and anxiety that were swirling there. And as the afternoon wore on, the tension in her body started to dissipate and she started to enjoy the conversation with them. Until her sister announced that she was leaving to go study with a group of her friends around the same time her mom had to get to the station for the evening time slot, promising that the next day she would be home all day and they could get Chinese takeout for lunch.  

Her mom had encouraged her to go out or meet up with Veronica, but she had waved her off saying she wasn’t feeling well and thought she might be fighting off something…which in her defense was not a complete lie. In her room, she dragged her computer back out and started looking through the business classes again. About to bang her head on the wall, she paused and did a search on journalism. Several options popped up.

She read through the list of classes that were offered and found a couple of introductory classes that sounded rather interesting. Back in Riverdale her parents had run the local newspaper and as a little girl she had always thought she would one day write stories that her parents would publish. She had the money set aside for another class but knew that if she took on one of these, she would have to wait to take another business course – guilt overwhelmed her as she thought about it.

No, she needed to put the money towards the classes that would help her be successful in her business.

She felt the sting as tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped at them angerly. She was being foolish. She had been the one to want the café, to skip college and start a small business. When she graduated high school, she kept remembering how she had missed the diner, Pop’s, back in Riverdale. She had so many good memories, even with her dad, from the many times they had spent in a booth at Pop’s. But she knew better than to try and recreate Pop’s as it just wouldn’t be the same and would disappoint. She had worked at a chain coffee shop while she was in high school and had found making coffee came naturally to her, thus the idea for her café was born out of the need to fill something missing from her childhood that could never quite be replaced.

She enjoyed the coffee shop, she really did. But she didn’t love it. She didn’t feel fulfilled. It was just a distraction from…

“Ahh,” Betty opened her eyes, tears still streaming down her face, and looked at her hands. Slowly she opened them revealing that she had reopened one of the cuts from the day before but this time, instead of the pain recentering her, she found she felt even more off center than before. Her tears turned to sobs as she balled her hands into fists again and buried her face in her pillow.

Sunday Morning

Betty stood in her bathroom, staring at her hands, dried and crusty blood was stuck around a handful of fresh cuts on her palms. Had she anymore tears left in her, they would have been streaming down her cheeks, but she was all cried out and felt hallow.

“Betty, I was wondering if – “ She jumped at her mom’s voice and hid her hands behind her back as Alice walked into her room. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Alice’s smile faltered as she walked towards the bathroom and noticed Betty’s unease. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Betty shook her head, “I’m just not feeling very well this morning.”

“What’s behind your back?” she asked, her voice thick with worry. Betty shook her head again. “Elizabeth, show me your hands. Now.”

Monday Morning

Betty frowned as June gave her a half smile, the quiet still surrounding them. After the very limited small talk that June had given into, they lapsed into silence, leaving Betty on edge while June seemed as comfortable as ever. In the six years that she had know the women, nothing ever seemed to catch her off guard. When she had been 15 and angry at her mom for making her see a therapist, June had welcomed her mood swings and cocky teenage attitude and within six sessions, Betty found she looked forward to her therapy appointments instead of dreading them. Two years later when June suggested that she no longer needed weekly appointments, Betty had opened her mouth to give a snarky remark about her (nonexistent at the time) self-harm, but June had challenged her to list the positives of this change instead of the negatives. She had had her last therapy appointment 4 sessions later.  

That was, until Glen had appeared in her life, a walking red flag, as June liked to call him, and she spent another twelve months in therapy, her last session barely six months ago. But here she was again. Sitting across from her therapist who didn’t seem the slightest bit shocked to see her.

“You could at least pretend to be surprised to see me,” Betty said flatly.

“I could…but that would be a lie.” June’s smile grew softer. “Betty, we’ve talked about this before, many people return to therapy several times throughout their lives…there is nothing wrong with that.”

“I know…but you always hope that you are the one who won’t be a part of a statistic.” She dropped her chin dramatically into her palm.

June gave a small laugh and nodded in understanding. “I know you said you’ve relapsed with your self-harm again.” Betty held up her hands, showing her the small cuts. “Any new methods?”

“No.”

“Any new places of self-harm on your body?”

“No.”

“Suicidal thoughts or thoughts to harm others?”

“No.”

“Desires to dress in drag and do the hula?”

“N – what?” Betty shook her head and stared at her. “Did you just quote The Lion King?”

June gently pumped her fist in front of her. “Thank you for catching that reference!” She reached out her hand, looking for a high five, and Betty reluctantly obliged her with a look of complete confusion on her face. “Gotta keep you on your toes.” She gave her a ridiculous smile and Betty couldn’t help the small one that tugged at her own lips. “Ahh! There we go! Her smile does still exist.”

Betty scoffed at her, but finally relaxed into her chair, thankful that June always knew what she needed to hear to get her in the right head space for session.

“So, how about we start at the beginning…tell me about Jughead.”

Betty tried to keep her story short, but she also knew that June had made extra time for her that morning and was appreciative of it. She told her about how the friends with benefits had started and that while she did have genuine feelings for Jug, she had been nervous about how her relationship with Glen had affected her. She told her about the late nights and reading his book and helping him fix the ending. About the last few weeks and how things had been strained between them leading to her self-harm on Friday. About his celebration dinner and the bike ride and the exchange on the dock. Then how she had let herself dream about being with him…but that all things seemed to lead back to Riverdale.

“You really care about Jughead.” It wasn’t a question, but Betty nodded anyways. June nodded, pursing her lips together, thinking a moment before speaking. “I know you are very emotional right now, so I say this gently, hoping that you hear what I am saying instead of automatically throwing up a defense.”

Betty sighed and nodded. She knew if June was taking the time to warn her that whatever she was going to say was hard to hear, that it was also probably something that she desperately needed to hear right then. “Okay.”

“It doesn’t seem like any of this self-harm is actually about Jughead or your situationship at all. And in fact, I feel like there is more going on under the surface that you aren’t telling me.” Betty didn’t say anything. “In your text you said you self-harmed twice, but you only told me about the first time.”

Betty shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she told her about Saturday and what classes she had been looking at online.

“There seems to be a lot of guilt around the idea of taking a journalism class,” June pointed out.

“Well, I can’t just waste my money on stupid ideas,” she bit out.

“Why is it stupid?” she asked, gently.

“I have a business to run, coffee shop! How does a journalism class help me with that?” She tossed out her hands in frustration.

June nodded. “You’re right, a journalism class would not help you gain a better understanding of how to run your café.” Betty gave her a, I told you so, face. “But you’re only 21…you’re allowed to continue to explore who you want to be.”

“A journalist isn’t it!” she snapped.

“Because your father was a journalist?”

“Yes!” Betty looked shocked at her own answer. “No…I…” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Yes,” she said quieter as a tear rolled down her face.

June nodded, giving her space to process what she had just admitted to out loud. After a few moments she spoke again. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I vaguely remember you telling me when you very first came to see me that the adults in Riverdale used to tell you that you reminded them of your father at that age.” Betty gave a small nod. “Are you afraid that if you follow after him into journalism, that you will somehow follow after him into the darkness?”

Betty sat with eyes downcast, wringing her hands, tears still rolling down her cheeks. “Yes.”

June shifted forward in her seat, drawing Betty’s gaze back to her. “Sharing common goodness does not mean we have to share common darkness.” Betty felt something lift off her chest. “You also can’t decide for others how much of your past they can handle.”

“Glen, this is not an appropriate time. I am at work.” His chest seemed to puff out in annoyance as he opened his mouth to speak, but Betty cut him off, holding up her hand. “But, if you are free tonight, I will have time after work.” She felt, more than saw, Jughead turn away from them as she spoke. “Does 5:30 sound okay?”

A self-satisfied grin spread across his face. “Sounds perfect. I will meet you here.”

[lapetitechatonne]

Danny's Waddle Memes

it's come to my attention that i didn't actually post these memes when i made chapter two, so here are some memes to tide you over while i work on chapter three 😁 link to the fic below the cut!!!

[sherlollyandspoilers]

We're Worth It, Chapter 28, April 3rd

Chapters 1 through 27 of We’re worth it can be found here Here be Dragons is the original fic that this fic is a companion piece for - HBD timeline: Chapter 18, right before the epilogue

April 3rd

“Well, you’ve made it.” June smiled at them. “It’s been a year that we have been on this journey together and you guys have made so much progress.”

“You aren’t trying to get rid of us, are you?” There was panic etched on Molly’s face. “I know things have been going well since we went down to every other week, but I don’t think I am ready to stop meeting.”  

“Oh, no!” June laughed. “Just want to congratulate you two!” Molly relaxed in her chair. “You’ve done a lot of hard work to get to this point…I love when couples really commit to working together and I don’t think I have ever had clients be this committed before.”

“What I hear you saying,” Sherlock mocked in therapy speak, “is that we are getting top marks in the therapeutic process.”

Molly and June broke into laughter.

“Top marks indeed,” June smirked. “I think I shall I bring in a grading book and start tracking your marks!” Sherlock shook his head at the two women as they giggled. “Sooo, how have the last two weeks been with affirmations and continuing to be open with how you are feeling?”

Molly nodded. “Sherlock is really good about communicating where he is at and continues to use his real world checklist, which I appreciate…I am not the best with immediately sharing,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Any thoughts on why that is?” June asked.

Molly scrunched up her nose, thinking. “Not that I had a lot of experience with relationships prior to Sherlock, but I am starting to realize that he is the first to really care how I am feeling, not so he can navigate around me but because he genuinely wants to be helpful.”

June hummed in understanding. “It would make sense then if you felt like your emotions did not matter that you would have just kept them to yourself.” Molly nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything. “Sherlock?”

He frowned for a moment. “When I do ask how she is, which is not seven times in an hour,” Molly rolled her eyes, “She does answer.” He looked at her, “It seems that part is getting easier?”

“Yeah, it is,” she smiled.

“She has also been keeping us on track with our affirmations…which I still do not like but am coming to appreciate.”

“What part do you still not like?” June asked.

“The dissonance,” he said, brow furrowed. “I have two informational sources giving conflicting information – both of which I have put trust in.”

“That makes perfect sense…you trust Molly because she is your partner in many things, life, parenting, experiments and you trust your brain as it has gotten you where you are in your career. What I think – ”

“I brought this up in individual therapy last week…” he raised an eyebrow at June who motioned for him to continue. “I was reminded that the prefrontal cortex is used for logic and the amygdala manages emotions…and while I do trust Molly, its not the dissonance between her and my brain, it’s the dissonance within my brain.”

“Oh, I see,” June thought a moment, “was it helpful to break it down like that?” She held her hands up to one side as if she was holding a large ball. “Into logic processing over here” – she moved her hands to the other side – “and emotional processing over here.”

Sherlock nodded. “My therapist suggested that part of the reason I have not made much progress on improving my self-hatred is because I don’t want to question my overall thought processes as this could lead to questioning my judgements and deductions.”

“How uncomfortable were you with sitting with that realization?” she asked slowly.

“Very,” he said flatly. “But,” a small smile stretched his lips, “after I broke it down it was like a weight had been removed.”

“It was a visible change,” Molly said quietly, a look of pride on her face as she stared at Sherlock. “When we exchanged affirmations the next morning, I could tell he was still uncomfortable, but he was able to physically sit with my praise and not immediately move on to the next thing.”

June looked back at Sherlock. “I was able to hear what Molly said and challenge the negative things that sprang forward knowing my logical processes were still untouched.”

June smiled, “I am sure you discussed this at your session, but this will take some time and effort on your part to make this knowledge work for you, but Sherlock, this is a big breakthrough.”

He nodded, a wide-eyed expression on his face. “She is teaching me to be the man she already thinks I am.” Molly smiled at him, grabbing his hand and he looked up, meeting her gaze. “It’s not a pleasant thought, but I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human,” he said, finally returning her smile.

They sat quietly for a moment, all processing the conversation that had just taken place.

“Anything else pressing prior to the walk down the aisle?” June asked. They both shook their heads no, their hands still intertwined. “Then I am hoping you will indulge me and tell me about the first time you met.”

“Oh god,” Molly sighed and covered her face with her free hand, her cheeks turning red.

“What?” June asked, her curiosity peaked even more. “I know it was through your work.”

Sherlock chuckled quietly. “Molly thinks this story is embarrassing.”

“Because it is embarrassing!” She pulled away from him, tossing her hands in the air.

“I disagree.” Sherlock continued to give his fiancé an amused expression.

June held up her hands, “You do not have to share if you don’t want to.”

Molly gave a dramatic sigh and rolled her head to the side. “Well, I haven’t told this story in a long time, so might as well…”

Molly was nervous. And excited! She was going to have the best day!! Or she was going to ruin it terribly and it was going to be a disaster, leaving her with no job…another wave of nausea hit her, and she was beginning to regret the big breakfast she had treated herself to. She had already been at Barts for a couple of weeks training and getting used to the facility, but today was the day she was scheduled for her first solo postmortem.

After reviewing her schedule for the morning, her boss left her alone in the morgue. Smiling to herself, Molly turned on her music and got to work. She was halfway through, doing her best to document as she went, when she was startled.

“Oi!” A voice shouted over her music making her almost drop the organ she was holding. “HEY!”

Returning the organ to its place, she hurriedly stripped off her gloves and smashed the mute button on her music. “Hi,” she squeaked after a moment of silence.

“Well, you’re gonna be a fun one to work with!” He smiled brightly at her, nodding to the speaker. Despite his already silver hair, the man had a young, pleasant looking face. She had seen him before but couldn’t place his name. “Oh – sorry!” He held out his hand. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” he said with a grin. “Not sure we’ve been officially introduced.”

But Molly didn’t hear him as her full attention had been drawn to the stranger behind him. His dark hair was a mess of curls that her fingers instinctively itched to run through as she tried and failed to place a name on the color of his piercing eyes. His high cheekbones, the distinct bridge of his nose, and his strong jawline perfectly complimented the Cupid’s bow of his lips. Molly wasn’t sure she had ever seen such a beautiful man in her life.

“Miss Hoop, I believe it was?” Lestrade said, upon her continued silence, his hand still outstretched.

“Hooper!” she practically shouted, finally blinking and drawing her gaze away from the other man. She swallowed hard and shook his hand. “Molly Hooper.”

“Well, Miss Hooper, as I said, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he repeated before dropping her hand. “And this is Sherlock Holmes…consultant.”

Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat. “Consulting Detective,” he bit out. “I need to look at the body,” he said dryly, pushing past Lestrade and straight up to Molly. She tilted her head back to look at him but the height difference and his proximity was making her slightly dizzy.

“I…uhhh…I don’t….” she stammered, her ability to think straight completely gone with him now in her personal space.

“I can phone Mike, if you would prefer? I’ve got all the paperwork.” She heard Lestrade shuffling papers, but her eyes were still glued to Sherlock’s.

“Mike, ye-yes, that – ” she snapped her eyes closed, grasping at all of the information she had been told over the last couple weeks – “NO!” She jumped back from Sherlock and opened her eyes, looking at Lestrade. “No, umm, I, I was told that – that the police might come.” She walked over to him and took the paperwork, trying to ignore the invisible string that was tugging her back towards the consulting detective.

“Great! Sherlock, do your thing!” Lestrade hollered at him, but Sherlock was already examining the hands and feet. “Find anything interesting in your exam yet?” he said quietly to Molly.  

Molly shook her head. “No…what is he looking for?” she asked as she watched Sherlock inspect the body.

Lestrade laughed, “Not really sure! If I knew, I wouldn’t need him.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “So, you new to the area?”

“Uhh….no…” she attempted to answer him, but her attention was still on Sherlock and watching him work. “I mean…yes. Kind of.” She blinked several times, forcing herself to turn her back to him. “I grew up around here and when my dad died, I ended up following a couple of my mates, but now I’m back. It was hard because those mates were my best mates…you know, not boyfriends or anything…that would be silly, wouldn’t it, moving away from home for a boy to just break your heart…I guess that’s more sad than silly as people do it all the time…” Molly looked up and saw the confused looked on Lestrade’s face. “Sorry…” She blinked several times, wishing she could just turn back on her music and be left alone in an empty morgue.

“If you are done rambling, I need you to come hold your incision site together.” His words should have embarrassed her, but instead the deep timbre of his voice sent shivers over her skin.

“Sorry,” she mumbled again and rushed to put a new set of gloves on. She moved back to the body and stood across from him. “Which area specifically?” she asked, hesitating. He sighed and motioned to the body. She did her best to accommodate what he was asking for, but she could tell he was becoming frustrated, his directions getting more and more short and rude.

“Oi, Sherlock, don’t be a dick!” Lestrade snapped at him. “You can’t alienate all of the hospital workers…” he mumbled.

“Did you take any pictures before you started?” Sherlock snipped.

“Of – of course, yes,” Molly stammered. “Its, uhh, protocol.”

He stared at her with a blank expression that she could not read.

“Well?” he said after a moment, startling her.

“Well…?” She looked at him, confused.

“Show them to me,” he instructed.

“Oh!” She stepped back and started to take off her gloves but as she moved, her foot caught the cart she had been using for her tools and waste, and she went tumbling forward, bringing the tray and contents tumbling down onto her.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Lestrade rushed forward, but Molly stuck out her hand.

“Don’t touch it.” She looked down at herself, covered with random bits of human blood and remains, and fought hard not to burst into tears. Brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her hand, she stood up, staring at the two men, and wanting to melt into the ground. “If you can just give me a moment to go and – ”

“All I need to see is that picture,” Sherlock interrupted her. “This camera?” he asked, but he was already moving towards it.

“STOP!” Molly shouted at him, her embarrassment replaced with anger. “There is a protocol for these things! Which I have followed!” She huffed and tossed her arms out, fluid hitting the floor. “I have to go clean myself up and get this area cleaned and THEN I will have your information to you!” She stomped over and stood between Sherlock and the camera. “You can leave now!”

He stared down at her, but she remained unmoved, hands on her hips. “Fine.” Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the morgue doors. “Graham, when you get the pictures, you know where to send them.”

“ITS GREG!” Lestrade called after him. “Thank you and…sorry ‘bout him.”

Molly waited till both men had left and she could no longer hear their footsteps before she burst into tears.

After a quick cry, she found her boss and explained what happened. He waved it off, thanking her for trying to indulge the consultant detective’s requests. Attendants were sent to take care of the mess in the morgue, and she found herself stripping out of her soiled clothes in the locker room.

“Stupid Sherlock Holmes with his stupid hair and stupid cheek bones,” she muttered to herself as she deposited her clothes into a bio bag.

Stepping into the shower, she scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin, doing her best to feel like a human again. After what felt like a lifetime, she finally felt clean enough to redress and go back to work. Wrapping a towel around her, she hurried back to her locker and dug into her bag, finding her extra change of clothes. Drying off she began to dress.

“I took the liberty of adding my contact to your mobile.” His voice startled her, and she jumped back into the door of her locker. “We will be working together in the future, figured this would be simpler than expecting the police to get me anything on time.” He held out her phone to her, but she didn’t move.

“I’m in my undergarments,” she finally managed to say. He looked down at her, as if noticing for the first time that she was in any state of undress.

“Yes, and I am sure that the skull pattern makes it all the more comfortable for a long shift.” He reached around her and placed her phone back in her locker. “Miss Hooper.” He nodded before disappearing from the locker room.

“That’s quiet the story,” June laughed when Molly was done sharing. “Immediate attraction for you, then.”

“Oh, gosh, yes,” Molly shook her head, “If I wasn’t going to be marrying him in two weeks, I would be ashamed of how immediately attracted I was.”

“We’ve talked about the importance of the emotional and intellectual connection and how it plays into attraction for you, Sherlock,” June looked at him, “did your affection for Molly grow over time or did it start here as well?”

Sherlock smirked. “I could tell how attracted she was – I was used to it and most of the time a snide deduction shut it down but when Lestrade and I walked into the morgue she was singing and dancing while elbows deep inside a man’s chest cavity…you would think I had a million things to say to her…but nothing.” He held up his empty hands. “For the first time all of my observations led me to one conclusion…I wanted to know more - my brain was completely fascinated. But Sherlock Holmes didn’t do attraction, so I became an ass.” He sighed, “Then despite her lack of confidence and being covered in human remains, she stood up to me.” He gave a little shrug, “Her undergarments being covered in little cartoon skulls only added to the fact that meeting Molly was a very intense day for me.”

“I know as a therapist you’re not supposed to have favorites…but you two make that very difficult,” June laughed as Molly and Sherlock exchanged smiles. “Anything else for today?” Molly and Sherlock shook their heads. “Well then, I guess I will see you two when you get back from your holiday.”

The three stood and as they headed for the door, Molly abruptly turned around, halting June’s progress.

“I know Sherlock and I wouldn’t have made it through this last year as smoothly as we did if we had not had you, so thank you.” She hesitated a moment but then wrapped her arms around the woman.

June smiled and hugged her back. “Thank you both for putting in the work.”