Tumgik
#kate writes
thychesters · 2 months
Text
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.
73 notes · View notes
aceghosts · 1 month
Text
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.  
65 notes · View notes
the-widow-miller · 7 months
Text
Tumblr media
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.
………………………
66 notes · View notes
lapetitechatonne · 3 months
Text
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.
47 notes · View notes
darkwing-katy · 2 months
Text
I have watched so much Lazytown over the last month. I’m nannying two kiddos and they LOVE the show. They’re always paying attention to Sportacus’s jumps and flipping-flipping and I regret nothing
Except now all I want to do is finish my Lazytown FanFiction instead of my BatB FanFiction that I was supposed to be finishing this month oops
At least I’m writing? At least I’m finishing stuff? This shall be the year of completed fics!
9 notes · View notes
hookedhobbies · 1 month
Text
Part IV - fields of elation pt 1
once again, I offer you all my fictionalization of my analysis of sleep token's lyrics. this time it's the first part of fields of elation.
wc: 693
masterpost
tw: suicide/drug overdose
ao3 link
Vessel wanted that feeling back. He was standing in his bedroom once again, days after he submitted to Sleep for the first time, hoping that Sleep would reappear to him. Outside, the sun flirted with the horizon. 
You can only hear Me when you’re close to death. Sleep’s voice echoed in his head. Logic kicked in, hard. How did Sleep appear to Vessel the other day? He didn’t think he was close to death then. Was he so run down that the god could appear to him? Or was he that close to letting the suicidal thoughts run rampant enough to take control? 
There are other ways to get to me. Kill yourself. Sleep’s voice slunk through Vessel’s skull. It was a memory, a half forgotten dream, wrapped in a drunken haze. Come to me. 
A weight like a knife in his hand. A bottle of pills, given to him by university health services. Vessel doesn’t remember picking them up, but the bottle sits heavy in his palm. A palm that has been chilled since touching Sleep. Long fingers delve beyond the bottle’s mouth, clasping the pills delicately and bringing them to his pale lips. Yes. That voice, louder than thunder now, ripped through Vessel’s mind as he slipped pill after pill down his throat. His tongue turned chalk white as the bottle turned upside down, empty. His body begins to slow down, limbs turning to syrup. The weight of his eyelids became too much to bear before he fully made the decision to lay on the ground. Harsh carpet fibers left red irritation marks on his pale cheek. His vision faded fully, blackening like a candle flame dying of suffocation. 
A wet, earthy sort of smell filled his nostrils as he landed on the ground. Hitting damp dirt had not been on Vessel’s agenda. The last thing he could remember was hitting the carpet of his bedroom floor. His cheek still hurts from that impact. This ground that was currently under his cheek was not carpet. Wind ruffled his hair, raising goosebumps on his skin. Was he in a forest? This smelled like a forest. Groaning, he turned over. There were no trees. There was absolutely nothing in his field of vision, save for the pale sky. Vessel struggles to his feet, and makes a slow circle to take in his surroundings. 
It looks sort of like a desert. The smell was completely one of a forest, damp and decaying and almost moldy. But, the ground was that of a baked clay desert, cracked and shriveled. What he was seeing was at odds with what he was smelling and feeling; things weren’t making sense. He thought he could feel the ghosts of a full forest, an old forest, pressing against him. The sky above him was milky white. On completing his circle, he saw something flickering against the horizon. A thin shadow materialized, and Vessel started to walk toward it. He looks down, to make sure he doesn’t trip over fissures on the ground, and he can see through his feet. He turns his arms up, and can see through them as well. It’s like he’s a ghost. His mouth feels like chalk, reminding him that he had just downed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. To get to a hallucination of a god from no known pantheon. And now, here he was, probably dead, maybe a ghost. Where is “here”, anyway? 
“Oh, hell, I’m probably dead. What have I done,” his voice echoes, coming back to him. He can hear the anguish in his voice. He continues toward the shadow, seeing now that it’s a barren tree. The only tree that’s visible. It has a gnarled, short trunk. The branches look like they form some sort of crown, or a cage. It has no leaves or flowers. Vessel knows he has seen this tree before. He gets closer, and as he does, the air gets colder. Things get darker, as though he is being shaded by leaves that aren’t there. Vessel nearly chokes on the smell of decay now. It’s both briny and visceral, stinking like salt and rotting flesh. 
“Sleep?”
5 notes · View notes
katetheworm · 3 months
Text
Naud Bui Amarth
Tumblr media
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.
6 notes · View notes
Text
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
Tumblr media
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​
22 notes · View notes
hisserpentqueen · 1 month
Text
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.”
3 notes · View notes
Text
wip game
tagged by @livingincolorsagain, thank you ! <3
from a fic that will be taunting me till im dead
She stared back at him, tears forming in her bleak eyes. Sam felt his heart sink, his soul crack like glass, felt as if he had been stabbed, feel thick blood spew from his chest, all the hopes and the dreams and the chances he could’ve had leaking from the wound, everything he had envisioned, run crimson down his shirt, onto the floor, until it was as if he was drowning in it, a failure no one could argue, because he did, he failed her. Failed himself, a little bit, failed Riley. But through in through, he failed her. She continued to stare, stare hard enough until it felt like he had gone numb, a pain nothing like a bullet.  His daughter's bleak, saddened, terrified stare. It truly hurt like no other.  Like a lasso, the devil tossed a noose, and it grew tighter around Sam’s neck, the more he tugged against it. His parents died, and he felt it. He pushed forward, and he met Riley. He planned a future, right there, in the meadow that would stare back at him in the night. In dirty blonde hair and a need to do what was right. And when he tugged too hard, pushed forward, the devil tugged back. And now, Riley was gone, and Sam had this. This beautiful baby girl, with so much good in her that it was blinding, that could and would and should do so much. That could move mountains and split oceans apart. Well, the devil said, why not make her life a living hell, too. Why not give a chance to rip away the life she was supposed to have. Why not rip any wonder that had lived in her life. Grind her soul to dust, and take the precious beat from her heart.
i have no idea who to tag, do what you must
10 notes · View notes
sherlollyandspoilers · 10 months
Text
We’re worth it
Holy crap my nerds! I am finally starting to post my Sherlolly therapy fic that is the companion piece to Here Be Dragons. I have most of it written, but its going to take me some time to post as each session is going to be a separate chapter on AO3 (made the most sense) - I hope you enjoy!!!! 
P.S. This is definitely dedicated to @simplyshelbs16xoxo and @mizjoely both who commented on every single one of the chapters for HBD. (Extra shout out to Shelbs for having read that fic at least twice and commenting again.) Both of your kinds words made me want to keep writing for this universe. 
March 15th, (This session takes place right before their first session that is documented in Chapter 11 of HBD)
Sherlock watched Molly apprehensively as she got ready for bed. Mary had been on edge during Rosie’s birthday party and Molly hadn’t been much better. He felt like all of them were walking on eggshells, simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. But on what exactly, he couldn’t say.
“Molly?” he said quietly as he sat down on the edge of the bed, brow furrowed.
“Yes?” She stopped what she was doing and turned to him. “What’s wrong?” she asked upon seeing the worry on his face.
“There is something I want to ask of you, but I am not sure how you are going to feel about it.” He knew he was in no position to make requests, but he felt this was the one exception he could make. He held his hand out to her and she took it, sitting down next to him.
“Go on.” She squeezed his hand.
“I was talking with my recovery therapist about everything that has been going on and she suggested that you and I might want to explore couple’s counseling.”
She scrunched up her face in confusion. “Is there something you think we need help with?”
Sherlock was taken back by her comment considering everything that had taken place over the last year. “A lot has happened between you and I,” he finally replied.
She looked down at their hands for a while before nodding, “Okay, Sherlock. If that is what you want.”
10 notes · View notes
thychesters · 6 months
Text
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.
105 notes · View notes
aceghosts · 1 month
Note
[DISBELIEF]: after the receiver has done something completely unexpected (and reckless) the stunned sender cups their face in their hands while trying to get them to explain why the hell they did it. + Rooney x Yorinobu 💕
Thank you for sending in this prompt! I took some liberties with it while writing it, but I got it done!
[Prompt List]
Summary: In the parking garage after a dinner date, Rooney Shepard and Yorinobu Arasaka are attacked. The event (and Yorinobu's actions) leave Rooney feeling shaken. Title comes from Bring Me The Horizon's Kingslayer. Words: 2.4k Content Warnings: Just canon typical violence, and Rooney's perpetual fear of not being enough to save the people they love. Author's note: Coming up with Restaurant names fucking sucks. That's all.
Taglist (Opt In/Out): @bbrocklesnar, @marivenah, @alexxmason, @carlosoliveiraa, @captmactavish, @cloudofbutterflies92, @direwombat, @cassietrn, @voidika, @strangefable, @theelderhazelnut, @fourlittleseedlings, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @clicheantagonist
AO3
“What did you think?” Yorinobu asks, pleased with himself. Rare Vibes, an exclusive restaurant, was highly recommended and only served high-end clientèle like himself and Shepard. He looks over to his left, Shepard on his arm as they walk back to his car in the parking garage, a custom-designed Rayfield. They look gorgeous tonight, dressed in all black. Shepard seamlessly blended in with himself and others of similar status. Yet, even in a place like Rare Vibes, he could still see the soldier in them, ocean-blue eyes vigilantly scanning the restaurant for any threats to themself or Yorinobu. Tonight made him realize something important. What if this could be the duo’s life? A future where Shepard stayed, where they helped him take down Arasaka. That sounded magnificent. 
“The food was good,” Shepard replies neutrally, leaving Yorinobu wondering what else they could possibly want, “could have used some hot sauce.” He shakes his head, a smile on his lips. Shepard was religious about their hot sauce. “There was something that I enjoyed more than the food.”
Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, he asks, “What would that be?”
They look at him with a slightly shy smile, their cheeks faintly red. “My favorite part of the night was spending time with you. I really enjoyed getting the chance to have a nice date with you like two normal people,” a second later, their smile turns to frown, “or as normal as it could be.”
“Shepard,” He places his hand over their hands, “Life with me will not be what you are used to, but I promise you that you can adapt to it.” Shepard’s frown deepens, seemingly uncomfortable with that fact. It is the reality of his life, and Shepard will need to adapt or leave. Yorinobu hopes that they will adapt to it, hopes that he is worth the temporary discomfort. “It will take time; it does not happen overnight.”
“If you say so.” The two lapse into silence as they continue towards the Rayfield. As the pair reach the car, only a few meters away, Shepard stiffens, their grip on his arm loosening. Yorinobu notices them stealthily looking around, trying not to raise suspicion as they survey the scene. He also knows the look on their face: their mouth set in a grim line and their eyes narrowed. Yorinobu has seen that look when watching Shepard participate in combat tests, focused and lethal.
“Is something the-?”
“Don’t,” Shepard keeps their voice low, leaning in so he will be the only one to hear them, “When you get in the car, call Arasaka Security and get the hell out of here.”
“Will you be in the car with me?”
“No, I won’t.” Yorinobu does not like the determined tone of their voice; he likes the idea of leaving Shepard behind even less. Why does he get the feeling that Shepard is going to do something reckless?
“Please don’t do anything rash.”
"No promises,” He catches a slight smirk before it disappears, a serious look returning as they slip out of his arm, “RUN!”
On Shepard’s command, he runs toward the car, only glancing over his shoulder once he reaches the car. Shepard roundhouse kicks an attacker in the face, sending them crashing towards the ground. Another attacker appears between two cars, rushing Shepard from behind. “Shepard!” He lets go of the car door, turning on his heel to go back to them. 
“NO!” They yell, ducking to the left to narrowly avoid a punch. “GET HELP!”
Shepard is right. Despite wanting to run to them, he listens, knowing that he might be more of a burden. Yorinobu knows he can help them by bringing in reinforcements, namely Arasaka security. He would typically avoid Arasaka security, but permission to take Shepard out of the facility was to involve Arasaka Security instead of the police in case of emergency. Jumping into the open car, he turns it on, the door closing as he dials Arasaka security.  “Yorinobu-sama, what is the nature-?”
He cuts them off, putting the Rayfield into drive. “Send an evacuation and combat team immediately. Shepard and I are under attack.”
“Yes, Yorinobu-sama. Please stay on the line. We suggest retreating to a safe distance if possible and allowing the combat team to handle this situation.”
And leave Shepard behind? Absolutely not. Wheeling the Rayfield out of the spot, Yorinobu catches sight of Shepard surrounded by three attackers. Their monowire glows a bright blue in the dimly lit parking lot as Shepard stares down their assailants. Shepard could handle this, but Yorinobu thinks that it is time for someone to even the odds. “No, send the team now.” He hangs up as the three start to advance towards Shepard. Pressing down on the gas, he speeds towards the three, sharply turning at the moment, drifting into the three attackers. 
Shepard’s eyes widen as they jump out of the way, tucking into a neat roll as they land. One of the assailants quickly follows suit, but Yorinobu hits the other two. As the Rayfield slams into the attackers, it sends one flying into parked cars, leaving a dent on the hoods as they land. Car Alarms start blaring, headlights flashing. The other is sent straight into a concrete wall, leaving a dent as they slide down. 
The Rayfield spins, slamming into another parked car. Yorinobu is dazed by the impact as the airbag ejects, the car groaning. A second later, the engine whines, followed by a death rattle. He catches his breath, his senses coming back to him. Yorinobu turns the key, hoping the car will respond. Instead, it sits silent, unresponsive as he tries a few more times. 
CRACK! His head whips over in Shepard’s direction, fearful it might be them. Instead, an assailant screams, holding their knee as Shepard looms over them. Shepard swiftly ends the scream, their metal fist connecting with the attacker’s jaw in a mean left hook. They slump to the ground as Shepard looks up at him, fiercely glaring. “I thought I-.”
The other attacker, the one who landed on the cars, gets up, shaking their head. Mantis blades appear, glowing a sinister red. They launch themself at Shepard, who whips out their monowire, deftly dodging the attack. Yorinobu’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Shepard block the next attack, sparks flying as blade meets wire. Watching Shepard has always been mesmerizing, even more so in real combat. Shepard is a force of nature. Unyielding. Unrelenting. They’re almost a neon blue blur, dodging and attacking so quickly. 
Heavy stomps draw his attention in another direction as Yorinobu realizes the third assailant is coming for him. Fuck! He needs to get out of the car. Now. To his left, the driver’s side door is pinned by another car, leaving it unable to open. Unclipping his seat belt, Yorinobu reaches for the passenger door, hoping it might open. He hears the click of the door, but nothing happens, leaving him utterly trapped. Grabbing Kongou from the glovebox, he aims the gun towards the attacker, flicking the safety off. Yorinobu will not allow himself to be easily killed. If anything, he will take his attacker with him. The attacker raises his arm, revealing a charging projectile. 
Fortune favors him as Shepard looks over, realizing the situation. A ring of electric blue glows in their eyes, the telltale sign of a quickhack. (Yorinobu is glad that he convinced the team to allow Shepard to have a few quickhacks.) Their attacker screams, hands over her eyes. Shepard dashes away, towards him as his attacker draws closer, preparing to launch.
THWIP! The neon blue wire wraps itself around the attacker’s neck, flesh burning as electric volts course through him. Shepard pulls back on the wire, his attacker stumbling backward as the projectile fires. The missile soars over Yorinobu’s head, hitting the ceiling of the parking lot, some concrete tumbling to the ground. Shepard continues to pull his attacker back as the other one recovers. The other attacker, now recovered from the quickhack, launches themself at Shepard, blades raised.
Shepard dodges, whipping his attacker into Mantis Blades attacker, the two colliding. Both slam into each other, before eventually crashing into the ground. As Shepard readies themself for the next attack, loud sirens blare. “LAY YOUR WEAPONS DOWN NOW! ANY MOVEMENT WILL BE MET WITH FORCE!” Shepard retracts their monowire, raising their hand in surrender. Flicking the safety back on, Yorinobu sighs in relief, glad for them both to be alive. 
It is nearly 3 AM by the time Shepard and Yorinobu return to the facility. During the questioning by Arasaka’s security team, Shepard has not looked at him once, answering most questions with a robotic and detached tone. Any that mention Yorinobu being attacked immediately sparks anger in Shepard’s voice. He also notices them hovering over him as the medical team inspects him, watching the team suspiciously. Following them down the hallway towards their room, he asks,  “How are you feeling?”
Shepard stops suddenly, Yorinobu bumping into them. He steps back, opening his mouth to apologize as Shepard turns around to face him. They look furious as they cup his face tightly. Their hands are comforting, yet trembling slightly as they hold him. “What the hell were you thinking?” Shepard snarls. 
He glares, anger rising within himself. “I hoped I could distract-.”
“What you did was reckless, dangerous, and stupid,” Shepard cuts him off, “You’re lucky that your little stunt didn’t leave you with a concussion or worse, and you’re even luckier that you didn’t get blown to smithereens. You should have listened to me; you should have left.”
Yorinobu cannot believe what he is hearing. “I am not stupid, Shepard,” He snaps, Shepard’s eyes widening slightly, “and, you cannot be suggesting what I think you are.”
They look slightly apologetic as they admit, “You aren’t stupid. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have called you that.” However, Yorinobu should know better than to think the lecture is over. “And yes, I am suggesting what you think I am. You should have left. Your priority should have been getting yourself to safety. You should have left the parking garage and headed back to the facility. Or the nearest Arasaka building. Or a police station. You should not have come back for me.”
“Why would you ask me to do that?”
“To protect you. To make sure that you survive.” Everything clicks into place. Shepard is not angry; they are terrified for him. He thinks back earlier to when Arasaka Security arrived. Shepard refused to let anyone look at them until he had been checked out, stubbornly insisting that they were fine. He also remembers how they hovered over him, watching carefully for any threat. Even now, he sees the sign of fear: their ocean-blue eyes look like a tumultuous ocean under stormy skies. They are trembling, holding his face like they are trying to reassure themself that Yorinobu is here and safe, that all of this is real. He knows what must be running through their mind. Shepard must have been terrified that they would have failed to protect him, to watch him die despite their best efforts. Another death in a long string of deaths that followed Shepard in their wake.  
“Shepard,” He starts gently, “Were you scared that I was going to get hurt?”
They release his face, hands dropping down to their sides. Shepard nods, looking ashamed of their behavior.  
He pulls them in for a hug, Shepard stiffening in surprise. A second later, they relax, wrapping their arms around his waist and burying their face in the crock of his neck. Stroking their dark red hair, he comforts them, “I am alive, Shepard, because of you. You saved my life tonight. You need not worry; you will not lose me.”
“I know,” They reply, voice slightly muffled, “I was just terrified that they might hurt you, and I would be powerless to stop it.”
“I trust you, Shepard. I know you will do everything in your power to protect me, and if tragedy happens, it will not be your fault.”  
“Thanks," They sound unconvinced, but unwilling to argue with him, "Does that mean the next I tell you to run, you’ll listen?”
“On one condition,” Shepard pulls out of his arms, tilting their head in confusion at his request, “If you ask me to leave you behind, promise me you will come back alive.”
Their eyes widen, surprise flickering across their face. Eventually, Shepard softens, looking at him warmly with a soft red on their cheeks. “I promise I’ll come back alive.”
“Good.” Noticing Shepard seems exhausted as they try to stifle a yawn, Yorinobu holds out his arm for them, “Allow me to escort you back to your room.”
Shepard does not fight him, looping their arm through his as they rest their head on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m beat. You must be too. If you want, you can stay the night.” 
Smirking, he teases them, “Asking me to stay the night in your bed? I will need to find my way into danger more often.”
They roll their eyes, pretending not to be amused. “Yeah, now you’re getting the couch.” Shepard teases with a charming smirk. 
“What if I am cold on the couch? What if I need someone to warm me up during the night?” He jokes back. 
“You’ll just have to freeze,” They reply sarcastically. 
“You would leave me to freeze? How cruel.” 
Shepard laughs at his fake admonishment. “We could always get you an extra blanket.”   “I would prefer you, and,” he adds with a knowing tone, “Arasaka couches are very uncomfortable. I will wake up sore. You would not do that to me, would you?”
They raise an eyebrow. “How would you know that?”
“I fell asleep on one.” Yorinobu had been jetlagged, falling asleep on one while waiting for a meeting. He was sore for a whole week afterward, unable to move without some part of his body aching. 
“Yorinobu, are you sure it wasn’t because you’re an old man? The elderly need to be careful about the way they sleep.”
“Not that old, Shepard,” He retorts, “and very rich coming from someone into an older man.”   “Touché,” they reply, “And I’m kidding. We’re going to share a bed. Can’t have you freezing to death or breaking a hip on my conscience.” Softly, they add, their tone more sentimental, “I’m really glad that you are okay.” 
“I am glad that you are unharmed too, Shepard,” He presses a kiss to their head, truly glad for Shepard’s safety.
28 notes · View notes
Text
I'm writing notes for an idea that would take too long to realize for me to realistically write anything so I'll just share
Anyway pls consider a weird mute kid with a honestly mangled looking left arm aka Definitely Not Reincarnated Xue Yang With Some Karma Kicking In(TM) being picked off the streets by WWX bc A: problem prevention and B: he wants new impressionable children to baby so they can look at him like he's the next best thing since honeyed nuts anyway
How can bby Xue be cool?
>Whistling champion (muteness compensation)
>Lan zither remix legend (also probably the first possible way for him to tell his new name to Wei Ying/Lan Zhan apart from writing unless we wanna go down the "one of them guessed it right eventually" or "silly object name he just points at" route)
>Can hear the dead like his new (sometimes questionably) cooler dad
>Will have arguments in qin tunes. His language has gotten him grounded by Lan Zhan once (you know that post of two people having a sign language argument and one of them going "don't you yell at me"? It's that kinda energy)
How can bby Xue fuck up without losing all notion of integrity?
> Getting a meanie mauled by the dead. (for some reason I'm thinking doggos)
> Stabbing Wuxian in a moment of confusion/fear (dw honey your cousin Jin Ling did it too lmao you should hang out (WWX, probably))
>So he's the Lan sect dj but can he kill with 7 notes in a fit of rage? stay tuned to find out
7 notes · View notes
lapetitechatonne · 11 months
Text
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!!!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
19 notes · View notes
darkwing-katy · 2 days
Text
So I’m trying to figure out how exactly I wanna post the LOST fic now that I’m actively revising it while rewatching the show. I’m only revising the episodes that we’ve watched so I don’t pull super far ahead and miss out on key details, and we’re watching two-three episodes at a time. We watch the episodes at night and then I revise the next day, but if I haven’t gotten to work on it, then I probably won’t want to watch multiple episodes because I don’t want to forget the little details.
An example of this is that I completely redid the beginning of the fic today for the first three episodes, then tonight, while we watched eps 4 & 5, I saw that I had still missed that Shannon was wearing a shiny pink jacket in the pilot. So that’ll be fixed tomorrow when I write, as well as scene set-ups and stuff.
Anywho, the thing I’m wondering is how do I wanna start posting this? Do I want to go a few episodes at a time? Wait until I’ve revised a whole season and then post the chapters associated with that season? Wait until it’s all completely done and THEN start posting it?
I don’t wanna be impatient about it and post stuff that isn’t ready to be seen yet. I care a heckuva lot about this fic that I’ve poured my little hyperfixated self into and I don’t wanna start posting until I know it’s ready.
Sooooo yeah. That’s where I’m at right now.
5 notes · View notes