#doc threads

[menodoramoon]

The One Where Moon is Extra Unwell

Characters: Menodora Butterfly-Johansen, Oswald Marks (@oswaldxmarks)

Nov. 16th, 2024 — After Amy’s Auction

TW: Mental health crisis (depression?), Insects, Maladaptive Coping, Death Mention, Alcohol Use; (General Implications about the Commission)

Following her argument with Cass at the Date Auction, Menodora texts Oswald for company. This thread contains: two rounds of poker, at least four shots of vodka, one mental breakdown, and a messy fallout.

Read Here

--

Additional Reading:

Inbetween Hours - Menodora and Oswald discuss their not-relationship; Menodora explains some things about her past

Post-Date Auction - Menodora and Cass have an argument outside Amy's Date Auction

[sunlight-shunlight]

me staring into the distance:

so the evanuris/blight situation is that: solas managed to, at the height of his power + with all his ancient elf besties helping, seal them into the black city and make the veil. and this took so much out of him that he was basically comatose for 5000 years. ok fine.

but then in vg, his initial plan was to put them in a different jail, while the veil is still up (despite that weakening all magic significantly and making it difficult to even access the black city). and then he wants to tear down the veil afterwards, presumably expecting to still be awake to do so. despite not having his original orb or his ancient elf besties anymore? so it doesn't particularly make sense in general. similar to how he described what he wanted to do with the orb, you'd expect him to take out the veil first and then reseal/move the jail?

(and then he wanted to put them into a Regret Prison when he is the ONLY one out of that entire situation who feels any regrets... 😭)

then his more ambiguous-sounding veil removal motives of being depressed about elves/spirits and unable to see the modern world as worthy of existence... become almost irrelevant. bc it's kind of necessary for him to Do Something? or else everyone fully dies of turbo blight when the archdemons die and the black city inevitably opens?

but then no one really mentions the looming catastrophe of the blight part, and they handwave it at the end, and all act like he's being very unreasonable. which he is! but only bc they made him dumber than a rock and weirdly inconsistent in his capabilities, not bc his motivations were actually proven to be wrong. aaaaa.

[anthrophobixx]

Whimsical

(click the image for higher quality yay)

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

This might be a bit random but would you say you have any thoughts on Neurodivergent readings of Zhongli (more specifically autistic)? I was thinking about it in the latest chapter of JG amd even before then too. as an autistic person myself i feel he reads very heavily as such, especially when talking about his human mask and feeling like he doesn't need to force it as much with childe, and his issues with human expression in smiling etc. but I think it's then an interesting debate between that and the fact that, well, he's just not human. that all comes from a place of being an entirely different species, unevolved and unrelated to human brains and how they think and read social patterns, and I feel we don't really have any way of telling if ZL has any divergent tendencies among dragons right? and even then he's half, too, so that affects things.

anyway sorry for the ramble I was mainly wondering if you had any opinions on the matter, or if you intended the parallels I definitely see while reading your Zhongli! love your work as always <3333

i think i might've commented on this at some point but never directly, so here – i do have thoughts on the matter!

as you mentioned, it's difficult to tell with characters that aren't human, because you can't call something 'neurodivergent' if the bases for their neurotypical-ity are not the ones by which we measure this stuff. so, to me, ALL non-human characters are neurodivergent-coded. they may not be neurodivergent, technically speaking (like how you mentioned, maybe all dragons are just like zl), but to us, they read as such. so, coded. ultimately i do think there is merit in labeling them as neurodivergent because, even if they, again, technically aren't; we are going to run into problems if we attempt to treat them as neurotypical, so we might as well say yeah, neurodivergent. it is also kinda correct anyway – they do diverge from us. that's a fact. it's like saying dogs are colorblind. if all dogs see in the same range, then you can't say your dog in specific is colorblind (unless it actually is but that's beside the point); but compared to us, from our perspective, for what it matters to us and how that will translate into how we treat them then yes! dogs are colorblind! i think i mentioned it once in conjunction with characters like alhaitham. to me, zhongli is neurodivergent-coded, while alhaitham is neurodivergent straight-up. because (as far as we know) he's human, so his brain should, in theory, be like ours.

as for which flavor of neurodivergency zl is coded to have in specific i would agree with you on autism! but then again, i'm not an expert on these things, i don't know the exact ins and outs and the specific characteristics that constitute an autistic character – i just write them the way i perceive them, with the quirks i perceive them to have. not to get preachy but i think that's the better way to write characters in general, since that's how real people work, after all. people with autism aren't born fitting some parameters that will make them autistic – they're born with specific quirks that we then interpret as autism, and even then you don't necessarily get two people having the exact same experience with this. most of these terms are umbrella terms regardless as to how well-defined or how big or small the umbrella is.

so yeah!

[menodoramoon]

Post-Date Auction || Mooncakes

CHARACTERS: Cass Hamada, Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

SUMMARY: Following Moon winning a date with Cass at the auction, Cass lets out some building feelings. Menodora feels rejected. A rift ensues.

SETTING: Nov 16, 2024, Outside Amy's Auction

@auntcass-hamada

Read Below ~

Cass Hamada

Cass had entered the auction mostly on impulse (as so many of her decisions were), but once she did, she'd gotten excited by the idea. Her other dates might not have gone well, but this was a great way to meet someone new! Not just her at work and covered in flour, but looking like a person that someone would actually want to spend time with!

The bidding started, and she was delighted to see some familiar names and some new ones. This was going to go great!

Except...then her friends stepped in. And bid higher. And higher. The new names fell away, and instead it was only Franny, Reza, and Moon going around in circles. She should probably find it sweet. Instead, all she felt was disappointed. 

Didn't any of them believe she could handle even one date?

Biting the inside of her cheek, she was trying to keep it together when she heard the winning bid. 500 pounds. 500 pounds? Seriously? That was...that was ridiculous. That was so much money from someone she saw whenever she could for free. Why would she do that? 

No wonder no one else had stuck around. Who had that kind of money? Could she blame them? 

She needed some air. Or she would say something that she regretted later. Grabbing a glass of the wine that had been provided, she headed outside to try and calm herself down, not realizing that anyone might have seen where she was going.

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

A date with Cass! This was fantastic! Moon already has some ideas that she'd need to run by her best friend but the idea of it was exciting and Moon was thrilled!

It was strange, almost. Moon didn't fully understand the concept of bidding on dates, but with Cass, it was as if it *sort of* clicked. Who wouldn't want to bid on a date with Cassandra?

In a way, Moon might have selfishly thought it was a grand gesture. Moon valued her friend a lot, and getting to spend time with her was worth so much to her. Definitely more than £500 but she did have to be a bit normal about it.

"Cass!" Moon had called when she saw her friend, only Cass was headed for the exit. Moon frowned to herself, confused. Did... What? Had someone hurt Cass's feelings? Had Moon done something wrong?

She sets her glass down, ignores the few people who try to catch her attention, and walks hastily after her friend, almost breaking into an impulse to run.

"Cassandra?" Moon asks, just past the doors. It's brisk outside, a little chilly. The air is tense and awkward, stiff beyond the normal November weather. "Cass, are you... Alright?"

Cass Hamada

Oh. For once, she didn't want to see Moon. She wanted the air and her wine until she could calm down and pull herself together, go back to being the person everyone expected of her. It was hard when her feelings were all over the place, when they were sparking outside of the comfortable tracks she kept them on to get through the day. 

"It's fine. I just need a moment. I need some air." She tried to sound normal, but she was almost positive she failed. 

She'd never been good at that kind of thing.

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

Aha. No. Cass had absolutely failed the performance check. Moon opens her mouth to say something and stops. Thinks about it. Doesn't.

"Erm, okay. Well, I can just stay over here if you want to talk to someone. Or..." She stops, leans up against the wall. Silently, though her mind is racing. 

Cass may not have been good at regulating her tone, but Moon has never been good at comforting anyone. It's one of those things she's always recognized as a weakness.

So it's quiet. Near silent. Moon staying... And more importantly... Moon not leaving.

Cass Hamada

See, the problem with staying was that Cass would end up talking. She wouldn't be able to stop herself and she knew it, which was why she'd tried to leave first. 

But this was the problem with trying to put guardrails on her responses to manage her ADHD and the emotions that came with. They could only do so much, and it only took the right combination of events to overload them.

"I just - I don't know what I'm doing wrong." 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

Cassandra + 'doing anything wrong' did not make sense to Menodora. Cassandra couldn't do anything wrong in Moon's eyes, which is why Cass's statement catches Moon off guard. She turns, almost sharply, with questioning eyes.

There was hurt in her friend's face and Moon didn't know any way to assuage it, mostly because she didn't know what wasn't right. 

"What do you mean, Cassandra? You're not doing anything wrong. At least, I don't think so." 

Cass Hamada

Cass turned around sharply, glass nearly sloshing with the motion. 

"Well, I must be doing something wrong. I mean, I know the last few dates I've been on haven't been great. But I didn't realize that it was so bad that my friends would literally team up to make sure that I didn't meet anyone new. If I'm that hopeless, I'd rather one of you just say something to me about it!"

Which maybe wasn't fair. She hadn't told anyone she was thinking of doing this until after she'd already signed up. But she didn't feel like being fair right then. 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

She hadn't expected this. And she hadn't known about Cass's feelings. Such a thing -- "What are you talking about, Cass?" Moon asks, a slight feeling of dread pooling in her stomach. Was it because Cass was angry with her?

Moon hadn't conspired with Cass's friends. Franny and her weren't close, and she barely knew Reza outside of the name. She thinks. See! That's how close they were.

"I've never thought you were hopeless, Cassandra. I thought--" but she wasn't thinking, was she? Cass wanted a real date, not one with her friends. Franny and Reza bidding just encouraged Moon further, she thought it was alright. Had they all had it wrong?

"That's not it. I swear that's not it. I hope you know that I'd be honest with you if I thought ill of anything you did."

It comes out just slightly haughty and Moon internally winces. Gods, could she please...

"I'm sorry, I thought you'd think it was sweet. I'd never try to sabotage you, at least on purpose." 

Cass Hamada

Cass hears the stiffness, that whiff of authority that Moon carried but almost never used around her. Or maybe that was Menodora coming out. 

She never did just call her Cass. 

"But I'll spend time with you anytime! I mean, I know I get busy, but I am trying, and somehow you've missed a bunch of my texts so I've barely heard from you, but I know how things get sometimes and we could figure that out. I do try." The last sentence came out just a little bit desperately because she was always trying, and never seemed to get it right. 

"But I said in the little thing that I wanted to make a new connection. I wanted to meet someone. Maybe we'd only be friends too, maybe it would be bad, but wasn't the whole point of this to try? But with the three of you bidding, how could anyone afford that? No wonder no one else tried! Who can keep up?" 

She knew Moon's bid hadn't been the highest there, but the money still felt staggering. She'd never been able to be casual about 500 pounds. It was something carefully budgeted for, planned spending, or she'd end up in the kind of debt she couldn't afford. And they'd been playing with money like that like it was nothing. 

Because it was nothing to them. She was the one who didn't fit with that. 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

It doesn't go unnoticed, Moon knows. Menodora knows. Her brief lapse of earnest discussion. The way her defenses draw up a more withdrawn version of herself. She tries to shake it. Tries to not make the same mistake she made with Stella. Stella.

One crisis at a time, Menodora...

Moon bites the inside of her cheek. Cass was right. They could hang out anytime. They could talk, they could text. But Moon's been hiding out in her apartment like a coward or taking walks at inopportune times just to avoid other people. She kept her head down, tried not to engage with anyone for the most part. Why? Because she was scared. Because she was ashamed of herself! And now she'd made a faux pas that has Cass annoyed with her. Irritated with her. Mad at her. 

Moon doesn't understand but she wants Cass to know that none of it is her fault. Then again, it seems she already knows. The guilt rises in Moon's throat like phlegm, like some horrible feeling she needed to get out.

Sure, Cass wanted to make a new connection. Moon should have realized, she should have left it alone. If it was Franny or Reza, it would have been the same, wouldn't it? Franny or Reza would have made a better situation out of this. Moon can't manage it.

She hates herself in this moment. As the words come out.

"I didn't realize this would be so troublesome for you," Menodora says tersely, her voice coming out slightly strained. "I thought it was a nice gesture but clearly not.  I apologize, I don't know how to make it right. If you want to have more blind dates I can do my best to facilitate but what's done is done and I don't have the ability to fix this tonight."

She bites hard on her upper lip, just short of drawing blood. It wasn’t hard though. They were chapped already from the change in weather.

"Consider yourself free of the obligation to have a date. We'll schedule something another time when you want to. I'm sorry this turned out this way, Cassandra. I'll do my best to rectify it. But it's not within my power tonight. Anything else? Or shall I leave you alone?"

Cass Hamada

Cass watched as the woman who was her friend transformed into someone stiff and distant and horribly polite. The words were an apology but everything else felt like a wall because none of it was right but she didn't know what right was. Which was the whole point!

She didn't want Moon to find her blind dates because that made her feel too pathetic and desperate. She didn't want to be 'troublesome' but somehow she was always trouble when she let herself go. 

She wanted Moon to talk to her because it felt like something else was wrong, but she didn't know how to ask for that now that she'd ruined that too. 

Her emotions felt stupidly huge with nowhere to go. 

All she could say was, "Being with you isn't an obligation. It isn't supposed to be one." But the rest of her words were too tangled in her chest to figure out, so instead she did what she often did in fights like this. 

She turned and fled, running back inside, wine glass abandoned on a ledge nearby. 

[padfootastic]

hohoho i am writing a remus & sirius confrontation that is ending up a little too mean and it’s verging on the edge of not fitting into FoD but by god, is it satisfying 😈😈😈

“Oh, stop pretending, Remus.” There’s a part of Sirius, not insignificant, that tells him to shut the fuck up. To bite back the words as he’d always done. They don’t expect it of him but he is perfectly capable of maintaining a civil tongue when needed. He just doesn’t want to, today. “You’ve always resented us, haven’t you?”

“Padfoot, do you even hear yourself—?” Remus’ amber eyes are bright, almost feverish, and Sirius knew that all he had to do was push.

So he did.

- brought to u by ‘i’ve been thinking about remus and i also recently read a fic that blindsided me w commentary on james’ and sirius’ social positions intimidating remus into compliance as an excuse for his cowardice and general temperament and got incredibly annoyed at how he is, yet again, victimised so i shall now endeavour to turn that idea around on its head using the ‘ol ‘u cannot help someone who does not want to be helped’ adage so help me god’

[poisonousquinzel]

also clarifier skdjsksks regardless of how I'm currently feeling about the relationship writing for Harley and Ivy, it changes nothing when it comes to me shipping them in general.

I don't think they're being super well written when it comes to their relationship side plots as of this moment. I think a lot of narrative steps have been skipped or ignored, and in Ivy's case my issue is primarily with Janet, how Janet is written and how others are written specifically when in a scene with her.

@harlivycentral has a really really great post about Ivy's characterization, in gen and in these situations. It's a good read! The bit about the stuff with Bella really makes sense and personally I could definitely believe that, I just struggle to fully believe it's an intentional writing decision. 😭 (But as we all know there's a lot of great comic bits that're definitely not intentionally written skdjdkks)

So regardless of the creative intentions, it does make digesting and even understanding why Ivy may be reacting in certain ways a lot easier. so like truly, ty

Creative intentions wise though, it never feels like the narrative treats the "romance" infidelity side plot in her comic with the severity the actions would realistically cause. Harley doesn't react in character most of the time and frankly she's not really well written in #14/#17.

And personally for me Janet comes off as having a lot of biphobic stereotypes in her characterization thus far, characteristics that gww has had sole control over since her creation, Janet is her original character. And it makes enjoying her overwhelming presence more and more agitating to experience the longer I think about the fact that she's perpetuating harmful stereotypes about my sexuality, and no one seems to give a damn outside of folks here.

The way gww has decided to write her up until this time (regardless if she fully realizes it or not) is that of an irrational, pushy, promiscuous and impulsive bisexual woman who continues to romantically pursue and kiss the people around her without them giving any indication that they want her to and being self-assured that these mostly nonconsensual encounters were legit Romantic Moments between herself and these people. (this view is not challenged by the narrative)

She has described herself as a seductress, a femme fatale and a homewrecker. And apparently believes her relationship with Ivy can be partly summed up with "person you sleep with when you're bored".

This line from the chapter released a few days ago continues to give me no hope that the writing is ever gonna acknowledge or have Janet acknowledge that nothing that's happened between her and Ivy (or her and Harley) have been real Moments in the published product we have been presented. This was an issue in #23 when Janet said as much, to Harley's confusion.

Ivy did not sleep with Janet because "she was bored". She was High. She unknowingly consumed drugs and said herself that she "stopped resisting" the hallucinogens and JANET. the idea that what happened in #10 was because of boredom is actually absurd tbf.

the next kiss in #11 is unsolicited. her kiss with Harley in #14 is unsolicited, one that she does after immediately insulting Harley. and Harley makes it clear in #17 that that is exactly how she views the interaction.

but even that rude, unsolicited moment in #14 was mentioned in the summary with the statement that it was potential cheating.

BACK IN GOTHAM CITY! As Poison Ivy investigates the inner workings of a strange new skyscraper in Gotham, she finds herself up to her neck in a surreal and slimy mystery. And at its center? A brand-new villain in the Poison Ivy pantheon of rogues! Plus…is Janet-from-HR cheating on Ivy?!

even her kiss with Croc was unsolicited, and I'm glad they seem happy and all, but Janet is acting like she's gotta hide this from Ivy as if they're not just friends. Why the hell would Ivy care 😭

The overall idea from the post linked above about Ivy potentially self sabotaging after the reunion and thats why she slept with Janet is a really good one that I think could have worked in the published product if the narrative was treating the encounter as just that. If it spent more time with Ivy's personal inner workings, feelings and thoughts about the situations, and less time focusing on Janet and attempting to legitimize her factually incorrect takes about them having a Thing when Ivy told her minutes after their hook up that it was a mistake sjdjjdksksk 😭😭

I also don't think that this thing between Janet and Croc is going to end happily :(( given the way gww has talked about it on her bluesky. she's also kept silent on anything about Ivy's relationship with Harley despite people asking.

So I wouldn't be surprised if DC is pushing to have them in a very separated, "open relationship" again.

Thankfully comic characters and ships always tend to have great highs and low lows, unfortunately I think we're just dipping down again.

And, remember it's been a very good few years for them, having their relationship be made more public and irrefutably Romantic. they've been allowed to kiss on the lips countless times now and be openly gay and in love on comic covers. Harley has said the actual word bisexual in reference to herself!!! We've had a lot of incredible progress.

The main timeline harlivy is also not the only one that's canon, so while this may be coming into an arc / few years we're not gonna particularly enjoy writing wise, there's still numerous other universe harlivy's to appreciate and latch onto in the meantime if the current writing is making enjoying the harlivy ship difficult for you. ❤️

BTAS, DCeased, Injustice (comic) Bombshells, DC Superhero Girls, The Strange Case Of Harleen & Harley, Wayne Family Adventures, etc. I'm sure I'm forgetting some skdjsksks

[dare-g]

The 4 Most Cockamamie Demands of a Superstar Horror Host, On Grave Mood Rings (2025)

[weekly-scratch]

Happy White (Host) Day! This week’s Scratches are explorations in colour.

[kitttcatalyst]

Tell me you're supposed to be writing but absolutely aren't without telling me you're supposed to be writing but absolutely aren't. 😌✨

[caleb-majhi]

CLOSED STARTER for @loveflora at the ocean crest parking lot

“Hey,” Caleb calls to the first person he sees nearby. He is kneeling down beside his truck, trying to coax a black and white cat from under the wheel well. “Do you know if this cat belongs to anyone who lives here?”

There isn’t a collar he can see, but that doesn’t mean it belongs here. “I turned on my truck hoping the engine would scare it off, but its standing its ground.”

[kotaromita]

Open Thread [Halloween Event, Mermaid AU]

The week leading up to Halloween the harbor was often crowded with yacht filled with rich teens partying where they were less likely to be caught drinking and getting high. The word Halloween didn't have much of a meaning for merfolk, but to Kotoro he'd come to associate it with an excess of observation opportunities. The music resonating off the boat Kotaro had currently suctioned himself onto was nothing like the hypnotic operatic of merfolk. He could feel it reverberate through his body; drums rattling his ribs and bass shaking his core. With a wet pop he pulls himself free from the side of the yacht to swim away just a little bit. It's easier to watch the human silhouettes dance when he isn't sidled up right next to it.

The LED lights reflect brightly in Kotaro's wide silvery eyes. How fun and exciting. There were bright lights at the bottom of the sea, too, but not in this many colors. Mermaids danced when they sang, but not this erratic and passionately. Suddenly, a human approaches the edge of the ship to look into the dark waters below. Kotaro sinks a bit deeper, letting his hair wave around his head to blend into the waves. Would this human sing too? Sing and rap and dance? His eyes shine in the dark, watching with rapt attention.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

i like that the power scaling in the worse manga AU goes a classmate → a biotech genius with four extra machine arms → a self-engineered "perfect life form" → a circus gymnast → a tour guide → a LARPer

[menodoramoon]

Reconciliation Attempts || Mooncakes

CHARACTERS: Cass Hamada, Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

SUMMARY: Following their argument outside the Date Auction, Cass brings a peace offering to make amends with Moon.

SETTING: Nov 19, 2024, Moon's Apartment at Castle Suites.

@auntcass-hamada

Read Below ~

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

The past few days have felt like wave after wave of useless heartache. It was no one’s fault but her own that she’s estranged herself from everyone. Stella at the Carnival, River back in Mjaunie, Cass at the auction…

It’s been a few days now, and Moon’s frustration with herself has only grown. (Maybe she should stop being so self-important, but she figures the self-deprecation balanced itself out.) Was Moon really so clueless that she couldn’t see any of those signs? Or maybe it was because she’d been such an absent friend that she hadn’t considered a single concern in Cass’s life.

The problem with being blinded by your ‘love’ for a friend is that you can only see them in the way you want to – doing well, being successful, being loved… she didn’t notice the struggles Cass was experiencing. To Moon, Cassandra was perfect. It was an unfair expectation.

It’s an almost cruel cue to end on as there’s a knock on her door. Moon looks up, wondering who it could be. Not a package, not Oswald… unless Oswald suddenly decided to be spontaneous. No.

“One moment!” Moon calls, really not caring for the fact she hasn’t even gotten properly dressed today. But that’s fine. She’d done her run along Lakeside this morning and showered after, so she’s mostly been lounging in her silk robe over a nightgown. It’s a bit mortifying to open the door and see Cass. “Oh. Cassandra. Hi. What– can I do for you?”

Cass Hamada

It didn’t take much time for the anger and upset to fade and a sharp embarrassment to take its place. It didn’t matter that she was literally a woman in her 40s, moments like this made her feel the exact same way she had when she was a teenager and all her emotions felt too big for her body. It was far too easy for her mouth to run away with her impulsive thoughts, and then once she calmed down, she had to pick up the pieces. 

She thought about texting Moon, but she didn’t. Their recent text history was…strange in so many ways, and she was afraid of it being caught in that strangeness. But more importantly, Moon deserved better than that. 

As always, any apology from her came with food. Something this big? Only one thing would satisfy. 

Nervously approaching Moon’s door with the batch of freshly made donuts filled with some of Moon’s favorite flavors from when she came by the cafe, she gave a brief knock. The vision of Moon that greeted her was, well. Surprising. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Moon in something as casual as a robe, especially at this time of day. She can’t think about what it means. She’s here on a mission, and she can’t get derailed. 

“Um. Can I come in? I wanted to apologize, but if you’re busy, I don’t have to stay, but I brought donuts.” 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

It's almost alarming how seeing Cassandra inspires more trepidation than excitement. Since when had that been the case? Cassandra Hamada always reminded Menodora a little bit too much of home. Flour-stained sweaters and confection smudged sleeves. She was sunshine that streamed through a baker's kitchen, disrupted by the dust of powdered sugar floating on the air.

Yet none of that matters at this moment as Moon feels a quiet dread at inviting Cass inside.

Nothing was out of place, nothing was incriminating. Maybe Cassandra would notice small things if she scoured the apartment, like the fact that Menodora had been drinking more. And the fact she'd been washing bedding more often. But aside from small tells of her apartment, Moon made sure everything else looked as it should, including the marks on her throat from some, perhaps, over-eager acts.

"Sure," Moon settles on after a moment. She steps aside, holding the door open. "That's very kind of you, thank you."

And part of her does soften seeing Cass there so earnestly. It's not that she expected an apology, or needed one. If Cassandra were still mad at her, Menodora would have understood.

"To clarify, I'm not busy," she adds, shutting the door behind Cass. "But I am woefully underdressed. Do you mind if I take a moment to change? You're welcome to make yourself at home. You always are.”

Cass Hamada

It feels awkward, stepping inside. Moon was always more formal than Cass was, but normally it didn’t bother her. It was just a different way of speaking, and most of the time they were able to flow together easily enough. But this time, there’s an edge to all of it, and she hates it. It’s why she needs to apologize as quickly as possible and figure out how to fix this. 

She missed her best friend. 

“No, no, that’s fine, of course! I surprised you, take whatever time you need.” She smiled cheerfully, hoping it would reassure Moon a little bit. 

Once Moon left the room to get changed, Cass followed old habit and went straight over to the kitchen. She’d been here often enough to know where everything was, so it only took a moment to have the kettle on for tea, mugs prepped, and the donuts artfully displayed on the plate. She felt better with her hands busy anyway. 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

The issue, Menodora decided, with being a recluse – as she had been of late – was that you miss so much. You miss cues, you miss news, you miss your friends. The world keeps turning, and here she was, something of a coward, hiding in her apartment. She slips out of her more casual (as nice of a term as she can call basically pajamas) attire and settles on a blouse and skirt. Typical for her, but maybe that would be better. It was less formal than the clothes she went to events in, which meant it was less formal than the dress she had worn when the two of them had argued.

She neatens her hair, straightens out her clothes, and finds Cass has already prepared everything for their visit by the time she returns.

“Your plating is perfect as always,” Menodora comments, approaching the kitchen. “And your donuts smell divine. And maple-y. Which means that you either made some specifically for me, or fortune just favored me today with how sales went. Either way, I’m grateful.”

She leans on the counter for a moment, something she really didn’t do. Hums for a second. The air still feels tense, but perhaps that was all her. Menodora did have a skill for icing people out without meaning to.

“How are you?” Menodora asks, after a moment. She could say, How are you since we last spoke, but she figures it might bring up poor memories. “Staying relatively warm? It feels like the entire town has begun to embrace the coming winter. Which I suppose is fine but I’ve always loved late fall most, I think. I’ll be sad to see it go.”

Cass Hamada

By the time Moon returned, Cass had found the nerves rising again. She hated to apologize for things, because so often it felt the apologies didn’t help but she felt worse if she didn’t try. It was a feedback loop she never seemed to win because it felt so hard to find the right thing to apologize for. 

She opened her mouth to say something, but Moon came back in and just sounded…normal. Which threw her off again. Hadn’t they argued? Didn’t they have things to talk about?

The kindness is almost as unsettling as the silence had been because she wasn’t ready for either of them and she isn’t sure what to think about any of it. Moon finally asked a question that felt like it could almost be an opening, but then she started talking about the weather. In other times, this conversation might have felt nice since Cass did like to hear what Moon was thinking about, but she didn’t know how to do any of that. 

So she gave up trying. 

“Of course I made your favorites. I know it’s not very much, but I said I wanted to apologize and I meant it. Moon, I feel terrible about arguing with you at the auction. You were trying to do something nice and fun, and the whole thing was for charity anyway it wasn’t really about me. I had just built it up to be this big thing, and then when it changed I didn’t handle it well. But I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. I’m sorry.” 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

Here's the part Menodora wasn't good at. Acknowledging the things that she did wrong. She had been an absentee friend, hadn't considered an outcome where Cassandra's feelings could have been hurt. Sure, Menodora meant it as a nice thing, but that didn't mean Cass would have to take it as one. Such a thing was presumptuous.

And besides, Moon felt horribly for how she had behaved as well. Cold and standoffish. Uncaring for her friend's feelings.

"You don't need to apologize," Menodora says, after a moment. But that's also... Not entirely validating. So she backtracks. "I appreciate the thought and I accept the apology, though I don't think there's anything you did wrong that needs to be forgiven."

Don't. Fuck. This. Up. 

"Honestly, I haven't been a good friend lately. I've been absent, I've been distant, and expecting to be welcomed back as if I hadn't even wished you a happy birthday in person, or at least over the phone."

Because I had started a reckless downward spiral, Cass. And I can't tell you that because if you knew, you'd hate me.

She smiles, somewhat wryly. Glancing at the tea and plated donuts. Touches to her neck for a moment, where she's glamored a mark or two. She can feel the soreness.

For a moment, she's convinced she can't do it. She can't be so earnest as Cassandra always was... But she deserves honesty. A genuine, equal apology… Even if Moon felt she was more in the wrong than Cassandra could have been.

"I don't think you're wrong to have wanted a date. That's what you'd clearly signed up for. And I shouldn't have treated you so poorly anyways, just for having feelings. If I had been a better friend, I'd have noticed how you were feeling. Or I would have tried to encourage you, not ice you out. I'm... Sorry.”

Cass Hamada

Cass has enough experience to know that there’s a lot of ways this conversation could go. It’s possible that Moon could decide to simply brush this off, but Cass knows that if she does it’ll leave an awkward wound that wouldn’t heal right because neither of them would forget it or be satisfied. Perhaps Moon would be mad all over again, which had also happened to Cass before, and nothing would get fixed. 

Instead, Moon chose the third path. They’re talking about it. Cass can’t help but feel a little trickle of relief because maybe, maybe, it meant they could get back on track. 

“It’s - sometimes my feelings get very big. Most of the time I can catch it and it isn’t so bad, or they’re feelings that people like so it isn’t a big deal. But sometimes they get big and they aren’t something nice, and then I try to find a place to be quiet because if I don’t I end up saying things I feel bad about later. Which sounds stupid and juvenile, but it’s the best way I can explain it. I’ve spent a lot of my life apologizing for what I said when I’m feeling like that, and I’ll definitely have to do it more.” 

She can feel the flickers of embarrassment echoing through her as she glanced down at the mug of tea she hadn’t really touched. 

“I guess I just…the only other dates I’ve been on have been with people I met at the cafe. They hadn’t really worked, which is fine, I know it happens. But I don’t really know…how to meet people. For dates. Or anything like that. So I saw the sign up, and I thought this might be a way to meet someone new. See if something would happen. And it wasn’t like it was just you, it was Franny and Reza as well, and I know you were all being really nice. You just happened to be the one that found me after, which meant you sort of got the worst of it.”

There’s more to ask about, more to understand in why Moon suddenly went so absent, but she wanted to finish this first before she got distracted. 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen 

Cassandra, who always had a smile and big heart for everyone else. It's why Moon loved her so. When her positive feelings we're too big for her was when Menodora felt at ease around her. It wasn't overwhelming, it was welcome. Menodora supposes she'd never been around for the worse ones. The ones where Cass might feel cornered and alone and unable to express them. Or maybe it was, as she said, that she chose loneliness in order to mitigate her reactions. 

Menodora had intruded on that.

"Cassandra, you had reasonable feelings and concerns. It was a misunderstanding," Menodora says, trying to bridge this distance that she felt more acutely between them. It was mending, slowly, but there was just the feeling that loomed over the room.

As understanding as either of them tried to be, there was just this slight disconnect. Menodora couldn't mediate like she had many times in Mjaunie. She couldn't dismiss her friend, or tell her how to feel. That would just cause more trouble.

"If that's the worst of it, I'm not too concerned," Menodora says, not quite brushing it off. If only she could summon this sense when she spoke with Stella. "Hearing what you're saying, I understand why you were upset. I don't begrudge your emotions."

Menodora reaches over for a donut, allowing the syrupy glaze to stick to her fingers. She wasn't the sort to usually eat with her hands, but Cassandra's food was an exception.

She smiles, a genuine sort of tilt to it. 

"My dear, I fear that if you think this has caused a rift, you're mistaken. We're still friends after all."

She takes a bite. It tastes... All familiar. And maybe she might have cried for a moment, the imagining of their friendship being threatened too much to bear.

Menodora pauses after a bite. Thinks.

"I accept your apology, Cassandra. Do you accept mine?”

Cass Hamada

It wasn’t that Moon had intruded exactly. It was more that Cass had learned one way to cope, and despite the years that had passed, she’d never found another one that worked. Maybe it was simply because it was easier to hide instead of letting her emotions spill over onto customers or the boys. It didn’t help when she was in public or around too many other people, like at the auction, and then she ended up here. 

Her feelings didn’t feel reasonable to her, but it was kind of Moon to say so. 

Cass heard the words and was trying to focus on them and the kindness in them. But it’s when Moon reaches over and picks up one of the donuts, taking an actual bite, that she feels that tense guilty knot in her chest finally begin to unravel. After all, food was always how she communicated best. Eating the apology treats felt like she was actually accepting the apology. 

Smiling with relief, she said, “Of course! Apology fully accepted. I’ve missed just getting to hang out with you.” 

The words tumble out along with the relief, and there’s a little part of her that feels an anxious flicker at the possibility that it might be too much on top of everything. But the apology part of this had gone so well and so easily, honesty felt like the only thing she could do. 

She didn’t want there to be any rifts. She didn’t want Moon to go away. 

(Even if Cass knew that she would eventually. That she would have to because Moon was someone important and had a whole life elsewhere that Cass could only brush at the edges of. Someday Moon would leave and Cass would stay, and she couldn’t think about that. For now she didn’t want Moon to go away while they had a chance to still be friends.)

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen 

It's sweet of Cass to still want her around. Or maybe it was merciful. Moon didn't know, but she didn't want to ask. Cassandra seems so genuinely happy the two had made up, and Menodora feels the same. Even if Menodora had been more in the wrong for her poor reaction.

Menodora musters a light laugh, shaking her head for a moment.

"I've missed you, too, Cass. Even before the auction. I'm sorry I haven't been very communicative. It's just been a difficult few weeks, but none of that has been your fault, of course. I'm sorry I haven't replied to you." 

She finishes the first donut, takes her mug and the plate in each hand. "Sitting room? So we're not eating over the counter?"

It's more casual of Moon. She moves in a looser way than her more formal demeanor at Dinner Club. It's the way she feels more welcome to be herself -- at least more herself -- around her friend.

She'd miss Cass when she left, but nothing prohibited her from visiting now and again. Or calling her or writing her letters.

"You know who would like your donuts? River. He'd love them. I think I got my love of maple from him," she says, finding a place on the sofa and setting the plate and mug on the coffee table. "Stella probably does. Has she been in? No, don't tell me. She'd think I'm prying, and I don't want to do that. Especially after our last encounter.”

Cass Hamada

“Sure!” Cass didn’t mind eating over the counter because she’d done it through most of her life. It was the easiest way to snag the boys for a snack, or to visit with someone when they didn’t necessarily have a lot of time (or they were pretending they didn’t). But nothing said they had to!

They did most of their visiting in the living room anyway, so that made it feel something like normal. 

“Oh really? I’d try and send some to him, but I don’t know how well they’d travel.” She thought about mentioning that River had texted her saying he was worried, but she thought it might be part of those ‘hard weeks’ that Moon had mentioned that she did want to know more about. What else had happened that she didn’t know?

“And, it’s okay. Stella doesn’t come into the Lucky Cat, so no spying is possible or has to be avoided.” Which she had a feeling was on purpose. Although why still didn’t make sense to her. 

“But what’s made the last couple weeks so hard? Is there something I can help with? Or I can just listen. If you want. You don’t have to.” She wanted to take advantage of the opening while she was here, but she was nervous about Moon pulling away and going all stiff again. 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen 

Freshly poured tea sits on her tongue, burning. And not-quite-ready. It's not steeper through but the water keeps her from having to talk. It allows her to gather herself and bury down all the feelings that are threatening to surface. 

The crisis has been averted. Moon’s friendliness is restored. So why is her spiral to Oswald the other night rearing its head? She doesn't fully remember it. She was drunk. She wants something she can't have, which she believes is a quick resolution to all her familial and interpersonal issues. It's more than that.

Of some kind.

“He might visit one day,” Menodora says, casually. Though she hopes he doesn't, somehow. Cruelly. In this guilty way where she'd give anything to hide away all the flaws in her life where she's come undone.

Cassandra can't think of her as anything less than acceptable because if she does, Moon might lose her.

It's not Moon pulling away and becoming Menodora out of coldness that Cass should fear. It's Moon turning in on herself and not knowing how to dig herself out. The truth of everything was so deep that Menodora can't help but want to hide her face, just for being the person she is.

“Oh. She should go. It's lovely,” Moon says, pleasantly. Trying to be cheerful again and keep up the friendly demeanor she's held to. Clung to.

She's trying to be casual again, the way she'd walked into this room. 

But she and Oswald had played cards here. Moon had taken three shots and gotten drunk here. Moon had– given up here. Even before the cards and shots and awkward conversations over her coffee table. She'd given up the life she thought she could have because she doesn't deserve it and she's not worth it. A countess… how could she be that?

What's made the last weeks so hard?

If only I could tell you, Cassandra? You'd learn and leave and I cannot be alone anymore. I don't know who I'd be.  

“I don't think you can help, Cassandra,” Moon says, approximating warmth in her tone. “It's kind of you to offer. River and I just haven't been on the best of terms.” (River probably wants to leave his cold-hearted wife by now. This absence, he knows already, the things she's done. He could feel some cosmic shift. Those texts that might read ‘can we talk’ is him trying to end it. And Menodora can't do it. She can't–) “I think I made him cross when I visited.”

Which is really a version of ‘I know I did. I know he despises me and could never love me for what an awful mother I am and how I've hurt him and will continue to hurt him. I'm a runaway train, wrecking in slow motion in an empty clearing. No one will witness the carnage.

It will be beautiful one day. Things will grow in the remains. Stella might ascend and be twice the person I was. Blooming beautifully among people who would adore her for who she is. She’ll never be like me, a fraud who held so dearly to the illusion of who I thought I could be but never quite was. As stubborn as she is, she knows herself.

She inherited my curiosity. But she'll know how to use it far more than I ever neglected it.’

This isn't the point …

“I'm not… doing well,” she admits, suddenly feeling a similar wave of sick dizziness like the one she felt at Tófi’s. After she'd stabbed him. After he verbally berated her for everything she was wrong for.

She's dizzy, but she's already sitting, so it's not too bad.

If Moon fainted, at least she'd be able to warn Cass beforehand. She may not give the details, but it would give Cass that out of their friendship if needed. 

Gods, Moon hates herself.

Her voice turns distant and dreamy, as if she's talking about herself without being herself.

“I don't mean to burden you with it, so maybe it's best if you leave,” Moon says after a moment. Confusion is clouding her face. She feels unwell. “Not to sound rude or uninviting to you, ever, Cassandra. I'm… sorry?”

Cass Hamada

“Oh really? Well that would be wonderful! I’d like to meet him.” And she would! She enjoyed all of Moon’s stories about River, even if it wasn’t very many, and she thought they’d get along well. Plus he’d been very nice over text, so he was probably nice in person.

She thought it must be hard to be over in Mjuanie while his family was here, even if they did have responsibilities and people to look after and things that were important.

Then again, she’d sold her cafe and her home rather than risk losing Hiro. Her perspective was probably skewed.

At Moon’s comment about Stella, she shrugged. “I can’t make her come in, and not everyone likes my food. There's a lot of options in town, its okay.”

But it’s almost as if Cass can feel the air shift with her offer as Moon goes silent and starts to struggle. Which is something Cass knows well - better than most people think considering what they saw of her bright chatty exterior and her open smile.

After all, Hiro had always been a moody boy. He’d lost his parents so young. He was smarter than all his peers and struggled to connect with his classmates when he was so much younger. His brain worked at a million miles an hour, and it wasn’t always kind when it did so. Then the accident took his depression to new heights so that some days it was all she could do to encourage him to leave bed. 

She knew how to sit with pain she couldn’t help and advice she couldn’t give. She’d been practicing that skill for a long time.

So she waited. She waited as Moon made her small confessions which built larger into the kind of statement Cass would only listen to if it was less of a question and more of a need.

“I’d rather stay here. It’s okay if I can’t help, but you aren’t a burden to me. I can still listen. I’d like to listen.”

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

It’s a sweet thought, Cassandra and River meeting. She imagines they’d get on so well. River was good with everyone, though. And who couldn’t love Cassandra? “I don’t know exactly when he’d be able to visit, though,” Menodora says after a moment, not wanting to get Cass’s hopes up. “He’s mentioned it a few times, though. I'll… have to ask him again.”

She won’t be asking. She might, sometime… but not now. Not right now…

Cassandra says that she’d rather stay, and Moon can’t help but look up. A bit surprised. First Oswald, now Cassandra.

“You know, Cass,” Moon says after a pause, examining the situation, “when someone says ‘maybe it’s best you leave,’ you’re supposed to take advantage of the social nicety and go.” But there’s a softer, weak smile lined in those words… “I worry what would happen if everyone were as nice as you, Cassandra.”

Menodora exhales, wondering what she can say. What’s happened since the two of them talked? Things with Tófi, things with Stella. Even though Menodora stayed with Cass the night Menodora had lost her keys at the carnival, she hadn’t spiraled out about how things were with Stella. They hadn’t felt that dire yet. Or, rather, Moon hadn’t wanted to share. All those thoughts were raw and still processing.

Now she was having an affair with her neighbor and barely leaving the house and barely answering anyone’s calls or texts. Her designated ‘outside time’ was a sunrise run along Lakeside, and sometimes a sunset walk near the campus.

What had become of her lately?

Moon exhales a short laugh, glancing a bit off into the room. “I don’t even know where to start, Cass. Or what to say. I don’t know what there is to listen to. It’s just been a hard few weeks.”

Cass Hamada

Cass tilted her head at Moon’s statement, her smile just as soft. “Social niceties like that don’t apply to friends. Or maybe I’ve just been too bad at them so I gave up on them a long time ago.” 

Shifting closer, she takes Moon’s hand and gives it a small squeeze. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. We can talk about something else or just watch a movie and eat donuts until I have to get back to the cafe for the dinner rush. If you just want to talk about whatever you’re thinking, it doesn’t have to make sense either because I can just listen.” 

Because there was a difference between ‘don’t know where to start’ and ‘nothing there’. Some of Moon’s inner glow had faded, and that told her that something had happened. Even if it was too much of something to know what the beginning was. 

“I know for me, sometimes I have to be alone a little bit. My feelings get big and messy in the first moment, and the things I say in that first moment aren’t always the version of me I like. It’s the second moment and the third when I can think a little bit more past the feeling that usually feels more right for the person I try to be. So when something happens and I say that I need air or I need a minute, that’s the times that being alone is helpful.” 

“But sometimes I say that I want to be alone when I really don’t. I just think I should be. And if that’s what’s happening for you then I don’t really want to leave you alone. But I can just be here too. Okay?” 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

Moon shakes her head. Embarrassed. Chiding herself for what was happening. Menodora shouldn’t need other people, that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. And yet, more often than not lately it seemed that she couldn’t stand the idea of being alone.

Cassandra takes Moon’s hand and she hates to admit that she almost cries. What on earth was wrong with her?

It takes a moment to gather some semblance of thought. Of explanation. She winces.

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” Menodora admits, quietly, “it’s that I don’t know how to talk about it.” There’s a pained, strained smile there. This disbelief in herself that she’s even trying to muster some explanation.

She listens as Cass explains her own experiences and her thoughts on being alone. It resonates with Moon in a way she wasn’t expecting. There are times Moon wants to be alone with her thoughts, and times where she forces herself to be. There are times when she convinces herself that all she needs is more time to think of a solution and everything will be better. If she can bully any irrationality into submission she would be fine.

Moon takes a deep inhale. Lets out a half laugh on the exhale… and pulls Cass closer.

She’s not even sure why she does it in the moment… but she does. She pulls Cass in for a hug and maybe she should have asked first but something about everything that was threatening to collapse and a hug just… felt right.

It’s nice. There’s a comfort to it and she doesn’t know why but everything just felt better with Cass here. There were very few people that Moon felt that she could drop pretense around. Even around Cass, to a degree, she still kept up some guard.

It’s different, too. Cass has felt different from the beginning. There was something so deeply earnest and effortlessly nice about her. There was something so kind about her that Moon had been surprised by the honesty of it…

“I was so worried,” Moon says softly, hiding her face with the embrace, “that I was going to push you away. I felt myself building up that wall when we were talking after the auction and I just couldn’t stand what I was doing to you. I’m really sorry, Cassandra.” She inhales, trying to breathe life back into herself… Gods… “I don’t ever want to treat you that coldly again, I’m so so sorry.”

Cass Hamada

Cass liked hugs. At her core, she liked to hold people, to connect with them, and have that little piece of physical comfort. It was an impulse she suppressed most of the time these days because Hiro was so sensitive and most of her friends here were so reserved. But she liked hugs. She would never say no to a hug. 

More than that, it feels like Moon needs this hug. Cass didn’t hesitate to lean in, wrapping her arms around her friend and holding her tightly enough that maybe she can help hold together all the different pieces of Moon. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m tougher than that to push away, promise,” she said softly, rubbing Moon’s back as she did so. 

Had it hurt in the moment? Of course. But Cass had been an exposed nerve, all feelings and sensitivity with no shields at all. If she’d been younger, that was all it would take to send her running for the hills never to be seen again because she’d be convinced that was all it took to break the things that mattered. Her emotions had felt so fragile, she’d assumed everything in her life was equally breakable and vulnerable. Time and proper help for her adhd had helped with that. 

It didn’t mean it had gone away. But it meant she was better at questioning those first thoughts and following it up with her second and third ones than she’d been in her twenties. 

“This was only a donut level apology emergency. We haven’t made it up to swiss rolls or entremets or chocolate souffle yet. There’s layers here.” She’s not trying to make light of Moon’s emotions, but she can’t resist a little bit of lightness. 

This was one argument after all. They would be fine.

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

Menodora lets out a slight laugh, the feeling reverberating through the hug. It didn’t feel like they would be fine, but that’s Menodora’s fear whispering in her mind. How much longer would she allow fear and paranoia and doubt to control her? As long as they lingered, she would suppose. Would, if she could think more clearly about it. If she was more conscious of what they truly were.

To Moon, these emotions were a nebulous, overwhelming negativity. They were shaped like fear, but not entirely right. Trepidation? Her subconscious isn’t sure. All her subconscious knows is that this is a very good hug and is much needed for her spiraling psyche.

“So what crisis level is my tiramisu?” Menodora asks, breaking the hug. She feels flighty and distracted, but it’s likely her inclination to flee running amok in her mind. Menodora was more of a fighter by force, not choice. If given the option, or opposition, Menodora was likely to seek escape more than anything.

Clearly.

So, back to the question – “But what’s made the last couple weeks so hard?”

“We haven’t been speaking,” Menodora admits after another short silence. “River and I. Actually, I’ve barely been speaking to anyone.” Which is another hard admission. It’s why she hasn’t been answering Cassandra’s texts. It’s why she dropped off Cassandra’s birthday gift basket at The Lucky Cat without notice or ceremony, then ran before Cass could spot her or stop her. She feels that wretched ache in her, a fear of judgment. A fear of Cass looking at her differently for anything she says. “We haven’t agreed on much of anything lately and it’s taken a bit of a toll. Actually, besides sorting out the politics of everything, we did little more than argue while I was back in Mjaunie.” A weak laugh of an exhale. She stares into her tea mug, at the way the surface of it ripples ever so slightly. It’s rarely ever perfectly still here. She’s glad she’d done some mending magic to the coffee table. It had taken gathering a few reagents while out on a run, but it prevented questions about the previously scorched state of it. As if to divert slightly, to be self-deprecating as a distraction, she gives a pained half-shrug. A not-so-caring, light-toned, “I’ve been pitifully reclusive lately.”

Cass Hamada

“I’d say fairly high, but we’re not to croquembouche level.” She nodded like this was any kind of serious scale and not something completely ridiculous to release some of the pressure from before. (Although it would take something pretty drastic for her to decide that a croquembouche was the reasonable response for that. The transport of that alone would be monumental.)

But she felt that attempt at lightness fade as Moon finally began to speak about what had been going on. 

It was the sort of thing she wished she had good advice for. That she was the kind of person who’d had other relationships she could point to in order to give Moon some hope or some strategies or something that would help make it better. But considering her own pitiful relationship history, she can’t speak at all to what it’s like to be married. 

Instead, she just scooches a little closer to wrap one arm around Moon’s waist and give her a one armed hug as they sat together and she let the words settle into the airs around them. 

“It’s surprisingly easy to stop talking to people,” she said softly. That she did know all too well. “I’m sorry that you and River are having a hard time reaching each other.” 

Menodora Butterfly-Johansen

This was as honest as Moon would be able to get. The trouble with her and River, the trouble with her and Stella. She couldn’t talk about Oswald. She couldn’t talk about these distressing feelings that are weighing her down because she doesn’t want to say anything that would – maybe – scare Cass.

Or worry about her too much.

Relationship drama was normal. Having an affair? That wasn’t.

And, besides. How insensitive would it be to explain to Cass her expanded relationship trouble when Cass herself expressed her feelings about her dating life?

Moon leans into Cass’s shoulder as Cass hugs her. It’s definitely welcome, even if feels a bit bad to have Cass’s sympathy this way. It didn’t feel earned.

But we’re not having a hard time reaching each other, Moon might have said. He’s reaching me, I just choose not to hear him.

“It’ll be okay,” Moon says, trying to shake off the discomfort. “I mean it, we’ll be fine.” That’s all the stray emotion she will allow herself… at least right now. Something she’s not allowing: Herself to completely fall apart in front of Cass.

“We don’t have to dwell on it. Thank you for listening, but really, I should be a big girl and figure it out.” She smiles at Cass, breaking the hug by reaching for the maple donut again. Finishing it off because it really was a comfort to her. “It’s good to see you. I did miss you. Like you said, it’s surprisingly easy to stop talking to people. I regret that you fell victim to that, too.”

Cass Hamada

Cass nodded and gave Moon a small squeeze at the words. She hoped it would be okay. She wanted it to be okay. It seemed to her like they both had enough hard things to deal with, and they both deserved something good.

“Nothing says I can’t listen while you’re being a big girl and figuring it out.”

But she takes the signal and shifts so there’s a bit more of a normal space between them on the couch again. She also picks up one of the donuts (because they are some of her favorites and she can use the sugar herself) and takes a large bite.

“It’s okay. We’ll both have to work on that. Next time you stop responding to my text messages, I promise to be much more annoying about banging on your door.”

That was a joke. Mostly. 

[perditus]

Starter for @todrawblood - Roach & Lucanis

Lucanis stares down at the carefully constructed maps, a flicker of purple in his eyes indicating Spite’s interest in their situation as well. Though he doesn’t speak, the assassin can feel how Spite’s consciousness presses against his, invading whatever little space the Crow afforded the demon. In this case it’s the Venatori that have the demon’s attention, their current targets for this smaller contract. 

Teia had contacted him only a few hours prior to request assistance in  tracking down a group of Venatori smuggling goods into the city. He traces a gloved finger down the paths they’d noticed, brows furrowed slightly as he considers. 

“ they’re using the canals but…” his frown deepens considerably, a slight pause before he continues. “ this path isn’t well known. Public access has been blocked off for a few years now…our traitor must have given them access somehow ” 

He leans back from the maps, eyes darting upwards. “ I can lead us through them easily enough. We either need to figure out where they’re taking the goods or where it’s entering. Which do you think? ”