#But that's because I was really sick throwing up

[lemonlover1110]

Girl Dad

Dad Series

Kento Nanami

Warnings: Pure Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Taking care of a baby and a five-year-old isn’t easy, but Kento has it covered. You have a bad cold, the man can’t let you near his daughters. You need to rest and he won’t risk having the girls sick. However, Kento didn’t realize how much of a handful they would be.

Suki herself is enough to fill up Kento’s plate, but having a ten-month-old baby on top of it makes his job even more difficult. Suki loves her little sister, don’t get her wrong, but she will ensure that she’s the favorite daughter even if that includes sabotaging a toddler. Kento knows it, that’s why he keeps his eyes on her.

But Kento can’t keep his eye on Suki at all times, especially when you’re sick. He’s trying to cook a nutritious meal, he can’t hold a baby that loves to touch everything. The easiest solution is to put her in her playpen while he gives Suki something to entertain herself with. It’s usually his phone, giving her a game to play before he begins his other duties.

Sometimes the phone isn’t enough to entertain her. Suki loves to wander around the house, painting on the walls, playing with your decoration, making “potions” with your lotions and perfumes– The list goes on. But sometimes all of that isn’t enough to entertain her.

“Daddy, can I paint your nails?” Suki asks, walking to the kitchen where Kento makes lunch for everyone. Soup for you, something bland for his picky daughters, and then something simple for himself. In other words, his hands are full.

“Later, Suki.” Is all he says, and Suki stomps her little feet, walking back to the living room with her kid nail polish. Her little arms are crossed, and she looks around for something to do, something that will express her anger. She looks down at her nail polish then she hears some cooing from the playpen, and a lightbulb turns on.

Not even five minutes pass, and Kento hears his eldest daughter yelling at the baby. He turns off the stove and walks to the living room to hear Suki yell, “Bad, Chichi! Bad!”

“She’s not a dog, Suki. That’s your baby sister.” Kento corrects her because Suki treats the baby as her dog. Kento walks over to the playpen, where Suki reprimands the baby. Suki’s nail polish is spilled in front of the baby, and before her chubby hands can lay on top of the puddle, Kento picks her up from the playpen. “What happened here?”

“I climbed into the pen to play with her but she grabbed my nail polish and started to throw it around. Like usual.” Suki is a great actress, sticking out her bottom lip and crossing her arms.

“Is that true Chichi?” Kento softens his voice while talking to the clueless, happy baby. She smiles, causing Kento to smile back at her. He kisses her chubby cheek before putting his attention back on Suki. He hates to reprimand her but he can’t let her get away with everything anymore. “I’m not a dumbass, Suki. You can start doing bad things and blame it on her when she’s two or three, right now that won’t work.”

“I’m telling the truth!” She claims, but Kento is hearing none of it. She knows it’s not believable but her daddy usually believes her every word, so she hoped this time around he would believe her again.

“Get out of there, Suki, and stop lying before I put you on timeout again.” Kento can’t believe the words he’s saying. Timeout? Really? He hates it, he’s supposed to support her with everything, not reprimand her.

“Can I go with mommy?”

“She’s sleeping. Now go sit down on the couch and wait for the food.” He’s very serious, she can tell, so she won’t challenge him anymore.

“Can I play with Chichi?” Suki asks as Kento walks back to the kitchen with the baby. He looks at his sweet smiley baby, who reminds him so much of Suki. And to think Suki blames everything on a replica of herself– But he reminds himself that he’s the reason she acts like a little brat.

“Next thing you’ll do is put your mother’s makeup on her, you’ll blame it on the baby and we all get yelled at. I won’t risk it.” He clicks his tongue. 

Kento has to find a way to get Suki to stop blaming everything on the baby, but he has a feeling that’ll take a while.

[prettyboykatsuki]

cw for ; cheating like really bad cheating dskfsk, mind games, bisexual reader (its relevant!!!), emotional sadism, yandere in the most uncomfortable flavor, and sexuality fuckery.

readers gender is intentionally left neutral!!. @p00pdev1l tag for my beloved.

You can feel yourself starting to cry again.

You have a headache. The noise of the izakaya is flooding out into the streets. Even with alcohol and cigarettes and other distractions, you can't help but feel like you're about to throw up. The dry-heave works itself up to your throat, and you smoke a little to shove it back down.

You were careful this time.

When you hear footsteps walk themselves next to you, and see nice black dress shoes from your gaze is downcast - you already know it's Suguru.

You feel yourself getting sick again. Your voice is hoarse, scratchy with pain and tears. You're unimaginably angry at him, and you're sure if you were a little drunker, you'd take your pocket knife to his throat.

But the words don't come. You're so frustrated you just ended up crying again, hiccuping. Something falls onto your shoulders, a jacket that smells like cologne.

That wakes you up, makes you turn your head to one side. Your heartbeat is hard and loud, and your anger is the only thing in your body. Your seething, all hard lines and rage.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He shrugs. "It's cold. You'll get sick."

"Don't act like you give a single fuck about me, you psychopath."

His reaction to that is cold. Makes your blood run cold. "Call me whatever you want but don't say I don't care about you."

"Fuck off, Suguru," The feeling of his name is intimate in the same way knives are. Sharp against the roof of your mouth because of the smooth way the syllables slice. The familiarity of a cut. "Go inside and fuck off. Go be with..." Your words trail off.

"I'd rather be out here," He assures, then shrugs. He joins you in smoking, but you turn your gaze back to the pavement so you don't have to look. "She'll be fine without me."

There's a lot of things you don't understand about him. What you understand least though is this. How long has it gone on? How long did he plan on doing this?

The first time Getou stole the girl you loved from you, you're nearly too heartbroken to stay friends with him. It was your first real crush. A girl in the same year as you. You loved her. She smelled soft like roses and put her head in your lap. You managed to confess to her despite yourself at the end of your second-year.

She was your friend, still - even as she let you down gently. Told you that she had a boyfriend now. He was your friend, actually.

The first time it happened, you thought about cutting your ties with Getou. He didn't pretend to be apologetic to you, said she was cute and he liked her. He didn't say he was sorry.

Instead he said: "You shouldn't be with a girl who could get over you so easily." And leaves it at that.

You almost got physical with him, you remember. Gojo stopped you.

Over the years, the incident becomes pattern enough to recognize. The first is a mistake, the second a frustrating coincidence. The third time it happens you do get into an altercation. Each time Getou confronts you he says the same thing. That if a girl really loved you, she wouldn't been with him so easily. If a girl really loved you, she shouldn't have been so easy for him to persuade.

You think abut killing him. It's so frustrating, so humiliating, so painful it nearly puts you in therapy. The fourth time in happens, you try to cut him off but you can't. Your lives are so tied together you can't avoid seeing him and for whatever reason he can't leave you alone.

When there's no one you're interested in, he's your friend after all. That's the strangest part. The part that makes the least sense, that he acts like your fucking friend when he does that to you but he does it again and again and again. It hurt less when it was just puppy crushes. Eventually you grew numb to it. Gave up on love for a while.

When you meet Mikoto, you don't make the mistake of showing your interest. You especially don't show it around Getou. On the job, a sorcerer from a branch in the Nara prefecture who's recently moved. A nice woman with black hair and soft eyes, you seek her friendship first and don't let yourself indulge in anything more.

You don't dote on her more than friends. You don't show your feelings off. You don't tell anyone, not even Gojo whom you tell everything, or Shoko - who you tell when you don't want Getou finding out. You bury the feeling of love in yourself and hope they die there. You hope she ends up with anyone but you, or you in some miracle.

You fall in love with her because it's who you are. Getou shows up with her at your gathering the minute you begin to accept it.

If he doesn't hate you, it must be something much stronger. Disgust or pure disdain. Something stronger than hate must drive him to do this so perpetually.

It's not even something you can tell anyone. What do you tell girls before you go out with them? What do you say to people when they ask why you and him act so odd?

There's nothing to say. Nothing to explain. It's so fucked up that you wouldn't even know where to begin.

Your voice is trembling as you take another drag of your cigarette. "How did you know?"

He laughs a little. "You make it obvious."

"Why do you keep doing this to me...?" You ask, defeated. Broken, maybe. "....I really loved her."

Getou shrugs again. You can tell even if you don't see it. "She was the same as the rest of them. I'm doing you a favor."

"Do you even like her?"

He takes a drag of his cigarette and looks at you a little longer than you expct. "So-so."

"I hate you," You give up on everything else, letting your cigarette fall to the ground. Your voice is shot. "You're fucking horrible. Just leave me alone. Please, please just leave me alone."

There's a minute of silence there. He stamps his own cigarette out and sighs. "You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

You break down in tears all over again.

When you're in highschool, you date Satoru for a week.

Suguru remembers this. It's one of the only things about his highschool experience that feel standout. A defining moment of his youth, where the two of you try it just because everyone says you should and neither of you really like it. You end up being friends again, laughing it off after it happens.

But he hated it.

There was a pit in his stomach the entire week. Even though you barely dated, and only really held hands as a joke - Suguru hated it. You kissed Satoru too, you confessed. He was a decent kisser, but you didn't feel much.

It was a joke of a relationship. Still.

He remembers too, the first time you had your first real crush. Up until then, you'd really never thought of anyone else. There was no one for Suguru to care about. But he remembers exactly when it happened, and where - how the four of you were slacking off in the storage room, passing around Shoko's cigarette. He remembers the way you got embarrassed telling them about her. How you could barely keep the smile off of your face.

The first time Suguru steals someone from you, it's during highschool. It wasn't because he had really wanted her. He hated her. Hated how she smiled at you and hated how innocently she spoke. But when he stepped closer to her, she blushed.

It was to get her to fall for him. And that wouldn't do, he didn't think. How could you like someone with so little resolve? When she couldn't be even a little loyal to you?

He asked her out on a whim that time. But he saw how angry it made you. How your eyes were wet with tears and how much you hated him in that moment.

How much you thought of him. Have you ever before then? Considered him so much? Suguru didn't think so.

It becomes an obsession, Suguru can admit. It didn't really matter who it was, though it'd been mostly girls. Anyone you showed interest in. Anyone who caught your eye. Suguru got their first and you always, always looked so miserable about it. Like a puppy who can't get on a couch, he thinks.

He prefers when you've already been with them. He prefers knowing that your skin has touched theirs. The parts of you that linger in their life become Suguru's so wholly. When he can smell your scent and taste your cigarette smoke. It'd be better if it was you, but there was something gratifying in this.

In the roundabout ways of finding you. Of seeing pictures of you in their phone, or of tasting you. It's like being with you, even though it's never enough. Always wants to make him break you more.

He likes when they cheat on you with him. He likes when it's just after. They get some cheap thrill out of it. Suguru can entertain it even if it disgusts him.

It's the only way your shirts end up in his closet. The only way he can smell your new shampoo so deeply because you share it. They think that he must hate you. He's sure you think that too.

But that's not it. He couldn't hate you. All the people he's ever fucked, he's tried to find evidence of your intimacy with them. Kiss marks he didn't leave on their skin, clothes they don't own, music they wouldn't normally listen to. You would. They're all yours.

He'd ask about you to them. Often. Listen to the parts of yourself that you'd been trying to keep secret from him.

He'd take it all by force and discard them all afterwards. That was all he wanted. You were all he wanted.

He liked seeing you angry with him. Liked seeing you cry and weep. Liked that you couldn't go anywhere or love anyone without thoughts of him following you and haunting you.

Satoru thinks he should just ask you out already. Suguru doesn't think he's broken you down enough. You need it to hurt a little more. You need to think of him a little more until you can't love anyone else.

Suguru wants to see you hurt a little more. Until you're so broken you're really begging. When he brings her with him today, you react even worse than he could have hoped for it. He shivers a little thinking about it.

He's getting closer to really breaking you, he thinks.

He looks at you now as he puts out his cigarette, broken from his thoughts.

"You should come in. You'll catch a cold." You don't reply. He sighs again. "I'll buy you a drink."

Suguru turns around to leave after he says it. Goes back inside. Before the door of the izakaya closes again, he can hear the way you sob so desperately.

He smiles at that. Just a little.

[educatedsimps]

— married atsumu headcanons

≪ back to fics masterlist

↳ timeskip!atsumu x gn!reader ↳ a/n: this man has me in a chokehold no explanation needed anyway enjoy this pure atsumu brainrot

since atsumu wouldn’t be allowed to wear his wedding ring during games he’d wear it on a thin metal chain around his neck

either a silver or gold chain depending on what ring he has

he’d probably keep it under the collar of his jersey tho ‘cause he wouldn’t want it bouncing around everywhere while he plays, or hitting his face when he jumps and runs around

so every time he wins a game, a really difficult point, or a service ace, he’d take it out and place a quick kiss on the ring

he probably also has your initials carved on it

to him, you’re the only lucky charm he needs, but since you can’t be on the court with him every time, his wedding ring will have to do

if you’re in the stands, he’d look over at you while he holds onto his necklace, shooting you that award winning smile of his

sometimes he throws in a wink for good measure

if you’re not physically there watching him, he’ll point to a camera and hold up his ring

sometimes he gets carried away after an exciting point or serve and meian has to tell him to chill and get his head back in the game

but it's really not his fault he's so in love with you

after the game he’ll take his chain and ring out from under his shirt so it can be seen while he takes pictures with his team or when he does post-game interviews

it became a habit soon enough

he also brings you up every. single. chance. he. gets.

with his teammates and in interviews and on his social media he's always like "yeah hard work is one thing but i wouldn't be where i am today without my s/o"

sakusa is probably sick of listening to atsumu ramble on and on about you before during and after practices

you often get texts from kiyoomi saying "y/n come get your man"

anyway, once he’s home, he’ll clean the chain and ring ‘cause “it’s got all ma nasty sweat on it, don't want ma lucky charm to wear out” (idk if that’s how sweat and metal work but wtv)

he also tells you that as important as your wedding rings are to him, nothing will ever replace you as his good luck charm

omg he just loves you so damn much

i feel like at some point he'd probably just get a tattoo of your name on his ring finger especially if there are games / organisers that don't let him wear any jewellery or accessories

and yes he gets pissed if they don't tell him beforehand, and he spends the whole game salty and pokes jabs at the organisers under his breath

his teammates usually take the brunt of his complaints (sorry jackals)

he'll still wear the ring necklace if he's allowed to tho it's like his favourite accessory

anyway he loves you so much and he never stops thinking of you ‘cause he’s just a huge simp

edits:

i think one reason his ring is so special to him (other than the fact that it's his wedding ring) is also because you proposed to him first

but i mean if you didn't, the ring is still really special to him

and even though he's a pro athlete, he still gets nervous from time to time and knowing that a little bit of you is there with him, physically or not, helps calm him down

like he rubs it a little out of nervousness every once in a while

© educatedsimps 2024. do not repost, copy, translate or plagiarize any work from this blog on tumblr or any other platforms. if you do, the simps will hunt you down. likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[weeping-for-a-ship-isnt-enough]

Sick Days In (Mr. Puzzles/Reader)

───── ⋆ ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ ⋆ ─────

When the Reader gets sick and bedridden, Mr. Puzzles takes it upon himself to help cheer them up (with questionable suggestions).

Header by: @crypticscarecrow <3

Of course— of course! Today just had to be the day, didn't it? Of course your body decided that today, out of the other 365 days in the year, this day, had to be the day you had to be bedridden with a stuffy nose, raspy throat, itchy eyes, and pounding headache.

Never mind the plans you had for today, no! Forget everything you thought you were going to do today, because today, you were going to be in bed suffering with the thought of doing much more productive things than this right now.

Amazing! Awesome! POGGERS! FANTASTIC!

Ugh.

With yet another sniffle, you roll over in your messy bed and stare up at the ceiling, thinking of game plans to catch up with things for tomorrow. You know the gang is patient enough to not berate you in your state, some of them even checked up on you and brought you helpful things; but even then you feel awful for not being productive at all. Even if it wasn't your fault, the guilt overrides the feeling of reassurance from your friends.

On top of that, the fear of missing out is making your situation even worse. You promised you'd help SMG4 with a new video (3 is probably already helping in your absence), go out training with Meggy and Tari (they're probably already having a blast in the training grounds), and (oh god) help Mr. Puzzles with a new script.

Actually, you cannot see him making a script without you, ever since his rehabilitation and integration to the group, he hasn't spent a moment without you. You were his co-writer, his co-host, his co-director, you were all of his co-s! He refuses to not let you have a role in what he makes now. It's rather endearing...

You throw an arm over your eyes, shielding them from the bright light coming through your window.

Honestly, you're surprised he hasn't even texted you yet, yelling where you were and being as dramatic as possible about your disappearance. Knowing him, he's probably terrorizing the group to answer him about your whereabouts, instead of— y'know, checking in your room? He gets so dramatic that he can't even think of the obvious sometimes. But really, it's just charming to you, you laugh whenever it happens. The thought brings a smile to your face, feeling a tiny shine of happiness in your foul and frustrating mood. Funny how it happens, he's not even here and he still brings a smile to your face.

You sniffle again, feeling the gross sensation of your stuffy nose running down before instantly sitting up and getting another tissue for yourself. As you blow into it, a sudden brute force quite literally breaks down your bedroom door with a loud SLAM and CRASH. The sudden noise gives your head a pound of pain, making you flinch and groan loudly as you try to rub the feeling away. When you look up at the remains of your door, you spot none other than Mr. Drama Queen himself, with that crazy realistic look in his screen.

"Fuck! Puzzles!" You curse with a deep frown.

The TV man practically lunges himself to your bed, grabbing you by the shoulders and gripping them as hard as possible (not enough to cause you pain, though). Ignoring the tired and pissed off expression you wear, he leans in dangerously close to you and begins to scream in your face.

"WHO DID THIS TO YOU!? I SWEAR I WILL FIND WHOEVER DID THIS TO MY NUMBER ONE STAR AND KILL THEM—"

"Puzzles, I'm fine— Fuck's sake, stop being so loud, please," you whine at the man, letting yourself be limp to fall back on your pillow. Your attempts are futile, however, because of somebody's hands holding you in place. His screen changes to his crazed-off look, the one that isn't realistically made with eyes and lips but a wide colorful smile and deep shadows above his eyes.

"Well, you don't look fine! You've been in your room all day! You had poor little ol' me worried!"

"Ugh— I don't feel fine, but I am fine. Just a sick day, dude."

"That's why I must find whoever it is that made you contract this awful virus. Nobody gets to make my star actor feel awful and get away with it!" He hisses, slightly shaking you front and back.

This man.

You roll your eyes with an amused smile on your face, you bring your hand to his arm, quietly asking him to stop shaking you. Thankfully, he gets the message.

"Nobody purposefully gave me anything, Puzzles."

"That's what they want you to think." He says with a disdained look. He finally let's go of your shoulders after sitting you up more straight, not even letting you fall back on your bed. Instead, he sits besides you at the edge of your bed, his body and screen facing you directly.

"But— mystery solving aside, how are you feeling?" Mr. Puzzles smiles normally at you, as if just moments ago he didn't go psycho-crazy about killing whatever imaginary person made you sick.

"Like shit," you huff as you fall backwards, leaning against the pillows and the cold wall. A helpful chill to combat that fever (but probably not productive). "I've taken everything for it but it won't take effect until a few more hours."

"Yes, a rather lousy state to be in... That just means I can keep you company until you feel better!" He says in a very chirpy tone, crossing his legs and gently folding his hands together on his knees.

You scoff a smile. "Thanks, but— shouldn't you be working on that script? I don't think you'd like to see me sniffling and— blowing my nose all day."

"Nonsense! I insist. There's nothing I would love more than to bring your spirits up! Even if just a little bit. We can work on that script later when you feel in a better mood."

Your smile only widens, making the corner of your eyes lift and your eyebrows furrow into a softer, appreciative look.

"See! It's already working." The TV gestures at you, obviously proud of the fact he can make you smile.

You hum in agreement, sniffling right after. "Yeah... Thank you."

"Would you like to watch anything in particular?" He offers with a tilt of his head.

"Mm... The Book of Life?"

"Done!" He brings a hand up to his dials and turns one to his left, switching the channel to the movie requested by his favorite star.

As the beginning logos appear, you hum in thought; glancing down at his gloved hands, then back at him, you smile and tilt your head. "Do you want to know why I'm sick today?"

The movie in his face screen pauses, with the symbol on the top right and static lines glitching the image, but he doesn't turn it back to his face. "Very much so."

"Cats." You say with an amused smirk.

"... Cats?"

"I'm allergic to them. I pet one last night and I guess I didn't wash my hands well enough." You nonchalantly shrug.

After a second of silence, Mr. Puzzles' shoulders rise as if he's taking a deep breath and clasps his hands together, pointing his fingers right at you. "... What did the cat look like?"

"Turn the movie back on, I'm not telling you." You huff and scoot a little more to the left, leaving room for Mr. Puzzles to sit on the bed with criss-crossed legs.

"Fine." He reluctantly complies, but deep down you know he never minds playing movies for you. Not you. Never you.

[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. 

[stilljuststardust]

Stop over dramatizing shifting

I understand why we frame shifting for the first time as a big event. It's exciting and we want to celebrate something memorable, however I think this is what leads so many shifters to put too much pressure on themselves.

Your first shift doesn't have to be difficult, or emotional, and nothing important has to happen.

It doesn't have to be a big cinematic moment where everything finally clicks.

Stop thinking you have to force yourself. Have you ever even considered that maybe your first shift is going to be easy?

Have you ever even considered that maybe it will come naturally to you when you let it? Stop envisioning it as this super climatic moment, maybe when it happens you'll really just feel like it was surprisingly natural.

It doesn't have to feel like your body was infected with rainbows and you backflipped all the way to your DR, because more often than not, shifting feels like nothing.

It could happen tomorrow. You could fall asleep and do it on accident.

Shifting isn't some final boss you have to prepare for, it's something you do all the time without even noticing.

"the final push" isn't real. You don't need anything to push you into your DR. I'm sick of people framing shifting as some kind of Herculean task or heros journey. Do you know how many people shift on accident? Do you know how many people did nothing but take a nap when they shifted the first time?? There is no final push. You're not missing some kind of secret information.

Stop making up side quests like a madman chasing after a magical solution that doesn't exist. Maybe the real final push was the friends you made along the way.

YOU are what makes you shift. Stop waiting for a hand to come out of the sky and throw you into your DR. It's up to you whether or not you shift, not the universe, not whether or not that dog stops barking, you.

[siredtosturniolos]

lovers

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Reader

Part 1: enemies

Part 2: forbidden

Summary: You and Chris had lowkey been caught at the party by Matt, but he waited till everyone was gone to confront you two.

Warnings: Cussing, mentions of sex. I think that's it!

Authors note: I had so much fun writing all three parts! Send in any requests you may have and I'll write them :)

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

I side eye Matt from across the room, who was currently staring down his brother as he said by to Colby. It was almost 2 in the morning and everyone was finally gone. Once the door shut behind Colby the room was left in an awkward silence.

I almost found the courage to leave but I was really thrown off when Nick walked me to the couch. The way him and Matt were looking at me made it feel like we were about to have a fucking intervention.

“You two really have nothing to say?” Matt asks, looking back and forth between Chris and I.

I stay silent, “There’s nothing to say Matt.” Chris sighs, coming to sit next to me leaving a decent amount of space. He thinks we can get out of this somehow, but I’m sick of the hiding and sneaking around.

“Whatever. We know you guys are fucking which to me is weird but don’t do it when we have people over.” Nick speaks from the other side of me, “Matt sit down! You look like a weirdo just standing there.”

Matt lets out a huff as he walks around the coffee table and sits next to Chris, “I’m not the weirdo, Chris is.”

“Okay!” Chris shouts, throwing his hands up, “Y/N is 18, a complete legal adult! Stop making me out to be something I’m not.” He spits out, glaring at his brother. "What we do behind closed doors shouldn't mean a thing to you guys."

I nod, “Our age gap is only 5 years, that isn’t bad. It’s not like he met me when I was 17 or something.” I comment, making Matt turn to look at me.

He shakes his head, “It’s still not a good look and not something we should promote to our fans. 5 years is kind of a lot.” Matt replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Let it go Matt there’s nothing we can do or say to stop them.” Nick comments, making me face him just in time to see him roll his eyes.

I frown, “Do you guys not like me or something?” I ask them, looking between them to see confused expressions on their faces.

“What?”

“Of course we like you what do you mean?”

My throat begins to burn and my eyes water, “Well, you two seem to think it’s the end of the world if Chris and I are together so how else am I supposed to feel?” I ask incredulously, standing up to leave.

“No!” Chris pleads, quickly grabbing my wrist to stop me from leaving, “They don’t get to scare you off.” My heart breaks the tiniest bit at how scared Chris sounded.

I shake his grip from my arm, “I’ll be right back.” I mutter, walking away from the couch and heading towards the door. "Just need some space for a second." I look over my shoulder as I speak, looking at Chris. I didn't want him to think I was giving up on him, because I wasn't.

I walk down the steps and take a seat at the bench they have by the front door. I stare at my shoes trying to think of why Nick and Matt are so against this.

5 years isn’t that big, right? Chris and I had the same childhood, went through similar school experiences, hell half of the time I don’t even realize he’s not my age. He acts way younger than he is only because he's afraid of fully growing up.

We all are.

“Thanks a fucking lot guys.” Chris scoffs, there’s some shuffling and I can only assume he’s getting up to come after me.

“I don’t understand what’s the big deal here?” Nick shouts at Chris, who’s now standing at the top of the stairs.

“The big deal is you don’t support or accept the first woman I’ve ever fucking loved!” Chris yells back, before he turns to come down the stairs he sees me and freezes.

“You love her?!”

“You love me?” I ask quietly, the tears finally falling. Chris frowns as he quickly makes his way down to me, grabbing my face and wiping my tears.

We hadn't said those words to each other yet so hearing Chris confess it in the middle of an argument had me so emotional. He felt so strongly about me he told his brothers first, and I can't even be mad at that.

Chris isn't the type to put his love into words, more so willing to show it in the way he treats you.

“I’m sorry baby, I wanted that moment to be more special than that.” He sighs, helping me stand. Once I’m on my feet I tug him into a bone crushing hug.

“I love you.” I reply, pressing kisses to his neck. Chris lets out a chuckle before he pulls back slightly, just enough to kiss me deeply.

“Okay that was kinda cute.” Chris and I pull away from each other to see Matt and Nick standing at the top of the stairs, “Don’t look at me like that! You guys got quiet and I got curious.” Nick shrugs, a small smile on his lips.

Chris shakes his head before he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs.

“I’m sorry for how we’ve been. We thought there wasn’t any feelings involved and didn’t want to lose you as a friend.” Matt softly speaks, opening his arm for a hug. I walk into his embrace, “Now I just gotta make sure Chris doesn’t fuck this up.” He whispers to me, making me laugh.

Nick slings an arm around my shoulder and guides me back to the couch, “Whatever Matt said, I agree.”

We all sit back down and I can’t help but feel jittery when Chris scoots me over and tugs me into his side. I look up at him to see him already smiling down at me, and I lean upwards to give him a short and sweet kiss.

“Can’t you guys pretend we don’t know again and not do that around us?”

[mj-iza-writer]

Warning: Forced self cannibalism and cannibalism. Wing mutilation and amputation.

Fresh blood trickled down Whumpee's back as they leaned weakly against a wall.

Moving hurt too much, even breathing felt like they were tearing their back apart more.

Their wings were the only thing Whumpee could think about.

The muscles that worked the wings sent shock waves of pain through Whumpee's back.

"It's like they're crying. They feel empty", Whumpee's breath hitched.

Their feathers scattered the floor around them. They had lost quite a few because of stress.... and nervous preening.

They shook as they reached for one of the feathers. Tears flooded their eyes as they cuddled it close.

Whumper carried a plate in and set it down by Whumpee.

"I thought you'd be hungry after losing that much blood", Whumper smirked, "just some leftovers from my dinner."

Whumpee side glanced the plate, "I'm not interested."

"Oh, come on, they taste really good", Whumper chuckled, "I didn't do anything to them. Those are from my plate. They're fresh to. You need something to eat to regain your strength."

Whumpee cautiously reached for the plate and grabbed a small piece of meat.

"Is this chicken?", Whumpee smelt it before taking a bite.

"Well, kind of", Whumper smirked, "it is wings from a bird like creature."

Whumpee stopped mid chew, "what?", they squealed.

"Your wings are delicious, aren't they?", Whumper laughed.

"I'm going to throw up", Whumpee threw the food away from them and leaned forward to puke.

The movements caused their back to tear open the scab that formed on their back. More blood oozed down.

"Why? Why did you cut them off?", Whumpee yelled.

"I was tired of trimming your feathers, and you fighting me. Plus I was hungry", Whumper picked up the plate, "you eat these or I force feed you. Your choice, my hard work making these won't go to waste."

Whumpee looked at the plate, "I can't eat my own wings. Please, don't make me."

"You didn't even take care of them. Look at all the feathers everywhere. You pulled them off yourself", Whumper yelled, "eat."

"You did this. You did all of this", Whumpee yelled back.

Whumper slapped Whumpee before picking up another piece of the meat and forcing Whumpee's mouth open.

Whumpee sobbed as they were forced to eat their own body.

Blood loss was getting to Whumpee. They thought they saw Caretaker opening the door and running to them.

Everything was blurry.

What was being said? Everything sounded like echoes.

"Who's there?", Whumpee jumped suddenly, "please no more, I'll be good. Don't touch me."

"It's Caretaker. Shh, it's Caretaker", someone held down Whumpee's hands, "don't fight. We are here to save you."

"Car-Caretaker?", Whumpee whispered, "Caretaker... you're here for me?"

"Yes, you are safe now", Caretaker stopped and rubbed Whumpee's head to comfort them.

"M-my wings, they cut off my wings", Whumpee cried and tried to bury their head in Caretaker's body, "they cut them and ate them. They forced me to eat them."

Caretaker sat on the ground to comfort Whumpee. They saw some pieces of bone that had been tossed away. Feathers were everywhere... Whumpee's feathers.

"I'm sorry Whumpee. I am truly sorry", Caretaker frowned as their friend shook, "I wish I could have found you sooner."

Emergency responders worked around them.

"Where is Whumper?", Whumpee looked up fearfully.

"They are being arrested", Caretaker soothed, "you are safe now. I finally found you."

"Could you grab some of my feathers so I can keep them", Whumpee asked as they were loaded onto a gurney.

"Of course I can do that", Caretaker comforted, "these nice people are taking you to the hospital. I will be there soon to help you okay."

"Okay", Whumpee nodded, "please don't forget me."

"I won't Whumpee. I promise."

Caretaker gathered several feathers of different sizes and color patterns.

They were shown the leftovers of Whumpee's wings.

"This is a nightmare", Caretaker sighed as they patted the wings gently, "this person is sick minded. They will pay for this."

Caretaker quietly watched Whumpee sleep.

They had had a busy few hours as the doctors had to carefully take care of Whumpee. Anything done wrong to the avian's back could be disastrous, especially if the wings were able to grow back.

Whumpee winced as their eyes opened.

Their eyes darted around the room. Their field of view was limited due to not wanting to move.

"Caretaker?", Whumpee whispered.

"I'm right here", Caretaker quickly knelt beside them, "right here."

"What's going on?", Whumpee frowned.

"You just got out of surgery, you were under for a few hours. You are resting now", Caretaker knelt beside them, "do you have any pain?"

"Not right now", Whumpee frowned, "is it bad?"

"It's not great", Caretaker sighed, "but the doctor believes if your wings do grow back, you shouldn't have any problems."

"Even if they grow back, it will be years before I have them the way they were", Whumpee felt a tear form in their eye, "do you think they'll grow back?", Whumpee whispered.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. An avian having their wings cut at the base doesn't normally happen", Caretaker sighed, "whatever happens I will help you get through or try my best to help."

Caretaker looked down, "I am so sorry I didn't get to you sooner. You were so hard to find and I know that isn't a good excuse. I'm sorry."

Whumpee weakly held out their hand to Caretaker.

Caretaker gently held it.

"You tried your hardest. I appreciate you saving me", Whumpee smiled weakly.

"Here is, uh", Caretaker quickly wiped a tear away, "your feathers you requested, I hope the ones I grabbed are okay."

"Thankyou", Whumpee reached for a feather.

"The leftover parts of your wings and the rest of your feathers are being taken care of by the Avian Society. I didn't know what was best for your wings and feathers, I hope it's okay I trusted them to the leaders", Caretaker sighed.

"That's okay, they will probably destroy them", Whumpee frowned, "I'll receive the cremated remains."

"Are you okay with that?", Caretaker made a concerned look.

"That's normal, because of what we are, most of our bodies are cremated.... unless it's an honored person. Some avians believe those people are gods and follow them", Whumpee sadly rubbed their feather across their face, "we don't want the bodies of our people to be dug up and studied in years to come."

Caretaker nodded, "I guess that makes sense", Caretaker glanced at Whumpee's back, "you should get some more rest."

"I feel like I've been hit by a bus... do you think I can eat yet? My last meal was my wings, and I don't want that to be the only thing in my stomach."

"Let me ask your nurse, and I'll go get you something if they allow it", Caretaker stood.

Caretaker came back into Whumpee's room, but was startled to see a few winged people in Whumpee's room. They figured it was part of the Avain Council.

They all glanced at Caretaker.

"Sorry, I'll come back when you are...", Caretaker knew they weren't exactly welcomed, they put up with Caretaker because of Whumpee.

"Wait, you are Caretaker right. You saved Whumpee?", someone stepped closer.

"Y-yes sir, I was able to find them. I wish I could have found them sooner though", Caretaker frowned as they looked at Whumpee.

"Please come in, you're a hero for saving them. Please eat", another invited.

"Oh this is for Whumpee, they were hungry", Caretaker started to walk to the bed.

"Ah yes, thankyou for feeding them", they stepped back to allow room for Caretaker.

Caretaker knelt beside the bed, after a second of Whumpee struggling Caretaker started to help them eat.

"Thankyou", Whumpee smiled after swallowing a mouthful.

"You're welcome Whumpee. I'd do anything for you", Caretaker smiled.

"The council will leave now and allow you to eat and rest. Please let us know if you need anything. We will happily provide you with anything you need", they started to leave, "we will also return the remains of your wings to you when you return to your home."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou for visiting me."

Caretaker sighed as they got up and sat down.

"I hope that was okay. I wasn't exactly sure what to say to them", Caretaker frowned, "I get nervous around them."

"You did good, I think they will be showing you a lot more respect after this", Whumpee smiled weakly, "I wish I had my wings to cover me up, I'm a little chilly."

"Though your wings are softer, I hope this will suffice", Caretaker pulled up a blanket and covered Whumpee.

"Yes thankyou, and thank...you", Whumpee yawned, "for the food."

"Your welcome Whumpee, get some rest. I won't leave you", Caretaker smiled as Whumpee's eyes slowly closed, "I promise."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots @whumpbump @everythingsscary @skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr @theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee @candleshopmenace @whumpanthems @lavndvrr @ivymyers @starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

[blorbologist]

“I know you” with Vex and Scanlan?

[Getting to these late oop, busy last couple of days; Send me three words + a pairing/character and I'll write up a scene! Not Perc'ahlia please <3 ]

--

Their usual table looks a lot bigger with only a handful of Vox Machina present. Actually, it looks positively huge thanks to Scanlan being here, which… Scanlan, yeah.

Someone - Percival, probably, given how neatly even each glass is lined up - got them too many drinks before most of the party left. Vex’ahlia works on the last one now. It might be Direheart, though she can’t quite identify all of Whitestone’s liquors yet. Not for lack of trying, especially with how today is going. 

The Meat Man, who is Scanlan, who looks about as un-Scanlan-ish as Scanlan could probably tolerate for this long, is rubbing his sternum. Like he’s having chest pains - which means Scanlan is rubbing his forehead through the illusion? 

Yeah, she’s nursing quite the headache herself. Thank you very much.

“So - tell me,” he’s saying, and he sounds nothing like Scanlan. Except for the moments where he almost does in the same way Kaylie sometimes resembles him. “How could you see it was me?”

Scanlan taps a little rhythm into his glass with a nail. Scanlan, but taking up too much space and yet just as much as he should. Tap-taptap-tap. 

A few more tap-taptap-taps as Vex thinks. Or doesn’t - her mind feels willfully blank, an empty shot glass. Everything meaningful in her gut where it churns, happy and sick at once.

He elaborates: “I mean - this thing has held up to a lot of scrutiny! Including from mages, because they really like their antiques apparently. And I had an audience with J’mon and they didn’t say anything either, and they’re a dragon!” (tap-taptap-tap) “Is the hair not realistic enough? Or the clothes? I really practiced. If there are any weak points to my disguise, you really should let me know.”

The pace of his fingers finally falters. Tap. Tap. Almost like he’s worried. “How could you tell?”

There were so many little tells, which is part of what is making this post-reunion drink so unsettling. How he talked about himself, and the fake-grandiose talk, just all the talking. The gait of a gnome in legs far too long for him. That big grin made just Scanlan’s size that fit this face just right, but not right enough. 

She does not say any of that. Maybe because, who fucking knows, he might do this again. And she might need to use these tricks again.

“Well, darling.” Vex’ahlia drowns her drink (her own nails go tink) and throws it back with deliberate nonchalance. Scanlan surely sees through it just as she saw through him. “I know you. So.”

“We all do,” Vax’ildan interjects at her shoulder. 

Fuck! When did he vanish? How long has he been back? She realizes she’s decently tipsy when she actually gives him the satisfaction of jumping. 

“You fuck!”

Vax grins, clapping her on the shoulder. “Barkeep gave me a bottle so we’d leave and stop freaking out her waitstaff with all the day drinking.” His eyes flit towards Scanlan, who was regarding them warmly. Like he missed this. The gnome-but-not deflates as Vax says, “Oy, Scanlan. Mind if Stubby and I just have a drink, us two?”

“Of course not. The hugging was getting a bit much.” Like he could make them stay, in her city.

Which reminds her -

“I’m glad he’s back,” Vax says quietly as the door swings shut behind them. “So glad. But - gods, what’s with all the fucking lies?”

Vex’ahlia smiles weakly. “I know, right?”

Tap-taptap-tap go her nails on her finger, where a ring would rest.

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

From the prompts list, I'd like to request either "by your side" or "bed bargain" for either Elijah or Greyson as the sick one. Bit of a non-traditional request since if I recall they both live alone? But maybe that's why I think those would be cute for them!

If the idea doesn't work for you, no worries ☺️

Oh, it works for me haha.

Thank you for the prompt!! 600 words of an Elijah who should be in bed below the cut :)

CW: Flu, coughing, fever

Bed

“I can’t think of a single good reason why you’re here, to be honest.”

Elijah looked up blearily from his computer and blinked hard at his counterpart. “I’mb fairly sure I still work here… I still work here, right?” he asked, a desperate attempt at a joke. Greyson deadpanned his friend, unamused.

“Hilarious, Lij. Glad to see your incredible sense of humor hasn’t been drowned in phlegm yet. You need to go home. Now.”

The GM rolled his eyes, which turned into an immediate grimace, which launched him into a fit of rattling coughs directed into his cardigan. Greyson sighed, loud enough for Elijah to hear over his own coughing. Finally, Elijah pulled it together and sat up as straight as he could.

“I’mb okay for service,” he croaked, swallowing painfully. “It’ll be slow.”

“Which is why there is no reason for you to be here,” Greyson half-shouted, throwing his arms in the air in frustration. “Is your house roach-infested or something? I can’t think of another reason why you wouldn’t want to just sleep this off. You need to be in bed, Elijah, you have the flu.”

This dressing-down didn’t seem to phase Elijah; he just shrugged and turned back to his computer. “It’s ndot that ba-ahh! ATSZZHH-ue! HuhhhETSCHH-ue!” Elijah collapsed to the side, miserably, and peeked over his glasses in search of tissues. Nothing.

Greyson, taking pity on his boss, opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh box of tissues. “Take them home with you,” he said, pointedly. Elijah snatched the box away to clean himself up.

“Why do you wandt mbe to go hombe so badly?” Elijah croaked, tossing a handful of tissues into the trash. “Planning on throwing a rager the mboment I leave?”

It was meant to be said playfully, though Elijah knew playful was hard to pull off with a voice that was barely a croak. Greyson sighed, defeated, and sat down next to his boss.

“Lij,” he said, firm, “I want you to go home because you’re the most contagious-looking person I’ve ever seen. I want you to go home because if you were in your right mind, you’d hate yourself for infecting the staff by being here. I want you to go home,” Greyson placed a hand on hiss boss’s forehead then, and raised his eyebrows at what he felt, “because you have a raging fever.”

Elijah shook Greyson’s hand off as best he could and attempted to swallow a cough. “Fuck off,” he muttered, pathetically. Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat.

“Elijah,” he said, managing to keep his cool. “What’s really going on, dude? I mean, you’re a stubborn ass on your best day, but even you know you shouldn’t be here.”

Silence filled the office; yes, Elijah knew he should be in bed. He should be sleeping this shit off. He just -

“I don’t wandt to be alone,” he muttered, the words escaping his mouth without his permission. Elijah bit his cheek, an attempt to stop himself from talking that did not work. “I’mb just… I didn’t want to be by mbyself. And this is all that I have, Grey.”

Greyson blinked, stunned. Elijah knew he shouldn’t have said it; he was embarrassed at how raw the admission felt, and immediately wished he could take it back. He tried to say something else, something to lessen the blow that was the truth, but all that came out was – “HUHETSHHH-uhh! HRRRSHH-ue!”

This seemed, at least, to break some of the tension. “Bless you,” Greyson said after a beat. Elijah nodded, grabbed a handful of tissues, and pressed them against his face. Greyson sighed, a heavy sound.

“Grab your bag,” he said, standing. “I’m taking you home. I’ll stay. We don’t have to talk about it any more than that. Okay?”

Of course, there were semantics that Greyson wasn’t thinking of; the restaurant would be left without an upper manager. The floor plan hadn’t been made up. A tenderloin was sitting on Greyson’s prep station, half-portioned. But his fever-addled brain didn’t allow Elijah to let those things get in the way; just let someone help you, a tiny voice in his head begged. Just let someone else figure it out.

So instead of arguing, Elijah nodded. “Yeah,” he said, standing shakily. “Okay.”

[starfxkr]

Omg maybe trailer park!reader is washing jj’s truck and it’s reallyyy hot outside, to the point where she has heat exhaustion or a little bit of heat stroke. She’s complaining to jj but he just thinks it’s her being her over dramatic self and just rolls his eyes, not realizing she’s actually feeling dizzy and nauseous and has a headache that just keeps getting worse. It’s not until they’re back inside when he sees how sick she looks and he feels so bad. Got this idea bc I rode my bike the other day and literally think I got a little bit of heat exhaustion and I ended throwing up like an hour later. Love your writing!!! It’s getting me through exam week 💖💖💖

omg ty im currently using this blog to avoid writing a paper lolllll

oof he would beat himself up about it so bad because how didn't he notice how lethargic you were getting??? everytime you squatted down to catch your breath he snapped at you to get up and he thought you were getting weepy because you were just getting dramatic.

but you get back inside and collapse on the ground because the hardwood floor is much cooler and you feel so sick all you can do is close your eyes and he realizes he really fucked up. like immediately he runs to get some gatorade, puts you in a lukewarm shower and spends the whole night worried about you until you start to move around and he apologizes soooo much.

[lilhealthybean]

Lovers rock!

Synopsis: AU! Where Toji and you have been neighbors since you recall, until last year, when his family decided to move out. However, today is your birthday and, of course, he would never miss it.

Note: I tried to do a story based on that song because I'm really obsessed. Hope you enjoy it and I apologize for my grammar errors, it's already late and I am tired.

"Sure he said he was going to come?"

It was already midnight and there was no proof of Toji attending your birthday party, which had already ended. You already knew he wouldn't assist even before you invited him to it, he always thought birthday parties were boring. However, deep inside you were dying for him to get through that door at any moment.

"Hey don't pout! Come on, it is your 20th birthday" exclaimed Gojo approaching you to hug you, before he left your house. Geto was holding his arm, trying to carry him so he wouldn't fall.

"You coming with us Utahime?" Geto asked the girl, raising one eyebrow at her while he was trying to find his key car

Utahime stared at you one last time. You shrugged your shoulders as a sign that you would be okay alone, there was no need for her to be longer at your house. It was even better for her to go with them, since Geto would drive her to her house and she wouldn't walk ten minutes in the dark streets alone.

"Call me if you need something, okay?" said the girl to hug you

You nodded and the three of them left. Those were the last guests you had, leaving you by yourself in your house which still had cups of plastic all over the floor and with the music filling the living room.

Since your tiredness didn't appear, you started to clean up the mess still vibing to the songs. The sound of the door entrance opening and then closing didn't surprise you, probably it was Gojo who always forgot something important, such as his key's house or wallet.

"Satoru, maybe you forgot it in the toilet when you were throwing up for the third time" you said without looking up

"Shall I be jealous of that Satoru, darling?" asked a deep voice which you recognized and made your heart skip a beat.

You stared at the entrance to meet your gaze with Toji's. He was leaning his body on the frame of your entrance door.

"Toji, you are late by 2 hours... The party already ended" It was kind of hard to be mad at him when he was staring at you with his green mischievous eyes and a smirk on his face

"Relax darling, I was trying to get your birthday present" he showed the bag he was holding which contained alcohol bottles. You stared at him with no expression, trying to discover if he was joking or actually that was your gift.

Before you could even answer, Toji approached to you and started to help you clean up that mess. You guess that was his way of apologizing for being late.

After thirty minutes, the house was decently cleaned and both of you were lying on the couch in a comfortable silence. He was already drinking his second beer and you were just looking askance at him.

"Are you sick of me already darling?" asked Toji trying to sound unconcerned.

"Would you like me to be?" he remained silent to your question, absorbed in his thoughts.

"It would be easier for me if you were" admitted the man, leaving the empty can on the table to just stare at you. You did the same, being happy to admire his breathtaking features. Toji caressed your hair softly and offered you a little smile "I am really going to miss you darling"

You felt that knot in your stomach, that knot that had not let you alone since he left the neighborhood and told you the most devastating news.

"Tell me something I don't know, you've been telling me that for months" you replied to get closer to him, you could even smell his awful cologne. Toji just chuckled, got up off the sofa and did some stretching. He knew if he kept being that close to you physically, he wouldn't be able to leave you.

"I should already go home, tomorrow is my big day, I guess" Toji commented while yawning to stumble slightly when he tried to take a step.

With the courage you had, you grabbed his wrist softly. He remained in his position looking at the floor, trying to avoid your gaze. The music was still sounding in the background, although none of them were really paying attention to it.

"Toji... you are too drunk to drive... If you want, you can stay just for tonight" you whispered, feeling your cheeks burning. Toji just nodded, still avoiding your eyes

Meanwhile, you couldn't avoid joy invading you. With your help, Toji could go to your bedroom and fall into one side of the bed. You lay on the other side, facing him.

"Stop staring at me like that darling, you are really making me impossible to let you go" murmured, approaching more to you and surrounding your waist with his hands. Then he just buried his face on your neck to sigh deeply. "It kind of remembers me the way you looked at me those nights when I climbed through your window to hear music while we kissed", admitted Toji with a sad tone

"I am not the one getting married tomorrow" you said while your fingers passed through his hair. He hugged you closer to snort.

"As if I was the one who wanted it. It's just my stupid family. And as if you aren't going to live in the United Kingdom..." he whispered to kiss you softly on the neck

You felt that knot again, but now it was stronger. You were just able to gulp and try to keep the tears from not falling through your cheeks. Life was acting really bitchy with you.

"Well... Satoru said that love is the worst cursed you could ever had. I guess he is somewhat right" you murmured with a thin voice

Toji left you another kiss but this time on the shoulder.

"Well Gojo isn't the only one who can say poetic things... love can burn like a cigarette and leave you alone" he added, kind of jealous of that boy you had mentioned twice that evening. He then hid again, his face on your neck and closed his eyes.

"And that's how I want it to be Toji..." you said firmly "Tomorrow, when I wake up, I want to wake up alone. It would be better for us" You felt the tears threatening to get out of your eyes, your vision was already blurry.

"Whatever you want darling"

After that statement, the conversation was finished. Even if both of you were awake, you preferred to keep in silence, enjoying that last moment of peace and intimacy.

You didn't know how or when you fell asleep, but you knew perfectly that when you woke up and opened your eyes Toji wouldn't longer be there.

You were left again alone with nothing

[wordy-little-witch]

Random thoughts here, gonna add stuff for trigger warnings

Tw being trans pregnancy, I guess could he considered mpreg? Buggy identifies more masc but is AFAB. Nothing necessarily explicit

I just. Mm. Babies. Baby fever, lowkey. Can't have kids of my own, but I can day dream about my blorbos.

Buggy is trans, he's on T, but surgeries are wonky at best, uninteresting and frankly a liability. He'd be down for a good deal of time, something he isn't all too crazy about. When the dysphoria gets bad, he just chop-chops his chest and uses a packer ((his packer being, of course, a drawstring back of muggy balls, and opportunities for Many Jokes)).

Due to an event in his youth, pre Devil Fruit, he was told he's likely infertile ((Got stabbed a few times and a good chunk of his reproductive system is more scar tissue than actual organ tissue)). Between that, the difficulty for conception when a parent has a Devil Fruit, and his testosterone, he's decently certain it's not an option.

Of course, Buggy D Clown, the genius jester and Flashy Fool of the Seas, is a living embodiment of doing the impossible.

It starts with a sudden nausea when he smells his usual drink of choice. Alcohol was once something he adored, maybe in a little excess, but he was a pirate and pirates party. It's a given. Shanks' alcoholism was born from their shared past, and Buggy wasn't all too different on that front.

But suddenly, during lunch, when he went to take a sip of his rum, he caught a whiff of it and had to lean back and force down a gag. He exchanged it for a water, something not TOO unusual, as sometimes he'd have things he wanted to work on with a clear head, like in his workshop. Nobody really batted an eye.

Then he declined it at dinner. Then the next day. Then he was eying Crocodile's plate and his extra tomatoes, something he NEVER does, given his general dislike of the fruit. But now...? Mm.... it looks.. really good...........

Crocodile, thinking this is an opportunity to tease the other, offers a bite, expecting a dramatic recoil and complaint. But Buggy just absolutely beams at him, takes the bite, and damn near swoons. The logia user glances over to the swordsman, both uncertain but willing to roll with it. Not too big of a deal.

Then suddenly Buggy is more emotional than usual, something nobody was expecting. He's usually pretty expressive, all of his emotional responses keyed up to at least eleven. It's only noticed as off because he's crying a lot more, and hiding it far less. He happy cries, sad cries, angry cries. And it's like a switch is flipped. Something will happen and the clown is suddenly bawling. The first few times it happens with the crew, they all panic, but it's happy tears, infectious ones at that and so the men wind up crying too, offering embraces and spinning hugs of emotional care.

Crocodile and Mihawk share Looks.

Then Buggy is getting sick. Like. Throwing up almost every meal time, sick. The only things he can keep down are water, orange juice, and toast with honey or applesauce.

The two dark haired men finally put their foot down and demand the other go to a doctor. They expect a fight, expect tears or anger or yelling or something, but Buggy just nods, blinking slowly from his place curled into Mihawk's side, in one of Crocodile's shirts. He seems exhausted, shadows under his eyes from the newly worsened insomnia.

His easy acquiescence alarms them the most.

The next day, Buggy is seen, and there's a few tests and observations done, culminating into the doctor pursing her lips and ordering a urine sample.

Buggy, pale, head on Croc's chest while Mihawk toys absently with his hair, dozes off in the office while they wait on the results. An hour, and a nap, later, she returns with papers and a tentative air.

"Well... it's not a virus," she begins with. "Your hormone levels are elevated, specifically your progesterone and your chondrionic gonadotropin levels..."

Buggy stiffens, eyes wide. "I'm...?"

She sighs, smiling softly. "Congratulations, Chairman. You're in your first trimester of pregnancy, by the levels we can see here."

Buggy gapes. Crocodile is still as a statue. Mihawk had a thousand yard stare.

There is a soft sound, and suddenly Crocodile has vanished, now but a pile of sand on the floor and partially on Buggy. Mihawk looks faint himself. Buggy just glances between them numbly. "Oh."

"Mm. Quite."

Then, the world's greatest swordsman joins his logia partner in a tangle of limbs on the floor. Buggy stares for a moment. The doctor stares for a moment. Buggy flushes an angry red.

"Those motherfuckers couldn't even stay conscious long enough to get me back?!"

The doc tries to hide her laughter. "In their defense," she choked out, "they were quite worried about you and suddenly received such news. That said, I do have some smelling salts. Here..."

Buggy does not let either of them live it down, for obvious reasons, and they do have to announce it to the Guild because Buggy is now not allowed to have alcohol, can't do his typical tricks, and will need to cut back on a lot of the physical activities he does daily, let alone the topic of fighting. He's nervous about it, because it will involve both announcing a pregnancy as well as coming out. He's made damned sure his crew is inclusive for all sorts of people, regardless of love, color, age or body. But welcoming your fellow man (non gendered), is not necessarily the same as answering to a person like himself.

The reception is largely warm, though. The crew is over the moon, they don't even follow up with a "how does that happen, you're a man", they just immediately are screaming their congratulations and vows to step up and help as they can. Buggy winds up crying again, and Mihawk just wordlessly hands him a water bottle. Hydration is important, especially with all the tears.

His pregnancy is fairly typical, and the morning sickness passes fairly quickly, though the cravings get absolutely hog wild, and EVERYONE is suffering. Buggy tries not to be too needy but he can't control the responses and everyone else is hurting for him when he's so upset. He ends up absolutely obsessed with lemon-lavender ice cream, and the Guild keeps it on hand by the buckets full in the freezer.

When Buggy starts showing, Mihawk finds he has a new favorite place to nuzzle, finding the tiny little whirls of Haki within the clown's abdomen to be mesmerizing. He often finds himself cuddling in, Listening and Sensing, even talking softly to the little life growing within his lover, singing lullabies.

Crocodile near constantly has a hand or hook pressed over the growing swell. If Buggy is within arms reach, his touch is there, protective and mildly stunned. The paternity of the baby is unknown, but none of them particularly care. The baby will be theirs collectively regardless. That baby will be Crocodile's as much as it is Mihawks, as it is Buggy's. That baby is his, too. And he will protect this one ((the way he couldn't protect another, so long ago)).

Alvida, Galdino, Mohji and Cabaji are very hands on with everything. Al never wanted kids, but she is absolutely delighted to be the cool aunt, and the fella are excited to be uncles. It's Daz's quiet excitement that throws everyone for a loop. He's second only to Crocodile and Mihawk when it comes to pampering or spoiling Buggy. He still carries himself as a stoic stone faced man, but he is the one who brings the snacks, who offers a hand when Buggy gets to a size where standing is mildly more difficult, when it's time to convince the blue haired man to take it easy or rest. When asked, he will cite that he is merely doing his duties, but everyone could see when Buggy took Daz's hand and placed it on his bump when the baby was big enough to kick and haveit be felt by others. They saw the way the blade man's eyes widened, the shimmer there, the microexpression of wonder, of care, of brewing love. That baby would be safer than anyone else in the entirety of the grandline, of that nobody had a single doubt.

Shanks could not visit, but he made frequent calls and sent countless gifts, all of which made Buggy blubber like a child or rage like a harpy. Nothing was discarded, though, and in the nursery they set up is a small little bear with a red heart embroidered on the chest.

Rayleigh showing up unannounced was not anticipated. Nor was how Buggy remained blank faced despite the tears on his cheeks. The older man just smiled sadly, wiping away the tears, and handed over a small box. "Shakky and I worked together on this. It only felt right to pass this on. To new generations."

Inside is a stuffed cat, the fabric soft, yellow and worn. It was sun-bleached in some areas, little nose embroidered with red and eyes in blue. Buggy takes one look at the cat and crushes it to his chest, nearly doubled over as he let's out a heart broken keen, falling to his knees. Crocodile and Mihawk are quick to rush to his sides, but Rayleigh is closer and faster, falling down, wrapping around the other, queezing him tightly, softly, teary eyed himself.

"I know," he chokes, hugging his boy tighter, "I know, Blue, I miss him too, baby boy...."

Buggy clings to Rayleigh, holding the cat toy tenderly as he wails.

Ray stays for a few days before Buggy just tells him to pick a damned tent and hang out, damn it, his kid should get to meet at least one grandparent.

Ray doesn't cry but it is a close thing.

The pregnancy is an ordeal all across the board, from reopening wounds to general, typical difficulties, it's a wild ride start to finish and beyond.

There's more than one night of pure domesticity. One where Buggy and Mihawk are shooting baby names back and forth in the kitchen while Crocodile writes them down in the Yes, No or Maybe column. One where Croc and Mihawk are pouring over research for the baby. One where Buggy is in an oversized shirt, feet up on the tummy of a particularly big and spoiled 'wani, singing sea shanties softly as he tinkers with some harmless little trinkets, using his tummy as a table. One where Crocodile, pressed into Buggy's back, confesses to his past and breaks to pieces under dimmed lights in the clown's calloused hands to no judgement, only understanding, only compassion. Nights where Mihawk is wired so tightly by his own past that he sits upright in their bed, a sentinel of protection because he refuses to lose them the way he lost everything before.

You have to drain the infection, the bacteria, for a wound to truly heal.

It's difficult. It's painful. It's worth it.

The 9 months, the 26 hours of labor and the little bundle of life at the end was absolutely worth it.

Especially when newly named Bronwyn D. Crown ((their little Winnie)), with her midnight blue hair and pink little nose, her strawberry marks on fair skin, the curls of her locks and the shade of her lashes around sapphire eyes, is born into the world screaming her displeasure and only settles once clean, once swaddled, once brought back to her parents. She is small, smaller than expected, but every ounce of her body is the foundations of a fighter - she got her baba's temper, that much is certain.

Winnie is the apple of everyone's eye. Cute and small and bold and boasting a nose so much like Buggy's, almost everyone is taken with her. Rayleigh especially is wrapped around her finger within less than thirty minutes together. Shanks is absolutely in love even without seeing her first hand - he meets her the first time when she is two, and he cries because she threw an elephant toy at his head and cackled.

It's not easy. But by the Seas and Skies, it's absolutely worth it.

[utilitycaster]

As someone who has expressed that creators should be more hostile to fans (agreed), I am curious about your thoughts on this EXU interlude, now that it’s complete, as a creative move for the campaign. I was also disappointed in the timing, for sure, but I am also deeply annoyed at the fans who are still out here expecting significant changes to CR’s clear strategy of highlighting content outside of the main campaign and diversifying their programming. That this is being lumped in with “everything CR is doing outside of the main campaign like Candela and Midst and EXU is boring and bad" and seeing people be so incredibly frustrated that they dared bring in EXU stuff into the sacred space of the main campaign (something that should've been clear from ep 1 when three of the crown keepers were there) makes me want to defend the decision on principal, but I am torn on if this actually worked or not. Perhaps a few more episodes with Dorian back are needed to solidify an opinion, idk.

(And, FWIW, I don't care if this was a production need or not, nor do I buy that this was to give Sam more time on character creation, I think it was a very deliberate creative choice and should be judged as such).

Hi anon,

I find myself in a similar position:

I think people who act like every off week from the main campaign is an affront (especially when Critical Role usually is very clear in saying so, whether it's for Candela, for a one-shot, or for interruptions like the sick day character creation q&a) fucking suck. It's fine if Midst and Candela aren't your thing - I think they're both excellent but if you don't care for horror or if you have difficulty following podcasts, that's valid - but this is part of Critical Role's programming! I also agree that people who were salty that Fearne and Orym came from EXU are annoying, and I agree that this was a deliberate creative choice and should be judged as such.

I still think, ultimately, this wasn't very well done. The timing was particularly bad as I discussed before, but also, even if the timing were great, I don't like that it was a surprise. Not so much because I hate surprises, but actually I would have really appreciated some time to review the (non-Orym and Fearne) Crown Keepers, who, as a group in some capacity, last were the PCs of an adventure 2 years ago in real time. It's been a hot second. I personally have some difficulty re: investment in the Crown Keepers that I'm going to throw onto a different ask I received and to be honest I wonder if I'm not alone and this was something they anticipated and so did this specifically so that it was unavoidable (or at least, would require effort to avoid). So yeah I don't want to say that experimentation with the format is a bad thing - I want Critical Role to do new and different stuff - but I think as long as you're not shooting down every new choice it is okay to dislike elements of this one.

As for whether it worked: what I can say is I enjoy where the Crown Keepers' story ended but I'm also pretty okay with this being the end of them as a party and only seeing them as NPCs or in unrelated scenarios (eg: Fy'ra popping up in a guest battle royale). If they show up as guests in the main campaign, that could be good too, but I'm honestly like...could we get Erica and Aabria on Candela as players and could we get more Anjali in everything always and could we do another totally unrelated EXU sometime soon?

[aeomianamoure]

request!!

Emo kai gifting you a ton of plushies and planting cameras in them :3

— emo kai gifting you a ton of plushies with hidden cameras in them!

warnings <3: !fluff, !crybaby reader (im sorry), !yandere kai, established relationship between reader and kai, !jealous and overprotective kai, kinda toxic relationship? sorry, reader shows bpd traits (again im sorry), comforting kai! nd fluff !! ,, kai is like joe from you basically, degradation, ddlg if you squint hmm

a/n <3: i have a i love my boyfriend key chain with a picture of kai on it coming in through the mail.. im very normal about this :3

you and your boyfriend have been fighting a lot lately, you weren’t sure if it was your lack of emotional and object permanence or maybe your boyfriend really just was neglecting your needs

kai was patient with you and reassuring though, always feeling bad when you’d start crying over feeling overstimulated due to your heightened emotions but he really didn’t know what to do to make things better

you were embarrassed to admit this to your boyfriend but the reason why you were feeling so unloved is because you felt like kai was too nonchalant with you

which wasn’t the case at all, kai was crazy over you! but he didn’t wanna risk scaring you away by being overly creepy ):

you craved more from kai, you didn’t know if this was your mental illness craving more toxicity from your boyfriend or you needed bigger acts of love from him

“you don’t even love me anymore do you?” you’d start to argue with kai simply because of his tone when he told you that he loved you

kai sighed, here we go again “you know that i love you baby don’t start this shit again please”

“if you do then why don’t you show it? why don’t do things like joe from you! i feel like you just don’t care about me it’s so annoying!” you began to throw a tantrum shocked at your own words

kai was shocked too; if only you knew about the shit he did. from chasing your little friends away, from getting rid of your loser ex boyfriend of yours the list goes on

but of course he didn’t say anything he just bit down on his tongue watching you stomp away to your bedroom

he didn’t want you to see that part of him; fearing you’d leave him and being afraid of him but maybe now that you’ve said that he can actually be his true self around you

kai felt guilty knowing that you’ve been crying so much lately; so he decided to buy you plushies to make up for it ): making sure to get you candy too <3

“i don’t forgive you” you grumbled munching on the giften candy “but this is a good start” you tried to be angry but couldn’t hide your giggles

kai was annoyed at how you refused to forgive him; he’s given you so much love, affection, attention, plushies and candy why are you still mad at him??? he didn’t get it

maybe he really did have to act like joe to get you to feel his love for you and maybe you could forgive him too!

later that day kai finally felt satisfied with himself; looking at how well he built the glass cage in front of him maybe he is going too far with this but you did say you wanted him to act like joe from you

kai started to prepare the cage for you; grabbing your plushies after planting cameras in them neatly placing them on the bed he built for you in the cage as well. he knew this was a sick idea but it’s what you wanted right?

kai unrolled you from college, impersonating you writing emails to your professors and family about how you were ‘moving far far away’ making sure that lie was believable

it wasn’t until you came home after your quick and final run to the grocery store, grumbling as you still were upset with your boyfriend but you accepted his cupcakes he spent time baking for you ):

kai was still annoyed at you giving him silent treatment i mean who did you think you were? you’ve been acting this way for weeks now! enough was enough

grabbing a wooden farberware rolling pin he had near by he finally let out his pent up frustration on you hitting you so hard at the back of your head knocking you out to a deep slumber feeling so much better not having to see your upset face

you woke up startled, seeing kai sit on the bed you were laying on peacefully smiling as he watched you sleep; “kai? where are we?” your eyes struggled to open as you were still sleepy but once you finally adjusted to the light in the unknown room your felt goosebumps form all over your skin. no way he actually pulled a joe goldberg

you couldn’t lie you were excited. scared but excited fully aware how sick you had to be in the head for wanting your boyfriend to be this way

“you know you must be really fuckin’ sick in the head to agree to being locked in a cage all day with your only human interaction being me using you whenever i want” kai laughed in your face watching you whine for air as he forced his fingers down your throat making sure his thrusts in your poor pussy weren’t dying down

you manage to nod weakly, making your boyfriend snicker more “and here i thought i had to hold myself back because you were too innocent when you really just are a dirty little girl with no self respect”

“but you like that don’t you? you like being my dumb little girl who’s only purpose is to let me use you” he begins to feel you clench up on him smiling as he rubs your clit helping you cum like a good boyfriend ):

a/n <3: the way my ex did this to me and they still left smh

[intheshadowsbehindyou]

If you can, can you do medic with a s/o who is a werewolf and shows signs of it and tries to hide it? ty :3

Medic TF2 With a S/O who’s a werewolf

Warning: german “person”

Medic:

- What do you think he is? stupid? Medic knows something is wrong. He always does. Sickness never hides from him. Whether this be out of desperation to keep his job or genuine passion is ultimately up for debate. But nonetheless he keeps you alive, and he makes sure to angrily assert the fact that you’d rather have it stay that way.

- What are you hiding?! Surely it can’t be that embarrassing. If you die from an untreatable disease he can just revive you with his kritz medigun. An STD maybe? for some reason he assumes that’s what it is and why you won’t tell him. You feel like banging your head on the wall when he asks you that multiple times.

- Whenever he calls you a good boy/girl/baby you perk up and look at him with big beady eyes. He’s overall quite in awe how much you fit the “my partner is a Labrador” stereotype. Are you into petplay or some shit??? Don’t ask why horny thoughts crossed his mind. He doesn’t know either. Stop chewing on the end of his lab coat. He JUST had that tailored. NO HE WONT THROW HIS FUCKING UBERSAW FOR YOU???!!!

- Begins to grow concerned after there are random bouts of hair in his lab. Usually it’s only white feathers he finds. He runs the hairs through his microscope to check the patterns. That’s weird.. this is dog hair. It’s around the season that certain breeds begin to shed. He takes his eye away and puts his head in his hand. Did scout bring in a dog or some shit and refuses to show the others?

- You begin to grow anxious. He’s insisting on checking the hairs on your head.. Somehow you work your way around it.

- Medic keeps hearing howling every month and it’s left him wide awake. Because he knows full well that grey wolves aren’t native to new mexico, and he KNOWS what a coyote sounds like. Thats not a coyote. The poor doctor is staring at the ceiling all night and getting little sleep because of this. He’s not too worried about the possibility of being mentally insane (Because he believes he already is) but this is truly getting concerning at this rate. I mean come on. Grey wolves in the fucking desert? It must be a stray wolfdog that someone left out.

- Stares blankly at the large claw marks on the base walls for an uncomfortable amount of time… Maybe a bit of contemplating the smashed door too.

- Medic overall wouldn’t be too shocked to find out. If anything he’d be simply marveled, amazed and run intrusive studies on you. Properly diagnoses you with lycanthropy probably and offers to create a cure if you really want it gone. Now he’s going to (lovingly) make fun of you for this forever and ever. You’re honestly the least insane thing to happen to the mercs. Shit like this happens every halloween.

- Speaking of halloween, it’s quite fascinating that you maintain your form during this time for an elongated period just until scream fortress ends. Medic isn’t too thrilled about this however.. it’s going to take some time to get used to the fact he’s kissing a giant wolf.