#she justifies herself by insisting that she knows more

[bluegrowlmon]

Beryl wants to be called a doctor so badly, but she's not legally, since she got kicked out of med school before she could graduate, but nothing about the Evil Circus (tm) is legal so she just goes by Dr. Bellevue anyway. Anytime she puts her name down anywhere she attaches to PhD afterwards. Whenever they fight (which is fairly often) Birdham finds ways to bring up her lack of a doctorate and she probably tries to strangle him with her mind. And after a few drinks she probably beans him over the head with a mug or something.

#evil circus #she justifies herself by insisting that she knows more

[rthko]

If you're on Twitter at all (rookie mistake), you've probably seen a video of a TikTok user filming herself at a baseball game and some women behind her snickering, name calling, and making rude gestures. It's uncomfortable to watch, and I agree those reactions were uncalled for, but the next step was for other TikTok users to apparently dox these women and expose their full names and jobs. If you have any moral fiber whatsoever you know that is infinitely more cruel than whatever they were doing in the video. You witnessed rude behavior in strangers online. Okay. Now ask yourself if that's worth getting someone fired over. Ask yourself if that's worth making someone become homeless over. Ask yourself if that's worth someone committing suicide over. Maybe those women just didn't want to be filmed and made into "content" against their will, and seeing how this has all played out maybe they had good reason. We have zero context.

I am already seeing defenses of this doxing, saying "if they didn't want to face consequences, maybe they shouldn't have been bullies!" "Cancel culture isn't real." We have quickly witnessed the latter phrase evolve from "bigoted or abusive behavior in powerful figures must be condemned, and our condemnation of, say, JK Rowling doesn't change the fact that she's still a billionaire" to "any and all cruel and sadistic behavior is justified so long as we can classify ourselves as essentially good and our enemies as essentially bad." We have dropped all pretenses of "speaking truth to power," as social media evolved the definition of "a platform" from wealthy public figures to having any kind of online presence to being in the background of someone's TikTok because you happened to attend a baseball game. We can meme about "cancel culture" or insist it's not real til we're blue in the face, but there is a tendency online, whatever you want to call it, that only knows how to punish and delineate between the morally righteous and the "problematic." That wholeheartedly endorses digital panopticism and inflicting class violence on someone as long as you use the right moral framing. And if you keep acting like this, don't be surprised when your "if you don't want to suffer consequences, don't be an asshole" reasoning is turned back at you.

[corruptedcaps]

Valentine

“Be your Valentine? Leave me alone Zane! And get that weird suit away from me!” Holly cried out as Zane the school’s bully approached her with a beautiful but unnerving skin suit. It was like anything Holly had ever seen. Big boobs clung to its frame, long blonde hair cascaded down its back, long painted nails stuck out from its fingers.

Its face, despite being lifeless, nevertheless seemed to have a bitchy confidence that Holly found intimidating.

“Put it on Holly then you and I can rule this school as it’s king and queen. Remember your dorky friend Lawrence? Well guess who I used to be before I found my suit.” Zane said grinning manically as he turned around to show her a zipper that was sticking out of his neck.

Holly’s eyes went wide. Could this really be Lawrence? The kind and nerdy boy she used to have lunch with every day until he suddenly moved without warning? Zane did appear around then. Could a suit really change someone that much? Regardless, Holly wanted none of this.

“Even if I believe you, I’m never putting on something so slutty and mean. Get lost!” Holly said defiantly.

“Fine. If you insist. Maybe I’ll just ask Lisa to be my Valentine, I’m sure she’ll say yes. It’s a shame because the suit really wants you, I can tell.” Zane said half heartedly turning around to leave.

Lisa was Holly’s friend, a shy girl who Holly knew would fold under pressure from an intimidating presence like Zane. He was going to get a girl to wear it no matter what, could Holly let that happen to some innocent girl when she could take the bullet right now. At least that’s what she said to justify her following actions.

“Stop! Ugh fine, give me the stupid suit.” She said exasperated. Handing her the suit Holly felt its soft skin with a mixture of wonder and repulsion. Stripping down to just her underwear she slipped her bare feet inside the feet of the suit. She expected a feeling of moisture but instead it was warm and cozy like a blanket.

“See this isn’t so bad is it? Nice toned and tanned legs, sure makes a change from those pale chicken thighs of yours.” Said a voice suddenly inside her head that wasn’t her own and yet she nodded in agreement.

The suit clung to her skin and she felt an immediate sting followed by a wave of pleasure as the nerve endings of the suit latched onto to her own. She ran he hand down her new legs and was amazed at how they felt like they were really apart of her.

“Don’t think of them of them as the suit’s, think of them as your own because they are yours now. Perfect slim and flexible legs. You know what goes well with that? A flat and toned tummy.” The voice continued with a sultry purr and Holly eagerly grabbed at the suit and pulled herself more into it.

The stomach connected to her belly with a satisfying slurp and she surpressed a moan as the suit’s bare pussy sucked onto her own. Involuntarily her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she felt the clit’s merge into one.

“Mmm can you imagine a stud like Zane going to town on your new pussy. His big cock would feel incredible inside you wouldn’t it?” The voice whispered and Holly could only manage a little whimper as she imagined the encounter. Only minutes ago she thought of Zane as nothing more of a bully but as she eyed him up and down watching her with increased lust she couldn’t stop thinking of his sweaty body rubbing up against hers.

“Not your pathetic body though, he doesn’t want those flat tits and flabby ass against his Adonis of a body, he wants a queen’s. Keep going!” The voice urged but Holly was already lifting the perfectly rounded rear end onto her meagre set. It instantly magnetized onto her own. She slapped it to test out the feeling and with a sly smirk approved.

Next she lifted the big boobs of the suit onto her own and for a moment worried the nerve endings wouldn’t reach other but as soon as it was in place she felt the suit fill in the difference. Her nipples immediately grew hard and she couldn’t help but touch them which proved to only excite her more.

“Imagine how much better they’ll feel with a permanent French manicure on your hands but where will you find those?” The voice said sarcastically. Holly slipped her hands into arms of the suit, slowly making her way to the fingertips, enjoying the sensation. She turned her new hands over and over, looking at her new nails in delight. They were long, sharp, and dangerous.

“Mmm these are perfect for tapping on a table while you watch a clique of mean girls loyally follow your every order, doesn’t that sound so fucking hawt?” The voice added and it filled Holly’s head with images of being the new queen bee at high school.

Holly couldn’t help but smirk at the thought. The idea of wielding that kind of power, of being someone everyone looked up to—or feared—was intoxicating. She had always been more of a background character, someone who blended into the margins of high school life. But this, this could be her chance to rewrite her story, to be the one in control.

“But wait,” Holly thought, a sliver of doubt piercing her daydream, “is that really what I want? To be feared? To be someone who leads through intimidation?” She pondered the voice’s seductive offer, the promise of instant popularity and power. Yet, as she did, she remembered the times she’d been on the receiving end of those glares, those whispered judgments. It wasn’t a good feeling, being on the outside looking in.

The voice seemed to sense her hesitation, its tone shifting ever so slightly. “Think of it, Holly. No more being ignored. No more being overlooked. You can have it all: the friends, the status, the power. Zane. All you need to do is say give in.”

As Holly envisioned herself surrounded by a loyal entourage, commanding attention and respect (or was it fear?) with every tap of her nails, a sense of exhilaration washed over her. This was it—this was what she wanted. To be powerful, to be envied, to be the epitome of beauty and authority. The idea of becoming the queen bee, of leading with an iron fist in a velvet glove, was making her unbearably wet.

“Yes I want it. I want it all!” Holly thought, the voice’s seductive promise igniting a fire within her. She could almost feel the power coursing through her veins, fueled by every admiring and envious glance thrown her way. The thought of being at the top, untouchable, and making the rules was all that mattered.

“There’s only one thing left to do. Put on your new face, become the bad bitch you long to be.” The voice said echoing in Holly’s mind. Holly shoved her face into the suits pretty but cold and calculating face. She felt the big bitchy lips settle onto her thin pursed pair. Long eyelashes wrapped around her eyes given her a darkly intense stare.

The suit’s zipper magically rolled up and under her now long gorgeous blonde mane. As the zipper closed she let out one final gasp as if the last vestiges of her pure soul was squeezed out and an evil blackness enveloped her heart.

“My god, Holly, you look even better than I had hoped.” Zane said looking at her hungrily. However she reacted to him calling her by her name like she smelt something foul.

“Holly? Do I look like a Holly?” She said in mild disgust.

“Of course not babe, what should I call you then?” Zane replied knowing the disgust she felt.

She turned to the nearby mirror and looked at her new form, waiting for inspiration. She needed a name dripping in luxury, one that was both elegant and powerful. Then she remembered what day it was and a smirk crossed her lips.

“Valentina.” She uttered. As soon as she said it, it was if her new persona solidified in her mind. Striking her hair she knew exactly what kind of mean bitch Valentina was and would be.

“Valentina? A perfect name for a perfect woman.” Zane grinned as he stalked up next to her. She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. He smelt good and she couldn’t wait until he treated her like the queen that she now was. However the voice instead her head returned with some wicked words.

“I’m sure he’ll be a perfectly fine king by your side but think of how much hotter it would be to put a true bully in his suit.” The voice whispered and Valentina found herself getting aroused at the idea of betrayal. So much so that her hand was already toying with the zipper on his neck. The question was would she fuck him first or just fuck him over. It was her day, she could whatever she wanted.

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #corrupted bodysuit #corrupted couple

[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. 

#the red thread #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil #matt murdock #fic #fanfic #reader #x reader #f!reader #angst #hurt/comfort #tw: alcohol #tw: depression #memory loss #matt is really self sabotaging here to an extent #this fic is three times longer than Part 1 which is hilarious #i have had this in my docs folder for ages and have finally edited it to my satisfaction #gonna post this on AO3 too but dropping it here first since the first fic was only ever posted here anyway! #and you'll get to have a fun 'Pasta writing 3 years ago versus Pasta writing now' experiment #when i post on AO3 i'll probably post the whole thing (including part 1) as one fic in separate chapters just for ease so I'll edit it then

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Cyd Charisse (The Bandwagon, Brigadoon, Singin’ in the Rain)—LEGS LEGS LEGS I would sell my soul for the legs of Cyd Charisse - she oozed style and glamour and sex appeal!! And she could DANCE! She was dancing next to the greats - Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire but they are never who you're looking at because why would you when you can look at her. I will only sit through too long ballet breaks for her. If there was any woman who you could call sex on legs it was her. These dances are everything to meeee (she comes in at the minute mark) and this dance too of course is iconic. In the words of Fred Astaire 'When you've danced with Cyd Charisse you stay danced with'

Suchitra Sen (Harano Sur, Chaowa Pawa)—Suchitra Sen! She had a 25-year career in Bengali films, and was at the height of popularity for a solid two decades as half of the wildly beloved pair of Uttam-Suchitra, who were practically the entire romantic genre of Bengali films by themselves. She acted in literary adaptations, romantic comedies, (melo)dramas and inspired-by-current-events films. She was the first Indian actress to receive an international award at the Moscow International Film Festival. In 1978, after the release of her last film (a box-office flop) she pulled a Garbo and put herself out of the public eye completely. She made no appearances, gave no interviews, refused awards, all of it. She didn't even show up for her daughter's or grand-daughters' debuts! She was taken for funerary rites in a covered hearse! The glamour! The mystery! That blinding smile!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Suchitra Sen:

Not to take away from her costars in Devdas (1955), but the great Indian cinematic tradition of Tragic Romantic Yearning would not, I argue, be what it is without Suchitra Sen's performance in that film. I root for things to turn out better for her every time, even though I know how things are going to go.

A Bengali cinema icon. Liked crows (per Gulzar, "It was an astonishing sight. The crows used to pick at the grapes from her hand").

Linked gifset

She once rejected Raj Kapoor's movie offer (one of the most successful actor and director at the time). She was quoted saying, “In men, I don’t look for beauty. I look for intelligence and sharp conversations. I had refused Raj Kapoor’s offer almost immediately. He came to my residence offering a lead role and, as I took my seat, he suddenly sat near my foot and offered me a bouquet of roses while offering the role. I rejected the offer. I did not like his personality. The way he behaved – sitting near my foot – did not befit a man.”

Legendary poet, lyricist, director and writer Gulzaar had this to say about her "Glad that my ‘Sir’—that’s what I call her— got the Dada Saheb Phalke award during her lifetime. Contrary to people’s perceptions, Suchitra Sen is an extremely warm and very very friendly person. I adore and respect her. But she has the right to choose her friends. Surely she’s justified in keeping away from every Tom, Dick and Harry. She’s the only example of such quiet dignity in show-biz. That’s why the media compares her with Great Garbo. Suchitra Sen is my Sir. I’ll explain. During the shooting of Aandhi she started calling me Sir. Everyone in Kolkata calls her Madame. Since I’m her junior I requested her not to call me Sir. But she insisted. (We always converse in Bengali). So I call her Sir and she calls me Sir.”

Linked musical number [won't let me display embedded for some reason]

Cyd:

Photos do not do Cyd Charisse justice, unfortunately, because she is at her hottest while dancing, which she was exquisitely good at. Just go watch her first number in Singin' in the Rain, in that green dress; nothing I could say here will be more convincing that that.

She had amazing legs, and she knew how to use them! You probably know her best from the dream sequence in Singin' In The Rain. She was such a stunning dancer, and all her dance scenes are hard to look away from.

Dancing in the Dark clip:

She's an amazing dancer and my favorite from the period. Here's her and Fred Astaire in the Band Wagon:

I just like a woman who's there to be really incredibly good at dancing.

One of the most talented female dancers in Hollywood history, but what sets her apart from other competitors for that title is that she...umm...well let's be blunt, she was the dancer who put sex into it. The one who said "Hey, you know that A+ leg tone that naturally develops from doing this for a living? Why don't I let people see that? Like at every opportunity?" She reportedly insured her legs for five million dollars after hitting it big, which just goes to show that fame makes you crazy. It should have been ten million.

Arguably the Best female dancer of her time, she supposedly insured her legs for $5 million dollars. Stole the show whenever she had a dance number, even if she went uncredited. Musicals started to go out of fashion so unfortunately she didn't have as many big roles as she should have, but those she did are unforgettable. The Broadway Melody number in Singin' in the Rain - the green dress!

She could pirouette in pointes or tear it up in taps. Fred Astaire called her "beautiful dynamite" and wrote, "That Cyd! When you've danced with her you stay danced with." Gene Kelly partnered with her three times. Her legs were (reportedly) insured for $5 million in 1952 ($57.8 million in 2024 dollars)! Everyone in this poll will be iconic, but for raw physical grace, Cyd is up there with the best.

Legs for days, beautiful dancer in the most iconic scenes of Singin in the Rain. She's glorious. As some guys sung to her in It's Always fair weather, 'baby you knock me out!'

Incredibly, Cyd Charisse only started learning to dance as a rehab exercise to strengthen her body after a childhood bout of polio. She was in high demand as a dance partner, Fred Astaire called her beautiful dynamite and said "When you've danced with her, you stayed danced with". She was one of a few leading ladies to dance with both Astaire and Kelly, declaring them both delicious. Kelly apparently was stronger, while Astaire was more coordinated. She also said her husband would always know who she had been dancing with because Kelly left her bruised, while Astaire didn't leave a mark. She's better known for her dance numbers today, but she was a leading lady in her time! Her Scottish accent in Brigadoon leaves a lot to be desired, but compared to the other actors in the movie, it's almost good. She appeared in The Harvey Girls alongside Judy Garland and Angela Lansbury in her first speaking role, but she really burst onto the scene with Singin' in the Rain and her infamous Broadway Melody Ballet number with Gene Kelly (no one could handle a length of fabric like Cyd Charisse). She was brought in because Debbie Reynolds wasn't really a dancer and Kelly was notoriously a stickler about his Vision. After that she starred opposite Astaire in The Band Wagon, which was a bit of a flop but created some enduringly incredible dance numbers. She went on to star in a number of MGM movies, and was one of the last of the Studio era stars to remain on contract. Since we've got up to 1970, I'm including her opening routine in The Silencers (1966) to show just how long she was making a splash - she's into her 40s here and still a siren:

and of course, the iconic Broadway Melody Ballet -

#suchitra sen #cyd charisse #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 2

[missglaskin]

Hi I had a question have you ever considered writing for ACOTAR and what do you think about the series and who would be the worst? Yandere to have if you could do a ranking this is not a request. I just wanna know your opinion. I hope you have a good day or night. 😊🥰❤️

I didn’t make a ranking but I did rate them (1 least worst, 10 being pretty bad) hope you don’t mind

Feyre only wants what's best for you, at least that's what she thinks. She feels a great deal of guilt when her mind wanders to dark places. Feyre doesn't like lying or deceiving you, but she always tries to justify herself. She is extremely protective and fiercely loyal, going to great lengths to keep you safe; the end always justifies the means. Everything goes well with Feyre as long you don't struggle against her and just let her take care of you. 6/10

Elain seems harmless at first, lost in her own world, spending hours daydreaming about you rather than approaching you directly. She's shy in approaching you, but her infatuation with you grows steadily and soon enough you start seeing her more often. She does not resort to violence like the others but pretends to be your friend while subtly isolating you from everyone else. You realize a little too late that Elain is scheming to keep you all to herself, not when she gives you that sweet girl. 4/10

Nesta appears cold and distant at first, often trying to push or avoid you altogether. Unaware it’s Nesta’s realization of her intense feelings and maybe it was her way of trying to protect you. But in moments of jealousy or danger, Nesta’s possessiveness becomes glaringly apparent. She does not want to chain you down, but she fiercely wants you all to herself. Desiring to have you solely for her own gaze and touch. You should just trust her and let her make all your decisions on your behalf. 6/10

Mor's danger lies in her manipulative nature and her relentless desire to get what she wants. The second she set her eyes on you; she wanted you. Mor takes the role of your friend, gaining your trust and coaxing you to confide in her. Letting you reveal your deepest secrets and positing herself as your savior to ensure you feel indebted to her. You can never point the finger of blame to Mor, she’s always one step ahead even when you find yourself isolated and powerless to make your own choices. 7/10

Amren is not someone who immediately raises suspicion, but there's an air of uneasiness. Not interacting all that much with her at first. But you'll feel eyes watching your every move yet when you turn to look, nothing is there. She in a way positions herself as an ally, subtly guiding you in the way she wants, all to assert control over you. As time passes, her tendencies begin to surface and she can no longer conceal her possessiveness. Finding yourself isolated and confined to a little place all alone with her. 8/10 

Rhysand is charismatic and not even you are immune to his charms, despite your better judgement. He's so good at pulling the strings, steering situations to his advantage. You could accuse him of an act that you know he has done, but he'll turn it around, making you feel guilty for doubting him. When Rhysand senses you're slipping away from his gasp, he won't hesitate to resort to extreme measures. You're trapped with no allies and no means of escape leaving you no choice but to depend on him. 9/10 

Cassian's intense loyalty and protective nature may seem his best traits, but it's a means of suffocation to you. Cassian is convinced he knows what's best for you, stubbornly insisting on his ways even if you push him away or outright reject him. His impulsivness guides his actions, causing him to raise his voice or grip you too tightly, but Cassian always apologizes afterward, you must forgive him right? Cassian is nice to have if you never resist and simply allow him to do as he pleases. 7/10

Azriel doesn't approach at first, preferring to watch you from a distance, meaning all the time. His shadows are tasked at keeping him informed and ready to protect you from any impending danger. When Azriel involves himself in your life, he becomes the center of it. Bid farewells to your past connections as he demands your full attention, confined under his very control. You may be allowed some freedom if you comply, but resist or fight back, it won't bode well for you. 8/10 

Tamlin is a storm that's looming, ready to engulf you. His protectiveness and possessiveness are like a chain around your neck; suffocating. He's controlling and has a desire to keep you by his side at all times. No matter how much you fight back, Tamlin believes you'll come around eventually, time is all he has. Sometimes, his temper flares and he lashes out, destroying things in his path, and seeing your fear brings him back to his senses where he apologizes profusely, promising it won’t happen again. 9/10 

Eris is intensely jealous and controlling, viewing you as his and his alone. There's a high likelihood he'll keep you trapped, unwilling to let you go. But beneath all his possessiveness, Eris is somewhat desperate. He long for you to just open yourself up to him, to surrender to his touches. With everything he went through, Eris doesn't wish to inflict harm on you. Why must you force him to restrain you, to him it's so simple, why not just give into him, a life where he shows you devoted love and loyalty. 7/10 

Lucien is aware of his tendencies and has tried to avoid you, but keeps finding himself drawn back to you, unable to resist gazing at you from a corner. He's consumed by his obsession, devoting himself to you completely, and Lucien finds himself unable to fight against it. He never wishes to harm or trap you; he has seen the damage it caused. He hopes his charms and time will be enough to win you over, and become so entwined in your life that you can't take him out of it. 5/10 

#yandere acotar #acotar x reader #yandere concept #yandere x reader #feyre archeron x reader #lucien vanserra x reader #nesta archeron x reader #elain archeron x reader #tamlin x reader #eris vanserra x reader #azriel x reader #rhysand x reader #amren x reader #morrigan x reader #cassian x reader

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Easy On Me

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1k Summary: A little epilogue/add on to Best Intentions, but can also be read as a standalone fic. Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She grumbles quietly, eyes heavy and still closed, her mind groggy with sleep as she feels Tom’s arm wrap around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest.

“Tommy, I’m tired, leave me be,” she mumbles, squirming away.

He wrestles her back against him, hand snaking up her body to paw at her breasts through her nightie. “Jus’ wanna cuddle,” he whispers.

She sighs, screwing her eyes shut tighter in protest, determined to fall back to sleep. “Can’t we cuddle when I haven’t got to be up at five to do the sodding papers?!”

Since they’d gotten engaged it was as though a switch had been flipped in Tom. Seeing the delicate gold band upon her ring finger drove him wild, igniting a possessive streak that she’d never realised he had.

There was no denying she enjoyed the extra attention. His constant need for physical contact made her feel desirable, wanted. It was nice when his hand reached for hers as they walked down the street, nice when he’d walk up behind her and press featherlight kisses to the crook of her neck, nicer still when he’d pull her into his lap on the sofa and fuck up into her with reckless abandon, unable to control his urge to be inside of her.

However, her mum has now retired from the shop entirely and, not making enough of a profit to justify hiring additional help, she’s left to work opening until closing each day by herself. So, when Tom’s neediness interrupts her sleep she feels more than justified in feeling irritated by it.

“C’mon, let me be close to you,” he insists, entangling his legs with hers, making her gasp as a sudden jolt of cold causes her body to tense, her eyes snapping open.

“Your feet are bloody freezing!” She cries out, making him chuckle.

“Maybe you can warm me up?” He says with a grin against her neck, his hand trailing downwards towards the hem of her thin, cotton nightie.

She whines, feeling her resolve begin to crumble, arching into him involuntarily as his touch awakens the fluttering of desire in her lower belly. “I’ve gotta be up early, stop it…”

“It’s nearly five anyway,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her pulsepoint that causes her to inhale a shaky breath. “I’ll be quick, and I’ll even make you a brew after.”

Grinning, she presses her backside back against his growing hardness. “Thought you just wanted a cuddle?”

“We can cuddle,” Tom says quietly against the shell of her ear, “afterwards.”

His hand pushes her nightdress up over her hips, before dipping between her thighs. Swiping between her folds, his fingers quickly find her pearl, rubbing soft, sure circles of her arousal against it, making her sigh in pleasure. Her head relaxes back onto the pillow as warmth licks at her core, making it throb.

“Better be an amazing cuppa,” she smiles, her breathing growing heavier as she feels him roll his hips against her, his hardness pushing firmly against her.

“Oh, it’ll be good,” he promises, taking his hand away to push down his briefs.

She braces herself against the mattress, feeling him grip her thigh and bring it backwards over his hip, opening her up to him, allowing him easier access.

They groan in unison as he brushes the head of his cock through her slick. Once, twice, three times, before settling at her entrance, slowly pushing forward.

She whines at stretch, the shudder of his breath against her flesh as he bottoms out causing her to clench tightly around him, making him grunt.

“God…” she whispers breathlessly, feeling light headed as he draws back, only to push back in once more. It’s exquisite torture, too much and yet not enough all at once.

“Yeah, I know,” he rasps, his pace quickening as she adjusts to his size, each thrust being met with less resistance as she grows wetter. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The bed frame creaks beneath their movements, and she is grateful for the fact that they live above the shop. She can’t imagine the sorts of complaints they’d get if they had neighbours beneath them. Tom is insatiable, and too irresistible to her to refuse.

She moans as his fingers dig into her hip, pulling her back against each of his forward thrusts, bullying the spot inside of her that makes her breath hitch and her toes curl.

He pants against her skin, perspiration building upon his brow. He drags his hand from her hip back between her legs, his forefingers rubbing insistently at her. His rhythm becomes sloppy, an indication he’s nearing his end.

The thought makes her tighten, nudging her closer to the edge, and when his rubbing becomes rougher, coupled with the dull pulsating of him inside of her, she topples over it, white hot waves of bliss throwing her body into spasms.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he cries out, hips stuttering, before pressing tightly against her, burying his face in her shoulder as he spills himself inside of her.

He holds her close as they both lay there gasping for breath, their hands absentmindedly stroking over each other’s forearms. It’s only when Tom begins to soften that he pulls away, rolling onto his back and grabbing his cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers, which lay discarded on the floor from when he’d come to bed.

Still deathly tired, but with a satisfied ache between her legs, she supposes there are worse ways to begin the working day.

She runs a hand through her hair as she sits on the edge of the bed, mentally preparing herself to begin getting ready to head downstairs. Reaching for her wrist watch that sits on the bedside table, her eyes narrow as she takes the sight of the placement of the hands.

“Tommy,” she hisses in annoyance, “it’s fucking half one in the morning!”

She turns, seeing him laying back against the headboard, one arm slung behind his head. He plucks the unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth and smirks at her. “Yeah, guessing you won’t be wanting that brew then?”

“Bloody nuisance!” She scolds him, playfully chucking a pillow at him, before settling back into bed.

She knows it won’t be long until he’s cuddling back up to her, seeking out her warmth once again.

#tom bennett x reader #tom bennett x you #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett imagine #tom bennett smut #tom bennett #ewan mitchell #tom bennett fan fiction #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fan fic #tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #world on fire fan fiction #world on fire fanfiction #world on fire fanfic #world on fire fan fic #tom bennett world on fire #world on fire tom bennett

[saltywinteradult]

“Why are Alicent's choices only Feminist and Radical when they benefit Rhaenyra?” because that’s the point of the show! It’s about a woman taking back what’s rightfully her’s, Rhaenyra wasn’t “forced” to turn on Alicent, no one forced her to seize her throne. Alicent on the other hand was forced and manipulated into everything she does that goes against Rhaenyra:

Otto scared her into thinking Rhaenyra would kill her siblings, nothing has ever suggested she would. We know deep down Alicent knows Nyra won’t kill them because in 1x08 she tells her she’ll make a good Queen, you don’t say that if you seriously think your kids and grandkids will be put to death.

She misheard Viserys, if it wasn’t for this misunderstanding Alicent would be Team Rhaenyra.

Alicent may be shown as Rhaenyra’s adversary in the posters but the reality is Otto’s the de facto leader of Team Green. He’s the one who planned the coup with the rest of the men, leaving Alicent in the dark because he knows where her heart truly lies.

I can believe Rhaenyra would have children with Harwin no matter who she’s married to, what I can’t believe is that Alicent would have children if she had a genuine say in the matter. That’s why it’s feminist and radical for Alicent to choose love over duty, because she’s finally putting herself first!

This post explains this perfectly: tumblr(.)com/rhaenicentdaily/746232908284559360/i-actually-agree-with-the-confession-of

(In reference to this post)

Oh, honey, no. This is not a story about a woman taking what's "rightfully hers". Did Rhaenyra have the legal right to the throne? Arguably, but it doesn't matter because the entire system of feudal hereditary monarchy, which Rhaenyra has every intention of upholding, is bad and should not exist, and that's largely the point of the Dance. Having a woman sit on the Iron Throne is not going to make a damn bit of difference for the thousands of people who died in the war to put her there.

If Rhaenyra intended to make any systemic changes, she would advocate for absolute primogeniture, like for Baela to inherit Driftmark - but she doesn't. She advocates for her son, who is a bastard and has no inheritance rights, to inherit it because all Rhaenyra is doing is fighting to put herself and her children in power. She's being every bit as selfish and power hungry as the Greens, and from a storytelling perspective there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. As far as I'm concerned that makes her a far more interesting character than flattening her into a cookie-cutter heroine does, so I don't know why her stans insist on doing just that. Rhaenyra is a war criminal, same as her husband and, yes, her brothers. The fact that she says Aemond should be "sharply questioned", which is just a nicer way of saying "tortured", for simply speaking the truth is all the proof Alicent needs to know that Rhaenyra is absolutely willing to hurt her siblings if it benefits her. Like it or not, Otto is completely right about that. Rhaenyra's not the Feminist Girlboss Hero you think she is, so it's no more feminist for Alicent to choose her than to choose the children she loves just as much.

And for the record, you can't use what-ifs to justify misunderstanding Alicent's canon character and actions. It doesn't matter whether or not Alicent would've chosen to have her kids. They exist and she loves them despite not having chosen to have them, and she is fighting tooth and nail to keep them safe because she loves them. It doesn't matter if she misheard Viserys - she already has very good reasons to advocate for Aegon over Rhaenyra. Otto may be a scheming, power-hungry asshole and the main orchestrator of the events that lead to the Dance (though the largest blame falls on Viserys) but Alicent is the figurehead of the Greens and as I've already explained, in my opinion that's the right choice for this story.

Since you're clearly not considering any of the arguments I've laid out to support my opinion, nonny dearest, I request that you stop sending me these asks. I'm not going to be reading or answering any more of them.

#alicent hightower #pro alicent hightower #otto hightower #anti team black stans #anti team black #anti rhaenyra targaryen #team green #pro team green

[throneofsapphics]

old faces, part two

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: you and Rowan meet again after seven years, and deal with the fall-out of a secret. 

Warnings: mentions of drinking, death, and grief

Word Count: ~6.4k 

A/N: I'm hesitant about this one, but I’m going to throw it out here anyway. feedback is more than welcome :) thank you to everyone who gave me the idea for this! the next two parts will be coming soon!

series masterlist

Rowan counted the whirls in the ceiling, the delicate and detailed decorations of their assigned suite in the palace. A window propped open, letting a dry summer breeze in. Aelin’s taste for luxury couldn’t compare to here. A few centuries of relative peace could accomplish that. She squealed in delight at the sunken bathing pool, filled with aromatic oils, candles lighting the edges, a window showing greenery beyond. Rose petals. There were gods-damned rose petals floating on top. 

Despite his best efforts, his mind drifted to you and his daughter, Ceri. He fought the ugly resentment at your secret. Your actions were justified, but If he hadn’t caught sight of you, he could’ve lived the rest of his immortal life with no idea he had a child out there. Rowan ruminated on the fear that he’d somehow failed both of you - although realistically he knew there was nothing he could’ve done. He debated how he’d make up for lost time, how to convince you to move closer, how to gain his daughter’s trust.  

“What’s on your mind?” Aelin asked, turning over to prop herself up on her forearm. 

“Ceri,” the words came easily, but he hesitated to say you were on his mind as well. Aelin hadn’t given him any indication she was jealous, or that this would pose a problem, but it was foreign territory for both of them. 

“They should both come to Terrasen,” Aelin murmured, catching his attention. Rowan’s head snapped, eyes widened. That’s … not what he expected her to say. Maybe that Ceri should come, at least for a few months a year, but certainly not his former … lover. His wife’s lips were curled into a smile, “I enjoy her company.” 

He raised his brows. Considering how she’d treated Remelle, “She’s nothing like her,” Aelin scoffed, reading the words in his eyes. 

It could be merely that Aelin enjoys her company - or that she wants to keep an eye on her. As usual, he wouldn’t know until Aelin decides to tell him. 

‘In another world, I could’ve built a life with her,’ the thoughts of his past echoed. It was another world now, a better world. Building a life with you didn’t mean romantic, but a life where he could co-parent his child, where he could keep both of you safe and happy. It might be a better world, but there were still threats. Still people who would take the two of you, if only to have leverage over him and Aelin. A fist clenched in his chest, pressure building, squeezing, suffocating him - if anything happened to the two of you -

“We’ll keep them safe,” Aelin shifted and ran her hand up and down his arm. 

-

‘We can figure it out tomorrow,’ Rowan had said. Tomorrow came in the form of a ghost from your past. 

“It wasn’t wise for them to come again,” the blonde-haired emissary explained. Now bloodsworn to the Queen of Terrasen. Aelin, she insisted you call her. 

You recognized Fenrys instantly. The two of you used to frequent enough of the same taverns and circles to know each other by name. The same recognition had flashed in his eyes, mouth turning up at one corner as he greeted you. 

You blinked, dragging yourself back into the present. “So they sent you as a messenger?”

He snorted, “something like that,” and paused, onyx eyes assessing you as you fought the urge to squirm in your seat. 

“And the message?” 

“They want you to consider … relocating, for your safety. For both of you.” 

His eyes flicked to the glass door, where your daughter played in the small garden beyond. There had already been murmurs, more inquiries about your daughter, more curious gazes. 

“I’ve considered moving to Eyllwe.” You already spoke the language, and the climate was similar. It would be an easy adjustment, and closer to Terrasen. 

Fenrys’s mouth parted, you’d surprised him with your answer, and it took him a few moments to reply. “We were hoping you’d consider moving to Terrasen.” 

Exactly what you suspected. But, you had your daughter, Ceri’s, best interests in mind. Would she want to grow up under constant surveillance, for her every move to be watched, the pressure of her relation to the crown - even if she’s not in line for it. Possible slurs and taunts about the circumstances of her birth. 

“Anywhere you go, she’ll eventually be recognized,” Fenrys said, as if he was reading your mind. Your knuckles whitened as you clenched your fists. He eyed you warily, sensing the protective instincts flaring inside you. “We’re not saying you need to move to Orynth, there’s other places if you want some distance from …”  

Fenrys didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Right,” you cleared your throat and stood. “I need to think about it.” 

“Of course,” he recognized your not-so-subtle dismissal, and stood with you, depositing a roll of paper on the table. Your eyes narrowed, flicking between the scroll and him. Fenrys shot a wink at you, motioning for you to lead the way to the exit. 

You paused at the gate, fingers curling around the latch, turning over your shoulder to look at him. “It’s good to see you.” 

Fenrys understood the unspoken word, free. 

“And you,” his throat bobbed, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

The gate swung open, and he disappeared, footsteps silent as he rounded the corner. You took up a position on the bench, watching as the sun lowered, leaving a beautiful array of gold and pink hues, absorbing remaining warmth. Would Terrasen have sunsets like this? Gods, it sounded like you already made up your mind. 

“Who was that?” Ceri chirped. She���d chosen to stay out of his way after the brief introduction, sending shy glances from the garden, and retreating when he left. You wouldn’t push her to spend time around someone if she didn’t want to. 

“An old … acquaintance,” 

“What’s an acquaintance?” She asked, the word foreign on her tongue as she drew out the syllables. 

“Someone you know, but not a close friend.” 

She nodded solemnly, as if this was crucial knowledge, and you couldn’t fight your smile. 

“The Queen said we’re her friends now,” she bounced on her toes. We’re. Not just her, but the two of you. A small warmth bloomed in your chest, sobering as you realized the extra dangers of a friendship like that. 

“That’s lovely.” She paused, remembering something, and sprinted inside without another word. 

Ceri returned, holding a paper out for your viewing. “I want to give this to her.” 

A drawing. Gray jagged mountains, dense forests, little rivers and valleys. The landscape had surprising detail, and nothing like Antica or anywhere you remembered showing her.  

“I saw that in my dreams,” her small finger traced the outline of the mountain. Terrasen, the place popped into your mind, based on descriptions you read in books. Dreams, she was dreaming of a place she’d never seen. 

“We’ll find a way to get this to her,” the words came out gently. At a young age, you lost faith in any kind of divine intervention, but this … this was too coincidental to ignore. A chill ran down your spine, only partially from the breeze. The sun had fallen, a gray sort of dusk replacing the orange hues from earlier, and you made your way back inside.

Your hands shook as you cut the seal on the scroll Fenrys left, unfurling the message. A list of different places in Terrasen; Perranth, Caraverre and Allsbrook. Promises the two of you would be taken care of, that you’d be able to find work, that there would be other children and day schools for Ceri. 

But, this wasn’t a demand or order, it was a plea and offer. Even extended to your friend, Reya and her daughter Ani - Ceri’s best friend, if they showed desire to relocate as well. Ani would follow Ceri if her mother let her, and Reya expressed desire to visit Terrasen before. Reya’s family that had taken you in over the years. The day you arrived in Antica, just hours after you’d brushed the dust from the gate, an equally pregnant Reya sought you out, informing you your mothers had been friends - and because of that you were obligated to as well. 

The Queen and King were practically bending over backwards to try and get you to come … or, they were genuine and wanted both you and your daughter somewhere safe. 

Silver hair swished back and forth as she sat at her desk again, pencil already in hand - sketching out another drawing. If this was going to happen, you needed her to agree first. After you spoke to Fenrys tomorrow you’d bring it up, and the two of you would make the decision together. 

-

“I don’t want to go,” her small foot stomped on the ground. 

“Ani would come with us.” You weren’t surprised your friend agreed easily. “Your father lives there as well.” 

Ceri put the pieces together quickly, asking for confirmation the day after they showed up on your doorstep. 

“You said my father was a Fae warrior and royal,” she planted her hands on her hips. You nodded, pulling two chairs out, motioning for her to sit. Before now, she’d accepted your explanation - not asking for a name. The day would come eventually, but you thought you had a few more years. “He’s the King of Terrasen.” 

“Yes,” you said slowly, letting her carry out her train of thought. 

“Does that make me a princess?” You frowned as she spit out the word. 

“Do you want to be a princess?” Her head shook rapidly and she scrunched her nose. Your mouth indented at one side. “Then you don’t need to be a princess.” 

“If we move there, I have to be a princess, that’s what Ani said.” Her green eyes filled with tears, and you gently grasped each of her shoulders, crouching to be at eye level. 

“Ani was wrong,” and you need to tell her mother to keep her daughter’s mouth shut, “you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to.” You brushed away one of the stray tears, opening your arms up to let her launch into you, running your fingers through the silver strands. 

“But,” you murmured as she dug her face into your shoulder. “It’s not safe here for us, anymore.” 

The words sliced into your chest - breaking away a small piece of you. The sanctuary you sought years ago, no longer a safe place to be. Just this afternoon you’d spotted two lurkers across the street, watching your home and the surrounding street. You tugged Ceri beyond the gate, slamming the wards in place, re-examining the marks etched in stone for any weaknesses or fading. 

“It’s all his fault.” 

No, no, no. This is not how you wanted the conversation to go. “It’s not,” you whispered, pulling her back. Her face was red, cheeks flushed in anger. “It’s not your father’s fault there’s bad people out there.” 

“Why didn’t he stay with us?” 

The animosity in her tone made your stomach turn. This conversation was coming, you knew it, and possibly long overdue. 

“Your father used to serve a bad Queen, Maeve,” you started the hair on your arms standing up, “and I left, when I knew I was pregnant with you. To keep both of us safe. I didn’t tell him,” Her mouth parted to ask ‘why,’ but you held up a hand. “If he knew of us, he could have been forced to tell the Queen, who could do bad things to us or make him do bad things.” Her brows furrowed, and you wondered if you were butchering this explanation, but you were already started - you might as well keep going. 

“I know he would have done his best to protect us.” You did know that, you knew the sense of loyalty Fae held to their children, the fierce protectiveness - you had it yourself. “But he was … bound to do her bidding, and if she ordered him to hurt us, he would have no choice. She may have been able to use you through him, and that’s a risk I'll never take.”

“Maeve is dead,” she stated, more to herself, but you nodded anyway. All of the children knew the story of the battle of Terrasen, of the war fought in Erilea. Reya was a widow, her husband died in Orynth, along with her brother. “Good,” her little fists clenched, shoulders rolling back. Maybe that protective sense extended to her Rowan, whether she knew it or not. 

You cautioned her not to bring Maeve up to either of them, to any of the people from Terrasen, and that they would tell her if they wished to. There wasn’t a need to dig up fresh wounds. 

-

One week left of the Royal visit. One week to try and figure this hellstorm out. Ceri’s reluctance transferred into your own. Perhaps Eyllwe would be a better option. 

Fenrys came by in the early hours, letting you know Rowan, Aelin, and he would stop by later that night, after the sun had set. You promised a late dinner, and now grew to regret that promise considering how much you were panicking over the food. Keep it simple, your mothers words echoed in your mind as you put together the few heritage dishes she taught you, squinting to read the scribbled recipes, worn down by time and travel. 

You felt more than heard their approach, the old magic swirling in the air, and the small ring of the ward’s alarms. Ceri followed you through the garden, less shy than last time, but still reserved as she half hid behind you. 

The wards were up. Directly after the royals visited your home, you activated them. Only those you wanted to see the house or its inhabitants could. 

Your eyes scanned the street beyond them, spotting two figures watching your house intently. They couldn’t see anything beyond the normal facade, the garden exactly as it’s supposed to be. Magic hid your figures, and the ones right before the gate. Did they catch their approach?

Still, you let out a low breath, focusing on keeping your panic down as you willed the magic to bend enough to let them inside. 

“Those are clever wards,” the Queen commented, fingers tracing over the wyrdmarks carved in the pale stone walls. 

“Thank you,” you forced a smile on your face as your hand shook lightly, gaze still on the figures across the street. This was the first time they stayed past sunset. 

“Have they been bothering you?” 

Aelin’s voice was low, but you recognized the edge of danger as she followed your gaze. 

“They can’t see us.” A non answer, but before she could question further, you waved them inside. Rowan pinned you with a look that said he had more questions. Later, you mouthed. When Ceri was sound asleep. 

-

Rowan watched you and Aelin go back and forth, discussing books - he’d forgotten how much you loved to read, debating who the better romance author was, the best and worst tropes. Things like; third act break-up, miscommunication, enemies to lovers, love triangles. 

His attention switched back to his daughter, who had alternated questioning both him and Fenrys about everything, and especially magic. Each question she asked, he answered the best he could, and asked her more in turn. Rowan wanted to know it all, wanted to catch up on the seven missed years, and to catch up with you as well, to learn how your life had been, what raising Ceri was like, and how to be a worthy father. 

“How did you learn Wydrmarks?” Aelin asked. 

“My mother taught me,” you smiled at her, like Aelin was dredging up a pleasant memory. “I still have the books. She lived in Eyllwe for a while.” 

Aelin asked her a question, in what he assumed was Eyllwe, and you joined in. Then, Ceri did, already speaking another language this young. That makes three he knows of; Eyllwe, Halha, and the common tongue. She inherited her mother’s intelligence, that’s for certain. 

The three of you had a language you could speak in - one he couldn’t understand. Something told him that could lead to trouble. Fenrys caught his gaze over the table, smirking. 

After dinner, he was informed his daughter had a gift for him and Aelin. Two drawings - of Terrasen. She was talented, especially for her age. The detail is what surprised him - vivid, as if she’d seen it with her own eyes.  

“They’re from my dreams,” she piped up - and answered his question. 

Behind her, your eyebrows drew together, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. Catching his gaze, you offered a half smile. An attempt at nonchalance, one he saw right through. You may have changed, but you still wore your emotions for everyone to see. 

“They’re wonderful, thank you.” Aelin reached out, squeezing her shoulder. 

He looked back down at his drawing, and spotted four stick-like figures, hastily added in a corner, the wax of the pencil fresher. She’d added them recently, maybe even an hour ago. The heights and hair colors made them easily recognizable, and filled him with some hope. 

“It’s beautiful,” he finally looked up at her - into eyes identical to his own, but unburdened and radiant with joy. Gods, he’d do anything to protect that. 

-

Ceri yawned, attempting to muffle it with her fist, blinking rapidly to try and keep her eyes open.   

“Time for bed,” you announced, and she turned to you - a small pout forming, but yawned again and her shoulders drooped in resignation. 

“Goodnight,” she said to the three guests, and dragged her feet down the hall. Five minutes later, you tucked the thin sheet up to her shoulders, making sure the window was propped to let in the breeze, pressed a small kiss to her forehead, and snicked the door closed - her breaths already evening out into a deep sleep. 

They remained right where she left them - at the table. Rowan looked up from where he’d been studying his gift. “She’s talented.” 

You nodded absentmindedly, sliding back into your seat next to Aelin. It had surprised and intimidated you when she claimed the seat by your left. But, she’d put you at ease quickly, easily guiding the conversation between your mutual interests. 

“I never showed her pictures,” you cleared your throat. “But .. I'm assuming they’re of Terrasen.” Three nods. 

“Have you made a decision about moving?” Fenrys braced his forearms on the table, getting right to the point. The others stiffened, but brimmed with anticipation. 

“We’ve discussed it,” you tapped your fingers against the table. Honesty is the best way to go. “My friend said she’d go, but Ceri is … reluctant.” 

“Have you tried to convince her?” Rowan replied harshly, a shadow of guilt following; as much of an apology as you’d get for his tone and implication. Not that you were owed one, you’d probably feel the same in his situation.  

“This is her home, this is where her friends are, it’s not surprising she’s reluctant to leave,” you ran a hand over your face. And … you knew Antica was safer, but generational prejudices took time to undo. Terrasen used to be a safe place for Fae, interrupted by a decade of terror. It would take time to rebuild that legacy.

“She’s … open to the idea of a trial. To go for a few months, and see if she likes it. I promised her I won’t force her to stay if she doesn’t.” Years of building an iron will kept you from cowering under their stares. That was the only compromise you managed to come to. The next barb shot at Rowan before your filter caught up with you, “she inherited your stubbornness.” 

That little comment lightened the mood, because Fenrys laughed, Aelin snorted, and you could’ve sworn a small smile graced over Rowan’s face. In all honesty, your daughter was a mini-Rowan in female form. 

“I pity you,” Fenrys murmured, ignoring Rowan’s glare.

“I heard that,” a small voice chirped from the corner, and you groaned. 

“She’s also quite skilled at faking her sleep, and eavesdropping” turning over your shoulder, you fixed her with a glare, and she looked completely unapologetic. You noted the natural breeze flowing through the window, strong enough it would’ve blown away her scent - and she managed to get close enough for her immortal hearing to let her eavesdrop without detection. “Did you hear everything?” 

“Only about the trial visit.” You couldn’t scent a lie, and motioned for her to come to the table. If you’re speaking of her, she may as well be invited, and now that she knows - you doubt she’ll go back to sleep anytime soon. She slid into the chair next to her father, and you gave him a look to say; your turn. You did your part, he can do his best to convince her now.

Aelin and Rowan patiently answered all of her questions; is it safe? - yes, is it cold? - yes, are there ghost leopards? - yes, are they friendly? - Fenrys choked, and Aelin gave a firm no. 

“Then,” Ceri cleared her throat. “Why should I visit? You’re not making it sound very nice.” 

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you knew diplomacy was not in her future. Aelin spoke of the snow,  sledding, the magic of the Oakwald forest, giant wolves, the Staghorns, learning to control her magic - that caught her attention, and by the gleam in her eyes; you knew you’d be moving to Terrasen, at least temporarily. There’s a reason Aelin makes a great Queen. 

“You and your mother can choose where you’d like to live, if you come.” Aelin finished. Rowan’s jaw clenched, barely perceptible. 

“What will she do with her work?” 

“That’s for me to worry about,” you reached over the table, placing your hand over her own. She looked at you skeptically, but nodded. You’ve saved enough money over the years to keep the two of you comfortable for a decade or two - with careful spending. 

“Your mother is talented enough to find work wherever she goes,” Rowan added, sending you a knowing look.

She tapped a finger against her cheek, looking between the four of you. “I agree,” she announced, and you watched Rowan - watched how his face lit up. Saw Aelin watching you, watch him. You tore your gaze away. There’s nothing left between the two of you, and you don’t want to give her any reason to think there might be. Even if you’d found each other at the right time, she was the perfect match for him. It only took hours in their presence to realize that. It filled you with a different sort of happiness; after everything he went through - he deserved the best love could offer. 

The clock behind you chimed, you glanced over your shoulder - only ten, but you saw Ceri yawning, again, her eyes starting to droop with sleep. 

“Are you ready to sleep now?” you asked her quietly. Maybe if you gave her the decision - she might stay in bed this time. She nodded, rounding the table and grabbing your hand. You stood with her, but she paused to look at Rowan. 

“Will you tell me a story?” Rowan blinked once, but he agreed and stood, trailing after the two of you towards the bedroom. You sent a silent prayer to the Gods he’d given one that wouldn’t give her nightmares. 

Against every instinct, you let them have some privacy after Ceri gave you a small nod. It was laughable that your daughter was giving you reassurance. Not quite ready to face Aelin and Fenrys alone, you leant stopped at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall. Rowan’s hushed tones floated through the open space, low enough you couldn’t quite understand the words. 

“Y/n,” Aelin’s voice came through. Turning your head, you found her standing a few paces away. Either you were deep in thought, or she’s especially silent on her feet. Maybe both. Aelin tilted her head, indicating for you to follow. Fighting the scowl threatening to emerge - at the idea of obeying someone's orders in your own home, you pushed from the wall, leading her towards the sitting room. Dishes could come later, for now you let your body melt into your favorite armchair, a perfect view of the street beyond. 

“Have there been many … lurkers?”

It would be so easy to lie, but she’d see right through those, and if you were going to co-parent … that’s not the foot you wanted to get off on. “Yes, a few each day.” 

“Have they approached you?” Fenrys cut in quickly. 

“They can’t see us, with the wards.” Aelin murmured something that sounded like; that’s what I thought, but you were distracted - glancing out the large window to see if they were still there. Sure enough, two shadowy figures remained, lurking across the street. 

“How do your wards work?” Fenrys switched the line of questioning. 

You studied him for a moment before answering. “I come from a family of magic wielders, and the lingering magic around the house built up over the decades. I used the Wyrdmarks to … direct it. It acts on my intentions, for lack of a better word. I’m not actively using my magic to surround the area” He looked at you, like he was prompting for more detail, “In all honesty, it would take me hours to explain each detail.” 

“I’d love to hear it some day,” Aelin added, face light and smiling, but there was still a tension in her shoulders. 

“Some day,” you promised. Maybe in the near future, maybe far away. If you ended up settling somewhere in Terrasen, you’d find a home already exposed to magic - maybe previously owned by magic wielders. 

“It’s impressive,” you heard Rowan rounding the corner. Aelin had chosen the spot on the couch next to Fenrys, leaving Rowan to sit in the other armchair. Not quite as comfortable as yours. “What are you going to do about them?” He jerked his chin towards the window. 

“There’s not much I can do,” you admitted. “They haven’t proven to be a threat, haven’t approached us.” 

“Has anyone … approached you?” He leaned back, and you saw right through his attempt to look nonchalant. 

“I’ve had a few questions about her, as expected.” 

“What did you say?” Rowan pushed. 

-

“What I’ve always said, that I don’t quite remember.” He let out a small grunt at her answer. It was the right thing to say, he knew that, even though it unsettled him. He wanted the world to know the two of you - you didn’t deserve to be some kind of dirty secret, he was proud to have Ceri as a child. And you as a … friend. 

“You do have an army of cousins,” Fenrys commented wryly, shooting a knowing glance towards, and you rolled your eyes. It’s common knowledge there’s plenty of Whitethorns in Doranelle. Aelin was watching the interaction with keen interest. 

Do they know each other? She asked, meeting his eyes. 

Yes. 

“How do you know each other?” Aelin questioned. 

“We ran in the same circles.” 

“Drinking circles,” Fenrys clarified. “You used to drink most males under the table.” 

“That’s a thing of the past.” 

“You never get a night out?” He recognized the glint in the male's eyes - if you ended up in Orynth, Fenrys might drag you out for a night to celebrate. It would be good for you; ‘you don’t know what’s good for her anymore,’ the voice in his head countered. 

“Night’s in mostly. I try to keep a low profile.” Another way you changed. The old you never turned down a chance to go out - to feed off the energy of a crowd.

It was crowded, one of the more famous bards in town for the night. Crowded enough the two of you could slip in against the wall, hood disguising your features, Rowan’s magic redirecting your scents. Nights out together were rare. Rowan watched as the male sang, one of those songs where the crowd would join in - each line growing dirtier as it went on. You knew every one, and countered his incredulous looks with an unabashed smile, not one bit of shame. 

He pushed himself back to the present. The low profile you built was gone now. You both knew it. Before, it’s unlikely anyone but the royals or courtiers recognized your resemblance. But with their visit - it was as clear as day.

“The truth will come out, eventually.” For once, he mentally thanked Fenrys for opening his mouth.

“I know,” there was quiet resignation in your voice. Mourning, almost. Mourning a life under the radar, a life without him. Rowan pushed the thoughts out of his mind, not a life without him - a life of peace. Whether you liked it or not, now that he knew he had a daughter, he had an obligation to the two of you. Beyond obligation, he had a desire to be part of her life, and that meant being part of yours as well. 

“Will your friend join you in Terrasen?” Fenrys questioned. 

“Reya … she’s said yes. She -” you choked on your words, on the memory, clearing your throat, “her husband and brother served with the Darghan and died in Orynth,” you were surprised your voice remained steady, “she’s wished to visit for some time now.” 

You tried to hide it, but he still saw the one small tear welling in the corner of your left eye. Just one. 

Rowan read between the lines. He recalled some of his conversations with Sartaq after the battle. He told, in hushed tones, of Arundin, the mountain where suldes, the spears all Darghan warriors carried, were planted after their deaths. He said their souls would roam with the wind, and maybe Reya was searching for theirs, searching for closure.  

-

It was like someone threw a haze over the room with your words, the shift poignant, dark silence radiating through the room. They were good men, and Reya wanted to find closure. You were there through it all, through the news of their deaths, felt the loss and suffering along with their family. 

A shadow crossed through Aelin’s eyes, a hint of guilt flooding over her features, and you felt the need to do something about it.

“Ani, her daughter,” you continued, “is very proud of her father, and so is Reya and her family. Before he left, he told us that he was proud to fight for a better world.” Aelin seemed to lighten at that, so you continued. “You’re probably tired of hearing things like this, but we’re all proud our country fought for you.” 

You’re not certain why, but you wanted her to know that - to assure her, in case she hadn’t heard it before, or heard it often enough. Based on the grateful look Rowan shot your way, maybe she hadn’t. 

“Were you here, during the war?” Fenrys asked. 

“I was, my mediocre healing skills came in handy. There was still a city to run,” your mouth curved at the corners. The Torre had been all but emptied, and there was still a city to run. Some of the tension left the room, thank the Gods. 

The moon had shifted, full and bright, and some of the light flowed through the room. Full moons, time for transformation. Fitting, considering you were about to uproot everything you’ve known for the last seven and a half years. 

-

“How soon can you be ready to leave?” Rowan asked. Aelin cut a sharp look at him, but he ignored her. Maybe he could’ve phrased that better. 

A soft laugh left you. Different, even your laugh was different, filled with a weariness that wasn’t there before.  “We’ve always been ready to go at a moment's notice, but I’d say two weeks or so to wrap everything up.” 

One week, they’d be leaving in a week. There’s no reasonable way for them to extend their visit, not without turning more heads. One week he’d be away from Ceri and you, a whole seven days where he couldn’t be there to protect the two of you. A week left in a city - with a target firmly on your backs.

“We’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Aelin’s voice cut off his thinking. 

“There’s no need-” 

“I’ll already be leaving at the same time, it’s no bother.” Fenrys interrupted you. Right, he’d be in the city an extra week to wrap up some negotiations. Rowan felt slightly better now. He’ll feel even better once he threatens Fenrys within an inch of his life. You narrowed your eyes at Fenrys, for the interruption, and he gave an unapologetic shrug and changed the subject “Has Ceri ever been on the water?” 

“Not the open sea,” you grimaced. “I’ll make sure we have something for nausea.” 

What are you thinking? Aelin caught his eye as you and Fenrys went back and forth, debating the best remedies for nausea. At least he could avoid your light-hearted bickering. There’s potential for the two of you to be insufferable together.  

Once we leave, people will be more motivated to act. That tightness gripped his chest again. 

Aelin frowned; I know. I’ll speak to Nesryn. 

Y/n won’t like that, he cautioned, even though he didn’t particularly care what you thought of it. When it came to your safety, he’d deal with your irritation. 

Nesryn can keep a secret. The woman had been a rebel. 

Are you going to tell y/n?

Too nervous? Aelin teased him, and his nostrils flared. Fine, he could tell you.

He caught your eye, and waited til your attention directed to him. “Once we leave, there will be a bigger target on your back.” 

“I’m aware,” you crossed your arms, “I do have a functioning mind.” His brows flicked, at least you still had some thorns. 

“It would be wise to have someone aware of who Ceri is,” Rowan went on as you looked ready to interrupt - to tell him off, no doubt, “aware of who she is to me, and that the two of you would be a valuable hostage.” 

He watched as you visibly stiffened, eyes hardening. Rowan knows you were aware of the dangers, but hearing them aloud would put another sense of urgency. 

“We have a friend, who can have someone look out for you - until it’s time for you to leave.” He could read the words on your tongue; I can protect us. “I know you’re capable,” he assured you, “but it’s not a weakness to have an extra set of eyes on you and Ceri.” 

Rowan watched as you came to the conclusion - watched how you’d swallow any kind of pride or ego for your daughter, for his daughter. He would’ve asked Nesryn to keep an eye out regardless, but having you aware and in agreement made it easier. 

“Who’s your friend?” 

“Nesryn Faliq.” The future Empress. 

The whites of your eyes shone, even as you said, “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Your fist came up to your mouth, stifling a yawn. The clock chimed again. Eleven already. 

“We’d best get back,” Fenrys pushed himself up from the couch, Aelin followed quickly, giving the two of you a moment of privacy. 

“It means .. everything, to me, that you and Ceri are willing to come to Terrasen.” 

“It’s a trial, remember?” You teased him. One year, that’s what Ceri, and by extension you, had agreed to. They had one year to convince Ceri to stay permanently.

“I know,” he nudged you with his elbow, drawing out another one of your laughs. Lighter this time. He felt himself falling back into the old companionship, the easy way the two of you had with each other. You’d been something between a friend and a lover. The closest thing he could come to friendship, while serving under Maeve. Temporary, but here you were seven years later - now to be a permanent fixture in his life.

Aelin and Fenrys waited for them at the gates, the two lurkers were gone now. Good, he might’ve done something impulsive otherwise, something that may have damaged relations between both countries. Fae may have few laws against murder, but that’s not always the case for the rest of the world. 

“Will you be back before the end of the week?” 

“I don’t think so,” Aelin said. “It’ll draw more suspicion if we’re seen coming here.” 

If Rowan could, he’d spend the rest of his time here getting to know the two of you. 

“I’ll be back,” Fenrys shot a wink at you. “You’ll see plenty of these two in the next year.” 

He found himself studying you, again. You didn’t look disappointed they wouldn’t be back, but not relieved either. He didn’t know how to feel about it, how he wanted you to react. It would be too easy for this to be simple. 

-

Aelin and Rowan sought out Nesryn and Sartaq early the next morning. 

“We’ve just learned Rowan has a daughter in the city.” Aelin got right to the point. “She and her mother are moving to Terrassen in two weeks.” 

Midnight eyes shot to Sartaq, who’s mouth tightened. They suspected something, but hadn’t known for certain. 

“There was suspicion of someone related to the Whitethorns living here,” he said, “but we never confirmed it.  Her mother is known to us, of course.” 

Of course. Maybe you weren’t quite as low profile as you thought. 

“Her work.” Nesryn clarified. “Although she’s done a good job flying under the radar.” 

“Not good enough for my spies,” Sartaq added. 

“After our visit, it’ll be too obvious. It puts a target on their backs.” 

“We’ll keep our eyes on her. Discrete ones.” Nesryn said, before she could specify her ask for help. 

“Thank you,” Rowan said, and she could hear the relief in his tone, sensing the small tension leaving him through the bond. 

“You’d do the same for us,” Sartaq answered. They were allies, and the Khaganate had already done so much for them, throughout the whole war. Without a doubt, she knew she’d do the same. Rowan went on to describe what he’d seen, detailed descriptions of the figures across the street, and a brief description of the wards she has up - of how they hide you. Nesryn gave a nod of appreciation, and Sartaq still didn’t seem surprised. Aelin remembered Chaol telling her he had an extensive network of spies.

The conversation left them in a much better mood, easing some of their nerves. Aelin barely knew Ceri, or you, but already felt fiercely protective. Maybe even as much as Rowan did. She’d never replace you, she didn’t want to, but she’d be a part of your lives no matter how the cards fell. 

#throne of glass fic #rowaelin x reader #rowan whitethorn x reader #aelin galathynius x reader #poly!rowaelin x reader #rowaelin x y/n #poly!rowaelin x y/n #rowan whitethorn x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #throne of glass x reader

[recovering-dungeon-lord]

I’ve been wanting to make a post about this for a while, because I keep seeing this ongoing debate in the ATLA fandom over whether or not Ursa loved Azula/was a good mother to her, and I haven’t seen a lot of people talk about this aspect of it. I don’t think Ursa was a perfect mother by any means, but I do think she did the best she could under the (terrible) circumstances, and I do think she loved Azula. But more importantly, I think that deep down Azula herself knows this.

She insists that her mother didn’t love her, but to me it seems so obvious that this idea comes from Ozai, that it’s a lie he used to manipulate his daughter. He wanted her to believe he was the only one she could rely on, and more importantly, that he was the only one who could ever love her. On the surface, Azula does believe that her mother didn’t love her. She tells anyone who will listen, she uses it to justify the pain and the rage that fuel her cruelty. She tells herself she believes it’s Ursa’s fault over and over again because it’s easier than admitting the truth: that Ozai is using her and always has been, that her pain and rage come from Ozai’s abuse and the isolation he’s caused her.

But think about what happens at the end of season 3. Ozai tosses Azula to the side. For the first time, he shows his cards and treats her like the pawn he’s always secretly thought of her as. And all of Azula’s doubts come bubbling to the surface. Her entire life has been a lie. She becomes paranoid and thinks everyone is out to get her. She starts hallucinating visions of her mother, taunting her.

And what does this version of Ursa taunt her with? If Azula really, truly believed that Ursa never loved her and only cared about Zuko, you’d think it would be something like “I knew you’d turn out to be a monster” or “Zuko was always better than you.” But it isn’t. It’s “I love you, Azula.” Because that is Azula’s greatest fear. She’s afraid that this thing, this shield of ‘my mother never loved me’ that she’s been using to justify everything, is a lie.

If Ursa actually did love her, then what was it all for? All the anger, all the cruelty, all the things she did to impress Ozai, to earn his love, were for nothing. Not only because he was using her as a pawn the whole time, but because she could have had that love all along, from Ursa. If her mom loved her, then she’s spent most of her life twisted up inside, causing pain and suffering and destruction, over the pursuit of something she already had. And I think that terrifies her more than anything else, because somewhere inside her she knows it’s true.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #azula #ursa #meta i guess?? #btw im NOT saying that i think azula is a bad person #i think she’s traumatized and terrified and just as much a victim of ozai as everyone else

[sepublic]

            Thinking of how Willow and Belos are the only characters to have their mindscapes explored; And as they are, we learn the circumstances behind how they were abandoned by their only childhood friend for somebody else.

         And when they confront that person, they learn their side of the story (as Caleb was speculated to have told Philip), and are primed to kill their friend amidst fire… And you know what?

         Willow doesn’t do it. She speaks her justified frustrations and pain, while also accepting reconciliation and getting that; And is still allowed to voice her issues even after the fact, as part of the healing process!

         I’m also thinking of how people were mourning Philip’s childhood abandonment even before we learned he and Caleb were orphans; Many fans were under the impression Philip at least had well-meaning parents to go back to, even if they encouraged him to conform to society’s standards. Kind of like…

         Ah! Harvey and Gilbert encouraged Willow to conform to society’s standards of success, despite how miserable it made her, when clearly her calling was elsewhere. The standards of a coven that Philip himself imposed… And as it’s later implied, Harvey and Gilbert may have been motivated by their trauma of Terra Snapdragon and wanting to protect Willow from her! Just as people believed Philip and Caleb’s parents, and later just Caleb, taught Philip to conform for his own safety!

         Philip still chose to manipulate the people of the isles, taking advantage of any kindness he received. Willow, she insisted on being as kind and nurturing a person as possible, to Gus, to Luz, to as many as she could! How about that.

         Luz and Willow really are major parallels to Belos; Luz ultimately moreso, because Philip has that even more fundamental hero complex that I think would’ve compelled his crusades even without the loss of Caleb to embitter him, as the Titan observes. But man… The way Willow has some gold motifs, green markings and magic, when she meets Hunter? Fighting with powerful tendrils, having moments where anger causes her magic to flare up and lash out?

         And ultimately, proves to be a kind leader who builds up those she leads, and cares about actually protecting people against threats with the ‘sting of defeat’, even at her own expense? And is told she doesn’t have to sacrifice herself by those same people, who reciprocate Willow’s selflessness? Man. Philip “I’ll do anything to protect humanity” Wittebane WISHES.

#the owl house #willow park #philip wittebane #emperor belos #parallels #amity blight #caleb wittebane #harvey park #gilbert park

[comradekatara]

In your modern au who in the gang goes to college/grad school and what subjects do they study? would they end up at schools close to home or go far away? How do there relationships change after highschool and with people moving away?

okay wow that’s a great question but also. a lot.

aang is a year below katara so his top choice school is just. the school katara goes to. it’s small and affordable and he studies philosophy and religion (but also takes any sort of fun elective offered to him) and joins a lot of clubs and makes a lot of friends and generally just has a nice time. he and katara overlap for three years but after she graduates they still live together, so he basically sees her every day anyway. it’s nice :)

katara genuinely considers not going to college but then she gets a sports scholarship she’d be a fool to reject so she’s like “fine, i’ll go, but i’m gonna phone it in the entire time.” she assumes that college will basically just be like high school, yet another prison where she will be forced to do math against her will. but she actually finds that she kind of enjoys some of her classes, and she can devote way more time to sports, and azula isn’t there (a weight has been lifted off her shoulders truly), and she actually meets a whole group of people who don’t find her intimidating and abrasive, but instead share her interests and actually organize with her. also, the fact that sokka isn’t there means that she doesn’t constantly have to compare herself to an impossible standard, and she finds that she actually enjoys learning when she gets to go at her own pace. and in fact…. she’s actually a great writer???? and really enjoys theory and philosophy and criticism and history and sociology and literature????? and she might actually be really fucking smart????? she graduates with honors. but there’s absolutely no way she’s pursuing grad school lmao. everyone knows that shit is a scam.

sokka goes to princeton for undergrad because, and i quote, “it’s nearby.” full ride, obviously. he double majors in physics and engineering, and also accidentally fulfills an art history minor without even noticing. everyone assumes that he’ll get a phd (at least one), but katara keeps insisting that grad school is a scam and so is the ivy league. and it’s not even that sokka necessarily disagrees with her, he just thinks that those are bold words coming from the girl who fell for a pyramid scheme. twice.

zuko goes to a small liberal arts college for undergrad and spends years attempting to justify his choice of going to a smaller, slightly less prestigious school by majoring in something dignified and respectable, like econ or business or engineering. none of which he is any good at. but eventually, after enough time spent beyond ozai’s purview, zuko just goes “fuck it” and double majors in theater and classics. his focus is on ancient greek drama. he then does a poetry mfa wherein he attempts to write on earth we’re briefly gorgeous without just rewriting on earth we’re briefly gorgeous (many such cases). he complains about his program constantly and how fake and pretentious it all is, but anyone who knows him can tell that it’s clearly the most fun he’s ever had.

suki doesn’t go to college. she figures that there’s no point in blowing money she doesn’t have and wasting precious valuable years of her time getting a fancy little bachelor’s degree she’ll never use for a job that doesn’t actually require one. and she doesn’t have any adult figures in her life to convince her that college is necessary (although sokka does spend a full week going “but are you sure…?” before suki realizes that she can just shut him up forever by claiming she can’t afford it). she continues to teach at the dojo, but because she basically already lives in her truck, she’s always driving over to princeton to crash in sokka’s dorm. she spends a lot of time just hanging out in the library while he does work, and finds that she doesn’t even need to go to classes to learn new things by herself. it’s funny how a formal education can make learning seem so much less interesting than it actually is. if she had actually gone to college, she probably would’ve spent the entire time blowing off classes and doing as little work as possible, but since she has no incentive to learn, she actually does. by the time sokka has graduated, suki is basically qualified to practice medicine, could tell you the entire history of the inca empire, and is basically an expert in mycology. and it didn’t cost a cent.

toph considers suki an inspiration, and by the time she graduates, she is already so estranged from her parents that she also has the agency to just blow off that whole thing. she moves in with sokka and mai and just follows them around. she sits in on their lectures whenever she feels like it (they claim she is mai’s little sister who is visiting her), and otherwise just kind of lounges about. occasionally sokka will be like “you know you could’ve just… gone to this school, right??? you’re literally a child prodigy and your parents are crazy rich.” to which toph just shrugs like “yeah……but nah.”

mai goes to princeton with sokka. it wasn’t even her top choice school, but once she realized that it’s where sokka was going, she couldn’t think of anywhere else that she would rather be. they’re roommates since freshman year and are basically inseparable. everyone assumes they’re dating, but sokka’s like “nah she’s gay, she’s just really clingy :)” which mai hates because he’s totally ruining her street cred. she’s a cs major, but she basically accumulates the credits for a math minor, a physics minor, and an english minor because all the cs classes are so easy for her (she first taught herself how to code when she was like six). sokka somehow convinces her to join his physics program for grad school, but after a year she drops out because she finds it so miserable. they continue living together, of course, while mai gets really into making esoteric indie games. zuko doesn’t really understands how video games work, but she still bounces her ideas off him because he’s the most ruthless critic she knows.

ty lee goes to college because it’s the sort of thing a girl from a decently respectable family does, but she’s pretty envious of suki’s lifestyle and wishes she could just blow off the entire thing. she goes to a decent school, one that appears acceptable on resumes but not so elite that it will raise any employer’s standards too high; she enjoys being underestimated. being in an entirely new environment gives her the opportunity to test out new personas free of consequence, and eventually she realizes that she’s kind of wasting her talents by pretending to be dumber than she is, so she actually applies herself and does really well. but then she gets bored of applying herself because now everyone expects too much of her and she misses when a B was considered a good grade. she’s technically a dance major because it’s the only thing she does consistently across three years (she graduates early), but she goes through different phases where she’s really into various fields, including but not limited to: abnormal psych, quantum physics, philosophical ethics, north african literature, microbiology, and women’s rugby. she keeps in touch with azula, mai, and suki, but she also just goes through phases of avoiding contact with all her former friends entirely. it’s fun to be aloof.

and last but certainly not least, azula goes to harvard for undergrad, and then harvard law. in fact, there is no other school azula could ever go to. even if she had lived on the other side of the globe, and not new jersey (or as she likes to call it, “manhattan”), azula would still go to harvard. she truly believes that it is the only school on earth capable of withstanding her towering intellect. anyone who found her insufferable in high school is in for a rude surprise once they realize that within a semester, harvard has somehow made her ten times worse. she’s technically pre-law, but she also studies pre-med and engineering, just in case. which is far too much for any one human to handle, and she ends up suffering a nervous breakdown during junior year where she eats nothing but cheetos for a week straight and tries to cut her own bangs with a pair of kiddie scissors. zuko and sokka go to cambridge to stage an intervention (mai and ty lee were too busy washing their hair that weekend) and help her out. you can tell it’s bad because she actually agrees to go to therapy. eventually she gets through it and decides to take a gap year before law school. she spends her gap year as a paralegal at a highly prestigious firm, and within the first couple years of graduating law school, she makes junior partner there. and they never speak of the cheetos and uneven bangs incident ever again.

in terms of who keeps in touch with whom, obviously mai, sokka, suki, and toph still hang out all the time after high school. mai and sokka are roommates for their entire twenties basically, and toph and suki pretty much also live with them. mai and sokka move to new york after princeton. and after zuko graduates, he also moves in with them. aang and katara sort of resist the idea of living in a big city, and instead decide to travel the world after aang graduates. but then when they go to visit sokka & co. katara realizes that it’s always secretly been her lifelong dream to work at a really cute little overpriced coffeeshop in brooklyn, and so she and aang get an apartment in like. red hook or something. ty lee actually moves to california, so they all assume they won’t see her often, but she flies back every time one of her sisters has a birthday, so they actually run into her pretty frequently. eventually she moves back to the east coast, and pretty soon after that she and mai uhaul together. none of them really hear from azula except for mai and ty lee, who are in a semi-active groupchat with her. but she and zuko reconnect after ozai’s funeral, and she gradually befriends the rest of the gaang, even if she never quite gets along with katara. so yeah, there are a few years where most of them don’t really talk to one another, but eventually they do manage to reconnect and stay in each other’s lives. they do all make other friends though. god could you imagine.

#averyho #asks #the gaang and #modern au #this was a fun one #the inherent comedy of being from new jersey. etc. etc.

[theoretically-questionable]

Lots of things about Allison's character arc are Very Themes, but this in particular is. Very emblematic of how she's shaping out to be. Moderate thematic spoilers for Books 4 and 5 of KSBD below!

At this point, it's pretty explicitly textual that all seven Demiurges are afraid - and this fear has shaped their character and actions more than any other of their qualities.

Each have a particular, personal way their fear emerges:

Mammon's seclusion

Mottom feeding the tree

Incubus clawing for power

Jadis's inaction

Solomon David's absolute dominion

Gog-Agog's ironic, whimsical nihilism

Jagganoth's stoic, utilitarian obedience

These are all products of fear - specifically, fear of obliteration and impotence. Of death, in all its kinds.

Each of them is obsessed with seeking royalty through their own perspective, and terrified that they're going to fail. Terrified that there might be a power greater than theirs that could render them helpless.

In addition to preventing any kind of meaningful trust or collaboration, this fear is itself the thing that renders each of them helpless.

By now, in Book 5, Allison has been directly faced with all of these. She has seen that Mammon's safe retreat did not save him. That Mottom's ruthless sacrifice of others did not save her. That Incubus's machinations did not gain him anything. That Solomon's refusal to cede an ounce of his strength made him weak. And now, despite their overwhelming power and all-spanning perspectives over past cycles, she is coming to see that neither Gog nor Jag have any mastery of royalty.

Importantly, she saw that Maya, that once-demiurge-turned-drunkard, learned this too.

On her path to the Key, Maya grew to fear the hold that others had over her. Yet, borne on a palanquin by obedient servants, her power over others unquestionable, her master laid her bare with a single question: What next? What was the point of it all? To strive for power out of fear?

And so Maya fled, and lived to see at least half of a true life, full of trust and love. Now, after losing even that, Maya sees no path for herself - torn between knowing that power begets destruction, but a lack of it begets vulnerability. Unable to solve this, knowing her master Meti was never able to solve this, she insists Allison must face it too:

Her master, Meti, is also the one who so correctly said to the death-pondering monk:

“A dog has more sense than you. He doesn’t think of death at all. Not when he sleeps, not when he bathes, and certainly not when he shits. You and he will both die."

Maya, thus, also probes Allison about her thoughts on death (twice, actually, going back to their first in-passing encounter) And now, finally, Allison... shrugs.

Allison has been told to strive for her 'full potential' power for many different reasons - and been afraid to do so for just as many reasons. Afraid of her power, of her self, of her past, of her future, of the judgement of others, and of the possibility of failure.

And now, having passed through the gauntlet of fear, in these last few pages (Book 5, 3-76 to 3-78) Allison explicitly rejects not just the comforting defence of irony but the very fear of meaninglessness in the fact of unfathomable vastness of any kind - multiple universes, meaningless suffering, powerful gods, time loops, even death itself.

There is no fear. There is nothing that justifies her claim to power. There is no grand meaning or purpose. There is no undoing the horrors that have come to pass.

But she has a (maybe) sword, and someone who has been killing rats and dreaming of grand purpose is about to kill again.

What else is there to do but, in foolish defiance, ready her blade and strike them dead without thought?

"She who strikes without thinking can cut God."

#ksbd #kill six billion demons #allison wanda ruth #reach heaven through violence #demiurge #Maya #Meti #to touch true royalty #the maybe sword

[awarmcupofmilk]

Gojo x reader “Resigned Effort”

afab!reader

series: pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4 pt 5 pt 6

summary: half gojo’s pov- a drunken conversation ends your five year marriage w/ gojo

content warnings: breakup/sad, angst, arguing, divorce

word count: 1,309

© 2022 awarmcupofmilk

please don’t repost, edit, translate, use, or copy my works on any platforms (if you’d really like to please reach out – reblogs are welcome)

You woke up to a call from Gojo. You weren’t going to call him back, really, but then you thought maybe he left something behind while packing.

“Hello?” You spoke, hoping your stuffy nose from crying wasn’t too obvious. 

“Y/N? Oh, Y/N,” Gojo said with so much urgency, so much relief. 

“What?” You were confused. And a bit upset. 

“I…” Gojo began, then trailed off. Seriously, what was he trying to do?

“…Never mind. I’m sorry. Just, when can I go see Namie again?”

“I’m not trying to take her from you. You can come whenever you have time off work. Just give me a heads up.”

“Okay…” He trailed off again. 

You were annoyed now. 

“Just spit it out, Gojo. I don’t have time for this.”

“That time I went to Geto’s…” 

You froze. Reliving it was too painful. “Stop.” You said. 

“Ah,” Gojo didn’t stop. “So it was that time. What did I say?”

You couldn’t decide what was more insulting. Him being so clueless as to forget or having the audacity to ask you about it. You hung up. 

✧ 

2 weeks later

Namie tugged on your sleeve. “Is daddy coming today?”

She had stopped asking if he was “coming home”. Maybe she was starting to accept it?

You looked over at her and smiled. “Yes, he just texted me this morning.”

Namie smiled to herself, pleased. The sight warmed your heart. You stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. 

A knock on the door signaled Gojo’s arrival. Namie ran over and opened the door. He came with sweets and a bottle of wine. You pursed your lips, skeptical, but he handed it to you, clear that it was only a gift. 

You took the bottle with a nod and turned away to put it in the pantry. 

When you looked back, Gojo was listening to Namie, eyebrows raised in polite interest. Was it the novelty of shared custody that made him pay attention better? You snorted. 

Still the scene was sweet. You leaned against the doorframe to the living room, watching for a moment before joining the conversation. 

✧ 

You finally managed to put Namie to bed after reassuring her over and over that Gojo would come visit again soon. 

When you walked downstairs, the man in question was waiting. 

“You didn’t leave?” You asked, not unpleasantly. 

He shrugged. Then, with urgency, he repeated. Shamelessly. “Really, Y/N, what did I do?”

Your blood ran cold because you understood immediately. But you pretended like you didn’t. “What are you talking about?”

“That night at Geto’s. What did I do? Was it something I said?”

Was it something he said? You laughed out of shock. 

“I will only say this one more time, Gojo. Stop asking. We both know you’ve done enough to justify this just from what you can remember. Focus on that.” 

You waved him off, and he, after trying to find something in your gaze and failing, it seemed, sighed and left. 

Good riddance.

✧ 

Gojo couldn’t sleep. He knew whatever he’d done, whatever he’d said that night ended his marriage. You were so insistent on not telling him, it drove him crazy. 

He had to find out. 

✧ 

He arrived at Jujutsu High in the morning, and surprisingly, he saw you. He was about to say hello, but turning the corner, he saw a man with you. He froze. You were smiling, holding onto his every word, it seemed. Gojo felt his stomach drop. 

It wasn’t that he was jealous, he told himself. He was just outraged that you had moved on so quickly. How could you, didn’t this marriage mean anything to you at all?

Anger clouded his vision. He rushed forward, and you, turning towards him, said, “Gojo!” Surprised. 

The man was cordial enough, smiling. “Gojo Satoru, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

He had meant meeting “the strongest sorcerer”. But Gojo only heard mockery. It’s a pleasure to meet him? The ex-husband. 

“I need to talk to you,” Gojo grabbed your wrist and pulled you away without even acknowledging the man. If he’d seen the look on your face then, maybe he would’ve stopped. 

“What?” You snapped when the two of you turned the corner. But Gojo wasn’t backing down. 

“What are you doing?” He spat vehemently. 

“What do you mean?” You frowned, irritated. 

“What are you doing with some other man?”

You had to laugh. Because otherwise you would’ve screamed. “Why is that any of your business?”

“So soon after the divorce, Y/N? Don’t you have any self-respect?”

Now you weren’t laughing. 

“Self-respect? You’re talking to me about self-respect? I thought after our last conversation you’d actually indulge in some self-reflection. This is the kind of thing you’ve been thinking about? You make me sick.”

And then Gojo was alone. 

What was he doing? The realization hit him. He sighed. 

To make things worse, the man came around. “Hey, I’m not sure what that was about, but Y/N’s been looking into job opportunities,”

Gojo felt like he had been punched in the gut. “What?”

“They’ve been talking to me about recommendations.” 

Gojo stared at him blankly. 

The man frowned slightly now, unsure. “They want to get back into the field, I’m sure you know. (Gojo did not know. But he nodded. Stiffly.) It might be better for you to recommend them, you know, you being the strongest sorcerer and all.” The man smiled. Poor soul, he really couldn’t read the room. 

Gojo felt sick. 

And then he was alone. 

✧ 

Gojo kept calling you. You ignored him. You were talking with the higher ups now; you couldn’t tell if they were annoyed about the divorce or smug about having you back in the field. 

Still, it seemed like reentering would be smooth sailing. Takahashi already agreed to send you a recommendation, he had worked with you on a few missions back in the day. You had tried to spare the details of your private life. Not that he wouldn’t find out soon. 

The higher ups were, contrastingly, very caught up on the details. “So you’re really divorcing?”

This would be a long meeting. 

✧ 

Gojo caught you as you left the building. “Y/N!” 

You ignored him, walking past briskly. But he grabbed you by the wrist again. He has to stop doing that, you thought. 

“What?” You said, exasperated. 

“You’re going back to jujutsu?”

You paused, almost smiling to yourself.

“Ah, so you’ve found out.”

Gojo seemed panicked. Why?

“Don’t.”

“What?” He was sure making you laugh a lot these days. 

“I’ll pay alimony, just, jujutsu is too dangerous, don’t do it.”

“…but I’m not doing it for money?”

He stared blankly, mouth slightly agape. He looked like a fish. 

You sighed. Why did you have to spell everything out for him? “I miss jujutsu, I want to restart a career and find myself, I’m good at sorcery so it’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you almost recited. 

You honestly just wanted to leave. 

“No!” Gojo cried out. You weren’t sure what expression was on your face now but you knew it wasn’t pretty. “It’s not safe, what about Namie? I can’t take it!”

Something in you snapped. Why couldn’t he understand none of this was about him? Why couldn’t he understand he had nothing to do with your life anymore? And why was he so insistent on using your daughter against you? 

“STOP BRINGING UP NAMIE! STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE! STOP INTERFERING! STOP IT! STOP.” You screamed. People were turning to look at the two of you. But you didn’t care anymore. A tear slid down your cheek. You wiped it away hastily and ran. As you turned the corner, you choked out a sob. 

Why was he focusing on all the wrong things?

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✧ Masterlist ✧

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#jujutsu gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk x y/n #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk angst #gojou satoru x you #ex husband gojo #satoru gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru angst #gojo satoru jjk #satoru jjk #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo imagine #gojo angst

[agentrouka-blog]

Honestly speaking Robb should have fucking traded Jaime for his sisters, I have seen so many people defend him by saying the war was bigger than that but it really wasn't, until Robb made it so. He began the march for personal reasons, but when the lords made him king he decided to put them and the kingdom before his family.

I think GRRM is making it reasonably clear that Robb is primarily motivated by vengeance. He wanted to save his father and it didn't work, they robbed him of that opportunity by executing Ned, and Robb marries his sword in the godswood, commiting himself to violence, essentially. The lords respond to the crown's murder of their liege lord by spontaneously proclaiming Robb king. That's how the first book ends.

In the opening of the second book, with this new crown on his head, Robb isn't suddenly a wise and far-sighted ruler. He's still a fifteen-year-old who rushed South to accomplish a goal, no less than Jon was at the Wall. He's no less a child who shouldn't wield this power than Joffrey, than Dany, and the deference he is given to follow his inexperienced impulses dooms him no less for it.

The crown cursed Robb into having the power to make all the decisions. Where Jon was called back by his friends and was accountable to others, Robb was king and hid behind his lords' anger to justify his own priorities, seeking immediately to get rid of the one dissenting voice that spoke a language other than war: his mother.

Because she is right, even when she isn't insistent enough:

He pushed a fall of hair out of his eyes and gave a shake of the head. “I might have been able to trade the Kingslayer for Father, but . . .” “. . . but not for the girls?” Her voice was icy quiet. “Girls are not important enough, are they?” Robb made no answer, but there was hurt in his eyes. Blue eyes, Tully eyes, eyes she had given him. She had wounded him, but he was too much his father’s son to admit it. That was unworthy of me, she told herself. Gods be good, what is to become of me? He is doing his best, trying so hard, I know it, I see it, and yet . . . I have lost my Ned, the rock my life was built on, I could not bear to lose the girls as well . . . “I’ll do all I can for my sisters,” Robb said. “If the queen has any sense, she’ll accept my terms. If not, I’ll make her rue the day she refused me.” Plainly, he’d had enough of the subject. “Mother, are you certain you will not consent to go to the Twins? You would be farther from the fighting, and you could acquaint yourself with Lord Frey’s daughters to help me choose my bride when the war is done.” He wants me gone, Catelyn thought wearily. Kings are not supposed to have mothers, it would seem, and I tell him things he does not want to hear. (ACOK, Catelyn I)

Cat becomes lost in her argument because Robb is hurt by the truth and it hurts her heart. He is her son and her king, and this renders her incapable of properly confronting him.

It allows Robb to move past the moment, to ignore the pain caused by his own sense of guilt, to redirect the discomfort into removing Catelyn rather than admitting to what she said and forcing himself to be honest in his choices. Because the crown demands him to be responsible with his subjects and his country, far-sighted and unselfish. But he prefers the sense of power he derrives from it. The power to follow the more immediately satisfying impulse: vengeance.

#robb stark critical

[txttletale]

What's worm? I can't exactly google it bcs of the name but I'm intrigued

worm (2011-2013) is a web novel about superheroes by a canadian author who goes by wildbow. it was published serially over the course of two years and in that time managed to get well over a million words long. i think it's very good for a couple reasons:

it takes an approach to 'deconstructing the superhero genre' that i don't think i've ever actually seen--instead of something like the boys or watchmen it doesn't extrapolate forwards from 'what would superheroes be like if they were real', but instead extrapolates backwards from 'what real-life conditions would have to exist to lead to superheroes acting like they do in comics'. the world of worm is believable, well-drawn, and interesting to inhabit

it has incredible character writing. this might not be one of the first things most people associate with it but wildbow has an amazing capacity for giving characters, even side characters that appear for half a chapter, extremely intriguing personal and internal conflicts. sometimes wildbow will write a chapter from the perspective of a side character you never see again and it will leave you wishing they had their own novel series. also despite a lot of problems wildbow has with Some Demographics, most of these well-developed characters are the female ones, who get to dominate the emotional landscape and the plot in a way that's refreshing to see tbh

the protagonist is great. a lot of attention is paid by some fans to the fact that she's a smart problem-solver, and that is true--her power is 'controlling bugs' in a world where other people can fly and shoot lasers, so she has to get smart with it. but i like her mostly because she's an extremely traumatised freak making horrible decisions and justifying them to herself post-hoc constantly. it's fun and interesting to be in her head

worm gets away from a lot of the more reactionary undertones that the superhero genre often fails to escape by making powers an in-universe result of (and, on a narrative level, a pretty clear metaphor) trauma. they are essentially coping mechanisms exaggerated to the point of superpower--because of this it neatly avoids two genre pitfalls because 1. there is no 'some people are better and stronger from birth' angle and 2. it mostly takes a social view of crime--supervillains in worm aren't cartoonish forces of evil (mostly), they are people who are marginalized and desperate.

the powers are cool. this is lower down on my personal list of reasons i like worm than many people's but it's undeniable true. each character has a strictly defined powerset with certain inbuilt limitations that both work to say volumes about their personality but also make fight scenes fun and interesting to read because wildbow puts a lot of thought into how they interact

this is not intentional and worm is at times downright homophobic but i would be lying if i said this didn't play a part in how i and most people i know think about worm: a queer reading of the main character is very easy to make, and the intense and at times tempestuous relationship she has to the girls around her is damn compelling. don't go into it expecting 'representation' or anything, wildbow has insisted at length that the main character is straight. but fr shes gay af

now all this said: there's a lot of nasty stuff that happens in worm. there is a lot of body horror and a lot of insect horror. there are so many instances of bugs being forced into human orifices in this book i could have filled out this list with that instead. so if that turns you off give this one a miss. child abuse and violence against children in general is also something that comes up semi-regularly.

and to expand on something i said in the post that i assumed prompted this question--when these topics come up, worm does a very very poor job of handling race and a better but still not great job with gender and sexuality. the world outside north america is sketched with a looseness and a lack of research that borders on caricature (i can think of like five organizations/characters that were very clearly named through google translate). the pacing takes a huge hit after a certain event in the back half of the story, and it can be a little exhausting to read because it is both thematically and literally about constant crisis and escalation.

still, if none of that is a dealbreaker for you, i'd recommend it 100%. i'm definitely glad i've read it. it's a powerful story about trauma and authority and control that does reward the outrageous time commitment it demands. there's also a fanmade audiobook if that sweetens the deal for you. i haven't listened to it but i've heard that it's pretty decent for a volunteer effort.

#ask #long post #worm #girlbossgoroakechi #somehow i doubt 'really homoertic but in a homophobic way' will be a dealbreaker for you . tumblr user girlbossgoroakechi