#the first chapter is here

[inked-spirit]

It is time.

@09shell-sea09 @dulceringo @blacksea21090 @starkcravingmad @talafairy @fandom-hoard @everything163 @mysticsoulgirl @airis-hunter @fisticuffsatapplebees @jaytriesstuff @a-god-in-crime-alley @frostedthroughghost @the-fandom-hopping-mage @mrowtastic

@marchharesteatable @passivedecept @always-be-a-stranger @pennerjones @s1eepyreader (it says the last three don't exist:( and won't let me tag.)

That should be all of the tags at least.

Edit tags incase you guys wanted to know there's a fanfic:) If not all good:

@omnicrafts @halfblackwolfdemon @mortiferumsomnum

@fantastic-fic-found

#jason adopts baby danny au #the first chapter is here #dp x dc au #i dont know how to tag

[sp0o0kylights]

Wayne takes in a Beat to Shit Steve Harrington after Starcourt as n Owed Favor to Hopper Part 4

Part Three: link

First Chapter (parts 1-3 on tumblr) on A03: Link

The kid was madder than a wet hen.

Just as slippery as one too, when he got like this--music pulsing like a living thing to signal all his rage and upset. 

Not like Wayne hadn’t expected it. 

He just wished it wasn’t quite so damn loud. 

The music had started up almost immediately after Eddie had stormed to his room, startling Steve awake and nearly making Wayne curse for it.

Normally it was a good thing--music meant Eds was willing to listen instead of heading for the hills.  

Normally, they didn't have a house guest who looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear.

They had a routine for this, was the thing and the music was a key part of it. It worked all the edges off for Wayne, and he'd long figured out that about thirty minutes was a the perfect length of time for Eddie to stew before he could actually talk things through.

Given the hand Harrington put to his forehead, Wayne wasn't eager to give him that thirty minutes.

Not when Steve deserved little peace he could have.

Unfortunately, so did Eds. 

Still.

 Strutting through the door and demanding to talk right now was a bad move and so, with a sympathetic look given to Steve, Wayne did what he did best

Gave space.

Let Eddie rage, as Wayne got up and shuffled about the kitchen.

Pulled out the soft earplugs he pretended weren’t there for Eds to steal (playing that damn loud guitar all the time could not be good for his ears) and offered them to Steve, before making two cups of what Wayne privately thought was the Munson “chitchat” drink. 

One cup of hot water, one packet swiss miss, a small amount of maple syrup drizzled in, topped with little marshmallows they reserved for these types of situations. 

Wayne took his time with it, thinking through what he wanted to say. 

‘I understand that this is a screen door on a submarine kind of situation...’ 

Nope. 

‘Son I know you hate listening to anyone for anything but this is serious...’ 

Absolutely not--that would end up with the boy bolting for sure. 

‘Ed’s, I love you but could we please turn Ozzy off while we talk? That man wails louder than any damn cat I have ever met.’

That one was purely self indulgent, mostly because the wall was starting to shake. 

Wayne put the finishing touches on the cocoa before staring at both of them. 

Perhaps if he stared the Garfield mug in its eyes hard enough, the right words would come through. 

They did not.

He kept trying, standing there long enough for the cocoa to reasonably have cooled and for Eddie’s song to flip over to something with more screaming in it than singing. 

Wayne supposed that this was the hardest part of being a parent. You just didn’t get to have the magical one liner. The right thing to say at just the right time.  

The joke that would ease all the tension and let things progress forward nice and easy.

Instead, you got to fumble your way through the dark with a flashlight up your ass and hope you were going in the right-ish direction. Ideally without making things worse. 

Wayne was here though, and that had to count for something. 

(Knew it counted for something--because Eddie was still here. 

They had cleared hurdles far higher than this when it came to trust. They’d get through this too, come what may. 

Steve too.)

“Can I just ask,” Eddie started, aggressive as always when Wayne finally gave in and entered his room, feeling all sorts of awful for the migraine Steve had to have, “what the absolute fuck is happening?” 

Sure as fire he was sitting on his bed, leg bouncing a mile a minute.

An unlit cigarette hung between two fingers, looking a little chewed on, but otherwise undisturbed--as it should be, because one of Wayne’s few rules was that smoke stayed outside the house. 

“You could.” Wayne said loudly but agreeably, as he turned himself around and dropped down next to his kid.  

Held out the Garfield mug, and was happy when it was taken from him. 

“Figured you might have other things to say, though.” 

Likely a lot of things. 

It was as good an opening as any, and his kid didn’t disappoint, launching right to it. 

“Why is he here and not at a hospital?”

 ‘Here’ was punctuated by Ed’s hand winging towards the door, and while it wasn’t the righteous fury Wayne expected, it was at least, an easy answer to give. 

“Steve has some people looking for him. Bad people. Hospital makes him an easy target.” 

Wayne was still talking loud. Could only hear Eddie himself because he was looking at the kid’s lips more than he was actually hearing his voice. 

Eddie took that in, swallowing it about as well as he’d swallowed anything he hadn’t liked. 

And thank the stars above, he finally reached a hand out and turned the music down. Not a lot--Steve wouldn’t be able to hear them over all this--but enough that Wayne didn’t have to struggle. 

“We’re hiding him from the cops now?!” Ed’s spat. 

“Cops know he’s here. Hopper’s the one who asked me to take him.” Wayne reminded him, because it was the truth. 

Not the full truth, but given how Ed’s pissed off half the local PD on a good day, Wayne absolutely did not want to see his nephew take on Federal Agents.

(Particularly not the kind who were going ‘round killing kids.) 

“So--what?” Eddie yanked hard on his hair, a gesture that looked less intentional and more like he was trying to fight his own anger down. “Hopper just called you up and said ‘Hey, we had a whoopsie with the rich kid, the hospital’s not safe anymore. Can we stash him with you for a few days?” 

Wayne nodded once, slow-like. 

Always remembered how too fast movements had made Eddie flinch and jerk back when was littler, and given the way Steve was looking, figured it was a good time to be cautious again. 

“He did.”

“And you just--agreed? Just like that!?” 

“I did.” 

He pretended not to see Eddie boggle at him at the simple admission, so furious that he seemed to struggle for words when he normally had too many to say. 

Wayne took advantage. 

“We did talk a bit more than that, I’ll admit.”

Ed’s scoffed. “About the weather I’m sure.” 

“‘Bout trust.” 

Eddie blinked at that. 

“Trust.” He echoed flatly. 

“What have I always told you? People like to ask you to trust them, but you they don’t get to have it until--” 

“They provide proof or a reason.” Eddie finished with an eyeroll. “So which did Hopper provide then?”

Wayne took a noisy sip of his coca. Smacked his lips a little before saying: “Both.” 

Didn’t bother to say anything else, because he knew Eddie would finish the thought for him. 

“One of them was me, wasn’t it.” 

Eds didn’t say it like a question, but Wayne hummed in agreement anyway. 

He wasn’t gonna shame his boy, but he wasn’t gonna sugar coat Eddie’s involvement in this either. Not when he’d already admitted that was half the reason Hopper had gone to Wayne to begin with. 

“No one is expecting Steve to be here.” He said, seeing the chance to hammer home the most important part of this entire shitshow. “So long as no one finds out he’s here, he’ll be safe. Everyone will be safe.” 

Steve from the Feds who were hunting him for while he was busy being involved in shit he couldn’t control and Eddie because he had a mouth that most people didn’t like. 

Not small town people anyway, and absolutely not authority figures with guns. 

“Who’s even after him?” Eddie was theatrical as always, hands waving away as he talked. “Did he make a deal with the mob? Piss off some other rich guy? I know it’s not anything drug related, I’d have heard about it by now.” 

After years of experience, Wayne knew exactly how far to lean away to stay out of range, too used to his nephew talking with his entire body.

“That’s his story to tell ya, Ed’s. It ain’t mine. Same way it ain’t my place to tell him your story.” 

That at least got the boy to think for a minute. Put down that frustration he carried with him all the time, and use the brain they both knew he had. 

“How long is he staying here?”

Wayne shrugged. “Don’t know.” 

Eddie sighed and mockingly mimicked Wayne, taking an obnoxious slurp of his cocoa. “The neighbors are going to notice if he’s here more than a few days. The trailer park isn’t exactly big.” 

“They didn’t notice that time you decided to make fireballs with the cooking spray and about blew up half the driveway. Don’t think they’re gonna notice someone being quiet in the house.” 

Eddie snorted, and probably rolled his eyes again, not that Wayne could see it given the kid was looking into his own mug as he thought it all through. 

Wayne sat with him as he processed. 

Eds worked at his own pace with things, and while life at large might be against that, Wayne was happy to let him do it. Found it easier that way, then trying to poke and prod and force him like so many father figures did. 

Wayne’s patience was rewarded not even a full minute later, when Eddie turned to him and asked; 

“What if he finds out?”  

This in a quieter voice. An unsure one--words and body hunching in a way unlike the Eddie the world outside knew, but very much like the little boy Wayne had brought inside his home. 

It took Wayne  a moment to connect the dots--he’d been speaking out of the place parents and authority figures often do, and in doing so hadn’t thought much of the fact his nephew had a real secret. 

The kind small town minds didn’t like--and would kill him over. 

This all wasn’t about Wayne taking in Steve, he realized abruptly.  It was that Steve being here meant Eddie couldn’t be himself. 

Could not relax in a place he was accepted for who he was, because Wayne knew and made sure Eddie understood he was wanted here, had a place here, regardless of who he loved. 

Now, Wayne had gone and removed it.

‘Shit.’ 

“He won’t.” Wayne said. 

Knew that wasn’t enough, and so, promised: “But if he does, I’ll make sure he understands his safety here relies on your own.” 

Ed’s chin jerked in a nod, the two of them sitting in silence for a moment before the boy did as he often did when he wanted a hug but felt too awkward to ask for one, and tipped himself into Wayne’s side. 

“Thanks old man.” Eddie whispered into his shoulder and not for the first time, Wayne wished things were easier for the poor kid as he put his mug in one hand and hugged his kid with the other. 

Hoped that in the future, it would be.

Even if he had to force everyone and everything coming after him--and now Steve--to do it.

(Wondered vaguely, how bad it was that he was already getting as protective as Steve as he was of his own kid.

Probably very, given his kid clearly hated Harrington.)

xXx

Wayne took the first night of Steve’s stay off.

He wasn’t the type to use his PTO lightly. Was used to rationing it for any possible thing Eddie might need him for.

A night up sick when he was younger, to a night spent chasing him down during some of their bad spots--but the last year or so Wayne had slowly realized he hadn’t had to use it much.

He was still careful with it though, precious as it was, and was thankful for it now as it ensured his nephew didn’t murder their house guest. 

Or at the very least, didn't sit there pecking at him.

The kid might've failed English a few times, but he had a real gift with words and an even better one with insults.

(Wayne wasn't quite clear on what all the "King" jabs were about, and absolutely did not get why Steve looked far more hurt at the comment about his "sad ass floppy hair" but given the increasingly flat look Steve was throwing Eddie's way, Wayne figured it couldn't be anything good.)

Thankfully a pointed reminder about Steve's injuries had finally gotten them all some peace, enough for Harrington to drop back to sleep--and for Wayne to realize he looked a little too dead while he did it to be comfortable getting any sleep himself.

The kids chest barely moved, and that it ate at Wayne’s until he got up and shoved a hand under his nose. 

Felt his breath, and told himself the poor sod was fine. 

Hurt, absolutely, but alive. 

Over and over again, until the sun had made its rotation in the sky, bringing the morning with it.

‘Better than nightmares, I suppose.’ Wayne figured, as exhaustion scraped at his eyelids.

Those Wayne knew, would come later. When Steve’s brain caught up to the rest of him, and stopping dumping survival chemicals through his battered body. 

He'd given up on sleep entirely sometime around 1 am, and now he sat at his small kitchen table, writing out a medication schedule for Harrington so he and the kid both knew when he could have his next Tylenol. 

Wasn’t even halfway through it before Eddie made his typically late appearance and blew through his door. 

Had his back up from the moment he’d stepped a foot in the kitchen and it didn’t take a genius to see he’d worked himself into a snit again.

Unfortunately for him, whatever scenario that imaginative brain of his had cooked up fell flat to the reality that was the poor kid on the couch. 

Steve Harrington was one a hell of a sight.

Didn’t help that he was doing his level best to make himself as small as possible, curled deep into Wayne's ancient couch.

The blankets covered the ribs and hid away most of the damage, but there wasn’t much Steve could do to hide the shiners on his face--or the marks around his neck.  

Not when they’d grown worse overnight, practically inviting questions.

It was almost laughable how quickly Eddie ate whatever words he’d prepared, mouth awkwardly chewing around them as if they were tangible. 

The less-than-sneaky looks he threw at the younger teen were equally amusing, and if Wayne wasn’t trying to peace keep, he’d have given in and chuckled when Eds split attention caused him to pour half his coffee into the sink rather than a cup. 

Looked utterly lost when, after finishing putting his coffee together and grabbing some junk food thing that absolutely was not a breakfast item, he came to stand awkwardly at Wayne's shoulder, openly staring as Steve blatantly ignored him.

Eds didn’t know what to do, and Wayne couldn't blame him. 

Seemed to keep thinking he was going to encounter a boy that likely no longer existed, and whose blood tinged specter just made things sad.

Shit like this, Wayne knew, took a man’s ego and warped it, shaping it to something else entirely. 

At least for Steve, it seemed that getting wrapped up in whatever mess he had had shaped him for the better, instead of pretzeling him into something worse. That, Wayne thought, spoke to the boy's character more than anything he’d done prior. 

(It helped to know what Hopper tolerated and what he didn’t. That he’d vouched for Steve in the same way Wayne knew he’d vouched for Eddie, even if Eddie didn’t yet realize the cop he antagonized so much would do that for him.) 

That didn't erase the history his kid had with Harrington, though.

Wouldn't stop him from seeing the old Steve, first.

‘Don’t you got school?” Wayne asked when he decided Ed had stared enough. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie waved him off, trotting out the door. “Bye old man, house parasite!” 

It was clearly a jab, meant to nettle, but Steve barely acted like he heard it. 

Wayne rolled his eyes. 

“Goodbye, Eds.” He said firmly, much of a warning as he ever gave, and fondly watched his nephew scuttle out the door. 

Turned to see how Steve was taking things, and was once again given a reminder that Steve wasn’t doing a hell of a lot other than feeling his injuries. 

“I think I promised you a game, son.”  Wayne said gently, startling Steve out of the distant, dim look he had trained on the wall. 

It wasn’t a lot to offer in terms of a distraction, but it would have to do.

#small town rumors #this is the first part of chapter two #I will post all parts of chapter two once im done fighting through it lol #steddie #or pre steddie #where I exist as a person #best dad wayne munson #wayne pov #did I say this entire chapter was going to be eddies pov bc haha I lied #outsider pov #s3 au #hurt/comfort #enemies to lovers but like softish enemies to lovers as in Eddies not caring a whole lot that Steves hurt....yet #beat to shit steve harrington #0o0 fanfics #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #Eddies out here ready to face down snotty af rich boy king steve #keeps working himself up so much he forgets how badly off Steve is lol #dont worry his munson doctrine goes to shit later #mostly bc Eddie thinks steve stuck his nose where he shouldnt have and finally got what he deserved lmao

[courfee]

“Regulus would be proud of us,” James whispered quietly to no one in particular, still gripping onto the painting like a life raft. 

— Tender Curiosities, Baby!  @otrtbs

#ive thought about this scene for so long it just took me forever to draw cause once again the anatomy of cars is the bane of my existence #like originally i wanted evan and barty holding hands to be visible to have the contrast of sad lonely james and sad not lonely rosekiller #but alas cars wont allow it #ahb just still has my entire heart you dont get it #i have a none blurry rosekiller and a just james in front of blue with stars version of this but i think ill only put them on insta... #tender curiosities baby #art heist baby #james potter fanart #james potter #jegulus #rosekiller #rosekiller fanart #marauders #marauders fanart #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #jegulus fanart #jegulus fanfiction #fic: ahb #art heist baby! #mine #my art #hp #ahb #(sneaky end notes: i do have to admit i am not too pleased with evan and barty but this was my first time drawing them) #(so i couldnt figure it out quite yet hency why they look a little. less efforty...) #(also the snake ring is the same design that i drew for chapter 34 of ahb in my little chapter illustrations for my typeset) #((nvm i just checked back and i am fully lying here i used a different one for my typeset and now im vaguely upset oops) #(i shouldnt make decisions only half awake im going to think about this for too long now i am sad)) #((like suddenly i was like. hold up. i had a different design there didnt i... it was an open ring goddamnit))

[kyouka-supremacy]

You had to be there

#The first season 5 trailer dropped the first of June last year right? It feels like forever ago #With the very awkward ss/kk breaking through the window thing. And all the other ep3 previews #New chapter today!!! #osamu dazai #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd s5 #q. #s5 dazai frame #← You can find all of them here btw #* Edit new chapter tomorrow??? I'm getting mixed info lol

[feyhunter78]

Pink Pastels

Description: Single dad Miguel who replaced himself in a new universe meets his daughter's favorite teacher, you, who just happens to have a shitty boyfriend and doesn't yet know how much the O'Hara family wants you to stick around

Pt 2

I cracked y'all, and I blame TikTok

“Ms. Y/N, watch me, watch me!” Gabi calls, waving her arms in the air to catch your attention.

“I’m watching, go ahead.” You encourage her, smiling brightly when she does a successful cartwheel, her hair spilling from the loose braid one of her classmates had done for her during quiet reading.

You know teachers aren’t supposed to have favorite students, you tell each and every one of your students that you don’t have favorites, that you adore all of them equally. But Gabriella O’Hara holds a special place in your heart.

“Did you see, did you see?” She asks excitedly, running up to you, dark curls tumbling wildly around her shoulders.

You kneel down, and brush the hair back from her face, still smiling brightly. “I did, that was amazing, who taught you that?”

“My dad, he helped me practice.” She says, giving you a toothy grin, one front tooth missing from where she’d knocked it out eating an apple yesterday.

A tear-filled lunch that had been until you reminded her that now the Tooth Fairy would come visit her. The idea of a sparkly fairy leaving her money in exchange for her tooth dried her tears quickly, and soon enough she was proudly showing off her lost tooth (safely contained in a Ziploc bag) to anyone who would listen.

“Well, it seems like your dad is a very good teacher, then.” You say, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze before her friends dragged her back onto the playground.

You stood back up and rejoined the other first grade teachers.

“She’s adorable.” Janey says, nodding at Gabi who was playing tag with a few other girls.

Janey taught in the classroom next to yours. You started teaching at the same time, but she’d been hired at Steve Rodgers Elementary a year before you. Janey was the first friend you made when you got hired, and you soon became close friends inside and outside school.

“She’s so well-behaved, too; I wish I knew who her mom was, so I could thank her.” You say, a slight grimace on your face, when you watched two boys from your class begin to shove each other.

You called out to them, and they stopped, giving you guilty looks before running towards the swing sets.

“There’s no mom, she walked out on Gabi and her father after she was born.” Melissa says, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched her kids.

Melissa was a senior teacher at Rodgers Elementary. A tough love works the best teacher with the confidence of a god, and a nose for gossip like you couldn’t believe.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” You say, your heart hurting for the sweet little girl who always wanted to sit next to you during story time. Gabi had told you about her dad many times, but never mentioned her mom, you just assumed she was away for work often, or that they didn’t have many things in common.

You looked at Gabi, watching as she helped one of her friends tie their shoes. Sitting beside them and patiently demonstrating on her own sneakers. How could anyone walk away from her?

“It is, but her dad…he’s hot, I’ve seen him in the pickup line, he’s like a male model or something.” Melissa says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You gave her an incredulous look. “Melissa! That’s a parent you’re talking about.”

She shrugs. “Hey, I’m married, I’m not gonna do anything, but one of you could.”

Janey turns her head to hide her laughter, and you smack her arm. “Janey, hitting on a child’s parent is wildly inappropriate, besides I have Todd.”

Melissa snorts, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Todd was not a popular man around the school, especially after what he pulled on your birthday.

The bell rings signaling the end of recess and your kids begin to line up, ending your conversation as the three of you are pulled in different directions.

There’s a knock at your door, and you look up from grading papers, to see Janey. “Hey y/n, Gabi’s father is here to see you?”

You shoot her a look of confusion and begin to tidy up your desk, then stand, smoothing out the wrinkles in your baby pink dress. “Oh, yeah, sure, let him in.”

Janey disappears, and the space is filled by a giant of a man. He towers over the desks, making them look even tinier than they already were. His shoulders are massive, his biceps you swear are bigger than your thighs, though you could be exaggerating, but you’re honestly not sure, and when he fixes those dark brown eyes on you, and suddenly the floor beneath you feels unsteady.

“Mr. O’Hara, how can I help you?” You manage to get out, motioning for him to take a seat in front of his desk.

“I’ll stand.” He says curtly. His voice is deep, settling in your bones, the faint whisper of an accent, and confidence behind his words makes you nervous for a moment, then you recognize the feeling, not nerves…something else, something much more inappropriate.

“Oh—okay, is there something you need, is Gabi okay?” You ask, realizing she isn’t in the classroom with him.

“She’s fine, just sitting outside with her book.” He explains, his eyes piercing straight through you.

“Margaret and Margarita, right? Your daughter an exceptional reader, in both English and Spanish, you should be very proud.” You say, giving him a smile, hoping the compliment will soften his expression and make it seem like he didn’t want to murder you.

Melissa was right, Mr. O’Hara was gorgeous. With a strong jawline, high cheekbones, a mess of thick dark hair, and perfectly formed lips, all tapering down to the body of an Adonis, clothed in a white button up that stretched across his broad chest, and black slacks that clung to his muscled legs like it was their job and rent was due next week. But his expression was flat, his eyes cold, his stance rigid.

“Why did you lie to my daughter?” He asks flatly, looking down at you, as if you were a bug on his windshield.

You blink up at him in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be.”

An indignant expression flashed across your face before you could stop it, and you saw Mr. O’Hara’s lip twitch. “I’m not apologizing, I’m asking for clarification.”

“You told Gabi that the Tooth Fairy was going to visit her, I wasn’t going to do the Tooth Fairy , she doesn’t need false hope.” He snaps, leaning forward slightly, towering over you.

The hair on your arms stands up, but you brush it off as a stab of guilt goes through you. He was a single dad, maybe he couldn’t afford such frivolous traditions. “Mr. O’Hara, if this is a financial issue, I am so sorry. I should’ve tried to comfort her another way, my sincerest apologizes.”

“This isn’t a financial issu—comfort her?” He stops midsentence, his brows furrowing.

“She was upset because she lost her teeth, it’s her first one, a ton of kids get a little scared, but the promise of a reward usually clears those tears right up.” You tell him, holding your hands up in a pacifying way as you talk.

His eyes dart down to your hands, then back to your eyes, lingering for a moment on your lips. “I didn’t—Gabi didn’t tell me she was scared.”

“She was probably a little embarrassed. She talks all the time about how brave you are and how she wants to be just like you when she grows up.”

His expression softens.

“I actually—”you turn to rifle through your desk until you find Gabi’s latest assignment—“have something for you.”

He takes the paper from you, and you can’t help but notice how his hands dwarf yours, his tanned skin is scattered with small scars, and his calloused fingertips brush against yours. “What is this?”

“I had the kids draw a picture of their hero and then write a few sentences about why that person is their hero. I think she was one of a few who didn’t draw Spiderman.” You laugh softly.

He cradles the paper and a soft smile spreads across his face as he reads her writing under his breath. “Porque mi papá lucha contra los monstruos en mi armario.”

“I had to look that one up, my Spanish is terrible.” You admit sheepishly, watching as he reads her words over and over again.

“Thank you, for this, and for comforting Gabi.” He says, folding the paper carefully and sliding it in his pocket.

“Of course, I love Gabi, she’s such a pleasure to have in class.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and you’re struck by how similar he and Gabi are. They have the same nose, the same almost curls that frame their faces, and when he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side you almost burst out laughing. You can’t count how many times you’ve seen Gabi do that exact same thing.

“You know Gabi talks a lot about you, how pretty you are, she was right.” His voice is low, smooth, and sends a jolt through you. Then he takes his leave, with you standing there stunned, wondering what the hell just happened to you.

Eternal Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir

#meg's writing #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fanfiction #across the spiderverse #As almost always ao3 saw it first and the second chapter is already posted there!!!! #If you don't want to wait for it to be posted here! #not a request just a thought i had #Miguel’s pastels #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara #atsv miguel #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara scenarios

[mattodore]

playing with dionte's hair bc i'm procrastinating

#river dipping #dionte duval #lykos #ts4 #i do really love how dionte and nicholas kinda have a b4b (bald for bald) thing going on.... but that first hair........ #he looks so good... the urge to keep it is gonna make me develop a twitch under my eye... #i love the shadows the locs add btw like i personally loveee when hair creators add shading #like the DRAMAAA it adds!!! #also don't look too closely at him here bc i actually haven't updated him yet hence no proper edit of him (tho i probably won't change much #i'm really just supposed to be cleaning out the hundreds!! of duplicate households in my library dkhjnkfgh i just. get so distracted #i also have to fix mattodore's households bc i think i accidentally deleted the updated version of them at 20... #like there are multiple other saves?? but they're all with matthias's old chin??? like literally WHERE did the updated version go #so i need to clean out my library from the top down and fix their sims #i really messed my sleep schedule up the day before yesterday when i was working on those edits of delphi btw #but i did enjoy rewatching secretary and watching charade while staying up all night to do them <3 #also listened to the first two chapters of freedom is a constant struggle! editing may take me forever but i do do other things as i do it #...........talking a lot in these tags bc i'm seriously procrastinating jdkhnf i do NOT ! want to clean through my library it's a mess #OH. ALSO GOOD MORNING I FORGOT TO SAY THAT ‼️ #seeing this again two days later and seeing the amount of notes....... y'all weren't meant to reblog this kjhdkfjhndkjgnh #now i'm like damn... is there any reason to make his intro edit like i did for ria and delphi 😭😭😭😭😭

[demaparbat-hp]

Zuko was a child when he met Agni. Then, the spirits started coming to him. Eyes hidden in the hallways, voices pleading for help, for recognition, for remembrance.

Zuko could see Agni. He could see the broken remains of a Great Spirit and the empty smiles of amnesiac ghosts.

And they could see him in return.

#atla #zuko #avatar the last airbender #atla fanart #atla art #atla fanfic #prince zuko #New Gods AU #zuko fanart #zuko art #lu ten #uncle iroh #Eventual ZK #zutara #zutara au #zutara fanfiction #zuko fanfic #agni #Spirit Touched! Zuko #Agni is a character in this don't yell at me #This was such a blast to write. I honestly love this AU so much and can't wait to see what you guys think of it #Bit of a warning tho #It's pretty heavy #Deals with depression and mental health issues and...stuff #Word of advice! The first chapter truly comes to life after a second read. #The cover is a panel from a comic I'm working on~ #Which is the reason it took me so long to post this tbh. Wasn't sure if I wanted to tease The Perfect Prince or leave it as a surprise. #But here we are and there it is. So. #The Perfect Prince #Listen. Lu Ten is the most wholesome turtleduck ever and if anything happens to him I'll murder everyone in this fansite and then myself.

[taichouu]

Here is to 27 years of friends, cool monsters and laughs thanks to our wonderful Kazuki Takahashi. I cannot express how I hope he knew how deeply he was loved by his admirers and fans, even after his passing a little more than a year ago.

#coffee break #yugioh #yugioh fanart #yugi muto #yugi mutou #ygo #Today is the day the first chapter was released! (9/17/1996)!! #I CANNOT BELIEVE ITS BEEN 27 YEARS OF YUGIOH. THATS INSANE #I had so much fun with this piece.. I think this is my first ygo art i've posted !! #Yugi my absolute beloved #Also I never want to see another card again after drawing those #there are definitely mistakes here but .... i wanted it done today so

[bunnyreaper]

𝓷𝓸𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓸 𝒶 𝒿𝑜𝒽𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓅𝓉 2 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒

wc - 5.7k warnings - 18+/nsfw (eventually), cheating (not from reader or john), older male younger female, future daddy kink) notes - dropping chapter one just because i need to get it out of my head ! a lot of setup really, but i swear we will get somewhere soon!! also on ao3! ♥

The rain had been threatening to come for days now—thick grey clouds lurking in the sky like a promise, but so far no drops had seemed to fall. 

It's easy to get lost looking out the window, as the gunmetal sky gains an amber hue. The dinner you'd cooked had long gone cold—your boyfriend staying late at work again instead of coming home. It's easier now that it's almost a habit, to take your mind off things by staring at the sky, the record player crooning in the background. 

You suppose if you took him out of the picture, life wasn't all that bad. The house the two of you shared was nice and homey, your job was mundane and untaxing and exactly what you desired, and your friends were solid. 

James was the only sticking point, with his eyes that were never quite blue and his heart that was never quite yours. You suppose you knew deep down, without ever really knowing. 

The creak in the floorboards and the sound of a voice pulls you from your thoughts, bringing you back into the room.

"Knock knock." A sonorous voice rings out as a head pops around the door of the living room, before John Price—your boyfriend's father, makes his way inside.  

You force yourself to be present, offering an unbridled, warm smile at your guest as you playfully greet him. "Captain." 

"Darling girl." He replies, your smile mirrored on his face. He sets down a box of beers on the table and starts to take off his jacket. "Tried texting you to let you know I was headed over, saw the light on, and the door was unlocked." He explains, as if he hadn't made his own way inside before. 

It never bothered you, your place feeling more like home to John than his own little house on the other side of town. 

You rise to your feet, heading through to the kitchen on instinct—he brought beers, which means you'll grab the bottle opener for him before he even needs to ask. "Sorry, John, I kind of zoned out for a good while there." 

His footsteps are heavy as he follows you through, with an easy swagger to his steps as he brings through the beers to put in the fridge. "You should lock it even when you're in." Authority laces his tone, as he directs his paternal instincts at you.

"Yeah, I know." You laugh, nodding along, as you're so used to the way John can't help but look out for you at every opportunity. You move on autopilot, taking the box from him and setting the beers in the fridge before taking one, uncapping it, and handing it back to him.

His gaze follows your every movement, observing you as his thoughts tick over with every passing second. "Everything okay?" He asks, seeing right through you, as he always seems capable of. The concern that's clear in his voice almost makes you flinch—you get so unused to being cared for when he's not around.

You force a tight-lipped smile onto your face as you force yourself to whisper some excuse, even if it isn't too far from the truth. "Tired, it's been a long week." 

John's brows furrow momentarily, and the slightest frown plays at his lips, which you know from experience means he doesn't believe you, but he won't push it for now.

He wraps his hand around the neck of the beer, taking a deep gulp before wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "Where's James? The two of you should be cuddled up on the couch, unwinding." 

"Still at work." You shrug, turning away from John to try and find something to busy yourself with—currently, wiping down the counters and loading the dishwasher. 

"Guess I'll keep you company then." John chuckles, his voice soft. Despite only being here for mere moments, his quiet presence is already starting to lift your mood. 

You turn to him, naturally falling into a more playful spirit as you lean over the kitchen island, pausing for a moment. "Hopefully my company won't be too much of a disappointment then." 

"I don't think that's possible, love." He answers without missing a beat, his eyes serious even if the smirk on his face isn't.

John always knows how to make you feel better—you couldn't have asked for a better support system when it comes to your life with James. His mother is lovely, endlessly self-sacrificing, and sweet, but now more focused on her growing children than her adult son—especially since James never seems to appreciate her as much as he should.

She raised James without John by choice—rightly or wrongly deciding not to tell anyone who the father of her teen pregnancy was. John was leaving for the army and wanted a different life for himself than the one she and a baby could offer, so she kept the burden to herself and let him go. That's how she told it, that's how it seemed to be when James showed up at John's door over two decades later and confirmed his father had no idea he existed. 

The two have been making awkward attempts to make up for lost time in the years since, with you and your unfolding relationship witness to the whole thing. James had gained another father, you had gained... a friend?

"You say that now." You wink, knowing full well that you've found ways to exhaust and annoy John Price before. 

He takes another sip of his beer, longer and slower this time, as if savouring the taste. "Getting as much of you as I can before I ship out on Monday." He admits. 

Your heart sinks just a little. Even though it's been years of John disappearing to god knows where, it never seems to stop causing you to worry. How would James deal with it if he never came back? How would you? 

Like so many other things in your life with John, you've become practiced in the way you are around each other. Despite having a million questions, you know he can answer none of them, so each time he gets dragged off to someplace unknown, you find a silly way to get something out of him. 

Last time, you asked if the nation's flag had a star in it, and it did. You could almost imagine him in a different country every day that he was away, until he came back to you both. 

Today, you fell back on an old favorite. "Flip-flops or snowsuit?" You ask with a giggle. 

"Ha, flip-flops." He answers quickly, confirming that wherever he's headed, it's hot weather, he drinks some more as if to silence the rest of the words on the tip of his tongue. 

You know by now that John prefers the cold.

"Hopefully I'll be able to catch the kid before I go." He adds, referencing James—he always tries his best to say goodbye to you both before he goes, now he has a reason to come home. 

You grit your teeth at the mention of your boyfriend, knowing you won't see much of him this weekend either.  "Sunday is your best bet, he'll be hungover after the stag do he's going to tomorrow." The one he only told you about two days ago.

"Those were the days, eh." John smirks, tilting his head as if to recall a memory. As an army man, you can only imagine the shit he's gotten into with his squads, the places around the world he's gotten drunk out of his mind and done god knows what. He has so many years on James, so many stories you'd love to hear.

"Too busy playing lawn bowls with your comrades now?" You can't help but tease him as you always do, the two of you falling into your back and forth with a familiar ease. 

He tuts, sending you a playful glare that forces you to ignore the way it makes you feel. "Less your lip, young lady." 

You have to ignore the way that makes you feel too— fuck, you're lonely, and you need James to just fuck you already. 

"Absolutely, old man." You snap back, never able to resist the urge to tease him for his age. He's only in his early 40s, hardly an old man at all, but you still love to wind him up about it.

"You're the one listening to Otis Redding." He huffs, raising a brow as if to suggest you don't have any room to mock him with your own habits. 

You suppose you do listen to golden oldies, knit for fun, and prefer nights in rather than nights out.

"You're the one who bought it for me." You counter, as John had bought the vinyl for you, along with many others. If anything, he was transforming your music taste into his, one album at a time. 

"That I did." He chuckles, before finishing his beer with one final swig. You're setting a fresh one down in front of him before he can even ask. "You won't drink with me?" 

Perhaps he feels left out drinking alone.

You wrinkle your nose, catching a whiff of hops that makes your stomach churn. "Even you can't convince me to drink that swill, I'll grab something, though." You concede that at least, turning to reach the shelf up high to where you keep your liquor. 

John is offering his bottle up as soon as the clear liquid is poured into your glass. "Cheers, love." 

Your glasses clink as your eyes connect, a soft, sincere moment passing between the two of you that makes your heart beat a little faster. You were awfully fond of the older man. "To your safe return." 

"I'll drink to that." He toasts, before downing half of the beer in one go. "You still owe me the dinner that you promised me last time, I'm coming back to collect." 

"I actually have some I can reheat, it was for James, but since he's staying late..." You offer, your sentence trailing as you battle to keep your thoughts on the man in the room with you, rather than the one who isn't. 

"Can't let your lovely cooking go to waste now, can we?" He grins, deeply pleased to be getting one of your meals. 

You turn to the oven, pulling out the two plates that are still warm, food piled high on top of them. "Glad it's appreciated." 

John pauses, his eyes trying to meet yours, yet you continue to avert your gaze, focusing on grabbing cutlery for you both. You said too much. 

"You don't feel appreciated?" He asks, voice softer—concerned all over again. 

As you sit down beside him, setting the two plates down, you struggle to meet his eye as your feelings swirl and conflict inside you. If anyone offered the perfect understanding ear, it would be John, and under any other circumstance, you'd happily tell him all about what ails you. "I don't... think it's appropriate to talk to you about my relationship troubles." 

His posture stiffens, his voice hardens, and his food is temporarily forgotten as his protective instincts kick in. "But there are troubles?" 

Now, you find the strength within you as you force a laugh from your throat and a spark into your eyes. "Oh no, I meant hypothetically." You joke, hoping he takes the bait. 

Instead, a hand reaches out to settle on yours, warm and firm and reassuring—ebbing away at your propriety. "Love, you're a terrible liar." He whispers, yet unable to keep the smallest of smiles from tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Or you're just used to reading people for a living." You counter—after all, you tell James you're fine all the time, and he's never suspected any different.

"That too." John laughs, as he pats your hand and begins to rub circles over the back of your smaller hand with his calloused thumb. "You have to talk to someone." 

There's that commanding, authoritative, caring voice again—the one that makes you relent every time he uses it on you. 

"I will, just... not my boyfriend's dad." You whisper meekly, guilt stabbing through you as the words leave you. 

He nods understandingly, patting one more before he pulls his hand away, and goes to twirl pasta around his fork. "Why? I might be his father but a blind man could see the way he takes you for granted." 

Hearing the words out loud, verbalised by someone else—verbalised by John of all people, feels like a stab wound to the chest. You'd felt it for so long, assured yourself that you were just going crazy, ignoring the way James cares for you, assuring yourself that nothing was amiss. But John sees it too, sees it in his own son.

"Well, I don't think men who wouldn't take me for granted actually exist." You laugh bitterly, stabbing at your own plate of food before swallowing a bite—you're sure it would've tasted nicer when it was actually fresh. 

John's jaw clenches, a hint of frustration passing through him as he watches you, hurting and hiding it all away. "Then you're dating the wrong men, darling. We exist."

You take a deep breath as you try to let go of the ugly feelings within you. Men like John do exist, good men, caring men. 

"And yet you deprive women of your company, how cruel." Your eyes roll back sarcastically as the grin breaks out onto your face. 

Any woman would be lucky to have John, but for as long as you've known him, he's kept himself to himself. Now he preaches his own virtues like you have something to look forward to, and yet men like him always seem to be out of reach. 

"I'm a busy man." He shrugs, taking a bite of his food before rushing down another as gentlemanly as he can. 

"And yet here you are." 

He nudges you with his knee, flashing you a smile. "Spending time with my favourite girl." 

It takes everything within you to remain calm and remind yourself that he doesn't see you like that. You're just his son's girlfriend, that he happens to get along with, very well.

You giggle anyway, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of his statement. "Ah, waiting for the main event."

John sets his fork down with a clatter, his attention now fully on you. "Love?" 

"Yeah?" You swallow, wondering just how he's going to chastise you for your self-deprecation. If you had a pound for every time he's told you to be kinder to yourself, or gently corrected you when you make jokes at your own expense, you could probably afford to pay for the therapy you clearly desperately need. 

"I didn't just come to see James." He admits, the words a quiet confession.

He's right—the two of you have become fast friends ever since your introduction, and find nothing uncomfortable in each other's company as you wait for James to come around. 

You nudge his knee back, making your chair spin more than his. "You came for Otis and some lovely pasta." 

"And good company, couldn't ask for a better way to spend my evening." 

Your stomach flips at his words. You know he isn't flirting, but you'd be lying if you said his constant compliments didn't make you feel better than you had in ages. 

Maybe you should tell him about things with you and James, maybe he would have some good insight. After all, he must have a wealth of relationship experience under his belt.

"John..." You start hesitantly. 

"Bunny?" He asks, the intensity of his blue eyes firmly fixed on you—the nickname he reserved when he was feeling especially fond. 

The front door all but crashes open, and a frustrated growl rings out from the hallway as keys are thrown down and shoes are kicked at the shoe rack. "Fuck, I need a drink." 

James appears in the kitchen just a few seconds later, practically ripping his hair out the roots as he snarls to himself. His expression softens when he lays eyes on you and his father. 

"Hi." You greet him, feeling rather apathetic at his late appearance. 

"Hey babe. John." He nods, giving his father a manly slap to the back before he gets to work on tugging his tie.

"Alright son." John greets, lips quirking into a smile at his son's appearance. 

James steps forward to press a kiss to the top of your head, which you receive with a forced smile and no affection of your own. Both of you are blind to the frown that flashes onto John's face. 

As James pulls away, he rips his tie from his neck, bundling it up before throwing it at the hamper and turning away.  "I'm heading straight for a shower, I'll be back down soon." He calls out, disappearing up the stairs two at a time. 

"Yeah, see you soon." John offers, a hint of frustration to his voice—he's never been all that fond of his son's manners, as he's mentioned on numerous occasions. 

The mood feels a little stifled now, as both you and John eat your meal with an uneasy silence hanging over you. You hear doors slam upstairs as James makes his way around the house, likely leaving a mess behind that you'll have to clean.

You knew why you felt worse at this moment, your opportunity to talk to someone snatched from you by his untimely appearance. He's always late home, couldn't he have been a little later? 

What puzzled you was John's shift in demeanour—it didn't sit right with you. Perhaps he felt ignored by his only son, the one he'd been waiting for this entire time. It's funny, you supposed, the way you both find solace in each other over the similar treatment you get from the younger man. 

"Everything okay? You've gone quiet." You ask John, it being your turn now to play the concerned friend.

You know him well enough too to know his smile right now is forced—you don't need to be a trained SAS operator to notice the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Fine, love, just thinking." 

John was a man who could probably stand to think a little less, especially when he's at home. It's one responsibility you found yourself picking up all this time, as you tried to make his days away from war lighter.

You nudge him again, practically trying to force the playfulness into him with the push of your knee. "Well, we can't have that, can we? I hear it's dangerous." 

He barks a laugh, pulled out of his glum mood, and back into the room with you. "You never fail to make me laugh, darling." 

"Might be my proudest accomplishment." You giggle, feeling oh so pleased with yourself. "What would your soldiers think if they knew the fearsome Captain Price had such an atrociously bad sense of humour?" 

He rolls his eyes, but that bright smile that splits his handsome face doesn't waver. "Eh, not sure if it's atrocious, most of the lads' jokes make me groan." 

You roll your eyes at that comment. "Most things make you groan." 

"You don't." 

"Not for lack of trying." 

There's a solid second of silence before you realise the heavy yet accidental innuendo in your comment. You feel your face burst into flames, mortification taking over you as you meet John's shocked expression. "I mean—" 

"I know what you meant, love." His laugh warms you as he seems to take the whole thing in stride. "That blush is quite something, though." 

You throw yourself into your curled-up arms, hiding away as you're unable to look John in the eye any longer. He's your boyfriend's dad, almost twice your age, and you're making jokes about him groaning. It's a tough battle to force the thoughts out of your head lest you blush any harder. "I'm gonna go stick my head in the oven." 

"And ruin your pretty face?" 

"You're making it worse." You whine, pushing yourself further into the safe cocoon of your arms.

"I'll stop." John laughs, hand coming to settle on your back as he soothes you. "But it's nice to have cheered you up." 

"I suppose..." You sigh, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. Your blush abates as the two of you continue to eat until your plates are clean. 

 "All done?" You ask, gesturing to where John is setting down his cutlery atop the plate. 

"It was perfect. Thanks, love." He says sincerely, a hand resting on his stomach as if to add to the sincerity of the gesture. 

"Anytime." You smile, taking the plates and heading over to the dishwasher. "If I'd have known you were coming, I'd have gotten dessert."

John knows you wish you would've had more notice—even if he's had to tell you many times that you don't need to clean the house and cook a three-course meal every time he happens to pop over. "Only got the marching orders this afternoon." He shrugs as if to absolve himself of any responsibility. 

"Do you know how long you'll be gone?" You ask, voice quieter as you return to his side. 

"A month, probably not too much longer." 

A month was fairly typical. "Well, make sure you come home to us." 

Come home to me, you think selfishly. 

"Always, darlin'." His eyes burn with a promise, and a sense of joy at hearing those words. "Someone's gotta keep that old soul of yours company." He winks. 

"So, I'll get initiated into the bowls team soon?" You wink back. 

John finishes off his beer before laughing once more, the sound filling you with warmth. "Maybe you can be my pool partner." 

"I can't play pool for shit, John." You whine, remembering the last time you tried to play pool and ended up injuring yourself, as well as sending balls flying all over the pub.

"Guess you're due a lesson then." 

Once more, you're interrupted at the most inopportune time. 

"Keeping the old man company for me?" James asks, meeting your gaze over his father's shoulder as he rubs a towel at his dripping hair. 

"Somebody has to." John teases, more poking fun at himself than at anyone else, and the two of you share a laugh. 

You begin to mourn the light moments you've had, as the atmosphere shifts once more at James' arrival, and you feel yourself growing tense and unsettled. You watch in silence as James looks around for the bottle opener, and you make no effort to help or tend to him.

It's John who breaks the awkward silence. "I won't stay too much longer, leave you two to enjoy your night." 

You stand, the stool scraping back loudly against the floor as you do, making your hair stand on end. "Uh, actually, I think I'm gonna sleep. You should enjoy some father-son time." The smile on your face is polite and perfunctory. 

"Goodnight love." John smiles, soft and genuine, as he watches you walk away. 

James speaks up too, but the words barely register. "Night babe." 

As you reach the threshold of the kitchen, you turn back once more—John's eyes are still on you.

"Stay safe, John." 

"Yes ma'am." He nods, holding your gaze until you disappear up the stairs. 

You try not to think of the look in his eyes when you fall asleep that night.

———— 

Time seems to go differently when John is deployed. Despite not being anything more than your boyfriend's father, you're still always filled with worry waiting to hear from him. Outside his military family, you and James were the ones waiting for him to come home with bated breath, and with John's disastrous love life, you found yourself the only woman waiting to welcome him back to civilian life. 

As you stare at your inbox, waiting for anything to come through, you find your thoughts drifting easily to other things in life—to John.

You're his friend, if you can even call yourself that—but you miss him when he's gone. Back on English soil, he's visiting you and James pretty frequently, coming over for dinner or helping around the house—since James is useless with a drill. 

Things are different when he's gone, though sometimes you feel like you're the only one who thinks that. 

Your boyfriend doesn't worry like you do, despite being closer to the man, though James has never been the most emotional of guys to begin with.

Despite work keeping you busy, and friends inviting you out for drinks, you often find yourself waiting for a text, or anything from John—just to know he is safe. 

Your phone chimes one Monday afternoon, interrupting your monotonous work day with something different. The timing makes your heart soar, as it must be from John letting you know he's back in Hereford—the notification you see instead is the end of everything as you know it. 

A message request from an anonymous account: "I'm sorry for you to find out like this, but I couldn't keep the secret any longer." 

Attached to the message is a series of pictures, and a video from a bar, of James entangled with another woman in a way that couldn't be mistaken for anything else. You recognised the tie, the one he'd worn for the first time only a month ago—the one he'd thrown in the laundry before rushing off to shower. 

The nausea overwhelms you in an instant, sending you rushing for the bin beside your desk as the content of your stomach leaves you in harsh retches. 

Everything that happens after is a blur, as your co-workers rush to your aid—your closest work friend seeing the messages on your phone as she pulls you to the bathroom, cleans you up, and makes sure you get home safe and sound. 

She doesn't want to leave you alone, but you know that company right now will only make the whole thing worse. You wander around the house in a haze, tending to your chores like nothing has changed, and your world hasn't been turned upside down. 

That deep, unsettled feeling you've been getting as of late? It all makes sense now—why you never truly felt at ease around the man who was supposed to love you. And yet, a part of you felt relieved. Relieved that you weren't crazy, relieved that you weren't to blame for the way things had changed lately, relieved that you finally had the chance to walk away. 

You haven't stopped thinking about the text all day—wondering how the fuck you're going to confront James and not rip his head clean off of his body, how you're going to end your years-long relationship and upend because your boyfriend couldn't keep his dick to himself. 

The clock on the wall ticks away, counting down the moments until he comes home from work, late as always. At least now you know why. 

Your phone chimed again a while ago, probably whatever excuse he had cooked up—you hadn't even bothered picking the damn thing up to check the notification.  

A knock at the door pulls you out of it all, as you move on autopilot to go answer.

Did he forget his keys? Or has he gotten himself drunk to the point he can't put them in the door anymore? 

On the other side of the door isn't James, isn't your cheating, good-for-nothing boyfriend but John. 

His beard untrimmed and eyes dull—the scent of cigars rolling off of him in waves. "Hello, darling girl." He says his usual, as a smile tugs at his cheeks. 

"Hi." You offer in return, your voice almost completely motionless. Time seems to slow as you stare at the man before you—usually, you'd greet him with a quick hug and a bright grin, so pleased to see him safe and on your doorstep. Yet, the day's events have stolen that joy from you. 

John picks up on your mood almost immediately, head tilting in concern as his eyes roam over you. "Bad time?" 

"No." You shake your head as you step aside. "Come in."

John scrapes his boots against the doormat before he takes them off, along with his jacket.

"Tea." You whisper, snapping into action as you turn and head to the kitchen. You almost always make tea when he comes over—you don't even have to ask anymore. 

"Thanks, love." His voice rings out after you. 

Focusing on making the tea helps calm you somewhat, and you pull out two mugs to make a cup for yourself too. 

How were you going to tell John? The news would ruin him. How are you going to tell John that you'll be leaving his son's life, and therefore his? 

Your heart falls deeper into a pit of misery at that thought alone—the loss overwhelming you. 

"James home?" 

"Still at work." You whisper, not trusting yourself to speak properly without the bitterness unfurling and the truth spilling out. 

John scoffs from behind you, but you know he isn't really all that bothered. "Oh, right. No heroes welcome from my lovely son then." His sarcastic words are graveled. 

"Saves you from all his silly questions, I suppose." You shrug, still not turning to look John in the eye. "Though you put up with mine, so." 

"Yours don't ask me to break the law." He huffs, short and sharp, before he perks up again. "Didn't actually get to bust out the flip-flops this time, though." He offers, a hint at your last conversation. The weather was milder than he expected then, you suppose he was rather pleased about that. 

You let the silence settle over the two of you as you continue to make your drinks, focusing on the way the unfurls from the bag and changes the hue of the boiling water. Next is the milk, semi-skimmed because James doesn't like full fat—at least that's something that'll change for the better once you leave. 

The thought makes you freeze. 

"Love, what's the matter?" John's smokey voice is soft and sweet and coming closer—laced with concern. 

Your chest tightens, impending doom feeling like it's right over your shoulder—everything is going to fall apart in 3. 2. 1.

The milk bottle falls free from your hands, crashing to the floor with a wet splash—the cold milk is easily ignored as a hand comes to rest at your back, pulling you away from the edge of the abyss of your pain.

"Talk to me, what's going on?" His voice is more insistent this time, but still just as concerned. He ignores the pool at both of your feet in favour of consoling you. His features are knitted together in a terrifying amount of worry that makes you crack completely. 

"John." You whisper shakily, finally meeting his eyes. 

His baby blues are filled to the brim with care for you, with concern and confusion and a million unanswered questions. "Yes, darling?" 

"He's cheating on me." 

There's a beat before John explodes. It's not the bombastic, showy anger where things get screamed—he's quiet and seething and eerie, his words spat through gritted teeth. "He's fucking what?" 

Your whole body begins to shake as the truth tumbles free, solidifying itself as reality now it's spoken aloud. "He's cheating on me with one of his coworkers, Lucy." 

Not that it mattered whether it was Lucy or Georgia or some girl from the club or whatever. 

John stiffens—his shoulders squaring up, his jaw clenching and his body tightening like he's going to war. You've never seen John Price the soldier, but you imagine it's something like this "When's he due home?" 

"I don't know." You answer honestly. You don't know, and you don't particularly care. At least you'll never have to wait for him to come home ever again.

"I'm gonna ring him—" John snarls, shoving his hand into the worn pocket of his jeans as he grabs his phone. 

"Don't." Your hand shoots out to still his wrist, though you know the effort would be futile if he truly chose to ignore him. "Please." 

"If only I'd have fucking raised him." John seethes before launching into action, he moves around you to grab the kitchen towel, ripping off piece after piece as it soaks up the spill. He throws the half-empty bottle into the sink, as milky white sprays up the backsplash. 

"It's okay." You whisper, genuinely feeling that in a sense, it is. You've been betrayed, but at least now you'll be free. 

"It's not okay." John moves to stand before you again, his arms braced on your shoulders as he looks down upon you, craning a little to get closer to your height. "Love, you're perfect, you're too lovely for him, how could he hurt you?" 

"How could anyone hurt something so precious?"

"Not precious enough, clearly." You scoff, wondering where it all went wrong. Right now you felt the furthest thing from precious, from loveable and perfect and everything else John said. Fuck, you feel like you're turning him against James. "Sorry, I feel like I shouldn't be talking to you about this—" 

"I'm on your side, yeah?" He interrupts you with good reason before your thoughts can spiral any further. His grip tightens a fraction as his thumbs move, slowly and reassuringly, across the bare skin of your shoulders. "He's my son, but he's a fucking bastard for this. You deserve better, love." 

The sweetness in his voice makes you snap. Why wouldn't you have a man like John? So caring and kind and knowledgeable—older and experienced and so out of your reach. 

"I don't—" The tears start to flow freely, as you desperately search John's eyes for answers. 

"Shh, come here, I've got you." He pulls you in close, his arms wrapping around you in a warm, secure embrace. His smell surrounds you, the soothingly familiar smoke coating your skin. Lips press against your forehead delicately, as he holds you like he's holding every piece of you together, bit by bit. His body is like his presence—solid, unwavering, ever-present.

"I've got you, everything's going to be okay." He whispers, over and over and over again, chanting it like a prayer.

In his embrace, firm and reassuring, you might actually believe him.

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#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price #captain john price #john price #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfiction #lmaooo here we go #such a boring first chapter tbh but you know we need the setup

[buwheal]

Damn, Spam, did the cake taste that bad? - bad joke. Sorry you're havin' a rough day. We're here if you need to talk, or if you just need a distraction.

#his mascara streaks lmfao sighhh #that is THE FIRST TIME of 61 ASKS he has said thank you. by the way. #yeah the 60th ask was him bawling his eyes out what about it #wooo 40 till 100 #god /pos #you guys have done really well and have been really kind to him so I think its finally deserved #[you've got mail!] #spamton #spamton g spamton #deltarune #deltarune spamton #deltarune chapter 2 #this is probably so bizarre to people just starting to follow ygm #like i cant imagine what its like to happen upon some of the gnarlier ones #in the 'your tags' tab LMAOO LIKE DAMN #sometimes i forget how many people follow me (not including those who dont follow my blog but follow ygm) and liikkke... yowie.. and then i #forget because i cant really comprehend that #i always forget about that to be honest im just being silly and i never realize how many people choose to stick along huh wuh #THERES LIKE 700 PEOPLE WHAT THATS SO MANY #like as a big number i cant conceptualize that in like #visually. in a crowd. so i cant really fully understand how many that is. #but thats a lot i know that much. hiiii. 700 bugs. 700 insects crawling around in here!!! #me when i ramble in the tags accidentally aha #your treat

[vic-does-battlecats]

Minor spoilers for the already revealed chapters of the next A Starless Clan book Wind

#a starless clan #a starless clan spoilers #wind spoilers #asc spoilers #warrior cats spoilers #warriors #warrior cats #tigerheart #tigerheartstar #tigerstar 2 #tigerstar #Squirrelflight #squirrelstar #frostpaw #Nightheart #I’ve been wanting to draw this ever since the chapters were revealed and what better time than like two days til the book comes out #i actually think tigerheartstar is an interesting character in this arc he genuinely thinks he’s doing the right thing and he does honestly #want to help. he just does it by trying to crack dad jokes to lighten the mood while trying to run a group that doesn’t want him there #i also think it’s funny that he’s consistently just chill with taking in cats thrown out of their clans. ESPECIALLY from RiverClan #don’t get me wrong he’s super weird in omen of the stars and avos and I think in his super edition (I haven’t read it in a while) #but he’s also a good dad. he’s such a perplexing character I can’t help but find him interesting. at least he DOES stuff yknow #I’ll eat my words if he does turn out to be completely evil or something. but I’ll hate if he does his behavior really isn’t like Tigerstar #-the first. this guy isn’t out here trying to seize power #but ENOUGH ABOUT HIM!! Nightheart asking squirrelstar if frostpaw could come to thunderclan with him was so sweet #i wish she’d accepted I don’t want them to split up I’m worried the writers will forget the entire last book and they won’t be close again

[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

[bionicboxes]

THE SMOOTH TASTE OF [NEO]

#spamton #spamton neo #deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune #box art #he's very fun to play with both perspective and color with :) #idk what it is he's just fun for me to draw. makes him a good muse for experimenting #colors ended up pretty similar to the prior piece even though i was trying to do something else lol rip #edit just put both the spam man drawings here. #i wont delete the first post bc it has nice tags but idk. feel like throwing them together

[flowerandblood]

LADY STRONG & AEMOND CHILDHOOD

Some of the court discussed with amusement the fact that the King's second son and Princess Rheanyra's daughter had taken his wish very much to heart; after their betrothal was announced, they visited each other in their chambers and spent time as if they had long since stood before the Septon.

The young Prince treated his role as future husband with the utmost seriousness and surrounded his future wife with special care and attention. His niece appeared wherever he was – her joyful, lively, warm laughter could be heard from the other end of the Red Keep.

It was said that although the gods had deprived him of the dragon of his own, in blessing they had sent him his little lady, whom he easily bestowed his affection on. Even the gossip about who her father was, though the subject of great discussion and ridicule at court, could not obscure from him the smile of her rosy lips, the caring look of her bright eyes, the touch of her soft hand. It seemed that Prince Aemond was doomed to love and adore her, and she accepted his hidden weakness towards herself with gratitude and contentment, allowing him to easily fill her whole heart.

#the fall from the heavens moodboard #i just saw this little girl and said yes #this is it #these are my little babies #i won't give my adult female character face but here you have my little sunshines #they looked like that in the first two chapters

[oyster-mash]

Going back to my roots

#my art #sns #naruto #naruto uzumaki #sasuke uchiha #i was at first using 19days panel from the latest chapter but then I changed it completely lmao #as ref #shout out to my boys from 19 days for finally kissing each other its been 7 years #im one of the ogs and its a huge thing for me hdbudbsusbxj xus #anyways heres sns #sasunaru

[aurae-rori]

TIMELOOP AVENTIO AU SNIPPETS

so i did it

#aventio time loop au #time loop au #time loop fic #time loop #aventio #ratiorine #honkai star rail #dr ratio #aventurine #dr ratio x aventurine #hsr #snippet #fanfic writing #im so normal and sane #EAT UP MY CHILDREN #this may be the first chapter idk #who knows but here it is