#Warm Cold Night in the Nine Heavens

[kdram-chjh]

Cdrama: Warm on a Cold Night (2023)

Warm On A Cold Night #chinesedrama

Watch this video on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/d83WMbrKjyA

[dramasauce]

Warm On a Cold Night (2023)-Obliviously “watching the girl you like go off with her boyfriend”

[starlightsuffered]

Needy Boy Tries No Nut November (part 1)

Info - needy boy, no sex challenge, argument, teasing, attempted cock warming

“You,” I scoffed.

“Yes me,” he said stoically.

“The boy who came in me fives times on October thirty first is going to attempt No Nut November,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Me and my friends made a deal, I plan to stick with it,” he nodded.

“Do your friends know you?”

“I would hope my friends don’t know how often I enjoy cumming inside you,” he snapped. I could tell he was already regretting his decision.

“You didn’t happen to think to ask me if I was okay with going a month without sex?” I asked.

“You can still get off,” he shrugged.

“You won’t last,” I chuckled. “No way no how.”

“Yes I will!”

“No you won’t Timothée, you’ll be doing the walk of shame to your boys within the week, if not sooner,” I smirked.

“You’re so mean,” he pouted.

“Yeah, am I mean pretty boy?” I asked, running a hand down my body and lifting my skirt slightly to show off my lacy panties. He whimpered. I swung my leg over him and straddled his lap. I began to kiss him heatedly. He responded eagerly.

He was moaning into my mouth and I let him remove my shirt. He massaged my breasts overtop of my bra. I felt him grow hard underneath me and smirked, I knew it was time to pull back.

“Why, why, why d’you stop,” his words were slurred with lust.

“No Nut November Timothée,” I reminded him.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” He snapped.

Throughout the day I did little things I knew drove him crazy. I would put my boobs or ass in his face while getting something. I giggled a lot. I bit my lip. I was touchy with him. I even had a two fake phone conversations, one to talk about how I had to masturbate now because of Timothée’s decision, because he hated me masturbating. The second was about how much I loved his cock and cum and how big he was. Neither was too terribly odd me for, I was an open person so both phone calls were plausible.

Finally, night came and we slipped into bed. I snuggled back against Timothée and as I expected, he was incredibly hard. I reached back, pretending to need a blanket but I grabbed his full balls instead.

“Ohhh,” he moaned.

“Sorry, I mean to get the blanket,” I said and got it to add a layer of warmth. I nestled down, pretending I was trying to get comfortable, but really it was just so I could rub my ass on him. I heard a whine and smirked.

“Sorry baby and I bothering you?” I asked.

“C-could you face me?” He asked. I did as he asked and fluttered my eyelashes.

“Fuck, this is even worse,” he muttered to himself.

“Something the matter?” I asked innocently.

“Can I put my cock in you?” He asked.

“No Nut-“

“I won’t be cumming, just some comfort, quiting cold Turkey is hard,” he pouted.

“Sure Timmy, just don’t cum,” I reminded him. I hadn’t worn underwear out of habit. He nestled his cock inside me.

“Mmmmm, feels good, tight,” he said. I closed my eyes, and sighed happily. But then, thrust.

“Timothée,” I wanted.

“Just one thrust won’t hurt,” he said, but I caught him tugging on his heavy balls, trying to get some relief.

“Okay,” I said. Then he did it again.

“Timmy,” I giggled.

“Just, just, three more,” he begged, and thrusted three more times, his cock absolutely quivering inside me with need.

“Ohhhh, ho, ho, my baaaaaalls,” he wailed.

“Don’t worry baby, only twenty nine more days,” I said with mock comfort.

“Twenty nine,” he squeaked and then he was over me and fucking me harder than he ever had.

“Baby, your promise,” I reminded.

“M’not gonna cum, just need to feel good,” he whined. He was so fast and needy.

“So good, fucking love this cunt!” He gasped as he fucked into me wildly.

“Oh Timmy, you’re so hard, your big heavy balls are slapping me baby,” I heaved.

“Yeah they are, you love it when I fuck you don’t you?” He asked.

“I do, I love it!” I cried. “And I love your cum, wish you could fill me up.”

“Oh I wanna, need to empty my balls. Damn baby, did you do something different, you feel like heaven,” he whimpered.

“No Timmy just me,” I said, blushing at his compliment.

“Fucking love just you,” he said.

“Baby, you’re going crazy,” I said, watching his hips drilling into me wildly.

“Je pense que je pourrais mourir si je ne peux pas remplir cette chatte de sperme ! Putain de merde, putain j'en ai besoin, j'ai besoin de verser mon sperme en toi !"

I recognized some words that he normally said.

“You said you weren’t gonna cum baby,” I reminded him.

“Not gonna, just saying what I wish,” he choked out.

“I’m gonna stop,” he said and slowed down, but as he did he started going deeper, moving to an angle that felt particularly good.

“Timothée!” I cried sharply as his slow thrust hit me in a sweet spot. I came, arching and seeing stars as I whimpered his name.

“I’m not gonna, not gonna, oh fuck I’m going to! No, I’m-“ he cut himself off by unleashing a fountain of cum inside me.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whined as he filled me. Ten ropes of cum shot inside me as he panted. I moaned as I enjoyed the full feeling.

“You failed within twenty four hours,” I gloated.

“Oh shut up, I have my reasons,” he snapped.

“And they are?” I asked.

“One, I didn’t want to do it anyone, two, my friends don’t have access to your pussy, because they’d fail too, and three this is dumb,” he ended on a whine.

“Well to be fair I thought it was dumb too,” I said, gathering him in my arms.

“Good,” he said kissing my forehead. “Let’s go again, gotta make up for the day.”

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet t @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: Oh god the FLUFF

Notes: I did this one a little different, I tried sort of a true dual POV and it’s got me fucked up y’all-goddamn. Don’t ask me where the fuck this came from because I have no thoughts, head fucking empty. I just - I can’t, just read it.

Word Count: 1287

Series Masterlist

• March 28th, 2006 • Forks HS •

Reader

I give up.

Striding from my locker, I interrupt Jasper and his conversation with Alice, pushing him towards the familiar small alcove below the stairs.

I breathe heavily, working up the nerve to ask him what’s been on my mind for an ungodly amount of time. Fuck me, I just miss him so damn much.

“Can I kiss you?” I’m weak, weak for needing him so badly after such a short amount of time, I can’t even look anywhere else than the middle of his chest as I make my request.

He surges forward after a heavy beat of silence once I finish my question, he cages me against the wall, “Be mine.”

His words snatch the oxygen from my body, I glance up to his eyes, “What?”

“Come over this weekend,” his gaze is intense - staring into my very soul, “Let me apologize for the last six months. Give me a shot, darlin’.”

“Okay-” I don’t even finish my answer before he moves to grant my wish.

Oh god.

His lips lay themselves upon mine and I swear time stops. It’s a cliche, but everything else in my life no longer exists aside from his lips on mine. Cold and firm, but gentle and steady. A perfect match, non-dominating or in a hurry, but taking his time. As if he were memorizing the pressure, the taste, the way my own lips moved against his.

As if he were coaxing my soul out into the open, to bask in the warm sun that is his love.

Our mouths slotted perfectly together, familiar, the way my body clicked with his. My arms wind themselves around his neck and he kisses me deeper, more - I need more. Two magnets drawn together, two pieces of torn cloth restitched to be whole again, two halves meant to find their place in each other. I move, tilting my head and he responds in kind, an equal in every way despite our differing mortality.

I almost didn’t get this. This-this summation of feelings and butterflies an-and everything between us that’s built up. The lead weight in my stomach from this realization threatens to yank me from the cloud nine his kiss firmly perched me on.

Tears, fat and heavy roll down my cheeks as I grip his shirt desperately and he pulls away just far enough to inspect my face.

“Why are you crying, sweet girl?”

“I never… I never thought I’d get the chance…” My eyes remain closed, unable to meet his gaze.

“To what?” I can hear the crinkle in his brow just from his voice.

“To kiss you again.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath and I know my words cut deep.

I open my eyes, “You left me and it’s all I’ve ever thought about. I-I-”

“Darlin’,” his turn for his eyes to flutter closed, “I’ve regretted every day since that night. I regret my lapse in control, I regret not having a better grip on myself, to handle these urges.”

“Can you?” My lips ghost over his as I whisper my question, the addiction having taken root. “Can you handle it now?”

A shuddering breath exits his mouth and his eyes snap open, a rare display of my effect on the vampire. “No.”

The answer zaps through me, but he stops me before I could pull away. “No? Jasper-“

“You-I-“ a growl pushes to the surface, giving away his flustered state. “I can’t fucking think for god’s sake.”

Jasper

Fuck me, her mouth is pure sin.

I could lose myself in those lips and never care about resurfacing ever again. Everything she does, from how she tilts her chin to welcome me further, to how her body yields to mine and forms against me, it’s heaven. The burning in my throat is secondary to the pure bliss her kiss envelopes me with.

Not to mention her fucking emotions.

Need, happiness, hunger, relief, contentment. They just keep coming, one after the other and I swear it inflates my chest with a happiness of my own, like a thousand butterflies trapped inside the cage of my ribs.

Love.

It feels like two ribbons entwining, dancing in sync, twisting in ways that create a beautiful tangled mess not soon to be unwound.

Love?

This one is different, I’ve felt love before - it’s shines from Esme’s face on a daily basis, it seeps from the smile lines around Carlisle’s mouth, and it passes through me with every one of Emmett’s hugs. But this? This love? This love is flowing straight from her heart into mine, breathing life into something long cold and dead. This love is meant only for me, only to be shared between mates, this kind of love is meant to be secreted away and only examined in moments of vulnerability between two like souls.

I love her and she loves me.

The thought rocks me to my core and I cup the back of her head as she leans back a little, allowing me to deepen the kiss.

A wetness begins to trickle down her cheeks and it startles me from the trance of her delicious mouth, tears?

I pull back far enough to catch the tear tracks from her tightly closed lids, “Why are you crying, sweet girl?”

“I never… I never thought I’d get the chance…” She trails off, still hiding those gorgeous eyes from me.

“To what?” I furrow my brow, not quite following.

“To kiss you again.”

I inhale quickly to try and soften the blow her words deal straight to my chest. She’s yearned for this moment for months, just like I have.

She finally opens her eyes, “You left me and it’s all I’ve ever thought about. I-I-”

“Darlin’,” it’s my turn for my eyes to flutter closed, “I’ve regretted every day since that night. I regret my lapse in control, I regret not having a better grip on myself, to handle these urges.”

“Can you?” Her lips ghost over my own as she whispers her question, stealing the very thoughts from my brain. “Can you handle it now?”

I exhale a shuddering breath before my eyes snap open, “No.”

“No? Jasper-“

“You-I-“ a growl erupts before I could stop it, frustration at my own thoughts bubbling up. “I can’t fucking think for god’s sake.”

Will this girl ever learn that she controls me? That I bend to her? She has me wrapped securely around her delicate little pinky and she has no idea.

“I need to hunt before this weekend, but I will pick you up Saturday morning at your house.” I promise her, my nose gently rubbing against hers in a soothing motion.

“Okay.” Her breathless reply damn-near brings me to my knees.

“Darlin’?” I question her, slightly amused.

“Hmm?” Her eyes are closed, her emotions are just emanating absolute bliss.

“We still have half a school day to get through.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, her or myself.

“I’m not sure you can convince me to go.” Fuck.

“Darlin’, you gotta help me out here.” I scratch the base of her skull lightly to get her attention and it was definitely the wrong thing to do, her grip tightens on my shirt and her bliss burns a little heavier, almost suffocating me.

“Now why would I do that when I could just kiss you again?” Her eyes crack open, but I’m already in motion.

How could I argue with logic like that? My lips are on hers again before that beautiful pink mouth could part even a fraction.

Love, oh I could get used to this.

Next

Taglist Part 1:

@aoi-targaryen @min-jianhyung @pbbsl @timelordhunterandmysterysolver @sheerangermany @clearwater-hoe @Blackbluerose666 @ivy-plays @random-human02 @delightfulbluebirdstarlight @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @gaymazinglula @l3ejm @angelfuzzy2 @losa12308 @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @flyawayprincess @ropickle @catbusloki @deviat3dsn0wf0x @lovesanimals0000 @unrevived @h-naec @cutesnakemum @zudooms @itsmytimetoodream @stinkii-boii @acoolnight @anothercoffeeblogx @irishblend10 @from-now-on-im-switzerland @kyraslife2 @naolvshan @kiiwiigii @rosedpetal @kiaraandrea @foolsgoldxo @heartfilia01 @azuredgalaxies @geekysimmerthings @graciereads @ramen-girl-2424 @0hmydekiru @creeqvealley @cherriebat @whichwitchisthebitch @dragon-rider-with-a-book @secretfairytailpetscookie @psychobitchsthings

[hyper-fixated-delusions]

Singin’ in the rain.

Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

A/N: This fluffy goodness was inspired by Muse’s cover of “Can’t Take My Eyes off You.” (Mainly the second half of the song) I hope you enjoy! :) also there’s another A/N at the bottom, please check it out!

Translations: “Por favor, amor mio.” Please, my love.

“Yo también te amo mucho.” I love you so much too.

“Bebé.” Baby.

Word count: 896.

Masterlist.

It was the middle of the evening, on a cold, rainy day, Wanda was peacefully reading a book in her warm and cozy home when her girlfriend Y/N, sheepishly approaches the couch she's half laying on.

"Hey baby," you begin, waiting for Wanda's eyes to tear away from the pages.

"Hello detka," Wanda responds, her tone amused as she sees you standing in front of her, slightly rocking back and forth on your heels, hands behind your back as if you were a scolded child.

"It's raining," you reply, a dopey smile on your lips that causes Wanda laughter.

"Yes, it is indeed," she says teasingly.

"I was wondering, do you wanna go outside?" You say slowly, gauging your girlfriend's reaction.

"Wait, what?" Wanda chuckles, bewildered by your question.

"Yeah, do you wanna go outside with me?" You repeat again.

"Y/N/N, no, it's cold and it's raining," Wanda responds with a slight head shake.

"Please baby," you whine, "I want to dance with you in the rain," you pout, giving her your best puppy dog eyes.

Wanda sighs at the look on your face, "no, don't look at me like that, I am not going out in the rain," she says, turning her head to look elsewhere.

"Come on Max, please," you beg now, kneeling beside her, taking both her hands into yours as you try to get her to meet your eyes.

"Y/N no, what if we get sick," Wanda says softly, resolve slowly breaking as she looks at your bright eyes.

"If we get sick then we can just take care of each other," you shrug, as if it's no big deal.

"Baby..." Wanda sighs.

"Por favor, amor mio, just this once, I've always wanted to dance in the rain with someone, and seeing as you're a hopeless romantic," you say, with a teasing smirk, "I thought you'd join me without hesitation, please," you beg again, staring at Wanda with a small smile, knowing she loves when you speak Spanish, as you can definitely see her resolve breaking.

"But there won't be any music," Wanda adds as a weak excuse.

"Uh, hello, I think you forget that I am a professional shower singer, I got this babe," you say with mock offense, a hand on your chest as if you've been truly wounded by her words.

Wanda giggles softly, then releases a sigh as she stares at you, knowing that she won't say no, "okay, fine, you win, let's do this," she says, standing up from the couch and pulling you towards the door. "But if I get sick, I'm blaming you! Stupid cute puppy dog eyes and dumb Spanish," she mutters to herself as the cold air hits her and you laugh. "Okay, pop star, we're here, sing," Wanda says, rubbing her arms in attempts to keep herself warm.

You laugh at her frowning face as you pull her into you by the waist, her arms automatically going around your neck, "You're just too good to be true, can't keep my eyes off of you. You feel like Heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much, at long last, love has arrived. And I thank God I'm alive, you're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off you," you sing softly into her ear, knowing how much Wanda truly loves your singing, as she places her head on your shoulder as you both sway in the rain slowly.

But as the song progresses, you pull away and sing the next parts loudly, dancing wildly, going the whole nine yards as if you're a rockstar. "I love you baby, and if it's quite all right, I need you baby to warm the lonely nights. I love you baby, trust in me when I say," Wanda laughs at your antics, joining in immediately, head banging as she jumps in her spot as you sing, her hands doing the rock on symbol.

"Oh pretty baby, don't bring me down I pray. Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you stay and let me love you, baby. Let me love you." You sing, holding the note as you go down on your knees, your eyes closed and hands together as if you were praying.

As soon as you finish the song, Wanda pulls you up by your hands, a laugh escaping her as she presses her lips against yours, slippery and full of laughter, which causes you both to pull away.

"I love you so much," she whispers as she looks up to you, a wide smile on her face, eyes twinkling with happiness in the moonlight.

"Yo también te amo mucho," you whisper back, kissing Wanda a few times, "but what do you say we go back inside now, I know you're cold and soaking from this rain and I truly don't want you getting sick."

Wanda nods thankfully, "yes please, it's freezing," she shivers, grabbing your hand and immediately pulling you as she walks ahead.

But you pull her to a stop and pull her into you so you can pick her up bridal style and carry her into your home, "I know and I'm sorry, but thank you so much for indulging me bebé, you've made a girl's dream come true," you say and your girlfriend laughs in your arms as you walk into your home.

A/N #2: Thank you so much for reading! I’m still getting the hang of this so if there’s anything wrong, please let me know! I know I don’t post the way other writers do, like including a summary, word count, warnings, etc. cause I can’t think of much else. But if people are okay that way then so am I, if not I can start doing that, it’s just easier for me the way I’m posting at the moment. Also if anything were to ever get like too heavy or something I will definitely post warnings and stuff! Thanks!

[swifty-fox]

so would anyone care for a Kfak-Compliant Brady one shot?

Telling Major John Egan to jump is the first and last time Johnny Brady gives an order to a superior officer. It’s automatic, not-thought out. A knee-jerk reflex; if I don’t make sure this man gets off my ship he’s not leaving. 

He can’t go without him. The idea of facing Buck Cleven in a prison camp or in the afterlife however many hours, days, years from now and telling him he let his man die is unfeasible. It’s not how the rules work. Buck and Bucky make it, that’s the big rule. So if he breaks the little rules, ordering Major Egan to jump, taking him up in his fort even though he’s not supposed to be here, then he rationalizes it that way. 

It’s quiet up in the sky, the sound of burning screeching metal snatched away in seconds by momentum and gravity. He’s alone for the first time in years, and it’s a disconcerting panicked feeling as he floats helpless in blue, blue heavens. When he hits the ground, rolling his ankle and gouging a furrow in thick peat mud and without his Major, he realizes just because he made John Egan jump doesn’t mean he’s saved his life. It’s automatic, standing and testing his ankle on the strange moss-covered ground that pitched and wobbled like the deck of a ship with every shift of his weight. Sinks his teeth into his wrist until blood bubbles to muffle his cry when his ankle barely accepts his weight. Bundles his parachute and stuffs it in the mud so the white color doesn’t give him away and rips his insignias from his uniform.

It’s the best he can do.

It’s not more than two hours before he’s captured, gun to the back of his head and harsh German voices telling him to kneel. Mud that’s also blood coating his face and burning with a rage so hard he shakes. It could be the cold, sunk down to his bones with damp and unfamiliarity. Soil that wasn’t his by birthright, you don’t belong here soldier boy. This isn’t your gravedirt. It could be cold and grief and fear, but he chooses to name it as rage and grits his teeth as he limps on his bum ankles and tells the interrogator his name rank and number and recites his mother's recipe for soda bread when anything else tries to come up. 

Has Major Egan or Major Cleven come through? Did you pick up a man named Bernard Demarco?

They threaten to kill him. He’s reliably sure it’s a bluff, because there’s rules to all of this. They try to woo him and he knows that’s a bluff because you don’t make soldiers with kindness. He has his rules, he has his orders. He says nothing and wishes they would hit him so he could hit back. Wishes they would turn the blood he tastes on his teeth real so it feels less like terror.

They don’t. Everyone follows routine.

A RAF pilot binds his ankle on the train ride to the rest of his war, it rains and he cups his hands through the slats of the train to wash his face clean of peat-mud. Chill settles over them all at night, damp and horrible and he doesn’t sleep a wink, too aware of being surrounded by men who didn’t belong to him until David Solomon and Crank’s heads pop up from down the other end of the cart and the three of them fall together in a hushed pile of who made it who did they see who went down. Did you see John Egan? Did you see Bucky I got him out but I lost him in the clouds.

He wonders if maybe God snatched Bucky right from his parachute harness. 

He gives Solly his crucifix, feels mildly sick when it’s pulled from his slack fingers and almost snatches it back until Crank takes in the look on his face and presses his rosary into Brady’s empty palm.

“Here. It’s my sister’s anyway, she’d rather it be on the neck of someone who uses it.”

“Thank you,” it’s unfamiliar against his chest, warm from Crank’s body heat and a different shape. But it’s got fifty-nine beads like all the rest and he counts them one by one with frozen fingers and recites the five decades in his head until he falls asleep on Crank’s shoulder. 

He’s never been a good sleeper, even before he started dropping bombs. Now and then he rouses enough that he feels the phantom of his grandmother's fingers in his hair, gnarled from years of hard work and soft in their caress, brushing filthy strands off his forehead. It’s her spare crucifix around Solly’s neck. He thinks she would forgive him. He thinks she would find it a noble decision.

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

Such Effort III

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi x f!Reader

W/c: 1.4k

Warnings: Hospital talk (not medical per say), Kakashi waking up from a morphine drip (he's still a tad loopy), quick thought of him doing something he shouldn't, mentions of him snooping, mentions of a mission, mentions of death, swearing

Summary Post 🔮🔮 Masterlist

Previous Part

Forty-eight days and forty-nine nights. Six weeks and four days. 

Opening his eyes to the bright, white light surrounding him, Kakashi groaned, mind racing. He needed to find you, he'd been gone for so long. 

Trying the heave up, out of the strangely crinkly bed that Kakashi recognized to not be his own, his body felt like it had been mauled by a lion. Every nerve in his body, down to the tips of his toes, lit up with a searing agony. Kakashi stuttered, seeing only blurs moving around him before he felt two soft hands on his exposed shoulders, gently pushing him back down.

"No," he murmured weakly, lurching forward. "No, I ha-ve- to go."

"What's your rush?"

Oh, he was dead. Kakashi was in Heaven, speaking to an angel. He supposed he shouldn't rush then, but he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Kakashi wondered if Paradise had a section to view those you missed, still on Earth.

"There we go," the sweet, melodic voice hummed as Kakashi relaxed. He closed his eyes, the room still far too bright to take in. Would he just have to get used to that, up here? "I was worried you wouldn't come back to me, I suppose my worries were well-founded."

"I don't- not... you," Kakashi argued, vocal chords chaffing each other. "I need to- to... her... Y/n."

"That's funny, I don't remember giving you my name."

Ignoring the sting, Kakashi's eyes flew open. A blur stood in front of him, dressed in a light blue blur, holding a boxy, brown blur. He tried blinking, and the image of you began to come through. 

Again, Kakashi tried to sit up, this time more methodically. You put your hand back on his bare shoulder, a small bite of cold in your skin. Kakashi just smiled, pushing against your hand with his shoulder, enjoying the way he could actively feel your hand warming. You pushed a bit more firmly, chuckling, "Lie down. You got quite the scrambling."

"My girl," he hummed, taking your hand in his as he laid down. 

Kakashi kept blinking, now able to make out the fuzzy crescent of your smile on your beautiful face. Even blurry, you were breathtaking. He pulled at your hand, putting it on the center of his chest and making you stand right beside him. 

Dragging your hand up the dip of his chest, up his neck, and to his lips, Kakashi pressed a kiss to the each of your fingertips. Between each kiss, Kakashi mumbled, "My angel."

"You're not dead, Kakashi," you laughed gently.

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"Too formal," he whispered, breath fanning across your palm. Resting your hand to cup his cheek, Kakashi added, "Lovers never use each other's names."

"Lovers?" You repeated, a mixture of shock and amusement in your tone.

But Kakashi didn't care, pressing your hand to his face and letting the smell of the perfume on your wrist rejuvenate him. He confirmed, "It sounds even better when you say it, darling."

Your dulcet laughter was all Kakashi needed to see clearly. The veil of fog was lifted from his retinas, only to be blessed by the sight of you. Oh, you were so perfect. You looked so professional too, with your clipboard and pulled back hair. So different from the girl in the shabby cloak on a ribboned bike, yet the exact same.

"You're still a bit hopped up, off that morphine drip, Kakashi-"

"Hey," he whined.

With a roll of your perfect eyes, you corrected yourself, "You're delirious, sweetheart."

"Mm. Better, but I want something more lover-like next time."

"Stars above, anyway," you sighed, pulling your hand away so meanly to flip a page on your clipboard. "You'll be okay for discharge in a couple hours, and I'll be coming to your apartment tonight to drop off a prescription that I need to go make n-"

"Don't go," Kakashi gasped, grabbing your hand back. With such a force, though unintentional, he pulled you over his lap. Bent at the hip over his thighs, your ass was on full, glorious display. "Yeah, stay like this."

In his absentminded state, Kakashi's left hand hovered above your perfectly round ass. He faltered, unsure if he should smack you around, or if he should grip your flesh. Both had been dreams for far too long, and this opportunity far too unpassable.

Crawling off of him and back to your feet, Kakashi frowned deeply, letting his hand drop to his chest. Both hands empty, he needed to feel you in them as soon as possible.

"You get a pass, only because you're injured and high right now," you snapped, straightening out your skirt and blouse. 

A jolt of fear traveled through Kakashi's body, resembling what he had felt so many weeks ago, when you had mentioned someone he hadn't even remembered fucking. Being with that other woman, who's name again eluded him, was a monumental mistake - and Kakashi worried he had made yet another mistake of the same brand.

"No, no, darl-, please, no, I'm sorry," he babbled, trying to catch one of your hands again. You took a step back, eying him in a way that made his heart hurt. "Please, just stay with me. Please?"

After a terribly long beat of silence, you sighed and sat on the bottom corner of Kakashi's hospital bed, sitting right near the edge. Kakashi tried to sit up again, but a very real, physical pain made him wince and swear under his breath.

"I'm only staying, if you stay lying down," you chided, getting up to push him down again.

Kakashi sighed, still propped on his elbow, "I'll lie down, if you sit beside me. Properly."

"Fine," you said, sitting right beside his torso. 

"Thank you," he exhaled, letting himself drop back into the bed. It stung, but not as badly as the sting of trying to sit up. You smiled at Kakashi, making the pain dwindle to a dull ache. Trying to hear your voice, Kakashi prompted you, "Tell me about yourself."

"That wasn't the deal."

"Darling, I'm injured and high, can't you indulge me a little?"

You snickered at his comment, which made Kakashi feel a wave of pride wash over him. Damn right, he made you laugh. He was always making you laugh, and nothing made him feel better.

"I didn't expect you to be so..." The words died on your tongue, but Kakashi didn't mind, his thoughts racing to fill in your blank. You went on, "Alright, hm, I'm an apprentice medic."

Kakashi shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Something juicier, something I don't already know."

"Ah, so you did look in my file." Kakashi just shrugged, and you sighed, tapping your foot. He couldn't read your emotion, but he wasn't getting anything negative. You continued, perking up a little, "Okay, here's something that's not in my file."

"Yay."

"I've got a mouse."

Kakashi laughed brashly, so hard that it agitated his injury. You furrowed your brow as he chuckled, "That's not in your file... a mouse? Really? "

"Well, he hasn't got a house of his own, you see," you giggled back, playing with your sheer pantyhose. 

Smiling, Kakashi reached his hand out to your netted knee to feel the coarse texture. As he did, he looked up at you, attention very much focused on your angelically beautiful face. Angelic, yeah, that was the perfect word to use to describe you.

"What's his name?"

"I call him Gerald, but he doesn't respond to it."

Kakashi couldn't help but laugh again, "Gerald? A mouse named Gerald?"

"He's getting rather old, but he's a good mouse," you explained. Kakashi continued to snicker, making you chortle, "What is so funny?"

"Why'd you call him Gerald?"

"I don't know why," you responded lightly, bouncing your shoulders with a shrug. Your eyes roamed Kakashi's face, and he felt like you were coating him with Nectar. "It's a good name, for a good mouse."

Letting his laughter die down in his chest, Kakashi let his face settle into a smile. He looked at the angel sitting beside him, squeezing your knee as he grinned. No one was luckier than Kakashi, getting to have all of your attention on him, and him alone. 

"You're so pretty, Y/n," he sighed.

"What happened to our pet names, lover?" You teased, standing up. Kakashi's hand dropped down your leg as his smile downturned to a sour frown. You chuckled, picking up his hand as it dangled off the edge of his bed, "I have to go make your prescription, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay," Kakashi agreed hesitantly as you replaced his hand to the bed. "I'll be counting."

With that, his angel left the room, and Kakashi truly did start counting the seconds until she returned.

Next Part

*lmk how y'all feel i plead

[ageofevermore]

LIVES IN ME

SUMMARY — without a second thought, you sacrificed yourself to be with her again. without a second thought, you left natasha to carry out your memory alone.

AUTHORS NOTE — this is a part two to this fic. it can be read individually but i suggest you read the first part before this! you can thank @holiday-house-of-m for this lol

It fit tighter than you remember. Nine months since your last mission and nothing was going according to plan, but, what had gone according to plan since you lost her. The sleepless nights beneath your eyes are hollow and a tint of purple, and your combat knives don’t fit your palms the way that they used to. Everything feels off. Everything still feels empty. 

The consistent static that brews a melody in your head is misplaced by an urgent click, and then it’s Natasha’s voice that comes over you. The world has been colorless since that afternoon thirty-five weeks ago. At some point, you thought death only struck at night. How stupid of you to think such a thing. How naive of you to assume you’d find shelter in losing only in the dark. Now, sunshine brings you to your knees. Now, even a soft breeze reminds you of the stickiness of hot blood on your hands, and how your hair fluttered into your eyes and brushing it aside left her blood smeared across your face. Now, your heart is broken at two in the afternoon, and eleven at night, and five in the morning. After Wanda, you’ve come to learn that grief consumes you. 

“Come in, Y/N.” Natasha’s voice crackles. Her voice floats around you like clouds, or maybe cartoon birds from an old animated movie. She sounds so far away, so far out of reach you don’t even try to swim closer. “Y/N.” 

The second call of your name drags you from the trance you’ve settled within. Your surroundings become clear again, and it's only now you realize how the ground is soaked in blood. How the branches of trees house ripped clothing and broken knives and staffs and empty guns are tossed in piles on the field. The scene is a bloodbath, a nightmare. Is it your blood, or is it the enemies? You can feel a gash in your side now that you’re thinking about it. Now that you’re aware of the deep stinging sensation that rivals the numbness in your bones. You drop your knife, your lips wobbling. You pull your hand away from your side and blood coats your fingers. The end is nearing. “Yeah, Nat?”

“Retreat.” She wasn’t asking. The fear that curdled Natasha’s sweet voice turned it raspy and cold. Her calculated annunciation of each harsh letter would have been enough to provoke a physical reaction, a shiver down your spine, a pinch in your brow, a quiver in your lip, but now, standing here with her blood on your hands all over again, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look to your left where you knew she was crouched beside the quinjet. To you, she was miles away, she was out of reach, she was a wonderful thing you’d known for long enough. She was the end. 

“I’ve got a clear shot.” You cleared your throat, spitting blood onto the grass at your feet. Your throat burned from the blood the longer you stood still, the longer you allowed the gash in your side to remain untreated, the longer you let yourself melt into the warm breeze, the sunshine, the heavens. The longer you allow yourself to die. 

Natasha’s silence only lasted seven seconds, but it was enough to know that she understood. It was enough to promise you that she would be okay without you here. That she understood. Natasha didn’t need words. She said everything she needed to in her love, and silence was her greatest asset. “Y/N, if you do that… You’re as good as dead.” Her voice was small. You had never heard Natasha sound so unsure of herself, but she made no attempts to convince you to choose life. She knew you had died all those afternoons ago. She knew the version of herself she saw in your eyes had drifted to the moon the second your star crossed lover died in your arms. She just knew. 

“I’ve got a clear shot.” You repeated, narrowing your eyes at the target, tilting your head to the side the same way Wanda would. Her mannerisms were yours now. She lived through you now. But soon, Natasha would carry you both. Soon, you’d both be memories. Gunfire settled, the static humming dissipated, the stinging in your body melted away. You were so close to having her back. You were so close to relinquishing the weight of grief and pain. 

Without second thought, you charged toward the enemy. Without second thought, you left this life behind. Without second thought, you left Natasha and Steve, Maria and Kate, Peter and Ned. Without second thought, you abandoned the pain that had you in chains. With one glance at Natasha as you slashed the enemy with your blades, the blades that Wanda had gifted you, the blades with scarlet handles, the blades that you never forgot to grab, your eyes met across the battlefield. In only a second of eye contact, you said your goodbyes. In only a second, it was over. 

In only a second, you were gone.

[incorrect-mtg]

Flavor Text Highlights - Mirage

<- Previous Set | Next Set ->

Funny - Pacifism

For the first time in his life, Grakk felt a little warm and fuzzy inside.

Funny - Elixir of Vitality

“Eternal life or your money back.” —Unnamed Suq'Ata merchant, deceased

Emotional - Reign of Terror

“I don’t know what takes them; they die around me without time to scream.” —Scout Ekemet, final journal

Worldbuilding - The entire Love Song of Night and Day* *which I will put under a line break because it's super long AND I want to repost content from a Wizards article which is no longer available

<- Previous Set | Next Set ->

The full poem, taken from the article of the same name originally posted in 2003 on the wizards website (here) with footnotes explaining which cards quote it.:

Love Song of Night and Day by Jenny Scott

He (Night) / She (Day)

Wrap yourself in your best bright clothes, your red and purple scarves of silk. Run with me to the festival, where we will dance until sunrise. The dwarves will beat their funny drums of zebra skins and hollowed trees, while stiltwalkers perform, and the musician blows his bamboo flute.

And late in the night, the poets and storytellers entertain, delight us with their dancing words, as we listen, clapping by the fire. Enchant me with your tale-telling. Tell about Tree, Grass, River, and Wind. Tell why Truth must fight with Falsehood, and why Truth will always win.1

I will tell my father's stories: how the giant mantis fooled Death by holding still as a felled tree; how the elephants trampled the leopard cub, and its father, though he knew, killed nine goats instead;2 how pirates gambled with a djinn and lost the thing more dear than gold.3

Tonight we'll eat a farewell feast. Cold corn porridge is not enough. Let's peel papayas, pineapples, and mangoes, drink coconut milk, and bake bananas.4 We'll dine on crocodiles, wild birds, and turtles, perhaps a hippopotamus--if only you can catch it first.

I'll build a palace made of stone. Two hippo-headed guards will serve, and tigers carry in your meals. I'll capture flying zebras for your steeds, and fill the stable with every kind of unicorn.5 Butterflies and salamanders will decorate your garden.

I'll strand long strings of beads for you, blue, the color only kings may wear. I'll carve a soapstone lioness, a wooden box to lock it in, girded with sapphire amulets, ostrich feathers, ivory. These things will protect you while I'm gone, remind you of my love for you.6

Your voice resounds like a songbird's, every word is a sweet, soft song. When you run you're graceful and swift, sleek as a powerful panther.7 Mysterious chameleon, you're a thousand women at once, sharp and strong as a lioness, yet gentle as a striped gazelle.

On this our last day together, let us walk across the grasslands. Hold my hand and let's walk slowly, seeing everything as children. Let's walk on the Daraja Plains, where leopards hang from trees, dosing, tasseled tails swaying in the shade, near villages of tree-dwelling elves.

Glorious, to walk again across the savannah with my beloved. A lion walks commandingly, a general among his troops, camped the night before a battle. A snake, colorful and coiled, loops around his bough, mischievous, hanging over the village path.

We'll find termites in their nests, hard tall towers above the plains, and point-eared cats, taking their turns, guarding their many entrances. We'll find the basket-nests of birds hanging from the acacia tree. Rhinoceroses and dragons for once will let us walk in peace.

When lightning tears the sky's dark cloak and heaven's bird beats the water on the muddy plains with its big wings, termites and frogs escape their homes toward the lamps in the nearest village. Spiders dry themselves indoors, the spotted lizards that never fall from ceilings suddenly appear.

In the forest, fires light the sky as the black clouds unfold their weight.8. The black-and-white sacred monkey holds her children to her, and waits.9 Love, like lightning hits suddenly. It sparks the heart with blows of light, its fire extending, bends, expands, beats and breaks your hiding places.

* * *

Remember when we were children, herding the sheep together, leading them over the grassy hills with long sticks. Your silly songs made me laugh, and in the evening, you'd enchant me with your stories, lying on your back beside me. Even then my heart was yours.

I remember your sacred rites. You were so funny, so grown up, so stiff and serious, all arms and elbows. You went in a girl, but you returned a warrior. You marched back with the others-- your hair was cut, your eye tattooed with the red triangle of war.10

Tomorrow I must go, my love. I will tattoo my head with braids. My shield will bear a shining sun so you will always be with me. Inlaid with gold, it will shine like glowing embers.11 I will return with lizard skins for your sandals. Paint your eyes black and wait for me.12

I am the sun, you are the moon. Wherever you lead I will go, following across the wide sky, as long as I live and you love. Sun follows Moon until she tires, then carries her until she's strong and runs ahead of him again.13 I'll carry you, too, my beloved.

My love, we are not Sun and Moon. Instead we are like day and night. The old ones say Day is a woman, who works only while it is light. She herds her goats and catches fish, fills her fields with golden corn, shows her children what is just and protects them from the cobra.

Day loves Night, who works in darkness, walking through heaven's milky sky collecting stars with his quick arms, piling them into a basket like a child collecting lizards and piling them into her pot until the pot overflows with lizards, 'til the basket overflows with light.

Night wears a black cloak lined with fire, studded inside with gleaming stars. At dawn and dusk he spies his love. Across the rolling hills of sky, they glimpse each other--so briefly. They throw each other kisses, cry. Their tears spill over Jamuraa. Mixed with blood, they wash everything red.14

But once, with a magician's help, Time was stopped and Day stood still.15 Night spread over Jamuraa, wrapped Day in his dark cloak and held her. In their miraculous embrace, the two became as One. Until pulled from Day's arms, Night sank, commanded by the western horizon that always beckons him to come.

I won't give up hope, my love.

Our love is like the river in the summer season of long rains: For a little while it spilled its banks, flooding the crops in the fields.16 But soon it will evaporate with the dry heat. Like Day from Night, I'll live my life apart from you, just glimpsing you across the sky, because you cannot change, my dear, and nor can I.17

[1] "Enchant me…" - Village Elder, Mirage [2] "I will tell my father's stories… how the elephants…" - Wild Elephant, Mirage [3] "…pirates…" - Kukemssa Pirates, Mirage [4] "Tonight…" - early harvest, Mirage and Sixth Edition [5] "I'll capture…" - Zebra Unicorn, Mirage (note that "flying" was changed to "gentle" on the card.) [6] "These things…" - Remedy, Visions and Sixth Edition [7] "When you run…" - Panther Warriors, Visions [8] "In the forest…" - Flare, Mirage [9] "The black-and-white…" - simoon, Visions [10] "…you returned a warrior… your hair was cut…" - Zhalfirin Knight, Mirage [11] "My shield…" - blinding light, Mirage [12] "I will return…" - Femeref Knight, Mirage [13] "Sun follows…" - Chariot of the Sun, Mirage [14] "Their tears…" - Mortal Wound, Visions [15] "But once…" - Sands of Time, Visions [16] "Our love…" - Summer Bloom, Visions [17] "Like Day from Night…" - Unfulfilled Desires, Mirage

[konglindorm]

Shards of Glass: Chapter 1

    I lost Kai when we were nine. He went missing when we were seventeen.

    He was my best friend and brother and half my heart. It’s funny, how those feelings don’t go away. He was practically a stranger, by the time he disappeared, but he was still all those other things, too.

    (Manda’s still half convinced I’m in love with him. But Manda’s favorite game is seven minutes in heaven, and I’d rather get a root canal than go on a date, so there tends to be a fundamental breakdown in communication when we talk about that kind of thing.)

    Kai never came home Saturday night. His grandma reported him missing Sunday morning. By Monday—

    Monday was a snow day. It had been going on and off since Friday night, nonstop since Sunday afternoon. My parents were at work, and I wanted to keep Grandma company, but she was busy, with the police, and the—and I didn’t want to be in the way. So I heard it from the news, not from her.

    Local teen, missing two days. Last seen snowboarding at 3pm on Saturday. Snowboard washed up on the far side of the river. A glove and a boot found on the hilltop. Local teen missing, presumed dead.

    Kai missing, presumed dead.

    Manda called me right after it aired. “I know he was—I’m sorry.”

    “Kai’s not an idiot,” I said.

    “No one said he was.”

    “They did. They just did, on channel six—you think Kai would go down like that? Into the river? Everyone knows you don’t take the hill at that angle, because the Mississippi doesn’t always freeze.”

    “Okay, but Gerda, if it was already dark when he—”

    “He’s not stupid enough to be out in the dark alone, that close to the river. He’s not, he wouldn’t, Manda. He wouldn’t.”

    “Okay,” she said again, humoring me. “So what do you think happened?”

   “I don’t know. I just know he’s not dead. He—he can’t be. Not Kai.”

    Kai in the dark, squinting at me behind fogged up glasses. Kai laughing as he packed a snowball, Kai biking in the sun the day the training wheels came off, Kai in braces and glowers, Kai calling me names, Kai waiting at the back door with the snow falling at his back. Not Kai. Not Kai.

    He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. And that meant I had to find him.

    Boots—the heavy black ones that laced in the front. Snow pants—shiny, black, puffy, ugly, warm. The heaviest coat, the thickest mittens, with thin gloves beneath. My ice skating socks. Two scarves. That hat Grandma knitted for me for Christmas. Six granola bars in my pocket.

    Kai was a missing person, presumed dead. He was probably more than six granola bars away.

    He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. I grabbed a seventh granola bar.

     I had walked across town, down the hill, along the river, and into the woods, deep and deep and deeper, before the cold seeped into my shoes, before I realized what I was doing.

    I sat abruptly on the snowy ground. I was going to search for my likely-dead evil neighbor, alone, on a Monday afternoon in January, with nothing but the clothes on my back.

    He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. I stood up and pulled out the first granola bar.

~

    I’ve spent my whole life one wall away from Kai. Our families live in the two units of a townhouse, and our bedrooms share a wall. When we were kids we had a tin can telephone—we used one of Grandma’s needles with the biggest eye to pull the thread through the screens in our windows, then attached each end to a can inside our rooms. Whenever one of us wanted to talk, we’d knock on the wall, and the other would know to go pick up their can.

   We had to replace the string a few times, and the last one fell apart years ago, but the can still lives on my dresser, with a million other things Mom keeps telling me to throw away.

    The last few years, if Kai wanted to talk to me, he’d knock on the wall, and I’d go downstairs and meet him in the backyard. I don’t knock anymore—I learned a long time ago that the only way to have a relationship with Kai is on his terms.

    Manda says that’s unhealthy. I say Manda’s a hypocrite—she forgives people who keep hurting her, too. She says it’s different because Kai’s not my family. But he might as well be. You don’t stop loving people just because they become unlovable. I may not have liked Kai much, the last few years. But I’ll always do anything for the sake of the person he used to be.

~

    I know it started when we were nine, the trouble. That was the year Kai got glasses. It was also the year he got mean. (Unrelated.) He just got meaner and meaner. He had a special talent for mimicry that showed up that year, and he just—

    There was a huge rosebush between our front doors, and it made the biggest, brightest, best-smelling red roses I’ve ever seen, prettier even than the ones you can get from a florist. We were sitting just in front of it, holding very, very still, because there were a bunch of bees around. (Kai always liked bees.) And all of the sudden he shouted.

    I asked him if he’d got stung, and he shook his head. “Feels like something flew into my eye.”

    A minute later a bee landed on his hand, and he caught it—grabbed it by the wings.

    “What are you doing?”

    He shrugged. “I wanted a closer look,” he said. And he held it up really close to his face—I think he needed the glasses by then—but it was struggling, so it was hard to really look at. So he grabbed the stinger and pulled it out—because losing their stingers kills them—and then it wasn’t moving anymore, and he could get a better look.

    And it was so mean, and I was shouting at him, and then he just—dropped it, and he said, “I don’t—I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

    We dug a little hole and buried the bee under the oak tree in the backyard. But that was when it started. The day he killed that bee. It happened slowly. He started mocking people and stomping on ants and being rude to Grandma. But only sometimes. Other times he was nice. Other times he was still my best friend. And I just kept hoping he’d grow back out of it.

    (When your best friend grows up to be a jerk, you never suspect it’s because of magic.)

~

    I was twelve by the time I admitted to myself that Kai and I weren’t friends anymore. I was sleeping over at his house—we were already a few years out from being sleepover friends, really. But my parents have always travelled a lot, and until I turned fifteen and they decided I could stay home alone overnight, I stayed with Grandma and Kai.

    Kai still had his bunk bed back then—one bed for him, and one for a friend, and that friend was always me.

    I don’t even remember what he said. He’d been saying horrible things, and I’d been trying to ignore them, for a long time by then. I didn’t hang on to the things he said—I always just tried to forget them as soon as possible. But whatever he said that night, it upset me, more than the things he said usually did. It might have been about my parents—my adoptive parents, not my bio ones. Kai would never go there, even at his worst. Both sets are sore subjects, but there are lines Kai won’t cross, and there were more of them when we were twelve.

    My parents are my uncle—my bio mom’s brother—and his wife, really. My bio parents died in a car crash, and they were the only family left. At least, the only family we know about, because my bio dad was from Taiwan, and no one knew if he had any family left there or how to contact them. My parents adopted me because I was family, and it was the right thing to do. They love me, I think. They’ve had me since before I turned two. But I know they never wanted kids. So I’m touchy about it. That would have hurt my feelings, more than most things Kai might have said when we were twelve.

    Whatever he said, I climbed down from the top bunk and went to Grandma’s room; she was sitting up in bed, reading.

    “I don’t want to sleep in there. Kai’s being mean.”

    Grandma sighed and put down her book. She was hoping he’d grow out of it, too, but no luck, no matter how many groundings and timeouts and whatever he got. “Well, maybe you’re getting to be at the age where you shouldn’t be sharing a room.”

    After that I slept on the pullout couch, until Mom and Dad let me just stay home.

~

    I was thoroughly lost and down two granola bars by the time I thought of Grandma. (His grandma, not mine, not really.) To be told Kai was probably dead, and then that I’d gone missing—well, they’d probably find my body before Kai’s, even if he really was dead, because I didn’t go barreling toward the Mississippi like a first-rate idiot.

    We’re all she has left. To lose us both in the same weekend—

    And my parents. My parents—I’m the only family they have, too, and they’d definitely blame themselves if I wandered into the woods and froze to death when they were both working late again—and I knew I was going to freeze to death. I was beyond numb. I kept starting to fall asleep, and then the panic would wake me. I had no idea how long I’d been out—I didn’t have a watch, and it gets dark so early in the winter, it could have been less than an hour, or it could have been three or four. No one would miss me probably until morning—when Mom and Dad got home they’d just assume I was already in bed, so either they’d find my bed empty in the morning, or they’d leave early and someone at school would be the first to realize I was gone.

    I was going to freeze to death searching for a stupid jerk who was probably dead already, and there was no way Manda would ever believe I wasn’t in love with him after this—or anyone else either, and why should that even matter, when I was about to freeze to death?    

~

    We live in a cul-de-sac, with a huge circle of grass at the end, where the turn-around is—I guess it belongs to the city. But we used to build snow forts there every winter. Me and Kai—we were the only kids on the block, back then. There are some younger kids now, and I’ve seen them do the same thing.

    It was always a huge fort—we’d work on it for weeks. The plow would pile all the snow from the street there, so we had plenty of material to work with. We’d dig tunnels into the big piles the plow left. We were in there all day on weekends, and over Christmas break, until Grandma or my parents came to dig us out.

    Grandma would never come into the fort—she said her knees were too old—but she used to bring us each a thermos of hot chocolate while we were working. We’d go into the biggest cavern we’d dug out so far, and sit on the packed-down snow on the ground, pressed tight together, to drink it. No one makes hot chocolate like Grandma—I’ve watched her do it, and she just uses the cheap powder like everyone else, but hers tastes better.

    I was sitting on the ground in the woods, imagining Kai was pressed into my side, thinking of Grandma’s hot chocolate. And I wasn’t cold anymore, and I knew I was dying.

    Then I woke up.

-

Preorders open now on waxheartpress.com!

[agent-starbuck]

Jamestown, North Dakota

{REPOST} My first challenge! This fic holds a special place in my heart because I used to spend my summers in ND. I had to do some research on Sioux indian folklore, so I hope it's accurate enough. Thanks to @viceversawrites for beta'ing it and creating this challenge!

Mulder comforts Scully with a surprise picnic under the stars after a particularly difficult case in North Dakota.

_____________________________

He's been at the Stutsman County Sheriff's Office since seven o'clock this morning, sifting through piles of evidence and paperwork and following up on leads that have gotten him nothing. Nowhere. 

The dizzying flicker of overhead lights, along with the smell of old coffee and cigarettes, makes his head throb. He rubs incessantly at his temples with the pads of his fingers, willing the pain to subside.

He's not surprised that it doesn't.

He closes his eyes, wincing, as pictures of young girls' mutilated bodies burn into his retinas like a phosphorescent afterimage. He'll have to remember not to sleep tonight. 

The familiar ring of his cell phone pierces through his frazzled brain, and he scrambles across the desk to grab it, spilling a cup of water on his lap in the process.

"Mul-- shit. Mulder," he answers as he dabs at the wet spot with an old napkin that had been hanging around since lunch earlier.

"Mulder, are you ready to come get me? It's nearly nine o'clock. I feel like I've been at this for days, and I don't know if I can stomach another autopsy tonight."

Guilt prickles at his conscience like a cold, jarring rain. He feels like such an ass. Here he was feeling sorry for himself because he was stuck examining those grisly photos strewn across his makeshift desk all day, when it was Scully who had to face the horrors up close and personal. 

He doesn't know how she does it, case after case. 

"Of course," he replies. "Lemme just wrap this up, and I'll be there in ten."

His egress is swift. He stops only to stuff folders into his briefcase and clean up his mess before grabbing his jacket, and pushing his way through heavy steel doors to freedom. A warm, gentle breeze greets him on the other side, seeping into his bones and calming his weary soul.

It's dusk, now. 

Bands of colorful light stubbornly cling to the remnants of sunshine as they disappear behind the horizon-- caught in limbo between earth and sky-- waiting their turn to be swallowed by the darkness. Day and night locked in an endless battle for time and space.

The sky seems so much bigger in North Dakota. More so than any other state he's been to. Its awe-inspiring presence towers over everything, claiming dominion over the land and making anything tethered to the earth seem infinitesimally small. 

That's why he likes it out here. Back home, people call him a weirdo for always staring at the heavens. Here, it's impossible not to.

Here, the heavens stare at you. 

•••••

The radio station spits and crackles half a country song through the speakers before Scully reaches to turn it off with a sigh, bathing the car in empty silence. The cabin of the car vibrates as the tires beat a path through dusty, gravel backroads to their motel outside town.

They've had to wash the car three times since arriving here.

"You wanna eat at that truck stop diner before we reach the motel? The one with the really good curly fries?" He sends the question out into the void, his stomach growling for attention.

"No. I just want a hot bath and a bed." 

He steals a glance in her direction. Her wistful gaze is fixed upon the slideshow flicker of moonlit prairieland streaming past her window. She seems upset. He thinks he knows why.

"Look, Scully… this case. I know it's hard. I know what you're going through."

"Do you, Mulder?" she quips. "Do you, really?" She's turned to look at him now, her pointed stare cutting through him like a stone-sharp arrow.

"I think so," he says hesitantly. "This is probably one of the worst cases we've been on."

"Yeah…" she scoffs then looks away, as if composing her thoughts, before continuing.

"I spent my entire day cutting open the corpses of young, innocent girls whose families may never get the privilege of knowing or understanding what happened to them," she starts, her voice straining against the overwhelming emotion bleeding through.

"I had to speak with the families-- mothers and fathers and elder tribal leaders-- to convince them I needed to conduct these autopsies to find answers. That there was no other way," her voice begins to waver, and his stomach clinches at the sound of her holding back tears. "And I tried to do it with dignity, Mulder. I did."

He represses the urge to reach over and gather her small hand in his, unsure if now is the right time, if she'd at all be receptive to it. His fingers almost make the journey across the console before her voice startles them back.

"I fought this entire day with local law enforcement and coroners who treated these victims and their families like castaways. Who didn't think they warranted the kind of comprehensive investigation needed to solve this case because they lived on an indian reservation. Because they weren't white."

"I'm so sorry, Scully," he whispers, waging an internal struggle within himself, deciding whether or not to stop the car, to pull her into his arms, before ultimately choosing against it. They're almost at the motel. And he doesn't trust himself not to let things get too far. 

"I had no idea you had to go through that today. If I'd known..."

"There wasn't anything that you could've done, Mulder," she says defeatedly. "I guess… I'm just tired. I really just want to go to bed and forget it."

He understands, he does. He wants the same. Except he can't face that empty motel room of his alone. 

They pull into the parking lot and he kills the engine. The vibrations from their rough journey still linger throughout his body, his ears buzzing in the silence, and he waits.

"You, um, wanna come in-- over? To my room?" His voice is fraught with nervous anticipation-- a teenager asking his crush to prom.

"Mulder-- I… I don't think it's a good idea. We're on a case, and we decided to stay in our respective rooms. Remember?"

He remembers. His selective memory is just having a difficult time remembering why he'd agreed to it. Especially now when all he wants to do is gather her in his arms and make her forget this day ever happened. 

He wants to forget.

Continue...

[kdram-chjh]

Cdrama: Warm on a Cold Night (2023)

玖儿：好甜 像你一样 | 九霄寒夜暖 Warm on a Cold Night | 李一桐 毕雯珺｜❤︎ 爱奇艺心动剧场 ❤#shorts

Watch this video on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/VyDyldxjJ9Q

[dramasauce]

Warm on A Cold Night (2023)

[pixies-and-poets]

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Twelve

Last night all the horrible Things in life stormed through my dreams, And I just want to shut it up Shut it down, Or shut it off.

Author’s notes:

The next chapter, Chapter Thirteen, will be the last one.

Thank you for reading.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve - His Greatest Fear

It was just ahead of the morning sun’s first rays when Phantom carried Woodrow home, before the early risers of Palette Prime could see them return. He floated up to the large window of his third-story room, from which they had left, then opened it from the outside, entering and closing it behind them, leaving behind the somewhat indignant cloud. 

The two of them washed up a bit from being amongst the dirt and the leaves, but the feel of the past couple hours could not be washed off: the smell of the woods and the cool air of that night was part of them now, forever. For they had made a commitment in that forest, whispering in each other’s ears. They were together now, the fallen singer and the self-silenced poet; they were… many things. The word boyfriend made Woodrow feel giddy as a schoolchild, as if his heart could rise up into the heavens; the word lover made him feel warm all over, as if he could melt into the planet itself and become one with all its beauty. And the word partner made him feel as if he could fight off any force in the universe with his bare hands, with his darling by his side.

When the two had cleaned off - and cleaned each other off, to some extent, picking pine needles out of each other’s messy hair - they went back to bed, and did not leave it for a long time, until the light of the sun was well up. A warm glow seemed to fill them just as it filled the room; the kisses and caresses were endless, and everywhere- and gentle, of course, as Woodrow was still injured.

At some point the two both jumped at the alarming ring of the rotary phone near the bedside. Phantom reached over and picked it up.

“Hello? …. Oh, thank you, I shall be down for it in a little while… oh? Ah! Ah, I see… Tell them I will be there in a few minutes. … Yes, that should be fine. Thanks again.”

He hung up the phone. “Well, darling, your coat is ready. And- we have visitors.”

“Sweets and Dryad?” said the warden, propping himself up onto his elbow.

The other nodded. “They want to check in on you, which is understandable. Although they could have given some warning- it’s a little early…”

Woodrow looked over at the clock ticking away on a nearby wall. “It’s nearly eleven… I hadn’t realized.”

“Oh!” said Phantom. “Is it now? Time flies, I suppose, when… well, you know.”

He rose and quickly put on his favored outfit. Before he entered the bathroom to fix his hair, he tossed the oversized blue robe onto the bed. “You’d best put this on again,” he said. “You’re a little overdue for having your bandages changed, but - I hope they won’t notice.”

After a couple minutes the singer emerged again, having made his hair as presentable as he could in a hurry.

“Tom,” said the warden, sitting up and tying the robe around him. “Should we tell them? About us?”

“Well, I will leave that up to you. They are your dearest friends, after all.”

“Hmm,” said Woodrow thoughtfully. “...No. No, I should like to wait a bit. Until I feel better, and we can celebrate properly.”

“Fair enough,” said the other. “Hopefully that day is soon.” Then he left to go retrieve the guests. The warden sighed and laid back, putting on his glasses and tucking the blankets over him, the bed already feeling so cold and empty.

In no time at all he had returned, carrying Woodrow’s coat on a hanger (which he put into the room’s wardrobe), and leading the lumberjack and the Dryad into the suite. The forest spirit looked a bit anxious, as she usually did when further from the woods and confined within buildings in town; Sweetlopek’s home, fashioned as it was from a natural stump, was an exception where she felt comfortable. Nevertheless, her eyes lit up when she saw the warden.

“Oh, Woodrow, you look so much better already!” she exclaimed, rushing to his bedside. “Do you mind if I inspect your wounds?”

“Greetings, Dryad,” he said with a smile. “Go ahead.”

“Hey Woody,” said Sweetlopek, coming over as Dryad went to go wash her hands before dealing with the bandages. “You really do look good.” A fair amount of relief was on his face - Chipper, who was with him today, seemed quite pleased as well. “So uh, nice job,” he said, turning to Phantom. “Sorry about havin’ my doubts at first.”

The “doctor” couldn’t help beaming with pride; a feeling that only increased when Dryad took over changing the bandages and applying the medication this time, and declared that he was healing spectacularly. “You should be good to be a bit more active today,” she told the injured warden. “I recommend you go on a little walk with Phantom, if you’re up to it. Perhaps you should go to your house and get some of your things, if you’re going to stay here a while.”

The former singer and the erstwhile poet both agreed that sounded lovely. And later, after spending some time talking and passing time with Sweetlopek and Dryad, they decided to do it as a group, and then come back for lunch at the hotel’s restaurant. They made their way to Woodrow’s house, where he retrieved his beloved hat (which he put on above his new bandages), his umbrella and his bow-tie, thus feeling rather like himself again. He also tried to get his briefcase, to get some work done (warden work, not poetry)- but Dryad insisted he leave it behind. “I don’t really know much about politics,” she said, “but SURELY it can wait a few days.”

It was a lovely walk, and a lovely lunch, and a lovely day- Woodrow knew he would remember this day forever, at least its overall impression. Its events were already a blur, but the feeling of it all was irrepressible and swelled his soul to bursting. The sun was bright, the birds were singing, on his dear planet of which he had been given charge; he was with friends, he was in love and he was loved. How easy it was to forego poetry! What did he need it for, anyway? He had all he needed. The world was a poem in itself that needed no further belaboring.

It was hard for him and Phantom to keep their secret, and the time in which they had to keep their lips away from each other’s seemed to stretch on and on; but after lunch, when they bid their friends goodbye, they went back to the room and lost track of time again. 

Every now and then, a slight bit of fear would creep into Woodrow’s mind, like the foul tendrils of darkmess that had recently infested his planet. What of the future? What if he can’t, or won’t, stay on this planet much longer? What of YOUR future, you fool of a poet? You can’t run from yourself forever …. But for now, it was easy enough to drown these thoughts out in a kiss, an embrace. He would think about them later, or maybe… maybe… he swooned, dizzy with passion… maybe never. The future and the past did not exist. Nothing mattered but the moment.

That night as they were falling asleep, with the curtains of the bed closed, and holding each other, the warden asked drowsily, “Will you take me to the forest again tonight? To sing?”

“Of course,” said the other, lifting the tip of one of his partner’s pressed-down ears and raising it to his lips. “I will sing for you every night, and hopefully better and better, until one day I can give you a full song, a hymn of devotion, a full tribute to my love.”

“Mmmm,” murmured the other, smiling in the dark. But he fell asleep thinking, if only I too, could pay you a tribute… if only I could put all that I am, into showing you all that YOU are…

Phantom was up for a while yet. He was somewhat nocturnal by his ghostly nature, and not quick to fall asleep, even with someone by his side. He lay there, caressing the other, holding him, wondering how someone like himself, after all he had done, could deserve the pure heart of this gentle writer.

Woodrow murmured something.

“Oui, mon amour?” Phantom responded.

But the warden didn’t answer. Phantom listened closer and realized he was mumbling in his sleep. It seemed to be nonsense, largely unintelligible… but every now and then he could make out a word. Something about birds, and trees, and nests. Tom smiled softly, his heart ablaze. Gentle creature of the forest… even in his sleep he thought about the woods to which he was bound. How could he not give his heart completely to such a man? He fell asleep, feeling like he was melting with joy and affection into the figure beside him.

Hours later, the singer opened his eyes. He was naturally in tune with the moon and the stars, and had set no alarm, relying on his internal clock to awaken him when it was time to sing. 

And he realized, immediately, that he was alone in the bed.

He reached out his arm, feeling nothing; then sat up and opened the bedcurtains. He then turned on the bedside lamp and looked around the room, noticing quickly that the door to the hallway was wide open.

Phantom’s eyes grew huge in the dim light. He was gone… The ghost felt his whole body go cold with shock, with hurt… Well, maybe he had just gone out to get some air-

It was then that he noticed his beloved’s glasses still on the bedside table; his hat and his umbrella hanging up near the door where he had left them. He arose and peered into the wardrobe; his coat was there too.

Wherever he had gone, he had gone naked. Phantom grew colder still, feeling like a bag of ice, realizing it had only been a couple days since Woodrow had last wandered off semi-senseless at night, and what had happened then. He quickly threw on some clothes, including the large black coat he had wrapped the warden in yesterday, and rushed out the door.

Passing down the staircase, through the deserted hotel lobby and out through the front door (which also had been unlocked from the inside and left ajar), he panicked, looking around the quiet starlit streets of Paletteville, having no idea where to begin- and then he felt something damp around his ears. Relief of a sort washed over him - of course.

“Hello, little cloud,” he said, holding out his hand, and Jinx hovered over it- but not peacefully, for she was bobbing with agitation. In the starlight, he could barely make her out - but just enough, so that he could follow her quick movements away… down the streets… out of town… across the bridge.

Has he gone home? Phantom wondered, but the cloud led him in a different direction than the warden’s house, across the fields and towards the forest. Finally Jinx stopped at the top of a little rise; Phantom reached it, and looked down into a ditch on the other side, formed by a small creek that ran as a tributary into the river - a familiar white form was lying splayed at the bottom, the shallow water running past and over his legs.

The ghost dove downward at once, in a panic. He took off his coat and scooped his beloved out of the dirt and water, bundling him up in its fabric. Woodrow’s eyes were closed, and he did not appear too hurt, other than his existing bandages which were now quite dirty; he was breathing, and in fact, as Phantom picked him up, he started again with the mumbling.

But in a moment he came to his senses, awakened to an outpouring of kisses all over his face, interspersed with a chatter of “love” and “darling” equivalents in a great variety of languages. He blinked and looked up at the man holding him in the starlight. “Songbird?” he murmured groggily. “Where am I? Are you taking me into the woods again?”

“Tristan! You’re alright- you- you tried to take YOURSELF, amore mio. What in the heavens… were you sleepwalking, darling?”

“I…” the poet looked around him, confused as to where he was. “I… I suppose?”

“Come, let’s get you back home and cleaned off,” said the other. “There shall be no singing tonight, I’m afraid.” As he carried him back to the hotel, and the warden clung to him tightly, Phantom asked, “Is this something you do often?”

Woodrow shook his head. “Not… not that I’m aware. Of all the things that happen to me, sleepwalking is not a common occurrence.”

“Hopefully it shall stay uncommon,” said Phantom, “But from now on I shall lock the door to our room. Possibly even put a chair in front of it.” He kissed the top of his lover’s head, on his bandages. “We can’t have you wandering off again, senseless as to where you are and what you are doing. I am… so sorry I didn’t notice and awaken earlier…”

“It’s not your fault,” said the other. But he himself seemed increasingly worried, even guilty.

When the two were once again in their room, Phantom cleaned the other off with a warm and wet towel as they sat on the alcove-bench near the bay window.

“Dearest,” he said, “You must be honest with me. You were mumbling in your sleep last night, before I joined you in slumber, and… at first I thought little of it, aside from how endearing it was. But you were writing a poem, in your dreams, were you not?”

Woodrow looked down, the tips of his ears twitching, as Tom held his hand and wiped the dirt from his arm, inspecting for any scratches or further injury. “Yes, I think you are right,” he said. “The memories are vague now, but I believe… I was dreaming that I wrote you a poem, that I sang it to you, like you sang to me. And that nothing bad happened afterward.”

Phantom sighed, not knowing what to say. He went to the bathroom and returned with a fresh towel after a moment. “My darling,” he said, continuing to gently wash the other, “I cannot sing, but not from lack of desire. I wish I still could; I wish it with all my heart, but my abilities were taken from me. You, however, CAN pursue your art, your life’s passion, and you are keeping it suppressed. I cannot imagine the strength it must take… but there is no need for such torture. It is making you sick, my dear.”

“Well, Tom,” said the other softly, “It is as you said. It shan’t be fair if I write, and you cannot sing…”

“I don’t care about that!” exclaimed Phantom. “I just want you to be yourself. I want you to release what is inside of you, and I want to hear your work from your own mouth, even if I never sing again. For once in my life, Tristan Woodrow, I have found myself ready to put someone else above my own interests. Will you not let me have this?”

Woodrow gave a little whimper, still looking down at the carpet of the room, dragging his hindpaws across it anxiously and forming patterns. “There is more to it than that,” he said after a long while. “I will think about it, but…” he looked up, finally meeting the other’s eyes. “I’m happy that you claim yourself willing to accept any risk upon your person. But there is more to it. There are other reasons to silence myself. Perhaps someday, someday soon, I shall write for you… but I need to think about it. There are… there are things of which I myself am afraid.”

Phantom was silent, despondent. But he nodded, as he began changing his companion’s bandages. “As you wish, my dear,” he said.

The two had soon gone back to sleep, and passed the rest of the night without event, sleeping in past breakfast once again. The day that followed was similar to the previous in form, and yet… not quite the same. It was glorious, yes, filled with love… Dryad and Sweetlopek visited for lunch again, and Dryad said Woodrow could probably stop wearing the bandages by that time the next day. After lunch, when they had left, Woodrow and Phantom spent time on the veranda of the bed and breakfast together, chatting and people-watching, drinking pumpkin spice coffee and filling themselves with the fresh air and the light breeze.

And yet there was a hint of melancholy that occasionally crept into their joy. Every now and then the subject of poetry would come up, and Phantom would look at his partner, urging, pleading - and the other would look down, or away in shame. The ghost did not press it too far. And yet… he was beginning to wonder why. What was his secret? What was his fear? Why would he not listen? How hard did he have to beg?! Did he still not believe that Phantom was prepared to deal with any misfortune by his side? What did the ghost have to do to prove it…

That night, as they settled in together, Phantom indeed locked the suite’s door and moved the armchair in front of it - the warden had been clever enough to unlock the establishment’s main door in his sleep, after all. He had also put a few more dangerous objects safely away, as if childproofing the place. Despite doing the best he could to sleepwalker-proof the room, an air of uncertainty and misgiving still filled him as he lay down next to his beloved.

The poet was soon asleep, and Tom lay awake in the darkness for as long as he could; the murmurs began again, and paying closer attention, though he still could not understand every mumbled word, he could definitely make out in their form a distinct meter, and rhymes. Phantom caressed his lover gently, and after a time the murmurs ceased. He looked at him there, his long white form barely visible in the darkness… all he wanted was to keep him safe….

And then he was gone. The ghost blinked, and shook his head; it was as if the warden had simply disappeared in front of his eyes, but momentarily Phantom realized the truth: he had dozed off, and Woodrow had gotten up.

He shot upright and threw open the bedcurtains, turning on the bedside light. The door was still closed, the armchair in front; it looked as if it had been moved slightly, but the safety measures had worked. So then, where was- maybe he had just gotten up to use the bathroom- 

A clicking noise met Phantom’s ears, and then a low sliding of wood on wood. In the dim light he turned and looked to the far end of the room, to the large window, where Woodrow’s shape was now silhouetted against the starlight. He had opened the window, more than enough for his own slender form to fit through; he was leaning out, his eyes still closed, the breeze blowing his ears and wispy hair; he had one foot on the cushion of the alcove-bench under the window, climbing up… climbing out…

The singer was upon him in an instant, moving as fast as he’d ever moved in his existence, grabbing him, pulling him back in, slamming the window shut. Tears erupted from his eyes- if he had woken up a moment later…!!

He held the warden in a vice-grip of a hug, and he awoke near-instantly. “Tom! You’re freezing…”

“Because you nearly jumped out the window, sciocchino! You fool, you fool!” He kissed him frantically on the cheeks, the neck. “A minute later and I would have found you three floors below us on the street…”

“...Oh,” said the other quietly, trying to smile. “Well, I’m sure I would have been fine… I am a rabbid, after all…”

“You are a POET, is what you are. A stubborn, foolish, hard-headed poet. You are going to find a way to hurt yourself, when we are both asleep and I cannot protect you.” He took the warden back to the bed and sat him upon it. “Please, Tristan, PLEASE. Your affliction, as you call it, is going to happen anyway. You… you have to stop this charade. You are tormenting yourself. Your heart is suffering, growing ever-more ill. And mine is too, in the process.”

“My heart has never been so full and satisfied, Tom-”

“No!” cried the other, desperately, taking his shoulders. “You are giving me only half of your heart. Give me all of it, and it will be so much the better. For both of us. Give me the work of your life, and let me share in your destiny. Please, my darling… please, as I love you.”

Woodrow looked at him for quite some time, in the light of the bedside lamp. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and lay back down, turning away. He was shaking.

Phantom lay beside him, holding his body for a very long while, until the sobs ceased and he was still, fallen back asleep.

The ghost slept no more that night, his own tears coming intermittently and sinking into the fur of the man he loved. As the dawn began to enliven the room through the window, he knew what he had to do; and it would be the hardest thing he had ever done.

[nicklloydnow]

"Two Modern Noh Plays" by Yukio Mishima presented by Midtwenties Theater Society & 2019 Vancouver Fringe Festival

“POET: Listen to me. . . . I am just what I seem, a threepenny poet, without even a woman who'll look at me. But there's something I respect-the world as reflected in the eyes of young people who love each other, a hundred times more beautiful than what they actually see—that I respect. Look, they're not the least aware we're talking about them. They've climbed up high as the stars. You can see the glint of starlight under their eyes, next to the cheeks. . . . And this bench, this bench is a kind of ladder mounting to heaven, the highest lookout tower in the world, a glorious observation point. When a man sits here with his sweetheart he can see the lights of the cities halfway across the globe. But if (climbs on the bench) I stand here all by myself, I can't see a thing. . . . Oh, I do see something—lots of benches, somebody waving a flashlight—must be a policeman. A bonfire. Beggars crouching around the fire. The headlights of a car. They've passed each other now and are heading toward the tennis courts. What was that? A car full of flowers. Performers returning from a concert? Or a funeral procession? (He gets down from the bench and sits.) That's all I can see.

OLD WOMAN: What rubbish. Why in the world do you respect such things? It's that same silly nature of yours which makes you write sentimental poems that nobody will buy.

POET: And that's exactly why I never invade this bench. As long as you and I are occupying it, the bench is just so many dreary slats of wood, but if they sit here it can become a memory. It can become softer than a sofa, and warm with the sparks thrown off by living people. . . . When you sit here it becomes cold as a grave, like a bench put together out of slabs of tombstones. I can't bear that.

OLD WOMAN: You're young and inexperienced, you still haven't the eyes to see things. You say the benches where they sit, those snotty-faced shop clerks with their whores, are alive? Don't be silly. They're petting on their graves. Look, how deathly pale their faces look in the greenish street light that comes through the leaves. Their eyes are shut, the men and women both. Don't they look like corpses? They're dying as they make love. (Sniffs around her.) There's a smell of flowers, all right. The flowers in the park are very fragrant at night, just like those inside a coffin. Those lovers are all buried in the smell of the flowers, like so many dead men. You and I are the only live ones.

POET: (Laughs.) What a joke! You think you're more alive than they are?

OLD WOMAN: Of course I do. I'm ninety-nine years old, and look how healthy I am.

POET: Ninety-nine?

OLD WOMAN: (turning her face into the light) Take a good look.”

“OLD WOMAN: I know what the face looks like of someone who's come back to life—I've seen it often enough. It wears an expression of horrible boredom, and that expression is what I like. . . . Long ago, when I was young, I never had the sensation of being alive unless my head was all awhirl. I only felt I was living when I forgot myself completely. Since then I have realized my mistake. When the world seems wonderful to live in, and the meanest little flower looks big as a dome, and flying doves sing as they go by with human voices . . . when, I mean, everyone in the whole world says "Good morning" joyously to everyone else, and things you've been searching for ten years turn up in the back of a cupboard, and every girl looks like an empress . . . when you feel as if roses are blooming on the dead rose trees, then—idiotic things like that happened to me once every ten days when I was young, but now when I think of it, I realize I was dying as it happened. . . . The worse the liquor, the quicker you get drunk. In the midst of my drunkenness, in the midst of those sentimental feelings and my tears, I was dying. . . . Since then, I've made it a rule not to drink. That's the secret of my long life.

РОЕТ: (teasing her) Oh! And tell me, old lady, what is your reason for living?

OLD WOMAN: My reason? Don't be ridiculous! Isn't the very fact of existing a reason in itself? I'm not a horse that runs because it wants a carrot. Horses, anyway, run because that's the way they're made.”

- Yukio Mishima, ‘Sotoba Komachi’ (1956)

[farfromstrange]

Foreigner's God | m.m

Matt Murdock x avenger!OFC

Bonus Chapter twenty-nine: Haunted

Summary: The world from Matt's point of view after Eliza left to find her father.

Warnings: angst, slight smut (masturbation, talk about sex), slight fluff but it turns into angst, sensory overload

a/n: I am posting this to celebrate 128 followers! This is dedicated to each and every one of you and I have to thank you for your support! You guys have made the past couple of months extremely enjoyable and made me feel confident in my work. You have reignited my passion for writing, spurred on my creativity and altogether gave me something to look forward to every day. For that, I am eternally grateful. This is not necessarily crucial to the storyline, but I didn't give you any Matt in the last chapter and I thought, why not? There are always two sides to every story, and my mind has been coming up with scenarios for the two of them for a while now. Thank you again and I hope you have a lovely day, night or whatever time it is where you live! I love you with my whole heart.

“I know you’re awake.”

She curled further into the comfort of the silk sheets, the mattress heaven she could easily escape to. 

He brushed her wild hair behind her ear, revealing her face. The faintest blush rested on her cheeks due to the heat that pooled under the blanket. Her nose scrunched at his sudden touch, his fingers as cold as always. 

“I don’t know what you think fake snoring is gonna get you,” Matt said, “but you are a terrible fake sleeper.”

She snorted. Her tired voice turned into soft giggles, yet she kept her eyes closed and face squished into the pillow under her head. 

“Seriously, you don’t even snore, why do you think I’d buy this?”

“Dunno,” she murmured, “I thought maybe it’d get me five more minutes in bed with you.”

The porcelain of the coffee mug touched down on the wooden nightstand. He lifted the blanket, earning a disapproving grunt at the cold air entering her cocoon, and slipped into bed next to her. He had to shove her a little so he could fit in and she groaned even more.

“Why are you rude to me so early in the morning?”

He chuckled. “I’m not rude to you.” As to underline his point, he reached for her and pulled her into his sturdy chest. “I’m just giving you what you wanted, more time in bed with me. Is that a problem?” 

She instantly clawed his soft shirt and draped her leg over his. His heartbeat thudded calmly underneath her ear where it lay on the left side of his chest, supported by the muscle and his smooth skin. 

“You’re mean, but I forgive you because you’re warm and you smell good.” 

“Okay, sure. I’ll take that.” He ran a hand through her hair. She leaned into his touch. Matt didn’t even question the speed at which she fell asleep again. One second she almost purred at his gentle touch, the next she drifted off into deep slumber at the feeling of his nails scratching her scalp. 

He smiled down at her. “Five minutes, huh?”

She was way too deeply asleep to just need five more minutes. He figured they would be there for another hour, at least, but as Eliza laid in his arm, her breathing even and her heart aligning with his, Matt couldn’t help but allow his eyes to grow heavy and join her in whatever dreamland she was in. 

“Matt,” Natasha called out for him. 

He stood in the doorframe to his bedroom, staring at the empty and made bed. The room was so cold without her, void of her scent, void of her heartbeat, and void of the soft tune of her voice serenading him to sleep. 

Matt toyed with the mask in his hand. She accepted him as he was, but not without putting him in his place first for using his two lives to get all of her all the time without telling her the truth. She understood him, she just hated the lying, and he understood that. He wished she had found out some other way or not at all, but in the end, she let him stay. He stayed and he allowed himself to get too close to her and now everything somehow crumbled around him. He couldn’t stop it. The world was close to ending if it hadn’t already. Without her, he was useless. He needed her and it terrified him. He was scared and he was worried out of his mind, but most of all the guilt consumed him like it was a vacuum cleaner and he was measly dust on the living room floor.

The tickle of soft lips on his face woke him from his slumber. He squeezed his eyes shut when the kisses traced over his closed lids.

“Morning,” she said, heartbeat close to his ear. One of her hands tangled in his hair. “You look so pretty, do you know that?” 

He chuckled. “Good morning to you too. You feeling better?”

He felt her nod next to him. 

“Good.”

Her lips found his, finally. She kissed him softly, only enough for him to smell her now minty breath (she had brushed her teeth) and the scentless chapstick she applied. 

Matt had to push her hair back once again as it started tickling his face. 

“Your bed hair is annoyingly unruly,” he grumbled. He reached for the nightstand for the hair tie she had now claimed as hers. 

Eliza smiled when he fisted her hair together at the back of her head, tying the strands into a messy ponytail. 

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you. C’mere.” He pulled her back into his chest. 

She drew stars around his scars, tracing the sensitive skin and pressing her lips to her imaginary artwork. He relaxed under her touch, the only person he would let this close to the most vulnerable parts of him; the only person who understood how he got them and honored him for it. She never once asked him to stop, even though she’d had many reasons to. She understood and that made her so much more special in every way – she was special in ways Matt believed he did not deserve. 

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” she breathed into his skin, guiding the words into his bloodstream and straight to his heart.

God, how he wished that too. He would give everything to stay like this with her forever, tangled together as one in his bed, holding each other and ignoring the world outside for just a split moment. 

He tightened his grip on her shoulder. He wished he could swallow her, make her a part of him so he would never have to worry about her anymore. There was no more space between them, not even the air fit through. He held her so tightly, she thought she was going to suffocate. 

“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Me too.”

“How about we pretend the world isn’t falling apart, just for a moment, and we just breathe while we still can. We just hold each other like this while we still can,” she said. “You want to do that? You want to pretend we’re okay until maybe, we are?” 

“We are going to be okay.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but we shouldn’t think about the hypotheticals. We should focus on what we have now, don’t you think? The future doesn’t matter, only the present, only the now.”

He had an inkling that something deeper was on her mind. Those philosophical words didn’t just come to her mind, they couldn’t have. She was sentimental, but this was new. 

Matt guided her head up so she would look at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked oh so gently. His thumb rubbed along her jawline, feeling the tension rise in her muscles. 

“Nothing,” she lied. Her heartbeat picked up. He had her right there and she still chose to lie, knowing he could tell.

“You’re lying to me.”

“No, don’t listen to my heart. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me.”

She pulled his head down to meet her lips. Every time she did that, he forgot what he had been mad about before. He didn’t think, he just had her on his mind. 

“The world is wrong,” she said against his lips. He chased her with his tongue. “That’s why it sounds like I’m lying because everything is wrong, but it’s not right now. Right now, we’re in our little bubble,” she said, smiling, “and I want to stay that way until we physically can’t anymore, only then do I want you to let me go. Tell me, Matthew, can you do that? Can we do that?”

He nodded slowly, her face in his hand while the other stroked up and down her back. He kissed her, breathlessly and so in love, he just wished he could tell her. He wished he could tell her and she would say it back. There was something between them, he was simply terrible at reading the signs.

Matt brushed his nose against hers. “Let’s stay in our bubble,” he said. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They got lost in each other’s lips as the clock kept ticking and the world below them moved on, but in their bubble, time was merely a construct and all that truly existed was the presence of the other. 

“Matt!” Natasha grew impatient.

He snapped around. “What?!” The tears glistened in his eyes. 

She shut her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… are you okay?” Out of everyone, he was struggling with Eliza’s disappearance the most, and while Natasha was barely holding on as well, she functioned. Matt wanted to, and he tried to, but in the end, he was paralyzed by the constant pain in his chest that made it impossible to breathe. 

Matt wiped his cheeks. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “What do you want?” 

“We were going to brainstorm some ideas on how to find her, but if you need time…”

“No, I don’t. This is what we said, right? We’d find her and bring her home safe and sound.”

“That’s the plan.”

“So I don’t need time, I just need to find her.” He placed the cowl back on his head. “I’m gonna get some air.” 

The apartment threatened to suffocate him, the noise and smell of the city suddenly seemed much less unattractive. With his senses clouded, he didn’t have to think so much, he could focus on another pain, just ignore the truth that continued to tear his soul apart piece by piece. 

Matt had his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. He was oh so tired, the sky slowly turning a light red as the sun started to rise in the east. He could hear the birds chirping, the sound of cars crowding the busy streets of New York City multiplying, and his neighbors were starting to get ready for the day, torturing his sensitive hearing with the rattling of hair dryers and keys jangling. It was particularly bad that day, his brain threatening to bulge out of his head. His stomach twisted, nausea taking control. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t even finish his coffee without feeling the disgusting sensation in the back of his throat, and it added to the endless migraine that came in waves. 

Her hand touched his shoulder. Without a word, she settled down on the couch next to him. He hadn’t even realized he was shaking violently until she gently pulled him into her embrace, cradling his head to her chest, right over her heart. 

He sucked in a sharp breath. Her heartbeat broke the sound barrier. At first, she mixed with the noise of the world outside. His eyes rolled back, trying to tune out what was less important. The stroking of her hand along his back and the soft tune of her calm heartbeat slowly calmed him. The city grew quieter around him until it had disappeared entirely. He could finally breathe again. 

She laid back on the couch with him lodged between her legs, head still on her chest, and he didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. Her lungs filled with the air that sustained her, the blood ran through her veins as her heart pumped to keep her alive, and it was enough for him to know that she was there, that she was alive right now, alive for him, and it was all he needed to return to earth, the fire of his senses stilled and choked out. 

“How did you know?” he asked, his voice muffled through the fabric of her shirt.

She shrugged. “I had a feeling.”

“Thank you.”

Her hand tangled in his hair. “Are you feeling better now?” she asked. 

“Mh-hm. I think so. It’s… my head just hurts, is all.”

“Is it from the noise or is it because the muscles in your neck are all stiff?” She squeezed him right there, proving her point that his body had locked up almost completely. His back was in so much pain, but he had gotten used to it. 

He flinched a little, shifting enough for her fingers to work their magic on his spine. “Both,” he said.

“Do you want me to give you a massage? ‘Cause your shoulders are so hard, I don’t think that’s healthy.”

“I don’t know…”

“You can just accept my care, you know that, right? You don’t have to give me anything in return, I just want to take care of you, Matt. There is no shame in letting me.”

His fist clenched. “Okay, but only if I can return the favor after.”

“Oh, Matty, you don’t understand-”

“I understand, but it’d make me feel so much better to not just be on the receiving end.”

She sighed, knowing it was of no use to argue with him, so she gave in. “Alright, as long as you let me take care of that back.”

The inflammation only got worse when she turned him on his stomach, sliding out from under him so she could straddle his thighs from behind. She bunched his shirt up, then decided to take it off completely. The apartment was cold, but her warm hands made up for it. She stroked him first, gently, easing his muscles. 

“We should move to the bed. The couch is uncomfortable. Do you have some oil? Skin oil, I mean.”

“If we move to the bed, bedside drawer.”

“Alright, let’s get you up then.”

That was how he ended up face-down on his bed, supported by several pillows under his upper body, arms crossed underneath one of them. His eyes were closed, his skin sticky and hot from the skin oil. It didn’t smell much, only so much as to fill the nose with the soft scent of Christmas. Vanilla, pine, and rain. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to buy it, but the second he smelled it, he needed to have it. The mixture felt like heaven to his senses. 

Eliza sat just underneath his ass cheeks. Her small hands ran over his exposed back, kneading his muscles. Some of the spots she reached hurt and he had to try hard not to pull away. The more pressure she applied though, the better the pain got. She massaged him until he was nothing but a puddle of relief, the pain turning into a numb thudding, and his head falling deeper into the mattress as the stress fell off his shoulders. 

He must have closed his eyes for just a second too long. Her chest pressed against his back now – she had taken off her shirt and remained in her bra, offering the closest skin-to-skin contact she could. Kisses on his shoulder blades coaxed him back into an alert state. The magic of her fingers had been so good, his consciousness slipped away right under him. He remembered he had to give back what she gave him, but he suddenly felt so incredibly tired. He just wanted to go back to sleep, now that the world was no longer an issue in the front of his mind. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he laid off taking care of her for just a little while longer and revel in the comfort she gave him without having to ask. 

She reached for his hair. “Matt,” she softly whispered into his ear.

He hummed.

“You want to take a nap?”

“No, ‘m fine.” He attempted to hold his head up, but even with his elbow propped up, he failed. 

She gently pushed him back into the pillows, earning a huff. His arms slouched, returning to their spot under his pillow. His breathing slowed.

“Matt?”

“Hm?”

“Sleep.”

“‘S the middle of the day, I can’t…”

She pecked his back again. “It’s okay, we have some time. Can’t operate in the daylight anyway. Sleep,” she told him, “relax.”

“What about you?”

Always the gentleman, caring for her when he was the one exhausted from the curse that was put on him. 

Eliza wiped the oil off his back, removing her bra and then lying back down on him. She knew he needed the contact, her heart close, her smell in his nose to relax, something to get his mind off New York for just a little while. When his control slipped and he could no longer control what he tuned out and what not, he needed a line to hold onto so he could swim back to shore. She was there so she could play his lifeline. God knew he needed it. 

“I’m right here, Matt, not going anywhere.”

He wanted to protest, say something about how he was supposed to be the big spoon, but the feel of her warm skin against his and her heart beating against his back was enough to knock him back into sleeping mode. 

The last thing he actively remembered was her lips on his temple. “Sleep tight,” she murmured, placing her head in the crook of his neck and her arms around him. 

His lips curled into a smile at that. 

Matt removed his gloves. The harsh leather felt like sandpaper on his skin and he needed to wipe his tears somehow. The salt tasted almost bitter on the tip of his tongue. Shame filled his chest from top to bottom and it made him angry. He was guilty, if he had tried harder to give her a reason to stay, surely she would still be next to him. Though as he thought back to the many lost moments between them and those that branded into his memory, deep down he realized that no matter what he would have done, she would still have decided to leave. It wasn’t because of him or Natasha or everyone else. She did it because she wanted to because she believed her loved ones were better off without her and that she needed to solve this on her own; Matt understood where she was coming from better than anyone, but the feeling dragged his heart down to his stomach, allowing the acid to burn the broken flesh before he would puke it out again.

The day before he met Eliza had been ordinary. Back then he never thought something like this would happen, and he didn’t mean just Hydra or the constant threat of imminent death that followed him since she entered his life, but the fact that he had fallen in love so fast. He had been in love with only one person before, and he only realized how much she affected his life after she left him. To be fair, Elektra had been particularly manipulative. She brought out something in him he refused to admit to himself, a part he hated, a part he wished he would never have to see again. Though perhaps she had been right to show him his true colors.

Lying to himself was of no use. After meeting Eliza, his life started going down a downward spiral, and he saw the things about himself he had long kept hidden. One person should not love another person this much, it couldn’t be healthy. Being in this much pain while being in love wasn’t healthy, even he could tell, but no matter how hard he tried to hate her, he only seemed to be falling deeper. Not even Elektra had made him feel like this, and she had made him feel a lot of things. 

He got out of bed that day with only coffee and a prolonged lunch with his friends on his mind. No caseloads, just another day at the office piling documents of past cases. The sun had caressed his face as he walked the streets of New York, unbeknownst of what the world would turn into once the night rolled around and he put on the suit again. Daredevil was bad news, he knew that better than anyone, which was why he kept this life so separate from his friends, even the ones who knew about him, but the events that went down that night went above and beyond the things he had encountered before.

At first glance, he didn’t think much of it. He fought Fisk, how hard could it be? Until he read into Hydra after bailing Eliza out of jail and he realized how much bigger this was than him or even her. 

Maybe she was right, maybe their relationship was circumstantial. Maybe his feelings appeared because they were both dependent on each other for days on end with no one to talk to. Maybe he felt that way because she was the only one who understood what it was like to be him, what it was like to fight for a justice that seemed so close yet so far away. He held onto her when she was falling apart and in return, she treated him like he was the only person in the world to her. He felt special, having her look at and hold him. He was putty in her hands. She turned his whole world around, messed with his head, and then tore all of his walls down so he stood completely naked before her. She made him emotionally vulnerable, opened old wounds, knowing they were there, and then stabbed her finger in them when he wasn’t looking. He was bleeding out now and it was her fault.

God, he should hate her. He should walk away and never look back. She made her choice, there was no use in arguing with her. It had never worked before, why would it now? Even the Avengers seemed less optimistic. This was Eliza, for crying out loud, she would do whatever she wanted however she wanted and there was nothing in this world that could hold her back, not even Matt. She made this decision on her own, she didn’t need anyone to tell her any differently. 

For someone so smart, she could be incredibly stupid at times, but she brought this upon herself - Matt told her time and time again that she wasn’t alone and that he would be there for her, every step of the way, and then even beyond that. He chose to stay. He told her he wouldn’t let her run into the fire without safety gear, and he would wait on the other side for her any day. He told her all of that and yet she chose to ignore his offer for help, ram her head straight through the wall and walk through the fire alone, without the proper gear to protect her. She was ready to burn alive and he would have to suffer for it when something happened to her, which she didn’t seem to care about. She didn’t seem to care about what it would do to him or everyone else who loved her, who was worried sick about her, ready to go to great lengths to find her before she could commit even worse actions of stupidity. 

He should hate her, he should loathe her, he should curse her and then go to confession for even thinking like this. He tried to will himself to think all of the awful things that popped into his mind, that he knew he had every right to think or even voice, but every time he did, he only landed on himself as the problem. He felt that way about himself, not her. She was damaged, which wasn’t an excuse, but she didn’t do this to spite him. She did this to protect him. Even without hearing her heartbeat, he could smell the tears on the letter. She told the truth. She wrote from the heart. She thought this was the only way to keep anyone else from getting hurt, so she packed her bags and left. She was ready to sacrifice herself for the world, for him, and he could not hate her for something like that because the woman who had written that letter, explaining her train of thought in the only way she could, and then left to play the hero one last time to put an end to the organization that ruined her life, was the woman he inevitably fell in love with. 

She had been more Eliza in the past couple of hours than she had before that. Hydra stole her light and she decided to take it back. She decided to fight her demons and stand against her captors, just to make sure the same things wouldn’t happen to anyone else again. Out of everyone, she knew best what Hydra was capable of, and so she knew what was best to stop them. 

So no, Matt didn’t hate her, not one bit. He loved her, he loved her so badly, he considered letting her go, but he also loved her so desperately, he couldn’t let her go. It was physically impossible. 

“What’re you doing?”

Matt reached behind him, wrapping an arm around the woman standing behind his chair. She clung to his neck, peeking over his shoulder. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked.

She pressed her temple against his. “Working,” she stated.

“Mh-hm.”

“What are you working on?”

He pressed the spacebar, stopping the audio recording momentarily. Slipping the earbuds out, he lifted her into his lap. 

“Nothing, Foggy just sent me a case file Karen wanted him to take a look at. I’m going through the witness statements. I know we have Hydra to worry about, but-“

Eliza shushed him with a finger on his lips. He pouted. “You’re allowed to do your job,” she told him.

He playfully bit her hand. “I know, it just feels wrong with everything that’s going on. But I also feel like I need something else to focus on for a change, something that isn’t death or destruction.”

She raised her eyebrows at the printed pictures from the case file. He probably knew they were there since they were the only documents not printed in Braille and knowing Foggy, he was too lazy to filter out what Matt needed and what not, so he just sent the whole package. 

It was ironic, really, seeing the mangled bodies and comparing them to his need to ‘see’ something other than death and destruction.

“So homicide doesn’t fall into either category?” she mused, taking one of the pictures. “What’s this, second-degree murder?”

He rubbed his scruff. “Yeah, something like that. The daughter killed her father. She says she didn’t mean to, but her stepmom thinks otherwise. They want to charge her in the first degree, but Foggy thinks we can deal it down to the second-degree.”

“You planning to go to court?”

“Well, certainly not me.” He laid his head on her shoulder, enjoying the way her hands instantly tangled in his hair. “I have more important things to worry about than going to court proceedings right now.”

Eliza sighed. “You don’t have to stay just because of me, right?” 

“Says who?”

“Me.”

“If I leave, you’re going to do something incredibly reckless, and I can’t let that happen. Besides, I kinda like it here.” Matt reached around to hug his arms around her torso. She felt warm against his chest. 

“You’re a lawyer, Matt,” she reminded him. 

“I am, and I still will be once Hydra is gone,” he said. “Foggy can handle this on his own. He has Karen and he has me; I can help from right here. It’s better than having him in the line of fire, anyway.”

He tipped his chin up, capturing her lips in a heated kiss from where her head had turned to look at him. “And you won’t have to be alone, which is something I’m very passionate about.”

Eliza laughed softly. She pressed her forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut, and he only held her closer at the unspoken demand. 

Her whisper broke the silence. “I cherish you, you know that?” 

Playfully, he scrunched his nose. “I have a faint idea.” 

“Only a faint one?” she cocked an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, the faintest. I think you should prove to me just how much you cherish me, so the idea becomes a lot clearer, y’know. For research purposes,” he added. 

She giggled. That smug asshole. She caught his lips halfway, stealing his breath away. He loosened his bruising grip around her waist so she could turn around, legs on either side of his, and plant herself in his lap fully. With their faces close to each other, he could finally deepen the kiss. He tilted her head to the side, holding her as close as humanly possible. 

Eliza dove up for air eventually, though Matt wasn’t quite finished yet. He used the short break to move his lips to her neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses in his wake. He sucked a freshly purple mark over an old one, soothing the ache with his tongue. He could feel the blood pooling underneath her skin, the pulsating that ran through the bruise, and he smirked at his masterpiece.

She playfully hit his head. “Would you stop?” she asked.

“Stop what?” he asked against her collarbone. “Kissing you?”

“Giving me hickeys.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m blind, I can’t see what I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh. That excuse stopped working a long time ago. Oh!” She yelped when he got up with her in his arms, not once struggling to get on his feet with her weight on top of him, and he made a beeline for the bedroom. 

He threw her on the mattress like she weighed nothing. She looked up at him, curiosity spiking. “Matt Murdock, what are you doing?”

He climbed over her, a predator on the prowl. On his way up, he slid her shirt up with his mouth, bunching it underneath her chin before diving back in to kiss her on the lips. The kiss was wet and sloppy, leading to the needy moan that she had kept trapped inside her chest to break out. 

Matt removed her clothes with ease – she was wearing nothing but his old Columbia shirt, which made it so much easier for him to unveil her in one smooth motion. 

He took in her appearance with closed eyes, simply listening to the woman underneath him, painting a picture in his mind that had his cock twitching in his sweatpants.

“Matthew?” she asked, voice hoarse with arousal. Every time she used that name, he died a little inside.

He licked over his bottom lip, tasting her in the air. The temptation seeped into his senses. He took an even deeper breath, savoring the scent of her. 

He captured her lips with his. “I’m going to fuck you,” he stated. 

She gasped.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t even consider finding anybody else because I’m the only one who can get you off this way. I’m the only one who can make you cum over and over again until your legs are shaking and you’re unable to walk. You belong to me now,” his voice sounded like gravel, “and what is mine, I get to claim. So the hickeys, they’re nothing. They’re not even a taste of what I’m about to do to you.”

“Oh, fuck!” Her thighs clenched around his hips from where he sat between them. 

“I could probably do it without even touching you, but that’s something to explore another day.”

The pulse between her legs jumped excitedly at the prospect. He smirked, dipping his head into the crook of her neck. 

“That’s something you’d like to try, isn’t it?” he purred. “Me using your voice kink to my advantage…” his knee bumped deliciously against her aching core. She leaned into his touch, desperate for any kind of friction, even if it was just the top of his knee.

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, cheeks flushed with the blood that had risen to her neck, and she nodded back at him, knowing he could sense the motion easily.

He chuckled, biting down on the previously left hickey and sucking another one on top of that. She didn’t complain this time. He wanted to mark her so that was what she would allow him to do. The thought excited her, being ruined for everyone else as if he hadn’t already done that, as if she would want anyone else to fuck her.

Matt could tell how comfortable she was around him, something she wasn’t with everyone and probably would never be again. He cherished that the same way he cherished how comfortable he felt in her presence, willing to do just about anything to bring each other pleasure and placing himself in her hands entirely. 

He grabbed her thighs, urging them further apart until they were placed flat on the bed. “I want to get a taste first,” he said.

If there was one thing Matt Murdock would never tire of it had to be eating pussy. He was good at it and he enjoyed it much more than any other man, his senses allowing him to feel the full extent of his partner’s body and the orgasm he would coax out of them. He thrived off the control he had, the power to make her cum as many times as he wanted just with his tongue, her taste clouding his mind into oblivion, stuck on his tongue and in his nose for days to come. And whenever she would fade, he would just lean down again and eat her out like she was his last goddamn meal, like she was an altar he would kneel at and worship the sacred body that it belonged to. 

He breathed in her arousal, sweet and a little sour, and his cock twitched again.

“God forgive me,” he breathed. 

Just as he was about to go down on her, something her body desperately screamed for, his phone rang out. It called out Foggy’s name into the bedroom, thick with the stench of looming sex. 

His fists curled around the sheets. “Fucking damn it!” 

Eliza threw her head back, just as frustrated as him. “No,” she whined. 

“I’m so sorry. Let me just…” he got up and just like that, he was gone. 

She sat up against the headboard, still naked, still wet. Watching him saunter about the room, reaching for his phone and answering the call with his cock half-hard, only fueled the fire in her lower stomach. She clenched her thighs together for some sort of friction, hoping he would come back to her soon and finish what he started.

But her prayers went unanswered. 

Matt ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I have a minute,” he said, though his teeth gritted at the blatant lie. He didn’t have a minute, not one to be spent on the phone at least. He had all the minutes to suffocate between her perfect thighs, but other than that he had no time for anything else.

Foggy didn’t need to know that and he didn’t want to disappoint him either.

He turned to leave, her disapproving grunt stopping him in his tracks. He heard her hand glide over her soft skin, over her breasts, and her stomach. His nostrils flared. He didn’t need to see to know what she was doing. 

His fist clenched around the doorframe. She was so wet around her fingers, every circle on her clit sounded louder than the last. Her back arched off the mattress, her pace relentless, and he thought, this is what hell must be like. 

“Foggy,” he managed to choke out, interrupting his friend's tangent about the case he had long forgotten about, “I have to hang up now. Someone’s coming.” 

He didn’t even wait for him to answer, he simply pushed the red button and tossed the device aside. 

His voice bordered on a growl when he spoke next. “Do not,” he said, index finger raised in a warning manner. 

She didn’t stop. With one more pinch of her clit, the orgasm washed over her, veins tingling with the excitement of the frustration that she saw on his handsome face. It was what sent her over the edge in the first place, the sight of his bare back, his muscles flexing, and the look of pure shock at her lewd actions. 

Eliza fell back into the mattress, chest heaving. When she looked back up at him, he was smirking.

“Oh, sweetheart, that was a very bad idea.”

He missed the stolen moments, the stolen touches, and the kisses. Cold, dead hands grabbed at his limbs and tried to tear him down. The deadly quiet reminded him of the missing affection, her hand on his arm or her lips on his heated skin. He was drowning in the lack of touch rather than in the overwhelming existence of it like he had at times when she was still around. It had taken him some time to get used to this urge to touch her; once he had, he became addicted to the feel of her.

His skin was so cold without her, he missed the faint reminder of her touch on his skin, her heat signature haunting him everywhere he went that kept him excited for the moment she would touch him again. Out of everything, not being able to have her physically close was the cruelest torture out of everything that came with her sudden disappearance. Not even her soothing hand in his hair whenever he got overwhelmed by the sounds of the city remained, something he had grown accustomed to in the small period they’d had together. She managed to calm him down like no other. 

As New York screamed below him and he cowered against the wall, head between his knees and his ears covered by the palms of his hands, he was once again met with nothing as the noise crashed over him like a tsunami, and this time, he had nothing to hold onto. He had no one to come and hug him. Eliza wasn’t there to take him into her arms and press his head against her chest so her heartbeat was all he could focus on. The city broke his sensitive eardrums and manifested into his brain, roaring as loud as a starting airplane right next to him. 

He was completely vulnerable. An enemy could have come out of any possible direction and he would have realized too late that he was being attacked. His senses went into overdrive, causing his stomach to churn and the hot tears to burn the skin of his dry cheeks. 

She found him in the bathroom, cheek pressed against the cold tiles of the shower wall. Fully clothed, he sat in the shower with the water on, the sound of each droplet hitting the ground overshadowing some of the awful sounds coming in through the thin walls dividing his apartment from the city. His hair was wet and dripping, his shirt stuck to his chest and his gray sweatpants were discolored from the amount of water that had drenched through the fabric. It wasn’t even hot water; the shower had run cold, leaving his skin with goosebumps, his lip blue, and his body shivering. Everything was better than the heat that ran through his body every time he caught someone fighting for their lives on the outside. He couldn’t listen to it any longer, the thought alone made him sick. 

He wanted to take his suit and hammer his fists into any source of injustice until he and his opponent were both bloody and bruised. He needed to get rid of the shame, the guilt, and the anger that mixed in his twisted mind and had his heart beating out of his chest with the missing adrenaline. It caused a strange anxiety to run through his veins, the fear of stepping out of the shower and being hit by the world as a truck had just rolled over him. He was scared of the world out there simply because he couldn’t deal with the world inside. His mind was a twisted, dark place no one should have to live in. 

The shower head stopped running. The comforting sound of the water hitting the ground disappeared. He took a deep breath, too tired to use his whole body to panic, but the looming threat of the city coming back to knock him over the head spiked his blood pressure nonetheless. Before his ears could focus on the worst of the worst again though, he picked up on her heartbeat instead. She was so close to his ear, he didn’t have much of a choice but to listen to her body move against the wet tiles. Her clothes – or lack thereof – brushed against her now wet skin. 

Her breathing remained calm, though he could make out a hitch in her lungs from some of the oncoming worries. She remained calm solely because of him. She had to be his solace, his anchor to the world before the noise and the smell could swallow him and one of these days not spit him out again. He almost slipped from the tightrope once again, her arms being the only thing to catch him from falling to his certain death. 

She hesitated to touch him, not sure how overstimulated he truly was. She could tell he was in a state of shock, knees hugged to his chest and hiding in the corner as if someone was out to hurt him. He saw the world like this when it was so loud he couldn’t breathe. Whenever he got overwhelmed, the world felt like it was out to get him, so he tried to fight or hide. He tried to keep himself safe from the dangers that came out of every dark alley. The demons that haunted him were closer than ever. 

He didn’t desire to be touched, held, or talked through it. Every sound other than the water falling to the floor sounded like a needle being drilled through his skull. Every touch felt like a million flames dancing on his skin and every intoxicating smell made him want to tear his nose from his face and throw it into the bonfire. 

Her clothes were soaked by the time she settled down next to him. “What do you need?” she whispered. 

He flinched a little at the additional sound of her wet clothes scrunching and getting stuck against her cold skin. Even the temperature change felt like heaven and hell to him. 

Matt weakly pointed toward the handle that would turn the water on again. He couldn’t speak, his voice capable of piercing holes into his skull. 

She nodded, he could hear it and went to turn the shower back on. The sound of the water dulled his senses a little, the tangy smell of the old pipes overshadowing the stench of New York City and his sweaty skin. She wasn’t the problem, he was. He didn’t even care that she was wearing his clothes or that she had showered with his body wash. Her voice wasn’t too loud nor too quiet and her breathing wasn’t as obnoxious as his own. He didn’t mind her presence, he only minded the city that was about to ruin everything he seemed to enjoy. And he hated himself the most because his senses were the reason why he had to hide in the shower like a child. 

She sat under the water with him without speaking. Only slowly he returned to the world. He tuned out the ghastly noise eventually, focused on other smells and audio sources around him, and once again landed on her presence. He listened to her steady heartbeat, her breathing, and the way she still smelled like herself even with him all over her. His bicep eased the hold around his knees. He scooted over, too weak to properly stand up. His sweatpants slid over the wet ground until he was right next to her.

She looked at him. “What can I do?” she whispered once again, trying not to overwhelm him again. 

He nudged her arms apart. “Hold me,” he breathed back. 

She caught his shivering body and pressed him to hers, somehow warmer even though she was just as drenched as him. He realized then that she had taken her shirt off and remained only in her shorts and a sports bra. Her body heat welcomed him. 

“Thank you.”

All the while the water of the shower kept raining down on them in uneven streams. 

Matt was pretty sure he had tossed his mask far away for it to fall off the roof. Someone would find it in the morning and question how on earth the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen managed to lose his mask, and then the rumor mill would start.

No, he knew it was still there, or else he would have made out the deafening thud on the sidewalk below, maybe even a groan from a pedestrian. 

His fingers dug into his skull until the pressure hurt and he had to ease up. The memories weren’t exactly helping him regain composure, but they managed to pull his focus away from the city and redirect them toward the ache in his chest. It was overwhelming, but nothing like the agony that came with the sensory overload. At least like this, he knew he could still feel something, even if it was just the painful emptiness she had left behind by stealing his heart away and then disappearing with it to God knows where.  

He landed his fist on the stone behind him. His knuckles cracked. His mouth parted to scream, but his vocal cords seemed restricted. The lump in his throat had only grown in size over the past minutes he had spent suffering in silence. 

She had taught him that sometimes, you just need to scream your feelings out, and then you will feel better. Sometimes yelling is all it takes for the weight on your shoulders to grow just a little lighter. 

“So, you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but I can tell that something is bothering you,” she said one night when she found him standing on the rooftop after having abandoned the bed they shared. 

He didn’t need to turn around for her to know she had his attention. 

“Call it magic or whatever, but I feel like there is a lot of pent-up tension inside your heart that’s eating you alive.”

Matt chuckled, “You’re one to talk.” 

“I never said I’m any better, I was just pointing out the obvious.”

“It’s cold,” he told her. “You should go back inside. Where are your clothes anyway?”

As far as he could tell, her thighs were completely bare. 

“On my body,” she deadpanned. 

“An oversized hoodie and a pair of panties don’t qualify as clothes.”

“If wearing your clothes is a sin, let the Devil himself take me away.”

“I’m serious, you could get sick. Go back inside.”

She shook her head. “I think you need to scream it out,” she instead said. 

“What?” He frowned.

“Yeah, scream. Trust me, it helps.”

Matt scoffed. “I’m not going to scream. It would only wake the neighbors.”

“Please, this is New York. No one gives a fuck about other people’s screams. Except for Daredevil, maybe. Oh, wait!” She made the same pouty motion she always did when making her point. “You are Daredevil.”

“No,” he insisted.

Screaming sounded like a stupid thing to do randomly in the middle of the night while standing on top of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“You could either scream or go down there to beat up some bad guys. Either way, I’m going to let my frustration out. You either follow or you don’t.”

“Yeah, right.” She was the first person who would shy away from making herself look like a fool, which screaming bloody murder at this time of night surely would, he thought. 

He was wrong. Eliza meant it when she said screaming was an easy way to get rid of frustration and that she would gladly do it. 

Matt jumped back a little at the toe-curling scream that came deep from her chest, unraveling all the tension and frustration that had built up over the past few days. 

His head tilted to the side as he watched her in the only way he could. He picked up on the way her shoulders lowered with the sudden relief, her muscles growing a little lighter, and the thoughts that kept her up at night slid out of her consciousness. 

“Ah, refreshing,” she said. “Your turn.” 

Matt chuckled. “No way.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I’m not doing it.”

“Why, are you embarrassed?”

“It’s wrong to scream for no reason, Eliza.”

“It’s not for no reason. You have a reason. You’re angry, you’re frustrated and you need to get the edge off. That qualifies as a reason to scream, in my opinion. So scream, let it out, just let yourself go for a change. No one’s going to care.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not you. I can’t just…”

“Matt,” she said. “Just fucking scream your soul out. Don’t think too much about what other people think. Fuck them!“

She screamed again, this time directly at him. She tested his patience, which was already thin enough as it was. 

“Hear that? No one cares. It’s the middle of the night and we’re on the roof. Just…” she opened her mouth, throwing her head back to fill the night with the sound of her rough voice. “SCREAM YOUR FUCKING LUNGS OUT BECAUSE LIFE IS A CRUEL BITCH AND IT DESERVES TO BE YELLED AT!” 

He huffed. He didn’t mean for it to happen. She pushed him over the edge without doing anything. With his back turned to her (he didn’t need her to see his face) he channeled his frustration into his vocal cords and screamed at the top of his lungs. He screamed so loud, he thought the entire city was going to stop everything it was doing. Perhaps his voice only sounded so loud in his ears. 

She laughed. When his echo disappeared, her own reached the front of his mind. “Yes!” she cheered. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

He turned around. 

“Feeling better?”

His lip twitched. “Yeah, actually, that was…” he couldn’t even find the words. His chest felt so much lighter, the pain that dragged his stomach down only a numb thudding where his heart was beating in his ribcage.

“Refreshing?” 

“Yeah,” he said. 

“Wanna go again?” she asked.

They ended up screaming into the night, straight into the face of the city. The universe watched them unload all of their frustrations and add even more on top of that. Even when Matt thought someone was going to catch them, she kept going and he couldn’t help but allow his voice to scream until his lungs couldn’t bear the lack of air anymore. 

He slouched back against the wall, holding his side. She joined with soft laughter, bracing herself with one hand next to his head. She wanted to look at him, savor the look of him in a state of absolute bliss with the moonlight underlining the delicate features of his handsome face. 

Matt panted, soon joining in her laughter. “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever screamed this much before in my life,” he said.

“Same time tomorrow?” she joked.

“Is it so bad that I want this to become a regular thing?”

“Nah.”

Before she knew it, he had wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close to his chest. She yelped slightly, accepting the simple act of affection with open arms – pun intended. She melted into his touch. 

“You give great hugs, you know that?” she muffled against his shirt. 

He chuckled. “Your skin is ice cold.”

“Yeah, but it’s a small price to pay.” 

“C’mon.” He pulled back to cradle her head in his hand. “Let’s go inside and warm up.” 

Her eyes fluttered shut. “With you? Gladly.”

“What do you say about hot chocolate?”

In response, she jumped onto his back. He didn’t even sway, catching her and holding her tightly against him once again. 

“I take that as a yes.”

She playfully hit his shoulder. “Yes,” she answered. “Hot chocolate sounds lovely.”

“With marshmallows?”

“Of fucking course I want marshmallows, Matthew.”

He simply laughed at her excitement. The little time they had together would be over before they knew it and he wanted to make the best of that time, even if it meant ignoring everything else to have hot chocolate together. The small domestic moments were what he lived for, and he knew she needed the sense of normality too or she would slip away from him.

Losing her was the last thing he possibly wanted.

And yet, he did. Even after everything they went through and the things he did to keep her close, he still lost her. 

All of this made him slowly wonder if there would even be a way for them to recover from this. A wound this big doesn’t heal without significant scarring, and he wasn’t sure how much more of that they could take. 

Eliza and Matt were doomed from the start and if there was one thing he knew for certain it was that holding onto broken things often leads to more pain than it leads to salvation – and if he was right with his assumption, the train they were on headed straight for hell and even if they jumped off in time, they would still fall somewhere cursed instead of somewhere they could be truly happy. 

God cursed the devil with eternal life in hell and every Angel that stood beside him was stripped of their divinity. Either way, both of them would come out of this without their wings, bloody and bruised and borderline traumatized from something they dove into without thinking twice about it.

There was no one to blame but themselves. And if you truly love someone, you want to save them, but eventually, you have to let them go because sometimes sticking around hurts more than letting go. 

Matt would not let them go through this again, not when he loved her so much he couldn’t breathe. He would rather keep his broken heart and watch her be happy somewhere else than lose her again.