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pastafossa · 5 months

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn’t be you.

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

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

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

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had you been the one wearing them?

Maybe…?

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

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.

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

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

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

What you didn’t know was…

Why?

Why here?

Why these people?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt was alone.

You’d left him alone.

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

So… why did you feel so very sick?

Sympathy.

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

Protect yourself.

Protect what you might one day have.

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

You were wearing one of his shirts.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially Matt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you climbed inside a thread?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what you saw was heartbreaking.

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

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

“Jesus,” you whispered.

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

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Emotion. It’s emotion.

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

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

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

The stones.

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

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

Still nothing.

And something inside you… cracked.

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

You’d been loved.

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world.

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with a blink—

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

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

“It’s me. I’m here.”

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

And your weakened heart… skipped.

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

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

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

And you… smiled.

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

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

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

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called.

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

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

You knew.

You… remembered.

“Always,” he’d said.

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

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

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt.

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

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

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

“...Remember that. if nothing else.”

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

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

Silence.

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

Red threads never lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt, just let me—”

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

A soft intake of breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...D.”

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

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

“Leave me alone!”

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

Wait.

You’d… you’d called him…

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

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

…Steady.

Truth.

Could it really be you?

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

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

You loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

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

Because all that was left was him…

And you.

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pkmn-redirect · 1 year

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Chapter 2 - Page 21

First | Previous | Next | Latest Index

Heads-up that I'll be across the country visiting family over the next week! There won't be a proper update for the 22nd- but there will be something in the feed all the same!

#pokemon #pokemon fancomic #pokemon legends arceus #warden ingo #sneasler #rampardos #we have finally escaped purple hell #rejoice #I hate to take a week off right near the end of the chapter #but there's no way I'm finishing an update while out of state :'D #but I do have something small and silly that I've been working on so that it doesn't get too quiet over here #regular updates pick back up on September 1!#few more pages to go before this chapter wraps up!

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anominous-user · 9 months

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triple threat end card but with the honkai inpact trio. and also bald TT.

#the henry stickmin collection #thsc #honkai impact #bronya zaychik #kiana kaslana #raiden mei #do i tag. the thsc trio for this. i mean they are here as bald as they can be #i guess.#charles calvin #henry stickmin #ellie rose #a-u edit stuff #note that i edited them based on their poses/expressions this does NOT mean bronya = charles or mei = ellie cuz #characters flip around a lot in my edits there is no set standard except for maybe like one lr two characters and even then.#ok anyway i mainly edited this with the honkai trio cuz. they dont interact enough in the story.#like its funny when you think about it but like they separate in the early chapters and only reunite completely in the final arc of part 1.#and i wish there was more. just like how i wish the tt dynamic was more fleshed out #theyre nice and all. just. nothing for me to chew on #ok rant over #i actually am currently redrawing the end cards in the same vein as honkai cgs i jist needed to get this out of my system #i was also highly considering leaving kiana bald. jsut like her great-grandpa^44 kevin.

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vinelark · 1 year

Note

every time you post a fic snippet i start giggling and kicking my legs

ok ok, twist my arm 🥰

“We could break into Hood’s lair,” Tim is saying, almost to himself. “He’s got his own little setup. Or I’ve got contacts at the GU labs. Or, ugh, you could call Batman and maybe he’ll be cool about it, but let’s keep that at the end of the list for now—”

They’ve left the gannets behind, but two other flocks of seabirds a mile out seem to have taken up the chase. Kon is getting ready to fly back toward land when the obvious Plan B hits him. “Or I can dunk you.”

“—unless absolutely—what?” Tim says. “You can what?”

Kon slows, keeping an ear out for more birds in the vicinity. “I can dunk you in the ocean.”

“What,” Tim says again.

“To wash the stuff off,” Kon explains. “Then it’s not airborne.”

“No!” Tim says.

“Why not?”

Tim pokes Kon’s chest, which obviously does very little. “So many reasons! Mostly shark related!”

“I can out-swim sharks,” Kon says confidently. “Okay, hold your breath—”

#this is a very serious professional superhero rescue 🫡#kon's plan is actually very smart here he's thinking outside the box #my fic #timkon #asks #also sorry if i’ve posted part of this before i can’t remember #i’ve had this exchange drafted since chapter 1 and finally got there

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zellink · 5 months

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all the bells say - chapter 9: She Attends, Blind

a pre-calamity zelink longfic. [M-rated // chapter 9 of 28 // Act 1 of 5] Final chapter of Act 1!

>>Read chapter on AO3 or start from the beginning >>here

Chapter excerpt:

“It’s been a long day.” “It has, hasn’t it?” Urbosa muses. After a while, she asks, “How have you been since we met at the castle, really?” Everything flashes before her eyes—Rito Village. A dream of a touch, a soft voice. Prayers that remain unanswered, again and again and again. The swell of strings on stage, a song that sings of the end of times. The scorching heat of Death Mountain, the burn in her throat and the heat upon her skin. His perilous gaze, blue, blue, blue. The finished portrait—his gaze once again. The breakaway among broken pillars, in front of a dormant shrine. They all claw at the insides of her throat, begging to be spilled free. But there’s an ounce of resistance in her left, even after all this time, so she bites them down. Keeps them in, where they have always belonged, for letting them out certainly means making a mess, and such a mess can only slow her down.

>>Read chapter on AO3

#final chapter of act 1 is here yippie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#posting 2 days earlier than planned because i got my nails done today and got new headphones and i'm feeling happi happi happi #my fic #bells tag #zelink #zelink fic #botw fic #botw #breath of the wild #tloz fic

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deiaiko · 1 year

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#11 - Encounter

Masterlist

Let me know your thoughts in the reblogs <3

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jsdimensions · 7 months

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Error Of My Ways: Chapter 2

Words: 2,994

Rated T for multiple instances of swearing and heavily implied death.

Read the first chapter before reading this if you haven't already!!! There's a ton of important context there that you will miss out on if you don't.

<- Previous / Next ->

Fic is below the cut.

I felt my heart stop.

Or…soul. Whatever. That didn't matter. Yet.

Turning around slowly, my shoulders raised, and my posture became defensive as I braced myself for the worst-case scenario.

Looking down, however, all I saw was a child with short, brown hair, a yellow shirt with a blue stripe, matching blue overalls, and brown boots. Their eyes were brown, but I could see a hint of red close to their pupils. Rosy cheeks decorated their face.

They looked like a Chara to me. It seemed to me like my portal abilities were a little off. Oh well.

My posture loosened up for the most part, still a little tense and awkward due to my lack of mental preparation when it came to talking to anybody but the voices.

“Oh, uh, hello there…” I smiled anxiously. “What are you doing here?”

“Exploring.”

“Nice,” I responded plainly, trying my best to keep my tone from shifting outside that of casual small talk.

“Hey, you look kind of like somebody I know! His name is Sans.”

“Oh, do I?” I tried my best to feign surprise, but the child I assumed was a Chara variant didn't seem to fall for it.

“Yeah! Here,” the child grabbed one of my sleeves with their smaller hand, “We should go meet him! I bet you'd like him!”

“Well, I don't know, I'm kind of busy–”

They tugged at my sleeve. “C'mon…please? You don't look busy.”

I glanced in a random direction, hoping the voices could help.

“Hey, who knows? It could be fun. Give it a try.”

“don't make the kid sad!!”

“You can leave at any time if something goes wrong.”

I sighed. “Alright, alright…take me away, then.”

I let out a yelp as the child began to run, my sleeve still in their hand. I felt myself almost fall on my face, yet somehow I caught myself. “Hey! Slow down!” The kid didn't seem to hear me. Either that, or they ignored me. As we approached civilization, I quickly used my free hand to pull my hood over my head. Various houses, buildings, and people almost seemed to fly past us as we rushed by.

Finally, we stopped. I quickly saw the building next to us as I regained my composure.

It looked to be about two stories high, with bricks painted a light purple. It wasn't quite the wooden cabin that would usually be found in Snowdin. Despite the place’s seemingly cold atmosphere at first glance, I quickly discovered that it was given a warm sense of life with various decorations scattered about the house, like the colorful Christmas lights that outlined where the edges of the roof were and a sign hung on the door with “Bone Is Where The Heart Is” carved into it.

My posture shifted as I easily became uneasy by the second. The child seemed to notice this, as they quickly spoke up about it.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know about this…wouldn't they be…well…suspicious of a stranger suddenly being at their house? I don't think the more serious brother would be so welcoming…”

The child looked like they were about to ask a question, but quickly decided against it as a skeleton, about my height, opened the door.

He appeared to be a Swap variant, wearing a large blue cape with constellation patterns littering its deep blue coloration. The rest of his outfit, including a t-shirt, gloves, pants, and boots, were all blue as well, with yellow accents that matched the cape.

“HELLO, HUMAN!” His voice was loud and booming, which caused me to flinch. “DID YOU MAKE A NEW FRIEND?” His eyelights scanned my form, seemingly making sure I meant no harm.

Chara nodded vigorously, a smile spreading across their face. “Yeah! This is…” They looked at me. “What's your name?”

Oh.

I glanced away, a hint to the voices. “Um…”

“go with error for now. you never know if youll decide to change your mind about acting like yourself later.”

“...Error.”

The Swap variant reached out to me, offering a handshake. I accepted tentatively, giving him a nervous smile.

“IT'S NICE TO MEET YOU! I'M SANS. SAY, I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU AROUND.”

I mentally scrambled to think of an excuse.

“Oh, yeah, um, you see, I just…don't go out much. Not really the most social person.”

“I SEE…IN THAT CASE, I COULD BE YOUR SECOND FRIEND!”

“Oh! …Really? I mean, we just met, and–”

“I MEAN IT. YOU SEEM LONELY. I BELIEVE THAT EVERYONE DESERVES A FRIEND OR TWO!”

I let out a short chuckle as I grabbed my scarf again. “Thanks.”

Sans stepped to the side, holding the door open for us. He used his free arm to motion us inside. “COME ON IN! I'M ALMOST DONE WITH SOME TACOS. FORTUNATELY, I MADE EXTRA THIS TIME!”

Chara eagerly entered the skeleton brothers’ home. I tagged along right behind them, scanning the area out of curiosity. As I sat down on a chair in the dining room, I tapped my fingers on the table in front of me.

After a series of noises from plates colliding with each other harshly to what sounded like plastic packaging being torn to shreds, Sans finally strutted into the room, holding two plates with tacos atop them, one in each hand, and carefully set them down in a smooth motion that would make a waiter at a restaurant blush. “BONE-APPETIT!” He punned, eliciting another smile from me.

As Chara began to dig into the taco, I reached towards it but froze.

…The tongues.

I shook my head, grabbing the taco. Why would those be a problem? I doubted they would act on instinct. If anything, I could use them to mess with people…

That final thought made my smile return as I took a small bite out of the taco. It had burger patty meat, cheddar cheese, lettuce, green onions, and sour cream inside its crunchy tortilla shell.

I let out a satisfied noise as the ingredients and flavors melted in my mouth, seemingly dissolving inside it and giving me a refreshing wave of energy that felt similar to the stuff I used for the portal or the bones. Magical energy, I promptly dubbed it. I knew the name wasn't that original, but I didn't really care.

“PAPS!! THE TACOS ARE READY!! GET OUT OF YOUR ROOM!!” Somehow, Sans yelled even louder than usual.

I continued to eat the taco, relishing in its flavor. It was quite similar to the tacos my dad used to make for me a few years ago, minus the green onions and lettuce.

A muffled “coming” could be heard from another part of the house, followed by a collection of soft footsteps. A taller skeleton shuffled into the room, wearing an outfit with the same colors as his brother's. He wore a blue hoodie with yellow sleeves and a fluffy hood, navy-blue shorts, and a pair of matching sneakers.

His relaxed demeanor momentarily faltered as he gave me a brief suspicious glare while I stuffed my face with another bite of taco. I gave him a nervous wave before his gaze shifted to his brother.

“who's this?” He stuffed over to the free seat on the table, which was on the other side of mine.

“A NEW FRIEND! THE HUMAN BROUGHT HIM HERE TO MEET US. HE'S VERY NICE!”

Papyrus scanned me one last time before his expression softened. “if ya say so, bro.” He took a bite out of the taco that sat in front of him. Oddly, Sans hadn't eaten any tacos–did he even make one for himself? I wasn't sure.

I thanked Sans for the food as I (swallowed? dissolved? consumed?) the final bite of the taco. He gave me a thumbs up and a “YOU'RE WELCOME!” in response. Soon after, I got up, pushing the chair I sat on back into the table.

“I'm sorry, but I really need to go. I have some things I need to do.”

Sans nodded understandingly as Papyrus continued to eat his taco.

“Aww, already? There's so much stuff left for us to do, though!” Chara complained, a slight pout on their face.

“Yeah…Again, I'm sorry. If things go well, though, I should be back soon!” I looked at Sans. “Thanks for the hospitality, I appreciate it.” He nodded, his huge smile not shifting in the slightest.

“YOU'RE WELCOME! IT'S THE LEAST I CAN DO FOR A NEW FRIEND.”

I walked over to the door, saying my goodbyes as I turned the doorknob and left. After a few minutes of walking, I found an alleyway where I was able to create a portal back to the Anti-Void from.

I stretched my arms contentedly as I walked through.

“Ahh…that went better than I expected it to.”

“Yeah!”

“Wait A Second…”

“jupiter? theres somebody behind you.”

“What–”

I turned around to see Chara once more. Deja-vu.

“…SH–”

The voices cried out in outrage.

“–HOOT. Shoot! What are you doing here!? It's not safe for you here!” Chara looked around, puzzled.

“It isn't? It doesn't look like anything's here to hurt me.”

“But that's the point! Oh, God, I don't know what'll happen if you stay here for too long…We need to get you back home as soon as possible!”

I frantically opened another portal, immediately noticing that it was an Underfell. Closing that portal, I tried again, only to see an Underground caked in monster dust.

Many attempts after were met with failure. Only once did I see the starry skies of an Outertale, and it was a regular variant, not an Outerswap.

Finally, I sighed loudly, my posture becoming a resigned slouch.

“What were those places? Other planets?”

My anxiety spiked further. My voice wavered and distorted more than usual, shifting in pitch at random. “…Yeah, let's just say that. It's…easier.”

My voice seemed to catch Chara off guard. “Sheesh, are you okay? You…”

“I'm fine. Just voice cracks.” I felt my glitches intensify slightly as I crossed my arms. I turned around, giving Chara a nervous smile and a thumbs up. I could practically see their thought process on their expressive face as they seemed to shrug it off.

“Well, if you say so.” They still remained a little suspicious, but it seemed like they didn't want to pry. Thank God for that…

“Okay, um, hold on–”

“Focus.”

“I'm trying. Shut up.” I waved with one of my hands dismissively, as if the voice was a bug.

“Who are you talking to?”

I felt another spike of glitches, a little more severe than the last, wrack my body before coming up with something on the spot.

“Uh, myself.”

I tried my best to focus once more, attempting to block out the voices until I could finally portal to the right AU. I opened another portal.

However…

“Chocolate?”

Wait, really?

I squinted.

Yup.

“Chocolate!?” Chara ran up to the portal. I stretched out my arm, a motion to stop them from going further.

“LOL???? THEY SOUND LIKE THE CHOCOLATE GUY FROM SPONGEBOB???”

…Oh my God. They did.

Wait, they could hear–

“Hey! We have to go there!”

“Well, I don't know–”

“C'mon! It's chocolate! I know it is! Who doesn't like chocolate!?”

I sigh. For whatever reason, chocolate sounded very good at that moment.

“Well, you got me there. Just make sure to be quiet, and stay hidden. Who knows what could be on the other side?”

They nodded vigorously, running through the portal. This place appeared to be a variant of the woods near Snowdin, made of chocolate. The ‘snow’ was made of tiny white chocolate pieces, the bark of trees was made of dark chocolate, the ground made of…perhaps cookie crumble..? Either way, this place looked delicious. Chara immediately started chowing down on a tree.

“huh never heard of this au before”

“me neither,” I mumbled, making sure I was quiet enough so Chara couldn't hear me as I scooped up a handful of ‘snow’, “but i'm not opposed to it…i explode if i don't have dessert after a meal, anyway.”

“Explode!?”

“r u ok, jupiter???”

“…metaphorically.” I specified before letting out a small, satisfied noise while I shoved some of the false snow into my mouth. “Hmm. This tastes better than I thought it would.”

I wondered if this meant a fragment of Error was still…there. Likely not, I concluded, as it could easily be a change in taste buds. An odd thought, indeed, but one I'd have to get used to along with everything else.

“I know, right!?” Chara yelled whilst chewing on bark. “This place is paradise…” They took another bite of the bark they tore off.

I wasn't sure how much time went by as Chara and I stuffed our faces with candy. The voices murmured to themselves as we did so, but I was too focused on how good everything tasted to listen to them. If I had spit, I was sure my mouth would be watering. The flavor was almost enchanting; a perfect balance of sweetness, bitterness, richness, and salt.

Suddenly, I heard an odd, melodic whistling noise. I could see Chara turn their head to stare at it at the same time I did. The sound of the voices was muffled, but they seemed panicked.

Was it a person making that noise? My vision of the whistling object was almost a strange blur, as if I didn't have my glasses on. I knew I did, however, when I reached up to feel them.

The whistling object looked…appetizing. Was it alive?

“JUPITER.”

I supposed I'd have to find out.

“JUPITER!!! SNAP OUT OF IT!!!”

“You need to leave right now, this place is dangerous.”

“open a portal below you before you two eat a person!”

Shit!

I leaped at Chara before quickly opening a portal below us. I had no time to think of a specific place to go to before we went through, landing in snow.

Real snow this time, thank God.

I had my arms wrapped around the child. Their pupils, which looked a little too dilated moments ago, returned to their regular size. I quickly let go of them, getting up and surveying our surroundings. They simply stayed on the ground, disoriented.

“...What was that.” I didn't know how to process what just happened. The glitches made themselves known once more.

“there was an enchantment of some sort on the candy. i think. idk.”

“Whatever It Was, It Seemed To Do Something Strange To You!”

“i'm glad you got out of there. ty, loud voice!”

“YOU'RE WELCOME!!!!!!”

“Bro you almost ate somebody”

The sound of the so-called ‘loud voice’ made me flinch. Well, it wasn't like the other voices were wrong…

Wait, hold on, I was getting distracted!

“Wait, WHAT!?” Ohhh, shit. Fuck. A person!?

“yea…”

“Shush! Don't attract attention! If even we had no clue what AU that was, then who knows what else could be out there!?”

Oh.

I heard a noise, followed by a groan. Chara was waking up. I didn't even know they were unconscious in the first place?

“Ow…” They held a hand to their forehead as they sat up.

“Let's…not do that again. Where are we, anyway?”

“It looks like a Fell AU”

“yup, red sky in snowdin.”

I turned around, the cold breeze sending a shiver up my spine as I came to a realization.

It's empty.

Abandoned. Particles of dust and snowflakes were almost indistinguishable from one another. Bones impaled various structures around the area.

Footsteps in the distance. I turned around.

A human child, covered in dust with a knife in hand.

I looked back at Chara. They looked frozen in fear, like a deer in headlights. They knew what the dust meant.

The footsteps, suddenly, became faster.

Faster.

I didn't waste any more time.

Once more, I ran to Chara, opening another portal and dragging them through it with me.

I tripped on my own foot. Right before the portal shut, I heard something fly right by where my head just was. It landed on the floor of the Anti-Void with a clatter.

Oh. We're back. Finally. Took me long enough. I rolled over onto my back before sitting up, eye sockets wide.

Chara stared at me in shock. Their expression alone told me everything I needed to know.

“I'm…so, so sorry! I didn't want to…put you in danger like that.” I hoped they would understand what I said, as my voice shook and stuttered at an almost-constant rate. They seemed to get the gist of it, nodding understandingly.

“It's okay! I…think I'm ready to go home. Are all other worlds that scary?”

“No, no…” I opened another portal, “We just got…unlucky, that's all.” The AU on the other side looked like Chara’s original home, but I couldn't know for sure yet. “Stay here, alright? I'll scout ahead and see if this is your world or not.” They nodded wordlessly as I stepped through the portal, finding myself back in the alleyway. A decently-sized group of monsters wandered about, calling Chara's name. Seemed like it was.

I let Chara follow me through the portal. They held out their hand, offering for me to hold it. I accepted their offer, wondering if they did so to comfort the both of us. Maybe, maybe not.

As we got to the end of the alleyway, I stopped.

“Are we still friends?”

They nodded, eliciting a small smile from me. “I know you didn't mean it. You said earlier that you're still learning.”

“Thank you. Go on ahead. I'll see you later. I gotta catch a break at home.”

They let go of my hand, walking away. They looked back at me and waved goodbye. I responded in kind, then went back into the Anti-Void. As soon as the portal closed, I let out a huge sigh.

What a long day, if it even was a full one. Time in the Multiverse was probably very strange.

“where are we headed next?”

#eomw #(tags may have fic spoilers!! all warnings are at the top of the fic!!! tread with caution!#utmv #undertale au #sans au #error sans #outerswap #new weird candy au i made just for this fic that doesn't have a bame #the voices take a bit of a backseat compared to chapter 1 #but thats because other characters are being introduced!!!#the voices will be more prominent when jupiter isnt interacting with anybody #well. besides the voices.#themselves.#BUT.HEAH #ive never finished a full on chapter 2 of anything before. this is so cool for me #reincarnation fanfiction #sans au fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #unrelated but I FINALLY LEARNED HOW TO DRAW ERROR'S FACE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!!#i mean technically its jupiter here but YKNOW. STILL #ive always struggled with his eyes (sockets) BUT I FINALLY FOUND A WAY #huge thanks to tumblr user rurunyaa for giving me the motivation to finish this chapter!!!#look i made a thing #can you tell that i have no idea how to draw normal hoods lmao

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justanotherdrfan · 7 months

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Baby girl is thriving!! 🥺

youtube

#chapter 2 #i’m melting #f1 sunshine smile is well and truly back #i’m so happy i could cry #the difference in his outlook is night and day now #once a red bull boy always a red bull boy #red Bull gives you a happy Daniel and I’m here for it #he’s healing from the shitshow that was McLaren #the little digs at finally being listening to and waiting to cotinue to give feedback speaks volumes on the toxic culture over there #fuck mclaren #also Lawerence should always invite him because he genuinely chats with Daniel and you can tell Daniel is happy to be there #formula one #daniel ricciardo #dr3 #danny ric #f1 #formula 1 #vcarb #Youtube

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pttucker · 9 months

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I activated the [Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint] right away. And then, bore witness to a message I had never seen before. [Applicable individual is a 'Character' from a worldview you are not familiar with.] …A 'Character' from a worldview I wasn't familiar with? Almost at the same time, bright light suddenly shone out from the naked man's eyes. [Someone is activating a power not registered with the system!] Circular disks were vigorously spinning above his retinas. [An existence of another dimension is spying on your true nature!] [Warning! This power cannot be fully blocked by 'The Fourth Wall'!]

What???

Now we have whole entire different universes showing up? With their own absolute beings???

Wait.

Could it be...?

I gotta go check something.

I freaking knew it!

Oh man, first Dokja asks if there are unseen readers out there reading his story and now he literally encounters the main character of another novel from our world.

We are really straining the Fourth Wall here.

...The Fourth Wall that didn't answer about the readers and didn't answer when Dokja asked if they'd run into Jae-Hwan again...

#ohhhhhh boy here we go #lmfao I do love though that dokja finally asks how hold yjh is #really really really old my dude #tens of thousands if not hundreds of thousands #(at least if you count Secretive Plotter's lifetime as part of his)#if nothing else he's a few thousand with probably 1-5 years in each regression plus his special training he did outside of time #...and you are like 90 if we count the 60+ years you just spent in the 0th turn (assuming that time flowed one to one for dokja)#talk about an age gap relationship for joongdok #granted even hankim was age gap after she spent all those years in that reincarnation world...#lmfao dokja was practically a BABY compared to some of his companions by the end #orv #orv spoilers #orv liveblog #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv epilogue spoilers #orv novel chapter 528 #kdj #the fourth wall #twatf

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everynart · 9 months

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#everynaruto #naruto #iruka umino #chapter 1: uzumaki naruto!#volume 1 #graduation & bell test #had to include iruka's panel in here as well #finally a good fucking adult figure in naruto's life

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velidewrites · 2 years

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Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter II || Chapter III || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter I: May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favour

From the Treaty of the Treason:

In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 21 at a public “Reaping.”

These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of The Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains.

Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games.

***

The sun rose over the forest, waking up her prey.

Most of them had not yet shaken off winter’s cold embrace, buried safely underground in a deep slumber. But it was spring now—still in its early days, perhaps, though like many others in District 12, Feyre Archeron had exhausted her patience.

She was ready to hunt.

The morning frost covered the ground beneath her feet as she looked for animal prints. She’d take anything, at this point—the past few months had been colder than expected, and their icy breeze seemed to have permanently settled in the pit of her stomach, growling occasionally to remind her of its presence. As if she hadn’t already known. Hunger, these days, felt like the most stable companion she’d had in years.

A bush rattled somewhere, cutting through the silence, and Feyre’s grip on her bow tightened.

With her mind cursing the loud, heavy boots she’d chosen for the hunt—the only pair she owned apart from her slippers, really—she made way towards the sound, each step careful not to alert her prey. She’d done that too many times, stepping on a dried out branch like a fool, moments before firing the fatal shot. She couldn’t afford to do that again.

The bush rattled again, and Feyre reached for an arrow.

Please, please be a deer.

Another rattle. Feyre took another step, her heart pounding in her chest.

A deer would be good. More than good, actually—a catch like this would feed her and her family for a week, if not more. She could almost picture the look on Elain’s face as she placed its carcass on the kitchen table. Her sister could use some good news after the winter they’d had, and especially on a day like this.

Feyre shook her head, forcing her mind back into focus.

Two winters ago, she’d caught a wolf. It had been the best day of her life. Her family didn’t know hunger for three weeks, and Elain had sewn her a flimsy fur coat. Even Nesta had smiled a little bit.

I take back my wish, Feyre thought. Can you be a wolf instead?

The bush rattled for the final time, and, with a loud gurgle, her victim made its final step into the light.

“Oh, please,” Feyre groaned out loud, and fired the arrow straight through the turkey’s heart.

Served her right for setting her hopes so high. A wolf. How ridiculous, she thought, kneeling by the dead bird to pull the arrow out. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Feyre murmured. “At least you’re fat. Thanks for that, I guess.”

“You are disturbingly good at that,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Feyre shot up to her feet, whipping her head to its source. “Shit,” she swore, placing a hand on her racing heart. “You scared me!”

Arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, Isaac offered her a coy smile. “Sorry,” he said, his shaggy brown curls shimmering in the sun as he angled his head in wonder. “Who’s this little guy?”

Feyre raised the bird in front of her, making the show of displaying it in its full might. “That,” she said, a sly smile playing on her lips, “is my dinner.”

“Ah,” Isaac said. “Not a great way to start off the day. For him, I mean.”

Feyre shrugged, pulling the arrow out of the squelching flesh. “We all have to survive somehow.”

Something flashed in Isaac’s eyes as he took in her words. “Yes,” he said, his expression dimming. “I know.”

Feyre bit on her lip, her head dipping to the bloodied arrow in her hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Relax, Feyre,” he said, taking a step in her direction. “I just came to watch you hunt.”

Shoving the turkey into her hunting bag, Feyre grimaced. “I’m afraid you’re in for a huge disappointment.”

“Still nothing, huh?”

“Just this pathetic little guy,” she said, patting the brown leather, then frowned. “I probably shouldn’t say that minutes after killing him.”

Isaac stared at her for a moment, then at the bag, its worn-out fabric already staining red. “He’s no less pathetic than the rest of us,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?” Feyre asked.

But Isaac had already turned away, his gaze focused on a point high up in the trees, where another bird chirped a sad melody.

“Mockingjay,” Isaac hummed, those absent eyes closing in content.

Pain stung at her chest as she watched him, so close within her reach, and yet so far away. She had barely known him before he returned from the Capitol two years ago, but she did remember him as the kind baker’s son who had always used to smile.

Now, Isaac only smiled when his mind escaped to a better place.

Sometimes, Feyre wished he would take her there with him—somewhere where she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold, the hunger, the looming realisation that this wretched reality would never change. Perhaps that was why she felt so drawn to him—in a world of pain and uncertainty, Isaac was a brief escape to peace.

“Do you know what day it is, Feyre?” his voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She assumed he’d dismissed her presence by now.

She answered him anyway.

“The Reaping.”

Isaac nodded. “The Capitol’s hunt.”

Feyre’s brows knotted in confusion. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

At last, Isaac turned to her with a sigh. “How different, do you think, are we from your turkey?” He gestured to the bag at her side. “We, too, live out our lives in fear, our only hope to escape those who prey upon us.” Isaac shrugged. “The answer, Feyre, is: you and that turkey? You’re one and the same. The Capitol’s forest is only a little larger.”

A shiver went down her spine at the words, spoken behind the border yet dangerous nonetheless. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt Isaac, not anymore, but her? She was fair game, and Isaac’s reflections were treason.

He must have realised this, and he flinched visibly, as if shaking off some haze. “I think I should go,” Isaac said, turning to her again with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Ignoring the cold filling her veins, Feyre nodded. “I’ll walk you home.”

They walked through the forest, neither of them saying a word, even the mockingjays having seemingly decided to stay behind. Feyre couldn’t blame them. In Panem, not even birds were safe.

Especially not in District Twelve. Frankly, Feyre was surprised birds as beautiful as the mockingjay had still bothered to visit the place. Only ravens and magpies seemed to remain now, pests, as Nesta liked to call them, though Feyre had never agreed. They were drawn to jewels—to anything that glinted, really—scouting for any sparkle in the ground they could find. As if the stars they’d flown with in the night had not been enough. Feyre envied them, if anything. She used to dream of touching the stars, too.

Even the jewels were out of her reach, so far out, in fact, that she counted herself lucky if she managed to get her hands on coal. Coal, minerals—for the longest time, they had been her district’s export. The mines hid wonders of immeasurable beauty and infinite riches, her father used to tell her. Immeasurable beauty and infinite riches—it was no wonder the Capitol would put its hands all over them as soon as they’d see the light of day.

Isaac used to work at the mines, just like her father had. He never had to—his own father’s bakery had been doing a good enough job to sustain the family over the winter—but he volunteered. Feyre didn’t know the whole story, but according to Elain, Isaac had taken an old man’s place, too sick to answer the Capitol’s call to labour. And so, at seventeen, her friend had gone into the mines to become “his District’s pride.”

He had only stayed there two years, of course. Feyre remembered that day as clear as yesterday.

It had been the first time she’d been allowed to watch the Hunger Games. In what Nesta had called a foolish, ridiculous effort to spare them from the world’s cruelty, their father would send them to bed early, every night from the day the Games began to the day they ended. Nesta and Elain would always sneak out, watching the screen in horror from where Father could not see. Feyre had stayed, and would continue to do so until he died.

She was seventeen, and Nesta has hardly shared Father’s sentiment. It’s my last year, she’d said. If they choose me, at least I’ll have some comfort in knowing my sister are watching until the very end.

But they had not chosen Nesta, a girl called Clare Beddor taking the female Tribute’s title. She’d died almost immediately.

The last time Feyre had seen Clare—in real life, not getting butchered on the small screen at her kitchen counter—was when she stood in front of the District’s Hall of Justice, tears streaming down her face as she shook the hand of the male Tribute beside her.

Isaac Hale had not cried that day.

He never cried after his return, either, though he was never quite the same. The Capitol hadn’t let him mentor last year, and from the rumours, he wouldn’t mentor in this edition, either. He’s getting a well-deserved rest, the news would say. He’s gone mad, the locals would whisper. But Feyre knew they were all wrong.

Isaac was simply…broken.

“Mind your head,” he told her gently as they leaned under the electric fence.

She’d have to turn right to head home, but Feyre had promised to walk him back to the Victors’ Village, and she fully intended on keeping that promise.

She’d never been into his house. He told here there were cameras.

The noise grew louder, and soon enough, they reached the black market, its merchants shouting over each other, each of them claiming to have the freshest, most affordable produce from Eleven. Feyre avoided them all like the plague, unless she herself had something to trade. It had been far more enjoyable to look at their stock knowing she could do more than simply look.

“Does my eye deceive me?” A raspy laugh reached them. “Feyre Archeron, back from the hunt!”

She turned to the old man with a polite smile. “I’ve got nothing for you today, Andras.”

His one, yellow eye narrowed. “And Isaac Hale, back from the dead.”

Beside her, Isaac paled.

Feyre gripped the sleeve of his tunic, nudging him forward. “I’ll come on a better day,” she offered. The man only shrugged.

Isaac stopped her at the end of the street. “I can make my way from here.”

Her brows furrowed. “It’s okay, I can…”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Feyre. Go home, eat your turkey. I’ll be okay.”

Her hand covered his own, and she did her best to keep herself intact. “We could run away, you know.” She swallowed hard. “We could get away with it, you and I.”

For the first time, Isaac truly and openly smiled. “I’ll see you at the Reaping, Feyre.”

***

The smell of blood and carcass filled the house as soon as Feyre stepped foot inside.

Living on the outskirts of the District borders was a blessing, really. Feyre couldn’t imagine having to sneak past the centre’s Peacekeepers with a bow in hand and arrows on her back—not if she wanted to make it out alive, or with fifteen lashes taking her quiver’s place at the very least.

She had already learned her lesson once, though, with five long scars creasing her back if she ever dared forget it. She wouldn’t—that one time was enough to make her cautious. On busier days, she’d leave her hunting gear in the small hollow of the oak tree five minutes north of the electric fence. If any of the Peacekeepers confiscated her bow, it would be over. She could sell everything she owned, and she still most likely wouldn’t have been able to afford one. Bows, after all, were illegal to civilians, and the black market prices had been absurd these days.

And so, the only thing carried by Feyre today was the dead, bloodied turkey, her bag heavy with its stench. It was worse than she thought, it seemed, judging by the sickly green hue of Elain’s skin as she handed her the bird.

“Feyre,” her name came with a sigh of relief. “You’re home early.”

“Still nothing?” Nesta cut in, rising from the chair at the kitchen table.

Feyre’s lips formed a thin line. “This was the best I could do.”

Silence fell over the room, filled only by the distant sounds of scratchy caws—ravens, Feyre realised, picking whatever lunch they could find off the streets.

Elain, thankfully, was the one to break it. “I laid out some clean clothes for you on the bed.” The one bed they all shared all winter, keeping each other warm. “So that you can look nice at the…later today.”

Elain wiped her hands on the apron nervously, trying to mask the way they shook as she almost said the word that made her skin crawl and the blood drain from her face. The Reaping.

Her throat tight, Feyre forced her eyes back to her sister’s face. “Thank you.”

Elain nodded, still trembling slightly as she placed the turkey on the red-stained cutting board. Feyre’s heart clenched at the sight, her own dread forgotten in light of Elain’s, who’d been enduring this for far too long. Who, year after year, had watched her neighbours, her friends, leave and never return. Slaughtered on a tiny screen the Capitol had forced into their house, their anguished screams the only goodbye they could offer. Elain, for whom this Reaping could only mean one thing—death or freedom, a permanent release from Panem’s blood debt.

At twenty-one, this year marked the last time Elain could be drafted as District Twelve’s female tribute. It also marked her name being added to the pool for the tenth time. Tenth.

They all knew what it meant.

“You’re not going to be chosen,” Feyre said, her voice cutting through the dismal silence. “There are so many people your age in our District. They’re going to draw someone else’s name, and you’re going to go about your day like you do each year,” she dragged the words out, her eyes never leaving her sister’s. She could only hope they carried as much confidence as her tone did. “And then, you’ll finally be free. Like Nesta,” Feyre looked to her eldest sister, who nodded in affirmation. “And like so many others in Twelve. Okay?”

Elain loosed a shaky breath. “Okay,” she said, and took Feyre’s hands in hers. “We both will. You only have two years left, and then everything is going to be fine. Better.”

It was true—she did have two years left, but it seemed as though each year, there were less and less of District Twelve’s kids left. At the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, her name would be in the pool eight times.

Nesta’s name had never been drawn, and neither would Elain’s. Perhaps fate would be merciful to the Archeron sisters—perhaps it would see the life they led each day and decide it was punishment enough.

Feyre squeezed her sister’s hands back, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Of course.”

At last, her sister smiled, then let go, her hands moving to smooth out her apron yet again. “I’ll draw you a bath. You stink, you know.”

Feyre laughed at that. “I know.”

With a small shake of her head, Elain disappeared into the adjacent room, the door clicking lightly behind her.

“They probably wouldn’t mind seeing you with blood on your hands,” Nesta’s voice sounded behind her. “It’s how they like us best.”

Feyre turned to meet the icy blue of her stare. “A little help would have been appreciated.”

Nesta waved a hand. “You and I both know she won’t stop fidgeting until it’s all over.”

With a sigh, Feyre dropped to the wooden seat, her forehead resting against the roughened table’s surface. A wave of tiredness crashed into her all of a sudden, washing over every aching limb until she wanted nothing but to fall asleep right where she was sat. “I suppose you’re right.”

A loud creak of the chair moving beside her signalled Nesta taking her seat.

“Was there truly nothing in the woods?” her sister finally asked.

That woke Feyre right back up. “You think I lied before?”

“Of course not,” Nesta said calmly, crossing her arms on the table. “I just think you should take a break for a day or two. You might even find more of those birds if you’re well-rested.”

Teeth digging into the inside of her cheek, Feyre accused, “You’re making fun of me.”

“I really am not,” Nesta sighed, two slender fingers moving to rub her temple. “But Feyre, this turkey you caught will last us three days at best. What then?”

Anger began to boil in the pit of her stomach, rising steadily with each word. “Nesta, I already told you I’m doing the best I can.”

Another sigh. “I know, Feyre, I only mean that…”

“If you’re so dissatisfied with my hunting, maybe you should try it out yourself.”

Nesta straightened in her seat. “That is not what I meant.”

Her hands curled into fists. “No, I think that’s precisely what you meant.” She met Nesta’s gaze and her eyes narrowed. “Winter or not, I hunt every single day. What do you do to help us survive?”

Flames rose in Nesta's cold, hardened stare, her jaw clenching tight as she measured Feyre’s form beside her. “You have no idea,” she said, her tone practically seething, “You have no idea what I’ve done to help this family. What I’ve been doing ever since Father gave up on us, then died like the coward he was. What I’ll continue to do,” she added, her voice breaking slightly, “until both you and Elain no longer need me.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but it was Elain’s words that sounded beside her. ��We’ll always need you, Nesta.”

Feyre turned to face her, and Elain reached for both her sisters’ hands, her doe-like eyes shining with concern. “We’ll always need each other.”

Neither of them said anything, and Elain released them with a sigh. “Your bath is ready, Feyre.”

Feyre rose from the table, stepping towards the bathroom before turning to face Nesta one last time. “Will you skin the turkey while I’m gone?”

With a small nod, Nesta stood as well. “Of course."

***

Elain had chosen a pretty dress, long and made of blue linen, though Feyre still thought she looked ridiculous. It didn’t help that her sister decided a braid would be most suitable for such an outfit, golden-brown and thrown over the side of Feyre’s shoulder. She wouldn’t be surprised if she got thrown in with the fourteen year olds.

When the alarm sounded, all thoughts of the dress and her hair evaporated from Feyre’s head.

“It’s time,” Nesta told them, already at the door.

Feyre took Elain’s hand and squeezed it once. Her sister did not answer.

They walked with the crowd, large and beige and never-ending. At least the spring breeze accompanied them, and, not for the first time in her life, Feyre was grateful Twelve rarely suffered a scorching sun.

Families moved slowly around them, an aura of whispers and murmurs hanging in the air as parents assured their kids that it would all turn out okay. Feyre had never wanted nothing more than to believe them.

“Feyre,” Elain said quietly, her jaw tight enough for Feyre to notice how hard she fought to keep it from trembling.

She squeezed her hand once more. “I’ll tell you what, Elain,” she said. “When we get back, we’ll each have another, small serving of the turkey. Okay?” she asked, and Elain nodded. “Good. It will give you something to look forward to. For the entirety of this Reaping, I want you to think of nothing but how good the food is going to be.”

“It was really nice,” Elain admitted.

Feyre smiled. “Exactly.”

“Peacekeepers,” Nesta warned beside them. They were getting close, the massive sign in the distance signalling they have reached the Hall of Justice.

“Wait, Nesta—” Elain began.

Nesta looked firmly into her eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Do not make a scene.”

With a hard swallow, Elain nodded.

And with that, Nesta moved aside to join the audience of grieving parents, siblings and friends.

“Elain,” Feyre told her one last time. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

Elain exclaimed in shock as a white-dressed, masked man grabbed her arm, pulling them apart. She thrashed for only a second before realising she was being held by a Peacekeeper.

“Registration,” the man barked.

Elain nodded frantically, and Feyre dared one last look at her sister before joining her queue.

Moments later, she was greeted by a stern-looking woman whose expression reminded her of Nesta.

“Name.”

“Feyre Archeron,” she breathed.

It would be okay. She’d done this millions of times.

Without another word, the woman reached for her hand, pulling it toward her violently before pricking her finger to draw blood. Feyre hissed as she pressed the fresh cut to a piece of paper, right beneath an awfully bad photo of her, dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks more hollow than the deepest of Twelve’s mines.

Some things never change, Feyre thought bitterly.

With that, she joined her sector, taking her place somewhere in the middle—close enough to see the large, white screen set beside the stage, but far enough to not be able to make out the faces of the Hall’s officials, standing straight and dressed in grey.

The queues behind her shortened within minutes, and when the last child took their place in the audience, the screen lit up without warning.

“War,” a voice rumbled over the crowds, old and wise and with a hint of grandfatherly authority that she’d gotten to know so well over the years. “Terrible war.

“Such a vile, cruel act,” President Hybern’s words continued to sound over the speakers, with images of smoke and fire flaring up the screen one by one. “An act that pushed our country into its greatest trial.”

Another bomb set off with an amplified thud.

“Seventy-four years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Their malevolence spreading nothing but hate and destruction over Panem.” Now, the screen showed the Districts—Seven and Ten, from what little Feyre could make out—with their Halls of Justice on fire, their buildings nothing more than gravel on the streets. Another image showed a woman holding a small child, crying out in agony over its lifeless body. “Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This,” the President emphasised over a clip of children weeping, “was the uprising that rocked our land until nothing remained.”

A girl standing beside Feyre sucked in a breath.

“And then came the peace,” the President’s voice was now calm, serene, as the screen displayed Eleven’s wheat fields, floating atop the wind’s gentle breeze. “A Capitol rose up from the ashes and created a new era of prosperity. Of love. Of family.” A child ran up to their mother, launching into her arms, both of them laughing in happiness.

“But peace comes at a cost,” Hybern warned. “Together as a nation, we swore we would never know such destruction again. Would never know such treason again.”

Feyre almost rolled her eyes, bracing herself for what was coming.

“And so it was decreed,” President Hybern announced proudly, “that each year, the Districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman, to fight to the death in a pageant of honour, courage and sacrifice.” A young man on the screen stood on a podium topless, his muscles glistening in the sun, as he threw up his hands in victory. “The lone victor,” the President continued, “bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of the Capitol’s generosity and forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future. This is how we stand together. As a family, as a nation. As Panem.”

With that, the video cut off.

Feyre had never heard the District’s centre be so silent.

And then, the door flung open, and a woman stepped in, her hands joined in a loud applause.

“Wasn’t this just beautiful?” she asked into the microphone at the stage’s centre, her voice dripping with syrup.

Feyre hadn’t seen her before—the Capitol must’ve sent someone new.

She was beautiful, to be sure—everyone in the Capitol was, or so the Districts were told, at least. Her face was covered with a thick layer of foundation so white she would have merged into the Hall’s wall behind her had it not been for her hair—crimson red, and long, falling in waves to her back and crowned with large black flowers Feyre had never seen in her life.

Feyre could just barely make out her face—nothing special, she decided. Dark eyes, straight nose. Pretty, she supposed, though she might have not been the best person to consult on such matters. Coal, on the other hand…

She didn’t even realise she’d snorted at her inner dialogue until the girl beside her elbowed her straight in the guts. She muttered a low “Ow!” before the girl’s glare told her all she needed to know.

Diverting her attention back to the crimson woman, Feyre listened again. “Now,” she crooned. “The time has come for us to select our courageous Tributes!” she clapped her hands again, and Feyre thought she had never seen a more idiotic spectacle in her life.

The woman winked, red-painted lips twisting in a smile. “If you were paying attention to the lovely video, you know we’re going to choose one lovely man and woman for the absolute honour of representing District Twelve!”

For a woman like her, Feyre supposed, everything must have been lovely. Even the imminent deaths of the two children she was about to hand-pick from her ridiculous crystal bowl.

“As always,” she winked again. “Ladies first.”

With a loud click of her heels on the wooden stage, she made way towards the bowl on Feyre’s right, a perfectly manicured hand dipping inside.

Feyre’s heard stopped. This was the time.

A few more seconds, and it will all be over.

Breathe.

Elain, I’ll let you have my extra serving, she swore in her head. Just let it all be over.

In the few seconds that seemed like an eternity, Feyre wondered if the bowl was made from real crystal, and if yes, if it had been her father’s dead hands that mined it.

And then, the crimson woman pulled out two cards.

She weighed them down in each hand, making a show of choosing before settling on the card on her left, the right card dropping back into the bowl.

Torturously slowly, she stepped back to the microphone and opened the card, her delighted smile now clear on the screen at the stage.

“The female tribute from District Twelve is…” She looked to the crowd, her eyebrows rising in feigned suspense. “Elain Archeron.”

No.

No no no no no no

“Elain Archeron?”

Please.

The ringing in her head was deafening.

“Where is the lovely Elain?”

Please.

Someone pushed Elain out of the crowd, her usually beautiful face now white as death.

Feyre’s whole body burned as she watched Elain move toward the stage on shaky legs.

“There you are! Oh, you’re gorgeous!” the crimson woman praised. “Come closer, dear, let us all have a look at you!”

A Peacekeeper pushed her closer, and Elain stumbled over a step.

Not Elain.

It couldn’t have been Elain.

It shouldn’t have been Elain.

No.

“No,” Feyre said out loud, her legs moving on their own accord. “No!” She shouted, pushing her way out of the crowd. “ELAIN!”

Elain’s head whipped back, and those doe eyes have never held such fear.

Two Peacekeepers reached her in seconds, holding Feyre back and into the crowd again. “No! LET ME GO!” Feyre trashed, kicking one of them in the shin.

She forced herself free.

“I VOLUNTEER!” Feyre shrieked with a strength her lungs had never known before.

Her entire body stilled, as if she’d surprised it just as much as the crowd around her.

“I volunteer as Tribute.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“My, my!” the presenter wondered. “I believe we have a volunteer!”

The crowd began to murmur.

“Come on up, my dear.”

It had only been by Feyre’s sheer will that her feet carried her forward. She didn’t stop until she reached Elain, still frozen in place.

“Feyre,” Elain breathed, tears falling freely down her face.

“It’s okay,” Feyre whispered. “You’re okay.”

She didn’t know how she managed her way through the stairs and onto the stage, but within the next few moments, Feyre stood beside the crimson woman, her appearance even more ghastly up close.

“What is your name, my dear?” she asked.

Feyre looked over the crowd, her head still spinning.

Someone subtly cleared their throat beside her.

“What?” she turned toward the sound.

“I asked about your name, dear.”

“Feyre,” her voice was hoarse, and she swallowed hard. “Feyre Archeron.”

“Ah,” the woman acknowledged with a motherly nod. “And am I right in assuming that was your sister whose place you have just taken?”

Feyre nodded, her eyes still searching the crowd. “Yes.” Was Elain safe? Was Nesta? “Yes.”

“Well, Feyre Archeron, you are District Twelve’s first volunteer!” she turned to the microphone, addressing the crowd. “Such bravery. Such heart. Congratulations, lovely Feyre.”

Congratulations?

The woman clasped her hands together. “And now for the gentlemen!” she said happily, making her way to the other bowl.

Feyre’s heart sank as she realised her sisters were no longer in the crowd, and neither was Isaac. What happened to them? Where did they take them?

Oh, Isaac, Feyre thought. We should have ran away.

“The male Tribute from District Twelve,” the woman’s voice sounded loudly beside her again, shaking Feyre out of her daze, “is Tamlin Rosethorn.”

The florist’s son.

He stepped out of the crowd, pale yet standing tall and strong. His muscles reflected through his white shirt as he stepped onto the stage.

“Go on,” the woman encouraged with a smile. “Shake hands.”

Tamlin locked her hand in a tight grip, and as Feyre met his emerald gaze, she wondered if he would kill her first.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Tributes from District Twelve!” she exclaimed for the final time to no applause but the sound of Panem’s anthem playing over the speakers. “Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

“Come now,” she now addressed the two of them directly. “Inside.”

Feyre did not know how she got pushed into one of the Hall’s rooms and sat on a chair, the door locking her inside. “Wait here,” a muffled voice told her.

So Feyre waited.

An eternity, or maybe a second, had passed when the door opened again, two figures launching themselves in.

Feyre shot up from her seat.

“One minute,” the muffled voice told them.

Elain was sobbing as she threw her arms around Feyre’s neck. “Feyre. My beautiful Feyre.”

“Everything will be okay,” Feyre told her, forcing strength into her voice.

For Elain.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Feyre. I would’ve—”

“It’s done now,” Feyre said, pulling away to meet her sister’s gaze. “Listen, I don’t have much time.”

“Promise you will make it out,” Elain begged.

“I promise,” Feyre lied.

Her head now turned to Nesta, who began, “Feyre—”

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” Feyre cut her off. “My bow and arrows are hidden in the tallest oak tree in the forest, five minutes north of the fence by the house. Talk to Isaac. He will teach you how to shoot.” Nesta nodded, and for the first time, Feyre saw silver lining her sister’s eyes. “Take care of her.”

Nesta nodded again. “I always have.”

Feyre loosed a breath of relief. “I know,” she said, then pulled Nesta into their embrace.

“Time’s up,” someone said behind them, and Feyre took a step back.

“Try to win. Please,” Nesta told her.

There was nothing else to say, so Feyre said nothing. Soon, her sisters were escorted out.

“You only have thirty seconds,” a Peacekeeper told her, and another visitor appeared in the doorway.

“Isaac,” Feyre breathed, but he stopped her before she could waste their time with nothing but empty goodbyes.

“You can hunt,” he said, his eyes cleared and more determined than ever. “Use it.”

Feyre shook her head. “We both know I’m already dead, Isaac.”

He opened his mouth, but Feyre stopped him. “Take care of them. Please, promise that whatever you do, you won’t let them starve.”

At that, Isaac wrapped his arms around her. “I will,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

They looked at each other one last time, and Feyre said, “We should’ve run away, like I told you.”

He offered her a sad smile. “You’d never leave your sisters, Feyre. Only death could ever stand between you.”

“Yes,” Feyre said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I know.”

With that, Isaac left, and as the door closed quietly behind him, Feyre stepped into her new reality.

She was truly alone.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase

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