#final chapter time <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[cupcakeinat0r]

Your middle-aged, loser Genetics professor who has a dad bod <3

Part 9

Wc. 7.7k

Miguel waits in his car, his gaze not fixated on anything specific; simply forward. He rests his forearm on the car door, window down. The thick hairs of his arm raise as his mind ventures, replaying the past few hours in his mind. A low hum stirs against his chest. There’s a sort of glow he emulates as he sits there idly, smizing at nothing in particular. He probably looks like a total creep with how he’s grinning in his car, alone, looking off into space. No passenger. You've sat there for the past few months, from campus to your place, and vice versa. But today, you aren’t there, yet he’s happy. His heartbeat intensifies, his stomach contracting once or twice due to unfiltered chuckles. As he waits patiently in the car, he lets it consume him, the memory of that morning, and he closes his eyes.

“Okay, what do you think?” you reach your arms out as if to present a prize, and the winner is Miguel. Miguel, who looks uncomfortable in your too-small-for-him lounge chair but shows no sign of strain on his face, fixes his glasses and observes with love-sickened eyes. After a simple, romantic breakfast at his place, he insisted on taking you back home so that you could get ready. Then after dropping you off, you figured he might as well stay so he can take you to the ceremony, too.

“Is it too much?” You give a little twirl.

His eyes scan thoroughly scan you. “Jesus… How’d I get so lucky?” The question sounds genuine, as if needing an actual answer. “You’re beautiful, mama.”

This makes you smile in return. You look to the mirror to see if Miguel is right (obviously, he is), running your hands over your pre-planned graduation outfit. Today, you receive your hard-earned Master’s Degree, and even though throughout the year you were convinced you wouldn’t be, you’re feeling more nervous than ever. “Picked it myself.” Your voice wavers just a hint. Has two years really gone by so fast? More specifically, the second year of your grad. The first one felt like eons. Maybe it’s just because you didn’t score an Adonis of a professor that year.

Miguel stands from his chair and comes from behind, his hands snaking through the gap between your arms and waist, holding you tightly against his plush exterior, “I just wish I was the one who got it for you.” and a kiss is pressed to your temple. His grasp seemed to soothe your nerves a bit, your body sinking into his natural warmth and plush. You can see his face through the mirror, the absence of doubt and judgment in his expression making you fall all over again. You really were a lucky girl. He looks at you with such reverence. And maybe a touch of arousal. Those aren’t his keys you feel on your backside.

“Oh, stop. You’ve given me more than enough, Miguel. All I need is you.” With his chin resting on the top of your head, you reach to cup his face, a picture-perfect moment displayed on the full-length mirror. He whispers into your ear, “Giving you lessons doesn’t count, that’s just my job. te voy a dar el mundo, mi Vida.”

“Right, right, and I’m guessing giving me that necklace was a part of your job description?”

You win a rich, dark chuckle from him, but he ignores you, still sprinkling kisses on your skin, his bifocals bending out of place at times. You giggle and even try to break away, but he doesn’t budge. You fight the urge to kiss back just to spite him.

“Or that skirt? Or those shoes? Or that one purse? Damn, how much does the school pay you?”

And before you can further argue, he presses more kisses onto you, almost sending both of you to topple over. “Just let me spoil you, mama.” He speaks against your jaw.

“Miguel!” the gravel chuckle of his voice continues to rumble against the side of your neck. You can’t complain and never will, but the difference between Miguel now versus the Miguel you met still leaves you baffled to this day. Or it isn’t much of a difference or change, really, but rather an unmasking. This Miguel was just stowed away until further notice; placed in the backest corner of the freezer to never see the light of day. This is the person Miguel was dying to show, he just needed the right person to coax it out of him. Now you have him attacking you with wet kisses in the middle of your living room, his hulking arms locked around you with no chance at an escape.

“Right, enough fooling around and help me into this, will you!” Reluctantly, he’ll let you move your hair for better access to the still-open zipper of your outfit.

“Fine. On one condition.”

Sigh. “Yes?”

“Un besito.”

“Oh my God.”

“Take it or leave it. Last offer. Don’t make me make it two.”

“Given there’s no one else around to zip me up, I guess I have no choice. Just my luck.” you joke, eagerly leaning your head back against his chest, granting his kiss entry to your neck, your chin, and then lastly, your lip. And then one kiss turned to multiple. If you weren’t so completely lost in his tongue and lips, you’d notice his hand rested and wrapped around your neck. The minor callouses provided a sensation that only added to the fervor of the exchange. Once y’all finally pull away, low eyes traveling in triangles, he politely requests, “Step forward for me.”

You move forward slightly so as to give him space to zip you up. But before he can do the job, he takes a second to look over the details of your back, a part of your body his hands have gotten to know very well, but his eyes haven’t gotten the same pleasure of. Miguel was very good at respecting your boundaries and wishes, which meant a lot (a lot) of making out, but nothing further than that. He notes to himself how soft it looks, the hills and curves of your spine creating a Grecian masterpiece.

And you can practically feel his eyes roam every inch of exposed skin, making you feel like art. You think to say something, but you’d rather let Miguel have this moment, and you let yourself have it, too. You’d often think about what it’d be like to see Miguel’s reaction to you. All of you. He’s made you feel nothing but like a deity for the duration of your budding, unlabeled relationship, and you’ve been fully clothed at all times. You can only imagine how he’ll act when you’re completely bare.

You know for sure he loves you. He said so. And he’s shown it to you. You’ve decided that being that vulnerable with him is something you want, it’s only a matter of when.

You start to hear the friction of the tab pulling the teeth together, one by one, that’s how slow Miguel was going. Unable to resist the urge, he stops the zipper and reaches to plant a tender kiss on the back of what’s left of your exposed neck. “I could do this every day, you know?” he admits softly, like a hymn. You turn, not completely, just so that your face is to him, “‘Everyday’? For how long?” You know the answer, kind of, but there’s still curiosity in what he’ll say. There are so many instances where you wait for Miguel to say the wrong thing; to do something that’ll break this spell, but he hasn’t. He just doesn’t have the capacity to. He’s perfect in your eyes.

“For however long you’ll have me. Which I’m really hoping is forever or else this’ll be extremely embarrassing.”

Damn, he said the right thing. People can say his stab at humor is mediocre all they want, but Miguel never ceases to make you snicker. If you opened an Oxford Dictionary to ‘adorable’, it’d have his picture.

“Who am I kidding, you could absolutely humiliate me and I’d still say ‘thank you’.”

“Oh, this’ll make some good blackmail.” you finally turn around to tauntingly wave your index finger at his amused expression.

“Oye, Final exam grades aren’t due ‘til next month, so I’d be careful if I were you.” his brow perks when he says ‘you’, and your only response is a sarcastic ‘Oooooo’ before you’re muffled by the millionth kiss of the day, but who’s counting?

“There. Secured. Anything else, princesa?”

You take a deep breath, getting in one last overall look in the mirror before facing him, “Okay, yeah, I’m ready. Just need my chauffeur.” You look over at Miguel, who looks back at you confused, then looks around knowing fully well there’s no one else except the two of you.

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

Ha ha ha. Very Funny. If expressions could talk, this is what yours would’ve said.

Miguel smiles, taking your hand to kiss the back of it, and rubs your knuckles with his thumb as an apology. “Your chariot awaits, your majesty.”

Wait, where is he going?

“Mig, stadium’s that way.” your thumb points toward the window next to you, the street that leads to the graduation growing farther and farther.

Despite that a mistake has obviously been made, Miguel looks indifferent, eyes aimed straight at the road before them with no sign of a doubt. He huffs from his nose before responding, “I know,” his thumb runs across the back of your hand, “I have something for you, though.” He takes your hand up to his lips, a smile creeping up on your features.

“At your office?”

“Accidentally left it there.”

What is he up to?

His crooked smile tells you a different story. Miguel can feel you questioning him. You can see him physically gather his words in the driver's seat.

“Remember when… we were in the library one of those first nights and we exchanged books?”

You nod. How could you forget?

“And I told you about Gabriella?”

You nod again. He’s asking obvious questions here, it’s sort of scaring you.

“That was my first time talking about her with someone. In years.” His chest and belly deflate as if releasing a weight he’s held onto, “And you’re also the first person who’s said her name out loud. Someone other than me. In a very long time.”

You listen intently, everything that has happened up until now making more sense with this piece of information. You always knew the painful fact that Miguel has been by himself mostly since starting teaching, but it stings even more knowing that he’s never opened up to anyone about this. No one to turn to. No one to be soft with. Sure, he had his friends, from what you remember him telling you about his hero, multi-dimension, whatever-it-was days, but to your understanding, they all left him alone. By means of Miguel’s requests. He wanted those days to be over completely.

“She was beginning to feel like- I don’t know. Like a figment of my imagination. Photos and videos that I rewatch and stare at every single day were starting to… go stale,” this admission makes him wince in shame, “I replay them over and over again… and nothing new. I know what happens in each and every single one of them. And it ends up hurting every single time. I didn’t know how much more I could’ve taken before stopping altogether.” His lips purse, the guilt seeping from every inch of him. “Well, at some point, I even became afraid. Terrified that I was starting to forget the little things about her, or worse, that I’d move on,”

You didn’t even notice, but the car had been parked minutes ago, it’s only when he turns his face to look at you, eyes beginning to gloss, when you realize the car had stopped.

“Until that night.” His narrow gaze softens.

“The night at the library… I told you things that I hadn’t even thought about until that night. Like, for example, how she liked to match the color of her hair ties to her shirt,” Miguel allows himself to softly beam with this memory, “or whenever I’d fall asleep on the couch, she’d always, always, place a blanket on my feet so that ‘the monsters don’t get me’,” you both giggle at this, “Like those things? They had just come back to me in that moment.”

You both had entered campus grounds and turned to his office door, and he whipped out his keys, the metal hitting against the doorknob. The halls are quiet and hollow. It feels like the end of an academic year.

“I just never thought I could possibly let those things slip.” His voice lowers, an air of disbelief in his words.

“Will you ever stop loving her?”

“Of course not. Never.”

“Then she will live on forever. You’ve proven to yourself that you’ll never let the small things leave. They’ll always come back to you.”

Miguel smiles to himself, thinking about this.

He heads toward his bookshelf, reaching for something, but you can’t see given that he himself blocks the entire view of it. “When I hear you say her name,” you see his head bow down at something in his hand, “You sound so… lively... If that makes sense? Like… as if she were still here, as if you knew her. It meant a lot to me. Even in the way you talked about her. Maybe it explains why I was able to recall so much.”

He turns around to you, and you can only make out something small in his hand; something blue?

“I figured that, if she were still here, she’d want you to have this.”

He unfurls his hand and out blossoms a satin blue ribbon formed in a rosette; the words ‘first place’ are displayed in the center. “Wear it today?” He stands before you, the dwarfed ribbon sitting in his hand. His request sounds more like a plea.

“Her teammates gave it to her when she scored their winning goal. She was so happy. It was her last game before she-” Both gazes leave the ribbon and land on each other, glossed and daring to well.

He clears his throat, “She used to- used to show it off any chance she could,” His eyes well up, but regardless of presuming tears, he looks down at the ribbon with a soft smile.

“Miguel,” Your head slowly shakes from side to side, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” he persists, “Take it, it’s yours.” He insists through choked words. He places the ribbon in your hand, folding your fingers in, hoping that you’ll accept his gift.

Here stands a man you’ve been falling so hard for for the past year, who is not only giving you a piece of his late daughter’s life, but insisting you take it. You haven’t been around enough to know what love is, but with what Miguel is doing right now, you’re starting to think maybe this is what it might look like. When you started seeing Miguel, who was your professor, you didn’t think all those thoughts of him being yours would ever have come true. You knew it was silly, childish, and most importantly, out of the question. Yet here he is, giving you a piece of himself. This isn’t casual anymore. So he did really mean those three sacred words said last night and this morning.

After letting the ribbon sit there for just seconds but what feels like minutes, you take his hand back, but the ribbon is now pressed between you and Miguel’s palms. You give it a tight squeeze, taking in a deep breath. “It’s ours.”

You look up at him, a trail of a tear down your cheek. “Because I’m yours, if you’ll have me,” a bright smile grows behind your wet eyes. “And I’m really hoping it’s forever, or else this’ll be extremely embarrassing.” You actually laugh, and so does he, pooling eyes and all.

“You’re stuck with me. I love you.”

With those words, it was like the past five years of being alone became all worth it. All the lonely nights, all the predictive mornings, and the dune of a civilian life he was leading came crashing down on him because he knew a new one was dawning. Still civilian, but now, he has someone to put all the love he has to offer into. All his fears, all his insecurities, it all dissolved. The label of your relationship was blurry, uncertain if this was the kind of thing you entertained for only a bit and never spoke of again or something worthwhile. If last night wasn’t a confirmation of the answer, then this moment was, marking it as the official beginning of a romantic, exclusive, official relationship.

“I love you. I love you. Te amo. Te quiero. I love you. I love you… I love you…” his soft declarations are muffled in kisses on any spot he could get to. All those fantasies he’s conjured in his mind where you two live together, share a life, make a life… or two… or three… or however many you’re willing to carry, he doesn’t care, all of those scenarios now seem like promises. Like a nearby reality. Solitary nights dreaming about you in ways that leave him hot and bothered will finally come to an end. On a more suggestive note, He’ll finally be able to get through class without raging hard-ons again.

“I love you.” You manage to breathe out between kisses. Arms wrap around the back, hands wrap around the neck, fingers rake through tussles of hair, and legs begin to lose balance and find their way to the edge of Miguel’s desk. Visions become blurred, ears begin to grow hot, and heart rates quicken with beats large enough to feel on each other’s chests. You two are much too deep in it that you don’t hear the creaking of the wood underneath you. “Yes. Please.” Miguel hears your whisper, moving his head to look you in the eye. “You mean…?” He asks gently, to which you nod, repeating your plea. Without much thinking, Miguel taps your thigh. This was it. Miguel didn’t hear you say the exact words, but he knew. He knew what you were saying yes to. You, much less thinking, instinctively raise your leg, allowing Miguel to prop you onto the desk. “I love you. So much, it’s crazy, Miguel. God, I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.” You mewl in his ear, and in return, Miguel, with softly knitted brows, lets out a pathetic groan. Miguel may be quiet in everyday life, but when it came to the two of you, alone, he wasn’t afraid of being vocal about what he liked, and right now, with what you’re saying plus your legs wrapping securely around his waist seemed to have both an audible and physical effect on him. A big physical effect.

Is this the right spot to do this right now? Couldn’t y’all get in trouble? Was this even a good time?

These are questions that a sane person would probably think of, but with the current circumstances, you simply couldn’t give a damn, let alone Miguel. Even if you tried, you don’t think you would’ve even had enough brain wattage to string a single thought with Miguel touching you like this. However, if you had the luxury of logic, you’d know that:

1. Getting in trouble isn’t of concern since faculty are either at home starting the Summer they’ve been so impatiently waiting for, and students are at home doing the same or at the stadium.

2. Given that the ceremony won’t start until another 2 hours from now, it’ll give you both plenty of time. The traffic would’ve been dreadful anyway, so might as well just show up at the last minute.

3. What better place than here… where you two met.

You breathe heavily along with Miguel, “Remember… the first meeting… I sat right in front of this desk,” Miguel makes an effort to listen, but he’s currently too occupied with straining his hard-on against your heat, “Mm-oh…now look at us.” your breathless voice and coquettish smirk goes straight to Miguel’s cock, the feeling of his pants shrinking in size making him hot all over. Trapping your lips between his over and over again. You're pretty much without oxygen at this point, but you don’t care, it feels amazing. His teeth on your lips, his hands squeezing the flesh of your ass deeper against his length. Your fingers tugged onto his now disheveled curls and he whined. He whined.

“Mama, you don’t wanna know how many times I’ve imagined this moment. Fuck, am I dreaming again?” His words hit your skin like the thick air after a calm rain.

You cup his face in your hands, pulling him from your neck, and you’re met with a lust-drunken, devoted worshipper; a big man that’s been stricken of sex for far too long. In doing so, you notice the ribbon still in your hand, which knocks a bit of sobriety back into you. It’s almost like Miguel read your mind because the same alarm goes off in his head. With that, the two of you are quick to mend one tiny problem.

Miguel, still between your legs, reaches over to lower any pictures he has of Gabriella, faced down on the shelf. As for you, you stash the ribbon safely in a drawer right behind you. Gabriella shouldn’t be present for this.

Capturing you in a kiss again, your hand ends up untucking his shirt, resting on his stomach, your fingers caressing his skin. He huffs, slightly tickled by your soft touch along his belly. The corner of his lip curves into a dorky smirk as you sneak your hand into the waistband of his slacks and boxers, pushing past his dark happy trail. “Oh fuck. Haven’t been touched like this in so long,” The clank of his belt buckle rings in your ears, making you pulsate, “I need you. So fucking badly.”

“Keep talking. Please.” You murmur, unbuttoning his shirt, unveiling a plethora of chest hair covering a body fit to raise your future children.

“So lonely, honey… miss you every night when I come home. Miss you so much in the mornings, it hurts.”

Once his shirt is on the floor, with hands and eyes, you revel in all his glory: six feet and nine inches of caramel deliciousness, coated in equal parts of muscle and fluff. You could come undone just from this sight.

His hand holds your chin with a soft caress of his thumb, “I used to look a lot better back then. I’ll work on it.”

You pull him down by his neck to eye level in protest. “Don’t you dare change a single thing on this body. You’re perfect. You’re beautiful. Finest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Oh, that made his dick twitch. Your free hand wraps around his broad shoulders while the other is in his hair, smashing faces. Miguel, with no hesitation, swipes everything off the desk and instantly pushes you onto your back, his soft husky exterior pressing you against the cold wood. Tongues are down throats. He stutters as his dick twitches, “Tell me I can eat you out.” The question and tone of voice alone make your back arch. You kiss even deeper, tongues intertwining as he moans in your mouth.

“God, yes, please, Mig, please-”

He gives a vicious squeeze to your ass, reminding you of his pure strength, “That’s not what I want. Usa tus palabras, mamita.” Your begging makes his cock ache, but he needs to hear the words. He needs to know you want this as much as he does. He needs your permission.

Your top lip curls before you speak again through hooded eyes, “Professor,” the name catches him off guard, “please… fuck me with your mouth.”

You were playing a dangerous game. Before you was a sexually deprived middle-aged man who’d been silently pining for you since day one, and you were begging him to treat your cunt like a 5-star meal. Having a gorgeous girl like you pleading for him to tongue fuck you like you deserved, it was driving him crazy. He wasted no time going down to the most sacred corner of this divine body.

“Funny… I zipped this up not even half an hour ago.”

“Hey, hey, careful, I still have a ceremony to wear this to.”

You had a point. And as if you were a gift, he bunches the fabric high enough to reveal some panties he’d recently given you. If it wasn’t for him wanting to last for both hours until the ceremony, he would’ve came right then and there. He looks at you with darkened eyes, a gaze intense enough to strip the cockiness from you, your cheeks growing hot from the act, “What? I assumed this was gonna happen later-”

Miguel cuts your sentence short with a French kiss to your clit through the thin lace, the combination of his nose, tongue, and breath on your heat making your thighs shake. “ So wet… you always this wet during class? Fuck.” With how Miguel was moaning and groaning against your sensitive skin, you’d assume he got more pleasure in giving you head than you did receiving it. Your hand darts for his scalp, the other holding onto the edge of the desk for dear life once he hooks the panty with his finger to move it out of the way, pursuing even more thirstily now. The wood creaks with each buck of your hips, but with the way Miguel’s arms hold your weight on his wide shoulders effortlessly, it doesn’t phase you. Breathless prayers of his name left your lips, panting softly as your head fell back against the table. You can feel the bundle in your core form as your whimpers turn to wails.

“Mig, s’good, feels so good. I’m close, pleasepleaseplease-”

Meanwhile, his eyes were practically to the back of his head, hips pathetically bucking to the matching rhythm of your hips as he took turns treating your clit like a lollipop and your entrance like a fleshlight. “M’gonna- aw fuck… voy a cuidarte, mamita, don’t you worry your pretty little head.” you hear through a whine before his tongue is back at it again. His hands take turns squeezing your thighs tighter around his head and occasionally using his forefingers to stimulate your sensitive bud. His glasses start to fog, and his eyes are covered by humid lenses. This was starting to obscure his perfect view of you and your euphoric expressions, and he just couldn’t have that. So, he pulled away for only a millisecond just to basically rip them off and he was right back to devouring your weeping cunt. There’s no way he was missing this.

You’re choked whines signify the peak, your body trembling uncontrollably. This will be the first of many, and he’s only getting started. When the man promises to take care of you, he’s gonna take care of you.

He spends the remainder of your climax lovingly rubbing his fingers up and down your pussy, making sure you ride it out all the way to the very end.

“Good, baby? You okay?” he purs back into your ear, tenderly caressing your thighs and planting gentle kisses of reassurance on your face. You nod with half-lidded eyes, catching your breath before replying ‘yes’.

“Tell me what you want, mama.”

“Fuck me, professor. Please?”

“Say that again.”

You look at him above you, your legs pulling his waist closer so that his aching length meets your pulsing core, “Please, I want you to fuck me, professor.” Whilst maintaining eye contact, Miguel reaches down to put your hand on the bulge. “Look what you do to me.” Your theory of his size is confirmed.

“This what you wanted?”

“Need it.”

“C’mere.”

Miguel sits you up, telling you to relax since ‘he’ll do all the work’. He carries you to his office couch. He plops onto the cushions with you straddled on his lap. While he has your tongue entwined with his, he releases his cock from the restraints of his boxers, the base erects against his lower belly. Not wanting to waste another second, although the view of it was mesmerizing, you sit up on your knees to line yourself up with him, but Miguel sits you back down, “No hay prisa, mamita, need to get you ready, but first,” His hand snakes to the back of the zipper, and the dress unveils, “Need to see all of you, beautiful.” you seem to knock the air out of him as he lets his hands explore you, your breasts the perfect hand full. “You’re so fucking hot.” He even looks up for a moment and thanks God for blessing him with someone like you, making you look down at the endearing gesture.

Your body goes limp once he laps at your chest, sucking and pulling like it was his first meal in ages. The feeling of his tongue circulating your hardened buds made you clench around nothing. He has you in a bear hug, front sides pressed against each other. The small room seems to disappear around the two of you, totally forgetting where you are, in both space and time. It’s just you, Miguel, and the beautiful sounds of pure, raw pleasure.

“Mig, wanna make you feel good, too.”

Miguel unwillingly pulls away, only half-hearing what you said, and not given even a chance to process. You’ve already positioned yourself on your hands and knees next to him on the couch. Kitten licks and tender sucks to the tip send Miguel’s head falling against the back of the couch. You know he’s needing more when his hips buck upward, and you’re more than willing to give it to him. Occasionally, you’d rest your head against his stomach chub to give him a few rewarding strokes, admiring his size, just to let it sink back into your hollowed mouth. You managed to get Miguel growling, hoarse moans spilling from his bitten lips as you tend to his stiffened cock that you’ve daydreamed of tasting.

“Baby, please, slow down, not gonna last long.” But it was no use. You were relentless on his aching manhood. The only way to get you to go easy on him was to reach over your ass and pump his fingers into you, so that’s exactly what he did. You whine with his tip in the back of your throat, but you’re able to still keep him in. To Miguel’s hopes, you do slow down, the mutual pleasure putting both of you in sync.

“Let’s come together, mamita, hm? Can I put another one in, baby?”

He takes your eye contact as a cue to put in a third, thick finger, eliciting a high-pitched moan against his veiny shaft. Having both ends of you completely filled was, in all honesty, a bit overwhelming, but it’s the best feeling you’ve ever felt. There’s no one else you would’ve rathered have you like this than your Mig.

His fingers get faster, and your strength to keep his cock inside is dwindling, but for him, you try, nonetheless.

“That’s it, mamita, that’s it…” His fingers are unbelievably fast at the point, droplets sent flying and falling onto the fabric of the couch. That’s something he’ll worry about later, but right now, his goal was to get you absolutely fucked out and coming all over his hand. Unable to hold it anymore, you free him from your mouth, letting yourself cry and whine freely as he finger fucks your second orgasm out of you. Still determined to have him come with you, you pump him with your hand as you ride off your high on his hand. Miguel wants to praise you, but his panting and mewling get in the way. You had this gentle giant making what would be considered embarrassing noises, but symphonic music to your ears. At the first sign of his juices, you place him back into your mouth, but this time, he holds your hair and fucks up into your mouth in short, fast, desperate thrusts until he’s finished.

You don’t even let him have a moment to breathe once you start kissing up his happy trail and to his stomach; what once was a pack of abs has given way to pudge. You kiss a little higher, giving his pec a gentle lick where it’s most sensitive, making him sharply inhale as a result. They proceed to the valley of his pecs, up his neck, to his jaw, and cheek. If Miguel still had doubts in the back of his mind about your love for his body, they’ve vanished now.

Your lips meet now, and various soft ‘I love you’s’ are exchanged.

“Just want you to sit back n’ relax now, mami. Wanna see that gorgeous face,” Holding onto your head and lower back, he carefully lays you on the couch, “Can I?” The gentle dominance this man radiated was good enough to make you already contemplate marriage. The expression on his face reflected utter devotion and praise. You thought his kind were only written in books.

“Of course, professor. Gotta repay you for all those private sessions.” Even after two orgasms, you still had to keep the cliche going. Miguel was unable to help a small chuckle. He had no problem playing right along, though. “You made it so hard to focus in class, you know that?” His voice is dark and low, a stark contrast to the noises he was making just a minute ago. He speaks while spreading your legs like precious artifacts, lining himself up. Finally.

“Sitting there all gorgeous n’ smart. Drove me insane.” He whispers into your ear, his leaking tip making a connection to your entrance. “And then having the audacity to help your classmates? How dare you have a heart just as beautiful.” He kisses you while sliding inside, muffling your gasp.

He tuts against your mouth, “Yo se, bebita, me too…mmnnshit,” His hand caresses your hair in an effort to soothe at least some tension, “I’ll go slow, mama, m’kay? Gonna take care of y- oh fuck,” His forehead presses against yours, his free hand holding onto yours as he slowly slides in and out, gauging how deep you can take him. The stretch induces a euphoric pain, causing you to squeeze his hand, but he squeezes right back, your cunt sucking him in all too well.

Miguel starts to go stupid once he’s halfway in. The sensation has him beginning to babble, choked words coming out in a gentle lull.“Que rico…Feel good, mamita? It’s okay mama, let me hear you. Please, let me hear you.” He talks delicately as he continues to go in and slowly draw out with only half of himself, just to be sure you're warmed up enough for all of him. Your eyes are closed, trying to focus on breathing, but it only makes it more difficult. It worries Miguel. “Too much, baby? I’ll stop.” And just as he’s about to pull out, you use your other hand that was clinging onto the arm of the chair to stop him, “Nonono, please,” He lowers himself, still connected, “Need you, Mig. Please, keep going, don’t stop.” You beg, the undeniable need in your voice making Miguel go weak. He puts all his weight on you, cautiously going all the way inside. When he gets as deep as he possibly can, his tip kissing you right in the perfect spot, he pecks your forehead before telling you, “You look so pretty taking it, beba.”

Miguel’s words are slurred as he begins fucking you, thick fingers playing at your clit as he does. He can’t help but prop himself on his elbow just to get a look of himself going in and out of you, the slick sounds and what looks like a bulge of his cock sending him into insanity, driving him to go desperately faster. He gets lost in the way every time he pumps in, he creates a hill in your stomach. You look down, too, seeing what he’s seeing, and it only makes his name fall from your mouth embarrassingly loud, as well as telling him how good he feels and how much you love him, every syllable coming out with pure verity.

Not now since you’re too busy getting amazingly fucked, but later on, you’ll surely think about how good of stamina Miguel has for his age. He should’ve been tired by now, but the man was rutting and there was no sign of him slowing down anytime soon. When his mouth wasn’t latched onto yours, he’d speak nonsense to you. He’d let out long, exasperated ‘Yes’s’ into your ear, unafraid to let his unfiltered noises fill the room. When he knew he was being too rough, he’d slow his thrusts until he was dragging his dick in and out of you, pumping ever so slowly and lovingly. It was then he’d be able to coherently form sweet words of nothings, “I’m obsessed with you. Wanna keep you like this forever.”

Whether he was going rabid or making sweet love, Miguel still made sure to hold your hand through it all.

He can feel himself coming soon. As if he needed to be deeper into you, he only stops for a nanosecond to bring your knees over you, pressing you even deeper into the couch, so as to better ram your already abused pussy. Your panting heightens in pitch. “Right there, sweetheart? Aww Fuck, there it is.” His big, strong hands hold your knees in place where they frame your head. Your bodies are sweaty, only enhancing the lewd sounds of his hips smacking your ass with each thrust. When your pussy flutters around him, it makes his eyes roll back. He’s already made you orgasm twice by now, getting his juices all over you, but he needs more. “I can’t stop.” He stammers through a slack jaw.

“Mig…dunno if I c-can… going-”

He slows down his rhythm, hands cupping your face to make eye contact, “Baby, please, gimme one more, just one more. Promise.”

With a nod of your head, he buries you in his arms, his face in your neck, body on body, leaving no space between you, and he rams into you like no tomorrow, luring one last orgasm from you. The way the curve of his belly and muscles rubbed against you was the icing on the cake. You feel Miguel getting closer with the way he moans into the crook of your neck. You are, too.

The dam breaks loose with an outcry of his name, to which Miguel lifts his head to kiss your tears as you peak, his own following right behind. Once it starts to descend, a rain of butterfly kisses fall on your face, “I’ve got you, sweetie,” he coos, “I love you so much… mamita,” he gently calls to get your attention, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You at least accomplish a weak smile, requiting the love with a kiss to his swollen lips.

There was no need to rush, so the two of you just lay there, embracing each other.

“Miguel,”

“Hm?” He hums against your skin.

“I feel like I’m in a fairytale.”

“Me too.”

6:49 PM.

You don’t know how, but in one hour, Miguel and you were able to go back to your place, shower (separately. You two knew a joint shower would’ve most definitely led to other things.), redo your makeup, fix your and Miguel’s hair, and leave to the stadium with moderate traffic. You look in the passenger seat mirror for the last touch-ups.

“Praying I don’t trip on that stage. If I do, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll happily take the blame.” He gives your thigh a small squeeze, in which you glare at him in return. The shit-eating grin on his face still made you smile, though.

You sit in your assigned seat among a sea of students, dawning the traditional cap and gown, with numerous achieved stoles and ropes around your neck, but only one stands out from them all, and one that you consider your best achievement: Gabriella’s Blue Ribbon.

You look down at it, giving it a little tug to straighten it out. You look up to search for Miguel in the enormous mass of seats, but it isn’t too hard. All you had to do was find the freakishly tall man with glasses, and when you do, you smile at him. As subtly as possible, he mouths ‘I love you’, and you do it back. You think to blow him a kiss, but given the situation, you also think it better not to in public. You still don’t have that degree in your hand, and you can’t risk anything, especially not when you’re so close. But trust, the second that piece of paper is in your hand, Miguel is all yours, no shame attached.

You’re on the edge of your seat the entirety of waiting for your name to be called, and once it is, you feel you could cry. You walk across the stage, a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment filling you to the brim. Miguel watches on, a prideful expression on his face. You shake hands with a few faculty members, some you grew to love and will cherish, some you secretly wished would accidentally fall through a manhole, before you get to the dean, who currently holds your degree in their hand. You’re congratulated once it’s in your hand, the feeling of two very difficult years weighing down on your hand. It feels good. Smiling ear-to-ear, you look out into the audience as you walk across, degree facing outward for the whole stadium to see because one thing for sure is that everyone in the establishment will know that you did that. Your smile shines like a thousand stars, at least to Miguel. His heart could explode with how much love and awe he feels for you. Heaven knows he tried to make a new life for himself by putting the Spider-Man title to rest, and though he was successful, he was still missing a piece of himself. In this moment, he’s thanking you for taking a chance on him; for letting a different man, a happy man, come out for a while, and hopefully, for the rest of his life.

And that’s where he sits now, in the car, waiting for you in the parking lot. Prior to the ceremony, it was agreed that Miguel would slip away just a couple of minutes early (basically skip the dean’s farewell speech) so that you and Miguel could beat the crowds and go celebrate wherever he had planned for you. Hoards of crying mothers and cheering students catch his attention. It must’ve ended. It only takes a moment for him to pick you out from the crowd, immediately exiting the car to open the passenger door for you.

“Congratulations, mi vida.” He calls out, leaning against the car.

Elated, you crash into him, arms around his neck, legs lifted in the air, and you kiss him. You pull away with a joyous mwah.

You both retreat into the car. “You helped, my cute lil geneticist.” Giddiness beams from your voice. You reach over the center console to cup his chin and squeeze it, puckering his lips to kiss him again and again. This makes him chuckle. He may be older and bigger in every sense of the word, but at the end of the day, he is and always will be your dork. Your teddy bear.

“I just taught you a few formulas. This was all you, mama,” he starts the car but glances at you for a second. “What?” You tilt your head.

“I wanna thank you.”

“For what?” Every time Miguel opens his mouth, you’re reminded of what a lottery win you’ve made. You grab his hand to hold it up to your heart; the same spot where Gabriella’s ribbon is pinned.

“For loving me. The way you do.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me.”

His brows furrowed, his lips curled into a soft smile. He notices the blue ribbon. He caresses one of its tails, and a few of his heartstrings pull at the sight. He knows that if Gabriella were there, she would’ve been the loudest in the stands. “Wish she could’ve been here.”

You press his hand against your heart.

“She is.”

Miguel has told you so much about her that at this point, she feels like yours, and you feel that she’s there. You know with your whole heart that she is.

You both share one more tender kiss before Miguel pulls out of the lot.

“Well, it’s official. I am no longer your student. How do you feel about that?” you smirk, relaxed in your assigned seat; your rightful throne as passenger princess.

“Speaking of which, I hope you know that that degree is for decoration purposes from this day forward.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re quite the comedian today, huh?”

“You think I’m kidding? I want you home 24/7, you hear me? In the kitchen, an apron and all. I’m dead serious.” The sarcastic tone in his voice sends you chuckling through the nose.

“I’ll stay home and be your housewife if you give me a perfect score, how about that?”

“Deal.”

“Ok, no, but seriously, baby, please score my paper accurately.”

“Of course, beba. Just jokes. I’m kidding about the staying-home thing, too. You can do whatever you want,” He looks over at you at a red light, “Just as long as you always come back home to me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You two snuggle in Miguel’s bed after a nice dinner celebrating you. The sheets are warm and soft, but it doesn’t compare to the warmth and softness of Miguel’s body on yours; skin to skin. You’re both entangled and nude, having just had another (or a few) rounds of passionate love. Sleep looms over both you and Miguel, a little heavier on you. You’re quickly learning that Miguel does not have the endurance of an average man.

Knowing how much you loved his speaking voice, he decided to finish and read aloud to you Pride and Prejudice, a book you recommended to him and has become a new favorite of his. A king of aftercare. How more perfect can he be?

Miguel, seeing your eyes grow heavy, kisses your temple and smiles before starting again, “ ‘I love you. You have bewitched me, mind, body, and soul. And wish from this day forth never to be parted from you.’” He recites the notorious line written by Austen, but not for the sake of reading aloud anymore, no. This line was directed to you. And only for you.

“And I love you.” You whisper back.

And for the first time in much more than just 5 years, Miguel didn’t have to go to bed alone. And he won’t have to ever again.

Miguel hasn’t thought about the canon theory in a very, very long time, but a fleeting thought went through his mind before drifting away:

If going through everything that he had to, may it be the day his genetic makeup was altered, the spider-verse, Gabriella, trading in the suit for a life of solitude, everything; Despite the pain, if it all had to happen in order to have met you.

Then it’ll all have been worth it.

<3 Tags <3

@mukeovernetflix @mochikisses @miguels-cock-piercings @miranexx @bunnibitez @deepdiveintothedeephive @faretheeoscar @sillygardeneggperson @librababe99 @sariespi @little-lovelace @monstersimp @oharasfilipinawife @obi-mom-kenobi @hyjionie @maomaimao @pomakori @pinkhelados @mochimoqa @princesatracionera @queerponcho @walmaerts @froggygal @yaysposts @koko-1025 @kikaaauu @lauraolar14 @anotherprettyprincess @kaidxra @farrowroyale @pigeonmama @exactlyyoungchaos @fayeofthenightingale @s4dow @safixiovi

@hartsucks @amberbalcom14 @wait2nourh @tatooieve @helen-j-magnus @cl3stevu

@mintssanctuary @ghost-lantern @snails-doodles22 @tinythebunni @shaquilles-0atmeal @nina-from-317 @exoticb-utters @sugurusyndrome @aphinthestars

A/N: Fav chapter I've ever written. It was made with love <3 Really hoped you guys enjoyed it <3 n thnx sm for sticking around even if I made y'all wait so long 😭 love youuuuuuuu‼️ MWAH!!!

[hinamie]

fire nation festival wear aka a blatant excuse for me to push atla clothing design conventions to the absolute Limit

jjk atla!au with @philosophiums

[akimojo]

been one of those weeks, pass the old man yaoi

[qiinamii]

darkner Xiao, lightner lumine 👹✨

[myokk]

first dada class😳✨

[soulsty]

Goodbye Houseki No Kuni 💚

[cupophrogs]

OH MY GOD!!!!

Dog day is Rich!!!!!

What is Drew’s reaction!!!!!!

Dogday takes the phone in his free hand, and brings it up to his face, careful not the grip too hard in his desperation. Drew has never seen him so silent, so still, and in the bright light of the screen, he swears he can see tears starting to fall. No one speaks. Drew barely breathes, waiting with twitching hands for an answer. A sob, a shake of the head, a twitch. Nothing.

Finally, the shfff of fabric against stone cracks the tension in the air as Dogday pulls his feet closer to his body. There’s a tremble in his hands as he stares. Tentatively, Drew reaches out and places a hand on Dogday’s knee; an offering, and breathes. Dogday breathes with him.

“He’s alive.”

~~~

(Silvie Line(puppet) belongs to my bestie @theknifeclown)

[muffinlance]

Me: Don't write a 20k chapter don't write a 20k chapter don't write a

Also Me: ...but what if

[owlf45]

youtube stealers are getting a little ballsy

[pastafossa]

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn’t be you.

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

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

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

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

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

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

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

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

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

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

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

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

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

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

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

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

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially Matt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

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

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

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

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

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Emotion. It’s emotion.

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

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

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

The stones. 

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

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

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

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

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

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

You. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with a blink—

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

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

“It’s me. I’m here.”

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

And your weakened heart… skipped.

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

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

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

And you… smiled.

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

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

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

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

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

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

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

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

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

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

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

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

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

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

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

Silence. 

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

Red threads never lied.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt, just let me—”

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

A soft intake of breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...D.” 

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

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

“Leave me alone!”  

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

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

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

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

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

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

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

You loved him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

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

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

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

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

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[corfidbizna]

KHIII Chapter 34 (Eng): https://www.mediafire.com/file/chzljkfluz4zcey/KH3_Ch34.zip/file Chapter List

Sora's missed a few memos.

[small-spark-of-light]

FINALLY FINISHED THIS PIECE LETS GOO :DDD another artwork for one of my fics!!! this time its my recent sickfic

here are some bonus doodles!!!

[h0estar]

Yukine's journey toward acceptance of the life that was robbed of him, this time with finality, exemplifies the emotional and beautifully rendered arc that has defined his character.

Yukine finally accepting the reality of his death. Yukine stepping out from the fridge that contained memories of what was once his life. Yukine freeing himself from the shackles of his trauma. Yukine running to protect the person who cherished him the most in the world. Yukine standing up to an abusive father. Yukine wholeheartedly apologizing. Yukine's growth, and Yato tearing up as he stretches his little arms to pull him for an embrace.

Yukine's gratitude for what Yato did for him is evident throughout the series. He was given a name more precious than any other. He was treated like a human--an ordinary teenage boy. And life after that was one exciting journey after another. Now, Yukine can no longer be entirely consumed by the horrors of his past because he knows that his reality with Yato is so much brighter. Far brighter.

Yukine could break out from that refrigerator because of the true, sincere, and nurturing love shown by the only father figure in his life. Yato has said multiple times throughout the series that Yukine was his priority above all else, and Yukine was the only person he swore to protect the most. Hell, he even went straight to hug him after Yukine apologized for turning into that form! Yato did not need to summon Yukine. Yukine came to protect Yato on his own decision. As he always did.

The journey to their healing will be painful, and this chapter shows that Yato and Yukine will face it together. No more secrets and no more miscommunications. They will help and be by each other's side as they always have, not only as god and shinki but, this time, as family.

"I will not let him die. Not Yato. No matter what happens... I swear I won't let anyone take him from me!" -Yukine, Noragami Vol. 17 Chapter 67.

[serasfanfiction]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18

Ah, coffee. The nectar of the gods. Both a blessing and a curse in one.

When it had first made it's way into Hell, Lucifer hadn't given it much thought. Tea had been the go-to wake up drink for thousands of years, and while a nice drink, it had never done much for him in the stimulant department. He had maintained for years that coffee would likely have the same lack of effect as tea.

Right up until he'd had his first cup of joe.

And hadn't he been wrong. He'd nearly been bouncing off the walls for hours, before spectacularly crashing later that day. It had taken some experimentation, but he had found that if he drank half a cup of coffee over an hour, followed by slowly consuming the rest over the course of the day, it gave him the boast he needed without sending into an energy-high followed by a massive energy-crash.

Oh, what he wouldn't have done to have coffee for those first couple of years after Charlie was born. Lilith may have become Charlie's main caretaker following her toddler years, but Lucifer had been her go-to parent for those first several years.

Easy baby or not, Charlie had never had much of a sleep schedule. It was something that had followed her into her adult years. Lucifer was fairly certain that was his fault, as that was a trait they had in common. Lilith had been an early to bed, early to rise sort of person. Worse, she was a morning person.

Since mastering the art of drinking coffee, Lucifer had joined the rank of coffee lovers and dependents, unable and/or unwilling to start his day without one. Some days, it really was the only thing that woke him up.

That particular morning was one such morning. He had been up most of the night, first at the ceremony and then taking hours to unwind enough to sleep. He had eventually fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning, not that long before people would start waking up and starting their day.

Half asleep, despite the late morning hour, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. As he passed the foyer, he thought he saw Angel and Cherri suspiciously hide their faces behind their hands as they whispered to each other. Charlie and Vaggie were huddled off to the side, the former making some rather extravagant hand motions at the latter. Husk might have looked like he had swallowed a lemon, which didn't look too far off from his usual disgruntled mood, so it it didn't set off any alarm bells.

If Lucifer had been more awake, he might have guessed what all the fuss was about. He might also have brewed his coffee and then immediately teleported back to his room to avoid any gossip about his (lack of) love life.

As it was, he wasn't a fully functioning fallen seraphim until the caffeine started to hit his blood stream and he missed all the cues.

Twenty minutes later, Lucifer walked back out of the kitchen with his prize in hand. The cup was already a third of the way drank, steam still rising up out of the cup to show it was pipping hot. Caffeine not having had remotely enough time to work it's magic, Lucifer proceeded to make his first mistake of the day.

He walked into the main-lobby-slash-living-room.

Charlie immediately tuned into his presence the moment he walked into the room, which should have been a clue she was on the look out for him. Her vaguely nervous expression should have been another one.

Lucifer, in his sleepy state, only picked up on the latter one. "Morning, Char-Char." He wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into his fingers. "Everything alright?"

Charlie took a deep breathe, rubbing at the back of her head. "Well, dad, we, um..." She trailed off, her gaze flinting over towards her girlfriend, who held both of her thumbs up in encouragement. Charlie smiled, but the quality of it fell between strained and for real, which only served to alarm Lucifer even more. Pressing her hands together, she pointed both of her pointer fingers at him. "We wanted to congratulate you."

"Congratulate me? On what?" Lucifer had the nagging feeling he was forgetting something. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he just wasn't a morning person. Getting the strong impression he was going to want to be awake as possible for this conversation, he proceeded to make his second mistake of the morning.

He went to take another gulp of coffee, just as Charlie said, "Well, on your new relationship with Alastor!"

Lucifer choked, the coffee going down the wrong pipe, something he had always felt was a bit unfair considering he was never quite certain if seraphim had lungs. It somehow still never stopped him from nearly choking when someone said something so outlandish it was outright ludicrous. Startled, Charlie darted forward, hand patting his back as he attempted to wheeze and hack up a possibly non-existent lung.

When he felt capable of talking without immediately coughing, he managed a half strangled, "What... relationship?"

Charlie exchanged another look with Vaggie. She continued to rub his back as she explained, "Well, we saw the videos of your dancing with Alastor and thought..."

The blonde king placed his head in his hand, suddenly understanding the, well, misunderstanding. He had known people were going to draw conclusions, but he hadn't thought about how it would look to Charlie. She had known they were going to the ceremony together, but he somehow doubt it had crossed her mind that it might go as far as an evening full of dancing.

"There's no relationship," he denied, running his hand down his face. "No relationship what-so-ever, really." He smiled at her reassuringly. "Alastor just likes to dance."

In a show of how comfortable Angel had gotten around him, the porn star shamelessly pointed out, "He wasn't the only one enjoying that dance." He leaned his chin on his hand, smile outright teasing and knowing. "Looked like you were going to do a bit more than dance for a moment there."

Lucifer's treacherous mind went back to the moment in question: the moment where all it would have taken was leaning just a little bit forward, and then they would have been ki--

He ruthlessly cut off the thought as he felt his cheeks heating up. He had resolutely refused to think of that moment since it had happened. He had refused to think about the fact that it had been haunting his dreams during what little sleep he had gotten. He was certainly not going to think about that moment in front of his daughter, her girlfriend, and her friends.

He cleared his throat, holding up one of his hands. "There is no relationship," he emphasized. He turned to Charlie, taking hold of one of her hands in his own. "I don't know if there will ever be anyone after your mother, but if there ever is, I promise I will tell you." He paused, adding, "Preferably before it winds up on a gossip rag."

She smiled at him, relief visible in her eyes. She patted the back of his hand with her free one. Supportive, she said, "I'm not going to say I wouldn't be thrilled if you and mom got back together, dad, but I just want you to be happy." Her mouth twisted at the corners. "Even if it's with Alastor."

Lucifer winced. "Not happening." He took back his hand, wrapping it back around his mug to give himself something to hold onto. Turning to the hotel's oldest resident, he asked, "How... bad is it?"

He didn't need to explain what 'it' was.

"Oh, it's bad." The spider sinner giggled as he held up his phone, a news headline in big bold letters read, THE KING OF HELL SHACKING IT UP WITH THE RADIO DEMON? "It's been all 666 News would talk about last night."

Lucifer resisted the urge to put his face back in his hand or retreat back up into his room and not come out for the next century. It could really go either way, at that point.

A touch of sympathy could be found in Angel's eyes as he said, voice as close to reassuring as the blonde had ever heard it, "Aw, don't worry, your Majesty. I'm sure it'll blow over as soon as the next scandal pops up."

Which, knowing Hell, wouldn't be that long.

Lucifer internally groaned. It wouldn't be soon enough, if one were to ask him. He almost glanced up at the ceiling, towards the direction of Alastor's radio station and suite. He wondered if the Overlord had seen the news and how he was responding to it.

Knowing him, he was likely thinking of how to spin all of this in his favor, if he decided to entertain it at all.

Unwilling to let the news or thoughts of a certain radio demon sour his morning any further than they already had, Lucifer scrambled to change the subject. "So, how are things going with the trust exercises?" He didn't have to try hard to look interested in his daughter's latest plans, although he mentally apologized that he was mostly asking to distract her from his own issues. "Thought of any new ones?"

Charlie, bless her, was all too happy to talk about her latest plans. Snagging his arm, she tugged him over to a corkboard she had set up. Various hand drawn notes and print outs were pinned to the board. Some had parts of them crossed out, while a few had stars on them. "I think I have some new ideas!" She pointed to the ones with the stars on them. "I was thinking maybe we could try this one out at the next meeting." There was nothing forced about this smile when she turned it on him. "What do you think?"

Happy to have something else to think about and even more happy to have her asking for his impute on anything, he squinted at the page she was pointing to. On it, it gave detailed instructions about different team building exercises and how to carry them out. The one in particular that she was pointing to was called, 'Human Knot.'

It appeared to be fairly simple. A group of people stood around in a circle and got themselves 'tangled up' by taking the hands of two other people. The goal of the exercise was for the group to untangle themselves without letting go of anyone's hands. It sounded like it might be a fun activity, if everyone was willing to get touchy-feely with everyone.

Alastor would never agree to participate in this. Lucifer wasn't certain he would enjoy participating in this, either. The thought of touching so many people who weren't family or close friends was overwhelming. At least, while sober. It gave him too many Twister vibes and the less he thought about that game the better.

There was a reason it was Asmodeus' favorite 'family' game.

Scurrying out of the wood work, Niffty appeared with a needle the length of her head. Speared through on the end of it was a cockroach the size of her hand. Disturbingly enough, it was still twitching. She peered up at the board, her eye lighting up at the details of the trust exercise. "Ooooo! That one looks fun." She peered up at Lucifer in that way she did that always set his hackles up. "I can hold hands with all the bad boys in the room..."

Lucifer laughed nervously as she scurried off as quickly as she had appeared. Something of his true feelings must have shown on his face, because Charlie's smile was beginning to slip. Which was just not allowed. "It's fine," he rushed to reassure her. "I'm just worried not everyone will want to participate, because of the level of touching." Desperate to save her good mood, Lucifer pointed to the option underneath the one she had showed him. "What about this one?"

She leaned in, reading the name. "Two Truths and a Lie?" It wasn't one she had starred and her tone was a bit dubious.

Angel appeared at their side. He stabbed the board with a finger. "Now there's a fun game, especially if you turn it into a drinking game." He waggled his eyebrows at them, suggestively.

Vaggie rolled her eyes. She came up behind the sinner, her hands on her hips. "We are not doing any drinking games during trust exercises."

The sinner pouted at her. "Is it your mission to suck all the joy out of my life?"

The former exterminator was unimpressed. Ignoring his theatrics, she asked, "What does the game entail?"

Angel's phone pinged with a notification. Loosing interest in the conversation in favor of whatever it was, he wandered off across the room to pull it up. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer saw the spider demon become caught up in what sounded like a video clip, he wasn't paying enough attention to make out the audio.

Feeling invested now that he was interested in potentially participating, Lucifer jumped in to answer. "Pretty much what it says on the tin. You tell two things that are true about yourself, along with a lie. The goal is for everyone to try and figure out which is the lie."

Charlie tilted her head to the side. "And this is supposed to... build trust?"

Vaggie seemed to be catching on. "It's a way to get to know people, babe. You get to tell people thinks about yourself, while they try to see how well they know you in return."

The host of the hotel didn't look convinced.

Lucifer cracked a grin. "Come on, it sounds like it'll be fun, Charlie." He lightly patted her on the arm. "We could try it out now and see what you think?"

She looked to him, and then to Vaggie, who nodded. Charlie mulled over it, before nodding her head. "Okay! If everyone wants to play it, then we can do it during the next trust exercise." Getting more excited the longer she thought about it, she hugged her father around the shoulders with a single arm pulling him in tight against her. With her other hand, she pointed a finger to the ceiling. "We could have a meeting right now, in fact!"

"Uh, I hate to interrupt," Angel cut in, coming back towards them. His tone more than anything, caught their attention. He sounded horrified. "You guys might want to see this."

Lucifer, Vaggie and Charlie shared a glance between themselves. They all gathered around Angel's phone, which he had turned around to face them. Tapping the play button to start the video, a familiar voice came out of the teeny speakers.

"Breaking news: A new video was dropped today showing not everyone played an equal role in the fight on Extermination Day." Katie Killjoy's face was replaced by an aerial shot of the roof of the Hazbin Hotel. In the background, angels flooded the skies, hinting as to what day the video had been recorded. The recording itself appeared to be mid fight between what was quickly identified to be Adam and Alastor. Lucifer's eyes widened, his stomach dropping as he realized that despite having taking on the most powerful angel to visit Hell after Lucifer, Alastor didn't have any angelic weapons on him.

Why? Why would he be so reckless. Lucifer had seen the shield wielding angelic spears, so why didn't Alastor have any?

Holy shit, he had actually taken him on with just his own shadows.

The recording fizzled, temporarily cutting off as Alastor throwing Adam into the old hotel sign. Lucifer's blood turned cold as it phased back in, just in time for Adam's guitar to come down and slice effortlessly through Alastor's staff. The radio host looked confused for a moment, before realizing the extent of the damage. This much Lucifer had already deduced from seeing Alastor's broken staff weeks ago and while he had been suspicious that more had happened, it was still difficult to watch what happened next.

"It seems Hell's resident old timer bit off more than he could chew," Katie was narrating as Adam swung his guitar - made of pure angelic grace - straight across Alastor's chest, sending the sinner soaring across the roof. His momentum was only stopped as he hit the barrier. The sinner crumpled to the roof, blood splattering the ground beside him, damning evidence that had disappeared when the hotel had been nearly destroyed in Adam's attack not that long afterwards.

Tiny hands and feet scrambled up Lucifer's back, signaling Niffty's return. She must have been drawn back by the commotion. Normally, he would have been extremely uncomfortable with being used as a living cat tree for her to climb, but in this instance he was too absorbed by video to pay her much attention. A part of him also knew that she and Alastor was close, whatever their relationship was with each other. It would have been more surprising if she hadn't shown up.

"He needed so many stiches after that." Niffty made a low, mournful noise at the sight that greeted her on the phone's screen. "He was in so much pain..."

Lucifer's whole body froze up. Alastor had needed stiches?

As if coming unfrozen, Charlie gasped in horror, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Vaggie's expression was grim as she placed a hand on her elbow. As angels who had seen the kind of damage angelic grace could do to sinners, rare that such a weapon was employed, Lucifer and Vaggie both knew that such a wound should have been fatal.

Lucifer had thought that Alastor's staff had taken the brunt of the attack. That maybe he had only been grazed, at worse. That should have been the extent of the damage.

It had never occurred to him that Alastor might have taken the attack full on.

It was baffling that Alastor was still alive.

The video didn't come with audio, so they couldn't hear what Alastor was saying as he did the first smart thing he had done since he decided to take on Adam without a useful weapon and retreated. "And there you have it everyone," Katie was saying, her tone and smile gleeful as she soaked in the suffering of someone who had quite the distance to fall. "The supposedly big bad Radio Demon running away like a with his teeny, tiny, fluffy little tail between his legs like the fucking coward that he is."

The screen pulled away to show her cohost, Tom Trench. "Do you think he ran off to wherever he was hiding for seven years?"

"Who gives a shit, Tom." Katie turned her head in such a way that it appeared to break her neck. "He's a washed up has-been who should have stayed away--"

The phone disappeared, Charlie having darted forward and hit the pause button. Her hands hid the screen from view.

For a long moment, the present group blankly stared off into the middle distance, trying to digest what they had just seen. Each of their faces ranged from out right horrified (Charlie's) to grim (Vaggie's and Husk's) to some level of worried (Angel's). All of them were thinking the same thing: about Alastor's disappearance for several days as they rebuilt the hotel and the varying degrees of relief everyone had felt when he'd reappeared, seemingly just fine save his missing staff.

No one had questioned why he'd disappeared.

No one had followed up to make certain he wasn't hiding a wound and potentially actively dying.

But now they all knew. There was no unseeing this, just as there had been no unseeing Sir Pentious' last moments as Adam vaporized him like he was nothing.

Lucifer, personally, was kicking himself for not checking on the wound when he had Alastor trapped. He had known something was potentially wrong - had seen the evidence in the damage to the microphone - and yet he had allowed Alastor to side track him like a willfully blind fool dancing to the piper's tune.

Lucifer found himself moving before he'd even made the conscious decision to do so. He plucked Niffty off his back, the little maid making no protest as she was lightly placed down on the ground. His cup of coffee went onto the coffee table. The moment his hands were free, he was preparing to open a portal to Alastor's room.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice calling out to him made him pause.

He turned to her, placing a hand on her other elbow. "I'm just going to check on him."

She placed her own hand over his, squeezing it as she bit her lip. "Dad, you saw how badly he was hurt." Guilt was visibly crashing down over her as her eyes welling up with tears. "I knew something was wrong. Why didn't I check to see if he was okay?" Vaggie stepped in and hugged her as Lucifer squeezed her arm.

"He clearly didn't want any of us to know he was hurt." He debated saying anything about the blood drinking. Alastor had looked tremendously better afterwards and it might go a long way to easing some of her worries about how injured the sinner was. He just didn't know how to explain how they had gotten to that part.

He decided to settle for a partial truth. "He didn't tell me how hurt he was, but he's already let me help him some." Charlie sniffled, turning hopeful eyes on him. "If I had to guess, I'd say the wound is all healed up." He smiled at her reassuringly. "I'll see if I can get him to let me check to make certain everything is better, okay?"

She nodded, wiping at a tear. "Just, make certain he's okay." She moaned, low and wounded. "I can't lose him too, dad."

Lucifer looked to Vaggie, who nodded back to him. "I got her, sir."

Lucifer stepped back. His instinct to stay and comfort his offspring at war with his desire to make certain Alastor was okay. The only reason he was going to be able to do so was because Vaggie had her and he was likely the only person who could make certain their resident radio host wasn't being eaten up from the inside out by any residual grace Adam might have left behind.

A quick burst of magic opened a portal directly into Alastor's room. He stepped through without waiting to see if Alastor might need any privacy, not wanting the sinner to potentially turn him away. He was going to get that idiot into letting him inspect that wound once and for all, even if he had to sit on him to do it.

Curse Alastor and his stupid pride for not having said anything! He could have put in it the favors with his microphone, for crying out loud.

"Alastor!" His voice echoed through the room, disappearing off into the bayou. Lucifer scoured the sinner's room from top to bottom. He didn't see him in his bed, nor at the fireplace, nor at his little table in the bayou. He raised his voice to as loud as he could make it without causing any damage. "Come out, you asshole, before I hunt you down!"

No response.

There was a possibility he was out in the bayou, as there was no way of being sure how far out it extended without going out into it. He had one foot out on the grass, when the old fashioned radio on Alastor's bookshelf crackled to life.

"Greetings, sinners! It's come to my attention that there seems to be some questions about my health recently."

Lucifer threw himself across the room, grabbing hold of the radio. His head darted up as he stared up at the ceiling. He could teleport himself into the station, but that risked interrupting the Radio Demon's broadcast. Until he knew what exactly the sinner was planning, he didn't want to spook him.

It didn't mean he couldn't keep an eye on him, though.

He crossed the room in seconds, throwing open a window. Looking up, he could see the On Air sign was lit, indicating that Alastor was indeed in his radio tower. Launched himself out of the window, Lucifer took flight as Alastor said through the radio, "Never fear, dear listeners, because nothing as simple as a silly angel could take out the Radio Demon."

Lucifer snorted, coming up to hover in full view of studio. 'Silly angel,' he calls an actual archangel that had destroyed the hotel and by all rights should have killed him.

Inside the studio, Alastor spotted him. The sinner's eyes were aglow, pupils turned to dials. He had grown as large as the room would allow him to get without taking the roof off, antlers extended out like fingers reaching out to the sides of the room. A bright green 'x' marked the spot on his forehead. As his eyes fell on the little king, a streak of black drool dribbled down his chin as his smile elongated far beyond what should have been possible for his face. His fingers twitched and curled, a single finger pointing to the other side of the tower. "In fact, I think a certain voyeur needs a little reminder as to why he should mind his own business."

Lucifer frowned, not understanding what Alastor planned to do at first. It was only because he had come out the side of the hotel, furthest from his own room, that he isn't hit by the powerful wave of radio waves bursting forth from the tower. Startled, he jerked out of the way, spinning around mid-air to see where they were going.

He watched, unsurprised to see them heading for VoxTek. It figured that Vox was behind the video. He'd had footage of other parts of the fight, it shouldn't be surprising he had been spying on Alastor when Adam had come a calling. When he didn't see another wave leave the tower, he chanced moving around the obstruction the tower made of the view to better see what effect that wave was going to have.

It was difficult to see from that distance, but he could just make out the wave hitting the satellite. Could see the plum of smoke rising up as the machinery went dead. The satellite was still standing, but it likely wasn't operational. At least, not for the moment.

He raised an eyebrow at the redhead through the window. Petty, much?

Depending on how terrible the Alastor's eyesight was - deer had notoriously bad eyesight- it was entirely possible he couldn't see the damage he had inflicted himself. Regardless of his poor eyesight, he somehow knew anyway, perhaps having that much confidence in his attack. Alastor's grin was pleased as a cat having caught a canary. "Friendly reminder that I won't be as lenient next time."

The radio in Lucifer's arms cut off with a crackle as Alastor reached out and flicked a switch on his board. The two stared at each other, waiting to see what the other planned to do next.

When Alastor didn't move other than to settle back down into his more default appearance, Lucifer decided to come to him. He disappeared in a swirl of magic, reappearing a moment later in the studio. He fully materialized back into being behind the redhead.

Alastor didn't turn around, continuing his work as if he didn't have his back to someone who could easily kill him with a flick of the wrist. Lucifer took the time to study him more in depth than he had in the previous months. The sinner didn't move like he was in pain. Then again, he never had. The only indication he had ever given that something was off was when he never called on his microphone in the months before he got Lucifer to repair it.

There was nothing to tell he had ever taken a hit of pure angelic grace to the chest. Lucifer didn't feel anything coming off him either.

A visual inspection wasn't going to be enough, when it came to this kind of wound. If he was to do a proper inspection, he was going to have to talk Alastor into letting him touch him. It was almost a shame he hadn't known when he was healing Alastor's ribs and side two nights ago. He could have checked then and this whole conversation could have been avoided.

The silence extended. Lucifer was suspicious Alastor knew why he was here and was planning to wait him out. The little king fiddled with the radio's dials, suddenly glad he had decided to grab it, if only to give him something to do with his hands. One of them was going to have to kick start this conversation. It might as well be him. "You didn't say Adam got you in the chest."

The sinner made that little 'hm' sound he liked to make. It could have been in response to what the blonde had said. It could have just been in response to something Alastor was seeing on his equipment.

"Angelic grace is bad for sinners, you know." Lucifer's hold on the radio tightened, not quite certain if he was being ignored or not. "It can grow like a cancer until it burns you up from the inside out." He leaned from foot to foot, feeling more twitchy the longer Alastor didn't speak to him. He stopped the moment he noticed he was doing it. "You should have said something."

Whatever Alastor was looking for, he seemed to find for he nodded at his equipment in satisfaction. He finally rose up off his settee, the movement as fluid as ever. "There was nothing to worry about." He stepped around the furniture, waving off the concern as if batting away a fly. "I had it handled."

"'Handled'?" Lucifer's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Handled how, exactly? By having Niffty sew you up?" His grip tightened on the radio, enough to make it give a little creak of protest, but not enough to truly threaten to break it. "You couldn't have known I was going to offer my blood. And just because it healed the physical wound that doesn't mean it cleared the grace."

Alastor's eyes zeroed in on his radio in Lucifer's hands. The thinning of his lips indicated he wasn't thrilled with the idea of his property coming to damage. "What exactly do you propose to do?" He reached out to reclaim the radio.

Lucifer took a step back, keeping himself and the radio out of arms reach. "Let me check the wound."

The sinner's fingers twitched before curling in. He let the hand drop. "What does that entail?" He followed after the blonde, first one step and then another, meeting each retreat with an advance.

Lucifer continued to back away until his back hit the window. On reflex, he glanced behind him. All that stood between himself and a drop was a thick panel of glass.

Alastor took advantage of his distraction to steal back his radio. "Out with it. You're too twitchy for this to be a simple look over."

The blonde flexed his hands, now empty of anything to use for stress relief. "No, I'd have to touch your bare skin to be sure there's nothing there."

The hand not holding the radio came up, all four finger splaying out as Alastor laughed out a short, sharp, "Ha!" He wagged a single finger of the same hand at the seraphim. "Not going to happen!"

Before Lucifer could protest or attempt to make his case, Alastor disappeared into his shadows. He scurried past him, slipping down the trap door and out of the studio.

Lucifer stared at where the redhead had just been, gapping. That... That idiot! Didn't he hear the part where he could be infected with the equivalent of a deadly poison that could be eating him up from the inside out?

Growling, Lucifer opened a portal back down into Alastor's room. If Alastor wanted to see who was more stubborn, the hundred-something year old sinner or the first sinner himself, Lucifer was more than up for the challenge. Stepping through, he found Alastor over by his book shelf, returning the radio back to it's prior resting place.

Frustrated, Lucifer marched over to him, seriously considering throwing up a barrier around the room to keep Alastor from running away again. "Hey! I wasn't done with you, mister!"

Alastor finished setting the radio to his preference, and then turned around to meet him head on. "I hardly see how we have anything more to talk about." He placed his hands behind his back, the very picture of unconcerned. "I've already declined your offer."

Lucifer threw his hands up. "Aren't you worried? This isn't a game! This could be your life on the line!"

Alastor leaned in to his personal space, his lips starting to twist into a smug, cat like grin. "Tell me, sire, why are you so worried?"

"Hello? Really?" Lucifer crossed his arms, defensive. "Have I not said that if Charlie cares than I care?" He sighed, looking away and begrudgingly adding, "She was really upset when you went missing and it would break her heart if something happened to you."

Alastor considered him for a long moment. Suddenly, a very loud buzzer tore through the air, causing the blonde to jump. "Hm, no, I think not." He flicked at one of the Lucifer's blonde flyways with a single finger, eyeing him up and down as the shorter of the two glared at him. "You know, I could almost believe that was the reason." He leaned away, tapping his chin. "But we both know that's not the whole truth."

He stepped around him, walking away and putting some distance between them. "I propose a little deal."

Lucifer scoffed, defense turning to irritation. He was starting to regret attempting to help this asshole. "You can't be serious."

Coming to a stop half way across the room, Alastor came to a halt. "Oh, come now, sire. Not that kind of deal." He spun around, one heel coming together to click against the other. One hand settled against the small of his back, while his staff appeared in the other. He used it to point at his uninvited guest. "If you tell me the real reason you care so much and I like the answer, I'll let you see for yourself that I'm perfectly fine."

He almost couldn't believe his ears. Lucifer stared at him, incredulous. "Are you actually holding your life hostage over this??"

Alastor twirled his staff, a mock considering look on his face. He shrugged, far too nonchalant for the subject. "Hm, I guess I am."

Lucifer could feel his self control fraying at the edges. He had clearly been far too lenient with this sinner if Alastor wasn't even remotely taking him seriously. He held up his hand, palm facing the redhead. It would be easy to just knock him right off his feet with a small burst of power and hold him in place while he just checked to see if he wasn't actively dying. He really ought to. It might just remind this arrogant little sinner who was at the top of the food chain and who was at the bottom between the two of them.

Alastor stared at him down, patiently waiting him out.

After several long moments of arguing with himself, Lucifer lowered his hand. He hissed, as much at himself as it was at Alastor. He couldn't do this by force, not because he wasn't incapable of doing so, but because he was trying to get Alastor to agree of his own free will. "Fine!" He stalked over to the deer demon, coming to a stop just before actually touching him. Pointing his finger up at Alastor's chin, he confessed, "Fine, I'm worried because I'm a fool and I actually care about you! I would be genuinely upset if something happened to you, are you happy??" He pointed at the bed behind the redhead, nearly breathing fire as he growled, "Now sit down and let me help you."

Alastor nodded at him. "There we go, your Majesty. Isn't it better to tell the truth?"

"Sit!" Lucifer pointed at the bed, this time with more emphasis, his tone making it abundantly clear he was not going to repeat himself again.

The redhead proceeded to show that he had some self preservation instincts in that stubborn head of his, because he didn't press Lucifer's buttons again. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs and settling his hands on his knees, body language just as carefree as ever. "Would any skin do?" He held up his hand, indicating he was willing to take his glove off to give him access to bare skin.

Lucifer took a series of deep, calming breaths. He was tempted to just smother the redhead, but since that would defeat the purpose of preserving his life, the blonde put the idea on the back burner to come back to later. It would make for entertaining fodder to think about while he was trying to fall asleep that night.

When he could speak without possibly setting something on fire, he shook his head. "No, I need access to the wound." He let some of his empathy for Alastor's dislike for touch seep into his voice as he said, honestly, "Sorry. I'll try to make it quick."

Alastor paused, a quick flash of trepidation appearing across his face and then disappearing just as quickly. His smile took on more of a mask like quality, as he reached up and began to undo his tie. He set it down beside himself, the protection gem Lucifer had gifted him resting up against his thigh.

His fingers didn't shake, didn't tremble in the slightest as he unclasped his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, but his discomfort was visible in every line of his body.

Button by button, he revealed first his neck and then his chest. A thin layer of - soft, Lucifer' treacherous mind reminded him - brown fur lined his shoulders, disappearing under his shirt. A lighter, fluffier bout of fur ran down his chest, fluffing up as it was freed from the restraint of Alastor's shirt. A nasty, ragged scar peaked out the bottom of the poof of fur, running along his side. Partially hidden, the scar appeared to run from Alastor's left collar bone to the last of his right set of ribs.

How he was still alive continued to baffle Lucifer, no matter how thankful he was. He held up his hands. "Can I approach you?"

Alastor gave him the stink eye, ear twitching. He almost looked insulted. "By all means, sire. Be my guest." His fingers gripped the sides of his shirt just a little too tightly, belying his words with his true feelings. When he released the fabric, it was almost like he was prying his own hands free. He settled his hands in his lap, back ramrod straight.

Lucifer moved carefully, but not too slowly. He knew Alastor wouldn't spook. He wasn't actually a wild animal. It was still polite to approach with caution, in case he needed to stop at the drop of the hat. The redhead watched him approach like a hawk, ear twitching with every noise Lucifer made.

Lucifer came to stand in front of him, close, but not quite allowing their knees to touch. He reached out, finger ghosting over what he could see of the scar. It must have been painful. The skin over the collar bone alone was thin. The length of the gouge threatened quite a few ribs. He couldn't tell how deep it had gone, but it had not healed prettily.

He pressed the tips of his fingers to the skin near the base of Alastor's ribs, the fur just as soft as it had been on his arms. Lucifer forced himself to focus, to ignore this tidbit of information and store it in the same box he kept all the other things he was slowly learning about the redhead's body, but wasn't allowed to think about. He closed his eyes, reaching out his senses.

Alastor felt human, his sins dripping like fresh blood from his soul. Lucifer could feel the way the power of his soul mingled with the darkness of his abilities. The wound itself had indeed completely healed, although traces of its damage ran deep. Several bones had been cleaved straight through, the organs beneath clipped. Alastor had only survived as long as he had because of his particular brand of magic being uniquely adept at keeping things sewed into place and Niffty was apparently very good with a needle. Without both, he would have bleed to death for sure.

Most importantly, though, to his vast relief, Lucifer could find no trace of Adam's grace anywhere within the sinner's body. Despite the obvious damage it had made, somehow, nothing lingered behind.

Alastor caught his wrist, his grip tight enough it might have bruised another sinner. Lucifer's eyes snapped open. He allowed Alastor to pull his hand away. He didn't try to free himself when the redhead didn't immediately let him go.

"Well, sire?" Alastor looked up, his sitting down giving Lucifer the height on him for a change. "Am I going to live?" This part was said with a degree of teasing, as if to say, see, I told you so.

The fallen angel reminded himself, not for the first time, that, no, he did not, in fact, want to strangle this guy. He smirked down his nose at the redhead, enjoying the fact that he could do so for a change. "Unfortunately." He ignored the way Alastor smiled at him, as if he knew how much he was enjoying being taller for a change. "You're either secretly an angel or just one lucky asshole. No grace leftover whatsoever."

Alastor threw back his head and laughed. "As you can see, your Majesty," he said with no small amount of mirth, "I am certainly no angel."

Lucifer snorted. The Radio Demon was a sinner, through and through, and quite happy with that fact. Some humans never got over their lot in the afterlife, but Alastor had embraced it with eyes wide open.

He watched the redhead loosen his grip on his wrist, his brain promptly short circuiting as Alastor twisted their hands around until he could intertwine their fingers. "Um."

"Since his Majesty has taken such good care of me..." Alastor reached out with his free hand, snaking it up and around Lucifer's waist. The blonde might have squeaked when he was pulled forward, legs automatically parting to stand on either side of the redhead's. He only stopped when his knees hit the side of the mattress. It also brought their faces within inches of each other. Alastor's voice was noticeably deeper as he offered, "I think this deserves it's own reward."

Eloquently, Lucifer managed, "Um?"

"Your reward is: I'll let you in on a little secret." Amused with his response, Alastor stared up at him, eyes half-lidded as he stated, "I also seem to care about you, Lucifer Morningstar."

Lucifer froze, too stunned to speak. He felt like he had utterly and completely lost the script and had no idea where this was going. With anyone else, he might have been able to take that statement at face value, but Alastor had long since taught him that no weakness was too small for the redhead to exploit. Sputtering, he asked, "What?"

"Ah-ah, I know you heard me." Alastor's thumb rubbed along the edge of the top of Lucifer's pants, a simple back and forth motion the blonde was suddenly all too hyper aware of. Goosebumps broke out along the alabaster skin under the fabric. "No need for repeats just yet."

Lucifer wanted to pull away so he could clear his mind and think.

He wanted to lean in and soak up every bit of attention Alastor was willing to give him.

He swallowed. "But... but you don't even like me?" He meant it to be a statement, but it came out too much of a question. He knew he hadn't read the sinner wrong, and yet, here they were, very much off script for their usual back and forth. To say he was confused would be an understatement.

"Come now, your Majesty." Alastor narrowed his eyes, giving the blonde a gentle shake. "I think I know my own heart."

Lucifer didn't dare to breathe. "And what does your heart say?"

"That I can't think of anyone who suits me better than you do." Alastor leaned ever so slightly closer, their noses brushing as he brought their faces as close as they had been just before Mimsy had interrupted them. As close as they had been during their dance during Octavia's coming of age ceremony. "What does his Majesty's heart say?"

"Are you asking if we can get together?" Lucifer was getting too many mixed signals. He had to know what Alastor really wanted. "Romantically?"

"And if I am? Would you 'get together with me', sire?" Alastor's expression was surprisingly patient, as if he had all the time in the world to devote to sorting this out. "Romantically?"

Lucifer thought about all the times Alastor had tried to usurp his place at his own daughter's side. Thought about all the terrible, hurtful things he had said before and after Lucifer moved in. Thought of all the ways they fought and clashed with each other.

He also thought about how Alastor had helped him down from his panic attack. How it had felt to have someone come to his defense, even if he hadn't needed it. How it felt when they danced, both in private and in public. How the weight of his body had felt laying on top of his own.

He would be completely crazy to agree to this, but there was only one answer he could give.

"Yes."

Alastor's smile turned triumphant, but not mocking. "Fabulous!" He stood abruptly, knocking Lucifer off balance. The only thing that kept the little king from falling over backwards was the redhead's arm coming up around his shoulders. Lucifer's face briefly brushed a chest full of downy fur as he was spun around. The back of his knees barely had time to brush the mattress as Alastor deposited him down onto the side of the bed where he had been sitting second beforehand.

Lucifer stared blankly ahead of himself, not certain what had just happened. Not certain what was happening.

Alastor released him, stepping back and letting go of him completely. Lucifer's heart dropped down to his feet, for a split second thinking that he had gotten this wrong. That he had misread the situation. That this was just another game--

A hand pressed against his cheek, snapping him out of his spiral. When Lucifer looked up at him, he noted that the redhead had merely been buttoning up his shirt.

Alastor ran a thumb over his cheekbone, and then gave him a pat. "Now, I believe there's at least one person downstairs who would like to hear I've received a clear bill of health. Shall we go reassure her?" That patient expression was still firmly in place, his gift for reading people allowing him to pick up nearly immediately that Lucifer's mind set had begun to go downhill.

Lucifer still wasn't sure he understood what had just transpired between them. He needed Alastor to just be clear with him. "Wait, what about--?"

Alastor was already spinning around on his heel, slipping his arms into his coat and heading for the door. Over his shoulder, he called, "Come along, sire." He paused near the door, turning just enough to look back at Lucifer, who was still rooted to the spot on his bed. The sinner held out a hand, palm up in invitation. "I did say us, did I not? I believe we might have an announcement to make, do we not?"

A wave of relief washed over Lucifer. "You..." He jumped up from his seat, not quite running, but certainly not simply walking across the room to take hold of the offered hand before the offer was retracted. The leather of the glove was smooth and cold to the touch as he wrapped his hand around it. Lucifer stared down at their joined hands, marveling at the fact that he was being allowed to do so. He looked up at Alastor. "You want to go public? Just like that?"

He somehow would have thought Alastor would have just let people come to their own conclusions. He seemed the type to enjoy the attention of everyone's speculations.

Alastor pressed his free hand to his chest. "Sire!" His tone was scandalized, although his eyes were squinted with mirth. "Did you intend for me to be your dirty little secret?"

"No!" Lucifer flushed, trying to pull his hand back, only to be denied. He admittedly wasn't trying to free himself very hard. "I just..." He frowned, genuinely concerned. "It's so early and... new." He stared down at their hands, squeezing lightly. "Literally just now, new."

Alastor fell silent. He didn't appear to be offended by the protest. "Very well, your Majesty," he conceded. He released Lucifer's hand, bemused by his king's look of mourning at the loss of contact. "We will keep this between ourselves, although I doubt anyone is going to be fooled."

Lucifer decided if they were really going to start dating or whatever they were doing, they were going to nip that in the bud. Hands on his hips, he pointed out, "Well, they certainly might if you keep calling me that."

Alastor's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know... 'your majesty' and 'sire.'" Lucifer waved a hand in the space between them. "You can call me by my name. I know you know it." He smirked up at the sinner, regaining some of his confidence now that he was back on firmer ground and understood the situation better. "You said it not even ten minutes ago."

"Hm, Lu-ci-fer," Alastor said, drawing out the word as if he were tasting it. Trying out how he liked it. He pulled face. "I'll think about it."

"Ugh, why do you have to be so difficult?" Lucifer grumbled, half heartedly. He reminded himself that he had more or less done this to himself. He had accepted this idiot into his life with each inch of allowance he'd given and had now agreed to become romantically entangled with him on top of everything else.

"Ha!" Alastor opened his door. He held out his cane in front of him, indicating that Lucifer should go first. "We both know if I were agreeable all the time I would be boring." When the blonde cleared the door way, the redhead joined him in the hallway and shut the door behind himself. "And then where would we be?"

Boring was the last thing that came to mind if Lucifer were to describe Alastor. Alastor and boring were so utterly and completely not on speaking terms, they weren't even speaking the same language. He let the sinner set an easy pace as they made their way down the hallway to the main staircase. "Maybe." He was tempted to elbow the sinner, but just because he had been allowed some liberties, he wasn't certain how much (if anything) had changed on account of the change in their relationship status. He put it on a to-do list of things to discuss the next time they were alone. "But it would be nice if you were at least agreeable sometimes."

He wasn't actually expecting any sort of agreement on that part.

Sure enough. "It's too early in our relationship for me to start agreeing with everything you say, darling," Alastor snarked back without missing a beat. The ends of his lips quirked into something closer to a smirk.

Lucifer felt a shiver run up his spine at the pet name. No one had called him that in... well, he didn't even remember the last time Lilith had called him that. Called him anything other than his name, really. He had forgotten how nice something as simple as an endearment was.

Alastor's smile edged a little closer to a smirk until it was almost more smirk than smile at his reaction. Lucifer had the sudden foreboding feeling that the redhead was going to milk that new discovery for all it was worth.

He wasn't terribly worried about it.

As they made their way down the staircase, walking side by side, not touching, but standing a little closer to each other than, Lucifer felt like things might actually be turning around for the better. He was getting to repair his relationship with his daughter. He had a brand new romantic relationship to explore, something he hadn't had the chance to do in some ten thousand years. He was still having depression spells and there might be some backlash from Alastor's and Vox's ongoing sniping at each other, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle.

He stared at Alastor out of the corner of his eye, an almost giddy feeling taking root in his heart as it started to really sink in that someone actually wanted him. Wanted to be with him.

He didn't have a clue what the sinner was thinking, nor was he absolutely convinced of Alastor's motives. He still had whatever his second favor was. However, mysterious motives and taciturn attitude aside, Alastor wasn't half bad as a catch, if he did say so himself. If Alastor was being honest about this, he thought they maybe actually had a shot at this.

Yes, Lucifer thought to himself, a slight skip in his step. Yes, he quite thought things were indeed looking up.

For a brief moment, he forgot that the universe hated him, always on the look out for when his life might be headed in a happier direction. That the universe had it out for him.

And it was more than happy to remind him of this fact.

tbc

Part 19

[taradactyls]

Progress Update: Trying to Tread Water

TLDR: Hopefully an update tomorrow night.

I was so certain I was going to get SOMETHING out tonight, but the toddlers decided tonight was the first time in weeks that they would not go to sleep. It's 10pm. We just got one to sleep. The other remains awake.

IMMEDIATELY after writing that the awake boy climbed over the bed head and tried to do a somersault on top of his sleeping brother. Sleepy boy somehow slept through it, and fingers crossed the awake boy will allow himself to fall asleep this time. He's SO tired every time we go back in to resettle him but he just isn't having it tonight.

Which is about how the last few hours have gone. I haven't even been able to do one full proof read without having to stop a child trying to climb the blinds, pull their mattress off the bed, or escape their room.

So, basically, keep an eye out for something (not as much as I had hoped) tomorrow night.

[definitelynotshouting]

in case you're wondering how its going rn