#part 1 of three
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(awhile ago, i played an ask game in which i was asked to make a story involve MCD and one of the answers i gave was: postcard from paris.
so...i present, a postcard from paris au. you don't need to read the first fic, just the second chapter and you're good to go.
xoxo)
greener grass (the greenest growing)
part 1: a beautiful day
Remus stood awkwardly in the corner of the drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, looking out the open window at the blue skies that were a perfect contrast to the heavy velvet curtains and the mood from inside the house. Glass of wine in his hand, knuckles turning white from gripping the stem so hard, only half hearing Sirius's voice telling him he was an uncultured swine--a barbarian-- for letting his fingers touch the glass.
Remus didn't pretend to have a culture in the first place, glancing down at his feet where his black dress shoes were untied and scuffed on the toe. Suit and tie, dressed in a sort of costume he hadn't wanted to put on that morning before attending the service, caught somewhere at the intersection of denial, disbelief, and dread. He typically loved going to Number 12.
They had spent birthdays and New Year's there, celebrating milestones with joy the way Sirius and Kingsley knew how to do.
Going away parties and promotion parties.
Baby showers and welcome back parties.
And now they were here.
The house was filled with small talk and music from a record player that felt more eerie than ambient. It made Remus's hair stand on edge the way everyone passed along platitudes and placations; it made him roll his eyes when he walked in and saw security scanning people's wands. Death apparently wasn't a big enough occasion to warrant privacy, treating the service and the reception as another charity gala or event of the season. And not something terrible that had happened.
He took a sip of his wine, teeth on edge as a woman's overly shrill laughter rang through the halls.
It should have been Sirius's obnoxious laughter. Not hers.
Remus stepped towards the window, slumping over to rest his forehead on the glass, eyeing the white roses that framed the backyard of Number 12.
"I think he reinforced the glass, so if you're thinking of taking a nose dive..."
Remus pulled his forehead off the window and turned around over his shoulder to the sound of the familiar voice. Familiarity was supposed to bring comfort, or so the saying goes, but it sent knots straight to Remus's stomach.
Though, at this point, his stomach had been in knots for two weeks, what was a few more?
"Looks like I've been thwarted then," Remus murmured, not quite making eye contact with the man in front of him. James gave a half-grin that quickly fell from his face, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his hair.
Nearly 40 and he still had a full head, not a strand of grey in sight. Meanwhile, Remus had bags under his eyes the size of carry-on luggage and more grey hair than he could count.
"How are you doing, Moons?"
"That's a stupid question to ask. How are you?"
James opened his mouth and closed it again, walking into the drawing room after shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, robes hanging over his shoulders. It was strange. James in all black, when normally James took every opportunity to wear bright magenta's and purples.
Yellow's and bright oranges, mirroring a sunset in the sky or extravagant city lights in the night. Remus had once thought James was the Eiffel Tower-- the real fucking thing that was it for him-- only to have the fantasy crumble when James hadn't followed through.
Again.
Leaving Remus waiting and disappointed.
Again.
Not that Remus had put the effort in either...again.
They went around and around, and now James was in black robes, and Remus was holding a wine glass, and they were in the same room for the first time in seven years.
"You're right...stupid question."
"Cheers," Remus raised his glass, finishing the contents in a long gulp.
"Is the wine good at least?"
"Would it be a Black party if it wasn't?"
"Not much of a party."
"That bint from the Ministry with the hat might disagree..."
"Oh, her..." James muttered, shaking his head, looking as if he was about to say something, but he stopped himself again. Remus knew that look--that feeling. He had been wearing it and feeling it for the past two weeks since he got the news.
"Yeah."
"I...I know it's been a while..." Remus snorted, "And I know...we kind of fell apart--"
"You make it sound like an accident."
"Wasn't it?" asked James, "We...were young. Some things work out when you're young, and some things...just don't."
"I don't think that changes because we're older..." Remus finally met James's eyes, hazel sending him straight back to their best friend's wedding.
âI told you weâre not doing this.â
"Doing what?" James asked hands paused on the belt buckle of Remus's trousers, identical robes already shed behind them in the bedroom of Sirius's villa in France, bottle of champagne on the dresser.
"This! What we always do!It's so fucking stupid. We pretend its forever and then it ends the same. You leaving for work, and then we write letters for another two weeks and promise to floo and visit and you send me postcards and pictures but we never end up meeting until thereâs someâŚfunction. And that's what happens, every single fucking time. When Sirius moved out, when Sirius got engaged, now he's married and unless he gets married again, I don't know when the hell I'm going to see you!"
It wasn't a wedding.
"This isn't a wedding," Remus told him.
"I know," James swallowed, "I don't know how I'll get through it wit--"
"Dad-- there you are!" a third voice came and this time both Remus and James turned around to greet it, "Why are you two being all dodgy by the window?" Harry asked, adjusting the glasses on his face.
It was cruel torture, the way Harry had grown up to look so much like his father and haunted the halls of Hogwarts for Remus. The privilege of watching Harry grow tainted by memories of his father and what if's from when Harry was younger.
"Were you looking for me, Haz?" James asked a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Yeah, we're kicking people out now, Mum says we can do it but someone needs to go sit with--"
"Sure," James nodded and inclined his head toward Remus. They easily fell into step again, as they left the safety of the drawing room. Side by side, one foot after another, a single unit, but it never stayed like that for long. They walked through the hall, Remus listening to Harry and Lily move people out the front door.
Thank you for coming.
It means so much.
"He didn't even like half these fucking twats..." James muttered under his breath.
"Don't need to tell me that..."
"Good."
The casserole was delicious.
"It tasted like feet," remarked Remus and James coughed out a laugh, just before they came to the sitting room.
A casket in the middle of the room, white roses around the base.
Vacated chairs.
Velvet curtains wide open
And Sirius sitting on the edge of the couch, head in his hands now that the room had cleared out, fingers frantically combing through his hair over and over again.
Ordinarily, Remus would've made a joke about how he was going to go bald.
But it didn't seem like the time.
"Habibi," James said gently, sitting next to Sirius on the couch and pulling hands out of his hair to hold them instead, "Did you have the feet casserole?"
Apparently it was the time.
"Feet casserole?" Sirius responded quietly, still staring down at the ground. "I think its technical name is Widower casserole."
"Mmmm no, I'm pretty sure its feet," James corrected, turning his head to look at Remus, "Remus had some."
We make a good team, Moons.
"A whole big toe," Remus nodded, before taking a breath and crossing to the other side of Sirius, "Budge over, where are your manners?"
"In my husband's casket, I think..."
"I'll put mine in there too," Remus agreed.
"You didn't have any to begin with," Sirius retorted and nudged Remus lightly with his shoulder.
They were three again.
James.
Sirius.
Remus.
On a couch.
Blue skies behind their heads.
James hands holding onto to Sirius so he wouldn't slip away.
Life lines.
"We have a week. To sit here...and...be with him one last time..." Sirius said softly, lifting his head up from the ground, and staring at the casket instead. His jaw was tight, muscles in his hands flexing over and over again against James's. "You think that'll do it?"
"Do...what?" asked Remus
"Help this feel less shitty?"
"No," Remus said bluntly, leaning back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. He felt two more thumps against the cushions in succession, seeing Sirius and James from his peripherals looking up all the same.
"But its...a beautiful day," James continued, "And...we're here."
Remus didn't have to look down to know it was James's hand on top of his knee.
Remus didn't even have to wait for the wine to kick in to know he would be absolutely fucked, once again, in ruins and shambles by the end of the week. It didn't matter that it was a funeral. It didn't matter that Remus had told himself he was too old to me making the mistakes of a twenty year old; thirty year old.
James's hand gave his knee a squeeze. An electric shock through his body, and Remus closed his eyes.
Here we go again.
#greener grass#moonchaser#remus lupin#james potter#sirius black#part 1 of three#cw: mcd mention#cw: grief#cw: death#grief and mourning rituals!!!
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part 2!!!! [read part one here]
transcript below the cut arranged into stanzas to help show where the rhymes are:
âthatâs why they brought gem in? as a failsafe?â as a pawn. we were told to point her at whoever we need gone
��gem wonât hurt her allies. âŚyet.â the curse she carries will itâs had its eye on her since she lost the other eye she was specially selected for her hunting skill itâs quite the high honor. âwow. how generous.â we try
think about it: why does almost no one fight the curse? âgiven how fast scott killed skizz last season, i can guess.â [âany pain you spare your friends, youâll have to suffer worseâ?] itâs designed to shut down higher reasoning with stress
#if you still can't see the rhyme scheme try reading it out loud#if that doesn't work uh. idk. can't help you#my art#my poetry#grian#geminitay#smajor1995#bdoubleo100#inthelittlewood#secret life#grian and his terrible horrible no good very bad eldritch coworkers: the sequel#cant wait to post the next part so i can be like 'my three secret life comics. and yes they all rhyme'#this one narratively doesn't work nearly as well as a standalone compared to part 1#however i accidentally went way too hard and could probably upload the middle page + second to last panel as their own separate art pieces#tbh i'm considering putting an explanation of everything below the readmore buuut i don't feel like it atm. :3 later maybe#me and my 20+ life series headcanons i only allude to without explicitly stating don't need to explain ourselves#still experimenting with this webtoon-esque vertical comic style#still not sure i like it#it gets long too quickly#among other things#but it's very easy to read on a phone so
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Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part ThreeÂ
A03
Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition.Â
Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place.Â
Black eye, bruised chin, split lip.Â
More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck.Â
 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.
Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital.Â
Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten.Â
He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled.Â
(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but.Â
He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.)Â
"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen.Â
Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.
Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair.Â
Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."
"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.
"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants."Â
Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him.Â
Would Harrington pitch a fit?Â
Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did?Â
Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper.Â
Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life?Â
Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harringtonâs game, and she excelled at it.Â
Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.
"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--"Â
Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out."Â
"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly. Â
"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.
The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying.Â
"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.
He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness.Â
"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone."Â
A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box.Â
How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than thatâŚ
He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home.Â
"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope.Â
He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet.Â
There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand.Â
Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list.Â
Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."
Jimâs eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that."Â
The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."
'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'
Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."
"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face.Â
He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him.Â
He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.
 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?" He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?"Â
"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."
Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.
Another act that was far beyond the kid's years.Â
A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.
(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasnât the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)
A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.
"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.
No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.
Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here.Â
He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder.Â
Several somethings, in fact.Â
"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck.Â
"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was beinâ slick.Â
Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasnât a bad attempt. Steve just hadnât accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie.Â
An unfair advantage, really.Â
âLeast there canât be any baby racoons in the damn bag.â Wayne thought idly.Â
Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.
"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie.Â
Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.
Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Edâs interrupting.Â
"Son,â He started off. âI was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie."Â
Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.
 "What do you mean Si--Wayne."Â
"Nice catch.â Wayne said. âWeâll get you there yet.âÂ
It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.
Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much.Â
Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither.Â
Which was fine. Wayne didnât think a little pushing would hurt.
"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat."Â
"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"
Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked.Â
He did neither. "Iâm liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?"Â
"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84â was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? AboutâŚ" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret.Â
"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt."Â
Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle.Â
"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end."Â
Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink.Â
"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?"Â
"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.
Judged.
Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be.Â
Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless.Â
"Anybody else?" He asked.Â
"Nobody human." Steve replied.Â
"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that.Â
He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.
"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?"Â
Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency, I'd be happy to."Â
He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through.Â
The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation.Â
With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus. "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER."Â
All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it.Â
Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair."Â
The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound.Â
Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble.Â
"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.
Steve blinked. "UhâŚ"Â
"You take any today son?"Â
Steve his head.Â
"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack.Â
Course he hadn't.Â
"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.
Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Edâs came in.Â
He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once.Â
#hands on knees#this is gonna have more than three parts fffffff#FAIR WARNING I do jump between Wayne and Eddieâs pov in this.#Everything Ive written so far while in parts for tumblr would basically be chapter 1 on A03#Eddies POV change would be chapter two#Ugh Im gonna have to put this on A03. Dammit brain.#also I updated this very fast for me#no one get excited Idk the brain is doing#steddie#beat to shit Steve Harrington#wayne pov#outsider pov#wayne as a BAMF#I tried to get to the part where Eddie shows up but it just got too long for a tumblr post#pre steddie#wayne and Hopper both as psuedo parents to Steve#tw injuries#0o0 fanfics#stranger things
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đą wonwoo x producer!reader.
the five times wonwoo swears he's over you (and the one time that he decides he isn't) â
see also: main post, drabble
⍠maybe i'm just not better than this, i haven't tried / 'cause maybe you'll finally choose me after you've had more time.
đą the five times.
when he sees you for the first time in over a year.
he believes it's the nice thing to do, treating you out to dinner. he froze you out, after all, because he was stupid and he didn't know how to handle his crush on you. he likes to think that the past fourteen months have made him better. wiser. so, that night, he makes it up to you. he also makes up a dozen different excuses. do his eyes linger on you a little too long as you happily drink your yogurt drink? he's just making sure you like what he chose for you. does he walk a little closer when he notices you're shivering from the evening cold? he's just concerned you might get sick. he doesn't like you anymore. he's better now, wiser now. he has to be.
when your second studio choom video comes out.
it's not the same as the first time, where he'd smiled to himself while watching you perform your latest comeback in STUDIO CHOOM's crisp, 4k quality. back then, that's how he had known he was done for. this time, he watches it purely out of curiosity. to add to the millions of views that the video is already raking up. he keeps a straight face the whole time. just watches with a perfectly neutral expression. he's just a guy supporting a friend, isn't he? when he gets through the entire video without smiling, he counts that as a win. if his heartâ the bloody traitorâ had stuttered at your ending fairy, well. that's an entirely different story.
on a random tuesday, just because.
he's never really seen the appeal in games like stardew valley; they were always a little too slow for his taste. but you'd absolutely begged, and so he begrudgingly bought the game for âŠ20,600 just to shut you up. he still doesn't care much for it, to be quite honest. there's a lot of slow, lazy days where he just dicks around in-game. he bears with it anyway since you're always so happy when you beat him at fishing, or when you get to steal away the bachelorette he was going after. your voice is a low buzz in his ear as the two of you play until the sun has risen, until he's cussing you out for keeping him up so late when he has a schedule to go to. you let him complain all he wants because he'll still back online for co-op later that night.
when you're back in the same recording studio as him.
this one is the hardest, because this is where he fell for you in the first place. you, with your head bent as you fiddle with jihoon's digital audio workstation. you, with your usually friendly demeanor shuttered behind something so cool and collected. the pencil tucked behind your ear. the way you worry your lower lip as the boys croon. he wants to scream, wants to test just how soundproof this damn studio is. instead, he sings his lines. he makes adjustments as necessary. he watches you do your thing, even jokes to you here and there. it's all he can do to keep his mind away from what it wants so badly to stray back to. in the end, he doesn't scream. but when you smile at him and tease him that he did a good jobâ he wishes he had.
when he drives you home after you've had one too many to drink.
you're half-asleep in his passenger seat, all soft edges and incoherent mumbles. he tries to be cross with you, tries to tell you off for not knowing your limits and ending up like this. there's an unmistakable softness in his gaze, though, as he makes sure the seatbelt isn't too tight around your frame. he avoids all the potholes and goes extra careful over the speed bumps. by the time he makes it to your dorm, you're already passed out with your cheek pressed against the window. he decides to let you sleep for only thirty seconds more. as he mentally counts downâ thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eightâ he tries to convince himself that it won't sting when he gets to one. (it still does.)
đ¸ the one time.
on another random tuesday.
in the end, it's not an evening of stardew valley that gets him. it's not one of your fancams, not your warm presence in his shotgun. no, it's something much more stupid. something much more small. it's the way he looks for his phone when it pings. he doesn't even know if it's you who's texting him. but it could be, and that's enough to have him fishing through his bag hastily. he catches himself one afternoon, notices the way he's just a touch too excited to check the newest notification. he's not any wiser or better, it seems. he doesn't know if he can be. he's still the same jeon wonwoo with a hopeless crush on you.
#wonwoo x reader#wonwoo imagines#wonwoo smau#svt imagines#seventeen imagines#wonwoo angst#svt angst#seventeen angst#[ i don't think i can tag this as fluff. false advertising i fear ]#[ thank u for XXX followers!!! c: feels apt to do this with this series was one of my first ones ]#[ i'm not really a. Series ? type of person. so i don't know if this will have a part two (?) part three (???) ]#[ but this is a much happier ending than what was originally planned....! ]#[ thank u to the original requester of the prompt + the anon who was like 'full picture' sexc ]#[ ALSO. backburner wonu... cackles. evil. ]#[ 5+1 fics supremacy!! ]
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swipes everything else off of the table to yell about diasomnia flower bookmarks
(I gave Silver one too :D)
#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#white rabbit festival#me: oh boy i wonder what excitement will happen in this new part#characters: now it is time to buy souvenirs :)#me: oh god#jk jk even when the filler is kind of painful i do enjoy the little character moments#like everyone screaming as loud as they can into silver's watch#deuce busting out his suzy izzard impression#SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER!#and of course silver assigning flowers to the other dias and getting all sappy over lilia. god. delicious.#you don't understand this ten second long scene is everything to me#though we all know the real highlight#the knowledge that 1) deuce used to have an extremely silly edgy badass nickname#2) he almost certainly gave it to himself#3) he harassed epel's extended family to the point that they told horror stories about him and he was briefly epel's personal idol#epel: i heard he once killed three men with but a look#deuce: what no i never...i mean...ha ha sounds weird nothing a model student like me would know about#also deuce: if you fuckers don't apologize to my mom right now i'll fucking kill all of you (sees dilla) uhhh i mean#deuce: i challenge you to a children's game#black bunnies leader: (strapping on his duel disk) i accept#meanwhile silver is running full speed at a group of children screaming to them about donuts#we aren't going to talk about what ortho did with that fantasy-gregg's sausage roll#so glad that we've reached the 'what the heck is even happening' portion of the event#anyway i completely screwed up the resolution of these so here's hoping they don't look terrible!#whoops!
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Indeed, Why did Peri get assigned Dev as his first godchild?
Periâs assignment was as correct as any other fairyâs assignment!
Which is to say that somewhere, out there, there is a fairy with great experience, a fairy so good at their task that they can handle even the most extreme cases.
And that fairy has been given an âExtreme Caseâ child whose biggest concern is âQuick Sandâ.
As far as the system is concerned, Dev is classified as âSimpleâ. A perfect beginnerâs child for a beginning godparent like Peri!!!
Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]
Peri's Assignment: [Start] > [Previous] > [END]
#fairly oddparents#fop#fop a new wish#fop timmy turner#fop timmy#timmy turner#asks#itty bitties fop au#valleymyristica#WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG#-insert ominous chord here-#god these three took so long to do they shouldve been out yesterday morning haha#ANYWAYS#WRAPPED UP 1 MINI STORY#TIME TO MOVE ONTO THE NEXT ONE#WHICH IS ALSO PERI CENTRIC#YAYYYY#YIPPIEEEE#im reaching the part of the inbox where its just. nothing BUT peri questions so!!!!#we're taking a good long focus on him for now haha
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I mean, heâs not wrong
#low key been thinking about this for weeks#lord debling could see it#polin#bridgerton#bridgerton season 3#bridgerton spoilers#bridgerton s3#bridgerton season three#lord debling#colin bridgerton#penelope featherington#colin x penelope#the carriage scene#bridgerton parallels#bton#Bridgerton season 3 part 1#bridgerton s3 p1#bridgerton season 3 spoilers#1k#1000 notes#1000
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natsuo sits with you in the bathroom while you bathe pretty much from the very beginning of your relationship. he's a bit clingy, even so early on, but he makes no attempt to convince you otherwise. though a bit awkward at first, the routine soon becomes normal and easy: he perches on the closed lid of the toilet and chatters away about his day, or asks you about yours, as you wash away any lingering traces of the day from your skin. but something you always find a bit strange is that he never takes you up on the offer to join you, and finally (years into establishing this easy habit) you reach out with a wet hand and clutch at the sleeve of his shirt, firmly insisting this time that he get in.
he looks away, grimacing a little, a flush crawling up his throat. "oh, no," he says, shaking his head. "i'll get in once you're done, that's alright!"
you frown.
"nat," you say to him, your fingers still twisted into his shirtsleeve, clutching him tightly as though the strength of your grip might sway him. "please get in."
your insistence, though quiet, seems to make him falter. his cheeks flush even more and he hangs his head.
"...cold."
you cock your head to the side, having lost half of his sentence to the way he mumbled it. "hm?"
he peeks up at you, his lashes fluttering when he meets your gaze. his lips are pursed in the sweetest little pout, slight but still there. "i'll make the bathwater cold."
you blink for a moment as you process his words.
"you're worried... about the bathwater?"
he looks away again in embarrassment. "yeah."
he reaches up and takes the hand you have gripping his sleeve in his own, his touch cool against your bath-warmed skin. he twines your fingers together, watching raptly at the way his own hand seems to just fit with yours.
"i don't have a very strong quirk, you know that," he mumbles, his voice almost a bit shy. "but when i'm with you, it just... i can't help it. it slips out."
you already know this about natsuo. already had a conversation about it early in your relationship. he tried to explain the physiological side of things to you in terms you didn't really understand, but sensing your confusion, he then put it simply: you make my heart beat really fast, and it makes my temperature drop.
now you're used to his cold fingertips tracing along your body. used to how his tongue is always cold and slick. used to how you can sometimes see the faintest cloud of his breath on his exhales when he's panting over you in bed, or find delicate swirls of frost marks on the headboard where he was gripping it.
no. more than used to it. you like it.
"natsuo,"âyou hold his hand a bit tighter, squeezing his fingers with your ownâ"i don't care about the bathwater."
his eyes snap up from watching where your fingers are tangled together, meeting your gaze. his cheeks are still pink, but his eyes are hopeful.
you guide his hand up to your cheek. his palm is cool against the heat you feel burning underneath your skin.
"please. get in with me?" you ask him again.
and this time he doesn't deny youânot least of all because he knows that when you've got your heart set on something you won't give up.
but he's used to that part of you, too.
(and he likes it.)
#todoroki tub talk time part 1 of 3 baby#this is a follow up to my last post if ur lost#i was just gonna post it as a reblog with all three brothers but this rly got away from me#natsuo x reader#todoroki natsuo x reader#bnha drabble#bnha writing#writing
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God bless you, Luke, for kneeling for however long it took to film the carriage scene.
#bridgerton#polin#netflix#nicola coughlan#luke newton#bridgerton seaosn 3#bridgerton season three#netflix bridgerton#bridgerton s3#colin x penelope#colin bridgerton#penelope x colin#penelope featherington#your long legs are magnificent#thank you for their service#that scene has a chokehold on me like#i cant get through my day without watching it one or twice#surviving the part 2 wait#itâs only been 4 days since part 1 dropped#iâm so dead#carriage scene
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spare bento [ part 1 / you are here! / part 3 ]
"kasumi was always so insistent about that. ...and, thinking about it now, i guess she was right all along."
#this is a THREE PARTER I GUESS AHH part 3 is gonna be. Long.(er.) maybe as long as part 1 but probably longer.#its 6am FUCK MY LIFEEE IM GOIGN TO BED#tmblr is getting this before twitter for once bc im too lazy to figure out how to schedule stuff here#anwuasys. shuakesumi anyone?#goro akechi#akira kurusu#sumire yoshizawa#kasumi yoshizawa#royal trio#p5r#persona 5 royal#cele draws#cele comics#shuakesumi#bentoverse
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sorry. we put our boyfriend through a portal. i dont know where hy went. yeah hys terrified. sorry
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An insane sequence of events im still losing my mind that this happened
#NAH IT WAS GIVING SEASON 1 IMP SHENANIGANS LOWKEYYY#adam wrote this which is so funny bc he didnât write for s1#and i tend to not like his work on this show#but this short was good#very fun and enjoyableđ#THIS part took me out#a reminder that this showâs sex humor CAN work when done right#obsessed with all the blushing this ep too omg#i missed these three dummies together đĽşđŤś#helluva boss#helluva boss shorts#helluva boss spoilers#hb spoilers#helluva boss blitz#blitz helluva boss#helluva boss moxxie#moxxie helluva boss#helluva boss millie#millie helluva boss
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I really like how Donnie and Mikey having the shortest mask tails makes so much sense in regard to them being an inventor and an artist/cook respectively. If their mask tails were longer, it could be dangerous and/or get in the way of what they were trying to do.
Meanwhile Raph is large enough that his longer mask tails wouldnât be easily used against him in fighting or sparring, plus the longer tails definitely make for a more standard hero/ninja look which would make him lean into it more.
Leo likes long mask tails because he can flip them.
#rottmnt#rise donnie#rise mikey#rise raph#rise leo#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rottmnt headcanons#this is also how I see their hair going in any human au for the most part#since Leo straight up wears one of those long nightcaps for sleeping I think he just likes the feeling so heâd definitely have longer hair#donnieâs I see as constantly put up and not very long#Mikeyâs I see as the shortest#though I love Raph with a buzz cut I also love him with longer braids too#but yeah Leo likes his mask tails long I personally think for three reasons#1) they look good with his stripes and help him stand out#2) he can hit people with them and annoy them#3) he wants to emulate popular characters he sees in film and other media and the standard popular mean girls absolutely count#adding on for Donnie too I think heâd just be annoyed by long hair#Mikey I see as keeping his hair short and natural but putting lots of accessories in it
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my five year plan involves turning into a little mouse and using a sewing needle for a sword and going on an epic adventure to defeat a great evil through the power of friendship and stabbing
#dont mind me i got lost in an extremely elaborate daydream earlier about being shrunk down to three inches tall#and part of it involved me taking the sweater off of a mouse my beloved margo newyorkcitywater knitted for me#(the mouse is named butterscotch. btw)#(i put little glasses on him he also has a friend who is a frog also wearing a sweater and the frog is named cinnamon)#the daydream did involve befriending the birds that live in the street lamp outside my window and riding them#i should pick horatio (mouse oc) back up he has been languishing for far too long#hi its 1:30 in the morning. i have work in eight and a half hours
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Angel: *pointing* May I sit there?
Husk: That's my lap
Angel: That doesn't answer my question.
#part three bitches#headcanon that since Angel is a spider he has to keep warm to function#and has discovered that cuddling (consensually!!!) is his favorite way to keep warm#also fat nuggets#husk is always happy to oblige#huskerdust#angel dust needs a hug#CONSENSUALLY#Angel dust#Iâd say incorrect Angel dust but itâs honestly not#incorrect hazbin hotel#Hazbin hotel#husk/angel#husk#hazbin hotel husk#hazbin hotel angel dust#ok now I need to write a 5+1 fic about Angel cuddling with the hotel occupants#theyre in love your honor#theyre so cute
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Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)đ§ď¸
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 shouldnât have bothered you as much as it did. You didnât know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldnât 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⌠shouldnât 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 youâd 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. Youâd left him alone. It was the right choice, one youâd 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 Ciroâs insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hellâs Kitchen.Â
A month wasnât much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories youâd lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of⌠of whatever it was that youâd had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hindânot you, but her surely, the role, the mask youâd worn while hereâhis attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo youâd found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that.Â
Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way sheâd 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, sheâd been relaxed and comfortable where sheâd confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadnât been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection sheâd felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think sheâd wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.
This couldnât be you.
When was the last time you'd looked that happy?
When was the last time youâd let someone hold you close?Â
And when was the last time someone had looked at you like⌠like they mightâŚÂ
âDid I⌠love him, Ciro?â
âI 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.â
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 werenât really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, thereâd been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces youâd always used. Youâd quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity youâd taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hindâpractical, 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 werenât in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when youâd just wind up cutting them loose and running again.Â
What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection youâd 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 wouldnât have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bearâs prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.
A tacky âHandsome Devilâ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichĂŠd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldnât 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 didnât belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Mattâs, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated heâd visited often enough to need a space for his clothes.Â
Youâd⌠made space for him in your false life. That wasnât something you did.
Or had you been the one wearing them?Â
Maybe�
Youâd spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadnât worked, youâd even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back.Â
Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.Â
All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after heâd realized your memories werenât 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.Â
While you didnât know who exactly youâd been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. Youâd 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. Youâd grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why youâd broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. Youâd slipped before, of courseâloneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingenciesâbut youâd never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now.Â
What you didnât know wasâŚÂ
Why?
Why here?Â
Why these people?Â
And why the fuck hadnât you followed your rules and run?Â
If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hindâs apartment, you couldnât 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 couldnât 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 didnât even know where to begin.Â
At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggyâwhat the fuck kind of nickname was that?âshowed 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.
âSo I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?âÂ
âOne month.â You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in yourâin Jane Hindâs 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 youâd used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldnât quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. âLeaving after that. Donât see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully Iâm not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.âÂ
âNone taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.â He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. âHow badly do you want your memories back?âÂ
You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way youâd held a broken Matt in his kitchen until heâd carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours.Â
Youâd⌠been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned. Â
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.Â
âBadly enough to stay for the month,â you said quietly.Â
âThen put some shoes on. Weâre going on a memory hunt.â
Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hellâs Kitchen.Â
You visited Jane Hindâs 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 didnât 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 friendâs voice would bring back what youâd lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations.Â
But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost.Â
God, you hadnât thought this would⌠would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who youâd 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, youâd 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 youâd 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 shouldnât have been possible to miss what you couldnât remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same.Â
It didnât help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. Youâd 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 hadnât reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely werenât coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damageâsomething you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadnât 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 youâd lived here, as if Mattâs mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didnât matter. You hadnât seen Matt once since youâd walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as youâd opened the door. Youâd forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that heâd let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone.Â
Leaving him like that shouldnât have bothered you as much as it did. You didnât know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldnât 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.Â
He⌠shouldn���t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.Â
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 youâd 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.Â
Matt was alone.Â
Youâd left him alone.Â
It was the right choice, one youâd 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?Â
Sympathy.Â
That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman heâd cared about, one whoâd 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 wouldnât be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasnât your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.
Protect yourself.Â
Protect what you might one day have.Â
All else was irrelevant.
You just⌠hoped he was doing alright.Â
He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.
Even Josieâs quickly became off-limitsâsomething 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 Devilâs path.Â
But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face.Â
âYou need to talk to her!â 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 Foggyâs clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one youâd frequented when youâd 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 didnât seem to care. âChrist, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger somethingââ
âStop,â 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. âJust stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didnât remember anything at all. Sheâs gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.âÂ
âSo what, youâre just gonna roll over?â Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Mattâs doorway. âAre you sure you actually loved her? Because Iâm pretty sure she loved yââ
Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, âDonât you fucking dare!âÂ
Tension hung thick in the air as Mattâs 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 couldnât tell which was which. He just couldnâtâhow 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 Mattâs 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 whoâd truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasnât sure heâd ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if youâd truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even haveâŚ
I miss you, sweetheart.
âŚloved him the way he loved you.Â
Abruptly Mattâs 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. âI loved her, Foggy.â He lifted one shaking hand to his face. âGod, I loved her so, so much. I canât⌠I donât know what to do without her now that sheâs gone.â âI know, Matt,â Foggy said gently. âI know.â âI 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 Iâve 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 sheâd ever admit.â His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. Youâd have likely argued with him about how kind you were if youâd been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. âSome 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 hadnât 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 thereâd⌠already been something there for a while now if Iâm honest.âÂ
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 begunâthe night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when youâd both almost taken the leap before heâd realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didnât 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. Youâd felt it just like he had, and youâd 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.Â
âHow much did she know before she left?â Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe.Â
âShe knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.â Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. âI 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 sheâs gone and Iâll never be able to tell her. All because of me.âÂ
He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Mattâs cheeks. Even speaking about thisâabout how much heâd loved you only for him to ruin itâwas 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 heâd failed you, just like everyone else in his life. âI miss her. And whatâs worse is even when sheâs right there in front of me, sheâs not. Sheâs not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. Iâm the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. Iâm the reason sheâll never remember what we had, why Iâll never hold her again, and why sheâll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever sheâs afraid of forming a connection.â He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place youâd once held dear. âI couldnât 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 wonât let that happen a second time, not now that sheâs seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?âÂ
The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karenâs voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by anotherâs, one still so familiar.Â
ââI mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I donât remember, I wonât argueââ
âI had to keep you here somehow.â Foggyâs voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. âGet out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.âÂ
No.Â
No, no, no.
Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman whoâd known him wasnât. 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 wasnât about to be caught by it again.Â
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 theyâd planned. He wouldnât relive this grief again, he couldnât, not without falling apart. The moment heâd had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime.Â
âHey, Matt.â You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where youâd 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. âAre youââ
âHeading out,â he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadnât 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.Â
You were wearing one of his shirts.Â
He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where heâd left it against the wall. He couldnât let you see him like this. It wasnât your fault that you didnât remember him, nor was it your fault that heâd lost you. Heâd 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 didnât deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night heâd met you when youâd gently brushed your hand against his arm. âHey, do you need⌠I could walk you home.â
He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. âIâm fine. I justâI have things to take care of. Excuse me.â Â
He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldnât seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.
You slowly wandered around Mattâs office, taking it in. This was another place youâd 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 strangerâs space like this without them present. But you couldnât help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldnât read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Mattâs 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 wasnât enough.Â
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 whoâd cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who youâd been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldnât 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 youâd lived your life by for over a decade?Â
And why⌠did you spend so long wondering if heâd ever climbed out his office window?
It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned.Â
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 couldnât say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like youâd 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 Foggyâs growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories.Â
But the rest of that feeling⌠the rest was all you.Â
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 youâd stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love youâd 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 whoâd 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 elseâs face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained?Â
That, ultimately, was why it didnât 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.Â
Especially Matt.Â
Youâd seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, youâd marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasnât 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 didnât just look tiredâthat wasnât what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldnât be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted.Â
Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough.Â
Youâd already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. Youâd be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldnât give Matt back the woman heâd 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.Â
âI thought you might⌠want these before I left tomorrow,â you said quietly. âI⌠sorry, itâs⌠itâs a bag with myâwith her things.âÂ
Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadnât 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 hadnât 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 hadnât seen his eyes even once since that day youâd first come back, and you didnât blame him. You didnât like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling.Â
âItâs the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.â You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. âAnd 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. AndâŚâ 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 wasnât 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 wasnât giving you much to work with, though you didnât miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. âI thought you might want this, too.â
You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest youâd 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 wasnât 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.Â
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 youâd 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.
âWho fucked up the sutures on that?â You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. âThey did a terrible job. No offense.âÂ
Mattâs face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up.Â
Before you could blink, heâd yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. âDonât,â he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. âYou canâjust put your key on the bench.âÂ
âHow did you knowââ âBecause thereâs only one thing left it could be.âÂ
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 didnât help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here.Â
Best to say what youâd come to say and leave him be.Â
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 heâd find comfort in it. Thisâa sign of what sheâd feltâwas the real gift youâd truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. âI 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.âÂ
Of all the things youâd 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 werenât sure what youâd do if he reached backâit wasnât like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didnât know if heâd 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 heâd flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. âJust go. Get out.âÂ
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, backing away towards the door. âIâm⌠Iâm so sorry.â Â
It shouldnât have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same.Â
Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.
âLook, Nelson.â 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. âI know itâs a day early. But another twenty-four hours isnât going to make a fucking difference.âÂ
âI donât need another day!â he pleaded, his arms spread wide where heâd blocked your front door, ensuring you couldnât leave your apartment until youâd heard him out. Youâd had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hindâs apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadnât before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. âJust five minutes. Thatâs all. Iâve got one last thing to try.â
âMaybe I donât want to try one more thing!â 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. âIâve tried for a month, and itâs gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Janeâs gone, ok? Sheâs dead. And Iâm sorry, I know you all cared about her, but Iâm doneââ
âHave you climbed inside a thread?âÂ
â...What?â you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. âWhat the fuck does that even meââ
He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. âYes! I knew it! I canât believe no one told you!âÂ
âTold me what?!â 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. âThereâs nothing to climb!â
âOk, so stick with me.â He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. âBecause Iâm about to get really metaphysical.â
It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Mattâa thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy.Â
It wasnât 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 wasnât 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.
âHoly shit,â you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. âHoly shit, he was right.â
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 wasnât much light, but it was enough to see by.
And what you saw was heartbreaking.Â
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 didnât 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.Â
If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty.Â
âJesus,â you whispered.Â
âCan you hear me?â Foggyâs voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel.Â
âYeah. Can you hear me?â
â...Ok, if youâre trying to respond, I canât hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.â
You sighed and started down the riverbed. âNot super helpful, but ok. Letâs give it a shot.âÂ
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 youâd 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?Â
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 moreâÂ
You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what youâd felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didnât 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.Â
Emotion. Itâs emotion.
That was what the water was. Mattâs emotion. Which meant the other currentâone now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling blackâwas⌠yours.Â
Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory?Â
Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that youâd 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 somethingâa lot of somethingsâhad 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.Â
The stones.Â
There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you thereâd once been far more. If that was what youâd lost, then maybeâŚÂ Â
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.Â
Still nothing.Â
And something inside you⌠cracked.Â
âFuck!â you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness youâd 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 beerâJosieâs 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 Mattâs 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 thatâŚÂ
Youâd been loved.Â
Not your identity.
Not the image you showed to the world.Â
Not the walls youâd put up in front of him before heâd found some way past them.Â
You.Â
And heâd loved you with every part of him.Â
You werenât 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 whoâd 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. âI want my fucking life back! I want him back!âÂ
You hadnât wanted it before, or maybe you had and youâd just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because youâd denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place youâd expected. That was what this had beenâhome, family, love. That had to be why youâd stayed in New York, why youâd risked everything for these people, for Matt. You werenât an idiot. Youâd have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.
You couldnât bear to lose this. Not⌠not again.Â
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.Â
âLet me have it!â 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. âGive it back!âÂ
And with a blinkâ
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 didnât 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.
âItâs me. Iâm here.â
âI heard you,â he tried to say. âI heard you. Iâm here.â
And your weakened heart⌠skipped.
He wasnât sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign heâd 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.
âDâŚâ you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what heâd 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 youâd 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. âYou came.â
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.Â
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 heâd been fighting before coming to you. ButâŚÂ Â
âHey, you in there?â Foggy called.Â
âD.â The letter felt strange, and yet⌠natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. âD?â
And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind.Â
You knew.Â
You⌠remembered.Â
âAlways,â heâd said.Â
âAlways,â you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. âAlways, D.â
He didnât know what you were doing or why youâd climbed inside the thread.Â
âAlways, D.â
All he knew was that it hurt.Â
âYouâre stuck with me, unfortunately for you.â
Heâd thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key heâd 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 youâd held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what heâd lost, what heâd never get back.Â
âDonât you give up on me, Matt. Ok?â
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.Â
âKiss me when you come back.â
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. âDonât do this to me, sweetheart, pleaseââ
âAdoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...â
âLeave me alone,â he whispered. âJust leave me alone.â
â...Remember that. if nothing else.âÂ
In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.
âMatt!â you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. âMatt, let me in! Itâs me, I swear, I can-I canââ
Silence.Â
And you werenât willing to wait any longer. This wasnât 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.Â
Red threads never lied. Â
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 wasnât unlocked, youâd use the key under the mat. You didnât remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasnât there? Youâd 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, heâd hoped heâd be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldnât reach.Â
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.Â
He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasnât you, that much had become painfully clear. Youâd passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life youâd lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what heâd had and lost, what heâd 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 operatedâhell, youâd tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much heâd cared, even if youâd ultimately changed your mind. At the time, heâd 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 youâd both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldnât break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it.Â
The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer.Â
âMatt.â Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. âMatt, Iââ
âWhy canât you just leave me alone, sweetheart?â he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. Heâd never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. âGod, I-I canâtâyou canât keep doing this to me.â
âMatt, just let meââ
âDo you even care how much youâre hurting me?â He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. âAll 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 youâre gone, you just wonât leave. I canât get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what thatâs like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?â
A soft intake of breath.Â
There it was. Now that heâd said it, youâd leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You heâd first known than a word like love.Â
âI justâŚâ 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.Â
âI warned you, kid,â came Stickâs voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. âI fuckinâ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didnât listen.â
He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stickâs 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 whoâd taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didnât get it. âI just want to grieve, and God canât even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.âÂ
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 heâd give was a route out the door. Â
âI donât know why you came back, and at this point, I donât fucking care,â he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. âWe donât have a red thread anymore. Thereâs nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. Iâm not asking.â
Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest.Â
â...D.âÂ
He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you.Â
You didnât 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.Â
âLeave me alone!â Â
And then he froze in sudden horror at what heâd done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All heâd wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldnât see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call himâ
Wait.Â
Youâd⌠youâd called himâŚ
âMy Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,â 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 youâd held him so often before when he was hurting. âIâm so sorry, D. Iâm so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.âÂ
He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldnât 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 couldnât bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. âFoggy told you to⌠he told you to call me that, didnât he? To see if youâd remember. But I canâtâyouâre going to leave me, youâllââ âDo you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.â 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. âI donât leave my box behind, and I wonât leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. Itâs really me. I know youâre tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?â
âŚSteady.Â
Truth.
Could it really be you? Â
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 heâd 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 youâd held his broken, torn body and heâd kissed your fingers and palm.Â
âHow much do you⌠do you remember?â There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. âEverything?â âNot 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.â Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. âI 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.â You loved him.Â
You loved him.Â
The weight of itâbeing forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking heâd lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved youâhit 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 youâd 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 couldnât help but gasp out your name.Â
âIâve got you now, D,â you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. âIâm here, now. Youâre not alone. Iâve got you, Matt.âÂ
âI thought you were gone.â 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 wasnât 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 heâd almost⌠almost chased you away. âI thought youâd left me and I was alone. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry I didnât try harder, and that I didnât-I didnât go with you, but I couldnâtâIâm so, soââÂ
âHey, hey, itâs ok.â 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. âItâs not your fault, D. Itâs not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.âÂ
âButââ âHey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.â 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 youâd both dearly missed and needed. âWhat 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 weâll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what weâve done, andâbut this isnât one of them. Never this. Youâre what helped bring me back.â âHow? I didnâtâŚâ He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. âI didnât do anything but try to chase you away.â âSome part of me couldnât help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.â You gave an amused little huff. âAnd 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 whichâŚâ You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. âI think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And itâs one I intend to keep.âÂ
And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breathâŚÂ
âKiss me when you come back.âÂ
âŚyour 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 heâd had any left at all.Â
It wasnât the first kiss heâd envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses heâd imagined before that, the first kiss heâd thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew heâd 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 wasnât the first kiss heâd expected, but it felt perfect all the same.Â
Because all that was left was himâŚÂ
And you.Â
#the red thread#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x f!reader#daredevil x reader#daredevil x f!reader#daredevil#matt murdock#fic#fanfic#reader#x reader#f!reader#angst#hurt/comfort#tw: alcohol#tw: depression#memory loss#matt is really self sabotaging here to an extent#this fic is three times longer than Part 1 which is hilarious#i have had this in my docs folder for ages and have finally edited it to my satisfaction#gonna post this on AO3 too but dropping it here first since the first fic was only ever posted here anyway!#and you'll get to have a fun 'Pasta writing 3 years ago versus Pasta writing now' experiment#when i post on AO3 i'll probably post the whole thing (including part 1) as one fic in separate chapters just for ease so I'll edit it then
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