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pastafossa · 5 months

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn’t be you.

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

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

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

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had you been the one wearing them?

Maybe…?

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

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.

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

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

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

What you didn’t know was…

Why?

Why here?

Why these people?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt was alone.

You’d left him alone.

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

So… why did you feel so very sick?

Sympathy.

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

Protect yourself.

Protect what you might one day have.

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

You were wearing one of his shirts.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially Matt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you climbed inside a thread?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what you saw was heartbreaking.

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

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

“Jesus,” you whispered.

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

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Emotion. It’s emotion.

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

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

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

The stones.

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

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

Still nothing.

And something inside you… cracked.

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

You’d been loved.

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world.

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with a blink—

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

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

“It’s me. I’m here.”

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

And your weakened heart… skipped.

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

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

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

And you… smiled.

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

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

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

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called.

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

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

You knew.

You… remembered.

“Always,” he’d said.

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

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

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt.

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

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

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

“...Remember that. if nothing else.”

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

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

Silence.

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

Red threads never lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt, just let me—”

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

A soft intake of breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...D.”

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

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

“Leave me alone!”

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

Wait.

You’d… you’d called him…

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

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

…Steady.

Truth.

Could it really be you?

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

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

You loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

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

Because all that was left was him…

And you.

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solarmorrigan · 10 months

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For the dialogue prompt, how about “What happened doesn’t change anything” for either Steddie or Newmann?

Thank you!

Hello hello hello I finally have something for you! I chose Steddie for this one, since I was on a roll. I hope this suits!

[post-S2 Steddie AU; CW: Outing, transphobia, some internalized transphobia; soft ending guaranteed, though]

When he sees Hagan meandering over towards them in the parking lot after school, his queen bee tagalong, Perkins, in tow, Eddie knows nothing good is going to follow. The way he feels Steve shift beside him says that he suspects much the same. The rest of the Hellfire guys, all gathered around Eddie’s van, talking and joking before heading home, have fallen silent.

It’s a small consolation that Hagan isn’t trailing Hargrove; since putting Steve in the hospital (briefly, Steve always interjects) last November, Hargrove has mostly given him—and the members of the Hellfire Club, once Steve had been taken into their fold—a fairly wide berth. Hagan, however, has had no compunctions about hassling Steve whenever he gets a bug up his ass about something, and he’s only become nastier since he started toadying for Hargrove.

So Eddie expects trouble, but he hadn’t expected–

Hagan starts small, crowing about how Steve has finally found his rightful place: among the freaks. Steve doesn’t give anything away, no displeasure, no anger, just bored indifference – the same mask he’s always hidden behind (the one Eddie had learned pretty quickly to see past, once he knew what to look for). But Hagan pushes.

“I guess the freaks already have a king,” Hagan snipes, cutting a glance at Eddie, “but I’m sure he needs a lady to rule by his side, right, Stevie?”

It seems like an unoriginal sort of dig—calling Steve a girl, how creative—except Steve goes pale. The mask slips, showing wide and frightened eyes for just a moment, but for Hagan, who’s known Steve for years, it’s long enough. He knows he’s hit something good.

“Do all your new little friends know, Stevie-boy? What makes you fit right in with them?” Hagan glances around the group, apparently enjoying the fact that if looks could kill, he’d be dead four times over. Then he leans in and practically spits at Steve, “Do they know that they got into your pants, you’d be less of a King Steve and more of a Queen Stacy?”

And that does it – shatters Steve’s mask so thoroughly that he actually takes a step back, staring at Hagan with a kind of disbelieving betrayal frozen on his face.

The full meaning of the words hits Eddie about three seconds before Hagan hits the side of the van, one of Eddie’s hands fisted in the front of his t-shirt and the other held firm at the base of his throat – not hurting, exactly, but heavily implying that he could.

Eddie doesn’t even have to reach for one of the many theatrical voices he uses to rile people up or cow them into submission; he’s so thoroughly taken by a type of rage he hasn’t let himself give into in a long time that his tone comes out perfectly threatening all on its own.

“If you ever repeat what you just said to another person, I will find out, and I will make your life a living hell,” he hisses.

Somewhere behind him, someone—it might be Jeff, though Eddie isn’t sure—clears their throat, and when Eddie tosses a glance over his shoulder, he finds the rest of Hellfire standing firm at his back (even tiny underclassman Gareth, with his arms crossed and the meanest look on his face the poor kid can muster).

“Ah, my apologies,” Eddie says as he faces front again, flashing a manic little grin, “we will find out. And we’ll ruin your life, Hagan. Same goes for your girlfriend.”

Perkins, who had been standing off to the side as the snickering peanut gallery right up until Eddie had pinned Hagan to the side of the van, makes a choked noise of offense that goes entirely ignored.

“Tell me you understand, Tommy-boy.” Eddie punctuates the command with a flex of his fingers near Hagan’s throat, until Hagan reluctantly nods, and Eddie releases him. “Glad we’re in agreement.”

Hagan and Perkins hightail it the other side of the parking lot, leaving them be with nothing more than a nasty look from Perkins, but no one is much in the mood to chat after that. No one really knows what to say – except Steve, who offers a quiet thanks to the rest of the guys and, having caught a ride in with Eddie that morning, then asks to be taken home.

Even with the radio playing quietly as Eddie drives, the atmosphere in the van feels silent and stifling.

Asking Steve if he’s alright feels like kind of a ridiculous move. Eddie wouldn’t be alright if he was in Steve’s position – hell, Eddie’s not alright. He’s pissed. But from the way Steve is sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, staring out the window like Eddie is driving him to his execution, Eddie’s anger—even on his behalf—isn’t what he needs right now.

Slowly, Eddie forces himself to let it go (for now, at least for now) and follow the familiar roads home.

It feels perfectly natural to simply head back to his place, where they’d been planning to go before that shitshow of a confrontation, though the surprise on Steve’s face when they pull up to the trailer says that he’d thought otherwise.

“You could’ve just taken me back to my house. I wouldn’t– I’d get it,” he says, and Eddie frowns at him.

“Did you want to go back to your house? We can hang out there if you want, I just figured…” Eddie tilts his head regarding him carefully. “You seem more comfortable here.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment, blank and uncertain, before he breaks back into motion with a shrug. “Okay,” he says, moving to get out of the van.

They head inside and nod a quick hello to Wayne, who looks like he’s just woken up in preparation for his shift, and then they go straight back to Eddie’s room. Eddie’s bag goes on the desk, but Steve’s goes by the door. Eddie sits down on the bed (admittedly one of the few places to sit, but also an invitation for Steve to come sit next to him) but Steve – Steve hesitates before leaning up against the wall, by the door with his bag, arms crossed and gaze cast towards the floor.

He looks ready to run at any moment, and Eddie sighs. This thing between them is new – so new that they’ve been afraid to put a label to it, dancing around each other uncertainly for months before sharing their first kiss barely a month ago. They’ve spent almost every available moment since with their hands on each other in some way or another, though Steve has been a bit skittish about moving past making out (Eddie had thought that maybe it was the unfamiliarity of being with another guy, but he thinks he might have a better understanding of the picture now).

Eddie doesn’t want to break things by pushing too hard, but somehow, he thinks leaving it unaddressed would be worse.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it,” he says, watching Steve, though Steve still isn’t looking back, “but if you want to…”

Steve shrugs. “I wasn’t hiding it from you,” he says, finally glancing up at Eddie. “I mean, I was, but not– I was going to tell you.”

“You don’t owe me any kind of explanation,” Eddie says.

“You would’ve found out eventually, either way.” Steve lets out a sound that suggests he may have been trying to laugh. “But it was – I should’ve been the one to tell you. That was – that was mine to tell.”

A little bit of Eddie breaks as Steve’s voice does. He’s almost vibrating with the desire to hold and to reassure, to go over to where Steve is standing, still propped against the wall, practically curling in on himself (trying to make himself smaller), but he’s not sure how well it would be received. He tries words, instead.

“Steve, I’m so sorry–”

“That was the one thing,” Steve snaps, anger tearing across his tone, “the one thing Tommy would never touch, the one thing that was off limits, even he knew– and he just–” As quickly as it had come, the anger goes, taking Steve’s energy with it. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and lets his hands slide down to cover his face; when he speaks again, he sounds small. “I wasn’t ready.”

Eddie couldn’t keep himself from crossing the room if he’d tried – though isn’t trying, after that. He’s up off the bed and into Steve’s space before he’s even realized, and it’s probably only his proximity that allows him to hear what Steve says next.

“I’m not ready for things to change between us.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, low and careful, “what happened doesn’t change anything.”

Steve pulls his hands away from his face with a derisive little huff of a laugh. His cheeks are red and his eyes are bright; he’s not crying, but it looks like a near thing.

“It’s – like, I get it. You’re fully into guys, and I’m…” He waves his hands down at himself, sharp and frustrated. “Most people wouldn’t call me a real guy, if they knew.”

“Since when am I most people?” Eddie asks. “You say you’re a guy, you’re a real guy, fucking end of. Anyone who thinks otherwise can fuck off.”

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes, clearly trying to hold back a much more emotional reaction, and Eddie chances resting his hands on Steve’s shoulders. Steve doesn’t move away, even eases a little into the touch when Eddie starts circling his thumbs at the skin right where his shirt collar ends.

“You don’t have to believe me right now,” Eddie says softly. “But I like you, Steve. I like you, andI’m gonna stick around and prove it to you.”

Something about the declaration makes Steve’s eyes snap right to Eddie’s, searching, anxious and cautiously hopeful, and Eddie lets him look. Whatever he’s after, maybe he finds it, because he uncurls from himself a little after that, just enough to lean in for a hesitant kiss that becomes much more certain when Eddie himself doesn’t hold back.

Eddie pulls Steve back over to the bed after that, poking and prodding him around until they’re both settled, Eddie’s back to the pillows and Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest (Steve’s never said as much, but Eddie’s gathered that this is one of his favorite positions to cuddle in; he doubts if Steve’s spent much time being the little spoon).

“Tell me something else,” Eddie says, once he’s got his arms wrapped securely around Steve’s waist.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Tell me something that you want me to know.” Eddie leans forward to press a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Anything.”

For a moment, Steve is quiet, thinking as he traces absent patterns over Eddie’s forearms. “I could tell you why I picked Steve,” he says finally.

“If you want to, I’d love to hear it,” Eddie says.

“It wasn’t because it was sort of close to my… old name. That was actually kind of a coincidence.” Steve lets his head fall back against Eddie’s shoulder, the tension that’s been wound through him for the last hour finally starting to ease. “Steven was my grandad’s name.”

“Yeah?” Eddie prompts softly.

“Yeah. My mom’s dad. I used to spend a lot of time over at his house when I was a kid. Before he died. I kind of got the feeling he liked me more than my parents did.” Eddie gives Steve a squeeze around the middle. “But he used to tell me all these stories about fighting in World War II. Probably not very age-appropriate, now that I think about it, but at the time I really ate it up.

“He didn’t really, like… glorify it, I don’t think? He just kind of told me what happened, good or bad, and whatever the story was, I always thought he sounded, y’know – strong and brave. And when I wanted to pick a new name…” Steve shrugs against Eddie. “I kind of hoped he wouldn’t mind sharing his with me.”

“Bet he’d be honored,” Eddie says, giving Steve another little squeeze.

“Some days I’m not so sure,” Steve says quietly.

“Well I am. I’ll just have to stick around and prove that to you, too,” Eddie says decisively.

Briefly, Steve’s hands tighten where they rest on Eddie’s arms. “I like the sound of that,” he says, and Eddie turns so he can press another kiss to the side of Steve’s head.

“Good,” he says. “Me too.”

#221expressions #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #transmasc steve harrington #stranger things #does this make a whole lot of sense? probably not!#is it some really soft hurt/comfort though? yes.#tw outing #tw transphobia #solar wrote #answers from solar #this is the last fic for this round of prompts but I'll have a few more soon I hope?

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one-of-many-mothmen · 1 day

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Au where Fidds is helping Stan fix the portal but it's really loud and Stan has PTSD from Illegal Activities so anytime smth sounds too much like a gunshot he PANICS

#this works for stan being alone too but the fiddstan hurt/comfort calls to me #dude idk how much projress for PTSD there was back then but it probably wasnt a lot #:((#gravity falls #gravity falls au #gravity falls stanley #stanley pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddstan

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spacedace · 1 year

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Sometimes you go to look up a few things to make sure a quick line or two is accurate in your fic and spend the following untold amount of hours reading up on short and long term effects of electrocution on the body and it becomes a whole Thing (TM) that you're now adding to your story.

Anyway Danny is getting neuropathy and mild cataracts and chronic pain and a funky lil fucked up heart rate in Business of Family on top of the trauma now. So, that's a thing that's happening lol

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom #uncle oz au #penguin adopts jazz and danny #danny having long term effects of being electrocuted #as a treat #(the treat is for my angsty hurt/comfort loving ass not Danny obviously)#(danny would probably prefer to skip to the part where he gets to do unhinged shit with the cute boy in his science class)#danny fenton

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joyfuladorable · 8 months

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Fuck it, here's all my favorite Mikey-centric fanfics!!

There's A LOT + personal blurbs, so they're going under the cut (Mostly AO3, but there are some FFN links, too. Also, besides like the first two, there's no favoritism in the order)

2k3:

Pretend That I Never Left by redstringraven(sirimiri) - Complete/Plans for an Epilogue & Sequel!!

Fic that changed my BRAIN?! If my fanart [1 | 2 | 3] for it is any indicator, lol. I'll say for the umpteenth time that if you're looking for an Excellent Mikey fic with Perfect Characterization, this is IT (and you don't need to know ANYTHING about HZD trust me TRUST ME this fic deserves WAY more love) His swift ride-or-die friendship with Aloy will melt your damn heart!

Dragon of the Sun by ForestWhisper3 - Ongoing

My Other TOP favorite Mikey fic!! Again, fanart [1 | 2 | 3] indicator! Slow Burn(ish) Canon Divergence of Mikey unlocking his Mystic Powers as his family looks on in dismay as they struggle to protect him. The Good Shit!!!

Of Darkness And Light by Bayluff - Complete

OOOOOOO THIS ONE! Very good (also drew fanart for it)! Evil creature literally trying to consume Mikey's lifeforce from within as his family scrambles to help

A Chat With The Titan by secreterces5 - Complete

Mikey has a fun one-on-one talk with the supposedly reformed Bishop in Fast Forward. Mikey vaguely threatening Bishop, HEEHEE

A Simple Act Of Kindness by UlisaBarbic - Complete

That feel when you put your worth in what you can DO and the wish to be Acknowledged and the ONE thing you thought you did right was taken away OOGH AGH OOOOGH

Difficulty Breathing by RealityBreakGirl - Complete

Mikey did not come out of Grudge Match unscathed *smile* Truly one of my favorite 03 Mikey prompts to read about (honestly just check the entirety of the Grudge Match tag on AO3 for a fun time)

"A delivery boy! Uh, or turtle." by LollyHolly99 - Complete

Fic that has the distinction of being the first one I ever did fanart for! Gender Feels for Mikey cuz they're just like me FR!!

What Darkness Most Fears by UlisaBarbic - Complete

OOOGH AGH I LOVE THIS ONE!! Mikey has to save his bros from the clutches of an evil spirit while surviving horrifying monsters and battling a wicked fever!

Michelangelo by ForestWhisper3 - Complete

Mikey through the eyes of his family and how much they respect him and know him UwU

Mikey's Jigsaw by SailorSaysAhoy - Complete

Another awesome gender Mikey fic HOOHAA

Train-Wreck of Thought by halogalopaghost - Complete

When you're so talented you learn how to astral project but you start using it for pranks instead of understanding the drawbacks of said power and that bites you majorly in the ass big time (very good my stomach turned while reading this /pos)

A Brother's Bond by SuperKat - Complete

Mikey gets Real Sick and the fam can't help but remember last time one of them got so ill. OH MAN heartstrings WILL be pulled in this one!!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by moogsthewriter - Complete

Why can't Mikey ever catch a break during Christmas! A short fic that I enjoy Immensely for Mikey being stubbornly heroic and his family desperately trying to play catch up to help him

Questioning Choices by Mystic Medjai - Complete

Fun day at the beach goes catastrophically bad and the fam has to make difficult decisions to keep Mikey alive. THIS THIS THIS!! If I could pour this into my veins for the perfectly paced plot and characterization...

When It Counts by Kallasilya - Complete

Short fic of Mikey stubbornly and bitterly proving his brothers wrong (+ Don being a good brother)

Favourite Disease by devirnis - Complete

Mikey is forced to save his brothers as his body gradually falls apart from the inside. SO GOOD UGH Mikey being forced to deal with situations on his own always show how far he can Shine!

Nowhere Boy by taizi - Complete

OOOH I dunno how I can summarize this without giving the plot away but just know Mikey pulls through by thinking of his family

To Fit the Crime by T33la - Complete

AHHH AHHHH AHHHHH AHHHHHHHH!! Mikey is accused of Murder and receives his sentence before his brothers can even jump to his defense! Oh the twists and turns of this murder mystery!!

you want to know why i sit and sigh (the night is so young it hurts) by love_killed_the_superstar - Complete

Angel and Mikey bonding over comics and unsupportive brothers So Cute)

imma be real with you (cause i started being real with me) by love_killed_the_superstar - Complete

Leo and Usagi being supportive of Mikey as he struggles to train for the upcoming Battle Nexus fight (and also maybe they flirt with each other a teensy bit)

just a hop, skip, and a jump away by baba_buoy - Complete

Mikey sick fic. Heart melting amounts of comfort UwU

Weak Link by yellowhollyhock - Complete

Sweet fic of Mikey feeling insecure about his place on the team, and Leo going through great lengths to prove him wrong like a good older brother :')

'Cause you are the sun, he is your moon/And though he can't speak, he will thank you soon by naivesilver - Complete

Post-Grudge Match Mikey waking up in the middle of the night bitter and sore and gods damn why's Raph awake, too?

Hunted by DysfunctionalRequest - Complete

Mikey wandering the woods alone in the middle of the night and having a VERY unfortunate encounter with hunters

Flipbook by T33la - Complete

Heartfelt moment between Mikey and Don concerning SAINW that makes me want to smash a cinder block against my head /pos

Dramaturgy by Completely_Unaware - Ongoing

Mind the tags! Mikey deals with a Battle Nexus loss in an unhealthy way (UmU)

The Red Means I Love You (Work) by AnonymousCritter - Ongoing

MIND THE TAGS! AU of Fast Forward. Mikey isn't saved from the traffickers in time and things spiral from there

The So-Called "Champion of the Battle Nexus" by 0ozero0 - Ongoing

Grudge Match canon divergence where Mikey gets hurt a little more seriously than in canon (but still wins)

2012:

Devil took your hand by moogsthewriter & taizi - Complete

Mikey mind controlled by the Shredder moment!! *laughs through my pain and tears and screaming*

walk with open hands by taizi - Complete

Mikey gets his hands on one of Renet's watches and things go topsy turvy from there (and it HURTS ME)

(un)reality by SpectrumWriting - Complete

Mind the Tags! Dimension X AU where Mikey is captured by the Kraang and is put through the wringer in more ways than one (OWIE)

evermore (Dimension X AU) series by coffeejellyenthusiast - Complete?

Mind the Tags! Mikey was in Dimension X for over a year and he's NOT OKAY

Gravitational Collapse series by Writing_In_Denial - Ongoing

MIND THE TAGS!! An Incredible it gets worse before it gets better series of Mikey being unintentionally abandoned by his brothers post-series and dealing with some Major Isolation and OOOGH IT HURTS ME SO MUCH BUT I WILL KEEP READING FOR THE EVENTUAL COMFORT

traveling so far to get there by taizi - Complete

Mikey and Raph getting stuck in an empty, post-apocalyptic world and struggling to survive (their BOND IN THIS IS SO SWEET WEH)

Rise:

nice, nice by postergirlsprank - Complete

Short fic of Casey Sr and Mikey bonding after an unfortunate encounter while on a snack run (Hey if you want more context for how this author writes Casey, go read his fic Imperfect Animals too heehoo)

either way, we're not alone by sinaesthesis - Complete

Mikey throughout the years of the Kraang Apocalypse (Lots of Loss and Hurt and Badassery)

going under by redhairedmuses - Complete

Mikey almost drowns during a fight with a mutant

Hyperactive Hypothermia by VeryAngryGremlin - Complete

After Mikey's winter wear accidentally goes in flames and a villain-enduced avalanche, Donnie struggles to keep his baby brother warm

that’s where the blood’s supposed to be! by Dragon_Scales_and_Fairy_Tales - Complete

With Raph and Leo constantly bickering, Mikey ignores a very serious injury after a fight with Meat Sweats

Clever Little Dino! by VeryAngryGremlin - Complete

Mikey trying to keep a robot pet a secret and suffering the consequences

Vs The World by DysfunctionalRequest - Complete

The aftermath of the Kraang strains the family's bonds, and Mikey feels hopelessly alone (and definitely isn't dealing with his trauma properly)

Empathy Amplified by Filsamek - Complete

When you accidentally use your powers to connect with your brothers' emotions then purposefully use them to ease their pain

Sunshine in the Rain by Carnati0n_bl00m - Complete

Probably the first fic I read after watching the Rise movie cuz I wanted to find something Mikey-centric involving Bishop and BOY does it deliver with the additional bonus of Leatherhead!! (also hey look fanart)

A Mystic Connection by rytheoneandonly - Complete

Mikey's mystic powers manifesting and evolving in ways he could never predict (aka Long Fic of Mikey stumbling to figure out why he wakes up exhausted and hurt every night)

The whole world in your corner series by GibbousLunation - Complete

Two fics of Mikey being Mikey and his bros being protective

Better Check Twice by Marz_Zero - Ongoing

Bishop captures a turtle with a bear trap (OW) and is an absolute bastard about it

Come Home Soon by Sherlock_Brolmes - Ongoing

With his brothers unavailable, Mikey (with the help of a former enemy) uncovers a massive conspiracy involving New York and the Hidden City. I LOVE THIS I LOVE SOLO DUO TEAM-UPS!!!! *PUNCHES THE AIR 13 TIMES*

Mikey's Artistic Guide to Dealing with Trauma and Fame by Origami_Nami - Ongoing

Mikey using graffiti as an outlet and accidentally becoming famous

Rook by unorthodoxx - Ongoing

Another Bishop fic of him outwitting the turtles to abduct one of them (Mikey)

Multi/Other:

Mystic Malfunction by VanillaVengeance - Ongoing

Rise Mikey accidentally portals himself to the 2012 Universe and struggles to survive and avoid this other version of his family (with mixed success). The progression of familial bonds in this is just *Chef's Kiss*

The Gauntlet by T33la - Complete

A mix of IDW & 03, a wonderful showcase of how Donnie and Mikey support each other (also, a cool invention and a big rocket and a terrifying near-death experience are involved)

I Get Knocked Down (But I Get Up Again) by Justalittleobsessed - Ongoing

MIND THE TAGS!!! Set in its own original iteration, Mikey has been immortal for as long as he can remember, and he's used to his occasional deaths (and revivals). But then his brothers find out... (AGH AGH THIS ALSO HURTS MEEEEE BUT OOGH the comfort and hope of the later chapters is so Worth It)

Whumptober 2023 series by Justalittleobsessed - Ongoing?

Collection of Mikey-centric one-shots from different iterations and feeling the HURT (Personal favorites are If Only the World Could Stop Spinning..., Just a Flesh Wound, and Not the Best of Days)

To Know Peace (You Gotta Let Go) by Deadpool1763492 - Ongoing (technically)

The Last Ronin Spoilers!! Mikey survives and whisks the new turtle tots away to live on a farm instead of being raised as soldiers. (AUUUUUU THE FEELS!! THE TOTS! MIKEYYYY!!!)

How to accidentally kidnap yourself several times over by Camildeni - Ongoing

Rise Mikey gets captured and accidentally summons other iterations (03, 12, and Bay) of himself trying to get out! They do NOT have a good time!! (but at least they have each other)

the dad diaries by angelmichelangelo - Ongoing

More TLR Mikey being a Dad (and dealing with his trauma sorta kinda)

The neighboring cell by SaltyYagi - Ongoing

2012 Mikey and Rise Leo trying to escape Dimension X together (and bonding)

Bonus Non-Mikey-centric:

Weathered Strings, Tethered Wings by Deadpool1763492 - Ongoing

(2003) SAINW AU!!! With the possibility of Don being alive dangled in front of them, the remaining turtles begrudgingly reunite to save him. Drew a cover for this with more art to come! LOVING the slow burn of reconciliation between these bitter old turtles UwU (Bitter Old Mikey my poor Bestie)

Mutant Nightmare by HamsterMasterSamster - Complete

(2003) The immediate aftermath of Worlds Collide

Hanging By A Turtle by CamsthiSky - Complete

(Rise) Literally the turtles struggling to get out of a deep pit they're hanging over

Shell Game by T33la - Complete

(2003) OKAY OKAY SO!!! OOGH Don encounters something Impossible while prepping a tracking device (for himself) and it snowballs into another Renet-involved time adventure (AND UMMM lots of existential contemplation and a surprise historical guest who's Very Cool)

Turtle Power by halogalopaghost - Complete

(2003) Immediate aftermath of the star ship reactor explosion in Exodus

Disposable by orphan_account (kudos to you wherever you are, author) - Complete

(2003) Bishop captures Don and Mikey and gives them a terrible choice

Dissection by AmevelloBlue - Complete

(2003) So much Comfort after the trauma of Worlds Collide (ie Don's interrogation and Mikey almost getting sliced open)

Find the Road by SillySocks - Complete

(2003) Perfect encapsulation of the family as they cope with Leo's absence while he trains with the Ancient One

Handle with Care by HamsterMasterSamster - Complete

(2003) April is seriously injured during a mission and has to deal with the turtles distancing themselves from her as she recovers

mind-body problem by hiraethseok - Complete

(2003) April and the Turtles Being Siblings the Fic

Healing in Tandem by Eggstasy - Complete

(2003) Canon divergence of Worlds Collide where Splinter is just a little too late to intervene before Bishop starts sawing into Mikey's shell

Let's Take Ibuprofen Together by GreenGoddessSmoothie - Ongoing

(2003) The turtles swap body and have learn to cope with each other's chronic pain

Not the Face I Know by GreenGoddessSmoothie - Ongoing

(2003) Mikey accidentally makes a wish that changes his family's lives forever (THEY'RE HUMAN THEY BECOME HUMAN AND THE PLOT IS COOL AND ALSO QUEER THEMES MY BELOVED)

The Great Skittle Heist of 2105 by AmevelloBlue - Ongoing

(2003) AU of Fast Forward where the Dark Turtles are babies instead and are very swiftly adopted by the Fam

The Labyrinth by HALFnHALF1 - Ongoing

(Mix of IDW/03) The Turtles wake up separated in a labyrinth with only a mysterious voice in their heads to guide them (and manipulate them)

“You didn’t tell me your extended family was in town!” by BoStaffsAreCool - Ongoing

Post-Turtles Forever. The 03 fam is Just beginning to wind down after the events of the movie and look who's knocking at April's door (the 87 turtles)

#tmnt #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt 2012 #rottmnt #tmnt Mikey #fic recs #bamf mikey #all day every day #hurt/comfort #angst #whump #no hurt/no comfort though!!! I don't really like fics where it's doom and gloom with no comfort catharsis at the end #let me know if I should add Mind the Tags to other fics my gauge for hurt is a little wonky #lots of gender feels for 2k3 Mikey because that's just who he is #I added the bonus fics cuz I wasn't gonna make a separate post for them so cope and enjoy if you wanna #sorry there's not that many 12 or even Rise ones I don't look for those as much as 03 (I am biased lol)#wow can y'all believe I started drafting this in like May of Last Year???#anyways anyways I'll update this whenever I find another good Mikey fic #feel free to drop Mikey fic recs in my askbox and I'll let you know if I've tried reading them or not (I probably have)#lokibeann if you're reading this sorry it took longer than I said it would to post this I underestimated how long it would take and-#overestimated my ability to remember the plots of the ones I haven't read in a while lol

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flyingwargle · 3 months

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atsumu is a morning person. he loves the quiet of the early hours, the drowsiness that sharpens into focus, the peace that follows the rising sun. although it pains him to separate himself from his partner each time, the drowsy, soft smile on sakusa's face when he sits at the breakfast table is worth it.

he quietly slips out from bed and into the kitchen. it's their first weekend off after rigorous training to prepare for their match against vc kanagawa, but not even off days is enough to shake atsumu from routine. he rummages through the cupboards for ingredients to make pancakes, an indulgence they definitely deserve. putting on his cooking playlist at a low volume, he gets to work.

it surprised him to learn that sakusa is not a morning person. it takes him at least three snoozes before he could be persuaded to get up, and no morning is complete without coffee. he's also much more receptive to physical affection while half-awake, although atsumu prefers to keep this tidbit to himself, if only to steal a few kisses from his usually reserved partner.

the pancake batter is done in minutes, measurements engrained in his muscle memory since childhood. sakusa likes his pancakes simple - a dollop of cream and butter. atsumu, on the other hand, goes all out, dressing them with fresh fruit and syrup, topped with a crown of cream. he slices the fruit, chills a bowl for the cream to whip once sakusa is awake. pan left to warm on the stove, he ventures down the hallway, knocking lightly on the closed bedroom door. "omi? ya awake yet? i'm about to start cookin'."

he hears shuffling, but nothing else. it's still early, according to his partner's standards, but hey, an extra hour awake just means more time together, right? atsumu enters, adding, "we can check out that park 'samu told me 'bout, said there were geese or somethin'."

sunlight strains against the curtains. a vague human shape is tucked beneath the blankets, unmoving as atsumu approaches. he peels the covers aside, greeted with a glare. "mornin' to ya too, omi."

"do you know what time it is?" sakusa's voice is much deeper after waking, harsher but without any of its bite.

"just after 10. c'mon, omi, yer burnin' daylight. we have tomorrow off too, so we can cuddle or whatever. oh, but we gotta get our cardio in." atsumu dismisses the thought. "that can come after cuddles. pancakes?"

sakusa sighs, low and heavy. "fine. just give me some time to get up."

"i'll get the cream whipped, then." atsumu leans over to kiss his cheek, smiles at his drowsy expression. he retreats, heading back to the kitchen to continue his work.

soon, the cream is chilling in the fridge, the batter is left beside the stove, pan warm and ready. atsumu knocks on the bedroom door again. "omi?"

he hears grumbles this time. pushing the door open, he sees his partner is still in bed, covers pushed aside from where he left it. when he meets sakusa's eyes, it's tinged with pain. "is somethin' wrong?" atsumu asks, worried.

"just pain in my hips," sakusa mumbles through gritted teeth. "sorry."

"don't say that. i'll grab yer heat pad. ya need painkillers, too? best ta take one with food."

"i think i'll be okay. just need some heat on it."

atsumu nods, slipping in and out within seconds. he helps position it under him, his partner letting out a tiny sigh. "there was pain in my knees too after practice," he admits quietly. "i'd rather not move much today if we have to do cardio tomorrow. sorry."

"s'no problem. just relax, 'kay? when ya feel better, let's move ya to the couch so i can feed ya breakfast and we can watch somethin' on tv." atsumu sits beside him, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "the geese can wait."

"i didn't know japan had geese."

"right? 'samu has to be lyin'."

it takes time but eventually, sakusa is coaxed out of bed and into the living room, supported the entire way. he settles on the couch, heat pad shifted to his other hip, massaging his wrists as atsumu makes pancakes, returning to his side with two plates. "want me to feed ya?"

"i can handle it." sakusa takes a fork, uses it to slice off a piece from atsumu's plate. he pops it in his mouth. "it's good."

"what's a man gotta take fer ya to say it's delicious?"

"a michelin star."

atsumu rolls his eyes. "those aren't measures fer good food an' ya know it."

sakusa chuckles, but it ends with a hiss as his hand jerks, fork falling from his grasp, landing with a clatter. atsumu puts his plate down, snatches the fork in an instant. "are ya okay?"

"yeah. just felt a jolt of pain." he sighs, hand lowered to his lap, using his other hand to massage it.

"guess i'll hafta feed ya now," atsumu jokes. when he doesn't get a retort, he blinks, notices the deep frown on his partner's face. "omi?"

"you shouldn't have to deal with me on your day off," sakusa mumbles. "i'm just being difficult."

"if i see my partner's in pain, i'm gonna do what i can to make it better. i hate that i can't make it go away completely, but i can help care fer ya and make life easier fer ya." his tone is serious, eyes bright with a cocktail of love and determination. "yer never difficult, omi. now shut up an' let me feed ya."

sakusa stares at him, incredulous. then, "you better get a clean fork."

"obviously," he retorts, standing.

"and a dishcloth to clean the floor. we don't need ants in the apartment."

"'samu dropped an entire pot of curry once an' we never got rats or anythin'."

"add to that sentence, and i'm revoking your kitchen privileges."

"are ya gonna cook? we both know ya suck at it."

sakusa rolls his eyes. "no, i don't. i learned from the best."

"aw, thanks."

"i meant your brother."

atsumu pouts, and sakusa simply laughs, a light chuckle that fills the room with light. floor cleaned thoroughly, atsumu sits beside him, feeds him bites of pancake in between conversation, checking in with his pain. dishes left aside in favor of watching tv, atsumu rests his head on sakusa's shoulder, simply enjoying his company.

the geese can wait another day.

#flyingwargle original #drabble #haikyuu!!#haikyuu drabble #miya atsumu #sakusa kiyoomi #sakuatsu #post timeskip #domestic fluff and shit #i love me atsumu caring for sakusa #although they probably love each other more #july hurt/comfort

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starsandtulips · 3 months

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welt with "the kids" headcanons. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

characters⟡ welt yang, stelle, march 7th, dan heng, (slight) himeko, (slight) pom pom, (mentioned) seele, (mentioned) luka

relationships⟡ none

cw⟡ reference to canonical character death in hi3

~ all three of them look up to welt in different ways

~ stelle appreciates his knowledge of the universe, especially when she woke up she understood almost nothing and it's nice to have someone to rely on to know things

~ dan heng admires his resilience and passion for adventure

~ march loves his stories and often takes little bits of her favorites to turn into backstories for herself

~ welt can be pretty quiet when not answering (mostly stelle's) questions, often staring into space

~ the only time the trailblaze trio see his eyes light up when talking is when he's discussing the shows he's worked on in his time as an animator

~ he has shown them all of the episodes of arahato that he can remember off of the top of his head (using his mimicry)

~ they are all big fans of arahato (even if dan heng doesn't show it)

~ welt has somehow been roped into promising to get/make them arahato merchandise to wear

~ stelle attempted to bring back a small piece of the engine of creation as a gift for welt but was told it had to stay on jarilo-vi

~ the trio has several running betting pools (that dan heng had to be coaxed into participating in) about welt

~ the betting pools that are currently ongoing include:

is arahato real? (stelle and march believe arahato is a real robot while dan heng thinks the show is fully fictional)

who can eat more spicy puffy mushrooms: mr. yang or stelle? (they're waiting to head back to belobog for this one to convince welt to do it and because members of wildfire, seele and luka, are also involved in the betting pool)

does mr. yang actually need his glasses? ("because he loses them so much on the Express!" march says, stelle and dan heng are confused on why someone would wear glasses without needing them)

~~some angst below!!!!~~

~ the only thing that is off limits to bet on is why he sometimes looks at himeko like he's looking at a ghost

~ i already wrote something on this but: when welt begins to drift off and become lost in his memories, the trailblaze trio + pom pom team up to cheer him up!!!

~ they've made a pact to not let himeko know or welt catch on to what they're doing on those days

~ so far they have been mostly successful in cheering him up

#starrytulips #honkai star rail headcanons #astral express #welt yang #stelle #march 7th #dan heng #hurt/comfort #angst #references to canonical character death in hi3 #you get two (2) pieces of writing today bc i'm going to let my backlog build up next week and not post probably #dividers by cafekitsune

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crispyanonart · 4 months

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it's pride month so support gay rights but most importantly gay cries // Sambastian comforting each other because I take them way too seriously

#i just know Sam would be so good at grounding and calming people down because hes an older brother after all #Sebastian would probably be terrible at it but he's the only person Sam wants around when he's crying #sambastian #sdv sebastian #sdv sam #stardew valley fanart #fanart #art #stardew valley #hurt comfort #i don't like how this turned out at all but I loved the concept lmao

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writing-whump · 12 days

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Seawater

Everyone falling apart on vacation? More likely than you think. Some angsting Hector drinking a lot of seawater on accident.

Hector could not remember when was the last time he was this pissed.

It didn't even have a proper reason. He was on vacation, for Shadow's sake, he had no work, no wolves to get into fights with, no incompetent subordinates to yell at.

What the hell was wrong?

Maybe it was because he suddenly had so much free time. Leaving him alone with his thoughts, letting him observe things he didn't want to think about.

Like what was up with that damn kid? Why was Isaiah so insistent on helping him? It might not have seen like it, Isaiah could be very subtle and unobtrusive. But Hector could see it, damn it all.

This was Isaiah's version of fussing. Quiet watchful gaze, the way he was always turning to have Rip on sight,...the way he was advising him.

Isaiah never watched Hector's trainings like that since they were little. He never gave him tips or told him what to improve.

Hector begged him to spar with him once he became executioner. Even more so once he became the Executioner.

Like how could you have a walking genius talent powerhouse at home and not get any training yourself? How incapable did you have to be for your big brother to ignore you like that?

How unworthy was Hector in his eyes?

On some level, he knew it was stupid. Isaiah didn't train with him cause he was training with father and father messed him up and god knows what Isaiah didn't want to show him.

That's what sparring was for wolves. Communication. A dialogue between fists, a meeting of souls. Time, when all barriers and polite conventions fell off, when wolves could throw their best at each other. There was honesty in that intensity, baring of everything weak and wrecked and rotten to wash it all away in the intensity. Cleanse up, shed the old fur and start anew.

Because it didn't matter what you fucked up during a fight with someone you trusted. Because they were helping you to get better. Because Hector couldn't read expressions and he messed up everything emotional—but he could read a damn fight.

Hector could tell from the way a person held himself how confident someone was, from the drop of shoulders what hurt, from the turn of the feet where the strike would come. How someone thought, what they hid, what they cared about.

Isaiah refusing to fight him took years of his life when he was a teenager. Although he now had an explanation, the resentment lingered.

The vacation, this training, should have been a chance. A start over. Hector wanted to get involved because Isaiah was there, because he wanted to get them to fight together.

He should have known he couldn't enforce them being okay with each other. Of course not.

At first, Hector was hoping it was the heart recovery thing. That he should simply take that into consideration....did Isaiah think Hector was blind?! Not like he would go all out and kill him, if Isaiah happened to stumble or needed to go easy.

Hector would know if he saw. If he just had a chance to fucking see.

But there was nothing to see. Isaiah stayed in the back. Guarded, cold, distant. Not revealing a damn thing, like he still needed to put up a front for Hector.

The last drop was when their morning session was finished—Rip taking a swim to shake off the rest of the adrenaline—and Isaiah turned to Matthew. For a workout.

Sparring after an injury was always a sensitive matter. Hector had experience with his own and with others after injuries, rolled down shadows, his own damn car accident and operation. Isaiah getting into training after something as intrusive as a heart surgery counted as a pretty big deal.

But of all people it was Matthew that Isaiah turned to. Of fucking course.

So Hector didn't watch.

He turned on his heel and stormed out. His shadow was growling with anger and hurt and he needed to get the hell away from the source and prying eyes.

There was a clawing sensation around his ribs and his throat was too tight. His shadow was coiling around him with emotion he didn't want to identify. Anger came easier for wolves when they were hurt. Feelings were easier to deal with that way.

He needed to get the hell out. Get himself off all their hands. Probably did a favour to all of them.

...

Unfortunately for Hector, the day was in full course. It was too crowded to find a secluded spot and too hot to do much of anything away from water.

Hector needed something fast and violent that would take him far away. Let him escape from his thoughts and shadow...

The water scooters in the middle of the beach after the seaport. Oh yes.

Hector didn't even ask for the price, pushing a bunch of Bulgarian levs into the guy's hands. He was shaking with excitement. This was like a motorbike, but with even less rules to follow on the open sea.

He didn't have a motorbike, because how would he be driving Arnie around? Didn't mean he couldn't stop to admire them at every chance he got.

It was a great weather for the scooter. Windy and with lots of big waves that made the scooter jump under his hands. Hector tensed up, adjusting to the movement, almost standing up. Jump. Then lower again. Like riding a horse.

The speed was great, the sea darkening around him as he sped away from the beach. The shore was getting smaller along all his problems and crazy jealousies.

Jealousy, he could work with. It was his defining feeling these days. He was jealous that Isaiah got a girlfriend before they reconciled and now everything had to happen through her or with her. She was always closer, and everyone would expect her to be closer than he was or Arnie was and it was so not fair.

He didn't have that time of undivided attention and he already had to share him with her.

Then there was Matthew. Isaiah's oh so loyal troublesome second. He wasn't that special. Hector fought with Matt before and okay, he was strong and his shadow was annoyingly large—if Hector was in a good mood, he might admit it was adequate for an Executioner's right hand—

But it still angered him. What did Matthew have that Hector didn't?

Heck, what did Isaiah have, anyway? Spit on family legacy, said no thanks to inheriting an empire, left them both behind to lead an unobtrusive life with two other people in some kind of self-exiled hiding...

Why did it still irk Hector so much? So now he was the head of the Wolfsons, he was the first in line after Uncle Grayson, he was—

Hector was getting everything without a fight. For free. It never felt like he deserved it. Isaiah never let him prove his strength, that he was capable of taking over. No, Hector got simply stuck with the leftovers Isaiah didn't want.

If he had the opportunity, if he had been granted the possibility to win it over from Isaiah—the leadership, the mastery of the pack, the responsibility—it would have been fine. He would have been able to take over with pride and satisfaction.

But no. He was handed it down like a pair of washed-out jeans.

To hell with it, he was jealous even of the attention Rip was getting, and that was the lowest of the low. Lost dirty little street rat. What bussiness did it have walking among them?

Why did Isaiah feel any sympathy for that thing? Why, why, why?

He sped up the scooter, the engine roaring beneath him in protest, but complying. Hector liked when things complied. When his orders were followed, expectations fulfilled.

He wasn't wrong that often. He wasn't a damn loser, he was a winner.

Hector abruptly stopped in the middle of the sea wasteland. There was no shore in sight from either direction. Just the churning angry sea, reflecting his mood.

He leaned his forehead against the steering modem, taking short shallow breaths like he was running.

There was something Isaiah felt for that thing. Some kind of connection or understanding or whatever it was.

And Hector hated it. He hated that Isaiah, the strongest and coolest wolf he knew, understood what some-beaten-down-traumatised-almost-mad welp was feeling.

His oldest brother had no bussiness relating to street strays and lost causes.

His mind kept coming back to the training sessions they did together as children. Back when things were so uncomplicated. When it was just them having fun. They fought all the time as pups.

Heck, a 10 years old Isaiah couldn't take a stroll to the kitchen without getting jumped by 8 years old Hector. They would roll on the floor, shadows searing while toddle Arnie was clapping his hands in their mother's arms like it was a show made for him.

They would laugh until their stomachs hurt and throats were dry.

Hector hissed through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He was acting like a child, wishing for the past like that.

But those were his only reference points left. The last time he could rely on knowing what was going on. When everything was okay.

Nothing was okay now. And worst about it was that Hector didn't know what happened when. He didn't know what hurt Isaiah the most, what bothered him, what he should be careful about.

Isaiah would take his hits and insults and shrug them away...and then get a freaking heart attack at 25, cause he was so fine and dandy.

And even if Hector wanted to help now, he didn't know what or how to do it. Which made it worse than worst, because he felt like he should know. His own flesh and blood should not need to explain to him what hurt, what bothered him.

But Hector didn't notice when it started. He just knew when the fights stopped. All those years Isaiah was keeping them in the dark, Hector spend trying to get them back. Making it all worse, naturally.

He turned the scooter around, relying on sense of direction as he sped up again. The salty air was whipping at his face and hair. Losing himself in that speed and those jumps was the release he needed.

His shadow trailed behind him like a parachure, melting with the waves.

Hector chased the biggest waves down. Hop and jump, hop and jump, enjoying the way his stomach flipped each time. It actually felt like flying.

The scooter gave another warning growl and then jerked in his hands. Right when he was climbing a wave again. Hector lost his balance, tumbling over into the sea.

Hitting the water wasn’t a problem—he’d taken worse spills in his life—but the surprise and force of the impact left him disoriented. He instinctively opened his mouth to breathe, but instead of air, a rush of seawater flooded into his lungs and stomach. Coughing and sputtering, he flailed in the water, trying to get his bearings.

It took all his crisis training to force himself to stop. His lungs and throat were burning from the salt and the giant waves were rolling over his head. He let himself be carried with the flow, diving with the wave to free himself of its power. He could dive under the next one and then figure out the right way to swim back up to the scooter.

He managed to climb back up. The air burned in his nostrils but he managed to get to the seat before he brust into a coughing fit, bending over.

The seawater was sitting heavily in his stomach. It felt uncomfortably full, like he just for from a double portioned lunch instead of not eating since breakfast. His lungs and throat were still burning and his eyed were watering against the sunlight.

Yeah, time to go back.

...

"Where the hell did you disappear to?" Matthew asked, materializing on the steps to his room. Hector groaned internally, tightening his grip on the railing.

Getting back from the beach had been a challenge. The seawater in his stomach kept churning and swirling. He had to fight intense nausea rolling through him. He felt like he was still on the sea.

"For real," Matthew continued, "my back's still a bit messed up from the sunburn and Isaiah didn't want me to feel left out and then you bolt on us for no reason. Petty much?"

Hector wanted to snarl at him. The red wolf was currently the main obstacle between him and the safety of the bathroom. Alas, he was too scared it would come out as a whine instead, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Zaya's home?" He ended up saying instead.

"The necessary lunchtime sun lockdown, yeah."

There was a beat of silence. It was only Matthew's stare that reminded Hector he should probably say something. The blonde wolf took the last step to their floor. Few more meters to the door felt like an impossible chasm to cross.

His stomach rumbled, loud and angry. It felt like a damn fish got caught between his stomach walls and was currently fighting its way out.

Matthew frowned at Hector's hunched position. "You don't look so good. Don't tell me you got heat stroke too?"

"I'm n't th't d'mb," Hector managed. His stomach cramped hard, a spasm going all the way from under his ribs to his lower belly. His mouth was overflowing with saliva and yet he felt thirsty. The room was getting blurry on he edges, his head at the risk of floating away.

Matthew didn't seem to get the hint that Hector wanted to be left alone, cause he stepped closer instead. His movements were still stiff under the shirt he was wearing. Hector could always read movements better than damn faces.

"You gonna fall over? Come on, I can-"

Hector shook Matt's hand off like a viper, swaying dangerously. He grabbed at the railing from the staircase again, swallowing. The nausea got worse with each new piercing cramp, and he closed his eyes to keep standing.

Every inch of his body focused on staying upright and not spilling his guts right there on the stairs. He felt Matthew’s eyes on him, the silence heavy and uncomfortable between them. Another wave of nausea churned in his stomach, threatening to overpower his self-control.

“I’m fine,” Hector forced out, though he could barely hear his own voice over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

“Yeah, sure.” Matthew’s tone was sharp, but there was something else there. Worry, maybe? Hector didn’t care. He just needed to get to the damn bathroom.

Matthew stepped closer again. “If you’re about to pass out—”

“I said leave me alone.” The words came out harsher than he intended, raw and jagged, and his hands clenched around the railing like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

The sudden burst of anger threw him off balance. He lurched sideways, barely catching himself on the wall. His stomach twisted violently, and before he could stop it, Hector doubled over, retching as giant gush of water covered the tiles.

The bitter taste of salt filled his mouth as he gasped for air, bile burning his throat. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, hands trembling.

“Shit, Hector…” Matthew’s voice was closer now, but Hector couldn’t bring himself to respond. His body was too busy rebelling against him.

Matthew knelt down beside him, his sunburn forgotten. “Come on, man. Let’s get you inside.”

Hector barely registered the words, too exhausted to resist as Matthew hauled him to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip. "You need to sit down. Something's wrong here. I'm calling Zaya."

"No," Hector rasped. Speaking hurt too, like his throat was covered in glass shards. "I can handle myself. Just-just get me inside. Arnie'll-" Another bubbly burp interrupted him and Hector doubled over. "Arnie's enough."

Matthew didn't look convinced, chewing at his bottom lip, but moved obediently towards Hector's room. "Okay, okay."

#sickfic #emeto #nausea #seawater #whump #bromance #angst #hurt/comfort #werewolf wip #my writing #Hector #this will probably have a part 2

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