#tw self hurting

[cavinginhisfvce]

'No Other Way Out For Me"

Pairing: Harringrove.

Tw: suicide attempt, ED unspecified, implied child abuse, self-harm.

Loosely based off the quote "They never want to discuss what triggered you. Just how you reacted."

Was originally one part, but will now be two!

Nobody notices the way Billy seems largely put off by every meal. They don't see the disgust that courses through him with every bite, through every uptick in his calorie intake.

They don't see when he finally dips off to the bathroom to ralph every morsel he possibly can.

Nobody hears his cries over the rush of shower water, they don't hear him shouting to be seen, heard, and held. 

They don't see the drops of red that mix in with his shower water as it trails down the drain.

What they do see is Billy's unbridled anger. His hair triggers for any and all things. They see bruised knuckles, and split lips in place of his oh so evident pain. They see a nuisance, an unreasonably angry boy. They take what they see at face value, nobody digs further. Billy doesn't ask them to.

Nobody witnesses the days Billy can barely drag himself out of bed. Nobody sees the days where he's so tired, every movement feels like a war on his body and mind.

There's always a hidden layer of fatigue beneath his skin, some days it's easily ignored, while others it demands to be addressed. 

No one is around to watch as Billy Hargrove becomes a shell of his former self. Only Billy and the four walls of whatever room he's holed up in.

Nobody sees the papers that litter Billy's bedroom, or their contents. They don't see the "Dear Max'" and the "I'm sorrys". 

Not until it's too late, anyway. 

Now, Max watches, horrified as Steve Harrington and her step father alternate between applying pressure to Billy's wounds, and checking for a pulse. 

It all seems so hopeless. Her mother tries, and fails to shield her from seeing the panicked attempts at keeping Billy alive. The paramedics aren't too far, Max can hear the blare of their sirens, even over Steve's rushed words of, "stay with us, Billy. Please." "I got you, please." 

Please, please, please.

Max wonders if he's pleading with Billy or with the universe. She hopes it's both.

When the EMTs finally did arrive, Max watched with tearful blue eyes as they carted Billy off and into the Ambulance. She watched as Neil slipped in before the doors shut. She watched as Steve dropped to his knees and began to sob, his clothes ruined from the blood that was all over their living room floor. She doesn't know if she should comfort him or leave him be.

She didn't understand why Steve was crying. Was it because the situation was traumatic, even for them? Or was it because somewhere along the line, they'd become friends or something like it?

Sadly, Max wasn't able to wonder very long before her mom was guiding her back into the house. She tried to rush them past the spots where Billy's blood pooled the most, tried to keep the red stained floors from view, but Max had already seen. Max had already seen the state her brother was in when they found him. Had seen the lifeless tint to his skin. 

She thought for sure he was gone, but somehow, in spite of his own attempts, he was still fighting. Still alive. 

Weak, but alive. If the EMTs were to be trusted when they told her and her mom that Billy would be okay.

Her mom tells her to pack a bag, one for herself and one for Billy. 

She obliges. 

When her own bag is packed and resting at the foot of her bed, Max hurriedly slips into Billy's room.

She ignores the knowledge that she hasn't been inside of his room in almost a year. She pushes past the visible signs that her brother had been spiraling. There's beer cans littering just about every flat surface. There's papers everywhere, some ripped, some crumpled. 

But, worst of all? It's significantly empty, all his posters are gone, leaving his walls bare, lackluster. 

His once extensive record collection has dwindled considerably. He barely has six left. Max notes that almost all his favorite ones are gone, the remaining six are the ones she too found herself enjoying. Back when her and Billy hung out. Before they moved to Hawkins and Billy changed.

His clothes are all packed away in plastic crates, the kind meant for long term storage. 

She doesn't let herself consider how long Billy had been planning this. If she did, she'd probably see all the signs he laid out for somebody to acknowledge. 

He had long since swapped out his short-sleeved, tight shirts, for layers. His jeans followed the same fate, and were replaced by sweatpants and loose jeans. At the time, Max assumed the cold had finally gotten to him. She thought he was just conforming to a life in a brisk town, the same as her.

Instead of packing a bag, she reaches down and swipes up a piece of paper. It's crumpled beyond repair, but legible nonetheless.

"Dear Max, 

I'm sorry. For everything. I wasn't a good brother, and you deserved better than that. 

I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from him, any longer. Please don't hate me for this, Max. 

If you have to hate me, hate me for how I treated you. But please don't hate me for this. There was no other way out for me,"

The letter gets cut off there, Max guesses he wasn't pleased with how it was coming along.

Max drops the paper with a soft gasp, her eyes filling with tears once again. She wouldn't cry though. Because Billy was going to be okay. He was going to get better, and Max could be the sister he's always needed, and in turn she hopes he will at least try to be a proper brother to her. 

She wants to read another unfinished note, but it feels like an invasion, because Billy might've been addressing her, but the letters were still in his possession.

She's never hated him. She just followed the tune he played, it was better if Neil thought they were against one another. Even Max knew that without needing to be told.

But this whole situation? It changed the tune of the song, whether Billy intended for it to or not, Max was no longer following his cues. She didn't need to, because when Billy came home, they'd write the song together.

With that in mind, Max sets to pack his bag. It was easy, considering the way his clothes were packed up. 

Max, despite her protests, was sent to stay with The Byers' for over a week.

Usually, staying with her friends was a blessing, but this time it was a dreadful affair. She just wanted to go see Billy in the hospital, but she kept being told she was too young to see him that way. As if she hadn't seen her brother lying in a pool of his own blood. 

When Max was able to go home, Billy still hadn't been released from the hospital. At dinner, she finally asked why that was. 

Neil seemed to tense up at the question, his fingers clutched his fork so tightly the metal all but bent at the action.

"He's not well, Maxine. The doctors just want to keep him there a little longer to make sure nothing like this happens again." Her mom's voice cut through the silence that followed her question. 

Max, feeling pissed off, and put out for some reason, just nodded and went back to eating her dinner. 

Well, she tried at least. Most of it was burned, or just too bland. 

Her mom was never a good cook, not like Billy who would always manage to save Susan's dishes in some way. He always caught them before they burned, or snuck in extra seasoning whenever her mom would turn her back.

It was another two weeks before Billy was meant to come home, only five days before it all, Neil had taken off in the dead of night. He didn't leave a note, didn't even say goodbye. 

To Max's knowledge, her mother hadn't cried when she realized her husband wouldn't be returning. She blared the music Neil often complained about, Billy's favorite genre of music, and skirted around Billy's bedroom. She had Max help her unpack his belongings, his clothes returned to the closet, his scarce record collection was put into a proper display. 

Steve even came by and hung Billy's mirror up behind his door. To Max's surprise, he'd also replaced the posters that once covered the walls. He even went as far as to add additional posters, ones from bands Max knew Billy enjoyed. She just didn't know why Steve also knew which bands he favored.

The day they set out to pick Billy up from the hospital, Max had been buzzing with excitement. Three long weeks of not seeing Billy was finally coming to a close. 

Max couldn't remember the last time she had been so ready to see the blond, she thinks it might've been when their parents were only dating. They still lived in California, they still got along back then.

However, on the ride over, Max was starting to regret agreeing to come along. She initially thought Billy had been in Hawkins Memorial Hospital, it was nearby, and equipped to take care of him. 

But, when they drove beyond the town's limits, to a hospital in the next town over, Max had thrown her head back with a groan. 

Steve, who had offered to drive her and her mom, just laughed and glanced back at her when they pulled into a red light. "It's a long drive, right? I've made this drive at least six times this month." 

Again, Max was left to wonder just how close Steve and her brother had gotten without her knowing.

This time, however, she voiced her question to him. 

The elder seemed to pause, his hands freezing in their place on the steering wheel. He was almost dazed until Susan laid a hand on his arm and whispered something Max couldn't catch. 

Whatever it was, was apparently enough to have him nodding his head and breathing out. "We're dating? He's my boyfriend, I guess. I mean, it was purely physical for a long time, but..." 

Even though he sounded unsure, and was probably scolding himself for oversharing, Max detected the smile in his voice. She was shocked, for a multitude of reasons. But, mostly because Steve Harrington was dating her brother. The mere thought had her gagging out loud, her face scrunched up in obvious displeasure. She was shocked her mother knew, but that was a topic to broach on a later date.

"Okay, TMI! I get it." Her mom was the first to dissolve into giggles, but both Max and Steve were quick to follow suit.

It took almost thirty minutes before Billy was crossing the threshold of the hospital he'd spent nearly a month in. When he spotted Max, Susan and Steve, it was obvious they hadn't seen him yet. So, Billy did what any sensible older brother would do, and snuck up behind Max. His eye caught Steve's and he motioned for him to remain silent, before he was placing both hands on Max's shoulders and leaning into her space. "Hey, shitbird!" 

Max, who almost jumped out of skin, turned around and flung herself into Billy's arms. "Asshole!"

The latter caught her easily, his arms winding around her waist, both of them ignoring Susan's gentle scolding. 

It was at least a minute before Billy was playfully shoving her away, his face twisted up in mock anger, "alright  enough, you're getting little bitch all over me!"

Max slapped his arm, her lips forming a pout, "stop being an ass, I missed you!"

Billy just smirked at her, clicking his tongue as he glanced up at Steve, then at Susan. 

There was a mischievous glint in his eye, one familiar to all of them. 

Steve was the one to groan, "Billy, no, don't." 

But, his plea fell on deaf ears, because two seconds later, Billy was saying, "You act like I almost died, Maxie."

Again, Max slapped his arm, this time with more power than the first one. "Don't joke about that, Billy!" 

Her body seemed to betray her demands, because she was then giggling madly. 

"Only you two would find this funny." Her mom just shook her head, her disappointment overshadowed by the fond twinge to her tone.

On the ride home, Max and Susan both sat in the back, allowing Billy the opportunity to sit in the passenger seat.

He tried convincing Steve to let him drive, but he was quick to decline. None of them were too keen on the motion sickness that came with Billy's fast, reckless driving.

Every time Steve glances in Billy's direction, Max can't help but to wonder if he's seeing the same image that flashes occasionally in her mind. 

Billy, not breathing, bleeding too much for any one person, he was thinner than Max could recall. 

It was like Billy had been replaced before their very eyes. Only, nobody noticed the way his cheeks seemed to sink in, or the way his eyes always held dark bags, even after hours, and hours of rest.

Once upon a time, Max would've praised herself for how well she knew her step brother, but recent events proved she knew very little about him. It had taken him nearly dying for her to see his pain. For anyone to see his pain. Max wishes she would've seen Billy changing from abrasive to withdrawn for what it was. A cry for help. Instead, she wrote it off. She wrote him off.

[worthless-misery]

Dear diary...

The fact that I'm still "alive" in 2024 just feels like a huge mistake...

[moonstruckme]

I absolutely adore your roommate James series! It’s so tender and soft and sweet and it feels like the literary version of a hug 😭 you nail it every time!

Thank you sweetness!!! I am giving you a hug actually <3

cw: threatening with a weapon

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Things have come to a point where James needs to admit to himself that he likes you as more than a friend. 

The problem is, he likes you as a friend so much. He’s no stranger to the dilemma of risking a friendship for something more, but he’s not a teenager anymore and you’re not Lily. James knows he wouldn’t be able to play it off as a silly, harmless crush with you. And, really, he wouldn’t want to. You bully your way into his thoughts all day long. Your sweet voice, the way you talk with your eyes, tiny moments like the way your lips parted when he’d first slipped and called you sweetheart. You’d schooled your expression into teasing exasperation almost immediately, but there had been a softening in your eyes that made him impatient to do it again.

If he told you all that, James would probably come home to find all your things gone. You can barely handle it when he tells you you look nice. He doesn’t want to lose you. 

So, against his wishes and all his instincts and proclivities, he’s going to let it lie. James wants to be your friend more than he wants to discover what else you could be together. He can love you this way, too. 

That doesn’t do anything to deaden the thrill that goes up his spine when he picks up his phone and hears your voice on the other end, though.

“James?” 

“Y/n?” He checks the number on his phone. It’s not in his contacts. 

“Yeah. Um, are you—are you busy?” There’s a wobble in your voice. James’ heart drops straight down to his stomach. 

“I’m not,” he says, stopping short of the field where his teammates are gathering and turning back towards his car. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yeah.” It’s clearly not, but he was silly to ask. Of course you’d say that. “I just, if you’re free, I was wondering if you could maybe pick me up?” 

That wobble hasn’t gone from your voice. James’ heart trembles in solidarity. 

He gets back in his car, starting the ignition with perhaps a tad too much force. “I’m on my way,” he promises. “Where are you, what’s wrong?” 

“I’m outside the Waterstones on Manor Road, you know where that is?” 

“I know the one, yeah.” 

Your voice sounds held together by fragments. “I’m sorry, it’s far.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, then regrets it instantly. This is hardly the time for a good-natured scolding. He turns out of the parking lot. “I’m coming. What’s wrong?” 

“I’ve—I’ve had my phone and wallet taken. I don’t have my key to the apartment.” 

“Taken?” James’ head buzzes like a TV turned to the wrong channel. “By who?” 

“A man, I—I don’t know. Um, I’m borrowing this woman’s phone, and I think I should give it back.”

His lungs feel small, panic choking him. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Be safe, yeah?”  

“Yeah.” A breath crackles through the phone. James wonders if you’d been choking, too. “Thanks, James.” 

“Just be safe.” 

The sun has dipped below most buildings by the time he gets there. It makes it difficult to see you, but James’ eyes work like a compass, finding your shadowy form curled up on the curb. The bookstore looks to be closed or close to it, no patrons walking by you as you sit with your knees bent close to your chest. 

You see his car pull up, and he’s halfway to you before you’re even standing. Your arms come around James as readily as his around you, your face squished willingly into the fabric of his workout shirt. Your breath seems to stutter out of you. 

“It’s okay,” he says, grasping the back of your head. He’s not sure if he’s talking to you, or himself, or either of you. He’ll tell whoever will listen. “You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s alright.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.” 

“You’re okay,” James says again, just for good measure. His lips find the top of your head. “What happened?” 

“I think I was mugged,” you laugh. It comes out warped, completely unlike the sound he’s spent months chasing after. “This guy showed me a knife, and told me to hand him my bag and phone, and I just gave them to him. It was right out in the open.” Another jagged, heart-aching laugh. “I feel so stupid.” 

“Why would someone else mugging you make you stupid?” James lets you go enough to give you a little space, but his arms stay around you, his hand rubbing firmly over your shoulder blade. “Did you call the police?” 

You gnaw on your lower lip. It already looks bitten to shreds. “No.” 

He nods, taking a breath. James isn’t typically the responsible one in his relationships. He’s not good at knowing what to do. It makes him think of being thirteen and seeing Sirius all bruised and broken, feeling his heart break and knowing that he had to fix things despite the both of them being too young to have any clue how to deal with something so huge. James is an adult now, but he still feels too young. 

“Do you want to go home?” he asks you. 

You bite down hard on your lip, but your eyes gloss anyway. “Yeah,” you say, voice breaking. 

James pulls you close and gives in to treating you the way he wants to, kisses pressed into your hairline and tender words pouring from his lips. He gets you into the car and takes you home. 

Throughout the rest of the evening, you’re at once more reticent and more talkative than you’ve ever been. You’ll stare into the distance for minutes at a time, but then you’ll speak up, seemingly randomly, about some small fact you’d forgotten or a thought that’s been pushing at your consciousness. You tell him that you don’t think you could describe the man well enough to the police. That you have no concept of how long you stood around before you thought to ask for someone else’s phone. That you sort of wish you’d refused to hand yours over, because really what was the worst that could have happened?

“Well, he could have stabbed you,” James says.

“Yeah, but how often is that really fatal? And he might not have. It’s embarrassing, all he had to do was show me the knife and I turned everything over. I probably would have been fine.” 

“I don’t think you’re automatically fine if you’re not dead, angel. You were still at risk of being stabbed.” 

“I’d still have my phone and everything, though.” 

“I think you’re worth a bit more than that stuff.” 

“Mm, agree to disagree.” 

James does things he doesn’t particularly want to do—phoning your bank, filing a police report online, texting your landlord about a new set of keys—and several things he really does want to do. Once you’ve changed into your cozy clothes he practically swaddles you in blankets, putting a hot chocolate in your hand and that show you’re always watching on the TV. He makes you dinner, teases you until he gets a real smile, puts your mum’s number in his phone and texts her to let her know you’re okay. James touches you amply, lips on your cheek and hand smoothing the hair from your face and one knee pressing into your leg through the blanket. 

And you let him. 

[maskenwelt]

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

Readerbot’s Alternate Ending: crushed beneath rubble as the PizzaPlex is burned, they have a sort of dying dream before going offline for the last time

(Dialogue is from BMO’s ‘death’ scene, it’s rlly sad for absolutely no reason and I think abt it a lot)

[hasello]

TW: BLOOD, INJURIES, SELF-HARM

first/previous/next

…that?

The self-harm is more accidental I’d say, but it’s still what it is. By this I mean that: Lee wouldn’t hurt himself on purpose, although he also doesn’t mind when the world does it for him. His only sin is that he doesn’t stop it.

Also I’m sorry if it seems unnecessarily bloody but at this point I’m just using this comic as a punching bag - to get rid of some tension. My head is a mess lately.

[furiousgoldfish]

Hitting children will make children believe harming them is normal. I remember as a child, I would cause pain to myself without thinking twice, or even considering there could be anything wrong with it; after all, everyone else was eager to cause me pain and treated it as normal. I grew up thinking that any form of being harmed, and self-harm was normal behaviour because it was so common and normal for me. I couldn't understand when others would get upset seeing a mark or an injury, it was just what was done, a normal part of my life.

A child used to being hit will not question when their bullies hit them, nor when their friends do. They will feel normal with a partner who violates and hits them because it's what they're already used to. And is this the point of parenting? To have a child who doesn't think twice before harming themselves, and having others harm them? Is this what you want your child's life to be, abusive friendships, relationships, and self harm, treated as normal, dismissed and even ridiculed?

If you are not able to teach your child that anyone lifting a finger at them is wrong, you've failed your job as a parent. If your child sees violence as an everyday occurrence, they never had a parent, they were left on their own in the hands of violence.

Self harm can cause addiction and ultimately death, it's not something to normalize or laugh about. It's not something to teach your child as acceptable or normal. It's not something you do to gain a rush of power and control, while your child learns that being beaten down is correct to do to them if someone is angry, or annoyed, or just having a bad day. To consistently use violence against a child will put them in the endless fight-or-flight state, their life will be one of constant anticipation of violence, and inability to relax. This not only means they won't be able to enjoy their life, have normal growth, have a normal childhood, focus and learn as they want to, make connections with other people, or feel safe, their brain chemistry will change into the one that doesn't allow them to relax or calm down until they've experienced pain.

A child who needs pain to feel normal is not the end goal of parenting, it's a despicable thing to do. It's against human nature. If you did this to your child, I have no words bad enough to describe you.

[y0urm0mst0es]

I'll Kiss Your Scars

Sal Fisher x reader comfort fic

Summary: You and Sal are seniors in high school, both of you still living in the apartments. After a long night of self-loathing, you decide to visit Sal to try and feel better.

Or

You and Sal get together after he cleans you up and comforts you ig

TW: reader sh, scars, blood, self-hate I think, smut and allat. Characters are 18 and Sal might be ooc but whatev. Reader is afab and y/n is used. Wrote the last part while high😔. Pls let me know if I missed something!

It was around midnight. The moon shone through your balcony window as you sat on your bed, tears rolling down your face. Blood from your newly cut wounds had stained your sweatshirt and pajama pants. Looking over to your nightstand, you see the walkie-talkie Sal had given you around the time you first met. You grab it and press the talk button, hoping Sal is still awake.

“Sal?” you say, your voice shaking.

“Y/N? What’s up?” he answers. Taking a deep breath, you spoke again.

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping? I didn’t mean to wake you or anyth-”

"No, no, I wasn't sleeping so don't worry about it. Is something wrong?" He was always so sweet, worrying if you were okay. That's probably one of the reasons you fell for him.

"I just…I don't think I can be alone right now, you know? Can I come over?" You knew his dad was working late so you wouldn't have to sneak in.

"Yeah, of course. The door's unlocked so you can just come in," he responds, his voice laced with concern. You put down the walkie-talkie and make your way to his apartment, careful not to wake your sleeping family members. Soon, you reach the apartment and walk in, the familiar atmosphere welcoming you. Walking towards Sal's room you pass by the sleeping cat on the worn couch.

You reach his closed door and knock lightly. Almost immediately, the door swings open, revealing your blue-haired friend. He's about the same height as you and is wearing his white and pink prosthetic along with loose pajamas. His hair is down which surprises you. It's rare to see him without his signature pigtails.

"Hey," you say softly.

"Hey, are you alright?" he questions. He leads you into his room and you sit on his bed. Sighing deeply, you look up at him and shake your head. Sal sits beside you and takes your hand. "Well, if you wanna talk about it I'll listen and if there's anything you need I'll gladly get it for you."

You give him a small smile. "Thank you, Sally." He smiles back, even though you can't see it. He then looks down at your hand and notices the stains on your sleeve.

"Y/N, what's that?" he asks, voice wavering. You quickly pull your hand away and look at the marks.

"Shit," you say breathlessly. "'m sorry, I didn't mean for you to see that." You avoid his gaze and look to the floor.

"It's okay, not your fault. Can I…see them?" Your breath hitches and your eyes widen.

"Are you sure?" he nods. "okay," you breathe out. You move your arm over to him and he gently takes it. Sal moves his fingers along your sleeve and slides it up, revealing the marks. Seeing them, he breathes in sharply. He runs his thumb along the new and old cuts, making you flinch.

"S-sorry..I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispers.

"I know, it's okay," you say just as quietly.

"You should let me clean these. I don't want them to get infected or anything," Sal says sweetly. He stands up and offers his hand to you to take.

"Oh Sal, you don't have to do that…"

"But I want to," he says, reassuring you. You would've kissed him right then and there if you could've.

You stand up and follow him to the bathroom. He sits you down on the edge of the bathtub and gets a wet cloth for your wounds. You decide to take your sweatshirt off since you're wearing a tank top underneath. Sal comes back with the cloth and sits beside you. He tries to avoid looking at your newly exposed skin, a slight blush creeping up his face. You put your arm out for him and he takes it.

"I'll try not to hurt you," he says, putting the wet cloth on your arm and applying pressure to stop any bleeding. He then gently wipes away the dried blood. You watch him, tears coming to the corners of your eyes. Of course, Sal notices. "Am I hurting you?" he asks, stopping.

"No, it's not because of you, Sally." You put a reassuring hand on his and smile softly.

"Okay, let me know if I am, alright?" You nod and he finishes cleaning you. "Is it just this or are there others?" You look to your clothed thigh where old scars would be.

"Just this I think." You notice dried blood from your arm on the bottoms. "Damn it, the blood got on my pants," you say under your breath.

"Do you need new ones? I think I have some that'll fit you." Sal stands and heads for the door.

"Oh, yeah. Thank you." He soon returns with new pajama bottoms for you. You accept them, your hand brushing against his. You feel your face heat up and quickly turn away to change. Sal also turns to give you some privacy. You take your pants off and begin to put the new ones on, your fingers brushing across the old marks on your thigh.

"I'm done," you say as you turn back around. He also turns and walks toward you.

"You feeling better now?" he asks, concerned.

"Yeah, I'm feeling much better. Thank you, Sal." I wrap him in a hug which he reciprocates. You bury your head in his neck and feel how warm he is. You reluctantly pull away, not wanting to make it weird. "It's late. I don't wanna keep you up so I should head back."

"Oh, I was gonna ask if you wanted to stay over. But, yeah, if you don't want to that's totally fine," Sal says, fidgeting with his hands.

"You wouldn't mind me staying over?" Truth is, you didn't want to go home. You did want to stay with Sal but you didn't know if he felt the same.

"Course not, I care about you and don't want you to be alone in a vulnerable state," he says, taking your hand. You stare into each other's eyes, yours quickly flicking to his prosthetic lips. He sees this and goes bright red.

Sal turns and leads the two of you back to his room. You both sit back on his bed awkwardly. He takes your arm again and runs his fingers over your scars. Your heart beats faster. Bringing your hand to cup his face, you place a quick kiss on his faux lips. When he doesn't say anything, you quickly apologize.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I thought..Never mind, just forget I did that, please," you say, not facing him.

"Don't be sorry. I..I liked it," he says shyly. You turn and look at him. You want to kiss him again and he seems to feel the same. Sal leans in and places his prosthetic lips against yours. You pull away after a few seconds.

"Sally, I wanna kiss you for real," you say breathlessly.

"Really?" You nod. Too scared to do it himself, Sal brings your hand to the back of his head to remove the mask. You undo the latches and slowly take it off, revealing his scarred face. After setting the mask down, you place a hand on his cheek, gently tracing and admiring his scars. Tears start to well up in his eyes.

"What's wrong? Did I do something?" you ask worriedly. He shakes his head.

"No, you're perfect, you did nothing wrong. It's just…no one's ever reacted like that to seeing my face. Everyone's always disgusted or scared," he responds softly. You look at him lovingly.

"Oh Sal, I could never think that way about you. You're beautiful," you say, your thumb brushing over his lips. He immediately smashes his lips against yours, kissing you sloppily. You bring your hand to the back of his neck to deepen the kiss. He quietly moans into the kiss, allowing you to slip your tongue into his mouth. His hands move to your waist, laying you down so he's on top of you. Sal breaks the kiss and moves to your neck, kissing and biting his way down. He starts to slide his hand under your shirt then stops.

"Can I?" he asks sweetly. You quickly nod your head, giving him permission. Sal continues to move his hand up your torso and take off your shirt, revealing your breasts. You shiver as the air hits your bare chest. He admires the way your body looks, practically drooling over your tits.

"What, you never seen boobs before?" you joke. Sal's face goes red and he avoids your gaze. You giggle at his reaction and decide to do things yourself. You take his hands and move them to grasp your chest. He starts to move on his own, fondling your breasts and tweaking your nipples. You arch your back, leaning into his touch. Sal decides to take you into his mouth, swirling his tongue around your nipple.

Releasing you from his mouth, he takes your arm into his gentle hands and kisses the palm of your hand, moving down your wrist and scars. He takes care to kiss each scar on your arm, appreciating every part of you. You just watch in amazement, eyes full of love.

He then moves to kiss down the rest of your torso, soon reaching your waist. Sal starts to pull the bottoms down and you lift your hips to help him. As he pulls them down, his fingers brush against the scar tissue on your thigh. He leans his head down and kisses all around your thighs, doing the same as he did with your wrist. Sal lightly tugs on your panties, his fingers achingly close to your core.

Instead of waiting for him, you begin to take your panties off, revealing your wet cunt. Sal's heart hammers in his chest, not knowing what to do. You guide his fingers to where you need him, silently instructing him on what to do.

Sal dips his middle and ring fingers into your aching cunt, slowly moving them inside of you.

"Just like that, Sal. So good baby," you moan breathlessly. He continues to move his fingers inside your gummy walls, finding your most sensitive spot. Sal leans down and begins to lick around your already swollen clit. You buck your hips from how good you feel. At that, Sal fully takes your clit into his mouth, sucking on it harshly. You felt your orgasm quickly approaching, letting out groans of pleasure.

"Sally?" He stops as he hears his name called.

"Yeah?" You sit up and kiss him gently. You lay him down in your previous spot and straddle his hips. You could feel how hard he was for you through his pants.

"Take your shirt off for me, baby," you say softly. He hurriedly takes his shirt off while you work on removing his pants and boxers. Finally rid of his clothes, you have a chance to sit back and admire how pretty he is. You lean in and kiss him passionately, running your hands down his chest towards his erection. "You're so pretty, Sal. I want you so bad," you say, fingers wrapping around his cock.

"Oh my god," he says quietly, tilting his head back. You start to jerk him off slowly, gathering his dripping precum. Once you think he's ready, you position his cock toward your entrance.

"You ready?" you ask.

"Y-yes, please.." he whispers, whining lightly. You grin and kiss him, sliding down slowly. Moaning into the kiss, he wraps his hands around your waist. You begin to move, rocking your hips against his.

You move together, creating a satisfying and fast-paced rhythm. Arching your back, you groaned into his mouth.

"F-fuck, Y/N, 'm so close," he whimpered. You could feel yourself getting close too.

"It's okay, Sal. Me too," you moaned.

"Please, Y/N, I wanna finish in you."

"You wanna cum in my pussy, Sally?" you cock your head teasingly. His face somehow gets redder and he whines, tossing his head back.

"Please, I-I-" he cuts himself off with a deep moan, cumming inside you. You toss your head back, riding him faster. Sal finishes and starts to get overstimulated when you keep going.

"Y/N I-I can't.." he whimpers.

"I'm so close baby. Can you go just a little longer?" you whispered. He moaned and nods his head, his cock still hard. You bring his hand down to rub your clit. This makes you throw your head back. You finally came, letting out a deep whine. The feeling of your pussy clenching around him makes him whimper, cumming for a second time.

You ride out your high, finally coming to a stop. You look down at his pretty face and kiss him. Laying down beside him, you pepper his smiling face with kisses. He wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your chest.

"I love you, Sal," you say.

"You do?"

"Mhm, so much."

"I love you too." You spend the rest of the night together in each other's arms.

[pastafossa]

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn’t be you.

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

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

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

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

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

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

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

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

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

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

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

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

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

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. 

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially Matt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

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

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

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

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

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Emotion. It’s emotion.

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

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

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

The stones. 

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

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

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

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

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

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

You. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with a blink—

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

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

“It’s me. I’m here.”

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

And your weakened heart… skipped.

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

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

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

And you… smiled.

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

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

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

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

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

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

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

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

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

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

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

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

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

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

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

Silence. 

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

Red threads never lied.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt, just let me—”

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

A soft intake of breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...D.” 

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

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

“Leave me alone!”  

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

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

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

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

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

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

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

You loved him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

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

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

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

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

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[logansargeantsbabymom]

Please, I Need You

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of Suicide, Mentions of cutting, attempted suicide

A/N: If you can relate to this fic or feel like this please message me, my DMs and Inbox are open.

The spotlight had always been something I avoided. I liked my privacy, cherished the simple moments with my friends and family, and drew strength from the quiet, familiar spaces that made me feel safe. But when I started dating Lando Norris, all of that changed.

Overnight, I went from being a nobody to having millions of eyes on me, every move scrutinized, every word dissected.

At first, it was overwhelming but manageable. The praise from Lando's fans was a wave of positivity that buoyed me up. They celebrated our relationship, showering me with love and admiration that I had never experienced before. But lurking beneath the surface were the negative comments, the hate from those who claimed to be Lando's true fans. Their words cut deep, exacerbating insecurities I had carried long before l met him.

"You don't deserve Lando."

"You're just using him for fame."

"Lando's mine, and he'll never love you."

Each comment was a dagger, but none hurt more than the one that dredged up my most painful memory: "Go kill yourself like your twin sister did. Lando's mine, and he'll never love you."

My breath caught in my throat, and I felt like I was drowning. My twin sister, Emily, had taken her own life years ago after relentless bullying. I had always blamed myself for not being able to save her. The pain of her loss was a wound that never fully healed, and now, this cruel comment tore it wide open.

I stumbled to the bathroom, my vision blurred by tears. Locking the door behind me, I collapsed onto blade in the cabinet and held it in my trembling hands. My heart pounded as I pressed the sharp edge against my wrist, closing my eyes against the onslaught of memories and emotions.

"Lando," | whispered, my voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

In the living room, Lando was scrolling through his phone, a strange feeling of unease settling in his gut. He got up and walked towards the bathroom, knocking softly on the door. When there was no response, he pushed it open and froze.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of fear and desperation. "What are you doing? Please, put the razor down."

I looked up, my eyes filled with pain

and confusion. "Lando, I can't... I just can't do this anymore."

Lando took a step closer, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "Please, just talk to me. Tell me what's going on."

As he inched closer, I lowered the razor slightly, the sharp edge still pressed against my skin. "I can't... I couldn't save her, Lando. My twin sister... she was bullied, and I couldn't save her."

Lando's face crumpled in anguish.

"Y/N, I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

Tears streamed down my face as I continued, "Someone found out and told me to kill myself like she did.

They said you'd never love me."

Lando's eyes filled with tears as he reached out to me. "Y/N, I love you more than anything. Those people aren't real fans. Real fans would be happy for us, not tearing you down."

My grip on the razor weakened, and I finally let it drop to the floor. Lando rushed forward, wrapping me in his arms. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this together."

In the days that followed, Lando helped me find the professional help I desperately needed. He stayed by my side, offering constant love and support. But he knew he had to do more.

One evening, I watched as Lando went live on Instagram. His face was a mix of anger and heartbreak as he addressed his followers.

"I've always considered my fans to be part of my family," he began, his voice shaking. "But today, I'm disappointed and heartbroken.

Someone out there thought it was okay to tell my girlfriend to kill herself because of her past. That is not okay."

He paused, tears welling up in his eyes. "Y/N tried to take her life because of those hateful words.

She's getting the help she needs now, but I won't stand for this. If you truly care about me, you'll support her and stop the hate. To the person who made that disgusting comment, I will be taking legal action. No one should ever go through what Y/N has."

Lando's outpouring of emotion resonated with his fans, and messages of support flooded in for me. The community rallied around us, showing the love and kindness I so desperately needed.

But despite the outpouring of support, the darkness still lingered.

Nights were the hardest. I often woke up in a cold sweat, the haunting memories of Emily's last moments replaying in my mind. I remembered her smile, the way she would light up a room, and the sound of her laughter. I remembered the day I found her, the lifelessness in her eyes, and the crushing realization that I had lost her forever.

Lando never left my side during those sleepless nights. He held me close, whispering words of love and reassurance, his presence a constant reminder that I wasn't alone. He made sure I attended every therapy session, even if it meant rearranging his busy schedule. He was my rock, my anchor in the storm.

One particularly bad night, I found myself unable to breathe, the weight of my guilt suffocating me. I sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, tears streaming down my face.

"Lando, I don't know if I can do this," I choked out. "I miss her so much. I should have saved her."

Lando knelt in front of me, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. "Y/N, you can't blame yourself for what happened to Emily. You did everything you could. She wouldn't want you to carry this guilt."

"But I feel so lost without her," | whispered, my voice breaking.

Lando took my hands in his, his grip firm yet gentle. "You're not alone, Y/

N. You have me, and you have so many people who love you. We'll get through this together, I promise."

Through the darkness, there were moments of light. Slowly, I began to heal, finding strength in Lando's unwavering support and the kindness of those around us. I learned to forgive myself, to let go of the guilt that had weighed me down for so long.

One day, as I sat in a quiet park, the sun warming my face, I realized that I could finally breathe again. The pain of losing Emily would never fully disappear, but I had found a way to live with it. I had found a way to honor her memory by choosing to live, by choosing to love and be loved.

And as Lando wrapped his arms around me, whispering words of love and reassurance, I knew that we would face whatever came our way, together.

---------

Again, if you feel this way, please reach out.

Taglist:

@luckyladycreator2 @itsmiamalfoy @jeffs77 @ilivbullyingjeongin @forevercaffeinated-lee @daemyratwst @gulphulp @callsignwidow @f1wintermoon13 @teenwolf01 @victoriassecret101 @hiireadstuff @formulaal l l @kazza72584 @zabwlky1999 @dark-night-sky-99 @rougekiki @xoscar03 @jess-wither @bountychanti @dhanihamidi i @tellybearryyyy @a-panseuxalmess s @love-simon @tallrock35 @iiaik0ii @Milkyymelanine @ilovsyou3000morgan @styl1shl1v @eddieharrington @hellowgoodbye

[angieblogging]

scars of the past.

worldwide issues || read on ao3 || writing masterlist

a/n: please read the warnings on this one! also i’m thinking about making this couple parts, so we’ll see.

description; you’re the new addition to the BAU team, after Derek Morgan left, Reid and Penelope hate your guts, but when you and Reid get paired up to visit the coroner’s office together he learns something about you, something you wanted to keep a secret and it changes the dynamic between the two od you.

warnings; mention of scars, sh, razor blades, swearing.

— THIS WORK IS NOT PROOFREAD!!

You were new to the team, when Agent Morgan left a spot opened and you got it, the excitement you felt was indescribable, you wanted this job forever and now it was your chance to become a profiler, to help the FBI, to meet other profilers. Your first day was rough, you were late and no one really talked with you except Emily, but you just shook it off as them being focused on the case, later on Jennifer also started to talk with you, you felt more comfortable knowing the two a little bit made you feel less alone and alienated.

The days passed fast and you had to admit the job wasn’t turning out how you imagined. You obviously were profiling, that part lived up to your, for a lack of better word, expectations. However the team wasn’t. You made two connections, you couldn’t even call that friendship. Jennifer and Emily tolerated you, they respected you and treated you with kindness, but the rest of the team was not a fan of you. Spencer always had an attitude when it came to you, as far as you noticed he gave it to no one else and no one defended you, except that one time where Emily had to stop him, because he was going too far.

Penelope treated you like air, like you didn’t exist and if she had to acknowledge your existence she did it as fast as she could, just so she can go back to pretending you don’t exist. It was crushing you. Every time you had to talk with Garcia or Reid the knot in your stomach tightened, it was there present all day long at work, but it was the worse when it came to those two. You knew there was another open spot for the BAU, that still remained empty and you wondered if another person would have to deal with this shit to and your heart just broke for them.

Since you joined the team you have solved one case so far, the way back on the jet was peaceful, everyone was exhausted and you just couldn’t wait to go home. Going home was your favourite time, drinking a glass of wine, catching up with your pet, watching TV, quite literally anything that would shift your focus from the terrible anxiety you were feeling, every fucking day at work.

Next day at work it shocked you to see more people around the table, you weren’t that surprised to see David Rossi, he took a time off because he got hurt during a mission, before you joined the BAU and you haven’t had the pleasure to meet him yet, but the other woman you didn’t recognise.

“Okay, so everyone is here. This Doctor Tara Lewis, she will be joining us on this case, alongside Rossi.” As Emily spoke, you glanced at Tara and smiled lightly as she looked at you, you felt at ease when she returned the smile.

On the other hand you ignored Reid, you could feel his eyes on you again, drilling a hole in your head.

You fucking hated this job.

The jet ride is always calm, not this time. David called shots this time and unknowingly of the situation put you with Reid, he wanted to protest, but David shut it down so he just glanced annoyed at you.

“What’s up with that?” Tara whispered to you, the two of you talked more, she noticed how disconnected you were from the team and when Emily mentioned you joined recently she felt at ease, knowing she wasn’t the only “outcast”.

“Great question, wish I knew…” You shrugged, you really didn’t know why Reid disliked you, but the problem was not on your end.

You and Reid were headed to the coroner’s office, to examine the victims bodies. The ride there was quiet, you didn’t know what to say and he said nothing.

You listened to his observations about the wounds, the two of you examined the body. What stood out to you were the scars on the women’s arms, you knew those very very well, you had the same ones on your shoulder. It was warm, but as long as you could you wore long sleeves, so only you knew for now.

“Hm.. Those scars, are they fresh? Was it a knife or another weapon?” Reid looked up at the coroner, but before he could speak you answered his question.

“Razor blade.” You just stated, but the silence made you glance both at Reid and at the coroner. “Um… Those are razor blade scars… They’re deep, but still narrow, a knife could do it, but probably not with this much precision.”

Reid looked back at the coroner and the man just nodded.

“Yeah, your partner here is right. These are most likely from razor blades, those scars are about a month old, most likely not connected to the UnSub, but both women had similar scars in different stages of healing.”

You two left in silence, but the ride back was not silent. You jumped up when he spoke at first, no radio and a quiet street combined with his speaking out of nowhere scared you.

“Sorry, what did you say?” You cleared your throat, he was focused on the road, very focused, his eyebrows were frowned and his brown eyes looking ahead as he repeated what he said before.

“I asked about what you said at the coroner’s office. The razor blades.”

You frowned, that was not the hole you wanted to dig under yourself. “What about them?”

“How did you know so fast?”

He knew? Did he? He was a genius, but you weren’t sure, that didn’t stop your mind from racing with no proof. Can you lie to a profiler?

Your chest started to feel heavy, an imaginary pressure was applied to it, your lungs were heavy as if filled with sand, you could feel how your heart sped up and how the temperature of your body rose up.

“I- um… I just did…” You managed to mumble out, fucking anxiety, you were a terrible liar, even worse under pressure.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, so you prayed he let the topic go.

“You clean now?” He glanced at you and back at the road.

That question made you want to jump out of the moving car, that was in fact not his business and you truly didn’t want the team to know, what’s in the past is meant to stay there. You didn’t know what to say to that, you opted on being a bitch untill he drops the topic.

“That is so not your fucking business… And who even said I- I did that.” You scoffed looking out the window.

You’re okay… You’re okay…

You kept repeating in your head that fucking phrase, but you were in fact not okay.

“Well, you do wear long sleeves always and in this weather you must be hot… Your eyes immediately focused on the scars at the coroner’s office… You knew the blade, you can know everything in theory, but you were sure of it… You pretty much told on yourself….But if it’s not you, then it’s someone close to you.”

Fucking profilers.

“Just focus on the road.” You said firmly, you did tell on yourself, especially when you claimed it was “none of his business”. That didn’t matter now, you couldn’t say anything to go back. He was right, but you didn’t want him to know, not him, not anyone. It was definitely too late now.

[worthless-misery]

I hate myself.

I hate my face.

I hate my eyes.

I hate my ears.

I hate my nose.

I hate my mouth.

I hate my lips.

I hate my hair.

I hate my neck.

I hate my shoulders.

I hate my chest.

I hate my back.

I hate my belly.

I hate my hips.

I hate my arms.

I hate my hands.

I hate my fingers.

I hate my skin.

I hate my crotch.

I hate my thighs.

I hate my knees.

I hate my legs.

I hate my feet.

I hate my ankles.

I hate my toes.

I hate my smile.

I hate my laugh.

I hate my scars.

I hate my stretch marks.

I hate my bones.

I hate my body hair.

I hate my voice.

I hate my mind.

I hate my thoughts.

I hate my dysphoria.

I hate my depression.

I hate my anxiety.

I hate my eating disorders.

I hate my trauma.

I hate my nightmares.

I hate my past.

I hate my memories.

I hate my childhood.

I hate my adolescence.

I hate my adulthood.

I hate my existence.

I hate my life.

I just hate every single thing about myself so fucking much...

[moonstruckme]

Hiiii!I hope your doing great I saw your requests just opened and I was wondering if you would mind doing a poly emt marauders with a reader that’s in hospital and they don’t know until they’re like bringing in someone in or something and their like why didn’t you tell us and she’s like oh cause I didn’t want you to worry.Something like that if not it’s fine have a good day!!!🌊

Thanks for requesting gorgeous! Not super sure if this is accurate since I don’t think paramedics usually spend much time inside the hospital but oh well haha. Hope you have a good day too! <3

cw: hospital/emergency room, mention of broken bone

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 827 words

You’re just on your way out of A&E, feeling sore and shattered and more than a little sorry for yourself, when someone says your name. With an odd mix of relief and trepidation mingling in your chest, you turn. 

Sirius makes it to your first. He takes your face in his hands, eyes scanning it over thoroughly before starting to make their way down your body. “Baby, what’s happened?” 

“Hey,” you say, “what are you doing here?” 

“Um, no.” James gives you a funny-looking smile, amusement tangled up with worry. “It’s fairly normal for us to be here, what are you doing here?” 

“I, um—” 

“Idiots.” Remus bypasses them both, taking your injured hand gently and holding it up where your other boyfriends can see it. “What happened here, lovely?” 

“I broke my finger,” you admit. 

Sirius looks devastated, though with the splint binding your two fingers together you thought it was fairly obvious. “How?” 

“Shut it in my car door.” 

James winces and Remus tsks compassionately, turning your hand so he can see the injured digit from another angle. 

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

You shrug, not quite looking at any of them. “I had to wait a while. A few hours.” 

Remus’ look lets you know your sheepishness isn’t without good reason. “Did you drive yourself like this?” 

You nod meekly. 

“Angel!” James wraps his arms around you, tucking your head underneath his chin, and you go happily. You’ll take his mollycoddling over Remus’ reproachful stare any day. “Why didn’t you call us? I can’t believe you had to sit here all by yourself.” 

“I knew you were busy at work, and I didn’t want to worry you.” Now Sirius is glaring at you, too. You snuggle further into James’ embrace. “It wasn’t so bad.” 

“Did they have to set it?” Sirius asks. 

Your face heats. “Yeah. It was pretty weird-looking when it first happened.” 

James makes a pitiful whining sound. “Poor love.” 

“How long did they tell you it’d take to heal?” Remus’ voice sounds somewhat gentler now. He finally relinquishes your injured hand to Sirius, who starts turning it about and inspecting it in the same manner, like the doctor who splinted it for you might not have done a good enough job. 

“Six to eight weeks,” you say glumly. It already feels annoyingly constraining not being able to bend either of those fingers; you’re not sure how you’re supposed to deal with it for weeks on end. 

The boys exchange a look, and James drops the protective circle of his arms from around you. “I’m going to go find Amelia,” he says, “see if she’s on break.” 

You clutch at his shirt with your good hand. “Don’t leave me,” you whisper. 

Your boyfriend smiles, dropping a kiss on your head. “Sorry, lovie.” 

“I think we ought to feel insulted,” Sirius comments as James walks away. Remus only shrugs. 

He reaches for your face now that it’s not hidden under James’ chin, wiping frownily at something on your cheek. 

“Are you feeling alright now, dove?” he asks, and you veritably liquefy at the tenderness in his voice. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You shrug one shoulder lightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, but it really wasn’t awful.” 

Sirius gives your wrist an admonishing little squeeze. “You have tear marks on your face,” he contradicts you softly. 

“Oh.” You run a finger under your eyes, feeling your face heat. 

Remus tuts and lets his hand rest against the side of your neck, thumb stroking at your jaw. “We’re only on shift for another hour,” he tells you. “James is finding our friend Amelia so you can stay in the break room with her until we can come back and get you, okay?” 

You shake your head, and his stare hardens but you say anyway, “I don’t need to be babysat. I can get home on my own.” 

“You shouldn’t be driving after having anesthetic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Wouldn’t they have told me if that were the case?” 

“We don’t want you driving with a numb hand,” Sirius clarifies. When you turn your attention to him, he gives you a stern look. “You should have called us in the first place. Just let us do what we can for you now, okay?” 

You sigh in resignation just as James comes up behind you again. Seeing as no one has taken over hug duty, he wraps both arms around your waist, setting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you tell Sirius. 

“Oh, excellent. All on the same page, are we?” James turns his head to smooch your cheek. “Knew you’d come around, angel. Amelia’s ready for you, so you can hang in the break room until we get back.” 

“Is she going to baby me too?” you joke, letting him steer you towards the hallway. 

“Probably not,” Sirius says, “but don’t you worry, sweetness. We’ll make up for that when we get you home.” 

[serickswrites]

Do Better

Warnings: self sacrifice, burns, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, caretaker and whumpee

"Don't move, Whumpee, you'll be ok. Just don't move," Caretaker said as they opened the tin of healing salve they had stored away for just this kind of occasion.

"It hurts," Whumpee hissed through clenched teeth. They sat pin straight in the chair, their back exposed as they gripped the chair back tightly.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of that before you volunteered for Whumper to hurt you first." Caretaker put on some gloves. "This is going to sting."

"I was trying to--OUCH!" Whumpee roared as Caretaker put a dollop of salve on the largest burn on Whumpee's left shoulder.

"Sorry," Caretaker muttered as they continued working.

"I was trying to buy time and keep everyone safe," Whumpee grumbled as Caretaker carefully spread the salve across their back.

"But you put your life on the line, Whumpee. Your life. I don't care about the others. I only care about you. There is only one you, Whumpee."

"I know, Caretaker. I just--"

"You need to do better, Whumpee. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you," Caretaker said, finally letting out the emotions they had been keeping bottled up since hearing Whumpee had been taken by Whumper. "I thought....I thought....Whumpee, you have no idea."

Whumpee softened. "I know, Caretaker. I know. I'm sorry. I knew it would be ok. I am sorry."

Caretaker sniffed. "You're ok. You'll be ok. That's all that matters."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[sun-kissy]

starlight | s.b.

tw: sh

sh comfort, sirius black x reader

You feel the blood rush to your head, see the thick red liquid trickling down your arm, taste the salty tears on your cheeks. Your back aches from pressing against the wall, slumped down on the floor of the bathroom.

You choke back a sob as you press the blade to your wrist, wincing as the bright red droplets pool within the white line. Just one more. Your brain screams at you to hurt yourself again. One last one. The voices in your head intensify as you slice your skin, again and again.

This was your fault. You deserved this. Failing on a charms test - how could you be so stupid? You had studied for hours in a row, and still managed to fail. You stupid girl. You internally curse yourself, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle your sobs.

Your head starts to feel fuzzy from the blood loss, the red liquid dripping from your hand like water from a faucet. Black spots cloud your vision as your eyelids droop, head lolling onto your shoulder. Suddenly, you hear a knock on the door and your eyes snap open in panic. "Y/n, love, are you in there?" Sirius' voice blares through the haze in your head like starlight.

"Uh-" you scramble to stuff the blade into your pocket, grabbing the toilet roll from the sink. "Yeah, I'm in here. I'm okay!" your voice turns unnaturally high-pitched. You start to wrap the toilet paper around your arm, wiping your face on your sleeve. "Are you sure you're alright?" he probes. "I-uh-" a sob escapes you as your nails graze a scar, and you hear the sucking in of a breath on the other side of the door.

"Y/n, I'm coming in." Sirius says firmly as the knob turns. The door creaks as he steps in, and you choke out a sob and hurriedly pull your sleeves down in an attempt to shield him from your mess. It didn't work. You see the panic flashing in his eyes as they widen, and he rushes towards you, grabbing your bloodied wrists.

You wince and he loosens his grip. "Sorry." he says quietly. "Can I - can I see?" you gulp down the lump in your throat and nod, glancing away with tears rolling down your cheeks. Sirius carefully rolls back your sleeves, his breath hitching as his eyes land on the white scars lining your arms. The blood continues to cruelly drip down your wrist, mocking you. You brace yourself for the screams and taunts that will spurt from his mouth. But they never come.

"Y/n. Look at me." he says, his voice cracking. You suck in a deep breath as you feel his fingers on your chin, lifting your head till your eyes meet. His eyes are round and glassy, tears threatening to spill. The look on his face breaks your heart in two, and you let out a wrangled cry of defeat. A tear slips down his face as he immediately pulls you into his embrace. "You're okay. You're okay." he croaks out as you melt into the hug, crying into his sweater.

The both of you stay there for what feels like forever, Sirius' hands rubbing circles on your back while you grip him so tightly as though he would be taken from you if you didn't. He presses gentle kisses to the crown of your head while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. You feel his own tears on your hair, his heartache seeping through your skin.

Your sobs finally quieten and Sirius pulls back slowly, holding you at arm's length. He cups your face, wiping away the tears. "My lovely girl. Why didn't you say anything before?" he whispers. You sniffle. "I'm sorry. It was- it was hard," you mumble, glancing away. He shakes his head and smiles gently. "Nothing to apologise for, love. I just wish you had told me, so I could carry some of your pain for you.”

"But they're my problems. Not yours. You shouldn't have to burden yourself for me," you murmur, looking at him guiltily. He gently presses a finger to your mouth. "None of that. If my girl is hurting, it's my job to shelter you from that pain, okay? Please just... just tell me what's wrong, and I swear I'll try to make it better. I'll do anything it it meant you didn't harm yourself," he says firmly, his eyes swirling with so much guilt, hurt and love.

You nod slowly. "Okay, my sweet girl?" he asks softly, thumb grazing over your cheek. "Okay,” you reply quietly, mustering a weak smile. He smiles softly in response and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Good girl. Now let's get you cleaned up while you tell me what's been going on in that pretty little head of yours, huh?" he asks softly, lacing your fingers together. You nod meekly as he pulls you into another bone-crushing hug, so full of affection that you feel your pain start to dwindle.

"I hope you know I love you. And I'm sorry that things have been hard, but I'm here now. You're safe with me." he whispers, raking his fingers through your hair. You smile weakly, squeezing him tighter. "I know,” you mumble fondly, your voice overflowing with gratitude. He starts to grin, his usual flirtatious nature coming back to him. "And I also hope you know that once I'm done cleaning you up, I'm gonna cuddle you and kiss you stupid." A giggle slips out of you. “I'd like that very much."

"Cuddles fix everything, just trust me," Sirius grins, pecking your cheek. You smile fondly, knowing full well that you could trust his starlight to shield you from the storm in your head.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

but not everyone likes fun and games.

it was only supposed to be silly, lighthearted, something to bring a smile to your face. and how could they have known that somewhere inside you is an animal that still holds the fear of being trapped, held down, torn apart?

(could be considered a sort of side-part to the Bitter-Bones saga, that weird edgy angsty thing i did a while back that was abt Sun n Moon disliking a self insert and the self insert taking it badly lol. maybe this takes place when sun n moon are trying to be nice n make up for being huge jerks for so long lmao)