#white matte polish

[m4g0rtz]

Today's polish was so pretty. White is another one of those polish colors that I don't gravitate towards but this may be my favorite one I've tried so far. The green to blue shimmer is stunning. It reminded me of sunshine on freshly fallen snow. Even after three coats you can still barely see my nail line, but I feel like that just adds to how soft and delicate it looks. It looked gorgeous matte too. This is Lake Superior Shenanigans from Great Lakes Lacquer.

[xgosiax]

Family Room Music Room (Denver)

[edzephyr]

I was walking to the gym one day and saw a bear with some trash on the street. He was on a small sun-faded plastic child's chair.

On the way back, the bear was gone, but I noticed a trail of white fluff down the street. As I walked, I realised it was the bear's innards, and I found the bear's skin torn up in an abandoned trolley.

The rest is as follows:

A wash (it took about half an hour to collect all his stuffing)

2. Reassembly and pet brush to de-matt

3. Eyes polished. (they were all scratched up)

4. Eyebrows

5. Nose (science blue)

6. Boots

7. Pants

8. Tunic (with a hand-embroidered emblem and some spare braid)

9. Spock

10. Spirk

🙃

BONUS: I also found this guy recently. Another project!

Now who on earth could that remind me of

 ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyway happy valentines day!

[hmmarble]

HMMARBLEDESİGN - DRAGON+ (4)

Transforming your bathroom into a luxurious retreat doesn't have to be daunting, especially with the timeless elegance of black marble. The deep, rich tones of black marble not only exude sophistication but also create a striking contrast that can elevate any space. In this blog post, we will explore the allure of a black marble bathroom, highlighting how this dramatic feature can infuse modern elegance into your home.

Black Marble Bathroom

The black marble bathroom is a stunning choice for those looking to create a sophisticated and luxurious space. This bold design element can transform an ordinary bathroom into an exquisite sanctuary. The rich tones and unique veining of black marble bring an air of elegance and style that is both timeless and contemporary.

When incorporating black marble into your bathroom, consider options such as black marble countertops, vanity tops, and even accent walls. The contrast against lighter colors can create a striking and dramatic effect, making your space feel more expansive and well-defined.

One of the key benefits of a black marble bathroom is its versatility. It pairs beautifully with a variety of materials, such as brushed gold or chrome fixtures, and complements different color palettes, from soft whites to vibrant jewel tones. This adaptability allows homeowners to personalize their space while maintaining a cohesive look.

There are various finishes available for black marble, each offering a unique aesthetic. A polished finish provides a sleek, glossy surface that reflects light beautifully, while a honed finish delivers a more understated, matte look that can soften the overall appearance of the bathroom.

Lighting plays a crucial role in showcasing the beauty of a black marble bathroom. Consider installing ambient lighting to highlight the natural veins and texture of the black marble. Additionally, task lighting around mirrors can enhance visibility and add warmth to the space.

To add depth and interest, incorporate other design elements that create contrast and texture. For example, pairing black marble with wooden accents can create a warm and inviting atmosphere. Textiles such as plush towels and bath mats in lighter shades can also soften the overall look.

With its rich aesthetic and timeless appeal, a black marble bathroom is more than just a design choice; it’s an opportunity to create a luxurious retreat in your home. Whether you’re planning a complete renovation or simply looking to refresh your existing space, integrating black marble can elevate your bathroom to new heights.

Modern Marble Bathroom

When it comes to designing a modern marble bathroom, the emphasis is on clean lines, minimalistic features, and the striking appeal of marble. This luxurious stone, often associated with opulence, can elevate your bathroom space into a sanctuary of relaxation.

One of the defining characteristics of a modern marble bathroom is the color palette. While many opt for classic whites and creams, darker shades like black or gray marble create a bold statement. Black marble, with its rich depth and unique veining, can transform traditional notions of bathroom design, making it a chic and contemporary choice.

A key feature in a modern marble bathroom is the seamless integration of marble into various elements, from countertops to flooring. Large format tiles have become increasingly popular, creating a sense of space and continuity. Pairing these tiles with elegant fixtures and understated accessories enhances the overall aesthetic without detracting from the beauty of the marble.

Vanities in a modern marble bathroom often showcase the stone’s natural patterns, turning functional furniture into a visual centerpiece. Choosing sleek hardware and soft-close drawers can maintain a streamlined look, while integrated lighting adds warmth and sophistication.

For those seeking to add a touch of personality, consider incorporating wood elements or contrasting materials like glass. These choices balance the heaviness of marble with lightness, making the bathroom feel both inviting and serene.

Incorporating plants or greenery can breathe life into the cool, polished surfaces of a modern marble bathroom. Strategic placement of greenery not only adds color but also promotes a calming environment.

Lastly, don’t forget about the practicality of maintaining your modern marble bathroom. While marble is undeniably glamorous, it requires regular sealing and care to keep it in pristine condition. Choosing the right products for cleaning and maintenance will ensure your marble retains its beauty for years to come.

Bathroom Marble Design

When it comes to creating a luxurious and sophisticated space, bathroom marble design stands out as an exceptional choice. Marble is known for its timeless beauty, variety, and ability to elevate the overall aesthetic of any bathroom. In this section, we will explore some key elements and ideas related to bathroom marble design.

Choosing the Right Marble

One of the first steps in bathroom marble design is selecting the right type of marble. From classic white Carrara to striking black marquina, the options are abundant. Each type of marble comes with its unique veining and color variations, allowing you to match the marble to your personal style. Consider how different marbles will interact with your bathroom's lighting and the overall color scheme to create the desired atmosphere.

Incorporating Patterns

Another exciting aspect of bathroom marble design is the ability to incorporate patterns. Marble can be cut and laid out in various patterns like herringbone, checkerboard, or even geometric shapes. These designs can add depth and interest to your bathroom, making it feel more dynamic and stylish.

Combining with Other Materials

To enhance your bathroom marble design, consider combining marble with other materials. Pairing marble with warm woods, sleek metals, or even vibrant tiles can create an intriguing contrast and elevate the space further. This combination can help to soften the look of marble, making it feel more inviting and less formal.

Accent Features

Incorporating marble accent features like vanity tops, shower surrounds, or even marble sinks can transform a standard bathroom into a luxurious retreat. These elements become focal points in the design, drawing attention and admiration. For a truly unique touch, consider custom marble pieces that reflect your style.

Maintenance and Care

While the beauty of marble is undeniable, it's important to consider its maintenance. Proper care, including regular sealing and careful cleaning, will keep your bathroom marble design looking pristine. Avoid harsh chemicals that can damage the stone, and always use coasters or mats to prevent stains and scratches.

In summary, bathroom marble design offers a wealth of possibilities to create a stunning and elegant space. With the right choices and careful planning, you can achieve a bathroom that embodies luxury and style.

[nail-art-no-jutsu]

Sasuke birthday nails, inspired by his purple Susano'o 💜

Instagram 💜💜💜 Pillowfort

I did these in advance because my birthday falls on the same week and I'll be on vacation 😎

Sasuke is one of my top faves, I care about him so much, and I had so much fun making these! I love how much purple goes into his aesthetics already and then I was like his Susano'o is purple?? ... I'm gonna put it on my nails!!!!

Glossy and matte version.

Blue background + fiery shimmer + flame stamped with a mix of three polishes to get that gradient effect. My stamping purple was too dark so I mixed some white into it so it'd stand out better over the blue. The shimmer like tiny embers reminds me of the Susano'o's eyes. I love how the metallic lilac shifts to a darker rose gold depending on the angle.

This is a different flame stamp than the one I customized for Itachi's Amaterasu design. This design and that one I did for Itachi are probably my two faves that I've done so far for any character.

I wanted to do a second design for Sasuke in time for his bday but it didn't end up happening, but that's okay, I can always do it later, there's never a wrong time of the year to celebrate the amazing character that he is 😊

[sillysapphillean]

Since i'm on about death of the author today anyway here's some thoughts on race/ethnicity of the foxes

Dan & matt: i'm glad that them being black is one of the few things this fandom can pretty unanimously agree on

Kevin: native american from wymack's side & scott-irish from Kayleigh's

Neil: the hatfords have some indian in them idc neil josten is brown wasian (irish american & polish i forgor from his father's side)

Twinyards: white idk british & german roots but fairly far removed & no cultural attachment to them

Allison: mixed & doesn't rly feel culturally tied to anything in particular so it's not super relevant to pick apart but i envision there being some indigenous carribbean descent in there specifically

Renee: korean american wasian

Seth: white italian american

I don't rly have any thoughts on nicky that differ from canon

[madisockz]

Hello! I wanted to share my process of how I made my Easter Pony! She is my second ever custom and she made all the trouble I had with the first one seem like a walk in the park in comparison ಥ_ಥ Let's begin!

DISCLAIMER: Custom ponies like this one are not to be played with by children nor made by children. This pony was made with the use of nail polish remover (acetone) which is toxic. You need to wash your hands throughly after use and use in a well ventilated area. This pony was also made with sharp tools such as an xacto knife, sewing pins, rehairing needles, and an awl.

First, the concept art! Trial and error caused her to look a little different than the concept art but I still love the end result!

I wanted to start with a white base to give myself a clean canvas for dyeing so I got this G3 Breezie off Ebay for only $3. I decided to first remove her mane and tail which requires removing the head. If you know anything about G3 pony customzing, you know their heads are difficult to get back on once they come off. Even when you run them under warm/hot water. So to get it back on for dyeing, I tried trimming a little excess of vinyl off the neck ring with my xacto knife. It slipped and got me right under my nail! Bad omen for what's to come!

After getting her prepped (removing her mane and tail, cleaning her, using acetone (nail polish remover) to remove her cutie mark) she was ready for a dye bath! I used Rit DyeMore as regular Rit Dye won't dye the vinyl material that ponies are made of. This was my first ever time dyeing anything that wasn't fabric so I was thrilled when she came out this warm rich brown! So pretty!

I read online that dyed ponies will leach dye onto other ponies if they touch, so I wanted to try and prevent this as much as possible with some matte sealer. Lesson #1: Even though she was dry, the matte sealer reactivated the dye! The smallest touch left a print! :(

I pushed forward! And tripped immediately after! I thought, "Surely matte Modge Podge will seal her just that much more" and to my dismay, the Modge Podge kept every brush stroke I made when it dried!! She looked like a leather hand bag! ˚‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ )‧º·˚ I learned later you can buy matte Modge Podge spray online but all I had was the type you brush on to your surface.

Thankfully, with the help of sixteen cotton balls and a q-tip with acetone, I managed to remove all the sealer but she was no longer that nice rich brown. Oh well I still loved her!

And whoever said the paint will protect the eyes from the dye has clearly never dyed a dark pony! Her eyes were so brown after this lol

Painting, adding of polymer clay easter themed confetti, and adding her 3D chocolate bunny cutie mark went great! It was all going well until the eyes.

I had never fully painted pony eyes before so the first attempt was pretty bad. Not even my multiple attempts at glitter and using clear nail polish as a cheap gloss on the eyes could save them.

It was so bad that I almost didn't take any pictures but when I went to seal her head, this weird white powder covered half of her face?? I had never seen this before and it freaked me out thinking I just ruined her. I managed to get it off with a cotton ball and some acetone but her paint was fully damaged.

Turns out this was caused because I didn't shake the can of sealer well enough. I needed a break....

While I took a break for a few days, I decided to watch tutorials on how to paint doll eyes and learned that it's actually pretty common to use high quality watercolor pencils; either Faber Castell or Derwent (which is what I ended up buying).

When I came back, I made the hard decision of removing all the paint and decorations from the head and starting over. Hours of work gone but it was so worth it! 🩷 Removing the paint with acetone ended up making her head lighter than her body so I had to redye her head lol. This time I mixed Derwent pencils with acrylic paints for her eyes.

Time for the hair! I've never done curls before and my original plan was to buy curly hair online but it's so hard to find in the color and curl size I wanted.

So my second idea was to buy small curlers to use on regular nylon doll hair bought from ShimmerLocks on Etsy. But when I tested them out on poor Flower Bouquet it looked so bad ಥ_ಥ

I discovered a Youtube channel you may know called Dollightful where in one of her Stock Box videos she used yarn that she unraveled to make super cute tight wavy hair for a doll. It was a perfect solution! It looks so good but omg it was tedious haha! I used it for her tail too; sectioning off the colors hoping they'd stay separated (they didn't lol).

She's nearly complete! Time for small decorations! I tried so many different ears from air dry clay to stealing some from bunny decorations I bought at the store and nothing was working! But I had one last idea...

I gave these old Littlest Pet Shop costume bunny ears some use with a flat top sewing pin and some glue so now my pony has bunny ears! Yay!

I forgot it in the concept art, but I originally wanted to add flowers to her mane but I couldn't figure out how to do that without glue which I didn't want to do, too permanent, so I opted for some beads I had on hand. I didn't have any light blue so I made some with the use of acetone (nail polish remover in my case) and boom! Light blue beads! Then I washed them off so the acetone wouldn't damage anything :)

I used a gold topped sewing pin, a butterfly charm, a felt flower and two faux flowers to create a cute hair accessory!

Finally I sewed a hair tie to a puffball to give her a removable cottontail if I ever wanted to take it off.

And DONE! She looks so good after so much time and effort! I worked on this girly for two weeks I think? She actually had a partner I designed but I've run out of time to make her :') Maybe next year? 👀 🩷🩷

[raisin-writes]

Asking to paint their nails- Donquixote family:

sfw, no warnings, just for sillies :) read as platonic but can also be read as romantic (minus sugar- i dont care that shes 22- and dellinger, dont be a weirdo).

Doflamingo:

He prefers to call in a nail tech and have a little mani-pedi spa day with you instead.

It's nothing personal, he appreciates the thought, but if hes gonna get his nails done, he wants it to be professional.

Wants you to match with him more often than not and gets a little mad when you refuse to, but wont hold it against you for very long.

A classic french tip girlie but may mix it up with a nice pink or a light glitter overlay from time to time.

Trebol:

He'll allow it, but god does he make it an insufferable experience.

He loves messing with you by intentionally making his hand twitch/flinch/shake.

"Bweheheheh! oops, guess you gotta start over now!"

He'll finally stop when you threaten inform him that you only have so much nail polish remover left and he'll end up with messy, ugly, clumpy nails that you wont be able to fix.

He's fine with whatever you give him, just dont make it look stupid.

Diamante:

Absolutely!

He's tickled that you would want to spend time with him like that.

Requests things like flashy white or gold stars, sparkly reds, or a nice baby blue to match his eyes.

A little bit of a stickler about your technique, but he wont be too hard on you if you mess up.

It's just nail polish after all.

Surprisingly will want to paint yours in return to match his.

His technique is ironically not that great.

Pica:

...... Reluctantly agrees.

He's silent as he watches you work, but his gaze is very intimidating and scrutinous.

Kind of a mouth breather, dont comment on it or he'll get mad at you.

If you ask him very nicely, he'll let you experiment on his toe nails, painting them however you want.

He's satisfied with a simple matte dark purple, but his favorite is a metallic gold- not the regular nail polish, but the holographic powder, he likes the shiny chrome finish.

Vergo:

Some days he'll say yes, sometimes its just not a good time.

He's a busy guy, he doesnt have all the time in the world to sit down and let you fiddle with his nails.

Sometimes he just doesnt want his nails painted and thats that.

On the off chance he agrees, he prefers a simple solid black or a plain white.

Giolla:

Yes, but she's such a karen about it.

So passive-aggressive and indecisive.

Makes you never want to paint her nails again.

Likes loud, contrasting colors and sometimes fun stencil patterns.

She usually compliments your work after its over, but will sometimes make a back-handed comment if she isn't completely satisfied with the results.

Lao G:

Surprisingly agrees to it.

However, shaky hands make for many mistakes.

Dont bother putting a top coat on.

regardless of the outcome, he'll give you a thumbs up and a "GREAT WITH A CAPITAL G!"

Gladius:

Bully him into it a little and he'll cave.

He's used to this, having been the test subject for a younger Baby 5 when she first got into nails.

At least you seem to know what you're doing, comparatively.

Prefers plain black but can be swayed into dark colored marbling with gold flecks.

Machvise:

Another test subject for young Baby 5's nail journey, and Dellinger's.

He thinks it's funny to walk around with bright, obnoxious nails, but really could care less what you give him.

He actually kinda liked the time you gave him pizza slice nails.

Draws the line at press-on nails.

Sugar:

Allows it, but will very bluntly tell you you're doing it wrong.

The best compliment you will get from her is, "its not the worst."

She likes when you put cute stickers and stencils on a pretty pastel blue color.

Señor Pink:

Needs to be lead to believe it was his idea, otherwise the answer is no.

Watches intently, doesnt speak much.

Sucks his pacifier suddenly from time to time and the sound in the otherwise silent room makes you flinch.

He doesnt have any preferences, but appreciates when you make the color match his bonnet.

Might make you do his toe nails too so they match.

Viola:

Of course!

Her favorite is a dark mauve with white hand-painted flowers on the thumbs and/or ring fingers.

Dont worry if you cant paint the flowers correctly, she still appreciates it all the same.

She'll ask to paint yours in return.

Dellinger:

Slay 💅✨

You can use his nail polish.

Teases you if you mess up but genuinely starts to get annoyed if you make too many mistakes.

Likes cat-eye and holographic effects; don't worry, hes got the magnets and powders for it.

If he's feeling generous, he'll return the favor, but he might give you what he thinks would look good instead of what you want.

Buffalo:

Nuh-uh, no way.

......... Unless?

Easy to bribe into getting his nails painted.

Lets you paint them however you want, as long as you fullfill your end of the deal.

Baby 5:

Yes!!!

She loves getting her nails painted.

She'll even paint yours, however you want them!

She likes lace tips, but can easily be swayed if you think something else would look better on her.

(Please be kind to her; if you really must, meet her in the middle so she still gets what she wants.)

Bonus:

Bellamy:

Beg him over the course of a week and he'll eventually cave, but only his toe nails where nobody will see them.

Prefers plain black or navy blue colors.

Is very fidgety and uncomfortable the entire time.

(ironically, he doesnt like people touching his feet (he's ticklish))

Groans and complains, asking every 5 minutes if you're done yet.

Such a big baby.

Corazon:

Yes!!!

He's giddy at the thought, he would love for you to paint his nails.

Really, he just likes the quality time he gets to spend with you.

His favorite is a dark plum color with soft pink heart stencils.

He'll offer to paint yours in return, but knowing him, he'll just end up spilling a bottle or two.

Or three.

[123-im-writing-lol]

Here we go fanfic #2 😼

Acrylics

Summery: doing your nails in the company of dad!Matt <3

Tw: dad!Matt, reader calls him “daddy” platonically of course, adopted teen reader, reader is referred to as “she” and “daughter” and “his girl,” reader is me coded so subtle autism/ocd/and my general thought process is included 😔☝️

“What color should I paint them?” Is the question that breaks the comfortable silence between the two of you. It’s been over a month since you’ve last done your nails, so after some consideration you decided to do them again! Even though it’s a pain to do, you missed the clicky-clacky aspect of having them.

Matt’s attention is momentarily directed towards you at the question, his fingers pausing on the file in his hand.

“Hmm?”

He’s been so busy lately that it’s driving you nuts. Case after case, patrol after patrol, he barely has any time for you! He told you it’s temporary, and that may be so, but you’re having to resort to following him around like a wounded puppy in order to see him for more than a minute in passing! So when you noticed him sitting on the couch going over some notes from the case he’s on currently, you jumped at the opportunity to be near him; grabbing your box of supplies and parking yourself on the floor in front of the couch. Now he’s a mere few inches away from you. Genius, right?

“Ugh, my nails! What color should I paint them?”

It takes a second for the situation to register in Matt’s head. You’re doing your nails.

“Well, what are your options?”

Despite how busy he is he knows what he got himself into when he took you in. He’s a father now, you’re his biggest responsibility. And though he’s tempted to give an absentminded answer, he knows how much little moments like this mean to you. You value his opinion. You flourish under his care. He shouldn’t half ass anything with you, even picking a nail polish color.

You grin now that you finally have his attention, moving to sit on your knees as your heart excitedly pumps in your chest, the rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* making its way to his ears.

“Uh-! I have light blue, red, brownish-red, black, white, navy blue, pink, and purple. Oh! And glittery silver.”

He listens as you list off the different colors, doing his best to remember each one.

“Hmm, that sounds like quite the selection!” He laughs softly, finding your eagerness endearing. “Which ones are you leaning towards?”

Your eyes quickly scan the arrangement of bottles lined up in front of you, ordered based off of which colors are supposed to go next to each other. Black, glittery silver, white, navy blue, light blue, brownish red, red, pink, then purple.

“…Well, black is my favorite color but I’ve been wanting to feel cutesy lately so I was thinking pink, but the navy blue is also so pretty and it would look great with the silver!”

Matt nods along, the gears in his mind turning as he tries to think of a combination his daughter would likely enjoy the most. Giving her his advice often proves pointless because in the end she knows what she wants, and she always wants things a certain way.

“Well… why don’t you do Eenie Meenie Miny Moe?”

You take second to think about his suggestion. That’s what you tend to do most of the time given how indecisive you are, but today feels different. You can’t leave things up to chance.

“…no.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, knowing you need the space to think on your own. He gave you his idea and you rejected it, now he can get back to work while you stew on it.

Except… he doesn’t quite want to get back to work yet. You’re his biggest weakness, oftentimes the only thing that can tear him away from said work. But he reminds himself that he has a deadline. He has to get this done.

He goes back to reading the papers in hand, expertly tracing every bump and lack thereof. Though Matt quickly grows frustrated with himself. He can’t focus. He’s not picking up on anything he’s “reading” and he knows exactly why. You. His senses are focused on you; the way your eyes bounce around as you brainstorm, going back and forth between the nail polish and your hands. How your foot bounces repeatedly despite you sitting with your legs crossed. The way you mumble to yourself as you count off of each finger, likely trying to come up with different combinations.

“Blue, silver, blue, silver, blue… no. Silver, blue, silver, blue, silver… no. Black, silver, blue, pink… purple? Ugh, no.”

It brings a soft smile to his face. You’re so cute and you don’t even know it. Before he can get too lost in his thoughts he’s startled by a gasped “oh!” escaping you.

“I know! I can do black and pink alternating on my left hand, and navy blue and silver alternating on my right!”

…oh? Definitely not what he was expecting you to decide on, but he’s learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to you.

“Yeah? That sounds like a good idea angel, very smart.”

You can’t help but grin shyly in response, looking over your shoulder in order to see if his words are genuine. Judging by his gentle expression, they are. His praise always pulls a flustered reaction from you. He’s just so nice.

“Thanks…” You mumble, grin refusing to leave your face even as you turn back to your supplies and begin to prep the press-ons.

45 minutes of drilling, filing, cursing, glueing, and painting later, you’re finally finished.

“M’kay m’done!” You declare proudly, turning around and holding your hands out to your father. He tilts his head curiously, forming in his mind what he believes your nails look like as his attention is diverted from his papers once more. He might be blind, but he’s told you about his senses. He can see in his own way.

“Good job sweetheart! I’m sure they look amazing.”

“Thank you daddy! I’ll let you touch em once the paint dries!” You did do good! They’re correctly sized, glued on, and painted. Though the paint job is… messy, as you often tell him. It’s just so tedious having to not get paint on your skin when it’ll wash off a day or two later!

“Alright hun, I’m looking forward to it…”

The constant fidgeting you’ll do in the next week or so is going to drive him nuts. The constant clicking of the nails, the sound of you picking at the sloppy glue job, the lingering smell of paint, etc. But he’s gotten used to your other fidgeting habits, having drowned them out just like he does with the rest of the city. You’re his girl, he just wants you to be comfortable and happy.

Once you begin packing up all your belongings, taking care not to smudge the paint, Matt decides to do the same. He’s neglected you long enough. Even if you say it’s fine, he knows it isn’t.

As you stand up with your box in hand he’s quick to catch your attention.

“Sweetheart?”

Turning to face him your posture subconsciously straightens, a curious “huh?” leaving your lips.

His tongue slips out for a split second to run over his lips, a subconscious habit you both share. He’s suddenly nervous. You’re a teenager, you don’t want to spend time with him, especially after he’s hurt you by not being here. You’re petty by nature. But at the same time… he knows you love him. You wouldn’t have sat by him if you didn’t.

“Uh… well, do you wanna… watch a movie?” His hands gesture weakly as he asks, yet another habit you both share.

“Uh…” Do you wanna watch a movie? Maybe, depends on what it is. “…what movie?

“Any! You pick.”

When he gives a jerky shrug you suddenly catch on to how he’s feeling. He must want to spend time with you, he seems kinda desperate. No not desperate. Nervous? Ugh, emotions are hard. While doing your nails exhausted you to some degree, you can’t deny him quality time when that’s exactly what you’ve been craving as well.

“Uh… I mean yeah, sure.” You shrug back, glancing down at the box in hand before looking back at him. “I just gotta put this back and change my clothes. Gimme a sec.” Choosing not to wait for a response, you head back to your room with the intention of doing just as you said.

“Alright, take your time, there’s no rush.”

[outoutdamnspark]

Nails

Emmet x Reader

Just a little warmup. I wrote this because I, too, have a thing for hands, but also because having pretty nails is something that makes me feel good about myself and I just wanted to put that into something.

(cw: slightly suggestive, but nothing explicit. hints of body worship. reader is non-binary. Emmet has a thing for hands.)

Ingo: Lips -> here

Emmet loves it when you paint your nails.

He loves to hold your hands, playing with your fingers, fitting his own between yours and gently stroking them just to feel your skin against his. It’s grounding, his favorite stim, and he’ll seek it out absently when he has a build up of energy he needs to let out but doesn’t have the room to pace or the desire to flap his hands. Or, if he’s feeling anxious, he’ll squeeze your fingers gently but rhythmically, keeping time with the nervous tapping of his heel against the floor. It keeps him sane in crowded space when he’s so overstimulated he feels like crying angry, stinging tears. 

But your nails are his favorite part. If you keep them short he likes to trace the edges of them with his fingertips, enjoying the blunted shapes and trying to memorize them. If you keep them long he likes to stroke the pad of his thumbs across the tops of them, feeling how smooth they are and memorizing the texture. 

If you wear fake nails then he’ll move his touch in a repetitive pattern, up and down and around, seeking out the faint outline where the acrylic meets your natural nail bed. It’s like a fun little maze with no real stakes that he can navigate over and over again as many times as he wants and never get frustrated. Sometimes they’re all the same; sometimes they’re not - tiny little differences that he likes to explore on each nail.

But oh. If you paint your nails. That’s another story entirely. 

He likes to help you pick out the colors, whether they’re glossy or matte or glittery; if it’s a special event or a date night he’ll help you coordinate your nail polish to your outfit, or even just to match something he’s wearing if it’s more casual. He’ll often pick out several different colors all of the same hue and watch as you slowly stroke the colors along your fingernails, finding satisfaction in how easily they glide on. It’s calming to his mind, nearly hypnotic, something to help him quiet the constantly racing thoughts brought on by his ADHD.

Eventually he’ll ask you to teach him, watching you closely as you show him just how to hold the brush, how to smooth the polish down the length of each nail one at a time until the entire thing is evenly coated. He’ll be a little sloppy at first but he’ll learn quickly, until he’s gliding something bright and pretty across your nails with expert grace.

His hands are steady despite his usual constant movement, his grip gentle and sure, and as he leans down to softly blow on the newly-applied polish, he’ll look up at you with eyes like moonstone and desire before kissing your knuckles slowly. 

Tell him he did well. Praise him softly. Watch the way his eyes darken and the way his steady hands begin to tremble. 

Later, when your nails have dried enough that you can touch things without ruining all of his hard work, Emmet will pin you to the bed by your wrists and smirk at the way the polish on your nails glints in the low light of your shared bedroom, almost like his signature on the canvas of your body, because to him you are nothing less than art.

His favorite colors on you are metallic - chrome and glittering gold and rusty red, anything shiny, bronze-y, icy silver-white. He loves the way they catch the light and seem to glow, so when he covers your body with his own and holds your hands while he rocks against you, makes you gasp his name, he’ll keep his gaze on the flash of shining paint on the tips of the fingers he loves so much and feel the warmth of pride in his chest that he’s the one that helped to decorate such a beautiful being as yourself. 

And once he lets go of your hands to let you wrap your arms around him, to let you hold him close as though you never want to let him go, he’ll close his eyes with a groan and imagine the way your painted nails must look as you drag them down his back and mark him in return.

[chic-a-gigot]

L'Art et la mode, no. 28, vol. 15, 14 juillet 1894, Paris. Toilettes pour bains de mer. Dessin de G. de Billy. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Robe en popeline de soie ivoire, corsage recouvert de tulle ivoire brodé, volant sur les épaules se perdant dans les poignets des manches, volant coquillé et bande de tulle posée à plat sur la jupe; le corsage est garni par des liens de ruban de faille verveine, ceinture pareille, lien et choux dans le bas de la jupe.

Dress in ivory silk poplin, bodice covered with embroidered ivory tulle, flounce on the shoulders lost in the cuffs of the sleeves, shell flounce and strip of tulle laid flat on the skirt; the bodice is trimmed with ties of verbena faille ribbon, similar belt, tie and collars at the bottom of the skirt.

—

Robe en satin pervenche, voilé de tulle noir brodé; polonaise en taffetas glacé pervenche et noir, avec corsage échancré garni d'un col marin, appliques de guipure ancienne sur le bord, manches recouvertes de tulle, poignets de taffetas.

Periwinkle satin dress, veiled in embroidered black tulle; Polish dress in periwinkle and black glossy taffeta, with low-cut bodice trimmed with a sailor collar, antique guipure appliques on the edge, sleeves covered in tulle, taffeta cuffs.

—

Robe de faille pékinée cerise et mousse sur fond blanc mat, corsage veste Louis XVI garni d’un fichu Louis XVI en mousseline de soie, avec gros choux de mousseline de chaque côté de la poitrine, le fichu croisé se noue derrière; jupe évasée garnie d’un volant de mousseline de soie et de draperies terminées par des choux.

Cherry and moss pekinese faille dress on a matte white background, Louis XVI jacket bodice trimmed with a Louis XVI chiffon scarf, with large muslin puffs on each side of the chest, the crossed scarf is tied behind; flared skirt trimmed with a silk chiffon flounce and draperies finished with puffs.

—

Robe en foulard ou toile de soie tilleul à bouquets semés, ceinture de taffetas noir avec coques remontantes; empiècement de batiste brodée, manches courtes très bouffantes en soie tilleul.

Dress in foulard or lime silk canvas with sown bouquets, black taffeta belt with rising shells; embroidered cambric yoke, very puffy short sleeves in lime silk.

—

Robe de petit drap ou lainage léger noisette, corsage avec bandes découpées ouvertes sur du drap ivoire. col rabattu, ceinture de cuir blanc mat, manches bouffantes en drap ivoire recouvertes de pattes noisette; jupe noisette avec ourlet de drap ivoire.

Dress in light hazelnut cloth or wool, bodice with open cut-out bands on ivory cloth. turn-down collar, matte white leather belt, puffed sleeves in ivory cloth covered with hazel tabs; hazelnut skirt with ivory cloth hem.

[usaigi]

How @yellowocaballero and I Fixed Daredevil by Headcannoning Him as Mexican

When Daredevil first appeared in 1964, he was a second-generation Irish-American from Hell’s Kitchen, a working-class Irish-immigrant neighborhood. In a time where Irish people weren’t viewed as “white” or “real Americas.” They were a part of the oppressed working class, the bottom of the food chain, who had nothing but their religion, the vehicle of their culture from the old world, to keep them together.

Note: Today, the argument that “Irish people aren’t really white” has been co-opted by white supremacists and has often been used in bad faith against POC. I want it to be clear that what is considered “white” is and has always been a political term with no backing in science. Discrimination against the Irish back in the day was tied to anti-Catholic sentiment in predominately Protestant states, such as England, Scotland, and the United States. Naturally, Anti-Catholic discrimination overlaps with nativist, xenophobic, ethnocentric and/or racist sentiments (ie Anti-Italian, Anti-Polish, Hispanicphonia).

Jack Murdock was a poor boxer with no education or prospects who had to exploit his body to provide for Matt. And recognized that not a way to live and thrive, so he pushed Matt into academics for social mobility. Sound familiar?

At its core, the story of Matt Murdock is an immigrant story. Matt has the immigrant mentality;  immigrants-get-the-job-done type of thing. Gotta hustle and became a lawyer because that’s how he moves up the social and class ladder. And when he does “make it” he chooses to stay and help his neighborhood because he has a cultural connection to it. 

This worked in 1964, I don’t know how much it works now.  

Hell Kitchen isn’t a rough neighborhood primarily occupied by working-class immigrants, it’s another gentrified hipster hellhole. Irish people and people of Irish ancestry in the United States no long face systemic discrimination. 

Therefore, modern-day recontextualizing is to make Matt Mexican. 

Technically, Matt can also be from any other Latin American country or Filipino but I lean towards Mexican since a) this is my post go make your own and b) we get the most discrimination from the mainstream media. Yes, a lot of it is because racists use “Mexican” as a catch-all term for anyone from Latin America but still. Trump made his presidential platform by calling Mexicans illegal rapists and druggies. 

If Matt was actually the son of Jack Murdock*, an undocumented brown immigrant living in a working-class immigrant/POC neighborhood, it gives him the underdog immigrant arc the character is missing in modern-day adaptations. Matt's core is still the same Matt we know and love, he’s still the son of a boxer, whose dad’s pushed him into succeeding academically, who lost his dad to gang violence, and who is extremely Catholic. Someone who wants to fit into middle-class educated (white) society and feels like he has to suppress the "devil" inside until one day he can’t. He's seeing discrimination and poverty and crime and gentrification tear his neighborhood apart and the police turn their back on it since it's predominantly POC. The law has failed them, he's not going to fail them too. 

Meg made the fantastic point that Matt should still be white-passing (and ginger) so he could exist somewhere in between worlds.  And Matt takes advantage of that, as well as his Columbia Law degree to help his community. Matt not using his conditional whiteness and the fancy degree to “escape” his community and instead help it.

[xenonluxius]

You’re Mine; Don’t Forget That - Chapter 1

Footsteps akin to the cracking of ice resounded through a crystalline hall, grand chandeliers refracting dancing speckles of light across the pale blue carpeted floor. Murmurs, drabbles of nameless humans buzzed around the single woman striding down the path with the confidence and grace of a predator. Isolated words, breathless sighs followed every bounce of her wavy amethyst hair, the tips dipped in a soft lavender hue. Sly ruby eyes glanced at her captivated audience, her eyelashes casting a web of shadows upon her almond shaded skin.

Darkwick Academy’s uniform sat like a mischievous black cat upon her lithe body, the velvety jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white dress shirt underneath. The stormy gray skirt swirled around her mid thighs, matte black tights clinging to toned calves as blood red school-issued dress shoes sauntered merrily along their way. Polished black titanium glinted on their soles and armored the tips, black rubber padding the heel and front tip so as to not make much noise on hard surfaces. Small lily of the valley earrings dangled from her ears, ringing out a soft tune with every step she took, and the gold braids decorating every female uniform seemed almost teasing as they rested upon her bosom, challenging onlookers to allow their gaze to drift downward.

“The Madam Liaison is here…” Hushed whispers gaped incredulously as regular Frostheim students gazed upon the ravishing woman with a mixture of fear and reverence, their eyes skittish as they tracked her movements with anticipation. Full lips tilted upwards as the object of their attention fixed her glimmering eyes upon the hesitant onlookers, siren eyes winking as she waved a nonchalant hand. Men and women alike flushed a crimson red, some of the more faint hearted averting their eyes with a hand to their heart.

Quickly losing interest in the nameless rabble, the woman ran a deft hand through her waist-length hair, clearing strands from her field of vision as she locked on to a monocled man in the distance. “Tohma! Sorry for the wait,” she called out, her honeyed voice toughened with a bit of huskiness. It cut through all remaining whispers like a knife through butter, demanding obedience and begetting silence.

“It is no problem to me, Suzuran. Our captain, on the other hand, may not tolerate your tardiness with such magnanimity,” Tohma Ishibashi uttered as he adjusted his monocle, organizing a stack of papers nestled in his left arm. Despite his blunt words, there was a hint of humor in his eyes as he dipped into a shallow bow, gesturing for Suzuran to place her hand into his palm. Politely kissing the back of her hand, Tohma straightened up and let go. “I wish you all the best in dealing with our problematic captain.”

“What're you talking about? You're going in with me, Tohma. I'm not the one carrying the investigation report,” Suzuran said with a dramatic hand to her heart, spinning on her heel as she began to lead the way to Frostheim’s captain's quarters.

“Of course. You cannot be trusted to give a satisfactory report,” Tohma scolded. “Left to your own devices, you would simply hand him the papers and leave, and you know that the captain would proceed to burn those papers because he couldn't be bothered to read them.”

“I would be hurt at the fact that you have so little faith in me… if I weren't fully aware that it's the truth,” Suzuran chuckled, a seductive sound that had had every poor passerby student in the vicinity flushed and flustered.

“I am thankful of your self awareness,” Tohma commented dryly as they stopped in front of an elaborately decorated wooden door. With zero hesitation, Tohma pushed open the heavy slabs of wood, then stepped aside to allow Suzuran in first.

“Thank you,” she nodded in appreciation, then focused her attention on the man sprawled on the couch on the other side of the room. “Jin! Guess who came to make sure you don't truly morph into a vampire?” Suzuran trilled as she strolled further in, completely ignoring the stirring albino as she flung open the curtains. “It's noon, captain. Wake up and smell the damn roses, you incorrigible man,” she huffed as she tied the curtains up, keeping them ajar.

“Shut the hell up… The sun’s too damn bright,” Jin Kamurai groaned as he covered his eyes with his forearm, his free hand searching blindly for his pack of cigarettes. “Close the fucking curtains and leave, woman.”

“As much as I would love to preserve my mental wellbeing by staying far away from this musty dump of a room, we both know that you simply cannot live without me. And I, the generous person that I am, am willing to set aside therapy in order to make sure you don't send yours to the hospital,” Suzuran drawled as she snatched the wayward cigarettes from the coffee table next to Jin's couch. Lazy ruby eyes regarded the unopened paper box with undisguised disdain, a sigh dragging itself out of her cherry lips as she tore the seal open. Popping one out, she tossed the rest of the pack towards Tohma as she dug into her skirt pocket to grab a lighter.

“I'll send you to the damn hospital if you don't shut that insolent mouth of yours up,” Jin growled, lowering his arm to glare balefully at Suzuran, a leg dangling off the edge of the couch as the other lay across the couch. His white dress shirt, full of unrealized potential to be crisply pressed and unwrinkled, lay like a crumpled tissue across his toned body - two buttons rendered unused, the collar of the shirt ajar to reveal unmarred jade skin and a polished silver necklace. Snowy hair tipped in winter blue hung over his spiteful eyes, only to be combed back with a veiny hand.

“You wound me,” Suzuran quipped, lighting the cigarette and approaching Jin from behind, a hand resting on the couch's wooden frame as she leaned over Jin's head to bring the lit tobacco to his lips. A cheeky grin settled on her lips as soft tendrils of her lavender hair wafted around Jin's face, encapsulating him in a cage of those silken strands. “I'll need compensation for dealing with your bullshit all the time,” she chuckled as he grumpily snatched the cigarette from her fingers, smacking her hand away and breathing in a long drag from the cancer stick.

“Stop stalling and get to the point. Tohma, quit your lurking and come here,” Jin ordered as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling and cushioned his head with a hand, the cigarette limply hanging from his lips as a trail of smoke rose mesmerizingly from its embers.

“I was simply awaiting permission to step foot within your pristine sanctuary,” Tohma uttered smoothly as he stepped forward, stopping a few feet away from the couch as Suzuran stepped away from the moody captain, opting to lurk near the doors in hopes that she could slip away in time for the cafeteria lunch sale.

“Bullshit,” Jin muttered as he closed his eyes, a prominent wrinkle appearing on his brow.

Says you, Suzuran snorted to herself as she turned towards the doorway, then paused as she noticed a timid face peeking hesitantly through the parted doors. Round hazel eyes widened as she noticed the beauty's gaze, a blush of embarrassment dusting the brunette's cheeks. “Who might you be?” Suzuran asked gently, a soft smile brightening her face as she held one of the doors open for the shorter girl.

“Pardon me… I've come to introduce myself to Frostheim's captain at the Chancellor’s request,” the girl said, her fingers fiddling nervously with a button on her blazer as she looked into Suzuran's ruby eyes with no small amount of awe.

“Introduce… Oh, you must be the honor student that the Chancellor was talking about at the entrance ceremony! I caught a glimpse of your cute face from a distance, but I must say that you're absolutely adorable up close,” Suzuran gushed as she reached down to clasp the honor student's left hand between her own, lifting it up with a wide grin.

“C-cute!? Such flattering words are wasted on me,” the brunette denied vehemently, her blush growing even as her nervousness shrank due to the other woman's overflowing goodwill.

“Your modesty makes you even cuter-” Suzuran insisted before a resounding crash interrupted her and caused the brunette to violently jump, a disgruntled sigh escaping Suzuran's mouth at Jin’s following words.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, a glare akin to a freshly sharpened dagger piercing through the distance between the two men and women.

“Show some decency,” Suzuran scowled as she raised an arm to shield the honor student from his ire. “That's no way to talk to someone, and you know it.”

“Like I give a damn. Tohma, use a match on the intruder,” Jin ordered as he took another drag from his cigarette.

This little fucker- Suzuran cursed inwardly even as a strained smile forced its way to her face, stopping Tohma on his tracks with a wave of her hand. “If you ever left your glorified man cave, you would know that the matches don't work on her. A curse, apparently,” she elaborated, knowing that the captain wouldn't know about the curse.

“A curse, huh?” Jin muttered as he stood up, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch and throwing it over his shoulders as he strode towards the two women.

Just wear the damn thing like a normal person… Suzuran deadpanned before her thoughts were disrupted by Jin's foot slamming into the door behind them. The honor student quaked in fear as Suzuran simply gazed into her captain's eyes with disdain.

“I've had enough of your mouth, Suzuran. My room has anomalous soundproofing,” Jin growled lowly, leaning forward so that the cigarette hanging from his lips drew dangerously close to Suzuran's own lips. “No matter what I do to you two… no matter how much you scream and cry, nobody's gonna hear you.”

“I could say the same thing to you,” Suzuran shot back challengingly, her mouth twisted into a mocking smile and her chin tilted up as she stared down her captain with smoldering fury in the ruby depths of her eyes.

A wolf with fangs of fire and a tiger with claws of ice clashed within the spacious room, the tension between them weighing down like a boulder upon the two other people unfortunate enough to be in the same space. After a heartbeat more, Jin lowered his leg and spun around, his footsteps echoing into the space growing between him and his liaison.

“I never want to see your faces in here again. Same goes for you, Tohma,” he ordered, dropping onto his couch and resuming his recline, the arm thrown across his eyes a clear indication of his desire to have them gone.

“Suzuran, if you would,” Tohma whispered into her ear, somehow materializing beside her with a hand on the handle of the door.

“I know. See you later, Tohma. Miss Honor Student, let's go,” Suzuran bade, a gentle hand on the brunette's back as they retreated from the source of the migraine quickly making its presence known within the crown of Suzuran's head.

Fuck you too, Kamurai.

[iboatedhere]

I saw the word "farmhouse" in the Henry POV chapter and promptly lost it. Thanks @rmd-writes @pragmatic-optimist and @welcometololaland for all the hand-holding you've done and will continue to do.

Tagging @rmd-writes @welcometololaland @lemonlyman-dotcom @beautifulhigh @basilsunrise @ramblingdisaster73

--

It takes two trips to unload everything he bought. The stairs are one challenge and David is another, twirling around his feet, happy to see him even though he was only gone for a short time. 

He changes into his designated work jeans, already  broken in and comfortable with a tear at the left knee and a stubborn leather polish stain on the thigh, and one of Alex’s old t-shirts, so old and threadbare he’s surprised it surprised the journey from Brooklyn. 

He takes off his wedding ring and leaves it in the gold keepsakes box on the top of their dresser, not willing to take any chances after losing it in the barn. They had found both their rings almost side by side the morning after with the metal detector. Alex had started waxing lyrical about how it must have been fate and Henry, who was so thankful to have the ring back tucked both rings safely into the front pocket of his shirt then hauled Alex into the tack room then dropped to his knees to thank him. 

In his office he pushes all the boxes out of the way then lays the drop cloths over everything. He tapes off the baseboard and around the ceiling and all the electrical outlets and switches. 

He sits back on the floor and surveys the work he’s already done, knowing he hasn’t even done the hard part yet. 

Primer, Matt had said, was an important first step. 

Henry puts the first coat on too thick and it drips off the roller onto the cloth, immediately proving their worth. 

He learns from his mistakes and gets the proper coating of primer on the wall, stopping halfway to throw the windows open and fetch a fan from downstairs to cut down on drying time and help ventilate the fumes. 

He’d never hear the end of it from Alex if he’s almost passed out again. 

While the primer dries he takes a break for lunch and takes David on a walk. Back upstairs he cracks open the bucket of Oak Grove, a moss green that reminds him of early spring at Balmoral. 

He’s halfway through the second coat when Alex arrives, stepping through the front door with a loud “honey, I’m home,” greeting. 

“Upstairs,” Henry calls. 

“Still?” Alex hollers, followed by the sound of him climbing the stairs taking them two at a time. “Did you pass out from the fumes?”

“Not once,” Henry promises as Alex slides into the doorway and huffs. 

“Holy fuck.”

“Do you like it?” Henry asks, stepping back and admiring his work. “I can��t believe how many colors there are to choose from. Do you know that there are one hundred seventy seven different shades of white?”

“Does it remind you of looking at your family tree?”

“Need I remind you you’re now a part of that tree? A little dash connects me to you forever.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that everyone else is beige to extra beige and that’s not what I was talking about.”

“But do you like the color? I thought maybe it was too dark but there’s plenty of light from the windows—.”

“I wasn’t talking about the color I was talking about you. Jesus tits, look at you.”

Henry looks down at his paint splattered outfit. “What about it?”

“What about—what about it? It’s everything. It’s unlocking a very specific fantasy that I never knew I needed. It’s like you’re the hot handyman and I’m the overworked, under-sexed—.”

“You have never once been under-sexed your entire adult life.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Handyman Henry, or I'll...dock your pay? No, that’s a douchebag move, I would never do that and depending on the contract you signed–illegal. Are you in a union? What am I talking about, this is my sexual fantasy, of course you’re in a union.”

“My god. You’re worried about my contract but not the legality of propositioning your employee? 

“Who said I was going to be the one propositioning you? Nah, you’re gonna come onto me.” 

“Am I now?” 

Alex hums and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna be in the kitchen making my dinner for one and you’re gonna come downstairs with a wound that needs to be tended to.”

“How do I wound myself?”

“I don’t know…opening a paint can? Don’t you have to shove a little thing under the rim and pop it out?”

“These cans actually have a very convenient pour spout. Matt, the clerk at the hardware store said it was a new feature. He's a nice kid. I thought he had a bit of a crush on me.”

“Of course he did, look at you.”

“Turns out he’s a fan of both of us.”

“Of course he is, look at me.”

“I am looking at you. I’m looking at you leaning against wet paint.”

“Oh shit,” Alex says as he pulls himself away from the wall.

[helenanell]

✟ GNASHING OF TEETH ✟

Matt Murdock x FemOC

Warnings: ANGST - Mention of suicide and murder - Religious trauma.

Notes: Childhood friends / sweethearts to strangers

This started as a oneshot idea because I wanted to explore the darker, religious themes of season 3 and it’s grown into a story that spans the entirety of the season…oops.

(My Faceclaim is Melissa Barrera - specifically as Sam Carpenter)

WC: 6.5K

⋆✟⋆

Part I – Self-Flagellation

(Season 3 – Ep 1)

⋆✟⋆

In all the memories Adriana had of her mother, Gloria Crane was always wearing her crucifix.

The outline of it, visible beneath the white nightgown she’d wear when tucking her into bed. The way it would glint in the light of the sun when they walked through the park. It was always present even if it wasn’t visible.

Omnipresent.

All those remembrances were faded to her now; washed out by the harsh years after her mother’s death that had stripped anything good away.

And yet, despite time’s unrelenting forward march, there was one memory of the golden crucifix that remained brutally vivid: it’s usually immaculate surface splattered with blood.

The symbol of the cross that had always represented Jesus’ sacrifice, became instead the reminder that her mother was the sacrifice her father had made to live selfishly.

Adriana had come to be as grateful of the necklace as she was resentful of it. If she had not had it to look upon after the shooting, she might have been forever haunted by the sight of her mother’s open, unseeing eyes instead.

Once they had no longer needed it as evidence, the police had returned the necklace to Adriana’s father and he in turn had given it to her. She could still feel the way his hands had trembled as he’d placed it around her neck, insisting through sobs that she had to wear it for her mother. One of his nails had nicked the back of her neck.

You have to wear it, Ana. Wear it and never take it off. For her.

As the cross had come to rest upon her neck, Adriana had barely swallowed down her scream. Even though it had been cleaned and polished until it gleamed, she had still been able to see the blood. Twenty years later, she saw it still.

Once Adriana had grown up, she had come to the understand why: Christ had been nailed to his cross, nails driven into his flesh, red running in rivulets down his palms; God didn’t mind if things got bloody. In fact, it seemed to Adriana that he preferred it.

The sort of devotion God demanded was an exsanguination. His salvation only came if you bled yourself dry. And even then, he could choose to withhold it.

The nuns had never liked it when Adriana would talk like that. The admonishment of ‘wicked child!’ would still ring in her head when her thoughts became blasphemous.

Not that Adriana had ever cared what the sisters had thought of her, those faithful women who she knew believed that her father had condemned himself to hell when he’d killed himself. They’d never said it to her face, of course, but they’d also never comforted or reassured over it either. Except Sister Maggie. She’d been different.

But even back then, Adriana had known a truth she had no desire to share with the nuns: it would have made no difference if her father had taken his own life or not, because his soul had been damned long before he’d put that gun to his head.

Elliot ‘Eli’ Crane had sold his soul, not to the devil, but a man worse than any biblical evil the children of St Agnes had been taught about.

It had never been the devil Adriana had feared. The devil punished the people that deserved it; he was a necessary evil. She had never been sure he could be considered evil at all.

Humans had made the world hell, and perhaps inadvertently they had made the devil too. He was their consequence.

Those were thoughts that she had never dared voice to the nuns, not even to Sister Maggie.

It wasn’t that Adriana had ever stopped believing in God, she had just found increasingly less deserving of worship.

And yet, even though it had been over a decade since she had left St Agnes, she repeatedly wound up back in the church that she had refused to pray in as a child.

Adriana did not return to seek comfort. As it always was, it had instead been spite that had her dragging herself bruised and beaten into Clinton Church that morning. She had wanted to bloody up God’s house that little bit more. And, as it always did, her mother’s crucifix burned into her flesh where it sat tucked beneath her shirt.

Ignore the sting. Adriana told herself.

Let it all be bloody.

As the weeping of a woman a few rows behind Adriana intensified, she leant forward and rested her head on the back of the pew in front. The carved wood dug into her skin, but instead of wincing at the discomfort, Adriana found herself pressing down a little bit harder.

Perhaps inflicting pain on herself would give her the power over the agony brought about by her fractured ribs.

Her attacker hadn’t kicked her all that hard, but the bastard had been wearing steel-capped boots. Too bad for him his shirt hadn’t been similarly well armoured. Adriana’s knife had sunk into his gut as easily as cutting into air. In her dazed state she had only become certain she had succeeded in stabbing him when she had pulled the blade back and found blood upon it.

Let it all be bloody.

Adriana had known the job was a risky one, but they seemed to be the only kind she took anymore. And she was good at it. Despite the beating, she had retrieved her client’s money in half the time that he had given her.

Her skin had just begun to sting where the wood was digging in when Adriana noted the scuffing of approaching footsteps. With exhaustion a leaden weight inside her skull, it took great effort for her to lift her head, but she forced herself.

“Took you long enough.” Adriana grumbled as she sat up with a wince. “I’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“You’ve been sitting there for five minutes.” Father Lantom corrected wryly. The priest sat himself down next to Adriana and she laughed weakly at the small grunt he let out.

“You’re getting old.” She’d practically heard his limbs protesting at the movement, as if he had hinges that had gone to rust.

“I’ve been getting old for a while now; you just haven’t been around enough to notice.”

There was no judgement in the priest’s voice and yet the words cut her all the same. Adriana told herself to turn her head and look at him, to apologise for disappearing yet again. For letting him worry. But she didn’t do that.

At that moment she was beholden to the sight before her: the sun had shifted in the sky and the new angle had sunbeams travelling through crimson panes of stained-glass. The Pulpit, the first rows of pews and the people praying upon them, were all bathed in the red light.

Adriana would have remained transfixed until the red was washed away by a purer light, but Father Lantom had other ideas. The priest cleared his throat and began to speak.

“You know, to this day we’ve never had a child run away as much as you did. But now that you’re all grown up, we can’t seem to keep you out.” A sadness had snuck out upon his words and Adriana rushed to dispel it.

“Yeah, well that’s not exactly a compliment, Father. The wind could pick the locks you have on these doors.”

As she suspected, Father Lantom was not willing to abide her evasiveness. He never was. “It’s been over a year, Adriana.” He pointed out, sterner now.

Adriana forced herself turn her head and properly look at him. The sight of the priest struck a blow she was neither prepared for, nor had the strength to deflect in her injured state. He really did look older. Not just older- old.

Only when Adriana made eye contact with him, did he finish his thought:

“I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”

You and me both. Her insipid inner voice hissed.

“Well, as you can see-“Adriana gestured at her bedraggled form. “I’m still alive and kicking.”

“That’s debatable.” Father Lantom said, poking the ribs she had just been cradling. Ana hissed in pain, swatting his hand away with a scowl. “From the looks of you, kicking is off the table.”

“I didn’t come here for you to scold me.” Adriana said, her pain compounded by his worry.

Why was he concerned? She’d never asked him to be. Never expected it. She’d certainly caused him enough problems growing up that she’d been certain he’d be happy to see the back of her. The woman she had become was far from godly.

Father Lantom’s frown vanished, and he laid a hand atop hers. “You come here because for you, it’s a form of self-flagellation. So, what did you do this time, Adriana?”

The white of the priest’s collar seemed all at once blinding and Adriana had to turn her eyes away, blinking rapidly.

“I’ve never let you take my confession, Father. I’m not about to start now.”

“Oh, I’ve never expected that day to come. Even at ten I knew you were too stubborn to ever ask God for his forgiveness.”

“Maybe it’s not his to give.” Instead of sounding angry, Adriana’s voice came out weak and pitiful. She never should have come. She’d been doing so well at staying away.

Cut all ties. That had been the only thought she’d run from St Agnes with, and yet those ties seemed to be made of something she did not have the strength to cut. Adriana had remained bound to this place no matter how hard she’d tried.

“Maybe you feel that way because you still haven’t forgiven God, for taking your mother from you. A woman who was so devoted to him.”

A golden cross covered in blood.

Ana shut her eyes and ran her hands over her face, hoping the priest had depleted his hard truths. He hadn’t.

“There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.” Father Lantom said as he stood, beckoned by an elderly woman two rows ahead. “Some might call it divine intervention, that you’ve both found your way home.”

The priest did not stop, and Adriana was left to gape at his back as he wandered down the aisle. Her heart beat angry against her ruined ribs.

‘There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.’

Adriana frantically turned the words over in her mind, as if there was some great mystery to them, some trick or hidden meaning. But she knew there wasn’t.

There was—and had only ever been—one person she’d ever think to seek forgiveness from, but Adriana had promised herself a long time ago that she would never seek him out. It would be selfish, and she was utterly undeserving of him.

Let it all be bloody.

But that had never applied to him. She had wanted him far away from her; the only way she knew she couldn’t inflict harm.

It’s why, at the age of eighteen, she had run from Matthew Murdock and never looked back.

⋆✟⋆

There was still a dent in the wall. A witness mark of the first fight she’d ever had, aged thirteen. Adriana had been aiming for Billy Murphy’s head when she’d thrown the baseball, but he’d ducked at the last second and the wall had taken the brunt of her anger. She had always known people would find out who her father had been eventually, but she hadn’t prepared herself for a rat-faced idiot to scrawl that truth all over her schoolbooks:

Adriana Crane Killer!

He had done it to every single one. She imagined he thought that was a nice touch: making the word blood-red. But it was the exclamation mark that had felt especially spiteful to her. She could have sworn the groove was deeper, as if he was so pleased with himself, he’d pressed down harder with the pen.

When Adriana had confronted him about it, his tiny eyes had shone with glee, his thin lips pulling back in a mocking smile.

‘I fixed them.’ He’d declared, looking around the room, his eyes taking on an anticipatory gleam as he’d met the eyes of the other watching on. It was as if he was about to let them in on some brilliant joke. ‘Your dad did kill people, right? He was hitma-‘

Billy didn’t get to finish his sentence before Adriana had hit him square in the face. His shock had quickly turned to embarrassment and then fury, leading to a lot of shoving and scratching surrounded by cheers and shouts for Sister Maggie.

Adriana couldn’t remember how she’d gotten her hands on the baseball—although there was a likely culprit for who would have handed it to her—all she knew was that she’d been aiming for a face, and it had imbedded in drywall instead.

Adriana stepped closer to the wall and ran her fingers over the dent. After the initial patch-up job by Father Lantom, the wall’s wound had been forgotten and had remained even when Adriana had left. In the intervening years, some attempt had been made to properly fill the hole, but it had been a poor one. The damage she had caused remained.

Adriana had spent the last decade scratching and clawing at the world around her, doing anything she could in attempt to feel real and yet there had been evidence of her anger right here all that time.

Something about that made her smile.

The door creaked open. Assuming that the very chatty nun she’d let slip had tracked her down, Adriana didn’t turn around. Instead, she opted to try and memorise the sight of the dent for a little longer. She managed it for only a few seconds before she heard the tell-tale shuffling of tiny feet. Then there were poorly whispered words, urging each other to enter the room first.

Adriana turned and laid her eyes upon the source of the noise. Two girls were peaking their heads through the open door of the classroom, their eyes curious and unblinking. Neither could be older than six.

“Hello.” Adriana said gently, offering them a wave. Her smile widened when the smallest of the two waved back before quickly ducking away with her chubby cheeks flushing pink.

The second girl stepped into the classroom with a defiant expression. She was strikingly wiry for her age, with golden hair in braids so messy that they may as well not have been braids anymore.

“Who are you?” She asked suspiciously.

Adriana immediately warmed to her. All girls should be encouraged to be suspicious, Adriana felt. Distrust kept you safe.

“I’m Adriana.” She offered as she moved to stand before her. “I grew up here.”

“Why were you staring at the wall?”

Adriana glanced back at the dent and shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

This answer induced a perplexed expression so cartoonish that Adriana struggled not to laugh. The girl looked at the wall and then back up at her. Her bright blue eyes narrowed.

“You came back to stare at the wall?”

“No.” Adriana laughed good-naturedly. “But I think maybe you could help me?”

“Help with what?” The smaller girl reappeared in the doorway, looking a little braver.

Adriana knelt in front of the pair. Only a few hours had passed since her conversation with Father Lantom and her body protested the movement, a sharp pain digging into her side.

“What are your names?” She asked, pushing the pain out of her voice.

To her surprise, the shy girl answered first, all but blurting it out: “I’m Mia!”

Adriana nodded, her smile returning. She turned her eye to the second half of the pair, who seemed a little less hostile. “And you?”

“Sarah.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Could you tell me if there’s been any other strangers here recently? Maybe a man with-“

Adriana was cut off by Mia’s dramatic gasp. But it was Sarah, who divested her caution in an instant to speak first.

“He was really hurt. Sister Maggie wouldn’t let us see him.”

A searing sort of concern Adriana hadn’t felt in a long time rose within her and she had to force herself to take a breath.

But none of it made any sense.

Why would Matt come back here? Why is he hurt?

Matt had been on the path to better things. His life was going to be good. Better than all the pain that had come before; better than her. And Adriana knew that it had been- that it was. She had checked in on him as much as she dared in the initial years after she’d left. He had got into Columbia. He had gone to Harvard Law.

Take a breath. Adriana admonished herself. Don’t freak out little kids.

Adriana adjusted her tone to gentle curiosity. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“No.” Sarah said as Mia shook her head. “But it was bad. Sister Maggie’s been helping him.” The searing intensified and then Adriana’s insides were burning. Helping. Not helped. Adriana latched onto the present-tense with a desperation that would have sickened her had had it been for anyone other than Matt.

“Is he still here?”

At that question, the girl’s eyes shot to each other, both equally unsure now. Mia turned around, looking out of the open door. When she looked back, she was chewing on her lip.

Knowing she had to tread carefully, but with confusion and fear now warring within her, Adriana leant closer.

“How about you whisper it?”

“God can hear us even when we whisper.” Sarah said with all the confidence a six-year-old could muster.

“Nope.” Adriana shook her head. “He can’t.”

“He can!”

“Maybe he used to be able to, but God is really old and old people have terrible hearing. Like Father Lantom.” Adriana winked at Mia and the giggle it triggered soothed some of Adriana’s stress, if only for the moment.

Then, Mia leaned in, cupped her hand around Adriana’s ear and whispered: “They told us he left, but he’s in the church basement.”

The basement. Matt had been right below her feet when she’d been talking to Father Lantom. Which meant…he could have heard every word. Adriana’s gut twisted violently.

Leave. He doesn’t need you. He never did.

Adriana shook the thoughts away. She stood up so quickly that it caused both girls to stumble backwards. But she was blind to it. Blind to them and their faces that were pinched with worry over talking to her, fearful of getting in trouble.

Adriana at least had enough wherewithal to smile as she stepped around them, but her ‘thank you’ was so rushed it was rendered unintelligible.

The basement had always been off-limits to the children of the orphanage, the hallway that led to the steps that descended into the earth barred by a metal door that was always kept locked. It was a tradition passed down in St Agnes for the older children to convince the youngest that there was a Hellhound down there.

And yet, as Adriana made her way out of the orphanage and back to the church in a daze, part of her felt as if she was about to enter the belly of some great beast.

When she pulled on the metal door and it opened, scraping against the stone tiles that lined the ground, dread took hold of her throat and squeezed. A large part of her had hoped it would be locked; that the girls had sent her on harmless wild-goose chase and Matt was long gone. If he’d ever been here at all.

But they hadn’t. And the door opened.

Adriana’s footsteps echoed down the cavernous hallway, an unwelcome accompaniment to her rapid heartbeat. The top of the staircase came into view, illuminated by the light streaming down from the window opposite. The top step was limned with a light that almost seemed to pulsate. It felt like an invitation. Descend deeper. It urged. Down in the earth something good awaits you. Someone good.

Adriana took another step. Her shadow encroached upon the light. She waited. Held her breath. But her darkness did not spread.

Then, she heard it. The scuffing of quick feet on stone. Grunts of exertion and the thumps of cushioned blows. Adriana’s brow drew in confusion as she made her way down the steps.

Halfway down, Father Lantom came into view, watching two men box. Although his back was to her, Adriana identified Matt in ana instant. When he jumped back to avoid a punch, she got a glimpse of the side of his face. He’d changed so much in twelve years, but she wasn’t convinced she’d need sight to recognise him. He’d certainly know her from much less.

And yet, the image of Adriana had cultivated of him in her mind, of the successful, happy and—most important of all—the safe lawyer, was torn through like tissue paper by what she saw.

Matt’s torso covered in scars that could only have come from the sharpest of blades, wielded with the intent to inflict devastating damage. There were recent injuries too: muscled flesh mottled by bruises, a slash just above his hipbone held together by butterfly stiches.

Adriana’s synapses fired to draw a conclusion that she had long resisted, despite her suspicions. Even though there had always been something so startlingly familiar about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen- a recognition of the figure who’d garbed himself in shadow, his eyes covered by that black mask; something that would have hindered any normal man. But not him. He was unseeing and yet moved through the world as if he’d made it.

Adriana had known, but long-lied to herself. It was why she had taken increasingly less jobs within Hell’s Kitchen, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge why. Not even to herself.

The men danced around each other, landing blow after blow.

Adriana took another step down. And then another. Only then did she realise sister Maggie was there too, watching on in concern.

Then, right as her foot hit the bottom step, Matt’s opponent landed a blow that sent him to the ground. Adriana felt the impact her chest. It rattled her ruined ribs.

As Matt tried and failed to lift his head, Father Lantom rushed forward and leant over him, the lines of his face deepening with concern.

“Matthew.” The priest called out. “Matthew!”

Adriana’s breath faltered, her mind stuttering like a failing engine. She looked down at the man on the floor, his face covered in blood and his torso a tapestry of pain, each scar a thread. Light rushed in through the stained-glass windows that bore saints with open hands. The coloured beams danced upon the concrete around Matt’s fallen form. Also staring down at him, were multiple angel statues.

Adriana shook her head, refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing. They couldn’t have ended up in the same place; broken and bruised in the basement of the Church that had raised them. Matt was meant to go on and do great things. He was meant to better than her. It’s why she’d left him and never looked back, lest she be the weight chained to him the dragged him into the darkness her father had lived in and from which she’d been born. She had always known that she was destined to return to it; you couldn’t run from what you were.

And yet, as Matt remained unmoving Adriana took the final step down and found herself adding her voice to Father Lantom’s. Adriana whispered his name, but unlike God, she knew that he’d hear her. Matt had always heard her.

“Matt.”

His head rolled to the side right in the direction of where she stood at the bottom of the steps. His bloodied lips uttered her name in answer.

“Ana?”

Matt’s eyes were already drooping closed, but even as he lost consciousness, he lifted a shaking hand off the floor and reached out for her.

⋆✟⋆

20 Years Ago…

Adriana had been told that it would get easier, but she had been at St Agnes for two weeks and she felt worse with each passing day. She’d wake, and the first thought would be of home and then her eyes would open to the reality that she didn’t have one anymore. Her father had left her alone.

‘I leave you in the hands of God.’

That’s what the letter he’d left her said.

Well, if that was true then God’s grip on her was far from kind; it was crushing.

Adriana hated St Agnes. She hated all of the nuns, and their pitying looks and pious words. The other kids had tried to speak to her, but she’d turned away from all of them. She was alone, and that wasn’t going to change, no matter how many fellow orphans swarmed around her.

More shouts of excitement wriggled into the room through the gap in the window. Recess had just begun, but Adriana had remained in the classroom, staring up at the chalk scrawl left behind from Sister Dora’s math lesson.

One of the nun’s would come and find her soon, but to slow down the process she had moved to the back of the room and was sitting against the back wall, the floorboards beneath her creaking when she made the smallest of movements.

Adriana drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She wanted to curl into herself so tightly that no one would be able to pry her apart. Not even God.

At the sound of the door clicking open, Adriana pressed her face further into her knees and screwed her eyes shut as tight as she could. She willed whoever it was to go away and could not find it in herself to lift her head and say the words.

But it wasn’t a nun’s voice she heard. It wasn’t a voice at all. There was a sort of tapping against the floorboards that grew closer and closer. Still, Adriana did not look up.

“Are you alright?”

That was certainly not a nun. Despite her determination to stay in the dark, Adriana opened her eyes and raised them to see the boy standing in front of her. The tapping sound made sense once her eyes alighted on the cane he held. She knew who he was. Matthew. He seemed to prefer to be left alone as much as she did and in the week since she’d been at St Agnes, he was the only kid who hadn’t tried to speak to her. Perhaps that’s why she found herself answering his question.

“No.” Her throat was dry and voice weak from lack of use and the word came out as a whisper. Adriana worried for a second that he might not have heard her, but he soon offered up a reply.

“Can I sit with you?”

Adriana waited for the monster had taken up residence inside her to lash out and shout at him to leave her alone, but it didn’t. There was only silence. She took a moment to watch Matthew. He was standing patiently, a kind almost-smile on his face. His eyes were hidden but rectangular tinted glasses and his brown hair fell over his forehead.

Adriana shrugged and then felt immediately embarrassed for doing so. He couldn’t see. With her cheeks flaming, Adriana finally answered him.

“If you want to.” She said.

Slowly by assuredly, Matthew closed the distance between them. He stopped and folded up his cane before using his hand to find the wall and guide himself down to sit beside her.

“I’m Matt.”

Matt. Not Matthew. She told herself not to forget that and then was immediately confused as to why she cared. He wasn’t her friend. And if she had anything to do with it, he was never going to be.

And yet, she offered her name up in return. “Adriana.” Then, almost against her own will she added. “My mom called me Ana.”

She felt Matt angle his face in her direction, so she snapped her eyes forward and went back to staring at the equations on the chalkboard.

“Do you want me to call you Ana?” He asked.

Something about the softness with which she’d asked made her want to cry. To her horror, she found her eyes prickling with tears.

Somehow, Matt seemed to know and rushed to apologise. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t if it upsets you.”

Adriana blinked the tears away. “No.” She blurted out, surprising even herself. “You can.”

“Okay.”

A few seconds passed and the silence that descended didn’t feel suffocating. In fact, Adriana found that the crushing grip that had held her since her father died, had eased up just a bit. Breathing became a little easier.

“Does everyone know why I’m here?” Adriana didn’t know why she’d asked; she knew that they did. Not because the nuns had loose-lips, but because it had been all over the news:

Mob Hitman Shoots himself on Anniversary of Wife’s Murder

“Yeah, they all know.” Matt said, not unkindly.

Adriana waited for the unconvincing ‘sorry for your loss’ that people usually offered up by that point, but it didn’t come. Matt just sat beside her, unspeaking and somehow his silence felt kinder than any of the words she’d been offered since her arrival.

Adriana had swallowed down so much condolence laced with contempt at her father’s funeral that she’d felt ill. And all of them had given by people who she knew had held no love for her father. No doubt they thought that Elliot Crane’s suicide was the first good thing he’d ever done in his life. Adriana had actually heard a woman mutter something to that effect, not realising that she had been passing right behind her.

He had been there too. And while his condolences had been the most convincing, something about them had made Adriana’s skin crawl.

The hardest part of all, was that Adriana felt like grieving her father was a betrayal of her mother. She was only nine when she’d been shot in front of her, and even then, she’d known it was because of what her father did-Who he worked—and had spent the past year hating him for it. And then he’d died too and she’d she could feel both love and hate at the same time. Or maybe she’d never hated him. She still wasn’t sure.

All Adriana could truly recall happening in the year since her mother had been murdered, was her father getting sadder. When he got drunk—which near the end had been a daily occurrence—he would cry and tell Adriana that her mother had left her behind to haunt him.

‘You’re haunting me. Haunting me for her.’

Adriana had no longer been his daughter, but an apparition. She could still feel the way his nails would dig into her cheeks when he grabbed her face. His alcoholic breath would burn her skin and cause her already tear-filled eyed to sting. She had always wanted to scream, tell him that he was hurting her and that you couldn’t hurt ghosts. But she never did. She had just stayed quiet and led his grief rip into her.

Adriana knew that he had loved her. At least, he had loved her in the way he was capable of, but he had seen her as his punishment and that was something he’d always been good at running from.

And yet, she missed him.

As upsetting as it had been, the pain that had come when he had gripped her face, had been the only way she had known for sure that she was real. It was a cruelty that made her corporeal. So, now that her father was dead and his grip had disappeared, Adriana was terrified that she would disappear too.

She wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t already.

Adriana was snapped out of her thoughts by the feel of Matt’s hand brushing hers. Only then, did she realise that she had tears rolling down her cheeks. Adriana’s sight turned watery, and the chalk equations blurred into an indiscernible smear of white.

Without a word, Matt closed the rest of the distance and took Adriana’s hand in his. When he squeezed tighter, Adriana knew she had not disappeared.

⋆✟⋆

An angel loomed over Adriana’s shoulder. It was set beside the pillar she was leaning against, completely silent in its stone casting and yet loud in her ear.

Father Lantom had gone to show the consternated boxer out, leaving only Sister Maggie, Adriana and an unconscious Matt in the basement.

He was laid out on a small bed pushed up against the far wall. Adriana had placed herself as far away as she could, whilst still being able to talk to the nun who was perched on the edge of the bed.

Half the room separated them and yet Adriana had attuned herself to the sound of his breathing as she watched his chest rise and fall.

“Why is he here?” Adriana asked quietly. “What happened?”

Sister Maggie’s eyes did not move from Matt’s face. They held a tenderness Adriana hadn’t thought the woman possessed. “Those answers are not mine to give.”

Adriana swallowed down the worst of her frustration, her hands scrunched into fists. Her nails dug into her palms. Not deep enough.

When Adriana spoke again, she did so to the ground. “He’s Daredevil.”

Sister Maggie remained silent and when Adriana looked up, she’d gone utterly still. Still, but not with fear. There’s was fierce protectiveness in the gaze that was now directed squarely on her. Adriana struggled not to squirm.

“Do you plan on sharing that with anyone?” The nun asked, eerily calm.

“Why would I?” A burning indignance moved through Adriana and yet she understood the sister’s caution.

“You’re fortunate that you haven’t encountered him out there, given the line of work you’ve chosen.”

Given that you’re a criminal. Was what the nun didn’t say.

Given that Adriana had become the kind of person that Daredevil caught. The kind of person that he despised.

“You mean that I’m fortunate that he hasn’t stopped me?” Adriana said heatedly.

The nun shook her head. “No. Stopping you would mean confronting what you’ve become, and his heart has been broken one too many times for him to bear that. I rather suspect that he’s done everything in his power to avoid you.”

“Then why ask me to stay until he wakes up?” Adriana said, exasperated.

“Will you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, standing all the way over there won’t do you any good.” Sister Maggie said. “He’ll know you were here. He already knows.”

“He was knocked out.”

Sister Maggie cast Adriana an unimpressed look. “He won’t wake up having forgotten that you were here. That would truly be a miracle.”

Adriana pushed of the column and ran a hand through her knotted hair. “Then tell him that he imagined it. Imagined me.”

“No.”

Adriana had to fight to keep her voice down. “Why not? It’ll make everything so much easier.”

“For him or for you?” Sister Maggie accused.

“Both.” Adriana replied, not even convincing herself.

“You disappeared from his life once already, Adriana. If you’re going to do it again, I will have no part in it. You came down here to find him, now follow through.”

There was no scorn in sister Maggie’s voice now, only brittle sort of sadness. A sadness that could easily shatter into something sharper. Adriana would have preferred her scorn. That at least was an emotion she was familiar with the woman expressing.

The nun looked back at Adriana and whatever she saw made her sigh. She stood slowly, so as not to disturb Matt, and made her way over to her. She surprised Adriana further by placing her hands gently on her arm’s, holding her in place. The sister’s demeanour didn’t soften, but a hard-edged concern appeared on her severe face.

“If you want to go, then go, but you will only be causing more pain. For Matthew and for you. And I quite think you’ve both had more than your fair share of that.”

Adriana scoffed. “Because pain is only fair if it’s inflicted by God, right?”

Sister Maggie tutted, but she didn’t let go of her. “You’re still as angry as ever, I see. Angry and afraid.”

“I’m not afraid—“

“I’m a nun, Adriana. I’ve seen fear made manifest in hundreds of ways in just as many people. You’re scared.” She looked back over at Matt. “Of him, and of what he’ll say to you. And you’re even more afraid of what he feels for you. Or rather, what he may no longer feel.”

Adriana wanted to grow angrier, to fill with a rage that would bolster her in the face of the indominable nun. But she didn’t. Instead, she deflated; she shrank down to the girl she had once been.

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Then why did he reach for you when he heard your voice?”

An unwelcome tightness formed in Adriana’s chest. She shook her head, as much to avoid the nun’s intense, knowing stare as it was to disagree with her.

“He shouldn’t have.” Adriana cast a look over at Matt and the tightness only worsened when she found his expression distressed, even in sleep.

Maggie gave Adriana a gentle shake. “You know, when you were children, we rejoiced and despaired at how tightly the two of you clung to each other. It made you both even more restless. You were always seeking each other out, never settled if the other was not in sight.”

“I don’t want him to seek me out, sister. Not now.”

A melancholy smile formed on the nun’s face. “And yet, you came down here in search of him.”

“I thought he was hurt.”

“He is.” Sister Maggie said, firm once more. “And if you go now, you’ll only compound it.”

“I’ll compound it by staying!” Adriana snapped. “You know what I am. I’m not…good for people. And Matt has always been good.”

“And yet here you both are, battered, bruised and hiding in a basement.” Adriana opened her mouth to argue but Maggie wasn’t finished with her. “Adriana, you have been telling yourself that you’re rotten to the core since you were ten. No one else thought it of you, least of all Matthew.”

Had Adriana believed God would ever deign to help her, she would have believed that her phone ringing was divine intervention.

As if she could read her thoughts, Sister Maggie raised her brow. “Saved by the bell.”

“I have to get this.” Adriana pulled away from the nun and turned, retrieving her phone from her pocket. But just before she began to ascend the steps, she found herself looking over her shoulder.

Sister Maggie had already returned to Matt’s bedside, her hand resting atop his.

“I’ll be back.” Adriana called out.

“You better.” Sister Maggie answered without looking up.

The buzzing of her phone forgotten, Adriana lingered just long enough to see Matt turn his head and his lips open to mutter something. Terrified that he’d begun to stir, Adriana all but sprinted up the steps and out of the church.

⋆✟⋆

‘And the angels will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’

Matthew 13:42

PART II