#TW: Depression
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Galladrabbles #125 - Trista Mateer poem
Thank you @ardent-fox for this week’s @galladrabbles prompt, it’s a perfect poem for them!
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It comes back in flashes sometimes, the drugs, the sex, the dirty decisions.
Mickey doesn’t care about the drugs, he knows that, but the sex? He remembers how pissed he got about the porno. It didn’t make sense at the time, when mania twisted his thoughts and made him focus on the money, but it makes sense now.
He tells Mickey about the guy; he doesn’t remember his name, but he remembers his face and the things he did.
He feels small, being held by Mickey like this, and thinks maybe he should feel weak. Instead, he feels loved, protected.
#tw: bipolar disorder#tw: mania#tw: depression#ian gallagher#mickey milkovich#gallavich#galladrabbles#shameless#my writing
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Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer featured in "Letters to Felice,"
#lit#franz kafka#letters#felice bauer#words#letter collection#fragments#quotes#writings#tw: depression#p
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chocolate chip cookies (alessia russo x depressed!reader)
when you quit the team, feeling lost, no one knows what to do, including you. you spend days curled up in bed, alone, until you meet alessia, your replacement, who brings you out of your shell and helps you find yourself again.
warnings: depression is a big topic in this one! no mention of s/h or suicidal thoughts, just overall depression. if you're feeling depressed, don't hesitate to reach out.
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When you tell the team that you’re quitting, the room goes silent. Then someone bursts out laughing. You’re not sure who, you’re staring at the ground, not wanting to look into the faces of your now former teammates. They think it’s a joke. It’s only when you turn around and leave without another word that they realise you’re being serious.
And you are. You've already spoken to Jonas - he tried to convince you to stay, but you’d made up your mind. He told you that whilst he couldn’t guarantee there would always be a spot for you on the team, there’d always be a spot for you at the club. You nodded, thanking him quietly. You won’t be going back, you know that, but it seems unnecessary to make this harder for everyone else.
You don’t go back to the training ground after you tell everyone. You’ve already packed all your things in your car, wanting to make your departure quick and easy. On the drive home, your phone keeps buzzing with messages and calls from your former teammates. When you’re at a red light, you turn your phone off.
You decided to leave a while ago. You’ve lost any passion for the game, and when you realised that you were just going through the movements, you decided it would be best for the team if you left. You were dead weight, taking up a spot that could be used by someone else. Someone better. Someone who cares.
When you get home, you leave everything in the car, even your phone. You go inside and go straight to your room, getting into bed. you’re just so tired. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, feeling slightly more peaceful now that you don’t have the prospect of quitting looming ahead.
You wake up to the sound of someone banging on your front door. Most of the day has passed, it’s getting dark outside. You lie there for a minute, waiting to see if the banging will stop, but it just gets more insistent. You sigh, dragging yourself out of bed and to the front door. When it opens, you see the faces of your teammates. Beth, Viv, Leah, Kim, Katie. The core five. They ask what’s going on, say that they’ve been trying to call you and message you all day. You walk past them to your car, get your phone out, shrug.
“I left my phone in the car,” you say. You watch them exchange glances.
Still, you don’t want to be a bad host. Or a bad friend - if they still consider you a friend. You decide that it’s understandable if they don’t. You invite them in, and they pile onto your sofa. Leah pulls a stool in front of the sofa, telling you to sit down. You sit. Five faces stare at you, expressions ranging from confused to worried to something like anger.
You didn’t mean to make anyone angry.
“What’s going on?” Kim asks, her captain voice on.
You shrug.
“Why would you quit?” Katie asks, frowning.
I’m not good enough, I'm bringing the team down, I don’t care about playing, the team deserves better, you all deserve better, runs through your head.
You shrug.
“Y/n, is something going on?” Viv asks, her voice gentle.
I’m tired, I don’t want to do this anymore, I just want to sleep, I wish I didn’t exist, life would be easier if I didn’t exist, I don’t understand why any of you are here, why do you care about me, I don’t care about me, I’m not worth caring about.
You shrug, then shake your head.
“I just don’t want to play anymore,” you finally say. You’re not sure if it’s the truth or not. You loved playing, once. You loved the feeling that you got when you were on the pitch, the way it made everything else melt away. But you haven’t had that feeling in a while. When you’re on the pitch, the voice telling you you’re not good enough follows you.
Your former teammates frown. They’re not convinced, and honestly, neither are you. You say that you’re tired, you want to sleep. They get the hint and leave, but not before each hugging you tightly, telling you to call them if you need anything. Beth and Viv promise to bring Myle around at the weekend, and Leah says she’ll come and see you tomorrow.
They keep it up for a few weeks, but the season is starting, and you know they’re busy. You spend your days at home, curled up in bed, cocooned in a blanket. You watch tv and scroll on your phone for hours. You order the food shopping to be delivered so you don’t even have to leave the house. Someone usually visits you on their day off, and the girls message you. You go over to Beth and Viv’s place, cuddle the dogs, watch tv there instead of in bed at home. It's okay. You’re fine. You don’t feel any better, really, but it’s fine.
It starts when you’re forced to go to a movie night. Leah promises it’s just a small group of the girls, she knows you don’t want to be faced with the whole team. She tells you that there’s one new girl there, the new signing, but that she’s really nice. On the day, you think about ways to get out of it - surely Leah can’t just force you to go?
She can and she does. She shows up at your house, tells you that she will pick you up and put you in the car if she has to. You crack a smile at the image. It’s the first time you’ve smiled in a while. Leah notices.
The movie night is at hers. She's picked you up early, and when you get back to her place she sets you to work, chopping fruits and veggies for a snack board. The doorbell rings, the first person arriving. You expect it to be maybe Beth and Viv, who are usually pretty punctual, but it’s the new girl. Alessia. You've seen her in person a couple of times, when the team played against Manchester United last season, but you were already feeling out of it and hadn’t paid much attention to her then.
She comes in, hugs Leah and smiles at you. You smile back. She asks if there’s anything she can do to help, and Leah directs her to some meat and cheese she’s put out that needs slicing. She's been seeing charcuterie boards on instagram a lot lately and wanted to try making one.
“You mean, you wanted to get us to make one for you,” Alessia teases, and you let out a small laugh. It surprises you, and Leah, whose mouth drops open slightly. Alessia doesn’t think twice of it - why would she, she’s never really met you before. She wouldn’t know that it’s the first time anyone has made you laugh in, well, months.
The evening goes well. It's nice to be around the girls. You don’t pay much attention to the movie, your brain feels too foggy to keep up with it. The mean voice returns, telling you that you’re just there because they feel sorry for you. You start picking at your nails.
“I like your nail polish,” Alessia leans over and says to you quietly. She’s sat next to you on the sofa.
“Oh, thanks,” you reply, taken aback. The nail polish is chipped and worn, remnants from Katie coming over and painting your nails a few weeks ago.
“It's a great colour. I like having my nails done but I'm terrible at leaving them alone. I fidget too much and I'm clumsy so I usually end up breaking at least one,” she tells you, looking at her own nails.
You nod, not saying anything. You wrack your brain, trying to think of what to say or how to act. It's been so long since you talked to anyone new that you feel like you’ve forgotten how to be normal.
“Um, you can borrow it, if you want,” you say. “The colour, I mean. I can give it to one of the girls to give to you.”
“Really? That’d be great!” she looks at you with a big smile. You feel an odd sensation in your stomach, like you’ve just had a hot drink and the warmth is trying to spread throughout your body.
You nod shyly, giving her a small smile.
After that night, she starts messaging you. The first message you write off as being about the nail polish. After all, why else would she message you? She keeps going, though. After she sends you a message thanking you for the nail polish, she mentions a book she’s reading. You’ve read it too, so you figure the polite thing to do is to ask her what she thinks of it so far. Then she asks you for recommendations. You’ve been reading a lot, lately, now that you have time. You send her a detailed list, then realise that maybe that’s too much, but you’ve sent it now. She replies with heart eyes and exclamation marks, so you think that maybe it was okay after all.
She asks if she can come over to borrow a book you’ve told her about. After a moment of hesitation, you say yes, she can come over tomorrow afternoon, if that works. You spend the rest of the day cleaning and tidying. The next morning you find a chocolate chip cookie recipe. You used to bake a lot, but you didn’t really have time for it anymore after becoming a professional footballer, and you weren’t meant to be eating that kind of thing anyway. The thought crosses your mind as you mix the ingredients that maybe Alessia won’t want any, since most of the team eat pretty healthily. You keep mixing. It’s too late now, you might as well finish making them.
You’re nervous, waiting for her to arrive. You’re not sure why, probably just because you haven’t interacted with her alone before. You’ve put some cookies out on a plate in case she wants any, and you’ve already got the book she wants to borrow lying on the table.
When the doorbell rings, it makes you jump. You open the door and she steps inside, immediately giving you a hug, then quickly stepping back.
“Sorry, is hugging okay? I need to get better at checking with people before I hug them,” she says apologetically.
“Hugging is okay,” you nod, and she grins and pulls you into a hug.
“Oh my god, it smells amazing in here!” she exclaims, looking around.
“I made chocolate chip cookies,” you explain, and brace yourself for rejection. “Do you want one?”
“Absolutely!” she says, and you try to hide the surprise on your face. You offer her the plate and she takes one. When she bites into it, she lets out a moan that has you blushing. “Holy shit, y/n, these are incredible! You really made these yourself?”
You feel that warmth pooling in your stomach again. You nod, smiling shyly.
“You should be a professional baker or something, these are so so good!” she tells you, polishing off the cookie. You can’t help but smile. There are crumbs on the corners of her mouth and a smear of chocolate on her chin.
“You’ve, um, got something,” you say, pointing to your chin. “Right there. A bit of chocolate, I think.”
“Whoops,” she blushes, wiping the chocolate away with a sheepish smile.
“Oh, I have the book you wanted,” you say, figuring that she probably has things to do.
“Trying to get rid of me so quickly?” she asks.
A pit opens up in your stomach. “No, no!” you quickly insist, but she laughs and waves you off.
“I’m just teasing,” she tells you, smiling.
You smile back, but it’s forced. It doesn’t seem like Alessia notices, though.
“You have a lot of books,” she says, eyeing the large bookshelf in your living room. “Have you always read a lot?”
“I used to, when I was little. I didn’t really have time to read as much when I joined the team,” you say, and wince at the mention of your leaving. She’s never brought up the fact that she essentially replaced you, and you don’t want her to.
“I’m guessing leaving the team has given you a lot more time for things like reading?” she asks, and you nod.
“And baking,” you add, not wanting it to seem like you’ve just been sitting at home not doing anything since you left. Even if that is the truth. She doesn’t need to know that today is the first time you’ve baked in, well, years.
“True, that one is very important!” she says, taking another cookie from the plate. “Seriously, y/n, these are amazing.”
She keeps asking you things, about yourself, about books, about your life, and you don’t realise how much time has passed until you look outside to see that it’s gotten dark. She follows your gaze out of the window and jumps up.
“Shit, I didn’t realise how late it was! I really should get going,” she says apologetically.
You hold out the plate of cookies. “Want one for the road?”
The two of you message more after that. It’s weird, how easy it is to talk to her. You chalk it up to the fact that she never met you before you left. This is the only version of you she knows. She doesn’t expect anything from you.
A couple weeks later, she asks if she can borrow another book. This time she wants you to recommend something for her, and you pore over your bookshelf for hours, trying to find the perfect book for her. Once you’ve decided on one, the next task you’re faced with is what to bake this time. She didn’t mention anything about it, but after she enjoyed your cookies so much, it feels like it’d only be right to bake something again.
This time you make pumpkin spice cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. You carefully mould little pumpkins out of marzipan to decorate the cupcakes, and you can’t help but feel a swell of pride at the look of astonishment on her face when she eats one and lets out a moan at how good it is. She keeps commenting on the little pumpkins, in awe at the fact that you made them by hand, and the warm feeling spreads throughout your body, making your fingers tingle. After she leaves, armed with a new book and two more cupcakes, you get a message from Leah, inquiring about where her cupcake is, and how come Alessia gets cupcakes but you’ve never baked anything for her, and you smile to yourself.
The days in between visits are not as good. You still spend a lot of time curled up in bed. Sometimes, you think about the future, and you usually end up falling asleep trying not to think about it, brain spiralling.
This goes on for a few months. Every couple of weeks, Alessia visits you for a new book and some new baked goods, and every time the two of you spend a little longer talking. You both avoid the topic of you leaving the team and what you’re going to do next. You have enough money in savings that it’s not something you have to worry about, for a while at least, and thinking about it makes you want to cry, or sleep, or just not exist anymore.
One day, though, Alessia is sitting on your sofa, eating a slice of lemon cake, when she asks gently, “What are you doing, y/n?”.
The question is enough to make you burst into tears, tears that you didn’t know you’d been holding in.
“I don’t- I don’t know,” you sob helplessly as she rushes to your side, pulling you into a hug.
“Well, what do you want to do?” she asks after you’ve calmed down a little.
The question makes you stop. You haven’t thought about that in forever.
“All I’ve ever wanted to do is play football,” you shrug.
“But… not anymore?” she prompts you. You can understand why she’d think that. You quit, after all.
“I don’t know. I think I do still want to play, just… not at that level. It was too much. I feel like I-” you trail off, sighing. “I feel like I lost myself. And I still don’t know where I am, or who I am. Everything just feels so hard, like it’s all so much effort, and like there’s nothing I can do to stop it all from happening, like it’s a huge wave and I’m just getting tossed around under the water, barely able to come up for air.”
She nods, not saying anything, and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment for opening up like that.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said all that, I-” you say, but she cuts you off.
“No, it’s okay! I asked, I want to know. And it makes sense. A friend of mine struggled with depression a lot when we were teenagers, and-”
“Wait, depression? You think I’m depressed?” you ask, confused. Alessia laughs gently, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“Oh, I’m 99% sure you’re depressed,” she says.
“Wha- I’m not depressed,” you insist, shaking your head. “It’s not like I want to hurt myself or anything.”
“Okay, but do you ever feel like it would be easier if you didn’t exist?” she asks, and you frown. “Or, like, have you lost interest in things you were previously passionate about? Do you feel tired all the time?”
“Okay,” you say, slowly. “So, maybe I’m a little depressed.”
The mean voice at the back of your mind laughs.
“What if I’m just being dramatic, though?” you ask. “Plus, I have no reason to be depressed. I have a good life, I have nothing to worry about.”
“Look, what if you go and see someone? A doctor, or a therapist?” she suggests, and your cheeks burn at the thought of burdening someone else with your problems.
“No, it’s fine, it’s not that serious,” you say, waving a hand. “There’s definitely more important stuff they have to deal with. I’m fine, seriously.”
She raises an eyebrow but drops the topic. She brings it up the next time she comes over though, and the next, and the next. You think about it a lot.You look stuff up online, look at social media accounts talking about people’s experiences, buy books dealing with the subject.
The next time she comes over, you tell her you’ve made an appointment with a therapist, and she hugs you tightly.
You start seeing each other weekly, after that. Sometimes she’ll go to yours, sometimes you’ll go to hers. She’s on a mission to help you figure out what you want, and nothing is going to stop her. She buys you baking books and equipment, goes to galleries and museums with you, watches documentaries on pretty much everything and anything the two of you can find. When you mention that you’ve been thinking about learning how to play the piano, she helps you find a teacher nearby.
Things are looking up. You still don’t know what you want to do, but you’re feeling better. Your therapist is good, and you thank your lucky stars that you’re in a position to be able to pay for private therapy.
When Alessia rings your doorbell, you don’t think anything of it. You’d planned for her to come over to watch a documentary she’d found about llamas (you weren’t sure what revelation you were going to have about your future from watching something about llamas, but who were you to deny her?). When you open the door, she’s smiling from ear to ear and holding a box.
“I have a surprise for you,” she says, closing the door behind her gently as she comes in.
She carefully sets the box down and opens it to reveal a small ginger kitten. It looks up at you with wide eyes and lets out a small meow, then puts its paws up on the edge of the box, looking out curiously.
“Alessia, what is this? Whose kitten is this?” you ask, dumbfounded.
“Yours?” she asks, smiling sheepishly.
“What do you mean, mine?”
“I mean, she’s your kitten. If you want her? Oh god, please say you want her. It’s just, you talked about having a cat when you were younger, and how much you’d like to have one again, and I figured they’re a lot lower maintenance than dogs, and-” she’s cut off by you hugging her tightly. Tears prick the corners of your eyes and you try to blink them away fiercely, still hugging Alessia.
A small mew alerts you to the kitten, who has jumped out of the box and is rubbing her head against your leg.
“I have her stuff in the car,” Alessia says, nodding towards the door. “I’ll just go get it?”
You nod, unable to look at anything but the tiny kitten now trying to clamber up your leg.
You’ve been seeing your therapist for about 6 months when Alessia asks you to be her girlfriend. It’s a couple months after she got you Dorothea - Dory for short (or Dorito, occasionally), as you’d named the ginger kitten. You’re stunned, but quickly nod yes as she starts to bite her lip, looking worried at your lack of answer. You hug her, feeling her breathe a sigh of relief against you, and when she kisses you she tastes like the chocolate chip cookies you’d made earlier that day, the same recipe as the first time she’d come over.
Your therapist has been helping you figure out what you want, now that you’re slowly regaining some of the passion you’d lost. You decide that you do still want to do something with football, just, as you’d told Alessia, not professional football. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed having time to yourself, having other hobbies outside of your work.
You get in contact with Jonas, who puts you in contact with some other people, and before you know it you’re back at the club. Not on the team, you've made it pretty clear that that’s not what you want. Instead, you’re spending the day at the youth program. You already know by lunch time that this is what you want to do.
Before you know it, you’re settled in as a coach for the Academy. Your days consist of working with kids, young people who have the whole world ahead of them. You still have bad days sometimes, where it feels like you can’t get out of bed. On days like that Dory cuddles up next to you in bed, and Alessia holds you close. She moves in after you get the job, claiming it makes sense, since you’re always either at her place or she’s at your place anyway. She insists that she’s still very much a dog person, but you catch her asleep on the sofa one evening, with Dory curled up on her lap, and you smile.
#alessia russo#woso x reader#alessia russo x reader#alessia russo imagine#alessia russo fanfic#woso fanfics#woso#woso imagine#awfc#also i know this is a pretty 'good' image of depression#and that it's usually much messier than this#but for the sake of the fic i left it fairly 'mild'#tw: depression#hannah writes fics
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Jax x depressed gn angst to fluff
(This oneshot was requested by a user on wattpad so if you want to let yourself be known)
(Anyways enjoy!)
~2nd person pov~
Jax has always had a crush on you and it was quite obvious to everyone
Well...Accept you of course
You were the only person he was actually somewhat nice to you
Yes he still teased you a little here but he was still super friendly to you
You two were best friends and you two were basically inseparable
But lately it's been different
You started staying in your room more and you started acting more hopeless and empty on the inside
Which was weird cause you always were full of happiness and hope for life even when it got rough
Jax was quite cornered by this point
It's already been a week since you started acting like this
So jax decided to finally do something about this
Jax was walking down the hallway looking for your room
He had only been to your room a few times but he couldn't really remember that much about it
Jax continued to walk picking up his pace getting more worried
It was weird for jax to act like this most of the time jax acted like a jerk but he was actually...acting sort of nice?
After he finally found your door he pulled out a key
He had keys to everyones rooms which was actually a good thing in this instance
Jax finally unlocked your door quickly running into your room
"Hey y/n are you in here?" jax asked quickly looking around trying to find you
Starting to get a little cornered again
But after a few seconds you came out from under your blanket
"Hey...." you said looking very miserable and a total mess
"Oh my god y/n you look like a total mess!" jax exclaimed still seeming very cornered "are you actually concerned about me?" you asked seeming a tiny bit shocked that jax could actually act nice "of course I am you're my friend!" jax said crossing his arms getting a little annoyed you thougt he didn't care about you "I know...I know...." you said yawning and rubbing your eyes looking very sleep deprived "are you ok y/n?....you look absolutely miserable?" jax asked putting one of his gloved hand on your cheek making you look at him "just...a little bit tired and depressed..." you said sighing again blushing a tiny bit at the physical touch "why didn't you tell me?!" jax asked getting annoyed again not wanting you to suffer in silence "well I didn't want to bother you..." you said sounding very guilty trying to look away but jax had a tight grip on your cheek "you never annoy me y/n...I want to tell me if you are ever struggling with anything...I'm here for you...." jax said his words sounding very genuine like he REALLY cared for you "ok...." you said still blushing a little feeling a tiny bit better now that jax was here "this may sound a bit weird but um...can I give you some cuddles?" jax asked becoming a bit awkward realizing that maybe he shouldn't have said anything "....that actually sounds very nice....sure" you said starting to smile softly
Jax started to get a tiny bit excited then he scooped you up in his arms carrying you over to your messy bed sitting you down then he sat down rapping his arms around you keeping you close to him
"I hate it here....I wish I could leave" you said pausing for a moment as you looked at him directly in the eyes "but... being with you makes me actually feel slightly happiness..." you said starting to smile again but then jax became a dark shade of crimson becoming very flustered at your words but he didn't look away he just stared back at you
There was a awkward silence for a minute or two but then jax spoke up finally
"Do you uh...um.......love me?" jax asked becoming very flustered and awkward again "yes....yes I do..." you said starting to blush s lot again being overwhelmed by emotions
"Do you love me?" you asked your eyes starting to sparkle a little as you continued to blush your heart pounding quickly
"I love you a lot..." jax muttered not used to loving someone or even being loved his ears trying to cover his face seeming slightly embarrassed then you grabbed his face giving him a quick but loving kiss which made jax's heart melt (not literally don't worry)
"So does this mean we're like officially together?" jax asked seeming a little confused not really knowing how relationships really work
"Yes does does mean we're together..." you said holding jax close to you hurrying your face in his chest which made him wrap,his arms around you trying to keep you as close as possible
After a few minutes you finally fell asleep getting the sleep you obviously needed
Jax sighed looking down at you smiling softly
"Sleep well darling...."
#jax x reader#jax x gn reader#jax x reader tadc#tadc x reader#the amazing digital circus x reader#jax tadc#jax the amazing digital circus#the amazing digital circus#tadc#tw: depression#angst to fluff#x reader
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Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️
Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.
This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Chapter Summary:
Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.
He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.
There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.
Matt was alone.
You’d left him alone.
It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.
So… why did you feel so very sick?
Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1
Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.
Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.
At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen.
A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that.
Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.
This couldn’t be you.
When was the last time you'd looked that happy?
When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close?
And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might…
“Did I… love him, Ciro?”
“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”
Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again.
What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:
A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.
A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.
An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes.
You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.
Or had you been the one wearing them?
Maybe…?
You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back.
Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.
All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.
You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on.
While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now.
What you didn’t know was…
Why?
Why here?
Why these people?
And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run?
If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin.
At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.
“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?”
“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your���in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.”
“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?”
You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours.
You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.
Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun.
“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly.
“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”
Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen.
You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations.
But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost.
God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.
It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same.
It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone.
Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.
He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.
There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.
Matt was alone.
You’d left him alone.
It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.
So… why did you feel so very sick?
Sympathy.
That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.
Protect yourself.
Protect what you might one day have.
All else was irrelevant.
You just… hoped he was doing alright.
He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.
Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path.
But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face.
“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”
“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.”
“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”
Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!”
Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?
It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…
I miss you, sweetheart.
…loved him the way he loved you.
Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.”
“I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.”
“I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.”
And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise.
Now that chance was gone.
“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe.
”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.”
He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?”
The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar.
“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”
“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.”
No.
No, no, no.
Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again.
He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime.
“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”
“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given.
You were wearing one of his shirts.
He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”
He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”
He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.
You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.
Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.
Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough.
This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade?
And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?
It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned.
Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories.
But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you.
There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.
Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained?
That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them.
Especially Matt.
You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted.
Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough.
You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath.
“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.”
Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling.
“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”
You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something.
A breath.
He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.
“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.”
Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up.
Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.”
“How did you know—”
“Because there’s only one thing left it could be.”
You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here.
Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be.
You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.”
Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”
It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same.
Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.
“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.”
“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”
“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”
“Have you climbed inside a thread?”
“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”
He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!”
“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”
“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”
It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy.
It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.
And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.
“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”
Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.
And what you saw was heartbreaking.
You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky.
If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel.
“Yeah. Can you hear me?”
“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”
You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.”
The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be?
The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more—
You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest.
Emotion. It’s emotion.
That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours.
Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory?
Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer.
The stones.
There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…
You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times.
Still nothing.
And something inside you… cracked.
“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that…
You’d been loved.
Not your identity.
Not the image you showed to the world.
Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them.
You.
And he’d loved you with every part of him.
You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!”
You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.
You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again.
You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world.
“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!”
And with a blink—
He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.
You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.
“It’s me. I’m here.”
‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’
And your weakened heart… skipped.
He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.
He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.
“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”
And you… smiled.
He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.
The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild.
The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…
“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called.
“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”
And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind.
You knew.
You… remembered.
“Always,” he’d said.
“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”
He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread.
“Always, D.”
All he knew was that it hurt.
“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”
He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back.
“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”
He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen.
“Kiss me when you come back.”
On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”
“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”
“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”
“...Remember that. if nothing else.”
In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.
“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”
Silence.
And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere.
Red threads never lied.
You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there?
You’d break that fucking door down.
He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach.
Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.
He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again.
He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it.
The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer.
“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”
“Matt, just let me—”
“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”
A soft intake of breath.
There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love.
“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed.
‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’
He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.”
You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.
“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”
Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest.
“...D.”
He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you.
You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar.
“Leave me alone!”
And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—
Wait.
You’d… you’d called him…
“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.”
He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—”
“Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”
…Steady.
Truth.
Could it really be you?
He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm.
“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?”
“Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.”
You loved him.
You loved him.
The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name.
“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.”
“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—”
“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.”
“But—”
“Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.”
“How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.”
“Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.”
And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath…
“Kiss me when you come back.”
…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all.
It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.
Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.
It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same.
Because all that was left was him…
And you.
#the red thread#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x f!reader#daredevil x reader#daredevil x f!reader#daredevil#matt murdock#fic#fanfic#reader#x reader#f!reader#angst#hurt/comfort#tw: alcohol#tw: depression#memory loss#matt is really self sabotaging here to an extent#this fic is three times longer than Part 1 which is hilarious#i have had this in my docs folder for ages and have finally edited it to my satisfaction#gonna post this on AO3 too but dropping it here first since the first fic was only ever posted here anyway!#and you'll get to have a fun 'Pasta writing 3 years ago versus Pasta writing now' experiment#when i post on AO3 i'll probably post the whole thing (including part 1) as one fic in separate chapters just for ease so I'll edit it then
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let the light in
steve harrington x fem!reader
word count: 2,177
warnings: (this is a heavy fic! please be aware before you read if any of this is triggering for you!) swearing, reader suffers from depression/is in a depressive episode, allusions to passive suicidal feelings and self harm (not explicitly stated), trouble eating/drinking, wooziness, side effects of self-neglect, trouble with self care, one use of y/n, slight hair description—essentially reader is just very depressed
a/n: hello! it’s been quite a while since i wrote anything, but alas i have remembered how. i used this fic as a way to deal with things i’ve been going through and provide myself some comfort, but i’m hoping that it will reach anyone else who needs that or understands these sort of feelings. i really need a steve, and maybe you do too. please be kind! this is a tentative attempt at getting back into writing. also as a small note, this is meant to bet set in the mid 90s, so reader and steve are in their twenties. happy reading <33
————
The phone is ringing again. For the third time.
You know who it is without having to answer. It’s not like there are a plethora of people with your number anyway.
But for the third time, you let it ring. When the shrill noise stops, you think you’re in the clear—only for the sound of Steve’s voice to reach your ears. He’s leaving you a voicemail.
Fucking answering machine.
You stare at the wall, your arm dangling off the bed, while you listen to him say everything you knew he’d say. That he’s worried. That he’s coming to check on you because your lack of an answer is freaking him out.
And you gave him a key all those months ago, so it’s not like you can stop him. You wouldn’t have the energy to anyhow.
You roll over and tuck your hands under your cheek. You have no idea what time it is, but the little light your curtains had let in is gone, leaving your room dark. There is a small night light though, just under your window, that Robin bought you because it looks like your favorite flower. Other than that, your small apartment has succumbed to the darkness of a winter evening.
That pressure behind your eyes builds, and without knowing why, you begin to cry. Steve is going to see you like this, and you want to be alone. You don’t have it in you to talk about it or be berated for letting yourself go.
But you’re also angry. You don’t understand why he gives a shit about you, or why he can’t just leave you alone. Why he can’t just let you go. Why he won’t let you go.
Most of all you’re angry at yourself for being this way. For being so fucked up. For being alone and for having to watch everyone else be happy and content.
In your emotional haze, you fall back asleep. You’re not sure how though, considering you shouldn’t even need the rest anymore. But that tired feeling ever goes away, does it?
You wake to the sound of footsteps, to the feeling of your mattress dipping behind you. There’s a gentle weight on your side. Steve.
“Hey, honey,” he starts. “Did you get my message?”
Steve’s hand rubs softly back and forth over the dip of your waist. You hate the pitying tone in his voice. Even if you know it’s not pity. It’s pain. He’s too big of an empath, and he hates seeing you this way. It breaks his heart, not knowing what you’re feeling and having to see you in a way that embodies nothing more than a shell of the you he first met.
“You need to go home, Steve,” you say, refusing to face him. He’s turned your lamp on, and something about that pisses you off.
Your voice is pleading, and it brings tears to Steve’s eyes. He pushes his glasses up onto his forehead.
“You know I can’t do that. I won’t leave you here like this.”
You roll your eyes and shift onto your back. Steve’s stomach drops at how drained you look.
“I want you to leave. I need to be alone,” you say, staring at his hand where it’s moved to your stomach with the change in position.
Your words are harsh, thick with emotion, and you look at Steve like you’re begging him to see how much you’re hurting and need him to go away. You want him to listen and leave you here to slowly disappear. That’s all you’re asking for. So why can’t he give you that much?
It’s killing him to see you like this. To watch you try and push him away. He knows that’s part of your plan. That way it’ll be easier, in the end. But this is not the you he’s always known. There was a time before it got this bad. Before you lost yourself in it.
“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks, rather than fueling your frustration.
You roll onto your side, completely facing him now, and pull the blankets up to your chin. Your eyes fill with tears, so you close them. Something about being asked that upsets you. You don’t feel like eating and he’s going to make you.
Steve puts a hand on your leg and waits for an answer.
“Yesterday. At breakfast. I had a Pop-Tart.”
He keeps himself from sighing, but his heart might as well have dropped out of his ass. You haven’t eaten in 36 hours, and he’s sure that if he hadn’t shown up you might’ve made it more. You’re clearly not worried about eating, and there’s not a single cup in your room either.
“Please don’t make me eat, Steve. I don’t feel like it. Please don’t make me do anything.”
You look up at him with pleading eyes. You want to be left here until your body gives up on you.
“Honey, I’m not going to force you. But I came here to help you, and I need you to try and let me.”
Your vision goes blurry, tears rushing to the surface because the idea of taking care of yourself in any way upsets you more than anything. You cover your eyes, but can’t hold back the sob that lurches up your throat.
“Y/N, sweetheart, come here.”
Steve slips a hand around your back, coaxing you upwards. You oblige, happy to let him hold you for a moment. You ignore the fact that your vision blurs again, due to the fact that you haven’t sat up in who knows how long, and fall into him.
“I can’t, Steve. I can’t do anything or remember a damn thing. I’m so tired. I don’t feel like being alive. I don’t want to move.”
Hearing you express those feelings through your cries, hearing you tell him how bad it’s gotten tears him apart. He wants to make it all better. He can’t bear seeing you like this. And he doesn’t want to imagine what you might’ve done to take these feelings out before he got here.
Steve holds you until you stop wailing, and even when you pull away the tears still come, hiccups making you hold your breath. Your eyes are swollen and your nose won’t quit running. It doesn’t bother him one bit.
“I know you probably don’t want to do anything, so I have a plan for you, okay? I’m gonna turn the shower on and let you hop in while I get you something small for dinner. I’m gonna take care of everything.”
You sigh. You can’t leave your bed. Besides, who knows if you’ll even be able to stand with how little you’ve put in your body lately.
You press your face into Steve’s shoulder and shake your head. “I don’t think I can.”
He places both hands gently on your cheeks and lifts your face to get you looking at him.
“You can. I’m going to help, I promise. You won’t have to do anything too demanding.”
Steve slides off the bed and stands. He gently pulls the blankets back from your lap, revealing criss crossed legs and socked feet. He taps your knee and you brace yourself against the mattress, moving your legs over the side, toes feeling for the floor.
He holds out his hands and you grab hold of his forearms, letting him pull you upwards. Just as suspected, your vision swirls and your body goes all tingly. You sway a little, but Steve holds onto you still, waiting for the moment to pass. After a few seconds, your sight clears, your ears stop ringing, and you can stand on your own. “I’m okay now,” you say.
He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, and your heart sinks into your stomach. You don’t deserve this. He needs to stop being so good to you when you’re falling apart.
“Stretch a little, alright?” Steve looks at you over his shoulder before going for your dresser and opening your pajama drawer.
You try to do as he says, ignoring the way you feel compelled to tell him not to take this so seriously. You press your hands to your back and lean so your hips pop, raise your arms so your shoulders do the same, and bend so harshly that your vision goes out again. Your body is so angry with you.
You’d closed your eyes, but open them when you hear the shower start running. Steve leaves your small bathroom and walks toward you.
“I laid everything out for you, okay? You don’t have to stay long if you don’t want, you only have to cover your bases. You’ll feel so much better after, I promise.”
You nod, and Steve is surprised by the way you hesitantly walk into the bathroom and mentally prepare yourself to shower.
“Yell if you need me,” he says, smiling before he closes the door behind you.
You’ve never wanted to shower less in your life, but the water is already running, and you have to get it over with. You quickly undress, avoiding the mirror and anything that might cause an extra ache. Though you do run a hand over the tender skin of your thigh before opening the door and stepping in. You know you have to be kinder to yourself.
As for bathing, you’re quick, but you wash and condition your hair and make sure to wash your body just as well. You’d never admit it, but being clean does help some. At least you’re physically taken care of.
When you’re finished, you realize you hadn’t gotten a towel, but your eyes soon find what Steve had laid out for you.
Two towels. Underwear. Your robe. Clean pajamas and socks. Not to mention the lotion and hairbrush he slid forward on the counter so you’d reach for them. He did all of this to make things easier for you. And that makes your heart grow in size.
You towel off and make the effort to put lotion on as best as you can. Usually you can haphazardly do your back on your own, but you’re so tired now, you realize. You haven’t moved this much in days.
You gently pull the bathroom door open. “Steve?” you call. He’s there within seconds.
“Yeah? All done, sweetheart?”
“Almost. Do you think you could put lotion on my back for me? I might need help with my hair, too. If you don’t mind.”
He smiles so sweetly at you. “Of course I don’t mind. Come on.”
You watch as he pumps some of your lotion into his hands, sniffing it just to make you grin. You move your robe down off your shoulders so that he can get to your back, careful to keep your chest covered. Not that he’d dare look anyway.
His hands are gentle and soft against the nape of your neck, up and down your spine, on your lower back. He covers the area for you, taking the time to massage it in and hopefully provide you a little relief.
When he’s finished, you pull your robe up and tie it around your waist. You don’t have the chance to reach for your hairbrush because he’s already got it, fingers gathering your mass of hair towards your back. You can feel the heat of him behind you, and the ache for physical contact surfaces in your chest.
Steve is incredibly gentle when detangling your hair. He starts at the bottom and works your way up, apologizing each time it snags. It feels so nice, so mundane and comforting, that you close your eyes and let yourself feel his hands on your scalp, on your shoulders. You let him take care of you without complaint.
When that’s over he allows you to finish dressing. You slip into the pajamas he’d chosen for you, not disregarding the fact that the shirt is one of his.
You patter out to the kitchen, where Steve has fixed you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut into triangles. You sit next to him on your couch and eat in the quiet of the evening, you enjoying being less alone and him glad to see you eating.
He takes your empty plate from you shortly after, noticing how sleepy you look.
“Come on, honey. Let’s go lay down, yeah?” He helps you up and holds your hand on the way to the bedroom. He’d changed your sheets while you were showering.
You sit down on the bed, watery eyes looking up at him. “Are you leaving?” you ask.
“No, sweetheart. I was going to offer to stay.”
“Please. I don’t want to be alone.”
Steve slips into bed beside you. “You don’t have to worry. I’m right here.” He takes your pinky in his. “I promise you won’t have to suffer through this on your own. I’m not going anywhere.”
You squeeze your pinky against his, and in that moment, the pain in your chest eases just a little bit.
————
please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33
#tw: depression#tw: depressive thoughts#savannah’s fics#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x female reader#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington angst#steve harrington comfort#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fic#steve harrington x depressed!reader#tw: sucidal thoughts#tw: self harm
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On the same note of @elegantunknownphantom 's post, I will take a little time to shake this off my chest.
TW: discussion of mental health issues
The past years were not easy for me. At times - no, most of the time - they were unbearable. When the dread became too heavy, though, this was my escape place. A community that welcomed me and made me feel more at home than anywhere else I have been.
When I hated myself, I could come here and be Kal. Be an author writing silly things, interacting with my community.
It might sound... well, desperate, a bit pathetic, but for years when I was spiralling and asking myself "what good am I for? What have I accomplished in my life?" I answered myself "this. At least I made this."
I remember with clarity living through the end of 2021 and 2022 with nothing to look forward to, but this.
There was a time where I almost gave up on everything because it was too painful and I felt so alone. There was one thing I couldn't give up on, though. My WIPs. I thought about all the people who followed me and I told myself, day after day "I have to keep writing. I can't leave them hanging. I have to finish this game."
And so I kept writing.
And I made through those years. Mainly, I like to think, because of this.
So this is a reminder for myself. A confession, kind of. A thank you to everyone who is here and reading. Everyone who sent me asks, who interacted with me, who supported me in any way, who wrote wonderful IFs where I could escape to, who made my life a little more bearable for a very long, dark period of time.
I don't want to tag people, because I would be here all day. But know that I owe you. That my heart is filled with fondness and gratitude to you.
#i am still in a very weird place#but not nearly as bad as those times#because when 2023 i realized that for the first time in a long while i was not dreading the new year#so... i'll take that as a win#but really#thank you#i wanted you to know that#i can't confess this anywhere else but here#tw: depression#tw: sucidal thoughts
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Yanderes with a Darling that's in that fatigue state of depression (whether it's chronic or from being kidnapped) and don't really know how to deal with it. On the one hand, Darling lying in bed all day is perfect since they're not trying to escape. But they also think that if they make Darling happy the way they SHOULD be, then Darling will finally be "grateful" and see that they love their yandere
Tomura just drags them through a portal to do what he likes to do when he feels empty: destroy shit. They can't disentegrate things, so he just hands them a crowbar or a baseball bat and takes them to a junkyard he liked destroying when he was a kid. He also tries to fuck them to make them feel better, giving them oral or rubbing his cock against them until they cum.
He'd also let them be for a while, but not for multiple days. He knows a depressive spiral when he sees one. So he'll slip an antidepressant into their drink and force them to swallow it, make them drink water and bring them food. But he also has them lay in his lap while he games and won't make them get up too often.
Amai is annoyed at first. They're just...lying there, dark circles under their eyes, tired and poor quality skin, hunched up and ruining their posture. But he concedes that he's the only being in the world that could make self hatred and loathing look good, so that isn't Darling's fault. He would insist on giving them a spa day, if only so they don't have to feel and look as poorly on the outside as they do on the inside. Plus they're not going to object and he gets to use them like a doll for the whole day. He also doesn't get why this is their way of coping, since whenever he's depressed he just throws himself into his work. He can't lay around all day looking like a depressed, tired little...thing when he's got so many people who love him and depend on him! And now that he's starting to actually care about his Darling (in his own sick way), he can't stand to just do nothing and let THEM do nothing. It won't help.
He'd also use sex to try and coax them into feeling something, but it's more of an ego thing; if sex with HIM, where Amai Mask himself is focused entirely on your pleasure doesn't make you feel good, nothing will. Plus it makes him feel like he's helping them and even saving them from themselves instead of being the one responsible for why they're in such a state.
#.opm#.amai mask#yandere opm#yandere amai mask#yandere bnha#yandere tomura#.bnha#.tomura#thots#tw: depression
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Friedrich Nietzsche, from a letter to Franz Overbeck written in February 1883
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drabble [1]
c.w. f!reader, fluff-ish, hurt and comfort, mental health themes like depression, depressive episode, self-isolation, self-deprecation; just todo being todo
todo aoi is the most stubborn man on earth.
granted, it comes more from a place of idiocy than it does his unwavering determination, but it’s almost inspiring how he refuses to back down in anything he says or does. over-confident and bold. nothing ever feels impossible when it comes to him—and it’s double so when it involves anyone that he cares about.
and whether you both like it or not, he’s grown to care for you.
so you shouldn’t be surprised when, after missing over a week of classes and refusing to communicate with anyone outside of sparse texts between miwa and momo, he’s determined to find out where you’ve been hiding and demand why. he’s got an inkling, of course, but he wants to hear it first-hand from your lips.
and you’ll come to appreciate it, later down the line. because even when you’re at your worst, stuck in bed and refusing to get up to even shower or brush your teeth, he’ll be outside your dorm knocking so damn hard you’ll have to open the door to not wake up your neighboring classmates. doesn’t even blink when you open the door, disgruntled and messy and oozing self-deprecation.
just one look and he knows. stares you down with his arms crossed, announcing brazenly, “get dressed. i’m taking you out right now.”
he doesn’t care if you’re taken aback, or if you’ll refuse, or if you're seconds away from threatening to call utahime-sensei to kick him out of the girls' dormitories. he won't budge. practically tells you he won’t let you continue to rot in your room, waste your days stuck in this abysmal, crushing cycle.
and he'll wait, after you agree. lingers outside the hallway by your door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. quiet. even if it feels like an eternity, he'll be out here for as long as it takes for you to get ready.
just for you.
#jujutsu kaisen#todo aoi x reader#aoi todo x reader#aoi todo#todo aoi#drink: hot chocolate#tw: mental health themes#tw: depression#i've had this in the drafts for weekssss#it was only fitting i post it after *that* episode
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Thank you so much for adding Sir Pentious to your blog 🥹🎩🐍 I’m new to fic requests, and either a drabble or HCs would be amazing no matter which you pick, so here goes…
Could I please request platonic Pentious with a hotel resident reader who’s new to hell and visibly going through a rough time? Between being dead, dealing with their new demon body, and facing another extermination after just surviving the last one, they’re clearly struggling despite putting on a brave face. And secret softie that he is, Pentious decides he ought to intervene, whether it’s drag them along on activities take their mind off of things, or just stick with them until they open up enough to vent to him?
Thank you very much again!
Signed 🪼 Anon
Hii 🪼! Thanks so much for requesting my very first Sir Pentious oneshot >:3 I hope i wrote him okay! I don't know his character super well, but he's super fun!!!
Do His Egg Bois Know He Eats Egg Sandwiches
Sir Pentious x Reader (platonic)(fluff)
TW: reader is depressed ):
join my discord!
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You had been at the hotel for a year or so now, having been found by Charlie during your first night in Hell. Ever since then, even in the comfort of the hotel and surrounded by the kindness–and chaos–of Charlie and her friends, you still couldn’t really believe or cope with where you were. Thinking about it, and the fact this was eternity–it made you feel like shit. And that goddamn tail of yours that kept getting in the way of everything, and the pair of hypersensitive ears that forced you to listen to the “screams of the damned” all night. You wondered if you’d ever get used to the new limbs.
You currently laid flat on your bed and staring at the ceiling, not really thinking about much in particular. Honestly, the boredom you currently felt was comforting; better than the depressive episodes you’ve been dealing with, at least. It has gotten worse lately because of the impending extermination, but you took care not to think about it too much, less you choke and breakdown in anxiety.
A neat rapping of knocks roused you from your mindless comfort, and you slunk your way to the door. Before opening it, you made sure that your appearance was as neat as possible. You heaved a breath, smiled, and opened the door.
Sir Pentious stood on the other side, his sharp fangs peeking under his lips in a bold smile. “Charlie hass asked me to…” You smiled slightly at that appropriately snake-like lisp of his. “...take you out in town! For some… fun,” His bold smile slowly quivered, becoming more and more uncertain and anxious as his invitation became quiet, nearly dying on his lips. His hands were nervously folded behind himself.
You quirked your brow at him, leaning softly on the doorframe. “Why would Charlie ask you to take me out?” You replied, not intentionally aggressive, “Wouldn’t she usually just… do it herself? Or at least tell me first?” You noticed the way Sir Pentious nervously flicked his tongue a few times as he considered your words.
“Well… I… er,” He struggled for a moment, until suddenly his eyes lit up with an idea. “Well, Charlie wass, and I wass going to take EVERYBODY out! But, eh, they’re all busy.” His head tucked slightly, sheepishly, and you watched as the hood on his neck seemed to squeeze closer to himself. He was so obvious.
You ran your hand through your hair, thinking for a moment. Sir Pentious stared at you expectantly, with a mix of anxiety and excitement in his narrow eyes.
You could either stay inside, locked in your room, waiting for nothing, melting in your own depressive thoughts and worries; or, you could just go out and try to have some fun with the snake standing in front of you. You haven’t been out in town much, despite being in Hell for a year–you were always too worried. You didn’t have the energy to go out in the first place, so the anxiety you felt made it all the more difficult to drag yourself out of bed to explore.
Ah, what the hell.
“Sure,” You accepted, albeit a bit apprehensively. His spine immediately straightened out as you accepted his offer, his eyes practically glowing with pride at himself. He gave you a curt nod, a grin, and turned to slither away.
“Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutess!” He called, before disappearing around a corner.
And, so, you did. You had quickly washed yourself, and scrounged around your dirty laundry to find a decently clean outfit, making note that you should get to work on washing everything when you got back. Hopefully this outing would give you a bit of energy to do some chores.
He was waiting by the bar, his fingers rapping against the countertop. He was obviously trying to be patient; you knew he had a temper. You appreciate him trying, though.
“So,” You began as you came near him. He whipped his head around when he heard your voice. “What’s your idea of… fun?”
“Follow me!” He declared boldly, ushering the both of you out of the hotel. You saw his airship was ready to go, a small ramp leading to the entrance. You nervously smiled at the sight, wondering what he had in store for you. You briefly wondered how Charlie would react knowing Sir Pentious was, very likely, up to no good.
Those eggs of his were already waiting inside, as you saw one peek around the frame of the door. It jumped at the sight of Sir Pentious ascending the ramp, skittering away before coming back with the others. They all watched from the doorway.
Your worries of Charlie were dispelled when Sir Pentious explained that he wanted to go to a strip of stores a few blocks away. You decided not to ask him why he chose to take his airship to just go a few blocks away; he seemed very excited to show off the interior to you, explaining what this button did, and oh, did you notice this lever? Just wait till you see what this knob does! You were genuinely surprised at how complex his build was. Sir Pentious was a lot smarter than everybody gave him credit for.
His eggs were always in your way, and you had to take extreme care not to stumble over or smash one. They were always getting up close to you in order to examine you, or touch your clothes. You were growing irritated at them, honestly, but clenched your jaw to ignore the growing frustration.
It had taken a short time to get to the street, and Sir Pentious ‘parked’ his airship in the air, hanging down a sturdy ladder for the two of you to descend onto the street. You stared down nervously, air whipping at your face.
“Sir Pentious… I don’t think…” You timidly looked down, and then back up to him. He stood there proudly, hands on his hips. He frowned at your apprehension.
“Nonsense!” And he shoved you, his toothy grin quickly disappearing from your vision as you staggered out of the opening below.
“What the fuck!” You cried, tumbling for a brief moment in the air, your tail whipping wildly to try to straighten yourself out. You were able to grab a rung of the ladder, probably just a few seconds away from smacking into the road. Your heart was beating so hard you were worried it would give out.
“What. The fuck.” You said again, venom practically dripping from your words as you glared at Sir Pentious, who was easily using his two arms to make his way down, tail curled on the ladder for extra stability. If you could kill him with your eyes, you would.
You continued the last few rungs, arms shaking so hard with adrenaline that you had to make a few attempts to grab the rope with every step.
“Now,” Sir Pentious began, looking around after you were both firmly on the ground. “I believe there iss… some sort of place for foodstuff. There!” And he quickly left you behind after eyeing the shop. You quickly followed when he paused to wave you forward.
It was a pretty standard lunch spot, with the standard Hell foods that you saw for sale in the hotel’s own cafeteria. You ignored the description of the food, knowing that if you thought too hard about what the meat was made out of you would be too sick to eat. Food was another thing in Hell that you just couldn’t get used to.
Sir Pentious ordered some sort of egg sandwich with a soda, and you opted for a salad of sorts with some mystery meat and a colorful array of toppings. You tucked yourself neatly into a chair, poking at the contents of your bowl for a minute before trying it. It really wasn’t that bad.
Sir Pentious was tentatively sipping at his soda, his tiny nostrils flaring at each intake of the carbonated drink. You saw the level of soda go down, up, down again, up again, as he tried desperately to keep the drink in his mouth.
“Do you… not like soda?” You asked behind a laugh. He put on a face of shock at you.
“Of coursse I do! Everybody drinks it! How weird it would be if I couldn’t!” He went back to daintily dragging at the straw. You saw the up and down of the drink continue. You rolled your eyes at his attempt to seem hip. It really wasn’t that serious.
You had ordered some tea, and you pushed the glass towards him.
“Wanna trade?” You asked, and his eyes lit up. “I like soda more than tea.”
“Yess!” He said, a bit too excited for his own taste, obviously, because he immediately lowered his voice. “Of course, only for you. I don’t care either way. But ssince you do,” He swiped at your glass, quickly replacing it with his soda. You honestly weren’t really interested in drinking it, knowing that a lot of it had already been in his mouth and spit back.
After you had both finished, a bit of casual small talk between bites, Sir Pentious paid, to which you thanked him multiple times for, and he simply stuck his nose up and dismissed you, saying it was his responsibility for being the one to offer to take you out.
You actually enjoyed your time with him, which surprised you, because you never thought you’d enjoy the company of the temperamental snake. But, you could tell he tried his best to remain level-headed with you. You wondered if he knew how shitty you’ve been feeling.
When you arrived back at the hotel, you were incredibly thrilled that Sir Pentious was able to park his airship on the ground. No more getting shoved out of tiny holes from the sky. You saw Charlie carefully eyeing the two of you as you came inside, her focus mostly on a conversation with Vaggie. She was likely trying to see if there were any signs of “bad behavior” coming back into her hotel.
Sir Pentious leads you back to your room, rambling about some invention of his, his words dripping with pride. You were only half listening while you fumbled for the keys to your room.
His words stopped for a moment when you opened the door, and you could tell he was looking at the terrible disarray your room had come to during your periods of doing nothing during depressive episodes. You let out a nervous laugh, closing the door just enough for you to block his line of sight as you leaned against the door.
“Hey, thanks for taking me to get some food,” You smiled at him, and he returned your smile with his own. You could tell there was a softness in his expression, and you kind of hated it, knowing that it was probably coming from a place of pity after seeing the state of your room.
“You know, if you ever need somebody to talk to, I conssider myself a great listener,” He began, and you felt weird hearing the softness and genuineness of his voice. Though you weren’t to sure about the ‘great listener’ part. “Of course I offer my earss to everybody here!” He quickly added, trying to prevent himself from sounding too touchy-feely. You grinned at him and shot him a quick thumbs up.
“Thanks, Pentious,” You backed up into your room, giving him a short wave. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He waved back at you, giving you that fanged grin of his, before you shut the door. You turned on your heel, and stared at the mess you called a room.
Time to do some cleaning, I guess.
#ohdeerfully#🪼#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel x reader#sir pentious#sir pentious hazbin hotel#sir pentious x reader#platonic#fluff#tw: depression#depression
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Lost Without You
Whump Rating: 2/5
TW: Depression
The shadow is defeated. A portal appears and the Chain knows, this is the final one. Tears are shed, promises and light-hearted threats are made, and everyone gives a last hug goodbye. Then, one by one, they step through the portal and vanish.
They were already in Wild’s world. He’d already gone through his last portal without realizing it. The blackness swirls, sucks in, and vanishes. The champion stands in the grass field, alone. The breeze blows through the grass, turning it into waves over the low hills. Far away, a wild horse whinnies. Then silence falls again.
Wild stares at the spot where his family vanished for a long time before finally turning in the direction of home.
Things aren’t the same after the journey ends. Link—no need for a nickname, now—goes through the motions. He helps Zelda, speaks with Purah, and tries to fall into the rhythm of life. The little house in Hateno, despite how he loved it previously, is too empty, now. Each corner is filled with memories of eight other boys and men laughing, joking, and filling his life with joy.
He can’t sleep in his bed without remembering times Wolfie curled up at his feet, or Hyrule crawled in and clung to his arm after a bad dream. The horse shed reminds him of Time, chewing on a piece of straw and telling ridiculous stories they couldn’t discount. With the old man, anything could be true.
Finally, Link gives the house to Zelda for her research and sets out to circle Hyrule. He’ll check in with the other races and towns. Maybe there he’ll find the meaning he lost. Yet each place holds the happiness of people moving on, while he is stuck in the same place.
Friends marry, break up, learn new skills, and build homes. Families change; growing and shrinking, yet never dying. Their lives are ever-churning onward. With each town, Link finds himself looking forward to the next less and less. He no longer has a family to visit. Well, it’s not a bad idea to travel the wilds. He’s often more comfortable there than anywhere else.
At first, it’s a good idea. The wilds are quiet and he falls into the rhythm of nature. There are no travelers out here and he can go days without needing to speak. After a while, he starts chatting to the air, telling his missing companions about his travels.
“There’s a fox mother in a den over there. I snuck up and looked at the kits. I think she noticed me, but I made sure not to get too close. Oh, some grasshoppers; I should catch them for making elixirs in the future. You know, I really cleaned out my stores making potions for everyone.”
The only answer is the wind. Link is quiet for the rest of the day.
The weeks blend together and he fully gives up on seeking out towns. Even traveling is losing its appeal. What’s the rush? There’s no goal; no people who need him to check in. He told Zelda when he left he’d be off the grid for a while.
What’s the use of a hero after the journey is over? He’d barely had time to settle after the first one before he was dumped into the Chain. Now, an eternity without his family looms. Each day, Link rests a little more. For each meal, he has a little less. He’s just…not hungry.
Slowly, he numbs to his surroundings. He takes an infrequent wash when he comes across a lake, but there’s no one to worry about. Link wakes tired and lays on his bedroll for hours, debating getting up and moving further. He collects less until he’s only depleting his supplies, not adding to it. Well, that’s easy enough to fix; he’s not hungry anyway.
Link doesn’t know how long he’s been out here. He could warp home; warm to a shrine or a town. Maybe he should be around people. But the idea of talking to people? Socializing? Keeping up the persona of a hero? It’s exhausting.
Mostly, Link sleeps. Maybe, one day, he’ll climb back into the shrine and they can suck the life back out of him. This body is on loan, anyway. Maybe next time, they’ll find a better hero to fill it with. Someone whose family is still around to support him.
Someone is screaming.
This is odd for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that Link is in the middle of nowhere. Someone could have encountered a rare enemy, but the scream is…excited? And raising in pitch and volume.
“Where is he?”
“The gem should take us right to him!”
“Do you think he’s underground?”
“What—where do you come up with these things?”
“Like a cave—wait, look over there.”
Huh. That sounds a lot like Wind and Warriors. Silly, because they are gone. Everyone is gone. Maybe this is it. His mind snapped and now he’s hearing voices.
Footsteps get louder and Warriors looks down at him in the grass, hands on his hips. “What in hyrule are you doing down there?”
Wind’s face pops into view, showing off straight white teeth when he grins. “Hey Wild! We missed—hey.” The smile fades, excitement seeping out. “Did something happen to you? You look, uh…”
“You look like shit,” Warriors finishes. He leans down, reaching out a hand. “You good? What happened?”
Link doesn’t take the hand, just stares at them. “That’s it,” he whispers. “I’ve gone crazy. Hallucinations.”
Wind socks him in the shoulder, much too hard to be a hallucination. “Get up! Warriors got a crystal! We need to get the others!”
“What…?” Link finally sits up, then stands. Woah, his legs are kind of shaky. Warriors grabs him, then hisses as his hand closes on a shoulder.
“How skinny are you? Wild, seriously, what happened?”
He transfers his gaze to the captain, slowly tracing over familiar features. “You left.”
“Yeah? Didn’t you have people to come home to?”
Link shrugs. “Not my family.”
“Wild? Are you okay?” Wind tugs on his tunic sleeve. “Did you miss us?”
“Yeah.” He closes his eyes for a long moment. “A lot. How—how are you here?”
The captain snorts and waves a gem on a chain. Took a while, but I got Cia to make a gem that will let heroes open portals. We’re picking everyone up to see how things are going.” He looks Link up and down. “You, my friend, are in dire need of some help.”
Link stares at his feet. “I don’t…know what to do anymore.”
Wind leans against his side, wrapping him in a half hug. “You rely on your brothers. We’ll get you back on your feet, okay? Twi is never going to let you out of his sight again.”
For the first time in a while, Wild smiles. “Let’s go see our family.”
#tw: depression#found family#whumptober2023#linked universe#linkeduniverse#lu whumptober#breannasfluff#mywriting#lu wild#lu wind#lu warriors
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this could be the anxiety-induced depression talking, but: if you’re wandering aimlessly unsure what you’re doing—you’re not alone. if you feel like you’re surrounded by people, shouting and screaming, but no one can hear you, and you feel so alone, i promise, it’s going to be okay. if you’re staring at an empty document, the curser blinking and blinking, feeling like you can’t write, like you’re broken, I promise you’re not—and there’s always tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that where words might flow. and if you’re thinking you’re a fraud, like a massive imposter—like you’re being weighed down by rocks, sheets and your own expectation—it’s okay, I am too. while I’m not sure if any of that brings any comfort, I hope it does. because you’re not alone, and neither am I. and sometimes, we just need to hear that, and be told that if the best we can do is take an hour at a time, a day, a week that is very much okay. and sometimes, just admitting that it’s not okay, is also okay. okay? 🩷🫂
#tw: anxiety#tw: depression#personal#jo’s thoughts#I promise I’m okay#I just overthink when I’m sad and then I wonder if others feel the same#and then I don’t want them to feel alone#and this kinda thing flows out of me#and here we are
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Because I see you
Hi. Am I back? Eh. But I miss y'all. <3 I'm okay. Promise.
Fit 'n ship. Whoever you want.
TW: Depression, deep, deep, depression.
He could tell when the days were too hard for you to smile. Somehow, he always knew that days when rain fell in torrents were the days you needed to hide the tears you refused to let fall, breaking quietly, letting the rain wash them away. Too many days when you would look up to the sky, silently begging for the pain in your chest to lessen for but a moment so you could just breathe.
He often wished he could somehow snatch the pain away from you. Bury it deep within the caverns of his chest to save you from the torment that kept you awake too many nights, legs pulled to your chest, and a blanket draped over your shoulders. It was those nights that a quiet knock on his door left him sitting on his bed, silently holding you until you fell asleep.
It was an old hurt that you carried. Put there by someone else who never bothered or cared to fix it.
“Why do you care?” You had asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I see you.”
It was the only time you spoke of it. Maybe you were content with that answer, and it was enough to soothe the ache. Perhaps you didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.
Sometimes he would find you silent even when the sun was shining. Holding an arm around your middle to block the pain from seeping into the ground at your feet, afraid it would infect the soil and spread like black flames. You often startled easily on those days when he would drape an arm around your shoulder, tucking you in tightly to his side.
“I’ve got you.” A constant reminder.
The thought of being a burden, too much, too you, plagued you. A buzz which settled in your ear, growing louder and louder and louder until it was all you heard, drowning out the sounds of leaves and laughter. It wasn’t always. Often you went long without the scares and shakes that brought you back to the darkness that greeted you like an old advisory, once again ready to do battle.
But he never let you give up. You never gave up. Fighting back against the darkness, scraping, clawing, teeth bared to return to the light. To the life you had breathed into, stroking the flames of your soul until it was ready once more to burn on its own.
It wasn’t in him that you found your will to fight. It was beside him. It was with him through laughter and the rare moments of quiet that you were able to exist in everything that you are while he sat with you, ever your protector.
You didn’t believe in knights in shining armor. If anything, you simply believed in him, knowing he would slay the monsters at your back with his two bare hands, refusing to let them break him to steal you once more.
Only those who care about you can hear you when you’re quiet. Words he had spoken on a rainy day when it all became too loud.
xx This was written with Draken in mind 'cause I feel like he would be the one to understand. But, as always, whoever came to your mind is him.
Also: Itachi, Ichigo, Shikamaru, Sesshomaru, Mitsuya, Aizawa.
#tw: depression#tokyo revengers#draken#draken headcanons#tokrev draken#takashi mitsuya#mitsuya takashi#ken ryuguji#draken x you#draken x reader#mitsuya x you#mitsuya x reader#bleach#ichigo kurosaki#ichigo x reader#ichigo x you#naruto shikamaru#shikamaru x reader#sesshomaru x reader#aizawa shota x reader#my hero academia
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Somebody Does Love | MYG
Pairing: BestFriend!Yoongi x Reader
Genre: Idol au
Synopsis: You never wanted to burden Yoongi with your problems, he was healing and you weren’t even close but he was your best friend and he’d always turn up for you.
Warnings: Depression, self depreciation, implied self harm.
WC: 2.1k
Posted: 18 August 2023
It didn't take much for Yoongi to worry about you. He could tell something was wrong by something as simple as the way you worded a text or how you carried yourself on a particular day. In fact, he knew you better than you knew yourself. Habits, tastes, quirks. Some of which he'd tell you, others he kept to himself because he didn't want you to stop doing them, because he knew you'd stop if he did.
He knew you well enough that you'd stop all the things he loved most about you if he uttered a word about them, it was a habit of yours he hated. You never did it consciously, of course. It was like it was programmed into you that the second someone told you they loved a feature, you’d change it or one of your quirks, you'd stop doing it almost instantly.
And that list of things he loved was long. He'd probably have to write a book, but there were things he hated, one in particular.
You never wanted to bother him with your problems.
It drives him mad.
He's your best friend, Yoongi would remind you constantly. You're problems were his problems and vice versa. someone broke your heart? They broke his. Someone mistreated him? They mistreated you.
One thing always remained certain for both of you, no one would argue it. You'd take a bullet for each other in a heartbeat.
"You've been staring at the same screen for twenty minutes, hyung." Namjoon broke the silence of Yoongi's studio, interrupting the elder's thoughts.
"Sorry, You wanted something?" Yoongi asked nonchalantly as he swung his chair to face Namjoon, greeting him with a forced smile.
Namjoon held up a set of headphones he'd taken from one of the shelves in Yoongi's studio. "Mine broke, I knew you had a spare."
Yoongi rolled his eyes endearingly, a small breathly laugh slipped out.
"It wasn't my fault this time!" Namjoon protested his innocence.
For once, it actually wasn't the clumsy man-child’s fault.
"Ah yes, it's the little man that mysteriously comes in your studio and breaks all your stuff," Yoongi teased.
"Uhm, It was, actually." A blush rose on Namjoons cheeks, whether he wanted to admit it or profusely deny it, he could give a tomato a run for its money. "Jimin was in.. he.. sat on them."
"Suuure," he teased further, "I'm sure that’s what he, no, the two of you, were doing."
"Hyung!"
"Dongsaeng?" Yoongi hummed, giving Namjoon a knowing look.
"Back to the original point," Namjoon deflected. "Are you okay? You were miles away."
"I'm fine," Yoongi looked back at the lyrics on the screen, his expression changing instantly. "It's y/n."
"Is she okay?"
"I don't know" He rested back on his chair while running his hands through his long, fluffy hair. "I haven't heard from her in two days. I was meant to have dinner with her and got really into writing this song and I had an idea for the beat and went all in. She knows I get like that sometimes, and that's the reason when I don't reply."
"Sometimes." Namjoon rolled his eyes jokingly.
"I messaged her that I was sorry and we should have breakfast, no reply. I text about dinner an hour ago, and it's not even delivered."
"You're telling me this like you've never just welcomed yourself into her apartment a million and one times." Namjoon reminded him with a raised brow.
"I really have to fin.."
"GO!" Namjoon ordered his hyung. "Leader privileges," he defended quickly when he realised how abrupt he was while still pointing towards the studio door.
He didn't wait a second longer. Even leaving the studio in his slides, forgoing the Nike dunks by the door. Leaving Namjoon to save his work and sort all his equipment which he gladly did. He was worried about you too, more so because you meant so much to someone that meant equally as much to him. Thirteen years isn't easily forgotten, and you were there too.
He made it to your apartment twenty minutes later, letting himself in like it was his own home.
The sight he saw was enough to cause an ache, vice like grip on his heart.
Quickly making his way to be by your side.
With gentle calloused fingertips your best friend tilted your chin up, his smile was warm and inviting, but his eyes were filled with worry and sadness, even guilt for not noticing something was wrong sooner.
The pad of his thumb wiped away the tears that stained your cheeks, neither set of eyes straying from the others, you only briefly cut eye contact to blink away oncoming tears as they clouded your vision.
You weren’t there, not really. Yoongi knew better than to pressure you into talking, so he stayed silently knelt in front of you for a moment, his large hands engulfing your little ones before bringing them towards his lips for a quick peck before he took a seat beside you. He took you into his arms and kept you close until you stopped crying, not a care for the time that went by or the fact that his phone kept going off. It wasn't important, not right now.
“You're gonna be okay,” He talked softly, quiet as a mouse like he was afraid to startle you.
He repeated himself over and over, followed by 'i love you', 'you're safe with me" and every other sweet thing he’d ever told you. Your cries eventually turned into quiet hiccups to unsteady breaths and eventually a quiet calm, the room filled with nothing but your breaths and the noises from the street outside.
You stayed like that, in the comfort of his arms, in silence. An hour went by, maybe more.
He looked down at you, almost falling asleep from exhaustion, your entire face red and puffy from so much crying. All the overwhelming feelings all on your own, so intensely burst like a dam. He wasn't leaving your side, music would have to wait. For as long as you needed him, he was going to be there.
"Don't sleep, jagiya. Let me make you something to eat, alright? We'll get you cleaned up and in some fresh clothes. You can sleep after that."
You shook your head.
"Yes," Yoongi told you sternly, not too harsh, but he wasn't going to let you keep doing this to yourself, not on his watch. "I will chew it for you and spit it in your mouth like a mother bird, if i have too."
You scrunched up your face in disgust, causing Yoongi to chuckle softly.
"That's what I thought."
You didn't protest when Yoongi ushered you into your room, you didn't want to hurt him. He was getting you in the bath regardless. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you naked before, definitely not under the same circumstances, but it didn't faze him then, and it won't faze him now.
He went into the bathroom and starting filling the bath, picking your favourite bathbomb and dropping it into the bath, smiling to himself as it turned purple and a light lavender scent began to fill the air. He grabbed some towels and put them in the dryer to warm up for you before coming to help you out of your clothes.
"Do you trust me?" He asked.
"Always," you replied in a coarse whisper.
He was careful, gentlemanly, checking your face for any sign you were uncomfortable. You were okay until he went to help you out of your tracksuit bottoms, he watches your hands clutch tighter to the bedsheet and the faint hitch in your breath.
"I'm sorry," you tell him before nodding in permission for him to take them off.
He took one look at your thighs before looking up at you, leaning up to press a light kiss on your forehead. "Don't ever apologise for how you feel, I just wish you'd told me it was getting this bad again."
He wrapped his arm around your body, helping you toward the bathroom and helped you step into the bath. He relaxed a little when he heard you hum as you lowered into the water.
"Is it hot enough?” he asked, watching for any discomfort.
“S’good.” you hum, tracing over the bubbles with the tips of your fingers. Yoongi watched on with a little smile before he sat himself on the edge of the bath, reaching for your favourite body wash and a soft sponge, opting for the soft option rather than a loofah.
He squeezed a drop of soap onto the sponge and scrunched it together in his hands until it was covered in vanilla scented suds.
“Tell me to stop if you want me too,” he told you, leaning forward to get a look at you when you didn't reply. You nod for him to go on, even though you were miles away. He could tell by your eyes, he decided to just get on with it. He moved gently around your back, air in the bathroom filled with it's vanilla scent, mixing with the lavender. It was even making him sleepy. He watched you close your eyes beginning to relax as he continued on.
Once he had you covered in bubbles he rinsed you off with a cup he had sitting near by in the water and began washing the bubbles off. He saw your back rise and fall with a deep breath, a yawn he came to realise. He glanced at your face and your eyes in a fight to stay open as you moved your hands up to your face slowly and rubbed at your eyes for a moment before dropping your hands back into the water. Yoongi smiled. You looked adorable, if he was honest.
He was equally as gentle when washing your hair, missing some of your routine but the goal was to get your freshened up and comfortable, not Miss Universe.
“You can lay back now if you want.” Yoongi offered, you sighed and slumped in the tub, body sinking into the bubbles.
"Why do you do this for me? You're always there." You finally spoke more than one word.
"Because even if everything else was to disappear, I know you'll always be there."
"What if I'm not strong enough?"
"You are," he told you, leaning down to kiss your forehead again before he left for the kitchen to make you a quick snack, knowings it’s probably all you could stomach or be bothered to eat.
Crackers and a makeshift topping would have to do because it was all you had.
He brought everything you two would need for the night including the hot towels from the dryer to the bedroom before Yoongi helped you out of the bath, taking you into the bedroom wrapped up in the toasty towel to get you dried off and into some PJs.
“Which Pyjamas do you want?”
You pointed to him with a sweet, innocent smile.
“My top?” he chuckled. “Really?”
“Please?” and like clockwork you put on your best puppy dog eyes. Jungkook taught you well because Yoongi could never say no.
He rolled his eyes playfully and took off his shirt, pulling it over your head for you and smiled contently when he took a look at you. “You’re so adorable,” he smiled up at you before instructing you to sit between his legs with the hairbrush he had in hand.
You sat in front of him, lightly snacking away on the food he gave you when you sat down while he brushed through your hair, effortlessly putting it into two french braids. He’d watched you do it enough times and he was a quick learner, especially if it was taking up his cuddling time with you.
When you finished eating, Yoongi went to tidy up while you got yourself into bed. Half asleep when he came to join you, he switched off the light and climbed into bed with you.
Instantly cuddling into him with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you began to drift off to sleep.
“Can I play you a song I’ve been working on?” he asked, cuddling you in close.
Yoongi presses play on his phone as you nod.
Somebody does love but I'm thinking ‘bout you.
He watched as you drift off to sleep, running his hands through your hair, softly singing along until his eyes fell heavy and he drifted off too.
Maybe one day he’d tell you the song is for you.
Authors Note: A huge thank you to @sopebubbles /@sopebubbles-replies for encouraging me to write this fic and proof reading, it's been a long time coming for her, you have no idea! also my bestie @lifeinakpopbubble who never thought she'd see this day.
#yoongi#bestfriend!yoongi#min yoongi x reader#yoongi fic#min yoongi#tw: depression#tw: depressive episode#bts fanfic#bts fanfiction#reader fic#tw: mental health#bts#raplinesprince writes
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