#but no matter where i go i still feel wrong?
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not being able to walk properly the next morning because lando was noooot gentle one bit last night and he’s just laughing his head off
this man is a menace. like, to the point where i can feel it in my BONES. even if he’s being as gentle as can be, somehow he still manages to make you feel it in the morning. and last night was anything but gentle.
obviously you don’t think about anything but him and how good he’s making you feel in the moment, and maybe you’re a little wobbly when you’re heading to the bathroom afterwards, but nothing prepares you for getting out of bed the next morning.
you’ll be tangled up with him, feeling all safe and cozy and satisfied after last night, and if you could have it your way, you would never leave his embrace. but you can’t ignore nature’s calls, and thus you have to detach yourself from your boyfriend and get out of bed…
… at least you would, if you could walk.
you try to take a few steps and instantly recognize the fact that your legs were not at all prepared to take you anywhere, and luckily you can just land right back on the mattress. the sudden movement wakes lando, and he rubs his face, eyes squinting as they adjusts to the light slowly beginning to stream through the bedroom window.
“what’s wrong?” he mumbles, taking in your tight-lipped expression.
“nothing, baby, go back to sleep,” you reply softly, leaning over to kiss his forehead. maybe he actually will and you won’t have a witness to your little problem.
he leans back into the pillow with a hand still over his eyes, and after a quick internal pep talk you’re able to get up and start waddling your way across the room. you nearly fall over when you hear giggling that quickly morphs into true laughter.
“literally shut up, lan,” you glare at him as he rolls onto his other side, a hand on his stomach. “this is your fault.”
“you look like a baby penguin learning how to walk!” he cackles.
“because of you!” you reiterate, leaning against the wall. “the least you could do is help me, i have to pee!”
of course, he’ll dutifully climb out of bed and over to help you (aka pick you up bridal style and carry you), but not without laughing about your predicament the whole entire time. and no matter how many times you playfully smack him for it, he stay proud of himself, knowing that he’s the only one who can get you like this. and luckily for him, he’s the only one you’ll ever want.
#aries answers#anon <3#request#lando norris x reader#ln4 x reader#formula one x reader#formula 1 x reader#f1 x reader
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Hm, I know I said at least in my first reading of mdzs that I felt like Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng were actually friends as kids, I would like to remind folks that the catastrophic breakdown of their friendship was not because of some misplaced care but because Jiang Cheng is a stagnant character whose whole role in the story is to be the one who never learns, changes, and grows past his insecurities and resentments. They were always going to fall out with each other, even if the Sunshot Campaign never happened, even if the Wen Clan didn’t exist as a subjugating force terrorizing the other clans, because no matter how much Jiang Cheng cares about anyone, he will always place his personal resentments first.
I’m so serious: reread the pre-fall of Lotus Pier parts of the novel (flashback extras included), and tell me how many times Jiang Cheng says something genuinely nice about or to the benefit of Wei Wuxian without prompting. Point to me places where Jiang Cheng puts himself on the line for Wei Wuxian that is not him distracting the Wen. Compare the number of unambiguously positive interactions they have to the number of interactions they have in total, and I bet you’ll see that the positives are laughingly scant. Most every interaction they have together, Jiang Cheng is being a negative nancy. He’s the type of friend who, if you said “Today is a good day!” would snidely respond back, “What’s so good about?” before loudly complaining about what a nuisance your happiness is. Jiang Cheng is the type of friend that tells you that everyone else hates you because you’re so annoying, and you need to do something about that because he also finds you annoying so you should be lucky he “puts up with” you. And all of this negativity can be directly traced back to the resentment Jiang Cheng feels caused by his own mother projecting her insecurities onto him. Jiang Cheng, who cannot grow, learn, or change, is unable to extract his own self from his mother’s insecurities, ending up inheriting them as his own, instead.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like teen!Jiang Cheng is some irredeemable monster (that is reserved for his adult self), but Wei Wuxian already shows signs of being tired of his attitude as kids. He snaps at Jiang Cheng rudeness in the lotus pod seeds extra. He constantly admonishes Jiang Cheng about his blatant disregard for the lives and safety of other people. Most of the time, Wei Wuxian won’t even engage in the petty little remarks that Jiang Cheng makes, just treating it like nobody had spoken at all. The only times Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian move as a unit is when they have a common enemy—like Jin Zixuan—but without that, they are only held together by the fact that…they’ve been friends for a long time.
And this kinda leads me back to the point about the yunmeng friendship not being able to withstand the test of time even without an outside conflict: I would place the point of no return for their relationship at Wei Wuxian killing the xuanwu of slaughter, not at the fall of Lotus Pier. Wei Wuxian is one of two individuals that killed a mythological bloodthirsty creature responsible for hundreds of deaths, spent a week in a coma from his injuries and lack of immediate care, and what does he get for it? Jiang Cheng shows up with soup gifted to Wei Wuxian by Jiang Yanli, except he’s eaten all the meat out of it. Jiang Fengmian gives the most lukewarm praise to Wei Wuxian for his achievements—which Wei Wuxian neither complained about nor called him out for—because they were both trying to be mindful of Jing Cheng’s insecurities, and Jiang Cheng still made it about himself. When Madam Yu storms in to yell about how Wei Wuxian is a “bastard child” and he’s just trying to show off, Jiang Cheng consciously and unambiguously sides with his mother. Wei Wuxian had to drag his feverish body out of bed—after just awakening from a week-long coma—to placate pity-party Jiang Cheng, and the only thing that makes him feel better is not promises of continued friendship but of servitude. Even if at this point Wei Wuxian was still viewing Jiang Cheng as a—admittedly caustic—friend, Jiang Cheng’s view had fully transitioned from “annoying friend my mother hates” to “the servant I need to keep in line lest he overshadows me.” If anything, the fall of Lotus Pier, the debt placed on Wei Wuxian by the Jiang leaders, and the subsequent war probably allowed their friendship to last longer than it naturally would have (remember, they are only united against outside forces).
All this to say that while Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian may have started out as genuine friends in their childhood, their transition to enemies has absolutely nothing to do with that care. Sometimes we fall out with people because we just do not like them as people. Jiang Cheng’s resentment prevented him from appreciating Wei Wuxian as a person, leading to the end of their friendship and their descent into eventual enemies. Not misplaced or warped care, just pure, undeniable resentment.
#human metas mxtx#mdzs#idk i think the mdzs fandom can stand to analyze#why they feel so uncomfortable with people genuinely disliking each other#why every conflict has to be about ‘but deep down x really cared!’#when we are told and shown over and over again in a variety of different scenes and narrations#that the ‘care’ literally does not exist#mxtx does not fault genuine love or care for why shit goes south#and it’s weird to push the idea that positive feelings towards people is what leads to negative relationship outcomes#it was always jc’s resentment that did him in#his care or capacity for it is not even in the equation#because the resentment has pushed it out
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Hey there. I'm writing a story set in New York City and am not American. I have few characters, but most of them are arab or white. I can't help but feel a bit wrong about it, given that America is much more diverse than that, and NYC being an emblem of that. Do you think I should force myself to include more representation or should I just tell my story, and leave that more diverse cast to some other story I could write?
I know this is a neverending debate and there are many opinions about it, but I've always agreed with everything you've said in matters of representation in fiction, and so I'd be curious to know your personal answer on it.
I'm a little confused by how you're using "representation," here. It sounds like you think representation = "randomly sticking BIPOC everywhere." I think when most people use that word, it means something more like "create an accurate or at least plausible depiction of a group or place." In actual New York, there are plenty of Middle Easterners and white people who live in relatively homogeneous small communities where they might only see someone of a different ethnicity on the subway. If your story is set in one of those communities -- and you do stick some random BIPOC in that subway scene, because that's plausible -- then it sounds like your characters might be an example of good representation.
(Note: if you're not writing something set in the real world, but it features human beings, it needs to represent humanity as a whole, unless there's a good in-world reason not to. But if it's our world? You can get specific.)
Here's the catch, tho: plausibility is relative. If you've absorbed some biases and haven't done enough research, then you might end up writing something that feels plausible to you, but which isn't actually representative or plausible to anyone else. The way to avoid this is to do the research and check (to the best of your ability) your biases. For example, you aren't American, I assume you've at least visited NYC? If not, you should. You can visit some of the communities I mentioned! You can eat in restaurants, visit mosques, have conversations with actual real people who are living the life you're writing about! If you don't have the time, money, or spoons to do that, there are other ways to do good research -- films and YT/Tiktok videos made by people from the communities in question, for example. But you'd need to watch a lot of them to get a good representative sample.
I recommend this book to all the writing students I've taught at Clarion, and other writer workshops: Writing the Other, by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward. There's a particular part of it that seems relevant here, which is a kind of hierarchy of "appropriate" appropriation, I think first mentioned by Diantha Day Sprouse but included in Writing the Other. Basically it says that if you want to write about a culture that isn't your own, you can learn about that culture in one of several ways: a) You can be an Invader, and just go take whatever intellectual and artistic tidbits from that culture that you want, regardless of how damaging this might be to members of that group. Example: non-Indigenous people who write about actual secret practices, or who encourage the desecration of sacred places. b) You can be a Tourist, in which you're still mooching from that culture, but at least you're figuratively paying someone for it and accepting tidbits that the culture has chosen to sell. Example: getting a sensitivity reader. Or c) you can be an Invited Guest, who brings in as much as they take out, and who has formed relationships that are beneficial to all involved. Example: being part of an exchange program, both as a student and later as a host, and maintaining those friendships outside of the program.
The goal is to be an IG, but that isn't always possible. Tourist is still better than being an Invader. (...I feel like I'm leaving out a category. It's been a while since I read the book; any more recent readers want to check me here?) But the closer you can get to actually participating in that culture, the more your work will be informed by reality instead of biases or misinformation, and the more likely your work will read as plausible not just to you, but to your widest possible audience -- people familiar with the culture and people who aren't.
(I'm a little concerned about your phrasing of "force myself to include more representation," note. Why would that need to be a forced thing? A writer's goal should be to write something that feels lived-in and authentic to [if it's a real place] most people's experience -- not to meet some arbitrary standard, but because that's how you master immersion and characterization. If good immersion and characterization feel forced to you right now, that suggests you need more practice. I recommend writing short stories!)
#answered asks#long#sorry I took a while to reply#some asks require more nuanced replies#and I put this one in drafts because it was so long#then forgot it was there#and yeah I'm aware this might be a disingenuous ask#but I am choosing to treat it as good faith
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ᡣ𐭩 ICARION
FEATURING: beast dazai osamu
SUMMARY: dazai had known he was flying too close to the sun, he should have stopped himself while he still had the chance. {wordcount: 11.5k; fem!reader, romance & tragedy}
AUTHOR'S NOTES: installment fiveeeee otherwise known as part 2 of installment four LOL! ugh guys i'm dragging myself thru the trenches right now i'm so miserable - i wasn't even up to posting this today i won't lie but </3 i pulled thru </3 if only barely. fun fact this is actually only a 3 scene chapter but the second scene is just MASSIVE. i wasn't up to restructuring so you guys are just going to get it as it is. this is also unedited because i just wasn't up to it so bear with me regarding mistakes. JUST TO REMIND YOU ALL: the last installment is DELAYED - i have 3 finals next week and haven't had the time to finish it. it will be up by the end of may </3 sorry guys. wow this actually is attempt number three trying to post this correctly - i'm so shot
IMPORTANT NOTE FOR 17 & UNDER FOLLOWING THE SERIES: partially copy and pasted from badlands - if you guys read badlands, you know the deal. y'all knew what you were getting into. this is the smut chapter. but again, i'm not going to ask y'all to not interact/read a whole 12k chapter just because there's 4k words of smut, but i am going to say here the smut is in the SECOND scene. there is very little plot development in the smut itself, so i ask you guys, again, to respectfully scroll past it. i'll make the sentence when the smut starts red like this so you know that's when it starts, and then you can continue reading at the next divider. thank you for understanding! there is NO plot development in the smut, i'll reiterate that at the end where i put the summary in badlands, i restructured to make sure none of it was in it.
SMUT WARNINGS: unprotected sex, dazai cries </3 poor baby, sub!dazai, as always pussy drunk!dazai, bit of overstim on dazai's part too, jfhsuhdfsu i will say it starts on the bathroom floor so that might be a bit gross to some of you but dazai hardly even uses his apartment anyway so trust it's clean. bear with me. it just flowed from there i had to go with it. the story writes itself, i'm only the scribe. LOL let me know if i missed anything, i might have
SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST
READ: BADLANDS SIDE A
Dazai is hardly listening to the conversation at hand. They’ve been going back and forth for thirty minutes about inconsequential matters. Tolstoy is getting increasingly heated as he goes tit-for-tat with Nabokov, evidently the tripartite alliance between the Russian mafias is not quite enough to quell all of the bad blood that’s simmered between them, but something about the situation isn’t sitting right to Dazai. He can feel it in his gut, swirling in the depths of his chest—something is wrong but he doesn’t know what.
Mishima looks equally put out, gaze trained on Tolstoy and Nabokov’s conversation, occasionally looking back at his executives. Cao seems bored, head tilted back against the red cushions of the round booth as he smokes a cigarette; in all regards, he seems relaxed, but Dazai notices the way the fingers of his free hand are tense on the table, as if he’s bracing himself for something.
Something isn’t right.
Dostoevsky is cunning. Intelligent. He’s been lethally sharp in every universe that the other Dazais have encountered him in. He wouldn’t send Tolstoy and Nabokov into this meeting with them at each other’s throats like this without an ulterior reason. Dazai is missing something critical; he knows it’s not something as simple as wanting to give off the appearance of a divided front as means to get Dazai and Mishima to lower their guard. Nothing is that easy. There’s some ulterior motive that Dazai has to figure out.
Cao’s presence. Tolstoy and Nabokov’s blatant hostility toward one another. Mishima’s words from earlier, warning him that something seems to be brewing, that Tolstoy and Nabokov had been on edge since he arrived at the event hall. Dazai’s head hurts, and he can’t focus, not when you’re in the other room without him.
Already, he feels as if he’s been separated from you for too long, he’d been hoping this meeting was only going to last thirty minutes at most, and it’s been thirty minutes already and hardly any progress has been made. If Dazai didn’t know any better, he’d think that…
He’d think that Tolstoy and Nabokov were stalling.
At once, Dazai starts catching onto the things that he missed. The way Nabokov keeps glancing up at the clock on the wall above Cao. The way Tolstoy’s gaze keeps flickering to his phone. The way Cao’s attention seems to be elsewhere.
Cao Xueqin. A Dream of Red Mansions. A scrying ability.
His heartbeat slows and Dazai blinks. Once. Twice. Blood roars in his ears as his gaze twists down to where his phone is laying on the table in front of him, on its face. Tachihara should have texted him to let him know that he got to you. Him or Chuuya. He usually reports to Chuuya anyway, so Dazai figured that Chuuya would’ve gotten the confirmation. He turns his head to the side to look at the executive from the corner of his eye, trying to keep his breath as slow and steady and natural as possible when he realizes that Chuuya is frowning with furrowed brows, looking at his phone. Unsure.
Dazia reaches for his own phone, fingers deceptively steady despite the way his insides are curdling with a sudden jolt of anxiety. His eyes zero in on the top right corner of his phone. No signal. Dazai has been to this event hall countless times in this life and dozens of others—there’s always service throughout the building.
Unless it’s being jammed, that is.
Dazai’s blood runs cold, gaze dragging from his phone to the door that leads to the hallway connecting to the event hall where you are. He feels as if he’s been doused with icy water and lit on fire all at once. For a second, he doesn’t move—he’s not sure if it’s anxiety or fear, or both, but he knows it’s because you’re out there and Dostoevsky is plotting something while trying to keep him out of the picture in this meeting.
He should have known better. Mishima had assumed that Dostoevsky wasn’t in the building—he had his three best scouts prowling the whole building trying to place the real leader of the tripartite but had failed. Nabokov had apparently told him that Dostoevsky had to stay back to handle residual business in Russia, a blatant lie, one that has had Mishima on edge all night.
The one with the overcoat. The clown.
Dazai stills as he remembers the white haired man who hung around Dostoevsky in some of the other universes. Not all of the other Dazais encountered him—in fact, Dazai thinks there were only half a dozen other universes where he met the man, he can hardly remember his name, but when he did…
Spatial linking. Of course Mishima’s men hadn’t been able to hunt down Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky would’ve predicted that the Sun and Steel would seek out the mastermind with their scouts. He used the clown to enter the building without anyone knowing after the scouts finished their hunt.
Dazai had missed a critical piece on the board.
Dazai rises to his feet abruptly, mind numb, eyes distant, and lips parted to speak but no words escape them. Tolstoy and Nabokov exchange a sharp, pointed look, pausing in their hostilities, and Dazai knows. He knows.
Dostoevsky is going after you.
He hears Chuuya and Kouyou calling after him but it sounds like a distant buzz. His throat feels clogged, his heartbeat is erratic and uncontrollable, his ears are ringing. His surroundings are blurry, a part of him doesn’t even know where he is: the event hall, your apartment, in the cafe below the Armed Detective Agency, it’s all blurring together.
This is it.
His vision swims and his head spins. The hallway seems impossibly long, much longer than it was to walk to the room. He can hear Chuuya spitting curses, scrambling out of the room, and he’s sure that his other executives and the other mafiosos aren’t far behind, but Dazai’s mind is on a single track. He doesn’t know how fast he’s moving—fast enough that Chuuya is chasing after him but can’t catch him. Something is heavy and cool in his hand—his gun—numb fingers moving to click the safety off.
This is it.
He might enter that hall and find you dead, slumped over the bar he’d last seen you sitting at, blood splattered across your face. Limp, cold. Just like you were on your bedroom floor. In the booth at the cafe. He’s pulling you from the water. He’s screaming for Yosano when he’s with the Agency. He’s screaming for Mori when he’s with the Mafia. Sometimes he’s alone, and he has no one to call for help, so all he can do is hold you and cry.
It’s his fault. He knew this would happen from the beginning. He knew that being with you would lead you to the same fate that you’ve met in every other universe because of him. He knew that being with you would be your death sentence, but he couldn’t stop himself.
His vision swims again, the red and gold patterns on the walls of the event hall are indistinct blobs, he feels someone try to grab his wrist—Chuuya, probably—but Dazai rips himself free and pushes himself into the event hall.
He ignores the eyes on him and the way people all instinctively move away from the sight of him with his gun out, he’s sure he must look deranged but he’s hardly even keeping himself grounded to this reality. Pages pile around him, every single one has variations of the same scene that’s haunted him for almost eight years written on it; one is being written before his eyes, he can see the words appearing on the blank sheet. He needs to find you before it’s complete. He has to stop it.
His eyes cut across the room, toward the bar he’d last seen you at, and you’re there. You’re there. It’s almost enough to make him scramble to put his gun away, cover up his steep spiral of paranoia even if you are looking right in his direction and see the gun in his hand. He can hardly come to terms with the consequences of this, how you’re seeing him right now, because his gaze tunnels right in on the person sitting next to you and his world comes to a halt.
He lifts the gun. He ignores as people shriek and scramble to the edges of the room. He ignores the look on your face as he moves closer to where you’re sitting with Fyodor Dostoevsky. He ignores the way Chuuya and Kouyou and Piano Man have all skid to a stop somewhere behind him, trying to figure out what to do. Dostoevsky’s hand is mere inches away from brushing against your body, it would only take the slightest movement and you would be dead. It would be a game of who’s faster: Dazai’s trigger finger or Dostoevsky’s ability. Dazai’s always been quick to pull the trigger but now, faced with your life on the line, when he should be at his best because of what’s at risk, he finds himself scared and unsteady.
He can’t lose you. He can’t watch it happen.
He paces toward you slowly, steadily, he swears each step he takes echoes across the suddenly silent event hall. He doesn’t stop until the muzzle of his gun is pressed against the back of Dostoevsky’s head.
“Stand up.” Dazai’s voice is deceptively cold and steady for the rage and fear that’s clawing at his chest, threatening to take control.
Dostoevsky turns his head to the side to look at Dazai, faint amusement in his eyes. “Are you sure you really want to do this here, Dazai?”
The mocking lilt his voice takes is almost enough alone for Dazai to pull the trigger. And if that wasn’t, the way Dostoevsky smiles at Dazai like he’s won is certainly enough to push him over the edge.
Before he can, he feels Chuuya grab his bicep hard.
“You can’t do this here,” he hisses quietly. “If you kill him now on neutral territory, we’ll have all of the mafias in the Eastern Hemisphere coming after you and the government on your ass. You can’t do this here and you can’t do it in public.”
Dazai doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how many mafias come after him for killing on neutral territory when invited as a guest. He doesn’t care that the government will come after him for such a blatant murder. All he cares about is getting Dostoevsky away from you.
“Chuuya is right,” Kouyou murmurs, low enough for only Dazai to overhear. “We can cover this up as is. If you pull the trigger, there’s no hiding what happened here. You know better than this, boy. You won’t be the only person this affects if you do this. Think of her. She will be implicated for coming here with you. Lower the gun and let us handle sweeping this under the rug.”
Dazai can’t even bring himself to look at you. He’s scared of what he might find. But he doesn’t even consider lowering the gun, not until Dostoevsky raises his hands and slips off the bar stool to step away from you. Even when he does, Dazai keeps it trained on him, still tempted to blow his head right off his shoulders.
“I meant no harm,” Dostoevsky says smoothly. “I was intrigued, wanted to know the girl who’s managed to capture your interest. I must say, I see the appeal. Beautiful and intelligent, you have quite the eye, Dazai.”
Dazai’s lips stretch into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s not kind, and it’s mildly feral, and Dazai’s pretty sure he must look entirely deranged from the way Dostoevsky’s eyes widen in a mixture of surprise and entertainment, just enough to be noticeable.
“If you ever go near her again, I’ll put a bullet through your fucking skull, Dostoevsky.”
He should do it now. He should. Fuck Chuuya and Kouyou’s warnings, he should put a bullet in his head and be done with it, move onto handling Christie so that both of the major threats to your life are gone. But he can’t. If he takes this opportunity now, if he kills Dostoevsky so blatantly on neutral territory, the Pale Flame and Three Deaths will come at him in full force, and Dazai is sure the Red Chamber won’t be far behind them with Cao’s recent interest in expanding his business into Japan. And you’ll be caught in the crossfire of all of it, Dazai has ensured that by bringing you here. Dostoevsky must have accounted for all of this. He knew that Dazai would be put in a situation where either way, whether he kills him or lets him go, he’d be throwing himself onto a blade.
Is that it? Killing you wasn’t the goal, was it? Exposing Dazai was. Forcing him into this impossible decision.
Did he really just fall into Dostoevsky’s hands so easily? Even with all of the forewarning the other universes have given him?
It’s you. You always make him reckless, his mind is never as sharp whenever you’re involved, muddled with thoughts of you, plagued with spirals of paranoia and anxiety that make him double guess himself. It’s like this in every universe—he becomes stupid, he becomes rash, he becomes careless. It’s you.
You.
Suddenly very hyper aware of your eyes on him, Dazai lowers his gun, gaze turning in your direction. Dostoevsky lets out one last snide comment, something toward you, telling you ‘don’t you see’ but Dazai doesn’t even process it, heart in his throat as he looks at you. He doesn’t know what he expects—fear, betrayal, even anger. He’s not prepared for the emptiness. He can’t read a single emotion on your face, your eyes eerily void of any feeling as you stare at him.
He says your name quietly. His voice cracks. He should be embarrassed, so many people watching the scene play out, so many of his enemies and allies and subordinates, and he’s staring at you like a lost child with an unsteady voice, but he can’t bring himself to care. The fingers of his free hand are trembling, and the ones wrapped around the grip of his gun are so wound so tight that his knuckles are white.
You’ve never looked at him like this before. Not in any universe.
He thinks he might throw up.
You’ve been mad at him before, scowling at him whenever he distracts you from your work and snarling whenever he makes messes that he never cleans up, but your eyes always stay soft in spite of the venom you spit. He’s seen betrayal on your face a few times before, screaming at him through tears when he got a bit too close to a successful attempt, cursing at him for trying to leave you, but you hold him so gently that it makes up for the harsh words. You’ve been scared of him once, when he lashed out so badly during one of his slumps that he nearly hurt you, but even then, you were more concerned for him then you were scared for yourself, speaking to him softly to settle him down.
He’s never seen this. He wants it to go away. Desperately.
“I’d like to leave,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, and your voice is so vacant of emotion that it leaves him feeling even more sick.
Dazai nods, because he can’t bring himself to speak.
He holds his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it.
You don’t.
You haven’t spoken a word since the event hall, and Dazai doesn’t know what to do. He used to find peace in silence—for years, he’d become accustomed to it, isolating himself from everyone around him, keeping everyone at arm’s length. The most he ever spoke was a few sentences to give out orders to his executives; his voice had become hoarse and raspy over the years of self-imposed isolation, unused to being utilized. But the past few months with you have utterly obliterated any semblance of comfort Dazai had found in solidarity.
It’s become entirely intolerable, the silence is making him sick with anxiety; he has hundreds of lifetimes worth of memories with you and he can’t even vaguely predict what to expect from you right now. You’ve been tense and cold since leaving the event hall. Dazai tried to open up a conversation in the car once but found himself promptly ignored. Chuuya tried to say something to you but only received the same cold shoulder. Even Albatross tried to lighten the mood when the four of you got in the car, but all you did was stare out the window with your back to Dazai.
Now, you’re back up in his penthouse with him. You haven’t sat down. You’ve hardly budged from where you’re standing near the elevator—Dazai wonders if you’re scared of him now, if you want to be as close as possible to the only exit in fear of him lashing out at you. The thought makes him even more nauseous.
He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to sit down, he’s uncomfortable standing in the living room, waiting for you to say something, and he can’t bring himself to try to break the silence because if there’s one thing he learned very swiftly, it’s that he can’t handle being ignored by you. He’d prefer anger and hate to the stonewall iciness you’re giving him.
He can’t even fathom what you might be thinking right now. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the window that looks over the city, he can see the bright flashing lights from Cosmo World flickering faintly in your eyes. It’s so quiet that he can hear the distant honking of horns, police sirens coming from the streets below.
He just wants you to say something, do something. Yell at him. Scream at him. Hit him or punch him. Anything is better than this.
It feels like an eternity before you finally move away from the elevator. You still don’t speak, but Dazai watches raptly as you make your way into the kitchen. You fling open the cabinets, searching for something, and Dazai’s lips part to ask what you’re looking for but he decides against it. You stop with your jerky movements when you catch sight of the numerous bottles of sake Dazai has stored in his cabinets—room temperature, because Dazai can’t stand cold drinks, they make his teeth hurt. He watches you struggle to uncap it and his body itches to move toward you to help but he knows it won’t do any good. It’ll probably just piss you off more.
When you get the cap off, you’re immediately bringing it to your lips. One. Two. Three. Four large gulps before you put the bottle back down on the counter and turn to look at him. The emptiness in your eyes is gone, replaced by something caught between hurt and anger and betrayal. It makes his heart sink, but he thinks it’s preferable to the emptiness.
“You lied to me,” you finally rasp out, shaking your head as you pace behind the counter. There’s a whole length of a room separating the two of you and Dazai longs for your touch but he forces himself to stuff his hands in his pockets and keep still. “You lied to me, Dazai.”
“Osamu,” he corrects quietly without thinking, not liking the switch up. He’d finally gotten you to call him by his given name earlier in the night, he doesn’t want to lose it so quickly.
For the briefest of seconds, the hurt and betrayal in your eyes disappears and only fire rages in them. “Dazai,” you spit out pointedly.
Dazai almost draws back, not having expected that. In all of the other universes, you’ve always been gentle with him even when you’re livid. You speak his name softly, even with a tight jaw and fisted hands—his given name, you’ve never used his surname against him like this before. Probably because most of the major fights he had with you in those other lives, it was months into the relationship; it’s only been a few weeks in this life so of course-
Dazai realizes, a bit dizzy, that he’s about to lose you.
You found out too soon. You found out through Dostoevsky, through Dazai's own loss of control. You found out in the worst possible way and you found out too soon.
Dazai is about to lose you.
“Okay,” he murmurs, not wanting to test your temper anymore, giving in as a means to try to soothe your anger, regardless of how much it might wound him because being wounded is nothing compared to losing you. “Dazai.”
His compliance seems to do nothing to quell your anger from the way you just scoff and shake your head again, looking away from him. You stare out over the city, dozens of emotions cloud your expression but Dazai still can’t predict what you might do next. He feels out of his depth, in murky waters with an anchor tied to his ankle.
“I knew it, you know?” you finally say quietly. “I knew it from the beginning, honestly, but I kept making excuses for you. I mean, the guns. The secrecy. You weren’t really subtle about it. Did you think I was stupid, or something?”
“Never,” Dazai says honestly, without hesitation. He sees your gaze flicker down to the ground at his words, but you don’t make any move to speak again so he takes the opportunity to, in hopes that you’ll finally listen. “You’re the smartest woman I know. I-”
You interrupt him with a sharp laugh, it’s loud and almost cruel, and Dazai turns in on himself at the sound of it. He feels small and unsteady, like a child who’s being scolded by a parent. When you look at him again, your eyes are wide and wild, half-crazed in sheer disbelief. You don’t believe him. Of course, you don’t. It’s plainly displayed on your face. And why would you anyway? He’s given you every reason not to.
“If you think I’m so smart, why didn’t you think I would figure it out?”
He tries to say that he knew you would. That he’s been living in fear for weeks that you’d finally see him for what he is but when he opens his mouth to say it, no words leave him. Like he’s frozen in fear, ice crawling through his veins, stones weighing on his tongue; he can’t respond, and he knows that he’s only condemning himself more. He tries to force something out but he can’t even make the barest hint of a sound. The mindkiller. He’s never responded well to fear, much less when you’re involved.
You click your tongue, as if to solidify that his silence proves your point, or maybe you know what he can't bring himself to say and you just don't believe him. His stomach churns again, and dread spreads through chest when you say: “If I’m so smart, and I was going to figure it out anyway, why didn’t you just tell me?”
“You would have left.” Dazai is finally able to speak, but he speaks the wrong answer, clearly, from the way you let out another humorless, breathless laugh, eyes wide in disbelief. You look at him like he’s the most audacious man in the entire world. Maybe he is.
“Yeah, I would have,” you agree and Dazai flinches. “Without hesitation, without even looking back. And now, I can’t because you made me fall in love with you without even warning me about what I was getting myself into.”
Dazai’s heart should be leaping through the roof at your confession, but if anything, he feels even worse. His throat feels clogged and his chest feels so heavy. You’ve never regretted falling in love with him before. Not in any lifetime.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, because he doesn’t know what else to say. The words are still foreign on his tongue, he doesn’t think he’s ever apologized to someone in this life before the last twenty-four hours.
“No, you’re not,” you say bitterly, looking away. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to care so much about you that when you finally tell me who you are and what you do, I won’t be able to leave.”
Dazai stares at you, lost. He remembers how just the other day he was finding comfort in the way you could read him so easily, knowing he didn’t have to speak for you to know what he needed at the moment. He thinks he hates it now, because you’re finally reading deeper into his soul and seeing him for the sick, twisted monster he really is. Just like he feared from day one. Manipulative. Selfish. Undeserving. His fingers tremble in his pockets, nails biting into his palm so deep that he can feel blood trickling down his skin, but not even the stinging pain can distract him from the numbness spreading through him.
“I didn’t-”
“Didn’t what?” you interrupt him. “You didn’t think I’d be upset? You didn’t think I’d be angry? Or maybe you didn’t think it would happen this soon? Is that it, Dazai? You thought you’d have more time to win me over in hopes that I’d take the news in stride. News flash, Dazai, no amount of time or charm would have made me accept this easily. Accept you easily. How could I ever accept any of this?”
Nausea rises to his throat so suddenly that he almost gags. He feels dizzy, taking a step back so that his back is against the wall, keeping him steady. Your last words echo through his head over and over again, he can’t escape them. The one person who’s always accepted him in every lifetime, the only person he was ever able to find a home in—how could I ever accept you?
His cheeks feel wet, his eyes are wide as he stares at you. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t even think he could if he knew how to respond to that. His lungs are burning and his throat feels so swollen that even just the thought of trying to speak is painful.
You let out a sharp breath, caught between a hysterical laugh and a sob as you press your hands to either side of your neck and pace across the kitchen. “What am I supposed to do, Dazai?” you ask, voice hoarse. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
He thinks it might be a rhetorical question, but he still forces out: “Don’t leave me.”
You scoff again, louder and harsher this time. Dazai’s eyes flutter shut as if to futilely minimize the blow. “I wish leaving you was still an option for me.”
Oh. He’s going to throw up.
He wants to blame it on the alcohol he drank earlier in the night. He wants to blame it on the stress of the past few weeks. He wants to blame it on anything but this, even though he knows damn well that this conversation is what triggered the bile that rises to his throat. He forces himself to move, nearly tripping over his feet to get to the bathroom because he doesn’t want you to see him vomiting up his guts.
He hardly makes it to the toilet, crashing to his knees and clutching at the seat as he dry heaves. Nothing comes up—he hasn’t eaten enough the past few days to have anything solid in him, too busy with preparations—but he can’t stop gagging, eyes stinging with tears and throat burning. He doesn’t know how long he stays crumpled at the toilet, losing track of time entirely, a part of him just wants to stay there forever so he doesn’t have to go back out and face you.
Evidently, he doesn’t have to go back out and face you because you come to him.
He’s gagging again when he feels your hand brush his back, hesitantly at first and then firmly. Your touch is warm, and Dazai thinks he must look pathetic as he turns his head to the side to look at you. Your expression isn’t as harsh now, your eyes are still conflicted but your face is softer. After a moment, you take a seat on the floor next to him—you don’t say anything, but you let out a soft puff of air as you slip your arm around his shoulders once he stops heaving.
He crumbles into your chest, body collapsing against yours. You wrap your arms around him, and at once, the numbness starts to fade away. His fingers clutch at your dress desperately, afraid that you’re going to disappear, but you only hold him tighter. You bury your face in his hair, forehead pressed to the top of his head.
“You’re so unfair, Osamu.” Your voice cracks, you’ve lost all of your fire, but Dazai finds no solace in it.
“I know,” he croaks out, throat scratchy and voice wavering. “I know.”
And then words are spilling from his lips before he can stop them, jumbled and hardly intelligible and he’s not even sure that you’re understanding what he’s saying but he can’t stop himself: “I tried. I tried to stay away, I tried so hard, you don’t understand. I knew it would turn out like this, I knew I would ruin you so I tried to stay away, but I’m selfish. I’m so selfish, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I knew better, I’m going to-you’re going to-”
The panic is returning, the words he wants to say but can’t push out are too damning: I’m going to get you killed. You’re going to die because of me. Dazai is breathing but the air isn’t getting to his lungs, his chest burns, and now even with your arms around him, the numbness is returning. It’s rapid now, spreading from his chest to his arms, down his abdomen to his legs; it’s going to consume him entirely, he can feel it, he can-
Oh.
Your lips press to his. Tilting his head back to angle his face up toward you, you lean down and press your lips against his, swallowing his words, his air, his panic. One of your hands cup his cheek while the other cradles the back of his head, Dazai can hardly kiss you back, his lips feel cold and prickly, but his eyes flutter shut as your lips move slowly and carefully against his.
Not for the first time, he thinks that he doesn’t deserve this. Especially not now. He tastes something wet and salty against his lips—he doesn’t know if you’re the one crying, or if he is, and he doesn’t want to know, so he forces himself to move. His arm feels heavy and clunky, and his fingers feel stiff, but he’s able to bring them up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as the tips of his fingers tangle into your hair. He kisses you until his lungs are screaming for air, and even as he starts to feel lightheaded, he kisses you still, because your lips are the only thing able to push away the numbness overwhelming him.
When you break away from him, you keep your foreheads pressed together, nose nudging against his. You share the same thin sliver of air and Dazai feels dizzy, he wants to kiss you again but he doesn’t think he’s capable of moving yet, so he only stays crumbled in your arms, waiting for you to grace him with your lips again.
“I wish I still had the chance to be a better man,” Dazai says hoarsely, honestly, gaze searching yours desperately. “I would be. For you.”
Please believe me, he thinks to himself helplessly, because it’s the truth. He would try to be. For your sake. He might fail, he might be too far gone, his soul corrupted beyond salvation and his blood black beyond purification, but he would try. He would try so hard for you. But he can’t, not in this lifetime, not without risking everything he’s strove to protect since coming in contact with the Book. He has to stay the criminal, the monster, the demon so that you and Odasaku can live out your lives here. Until Dostoevsky, Christie, and any other person that could turn out to be a threat to either of you are killed, Dazai has to keep playing this role. He has to.
You don’t respond. Dazai thinks it’s because you don’t believe him and it makes him feel sick again. His lips part to repeat himself but you only press yours against his, as if to silence him.
You don’t believe him, the kiss confirms it, and his heart sinks but he can’t even bring himself to protest, to insist that it’s true. Instead, he decides if he can’t prove it through his words, he’ll prove it through his actions. Even though his limbs still feel leaden and clumsy, he forces himself into a better position, sitting up a bit more and bringing both of his hands up to cup your cheeks. He tilts your head back, leaning into you and slowly pressing you back against the floor and distantly Dazai recognizes that this is not the place for this but the thought is only fleeting, he’s too lost in the feeling of your lips against his and your body pressed to him.
And you let him ease you back against the floor. You let him tilt your head back and when his tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip, you part your lips for him. He doesn’t have to knock your knees apart, because you spread them just enough for him to slot his hips between them to keep your bodies flush. He wonders if you can feel how clunky his movements are—his fingers still feel heavy against your face and he can hardly hold himself up above you. He hopes he’s not crushing you with his weight, he might be, but you don’t seem to care.
He pulls back to ask if you’re okay with this but you chase his lips and he lets out a soft, muffled noise when you tug gently at his bottom lip and bring your free hand up to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling with his hair, pulling him back down to you. You drag your lips from his to slide them down his neck to the edge of his bandages. He twitches a bit at the feeling, wondering if you’re going to ask to take them off, but instead, you just trail your lips back upward, nipping at his jaw, and he shudders.
And then he finally hesitates, pulling away and not letting you chase after this time. He weighs his options in his head anxiously. He feels like he should do something, that he owes something—a lowering of a mask, a show of vulnerability, you’re entitled to at least that much after everything he’s done. Aren't you?
You give him a curious look and he tries to respond—he does, his lips part for him to speak but nothing leaves them. He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut as he braces himself before trying again, bringing one of his hands to yours and wrapping his fingers around it gently, lifting it from his chest to the bandages covering the left side of his face.
“Take them off,” he tells you, voice hoarse and shakier than he would have liked.
Your eyes widen, and he shudders a bit when your fingers smooth against the bandages, uncertain. “Are you sure?” you ask him softly, bringing your other hand to his opposite cheek, cupping his face in your hands again, eyes searching to make sure he means it.
Is he sure? Dazai doesn’t know. He can’t speak again as he stares down at you; a part of him is nervous, and he doesn’t even understand why. You already know who he is, what he is, but a part of him still fears that once you actually see him, something will change. And it’s ridiculous, so many other universes you’ve seen him without his bandages and you’ve never made him feel uncomfortable about it. But you’ve also never used his surname against him during an argument in the other universes, you’ve never regretted loving him, and you’ve certainly never wished you could leave him.
So, yeah, he thinks the anxiety of you removing his bandages and then seeing him in a different light might be more of a possibility in this universe than any other one. His body is more covered in scars than not, and he knows it’s not attractive; he thinks if he sees your expression shift in a negative way when the bandages come off, it might shatter him entirely.
Just the face bandages then, he bargains with himself, swallowing thickly as he forces himself to nod. You sit up from where you’re still laying back against the tiles, propping yourself on your knees to shift closer to him.
Dazai thinks his heart might be in his throat when he feels your fingers unclip the clasp holding the bandages together around the left side of his face, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly unwind them from around his head. He isn’t sure why he’s so nervous for this part—there are no scars on his face, but he still feels distinctly vulnerable, like he’s giving you a window into himself that might reveal more than he means to. He can barely breathe as he feels the last of the bandages fall to the floor, he can hear you push them to the side.
Still, he keeps his eyes shut, counting each second that passes. He’s anxious, can’t even bring himself to look at you until you cup his cheeks again.
“Look at me,” you say quietly.
Dazai does as you ask, he always does. He doesn’t know what he expects when he opens his eyes to meet your gaze; he prepares himself for the worst, for a twisted expression or thinly veiled pity, but he finds none of it. Rather, your eyes are soft and fond, tracing over his face, looking between each of his. He can feel the pads of your fingers gently brushing over his cheekbones, tracing absent patterns.
“You’re so handsome, Osamu,” you whisper, one of your hands sliding behind his head, intertwining with his hair. “Why do you wear them?”
Dazai doesn’t know how to answer that. His throat feels swollen at your words, eyes a bit misty and fingers trembling against your thighs. Instead, he breathes out, “Kiss me.”
And you do.
God, when you kiss him again, it’s so intense that it has his head spinning. He doesn’t know how long he sits there kissing you, back against the cabinets with you half in his lap. It could be a few seconds, or a few minutes, or a few hours—he has no concept of time whenever his lips are against yours. It’s only when you press your hand against his shoulder, murmuring for him to get up, that he finally pulls himself away from you.
Dazai forces himself to push up to his feet—it’s much more difficult than he thought it would be, nearly tripping over his own feet, but you follow him up to your feet, steadying him when he almost tumbles over. You bring your hand up to rest against his cheek, fingers gently toying with the edges of his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment before he forces himself to look you in the eye.
“You’re so frustrating,” you say softly, but all of the fire is gone, replaced by that same soft look you’ve directed toward him—not him—hundreds of times before. “You are so frustrating, Osamu.”
His throat feels tight again, the sound of his name on your lips causing a wave of warmth to spread through him, the numbness slowly subsiding.
“I know,” he whispers, swallowing thickly, and you sigh, gaze averting to the side for a moment before you look back at him. He still can’t fathom what you might be thinking and it scares him.
But then you kiss him again, your other hand coming up to his other cheek and his hands fly to your waist, holding you close. You walk him backward, out of the bathroom and into the hallway. His back hits the wall and you press your body close to his, and this time it’s you whose tongue is darting out to brush his bottom lip, urging him to part his lips for you. He does, and he thinks he might be in heaven when he feels your tongue dip into his mouth, sliding against his tongue. His eyes flutter shut, rolling back just a bit when you trace the back of his teeth with your tongue before sucking gently on his bottom lip.
Your hands slide down from his face to his chest, over his jacket, down to his waist. Your fingers hook in his belt loops and Dazai groans as your lips ghost from his down to his jaw, breath shaky as trail slow, wet kisses to the sensitive spot behind his ear. He can hardly do anything but follow along as you guide him from where he’s been backed against the wall into his bedroom, dazed and entirely consumed by your touch. His head already feels a bit fuzzy, breath hitching as your teeth graze his pulse point, kissing down to the edge of his bandages and then across his throat.
He barely even knows where he is until he feels the back of his knees hit his bed and he topples backward until he’s laying flat on it. His chest is heaving, head dizzy and breath shaky as you straddle his waist. You don’t kiss him again and Dazai wants to drag you down for another but he can’t even bring himself to move. His body refuses to cooperate, nervous that he’s going to make the wrong move.
“Do you want this?” you finally ask after a moment, voice raspy as one of your hands squeeze his gently, as if to get his attention.
Dazai’s brows furrow a bit, lips parting to respond but for a second, no words leave them. You wait with the patience of a saint as Dazai tries to process what you’re asking and respond to it. After what feels like an eternity, he nods once. Of course, he wants it. You search his eyes as if to make sure he’s not just agreeing to agree, and once you’re satisfied, you continue you with:
“And do you trust me?” you ask softly, your gaze gentle as it searches his face for the next answer.
Dazai doesn’t hesitate this time, and he speaks as he breathes out, “With everything.”
He can’t tell what you’re thinking, but your expression is still soft and your touch is still gentle as you run your thumb over his knuckles. Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the gentleness you show him. You lift your hand to cup his cheek and he leans into your touch, throat spasming beneath his bandages as he waits for you to say something.
“Let me take the lead then,” you say quietly, his eyes widen a bit at your words. “I want to try something.”
He watches you carefully for a moment, guarded and studying you. He thinks this might be another first, and the thought alone makes him feel a bit giddy because he can’t recall any other life where you’ve ever been the one to take the lead like this, especially the first time the two of you sleep together. You look a bit anxious the longer he goes without responding, so he nods and says, “Okay.”
He’s pliant beneath your touch as you lean down to press your lips against his; he lets out a soft, muffled noise when he feels your hips shift, unintentionally grinding down a bit on his straining cock. He’s more hesitant this time in the way his lips move against yours, unsure of what to do with himself. His fingers twitch from where they're resting on the bed, itching to grab your hips but not wanting to make the wrong move.
This has happened every time one of you tries to take the next step, either he gets interrupted or he ends up getting cold feet because he’s scared of doing the wrong thing and making you uncomfortable. And it’s ridiculous because Dazai has so many memories, he should know at least vaguely what you like and what you don’t like but he thinks having the memories are a double-edged sword because he overwhelms himself if what ifs: what if he assumes you like something and you end up not liking it in this universe, what if he does something that you only liked after the two of you have been together for a while and you’re uncomfortable with him doing it because you’re not as comfortable with him. Maybe Dazai is just overthinking it all but how can he not when you’re involved. He wants everything to be perfect for you.
“Is this okay?” you whisper, separating your lips from his just enough for him to answer your question. Your breath mingles with his and Dazai can hardly think straight; it’s hot, dizzying, there’s something so intimate about it that it makes his body fuzzy.
“Yeah,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you. “It’s okay.”
You kiss him again. His lips move against yours desperately, needy, he’d be embarrassed if you weren’t matching his energy, but you are. He can feel your fingers tugging at his hair, your hips grinding down against his. Every time you start to pull away, he lifts his head from where it’s laying flush against the pillows, chasing your lips.
He needs you. His hands slide from your thighs to your waist, keeping your body pressed to his. He’s needed you since the day he came in contact with the Book and learned about you, since the day he met you at the club, maybe even since the day he was born even if he hadn’t known it at the time. He thinks his entire life has led to this, to the two of you being together; your souls have been entangled since the moment you were born and he isn’t sure how he ever thought a life without you was possible.
“I need you,” he gasps against your lips, hips jerking up just a bit to try to alleviate the pressure building in his lower abdomen, desperate to reach down and unbutton his slacks, but wanting you to make the first move.
Whatever nerves that have made him get cold feet all of the other times the two of you have tried to take the next stop are long gone. You don’t give him any time to wonder if he’s doing the wrong thing—the fingers of one of your hands intertwining with his dark locks, just tight enough to make him hiss into your mouth, eyes rolling back at the pleasant sting. Your other hand slides across his chest, even through his dress shirt, your fingertips seem to scorch through to his skin, leaving his body tingling everywhere you touch.
“You have me,” you tell him, breathless, and Dazai can’t bite back the noise that slips from his lips, wanton and obscene, borderline pornographic—if he was any more coherent, he might be embarrassed but he can’t find it in him. Not when he’s finally getting what he’s wanted after all of this time.
His hands fly down to his slacks, he fumbles with the button and zipper before yanking them down just enough to free his cock and he watches as you sit back on his thighs, eyes wide and lips parted as your gaze focuses in on his cock, watching as the leaking precum dribbles down his length, alongside the vein running along the underside of his cock.
“Please,” he breathes out, fingers biting into your thighs as he bunches your dress up to your hips, another low moan spilling from his lips just at the thought of what’s about to happen, lashes fluttering.
You don’t even take off your panties, clearly driven by the same desperation that he is as you slide them to the side and position yourself above his cock and Dazai gnaws at his bottom lip when he feels the tip pressing against your entrance. He can feel how wet you are already, so drenched that your slick is dripping down the length of his cock. His hips stutter up instinctively, but instead of pushing inside, his cock slides between your folds and he whimpers, arm flying to cover the lower half of his face. You don’t let him, fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull his arm from his face and pin it to the mattress above him.
“Don’t hide yourself,” you say softly.
Dazai thinks there must be stars in his eyes as he looks up at you. You’re so beautiful, lips parted as you pant softly, an adoring expression on your face as you look down at him. He loves you. He loves you, god, he loves you more than he’s ever loved anything in his life; he thinks that nothing the other Dazais ever felt for any of the other yous could ever compare to how he feels for you.
When his tip starts to push into your tight hole, all he can let out is another loud, lewd noise; his head falls back against the pillows. His ears are ringing, but distantly, he can hear you gasp. His vision is blurry as he forces himself to look up at you but Dazai thinks you look otherworldly with your head tilted back as his cock starts to stretch you out, lips swollen and wet from the kisses you’d shared. He thinks he must look insane, pupils blown wide and eyes wild as he tries to focus on the sight of you. All of the clever wheels that usually turn within his mind are crumbling.
His fingertips leave crescents in your thighs as you sink down on his cock slowly—too slow, it leaves his head dizzy as your warmth slowly envelops his length. He’s imagined this so many times before. Dozens. Hundreds. He has so many memories of the feeling of your body flush to his, thighs over his shoulders as he fucks you deep and slow, swallowing your moans, but he thinks that nothing compares to this, the sight of you above him, watching your body tremble and face shift as his cock stretches you out. He barely refrains from letting out a string of strangled curses, barely able to hold his eyes open to watch you.
You give yourself a moment to adjust, and when you do, you look down at Dazai. He thinks he must look a mess—chest heaving, breath erratic, eyes heavy and lidded and entirely glazed over—but he doesn’t care, not with the way your hand slides up his abdomen, fingers tracing patterns along the bandages covering his body. You look beautiful—you always look beautiful—but you look extra beautiful right now, and he thinks he could stare at you forever and never tire of it.
Experimentally, you roll your hips—it’s still slow, agonizingly slow—and Dazai throws his head back, another obscene moan spilling from his lips.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his fingers falling from your thighs to twist the sheets below him, knuckles white. “Feels so good. So good.”
You let out a hum that’s caught between a moan and agreement as you continue the slow rolls of your hips, hands sliding up and down his abdomen in a way that’s deceptively innocent and soothing compared to how his cock is dragging along your walls. His body shudders at the feeling of it, heat pooling in his abdomen so quickly that it has his whole body tensing as he tries to push it away.
“You’re so perfect.” Words spill from his lips, more of a babble than anything else as you lean down to ghost your lips over his jaw, nibbling over the bandages covering his Adam’s apple. It bobs beneath your teeth as he lets out another shaky noise. “S’like you’re made for me. I’d do anything for you. Anything. You know that, right? Anything you want, it’s yours.”
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, clawing at the sheets and occasionally reaching for your thighs, and he doesn’t know what to do with his body, hips jerking up at an erratic pace, like he’s trying to meet your pace but his body simply can’t match the slow rolls of your hips, desperate for more. He doesn’t know how you’re so put together—maybe you’re not, he can see through a blurry vision how your lashes are fluttering with each roll of your hips, breath shaky, but you’re just not as far gone as he already is.
“Anything?” you murmur, and he can feel your lips curve up against his neck.
“Anything.” His breath hitches, fingers reaching for your hips as he rocks his up into you, a desperate attempt to get you to pick up the pace. “‘d give you the whole world, burn it for you, anything you want, I’d give it to you.”
His hands slide up from your thighs to your waist as you lean down to press your lips against his in a deceptively innocent kiss. He tries to chase your lips as you straighten up but you don’t let him, one of your hands curling around his throat—not choking him, but firm enough that it goes right to his cock, lips parting in a silent moan—while the other braces back on his thigh.
He thinks that nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of you picking up the pace. His breath hitches, he chokes over a moan, stars sparkle in his vision as the tip of his cock presses deep inside of you. You sigh out his name and Dazai thinks this might be the closest he ever gets to heaven: you on top of him, cock buried to the hilt in your cunt, the sight of your blissed out face above him as his head spins.
“Oh, fuck,” Dazai cries out, back arching and hand flying to cover his face again but the hand you have on his thigh flies forward to snatch his wrist before he can, pinning it back above his head. Dazai’s eyes roll back, you’re leaning over him entirely now, leaning most of your weight on the hand that’s pinning his wrist but the new angle adds pressure onto how you’re squeezing his neck, paring his airways just enough to make his lungs burn. “More. Faster, fuck, I-ah-”
His voice falls off into another moan, head falling to the side to press his cheek against the pillow. He thinks drool is starting to pool at the corner of his lips but he doesn’t care, he can’t even think at this point, too lost in the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock fucking deep in your cunt, your soft moans and gasps, lost in the feeling of your tight walls clamping down on his cock, the warmth, the wetness, your fingers digging into his wrist and the sides of his neck. He wants to tell you that he needs more but the words are garbled, entirely unintelligible.
He forces his eyes back open, feeling the tears spilling over his cheeks just from the intensity of it all, the intensity of you. You’re gentle with him even when your hand is wrapped around his throat and his cock is splitting you open—he can feel the soothing circles you rub with your thumb, he can see the way you’re searching his face to make sure he’s okay. Dazai is just so overwhelmed that he can’t stop the way his next moan breaks into a sob; acutely realizing just how deprived he’d been of any type of care or love before meeting you, and forcibly coming to terms with the fact that he is never going to be able to go without this again, without you again. He’d known it to some extent before this, the thought of losing you and the light you bring him has made his stomach churn violently but this…
He’s torn from his thoughts when you suddenly stop the rolls of your hips, halting the spreading heat in his lower abdomen desperately. The noise that escapes him is something caught between distress and betrayal, dark eyes wide as he looks up at you questioningly, but the expression on your face makes his breath catch. Your hand slides up from his throat to cup his cheek, your other hand releasing his wrist so that you can hold his face between your hands, thumbs wiping away the tears spilling over his cheeks.
Distantly, Dazai recognizes that he’s still choking over sobs and that’s probably why you’ve stopped and that only rips his chest apart more because of course, you’re still putting him above you—even when you’re mad, even when you’ve just fought, when he’s betrayed you in a way that should be unforgivable, you’re still kissing away his tears and putting aside your own needs to take care of him
He doesn’t deserve you. Not in any universe, but especially not in this one.
He thinks he could stay here for eternity. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck the Port Mafia. Fuck his plan. He just wants to stay here with you, your lips brushing his, sharing the same sliver of air. He leans into your touch, groaning against your lips when he feels your walls spasm around him.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes out, unsure if you can even understand him. “You’re so-”
His words fall off into another moan, and he can’t control his hips as they thrust up sharply against yours, another string of incoherent curses escaping his hips as your breath catches and you straighten back up, head falling back as you gasp his name.
Your nails dig crescents into his upper thighs through his bandages as you brace yourself back against them. You move your hips again—faster, this time, harder, and Dazai thinks his head is in the clouds. He’s so deep inside of you that he can feel everything, jaw falling slack as heat spreads through his body too rapidly for him to get control over. He wants to throw a hand over his mouth to muffle the lewd, pitched moans spilling from his lips but he can’t drag his hands from where they’re clawing at your hips, desperately trying to help you meet him with each thrust.
“I-hah-shit, I’m gonna-fuck-”
He slurs out your name and several obscenities, trying to warn you that he’s going to cum when he feels his cock twitching inside of you and his abdomen tensing, but you only lean down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips and Dazai is gone. He wants to watch you, he tries, but he can’t hold his eyes open, they’re half-rolled back as he chokes over moans of your name, hips stilling as he cums deep inside of you. His body twitches, expression twisted as he presses his head so hard into the pillow that he thinks he might permanently indent it.
His head is spinning, lungs burning, sweat beading at his forehead and hair matted to his face—he thinks he’s never cum so hard in his entire life; all of the nights he spent alone, desperately trying to fuck his hand to the thought of you in attempts to mimic how you’ve made all the other Dazais feel, to give himself some semblance of the pleasure you’ve brought him in other lives to hold him over on particularly lonely nights, they’ve never felt like this.
You don’t stop, even as he squirms and lets out jumbled pleas beneath you, body shuddering at the overstimulation but you’re too lost in chasing your own high now. He spasms beneath you, nails digging into your thigh as you fuck his cum deeper inside of you, bouncing on his cock desperately. He doesn’t care that the sensitivity is pushing his body to the brink, letting you use him however you want if it means he gets to see you like this.
Dazai’s head feels light, pins and needles pricking his body—he thinks he might pass out but he forces himself to hold on, enraptured by the sight of you on top of him with your eyes half-rolled back, lips parted and throat bared to him. Your tits are half-spilling out over the low-cut of your dress and Dazai thinks you’re fucking divine. The only holy thing in this godless world. He wants to spend the rest of his life worshiping you.
“I’m gonna-” you gasp, head falling backward as one final roll of your hips that has your clit grinding against his pelvic bone sends you spiraling over the edge.
Dazai wants to sear the image of you behind his eyelids, watching as your nails drag against his thighs, drawing red lines even through the bandages, back arching, head tossed back—your body is trembling violently as you cum on his cock, expression twisted and entirely blissed out, sobbing over his name. He chokes and gasps at the feeling of your cunt tightening around his sensitive cock again, jaw tight and spots dancing in his vision as he’s so abruptly pushed over the edge a second time, the coil in his abdomen tightening and snapping all within the span of a few seconds.
He’s still reeling when he feels you slump forward onto his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck, shivering in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He’s only half aware as he instinctively brings his hands up to rest on your hips, rubbing soft circles of your hip bones to try to soothe you.
He shudders when you press a kiss to his neck right at the edge of his bandages, and then tilt your head up to press another on his jaw. One of your hands comes up to caress the back of his head, fingers carding through the dark locks in a way that has his eyes drooping shut.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, voice soft, breaking the silence. Dazai stiffens a bit, lips parting to respond but no words leave them. “... but let’s just lay like this for a while first, okay?”
He lets out a shaky breath, still not entirely convinced that he’s not going to lose you, so he lets his eyes flutter shut as he nods. He may as well bask in this for as long as he can, and if you notice the way his fingers dig just a little deeper into your skin after your words process, you don’t mention it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “okay.”
Dazai wakes up the next morning and you’re nowhere to be seen. The bed is frighteningly cold next to him and his heart is instantly in his throat. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s sitting up in bed, looking around, eyes wild and heart racing. He doesn’t settle down, not until his eyes fall upon where you’re sitting curled up on the chair of the desk he never uses, eyes trained on the dark clouds outside the window, the beauty of the sunrise wilted by a morning storm.
“His intention was to make me leave you.” You’re not looking at him, but you must have heard him sit up. “Fyodor Dostoevsky. The things he told me, they were to make me leave you.”
Dazai doesn’t move an inch, throat swelling. He forces himself to ask, “What did he tell you?”
He isn’t sure if he wants to know.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say—Dazai thinks that it definitely does, but he bites back the questions that rise to his tongue because you’re clearly not about to budge on your answer. “Who is he?”
“A monster,” Dazai bites out, bitterness seeping into his tone as he leans back against the headboard, eyes still trained on where you’re curled on his chair, gaze distant. “You have to stay away from him.”
“Well, I didn’t intend on seeking him out,” you say it so dryly that Dazai nearly finds humor in it. Nearly. The smile that rises to his lips is mirthless at best. You turn to look at him, finally, and Dazai finds only cool indifference on your face; the fondness, the softness, the gentleness from last night are all gone. He wonders if you regret it, but he doesn’t let that thought linger, it’ll only make him sick. “... He doesn’t seem like the type to give up.”
“He never is,” Dazai murmurs, ignoring the brief, questioning look you direct toward him, mind drifting off to all of the Russian’s incessant attempts to take you from him in all of the other universes. “Did he tell you what his plan was?”
Dazai doubts it, but maybe there was something he said to you that shed some light to it.
“He didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “He wants Yokohama, for whatever reason—couldn’t figure that out, I think he’s looking for something—and clearly, he has to get through you to get it. He thinks the best way of getting through you is by taking me away from you first. That’s what I’d gathered from how he was talking at least, what he was saying about you, the way he was phrasing it. I’d put together enough on my own during the night to fill in the blanks. He told me things about what you’d done as… what you’d done as boss of the Port Mafia—things you’ve done to enemies… to allies. He told me that I’d see the real you as soon as you realize that the meeting he set up was a farce; that the mask you put up would crumble and I would see you for the demon that you are.”
Dazai doesn’t respond, jaw tight as he averts his gaze to the window—he’d played right into Dostoevsky’s hands. He can hardly bring himself to look at you; he wonders if you do see him differently now that the cloud from the night before has worn off, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Now’s not the time anyway, there are more pressing matters.
“... He’ll come after me again, won’t he?” you ask quietly. “Getting me to leave you willingly didn’t work. If he’s so set on me being the trigger to your downfall, then he’ll come after me again.”
He would. As he always has. Of course, Dostoevsky would try to get to him through you, he’s tried it in every universe, and Dazai hadn’t been careful enough. He hadn’t been smart enough. He’d known this was going to happen and was still arrogant enough to believe he could somehow prevent it. He was a fool, and he was a fool at the cost of your safety. He doesn’t know how to respond to you, he doesn’t want to confirm your suspicions, he doesn’t want to admit that this is all his fault, that he knew this would happen and was selfish enough to pursue you anyway.
“... I’m scared, Osamu,” you finally say quietly, and you suddenly look a lot smaller from where you’re sitting on his desk chair, hunched over with your knees tucked to your chest. “I’m really scared.”
Dazai’s heart claws up to his throat and he pushes himself out of bed, still dressed haphazardly in his suit from the night before. He makes his way over to you and kneels in front of you, hands curling around your ankles as he looks up at you.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he tells you, voice a bit more raspier than he intended for it to come across as. “I don’t care what I have to do to ensure it, how low I have to stoop. I will not let anything happen to you, do you understand?”
Your eyes meet his, and he can’t help but notice that doubt still riddles your gaze as you search his face, as if you want to believe him but can’t bring yourself to. A pit starts to grow in his stomach, wide and gaping as he realizes that this is all really about to happen, and one mistake on his part could lead you to the same fate you’ve met in so many other worlds because of him.
Finally, the doubt slowly clears as you let out a soft breath, nodding, and Dazai inhales sharply, laying his forehead against your shin as he lets his eyes slide shut.
He won’t let it happen. Not again.
again there was NO plot development in the smut - you guys didn't miss out on anything, pinky swear. i restructured the scene to fit the only notable scene (bandage removal) into the part before the smut, so if that felt a little forced, that was why </3 it wasn't supposed to be there. i was struggling trying to figure out how to move it upward a bit. the only arguable "plot" development was dazai letting go of his control freakiness to let her take the lead
#ᡣ𐭩 carina’s archives#dazai x reader#dazai x you#dazai smut#dazai osamu x reader#dazai osamu x you#dazai osamu smut#bsd x reader#bsd x you#bsd smut#bungo stray dogs x reader#bungo stray dogs smut#bungo stray dogs x you
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okay okay so question, has san been informed of the relationship dynamics in the house? i’m assuming he knows about matz and darling but was he pre warned about darling and yeo? bc i just thought about it and image they just kinda forgot to mention that they have a bestie with benefits situation, so second nature for them, and then randomly one day san walks in on darling and yeo going at it. the poor guy is 1) startled bc no matter what scenario that’s awkward but 2) he potentially thinks that darling and yeo are doing something wrong. so now he’s left to figure out if he should say something to matz or if that’s just way above his pay grade. idk why this whole scenario is so funny to me but it is. poor sannie😭
san was 100% not prewarned…
of course he knows abouts hwa and joong and the weird pink thing that follows them around like a little puppy, but yeosang and darling?? he’s clueless!
so i’ve mentioned before in this post that sex between the two of them is technically banned unless mommy and daddy are there to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. it just so happens that darling is a little brat and yeosang will do anything to make her happy (even if he won’t admit it) and no one ever said a little head here and there wasn’t allowed… if darling wants to suck yeosang off, it’s not technically against the rules, right?
and that’s absolutely what san walks in on one day…
the dining room door swings open, startling you as you push yeosang’s cock to the back of your throat. you gag around it, immediately pulling off of it to cough your lungs out. you’re half expecting to hear hongjoong scoff at the two of you before commanding yeosang get on the floor too, or perhaps seonghwa to give you a disappointed sigh before getting you to crawl to him. instead all you hear is a tray clatter to the floor.
“what the—”
“san!” yeosang cries, hands flying to his dick to cover his achingly hard member. he nudges you with his knee, trying to get your attention, but you just hit his thigh; can’t he see you’re choking on his dick? “we weren’t doing anything!”
you nod through your coughs, agreeing that you definitely weren’t breaking any rules. what san doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
“you weren’t— yeosang, she was sucking you off!” the butler practically screeches. yeosang hushes him harshly in return; the other members of the house definitely do not need to know what transpired between the two of you. “are you— do they—” san takes a deep breath to calm himself, “is this allowed?”
silence fills the room, neither you or yeosang wanting to answer that question. as much as the two of you like to pretend that anything other than actual penetration is allowed, you both know that it really isn’t. if either of your lovers caught you like this, you’d both be punished more severely than you ever have been before.
san swallows thickly, the worst case scenario filling up his mind. but you seem so in love with them? how could you even consider cheating on them with yeosang? he’s just supposed to be a cuddle buddy, isn’t he?
he should tell someone, he decides. after all, his bosses would be fuming if they found out that he knew about this. the last thing he wants is to get fired from the best paying job he’s ever had. he takes a step back to the door, preparing himself to sprint upstairs to hongjoong’s office.
“where are you going?” yeosang warbles, eyes going wide, “are you going to tell hongjoong? please don’t tell hongjoong…”
“well i—”
“san, no,” you say, voice gravelly from the effects of having a dick shoved down it. from your position on the floor, it feels like you’re begging him. perhaps you are; he supposes it won’t be pleasant for you if your lovers find out you’re cheating on them. “please, they’ll be so mad.”
“i need to—”
“it’s not like it’s actual sex,” yeosang tries to reason, “just small things; it barely even counts!”
“it’s still wro—”
“it’s not wrong, per se,” you whine, “they were just too busy to watch and we were both horny…”
“i don’t ca— wait, what?” san pauses, the cogs in his brain turning as he mulls over your words, “you mean to say you two are allowed to do this?”
you shrug.
“they’re supposed to watch but sometimes they’re busy and it’s not like we ever take it further than this!”
and suddenly, san doesn’t care anymore. he shakes his head, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. it’s his fault for digging, he supposes, but he wasn’t quite expecting for it to be a whole voyeurism thing rather than a cheating scandal. it serves him right for sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong.
“no,” he mumbles, “this is above my pay grade… weird fucking family.”
#ateez x reader#ateez fanfic#matz x reader#yeosang x reader#opposites attract universe#ateez smut#poly ateez x reader#poly ateez smut
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A Snezhnayan Homecoming
Childe X F!Reader
cw: not sfw, cunnilingus, edging, sexual frustration, frustration of a general nature
“I want to make you family.” You could still hear the whispers of his sweet proposal in your dreams, since it’s one of the last few good memories you still remember vividly enough to cling to. The joy you once shared has long since trickled through your exhausted and cold fingers. How were you supposed to know that becoming family meant you would be shipped off to Snezhnaya? Tartaglia, or rather Ajax as you call him now, asked you to let him introduce you to all of his relatives. You are, after all, his soon to be bride, and it was only appropriate for you to meet everyone.
You sigh and stare out the window. The family home was indeed everything he said it was and nothing less. Teucer was so excited to show you his Mr. Cyclops collection and calling you ‘Big Sister’ as he pulled you around by your hand. His mother went out of her way to learn as much about you as you would let her so you would feel right at home. In exchange, she taught you some traditional Snezhnayan dishes to bond over. The building itself was a lavish, well built mansion, and kept everyone warm even during the coldest, angriest winters no matter how ferociously they raged. It was also large enough where everyone had their own space. Even if they no longer lived there, this was the home they could always come back to. You never wanted for anything, or at least nothing material – a perk of being engaged to someone who was richer than God. But the one thing you wanted more than anything, your future husband, was nowhere to be found.
When you were together in Liyue, you noticed how much time he spends writing letters back home. Back then you thought it was sweet and admirable. Now? It’s the only thing keeping you sane, since you’re the one waiting for them. You think about rereading some of your prior letters, but you settle on staring out the window like the heartbroken maiden that you are. He said he’d be back soon, and he doesn’t lie about that sort of thing. Frustrated, you pick up one of the pillows on your to-be-marital bed and throw it down onto the mattress just to blow off steam.
You hated him. You stared down at the pillow and couldn’t help but imagine him laying in your bed, sprawled out with a cocky little smirk on his dumb face. His stupid little lips mouthing ‘Good job’ to praise you for managing to throw him onto the bed. You punch your pillow in frustration, picturing his face. You hated that you know he would probably like it. You hated him. Of course you loved him too. But right now? You hated that you loved him. Finally, when your ire has died down, you give the pillow a kiss. Maybe it was a little embarrassing, but it wasn’t fair that he left you here. Everyone is truly wonderful to you just like Ajax said they would be, but you missed him so much your bones burned under your skin. Frustrated and unfulfilled, you fell asleep.
You wake up in the middle of the night in desperate need for a glass of water. When you go to sit up you notice it’s a bit more difficult than you were expecting. Something heavy feels like it’s weighing down. Soft almost imperceivable laughter lingered in the air. You grope around in the dark and feel an unmistakable swath of hair, and yank on it. “Ow!” That oh so familiar voice protested playfully. “I missed you too…” As much as you wanted to be happy, it was difficult. Why didn’t he wake you up? Doesn’t he have any idea how much you’ve missed him? You reached around onto your nightstand to grab the cup of water you have to spare you the midnight walk to the kitchen, and dumped it on him.
“What’s wrong with you?! Why didn’t you wake me up?” You whisper angrily. Everyone was asleep, and the last thing you wanted to do was wake everyone up. Your distress, however, was palpable even though your words could never measure up to how you were feeling inside. Light airy laughter quickly faded away into a concerned silence and it was suffocating. “It’s like you don’t even miss me!” You feel like you’re about to cry. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” The battle with your tears is quickly turning into a losing one.
“Well, I had a very good reason,” Ajax soothed you. He threw his arm over your shoulder to pull you close once more – although the situation was a little bit awkward since you soaked him, the covers, as well as the mattress. “It’s because I like watching you sleep.”
“That’s not a good reason,”You groan into his shoulder. “You’re the worst.” “I’m a real bad guy, huh?” his hands play with your hair. “I worry about things like that when I’m off in Liyue. Whether you’re sleeping enough, whether you’re healthy.” “Yeah but you’re never here, so even a few more minutes would be a difference for me that you can’t even begin to imagine. I wish you missed me even a quarter as much as I mis–” He cut you off with a kiss so ravenous it made your lips sting.
He didn’t pull away, and just regarded your form with open eyes – something he did when he was looking for answers to give you.
Ajax eventually pulled enough to touch foreheads with you. “I miss you so much, you can’t even begin to imagine. But I guess I was a little greedy tonight. Moments where I can see you sleeping peacefully? It’s paradise – truly my greatest joy, and it’s something I can never ever get enough of.” He strokes your cheek, hoping it’ll ease your pain at least a little bit. “But it seems like I failed you as your soon-to-be-husband, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
Ajax suddenly rolled you onto your back, and regarded you from above. “What kind of man would I be if I let you believe I didn’t miss you every single second of every day?” He kissed you once more, but much more briefly this time. His gaze swept over you in a way that felt nothing short of utterly dangerous. “So, I guess I’ll just have to do a very good job reminding you just how much I miss you. First, we need to get rid of this.” His arm snaked under your nightgown, and swiftly pulled it over your head and off of you. “Don’t you want to be close to me?”
Ajax crushed your lips with his own once more, starving for you. His eyes remained open the whole time, darting around parts of you. You realized you would rather shut your eyes right now. It’s obvious he’s figuring out exactly how to remind you, and you didn’t want to know what he had in mind. “Feeling shy now all of a sudden?” He whispered into your ear and dragged your hair upwards to get access to your shoulders. His fingers traced along your collarbone. Ajax took a hold of one of your hands, and placed the palm of it on his cheek. He took a hold of the other one and kissed your fingers and wrist. Tonight was a rare clear night in Snezhnaya. The stars were bright and the moon was unobscured by the usual clouds seen in Snezhnaya giving you a clear picture of exactly how he was looking at you with your hands holding his face like a living frame. It was a sight that you couldn’t tell if you’d rather run away or get eaten, but it was certainly one you would never forget.
But the choice was stolen from you the moment Ajax sucked on the soft skin at the base of your neck, making a wet squelching noise as he did. Your senses were quickly becoming overwhelmed on all fronts. Now that you were liberated from the burden of your nightgown, you were entirely naked. He trailed his hand up the side of your torso. It made you shiver so much, you threw your arms around his shoulders just to ease you through the sensation. Ajax chuckled, and you could feel the air tickle your eyelashes. “Here I thought you were going to put up more of a fight…” He brushed the back of his fingers over your quickly hardening nipples. “But I like this face you make so much that I can’t feel disappointed.” He bit down onto your ear, and began circling the tip of your nipple with his index finger.
“And the noises you make,” he inhales sharply and his whole body shivered, “drive me crazy.” Something he’s said so many times, but you’ve never believed it more than today. “As much as I want to make you sing, it wouldn’t be good to wake everyone up. So, try your best to be good.” Your nerves were fried. Your hair was standing on end. You wanted to run. Your heart was pounding in your chest, but most importantly, you definitely felt like you were sorely missed. Ajax slid down the bed without removing his hand which diligently worked towards giving you an unforgettable night. He pushed one of your thighs off to the side so he could get a good look at you. Your weeping cunt was a welcome sight – one he couldn’t help but sigh in satisfaction at. He looked up at you and gave you the usual smirk that made you miss him so much you wanted to rip your hair out some days and it was like your heart did a backflip. Your respite was only temporary. He swiftly licked his index and middle finger and dove into you. His thumb rubbed steady circles on your clit, and you had to cover your mouth to stifle your erupting moans. It’s a dance you’ve performed so many times, but one you would never ever tire of.
You clasp your hands over your mouth, as he stroked you with focus and purpose. He kissed your thigh and gently laid his head against it, able to navigate around your shaking hips and undisturbed by your suddenly thrashing limbs. He could feel you were close, he knew you well enough. So, just like that he stopped. Everything stopped, and he looked at you with that cocky grin and you just wanted to punch him. He winked at you as if able to read your mind. “Won’t it be more fun and memorable if I don’t make it easy for you.”
You groaned. “Aww don’t be like that,” he lowered his head between your legs and gave your swollen clit some sorely needed love. You grip at the bed sheets. Anytime he’s got his head between your legs, he’s so excited to ruin you. Your body reacts accordingly, and your back arches as if by instinct.
“I’ve missed you so much,” you whisper. Ajax grabs a hold of your thighs and pulls you a bit closer. He angles your hips upwards, to make it much harder for you to get away.
His mouth drops to you once more, and you grip onto the sheets – the covers – anything. You needed him so much, so fucking much and he’s here – he’s finally here. Your toes curl, and – he stops. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? You swipe at him. “Oooh kitten’s got claws,” he teased.
“Just say you hate me and get it over with,” you whine.
“That’s not it at all.” He smirked down at you, enjoying your frustrated red face. “You want to cum? Not until I say you’re ready.” He said, and slid his fingers inside of you once more. It didn’t take long to get you teetering on the edge, and you had forgotten yourself for a moment. “Shhh, be good.” He placed his index finger against your lips to encourage you. You kissed it happily.
“I’m close, so close so so –” You felt like you were going crazy.
“I don’t think you’re ready yet,” he reminds you. You whine in exasperation. “You’re almost ready, so how about a countdown?” You don’t really have a choice.
Ajax picks up the pace, but not before laying his head against your thigh once more. “ten, nine, eight,” you cover your mouth and shut your eyes. “seven, six, five,” His rhythm is steady and his touch is focused. It feels so good to have him inside of you like this again. You wonder if it feels like home for him too. “four, three, two,” he laughs. “two, two, twoo.” You feel like you’re going to lose your mind. “Twooo… and one.”
Your vision goes white, you can’t breathe, and pure ecstasy washes through every inch of every vein and every artery, leaving nothing untouched.
After what felt like an eternity, your mind clears up and you notice Ajax’s fingers were placed over your mouth with a surprised look on his face. You give his fingers a swift kiss. “I uh – was I being too loud?”
“We’re lucky I’ve got such incredible reflexes or you would have woken up every single person in the house.”
You continued to kiss his fingers. “Thank you.”
“It’s so good to be back, you know?” He pushed you down onto the bed once more. “I’ve missed you so much.” He gripped his cock in one hand and spread you open once more. You weren’t sure you were ready to go again, but what you were sure of is that you didn’t really have a choice. Ajax thrusted into you from tip all of the base in a single thrust. You covered your mouth, but you quickly readjusted because you had to hold onto him with the way he was fucking you. Your ecstatic moans were leaking through. “Shhhh,” he quieted you but not before fucking you even harder. Your eyes rolled back in your head. Ajax covered your mouth with one hand, and brushed aside your hair with the other. He laid tender kisses along every inch of you while he fucked you into the mattress. “So g– hnnn ghh. So good. I missed you so much,” you muttered into his fingers.
At the breakfast table the following morning. “Ajax is your bride-to-be joining us for breakfast today?”
He smiled and covered his face with the back of his hand, sheepishly. “I got back pretty late and we were up all night talking, so she’s sleeping in. I’ll bring her something later though.”
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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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can i request a rogue and Magneto scene
hold my beer! 🧃
If anything, thank you for asking! It's so nice to see people show more interest in the pair since the new animation came out! There is enough space for everyone in this bubbling cauldron of feels for them so join me, let's marinate together! 💜
While I still prefer their Savage Land encounter in the comics over the animation, I think the new series managed to give a good spin of how they met in the 'Age of Apocalypse' universe.
As for this particular line, the way I see it, it's meant to explain that they were both in a place where their attraction and feelings for each other were not enough to sustain a healthy relationship, and that they both acknowledged it.
Magneto was haunted by his own past. In that shot he is shown dealing with clear signs of ptsd: he's probably having nightmares about the concentration camps, about losing Magda, about losing family. And if we know anything about Magneto is that his anger and pain, his thirst for punishing those that wronged him are a real blocker on the path to his own healing. He refuses to let go of his demons, of his hate because it’s what fuels him and because it's the only way in which he knows how to function. He learned a couple of lessons from his oppressors and he internalised them.
That is what Rogue starts to notice after a while and one scene (a kinder one where he is shown more vulnerable than aggravated) is all that the show needs to deliver in order to let the audience fill in the gaps. The reality of it is that sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, love and care are just not enough; (something that I wish writers for Rogue/Gambit would have also understood a long time ago instead of beating that dead horse and pretending it’s still moving. sorry!) In this case Magneto's fragile mental state could have absolutely overshadowed and even dragged Rogue down. When someone’s own battles end up taking most of the space in a relationship that can be shattering because you love them but you are unable to help them and, worst of all, they can end up taking you down with them.
There is a song by Leonard Cohen that always makes me think of Magneto and Rogue and it goes like this: ‘I was dying to get back home, And you were starting out// They oughta give my heart a medal For letting you go’ - In TAS, same as in Savage Lands, (and to some extent in the Legacy run as well) Magneto had the weight of so much (negative) experience, while Rogue, because of her condition, had a limited understanding of what commitment required. And I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE that they both saw that, and, even if it hurt, they recognized that it was for the better to step away from each other. At least at that moment in time.
One of them (Rogue) went and looked for help in an attempt to overcome her struggles (which arguably are of a different, more personal matter). The other… well... based on how Magneto was introduced for the first time in the series, was still finding comfort in dancing with his demons.
#magneto#rogue#rogneto#x men#x men '97#rogueneto#x men 97#anna marie#anna marie darkholme#rogue x magneto#marvel#textpost#I love them too much#I'll go walk my dog and try not to cry#I am so happy to share silly thoughts with people and hear their takes as well!
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Inspired by @slumpsnail 's piece of their Dark Rolan concept! Check out their other piece here!
The Rise or The Downfall of a Wizard's Apprentice?
CW: Blood, Death, Description of Breakdown
The first emotion was shock. Rolan couldn't move from his place on his knees as he watched his master clinging to whatever life he had left. His hands are stained red, settled on his lap while Lorroakan crawls to him, his own blood seeping onto the floor in rapid speed. Rolan can't recall what he did exactly, but it was during one of his usual beatings. Something about being a "failure" and "an idiot who deserved everything he gave to him". The memory is fuzzy now, he didn't even realize he stopped shaking from fear.
Lorroakan doesn't say anything, not that he could from the pain, but he looks fearful. A fear of death, perhaps? What a coward.
His mouth spits blood out, and he looks ready to beg. For mercy, Rolan hopes, because how humiliating would that be, for a master to beg for his life from his student?
His mentor doesn't get the chance before he stops moving, the life leaving his eyes, wide with a permanent terror. Rolan wonders if he's going to one of the Hells, his soul forever tortured.
After the initial shock dies down, he runs his hands down his face, uncaring of the blood trail he leaves on his bruised cheekbones as his eyes shine with glee. He killed Lorroakan, the Lorroakan, and yet he felt nothing but pure joy. Is this how Tav feels when they kill someone they hate? This addicting satisfaction that makes his blood rush with adrenaline?
By the gods, is he going insane? He can't find it in his heart to care, so he laughs.
He laughs and laughs, loud and prominent, echoing in the stillness of the room. What a fool he has been. Was it always this easy to kill someone? Does it matter now? It felt so fucking good. Even as he calms, his happiness still remains. In all honesty, he thought he could have died here. When he first struck his master, it was out of terror. He was going to beat him again, and he pleaded for him to stop. It didn't work, and when his teacher's staff raised once more, he held out his hands and-
Bursting into a new, quiet giggle fit, he rests his head on his still-wet hand, staring down at the body with a smile. "Oh how the mighty have fallen, Master Lorroakan. Though, you were not mighty to begin with."
A small part of his breaking mind is screaming at him, wondering what in the hells has he done? What would Cal and Lia think if they saw him now, practically bathing in his master's blood? What would their mother think? What would they think when they realized he it enjoyed it?
It doesn't matter, they're all dead, including the man he once was.
He gets up on surprisingly steady feet, leaning down and grabbing Lorroakan's hair by the scalp, beginning to drag it towards the balcony. "Master Lorroakan, do you believe in karma?"
There is no response, but it's not as if he was expecting one. The body's getting cold.
"I'm not talking about you, oh no, I'm talking about yours truly." He says casually, grip tight. "My parents abandoned me, and when I get adopted into another one, their mother dies. Then The Descent, where I saw prowling devils and undead roam the streets, tearing people apart. When we finally escape, we're exiled by Elturel, our only home. When we finally make our trek to Baldur's Gate from a grove that hated us, Cal and Lia are eaten alive by shadows."
He finally reaches the railing, leaning against it to rest briefly. "Then, when I eagerly arrive to you with nothing, you beat me for saying the wrong answers to nonsensical questions. Yet look at you now."
Lifting the head to his face, he grins happily as he stares into the lifeless eyes of his mentor. "Master, I believe karma is finally on my side, after all this time. This tower is mine now," he snorts, trying not to laugh again, "I suppose I should thank you! None of this would have happened if it weren't for your weakness."
He picks up the body proper now, getting closer to the railing. "Goodbye, Master. I'm sure there's a special place in the afterlife, just for you."
Without thinking twice on it, he throws Lorroakan's body off the edge, watching it fall down the edge of the tower. He can't see the bottom from here, but he can't only imagine the body mangling as soon as it hits the ground. The people down below probably won't recognize who it is, but that doesn't matter.
All of this knowledge in the tower he now has access to, but where to start? He should probably clean all the blood but...no, he'll keep the stains there for a while longer, as a reminder of one of his greatest achievements.
A spineless wretch is what Lorroakan was. A pathetic, greedy human who wanted to keep this almost infinite knowledge and artifacts all to himself. Now it was all Rolan's, the new master of Ramazith's tower.
Master Rolan has a good ring to it, and he's too excited to get started on his infinite studies.
That's when he notices that dwarven man in the corner of the red stained room, shaking like a leaf. Another apprentice under Lorroakan. He saw everything. What was his name again? Ah, well...
He fires his magic missile in an instant, killing the man from where he stood with the brightest smile he's ever had in many years.
There cannot be witnesses, now can there?
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It’s ok to be afraid of something.
Tara Carpenter x Fem Reader
It was a slightly cool day in New York City. You just woke up to a wonderful smell in the kitchen.
“Looks like Tara is making breakfast” you said, getting out of bed to thank your girlfriend.
You felt a warm feeling in your heart knowing that Tara is living with you in your shared apartment and the one you wake up with everyday.
You certainly have come a long way considering how must distrust and dislike Sam had towards you despite the twins and Anika adoring you.
Hell it took a lot of dinners and convincing from Tara for the older sibling to finally say yes to her moving in with you.
In the end, it was all worth it.
You made your way into the kitchen as Tara was finishing the second omelet and last bits of bacon. “Hi baby, did you sleep well?” You asked, kissing your girlfriend on the head while gathering the used pans and placing them in the sink.
She smiled saying yes but pouted a little bit
“Y/N! I was trying to surprise you with a breakfast in bed.” She said, playfully pushing you. You laughed “Kinda hard for it to be a surprise when your five star cooking always gets me up!
Also, you know how I feel when we eat in bed. I still feel crumbs in the sheets to this day.”
Tara scoffed “That’s because you eat like a child. Didn’t I have to wipe your mouth one time because you couldn’t be bothered to do it?”
You shrugged, grinning “Hey like I said. Five star cooking.”
Tara kissed your cheek “Since you’re up Y/N, you can help me set the plates up in the dining room.” You nodded and took the filled plates to the table. Tara came by and sat next to you but before you could eat, you got up
“Where are you going?” Tara asked
“I’m going to wash my hands real quick. One must have clean hands before eating.” You said heading to the bathroom, hearing Tara say from across the hall “just use utensils or a napkin”
After drying your hands from the water, you hear a scratching noise coming from the corner of the bathroom. You sighed, hoping those mice aren’t back as your messy neighbors from upstairs always had that issue. Self explanatory.
It wasn’t mice this time but your encounter didn’t stop you from screaming, running out of the bathroom over to your girlfriend.
Tara was pouring orange juice into your cup and almost spilled it when she heard your scream. “Baby! What’s wrong?” She said as you ducked behind her.
Your nerves were still shot but you managed to speak “I-I saw a spider in the bathroom…I-” She put her hand on your chest, feeling your rapid heart beat.
“Shh. It’s ok” she said sliding her flip flops on “Where is it?” When you told her where, you followed her behind.
Lucky the spider hasn’t moved from where it was
“Right there Tara, see!” You said pointing at the spot “I’m really sorry for having to put you in this situation, I know how big it is-“
Your lover simply walked up to the insect and squished it before it could escape. You were shocked yet amazed at the same time.
Although you couldn’t help but feel ashamed that you had to ask your girlfriend to do what you could have done in the first place, especially since you were Sam’s height and just as strong as her.
You never felt more ashamed in your life (well except for that one time you forgot to lock the door and Sam walked in on you guys doing it)
“Y/N. What’s wrong? I already took care of the creepy crawly.” Tara said as she cleaned up the mess.
You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Tara
“I guess I’m just a little embarrassed love. I mean I’m supposed to be this girl who’s the same height as Sam and built too but here I am being afraid of a little insect and asking you to kill it for me.” You said a bit annoyed.
Tara walked up to you, cupping your cheek “Baby, it’s ok to be afraid of something. No matter how tall or strong you are.”
You felt a sense of gratitude “but-“ she put a finger on your lips “No buts, I will always love you no matter what you fear or the flaws you have.”
You smiled
“That’s easy for you to say my little knight in shining armor. Not scared of any insects and all.”
She shrugged “Well, don’t expect me to take care of any mice Y/N. I’ll be up on that table faster than sonic.”
You laughed, putting an arm around Tara’s waist. “Don’t worry love, I’ll handle that. After all I’ll always love you no matter what you fear.”
Tara playfully tapped you before pulling you into a kiss. You both melted into each other’s touch before letting your tongues meet. You stayed that way before pulling away for air. “Let’s go finish our breakfast before it gets cold, you know it’s too early for dessert” Tara said taking your hand.
You smiled and shook your head, knowing how lucky you are to have found a brave and loyal woman.
#tara carpenter x reader#tara carpenter headcanons#scream franchise#jenna ortega#tara carpenter x fem reader#tara carpenter#sam and tara carpenter#phobia#beauttiful girls
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I really enjoy how Yamanaka can encapsulate the guilt of being alive in his characters. That guilt from living and being human people all intrinsically have due to our shared history. Along with the ways we as individuals try to admonish ourselves for it.
The ways we begin to police ourselves and form ideologies to prop up the moral and right center we believe we should have. In what's a clear attempt to differentiate or sometimes make ourselves feel superior to others. It really highlights that at the end of the day, it's not just ones ideologies that hurt people but how they communicate and practice those things.
There are beliefs that people have crafted over decades for the sole purpose of hurting and devaluing others. Beliefs that one would be hard pressed to not find a person that on some level believes them regardless of where in the world they are. It'd be even more difficult not to run into someone who sympathizes with those who believe in something that is clearly harmful. Not because they think the thing is good but because they recognize this is a mistake they either could've made, almost made, or have wanted to make themselves.
Milgram is a good series because it serves to show, through its audiences response and participation, how many things left unsaid can become the foundation of biases. Biases that then go on to impact and inform how we treat others around us. It's easy to say religion is bad when it's not your beliefs being questioned.
It's harder for an individual to ask what beliefs that I hold dear are causing pain to those around me. Furthermore, how can I practice and keep to my beliefs in a way that causes no harm to others. Do I really believe this, or do I just like the impression of me it gives people if I say I believe this. What sort of person am I? Am I the lines I draw or the many ways I hold others to these lines but skirt around them myself? Is there a way to truly objectively be moral and in the right?
Or is the very act of conveniencing ourselves we can be just another form of human error?
What's the worst that could happen by interrogating the idea that I may be wrong? Does the possible blow to my ego matter more than the possibility for growth that could give? If I'm wrong about this, there's no telling what else I could be wrong about. What if I've been wrong about everything all my life, then what?
It's different when it's something we believe in ourselves. It's different when it's a cause one has convinced themselves to fight for. It's different when we have to cross our own lines. A lot of people equate changing with dying instead of growing. I believe this is because a lot of people feel shame and guilt over their past. So they say things like that was the old me, I'm not that person anymore.
Something that isn't always indicative of growth and come off as just plain denial.
Yes, I'm not the person I was yesterday. I won't be the person I am now, tomorrow or an hour from now. Yet, I'll still be me regardless of what I learn. Regardless of when I face what I have yet to know and it becomes what I now know. Regardless of if something from my past comes back to question me now. My feelings, views, and circumstances will keep changing because the fact that I'm alive today gives me the privilege to experience change.
When did people become ashamed of saying "I'm still me." When did it become more important to discrad oneself in the name of changing than to grow into yourself. When did change become denial? Plus, what exactly will it hurt to give ourselves space to fuck up and be wrong? What would people lose out on by not beating themselves down?
Instead of going the that was the old me going,
"During that time I was biased, stubborn, uniformed, and only centering my own views. I'm trying to be better now. I want to hear your opinion and be present in this moment with you. That can't happen if I'm always playing defense."
When we admit we're capable of doing wrong, it can feel bad. That sort of thing can really fucking sting. Yet if we never do, we ultimately deprive ourselves of the ability to be right. We ultimately trap ourselves in one spot. We put ourselves up on the same pedestal we place these characters on and try to do no wrong.
It's easy to say this sort of thing hurts the person doing it the most. Easy to see how this mindset can impact us because we're the one's experiencing it. It can feel like someone is the only person experiencing these things at times. That others just don't understand, and they may not be asking them to anyway.
That's their weight, their duty. Their's to carry nobody else's. Then, one day, they'll look up wondering why this thing they were meant to carry on their own has crushed everyone around. If it was their choice, why didn't it just impact them? That's the fair thing after all.
Yet, that's just not how living works. Our choices, beliefs, and views impact more than just ourselves because we're people. We live in a shared experience with the others around us. It's a miraculous and amazing thing. If the Milgram characters couldn't impact and interact with each other... If they couldn't form or deny community within the prison.
Would it still be Milgram? If we didn't have that choice ourselves, would we still be living? Those sort of things. Displaying those types of characters and creating that sort of atmosphere. It's difficult but endlessly entertaining.
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where I've been
hello friends! it's me!
I know my presence has been really hit or miss over the past year and change. if you want the short version, life has just been really tough, but I'm at the point where I really want to feel like life feels more normal again, which includes writing and posting and being more active.
if you'd like the deluxe edition of what's been going on, I do feel like I want to share what's been happening. it's been really rough and the next steps are only going to be more difficult, so knowing I have friends rooting for me will really help.
you don't have to read if you don't want to, it's kind of a bummer! the biggest takeaway is that I've been going through a garbage time but I want to start writing regularly again, so hopefully you'll see a lot more of me moving forward.
everything else below the cut!
tw: pregnancy, pregnancy loss
okay so. y'all know I got married in December 2022 (and we are still very happily married!!). we've known from the getgo that we want a family, but hadn't quite pulled the trigger.
well, there was another situation that happened that made me realize that I really wanted to start trying now, but it also unlocked a really deep trauma. when I was 23 I was in a really horrible relationship, and I got pregnant. and I ended up miscarrying pretty early on. and I got zero support. that's the short version.
I ended up, I guess for my own sanity, blocking it out. there's big gaps in my memory that just. don't exist. and for a long time I told myself it didn't happen. later, when I acknowledged that it did happen, I told myself that it was for the best, that I would have been a bad mother at that point in my life, that I would have had to maintain contact with my ex, that it just wasn't the right time and it was a good thing that I lost my baby.
the problem was I never grieved. I never healed. it was all just locked away and festering and killing me slowly.
so I ended up spending a good part of last year grieving and trying to deal with pain that I should have dealt with years ago. which...let me tell you, it's a rough process.
and at the same time, I realized that I wanted to start trying. my whole life I've wanted to be a mom. I've wanted five kids for as long as I can remember. Every time I pictured the future I pictured children. And I didn't want to wait anymore. which...is extra complicated to start that process when you're also in the midst of unpacking trauma.
and as you might have guessed...I'm not pregnant yet.
I'm very lucky that my work has a great medical program and they don't have waiting periods to see fertility specialists, so I started seeing doctors last April. And there's nothing wrong. I've done bloodwork, I've done ultrasounds, I've done so many tests, Shane has been tested. We've done three medicated cycles with trigger shots. They can't find anything wrong. They keep shrugging and saying that it's just the matter of the right time.
Unexplained infertility is a bitch.
It's so painful. It's so unfair. And because of my job I'm constantly doing orders for pregnancy announcements and gender reveals and baby's first Christmas. I cannot tell you how many times I've run to the bathroom to cry because I just can't handle being surrounded by reminders that I'm not anybody's mother yet.
I'm currently on cycle 17 of trying. which. that on its own hurts so much. s e v e n t e e n.
we have to hold off on starting the next steps because Shane lost his job (which is another absolutely insane stressor) but he's in a new job that he loves and pays better, and I'm getting a referral for a new clinic for a second opinion. but it looks like we're going to move forward with IVF.
I'm very very lucky that my work will pay for a significant amount towards IVF, but there's still payments we have to make, so we're working on getting our ducks in a row. and it's a terrifying prospect. medications and egg retrieval (my first surgery ever) and transfers. and the crippling fear that they won't get enough eggs or none of them will fertilize or the transfer won't be successful. it's eating me away. I've been feeling like such a shell of myself, every failed cycle feels like another piece of me has faded away.
right now I'm trying to focus on getting myself in as healthy as a place as possible, emotionally and physically, before we start procedures. am I still hoping that I'll get pregnant without IVF? oh, desperately. but at this point, nearly a year and a half into trying, this is probably going to be our best bet.
so moving forward, I'm hoping I can start doing things that make me happy again. I've spent most of the past year and a half being incredibly depressed and not really doing anything other than laying around in bed. I did discover Lockwood & Co thanks to Maeve, and that's helped so much because it gave me something new to think about and fixate on (and write for), but it's still been rough and sporadic. which, actually, is a good describer of how the past year has gone. I need to get back into living again.
in the meantime thank you for everybody who's checked in on me, especially QuiddoDitto. I haven't really had the energy to message back, but I've seen the comments and messages and it's meant so much to me while I slog through this.
hopefully things will get better soon! hopefully I start feeling like a person again! hopefully I'll be writing and posting regularly because I miss it!
and hopefully there'll be a baby in my arms soon.
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Okay weirdly tragic idea but I have to share, trigger warnings for fatphobia and bullying, eating disorder mentions
So, imagine: Azul is still chubby in Night Raven. Except, he isn't healing, or he hasn't managed to avoid the dreaded pull of self-loathing. He hates himself more than ever.
He's so pathetic he can't even lose the weight no matter how he tries. He's been able to do everything, except for this one simple thing.
And, of course, people mock him for it. Students constantly point out his weight. Most defiant students always go for his size before anything else.
(They never see the tears he begins to weep after a while, once even his own built-up resistance to insults stops sufficing.)
Even the Ramshackle Prefect insults his weight. Saying how he's just as greedy for food as he is for power, clearly. How they can't lose their friends to some land whale who thinks he's hot shit.
And then he overblots. The Prefect realizes how insecure he is about his weight. There is a moment in the museum where they attempt to comfort him about it, but it's to no avail. He knows their true feelings. These lies do nothing.
But then he loses weight. His overblot has completely drained him, after all. He can't eat for a good while. He feels horrible, really, but he's thin now. He's done it. People don't make fun of him anymore.
Jade and Floyd start to grow concerned when they notice his irritable state. But what's wrong? He's finally beautiful now! People take him seriously. He's worthy. He should be happier than ever!
Except he isn't. He's miserable, and desolate, and constantly empty. It's never thin enough. He's always too fat for himself.
And he knows the moment he slips even a bit, the moment he gains a bit of weight, they'll go back to their ridicule. Why wouldn't they? They've made it all too clear they only respect him when he's thin, pretty. His feelings don't matter. His efforts don't matter.
Azul Ashengrotto will only ever be treated well when he's skinny, when he's worthy. And he's learned that lesson all too well.
#azul ashengrotto#twisted wonderland#twst#twst azul#azul#disney twisted wonderland#twst scenarios#tw: eating disorder#tw: bullying
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happy may!! you know what that means…
kit9 progress report #5
this time, we get these two images:
brand new andrew sprite!! clearly something is wrong. it isn’t out of the question to assume that this andrew is probably possessed. i don’t think andrew would be making that face while talking to himself about camping of all things. he’s on his own, somewhere, with a perfectly good demon-summoning setup right there! i wonder where ashley is?
and, speaking of ashley, we have the… kind of intense second picture. yeah, i know, cannibalism and incest game and i find her crying to be intense. but, we’ve never seen ashley cry before. we’ve seen her shout whine and pout, and we’ve seen her hysterical, but we’ve never seen her full-on sobbing. she looks so defeated :( her makeup is messy, her eyes are flat, and she just generally doesn’t look like she’s having a nice time. i’ve seen people assume that she’s thinking about andrew here, and i agree! who else could make ashley feel so bad??
(poor girl…)
next, we have a new video!!
youtube
here are some screenshots:
lots to dissect here!!
i think this place is the same abandoned place we saw in the previous devlog! which is, of course, the abandoned factory that we know they played at as kids. we don’t see much of the building from the flashbacks with nina in episodes one and two, but the implication is there.
second, andrew accidentally summoned a demon!! as an adult, he’s proud of ashely for doing the same thing. well, hers was on purpose, even if she got there accidentally. anyway, i wonder what kind of “deal” actually happened, because i don’t think this demon hated vegetables like carrots and broccoli. this post proposes that the term “vegetables” has something to do with cannibalism…
…i hope it’s not as ableist as it sounds, but… maybe…?
andy wakes up some time later, laying in the circle when he wasn’t before, and is covered in red flowers. we see these same red flowers in ashley’s demon-dreams. the summoning circle is different than the ones we’ve seen so far, but we learned with andrew and ashley’s parents that the layout of the circle and pentagrams don’t exactly matter when summoning demons. it can be an oval, there could be any number of smaller pentagrams, it’s whatever. that may be because of the trinket ashley has, but lord unknown was able to be summoned instead of ashley’s demon, so who knows!
andy questions how he passed out, and says that he “thought [he] ate enough at lunch.” we already know the graves’ parents aren’t the best, and we know that they severely neglected ashley. we also know that mr. graves neglected andrew, and couldn’t even remember his name. it wouldn’t surprise me if andy and leyley went without food sometimes, or even frequently, or more often than not. and, it wouldn’t surprise me if andrew prioritized ashley eating over himself eating, too. it’s something that i’ll keep in mind going in to episode three!!
we see leyley scream in the video, and the player as andy rushes to her. the youtube video cuts off before andy leaves this room, but it makes me wonder: what would make leyley scream? she isn’t yelling, either at someone or something, and we’ve seen that she’s pretty unimpressed with stuff that’d usually make kids upset (abandoned buildings, dead bodies, murder, horror movies, and more). so, what happened? did she see something? hear something? who or what would make leyley scream?
hmm…
also, a workaround has been found for the technical issues mentioned last devlog, which i’m happy about! they’re now focusing on enhancing the editor tools to hopefully get back on track to “make up for lost time,” as they said. i’m still super excited for episode three!!!
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@rosekillermicrofic II May 2 - dread II word count: 956
I don't like canon all that much and I can't really write it so - naturally - I wrote it.
TW: Canon-compliant MCD, grief (a bit?) and murderous thoughts
Barty didn't know how he got here.
It was supposed to be a fairly unspecial day. He and Evan had woken up in the late hours of the morning, bodies intertwined, sharing lazy kisses and enjoying the fact that in the stressful days of the war they finally had a day to themselves.
Barty had made plans for the whole thing, from slow kisses in the morning, lazing about with the love of his life to a nice dinner in the evening. It was supposed to be only him and Evan.
And then the pecking began, forcing him out of his morning daze, draped over the love of his life and acknowledge the tawny owl at their bedroom window.
It was a letter. Demanding Evan's presence at a mission. That's all there was to it, but by now both Evan and him knew the Dark Lord's antics, knew that a “mission” could mean anything really, from a small job that was boring and tedious and over in about an hour or two to missions that required days of travelling and brought more than just a few broken limbs with them.
To say that Barty was afraid of what his boyfriend needed to do didn't quite cut it.
What settled in his stomach was sheer and utter dread.
Of course, Evan had reassured him everything would be fine. That it most likely wasn't something dangerous or the Dark Lord would've told them earlier.
Still, Barty couldn't shake the feeling settling into his bones. It felt like an omen that their good day was disrupted like this. He could almost see something going wrong and he desperately hoped it wouldn't be his boyfriend to suffer under the consequences
Evan reassured him again and again that everything would be fine and he'd be home with Barty lazing about in no time. He gave him a long kiss at the door, another reassuring smile and then he was gone.
It was dinner time when Barty got the letter.
About how something went wrong. How they were captured by Aurors. About how Evan didn't want to surrender. How he fought and blasted Moody's nose off in the process. How he was killed.
How Evan was killed.
That must be wrong, right?
Evan promised him dinner. Barty had lit candles at their small dining table, has made the effort of cooking something nice for the both of them.
Surely, this was all some crude joke. Surely, Evan would walk through their front door in just that moment, kissing Barty and talking to him about everything but the war over dinner.
Surely. The love of his life wasn't dead.
He couldn't be. If Evan had died, Barty would know, would feel it in his bones and down into his soul. Evan couldn't be dead, because if he was, Barty would be dead with him.
But the hours ticked by. And no matter how long he stared down the front door, no matter how long he prayed for his lover to come back to him, the door remained shut.
The war and just the general attitude of the Death Eaters didn't grant a loving goodbye. There were more than just Evan's body, face disguised behind the mask, but Barty would know his soulmate anywhere, from just his pinky if he had to. He knew it was him.
It hit him like a train the moment he got home and his front door banged shut. The moment he saw the candles, still on the table and burned down all the way.
He couldn't breathe. He felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and was lying there with Evan beneath the dirt where he left him.
He should've done something. Should've gone with him, told him to fuck the consequences and stay because this should've been their day - just the two of them.
He didn't know what to do with it all and their little flat made everything worse. Evan was all over it. In the pictures on the wall, still moving and all smiley when times weren't as dark. He was in the wilting flowers on the night stand - roses - Barty gave them to him just a few days ago and he was sure that they've been fine this morning, still blooming elegantly, but they've wiltered now, like they knew Evan was gone.
Barty couldn't stand it. And as if something possessed him, he just- destoyed it. He blasted a hole through the wall with one snap of his wand, burned half their furniture to the ground, smashed vases and decoration with his bare hands because he needed to do somthing with them right now, couldn't just sit there and pretend his whole life hasn't been ripped away from him in a day.
When he was done, standing in between the ruins of what had been his home - their home - not even 24 hours ago. And he felt hollow. What was lives purpose now? What would make him do the next mission? What was there to fight for in the war if the love of his life, his best friend, his purpose, was gone?
What would stop him from running into the next best auror, unarmed, and just let them have their way? Who would stop him-
No. He realized then, it was still Evan who he needed to live for.
So, he made a decision.
He would kill that fucking bastard that took Evan from him. Even if it was the last thing he did.
#rosekiller#evan rosier#barty crouch jr#evan x barty#hp marauders#marauders fandom#marauders#rosekiller microfic#microfiction
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dance with the devil - part seventeen
Words: 761 | Rating: E | CW: mentions of blood, panic attacks | AO3
one || sixteen
The sidewalk is painful under Steve’s feet with the pace he sets himself at once he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He thinks, vaguely, that there are more footsteps echoing behind him as he runs, trying in vain to catch up. He doesn’t look back to see for himself.
Instead he just runs.
He runs until his chest burns with a different kind of fire, until his legs beg for him to stop, and then he runs some more. The streets are eerily empty, or maybe Steve’s just too far gone to notice the stares he’s getting as he runs. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is putting distance between himself and those around him. There’s something wrong with him and he isn’t safe to be around. He’s killed someone, probably two someones. There can’t be a third and there can’t be a chance of that third being Robin.
The sidewalk gives way to packed dirt and rocks. The buildings give way to trees. Steve doesn’t stop.
His foot catches a protruding root, sending him sprawling. A sob leaves his lips unbidden as he tries to draw in breaths through his heaving lungs. His whole body hurts anew, no longer trained for being pushed to those kinds of limits, and Steve can’t even find the strength to push himself back up again. He just lays in the dirt, sobbing but thankful to be alone.
There’s no one for him to hurt in the woods. Everyone he cares about is safe.
Hurried footsteps reach his ears, filling stomach with dread as they close in on where he’s fallen, but Steve still doesn’t have the strength to get up. Instead he just closes his eyes and wills the person to not notice him there.
“Steve!” Eddie’s voice echoes through the trees as the footsteps pick up with purpose. “Jesus H Christ, dude, you can’t just take off like that.”
Steve cracks one eye open to look up at Eddie as he kneels down, eyes trailing over Steve’s body as if he’s checking for injuries. He looks even more exhausted than he had in the apartment for a moment Steve feels bad about it, gearing up to tell Eddie to go away. But then it hits him. Eddie’s already dead. Steve can’t kill him a second, surely. Which makes Eddie safe to be around.
“S’not safe,” he mumbles. “Had to… keep them safe…”
It takes every bit of energy Steve still has to get the words out, and he isn’t even sure Eddie hears them. He closes his eyes again, ready to become one with the ground in his exhaustion when Eddie’s hand clutches his shoulder. It sends a shock through Steve’s body, pulling free a yelp of surprised pain, before all of his aches, pains, and tiredness vanish. It leaves Steve feeling bereft and antsy as he sits up and glares at Eddie.
“I didn’t ask you to fix me,” he snaps as Eddie flops back this time, waving a hand lazily in Steve’s direction.
“Kind of my job, Steve,” Eddie reminds him. “Gotta keep you safe and well or Joyce is going to drag me to Hell by my ear or something.”
Steve snorts. “Pretty sure she’d forgive you for not taking care of a murderer,” he bites back.
The word leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but it’s the truth. He’s a murderer. He’s killed at least two people during whatever the weird blackouts he’s been having are. Even though they feel grossly like he’s not in control, Steve doesn’t really think that excuses anything.
“I don’t think it matters if you’re a murderer or not,” Eddie replies. “Probably gets me more points anyway, doing good deeds when I should leave you for dead.”
“Right, sure.”
Steve thinks the words are neutral enough, but it seems Eddie doesn’t, because he’s pushing himself into a sitting position a second later, eyes narrowed in Steve’s direction. “Do you want me to leave you for dead?” he asks. “Or do you want me to help you figure out what’s going on?”
The questions give Steve pause, frowning heavily in Eddie’s direction. Since getting the full timeline of events back, he hadn’t stopped to consider figuring out why. His only concern had been keeping people safe. But if they could figure it out…
“Do you think figuring out could help it stop happening?” he asks in return.
Eddie shrugs, expressing trying and failing to fall somewhere in the realm of nonchalant. “Can’t hurt to try, right?”
Steve can’t find a reason to disagree.
Tag list below the cut!
@chaosgremlinmunson @soaringornithopter @hbyrde36 @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch
@quevadilla @puppy-steve @penny00dreadful @momotonescreaming @stevesbipanic
@dawners @little-birch-boy @steddiejudas @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @estrellami-1
@vthx @lolawonsstuff @gleek4twd @littlebluejane @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lawrencebshaggoth
@sadisticaltarts @queenie-ofthe-void @r0binscript @anaibis @hairdressersdoitwithstyle
@goodolefashionedloverboi @spookednsaucy @anne-bennett-cosplayer @flustratedcas @mugloversonly
@ellietheasexylibrarian @damnpotatoe @awkwardgravity1
#fox writes things#steddie#steddie fic#steve harrington x eddie munson#steve x eddie#steddie brainrot
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