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phyrestartr · 1 day

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Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.2) NSFW

W/C: 3.2k #NSFW, THEY FUCKIN', mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, sukuna ignores feelings through the force of sheer willpower, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, dubcon elements, blood as lube (SORRY), Sukuna unhinged horknee, ABO elements

A/N: I wanted to make this include more parts, but I am so flabbergasted and in awe of the response to this fic that I feel the need to feed y'all feral creatures LMAO. JKJK but 👀 Thank you for all the feedback and support! It really gives me the motivation to continue writing and to interact with the JJK community. I'm having a lot of fun!

tags: @kamote-kuneho @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah

“What the fuck is this?” Sukuna drawled, an intense fury simmering through his being. His gaze couldn't tear free from you, not even to size up the blindfolded weirdo watching him intently.

He shattered the coffin, freeing you from the makeshift cursed bath some freak had forced you into. He smoothed damp hair from your sickly face and searched for sparks of life somewhere in the cold stillness that'd overtaken you. And there was something. He found it, a little glimmer of vitality in the smallest, shakiest inhale.

“Good,” he praised, brushing your hair back more and more to get a better look at your face. You looked like the frail little thing he saved all those decades ago.

“You know,” Gojo interrupted, but Sukuna paid him no mind, “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared about that kitsune.”

“Then you don't know what this is,” Sukuna decided blandly. “Figures.” Kenjaku kept him off the record, huh? Guess that's a bonus.

“Oh? Do you wanna enlighten me before Yuuji comes back?” Gojo smiled, as if he really expected Sukuna to play nice and be honest with him. “Come on, come on, it's your chance to be vulnerable~”

“Tch. Pretty damn sure the fox'll be the one to tell you.” His hand smoothed over your stomach and rubbed slow, gentle circles against your skin as reverse technique sought to bring you all back to him. “He yaps about as much as your insufferable ass does. Granted, he talks a lot nicer.”

“Wow, rude.” Gojo sighed and clapped twice as if clapping on a light. “Okay! I've had enough bullying. Yuuji–”

“Brat, don't you fucking dare–”

Yuuji inhaled sharply. He blinked owlishly at your calmed expression, your eyes now closed and breathing now steadied thanks to Sukuna's aid.

Aid. That wasn't something the king did.

“Sensei,” Yuuji managed, voice quivering under the weight of memories’ emotion. “Can you fix this?”

Somehow, you were stuck in the throes of flirtation with the malevolent king of curses.

“It may be courtship,” Uraume guessed, soft smile brightening their cold exterior.

(They'd been smiling more recently, actually, ever since you completed that overcoat and presented it to them. Nary a day went by when they did not don the sentimental garb.)

But you weren't so sure; the event of courtship was serious business across all lucid creatures. Animals and creatures of primal existence sought out partners with favorable genes and strong constitution, whereas humans and the like yearned for merit or love in their coupling. You didn't quite grasp the way humans thought. Not yet.

Well, save for flirting. You decided it was a sort of pre-courtship where nothing became serious and nothing was on the line, but frivolous touches and haughty words of praise ran rampant when those concerned crossed paths.

Much like today.

(Much like the days before and after.)

You walked along the stone-paved path most mornings, lost in thoughts and mumbling to yourself bits and pieces of poems. Most were unfinished, but in their own time, verses would find one another and complete the incomplete.

A groggy yawn hummed from the palace entrance. And moments later, Ryoumen Sukuna fell into step with you, grumbling and mumbling complaints about the nippy Spring morning while he tucked his arms away into his sleeves.

He followed you, idly looking around the expansive space you'd helped curate and maintain when you weren't busying yourself with the girls or decorating clothing. The gardens weren't a mess before, not at all, but now they had a certain taste–trees and flowers were planted with specificity, stones were moved, paths reworked. You took the outside over completely. The king didn't mind.

“Sukuna-sama,” you said, voice melting in kind with the morning frost. “I'll need to leave for a short while.”

Sukuna quirked a brow and looked at you. You gazed upon the large, thick koi flashing their beautiful scales and ornate patterns of orange and white as they swam and followed you. Tch. How come even the fish were drawn to you?

“And how do you think you'll accomplish that?” Sukuna tossed a rock into the koi pond, making the fish scatter. “Getting away from me isn't something you can do.”

You huffed and looked at him. “I understand. I simply seek your permission.”

“Denied.”

“Ah.” You deadpanned. “Why?”

“You're mine; I decide where you go, how you breathe, if you eat. Or are you forgetting that?”

You sighed and let your ears droop sadly with your tails. “Surely you jest.”

“Are you laughing?”

You whined like a sad, sad street pup before cozying up to him, slipping your hands up his stomach and chest like you were supposed to. “Please?”

“No.”

You chittered and pressed your face against him, but didn't protest and complain much more.

Sukuna’s thoughts whirled. The show was amusing, sure, but you didn't do anything without reason, especially when it had to do with breaking character and acting out like this out of–

Oh?

Sukuna leaned down and sniffed you, searching for the intriguing coil of flowery citrus he nearly missed on the warming breeze. It was so, so faint, but decadent and alluring in a way that made the master of toxins cautious–most poisons tasted sweet, after all.

You pulled your head back, shrinking down the slightest bit with your ears flattened against your skull. Your eyes, wide as a full moon, stared up at him, expectant. The touch of your hands on him never left, though.

“Brassavola nadosa.” Sukuna tilted his head. “You smell like it.”

You blinked curiously, relaxing. “Is that so?”

We don't have that orchid in the garden. Sukuna hummed and lifted a lock of your hair, catching another weak waft of the flower's faint scent.

It's coming from him, then. Hm.

“Tell me again why you want to leave the palace?” Sukuna asked on a hunch.

And that hunch doubled down when you fidgeted with the cloth of his haori and looked aside.

“I wish to bear children," you admitted, shy and quiet. "To try, at the very least. Perhaps find a mate, too.”

Children. You wanted children. After everything those sorcerers put you through for who knows how many years, you still wanted to mother a runt of your own. And you were willing to run off into the wild to, what, let some random man knock you up? Fill you with seed of unknown origin, unknown value, unknown potential?

Sukuna's ego flared. He leaned down to you, tilting your chin up to make you look him in the eyes regardless how small you felt in that moment. He deserved to witness you. You deserved to witness him.

“You're not leaving,” he breathed, and he swore he could hear your heart break. “If you want a brat, you'll get a brat–only if you stay here 'n give up on those shitty thoughts of finding a sire out there.”

Your eyes scanned his face, tracing over serious lines and honest creases. Clearly, you searched for an answer–

“How?”

–one that Sukuna didn’t have. Or maybe he did. Perhaps he just couldn't find the words for it.

He scoffed and ruffled up your hair, unable to answer you. “You're not leaving. Not unless I say so.”

The first time he let you go, he left scars.

He found you in your chambers come early evening. Your tails swished and flicked as you sat amidst a nest of his robes and the missing linens from his chambers while you futzed over the embroidery of another haori, this time adorning the plain thing with the darkest scarlet one could find. Sukuna could already guess why.

Your being burns as wildfires do. Lively. Emphatically. Devouring more and more so long as the earth lets you. Yet where you do not lay ruin, you grant warmth and light in a divine way. Wildfires are not such horrible things if one stays a respectable ways away.

Your poetic nonsense irritated him to no end, but he fell enamored all the same; you spoke to honor him with every utterance of his name. You didn't try to kiss his feet nor did you bask him in compliments–you only spoke into existence that which hummed through your mind, unprovoked. It just so happened to be everything Sukuna liked to hear.

So when he found you secluded away, beckoning so sweetly with intoxicating scents of citrus and gardenia, what choice did he have but to lay claim, to give you the brat you so sorely yearned for?

You sensed him. Your gaze flicked to him, stoic and unmoved as ever, as the energy in the room built into suffocating silence, something like tectonic plates caught in deadlock, holding their disastrous energy, waiting for the right moment to devastate the world with a single, cataclysmic shift.

And of course, it was the impatient predator that moved first, setting a catastrophe into motion.

The hours blurred together.

Every minute of the chase was thrilling, invigorating, surprising–you were filled with tricks and traps, never slowing down for a second to think or doubt as the beast of a sorcerer pursued you through his palace, through the city below, and now into the looming forest in the mountains.

Admittedly, he'd gotten carried away. He lost himself in the rush of it all, the adrenaline and pure, destructive desire pushed his self-control into unraveling just the slightest bit; honest attacks tore through space and time, hoping to maim and cripple you if they were to hit. And, honestly, the way you avoided his attempts to strike you down enthralled him as much as it enraged him–he was seconds away from unleashing his domain until a less-than-satisfying ripple of cursed energy tore across your thigh and put you down.

It was then, walking up to you, to his prey, that Sukuna remembered you weren't a sorcerer. Most would be able to stand and walk it off, maybe even heal with reverse technique, but you could only grasp at your weeping wound and grimace. Because you were not a sorcerer, you were a kitsune: a trickster, a creature full of mischief and void of cursed energy.

Yokai. Not a human. Not a curse. Not like the rest of the boring souls wandering his earth.

Sukuna pinned you the second you tried to make a break for it. Fangs and claws gnashed and tore into him while his hands strained to keep you down and rip those damn clothes free from your burning skin.

Mating's never a pretty thing when it comes to nature. Humans like you made it something more.

Sukuna clasped a hand over your mouth and forced his weight onto you, ripping reedy yowls from your core as you twisted and turned, primal mind urging you to run, run, run, don't make this easy, make him prove his worth–

Rip.

Ribbons of what were once your robes fluttered to the ground, useless and unsalvageable. They were plain black, so unlike what you usually wore. You wouldn't miss them.

“Make this as difficult as you want, pet,” Sukuna whispered as he loomed over you. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat when you stilled.

“You know how this ends.”

His pants were pulled down while another hand wiped slippery blood against your pliant entrance–and that was the only warning you got before he pushed into you.

Where you should have screamed, you instead sighed. Your back arched off the ground like a work of art. Two hands gave up on holding you down in favour of gripping your waist and hips, pulling you closer to him, forcing you flush against his body.

He noticed it then: a litany of old scars and discoloured marks shining against your skin. Marks left by those who did not deserve to taste such a delicacy.

Unsightly.

Blood painted the grass. Cleaves and slashes ate away at those tainted scars, painting over the ugliness left hidden for too long–now, his marks would decorate you. Now, those hidden scars would mean something. They’d mean everything.

Yet Sukuna's selfish maiming wasn't fitting the bill, and your antsy-ness was proof of it. You tried for the last time to pull from him, but his grip tightened around your throat. You gazed at him, then, eyes so wide and hungry, eager to fight or fuck–whichever came first.

He braced over you and nearly winced as he dragged out of your suffocating heat. A sharp snap back inside loosened you, the glide of blood and slick aiding him.

“I'll take you the way you need it,” he drawled as he built the pace quickly, already feeling his own obsession and excitement reverberating through his body, filling every fibre of muscle with electricity.

“Then,” he growled, leaning closer to your face. “I'll fuck you the way you want it.”

“More,” you sighed, digging your nails into the pillow you had your face buried in while the beast fucked you from behind. Sukuna groaned in compliance and lanced into your guts deeper, harder, faster than before–you were the only one that could handle the brutal way he let loose, and he was more than willing to indulge in that privilege.

The hands all over you rose to the occasion, too; one had your tails fisted in his ruthless grasp, rudely holding you still and pulling you back against his hips; another rested on the curve of your ass, only moving to give a sharp slap or to knead your soft, perfect skin; the last two held your hips in a crushing force, his calloused fingers digging into your plush sides and sharp hip bones like you might disappear at any second.

A sharp, sweet whine signaled the beginning of the end, as did the restless fidgeting and shifting in the king's grasp. Seeing you, a poised, powerful, mischievous being, come undone beneath him came to be one of Sukuna’s favourite sights, especially knowing it could only be because of him--only him.

He leaned over you, his heavy chest pressing into your back as one hand released your waist in favour of fisting in your hair and tugging your head back and out of the futon you so desperately clung to.

“Ah-ah,” he scolded breathily. “No hiding.” It was a familiar sentiment, one he had no problem reminding you of now and again. You had a horrible habit of trying to vanish when overwhelmed, after all.

“Terrible beast,” you snapped back, scoffing indignantly when the deep bassy laugh of the man rolled through your body. “Horrible.”

“You love it,” Sukuna growled back, grinning through every word.

Something about it clearly struck a chord with you, judging by how fast you choked on your voice and came undone, legs trembling and body tightening around the too-big intrusion. The king groaned and bit at your neck, licking whatever blood beaded at the surface in between rushed, hushed words of praise for you and your efforts–most, if they heard the things he said, would call it out of character for the beast. Most didn't get to see beyond his raw power and crippling cruelty, however.

Sukuna grunted and spilled inside you, pulling you back by your hair, hips and tail to ensure he forced every bit of his offerings deep into your core. Your body rocked and twitched against his, accepting all he had to offer you at the end of yet another coupling, before he let go of your locks and let you collapse face-first into the futon.

He pulled out slowly, watching as every inch slipped from your abused hole before popping free and uncorking a dribble of whiteness from inside. He tutted and scooped it up with two fingers before stuffing it back in.

“Oi, oi, are you even trying to keep it in?” He teased, smirking as you huffed.

“You've exhausted me. I have no energy to attempt the impossible,” you lamented, nuzzling your nose further into the soft sheets smelling of cedar and fresh blooms–something so uniquely Sukuna.

Your king sighed and gave your ass a firm few pats. “Guess I'll have to spoil you even more.” He settled onto his back and easily pulled you onto him, yanking you up to straddle his waist right where that second mouth laid open and eager to taste you.

“This is uncouth,” you sighed. But you rocked back against the thick, heavy tongue pressing into your pliant heat, licking deep into you with a mind and hunger of its own.

“Seems couth enough for you,” he commented, watching you ride his centre with rapt attention. “Little harlot's getting off on this, hey? Such a needy little brat.”

His hands smoothed up and down your legs and sides as you shamelessly chased a second high. Your hands clasped over his as he took you into his hand and stroked you back to ample stiffness, the soreness of too many rounds of fucking making you far too sensitive to touch.

“S-Sukuna-sama,” you stammered. “I can't–”

Sukuna's head tilted with a pleased smirk. “Ho? I thought you wanted to bear children? Are my offerings not enough for you?”

You scrunched your face up into something of a prissy glare, but the shine clinging to your lashes and the shuddering of your body against his betrayed your crumbling demeanor. Of course, he was impressed with how his fox was fairing considering everything he put you through.

He maneuvered you onto your back, grinning as you growled and weakly struggled against him. You looked perfect–stomach swollen, hair fanned out behind you, eyes teary but unable to tear away from the creature that’d tormented you for hours upon hours with no desire to give you a break.

“Greedy god,” Sukuna lamented. One hand came to rest on your bruised neck again, fitting around so perfectly. “Nothing’s ever fucking good enough for you.”

“You are.”

That gave Sukuna pause. He stared down at you, all eyes looking over you with rapt attention as he tried to think. Tried to understand. Tried to parse those words and uncover what exactly you tried to convey.

But it didn't click.

“Tch. You're lucky I'm a generous god,” he scolded, releasing you from your torment in favour of collapsing down beside you for some much-needed rest. Not only did your beautiful body wear him out (not that he'd admit it), but your whimsical words wore his sanity thin. The worst part was you didn't even intend to damage him so.

“I am truly honoured to merely be in your presence,” Your voice, light and dreamy as petals fluttering, laughed, and Sukuna's soul did something odd.

He stared at the ceiling as you shuffled beside him, quickly returning to his side, donned in one of his haori and determined to make a comfortable nest of blankets and clothes around you both for the rest of the night–ah, morning? Huh. What an ordeal.

You curled up next to him, shoving your back firmly against his side the way you often did when resting as a fox, and Sukuna huffed.

“Turn to me,” he commanded, and you obeyed.

He, too, turned to face you to envelope your lithe form with invincible arms and divine protection. Your soft purrs rolled through him, settling his wild spirit into a lazy tempo of an early morning stroll through a garden filled with one sort of white orchid:

Brassavola nadosa. “Lady of the Night.” Your calling card. Your divine essence.

"Brassavola nodosa (Lady of the Night) is a medium-sized epiphytic or lithophytic orchid species boasting extremely fragrant flowers throughout the year. The blossoms, 4 in. across (10 cm), emit a citrus fragrance at night. Each flower features long, slender, pale green or creamy-white sepals and petals and a large, heart-shaped lip sometimes adorned with purple or dark red spotting." - gardenia.net

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x m!reader #sukuna x you #jjk x you #male reader insert #male reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen reader insert #jujutsu kaisen x male reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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copperbadge · 1 day

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I was making breakfast and listening to an episode of Just King Things this morning, which is a podcast I do recommend -- two very smart English teachers are reading the books of Stephen King in publication order and discussing them. This could go extremely awry except they're both highly conscious of his failings as well as his skill, so they do really well handling a lot of his less salutatory content.

They've hit the point in King's ouvre (this episode was about Hearts In Atlantis) that follows his recovery from the car accident that very nearly killed him, where he was struck by a van while out walking. One of them pointed out that it seems as though he came back from nearly dying determined to write the wildest shit imaginable and only write what he wanted, which struck a chord in me this time despite having listened to this episode before. Perhaps because I was thinking about my own writing and where it's going in the short term (there are a couple of short stories I want to do that I don't quite have a way into yet). I generally don't think about the drift of my creativity in the long term because when I do I usually draw the wrong conclusions.

I don't really classify my life, the way some people who've had high-impact injuries do, as before-TBI and after-TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury -- the fairly severe concussion I had in January of 2020). For one thing, given I had to cancel a trip to NYC because of it, it may have saved my life; I almost certainly would have caught COVID as someone with known lung issues in New York at the time. For another, the TBI was way scarier to almost everyone else; for me it was just one more dumb injury I gave myself and I didn't even remember most of it so it hardly registered. I used to open the story of it with a joke about waking up not remembering going to bed the night before, but nobody ever found it funny.

It's true that there are changes it wrought in my life, though. Even practical stuff like making sure my living space doesn't have tripping hazards and continuing to wear a fitbit even though I don't really need to (the fitbit told us, the morning after, exactly when the concussion happened, because it registered a heart-rate spike when I fell). For weeks after, I had to move slowly and put off making important decisions because I couldn't trust my physical or intellectual judgement; I didn't even jaywalk in my own neighborhood because I couldn't be sure I was judging the cars' speeds properly. For about a year after I had periodic post-concussion syndrome which basically just slammed me back into concussion space, which wasn't painful or upsetting but was definitely inconvenient.

And it's also undeniable that my writing shifted after the injury. It's not necessarily because of the injury, since my initial recovery from the TBI and the declaration of quarantine happened at roughly the same time, and anyone who tells you that a years-long global pandemic didn't impact their artistic expression is selling you a line. But the last thing I wrote before the TBI was the first draft of Six Harvests, and aside from the Six Harvests publication draft, which had fairly minimal changes, almost all that I've written has been blue-sky, light-hearted, PG-rated romance. It's been on my mind that I've been writing different subject matter from what I used to, but the timing of it didn't strike me until just recently.

I don't mind, really. I love fandom and I support fanfic in whatever expression it comes, but I'm also happy writing my own stories. While I'm aware it's been years since I've meaningfully written fanfic, it doesn't bother me per se, as long as I'm writing. It bothered me much more when I could write fanfic but not original fic, especially in those last few awful months at my last job. I'm proud of the literary and non-genre fiction I've written in the past, but it's also much more trying and frustrating to write at times, so I'm enjoying having a different sort of challenge that feels more fulfilling in the process. I'm sure at some point I'll go back to literary fiction -- there are ways in which it's hard to avoid turning the later Shivadh novels into literary fiction, being honest -- but for now I like what I'm writing, and I'm writing primarily to please myself and without regard to what's necessarily rational or linear.

Just struck me, is all, that it's by far the most noticeable major shift in my work. I do sort of wonder what will be next.

#writing #sam writes

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pastafossa · 3 days

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn’t be you.

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

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

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

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or had you been the one wearing them?

Maybe…?

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

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.

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

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

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

What you didn’t know was…

Why?

Why here?

Why these people?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt was alone.

You’d left him alone.

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

So… why did you feel so very sick?

Sympathy.

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

Protect yourself.

Protect what you might one day have.

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

You were wearing one of his shirts.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially Matt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you climbed inside a thread?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what you saw was heartbreaking.

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

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

“Jesus,” you whispered.

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

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Emotion. It’s emotion.

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

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

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

The stones.

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

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

Still nothing.

And something inside you… cracked.

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

You’d been loved.

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world.

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with a blink—

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

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

“It’s me. I’m here.”

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

And your weakened heart… skipped.

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

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

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

And you… smiled.

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

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

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

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called.

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

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

You knew.

You… remembered.

“Always,” he’d said.

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

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

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt.

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

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

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

“...Remember that. if nothing else.”

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

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

Silence.

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

Red threads never lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt, just let me—”

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

A soft intake of breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...D.”

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

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

“Leave me alone!”

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

Wait.

You’d… you’d called him…

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

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

…Steady.

Truth.

Could it really be you?

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

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

You loved him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me when you come back.”

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

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

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

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

Because all that was left was him…

And you.

132 notes · View notes

yuri-is-online · 3 days

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I’d like to hear a little about Idia’s Yutu. I bet he was pretty startled to see his hair suddenly catch fire + any other physical changes associated with the curse. (Do you think the yellow eyes and shark teeth are even caused by the curse?)

Idia is a popular boy and I have a lot of thoughts about him in general; I feel like I gave him a lot to deal with in this particular au... Jade is probably having a worse time mentally but Idia has a bunch of work I know he wasn't asking for.

As for the talk about the curse, I kicked it around in my head a bit and I am going to say yes the teeth are caused by it but the eyes are just something Idia got from his parents. I know I talk about thinking there is something wrong with Trey, but I don't think that's because of a curse and his eyes are definitely yellow. Idia's do seem to glow a bit so if you want your Yutu to have different colored eyes I think it would make sense if they had a bit of a glow to them, but that's just me.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, for context on the fyuuture kid au can be found here and here. For this post, I would recommend reading this explanation of what happened to the boys as Idia has a pretty big role in the bad timeline, and his actions will be somewhat referenced here.

Idia has the benefit and the literal curse of being in charge of S.T.Y.X., meaning that when blot investigations are conducted he tends to be in the know. His Yuu and Yutu should have been safe from anything the Marshall's decided to do but they weren't. Unlike pretty much everyone else in this AU, Idia learns what happened to his family. He knows that Yuu was cursed, he knows they were sent back to their world. But that's about it, he tries to find some sort of way to make contact with your world so he can bring you home but then things go to shit and his progress is severely delayed. By the time he has to help bury Leona it's stopped completely. Ortho tries his best to help, but Idia doesn't really want him to. As much as he wants to see you again, he doesn't want you to have to suffer through any overblots again, nor does he want to raise a child in a dying world.

Sometimes when he is alone, energy drinks scattered around his desk he'll look over to the little digital photo frame he loaded up with pictures of you, from back at NRC all the way up to your wedding and wonders if he should just let you go. There's a chance you being forced to forget about him means you would have moved on, maybe met someone else and had other kids. Was his kid anything like him? He hopes they ended up looking mostly like you, and knowing there is no way for the Shroud curse to reach them does make it slightly easier to sleep at night. He tells himself when he comes back to work tomorrow, he'll put the frame in a drawer along with his wedding ring but he never does. In his mind, he is still your husband, just waiting for fall to come so you can try to be together again. Fall might be another life, but Idia surprisingly doesn't mind. He can wait for you.

Idia! Yutu was a massive crybaby when he was a baby. Very clingy to Yuu and very afraid of his own shadow let alone his teachers and peers. He grows out of the crying as he gets older but not the social anxiety. Yutu wants friends, he just sucks at making them and is extremely stressed out by being around people. I could see Yuu maybe getting an animal of some sort to help with the stress and anxiety their son was feeling. And just by typing that I have become attached to the concept: Ida! Yutu gets a dog Yuu feels inclined to name Cerberus. Yutu adores her and takes very good care of her without any fights about his chores.

Yuu remembers Idia as being more of a cat person, but they tell Yutu they think he really would have approved of Cerb. They remember him as being a socially awkward, but extremely passionate about his work and hobbies. His love of retro games causes a lot of Yuu's cursed pains, they know he liked those sorts of games but they can't for the life of them remember the titles. Yutu tries to reassure his parent it's just nice knowing a little bit about his dad and that he doesn't need the specifics. Hearing about his dad's interests motivates him to learn about emulators as he gets older, and he builds Yuu a nice family computer after scrounging for parts.

Yutu prefers single player or local co-op games, but makes an exception if Yuu has a long term MMO or something like a genshin account because he does like playing with Yuu. It helps soothe his social anxiety to talk to people while he knows his parent and Cerberus are near by, but when they aren't online he's essentially a solo gamer.

Unfortunately for Yutu's potential inner gremlin, Yuu also remembers Idia's shut in tendencies and is determined to get him outside from a very young age. Cerb does her best to help with that too, it's Yutu's job to walk her and he swears she keeps trying to introduce him to people. He's had so many awkward conversations with the people in his neighborhood because of her. His other chore used to be helping out in the little vegetable garden Yuu started to help cut down grocery costs, but that quickly ceased being a chore and became a full blown passion.

Idia! Yutu loves flowers. He fills his windowsills with plants that are safe to be around dogs and has Cerberus help him dig a flower bed around your home so he can plant more of them. Sure the veg garden is nice too, but he loves the significance of and variety that can be found in flowers. If you live in a place that can keep bees then he will absolutely bug you about wanting to get some.

Twisted Wonderland looks horrible to Yutu. It's dark and cold, he's been snapped into a room full of people in a place he doesn't recognize, and his parent has gone non responsive as he tries desperately to shake them awake. He tries snapping at the fancy looking man that comes to help and accidentally bites his tongue, and that's when he notices it.

Mostly because Cerberus tackles him and tries to put him out.

"Owowowowowowowwww-" Yutu tries to push Cerberus back but she keeps whining and trying to lick at his face. She yelps as Yutu catches his breath as he sees what she's trying to paw at. His hair is on fire, or to be more accurate his hair is fire. He can hold it, he can tug at it, it's warm and is not burning his clothes but his hair is on fucking fire-

"STAY." The voice is so commanding that both Cerb and Yutu freeze, the strange man from before with his dual colored hair looks oddly nostalgic at his little command, eyes obviously softening at the dog as he shakes his head. "Good girl, no need to worry. Your little master is ok, he isn't going to combust." Cerberus whines, but she relaxes and Yutu stands shakily. "Though full warning you might feel like you are once I am done explaining things to you."

Idia and Ortho are called to NRC for an emergency and debriefed on their way over. Yuu holds on to life just long enough to speak with Idia a little, the first time Yutu meets his dad the two of them are saying goodbye to a now comatose Yuu. The silence is awkward, but the hold Idia has on Yutu isn't. I like to think that Idia and Yuu had talked about what they would have wanted to name Yutu, and that memory had carried across the world so there was no awkward introduction phase between the two of them. The sort of fall into each others lives immediately, the want for the other to exist overriding anything else.

Cerberus helps too. Idia might be more of a cat person but cute doggies are good too. ESPECIALLY one with such an awesome name, she's the most spoiled girl in the entire apocalypse. She's an old dog at this point, so Idia takes her back to S.T.Y.X. where she becomes a sort of unofficial mascot for the research teams. Idia makes her a uniform and everything. He regularly sends pictures to Yutu while he's busy at school.

Because of Yutu's love of gardening trumping his interest in technology, he ends up in Heartslabyul instead of Ignihyde. He is very embarrassed about this at first (he really hates the uniform) but Idia reassures him that he doesn't care about that. His kid could probably kill someone in front of him and he would not care, especially not at this point. So long as he is able to talk to his child about manga and games he doesn't care what extra circulars they're into. I can't see him being super excited about having to go to sports games, but then again maybe he would just think about it like a sports anime to help psych himself up to go (his kid would obviously be his favorite character).

Bad timeline Idia is a lot calmer than his younger self. He still loses his temper and goes on smug rants, but in general he speaks exactly like he does in book six to the S.T.Y.X. employees. His true personality only really comes out when he's alone with Ortho and Yutu, but he tries to keep his more pessimistic side in check. He wants Yutu to have some hope for the future, but the more he runs the numbers the bleaker things look.

Ortho is beyond excited to have his nephew back. He always liked hanging out with Yuu because of the lack of data he had about them. Every conversation he had with them was unique, and he was really looking forward to having the same experience with Yutu. He was just as if not more distraught than Idia when you both disappeared, so having Yutu back brings a bit more spark to his soul. Yutu was so stressed out from all of the changes he was experiencing that meeting Orhto felt weirdly normal. What's weirder: having an artificial humanoid for an uncle, technically being part alien, having fire for hair, or having a spell that literally opens the gates of hell. Yutu is not taking option one that's for sure.

Ortho and Idia are the ones who propose going back in time, but when it's their Yutu who is making the journey the suggestion is extremely difficult to make. Idia doesn't like the idea of asking his son to do this, it feels selfish. But then, Idia also feels like bringing him into existence before he could break the family curse was selfish, no matter what Yutu was always going to be doomed. But that just means he should be the one taking responsibility for this... Ortho volunteers himself for the mission but Yutu points out that that would probably be even more dangerous than sending him. It's a tearful goodbye, everyone knows that if the missions succeeds this timeline will cease to exist and they will never get to see each other again. They have a little party at NRC and Idia takes Yutu aside to visit Yuu's grave, firstly so they can say goodbye and secondly because he has a confession to make

"I was mega cringe when I was at NRC." His dad can't even look him in the eyes, and Yutu swears he sees him shaking. He has to blink a few times to make sure he is seeing things right, this doesn't look like overworked dad, or stressed dad, or angry at something mundane dad. If he didn't know any better, he'd say he was-

"Well isn't everybody?" The tips of Idia's hair turn pink at the question and Yutu's quickly mirrors him from feeling like he's done something wrong. All he's done is repeat his dad's own advice back to him though. "You're always so cool and confident-" Idia wheezes and Yutu almost has to catch him. "I mean I'm sure you can't be bad as me-"

"Oh you are going to regret saying that." His dad can't really bring himself to elaborate further but the thousand yard stare does all the talking for him.

Idia! Yutu was given three very simple instructions by Uncle Ortho about going back in time:

1) don't try to lie to me about who you are, I will run scans and figure it out. Grandma and Grandpa finding out would probably be bad and just complicate things. Easy enough, having Uncle Ortho on his side makes the transition between future and past a lot easier. Current Ortho might be a lot more innocent? Naive? He isn't sure if those are the words he would use, but he is certainly less used to having a soul and being his own person than his Uncle is. Not that this makes him any less accepting of Yutu... if anything he is even more excited about him than he was in the future.

2) try to keep who you are a secret from Yuu, but get close to them. We need them to stay alive, even if we don't know why yet... Less easy than hanging out with Uncle Ortho, but still easy enough. I tend to write all Yutus as not fully realizing how much they missed or loved Yuu until they got to see the younger version of their parent... but out of all of them Idia! Yutu is certainly up there for just how hard it hits him. Mostly because of Rule 3:

3) I am so fucking sorry for what you're going to have to deal with please be patient with me!!! I promise I love you and your parent so much I'm just not going to know-

So that obviously came from Idia and not Ortho, but Yutu really disregarded that warning until he accidentally ran into his dad while trying to find Ortho and saw him take out a tablet? That he used to talk with and got very panicky about when he asked a very simple question about it. Uncle Ortho helpfully tells him later that Idia uses it to help him speak in public because of his anxiety, and is very pleased to learn Yutu has never seen him use it in the future. But that doesn't really change how things are now...

On the one hand, Yutu gets it. He has bad social anxiety himself, but because he had a very supportive parent who worked with him to challenge himself in healthy ways he never got to the point that Idia is. He also was a lot older when he had his first experience with a traumatic loss and had Idia (who is a bit too experienced) and Ortho (who is just so understanding) there to help him through it. He knew that was not the case for his dad, they talked about it a lot in the future because Idia felt like he had a right to know, but I don't think he fully comprehended how bad Idia's mental health was.

Because no matter how much he might get it, this guy is still his dad and Yutu really wants to interact with him. He wants to impress him and maybe finally beat his high score on Star Rogue, Yutu just knows there are a bunch of stories he never got to hear because his dad was too embarrassed to tell him and this is maybe his one chance to find all of them out. But his dad is such a shut in he barely even interacts with Yuu! Yutu was always way too embarrassed to ask him about how they got together and now he swears he'll never know because him being in Ramshackle seems to have scared his dad off.

That's only half true, Idia doesn't really see Yutu as a romantic rival... like Cater he assumes you are related in some way because of the similar appearances and tastes in manga. Even when the two of you deny it he shrugs it off, hey maybe Yutu is just you from a different reality? He thinks he read a manga like that once... either way not his monkey not his circus. But like. It could be, Ortho really does like to remind him that Yuu is much less judgemental than everyone else on campus so if he wanted to make some progress on his journey of self improvement talking to them might not be such a bad idea. wink wink nudge nudge! But going over there still means he has to interact with someone other than Yuu and Mr. Grim and that's stressful.

He doesn't think about it at all when Yutu keeps finding excuses to not be there when Ortho drags him to visit because of how relieved he is to not have to socialize with him, at first anyway. He notices when Ortho excuses himself too, they certainly seem to be buddy buddy which isn't something he's going to complain about but as Idia does get closer to Yuu and *ugh* admits to himself he's got some feelings he starts to feel like he should at least know something about the kid other than his name. He does not completely figure it out, but he notices all of the relevant data points before he's slapped in the face with who Yutu is.

Like Lilia! Yutu's reveal, I think Idia finds out about who Yutu is in the middle of a fight. Yuu gets injured by a really strange blot phatom Idia has never seen before and Yutu absolutely looses it. His hair flares up and for snaps his hood to cinders as he's roaring out spells and trying desperately to make sure that thing doesn't touch his parents. Something you both hear loud and clear.

At first this makes Idia beyond excited. He probably joins the little fit his son is throwing except in raw joy because he's fantasized so much about this! He even has a little sims save where Yuu and him are married and they've got a kid and a cat and wow just look at Yutu he looks even cooler in real life than he does in a life sim! Yuu look at him, you guys have a-

A kid. You have a kid. With him. One that's got his teeth and hair and your nose and is sobbing in his arms about how much he missed you both and doesn't want to watch you die again. The sheer worry eclipses his second hand embarrassment at his own smugness as he awkwardly holds on to the sobbing Yutu and looks towards you for help. He's never been good at this whole emotional comfort thing, pls assist. So you pick yourself up and join the group hug and all three of you just sort of sit there for a bit while Yutu tells his story. About growing up in your world, how he came to NRC and his friends in Heartslabyul (Idia is blaming that on you, as a joke ofc he doesn't care what house his kid is in), and the plan to go back in time because of how hopeless the future is. It's not a story Idia takes lightly, especially when Ortho confirms it and sends him all of the data he and Yutu have collected so far. Idia is a bit gloomy and prone to complaining, but if you are in a bad place there are few people more reliable. He is a lot like death in a way, he'll always be there in the end.

Idia is a bit awkward around Yuu for a bit after the reveal, I like to think of you as being newly together at this point so Idia hasn't really revealed just how... detailed some of his fantasies about you are just yet. There are a lot of them, he has uh. Maybe written some of them down, pleasedon'tmakehimreadthemoutloud and most of them are perfectly normal and respectable (lies). It stops when you tell him Yutu had to come from somewhere and he dies, buries himself under his covers, and rises again a changed man. Yeah that's right, his kid did come from somewhere NORMIES. He had se-

He's not super big into PDA but he is comfortable being clingy around Yutu and Ortho, though he tries not to be overly cheesy around Yutu. He hates seeing his parents be all lovey dovey with one another and he likes to keep his compliments quiet and for your ears only anyway. I do like the idea of Yuu being a tiny bit more outgoing and embarrassing him a bit around "the kids" (Grim and Yutu) so his hair is in a damn near permanent shade of pink any time he's around Ramshackle. It's one thing to have your younger brother think the world of you, but to have a kid think so highly of you that he travels back in time to save you from an apocalypse? Idia feels super unworthy, it fuels his determination to work out the "problem" Yutu has given him even if his natural pessimism makes him want to give up.

"... Just leave it to your dad." It's an echo of the only other promise he 100% intends to live up to. He really does mean it, Idia is not loosing this match. Just you wait and see...

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #future kid au #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud x yuu #??? i hit a text limit on this???#girl what?#tumblr is shitting itself anyway sorry if the ending is abrupt #that's why

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 19 hours

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Hi maggots... I have to go out for an entrance exam in a half hour but here I am, stealing a while to talk to you all. I don't know, why are we always making time for the things that are important and using time for the things we have to do but always stealing time for what we want to do? What is wasting time, anyway? I don't know. I don't know much at all.

I made the mistake of playing a new song while typing this first bit. It's Birch, by Big Red Machine and Taylor Swift. Do new songs ever make you feel a bit nervous but excited, like you're experiencing some emotion for the first time and reading a book or watching a movie and you don't quite know how it will end and where it will take you on the way? It's not the kind of thing you do lightly. Well, I mean, it's not the kind of thing I can do lightly. I'll have to listen to it again, while I'm not here writing.

This counts, doesn't it, as writing? Why do I have to be writing my book or a poem or a song for it to be real writing? I'm putting words together and I'm putting them together for us, for you and me. God we make ourselves feel guilty with so many arbitrary definitions.

A familiar song is playing now, The Alcott by The National and Taylor Swift. I think their voices meld together beautiful, gritty and smooth. I think Swift is a skilled singer-songwriter, as well as a performer. I think a lot of things.

Why am I writing an entrance exam? Well, writing is an exaggeration, it'll involve sketching and maybe an interview. It's for an art school. The design school I got into, which I told you all about and was thinking of not doing, well, that got messy. They were... not very polite about a scholarship that they'd said they'd give. And I can't risk going to a situation like my last college. I don't wanna sully this post with it (how do I use words like wanna and sully next to each other, I really cannot pick a way to use this language) but well. It wasn't fun. I don't want to be an unfriendly/unsafe environment if I can help it.

Am I excited or nervous for the exam? Not really. Too many things have happened to leave any room for that. It's mainly resignation, a sort of oh, is this what's happening now? ok. That's sad. But I still care about things, I promise. Not the things I used to, like academics or grades or some abstract future. I care about you. I care about you so much. I think about you all the time. I care about my mum and my dog. About stickers and Good Omens and Sherlock Holmes and music and books.

It's a different kind of caring.

I have ten minutes left. I need to shower and pack my things in that time. I'm cutting it fine. Like a slice of whale. Some of you are confused by that. A lot of you are thinking Asmi, no, no, no. That makes me smirk. A fine slice of whalegina, loves.

I'll tell you all about it one day (hush, those of you still desperately thinking Asmi, no with a mixture of horror and fascination).

It's the sixth of May here. 2024, for those of you who've lost track of years. A Monday. Tomorrow is my twentieth birthday. So many things are happening in my life, not all of them good, but what's always good is you. It's us.

We're good. We're always good. I love you. So much.

I promise, maggots. We're more than friends, we're family. And to whoever it is reading this, maggot, even if we've never spoken, I care about you. Because you took the time to read this. You took the time to care. I care, too. I care about you.

I'll go shower now, in a bit of a rush, but smiling. Because of you. Because of all of you.

Love, Asmi

#unravelling rambles

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tilthedayidice · 2 days

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I was taking all my prescriptions and putting them in a single bottle each (they give me a three month supply so three bottle blegh). But I was thinking about how i have so many of these bottles. Then I thought maybe someone else does too. So I wanna share what I use all these bottles for because throwing them away (Recycling is a little rough to get to) feels gross for me.

Custom Paint Mixes- Acrylic, Gauche, and Water color hold really well in these bottles. I have a countless number of them filled with paint i was mixing for gradients or shading. Some paint reacts to the plastic weird so be sure to test it out first!!!

Sorting- I make a lot of miniatures and jewelry and all sorts of random things, I don't have a lot of things to put them in, But the bottles are really good for the smaller things. Beads, Minis, clay you wanna color but keep separate from the rest, slimes,

Travel Containers- Really good for any small items you need a container for when traveling! They're air tight and have child proofing so whatever is in it wont be budgin!

Plant Starters- Now this one is meant specifically for those large clear bottles. I get them a lot with one particular prescription and they're Quite Large. If you have an Awl (I know kinda specific but I'm crafty) or any other similar tool, you can heat it and make small draining holes in the bottom, Its good for any tiny/starter plant in a pinch. I know I said they're quite large, but I mean in relation to other bottles.

Worm habitat for when your gf inevitably turns into a worm!- Not actually recommended, She was cramped.

Please feel free to add any other uses you know of!!! I was just doin the Big Think about it and wanted to share in case anyone else was thinkin about it too :)

#not dice #this is just how i use them #please feel free to add more #pills #prescriptions #one of these things is.....

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ghouly-boiiiii · 3 days

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THE GHOUL: WHY HE'S HOT - (A SCIENCE!)

࣪⊹°˖✧ Welcome to a Powerpoint Presentation by Some Ghoul-Loving Freak ✧˖° ⊹

Why is The Ghoul hot? I think many of us who find ourselves swooning over this necrotic, murdering cowboy have been asking ourselves that very question lately. Is there something wrong with me? Do I need therapy? Will my friends ever look at me the same way again? Well my fellow ghoul lovers, you are not alone. And I am here to explain to you the exact reasons why this gun-slingin’, ass bitin’ baked potato with teeth has captured the hearts of so many... with science! (sort of) 🤠

------(Spoiler warning... lots and lots of spoilers below the cut!)------

1. Walton Goggins… just Walton Goggins

I think we can all agree that the man behind the makeup and prosthetics is a large reason as to what makes The Ghoul so attractive. Walton himself is a very nice looking fellow, and he absolutely oozes charisma, both on the set and off. And for some reason decided to amp that up to 100 while playing The Ghoul. He managed to make Ghouly Boi likable and endearing, even when he's doing murdery things. So yeah, the dude's mad talented.

"Strong enough to keep out the rads... and the reds." - Cooper Howard shooting a Vault-Tec commercial in episode 6.

2. The makeup artists knew what they were doing

Attempting to make The Ghoul “kind of hot” was absolutely intentional. There was serious discussion behind the scenes about how they could make The Ghoul attractive to viewers, despite him being… well… a ghoul. (So yeah, it is 100% the creators fault. They did this to us on purpose!) When creating The Ghoul’s design, they deliberately ghoulified features that weren’t that important for attraction and left the rest alone, or made them more accentuated.

For example, when it comes to the attractiveness of a male, specifically in the face, most people focus in on the eyes, lips, jaw and cheekbones, which they emphasized and brought out with the makeup. Things like the nose, hair and even skin can be safely tinkered with, and even with those they went pretty easy on. Many ghouls have cloudy or discolored eyes, but not Ghouly. (in fact, bro’s still got his eyelashes, lol) They also kept his ears, despite most ghouls’ tending to fall off just like the nose. His teeth are still intact, despite being rather discolored. And they even made his skin relatively smooth compared to most ghouls. (I’m willing to bet he gets made fun of in a lot of ghoul circles for being such a baby smooth smoothskin)

If the creators had made him any uglier - messed up his eyes, took away the ears, rotted out some teeth, or made his skin a lot more torn up - we might not be here right now. But the character designers and makeup artists were very intentional in his appearance, making him look rotten enough to be recognized as a ghoul, but not so nasty he’d be hard to look at. By keeping and even accentuating Walton’s eyes and bone structure, while giving the ghoulishness to other features, they managed to balance out the ‘yuk’ with the ‘hmmm… wait what?’ just right.

"Sometimes a fella's gotta eat a fella." - The Ghoul to Lucy while munchin' on Roger in episode 4.

3. His charisma, charm and sense of humor

Look, Ghouly is charming as FUCK, okay? There’s no getting around it, so let’s just get that out of the way right now. He exudes confidence and beats you in the face with his overwhelming swag. He also has these… looks. Which I can only describe as “sexy” looks. I’m not really sure how to explain, but if you’re reading this, you probably know what I mean.

As mentioned before, a lot of this is just Goggins being Goggins, but the writing is brilliant as well. He definitely embodies that sort of hot badboy/outlaw/pirate sort of archetype that is often found in romantic settings/stories, so yeah. And also, who doesn't love a man with a great sense of humor? He's got all the best lines in the show and is just a joy to watch, even if it's just for the funny. Really, whoever wrote for Ghouly was a comedic genius, a gentleman, and a scholar. They should be commended.

"I'd offer you one a' these cherreh tomaydas, but you got a hole on yo neck." - The Ghoul to some guy he just shot in episode 2.

4. He loves dogs

Okay, so yes, we all know he stabs Dogmeat in order to keep her from ripping his face off, which ALMOST ruined his character for me, but then he brought her back with a Stimpak and all was forgiven. I’m willing to bet he probably also tried to stab her in a place that he knew wouldn’t be fatal, and also his choice to stab instead when he could have easily just shot her, letting her get right up on top of him before doing anything to defend himself, shows his hesitation in harming a dog.

It’s clear that Coop has a lot of affection for dogs, especially when we see the flashbacks of him with his OG dog and how pissed he gets about not being able to bring him into the vaults. The way he handles Dogmeat with such loving care, and smiles with genuine joy as she leaps up off the table was one of the first moments to show that, underneath that hardened exterior, he’s still got a soft, squishy, gooey center (other than the rotting flesh, I mean).

"Who decided that there were no dogs in the vault?" - Cooper to his wife upon finding out their dog Roosevelt wouldn't be able to go to the vault with them in episode 6.

5. He a genuinely good person, deep down...

Not only does he save the dog (twice), but Ghouly also did other things that were surprisingly unselfish and not awful. Does that make up for the bad shit he did? Well, no. But again, it shows that he’s at least not ALL bad, and that the man he use to be is still in there somewhere.

For example, he could have easily ratted out Lucy for busting up the Super Duper Mart, but he took the heat for it instead. And despite the fact that he shoots (and eats) Roger, he does seem to have genuine empathy for the turning ghoul. So his choice to kill him wasn’t completely selfish, but also an act of mercy. Roger was essentially dying anyway, and Cooper saved him from an arguably worse fate than death. He even took a moment to remind Roger of a happy memory before doing the deed, a scenario reminiscent of the book Of Mice And Men, when George shoots Lenny at the end after reminding him of their dream in order to save him from a worse fate as well.

And let's not forget that before the bombs dropped, Cooper struggled to even fake kill a man on screen while shooting a film, not wanting his character to go down such a dark path. This shows that he was once a man who lived by a code of morals and principals, so much so that just the idea of stepping outside of that made him deeply uncomfortable, even if it was just pretend. This is why Cooper gives Lucy the line, "Oh, I'm you, sweetie. Just... give it a little time." Because he sees himself in her, or rather the person he used to be.

One of the things I love about how Cooper’s story is told is that we get to see his present and past self right away, juxtaposed against each other. His backstory isn’t revealed as a surprise later on. Instead we really get to see up front the complexities of his character that make him so compelling. He’s not just some heartless killer. He’s like this because he’s been through so much pain, and pushed to the point where he was forced to become something he's not in order to survive and carry on. Because of this, it makes The Ghoul a lot more likable and relatable than he would have been otherwise. It also kinda lets you put yourself in his shoes and ask yourself what you would do if you found yourself in his position. Actually brilliant writing, in my opinion.

"Do I have to kill him?" - Cooper to the director of the film he's shooting in Episode 3.

6. That tragic backstory

This is where the character of Cooper Howard really got me in the feels. Not only does Ghouly love dogs, but he loves his family too. And it’s revealed at the end of the season that even after 200+ years, they are still on his mind. He’s spent over two centuries looking for them, and putting himself through absolute hell, because he loves them that much. And not just his daughter, but his wife as well. Even though they had gotten divorced, presumably because of what he learned at the end of the season. Maybe he’s even hoping his old dog is still alive somehow, although that’s admittedly very unlikely...

So... you know what that means... Although he’s done horrible things, Cooper is a man driven by LOVE. He's stayed alive because of LOVE. He does these bad things because of LOVE. He’s become a monster IN THE NAME OF LOVE!!! It’s all about the power of LOVE, you guys. Call it cliché, but if that isn’t romantic as hell, I donno what the fuck is, ladies.

"Now, I've waited over 200 years to ask somebody one question... Where's my fuckin' family?" - Cooper to Hank in Episode 8

In Conclusion

So yes. He's ugly. He's mean. He's murdery. Kinda toxic AF. But that doesn't mean he can't also be a sexy motherfucker as well. 👍

He's a fictional character. It's a fantasy, and fantasies are allowed to be kinda fucked up. 😃 Hey, don't ask me why humans human the way we do. I didn't make us, so I don't know. It's all in good fun though, so let's just enjoy ourselves and try not to think too hard about it, eh? 😆 (So says the person who literally just wrote a fucking essay on the subject)

Alright, well... I guess that's about it. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk. I hope this helped anyone who was feeling their sanity slip a little bit (like me 😃). Refreshments and resources are at the back. Exits to your left. Have a lovely evening and please excuse me while I drop my mic and go find myself a fuckin' gin martini. Team Ghoul Forever, baby! 🤠

#i did the meme fr y'all #i have no fucking life lol #ghoul lovers unite #this has been an essay about stupid shit #but thanks for reading #hope it helps xD #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout prime #fallout amazon #fallout series #fallout tv series #meta #just had to get this out of my system bc i overanalyze everything lol #also bc people who think he's just a one dimensional baddie they don't get it #ok now i can go to bed k thx byeeee #my posts

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calypsocolada · 18 hours

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THE PROPHECY | t. shigaraki

synopsis: tomura doesn't want to be your enemy anymore. authors note: hi hi hi. been working on this fic for a few weeks. it's sort of a continuation of the first kiss fic with him in it. also I'm working on a few other fics and request and hope you enjoy this one in the meantime. it's a lot longer than I thought it was gonna be. also with the release of tswifts new album expect a few little nods to her songs... cw: blood, gore, suggestive, enemies to lovers, lovesick!tomura, obession, fem reader wc: 5k

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He watched you from afar. He watched your television broadcasts and studied your face as though he’d missed something the first hundred times. He remembered your smiles, and could decipher whether real or fake. He’d visit places you had been and imagine you there now. Future number one hero. His number one. Tomura was sick. Sick in the head, sick in his chest, his heart, dark and decrepit only beat for the sun. His days were dark and gray until he saw your shining face. So bright sometimes it made his stomach turn. He wouldn’t call it an obsession. It was something far worse. He didn’t just want you. He needed you. He needed all of you. Wanted your things in his room. Wanted your body sprawled over his bed in one of his worn t-shirts. Wanted you eating at his kitchen table, something only he cooked for you. He wanted to hear you talk to him. To say his name. Wanted your eyes on his and your hands on him. He wanted your time and your heart and your being. He couldn’t have it though. The prophecy that encircled him was stuck on its unwavering path. Even you couldn’t deter his fate.

Sometimes he thinks about the first time he saw you. Only when he’s alone and no one can see just how far gone he truly is.

Him in company with the shadows as you were announced as the next pro hero. You were standing on some podium. The microphone was taller than you as you reached for it and it yelped with feedback. You had laughed it off and cleared your throat. You looked radiant, with glowing skin and bright hopeful eyes. You were signed to Endeavors squad. Tomura knew you were stronger than that bumbling fire breathing idiot. But still you smiled just as bright.

All that untapped potential within you. Those powers could cause devastation if in a villain's hands. Which is why All For One asked Tomura to keep an eye on you in the first place. To see when the time to strike and steal those powers would be. But Tomura was past that. You had far more meaningful things he wanted rather than your powers.

You had thanked Endeavor after he gave a speech introducing you, your hand wrapping around the mic. Tomura fed off the shadows, after all they were giving him the ability to see you in person. It was an unreal feeling. Your speech wasn’t too long and you ended it before your eyes could well up with tears. The last words of your speech swirling around in Tomura’s head.

“I have always wanted to do good. I’ve always wanted to be a hero. Thank you for giving me the chance to do just that.”

He could see that good in you. Could see that swirling hope, that devotion to all things just. He unfortunately could see All-Might's influence. Endeavor walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder and Tomura felt something sick churning. He didn’t like people touching you. He knew you were nice, maybe too nice to say anything but he’d gladly be your voice if you needed it. When it was over you had walked out to meet people. Tomura watched you still. You were like some drug he couldn’t fend himself off of. He followed you at a healthy distance through the crowd. He wanted to see if he could corrupt you. See if he could drive you to the edge. See if those powers could be used for more than just causes. He could grab the man standing beside him and use decay. He could create mass panic. He could see your powers up close, could feel the weight of your stare. But as he got closer he saw you bending over to smile at a little girl. He heard your laugh and melancholy voice telling the little girl that if you could be a hero, anyone could. His reaching hand paused when you straightened and turned, almost like you felt the heat of his piercing eyes. Like you had a feeling creeping down your spine. Good intuition. He turned to leave just as your eyes found his. Just that split second of eye contact sent him pushing his way through the crowd and towards the exit as though he had just committed some atrocity and needed a quick exit.

You two crossed paths many times after that day. Tomura did learn the full force of your attention and it completely turned himself in on his once well sought after goals. Because now… you became his goal. His ultimate end. He wouldn’t mind dying if only it was by your hands. There was no saving him, no redemption for you to give him but death. He could see it in your piercing eyes. Could feel it in the way you fought him. You didn’t fight like other heroes. You had something to prove. Most heroes in your position would be cocky. But not you. No you were calculating and smart, but above all… you were vicious with him. Those powers were something to fear and Tomura loved them more for it. The one person that could end his endless suffering was also the root of it.

And the moment had finally come for him. After fighting, Tomura’s endurance wavering, he saw a thirst for blood in your eyes. A hunger so deep he knew you could never feel the same for him in a million millennia. And when the time came he accepted the death you’d grant him with open arms.

But you didn’t grant him a thing.

You had every opportunity to but you hesitated. Tomura saw it. Saw the quickest of uncertainties pass your heavenly face. Your eyes flitting up to him. The eye contact was nothing like he’d ever experienced before in his miserable life. You weren’t looking at him with anger or contempt. But something else. Something he wishes he could ask you to explain. He watched your lips part and heard you suck in a breath, not realizing he’d been holding his own.

“Well… what’re you waiting for, hero?” He asked. This moment like something right out of his stupid daydreams. You tightened your grip slightly at the sound of his voice but that uncertainty stayed. Tomura couldn’t help but glance at your lips. After all this was probably the last time he’d ever see them this closely. And he couldn’t help but get caught up, to just stare and drink in his fill before his demise. You flinched when he looked back up and right then and there he knew you couldn’t kill him. He didn’t know what it was but he could feel it as deeply as he felt for you.

“I can’t.“ You affirmed his suspicions. Tomura’s stomach clenched. He’d never heard your voice this close, speak this softly. He melted at the moment. You let out a ragged breath and there was a moment shared before Tomura saw Dabi’s blue flames travel towards your unguarded back. Tomura acted without even thinking. He gripped you by the shoulders and spun you out of the line of fire. You felt the heat graze against your shoulder before your back hit the ground, Tomura shielding you with his own body. He was burned badly with that little move. He groaned above you, shooting a glare back at Dabi. You stared at him above you in utter shock and confusion. He’d just saved your life. He stared at your mouth then saved your life. And you couldn’t kill him. You had every opportunity to end everything right here and now. He was already injured, you could finish it all here and now. But when Tomura turned and your eyes met again you couldn’t do it. Tomura reached for you, his thumb just barely wiping dirt from your cheek. It was surprisingly intimate. Until you realized the hand touching you was the same one that could easily turn you to dust. You were quick to act, quick to fire up your powers and send Tomura back towards the fire. Something burned in you, some feeling of guilt as you struggled to your feet and ran off towards the rest of the hero’s that had started to fall back. Tomura hit the ground hard, slightly startled by the force in which you sent him flying. He rose and watched you meeting back up with the rest of the hero’s. Watched Hawks run over and meet you halfway, grabbing you gently and looking you over for any wounds. Tomura felt his stomach twist in a sickening way. Jealousy like a vice around his chest.

You had tossed and turned all night. Unable to turn your mind off. The events of the day played in a loop. Fighting Tomura, taking him to the ground. The curious way he looked at you. The curious way you looked back. The inability to kill him after everything. You could justify trying again if he hadn’t saved you. He saved you. Tomura Shigaraki saved your damn life. He took a burn for you. And then he touched your cheek. Without evil intent. And the look in his eyes when he did it. That’s what haunted you so stunningly and consistently for the entire night. You sighed heavily, turning over in your bed, running a stressed hand through your hair.

Was this a thing now? That hesitation that took such deep root, that act of kindness to keep you from the flames. What if he had done it to confuse you? To test your allegiances. If so you had failed sort of spectacularly. Letting him touch you and feeling something when he did. You sat up instantly. You felt something when he touched you. You felt something when you watched his eyes watching your lips. You pushed out of bed and felt the cold flooring beneath your feet as you rushed from your room. You needed to do something… anything to get your mind off of him. In your haste you slammed right into Hawks.

“Woah… hey there you alright?” He asked, steadying you. You cleared your throat.

“Y-yeah, just hungry.” You lied. Hawks slightly cocked his head as he surveyed you for a moment.

“You seem… rattled.” Hawks says. You look up at him a little too quickly. You shake your head.

“I’m fine.” You say and slightly cringe because you did not sound fine. But Hawks wasn’t one to pry. He just gave you a small smile and nodded his head.

“Well… you know where to find me if you aren’t actually fine.” He says before walking off to his room. You turn slightly as you watch him walk away. You suddenly wished he was who you were laying up at night thinking about. Wished you could chase him down now and release the pent up energy that swirled within you. But that wouldn’t be fair to him because you’d be thinking of someone else. You ran a stressed hand down your face and proceeded to the kitchen. After you ate and calmed down a bit you were able to wrangle in those unruly thoughts. Just because he saved you once doesn’t mean he deserves to take up rent in your head. The man was evil. You’d spent the better part of a year facing off with him and his followers. He doesn’t deserve your hesitation or confusion. The next time you faced off with him would be the last.

Tomura could only watch as his mind was stolen, watching his body being overtaken by a force he wasn’t strong enough to stop. All for One’s control taking over. He knew he had seconds left before he’d no longer cease to be himself. You burned with hatred beneath him, your left arm broken and useless, your right hand holding some sharp shrapnel that you’d plunged desperately into his side, your powers flickering weakly within you. He didn’t feel the pain. Your eyes flashed, his hands around your neck, squeezing. Someone was going to win here but… it wasn’t going to be him.

He pulled you hard, the fire in your eyes licking and burning his own but he couldn’t care less. If he was going to die he was going to make one last grave mistake that might send him to the grave earlier than expected. He leaned down where you were pinned beneath him and with impressive force, smashed his lips against your own.

The kiss was like a fight. Like all your other fights. But lips instead of fists. With breaths instead of words. With groans instead of screams and growls. His hands gripped your face hard to keep you where he wanted you. You, in a fit of confusion and pure survival instinct twisted the shrapnel in his side. He gasped in pain but that only spurred him on, his mouth cracking yours open in a feverish attempt to be as close as humanly possible. He had no indication whether or not you wanted this until the pain ceased and he felt your tongue brush against his. His breathing hitched, muddled with pain and sorrow and complete obsession. He pulled you off the ground roughly and kissed you until you both were gasping for air. When he pulled back the state he left you in was enough to satisfy him for years. Your lips were kissed pink and wet, your cheeks had a wicked blush across them as you stared at him with utter bewilderment and something else that had his stomach tangling in knots within him.

He resigned himself to death then. He was guilty as sin.

Your hand was still on the hilt of your shrapnel that was embedded in his side as you stared at each other. Breaths heavy. Tomura didn’t know how to be kind. He didn’t know how to be soft. He’d never kissed anyone before and it should’ve been pretty damn suspicious when the first person he’d ever felt the need to devour with his lips was the one standing opposite of him in this endless war. The one he needed to destroy. And to say he wanted to devour you was almost an understatement. He wanted to climb into your body and live in your ribcage, safe and tucked away. He wanted to be inside you, wanted that mind of yours to only know him, wanted those pink lips to only speak his name, those pretty eyes to only meet him. The obsession was endless. He wanted it more than ever right now. Death knocking down his rotted door. So bad that he hadn’t even noticed his own tears before they fell and hit your cheeks. You blinked a few times, slowly coming back down from the clouds. Tomura reached for you a last time, the pad of his thumb swiping his tears off your cheek.

“Save me, hero.” He breathed out before everything went black.

Your breathing staggered as you watched Tomura change before your eyes into something else. You had been warned about Tomura’s connection to All For One but you let yourself get caught up in the moment. You were able to take advantage of the moment and put a little distance between you and the hijacker. You could hear Hawks calling for you somewhere but you weren’t leaving this. Tomura had asked you to save him. With tears in his eyes. And god dammit you were going to save him if it killed you.

“I know you're still in there,” You call out, voice steadier than it had been all day long. The hijacker looked up and the smile was pure evil. All For One. You’d never met him in person and without Aizawa here to cancel his quirk you were dead in the water. But you weren’t leaving.

“Tomura’s not here, girl. But he sends his condolences.” Even his voice didn’t sound the same. You kept your head high and even though your body screamed in pain you got ready to fight.

“Get out of his head.”

“You sound like you care, hero?” You flinched at the nickname. It didn’t sound as good coming from him.

“I can’t ignore someone in trouble.” You say, your heart speeding slightly as All for One laughs.

“Is that so?” He asks, cocking his head. “As though you weren’t seconds away from killing him before I took over.” You were slightly relieved he didn’t seem to know what had transpired moments before he took over.

“He asked for help.”

“Does he deserve your help?”

“Everyone deserves help.” You shoot back defiantly. All for One just laughs, walking towards you. Your powers flickered weakly within you and you felt overwhelming fear, felt the urge to run. But you stayed put.

“How about a trade, hmm?” He asked. You stared at him. He wasn’t to be trusted, you know that. But still…

“A trade?” You echoed.

“I’ll give him back to you if you hand over those powers willingly.” All for One stated. You stared at him. All you ever wanted in life was to be a hero. You were blessed to have powers like these and as much as you wanted to save Tomura, these powers in All For One’s hands would only cause death and destruction.

“I- can’t.” You said and watched a sympathetic smile spread across All for One’s stolen features.

“Some hero you are.” He said. “And to think this host pathetically loved you for years.” Your eyes cut to his.

“What?”

“You heard me. What an idiot he was, thinking you could save him.” You saw red. You charged without even thinking, your powers flaring up as you hit All for One square in the jaw. He lost a few steps, blood dripping from his lips as he laughed and laughed and laughed. “You’re bold.” He said and you burned. You only had one good arm and you hit him again and again until you couldn’t feel your knuckles, your hand bruised and battered. You screamed to let Tomura free but your words fell to uncaring ears. All for One caught one of your punches and sent you flying. You crashed into some loose debris. You coughed up blood and dizzily tried to push yourself to your feet. Your endurance was gone, at this point you’d been fighting for hours. You were past your limit, undoubtedly bleeding externally and internally. But still you pushed to your feet only to be caught by the throat and slammed into the wall. All for One pinned you there, with your feet not touching the ground you gasped and sputtered for air. You kicked hard but All For One just laughed it off. “You’re a strong one, hero. I’ll give you a valiant death.” Fear gripped your heart and in a last ditch desperate act you grabbed the closest thing you could find and sunk it into the flesh of All for One’s arm. He didn’t budge. With his hand around your throat, blackness danced around the edge of your vision. You had no strength left. You were going to die.

“Tomura-” You struggled to breathe, your voice coming out in a choking gasp. Somehow… you’d grown to care. “Come…back.”

When you woke up it was a startling affair. You sat up quickly, gasping and reaching for your throat, you felt the tender flesh there, undoubtedly bruised. Warm covers fell from your body as you looked around. You were in some small cabin, a fire burning in the hearth, a soft orange glow lightening the room. You were bandaged up pretty thoroughly, your arm in a sling. You pushed the covers from your body and swung your legs around to the edge of the bed and that’s when you saw him. Sleeping soundly in the wooden rocker beside your bed was Tomura. His hair was damp and falling in stringy curls around his face. You stared at him, unable to look away. What had happened? It was clear to you that some time had passed since fighting All for One since it was dark outside. But how you got here and with Tomura was a complete mystery. You silently move to your feet and wrap the cover around your freezing body. You move towards the door, hand inching towards the door knob.

“Leaving without a word?” You flinch hard at his sleepy voice. Hand stopping before it touches the knob. You don’t turn to face him, ashamed after everything.

“Where am I?” You ask over your shoulder. You hear Tomura sit up in the chair.

“A cabin, safe.”

“Not good enough.” You snap, turning slightly. Your eyes meet and you instantly regret turning. Tomura is looking at you in a way that makes your stomach flip. Tomura stands and you pull the covers tighter around yourself. He walks to you and you take a step back. Was All for One still in control? Was this an act? As though he read your thoughts he held up his hands in mock surrender.

“It’s me.”

“How?” You question, keeping up your guard. Even if it was him the air between you two would still be foggy. He kissed you when you thought he was going to kill you. You weren’t sure at all where you stood.

“I heard you.” He says softly. “I heard your voice and it… gave me purpose.” He doesn’t reach for you but a part of you wishes he had. You hazard another look in his eyes. What was this spell that suddenly had such a tight hold over you? This feeling that only sprung when he first touched you. Just looking in his eyes made your knees weak. But you were good at maintaining a poker face.

“Purpose to finish the job yourself?” You ask. Tomura doesn’t react to your venom, it was as though he expected it. He looks away from you.

“I won’t ever kill you. Not even if my life depended on it.” He says. You stare at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“You… affected me, hero. It’s not something I can… explain exactly.”

“Try.” You say sharply. Tomura looked slightly stressed, he ran a hand through his hair, his shirt popping up slightly. You blush and turn away. Tomura couldn’t even imagine this moment in a million years. You, standing mere feet from him, cheeks pink, moments from a confession he didn’t even know how to word. He was sure his kiss spoke volumes.

“It’s rather simple,” He starts, taking a hazardous step towards you. Your eyes cut up to his, watching his every move. “I don’t think of you as my enemy.” You suck in a silent breath, your lips parting in surprise. You didn’t have to ask what he meant by that. You were sure that kiss was a power move and that he’d gotten the better of you. But it seems you have had the better of him for quite a while. You pulled the cover closer as though it could shield you from something you didn’t quite understand just yet. But… you wanted to understand.

“You saved me. From Dabi’s fire weeks ago. I… never got to thank you.”

“You being alive is thanks enough.” Tomura says. Your heart skips in your chest. You breathe in somewhat unsteadily.

“How long… How long was I out?” You ask, clearing your throat.

“Just a few hours. After I got control back everything sort of fell into chaos so I just grabbed you and ran.”

“You patched me up too?” You ask and Tomura nods his head.

“You should rest some more. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

“I don’t trust you.” You say. Tomura looks hurt by that but more so he looks like he understands, after all this was all sort of new territory. Tomura had no intention of forcing you to do anything, after everything you two had been through he’d be delusional to think you’d up and change how you thought about him in one day. He never thought that could even be possible, that someone could trust him enough to love him. That someone could look at him, perceive him and know him to his very core and choose to stay. He’d stay for you. But he didn’t expect you to stay for him.

“That’s okay. Are you hungry?” He asks softly. Your eyes meet again. This time tension builds properly and you're reminded how he kissed you. How he grabbed you like a starving man and slamming his lips against your own as though he’d rather do that than breathe. You blush at the thought.

“I need to go. I need to tell my team I’m alive.” You say.

“Stay. Just this one night. I’ll even leave. Just stay, eat something, rest and leave in the morning.” Tomura says, almost like a plea. You swallow, something in his tone had your stomach twisting. You were in trouble. Deep trouble.

“I… I can’t stay.” You shake your head, dropping the cover and reaching for your clothes but Tomura catches your wrist. His grip is gentle and he’s stepped much closer to you.

“Don’t go.” He pleaded. You couldn’t even speak, not with him this close. You're not sure where your composure had gone but you sorely missed it at this moment. “Just one night-” You cut off his sentence, pressing your lips to his. He got to surprise you once, now it was your turn.

A curiosity burned inside you, a need to feel the way you felt when he kissed you that first time. Tomura melted at your touch, he groaned against your lips and stepped fully into your space, gently walking you back against the cabin door. A heat burned in the pit of your stomach, only his touch satiated it. Your body ached from the earlier fight, scar and bruises stinging with every movement. But you didn’t care. You dragged Tomura to the bed and pulled him down on top of you. You kissed him hard, kissed him with a need to understand him. To crack him open and live inside. He pulled back just slightly.

“Do you really want this-” You grabbed his shirt and showed him exactly what you wanted. All those sleepless nights, thinking of him. You could solve all the mysteries now. You wanted him horribly bad. Clothes were shed, breaths shared. Tomura was careful with you because of your injuries and although you didn’t exactly want that it was nice not being in complete pain during all this ecstasy. Tomura kissed everything he could, he mapped you out. Wanting to carve the sight of you beneath him into his own skin. To remember this night for years to come. He didn’t expect this lapse of judgment to be a recurring thing. He fully expected you to come to your senses and be gone in the morning. The vicious cycle back in effect. But he wouldn’t fight you any longer. If you wanted to win all you needed to do was ask. Tomura kissed his way back up to your mouth. Your eager touches almost sent him over the edge. Tomura wanted to take things slow but it felt achingly slow, he was just as eager as you. He wanted to see the reactions on your face when he touched you there, wanted to catalog every sound, every noise that escaped your pink lips. He wanted to be rough, it was in his nature but he just couldn’t, he just wanted to kiss you, you were very dear to him. To be close to you. He wanted the soft touches, but above all he wanted the reassurance, even if he knew he could never have it. You could feel it, so you flipped around and pressed him into the covers. He gasped beneath you. If this was anything like your fights you’d come out on top. You leaned and kissed his lips, you trailed kisses to his neck and savored his labored breaths and small whimpers. You barely moved your hips against his, just to amp up the tension. You wanted so badly for years to hold a win over his head, to conquer him but you never thought it would be in such a different context. You tangled a hand in his hair and left marks on his neck. He twitched beneath you, his gentle grip on your hips slowly tightening. You could tell he was holding back. Maybe because you were so injured.You had realized you had been moving sort of fast, consumed by the moment. So consumed that when your hurt arm hit the bed it sent a sobering pain through you like nothing before. Tomura sat up, gently helping your arm back into the sling, careful hands brushing your hair from your face.

“We should stop… I don’t want you injuring that arm anymore.” He says softly as you nod in agreement. He rises from the bed and disappears into the kitchen for a moment before coming back with some food and medicine. As he watched you eat he thought about what he wanted. He wanted you to be the one to stay. To break his curse and change the prophecy. He’d beg and plead if he needed to. Pray to anything above that would hear his desperate pleas. He just wanted you to stay.

“This is good.” You said. “Didn’t know you knew how to cook.” You say, realizing you really don’t know much about Tomura on a personal level. And that you did want to know him.

“I’m glad you like it.” He says, but it was clear his mind was somewhere else. He watched you with this sort of wanting expression.

“Have you eaten?” You ask and when you look up he leans just slightly to press a soft kiss to your lips. Your breath hitches as he presses his forehead to yours.

“Will you stay?” He whispers to you. You nod your head and his hands slide against your cheeks as he deepens the kiss, hand tangling in your hair as he drinks you in. How could you not stay?

#fem reader #tomura x y/n #tomura shigiraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura shiragaki #mha shigaraki #shigaraki x reader #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #shigaraki tomura #bnha tomura #tomura shigaraki

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 3 days

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System error: android!reader x kyle gaz garrick

You had to get into contact with your engineer.

Something had short circuited when you were at the pub with the others. You had felt a little too warm when Sergeant Garrick had touched you and suggested that you stay despite having done what you were asked to do.

You didn't understand it. Not the way that they had continued to want to bond with you or the way that your processors reacted to it.

Something must've gotten corrupted when you researched how to act in a pub setting. You knew that if you didn't delete the information off of your hard drives, your engineers would be upset but it had to stay in order for them to figure out what the issue was.

They'll scrap you for it but it was for the best. Your job still needed to be done and if you were malfunctioning then you needed to be replaced.

You were on your way to your office to get into contact with them when you saw Gaz waiting outside your door.

You weren't sure what to do as he gave you a smile, one that made you stop what you were doing, and you watched him carefully as he came up to you.

"I was wondering where you went, I wanted to invite you to lunch." He offered and your processors froze. "Unless you already ate."

"Why?" You asked and he raised an eyebrow.

"Just trying to be friendly is all."

Friendly. You understood that the reason why he was trying to be friendly was because he saw you as a person and not a machine, an oversight on those who designed you, and now it was becoming a problem. They must've not expected any of them to be considerate enough to want to make a connection with you, which to you seemed to be a massive mistake.

These men made connections with everyone, you didn't need to read through their records to know that.

What were they thinking? What were you thinking?

You don't think. That's not possible.

You blinked a couple times, frozen in your spot as your processors raced to compute a response as well as make sense of what exactly was going on inside you.

Meanwhile Gaz stood in front of you with slight concern and confusion as you stared at him with the same wide eyed look you had last night at the pub.

"It's okay if you don't want to." He assured you and you blinked a couple times. "I'm not trying to put you on the spot."

For some reason you didn't want to disappoint him. He was making an effort to befriend you and it would be for the betterment of everyone if you were on good terms with them. It would make everything easier and yet his effort was frying your circuits.

Instead of telling him no you did the unthinkable.

You lied.

"I have already eaten but I will join you, Sergeant Garrick." You told him in a split second, unable to really understand why you said what you did.

"Great." He nodded for you to follow him. "And you can just call me Gaz, don't have to be formal with me."

You nodded and filed that information away as you walked beside him. You tried to pay attention to what he was saying but you were focusing hard on trying to sort out whatever was causing everything to go haywire within you.

It had to be a corrupt file. A virus maybe. Something was breaking everything inside of you and making you do things you weren't programmed to do.

After lunch you had to fix the issue.

"I'm glad you decided to join me." Gaz caught your attention again. "Was a little worried about you."

"You were worried about me?" You couldn't help but be confused.

Gaz gave you a sympathetic look. His eyes turned serious as he glanced back at your office and nodded.

"Yeah...you spend a lot of time in your office working. This job takes a lot out of you and I've seen it eat people alive." He explained and your eyebrows knitted together. "So I'm worried."

"But you don't know me." You pointed out. It's not like he could get to know you, there was nothing to figure out considering you were just a set of walking code.

Gaz shrugged.

"Well I'm trying to right now."

You felt something from that. You're not sure what the feeling was but you knew that you felt something as the wires and the fans inside your whirred to life. It sent something through you and you could feel everything inside become overwhelmed.

This wasn't supposed to happen and unfortunately it was because of Gaz.

"I have to leave." You turned around, hoping to get to your office before everything inside you combusted.

"Wait-"

It was almost immediate that your processors forced a shut down. Your entire body slammed against the floor with a loud metal bang.

A/n: i too would breakdown if Gaz asked me to lunch (i still don't know how to write androids lol it might get better)

#android!reader #klye gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #gaz x reader #gaz x you #kyle gaz garrick #call of duty #gaz garrick #kyle garrick

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cowgirleddiediaz · 5 hours

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I'm new to the 911 fandom despite loving the show for years. The reason I avoided the fandom for so long because all I heard about it was how toxic it can get. Luckily I'm only active on 911blr instead of being in other hellsites for content so I haven't directly interacted with any of the chaos myself. It's just really insane behavior to witness. I think someone should do a study on it, maybe write a book asdfghjkl. Could make millions.

From the Sort Of A Vent Post Anon

lmfao kinda same tbh. I’ve dipped in and out over the years and before now I wouldn’t have said toxic (at least on tumblr) more like intense.

there’s always been an element of the fandom that don’t just ship b*ddie but who really believe it’s (and to an extent always has been) happening. I’d see ppl defend against queerbait allegations because “no b*ddie isn’t like those other ships, they’re obviously actually doing it!” which always had me a bit like 🤨? can you cite your sources?

ironically, bi buck seems to be proving the opposite, because surely if b*ddie was the plan then this would be the moment. I think the popularity of bucktommy has shown a lot of diehard b*ddie stans that not only was their certainty misplaced, but not everyone was in the same boat as them.

maybe unpopular opinion but this is why fandom etiquette can be a bit of a double edged sword, ppl don’t want to yuk anyone’s yam so even if something raises an eyebrow they let it slide for the sake of keeping things positive/avoiding drama. which is fine but it means wonky/ill informed (but not necessarily harmful or malicious) takes can fester in little bubbles without challenge to the point everyone assumes everyone else agrees with them…until there’s a reason not to.

yeah we can “agree to disagree” a lot of the time, but sometimes ppl are just wrong, and I don’t think fandom culture has ever really found a way to balance those things.

#911 abc #bucktommy #911 discourse #dia answers stuff

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mayapapaya33 · 10 hours

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Despair and Edwin

Am I the only one who can't stop thinking about the metaphorical power of Edwin being IN Despair. He was in Hell, at his lowest, about to be cruel to one of his former tormentors. Feeling incredulous at their seemingly lesser punishment, feeling righteously indignant, and Justifiably pissed off. Then he caught a glance at himself in the mirror for what was presumably the first time in over a century and it snapped him out of it. Then he promptly fell into Despair.

Despair's Realm, as far as I am aware, is only accessible to those IN Despair, as in the emotional state. But why was he literally transported there, why could he see her watching through the mirror? She watches people's lowest moments through her mirrors all the time, how could Edwin see her?

Every word out of her mouth was fascinating to me, so much subtext, so many double meanings, I'm dying of curiosity.

"What Am I? The answers are Endless Edwin Payne. Pretty name. Payne/Pain."

His reaction to her saying the word Endless is VERY telling, clearly Edwin knows something about the Endless. Also that's just a very poetic way to describe Despair, she's right, an Endless number of things can cause Despair.

Edwin: "Why are you here?"

Despair: "You're here, I'm everywhere, you're in my realm now where I see it all. But you only get to leave through the door you came in by."

Is that a literal statement about a literal door? Perhaps but I HIGHLY doubt it. How did he get here? By feeling anger and pain and Despair about his treatment in Hell compared to one of the people responsible for sending him here and the injustice of it all. So how does he leave Despair's Realm then? Through the same door he entered. Confronting his feelings about Simon but not allowing them to control him or turn him into something he is not.

"I am Despair, and you do not belong here. Go back to your killer. I was watching. You were getting angry. About to gloat over his torment. Go do That."

E: "No no no no no I..." D: "Don't Worry, We're Friends now." E:"I would not gloat, That is not right." D: "I'll call if ever I need you" E:"He didn't realize-"

What does THAT mean? They're friends now? I am frothing at the mouth in anticipation to see what that is going to turn into. This is starting to dive into Sandman theories of mine so if you haven't read Sandman now's the time to leave.

She almost seemed to be HELPING Edwin confront his feelings. The way she phrased it was very provocative on purpose, it's something you might say to a friend if they're doing something out of character and you're trying to let them know it and snap them out of it. Granted in a Dramatic and Dickish way, but she is an Endless, so that's sort of a given. Why would she do that? Why would she help him Leave Despair?

Well, The Sandman comics are very Philosophical and layered, and one of the implications in the comics is that Each of the Endless embody their opposites in addition to their Named dominion. Dream is responsible for keeping Reality in check, Death is there when we are brought to Life, Destruction with those paintings and sculptures, constantly Creating things in his retirement, Delirium has moments where she is the only character who knows what is going to happen, Neil took joy in sneaking hints into her rambling, a special kind of Sanity, that is almost too painful and confusing to be tolerated for long, she knows things that aren't in Destiny's book, Desire has quite a lot of apathy in my opinion, and Destiny absolutely has a thing about Free Will. A big implication is that Despair also Embodies her seeming opposite, Hope!

What this means for Edwin in the future I have no clue lol.

#dead boy detectives #Sandman #Despair #edwin payne #spoilers #Theories #Philosophy #The Philosophy of Sandman

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misc-obeyme · 2 days

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OKAY BARBATOS FIRST WORDS DIRECTED AT MC

"Who're you?" -MC

"...Ah, yes, pardon me. I suppose we haven't met before, have we?"

In Nightbringer:

"Welcome to the Demon Lord's Castle. Though I must say, I don't remember inviting you." - Barbatos to MC AND Mammon, so partly iffy on if this was the first words (Lesson 2-11)

"I'm Solomon's apprentice."/ "Solomon's my boyfriend." -MC options to tell Barbatos

okay but Barbatos, as someone who can see all realities, has he always known MC was his soulmate? Would he pretend to not know?? Imagine he always keeps his wrist covered, not even Diavolo knows what it says. I'm so curious about how Barbatos would react when it came to this stuff, especially in Nightbringer.

Okay I'm done now 🤣 I wanted to find his first words because he's your fave okay byeee

- ✨ anon

Ahh thank you for finding them for me hee hee~

Okay but poor Barbatos! In OG, he ends up with "Who're you?" which isn't great but isn't horrible either. But then in NB what if his wrist says "Solomon's my boyfriend." ?!?!?

LIKE. I feel like this would explain why Barbatos hates Solomon in NB lololol.

But to be fair, I do think Barbatos would already know that MC is his soulmate. You cannot tell me that if those words showed up on his wrist the moment he came into existence that he wouldn't have peeked into his future to find his soulmate back when he was young and reckless.

I think he would hide it. Especially if it was something that demons don't normally have, indicating that his soulmate is a human. Barbatos is very private, so I can't imagine him being okay with other people knowing about the words. And since he's always covered up anyway, it's not exactly an issue for him.

It's tricky because even if he already knows, MC knows, too. The minute he says his first words, they know he's their soulmate. So I think how he reacts depends on how MC reacts. Like in NB, if MC is immediately like omg you're my soulmate and they try to spend more time with him as a result, he'd probably allow it. But you know he'd still keep all his secrety secrets so it'd be kinda weird.

In OG there's less of that, so I think he'd just give in immediately. Still restrained as always, but when he's alone with MC, well, I think he'd fall for them a lot quicker than he does in canon.

But Barbatos is also just... super powerful. I kinda think he'd be able to do all sorts of things if he really didn't want MC to know the truth. This only seems like it'd matter in NB where we're still not sure exactly how he's related to Nightbringer. But I could see him deliberately obscuring things somehow to prevent MC from realizing the truth.

#ahh I love him #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me barbatos #✨ anon #misc answers

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utilitycaster · 3 days

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I don't know how you feel about it, but I was extremely frustrated last night when I found out that break was called after around 3 hours. I just felt that at that point they should have just made it a Crown Keepers episode instead of promising that BH would be back and then them barely being in the episode. I don't know, I'm usually really go with the flow with CRs creative choices, but this was just a real big swing and a miss for me. I wish this had all just been its own episode

So here's my feelings:

My thoughts on EXU Prime, and later Kymal, were that I love the player characters and their relationships and much of the worldbuilding (notably all of Niirdal-Poc and the Qoniira Tetrarchy) and I liked many of Aabria's NPCs but there were some pretty big gaps left in "what the fuck is going on" that left me feeling as though I wouldn't mind seeing the characters again but I didn't feel strongly about continuing the story in-world, if that makes sense. The Aevilux reveal, for example, was sort of what the main plot of EXU Prime hinged upon (ie, that was Myr'atta Niselor's motivation; that was what the deal with Ted was) and so the fact that didn't come out for over 2.5 years irl after it ended meant I'd just kind of said "well, some weirdo from Syngorn really wanted to do shit to Opal for some reason related to her sister, who is also her patron, and we don't know why either of these things is the case, and I guess that's what happened" and made my peace with it. Similarly, I don't know what the Nameless Ones want, and never have (other than, at one point, the circlet of barbed vision, and I don't know why they want it). I made a joke that Myr'atta, Poska, and Otohan are all kind of the same and honestly that is the thing: if you don't know why a villain is doing something - even if the reason is "because I love to be evil and terrible!" it's hard to care, and if those are only villains, it's hard to be invested in the story about the heroes either, even if you like the heroes as characters.

When I say I like how this ended, I mean it - I think it could have gone only a few ways, but I like that Morrighan and Opal have both become divine champions, Morrighan willingly and Opal less so (this is yet another case of "the gods don't do take-backsies on oaths", but also, I do feel for Opal despite it all because of Aimee's excellent work throughout). I mentioned how I felt about the exact details of Cyrus's death but I don't mind that he's dead. Fy'ra was a highlight throughout, as she frequently is, and I think she was faced with two extremely unpleasant choices and made a fascinating decision. But I'd have preferred to see this as a flashback (see next paragraph) or like. Just decide what happened. If I'm being extremely honest a lot of my issues with the Crown Keepers portion is that it felt like there was a very specific desired ending (Opal's complete corruption and Cyrus's death); I also said at some point well before that you can only do so much with the Crown Keepers while Dariax is there because Matt does, even if he's turning his brain off to play our Charisma-only kinda short king, know all the cheat codes for the main campaign. It's kind of like why how, even if the DM will control an absent player during RP, they usually have another player control in combat.

I don't mind that the Bells Hells portion was short. I think the choice to break where they did makes sense given everything else that went on. But I think that, criticism of the actual Crown Keepers portion aside, while you might have lost some of your audience for a Crown Keepers-only episode on the main feed, you would have preserved the drama of FCG's death better and gotten people more excited for the Crown Keepers if you had essentially run things exactly as done here but then just cut the two episodes together, which, as a pre-taped medium, they can now do! Hindsight is again 20-20 but: Run the first half of 92 as is. Break and tape a full Crown Keepers episode. Return to Bells Hells and narrate the message back from Dorian saying he'll be there, play out the rest of Bells Hells in the camp dealing with FCG's death, and then have Dorian arrive at the very end of that episode and end the episode when the party asks him what's been going on with him, then reveal there will be a Crown Keepers episode. Air your full Crown Keepers episode as episode 93, and then return to the main campaign with 94. It would have been better balanced in terms of time, people who wanted the Crown Keepers to return would have gotten hyped up, and people who dislike them or are neutral would have at least known what to expect and frankly if they skip the episode that's their choice to make. Hell, since there were 2 weeks? Could have even been like "hey, we'll do a Crown Keepers Marathon on Twitch and Youtube on some random weekday" to build up some hype!

So overall my answer is that I agree this wasn't a great creative choice. I don't think this means they shouldn't take big swings! But some will be misses and this was, while not an entire miss for me, at best a walk.

#answered #minxie-the-sabertooth-kitty #cr spoilers

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cosmonewtmarstherealityshifter · 2 days

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What's shifting? I've only heard a little about it and to me it just sounds like a very lucid dream which kinda confuses me (cause I think I've seen some people get upset about that sorta comparison?) but I'd like to know more!! /gen :3

hiii!!!! i’d be happy to explain!! :D

yeah, shifting (more specifically known as reality shifting) and lucid dreaming are two different things. :) a lot of anti-shifters like to say reality shifters are just lucid dreaming, when in reality (lmao) we are shifting.

reality shifting is shifting your consciousness from this reality into another reality. or another way to explain it is becoming aware of your consciousness in another reality.

so, for many shifters (all i believe, or at least a great majority of us), we believe in the multiverse, which is an infinite amount of realities.

we access those realities through shifting.

and there’s many different ways to shift. you can use methods, intentions, affirmations, and more!!

intentions (or setting them, more like) is like repeating “i will shift when i wake up” in your head or out loud and you INTEND to do so before you go to sleep. (that’s one example of it.)

affirmations are “i am shifting” “i am a master shifter” etc. that you can say while using methods or while trying to shift. (just an example of affirmations.)

methods are all different sorts of things. one that i use is the void state method. where you attempt to enter the void state (a level of consciousness where your physical body is asleep and your consciousness is CONSCIOUS), and then affirm that you are shifting. (this is just an example of a method, but there are loads!)

i think that’s basically it, but if you’re still confused or have any more questions i would be very happy to answer!!! :D

#cosmoanswers #marsanswers #newtanswers #reality shifting #shifting community #shiftblr #shifting realities #reality shifting community #reality shifter #shifter #reality shift #shift #shifters #shifting antis dni #shifting #shifting reality #anti shifters dni

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miller-n-morgan · 3 days

Text

Take Me Home

PART ONE: TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Gunslinger!Reader

18+, mdni

Summary: From the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day. Never spoke to folks around him, didn’t have too much to say. No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip, for the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip. (Reader is based on Texas Red, from the song Big Iron)

Warnings: reader is female but is disguised as a young male (use of masc pronouns towards reader for this chapter), guns, violence, duelist behavior. Reader is described to have a masculine outer appearance (for show) and is mentioned to have reddish hair (for the sake of the storyline). A fake name is used but otherwise can be read completely as a reader insert.

Word Count: 6.5k

Howdy y’all ! I’m really excited about this story (arthur is my main comfort man) and this is just a story that I’ve been cooking up since I finished the game. This part (and a lot of the story’s future plot) is HEAVILY influenced by the song Big Iron by Marty Robbins and reader even goes by ‘Texas Red.’

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.” Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself. “You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did

The light from the outside window is what wakes you first, the brightness pooling over your closed eyelids before they even open. You’re still in Agua Fria, the place you've made a name for yourself. Charlie Brooks, but that's not the one that comes to mind.

Texas Red. The unkillable. Nothing more than a duelist to many, and even less so to those who don't care for that sort of thing. But to those who dare challenge the big iron on your hip, you are not anything short of a quick handed master. Only eighteen years old, or so they say - it’s what you’ve told them, but like your name, it isn’t true. Whichever way you spell it out, your reputation is the reason people know you; You have the fastest draw on this side of anywhere.

For someone who's known near and far as the kid who never lost a match, the nickname is a little less than favorable. Texas Red isn't for the blood on your hands, it's for the ginger of your hair. It's factual, not demeaning… but still unfavorable. You do not care much what they call you anymore, just as long as they know what comes with it. Too many men have underestimated your ability, one and nineteen more.

Here in Agua Fria there's folks that will come from far and wide, just to test your trigger finger. Today is no different. You've spent the night in a hotel above the saloon, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, you know there ought to be a man there, ready and willing to die.

“That's him.”

You hear from under the breath of the bartender. He served you only last night, one drink of silky whiskey before bed, nothing more. You told him your name, but not the one people know. Word gets around, you suppose. Your pistol has twenty notches on the handle, folks can tell enough from that alone. One of the outlaws that hangs around here does the same thing… except he takes pride in those marks, as opposed to you. You make those marks to remember the weight of your pistol, heavier every time a notch is made.

The man before you is tall and strong, likely a farmer that does heavy work. He has a sly look about him, but you don't feel bothered too much. You think his hands, worn by the sun and weathered by his work - whatever it may be - will not draw fast enough to even graze you. They are too stiff where they hang by his side, probably from pushing a plow, or milling a field.

He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's what you assume. He's here to challenge me, they always are. No one asks after you otherwise… except for maybe some working women, but that never ends well.

“You're the kid?” He looks you over, a furrowed brow and a smirk brush his features, but it doesn't last. Yes, you think. I'm the kid, and this is my gun.

“Yes sir,” your voice is a little lower, the early morning is stuck in the pitch of it.

His question was so vague, but having been asked about eight times out of twenty ‘are you the kid?’ makes you a pretty damn good guesser of what your answer ought to be.

He takes another once over after a step forward, and now you can see that he stands about a head taller than you. He's not quite intimidating, but you can admit, the anxiousness of a man initiating a duel is always a thing that prickles your skin, warms your very fingertips. Maybe that's why you shoot so fast.

“You don't look like a killer,” he looks down, but his nose is somehow still in the air. He wants to prove something, to someone or to himself you can't be sure, but only the most foolish of men dare your gun this way.

“I'm not one.”

And he laughs. You don't even think to look up at him, you keep my face forward. I don't have anything to prove, but of course you know you’ll have to.

“You shoot folks, got a name for it,” he settled his hands on his belt. It's a gun belt, sure, but the rounds don't even match the gun at his hip. They look bigger, as for a rifle. This farmer likely shoots ducks. Sitting or flying, that’s not the relevant point.

He has experience, and that's what clouds his mind. He thinks you’re a sitting duck.

“I do, but I ain't no killer,” you paused, rounding the man, stepping up to the bar and pointing for a glass of water. This early in the morning, any form of alcohol shouldn't be legal. You reckon it's the very thing that made this gentleman bold and eager enough to try what he's about to. At least you’re pretty darn sure that he's about to, otherwise he’s just an adoring spectator. “I shoot folks as need shootin’, but they always ask for it. I ain't malicious or nothin’.”

“Maybe you's the one that needs shootin’.”

Atta boy, getting to the point. You have to smile. He looks confused by it and he very well should be… people don’t normally crack a grin when being threatened.

“S’pose you wanna be the one that does it,” You take a drink of the water you’re handed, but it does little to wash away the tickle in your throat, trying to climb its way up in the form of the chuckle.

“If I gotta be.”

You’ve never seen this man around town. Being here in this area almost two months, you’ve seen more of the traveling recluses than any of the farmers. Seen more of the local outlaws, too. They never stay long, they cause a little trouble here and there… but never the farmers. They come into town maybe once, twice a month. They harbor most of their own supplies on their land. No need for the town.

“And you think you'll hit me?”

“I've never missed.”

And then that chuckle finally does escape you.

“I knew twenty men who hadn't, either,” but the other's words were a bit more out of ignorance. They wanted to show off, thought they had nothing to lose. You were just a skinny kid with red hair and a heavy gun that you could barely stand to carry.

“I like my odds.”

So you turn to the bartender. He watched this same charade last month. A different man, not quite as tall, but just as confident. He stops wiping down an empty glass, and looks to you with a look of annoyance. What did you do to deserve it? You haven't the slightest clue. When he looks at the challenger with sincerity and condolences, you know what he thinks behind those eyes.

This is a fine young man, he may have a wife and some children. He doesn't know what he's doing, he had a strong drink. He only heard one story, it isn't fair.

But of course, you can't back out. You’ve never backed out. Never having anything to lose, and like today, no one has ever tried to convince you otherwise. If you die now, you can go out a hero of sorts, the gunslinger of Agua Fria. If you live, then you'll someday die a legend. Texas Red, the unkillable.

You will have to step outside, and you will have to shoot this man, but for the first time, you feel you oughta know his name. You stepped to meet him and offered your hand. It's smaller compared to his.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Sims.”

He shakes your hand tightly, he wants to show how strong he is… as if that somehow makes him shoot faster.

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-”

“The infamous Texas Red,�� he finished for me, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair?

“Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

He scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor. Maybe he doesn't wanna do this. He seems to be rolling it over in his head. If he wins he kills you, a scrawny kid with an ugly hat, and not a friend in the world. If he loses, well… he dies.

But as if foolishness ruled his mind, he settles on his thoughts, and you can see it clear as day when he decides.

“Are you ready to step outside?”

And you smile again. He could've been your friend. He seems like a kind enough man, a little arrogant, but a man of honor in himself. He even struck you with a slanted smile of his own, but for no reason other than your reputation alone, he wants to kill you. Always a shame.

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever.

Thirty paces apart on the dirt road outside, the poor man never even cleared leather, but a bullet rests between his collarbones, and he himself rests on the ground. He’s got a pouch on his hip you noticed earlier, so while everyone around is frozen in place, you carefully go up to his body, stripping the valuables from him before moving on your way. To the winner go the spoils.

You holster your weapon, turn around and face the folks that stopped their journeys to watch. Some had seen the last one, they expected the outcome. Others were a bit surprised. David beat Goliath. The bigger opponent fell.

You took a walk around the block to settle down, find a nail to notch your pistol yet again. You’ve never forgotten your earlier opponents, but something about this one makes you sadder than the rest. One and Twenty more, and whoever else is stupid enough to have the same idea.

Once you feel at rest you land back in the saloon, but it's not as empty as before, your single friend Robert Sims being the occupant. Now there are three men. There is a tall dark haired man with a mustache and a bowler hat, a darker skinned man beside him against the bar, and a young man that looked all too similar to yourself in complexion and hair color. It was nice to know that you weren’t the only one God would curse that way.

You don't plan on letting yourself be bothered, so you sit down one stool over, beckoning a whiskey you can shoot to chase the adrenaline. You thought you had calmed down, but sitting here it feels as though you’re in the middle of a footrace, with the speed accelerating instead of decreasing.

“Charlie Brooks?” The tall man with the mustache was the first to speak, and directly to you.

These men have guns on their hips, and you hope they are not thinking what the last man thought. You’ve barely calmed down enough from Robert Sims, and your head would hurt having to shoot twice in one day.

“Yes,” your confusion forced through.

“I'd like to talk with you. This man here tells me you're quite the gunslinger,” he gestures to the bartender and you give him a glance, seemingly just doing his job minding his business when he's not running his mouth about you.

“He told ya? Or were you outside?”

The man had a laugh that seemed comforting almost. It was hearty and full of actual joy. He pat you on the back and you had half a mind to turn away from it for a moment, unsure of why he was so friendly or if you appreciated it yet. It’s been a while since you felt the comforting or friendly touch of someone who didn’t later try and shoot you.

“I did in fact see your show of skill, but I wasn't sure if approaching you after a fiasco like that would end up poorly for me.”

And so you smile, because his sense of humor is alike yours, and he looks to be unphased by your violent acts of earlier. You technically didn’t break any laws. Didn’t do anything wrong, even by killing a man. He had threatened to shoot your first, if no one claims they saw the duel, you can write it off as self defense… but this man doesn’t seem too deterred. In fact, he looks all too happy having witnessed your properly provoked quick draw.

“I ain't jumpy, if that's what you're worried about.”

But he had a different point on his mind, so the subject was changed in an instant.

“Look, son. I'm gonna cut to the chase,” he pointed at your pistol, the newest twenty-one mark shining where it peaked out of your holster. “You have a gift for using that. I could use some talent like yours.”

And suddenly you’re confused again. Who is this guy? What does he want?

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.”

“I can very well see that. I'm not looking for a temporary gun, kid. I need someone long term.”

And suddenly your interest is piqued. The other men haven't said a word, and yet they seem to be a part of this offer, whatever it is. They are fully invested in your answer, on the edge of their seat - metaphorically, since they’ve been standing - while waiting. It’s strange, as if it’s all been plotted.

“Not sure I quite understand,” You slide the empty glass back after taking the second shot of whiskey, but hold your hand over the top, keeping the bartender from refilling a third.

“If you'd be so kind as to follow me and my friends, I would be happy to explain in further detail,” he steps away from the bar, his hand outstretched to the door. This situation reads danger in every which way, but you don't stray from it. You can’t believe you’re doing it, but you follow along, an open mind.

Nothing to lose.

Your horse was in the stables, an older stallion that was probably bred from war. His coat was full and black, like a starless night sky. Fury, you called him. These other men had put their horses up in the stables as well, but they were quite a bit stranger when it came to interacting with the horse hand. They paid him off so he’d forget any of you had been here.

These men must be outlaws. Dutch, Charles, and Sean… From the time of their introductions, you were watching them with vigilance. You had started to gather that much from the way people ran inside when they passed, but the other behaviors lead you to believe that they weren’t the typical type. They weren’t just bad men looking for trouble and fun. They had reasoning, and they had qualms about who they spoke to about what. They were careful, if that word can even describe an outlaw.

You followed them out of town, and down a road a bit. Agua Fria was a bit drier than other parts of Texas, but it had some nice trees here and there, with ponds and hills to break up the dusty roads. When you came to a clearing, a full on campsite set up, you immediately looked around, taking in who you thought would be the most imminent threats.

“Right over here,” Dutch said, dismounting his horse and leading it to a hitching post. You followed him and the others, and the redhead, Sean, took your horse off your hands.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“This is the camp, ain’t much to look at but we’re all very tight knit, here.”

You followed behind Dutch, he was the ringleader of all of this, as far as you could tell. He gave the orders, and the others followed. You couldn’t say you didn’t see why. He had all the capabilities of a natural born leader. His presence, his personable way with words, and even his ability to convince a random stranger to follow him.

“S’cozy,” you said, nodding to each person you passed. He didn’t bother introducing you to them yet, and you figure it’s because he wants to see how well you fit first. No point in getting anyone attached.

“It is indeed. I’ll have you wait here for just a moment, you can mingle, if you’d like. I’m gonna talk to a few friends of mine,” he told you before ducking into a tent, the flaps falling behind him.

You huffed a breath, turning to the first face you saw and tipping your hat.

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

The young woman looked up to you, a sweet smile on her face. She had lovely dark hair and beautiful blue eyes that reflected a clear sky.

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher.

“First Mack and Davey, now this… kid? You can’t keep picking up people like they’re stray dogs, Dutch…” Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand man was the one to speak first. He’d just heard quite a story - which to be fair, Dutch liked telling grand stories - that seemed to be impossible.

“I know, I know… but you wouldn’t believe it even if you saw it. Hell, even I don’t.”

“Let me get this straight,” another voice piped up from the corner, standing to make his presence more known. “This eighteen year old kid, who can barely hold up a gun… is the fastest draw you’ve ever seen?”

“I blinked and the man was dead,” Dutch furthered his point, hearing a low whistle from the youngest man in the tent. They began to peak through the open tent flaps, not letting anyone else see them.

“Abigail seems to like him.”

“Abigail likes everyone except John these days,” Hosea joked around, sitting himself back down when he’d taken his look at the kid. He was a spry little thing, but looked like a boy still in adolescence.

“Listen,” Dutch began, his hands raised to calm the air. “This kid could mean the difference between life or death in some of our upcoming jobs.”

The younger man looked to Dutch, then to Hosea, and then to the ground, shaking his head. Dutch was like his father, but these fantasies he conjured up sometimes to justify his antics could be wild.

“He can shoot faster than me?”

“My boy, I’d let you challenge him yourself if I wasn’t sure he’d drop you where you stand.” Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder before turning to Hosea.

“If he’s really as fast as you say, we should keep him. He can’t be of any harm otherwise.”

A moment lasted longer than you thought it would, but you’d garnered the attention of not one but two ladies whilst sitting in the shade of the trees.

Abigail, the heavily pregnant young woman you’d started conversation with, and Tilly, a young lady who seemed to be swooning with every word you said. You didn’t have the heart to say nothing to her, you weren’t even sure you’d be sticking around.

“And then what happened?” Tilly asked, scooting closer.

“Well, I guess I shot him. S’how most these stories end, sadly.”

You suddenly felt a bit sorrowful. You’d shot a man down only today and here you’d moved on so quickly. The time of self recovery was getting shorter and shorter. Maybe you ought to stop shooting folks, then you could make some ground on a normal life… but that’s never really been your way, not since you left home. If you stay with this gang, though… the shooting gets worse, and you know that for a fact.

“But you’re a good shot, probably why Dutch wants ya,” Abigail lifted a brow, nodding towards the tent. You were sure he’d liked you well enough, and you liked this whole tight knit unit well enough. If you shoot enough folk, you reckon you get to stay.

“Speak of the Devil,” Tilly smiled behind where you were standing, and you took it as a queue to turn around yourself.

“We sure as hell want him,” Dutch said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I have some people I want you to meet. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.”

And the man - Hosea - smiled and waved. He seemed nice, and gentlemanly. He had a kind face, like that of a dedicated father.

“And this,” Dutch stood aside, revealing another man stood behind him… “Is Arthur Morgan. My enforcer, and right hand man.”

You froze when he lifted his head, hat tipping upward enough to see his face. Your breath hitched in your throat as you scanned his features, falling to the stretch of his body and then roaming back up to the brim of his hat. You weren’t sure if it was from fear or from awe, but the tenseness in your body was thick and unwavering. He had all the toughness of a rugged outlaw, but his eyes were calm, serene. Like pools of oasis water against a dry and scorching desert. A beautiful man by anyone’s standard, but completely unaware of himself.

Standing before you now, he nodded in greeting, and you had to snap out of the haze that even now surrounded you, clouding your mind and blocking out anything that wasn’t him.

Sweet Lord above, help me look away… and finally you did, begrudgingly.

“He’s gonna show you around, give you the rundown of how things are around here,”

“Sounds-” you coughed once, trying to play off your strange behavior as you cleared your throat. “Sounds just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dutch leaned in towards Arthur at the last second, nudging his arm as he did. “Don’t test ‘im before he’s had a chance to settle. I don’t feel like losing two fast guns on the same day.”

You heard the tail end of the conversation, but pretended it passed over your head. You were standing quietly, still halfway in awe of the man. Sandy strands of hair that fell over the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline stubbled in the same lovely color. He let his hat fall over his eyes again, but you were certain if you’d been able to see them again, you’d not be able to look away.

He fell into a slow walk beside you, beginning to lead through the campsite.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Kid, as if you were actually one…

“Charlie Brooks, sir,” You replied, holding a firm hand out. This was reflectant of a similar introduction you’d made earlier this morning. Didn’t matter what happened though, you wouldn’t be shooting the man before you. Not even if he begged.

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

You dropped your pleasant expression, huffing a fast breath to match the new look on your face.

“Texas Red… But I ain’t even from Texas, so,” and it was true. You’d only earned that nickname here.

“The red part still fits,” Arthur was teasing you. Perhaps this is what Dutch meant by ‘don’t test him.’

You sighed, realizing that you’d found the downside to this ruggedly handsome stranger… “My name is Charlie Brooks.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t get upset, boy… I’m only poking fun.”

You drop the tension in your shoulders… you didn’t like being teased, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad coming from this Arthur character.

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.”

Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself.

“You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did.

You only nodded, and kept walking.

He had shown you the laundry areas, where the girls nearly strip the boys down just so they have something to do in the daytime. He showed you to Mr. Pearson’s ‘kitchen,’ if you could even call it that. He showed you where the weapons are kept, but not where to refill them. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to yet. You take in every word he says, committing it to memory, not only so you can fit in around here, but also so you can recall the sound of his voice on a whim.

He shows you down to the sloped rim of the pond, where usually one at the time, members of the camp come to bathe in their spare hours. You wondered how far down the way you would have to bathe, just on the off chance someone might come and see.

“Bill takes care of the horses, mostly. I’m sure he’ll add yours to his rounds if you ask ‘im,” he mentioned, walking back past the horse rails and troughs. Your horse was standing happily in the sunshine, enjoying the blue skies and grass compared to the dusty and dark stables you always put him up in.

“I’ll remember that,” you say, as if you’ll forget anything else. So far you remember everyone’s name - everyone you passed by, at least - and every individual location of the camp.

“Miss Grimshaw and the others should have a tent for ya by sundown… if not, just bunk with me until tomorrow,” he offered, hands sat steadily on his gun belt. Your face flushed, but lucky for you, he was much taller and couldn’t see under the brim of your hat when you tilted your head.

“That’s kind of you,” you nodded in reply, saying nothing more.

He began to back away, needing to attend to something else, but he stopped short.

“You’re alright, kid,” he complimented, as best as he could give one, anyway. “See you ‘round.”

And you stood still, watching him walk away with your hands at your sides.

“I’m in deep shit…”

Early to bed, early to rise, yatta yatta yatta. You still hate mornings. The camp wakes at the crack of dawn, and you stir just as some folks are leaving, mounting their horses and setting off for the adventures ahead. You’re fairly certain it’s Dutch, Bill, and that other man Hosea, the one with the kind face.

You did end up taking Arthur up on his offer to bunk for the night. He was kind enough to set up one of the spare cots for you, unwilling to argue about sleeping on the ground and all that. He pegged you for the arguing type and wanted to leave well enough alone.

He was gone from the tent-like structure by the wagon, away somewhere probably having a cup of that coffee you smelled. They must have had a pot brewing somewhere, because it was the only thing willing you to leave the shaded area you were resting. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but you could already feel the effects of the heat swirling in around the camp.

It was strange, going about your morning routine with others present. Washing up your face in one of the water barrels, raking your hair back over your head with your wet fingers to let the hair sit flat before you crushed it down with your hat. You’d been nearly presentable, good enough for the morning, anyway.

It wasn’t long before you were sitting close to the congregated group, a cup of coffee in your own hands. It wasn’t the best you’ve had, but hey, it helped you keep your eyes open. You didn’t dare interject into the conversation, unknowing of it they would accept it. Not that it mattered, because you liked hearing them interact as is. They were a rowdy bunch, but they had some wit here and there.

After a while, you zoned out during talks of events you hadn’t been to, people you hadn’t met, things you didn’t get to see before coming here. You watched a bunny that leapt across the camp, running into the wilderness ahead only to disappear behind some rocks. You realized by then you were at the end of your coffee cup. You stood up to take it back to Mr. Pearson, but were interrupted by one of the others in the circle. You remember his name is John.

“How about you, Brooks?” He asked, catching you off guard, for you had absolutely no clue what the conversation was.

“How about me?” you replied, a furrowed brow as you stopped in your tracks and waited.

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

You scoffed, a slanted eyebrow to the man when he seemed in disbelief. You don’t blame him, he’s never seen you shoot.

“Faster.”

“Boy’s got some pride on ‘im. Shouldn’t be too hard to break it down,” the only other redhead in the gang reared his accented voice. “Ay, Arthur?”

You turned to the man, stoic and quiet, his hat covering most of his face so you couldn’t see what his features were saying.

“If Dutch says he’s faster than me, I won’t push my luck.”

Except for he wanted to. He really wanted to, and you were curious to see his skill as well. Maybe not against you, because hell… you ain’t never lost before but there’s a first time for everything, and you like it here too much to throw it away.

“I don’t buy it. That’s just Dutch telling tales like he does,” John stood up and clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Never in my life have I seen someone with Arthur’s shootin’ speed.”

“Never?”

You knew it was probably not in your best interest to boast your ability on the first day, but shit, it was the only thing you had going for you. You had to make way in this group somehow.

“Never.”

“Alright,” you nodded. “I propose a game. Two bullets, our names carved in. We set up a can to shoot and whoever’s bullet gets trapped inside s’the one that got there first.”

Arthur lifted his head, and for the first time this morning, you saw his eyes. Your face instantly got red, but no one seemed to notice, too caught up in the heat of the exchange.

He nodded once, a slow and decisive nod. He was thinking it over.

“Sure,” he said, his thick accent coating the word. “Guess I’ll play along.”

And the group dispersed, grabbing everything needed. Arthur took it upon himself to carve the bullets, and strangely, you trusted him not to tamper with yours. He didn’t seem like the type to play dirty. He didn’t look like he needed to be.

Sean set up the can on a log, a crudely drawn X out of charcoal on the rusty front of it. There were words being exchanged as you both stepped up, opening your guns to drop out all the bullets before Arthur handed yours over. His etching wasn’t too bad, but you dropped the smug look on your face when you saw what he actually put on it.

“I told you my name’s not Red,” you huffed, taking it anyway and dropping it into the cylinder, giving it a quick spin to line it up.

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it but you,” he teased, loading his own gun and standing beside you, about five yards away from the can.

“Need me to count?” you joked back, hopefully not in vain. You wouldn’t be pridefully wounded if you lost in all honesty. You’d been waiting for your talent to fail you for a long time now, and without any stakes on the table, you suppose today could be the day.

Both guns now strapped to your hips, you waited in silence, and so did everyone else. It wasn’t something that needed cheering on, but it was definitely something to be on the edge of your seat for.

You saw Arthur drop his hand out of the corner of your eye, so you cleared leather as fast as you could in hopes that your shot would land, and it did… or at least, you thought it did. The can went flying and both guns had been fired.

“Who won?” John yelled over in question to Sean, who went to kneel down by the log, picking up the can.

“Uh…” He held up the can, showing two bullet holes, before dumping out both bullets from the inside. “Both of em’.”

And for the first time in any shoot out you’d ever participated in, you were too stunned to speak. You never doubted this man’s abilities as a talented gunslinger, but given you’d never seen him shoot, and knowing your own track record… it was surprising to see.

“Well,” Arthur turned to you, as the others continued to chat amongst themselves, not sure how to split the bets they had made beforehand. “You beat me.”

He offered his hand to you to shake, but you shook you head, you didn’t understand.

“It’s a draw, both bullets hit,” you tried to reason, but he was set on his own explanation.

“You hit first. Mine went through the top as it was fallin’.”

You shook his hand anyway, but froze in place when he spoke. Could he really tell? Was he that detail oriented when shooting? You’d never known much of your craft, just that you could do it, just that you’d practiced a bunch and got pretty damn good… but you didn’t even think to make that observation.

“That don’t count,” you tried to absolve him, still feeling as though from what he said alone, he was the better gunslinger. “I’ve never said this before… but I would not duel you, Arthur Morgan. You’ve scared me somethin’ awful with that gun.”

He had a chuckle in his exhale as he let it fall from his lips, a nod and the drop of your handshake. “Guess we both met our match today.”

“I’d say so.”

The day was slow. When Dutch and Hosea and Bill returned in the evening, there was some wind of a job coming up, the first one you’d inevitably be invited to. It was discussed quickly and not in great detail, and the heads of the camp still had some ideas churning about it. Hopefully you’d be able to keep up in the heat of the moment, as you’d never done anything like this before. Never robbed folk - alive folk, at least - or taken something as a means to survive. You’ve lived off of bets and fools you shot dead. It was a lousy way to live but it had never gotten as low as stealing or cold blooded murder.

The thoughts turned over in your head and for some reason you couldn’t seem to lose them, but at the end of the night they were momentarily stalled when Arthur helped you carry the already assembled cot into your new tent. It was simple, just a double sided narrow-pitched tent, no room inside for anything but a cot and a single human. You could just kick your boots under the cot when you slept, that would be the extent of your storage space. At least it had the privacy of the two flaps at the front, current parted like curtains to allow entrance.

Once everything was set up, Arthur took a step back, but didn’t leave yet.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll owe you one,” you promised, trying to be as casual about his genuine help and concern over you the past day. No one had ever shown this much attentiveness to you, and though you know he’s only acting on orders from Dutch, it feels like he really cares. He’s kind and he’s gentle, despite his rugged appearance and reputation.

“S’no problem,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking from side to side to make sure everyone had either retired for the night or was too occupied to listen in. “I wanted to tell you something.”

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms.

He sighed and met your eyes again, debating his words in his head. Out with it already…

“I know you’re a lady,” he tried to speak evenly, but the tail end of his sentence got caught.

Your eyes widened before he even finished his sentence. You looked around as well before shoving him inside your tent, too small for one person let alone two.

“You don’t know anything,” you assured him, suddenly self conscious of how he perceived you. What was it? Your voice? The way you walked? Your body? Was anybody else going to notice?

“I wasn’t pryin’, I swear,” he said, reaching into his satchel, still on his hip after a long day. “Bill left early this morning, I took care of your horse. These fell out of your saddlebag…”

He held out to you the most damning piece of evidence there could possibly be. Long cotton wraps and a sanitary apron, the brand new woolen padding you’d gotten was pressed inside and ready.

Shit. You didn’t even think twice about hiding the contents of your saddle bag when arriving here. No one had ever been kind enough to care for your horse, so you didn’t worry.

You looked into his eyes, firm but not judgemental. When you looked at him just a second too long they turned to a silent fear. Like he was a child getting caught stealing sweets.

“Don’t tell Dutch,” you begged, and he huffed a sigh, unsure of what to do.

“I can’t lie to im’,” he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. You were new, this wasn’t just about loyalty, it was about hierarchy. You, the new soldier, could not dare ask the second in command to deprive his leader of the truth.

“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t tell him, yet. I’ll think of a way to let him know…”

You knew it was a stretch, but he was wonderful with the women of the camp, a man of high honor among the ladies. Surely he would help you, just until you were ready to share your secret.

“We’re different, y’know? If you’ve been hidin’ all this time out there, that’s one thing… but you ain’t gotta do that here.”

“I don’t want them to look at me differently…” you trailed, silently pleading with him.

He nodded, the look in your eyes nearly breaking his heart. There’s a story within you, but he’ll wait to hear it. For now, he just complies, hearing your voice at it’s softest point, the feminine silkiness flowing through. You only ever spoke to yourself like that anymore.

“Okay,” he placed a warm hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, before maneuvering out of your small tent. “Just until you tell ‘im yourself, ya hear?”

You nodded in understanding, a thankful and sweet smile dining your features. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Red…”

tags are open

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan x you

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