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monstersandmaw · 2 years ago

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Male drider pirate captain x gn human (mild nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

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Surprise! A story out of the blue! Hope you like it.

Content: a human who faces daily discrimination for being one of the only humans in a relatively isolated society of non-humans, non-explicit/detailed mention of unwanted sexual/physical contact (it’s brief, but it’s in there - paragraph beginning ‘Still, they couldn’t be any worse than the naga...’), a reader who was orphaned at a young age, a dread pirate captain who’s actually a total softie, a motley crew of pirates who are also all secret sweethearts, and a tiefling friend who wants the best for you. And a briefly spicy ending. Enjoy? Wordcount: 8710

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For all its pretty beaches and steady flow of gold and goods, Cutthroat Cove was hardly the kind of place that people aspired to reach, and it wasn’t the kind of place people lingered once they washed up there, humans least of all.

To get off the island, you had to find a pirate ship willing to take you, and the price of passage was usually dearer than it first appeared. Most of the crews didn’t like humans aboard either, which was another odd stacked against you.

“To the Empress!” A shout went up from the furthest corner of the dingy tavern, and tankards were raised in a jeering chorus of howls and inhuman noises. You glanced up from where you’d been drying off the wooden mugs that Harrow had just finished washing, and you watched as the crew of the Blackbird, flush with fresh plunder, began a familiar toast. “May she continue shitting out shiny gold coins for us to keep plucking out of her fat little merchants’ hands!”

Their laughter filled the small, low-ceilinged common room and made your ears buzz. There must have been a siren among them, you thought distantly as you shook your head to clear it. No one else seemed affected, but a nearby patron — a triton leaning heavily on the wooden bar — leered toothily at you and flared the fins on the side of their head in a mocking sneer.

As you turned away to diffuse the situation, your elbow caught a bottle of rum on the edge of the counter. It teetered and would have smashed had Harrow not grabbed it with his prehensile tail and shunted it back to safety. He shot you a warning look and rolled his dark eyes affectionately. A creased dimple appeared in his cheek and the tiefling smirked a fanged smile at you before throwing a wet dishcloth in your face. “Watch it, clumsy,” he snorted playfully. “Honestly. What are you like?”

“Thanks,” you mumbled and tried not to watch too closely as his purple tail uncoiled slowly from the bottle. Perhaps it came from being raised on a mostly non-human pirate ship, or perhaps you’d just been made differently, but your fellow humans had never done much for you, and in fact, the less human someone looked, the more likely you were to find yourself tripping over your feet around them.

With another sigh, you turned to see to a goblin with blood red hair who had just leaned over the bar to yell an order at you above the clamour in the room, a gold ring glinting in her nose, when the door flew open and a small harpy boy flapped inside, with his feathers all ruffled and his chest heaving from a wild flight up the hill to the tavern.

“The Widow’s Web docked down on Rum Quay fifteen minutes ago!” the boy panted, wide eyed and sweaty faced. “And they’re coming ashore!”

For a moment, the entire, packed tavern went completely still. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Someone set down their tankard with a loud clunk but for a good ten seconds, that was the only sound in the whole room.

“The Widow’s Web?” someone finally hissed. “She never docks anywhere. What the fuck is she doing here?”

“Maybe they need to resupply?”

“They don’t resupply ashore,” someone else scoffed. “They just take what they need off the Imperial Navy and keep on sailing!”

“Maybe one of them is sick?”

“Or they’re looking for new crew?”

“I heard the captain wraps people up in his webs to eat later…” came a nearby, dark muttering.

“Or maybe —”

“— Maybe they just want a good drink for once, and find Her Imperial Majesty’s rations perennially disappointing,” came a deep, smooth voice from the open doorway behind the harpy boy.

The poor lad squeaked and puffed up in surprise, floundering out of the doorway in a twittering spray of mousy feathers and gangly, avian legs, and everyone stared at the figure who had melted from the darkness beyond to fill the doorway completely.

It was impossible not to stare. You’d seen driders before, but you’d never seen one like him.

He moved on seven dark legs that were armoured with a natural carapace like a crab, with pointed spikes at the joints that glinted in the low light, and the eighth was a prosthetic, replaced below the articulated ‘knee’ joint of his right front leg with a shining, steel limb that had been sharpened to a point to match his other limbs, and which clinked softly when he walked. He had to duck almost double to squeeze through the tavern door that had been built wide and tall enough for even a draft centaur to get through.

As he leaned down, his straight, white hair fell forwards around his face like a shroud, momentarily concealing his slate-grey skin that was tinged with purple. He had four eyes, all completely black, and dark mandibles at the corners of his mouth, and as he entered the tavern, he took off his cocked hat and hooked it casually over the upward turning spikes on his left foreleg.

His spider’s body was huge and pendulous and black, covered in a downy fur that shifted like moonlight and spread up his human back, vanishing out of sight beneath a heavy, black coat with silver buttons and emblazoned on the back with the silver web of his ship’s emblem, the Widow’s Web.

Someone dropped a glass in the silence of his arrival, and you startled a little at the sound. Beside you, you heard Harrow inhale slowly. “Holy shit,” he hissed, and his dark, cloven hooves made a soft clopping against the flagstones as he sidled up to you. He was shorter than you, and you glanced down to find him looking up at you with wide, worried eyes. “That’s… That’s him…”

“Capitan Steelsling…” you whispered. “I thought he and the Widow’s Web were just… a myth? You know?” you added, glancing between Harrow and the pirate captain.

Behind Steelsling, a truly colossal, silk-white bison minotaur dipped her horns beneath the lintel and surveyed the room. She had red eyes and a pink nose, and was almost as legendary as her captain, and together, they made their way towards an empty table near the bar.

“Good luck, mate!” Harrow elbowed you in the ribs and ducked away with a mumbled lie about checking the stock.

You could hardly hear anything through the fear that had started a pounding at the back of your skull. You were going to have to go over there.

Still, they couldn’t be any worse than the naga who’d grabbed you with their tail and coiled around you tightly enough to make your ribs creak last week, only releasing you when the laughter of their companions had faded and you’d nearly passed out. Or the gnoll who’d tripped you into her lap and laughed about you being a soft little human while her claws had picked through your shirt. Or the siren who’d made you take your top off and dance a jig on the table with their hypnotic voice, to the rabid amusement of a packed bar. You’d endured a thousand humiliations in your life at Cutthroat Cove, and you were certain that you could weather whatever this dread pirate could dream up for you too.

Squaring your shoulders, you set the damp cloth down on the bar, wiped your hands on your trousers, and strode across the room towards the newcomers, with the eyes of the entire tavern on you.

The captain watched you approach with an unnerving intensity in his four, jet black eyes, but his minotaur first mate seemed entirely bored and unimpressed by the entire establishment. You included. Clearly you posed no threat to her or her captain, so she ignored you for the time being.

You drew to a halt in front of their table and looked up into the captain’s inhuman face. He was sharply handsome, with the hard, cut-glass plains of his cheeks and jawline thrown into start relief in the low light of the bar, and the thick, black, curved talons at the ends of his mandibles glinted in the lamplight like pieces of obsidian.

He tilted his head in a manner that might have been either patronising or curious, you couldn’t quite tell, and blinked his black, almond-shaped eyes slowly. The two pairs moved slightly out of time with each other, the smaller, lower outer pair starting first, followed by the larger inner pair. Holding his gaze for long though was like trying to hold an oil slick in your hands.

“What can I get for you?” you asked, cursing the way your voice cracked a little.

Conversation began to pick up hesitantly around you, and in the far corner, someone got out a tin whistle and began to play a well-known and popular song. The captain smiled when he heard it, his mandibles chittering briefly, and he leaned over to his first mate and grinned, “Remember when Keel played this and Harrik fell overboard trying to impress him?”

She snorted suddenly, her wild, white mane of curls bouncing and her large, fluffy ears flicking back and forth. “How could I forget that?” she chortled. “He looked like a wet rat when we hauled him back on deck. Couldn’t look Keel in the eye for a week!”

You stood stock-still while they reminisced, wary and patient and silent.

The captain turned sharply back to you and twitched his head a little. “My apologies,” he purred. “We are still waiting for a few more of our crew, but I know what they’ll have to drink at any rate. Perhaps you could bring a couple of pitchers of your finest ale over, and six tankards?”

You nodded and paused just long enough to see if they were going to add anything else to their order.

The first mate leaned forwards towards you, resting an elbow on the thick tabletop. It groaned under her muscular weight. “What’s in the kitchen tonight?” she asked. Her voice was rough and deep, but her tone was gentle enough.

“Roast pork,” you said quickly. “And boiled vegetables.”

The captain nodded. “We’ll wait for the others to order food, I think. If that’s alright with you?”

You blinked. “What?” you said before you’d thought about it. “I mean, of course. I’ll be right back with the ale. Excuse me.”

And with that, you bolted back to the bar, sweaty and a little shaky. They hadn’t been at all what you’d been expecting, and they weren’t like the usual patrons of the Salted Kipper.

Harrow had emerged by the time you returned, and he shot you a look. “Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” you snapped, distracted.

“Well what’s he like? I heard from Maggie that Steelsling ripped a human’s head clean off their shoulders just for looking at him too long, and one time, he used that legendary ‘steel’ web of his to garrote the commander of Port Liberty, but the thread was so fine the man didn’t know it had happened til he was bleeding out on the marble floor. And his first mate is hardly any better. I heard —”

“You shouldn’t listen to what people say,” you said with a frown as you fished the enormous pitchers out of the cupboard under the bar and turned to fill one from the barrel on the wall behind you. “You know how much bullshit gets peddled through here in a single night — how much sailors love to exaggerate.” In truth, you didn’t want Steelsling to overhear Harrow’s words and think you were gossiping about him.

“Yeah, but… no smoke without a fire, right?”

You just shook your head and concentrated on filling the pitcher without creating too much of a foaming head on the ale.

With the two pitchers set on a wide, wooden tray, along with the six empty tankards, you set off for their table again. En route, someone with sharp claws grabbed a fistful of your arse and you had to step over the swaying, serrated tail of a lizardfolk at the table next to the drider captain’s. She cackled a laugh at you when you nearly spilled the pitchers because of it. One slid a terrifying couple of inches along the tray as it tipped, and you wobbled in a desperate attempt to stop it sliding all the way off.

You cursed as you staggered, completely off balance, but something solid caught you at the hip and buttressed you up. Cold relief sloshed through you as you saved the pitchers from toppling off to make an ungodly mess all over the floor, only to look up and find that the drider captain himself had jutted out one of his huge, armoured legs to steady you. It was the steel prosthetic of his right foreleg, you realised, and you could feel its coldness seeping through your clothes the longer you stayed pressed against it.

All the blood drained from your face and you felt your jaw go slack. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted, and you almost leapt away from the contact to set the tray down, hoping to disappear as quickly as possible.

“It’s no trouble,” he said in his oddly polite, lyrical voice. You’d expected something coarse and harsh from the legendary sea captain, but he was refined and softly-spoken. “Does that happen often?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Uh…” you swallowed, stepping back with the tray held in front of you a bit like a shield. “I mean… I’m pretty much the only human on the island now, so where else are they going to get their fun, you know?”

You’d said it with a false lightness to your voice, hoping to make him smile and say ‘fair enough’, but his expression darkened and his eyes glittered dangerously.

“It’s fine,” you babbled. “Really. It’s harmless. They’re just blowing off steam, you know?”

That also didn’t help.

He glared around the room and you got the vague impression that the people who had been staring, hoping for an impressed reaction from him, suddenly looked away in shame.

“Excuse me,” you said again, and fled.

The rest of his crew arrived not long after that, and they were an equally odd mix of people: another drider, though she was stocky and built like a tarantula, and her arms and torso were thickly muscled where Steelsling’s body was lean and wiry; a delicate cervitaur who looked about as unlikely to find a home on the sea as the Empress herself, with a white coat and white antlers and a dancing, graceful way of walking that wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace; a rugged, crab-like merfolk who was armoured to the nines in his own orange chitin and had pincers for hands and a sour look on his face as he squeezed his bulky carapace between the tables; a forest naga with a rainbow shimmer to her tail and dreads that fell to her waist; a tiny, waifish, hummingbird harpy whose iridescence matched the naga’s in vibrancy if not in hue; and finally… a human?

Yet again that evening, you tried not to stare, but it was so unusual to find a human among a crew of pirates in these parts that you weren’t the only one taken aback. People hissed and whispered behind their mugs, but no one tried anything with the other human in the room. They saved that for the one they knew was alone and largely unprotected.

As you worked the other tables that night, dodging wayward hands and sneaking trip hazards in a familiar dance, you caught glimpses of the way the crew of the Widow’s Web laughed and joked among themselves. They were clearly close as family, the realisation of which struck you to the core with something akin to genuine, physical pain. The other pirates who frequented the Salted Kipper were business partners and tight-knit groups, but there was always something festering away beneath the surface — some jealousy or scheming distrust — but the Widow’s Web crew touched each other frequently with a friendly nudge or a playful shove, and they laughed. They laughed until they cried and fell about on each other’s shoulders over something and nothing, and even Steelsling himself seemed amused. He kept a little back from the others though, as though he wasn’t quite a part of it, and he kept his four eyes roaming the room every so often too, as though keeping watch for trouble. Wherever he looked, people looked away, uncertain.

Frequently, his glinting gaze landed on you. When that happened, you ducked your head and busied yourself with another task, but you felt the weight of his four eyes on you as you crossed the room all the same.

If the scattered crumbs of gossip were to be believed, which they rarely were, that night was the first time in six years that the Widow’s Web had formally put to shore, and no one expected to see them again for another six at least.

And yet, a month later, the door opened and in strode the hulking form of the first mate, accompanied by her eight-legged captain and a few of their crew.

You served them ale, and he asked you how you were as you set the pitchers down. “Fine, thanks,” you mumbled, head down.

It seemed to irritate him that you were so deferential, and he sighed sharply.

“You?” you added, glancing up as you tacked the question on as an afterthought.

His mandibles twitched in what might have been an arachnid smile and his shoulders dropped a visible inch. “I’m well, thank you. We had a successful couple of encounters on the Whale Road Shore lately.”

“You went all the way to the Whale Road Shore?” you gasped, staring openly at him. “But that’s… that’s at least a two week sail from here, even with the winds in your favour? How did you make it there and back in so little time?” Distances, maps, and charts had always fascinated you, the way a caged bird dreams of open windows.

Across the table, the first mate chuckled, and with a jolt you remembered yourself, and your place, immediately.

“Forgive me,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry. Enjoy your evening.”

“Wait?” came Steelsling’s soft, rich baritone. He didn’t speak loudly or harshly, but the simple, politely uttered question stopped you in your tracks. “You weren’t prying, and I don't mind. We have a wind witch aboard. Makes things much easier and faster.”

“Oh,” you breathed. A wind witch? Was there no end to this crew’s mystery?

“They’ll be here any minute,” Steelsling said carefully, deliberately, pointedly. “If you want to meet them.”

“Oh, no… thank you,” you said, despite the way your heart ached to meet a real wind witch. It was a particular talent that only humans had, though other species had similar gifts with the weather. It might have been nice to talk to another human after so long. “No, that’s alright. I don’t want to intrude, and I… I should get back to work.”

The captain just nodded, but he didn’t speak to you directly again that night. The human on his crew — the wind witch — did show up a little while later, accompanied by the pretty cervitaur and the fiery-looking orange merfolk, and the crew lost themselves again in their food and drink and conversation. All but one of the crew, you realised after they’d been there an hour. The captain himself was sitting back, resting his humanoid upper body against the wall of the inn, his spider legs tucked up tightly around him, almost like a cage of spiked, black steel with one silver bar, and he had his arms crossed over his chest and a dark glower on his face. You tried not to look at him when you discovered him already watching you, and you traded a week’s worth of floor scrubbing with Harrow to avoid serving their table again.

Month after month, the crew of the Widow’s Web returned to the Salted Kipper, and month after month, the captain watched you.

He watched you dodge the other patrons, sloughing off their insults and jibes and clumsy, pawing attempts to get you into their lap, and each time, his expression grew darker and more severe. He stopped taking part in his table’s merriment, glowering in the corner like a monster from a fairytale while his crew carried on around him. Only his first mate would frown at him and try and get him to engage, but he never did for long. You started to think you’d insulted him by refusing the honour of a conversation with the wind witch, and he was concocting a truly venomous revenge for your rudeness.

Then, after six straight months of visits, they vanished.

No one saw the black and silver sails of the Widow’s Web for months, and gossip about them erupted.

Rumours circulated like gulls on the wind: they’d been sunk by the Empire; they’d been swallowed up by a kraken who’d been hunting Steelsling for years after taking his right leg off; there’d been a mutiny and they’d all killed each other in the process; they’d strayed off the edge of the world; they’d strayed off the edge of the world and then returned with some mysterious illness; the captain had eaten his crew one at a time while stranded in the doldrums… Each theory was more ridiculous than the next, but you came to miss the crew’s polite presence in the corner of the inn. The lowering eyes of the deadliest pirate in the known kingdoms had gone some way to lessening the way you were treated as a human among so many of what the Empire called the ‘monstrous species’ and the ‘beast folk’. Monstrosity was a relative thing, you’d found.

One morning, after preparing the inn for the day, you headed down alone to the harbour to stock up on supplies for the kitchen. The folk who ran the market were used to you, given that you’d been on the island since you’d washed up there at the age of eight, and they’d stopped trying to fleece you on each purchase you made for Silas, who ran the inn.

You’d just added a box of smoked salt into the groaning basket on your arm when a gasp went up from the nearby shoppers and you turned to see what had snagged their attention. The elegant and eerie prow of the Widow’s Web — a series of carved, black spiders crawling up a cylindrical spar — and the furled black sails of the legendary ship as it was towed into port drew the attention of everyone in the harbour-side market.

You’d never seen them outside of the inn, and you watched as the small, efficient crew scuttled around making last-minute preparations to the lines and the sails before docking, and there, leaning his weight casually against the taffrail with his white hair streaming out behind him like a banner, was Captain Steelsling himself. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him and you stared openly, drinking in the contrast between the curve of his dark spider’s body and the angular lines of his slim, armoured legs. They looked like they could puncture the hull of a warship like a harpoon, and his prosthetic caught the sun and flashed blindingly for an instant.

You watched in awe as he left the deck and scuttled up the rigging with enviable ease to talk briefly to the figure tucked away in the crows nest. That done, he fearlessly descended the rigging and joined the others on the main deck. Just as he turned to give an order to someone on his left though, he froze and you looked on with an odd mix of trepidation and delight as he noticed you.

For a long time, he stared at you. Then, finally, he inclined his head and went about the business of making port.

You had intended to be gone from the market by the time the lengthy process of bartering for better docking fees was over, but fate it seemed had other ideas. You were halfway through haggling with the knife-sharpener for a more reasonable price for her services when she looked up and she dropped the small paring knife she’d been using as a prop to try and frighten you into giving in and accepting her price.

“Captain Steelsling…” the skinny naga exclaimed, and then she hissed at you. “Get out of the way, you little bilge-rat. Don’t you know who this is? My apologies, Captain, my apologies. How can I help you?”

“I know who he is,” you said carefully, turning and smiling shyly at him. His dark mandibles hitched up on one side and he crossed his arms. His long, white hair was plaited back off his face in a series of intricate, interlaced designs, cascading down over his trademark black coat with its silver buttons, and he looked so dashing that your heart skipped a beat. His captain’s hat was nowhere to be seen and he carried no visible weapon, but the authority washing off him was enough to make people skirt around him with their eyes averted.

“Good to see you again, and in daylight this time,” he said, and the knife-sharpener sputtered something unintelligible behind you while he ignored her completely. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” you replied. “You’ve been gone a long time…”

A sad expression flickered across his face. “Yes,” he sighed, and his posture sagged. “A sad business, but it’s over now. I’m glad to be back. I’ve grown rather fond of a certain inn here in Cutthroat Cove after all.”

“You have?” you asked, astonished. “I thought you only came to the Kipper because your crew like it. You always look so miserable.”

The knife-sharpener gasped audibly at your bluntness and started to titter something about offering him whatever he wanted, free of charge.

“I didn’t come to talk to you, and I sharpen my own blades, thank you,” he snapped at her, and turned to look over his shoulder, away from the market square. “Will you walk with me? I have a hankering to stretch my legs after so long at sea.”

“Uh…” You would expected back at the inn soon, but there was little you could do if the king of pirates himself wanted a moment of your time. “Sure.”

He smiled again, and held out a hand. “Let me take that for you.”

Still a little stunned, you mutely handed the creaking basket to him. He took it like it weighed nothing at all and hooked it over his other arm so that it was in no danger of swinging and accidentally clocking you around the head. He was massive on his stilt-like legs, after all.

You walked in silence for a little way, along the waterfront towards the old Imperial fortress that had been taken over by the Raven Queen - the local pirate power in these waters. She, ultimately, deferred to Steelsling though, as most pirates did. And there you were, trotting along at his needle-like heels while everyone stared.

“Why would you think I’m miserable when I’m at the tavern?” he asked after a while.

“What? Oh… I didn't mean to offend you,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed at that, and you got the feeling you’d said the wrong thing. Instead of pressing the issue though, he paused at a bend in the fortification walkway and looked directly at you. “Why do you stay here?” he asked.

You frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“If you’re so unhappy here — treated so poorly — why do you stay?”

You scoffed a little laugh and turned to look out at the bright blue sea.

A strong wind was whipping the peaks of the waves to foam and the gulls dipped and soared on the currents, buffeted this way and that and seeming to love every minute of it. Further out, near the cliffs off Needle Point, gannets speared straight down from the clear sky with barely a splash as they disappeared into the waves, chasing the fish that glittered and flashed beneath the surface.

Salt air filled your nose as you inhaled and you shook your head. “Don’t have much choice, I guess. I can’t afford passage on a ship — not at the prices they charge a human — and… I have nowhere else to go anyway.”

“No family?” he asked carefully.

You shook your head. “No. My parents were killed when the Albatross was captured.”

You caught the soft inhale of shock from the drider captain and turned to look up at him. His solid, black eyes were wide and his mandibles had parted to reveal soft, almost human-like lips behind, and a row of sharp, white teeth. The soft, ombré shading of grey that spread up his jaw, fading from almost coal black around his mandibles to a heather grey around his eyes, was almost mesmerising enough to ignore the look of open horror on his face. “Your parents were on the Albatross?” he whispered at last.

You nodded. “My da was the cook. Ma was a gunner.”

His black eyebrows rose at that. “But you survived?”

“Got washed overboard,” you shrugged. “I was eight.” You fought down a tide of sickening memories and rested your forearms on the stone wall of the old fort.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My first mate, Ellary, led the mutiny against the captain of the Bloodcrest after what he did to the Albatross. She killed him herself.”

“Good.” Somehow, that did bring a bitter kind of consolation, and you managed a smile. “Anyway,” you said. “When I washed up here, Silas took me in as a pot-washer and floor-scrubber at the Salted Kipper. It’s not so bad…” you said, but you didn’t sound convincing, even to your own ears.

Steelsling shot you a flat look. “I’ve seen the way they treat you there,” he growled. “I’d have cut off their hands if they tried to touch me like that.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all shoot barbed wire out of our bodies, can we?” you said, speaking yet again without thinking first.

Instead of being insulted though, the captain laughed loudly and freely. “I suppose not,” he said when the sound faded naturally, like a retreating wave on the shore. “Listen, there’s an opening on my crew. It’s nothing exciting, but we’re a soul down now, since Tammas had to go back to his family on land, and I’d like to ask you to join us.”

You blinked at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“But… Why? I haven’t been at sea since I was eight. I’d be no use to you.”

“I know for a fact you can cook, and I bet you’re just as capable at mending and fixing things. Besides, I think you’d make a good fit in our family.”

Sure, you’d grown pretty handy in a number of areas over the years, but you were hardly a sailor. “You’d do better to ask around the market,” you said, fighting down a wave of anxious pressure in your chest. “I — Thank you, for the offer, but I should get going. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

You turned without another word and walked away before you’d even realised he still had your basket over his arm. Seconds later, he scuttled up behind you, his needle-like legs making scarcely a sound on the stone, save for the single steel pin of his prosthetic, and he darted in front of you, blocking the way with his body. Your breath caught as a moment of panic flared and dissolved almost immediately. He held the basket out to you but didn’t relinquish it once your fingers gripped the handle. “Think about it,” he said. “The Widow stays here for a week, but I shan’t push you.”

And with that, he let go and stepped to one side, and you fled back to the tavern with your heart pounding.

You dropped three tankards that night, tripped over two tails that weren’t even in your way, and nearly landed in a slime’s lap before Harrow pulled you to one side and asked if you were coming down with something.

You shook your head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just… distracted.”

“What’s going on?”

With a sigh, you told him, and he gawped at you like you’d grown another head when you got to the part about being offered a spot on Steelsling’s crew.

True to his word, Captain Steelsling and his crew stayed away from the tavern until the very last night that the Widow was due to stay in port. When Ellary opened the door and stepped in, the usual hush descended on the common room, and Harrow shot you a look. ‘Do it’ he mouthed at you along the length of the bar, and you sucked in a huge breath for courage and held it til your lungs burned.

When you made no move and looked like you might possibly throw up instead, Harrow marched over to you and poked you right in the centre of your chest, none too gently. “Fucking do it,” he said. “I’m going to miss the hell out of you, but if you don’t take this chance, you’ll never get off this gods-forsaken lump of rock. Plus, he fucking likes you.” When you frowned, Harrow rolled his eyes. “The dread pirate Steelsling, who famously never comes ashore, takes one look at you and comes back here to this shitty tavern once a fucking month for six fucking months, apologises for being away for so long without telling you, threatens to personally skin anyone who lays a hand to you, and —”

“— wait, what?”

“Oh.” Harrow’s dark eyes widened guiltily. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know! What the fuck?”

Harrow shifted his weight. “I only learned about it when I overheard Lannicka grousing about how she wanted to teach you a lesson but didn’t want to wake up in a fucking web, dangling off a spar on her own ship…” He cleared his throat and glanced at the floor between his dark goat’s hooves. Behind him, his tail swished back and forth. “Turns out your captain overheard someone a few nights ago down at the docks laughing about getting you to spill ale all down your shirt, and he let it be known that the way people treated you was… ‘unacceptable’…”

“I wondered why people had backed off a bit this week,” you muttered. “I just thought they’d finally had enough fun and got bored with picking on the human.” You wanted to be angry with him for doing it behind your back, but it had made your work noticeably easier.

Harrow looked across the common room and his tapered ears pulled back suddenly, his multiple earrings flashing in the lamplight. “His first mate’s looking at you. She just pointed at you and beckoned you over.”

With a sigh, you turned your back on Harrow and looked at Ellary. She cocked her head to one side in a silent, expectant question.

“Go,” Harrow said. “I’ll miss the fuck out of you, but —”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you laughed, already taking your apron off. You hugged him and he hugged you back. “Thank you for taking care of me,” you said. “You could have been like everyone else, but you weren’t, and I’ll always love you for that.”

He squeezed you more tightly. “Don’t forget about me, alright?”

“Never,” you promised, and set your apron on the counter top. “And thank Silas for me too,” you said. “He could have turned me away.”

“Still could have treated you better,” Harrow growled, canines showing.

You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now though, does it?” you said, and grabbed the small bag you'd packed earlier and stowed beneath the bar. “Take care, alright?”

He nodded. “You too.”

When Ellary saw the bag in your hand, she grinned and stood up. Beside her, the delicate cervitaur rose from the soft cushion they’d been seated on — or, more appropriately, draped across like a slightly wilted lily — and flicked an ear at you.

“You’re coming along, then,” Ellary said, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to send you staggering. You reeled backwards and found yourself righted by the crab-folk merman, who laughed like an open drain.

“I hope your sea-legs are better than that, friend,” he guffawed, snapping his pincers like percussion instruments.

“Last time I used my sea legs, I was eight,” you said, embarrassed. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not throwing up over the sides before we leave port.”

“Ah, Anneke has a potion or concoction for everything, seasickness included. You’ll be fine. Come on,” he said, and he chivvied you out of the tavern amid a forest of astonished gazes from the patrons.

When you reached the harbour, with the small fishing boats gently bobbing and the larger ships creaking and swaying at their stone quays, you had begun to wonder what you’d got yourself into. Ellary had strode along on huge, near-silent hooves, her scarlet coat flapping open to reveal only the thick fur of her pelt and the vaguest impression of her physique underneath, and Macs, the crab-folk — who apparently never shut up unless Ellary threatened to put him in a cook pot — had talked himself hoarse about their plans for the coming weeks’ sailing, while Phlox, the cervitaur, had tittered at almost every joke Macs made. You snorted softly through your nose when you realised that the most fearsome and mythical pirate crew of the era were actually a bunch of kind-hearted dorks.

“Something funny, human?” Macs asked, glancing sidelong at you while you all headed along the stone dock towards the sleeping figure of the Widow’s Web where she rocked quietly in the darkness.

“You know what?” you said, “I was actually afraid of you lot when you first walked into the tavern.”

“Ha!” he barked, and elbowed you in the ribs so hard you actually tripped over your feet at last and went sprawling sideways onto the stones. Or at least, you would have done, had Ellary not anticipated it and grabbed you at the last minute and hauled you up again with her huge hands.

“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “Can’t even take you to collect a new crew member without you causing physical harm to someone, Macs,” she said, and then looked at you. “He’s our master gunner, believe it or not.”

You raised your eyebrows and he clacked his pincers together. “Ain’t no one able to make a shot like me, human,” he grinned. “You can bet your unarmoured hide on it.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’ll show you, soon as we clear the reef tomorrow,” he said, puffing his chest up enough that Phlox giggled again and he looked mightily pleased with himself.

“I live with a bunch of buffoons,” Ellary said dryly and ushered you up the gangplank ahead of her, probably so that if you tripped, she could catch you before you toppled head-first into the salty, sloshing muck of the harbour at high tide.

A flap of dark wings from the rigging above made you look up once you were aboard, and a black-feathered kenku dropped to the deck. In Ellary’s own voice, using what was clearly a carefully-curated selection of her own words, parroted back at her, they said, “About time you got here. Captain’s gonna start spitting webs in a minute.”

Ellary snorted a laugh and turned to introduce you to the kenku. “This is Specs,” she said, gesturing at the avian creature. “Lookout and navigation.”

“Pleasure,” you said, muttering your own name.

In Macs’ voice this time, Specs cackled, “Nice to have new blood aboard.”

“C’mon. I’ll show you where to put your stuff, and we’ll find our illustrious, brooding captain, shall we?” Ellary sighed.

Knocking on the carved, ebony door of the captain’s quarters a short while later, Ellary didn’t wait to be called in, barging her shoulder against the salt-warped wood and stepping in with the familiar ease of a lifelong friend.

Part of you had expected to find webs slung in the corners and the carcasses of dessicated animals dangling from the ceiling, but of course, it was just a simply but comfortably furnished cabin, with a large desk smothered in charts and navigational instruments. The captain himself was standing behind it, his body little more than a dark silhouette against the large window at the rear of the ship, and his silver hair dangling like a drifting ghost in the light breeze that wafted in with Ellary.

The minotaur shoved you into the room and saluted the captain without a word before leaving, closing the door behind her.

“You… You decided to come?” he faltered, sounding unsure of himself for the first time.

You nodded. “I do have a bone to pick with you though, Captain,” you added and he cocked his head.

“Oh?”

“What’s this I hear about you threatening to flay people on my behalf?”

He did have the good grace to look embarrassed about that, and dropped his onyx gaze to the floor. “I apologise,” he said. “I lost my temper with someone in the docks, and did nothing to stop the spread of the rumour once it started.”

You shrugged. “Figured that was how it had gone.”

“Did Ellary show you your quarters?” he asked, as much to change the subject as to find out the answer.

With a nod, you looked around his cabin. “Nicer than a mouldy mattress in the Kipper’s storeroom,” you said. “When do we sail?”

“With the tide,” he said. “I’d almost abandoned hope you were coming with us.”

“Why did you want me, really?” you asked with narrowed eyes.

He sighed and came around the desk to stand in front of you, his prosthetic making a soft ‘pinging’ noise on the wood as the wickedly sharp tip pulled free with each step. You wondered, not for the first time, how he’d lost the limb, but didn’t ask.

“I warmed to you the moment you spoke to me,” he said simply. “You were afraid, but you still came over, and you were… yourself. The others… they all know my — our— reputation, and that changes how they speak to me, how they act around my crew, but you remained yourself, and I admired that.”

Swallowing, you tried not to choke. Other than Harrow, no one had ever made you feel like you were worth more than a passing moment their time, but here was the most successful pirate captain in the known kingdoms, telling you he thought that who you were was valuable to his crew. To his family.

“Look, you must be tired,” he said, clearly reading your emotions and not wanting to overwhelm you. “Why don’t you settle in for the night? We’ll sail within the hour, but you don’t have to do anything. Of course, you’re welcome wherever you like on the ship, but no one will ask anything of you just yet.”

Blinking through your tears you nodded and choked out a vague ‘thank you’ before vanishing below.

It was three days before you felt like you could contribute anything useful, and, just as he’d promised, no one asked anything of you until then.

After three months as part of the crew, you knew you were never going to set foot on land again willingly, and you understood why they just kept sailing from prize to prize. It was bliss. Even in the worst of the weather, you felt safe. Anneke, the weather witch, kept the most violent of storms from touching the ship, and the crew knew their business, tightening and trimming the rigging and the sails til the ship fairly thrummed with the joy of being at sea.

Ellary, you came to learn over the course of many an evening, had a dry sense of humour that left you breathless before guffawing a great laugh that would have made you self-conscious before, and Macs was just as bad. He was a practical joker, but never in a way that made you feel small or embarrassed. You met the other elusive members of the crew as well — those who had not felt confident or comfortable in coming ashore — and you fell slowly in love with all of them in their own way. Minal, an aqrabuamelu with a scorpion’s body and a human’s torso, was the cheery chef of the ship, and Gráinne, a selkie with a voice like singing glass and a burn scar across her face, was the ship’s quartermaster. Others on the crew included another minotaur named Wilf, a huge but incredibly sweet gnoll with a habit of giggling at the most inappropriate of moments, and a twitchy werefox named Keel who still treated you with suspicion, even after three months.

But above all, you found yourself drawn back to the captain. He stood on the deck with the wind in his hair and a smile on his handsome, inhuman face, and he looked truly relaxed. His strange body absorbed the motion of the sea and the rocking of the ship, and he would just as happily spend the morning dangling from his webs amid the rigging, scouting the horizon with Specs, as on the solid deck below, but oddly enough, when he seemed most happy, he was with you.

He taught you to read the charts properly and to map the course of the sun, to plot the stars and read the ocean currents and the patterns of the birds. He introduced you to the colony of orca merfolk who hunted just off the shore and provided information on the movements of the Imperial navy. He ate with the crew on the deck on warm nights, laughing shyly and encouraging them to play their instruments and dance and sing. Keel was a talented violinist, and Harrik, the gnoll, would always watch him with wide, dark, bashful eyes. It was unbearably sweet.

One night, as you leaned back on your hands and tilted your face to the stars while the others continued their revels, you caught a huge sigh from the captain, and glanced up just as he looked away from you and rose to stalk away towards the stern of the ship.

With a little frown, you noticed the way Ellary shook her head too, and when you met her gaze she rolled her red eyes and said under her breath so that no one else would hear above Keel’s lively gig, “Go after him, for pity’s sake.”

You nodded, and slipped away from the others. Climbing the stairs to the deck above the captain’s quarters, where you weren’t really supposed to be, you found him staring out over the ship’s wake, leaning his forearms on the taffrail and resting his great spider body on the boards of the ship’s deck. He looked small and sad and deflated in a way you’d never known, and it sent a frisson of worry through you.

“Captain?” you asked.

He startled a little despite the noise your boots had made on the stairs, and he twitched around to look at you. His breath caught audibly in the moonlight and you watched him swallow. “Yes?”

“Are you alright, Captain?”

His large eyes turned especially glassy for a second and he looked away. “Yes,” he lied.

“Captain, you —”

“It’s Ruven.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Ruven.”

“Oh,” you breathed, wondering how you’d gone so long without learning it. Then again, everyone called him ‘captain’ with the same affection they called you ‘human’. “Can I join you, Ruven?”

Slowly, and with an unbearable sadness in his eyes, he looked back over his shoulder at you. He was wearing only an undyed linen shirt, and it flapped loosely around his lean torso in the breeze. It made you want to touch, to draw it up to expose the musculature and chitinous plating underneath, to explore his body with your hands. “Yes,” he said quietly.

You approached on his right side and watched as he drew his long legs in a little closer to his body, as if to welcome you further into his space. You leaned your weight carefully against his steel prosthetic, knowing it could take it, and he let out a shaky breath.

He towered over you but you’d never felt more at ease with someone, and he nestled a little further down to accommodate your height. You smiled at him. “Thank you, Ruven,” you said, trying out his name again and enjoying the sound of it on your tongue.

“For what?”

You shrugged and stared out at the dark sea, a little overwhelmed. Little flashes of phosphorescence danced on the ship’s wake, like a heartbeat in the depths. “For giving me a family again,” you said with a glance back at the crew who were capering about on the deck below. “For making me feel loved.”

“You are loved,” he said without hesitation. He exhaled your name and leaned down to take your fingers in his dark grey hands. “You are loved,” he said again with sincerity burning in his black eyes. “Never doubt that.”

You smiled up at him, and gently tugged one hand free of his, then reached up to cup his sharp face in your palm. “I don’t. Not now.” You ran the pad of your thumb along his right mandible and he shuddered bodily, eyes rolling shut with a rasping breath. “You’re so beautiful,” you whispered.

A second or two later, a large, slow tear rolled from one eye, down his cheek to splash onto the deck between you.

“Ruven?”

“No one has ever said that to me,” he croaked, nudging his cheek further into your palm without opening his eyes again. “Terrible, monstrous, ruthless… but never beautiful.”

“Always beautiful,” you said, and he picked you up.

He held you to his chest, supported by the knees of his forelegs, and hugged you. His hands began to wander and you gasped, arching into his touch.

“Take me below,” you whispered and he smiled. “I’m yours.”

He didn’t linger, scuttling silently down the gangway to his cabin and closing the door behind him.

He laid you down on his large, soft bed and took you apart with slow kisses and lingering touches until you were moaning his name and shaking with a pleasure you never dared dream would be yours.

“Come over me,” you gasped as he kissed you where you were most sensitive, enjoying the taste and feel of you. “Please, I need —”

“Don’t encourage me,” he laughed. “I’m so close, and I’m making such a mess…”

You looked up at that and saw that he was dripping clear fluid from his abdomen onto the floor beside the bed.

“I’ve never made such a mess,” he laughed again.

“Please…”

He shifted his legs, looming over you again, and he rubbed his sensitive core over your legs, enjoying the slide of your bodies together at last. In three strokes, he came undone and cried out, arching his human spine to bring his spider’s body close to you, and he came with a yell in a wave over your lower body, his legs twitching and his body convulsing.

When he was utterly spent, he lay down beside you on his back and you curled up next to his cool, human torso, tracing the lines of chitin plating where his abdomen blended into the soft, moonlight fur of his spider’s body. He twitched occasionally but otherwise lay still and stared at you with his black eyes.

“I love you,” he said, apropos nothing.

You kissed him and let his mandibles rake tenderly over your cheeks while he kissed you back. “I love you too, Captain,” you smiled and he groaned into the kiss. “I love you too.”

Thanks for reading this story, and I hope you’ll consider reblogging it (as well as leaving a like) if you enjoyed it, as that will help others find it.

Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#drider #spider monster #drider boyfriend #monster boyfriend #spider monster boyfriend #exophilia #monster pirate #pirate monster #pirate #pirate romance

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shiorimakibawrites · 1 year ago

Text

The Interrogation (Part 15 of Alley Cat)

(Image Description: Matt Murdock as red-suit Daredevil against nighttime city background in one block, Shadowy couple leaning against each other surrounded by candles overlooking a city in second block, under second block is text saying Alley Cat by Shiori_Makiba, the third block is a orange medium haired tabby laying on a table and looking up at the camera playfully. End ID)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 8710

Summary: The police have a few questions.

Warning(s): Nudity and near nudity. Referenced p in v sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), hand job (m receiving), dirty talk, love bites. Kissing, dirty talk, Matt being mildly possessive. Low-key workplace sexual harassment, rear of retaliation for rejected sexual advances. Frank discussion of sex. Swearing. Police interrogation, fears of and actual police misconduct, fear of police violence. Emotional hurt/comfort.

Alley Cat Masterlist

My General Masterlist

Tag List: @loves0phelia

Please let me know if you wish to be tagged for this series.

Special thanks to @ceterisparibus116 and @appellatedefender for answering my question about attorney-client privilege.

Part 15 - The Interrogation

Your eyes fluttered open. You knew immediately that you were alone in the bed because there was no human octopus plastered to your back with his muscular leg slung over your legs and equally heavy arm resting just under your bare breasts. And it was too cold. In addition to being an octopus, Matt was a living furnace. And you could – just barely – hear someone moving around beyond the bedroom door.

You rolled onto your back and stretched. You smiled when you noticed a pleasant soreness in certain parts of your body. Part of you wanted to stay in bed. You were rather comfortable. You wouldn’t object to spending more time with Matt. In more ways than one. But you had to go to work today. And before you could get to work, you needed to go back to your apartment for fresh clothes and to take care of Houdini.

With that goal in mind, you sat up in the bed and looked around. You hadn’t really looked at it last night due to being distracted. Very distracted, you remembered with a flush. Along with the first stirrings of arousal. Which you did your best to ignore. As much as you enjoyed having sex with Matt (and wanted to do it again), you had responsibilities.

The bedroom matched the rest of his spaces – collection of mismatched furniture, neat as a pin. No obvious frills. The sheets might have been silk but they weren’t shiny like most silk you had seen. You wondered if it was raw silk. You think you remember your sister Beth saying something about raw silk not being as shiny. But you weren’t sure. Sewing and fibercrafts was her big hobbies, not yours.

There is something shaped like a pyramid on bedside table that you weren’t sure was. Curious, you pressed the big button on the top and a mechanical voice said the time. A clock. So that’s what a talking clock looked like. Neat.

You started looking for some clothes. You weren’t going to walk around naked. Matt had very big windows with no curtains. Yes, this apartment was six stories up but plenty of nearby buildings had a sixth floor. Yes, that obnoxious billboard was a very good distraction for any would be oglers. That wasn’t the point.

Actually your biggest reason was that it was going to be hard enough to resist sex with Matt this morning without walking around naked. Especially now that you knew how good the aforementioned sex was.

At some point, Matt had gathered up your clothes into a tidy pile. But in the pile was something that wasn’t yours. A white men’s button-down shirt that you had slipped on during the night after waking up feeling thirsty. You discovered two things as a result of that glass of water. One was that billboard outside of his apartment poured enough light into Matt’s bedroom and main room that you didn’t need to turn on any lights to avoid running into furniture or the walls. The second was that wearing his shirt and no panties really did something for Matt.

As soon as you had crawled back into bed, his hands were roaming over your body and he was whispering dirty promises into your ears. Promises that had you rising your arms so he could strip off the shirt and lavish your breasts with the same attention he had given your thighs last night. Promises that had you spreading your legs for his fingers, then his cock. Having him inside you had felt just as good as it had the first time.

The memory made your face flush and got you even more worked up. Given that, putting that shirt back on was probably tempting fate but your only other option was your date clothes. You didn’t want to give Matt the impression that you were itching to get out of here. You fished your panties out of the pile and slipped them on. Panties that only had enough fabric to cover the required areas weren’t much of a barrier to sexy times but better than nothing. Especially since you already knew how he reacted to his shirt with no panties.

You made a quick detour to the bathroom on the way to the kitchen. While washing your hands, you couldn’t help but notice that your predication about getting a hickey was accurate. Especially since he hadn’t ignored that spot during the shirt incident. You inspected the mark in the bathroom mirror. It was very noticeable. Especially since it was too high on your neck to be hidden by your shirt collar.

You wondered if the placement was a coincidence. It could be. It was a sensitive spot. Maybe he had paid so much attention to that part of your neck because he enjoyed how your body reacted. You had no idea if he found love bites appealing. He couldn’t see the resulting marks but it could appeal to him for other reasons.

Shrugging it off for the moment, you continued your journey to the kitchen. You were pretty sure that you smelled coffee . . . but the moment you rounded the corner, you froze. All thoughts of coffee were driven out of your mind. Because Matt was standing there with his back to you, doing something at that island that divided the kitchen from the living room, wearing nothing but his black boxers.

The morning light coming in from the windows bathed in his skin in a warm glow, highlighting all those beautiful muscles in his back, arms, and legs. And that glorious ass . . .

“You’re staring again, sweetheart.”

The sound of his voice was enough to make you jump a little. You tore your eyes away from his ass to see him grinning at you from over his shoulder. Busted.

“Sorry,” you said softly, looking down at your feet and feeling a vague sense of guilt. Probably from the memory of those admonishments to ‘don’t stare at people, it’s rude’ ringing in your mind.

“Don’t be,” he said, turning around to face you. “I don’t mind you admiring my ass.”

Warmth flooded your cheeks. Which only got worse when he walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. The startled squeak you made when one hand immediately slide down to grab your ass only made his teasing grin even wider. Having his big warm hand squeezing your ass did nothing to quench the fire trying to build between your legs.

“Besides,” he said conversationally. Like he wasn’t groping your ass. Or wasn’t aware that you were getting turned on. “I rather admire your ass.”

“Y-you do?” you managed to squeak out. His answer was pull you against him. You gasped, then shuddered as he pressed his growing bulge against your groin. A deep rumble came out of his chest as he squeezed your ass again.

“Yes. Very much,” he whispered, his eyes were dark with hunger. His hand continued to grope your ass. “You’re wearing panties this time.”

It was official. Your face was hot enough to cook breakfast on. And you could feel your resolve to not have sex this morning starting to crumble. Then a random thought popped into your mind and since your mouth has almost no filter around Matt, you said that thought out loud.

“Oh God, I’m dating the princess was from the Princess and the Pea!”

A moment of silence before Matt threw back his head and laughed. You buried your face into your hands. Well, that ruined the mood. But you didn’t think you were wrong. If there was someone who could feel a single pea under forty layers of bedding material, it was Matt.

After he got his laughter under control, he gave your ass one last squeeze then stepped away from you. You tried not to feel disappointed about that. You don’t have time this morning, you reminded yourself. But it still took more willpower than was pretty to resist the urge to reach inside those boxers and wrap your hand around his cock . . .

You took a deep breath and did your best to push away those thoughts.

“Your coffee is on the upper counter,” Matt said, moving toward a small stove built into the island. There was a skillet sitting on one of the burners. A carton of eggs sitting on a work area beside the stove along with a spatula, a partial stick of butter, a salt shaker, and small pepper mill.

You looked up on the upper level of the counter and there, to the side of a basket with jars and bottles with either little tags attached to them or what looked like buttons pasted on them, was a white coffee mug. Steam was rising softly from the mug into the morning air. Also sitting on the counter were two plates with bacon and toast already on them.

You picked up the mug and cautiously sipped. It had been doctored to your preferences. It warmed your heart to know that he had remembered a little detail like how you like your coffee.

“Thank you,” you said, taking another sip. And remembering your other manners, added, “Good morning, Matt.”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said. “How do you want your eggs?”

You thought about it for moment, then answered, “Fried.”

He nodded, then did that trick of cracking open eggs with one hand. Without breaking the yolk or ending up with eggshells in the pan. Which is what always seemed to happen whenever you had attempted doing that. Most of the time you didn’t have the patience to bother trying. You didn’t cook and bake to fight with eggs.

You sipped your coffee and watched him cook. You tried not get too distracted by his lack of attire. Or thoughts like how easy it would be to peel those boxers down and . . . You weren’t very successful. Judging by that smug smirk being flashed in your direction as he plated your eggs, Matt was completely aware of the effect he was still having on you.

It didn’t take him long to cook his own eggs. He picked up the plates of food and moved them to the small table and chairs in front of the counter. You grabbed what you assumed was his coffee mug off the counter. It was pretty low.

“More coffee, Matt?” you asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he answered. You refilled his mug and doctored it the way he had it at your apartment that morning before topping off your own mug. You then picked up the mugs and carried them over to the table.

“Your coffee is at your two o’clock,” you said as you put it down. As you sat down, a thought occurred to you and you asked, “Do you actually need that kind of rundown?”

“Yes and no,” he said. “I can tell that there are objects on the table and where said objects are. With a little concentration, I can make a pretty good guess about what those objects are or what they contain by their shape, smell, temperature, etc. It won’t take me long to find, for example, the salt shaker if you just put it on the table without telling me what or where it was but I can’t say that is necessarily something I want to spend my time doing. Generally I’d rather save my mental energy for something more important . . .”

“Like noticing the guy behind you swinging a baseball bat at your head?” you asked.

He smiled at you. “Exactly. Or building a good case for my clients.”

After taking a swallow of his coffee, he continued, “And there are certain things that my senses just can’t tell me. For example, what color anything is.”

You nodded, considering the information as you chewed. After you swallowed the bite, you said, “Let me test my understanding. If you were, for example, playing pool, you could tell that there are balls on the table and where those balls are. But you cannot tell if you are aiming your cue stick at a striped ball or a solid ball unless someone tells you that particular detail.”

“Exactly,” he said, then took a bite of his breakfast.

“You don’t need a rundown but, generally speaking, giving you one allows you to save time and effort that you would rather spend elsewhere.”

“That’s right.”

You nodded thoughtfully as you took another bite of your breakfast. After you swallowed, you said, “This is good. Thank you for making breakfast.”

“It’s just bacon and eggs,” he said, waving it off.

“It’s a hot meal that I didn’t have to cook,” you said. “And you didn’t overdo the seasoning.”

“But someone has?” he asked.

“My brother,” you said. “He’s a good cook but likes spicy food. Sometimes he forgets that I don’t have the same heat tolerance as him and our sister.”

“Duly noted,” Matt said. The rest of the meal was eaten in comfortable silence. When you both had finished eating, you collected the dishes and carried them to sink. Then you turned on the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh? Washing the dishes?” you said, confused.

“You don’t have to do that,” Matt said.

“I don’t mind,” you said. “You cooked. I can do the clean up.”

“But you’re my guest – ”

“Matt, I’m trying to procrastinate. Work with me,” you said.

“Oh?” He arched his eyebrow at you. “And what is it that you are trying to put off?”

“Leaving,” you said with a sigh.

“You don’t have to rush off,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against him. “And if you need an excuse to delay, I can think of something more fun to do than washing dishes.”

He nuzzled your neck and pressed a kiss to that sensitive spot on your neck, where the hickey was. You shuddered. He made that deep rumbling sound that you more felt than heard. One of his hands slid down, coming to a stop just short of where your body would really like it to be.

“Tempting,” you said, your voice sounded breathy. “Very, very tempting.”

“But?”

“But I have to go to work,” you said. “And that means getting back to my apartment with enough time to get ready. And Houdini needs fresh food and water, at the very least.”

He sighed. “All very good reasons.”

But he kept nuzzling your neck. “How much time do you have?”

“Not that much,” you answered.

“That’s a shame.”

“Insatiable,” you said. “Does wearing your shirt turn you on that much?”

“It’s not just my shirt,” he said, his arms around your waist tightened. “I like having my scent on you, smelling like my pheromones. I like it a lot.”

He nipped at that sensitive spot. You shuddered again and had to swallow a moan. You managed to say, “That’s not the only thing you like.”

“No, I also enjoy how you react to me. It’s very pleasurable feeling your body respond to me, hearing all those noises you make, smelling your pheromones, tasting you . . .”

“Giving me hickeys,” you said.

“Oh?” You felt him smirk against your neck. “You have a hickey?”

“Yes,” You said. “One too high on my neck to be hidden by most of my shirts.”

“Is it?” he said, not sounding at all remorseful. “Real shame there.”

“A turtleneck would cover it,” you pointed out.

“In this heat and humidity? Sweetheart, you’ll melt.”

He was right. You would melt. And Jo would tease you about it for the rest of her life.

“Oh sure be all logical about it,” you said, pretending to pout.

Matt chuckled. You looked over your shoulder at him. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Between the scent thing and the hickey, you getting the impression that Matt had a bit of a possessive streak.

After one last squeeze to your waist and nipping kiss to your neck, he stepped away from you. You tried not to feel so disappointed about that. You said that you didn’t have time for sex this morning and he was respecting that. Which was a good thing. A very good thing. That didn’t make it easy to watch him, still half naked and judging by the tenting in his boxers at least half hard, walk away from you.

And then, he started washing the dishes.

“Hey, I meant what I said. I don’t mind doing the washing up,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “But I need a distraction.”

“From what?” you asked.

“How much I want put you on this counter, throw your legs over my shoulders, and bury my face in your pussy until you’re screaming,” he said.

Blood immediately rushed to your face and between your legs. He looked hungry and only looked hungrier as his nostril flared and his tongue darted across his lips. He could smell it, taste it in the air, your cunt’s immediate reaction of ‘yes, please’ to that idea.

It took a lot of willpower to step away. But when you checked the time on your phone, you realized that it was necessary. You really didn’t have time. Damnit.

“I really do need to get going,” You said, not bothering to hide your disappointment “Rain check?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Matt answered.

Not trusting yourself to avoid making yourself late for work if you lingered much longer, you went back to the bedroom and exchanged his shirt for your own clothes. You did your best to smooth down your rumpled clothes and turn your bedhead into something tidier but between those things and the hickey on your neck, it was going to be very obvious that you hadn’t spent the night in your own bed.

Matt had slipped on clothes while you were fighting with your hair but gray sweatpants and a plain tee shirt didn’t make him any less hot. The very thorough kiss good-bye really tested your resolve but you were a responsible adult.

Houdini wasn’t pleased about being abandoned all night, giving you the cold shoulder. It probably didn’t help that you smelled liked his eternal rival. You decided to bribe him with one of his favorite treats – a can of the fancy cat food. It worked. He let you pet him while he ate his food. Hopefully he would get used to you spending time at Matt’s place. And Matt spending time here. Without the need to constantly bribe him with the more expensive cat food.

Fresh clothes along a shower and access to your hairbrush helped but that hickey was an obvious I just got laid sign. You did your best to cover it up with make up but it still looks pretty noticeable to you. But it would have to do if you didn’t want to be late.

Marci Stahl narrowed her eyes when she saw you and it seemed like she was looking at your neck. But that might just be you being a little self-conscious. If she could see it, she chose not to say anything about it. Just informed you that the court dates on one of the cases had been changed and some things now needed to be completed sooner rather than later.

You were getting ready to break for lunch when another member of the firm came in and told Marci she was needed for a meeting. Just her. Didn’t or couldn’t say what it was about and judging by the look on Marci’s face, she didn’t know either.

“Ms. Stahl?” you said as you gathered your purse.

“Yes?” she said, with a hint of irritation in her voice as she gathered a notepad and pen.

“Do you want me to pick you up some lunch while I’m getting mine?” you offered.

She looked surprised but recovered quickly. “Yes. Thank you. Where are you headed?”

“Schmidt’s Deli.”

“I love their pastrami on rye,” she said. “Save the receipt, I’ll pay you back.”

“Coming right up,” you said, shouldering your purse and headed for the elevator. When the doors slide open, you hide a grimace. Don Everett, one of the firm’s attorneys, was on the elevator. He was one of your least favorite people. The reasons were threefold.

The first was that he was borderline incompetent and lazy but absolutely convinced that he was the best attorney on the East Coast. It had made the few times you had been assigned as his paralegal extremely frustrating. Always guaranteed to flick your on-again, off-again desire to go back to school and get your JD into the on-position if it wasn’t already. And if it was already in the on-position, make that desire even stronger.

Last time it had gotten to the point that you brought practice books for the LSAT. Regardless of whether or not you ultimately decided to retake the test, the mental exercise was good for you. When you weren’t so frustrated that all you could do was pace around your apartment and mutter about idiots.

The second reason how little respect he had for women. He seldom looked at your face when speaking to you. Gun to his head, he probably couldn’t tell anyone what color your eyes were. But he could probably give a reasonably detailed description of your breasts. When he wasn’t interrupting you or ignoring what you said, he was talking down to you. Like you were a particularly stupid child who couldn’t locate their own backside with both hands and an atlas. An attitude that you found extremely irritating.

You weren’t alone in that boat. He treated every woman in the firm like that, regardless of position or education. You thought Marci was going to kill him the last time they had been made co-counsel on a case. He got away with it because he was the beloved grandson of Bob Everett, one of the firms’ founding partners. The scuttlebutt was that the elder Mr. Everett had always indulged his grandson more than he should but it had gotten even worse since his son Chris Everett was killed during The Incident.

You sympathized with the elder Mr. Everett’s understandable grief at the loss of his only child but wished it didn’t mean having to either tolerate the younger Mr. Everett or find another job. While the later notion was (very) tempting sometimes, you liked most of your co-workers and enjoyed your work at Lee, Everett, & Kirby.

The third reason was the most recent and that was he simply couldn’t get the message that you weren’t interested him. You were pretty sure he wasn’t actually interested in you either. You were intriguing simply because you said ‘no, thank you’ to his offer of a date. Being good looking and affluent, Don Everett didn’t get turned down very often. He seemed to think it was only a matter of time before your ‘no’ turned into a ‘yes.’

Which it never would. Even if you hadn’t meet Matt, the answer would still be no. You were dreading the day he figured that out. Either on his own or because you finally had to stop being polite about it. You didn’t think he would get violent about it but spreading ugly, untrue rumors? Entirely possible. And whining to his grandfather until you were fired or otherwise encouraged to ‘voluntarily terminate your employment’ with the firm? Also entirely possible.

You did your best to avoid him. You especially tried to avoid being alone with him. He hadn’t tried to touch you or anything like that. He seemed to think his so-called charm was enough to convince you sooner or later. But you couldn’t be sure that it would stay that way. So witnesses just in case – if his hands ever did wander, you didn’t want to be just your word against his. You had an ugly suspicion about who the partners would side with in that scenario.

If it had just been him in elevator, you would have pretended to have forgotten something and came back later. The stairs were technically an option but this was a highrise and walking down over a hundred flights of stairs did not sound appealing. But lucky for you, there were others on the elevator and even luckier, several of them were also getting off on the ground floor.

You made the short walk over to Schmidt’s Deli. Looking over the chalkboard menu, you decided to get a meatball sub for yourself. Plain chips and bottles of tea to round it out . . . your planning was interrupted by a familiar voice calling your name. You looked up to see your best friend approaching you.

“Hey Jo,” you greeted. “Covering another Upper East Side animal charity?”

“Follow up on the same charity,” she said. “But at the moment, I’m on a different fact-finding mission.”

You gave her a curious look as she joined you in line. She flashed you a wicked grin. “You got laid. By Matthew the Hot Lawyer. I want details.”

You felt blood rush to your face. “How did you know?”

“Besides the fact that you had it pretty bad for him last time we spoke?” Jo asked. “You just told me. Through that big hickey on your neck was also a clue.”

You covered your face with your hands, groaning. “Is my make-up job on it that bad?”

“It’s not the worse,” she said. “But I’m also looking for stuff like that. Might be less obvious to someone who isn’t really looking.”

“Great,” you said.

“So details?” she prompted.

“I have get back to work soon,” you pointed out. “I’m just here to pick up some lunch for myself and a coworker. And I’m pretty sure you have a deadline to meet.”

“Spoilsport,” she said, pouting. “Come on, give me something to hold me until we can get together and dish.”

“Like what?” you asked.

She leaned in and asked in a low voice, “Rumor has it that Mr. Murdock loves eating pussy. Can you confirm?”

If you thought you had flushed before, it was nothing compared now. It didn’t help that blood had rushed to . . . other places . . . as her word triggered your memories of the activity in question. And Matt’s offer this morning . . . you had to press your thighs together.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jo said, watching you squirm with a sly grin. “Is his tongue as magical as they say?”

“Jo!” you sputtered. You were glad that you were not – probably – within Matt’s particularly keen earshot. You were even happier about the fact that you had reached the counter and Jo had to stop asking you sex questions in the middle of a crowded deli. You ordered your sandwiches, picked up the rest of food and drinks, and headed for register. Jo followed shortly after with a meatball sub of her own.

“Turns out I’m should be free tomorrow night,” Jo said. “Want to check out that bar with me?”

“Sure,” you said, knowing that you couldn’t neglect spending time with your friends. “What’s it called again?”

“Josie’s,” she answered and gave you the address. “Call me when you get off work?”

“Will do,” you said, knowing full well that she wanted to dish about your sex life and Matt. Specifically those two things together.

“See you later,” you said, turning in the direction of your office.

“Bye!” Jo said, waving as she headed off in the opposite direction.

Marci wasn’t done with her meeting with you returned. Which wasn’t unexpected since it hadn’t taken you long to get lunch. For the moment, you placed her lunch on her desk. You would move it to the mini-fridge if the meeting started to run long.

You were about halfway through your sub when your phone rang. Seeing that it was Matt, you hastily swallowed your bite and answered it. “Hi, Matt.”

“Hello sweetheart,” he greeted you. “Taking your lunch break?”

“Yep,” you said. “I assume you are too?”

“Yep,” he said, echoing your response. “Karen is getting us some lunch.”

“Her turn or do they still think you are going to get distracted and leave them hanging?”

“The later. But Justice Nelson and Justice Page have agreed to give me a hearing later this week.”

You giggled.

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked.

“Work,” you said. “Some dates got moved around and I need to finish some things sooner than originally expected.”

“I understand,” he said. “Think you’ll be done by tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” you said. “But Jo wants me to check out a bar with her.”

“A new bar?”

“No,” you said. “Think this one has been open for a while. She’s just been trying to find us a new hangout place since her ex owns the old one.”

“Ugly break-up?”

“More like a very loud one. Lots of naming calling. Jo might have declared to all and sundry that her ex was a little . . . lacking . . . in certain respects. And didn’t make good use of what he had.”

Matt chuckled. “Hence the need for the new bar?”

“Correct,” you said. “She thinks she’s found a good place. Said it looks a little rundown but we both like a place with some character. I’m going to meet her there tomorrow.”

“Do I need worry about you getting lost and winding up in Queens?”

You rolled your eyes. “No. The bar is in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Oh? What’s the name of the place?”

“Josie’s. Ever go there?”

“Sometimes,” he said and you could hear the grin. You had the feeling it was a lot more than sometimes.

“So I might see you there,” you said.

“That’s a distinct possibility.”

Faintly you could hear a murmur of voices from his end. “Do I hear Karen?”

“You do,” he said. “She’s back with our lunch.”

“What did she get you?”

“Pad Thai.”

“Sounds yummy. I’ve got a meatball sub,” you said. You looked at the clock. “Which I should probably finish and get back to work.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you from your lunch. I just missed the sound of your voice.”

Your heart gave a little leap and your face warmed. “Me too. You have a nice voice.”

“Thank you sweetheart,” he said and you could hear the smile. “Do me a favor and let me know when you get back to your apartment?”

So I know you arrived safely was unspoken but clearly understood. “I will. Talk to you later?”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You gave yourself a moment to hold your phone in your hands against your chest and sigh dreamily. But only for a moment. You were at work. You had to be professional. You put your phone away and quickly finished your sub. It didn’t look like Marci was getting back anytime soon so you grabbed a post-it note and wrote ‘Property of Marci Stahl – Steal It At Your Peril.’ You attached the note to little bag with the food and stowed it in the mini-fridge.

It seemed to amuse her when she finally got to retrieve her lunch an hour later. She smiled. Just a little one but it was a vast improvement over the thunderous expression on her face when she came back to the office. You didn’t know what had put that look on her face and wasn’t going to ask. It might be something confidential that she couldn’t discuss. Even if it wasn’t, that didn’t make it any of your business. You liked Marci and you wouldn’t mind becoming friends with her but you weren’t friends yet.

You turned our attention away from Marci and back on the work you needed to finish.

By eight, you had most of it done but your brain was feeling like much. Scattered mush that couldn’t concentrate well enough to organize its thoughts, let alone translates those thoughts into words on paper that someone else could understand. You needed a break. Some food. You stretched, feeling a stiff. Maybe a change of scenery would help. That sometimes helped jump-started your brain when it was stalled.

You glanced over at Marci but decided not to bother her. She had that intensely focused look of someone who was on a roll and would get very cranky at anyone or anything that disrupted that roll. Or maybe that was projection since that sort of thing irritated you. You quietly collected your work papers, put them in your briefcase, and locked it before gathering up your personal items like your phone. Before you slipped your phone into your purse, you sent out two messages – one to Jo, another to Matt – letting them know you were leaving work.

You were walking toward the subway station when you were heard your name being called by a vaguely familiar male voice. You slowed and looked back, curious. A couple of feet behind was a man staring at you as he rapidly approached, accompanied by an equally interested woman. Both of them looked somewhat familiar but it took you a minute to place them. The detectives who were investigating those gangs but had seemed far more interested in Daredevil . . . Vaughn and Reynolds.

“Yes, Detectives?” you asked.

Through your tone had been perfectly polite, the already sour expression on the man – Detective Vaughn – face only deepened.

“We have some questions for you,” he said with thinly veiled hostility. A lot of hostility. You knew you had gotten on his nerves with your clipped non-answers in the alley and knew he (and his partner) suspected you of knowing more than you saying but this seemed like a lot of hostility.

“If that’s not too much trouble?” added Reynolds with a fake little smile. As before, being the good cop to his bad cop. But something was a little off. You hadn’t believed it but Reynolds was pretty good at projecting that old my partner is mean old bear but I am as soft and gentle as summer rain vibe. She was trying the same thing today but there was a peculiar stiffness to the performance. A tension around her eyes and mouth. Almost like she was frightened.

Of what you had no idea. Didn’t seemed to be her partner. Assuming you were correct about it being fear in the first place. You didn’t know Detective Reynolds. She could be having a bad day (or days) and just wasn’t fully up to pretending to be nice to someone she didn’t like.

Despite her words, you knew that neither considered you taking the time to answer their questions optional. Legally it was. You weren’t under arrest. In theory, you could just say no and walk away. But in practice . . . you had the feeling that they were absolutely willing to arrest you on something like obstruction of justice to prevent you from doing exactly that. And, judging by that scowl, Vaughn would enjoy it.

“Here?” you asked. You doubted it. You were already getting people shouldering past you and the detectives with irritated mutters for being too slow. It was only a matter of time before that shouldering and muttering turned into a shove and swearing. New York City foot traffic waited for no one. You were pretty sure that Jesus would get pushed aside with an angry shout of ‘Out of the way, hippie!’

“At the precinct,” Vaughn said with more than a little impatience.

“Please,” Reynolds added, upping the wattage of her pretend smile. It still didn’t reach her eyes.

You could refuse. It was your right. But as noted, you didn’t think they would accept that answer gracefully. Foggy could probably get whatever charge they would arrest you for dropped easily but that wouldn’t make being arrested any more pleasant.

“Alright,” you said and started reach for your phone to call Foggy . . .

“What are you doing?” Vaughn snapped, his hand now resting on the gun on his hip. He didn’t grip it or even actually draw it. Just rested his hand there. Not an outright threat – something he could chalk up to his superiors as a subconscious reaction, an artifact of training – but an implied threat. It was enough to make you freeze, your hand hovering over the outer pocket of your purse.

“I was just reaching for my phone, Detective Vaughn,” you said, sounding calmer than you felt. Matt wouldn’t have been fooled. He would have heard your heart racing, smelled the fear coursing your body . . . you wished he was here. Not because he was an attorney – through that certainly wouldn’t hurt – but because you felt safe with him.

“What for?” Reynolds demanded. You risked glancing over at her. She wasn’t touching her gun but that would change in the instant.

Legally you didn’t have to answer that question. Or any other question from them. But you also would like not get to shot. Maybe Vaughn was bold enough to actually draw his gun and shot an unarmed person in the front of this many people. Maybe he wasn’t. You weren’t willing to bet your life on it.

“To call my attorney so he can meet us at the precinct.”

“Do you really think bringing lawyers into this is necessary?” Reynolds asked, a current of irritation undercutting her attempt to sound friendly. “We just have a few questions.”

Did she really think you were going to fall for that? Because it certainly looked like it. Under your fear, you felt a spark of anger. It seem to you that this expectation spoke to how often they had interrogated someone who didn’t know their rights well enough to know when they were being violated. This spark allowed you to pushed past the fear for a moment to look her dead in the eyes and answer, “Yes.”

“I don’t care what you were reaching for,” Vaughn snarled. He still hadn’t drawn the gun but the hand resting on it twitched. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Move them away that purse. Now.”

You obeyed, hoping neither noticed the fine tremor in your hand. They were probably aware that you were frightened. But you still didn’t want them to know just how much they were scaring you. To that end, you pasted on what you called your customer-service face. The one you had developed while working retail but found that it came in handy as paralegal. You had been reliably informed that your customer service face was the closest you ever got to a good poker face.

It wasn’t much further to their car but you were careful not make any sudden movements. You didn’t move when Reynolds approached you and took your purse off of your shoulder and your briefcase out of your hand. Or when she patted down you down, despite how little you wanted her touching you. Her searching hands were professional, almost clinical, but it still made your skin crawl.

You remained still and silent while she searched your purse. You hadn’t missed the way Vaughn watched you, an almost eager glint in his eyes. He wasn’t touching his gun anymore but seemed to waiting for you to make a mistake. You really hoped that you didn’t sneeze and get tackled to the ground for it.

Reynolds made a frustrated sound.

“Problem?” Vaughn asked, his eyes never leaving you.

“The briefcase is locked,” she said. She pasted on her own fake smile, “Will you give me that combination?”

“No,” you said, your voice as firm and stern as you could make it. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Reynolds demanded.

“You hiding something in there?” Vaughn added.

You smiled at them. It was the smile that went with the customer service face. A polite, little smile that you used when you wanted to tell someone to go fuck themselves but, one reason or another, couldn’t. At least not using those exact words. “Attorney-client privilege.”

Both of them scowled.

“You aren’t an attorney,” Reynolds pointed out.

“I am not,” you agreed. “But I am still obligated to assert our clients’ privilege on their behalf. My briefcase contains privileged information. Information that I will not give you access to.”

“We’ll get a warrant,” Vaughn said, making it sound like a threat.

‘Good luck with that,’ you thought, feeling another spark of anger. He was very unlikely to find a judge willing to authorize such a warrant. Heck, you’d wager that he would have a hard time finding someone in the DA’s office willing to try to convince a judge in the first place. And that wasn’t counting that you knew that Marci Stahl would fight such a warrant (or subpoena if they went that route) tooth and nail. And she’d very likely win.

The anger only grew when it took a couple more tries for them to realized that you were serious and couldn’t be persuaded. The feeling seemed to be mutual because Vaughn all but shoved you into the backseat of the car. You still weren’t handcuffed. You – probably – weren’t actually under arrest. But it certainly felt like you were.

You watched as Reynolds, your purse and briefcase in her hand, popped the trunk of the car and stowed them in there. None too gently if that thud was anything to judge. You hide a wince, hoping that nothing in them got damaged. She slammed the trunk closed and moved around to the front, you took a deep breath. Then another one.

You needed to sit on your fear. On your anger. You could shake, yell, cry, or whatever else you needed to later. When it was safe. Until then you would need to keep your head and remain as calm as possible. It wasn’t going to be easy. They were going to try to upset you. Because upset people forgot to do what they should to in this situation – demand a lawyer, then shut up.

You got a lucky break in the first part of the drive was made in silence. You suspected that you weren’t the only one who needed a moment to make sure that you had control of yourself. A suspicion that seemed to be confirmed when Reynolds started talking again. The previous annoyance had disappeared. Her voice sounded warm, amiable like you were old friends having a casual conversation.

Your only response to her seemingly trivial question was, “I will not answer any questions. I am exercising my right to remain silent. I want to speak to my attorney.”

You had to give Reynolds credit – she was persistent fisherman. She kept trying to draw you into seemingly trivial conversation. Like it wasn’t a trap, a lure to get you to lower your guard so you’d stumble when she or more likely Vaughn suddenly started hitting you with the questions they actually wanted to ask.

You refused to be baited. Reynolds managed to keep her cool. You couldn’t tell if the growled ‘out’ when he yanked open the car door was a sign that Vaughn was already getting frustration, part of his ‘bad cop’ routine, or if grumpy was simply his personality. It could be all three.

There was another detective in the bullpen when they walked you to interrogation. A black man somewhere in his thirties who looked tired. Except for his eyes. They were alert, wary. “Vaughn, Reynolds, who is this?”

“Witness,” Reynolds said. “Just doing a little follow up interview in Room 2. Shouldn’t take too long. Should it?”

That last bit was directed at you. Another gambit. The faster you talk, the faster this is over and the faster you can go home.

You smiled at her again. “Lawyer. Franklin Nelson or Matthew Murdock, Nelson & Murdock. The number is . . .”

The eyebrows of the detective at the desk raised as you rattled off the number that you had memorized. Eyebrows that rose higher when Vaughn started frogmarching you into what you assumed was Room 2. You guess he was tired of the song and dance because he immediately started hammering away. All of his questions were about Daredevil.

What does he look like? Was that really the first time you had met the vigilante? Did you know who he is? Being an accessory is a crime . . . you don’t want to be in prison as Daredevil’s flunky . . .

He didn’t seem to like that your only answer to those questions was, “Lawyer.”

Neither did Reynolds who had joined you sooner after Vaughn had started. Her questions were different – trying to appeal to emotions like Didn’t he scare you? Aren’t you afraid of him? Is he threatening you?

Not one question about the events of that night, the gang, or their fleeing victim. Which struck you was a little odd. You would have thought that, once they realized that Daredevil questions were getting them nowhere, would switch to one of those in hopes of that you might be receptive to answering those questions. Get you comfortable answering other questions then abruptly switch back to the ones about Daredevil. It was common and often very effective tactic that they were just leaving on the table.

Maybe they thought it wouldn’t work since you hadn’t taken Reynolds’ bait during the drive. Maybe they were just fixated, wanting to be the ones who collared Daredevil. Maybe they were questioning everyone who had encountered the Devil like this – you had no way of knowing. Surely they didn’t think you knew something more simply because Daredevil hadn’t been an asshole to you. You knew perfectly well that you weren’t the only frightened civilian he had been gentle with. You had seen the forums. And the social media posts.

Or because you weren’t being particularly forthcoming. Again, you knew perfectly well you weren’t the only one. The internet was filled with people who were disinclined to assist the police in arresting the man who saved them being robbed or worse. Very disinclined in some cases – you distinctly remembered several posts that could be summarized as: He might be the Devil but he’s our Devil. Fuck the police.

It wasn’t like those posts were difficult to find. Daredevil had his own subreddit for crying out loud. And had been known to trend on Twitter and similar apps.

You had no idea how long this questioning went on. It felt like days. As you continued to maintain your silence, both detective began to get frustrated. Vaughn, predictably enough, got angrier as he got more frustrated. Yelling and getting in your face. Looming over you. Doing everything to remind you that you were trapped in a small room with an angry man who was bigger than you.

It was Reynolds’ reaction that seemed odd. When her amiable facade cracked, there was anger and annoyance. But there was a moment or two where it seemed like she was scared of something. Or someone. Not Vaughn. She didn’t jump or otherwise get twitchy when he yelled or slammed his hands on the table or prowled around the room like a caged lion. Assuming she was frightened at all. Those moments were just that. Moments. There and gone.

But there was something else . . . a tension, an air of . . . desperation? Which was a little strange. It wasn’t like they were going to lose their jobs if they couldn’t figure out who Daredevil was.

Maybe you were just projecting. You knew it was going to be hard. And it was. Hard to hold your tongue when they called Matt a brainless thug. Hard to withstand that constant barrage knowing there was no end in sight. Because neither had left the room since the interrogation began and Reynolds hadn’t delayed her entrance long enough to have contacted Nelson & Murdock. Meaning you were relaying on that other detective calling – ha! – or Matt getting worried when he didn’t get your ‘I’m home’ text and looking for you.

Hard not to start crying because you were getting tired. You had worked all day. Tired of questions. Tired of being yelled at. You wanted them to leave you alone. You wanted to go home. You wanted cuddle your cat. You wanted a hug . . .

Suddenly the door to the interrogation room slammed open, hitting the wall with a loud bang that made you flinch. But the sight that greeted your eyes when you looked over made relief flood your system. Matt stalked into the room, his mouth pressed in a hard, thin line. Foggy followed closely on his heels, looking equally angry.

Tears pricked your eyes as they flanked you – Matt on your right side, Foggy on your left – but you blinked them away. You weren’t going to cry here.

“Detective, is my client under arrest?” Foggy asked with a razor-sharp smile, his voice hard as steel.

“She’s hi–” Vaughn started but was cut off.

“Answer the question, detective. Is our client under arrest?” Matt repeated, his voice deceptively soft. But even without the growling rasp, you recognized that deeper register. This wasn’t the mild-mannered attorney standing next to you. It was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“No,” Reynolds answered. “She’s not.”

“Then we’re leaving,” Foggy said. “If you wish to speak to my client again, I strongly suggest you made an appointment with my office.”

His tone made it clear that this wasn’t really a suggestion.

Foggy looked over at you, after flicking over the rigid form of his partner. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, my briefcase . . .” you started.

“They have your briefcase?” Foggy finished.

You nodded. “There is work product, privileged client communication in it . . .”

Foggy squeezed your shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. Matt, get her out of here.”

“Gladly.”

You got to your feet. Part of you wanted that hug right now but the rest of you didn’t want to give away how stressed you were. No sense in giving the detectives ammunition. So for the moment, you contented yourself with Matt’s presence at your side as you walked out of that room with your head held high.

You didn’t know what Foggy said to accomplish it but in short order, he was walking over to where you and Matt were waiting with your things in his hands. After a brief snippy conversation between Foggy and that black detective from earlier, who was apparently named Brett Mahoney and had known Foggy since grade school, the three of you were walking out of the police station.

The walk was honestly a bit of blur. You weren’t sure where you were going at first. Just followed Matt’s lead, trusting that he was taking you somewhere safe.

That somewhere turned out to be his apartment. And in the elevator, the adrenaline crash hit. Your hands started shaking and your legs threatened to buckle. But Matt was there, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. Suddenly all of the emotions that you had been squashing down bubbled up to the surface. With tears spilling down your face and a stuttered breath, you buried your face against his chest.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he said, one hand raising from your waist to rub your back. His voice was still in the deeper register but the tone was all gentleness. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

You nodded your head, having too much of a lump in your throat to talk. You leaned against him, closing your eyes. You knew you couldn’t stay like this forever. The elevator ride wouldn’t last forever. You needed to let Marci know that police had threatened to get a search warrant for your briefcase in case they actually tried to get one. Or a subpoena. You needed to call Jo – she was probably worried that you hadn’t called yet. Along with what felt like a thousand other things before you could take a well-deserved nap.

But for this moment, those things could wait. For this moment, you were going to press your ear against Matt’s chest and listen to his heartbeat. Take comfort in his strong arms around you and his scent in your nose.

Ending Notes:

New York judges are called justices for . . . reasons. I haven’t seen a reason why. Maybe they just like it better. Or maybe New York just likes to be different in this regard since the Supreme Court of New York is actually their trial court while the Appellate Court is what everyone else in the country calls a supreme court . . .

A police officer asking you questions isn’t your friend. My life advice to ask for a lawyer, then shut up. And remember that the police can (and will) lie to you in interrogation.

Attorney-client privilege is the privilege that confidential communication between an attorney and their client in the course of their professional relationship cannot be disclosed without the client’s consent. According my dictionary of legal terms, this privilege extends indefinitely and does not terminate when the client-attorney relationship ends or when either party dies.

Reader isn’t an attorney but ceteriparibus116 and appellatedefender – who are attorneys IRL – both agreed that a paralegal would have the same duty to assert that privilege on the client’s behalf to protect that communication and the work product related to it as the actual attorney.

The police misconduct is how Reynolds and Vaughn didn’t contact or allow Reader to contact her legal representation. They are not supposed to do that.

#daredevil #fan fiction #fan fic #the alley cat series #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you

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