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buttercandy16 · 5 hours ago

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A Taste of her Masterpiece

PAIRING(s): DarkChef!Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: Celebrity chef Agatha Harkness hides a dark secret behind her fame. When a young fan joins her kitchen, obsession takes a twisted turn, blurring the lines between love and danger.

WARNING(s): Dub-con, Cannibalism, Blood, Murder, Manipulation, and other Dark Themes.

A/N: This is sick, and I love it. Don't read if you can't handle it.

The name Agatha Harkness was synonymous with culinary perfection. She wasn’t just a chef; she was an artist. Her restaurants, scattered in the most elite corners of the world, weren’t just places to dine but experiences to be revered. There was something about her food that entranced people. Some described it as divine. Others said it evoked emotions they couldn’t quite explain—comfort and terror, ecstasy and unease, all in one bite.

You had followed her career for as long as you could remember. Watching her TV specials, reading her cookbooks, religiously recreating her recipes—it was a passion, maybe even a mild obsession. She was captivating, her confidence magnetic, and her talent undeniable. When an opportunity came up to apply for a position at her flagship restaurant, Memento, you didn’t hesitate. Landing a job there wasn’t just a career move—it was a dream.

What you didn’t know was that it would also become your nightmare.

Walking into Memento for the first time was surreal. The ambiance was intoxicating, luxurious, and yet strangely eerie. The staff moved like ghosts in their pristine uniforms, their faces stern and obedient. There was no sound of clattering dishes or shouted orders—only silence, broken occasionally by Agatha’s voice drifting from the kitchen like a symphony conductor’s commands.

You didn’t expect to meet her right away, but there she was: elegant, poised, and powerful. Her sharp features were framed by soft waves of dark hair, and her piercing eyes seemed to look right through you.

“So, you want to learn?” she asked, her voice smooth as silk but carrying an undercurrent of something sharp.

“Yes, Chef. I—I’ve admired your work for years,” you stammered, suddenly aware of how small you felt in her presence.

Her smile was faint but genuine. “We’ll see if you’re worthy of my kitchen. Follow me.”

You didn’t realize then that stepping into her kitchen would mean stepping into her world, a world where culinary brilliance masked a much darker truth.

The first few days working in Memento were grueling yet exhilarating. Agatha Harkness was a perfectionist, as ruthless as she was captivating. She demanded excellence and punished failure with sharp words, but she rewarded brilliance with smiles that made your stomach flip.

From the beginning, she singled you out. When your fellow apprentices were scrambling to keep up with her instructions, she pulled you aside to demonstrate techniques herself. Her hands would brush yours as she corrected your grip on a knife. Her whispers, low and intimate, felt like secrets meant only for you.

“Don’t let the others distract you,” she said one evening, as the rest of the staff cleaned the kitchen. You had stayed behind, eager to please her. “They don’t see what I see in you. But I do, darling. You’ve got potential. If you trust me, I can make you extraordinary.”

She poured you a glass of wine, her fingers lingering on yours as she handed it over. The way she looked at you made your pulse race. There was something disarming about her, something that made you want to confide in her. You started telling her things—about your ambitions, your struggles, even your insecurities.

She listened intently, nodding and offering words of comfort. But Agatha had a way of twisting the knife.

“You give too much of yourself to people who don’t deserve it,” she’d say, her tone dripping with venom. “The people you love—do they really love you back? Or do they take and take, leaving nothing for you?”

It stung because part of you believed her. Soon, you found yourself drifting away from old friends, even family, making excuses not to call or visit. Agatha was always there, always ready to fill the void.

“You don’t need them,” she told you one night after a particularly long service. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll teach you everything. You’ll be my masterpiece.”

Her words were addictive, and you found yourself craving more of it, more of her. She was always near, her presence wrapping around you like a fog. But there were cracks in the veneer of perfection. Little things—a peculiar smell wafting from the back freezer, missing staff members who were never spoken of again, whispers from the other cooks that stopped abruptly when you entered the room.

She handed you a plate of food to taste. It was exquisite, the flavors rich and unfamiliar, yet they lingered uncomfortably on your tongue. “What do you think?” she asked, watching you intently.

“It’s... amazing,” you said, though something about it unsettled you. Her smile widened, and for a moment, you swore there was something predatory in her gaze.

“You’re learning,” she murmured, placing her hand on your shoulder.

As the weeks went on, Agatha tightened her grip. She insisted you take more shifts, pulling you away from your life outside the restaurant. Your coworkers began to whisper, their jealousy evident, but Agatha made it clear you were above them.

“Don’t let them drag you down,” she hissed after you mentioned the cold glares the others had been throwing your way. “Mediocrity despises brilliance, and you, my dear, are destined for so much more.”

But there was always an undercurrent of cruelty beneath her praise. If you made a mistake in the kitchen, her disappointment was palpable, her words cutting.

“I expected more from you,” she said once, after a dish you’d prepared fell short of her expectations. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

Her disappointment was unbearable, a gnawing ache that kept you awake at night. The only way to earn her approval was to work harder, to give her more of yourself.

One night, as you sat together in her office, Agatha poured another glass of wine and leaned closer to you. “Do you know why I’m so hard on you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Because I have potential?” you replied hesitantly.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Because I love you,” she said.

The words hit you like a thunderbolt, rendering you speechless.

“I see you, truly see you,” she continued. “And I’ve given you everything. My time, my knowledge, my devotion. No one else will ever care for you like I do.”

Her hand rested on your thigh, her thumb tracing slow circles. “And you love me too. Don’t you?”

Your heart raced. It wasn’t true—was it? But the way she looked at you, the way her presence filled every corner of your life, made you question everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, though the word felt like surrender.

Her smile turned triumphant, her fingers tightening on your leg. “Good. Because I’ll never let you go.”

Then came the night when she revealed her “true art.”

She led you into the backroom after service, a place the other staff seemed to avoid. The air was cold, the metallic scent of blood hanging heavy. In the center of the room was a table, and on it lay what could only be described as a macabre masterpiece—a carved human leg, meticulously prepared, the skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.

You stumbled back, bile rising in your throat, but Agatha caught you, her hands firm on your shoulders.

“Do you see now?” she whispered, her voice soothing yet terrifying. “The secret ingredient. The reason my food touches people’s souls. It’s because they taste life itself.”

“You’re insane,” you choked out, but even as you said it, you couldn’t pull away from her.

“No, my darling. I’m an artist,” she said, her eyes alight with passion. “And you... you’ve already tasted it. That’s why you’re still here. That’s why you can’t leave.”

Your stomach churned as you realized the truth. She’d been feeding it to you all along, seducing you not just with her words but with her food.

Whether out of fear, fascination, or something darker, you stayed. She lavished you with attention, pulling you deeper into her twisted world. She claimed it was love—that her obsession with you was pure and consuming, and she began to whisper her ultimate truth:

“When you truly love someone, you must consume them. Body, mind, soul.”

You didn’t fight as hard as you should have. Maybe you were too far gone, too ensnared by her charisma, her manipulation. When the night came, you let her guide you to the table, let her touch you with tenderness as she prepared to take what she believed was hers.

The room was dimly lit, candlelight flickering across the table where Agatha had arranged an array of her finest culinary tools. The knife she held glinted as she tilted it, running a finger along the blade with the care of a maestro tuning their instrument. Her expression was serene, as though preparing for something sacred.

You sat in the chair, wrists trembling against the restraints she’d insisted were “necessary.” Her eyes met yours—intense, full of adoration and madness. “I would never hurt you,” she purred. “This is love, my darling. This is how we become one.”

Your chest tightened. “Agatha, please…” you whispered, though it wasn’t entirely fear driving your plea. Deep down, a horrifying part of you craved her touch, her obsession. The thought sickened you, but her words and actions had eroded your sense of self. You didn’t know where your revulsion ended and your strange desire began.

She knelt before you, taking your trembling hands in hers. Her touch was tender, her thumb stroking your palm as though to calm you. “You’re exquisite,” she murmured. “Every piece of you is a masterpiece. And when I consume you, it won’t be to destroy you. It will be to preserve you. Forever.”

Agatha pressed her lips against your wrist, the warmth of her mouth a cruel contrast to the sharp chill of the knife resting on your skin. The blade kissed the delicate flesh of your forearm, slicing with precision. A slow bead of crimson welled up, and Agatha’s breath hitched, her pupils dilating as though she were beholding the most precious wine.

She licked the blood, her tongue darting out to taste the coppery warmth. Her eyes closed, and a shiver ran through her, a sound of pleasure slipping from her lips. “You’re perfect,” she whispered.

Terror gripped you, but so did something else—a morbid fascination as she pressed a square of white cloth to the wound, pausing only to meet your gaze. “This is trust,” she said softly. “And trust is love.”

You wanted to scream at her, to fight the straps that bound you, but her presence overwhelmed you, her obsession having carved itself into your psyche over weeks of whispered devotion and manipulation. You were hers now. You didn’t even remember what it felt like to belong to yourself.

Agatha turned away briefly, her movements deliberate and graceful as she arranged small bowls on the table: herbs, spices, drizzles of amber-hued oils. She hummed softly, the melody haunting and strangely comforting.

She cut a small piece from you. Your mind blanked, panic giving way to numb disbelief. She handled the slice of your flesh delicately, as though it were a rare delicacy. Blood still oozed from the cut, staining the pristine white of her apron, but she paid no mind.

“I’ll make this beautiful,” she said, her voice hushed in reverence. “Because you’re beautiful, and you deserve only the finest presentation.”

You were shaking now, tears streaming down your face as she seared the flesh on a small cast-iron pan. The smell wafted upward, rich and intoxicating, and it sent a new kind of horror rushing through you. Her movements were confident, almost graceful, as she added butter and herbs, basting the slice of you in its juices.

When she plated it—garnished with an artful smear of sauce and a sprig of thyme—it looked like something out of one of her shows. Perfect.

Agatha returned to you with the plate, her face alight with a mixture of pride and something darker. She cut a bite-sized piece, her hand trembling slightly as she brought the fork to your lips. “Open, my love,” she whispered.

You pressed your lips tightly together, refusing, but her gaze sharpened, her tone turning firm. “You’ll taste it,” she demanded, her obsession igniting into something commanding. “You have to. You’ll understand everything when you do.”

Reluctantly—out of fear, out of exhaustion—you parted your lips. The morsel slipped past your tongue, and the flavors exploded in your mouth: rich, savory, decadent. A groan escaped your throat before you could stop it, tears rolling down your cheeks as you hated yourself for the pleasure that coursed through you.

“There,” she said, smiling as though you had just declared your undying love for her. “You feel it now, don’t you? You feel how special you are.”

Your voice cracked. “You’re insane, Agatha…”

“I’m in love,” she corrected sharply, cupping your face. Her thumb wiped a tear from your cheek before brushing across your lips. “And you will love me the way I love you. We’ll be inseparable.”

Her mouth hovered over yours, and before you could recoil, she kissed you—deeply, possessively. You tasted your own essence on her lips, and something shattered inside you, replaced by a grim acceptance.

Then she pulled away, and before you could think to protest, she took a knife and made a shallow cut across her palm. Blood trickled down her wrist, and she let it drip onto the plate. She cut a thin strip of skin from herself and prepared it the same way, searing it with precision.

“This,” she said, handing you the fork, “is how you love someone. By letting them become part of you. Eat.”

Your body betrayed you. Your trembling hands reached for the fork, and you brought the slice to your lips. The flavor was different—darker, heavier—but no less intoxicating. Agatha’s smile widened as she watched you chew.

“You’re mine now,” she whispered, leaning close, her breath hot against your ear. “Completely. And I am yours.”

In the weeks that followed, the world outside faded into nothingness. Your life became Agatha—her kitchen, her obsession, her love. She continued to take pieces of you, small parts each time, weaving them into her dishes and savoring them with a reverence that frightened and thrilled you.

You didn’t recognize yourself anymore. You weren’t just her apprentice—you were her masterpiece. And as she fed you pieces of herself, you realized the horrifying truth: Agatha’s obsession with you seemed boundless.

The way she looked at you—hungry and adoring—was equal parts unnerving and intoxicating. But you noticed a shift after she began feeding you pieces of herself and consuming you in return. Her affection deepened, but so did her control.

“You’re ready,” she told you one night, her tone reverent, like a priestess before a sacred ritual.

“For what?” you asked, still raw from the evening’s events—both in body and soul.

“For the next step,” she said, cupping your face with hands that were simultaneously tender and unyielding. “You’ve trusted me enough to taste and be tasted. Now, it’s time you create.”

She didn’t elaborate, but her words lingered in your mind. The next evening, when service ended, she led you into her private quarters. Unlike the rest of the restaurant, which gleamed with sterility and perfection, her personal space was dark and opulent, with velvet-draped furniture and walls lined with bookshelves.

She handed you a glass of wine and sat beside you, unnervingly close. “When I first began my journey,” she began, her voice soft and hypnotic, “I was lost, like you. Then I discovered the art of it all—the power of taking life and transforming it into something divine.”

You felt your blood run cold, but you didn’t interrupt.

“Every great artist begins with an apprentice,” she continued. “And you’re mine. To understand true creativity, true mastery, you must do more than taste. You must take. I’ll guide you, my darling. I’ll teach you how to savor every moment.”

You should have refused, but her words wove themselves around you like a spell. Agatha made it seem so... inevitable.

The next evening, Agatha brought you into the backroom again, but this time, a man was bound to the same steel table where you’d first learned the truth. He was unconscious, his face bruised but breathing steadily.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you looked at her. “Who... who is this?”

“No one of importance,” she said dismissively, brushing her fingers over the man’s temple. “He made mistakes. Crossed lines. But his life doesn’t matter now. What matters is what he will become.”

Agatha handed you a knife—your knife, she said, one she’d chosen specifically for you. The handle was cool and smooth in your hand, the blade shining under the stark light.

“Don’t look at him as a person,” she said, her voice low and coaxing. “He’s an ingredient. A canvas. And with my guidance, you’ll make something beautiful.”

Your hands trembled, bile rising in your throat. “I can’t,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly, standing behind you. Her arms wrapped around you, her hands guiding yours as she brought the knife closer to the man’s bare arm. “Do you trust me?”

“I—” Your voice cracked.

“Do you love me?” she whispered into your ear, her lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you croaked, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Then trust me,” she said, pressing your hands forward.

The blade sank into flesh, and the man stirred, his groan muffled by the gag in his mouth. You flinched, pulling back, but Agatha held you steady. “Good,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “You’re learning.”

It was agony and ecstasy at once, your body rebelling against the horror of what you were doing even as her praise lit something deep within you.

Agatha breathed, her voice thick with approval. "Now, don't stop."

Obediently, you continued to cut, each slice of the knife sending a jolt of dark pleasure through you. Agatha watched, her eyes glinting with pride and something else—something hungrier, more primal.

When you finally stepped back, covered in blood and trembling, she pulled you into her arms. Her lips found yours in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth. You moaned, tasting the coppery tang of blood on her lips.

"You're amazing," she purred, breaking the kiss to trail her fingers down your neck. "I knew you had it in you."

She pushed you back against the table, her hand sliding under your shirt. Her touch was rough, possessive, igniting a fire low in your belly. You arched into her, craving more.

Agatha seemed to sense your need. She tugged your shirt off, tossing it aside carelessly. Her mouth latched onto your breast, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh until you cried out. All the while, her hand worked between your legs, pushing your skirt up and rubbing your clit through your soaked panties.

"Please," you gasped, grinding against her hand. "I need you."

She chuckled darkly, tearing your panties off with one swift tug. "Patience, my darling. I'm going to take care of you."

She plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping cunt without preamble, making you scream. Her thumb circled your clit as she pumped in and out, building a rhythm that had you writhing on the table.

"That's it," she growled, her eyes dark with lust. "Take what you need."

You did, fucking yourself on her fingers as she drove them deeper. Your orgasm built quickly, coiling tight in your belly. Just as you teetered on the edge, Agatha pulled her fingers out.

"No coming until I say so," she commanded, smacking your clit hard enough to make you yelp.

"Please," you whimpered, "I can't take it anymore. I need to come."

She smiled cruelly, pressing the fingers coated in your arousal to your lips. "Suck," she ordered.

You did, moaning at the taste of yourself on her skin. Agatha watched, her expression intense and consuming. "That's my girl," she purred.

She pushed you to your knees, opened her pants and took out her fake cock."Now, put that pretty mouth to work."

You obeyed, taking her into your mouth without hesitation. Agatha groaned, thrusting her hips forward. "Fuck yes, just like that."

She set a brutal pace, fucking your face with abandon. Tears leaked from your eyes as you gagged and choked around her cock, but you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. Not with the way she was looking at you—like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Come here," she growled when she finally pulled out. She lifted you onto the table, kissing you deeply as she shed her clothes.

The head of her cock pressed against your entrance, and you braced yourself for the invasion. But when she pushed inside, it was different. gentler. She filled you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way.

"Mine," she whispered against your lips, starting to move. "All mine."

You clung to her, your nails digging into her back as she rode you hard and deep. The table creaked beneath you with each thrust, the scent of blood and sex mingling in the air.

Agatha reached between your bodies, finding your clit. She rubbed it in rough circles, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me," she commanded, her voice rough with need. "Let go."

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your cunt clamping down around her cock. Agatha followed shortly after, burying herself deep as she came with a hoarse cry.

She collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and sweat-slicked. You looked over to the lifeless body, the reality of the horror of what you've done finally sets in. Agatha cradled you in her arms, her fingers stroking your hair as you sobbed. “You did wonderfully,” she murmured. “You’ve taken your first step into becoming truly extraordinary.”

From then on, Agatha began involving you in her process. She taught you how to choose victims—how to find the “undeserving,” those who wouldn’t be missed.

“You’re not taking life; you’re elevating it,” she explained one evening as you watched her methodically butcher a new victim. “Without us, they’d vanish into nothing. But we make them immortal, unforgettable.”

Her justification worked its way into your mind, twisting your guilt into something almost noble. You began accompanying her on hunts, watching as she charmed her targets with her beauty and wit. When the time came, she’d make the kill swift, then turn to you with a smile of triumph.

“You’ll do the next one,” she told you after a particularly successful hunt. Her tone was light, as though she were offering you a new recipe to try.

And when the moment came, you did. Your hands trembled as you held the blade, but Agatha was there, her voice soothing and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” she whispered as the life drained from your victim’s eyes.

You felt sick afterward, but she kissed your forehead, wiping the blood from your face with a tenderness that only deepened your confusion. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “You’re mine now, completely. And together, we’ll create something the world will never forget.”

The more you killed, the more natural it felt. Agatha’s voice became the only thing grounding you, her touch the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You’re perfect,” she said, pulling you into her arms. “You’ve surpassed even my greatest expectations.”

Her lips met yours, the kiss passionate and consuming. You melted into her, unable to tell where you ended and she began.

“You and I,” she whispered against your lips, “we’re gods in the kitchen. Together, there’s nothing we can’t create. And nothing we won’t destroy. You’re everything I ever dreamed of—my equal, my masterpiece.”

And yet, no matter how deeply entangled you were in her world, you couldn’t quite banish the small voice of doubt within you—the part of you that still longed for freedom, for the version of yourself that existed before Agatha.

But Agatha knew. She always knew.

“You’re wondering if you can leave,” she said one evening as the two of you stood side by side in the kitchen, preparing the next course. Her tone was calm, but her eyes glinted with something dangerous. “You can’t. You’re mine. And if you ever try to escape, you’ll realize just how far my love for you truly goes.”

The blade in her hand gleamed as she worked, the casual threat lingering in the air between you like smoke. “Love isn’t something you can abandon,” she continued softly, slicing into the meat before her with precision. “It’s something you surrender to. Completely. Just as I’ve surrendered to you.”

Her words left you paralyzed, your mind a storm of fear and dark infatuation. Escape was no longer a possibility. You were trapped, not by the physical confines of her world, but by the chains she’d woven around your heart and mind.

And as Agatha stood behind you, her arms draped possessively over your shoulders, she whispered the words that sealed your fate:

“We are one now, my love. And nothing—not life, nor death—will ever change that.”

In that moment, you knew there was no going back. You were hers, just as she was yours, bound by blood, obsession, and an unholy art that would forever define you both.

Her love was a cage, but it was warm. And you couldn’t imagine life without her.

_-_-_

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#dark fanfiction #agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha harkness fanfic #kathryn hahn #marvel #dark!agatha harkness #agathario #rio vidal #aubrey plaza #cannibalistic #agatha x reader #agatha coven of chaos

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sexydistrictattorneys · 1 day ago

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COME HOME WITH ME - ALEX. C

SUMMARY: her mouth closed over your nipple, her tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before she sucked gently, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. the sharp contrast between her warmth and the cool air made your body shiver beneath her

PAIRING: alex cabot x fem reader

TRIGGER WARNINGS: age gap, emotional tension, spitting, bodily fluids, theme of dominance and control

WORDS: 1.7K

It all began when you were called in to assist the SVU unit on a high-profile case—a child trafficking ring that spanned state lines. As a 28-year-old forensic psychologist with a growing reputation for cracking difficult cases, you were no stranger to the intensity of this kind of work. But the 16th Precinct was different. Its team was formidable, unyielding, and fiercely loyal to one another. They welcomed you professionally but cautiously, as if waiting to see if you could handle the weight of their world.

Then there was Alex Cabot.

The moment she entered the squad room, it was as though the very air shifted. She moved with an elegance that bordered on intimidating, her sharp navy suit hugging her tall, lithe frame with perfection. Her blonde hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, and her piercing blue eyes scanned the room with a commanding focus. Every step of her heels against the linoleum floor announced her presence with unapologetic confidence.

You’d read about her before: Alex Cabot, the legendary Assistant District Attorney with a reputation for delivering justice no matter the cost. But the articles didn’t prepare you for the impact of meeting her in person. When she extended her hand for a firm handshake, her touch was cool and deliberate, her eyes locking onto yours as she said, “Welcome to SVU, Dr. I’ve heard good things about you.”

Her tone was professional, but the slight upward curl of her lips—almost imperceptible—made your stomach flip. Her hand lingered just a second too long, and when she pulled away, you found yourself momentarily speechless.

At 43, Alex was a decade and a half your senior, but she wore her age with the kind of grace that only deepened her allure. She was poised, fiercely intelligent, and carried an air of authority that drew you in even as it kept others at a distance. You, on the other hand, were confident but far from polished—your work had a raw intensity to it, and you still found yourself second-guessing your place in rooms full of people with far more experience.

Working alongside Alex was as exhilarating as it was infuriating. She had no patience for mediocrity and demanded excellence from everyone around her, including you. Her sharp critiques often left you replaying your words long after the meetings ended, but her brilliance was undeniable. Watching her dismantle a defense attorney’s argument or advocate for a victim in court was like witnessing a master class in precision and passion.

Yet, over time, you began to see another side of her. Late nights at the precinct revealed small cracks in her armor. She’d bring you coffee without asking, placing it on your desk with a faint smile that barely touched her lips. When you doubted your conclusions or agonized over the psychological toll of a case, she’d offer quiet reassurance, her words surprisingly gentle.

One night, the two of you worked late on a particularly brutal case. Frustration bubbled over, and you snapped at her, unable to contain your exhaustion. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being perfect all the time, you’d see the bigger picture!”

You regretted it the moment the words left your mouth. Alex froze, her expression unreadable. Then, to your shock, she closed the file she’d been working on, leaned back in her chair, and regarded you calmly.

“Do you really think that’s what this is about?” she asked, her voice softer than you expected. Her blue eyes met yours, steady and unflinching. “You’re doing everything you can, and you’re damn good at it. Don’t let this case make you forget that.”

The air between you shifted that night. The sharpness that had defined your interactions gave way to something warmer, more unspoken. You noticed the way her gaze lingered on you during briefings, the subtle brush of her hand against yours when passing a file. And you couldn’t deny the way your pulse quickened whenever she stood too close, her presence consuming every bit of space around her.

The turning point came after the case closed successfully. The squad decided to celebrate at a bar near the precinct, and to everyone’s surprise, Alex agreed to join. You’d never seen her outside the courtroom or precinct before, and seeing her in such a relaxed setting was almost surreal.

Her hair was down, soft waves brushing her shoulders, and she wore a simple black blouse that highlighted the curve of her collarbone. She nursed a glass of wine, her laugh—a rare, melodic sound—cutting through the low hum of the bar.

You ended up seated next to her, the conversation flowing more freely than it ever had in the precinct. Alex leaned in as you spoke, her eyes sparkling with amusement at your dry humor. When the others began to trickle out, she stayed. And so did you.

As the night wore on, the atmosphere between you grew heavier, charged with an unspoken tension. When you stepped outside together, the cool night air did little to cool the heat rising between you.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, her voice low and almost hesitant.

“Do what?” you asked, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure she could hear it.

“Let my guard down,” she admitted, her blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

Before you could think, you leaned in. The kiss started tentative, your lips brushing hers as if testing the waters, but it quickly deepened. Months of repressed desire and tension spilled out, her hands tangling in your hair as yours gripped her waist.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, her breath warm against your lips, “Come home with me.”

The warm, golden light of the bedroom bathed Alex’s toned figure, her body radiating confidence and raw desire as she loomed over you. Her piercing blue eyes bore into yours, a smirk curling her lips as her hands roamed your naked body, claiming every inch of you.

"Is it good when I touch you here?" she murmured, her tone low and sultry, her hand cupping your breast. She teased your nipple between her fingers, rolling it gently before pinching it just enough to make you gasp.

"Yes," you whimpered, arching into her touch, your breath hitching as her lips descended to your other breast.

Her mouth closed over your nipple, her tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before she sucked gently, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. The sharp contrast between her warmth and the cool air made your body shiver beneath her.

She pulled back, her lips glistening as she smirked. "Or maybe here?" she whispered, her fingers trailing lower, over the curve of your stomach and between your legs. She spread your folds with deliberate slowness, her thumb brushing over your clit in light, teasing circles.

"Alex!" you moaned, your hips bucking into her touch.

"You’re so sensitive," she purred, leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, her tongue sweeping into your mouth with a possessive hunger.

Breaking the kiss, she guided your hand to her cock, thick and hard against her abdomen. "Touch me," she commanded, her voice a husky growl. Her hand wrapped around yours, showing you how to pump her, the veins along her shaft pulsing under your palm.

"Just like that," she groaned, her hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck, you’re perfect."

But Alex wasn’t one to wait long. She moved quickly, her hands gripping your thighs as she spread you wide. Lowering herself, she latched onto your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, her other hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit.

"God, you taste so good," she muttered against your skin, switching to your other breast. Her teeth scraped over the hardened bud before her tongue soothed it, leaving you writhing beneath her.

Her cock brushed against your entrance, teasing you, smearing her precum against your wet folds. But before entering you, she leaned back slightly, her eyes locking with yours as she spat directly onto your pussy. The warm saliva landed on your clit, and she used her thumb to spread it around, mixing it with your arousal.

"You’re dripping for me," she said with a wicked grin, her tone thick with lust.

She didn’t give you time to respond. With one firm motion, she hooked your legs over her shoulders, positioning the tip of her cock at your entrance. Slowly, she pushed inside, stretching you inch by inch until she was fully seated, her cock filling you completely.

"Fuck, you’re tight," Alex groaned, her hands gripping your hips as she paused to let you adjust. The stretch was overwhelming, the sensation of her cock pressing against every nerve ending making your breath hitch.

When she started to move, her thrusts were slow and deliberate, her cock dragging along your walls with precision. The angle had you moaning unabashedly, your hands gripping the sheets as pleasure coursed through your body.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice thick with arousal. "Taking me so well."

Her pace quickened, her hips snapping against yours with an intensity that left you breathless. She leaned down, your legs still over her shoulders, and her lips found your nipple again, sucking and biting as she fucked into you harder, deeper.

"Alex!" you cried out, your body arching as the pressure inside you built to a breaking point.

"Come for me," she growled, her voice commanding as her cock slammed into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over. Her thumb found your clit, rubbing firm circles that sent you hurtling over the edge.

You came with a scream, your walls clenching around her, your body trembling beneath her as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

"Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight," Alex groaned, her hips stuttering as she thrust into you one last time, burying herself deep inside you. You felt her release as she filled you, her cock twitching inside you, her groan low and guttural.

As she pulled out slowly, a mix of her cum and your arousal trickled down your thighs. Her eyes darkened as she watched, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face.

"You look so good like this," she murmured, her thumb brushing over your swollen clit before she spat on your pussy again, spreading the slick mixture with her fingers.

"Mine," she growled, leaning down to press a possessive kiss to your lips.

She pulled you into her arms, her body still trembling slightly as she pressed soft kisses along your jaw. "You’re incredible," she whispered, her voice softer now, filled with warmth.

#alex cabot #alex cabot x reader #alexandra cabot #svu #special victims unit #law and order #alex cabot x you #alex cabot x female reader

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mollymauk-teafleak · 2 days ago

Text

no one mourns the wicked (chapter one)

I have listened to this song too much. Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for beta reading!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this!

-----

Jonathan Sims has been dead for five years and the world is better for it.

Well. Half of that is true.

Jon has spent those five years in exile, jumping from place to place, staying on the fringes of this post Change world. He has to, no one can know that he's alive or he won't stay that way for long, not when everyone knows him as the Archivist, servant of the Eye and the person who brought the Apocalypse.

But, more than that, they can't know about his family.

-----

Jon had always told himself he was happy to watch from a distance.

He observed, he cataloged, he listened from the other side of a broad wooden desk or a reel of magnetised tape then he filed it all away. Nothing on his hands but a few spots of ink or a smudge of graphite.

Jon had told himself that was safest. That detachment was the only way to stay alive. He wasn’t the hero, it wasn’t his story. He was the reader, able to close the book and walk away, and that was enough. It had to be.

Because look what had happened when he’d tried to play the hero. Not being in the story at all, watching from the sidelines, was better than being the villain.

Five years was plenty of time for people to forget his face. Especially when people never really knew much beyond the terrifying and implacable Archivist, servant of the Ceaseless Watcher, herald of the new world and presiding over it all from his throne in the looming, lidless Panopticon. Not exactly a title Jonathan Sims lived up to in person. Even before he’d let his hair grow long and his beard fill in and he lost weight he never had to lose in the first place.

Even knowing that, Jon couldn’t help the prickling anxiety when he was anywhere remotely public. There were only a handful of other people sharing the cafe with him right now, all of them absorbed in their own grey, rainy Tuesday afternoons, but it was enough to send his foot tapping restlessly under the table. He hunched his shoulders, pretending to be fascinated by the milk billowing and swirling through the cup of tea clutched in his hands, avoiding any eye contact. He knew that’s what would give him away if he wasn’t careful. How many people had seen those eyes, eagerly drinking in the worst moments of their lives?

Jon wouldn’t risk it, not usually. He was so careful with everything else, moving between short term rental places, having his shopping delivered, working several remote, mind numbing jobs where his employers and coworkers existed solely in emails and Excel spreadsheets. It was surprisingly easy to cut out all human contact these days, to be a kind of modern hermit in the middle of a crowded city. Sometimes it even felt encouraged, in this post Change world where people were still trying to get rid of the taste of fear lingering on their tongues.

Jon existed in isolation, his own kind of solitary confinement. Not to keep himself safe anymore, he’d stopped caring about that sometime around the moment he’d doomed the world. Now it was to protect everyone else.

But there was one reason to break his rule, one thing that was worth the gnawing anxiety and the gentle tremble in his hands as he stirred his tea. It tasted like bitter mud water when he took a sip, nothing even close to the memory he was trying to evoke but he didn’t choose this cafe for its quality.

His eyes flickered left every so often, out of the large front window he’d intentionally sat beside. It gave him an excellent view of the other side of the street, the building that was standing exactly opposite the cafe. It wasn’t anything special, it looked exactly like any other community center grimly clinging on from a time where councils actually had the money to do outreach. Squat and square with bricks worn dull by the city’s smog and a sign nearly illegible under the many graffiti tags. There was a noticeboard, the posters under its scratched plexiglass looking sun faded and out of date, adverts for a bed frame that would be rusted through by now, a flyer for a play that had been performed years ago, local health alerts urging people to get their eyes checked in words so faded they were invisible. But, somewhere under all that, was a sign saying ‘Ballet lessons for children ages 4-10. Tuesday afternoons, 4 to 5 pm.’ That was what brought Jon here, what brought him here as many weeks as he could allow himself without the guilt becoming something suffocating.

Finally, after countless nervous glances between the clock on the wall and the door to the community center, Jon saw them. It was like two swift punches to his stomach, one after another, no time to breathe between them and no chance of ever having braced enough.

Martin came first, holding the door open, dressed in his usual jeans and an oversized t-shirt, though the tiny green dinosaur backpack thrown over his shoulder was a little less familiar. Jon looked for anything other than exhaustion on his face, that bone deep, aching tiredness with teeth. He’d looked like that for five years, every moment Martin thought no one else was looking at him. Jon dreaded and hoped in equal measure to see it ease, even a little, but it never did.

The only thing that chased it back behind the clouds was Gertie. She came dashing after Martin, buzzing with her usual endless energy, even after an hour of ballet. She had a coat buttoned tight against the cold day, even though Martin had clearly forgotten his own, and a homemade knit hat pulled low over her ears. She was talking, she usually was, looking up at her father as she rambled and he nodded and smiled, knowing better than to interrupt. Even as she bounced and fidgeted and clumsily went through the new dance steps she’d learned, Gertie kept her little hand in Martin’s, hanging on tight, like she always wanted to know for certain that her papa was right there. Like the world was brighter just by having him close.

Jon understood. There were so many moments as they’d walked through the Change where he held on to Martin just like that. And so many moments after where he’d wished he could.

He was staring. He needed to be more careful, anyone who looked over would immediately wonder why he was so fixated on the man and his child across the street, an association between them so faint but still far more than he could allow. But Jon couldn’t take his eyes away, it would have been less painful to pull them out of his skull. He made sure he didn’t miss a single step Martin and Gertie took as they walked down the street, as Gertie waved to passing cars and Martin frowned up at the gathering clouds, Jon watched devotedly like he was pressing every instant against his brain hard enough to leave a bruised imprint. These few seconds were all he had.

And there was never enough of them. Too soon, far too soon, they turned the corner and disappeared, out of Jon’s sight for another week. Everything in him ached to follow, to run after them, to catch hold of Martin’s sleeve, throw himself down on the pavement and beg to be allowed into their beautiful, normal little life.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. All he could do was breathe, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped, wipe his eyes and leave money on the table beside his now cold cup of tea. Jon stood, making sure his hood was pulled up and his face was hidden, before stepping out into the cold and walking in the opposite direction to Martin and Gertie. He had to move quickly, he wanted to be back in the flat before the weight of it all paralysed him and left him unable to do anything but curl into a ball and stare into space.

He was doing the right thing. This was the only way, the only thing that would keep his boyfriend and their child safe. It had to be like this, he could never do anything more than watch from a distance.

Jon knew this, he’d always known this. But he could no longer convince himself that it made him happy.

People were calling it Post Change.

That’s how everything was becoming divided, linguistically, into the world before and the world after. That was the phrase they were using on the news, in the press conferences, on posters plastering the tube stations, directing people to the hastily cobbled together government services that claimed to deal with the quagmire of issues people faced as they tried to remember what normal life meant. Here’s how our company is growing in the Post Change world. Dating Post Change, how you can move forward with a new love in your life. Post Change Therapy Groups near you. Contact the Post Change Office for help getting in contact with missing loved ones.

See some suspicious activity? Contact the Avatar Alert Hotline. Help keep our Post Change society safe.

Jon supposed it was an attempt at optimism. Post Change implied it was over, that they’d all just snapped back to real life after a horrible collective dream, that they’d all pick up where they left off and keep chugging merrily along through late stage capitalism. Back to their much slower and less literal apocalypse, comfortably of mankind’s own making.

Of course it wasn’t an accurate term. The world wasn’t post change, it had been changed, permanently, irreversibly. It was scarred, in a way that wouldn’t fade in five years or five decades. Jon didn’t need a connection to an all seeing eye to know that.

It was in the quiet as he walked to the train station. London had never been this quiet before, not even out here in the city’s periphery. It was an absence, the sense that these streets should be full of people coming and going, lives should be running in their restless currents, but they simply weren’t, they’d stalled or been snuffed out completely. It was in the nearly empty Underground station, so many people were still unwilling to face that kind of claustrophobic closeness, the darkness, the loud noises that would make the vague memories they carried feel just over their shoulder. It was in the low chatter that hummed through the train carriage, complete strangers talking about nothing because they simply didn’t want to feel alone, they needed to know there was someone else there, someone real who would nod along with them about how the weather had been terrible lately.

Jon kept himself apart from it all, slumping against the window with his shoulders hunched, arms folded tightly across his chest. He lived for his glimpses of Martin and Gertie, those seconds where he could know they were safe and whole and so blessedly normal. Where he could see with his own eyes that he hadn’t ruined their lives completely.

Jon loved those moments, needed those moments, but they left him so drained. He leaned against the window of the train, too tired to even shift so the vibrations would stop rattling his skull. At least it kept him awake. He couldn’t afford to sleep, however much his body wanted to. He couldn’t leave himself so vulnerable and, more practically, he hadn’t lived in this newest flat long enough to get home on automatic, if he slipped under and missed his stop, god only knew how he’d get back.

That realization twisted the corner of his mouth, sending a bone deep feeling of wrongness jarring through his body, like he’d touched an exposed nerve. He couldn’t pretend his exhaustion was just grief over his family, he wasn’t allowed anything so normal anymore.

These fog came and went, they had since he first opened his eyes after closing them against the bright white glare of the Panopticon’s fall. Since he’d first seen the grey blue sky, heard the waves murmuring a few meters from his head, felt stones shift under his aching body. His first glimpse of the world Post Change, post Fear with a capital F, had been a beach in his home town of Bournemouth, one he’d played on as a child.

But the world wasn’t Post Change, not really. And neither was Jon.

It was impossible not to feel the frustration, as much as he hated it. When he wore the Watcher’s Crown, the information had been overwhelming, an ocean of knowledge that pushed out at the seams of him, ignorance was a blessed chance to take a gulp of air. But now it had evaporated, a barren desert in its place. The absence was so infuriating that simple things like realising he didn’t know how to get to his new address made him want to tear his hair or scratch his skin until it bled, the worst kind of withdrawal that didn’t seem to be fading.

Jon would wonder if the other Avatars felt like this but he knew there were so few of them left. Those that hadn’t been torn down by mobs, who’d survived long enough for the justice system to cobble itself together again had been hunted down just as ruthlessly, it just ended behind bars rather than at the end of a rope. The sentence was the same, in the end. Jon had a morbid fascination with the fates of his fellow Avatars, he’d followed them quite closely and nearly every one he’d been able to track had ended with a body being discovered by a guard during morning rounds, no one with any idea how it possibly could have happened though Jon had a few guesses. And it wasn’t just the Avatars who were pulled down, they were bombs that exploded and scorched the lives of those around them too, anyone who was close. Jobs lost, homes seized, backs turned, all for the crime of loving an Avatar.

Better to be dead already. Better to have a boyfriend who everyone, including him, believed had killed you to save the world. Better to have a daughter who didn’t know she’d ever had another father. Better, however much it hurt.

Jon did manage to make it to the right stop without falling asleep, trying to let the gust of cold air as he stepped out of the carriage wake him up a little. It did but the itch stirred too, becoming something with teeth that paced in his chest and gnawed at the ribs he had left. Jon sagged in defeat, resigned before he’d even made it through the ticket gates. He wouldn’t be allowed to lock himself away in the flat and collapse under his grief. Not until he’d dealt with this.

Finding a library wasn’t too difficult, he’d developed a bit of a nose for them over his life, like a floundering ship desperately surging towards a lighthouse.Though it did take a lot more walking than he’d expected, he was further in the mass of London then he’d ever lived before while on the run and most of the streets were given over to bars and shops. Finally he turned a corner to see a public library.

It was a squat, rather sparse building, like it was fully aware that no one in their right mind would visit it when the grand, sumptuous London Library and British Library were just a tube ride away. But it was exactly what Jon needed, it was close, it was quiet and it had books. He walked quickly through the revolving doors, past the front desk, scanning the sign by the stairs for the non fiction section, heading up them the instant he knew that was what he needed to do. All with quick, purposeful movements he’d practised over the last five years, the way an extra might move in the background of a movie.

The moment Jon inhaled the smell of old, well used books, he felt better, the itch cooling just at the edges. He started grabbing some off the shelves, not looking at the section he was in or even glancing at the titles, going off instinct. It didn’t matter what they were about, what he would find as he cracked the spine of the first one, which turned out to be about gardening. The only thing the itch cared about was the flow of knowledge, the sensation of facts about winter perennials pouring in through Jon’s eyes as they darted across the text.

It was a far cry from the all consuming, overwhelming tide of the Eye simmering in the back of his mind or the true omniscience of those terrible minutes he’d sat as the Pupil. But, as if his brain knew this was the closest he’d get in the Post Change world, it let this be enough.

Once the pile in his arms felt heavy enough, Jon took them to the nearest table, ready to tear through them and absorb enough things he didn’t know that the need would die down back to a low drone. It would flare again, it always did, but maybe he could even get some sleep if he fed it enough. Maybe he’d even see Martin and Gertie in his dreams, if he replayed those moments enough in his mind, like running a tape over and over until it scorched onto the TV screen.

Though Jon had to be careful what he wished for. There had been other dreams of Martin, of Gertie, ones he didn’t think he could handle seeing again. Ones with eyes, his own staring eyes, unable to even blink against the blood, the twisting pain, the sobbing. Just thinking about them, the briefest second of memory before he could roughly shove them away, had Jon screwing his eyes shut in physical pain.

But it wasn’t enough, he could still hear a soft, shuddering voice hitching with tears, a voice that was far too young to be filled with fear. He’d never gotten to hear her speak her first words, he’d never gotten to hear her say her first words, he’d never gotten to hear her call him daddy but he knew how his daughter sounded when she was terrified. The unfairness of it all, the bitterness of the ashes he was left with, was suddenly so overwhelming that he couldn’t take a breath, he could only put his hands over his ears and try to hold himself together.

But the sound of the crying still didn’t fade. Confusion was a shock of cold water, enough that Jon actually had a moment of silence, an eye to his storm, enough to take a breath and realise it wasn’t a dream or a memory. It was just a sound. A sound there with him in the otherwise silent stacks of the library.

Jon knew better. He did. He’d spent five years and a lifetime before that convincing himself that distance was the only option, that all he was allowed to do was watch from a distance. He had an apocalypse’s worth of proof that everything he touched turned to ruin and, if that didn’t convince him, he’d watched the entire world celebrate his supposed death, turn Martin into a hero for killing him.

He knew all of this. And still he didn’t hesitate.

Gertie was standing in the middle of the historical section, hands twisting anxiously, her round cheeks streaked with tears and lower lip wobbling. She was crying in the way toddlers did where the sobs took over their whole bodies, hitching her shoulders as she looked around helplessly.

It was all Jon could do not to take her in his arms, hold her tight, do anything he possibly could to stop those frightened tears. It took every fraction of his self control to walk slowly, to keep his hands shaking on his knees as he knelt down a yard or so away from his own daughter, to keep his voice from breaking as he murmured to her.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. Are you lost?”

There was a little wariness in Gertie’s eyes as she turned to face him, a slight tensing of her shoulders that deepened the fracture in Jon’s heart. He pulled down his hood quickly and pushed his hair out of his face, trying not to look quite so much like a vagrant.

God, she looked so much like Martin. She had from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, the moment he’d cried in relief to see so much of his boyfriend in their child, from her button nose to the perpetually messy auburn curls to the round cheeks with their slight dusting of freckles. He hated knowing she cried like him too, hated how close it was to the last time he’d seen Martin’s face before the Panopticon fell, burning with tears against the cold metal sliding between Jon’s shoulder blades.

It was only the eyes that were different. The same deep, mossy green as his own.

“Uh huh. I can’t find my papa,” saying it out loud seemed to make it more real for Gertie and she began to cry harder, words tumbling out between her shuddery sobs, “He was looking for books for school and I was supposed to stay in the kids books but I wanted to read some grown up books and be smart like him so I went to find some and now I can’t find my papa and I’m lost and…and…”

Jon blinked, absorbing that rush of information, realising that rambling was apparently as hereditary as freckles and hair that curled in defiance of any hairbrush.

“Oh…oh, it’s okay, we can fix that? I can help you get back to the children’s books and he’ll come find you there. Or maybe we can go to the front desk, they’ll put an announcement on the tannoy and he’ll come straight away,” Jon risked a few inches closer, smiling softly for her.

“He will?” Gertie gulped in air, looking at him with a new trust.

“I promise,” Jon felt his voice tremble ever so slightly, “Everything will be okay…what’s your name?”

“Gertrude Blackwood,” she pronounced it carefully, like she’d practised saying all of it, scrubbing a pudgy fist against her eyes, “My papa is…um…”

She paused, face clouding with the confusion of a small child who had to consider the fact that her parent had a life outside of actually being her parent.

“Martin! Martin Blackwood!”

“You have a very pretty name,” Jon chuckled, “I’m…I’m Jon.”

He supposed it was a common enough name. And he was already skirting far too close to lying to his daughter.

Gertie nodded, smiling at that, “I like your name too. Hello, Jon.”

She stuck her hand out to him, little fingers reaching from the sleeve of the coat she still wore. It took Jon a moment to realise she wanted to take his hand, that she trusted him enough to anchor herself to him. That her world had only ever been full of adults who meant what they said.

His hand shook as he reached across the distance and closed his fingers around hers. Five years. Five whole years since he’d held her in his arms, felt her warmth against his cold skin, felt as she shifted closer to his heartbeat like that sound made her feel safe.

It had been under the Panopticon, in the tunnels of the Institute. He’d taken her from the makeshift bassinet they’d cobbled together from a blanket and a box that once held Archive files, feeling bad for waking her but knowing he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He’d whispered to her, keeping his voice low and soothing even as the tears had fallen from his eyes, promising that he didn’t want to leave but he had to. That this was the only way. That he would build her a better world, one she could live a full, safe, happy life. That he loved her so very much but he had to go.

That he would always be watching from a distance to make sure she was safe.

At least he’d been able to keep that promise. Up until this moment, anyway.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Gertie,” he murmured, “Thank you for letting me help.”

Establishing himself as Gertie’s rescuer apparently opened some kind of floodgate in her. She began to chatter, bright and cheerful like the tears from before were in another lifetime, stopping Jon at nearly every shelf to peer at the books and ask him questions about them, like she assumed he was an expert on everything.

Jon was nearly giddy, pressing every word to his heart like beautiful flowers preserved between the pages of a book. He knew he needed to be careful, a not insignificant part of his brain was babbling frantically about that. But he couldn’t help the warm feeling in his chest as he watched her simple joy, the first break in the endless fog after so, so long.

It would be okay. He’d take this unexpected gift, treasure it while he could, then make sure he was out of sight before Martin came back to the children’s section to find her. No harm done and more gained than he’d ever dared home for.

“Have you read this one, Jon?” Gertie asked brightly, pointing up at a thick book that, according to the spine, was a history of the Roman Empire, “It has a horse on it!”

“Can’t say I have,” Jon chuckled, pulling out so she could see that there were, in fact, even more horses on the cover, “You really read books like this?”

Gertie nodded, her chest puffing out with pride, “Uh huh! I read big grown up books! Some of them aren’t as exciting as the little kid books but some are real good…papa says not to tell people at school though. He says just read the books my teacher says to.”

Jon stalled at that, his stomach turning, “He does?”

Gertie nodded, already careening off down the next aisle and trusting Jon to keep up, “He says they wouldn’t understand why. And they might get scared.”

Jon did understand why but he was definitely scared. Of course he’d worried about the effects of the Apocalypse on his daughter, after being carried across it, half inside him and half in his or Martin’s arms. Most other fathers asked how many fingers and toes their newborn had, Jon had only relaxed once Martin told him Gertie had just two eyes.

It had been slightly strange, a baby who didn’t cry, didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, who peered out at her surroundings with a curiosity much older than her features. But there hadn’t been any fear or pain, the only thing Jon had dared ask for back then. He’d told himself that, when he fixed everything, Gertie would be released. She’d go back to normal, she’d get to live the childhood being held in stasis. Like a butterfly, he’d told himself.

“Gertie…” he pulled out the book that had caught this second’s worth of attention, a book about- ah, of course- the structure of the eye, “Can you read some of this for me? Can you show me?”

He held it open to a random page, watching with a sinking feeling as her eyes fixed on the words, in the same way she’d watched the ruined landscape roll past them. Her voice flowed easily, without hesitation, almost rhythmic.

“The size of the pupil (often measured as diameter) can be a symptom of an underlying disease. Dilation of the pupil is known as mydriasis and contraction as miosis…”

“Thank you, Gertie,” Jon swallowed hard, pulling the book back, closing it firmly and pressing it against his chest like he was trying to contain it, protect her from its contents, “That…that is very, very cool.”

Gertie’s face lit up at the compliment, a delighted giggle escaping her. Jon smiled back, even as his heart clenched painfully. What other traces of the Eye were still clinging to his little girl? What clumsy smudges of ink had he left on her? And who else would notice? He slid the book back on the shelf with more force than was needed.

“I can read all the grown up books I like when I’m in the shop, though!” Gertie confided, taking Jon’s hand again and squeezing it in her excitement, “Papa takes me sometimes when he has to work.”

“Your papa works in a bookshop?” Jon tilted his head as he was pulled along, curiosity dulling his anxiety. He couldn’t deny his hunger to learn everything he could about Martin, to fill in some of the sparse sketch he could make from one glimpse across a street per week.

He almost wished for the early days, when Martin was on the newly restored television most mornings of the week, jumping from channel to channel, telling the same story as it was requested again and again. The story of how he’d killed the Archivist and saved the world. At least then he’d been able to see his face, hear his voice, as he’d tried to tune out the words.

That didn’t happen anymore. Jon selfishly hoped it was because Martin refused, that maybe those words had been as hard to say as they’d been to hear.

“Uh huh! It’s on Murray Street,” Gertie nods, “He doesn’t own it but the man who does isn’t around a lot so I can read all the big ones I want. They’re all real old and interesting.”

Jon smiled, imagining Martin behind the desk of a bookshop full of warm, dark woods and old leather spines with gold filigree titles. It felt right. Like seeing a penguin in Antarctica or an owl nestled in the bolt hole of a tree.

“Papa does his homework for school and I get to read,” Gertie continued, eyes bright, “And I can have one cup of tea cos papa says caffeine is bad for little girls but he drinks so many…”

“Your papa goes to school?”

Gertie nodded so hard her curls bounced, “Uh huh! University in his computer! He learns about people’s brains and next year we get to go to his graduation and he said I can throw his hat in the air like in the Simpsons.”

Jon gave a soft laugh, a rush of pride and relief easing the ache in his chest like he’d taken a swallow of warm tea himself, “That’s wonderful. He’s…I’m sure he’s always been a very smart man. I’m glad he’s happy.”

A cloud passed over the sunshine in Gertie’s expression, she halted in her flitting from book to book like there was a sudden weight on her shoulders. She tugged on Jon’s hand, pulling him down to her level and lowering her voice like she was telling him some secret. He knelt, leaning close, putting both of his hands around her small one almost reflexively, following fatherly instincts he’d thought he’d never gotten the chance to develop.

“Sometimes. When I’m there. But when I’m not, papa looks so sad…he thinks I don’t notice but I do…”

Jon swallowed hard, that momentary relief shattered though he scrambled to comfort her, to do anything to ease the worry on her face, “Ah. I see. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to worry, Gertie. After everything that happened, it’s normal to be sad sometimes?”

“That’s what Auntie Georgie said when I asked her,” Gertie worried her bottom lip, the same way Martin did, “She said he lost someone when the bad stuff happened and he misses them a lot.”

Jon blinked rapidly, having to feign a sudden interest in the laces of his battered trainers before she saw the tears that rushed so quickly to his eyes, “Oh…”

Gertie hesitated, that strange perceptiveness like a light in her gaze, a strange green lighthouse on a shore Jon thought he’d left behind. Her voice was soft, gentler than he remembered anything from that place being. But it pulled the truth from him all the same, powers or not.

“You look the same way he does. Did you lose someone too?”

Jon didn’t trust himself to speak straight away. He’d gone too far, he knew that. He needed to find that distance again, he needed to take a step back before he made things worse, before he ruined everything again. Martin had clearly worked so hard to build a real life for himself and Gertie, he needed to pull away before the sickening radiation that rolled off him sent it all crumbling down. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t hurt them anymore than he already had.

“I…I lost everything.”

He dropped her hand, pulling his away like he’d burn her if he held on another moment. He made to croak that he wanted to take her back to the children’s books, back to where Martin would be, that he wanted Gertie to forget she ever saw him. But, under that green gaze, he couldn’t say anything but the truth. So those words wouldn’t come.

“I’m sorry, Gertie…”

He turned to just walk away, seeing no other way out that didn’t end with Gertie hurt. He would tell the front desk there was a lost child in the non fiction stacks, they’d help her. Anyone would be better to help her than him. She’d find Martin and her soft, warm, safe life could continue, with him at a distance. Their story would go on and he’d be a ghost in the background of the illustrations, a bad ending they’d mercifully avoided, a dragon they’d slain to earn their freedom.

It was enough. It had to be.

Gertie was a five year old girl, her grasp wasn’t strong, but the moment she reached across the distance between them and grabbed his hand again, Jon froze in place, unable to move.

“Please don’t go.”

Jon knew what he should do. He knew what he needed to do. He knew what he couldn’t do.

But he didn’t know what he was going to do. And he would never have to.

“Gertie? Gertie, where are you? Oh god…”

There was no time to do anything but stand there as Martin turned the corner of the stacks. The face Jon had been doing all of this for, the face he saw twisted in pain, in fear, in hatred in his nightmares. He looked so much older, the streak of white had never left his hair, the exhausted lines in the corner of his eyes that the make up on TV had never really been able to cover.

But Jon knew that smile, that had never changed. He got to see it break across Martin’s face, pure relief as he saw his daughter standing there. He opened his mouth to thank this stranger, eyes warm and happy as they looked up and fixed on Jon, just like they used to be.

And he had to watch as that warmth froze and died. As he stepped back into Martin Blackwood’s story and broke it clean in two.

“...Jon?”

#the magnus archives #tma #jmart #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma jmart #please reblog and comment!

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shiorimakibawrites · 2 days ago

Text

The Opening Act (Happy Little Accident #3)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 8200+ Summary: Your first date with Matt. Warning(s): Anxiety, low self-esteem, swearing, secret identity dramatic irony, sexual fantasies (oral sex, face sitting, p in v sex, groping), implied masturbation, referenced cat-calling, kissing, suggestive conversation Happy Little Accident Masterlist My Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @sarahskywalker-amidala, @fanfiction-fanatic221, @nowheredreamer, @marshmelloyellow02, @milkbummm, @writtenbyred, @beezusvreeland, @dorothleah, @m1cky-y-y, @cestgrace Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. AO3 link

Part Three: The Opening Act

You patted yourself on the back for your self-control.

You managed to wait until you heard Matt’s door close before you jumped up and down with an excited whoop. A quiet one. Well . . . as quiet as you could make it. Hopefully quiet enough that Matt hadn’t heard it. He once claimed to have excellent hearing. Everything you had observed about him since moving in backed up that claim.

Fingers-crossed that two doors and the hallway was enough space to muffle it. Otherwise Matt might realize that asking you out was a mistake. Between the magenta incident and your inability to walk without tripping over your own feet, you had no idea what had possessed him to ask in the first place.

Whatever it was, you hoped that it stuck around.

At least long enough to discover if Real Matt was as good at sex as Fantasy Matt. Hell, even if he was half as good as that . . . you were going to be a puddle of bliss. Just might ruin you for other men.

Shame since you were probably going to run him off being all anxious and weird.

‘No raining on my parade,’ you ordered the brain gremlins sternly. Matt Murdock had asked you out and you were going to enjoy it, damn it!

“What’s got you so excited?” Serena asked, appearing at the bathroom door.

“I have a date,” you said, unable to contain your smile.

She smiled. “That’s wonderful! With who?”

“With Matt,” you said and waited.

The smile widened, became distinctively smug. “I told you that he liked-liked you.”

“You did.”

“Maybe next time you’ll believe me when I tell you someone is checking out your ass.”

“Matt has never checked out my ass,” you objected. “I’m lucky he can’t see my ugly bubble butt.”

Serena paused drying her hair with a towel long enough to roll her eyes. “You don’t have an ‘ugly bubble butt.’ Paula Little, excuse me Mrs. David Fitzroy, is a jealous bitch and always has been.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it wasn’t so easy to banish that woman’s voice and cruel words from your mind. To forget the utter contempt in her eyes. Which was less often these days. Maybe you’d get lucky and she’ll decide to move to DC full-time.

Yeah right. You getting into a whirlwind romance with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was more likely.

“Perhaps,” you said.

“No ‘perhaps’ about it,” Serena said firmly. “And that woman is green with envy. And about to get greener the next time she decides to ‘grace’ us with her presence.”

“Huh? Why?”

Serena arched an eyebrow, “Because that beautiful specimen of a man across the hall? The one taking you out . . . when is this date?”

“Tomorrow at seven.”

The other eyebrow raised to match its counterpart. “Not wasting any time, is he? That guy at Josie’s must have really lit a fire under his ass.”

“That guy was not hitting on me.”

“He absolutely was,” Serena countered. “Along with undressing you with his eyes. Why do you think Matt kept looking like he had just bitten into a lemon?”

You hesitated. You hadn’t missed those looks but . . .

“How would he know?”

“Maybe Foggy warned him that someone was sniffing around his girl?”

You felt your face flush at the thought. It was a very appealing image. Your ego really enjoyed it. But the sensible part of your mind warned against putting the cart before the horse.

“One date - that hasn’t even happened yet - doesn’t make me his girl.”

“Maybe not, but you wanna be.”

That you could not argue. You had thus far managed to resist the urge to write Mrs. Murdock on your mini sketch book. Serena and Lex didn’t need anymore ammunition. Bad enough that Serena had teased you about how many of those pages had sketches of Matt. Your protests that you had also sketched Foggy, Karen, Serena, and Lex (just to name a few) was irrelevant.

“Speaking of dates, Darien is taking me to Hidaka for our anniversary tomorrow night,” Serena said.

“How romantic,” you said. Hidaka was a restaurant that served steak and seafood, the fancy kind where you had to wear nice clothes to even get in the door. Not quite black tie but definitely not jeans and a tee shirt. You had heard the food was very good but since it was also rather expensive, you couldn’t speak from personal experience.

“And,” her smile turned saucy. “Remember that lingerie set I bought last month?”

“I remember.” You had gone with her to the store. Serena liked having your opinion on such matters. Not because you were any kind of sex goddess. You just loved lingerie. It made you feel pretty. Even (especially) if no one else knew you were wearing it. Consequently your underwear drawer was almost entirely composed of silk, lace, and satin. “Darien’s going to be picking his jaw off the floor.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Coming back here or going to his place?” You asked.

“His place,” Serena said, then grinned at you. “You shouldn’t need your noise-canceling headphones tomorrow. Not unless Matt snores like a bullhorn.”

You flushed. “What makes you think Matt is sleeping over?”

“The fact that you’ve been thinking about his dick since the day you met?”

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire. She wasn’t . . . . wrong. Matt had gotten the starring role in your sexual fantasies very quickly. He also made regular appearances in your dreams. Not exclusively. For example, there had been a couple involving Daredevil.

But mostly it was Matt. And would probably be Matt again tonight. If you ended up touching yourself. You were feeling a little worked up ever since Lex put the idea of him eating you out in your head. Or rather put it back in your head. You had thought about it once or twice . . . dozen . . . times . . . your fingers gripping his hair tightly while those pink lips wrapped around your clit and sucked . . .

This wasn’t helping you feel less turned on . . .

Serena’s laughter interrupted your horny thoughts. “You’re thinking about it again!”

“Am not!”

“Sssuuureee you aren’t,” Serena teased. “Well, I’m going to bed. Long night tomorrow. Enjoy picturing Mr. Murdock, Esquire pounding you into the mattress!”

“Serena!” you whined but she just laughed and headed into her bedroom.

Out of sheer stubbornness, you tried to ignore just how aroused you were. You changed into your sleeping clothes - a simple pair of shorts and oversized shirt. Brushed your teeth, washed your face . . . briefly considered not washing the hand Matt had kissed before good sense won out. Along with the knowledge that, by this time tomorrow, you might have gotten a real kiss from him.

His lips on your knuckles had been so soft. As soft as you had hoped. And dreamed. You had had a lot of thoughts about that mouth. Was Matt a good kisser? How would his mouth gliding across your skin feel? Teasing, feather light brush of his lips? Little kisses? Gentle nips? Particularly to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he made his way up to your . . .

You sighed in defeat. Your cunt was not going to sleep without getting some relief. You slide your hand inside your shorts and gasped at the first touch . . . .

Matt had done his best to tune out your conversation with your roommate. While he couldn’t help overhearing things, he tried to give his neighbors some privacy. Instead he focused on getting ready for his patrol. There hadn’t been more trouble than usual but . . . he froze, the intoxicating scent of your arousal filling his nose.

That it had become familiar over the past few months did nothing to diminish its potency. Neither did all the barriers between him and your cunt. Quite the opposite. His lust for you had only become distilled. Concentrated it until the merest hint, the barest taste, of you was enough to stir his cock.

Go, it begged him. March across that hallway and peel off those soaked panties. They were silk today. He had been the hardest he had ever been in his life the day he realized that you wore nothing but satin, silk and lace under your clothes. Learn to tell the difference by the shift of the fabric against your skin as you moved.

Combined with your pheromones . . . sometimes it took every ounce of his self-control not to pick you up and carry you off to his bed like a caveman.

This was one of those times. He wanted to be gripping your ass in his hands while you ground that wonderfully drenched pussy on his face. He wanted you writhing underneath him, trembling from orgasm after orgasm until the only name you knew was his . . .

He clenched his teeth, shaking his head. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Assuming that was what you wanted. But his erection refused to be dismissed . . .

“Ahhh . . . Matty.”

It was the last straw, that sweet little whimper of his name had him leaking and painfully hard.

“Fuck,” he hissed, then pushed down his pants to free his cock . . .

You had fully expected to wake up at some ungodly hour and be unable to get back to sleep. But you didn’t. Much to your surprise, you didn’t wake up until a little after ten. Maybe it was the orgasm? Something about that warm, sated feeling made it easier to settle into sleep.

Idly you wondered if that effect would be enhanced by having Matt’s big, warm body to snuggle against afterward?

Assuming Matt snuggled. You hoped so. Being held in those strong arms, enjoying the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart under your ear . . . it would be such a lovely way to spend a lazy morning.

Serena had already left for work so the apartment was empty and quiet. You hummed as you opened the airtight jar of coffee beans and measured out enough for a few cups. There was just enough. Time for a trip to the roasters, then. A glance at the list on the fridge added a grocery store run to your errand list. It was your turn anyway. You had intended to go yesterday but then yesterday happened.

Your roommate would have gone and done it herself yesterday if she hadn’t been babysitting her brother’s kids. Probably for the best. More errands meant less time to work yourself into an anxiety spiral about your date tonight.

But first, coffee.

Your ears (and nerves) weren’t the biggest fan of the coffee grinder but your mouth wasn’t a fan of pre-ground coffee. It had been fine in high school but after working at the Daily Grind for a year, you just couldn’t stand the taste of pre-ground coffee anymore. It was too stale. The cafe had also ruined you for beans that weren’t locally roasted.

The only benefit to pre-ground coffee from the grocery store was that it was cheaper. But buying something that neither of you would drink wasn’t much of a cost saving. Thankfully your favorite roaster, Connor of Cool Beans, was willing to offer you and Serena a discount for being regular customers. It wasn’t a big discount but every little bit helped.

The delicious aroma, woody with hints of sweetness, rising from your mug told you had made the right choice.

Between running errands and tidying up the apartment (just in case you did end up inviting Matt inside), you were busy enough to avoid any nerves about your upcoming date. Right up until you were putting some things you had borrowed from Serena in her room and saw the dress for her anniversary dinner laying across her bed along with the lingerie, the matching heels waiting patiently at the foot of the bed. And then it hit you.

Your date was in four hours and you had no idea what you were gonna wear.

What happened next probably qualified as panic as you pulled things out of your closet and dresser. Trying to find something that didn’t make you look hideous. A task made more difficult when you remembered that you had no idea where he was taking you or what you would be doing . . .

Your name being called in a slightly worried voice startled you in looking up from the indecisive pile of clothes on your bed. Serena standing in the doorway, her hair freshly cut into waves that framed her face.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know what to wear,” you admitted, feeling a little stupid. You were an adult. You should be able to pick out your own clothes.

“Okay,” Serena said, no judgement in her voice. You had been friends for years. She was used to you panicking over nothing. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Where are you going for your date?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s easy enough to remedy,” she said and pulled out her phone. An action that confused you for a moment before you remembered that Matt had given you both his number shortly after you had moved in. Just in case, he had said. Never know when you might need the helping hand of a neighbor. Or a lawyer.

“Hi Matt,” she said. “Where are you taking my roomie tonight? Need to narrow down the clothing options.”

A pause. “I promise.”

That was enough to get an answer. Presumably. She still had her Bluetooth in so you couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation. Didn’t get to hear that deep, soft-spoken voice that made you weak in the knees. Something you were not at all pouting about.

“Good choice! Thanks Matt. Bye.” Serena hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“Well?” you said. “Where’s he taking me?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”

You frowned. Surprises weren’t your favorite things. They tended to be things like falling on your ass in a puddle or slicing open your thumb on an unexpected knife (never reach into someone’s craft drawer without looking) or getting dumped on Valentine’s Day . . .

“Hey, hey, don’t fret,” Serena said. “You’re gonna like this one. Trust me.”

“Okay,” you said slowly. You trusted Serena. She had been your friend for years before you both decided to become roommates. Well, roommates again. You had shared a dorm most of your time at Empire State. This trust wasn’t quite enough to entirely settle the anxiety. Which paid very little heed to such frivolities as facts and logic.

“Back to the topic at hand, your date outfit,” she continued, eyeing the clothing pile thoughtfully. “One thing I can tell you is that where you’re going isn’t somewhere with a dress code.”

“Which narrows it down from everything to everything minus the dresses in the back corner of my closet.”

“You mean you hadn’t already put your sweatpants collection in the ‘no’ pile? I’m all for being comfortable but that’s more of a snuggle on the couch watching movies on a rainy day kind of date outfit.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t going to wear sweatpants. It’s just . . . everything else.”

Serena nodded her head. “Let’s start at the bottom and work our way out. Underwear?”

One of the few things not scattered on the bed. You opened the drawer and stared at the possibilities. Maybe keep it simple? Save the ones like the pair with the cut-out heart on the behind for a later date? Yes. Something pretty but unlikely to make you nervous about its boldness . . . especially if said underwear ended up scattered across the floor tonight.

Something like this one, black satin with a matching bra. You set it aside and turned back to Serena. While you were contemplating your underwear, she had been picking out some clothing suggestions. Which seemed to be three choices for a top but only one pair of jeans had been set aside.

“Why those jeans?” you asked.

“They show off that very fine ass of yours.”

Your face flushed. “I don’t have a fine ass.”

“Sorry, darling, you have been outvoted.”

“By whom?” you demanded.

“Me, Lex, Matt . . .”

“Matt has no opinion of my ass.” you objected.

“Bet you five bucks that he does,” Serena said. “And that opinion is ‘hot damn, I need to get a handful of that!’”

“Doubt it,” you said, your face flushing at the idea of Matt grabbing your ass. It wasn’t unappealing . . .

Serena made a huffing noise. “When I’m proven right - and I will be - the ‘I told you so’ is gonna echo across Hell’s Kitchen.”

You rolled your eyes. You loved Serena dearly but she could be so very dramatic.

You turned your attention to the clothes. For all of your disagreement with her assessment of your ass (and its potential appeal to Matt), those jeans were a good choice. Comfortable but nice enough for a date somewhere more casual. Which honestly appealed to you more than somewhere fancy like Hidaka. A special occasion like an anniversary was one thing but for a first date, that was a lot of pressure.

Only thing left to choose was a top. And shoes. But you pushed that out of your mind. As Serena said, one thing at a time.

The fitted tee with the swoop neckline got bounced for being pink. You lived pink just fine but it was too close to magenta right now. And you just couldn’t. Maybe one day, you’ll look back on the magenta incident with fondness or even humor. But today was not that day. The white chiffon blouse with the periwinkle flower pattern was also out. The black bra would be visible. Ask how you knew.

Which left the wrap shirt. It was purple ombre, starting with a plum that was nearly black at the shoulders and ending with a pale violet at the hem. And like the jeans, it was comfortable and looked nice without being too dressy. You added a pair of ballet-style flats and declared yourself done.

“No jewelry?” Serena asked.

“Just my Pixie Dreamgirls friendship bracelet,” you said. “Gotta represent.”

Happily said bracelet didn’t clash with your outfit. Actually none of the outfits Serena had picked out did. Well she knew you liked the band. And that you had intended to wear your bracelet this week to support the band’s mini tour.

Still that grin she was sporting had you narrowing your eyes. Serena was Up To Something . . .

“Well it’s been fun but I’ve gotta get ready for my own date. Darien will be here in about an hour,” she said.

You blinked. Was it that late already? You looked at your watch. Yes, yes it was. Only two more hours to go.

You sat on the couch, trying to distract yourself from anxiously pacing with YouTube videos. You were also trying to avoid thinking too much about Serena’s whispered reminder about the box of condoms in the bathroom. Or the handful of them that you had just stashed in your bedside table. Or that you hoped that they were the right size.

Assuming the condoms were even needed tonight. Going on a date didn’t automatically mean sex. Matt might not want to. While certain parts of you were more than eager, other parts were nervous. You weren’t a virgin. You had had sex before. Just not a lot. You seemed to be invisible to most guys. The few who hadn’t . . . were a mixed bag. Interested until they realized just how clumsy or awkward you are. Or just wanted sex.

Mike the Boxer had been an exception. The realization that you made better friends than lovers hadn’t been painless for either of you. Not exactly an experience you were eager to repeat, especially with the added complication of being neighbors who lived right across the hall from each other. Things might be good with Mike now but that had taken time.

And speaking of time, it had been a while since you had sex with someone other than yourself. Unless your sex toys and Fantasy Matt qualified as partners. In which case, you had been having a lot of sex with a partner. In your bed, in the shower, his desk at Nelson, Murdock, & Page . . .

Knock!

You jumped. Was it . . . yes, it was seven. That was probably Matt. You got to your feet and scurried over to the door. While tempting to throw up the door, good sense had you checking the peephole first. It was Matt. The man you had just been thinking about fornicating with you at his workplace. And feeling rather turned on by this idea . . .

You felt your face flush. And gave silent (and somewhat guilty) thanks that Matt had no way to know this. Okay, be cool and he’ll be none the wiser about you thinking dirty thoughts about him. Step one, open the door.

Matt could dress in a potato sack and still be beautiful. This was no potato sack. This was well-fitting jeans encasing those thick thighs in dark blue denim. This was a crimson red tee shirt that was probably one size too small, making it snug enough to emphasize those big pectoral muscles usually hidden by a suit and tie. The brown leather jacket was looser but couldn’t disguise the broadness of his shoulders. His dark auburn hair looked like it had been freshly blow-dried, neat but so fluffy. You longed to bury your hands in it. And bring that smirking, ever so slightly smug mouth closer to yours . . .

“Hello sweetheart.”

You jumped. And flushed even deeper at the realization that, once again, you had been staring at him like an idiot.

“Hi Matt,” you said. “You look . . . good. Very good.”

You just managed to stop yourself from saying ‘Good enough to eat.’ Or ask him to give you a little twirl so you could see if he looked just as good from behind as he did from the front. A thousand bonus points for you.

Even if Matt looked amused enough for you to swear he knew what thoughts were running through your head. Which you didn’t think he did. Pretty sure you would have been asked to keep your horny thoughts to yourself if he could.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “You are lovely as well.”

More blood flooded your cheeks. “What makes you say that?”

His eyebrow arched. “Because you are always lovely?”

Which only made you even more flustered.

“Do you mind telling me what you are wearing?” he asked.

“No, no I don’t mind,” you said, then described your outfit. “Is that alright? I know it’s not very dressy-”

“The place we’re going isn’t a dressy place,” he interjected, then seemed to hesitate. Like he was suddenly unsure of himself. It was hard to tell with those dark glasses. “I hope you don’t mind. If you’d rather-”

You shook your head, then remembered that Matt needed words. “No, I prefer not-dressy. Fancy places and I don’t mix.”

“What makes you say that?” Matt asked.

“People expect ladies to wear high heels to fancy places and parties. The only time I tried to wear high heels . . . it didn’t go well.”

“How ‘not well’?”

“Broken ankle and dislocated my shoulder.”

He winced. “Let’s try to avoid a repeat of that.”

“That’s my plan. They also frown on people drawing on napkins.”

Matt chuckled a little. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to warn Foggy.”

“Foggy’s a napkin doodler?”

“Napkins, margins of his notes.” Matt’s smile was very fond. “Only good part of meetings with Burke & Winthrop is Karen describing his doodles to me afterward.”

“Funny?”

“Very.” Matt checked his watch. You tried not to have dirty thoughts about watching his fingers glide along the rim. You were not entirely successful. “And not to rush you but we need to get going if we’re going to make it in time.”

“In time for what?” you asked, grabbing your purse and jacket. Well, technically it was his jacket. Which you should probably return to him at some point . . . but it was supposed to be cold tonight, dipping down into the thirties. You’d give it back to him when he was dropping you back off tonight.

Assuming you didn’t invite him inside.

“It’s a surprise.”

You forced your mind to focus on here and now. And that expected but still somewhat disappointing answer. “Not even a hint?”

His lips twitched. “Sorry, sweetheart, no hints. You’ll see in a little bit.”

“I have to. We established that yesterday.”

Matt started for a moment, then laughed. Loud and delighted, a pleased smile spreading across his face. He had a dimple. You didn’t know he had any dimples. Just when you thought he couldn’t get anymore attractive. “We did.”

He offered his hand to you. “Shall we?”

You took the offered hand. Your hand felt right in his. Like it belonged there.

You smiled. “We shall.”

There was something almost dream-like about this, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was far from the first time that you had taken a walk with Matt. You had walked home together from Josie’s or the shops. He had asked you to guide him before. But this . . . this was different.

Perhaps because you never expected Matt to ask you out. Perhaps because you had dreamed of this more than once. Fantasized about taking a walk in the park or visiting the farmers’ market, snuggled into his side as you inspected apples or admired the play of light on the trees. Moments that you could have now, you realized. Assuming this date continues to go well, you could go with Matt to the farmer’s market or for a walk in the park or a thousand other things.

It was a dizzying realization, one that didn’t felt quite real yet.

But your dreams could never quite replicate Matt’s warmth or how good he smelled. The sense of controlled strength in his grip around your hand, firm but gentle like your hand was something precious and delicate. It was another thing he shared with Mike the Boxer. Mike never forgot how much damage his hands could do.

These differences provided you with a solid anchor that was real. That you weren’t just having another bittersweet dream.

“We’re here.”

You blinked, mind brought back to the present. You looked around to see where he had led you.

The answer was the back of a line to get into . . . you lifted yourself up on your tiptoes to get a better look at the sign . . . The Drunken Duck. You felt your heart skip a beat. The Drunken Duck in Hell’s Kitchen was where the Pixie Dreamgirls were having their little concert. The first stop in a small tour around the tristate area. The very concert that you had been unable to get tickets for.

The others in line were dressed in tees with the band’s name or other merch like your bracelet. And they were excitedly chatting about the band and the upcoming performance.

“Matt . . .” you trailed off, not sure what to say. You hadn’t realized that he even knew who the Pixie Dreamgirls were. While you believed that one day they would be big, right now they were still a local band. One that you only knew about because Lex had stumbled across them one night and spent the next day getting you and Serena addicted to their music.

Lex had been rather disappointed about being scheduled to work tonight. Serena was less disappointed since she had her anniversary with Darien but had talked about attending one of the later dates. The one in Queens later this month for example, all three of you had neither work or a romantic milestone celebration to interfere with seeing the band perform live.

Still your friends had encouraged you to go to the Drunken Duck concert if you wanted. And you had wanted to. Then Lex’s cat Sappho had gotten sick and she needed help with the vet bill. And well Sappho was more important than any concert. There would be other concerts. There wouldn’t be another Sappho.

“Surprise!” Matt said, grinning wide enough to bring that dimple out again. “Is it a good one?”

“The best!” you said. And unable to contain your excitement, you kissed him.

Your boldness seem to take Matt off guard. But only for a moment. Within heartbeats, he was kissing back. The kiss was everything you had dreamed. Those petal soft lips moving against yours, feather light at first but soon firmer and deeper. His hand cradling your jaw . . . his tongue begging for and being granted entrance into your mouth. Your hands in his hair - when had they gotten there - tightening as he teased your tongue into chasing his back to his mouth. He tasted so good . . .

A piercing whistle had you both jumping apart.

The whistler was the bouncer at the entrance of the Drunken Duck, a well-built dark-haired man with a thick beard whose nose had been broken at least twice. He looked vaguely familiar but for the life of you, you couldn’t remember where you had seen him before. It was unlikely to come to you. Your brain was too occupied with how good a kisser Matt was. With those kiss-swollen pink lips and the pulse of want between your legs.

Seeing that he had your attention, the bouncer said, “You’re holding up the line, lovebirds.”

You felt yourself flush. The line ahead of you had indeed gone inside. You were amazed that you and Matt hadn’t been jostled by the people behind you. Very amazed. New Yorkers didn’t have a lot of patience for people wasting their time. The kiss had lasted forever and not long enough in your mind. But you guessed that it either hadn’t lasted enough or the line hadn’t moved while you occupied fast enough to annoy the others behind you.

It probably helped that you didn’t lollygag about getting up to the bouncer and getting your IDs checked. Though the bouncer’s parting comment of “Enjoy the show, Red” was teasing enough to send that flush speeding down your neck.

“Mind guiding me?” Matt asked, after handing over your tickets to the employee at the second door. “I haven’t been to the Drunken Duck before. And it sounds a little crowded in there.”

“No problem!” you said, taking his arm. You put the bouncer out of your mind in favor of guiding Matt. First stop was the bar to get your drinks.

He was right about how crowded the Duck was. Maneuvering around the excited patrons was a challenge. Everyone was too busy excitedly talking to each other. Very different from Josie’s where the regulars knew Matt was blind and were in the habit of clearing a path for him. But since this wasn’t Josie’s and Matt had already folded up his white cane, you were stuck trying to wade through to the bar without losing each other.

Which you managed to accomplish. Barely.

Good. You were getting hungry. The Drunken Duck website said there was food. You had been too nervous-excited earlier to eat more than a hardboiled egg and some toast with your coffee. But now you could smell burgers. And your stomach was pointedly reminding you that light breakfast was far too long ago.

“Hungry?” Matt teased.

“A little,” you said, an answer that had Matt’s lips twitching. Like he was holding back a laugh at your very obvious lie. But you were soon distracted away from your embarrassment at your growling stomach by your arrival at the bar. Upon request, the barmaid pulled out a braille copy of their menu along with a glossy version for you.

You or rather your stomach had already decided on a burger. But there were a couple options even when limited to that. All of them sounded good but tonight, you opted to try the veggie burger. Lex had been here before and recommended it. The harder part of picking out something to drink. The drinks menu was far more extensive.

While tempted by some of the mixed drinks, if for no other reason that some of those puns looked fun to say. The Drunken Duck had apparently decided to lean into the name of their business with many, many bird puns. But in the end you opted for a beer. Mixed drinks with punny names were fun but your favorites tended to be sweet enough to make it easy to underestimate how drunk you were getting. Right up until you stood up and found walking even more difficult than usual.

Not something you wanted. First because you embarrassed yourself in front of Matt enough while being stone cold sober. Second because you had it on good authority that you were extremely candid when drunk. And that Drunk You hit on vigilantes.

Serena and Lex claimed that the night you had overdone the cocktails at The Cat’s Meow, you had spotted Daredevil perched on a roof. And then proceeded to loudly compliment his ass. Along with offering to personally inspect his . . . err . . . billy club. According to your friends, the Devil seemed more bemused than angry about these saucy remarks, simply recommending that your friends get you home before you solicited another vigilante.

You don’t remember anything between your fourth drink and waking up with the mother of all hangovers. And you rather hoped that you never would. Drunk You might have the foolhardiness to offer to ride the Devil until he saw God. Sober You had wanted to die from embarrassment after being informed about that offer. Along with all other ones you had apparently made. You really hoped that, if you ever encountered the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen again, that he didn’t recognize you.

Drunk You would absolutely tell Matt how much you would like him to bend you over one of those little round tables in front of the stage. In excruciating detail. Best not to risk it. One beer, then switch to a soft drink. No worries about in vino veritas.

It was a perfect plan.

“What’s your verdict, counselor?” you asked.

Matt smiled. “Leaning toward a burger. Even though those Parmensian-garlic wings do smell delicious.”

You blinked. “If they smell so good, why aren’t you getting them?”

“I’d rather not have garlic breath during our second kiss.”

Your cheeks felt warm. “You want a second kiss?”

“Absolutely,” he said, a hand reaching to cup your cheek. You could no more stop yourself from leaning into it than you could fly. “And a third kiss. And a fourth. Until I’ve kissed you so many times that you can no longer count them.”

“That sounds . . . nice,” you said. Actually it sounded wonderful. So wonderful that you wanted to pinch yourself to make sure that you weren’t dreaming.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Matt agreed. “And if I asked to kiss you right now?”

“I’d say yes,” you said, your voice gone breathy and your heart racing.

“Then I’m asking.”

“Yes.”

And then he was kissing you.

Kissing Matt was just as heady the second time as it was the first time. A feast for the senses. The softness of his lips contrasting with the roughness of his beard under your palms . . . the taste of his mouth, mostly the sharp coolness of mint but underneath something that you couldn’t describe but desperately needed . . . that simple blend of leather, plain soap, paper, and man filling your nose . . . his warmth . . .

You whined when he pulled away.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead. He sounded like he was genuinely regretful that he had stopped kissing you. “As much as I’d love to kiss you all night, the show starts in about twenty minutes.”

And you still needed to order your meal and find a table in this crowd. Damnit. You took a deep breath. Then a second one. Until you felt like you could control the urge to climb Matt like a tree. It only took a minute but it felt longer. Especially when the bartender taking your orders gave you both knowing looks. At this rate, your face was gonna be locked in a permanent flush.

Matt paid, under the rock solid logic that he had invited you out. So paying for things during this date was his responsibility. You made a silent promise to yourself to use his own argument against him some day.

The tables arrayed around the stage were even more crowded. And more compacted than around the bar. You had to press tightly against Matt’s side in order for you to walk together. Which wasn’t exactly a hardship. But between guiding Matt while trying not to spill your beer among the tangle of chair legs and feet, it was no surprise that you stumbled.

Alone, you would have ended up on your ass covered in beer. If you were lucky and didn’t knock your head against the table. But you weren’t alone. At the first hint of a fall, one powerful arm snaked around your waist and pressed you against his body. And amazingly you managed to not to lose your grip on your glass. It just sloshed a little.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he rumbled into your ear.

You bite your lip. His breath on the shell of your ear sent tingles down your spine. But his voice, huskier than usual, went straight to your cunt. Matt made a soft noise, almost a whine before nuzzling your neck. “You smell so good.”

This did nothing to cool the heat raging through your body. “Thank you?”

He chuckled. The vibration of it made you shudder. And press your thighs together. It took immense willpower to pull your mind out of the gutter. Thankfully the table you were aiming for wasn’t much further as you were feeling rather weak at the knees. Luck was with you as the table remained free. Maybe because it wasn’t as close to the stage as possible? Maybe if it had been you and your friends, you would have aimed for that one ten feet to the right but you thought it was a little close to the guitar’s amplifier for Matt’s comfort.

Again, you had no idea if the old chestnut about blind people having better senses was true but you had seen him flinch at loud noises. You’d prefer Matt without a migraine. It would put an end to any ideas of hanky-panky tonight. Something you were seriously considering. From the dampness in your panties, you knew your cunt was fully on board with this idea.

Anyway . . . the table you had chosen had a decent enough view. Not the best but the point of a concert wasn’t the visuals. It was the music. And you didn’t need to be close to enjoy that.

Matt didn’t dispute your choice, pulling out your chair for you. Nuzzling your neck once more, his lips brushed across the skin behind your ear. It was the barest touch and yet it felt like a brand. The arm around your waist gave you a squeeze before slowly sliding off so you could sit down.

Before sitting himself, Matt slipped off his leather jacket. And you felt your mouth go dry.

Those arms . . . your hands itched to explore. You wanted to follow the line of every muscle from those broad shoulders down to the sinewy forearms, enjoying the transition from smooth skin to a healthy covering of dark hair. Trace the veins and scars brought into sharp relief by the bar’s angled lighting with your fingertips . . . you still didn’t think you could wrap your hand entirely around his bicep. But it would be fun to try, digging your nails while he . . .

“Sweetheart?”

You have got to stop thinking about Matt fucking you while he was less than three feet from you. And maybe actually talk to him. Even if it was really hard not to get distracted by that smirking mouth, wondering what else it could do.

“Sorry,” you said, shaking your head. “Got lost in my head for a minute there.”

“Happens to all of us,” Matt said.

You sipped your beer and cast your mind around for something to talk about. Fortunately the reason for being here provided an easy one. “I didn’t know you liked Pixie Dreamgirls.”

He smiled. “I hadn’t heard of them before you and Serena moved in. But I kept hearing you singing their songs and liked what I heard.”

“I’m glad you liked them despite my singing.”

He shook his head. “Because of your singing.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” you said. You could carry a tune well enough but knew perfectly well that your singing voice was nothing to write home about.

“Just the truth. You have a lovely voice.”

Your cheeks burned. “I do not.”

“You do,” he insisted, his voice firm and brokering no argument. “My eyes might not work but my hearing is excellent. Trust me, sweetheart, I could listen to you all day.”

You felt that flush spread down your neck. Your fingers fidgeted with your bracelet. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m completely serious.”

You shook your head in disbelief. He sounded serious but he had to be exaggerating. No one would want to listen to you yammer on all day. Not even your family or friends who loved you dearly. Matt was unfortunately aware of just much nonsense started to spill out of your mouth when panicked, he had witnessed The Tale of Two Breads among others. There was no way . . .

“You just want to know how far I can fit my foot in my mouth.”

“While it is always interesting to see what your mind comes up with,” he said before his grin shifted into a wicked smirk. “Your foot wasn’t the body part I had in mind.”

“Good to know,” you squeaked out, fresh blood flooding your cheeks. Among other places. Along with bringing to mind your own thoughts on that topic. More than once, you had imagined yourself kneeling between his legs and taking him in your mouth. Wondered how he would taste, how much your jaw would ache afterward . . . what kind of noises he’d make as his thighs trembled under your hands . . .

And just like that your mind was back in the gutter. You shook your head vigorously. You weren’t usually this feral. Was it because you hadn’t gotten laid since you moved into 6B? Were you ovulating? Or was Matt Murdock just so hot that it was impossible to look at him without thots? Some combination of all three?

Or was that smugness in that smirk made it oh-so-tempting to imagine him underneath you, moaning and lost in pleasure . . .

“What’s your favorite Pixie song?” Matt asked, interrupting your dirty thoughts. The smirk hadn’t gone away but he seemed genuinely interested in your answer.

“Er . . . Lavender,” you answered. You empathize with the protagonist giving their crush bouquets of lavender, wishing that they’d recognized the message of love and devotion someday.

“Curious,” he said, then his smirk grew. “I would have thought Candy Apple Red. You sing it a lot.”

Whatever blood had managed to drain out of your face promptly returned. Lyrics about painting your lover’s body with bright red lipstick had provoked thoughts . . . many thoughts. . . ones that would be even more vivid now that you knew how good Matt looked in red.

“And what’s your favorite Pixie song?” you asked quickly. Before your mind could conjure another fantasy. If you couldn’t reign in this horniness soon, you’d need to excuse yourself to the bathroom for some relief.

He made a thoughtful humming sound before his smirk faded into something more sober. Something vulnerable. “Burnt Offerings. It really spoke to me.”

Not difficult to understand why that one would resonate so strongly - a sad but beautiful song about struggling with one’s faith after losing a loved one. You knew about one of those losses but knew there could be more. There was a lot you didn’t know about Matt. You slowly reached out for his hand, uncertain if he would accept comfort. But at the first tentative touch of your hand, he laced your fingers together. You breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

Neither of you spoke, just held hands, but the silence between you didn’t feel uncomfortable. You only released his hand with one last squeeze when your meals arrived at the table. As much as you would love to keep holding his hand . . . it was a big burger. If you tried eating that with one hand, half of it was going to end up on your shirt. Been there, done that. You lost too many shirts to the staining power of mustard. Or raspberry jam. Or so many other things. Not happening this time. You liked this shirt.

Your burger was good. Which you appreciated. It was easy to screw up a veggie burger. Matt seemed to find his first bites of cheese burger just as enjoyable. The fries were just as good - golden and crisp on the outside, warm and fluffy inside. You’d be adding this bar and grill to the list of good places.

It looked like Matt agreed with you. His first bite had been small, more like a nibble. Then with what looked like relief, his next bites had been bigger. But not hurried. He took the time to enjoy what he was eating. It was a routine you recognized. Both from his patronage of The Daily Grind and your own life.

“You’re a member of the club too, aren’t you?” you said.

“Which club?” Matt asked, his head tilting slightly to one side. Like a curious dog. How cute.

“The Fussy-Eaters Club,” you said.

“Ah yes, I have . . .” he paused, thinking about how to word it. “A discerning palette, I guess. For example, I can tell that Abby prefers Ceylon cinnamon for the Grind’s famous cinnamon rolls as well as its chai but uses cassia in things like the spice cake and gingerbread”

You blinked, surprised. While some customers had commented on the subtle floral notes of the cinnamon in the chai, the only people you had seen correctly identify it as Ceylon cinnamon were chefs and bakers. While Matt seemed to live on take out. There was never cooking or baking smells emanating from his apartment. To the point that you were pretty sure the only home-cooked food he got was from you and Serena or Mrs. Gonzales or that older woman you had seen visiting him when he had the flu last fall that looked a lot like Foggy.

“Supertaster to go with your super nose and excellent hearing?” you said. “Are you gonna save any senses for the rest of us?”

He laughed. An oddly relieved laugh. You had the sudden feeling that you had passed some kind of test that you hadn’t realized that you were taking. “You’ve got the super eye, remember?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t have a super eye just because I can tell the difference between dark navy blue and black.”

“Save Foggy from appearing in court with a mismatched suit. You know the press would have been all over that. Everyone loves hating on the defense attorney.”

“Right up until they need one.”

“Right up until they need one,” he agreed. “So far, how does dinner and a concert measure up against axe-throwing?”

“Axe-throwing?” You repeated, almost unable to believe your own ears.

“Yeah, Google recommended it as a fun first date activity.”

“Really, axe-throwing?”

“Yep. Right between live music and a walk in the park.”

“Well, it’s something different,” you said. “Be memorable.”

“Very,” Matt said. A mischievous grin split his face. “Should we do that for our second date?”

You giggled even as your heart soared with joy. He wanted a second date! “I don’t know Matt, blind axe throwing sounds more like a third date thing.”

“Hmm, you’re right. Back to the drawing board.” He pretended to think for a moment. “How about dinner at the new Thai place on 46? I haven’t been yet but it smells divine.”

“I’d love that,” you said, smiling.

Any further conversation was curtailed by Fayola, the lead singer of the Pixie Dreamgirls, asking the audience if they were ready for some music. A resounding Yes! was her answer.

“Well, then,” she said. “Let’s get this party started!”

You felt Matt’s hand lace your fingers together as the first notes of Call Down The Moon filled the air.

It had been hard not to skip all the way home. You were so happy. You had just seen a favorite band perform live and it had been so much fun. Your belly was filled with good food and drink. And you were on a date with Matt.

Matt who had taken every opportunity tonight to hold your hand. Who had listened to your excited gushing all the way home with that fond, little smile that made your heart go pitter-patter. Who had kissed you twice and was probably planning on kissing you again now that you were at your front door.

But you had another idea. One that had your heart racing with a combination of anticipation and nerves.

“Hey, Matt?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you want to come in for some coffee?” you asked, hoping he picked up on what you were really asking. There was no one else in the hallway but you had to be ladylike. Couldn’t just come out and say ‘I want you to fuck me stupid tonight.’

And it seemed like he had picked on what you hadn’t said, squeezing your hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” he said, his voice husky. “I’d love some coffee.”

To be continued . . .

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you Mama Sapph (@sunflowersandsapphires) on Tumblr for brainstorming help.

Hidaka Steakhouse, Cool Beans, Empire State University, Druken Duck Bar & Grill, and The Cat’s Meow are, as far I know, entirely made up businesses.

Pixie Dreamgirls also exists only in my head. It consists of three members - lead vocals/guitar, keyboard, and drums. Has two albums - Rainbow Magic and Call Down The Moon.

Freshly-ground coffee usually tastes fresher that anything pre-ground, provided the beans have been stored properly.

Tri-State Area or Greater New York means New York City, downstate New York, northern and central New Jersey, and western Connecticut but increasingly these days eastern Pennslyvania.

In vino veritas is Latin phrase meaning In wine, lies truth. It is referencing how people can be forthright after having their inhibitions lowered by alcohol.

According to a symbolism book, lavender means love and devotion in the language of flowers.

Cinnamon is a general name for the bark of five related trees that used as a spice. The Ceylon variety or true cinnamon is a milder flavor with more floral and spicy notes than cassia or Chinese cinnamon but cassia stands up better to longer cooking or in dishes with other strong flavors where the Ceylon might go unnoticed. Cassia is more common on the US market than Ceylon - the cinnamon at your supermarket is probably Cassia. Ceylon is more likely to be found at a speciality store and be more expensive.

Axe-throwing really was suggested by Google when I searched for fun first date ideas.

#fan fiction #daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #happy little accident series #chapter 3

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