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tender-rosiey · 2 years ago

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candy pretty! — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: okay but what would nanami do if his little girl had a crush on gojo’s son 😏

nanami is a mature man, calculated, collected, and the picture perfect adult. he is the best husband who, without fail, treats you like a queen.

he is also the best dad out there and your six year old daughter will always defend that with her entire being. she is also very ready to throw hands at whoever disagrees. right now, however, the one throwing hands is your husband.

and it’s either at gojo’s son or gojo himself.

but the boy did nothing, and gojo deserves a beating anyways so he settles for the latter.

that’s at least until his darling daughter came in with the biggest smile on her cute face and holding a note—probably written by gojo’s son, considering the very terrible and unstable handwriting, but the small smiley face and cute heart—as she squealed, “daddy, daddy! akio invited me to a playdate!”

it takes every bone in nanami not to walk to gojo’s house and throw him in the nearest trashcan where he belongs; instead, he smiles gently at his daughter, “that’s great, d/n. when are you going?”

“right now!”

“sure—wait…now?”

she nods excitedly. nanami sighs then gives her a thumbs up, and the girl takes it as a cue to excitedly run to her room with giggles and squeaks, “mommy, he said yes!”

he hears you respond through the door and he can practically hear the smile in your voice, “really? that’s awesome! let’s get you dressed up, pretty girl,” you and her run happily run to her room and nanami smiles at the sound of footsteps.

he loves how lively it makes the house feel.

then hears the door close and he leans back into his seat.

moments pass by. a deep breath he takes, and a stare he gives the ceiling before mumbling very quietly, “what the fuck.”

“ooo, daddy said a bad word!”

“put the money in the jar, kento!”

ugh, this is going to be a long day.

the both of you are already dressed, and your daughter is busying herself with her favorite comic while you help your husband get ready.

he is glaring at the mirror and you chuckle while straightening his collar, “what’s on your mind, handsome? dad instincts acting up? she is growing up; she is bound to have crushes.”

he nods with a sigh, “I know, but like it’s gojo’s kid.”

“yeah?”

“no, y/n, it’s gojo’s.”

“oh right…ew. ew to gojo, not the kid. akio is an absolute sweetheart.”

he snorts, “he probably takes after his mom,” then he kisses your forehead when you’re done tying his tie, “but the thought of being related to gojo is just…” he grimaces, shaking his head, and that’s all you need to understand.

he can almost imagine it: them a couple of years later, completely and utterly in love, and he would be so happy for them. anyone who ensures the happiness and safety of his daughter is an a+ for nanami.

then gojo will enter, loudly and dramatically, and he won’t hear the ending of his annoyances, a pain he thought he will get rid of before he enters his 40s at least. he looks at the bright side: at least, he will have you by his side.

you lightly smack his—very broad and muscular—shoulder, “now, you’re being dramatic! he isn’t that bad.”

a stare of silence is what you’re met with until your daughter interrupts the judging look of your husband, “mommy! daddy! ‘gotta go! he is waiting!”

your husband sighs once again and you giggle, pulling him with you towards the car.

the ride is quiet, save for your and your daughter’s singing and her rambles about how excited she is to see akio, along with your husband’s frown as he realizes that maybe he is getting protective of her even against akio.

it doesn’t take much time, before you’re already in the gojo household and are seated while the kids are playing in akio’s room.

it’s just you, kento, and gojo because mama gojo went out to work. you would’ve loved to catch up with her about the latest gossip in town.

gojo grins as he looks at the both of you, “so how’s nanamin feeling about the kids’ love story?”

an instant scowl is plastered on your husband’s handsome face and it makes you and gojo laugh out loud. gojo understands why he is protective. when he has a daughter himself, he will probably never let a boy near her.

you cup kento’s face to press a kiss to his cheek and it relaxes him, even if it’s just a tiny bit. gojo lets out a whistle and both you and your husband glare at him.

you hear some rustling in akio’s room, before your daughter bursts out, red-faced and running towards you. she buries her face in your legs and you softly ask her, “what’s wrong, honey?”

nanami gently rubs her back and it encourages her to speak up, even if her voice is a mere murmur, “akio called me pretty,” she fidgets with her fingers. you and nanami share a look of a helpless smile and pat your daughter’s hair.

soon after, akio comes running out of his room , “d/n? are you okay? miss y/n, is she sick? is she okay? I can get that…uh—yellow thingy mommy gives me when I am sick!”

you chuckle and stroke your daughter’s hair lovingly, “don’t worry, hun; she is just a little shy about being called pretty,” you hear her huff on your legs and she looks up to frown at you.

you chuckle and kiss her forehead while nanami is staring—read: probably glaring or planning something—at akio.

akio tilts his head in confusion, “but she is pretty? the prettiest girl ever! even prettier than candy!”

your daughter whines, burying her face further into your leg, “akioo, stop!”

gojo chuckles, watching the scene unfold and thinking about how his very evident charms were passed down to his kid.

but the compassion in his eyes as he worriedly looks at d/n is definetly from his mom. akio pads his way to d/n, and gently pats her head, “I am sorry; please don’t be mad at me.”

he pouts and looks away while blushing, “you’re my favorite person to play with…and I never—um,” he hides his faces his shirt, “want to make you sad.”

your daughter peaks at him and you could swear you could hear the slow music and the chiming bells. you could also bet that the wind is a paid-actor cause when did the window open anyways?

your husband taps your shoulder and points at gojo, who is turning on a fan to give this sweet moment more drama.

and so, after a while, the playdate comes to a close and you’re at the door saying goodbye to the gojos—who you will probably see tomorrow, but whatever.

gojo is leaning against the door as he grins, “let’s do this again soon.”

your husband takes out a cloth to wipe his glasses, “I would rather not.”

you gently elbow him before kneeling beside your daughter, “come on, d/n; say bye to akio and uncle gojo.”

“bye bye, uncle gojo,” she waves and he excitedly waves back then she looks at akio in silence.

the poor boy is overthinking why she isn’t saying goodbye to him and he is probably about to tear up. however, your daughter finally musters up the courage and walks towards him.

they look at each other for a moment before your daughter pecks his cheek and dashes to the car.

akio stares in front of him before becoming a blushing mess and falling to the ground. it’s chaos from there on out.

gojo is cackling like he never laughed before in his life. your husband is speechless and probably planning murder. you’re trying to do your best to calm him down, but it seems like there will be no stopping this man.

family dinners will be so interesting.

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trippinsorrows · 1 year ago

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with me + part six

authors note: i'm very sorry in advance for how this ends, it was just getting wayyyy too long, and there was no good place to slice it in half, so i cut it before shit unfolds, so yes please don't hate me!!!

pairing: roman reigns x black!reader

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: fluff, language, suggestive dialogue, angst

song inspo: ‘with me’ by destiny’s child

words: 6.5k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wanderingreigns

“Whoa.”

Mariah’s reaction is expected. Your living room, specifically the sofa, is occupied by several of Callie’s dolls. A tea party that you were so kindly invited to attend this morning.

“Girl, you should see her playroom. Pretty soon the floor is going to be non-visible.”

A small part of you regrets not trying to straighten up before Mariah came over, but this is also your literal best friend. You know she’s seen more than almost anyone else in your life, and she would never judge you, let alone over the state of your apartment when she has a child of her own.

Mariah looks over at you with a raised brow. “He did all this?” You nod. “Why?”

“Because she’s his little girl and of course he’s going to spoil her. A quote.” You chuckle as you and Mariah decide to just sit at the kitchen island. It’s probably best to leave the dolls untouched as Callie’s likely to wake up from her nap wanting to play again.

Mariah gives you a look. “You don’t find that weird?”

Confused, you ask, “what?”

Mariah shrugs and circles the top of her water bottle with her index finger. “I don’t know. He just found out about her, and now he’s buying her stuff? Seems like he’s trying to buy her love.”

“You don’t know Joe.” It’s an easy dismissal, because you do know him and know that’s the last thing on his mind. “That’s not him at all. He just wants to see her happy.”

Mariah looks unfazed and stands ten toes down, adding on, “then he should be here full time instead of randomly popping in.” You just look at her, slightly confused where this is coming from. “I mean, I’m happy she’s getting to know him, but this is all so messy, you know? He’s married. He has a wife, and he’s coming here seeing his secret child with his secret mistress.”

You can only look at her, stunned by her words, even if a small part of you knows there’s some element of truth. Joe swiftly dodged the only question you’ve asked about how and when he’s going to tell his wife about Callie. It was a valid question that deserved an answer. But the things Mariah is saying, you can’t tell if it angers you because it’s not true or hurts you because it is.

She seems to detect your conflicted emotions and reaches over with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be negative. I just remember how hard it was for you when you and Joe broke up the first time. I hated seeing you so hurt.”

“We’re not together, Mariah. We’re coparenting.” You hate how soft your voice is, giving away that her words now have your head spinning.

“So you honestly mean to tell me that you have no feelings for him? None whatsoever.” You can’t give her an answer, or either refuse to. It’s another valid question but the answer isn’t as simple for you to express. You know you feel something for Joe, but that could just be because of the fact that you two share a child together. There has to be some type of emotional connection between any two people who create life. “Exactly. Just be careful. He broke your heart once before. Don’t let him do it again.”

Your feelings are so mixed, agreeing with certain aspects of what’s being said and disagreeing with others. Mariah has triggered some big thoughts, ones that you probably should sort through at some point. You’re just not eager for right now to be that moment.

“Enough about me, what’s been going on with you?”

You pray she knows you well enough to know that you’re desperate to change the subject. “What do you mean?”

“I feel like we haven’t spoken much lately, and I know that’s partially on me. It’s just been a lot on my end, I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s cool.”

Something tells you that she’s just saying that, and there’s a level of bitterness towards you for the distance. But, you can’t allow yourself to be hurt by that, because it’s fair. Mariah has been too good of a friend to be ditched the minute your ex comes back around.

‘How are things with Caleb? Are you guys getting along any better?” Caleb and Mariah have only been married for two years but have already hit a rough patch, enough where he’s temporarily moved out of the house. Last you spoke with her, they were supposed to meet up to discuss what they were going to do, especially for the sake of Miach.

“Did you see him at my place last time you were there?” Her response is all you need to know that that is still a sensitive spot for her as well. Understandably so, but her shut down is so cold and unlike the sweet, gentle friend you’ve always known her to be. You were always known as the outspoken, brutal friend, though it seems that maybe as the years go by, the roles are reversing.

Unless there's something else at play.

—-------

Today is going to be a good day.

For Callie at least.

Your earlier conversation with Mariah, who seemed far too eager to leave when you mentioned Joe would be arriving in less than two hours, is still circulating in your head. You know she’s only trying to look out for you, and you’re very appreciative of that, but there was some undertone to the way she spoke to you that you can’t shake off. Like, it wasn’t coming just from a place of concern, but something else that didn’t seem as genuine.

“Mommy, why are we cleaning?”

Because mommy is too broke for a maid.

You instead settle on the answer, “because we want our home nice and clean, baby.”

“But, it is clean.” She’s not entirely wrong, it’s just every so often you like to deep clean, dusting, mopping, the extra shit that usually isn’t done with daily cleaning.

Taking a break from wiping down your kitchen counters with some overpriced cleaner you picked up from Target, you see Callie is ready to be done, the dust rag you’d given here now sitting on the coffee table.

With a heavy sigh, you ask, “you wanna play, don’t you?” Her eyes widen and her head nods enthusiastically. A quick glance at the clock indicates that Joe should be knocking at your door any minute, so you try to buy some more time. “Alright, let mommy finish here, and I’ll come play with you.”

“Yay!”

Chuckling, you listen to the sound of her run in the direction of her playroom while you finish scrubbing the counters, even if they’re as clean as they can get. It’s most likely a result of all the overthinking you’ve done the past few hours. The older you get, the more you realize you’ve become that ‘i’m anxious, so let’s clean until we’re physically exhausted’ mom. Which, technically, isn’t a horrible thing, but it’s also probably not the best way to deal with your emotions.

Not that you’ve always been the best with that either.

And that’s when you hear it, the solid two knocks you’ve been waiting for all morning.

Smiling, you call out for Callie who marches out seconds later with a doll in her hand. “You wanna see who’s at the door for mommy?” Callie looks rightfully confused. At the same time you taught her how to open, close, and lock the door because you never know what can happen, you stressed to her that she is to never open it without permission or unless during an emergency. So, you emphasize, “it’s okay.”

Shrugging, she skips, literally skips to the door. You chuckle. This kid has so much damn personality. Moving to the sink to rinse your hands, you move slowly, waiting for it.

A loud gasp. “Joe!”

You can mentally picture the absolute surprise and happiness splashed over her little face. Grabbing the towel to dry your hands, Joe walks in holding Callie who you haven’t seen look so happy since the last time Joe was in town.

“Mommy, Joe’s here!”

Kids announcing the most obvious things will always be hilarious. “He sure is.” Leaning against the counter, you focus on him. “Hey.” He looks good, but he always looks good. That was always the damn problem.

He takes in you for a second, eyes lingering longer than what’s probably necessary, “hey.” He easily returns his attention back to Callie who can’t seem to stop smiling, which makes you smile. You love seeing her so happy. "I missed you."

"I missed you too!" She glances over at you, partially contrite. “Mommy, I’m gonna play with Joe instead, okay?”

You pretend to be shocked, standing upright and crossing your arms and making a face before laughing, waving her off.

“That’s fine, baby, because I am going to take a nap.” It’s much needed. Your sleep has been kinda shitty lately, and you know yourself well enough to know that exhaustion makes you bitchy. And the last thing you want is to unintentionally take that bitchiness out on her. Even Joe. Walking up to them, you poke him in his stomach. Jesus, he’s ripped. “Help yourself to anything. Just make sure she doesn’t destroy my house, please. And make her clean.”

At that, her face sours, and Joe chuckles.

“You got it.”

Satisfied, you walk back into your room, deciding to close the door. Callie will absolutely welcome herself in if need be. Plopping down on the mattress, you stare up at the ceiling, taking in a deep breath, momentarily stopping yourself from closing your eyes. For a second, you forget that Callie is not alone and unattended, thus preventing you from sleeping.

Call it being an anxious, overprotective parent, you’ve never allowed yourself to nap when it’s just the two of you. Even when she’s asleep, and when you do, you set an alarm to wake you up every ten minutes, just to make sure she’s still knocked out. It makes taking time to rest pretty difficult, if not impossible, but it’s what makes you comfortable.

It’s an easy sacrifice to make for your child.

So having another adult around, her dad, of all people, is a nice feeling. You know she’s safe and watched over. And it’s what allows you to actually fall into a peaceful slumber.

Just for a little bit.

—-------

It is, in fact, just for a little bit.

Because you’re awoken by your phone ringing, your mom on the other end wondering what time she can expect you and Callie to come over.

Shit.

You completely forget that you’d agreed to bring Callie to see her as it’d been “too long," according to her. You partially agreed, realizing you haven’t visited your mom since the day everything went down, what with you reaching out to Joe again and that whole fiasco.

And that’s another thing.

Your mother has no idea he’s back in the picture.

Walking out of the room, you find them in the living room, of course, watching Toy Story 2.

Callie’s eyes light up when she sees you, but that doesn’t pull her from her position, tucked right under Joe’s side on your sofa. If you had your phone, you’d try to snap a picture.

“That wasn’t long,” he snickers, and you glare, stopping yourself from flipping him off.

You move over to the sofa, sitting on the armrest. “That’s cause my mom called and woke me up.”

“Grandma?”

Nodding, you explain to both Callie and Joe. “I forgot we were supposed to go visit her today.”

She moves up on her knees, asking, “can we go?” She looks over at Joe. “Joe can come with us!”

You consider her suggestion. Your mom didn’t even find out about Joe until you told her you were pregnant. You kept that part of your life a secret from her for good reasons. This doesn’t seem like the best way for her to find out, to drop it on her yet again. However, one look at Callie’s desperate expression, and you already know your answer.

“Of course,” you then add on, “if he wants to.”

Callie, being Callie, answers for him. “He wants to!” She tugs on his sleeve, excitement bubbling. “You can meet my grandma!”

You glance over at him, “are you sure? I’m sorry, I know this was supposed to be one on one with her….”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “If she wants to go, let’s go.”

You nod, praying this doesn’t end up being a bad idea.

—-------

“Mama!” You call out, watching Joe shut and lock the door behind him. Seeing that allows you to focus on where the hell your mother is. She usually meets you at the door when she knows you’re coming over. “Where is this woman?”

The car drive was pleasant enough, Callie talking almost the entire time, as expected. And Joe eating it up the whole time, also, as expected.

You can see now he’s definitely going to be that dad. The dad who finds anything and everything his kid does to be adorable. You can’t wait for him to be on the receiving end of one of Callie’s temper tantrums and see how he handles it.

“Grandma!” Callie suddenly calls, all the while keeping her hand in Joe’s. “I’m here!”

Finally, the sound of footsteps from upstairs as your mom comes down the stairs, home phone, yes, a home phone, held between her ear and shoulder. “I told her Bishop wasn’t gonna go for that, but you know how she is. Old fool.” It’s when she’s in the vicinity to see that it’s not just you and Callie, her eyes grow wide. “Cheryl, let me call you back.”

Damn.

You know that tone, that ‘let me talk to you’ tone.

Thankfully, you get a brief save. The sight of your mom makes Callie drop Joe’s hand to sprint off to meet her on the steps. “Grandma!”

She leans down to pick up Callie, smothering her with kisses. “My favorite little lady.”

Callie giggles as your mom descends from the steps, Callie on her hip, to approach you and Joe who’d, wisely, remained quiet up until this point.

You watch your mom’s eyes land on him, but before she can say anything, Callie jumps in.

“Grandma, this is Joe! He’s mommy’s friend and mine too!”

Fuck. Your mom’s eyes travel between him and Callie, once, twice, and on the third time, you know. You just know that she knows.

And that’s when you jump in, knowing you desperately need to speak with her. “Callie, why don’t you show Joe the play area?”

Her eyes blaze with enthusiasm as your mom places her back on the ground. Callie’s little feet carry her back over to Joe who seems to understand you need to talk with your mother.

“Come on!” Taking his hand, she begins to direct him to the back of the house and through the sliding door.

Your mom waits until she knows the two of you are alone to speak. “Girl, you done got my blood pressure all up.”

“Mama—”

“That’s Callie’s daddy, ain’t it?” She doesn’t even give you time to answer. “Don’t try to lie, either. She looks just like him.”

There’s no need in denying the obvious. “Yes.”

Her mouth drops open in rightful shock. “And just when did you plan to tell me he was back in the picture?” The questions keep coming, understandably so considering how you’ve just dropped this on her. “And why is she calling him by his first name?”

“Because she doesn't know,” you answer the second question, hating the disappointed look on her face. “We–he hasn’t told her yet.”

“It just keeps getting worse.” She’s rubbing her temple and you just know she’s gonna need to take an Excedrin before the night is over. “Tell me everything. Now.”

And so, you do, starting with Callie’s initial question about her dad, to your phone call with Joe, his visit where he confirmed he had a daughter, all of it. And when you’re done, your mom is visibly shaken.

“Lord, he found out about her through social media?” You still feel badly about that, about a lot of it. “Well….does his wife know?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t really talked about that yet.” Before your mom can protest, you add, “we will. I’ll make sure of it. He just wants to get to know her first. For himself.”

Your mom chuckles, obviously having studied the close interaction between the two of them in the few minutes she’s been privy to see them engage with one another. “seems like that’s already a done deal.”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “He’s really good with her.”

And it’s the truth, Joe seems to be naturally good with a lot of things, but there’s something so impressive about his ability to interact and connect with Callie. It’s so natural.

“So, are you two…..”

“No,” you shut that down immediately. “We’re just trying to navigate coparenting.”

Your mom nods but doesn’t say anything, and you know her well enough to know it’s because she doesn’t entirely believe you. But, she won’t push.

“Well.” She claps her hands together, nodding to the backdoor. “Let me go properly introduce myself, since you got me out here looking rude. Probably got that boy thinking I don’t like him.”

“I promise, he’s not like that.” You two start walking toward the backyard where you’re certain Callie is talking a hole in his head, describing the play area your mom put together just for her when she spends the night.

She places her hand on the sliding door but pauses to look at you, “let me just say this though, that is one fine young man. I see now why you had a hard time letting him go. The devil sure knows how to tempt people.”

“Mama!” You try to suppress your laughter as the two of you walk out, sure enough to find Callie on the swing, Joe pushing her as they share their own conversation.

She walks up to him, wearing a warm smile, giving a wink to Callie. “I’m so sorry about that. My daughter just didn’t tell me you were gonna be here.”

Joe, forever respectful, starts to indirectly apologize. “I hope it's not a problem. If so, I can—”

She waves him off, “oh, hush.” She leans in to whisper, “you’re practically family.” He returns her smile as she introduces herself by name, he offers his, and your wonderful mother then informs, “well, this one is gonna help me tend to my garden, cause winter will be here before we know it.” She leans down and kisses the top of Callie’s head, as she’s stopped swinging and is instead sitting. Her eyes light up at the idea of gardening with your mom. The same way you used to garden with your grandma. A bit of a tradition being passed down. “And in the meantime, you two can go finish organizing the office.”

Your eyes widen. No wonder she didn’t hear you all coming in right away. That room, once your bedroom, became your mom’s storage area and over the years has accumulated stuff on top of stuff. Nowhere near a hoarding level, but just a lot of things that she doesn’t want to part with but needs to organize. “Mama, that's not—”

“I don't want to hear no complaining. You really want me up on that ladder?” You roll your eyes, realizing she’s referring to the top of your old closet where she keeps the storage bins of memorabilia, mostly photos. “I'm not getting any younger. What if I fall? Then you gon feel bad.”

“You're so dramatic.” Your mom acts like she's 75 and at death's door sometimes. The woman is 52 and teaches a Zumba class at the rec center every Saturday. She could fall and jump right back up like nothing happened.

She places her hand on Joe’s arm, smiling slyly. “You got this strong, handsome man to help you out.�� One thing you’ve learned as you’ve gotten older is that your tendency to unintentionally flirt from time to time 100% came from your mother. Clearly. “Besides, if you do fall, you'll be fine. You got enough booty back there to cushion it.”

“Mama!” One glance at Joe, and you see him make a face that reads clearly 'she's not entirely wrong.’ At that, you shove him, not that it does anything. He's solid as a rock. “Fine, we'll organize your mess, but not for long. Joe is only in town until tomorrow night, and he did not come here to be a part of your cleaning crew.”

“I don’t mind,” Joe adds. Of course, he doesn't. He hasn’t seen it yet, and he’s a gentleman. “Whatever you need help with, I’ll do it.”

Your mom gives you another look and then looks at him. “I like you, Joseph.”

Callie lifts her head, adding, “I like him too!”

I like him too.

“Well, get to it. When we’re done, ya’ll can help me fix some dinner.” Her eyes then land on you. “Well, not you. You can make the lemonade or something.”

Joe coughs awkwardly, poorly hiding his laughter. “I’m getting really sick of ya’ll coming for me and my poor cooking skills.”'

Your mom directs Callie to grab her caddy with their needed gardening supplies. “Baby, you are a lot of things, but a cook ain’t one of them.” She points at Joe, sharing, “remind me to tell you the story about how she almost burned down my house.”

“Okay, we’re gonna go now.” You grab Joe’s hand and lead him back into the house toward the stairs, which he motions for you to go up first, realizing after the fact that he probably did so to stare at your ass.

This man….

Entering your former bedroom, you stretch your arm to show you just what you signed up for. He walks in, clearly surprised. “Okay.”

“Yup.” There’s items scattered all over, your mom clearly in the middle of trying to categorize the millions of family photos ya’ll have. “Still don’t mind?”

He shrugs forever unbothered. “There’s two of us. We’ll get it done.”

Sucking your teeth, you look around, trying to figure out where the hell to start. “Your optimism is annoying.”

Chuckling, his smartass remarks, “Glass half full, baby. Glass half full.”

“Yeah, yeah, well glass your ass over there and reach me the ladder. I need the box these pictures can go in from the top.”

He follows where you’re pointing but also gestures to the closet. “That one?” Joe makes a sound and instead of following your directions, casually walks over to said closet, reaches up and grabs the box with all the ease of someone who’s 6’3.

Smug expression on his face, he hands it to you as you glare. “Show off.”

Joe assesses you, eyes settling on your chest before redirecting them to your face. “Maybe I should have let you get up there. View and all.”

Holding back your smile is difficult, so you settle for biting on your bottom lip and bumping his side as you move past him. “Shut up.” You know his gaze is on you and that should bother you, his flirty comment should bother you, but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t at all.

—-------

“I still can’t believe you were a cheerleader.”

There’s probably been a decent combination of conversation and organization in your time working together to ‘unmess’ your mom’s mess. That’s not entirely surprising though. Joe has always been immensely easy to talk to, to be around. And you couldn’t deny that you missed this kind of interaction with him, the most and maybe first since he’s re-entered your life. You wholly understand why he spends and devotes most of his time with Callie, but there’s a small part of you that’s missed this.

Missed it being just the two of you.

Chuckling, you comment, “you’re not the first. I was….different in high school and college than I am now.”

He’s intrigued, asking, “how?”

“Well, for one, I don’t party damn near every night anymore.” One thing you could never deny about your early days was that you always liked to have a good time, liked to make your expected appearances at whatever party of the week, or day, was happening. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t drink or smoke. That was never my thing. I just….I liked to have fun, probably too much fun more often than not.” You chuckle to yourself, grabbing a stack of photos to put in the container. “Now, I like to be in bed by 9:30, 10 at the latest.”

He smiles and looks over at the wall that still has many of your cheer accolades proudly displayed. “Obviously, you were pretty damn good.”

Shrugging, you push some of your hair behind your ear. Not that it does much. Your curls have always been voluminous and wild. “I was, but….it came at a cost to some extent. Cheer is insanely competitive, and I didn’t always handle that the best.”

Competitiveness was something you deeply struggled with when you were younger. Feeling like you had to be the best, not even better than anyone else per se, but the best that you could be. Always trying to prove that you were good enough.

Looking back now, you have a solid guess of where that came from and what drove it.

Joe’s studying you, trying to gauge your comfort level with this conversation. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” you answer, honestly. “Until I didn’t. Shortly before college, I think, is when the love started to fade.”

“But you cheered in college too, didn’t you?”

You nod, explaining, “I got a scholarship for cheer, and I wasn’t about to put that stress on my mom to have her help me figure out how to pay for school when I had an easy ride.” Around that time is when your relationship with your mom started to strengthen, and the last thing you wanted to do was risk messing it back up by being selfish. You’d cheered damn near your whole life, what was another 4 years?

“I like your mom,” he announces, almost suddenly. It’s unsurprising. Most people do. But, there is something that pleases you about her tentative approval of him and now his of her.

“She’s really great. I don’t know what I would do without her, and Callie adores her.” You look over at him, playfully. “Not as much as she adores you, though.”

You can see the delight in his eyes. “Yeah?”

His disbelief surprises you. How can he not see how crazy Callie is over him? “Are you kidding me? That lil girl already doesn’t shut up, but she really doesn’t shut up about you. It’s Joe this, Joe that. The first thing she asks me when I pick her up from school is always if she can call you.” Deciding this is a perfect segue, you add on, carefully. “You know….you should tell her. I can promise you, she won’t be upset. She’s gonna be thrilled.”

She already loves you.

You don’t know if it’s too soon to say that, if it’s something you should even say vs let him hear from Callie herself. You just know that there’s probably very little he could do at this point to make Callie not love him. She’s hooked.

“Christmas,” he announces, adding, “I’ll tell her when I come back for Christmas.”

This surprises you, as he hasn’t discussed his next visit up until this point. You also don’t feel the need to comment or counter his plan and timeline to tell Callie. You can’t think of a better Christmas gift for her. “You got the time off?”

He nods, providing specifics. “I’ll be here the day before Christmas Eve. Gotta fly back out on the 26th though.”

“Stay with us.” Where this comes from, you’re not sure, but there’s not a lot of regret once it's released. “I know you hate that damn hotel, and Callie would be thrilled to have you around 24/7.” Getting up off the floor, you carry the now filled container and move up the ladder you’d used a couple times because he’d been preoccupied organizing other areas. Sliding it back in the same spot, you descend down the steps only to feel strong hands grip your waist.

Bringing you to the ground, he carefully turns you around, but that’s not what you’re focused on. What you’re focused on is how close he is to you, your chests nearly touching, his eyes burning into you. Instantly, your stomach is knotting. You know that look, know it all too well.

“Joe….” Your voice is soft, much softer than it needs to be when trying to assert yourself. And you hate yourself for the tiny sigh that leaves your mouth when he brings his palm to your cheek. “We—we can’t—”

“I’m divorced.”

This man, so fine and kind, and damn near pressed against you is distracting, so much so that you’re briefly disconnected from what he’s just said. But, it’s forcing yourself to come back to reality that his words truly hit you. You’re not sure you could have ever guessed that statement would ever leave his mouth.

Slightly in shock, staring at him with bewilderment, you stammer, “w–what?”

“Two months ago, Jadah and I filed for divorce. It was uncontested, and the state of Florida is one of the quickest when it comes to processing these things.” His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still, as if he knows you want to move away from him. “I got notice it was finalized a few days ago.”

You’re listening, you really are, but hearing is another story. This has to be some type of sick joke, some type of cruel prank ripped directly out the pages of a journal kept and maintained so long ago. Cause you’d absolutely written about this at one point, written about what it would be like if he were to leave his wife.

You just never could have anticipated it would one day become a reality.

“I—I don’t understand.” Joe only found out about Callie less than a month ago, so there’s no way she was the reason for the split. Still, you have to ask. “Wh–why?”

Something flashes in his eyes. Hurt. “It was long overdue.” He doesn’t say anything beyond that, and while you expected more, you can also see there’s more to the story. More that he’s not saying, but it’s the brief glimpse of pain that prevents you from pushing. Whatever it is, it’s clearly difficult for him to discuss.

“Oh.” It’s a stupid thing to say, but you’re truly in a state of shock and don’t know what else to say.

The biggest and only issue that ever existed between yourself and Joe has always been his marriage, the fact that he was already taken. It was the only reason you ever broke it off with him, but now, he’s standing before you, telling you that this is no longer the case.

You’re all of the emotions: confused, nervous, happy, hopeful, and so many more that you can’t even label.

“I didn’t say anything at first, because meeting Callie was my priority. Establishing a relationship with her was a priority. And it still is, but…..” Your eyes shut as he drops his head in the crook of your neck. “I’ve missed you.” Your hands gradually lift to lay against his chest as he sighs into you, ‘I’ve missed everything about you.” Eyes remaining shut, your nails claw gently against him as he moves his mouth over your neck. “The way you smile, the way you laugh.” His hand on your back slowly inches downward. “The way you taste.” Your breath catches as his teeth graze your collarbone. “The way you feel when I’m inside you.”

“Joe,” you breathe, the air suddenly thick, your throat tight. Breathing is incredibly arduous in this moment. “I—”

“Mommy! Joe!”

Joe’s suddenly across the damn room, it seems like, as Callie enters at both the perfect and worst time with a smile, completely oblivious to what she’s just interrupted. “Grandma said come eat!”

Frowning, you glance at the clock and realize it’s most definitely dinner time and that your mom had most likely just had Callie help her prepare the meal instead of asking you two to help.

Huh.

She moves across the room, tackling Joe from the side and craning up her head as she excitedly asks, “Wanna see what I made? Grandma helped me!”

Leaning down to pick her up, he answers, “of course, I wanna see.” He begins to walk out the door as Callie calls out for you to follow behind.

And you will.

You just need a moment.

Because what the hell just happened?

—-------

I’m divorced.

It keeps playing in your head, on a vicious repeating cycle, like that annoying song the radio plays every 15 minutes, forcing it down your throat.

For almost the entire time you were together, you infrequently allowed yourself to dream about what your life would be like if the circumstances were different, if he wasn’t already taken. If he wasn’t already married. And each time only left you feeling worse than before, because it was stupid. You were three years deep into the situationship; if he hadn’t left his wife by then, he wasn’t leaving her period.

It was a harsh pill that took you forever to swallow.

And even then, you knew that you could never be happy. Not with the knowledge that he’d left his wife for you. It may be bliss initially, but the guilt would have eaten you up and ruined things regardless.

So accepting and telling yourself that it would never work out long-term was what kept your head above water, especially in the two months after you broke things off. And once you learned you were pregnant with Callie, there was a new kind of stress, a new kind of distraction.

Not that it made you forget about him. Hardly.

Every check up, every milestone, every kick, your mind would wander to him. Wander to a fantasy world where you imagined he was with you every step of the way, the two of you preparing together for the arrival of your first child.

Even as the years went on and Callie got older, you still would find yourself from time to time imagining how different things would be if he was around.

Well, now he is. He’s not only around, but he’s going to be actively involved in Callie’s life for the rest of her life.

And he’s now single.

All of this makes for one fucked up emotional rollercoaster ride.

Dinner is an experience, only for you, maybe Joe to some extent. He’s always had a tendency to compartmentalize emotions though, unlike yourself. Granted, if it was a struggle for him, he did a damn good job not showing it. It also probably helped a ton that Callie talked a hole in his and your mom’s head.

You knew your mom could see something was up with you but graciously opted to not ask you any questions. You wouldn’t have any answers to give her anyway.

And you indicated as much when you were back at your apartment, and Callie in her room gathering her favorite pajamas for bed.

“I just need time to think.”

It’s all you can offer him, because it’s the truth. There’s so much more to consider than you could have imagined, and it’s really hard to contemplate when you still have Mariah’s voice oscillating in the back of your mind, your insecurities, and even your mom.

So many differing perspectives, it’s hard to focus and hear your own.

Thankfully, he accepts that answer, and you accept that you’re running out of different ways to escape confronting your own emotions.

Maybe.

Because this day has already been exceedingly long, and you’re more emotionally exhausted than anything. So when Callie comes to you complaining of a tummy ache, you administer her Children’s Tylenol, lay with her until she falls asleep, and take advantage of this rare opportunity to turn your brain off and just rest.

The hard shit could wait.

—-------

“Mommy!”

There's a certain tone every person has that's reserved for emergencies, saved for moments when something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

This is one of those moments.

You nearly trip with how quickly you jump out the bed and sprint down the hall to Callie’s room. Hitting the light switch, your stomach drops when you see her.

On her side, in a fetal position, crying profusely.

Rushing over to her, you see too that she's pale and a hand to her forehead reveals she's burning up. Sheer panic climbs up your body, settling into your stomach and the back of your throat. Still, you do your best to not show her your fear.

“Baby, is it your tummy?” You take a hand to feel her stomach, but she screams out in pain, making you jump from her reaction.

“Mommy, it hurts,” she sobs, and you're instantly moving the blankets off her, already knowing what you need to do.

Hand on her forehead, you assure, “I’lll be right back, okay?”

You rush back into your room, sliding on the first pair of shoes that you come across. You grab your phone off the nightstand and throw it in your purse, all in under a minute, still too long. And as soon as you're back in her room, you waste no time in lifting her into your arms.

She winces, so you reassure, “come on, baby. It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

It's what you're telling yourself, the only thing keeping you from panicking. Unsure and uncaring at this moment if you lock the front door behind you, you carry her down the steps and into the dark of night, carefully but quickly buckling her into her carseat.

Hating to see her continue to cry, to be in pain, you kiss her forehead, “I’m gonna get you some help, okay? We're going to the hospital.”

She can only nod, and your eyes water. Your forever talkative child is rendered speechless by her pain. It crushes you.

Hopping into the driver's seat, you grab your phone, trembling fingers locating the address of the hospital. You hit share and send it to Joe before pressing the call button and tossing your phone into the passenger seat to zoom out of the parking lot.

Your phone is connected to your vehicle, ringing three times before he picks up, voice heavy with sleep. “Hey.”

“I need you to meet me at the hospital. I already sent you the address.” You do your best to remain calm and collected, to not scare Callie more than she's already scared. Even if you’re fucking terrified. “Something is wrong with Calista.”

#roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #wwe #roman reigns x black!oc #arisnotebook

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mack-writersblock · 4 months ago

Note

i imagine that luke somehow forgets to tell the bau that he's dating someone so he asks if his girl can come to a get together at rossi's and rossi says yes thinking that it is roxy that luke is bringing when in reality it is the reader, can it be a girly fem reader too?

Forgetful || L. Alvez

Summary: Luke forgot to mention he had a girlfriend, the truth comes to light at a party when they show up together.

cw: use of Y/N, predetermined last name (Ashford), reader has slight anxiety but it isn't described in detail, reader is smart and knows the statistics of dice rolls,

Word count: 854

This is so short, I'm sorry

₊˚⊹⁠♡————— ⁠♡ —————♡⊹⁠˚₊

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for a team get-together at David Rossi’s house, after all, he insisted that he lived in a mansion. Not that anyone ever disagreed with him, he did live in a mansion. It also wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for Luke to bring Roxy.

“Can I bring my girl?” Luke sent a text on his phone before looking up at David.

“Of course, she’s always invited,” David responded, thinking that Luke was talking about Roxy. Unknown to the team, Luke had been dating someone for months; however, in his defense, he had meant to tell them, but there was a case when he meant to and never got around to it.

“Great, we might be a bit late,” Luke warned the older man, leaving with a shared goodbye.

₊˚‧ ︵‿ ꒰ ⏝ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⏝ ꒱ ‿︵ ‧˚₊

“Are you sure they want me there? I know we’ve been dating for a few months, but still, you guys are like family. What if they don’t like me?” You were nervously playing with Luke’s dog tags, which he had given you to wear only 46 hours ago.

“They will love you, and of course, they want you there, they have to meet you after all,” Luke pulled you to him, pressing a kiss to your temple to calm your nerves. He knocked on the door, which you had been standing in front of for about a minute.

“Welcome, I wasn’t aware you were bringing someone,” David invited you two in, and you scrunch your eyebrows at Luke.

“I asked if I could, remember?” Luke subtly shifted his hold on you, letting you know that he was there for you no matter how this turned out.

“I thought you were talking about Roxy,” David admitted, and you relaxed a bit. “So, who is this?”

“My girlfriend,” Luke said plainly, and you caught onto what happened before he did.

“Did you ever get around to telling them about me after that case?” You turned to face him and saw the realization cross his face.

“I guess I didn’t, huh,” Luke rubbed the back of his neck, and you let out a small laugh as the three of you rounded the corner into the room everyone else was in. You were greeted with a bunch of curious faces. You recognized some of them from the photos Luke had taken and shown you, but some were unfamiliar to you.

“Who’s this?” Penelope, as you recognized, asked.

“This is Y/N Ashford, my girlfriend,” Luke introduced you, and you watched as they all smiled and welcomed you.

₊˚‧ ︵‿ ꒰ ⏝ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⏝ ꒱ ‿︵ ‧˚₊

“How long have you two been dating?” Spencer asked you and Luke.

“About five months now,” you told him.

“Four months, two weeks, and five days,” Luke proudly stated, and you smiled over at him.

“Sorry, four months, two weeks, and five days,” you copied Luke, hearing the laughs of those around you.

“That long, and we are just now learning about you?” Emily entered the conversation, and you looked over at her.

“In Luke’s defense, he was supposed to tell you, but then y’all got a case, and he just forgot to tell you,” you smiled at Luke, awkwardly laughing next to you.

₊˚‧ ︵‿ ꒰ ⏝ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⏝ ꒱ ‿︵ ‧˚₊

“She’s pretty,” Penelope walked up to Luke, you were off on a side table playing Street Craps against David and winning.

“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” Luke had a lovesick look on his face.

“Where’d you meet her?” Penelope was smiling. She loved seeing Luke in love and happy, though she would never admit it.

“She lives next to me, she ran into me, literally,” Luke laughed, remembering how horrified you looked when you realized you ran into someone.

“She won!” David called in slight disbelief, and you were laughing at his over-the-top reaction.

“It’s statistics,” you justified your win, making his turn to you.

“You know dice statistics?” David questioned you, and you nodded.

“My friends and I used to play this in study hall all the time, I learned them to help win,” you shrugged, brushing off how you memorized the statistics to win a game.

₊˚‧ ︵‿ ꒰ ⏝ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⏝ ꒱ ‿︵ ‧˚₊

“Are you sure they liked me?” Your nerves slowly came back as you and Luke left David’s house.

“They loved you,” Luke assured you, his hand landing on your thigh to ground you.

“Are you sure? David isn’t upset that I beat him?”

“If he cared about people beating him in a game where there are statistics, he wouldn’t offer to play them with Spencer around,” Luke explained, smiling over at you when he stopped at a red light.

“Ok, but did I really have to take all the money? I didn’t think we were actually playing for money,” you looked down at the envelope that held the few dollars that you had won.

“Yeah, he would have found a way to get the money to you anyway,” Luke told you, and you laughed.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Like this story? Here's my masterlist

#luke alvez #luke alvez x reader #criminal minds #fanfiction #fanfic #im just a girl

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shiorimakibawrites · 1 year ago

Text

Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)

A Tale of Two Men (Cozy Corners #1)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Divider Credit: @firefly-graphics

A Tale of Two Men

You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.

You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.

You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.

Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.

The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.

“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.

His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.

“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”

“I take it that you disagree?”

“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”

“What?”

The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.

“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”

Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .

Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.

“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What?”

“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”

“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”

Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”

“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”

“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”

“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”

“Infinitely.”

You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.

“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”

He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”

“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”

“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.

“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.

She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.

Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.

You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.

He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”

“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.

“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.

“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.

When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.

“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”

“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”

“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”

“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .

“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”

“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.

“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”

“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”

You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”

“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”

“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.

He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”

“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .

“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”

“That’s a shame,” you said.

“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”

“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”

“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”

“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”

You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”

“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”

He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”

Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”

“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”

After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.

Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”

“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”

He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .

“Would you like me to open the door for you?”

“Please.”

On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .

“I saw that.”

You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?

“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.

“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”

Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”

“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.

“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.

“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”

“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”

“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”

“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”

The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”

“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”

“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”

“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.

“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”

You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.

You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.

Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.

By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.

Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .

“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.

“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.

You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .

There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.

Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .

You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.

Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.

“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”

Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.

It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.

Except it never came.

What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.

Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.

“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”

Then he threw himself at the man.

Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.

You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .

You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.

You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .

The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .

Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”

That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’

Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”

Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”

You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.

“Good! Now again . . .”

It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.

“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .

“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.

Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.

“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.

That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.

“The police,” he said.

Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”

Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”

As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.

“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”

A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”

You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”

You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”

“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .

“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .

“Spitfire?”

Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .

Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.

It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.

“Don’t worry about him.”

You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .

“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.

Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.

It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .

“What are you doing?”

You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?

“Not at the moment.”

Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.

“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”

He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”

“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”

You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.

“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.

“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.

You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.

Notes:

A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.

It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.

The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.

I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.

Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.

This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.

From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.

In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.

But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.

A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.

A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.

A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.

Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).

At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.

How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).

It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.

The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.

Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.

‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.

A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.

The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.

A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.

Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.

The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.

Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.

The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.

A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.

#daredevil #fan fic #fan fiction #cozy corners #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #tw anxiety #tw panic attack #ao3 link

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musedisorder · 7 months ago

Text

𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫?

A collection of my favorite lyrics from The Great Impersonator. Feel free to change as needed! Some of my favorites were too specific for roleplay so I did not add them. Namely from I Believe in Magic and Life of The Spider which are two of my favorite songs.

❛ Do you think they'd laugh at how I died? ❜

❛ I think I'm special 'cause I cut myself wide open as if it's honorable to bleed. ❜

❛ But I'm not lucky and I know I wasn’t chosen. ❜

❛ The world keeps spinnin' without me. ❜

❛ I wake up tired, think I'm better off dead. ❜

❛ I'm nervous what you'll think of me now. ❜

❛ I'm hoping that someone comes around and helps me figure it out. ❜

❛ I'm all grown up but somehow lately I'm acting like a fucking baby. ❜

❛ I'm really not as happy as I seem. ❜

❛ I'm still a little kid that can't make friends. ❜

❛ I wanna be invited, but I won't attend. ❜

❛ I wanna be cool, I don't wanna be pretty. ❜

❛ Nothing's as it seems. ❜

❛ I don't like the lie I'm living. ❜

❛ I'm way too nice and too forgiving. ❜

❛ It's all done now, who am I kidding? ❜

❛ I'm doing way worse than I'm admitting. ❜

❛ I'm really not that happy being me. ❜

❛ I'm trying to be positive. But oh, it's really hard. ❜

❛ I'm a loner, I'm a loser. ❜

❛ I'm on a real short leash, but I like it tight. ❜

❛ You know a mercy kill is what I seek. ❜

❛ I didn't ask to live, but dying's up to me. ❜

❛ Well, they say all dogs go to Heaven. Well, what about a bitch What about an evil girl left lying in a ditch? ❜

❛ Tell the three people who asked that I am in a better place. ❜

❛ 'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired. ❜

❛ I'm not strong, I'm very weak. ❜

❛ I have seen enough! I've seen it all! ❜

❛ I don't wanna hurt so get it over with quick. ❜

❛ Please, God, I wanna be loved. ❜

❛ I don't wanna be somebody that they wanna get rid of. ❜

❛ Every time you lean in closer, both my knees can't help but shake.❜

❛ I think you're a danger to my health, or so it seems. ❜

❛ Is it love or a panic attack? ❜

❛ Is a heavy heart too much to hold? ❜

❛ Because you make me fucking nervous and I don't know what it all means. ❜

❛ My spirit has been broken. ❜

❛ My optimism's getting sore. ❜

❛ I don't know if I can see you anymore. ❜

❛ I don't like to complain, but I'm saying sorry. ❜

❛ When I met you, I thought I was damaged goods. ❜

❛ If you knew it was the end of the world, would you like to stay a while? ❜

❛ Would you leave when it gets hard? ❜

❛ When I met you, I said I would never die. ❜

❛ The joke was always mine 'cause I'm racing against time. ❜

❛ Nothing good is free, but oh, it should be. ❜

❛ I still believe in Heaven, if they'll never let me in. ❜

❛ I think I might start tryin' because I haven't been. ❜

❛ Could all just be an answer to thosе prayers that came delayed? ❜

❛ Please, God, I don't wanna be sick. ❜

❛ I don't wanna be somebody that you're tryna get rid of. ❜

❛ There ain't a reason on this earth I'd go back to my hometown. ❜

❛ You know, I never felt like anyone, I was a paradoxal lie. ❜

❛ I didn't think that I was special, but I was too afraid to die. ❜

❛ I was trying to love you through an open wound 'cause everything I put inside there just fell right through. ❜

❛ If you only knew how bad it hurt me too. ❜

❛ You can rest your head down and not feel any shame. ❜

❛ I never loved you in vain. ❜

❛ You never listen and I'm terrible too. ❜

❛ If you stopped, I would've kissed you. ❜

❛ I almost thought I heard you call my name. ❜

❛ They say that God makes no mistakes, but I might disagree. ❜

❛ You all know something that I don't. ❜

Well, I was born all by myself It's not unlikely that I'll die that way as well. ❜

❛ I always knew I was a martyr. ❜

❛ I was built from special pieces that I learned how to unscrew. ❜

❛ I can always reassemble to fit perfectly for you. ❜

❛ So where do I go in the process when I'm just an apparatus? ❜

❛ I'm reduced to just a body here in someone else's bed. ❜

❛ When you're done, you can discard me like the others always do. ❜

❛ Your human starter kit came incomplete. ❜

❛ Fool me twice, the shame is on me. ❜

❛ Am I a victim in your game? ❜

❛ Can I take the blame for everything you hate? ❜

❛ The punishment and crime are not the same. ❜

❛ Somebody will love me for the way that I'm designed. ❜

❛ You smothered out the glow I grew for you, but it was mine too. ❜

❛ Have you ever been broken and thrown down? ❜

❛ Have you ever given the world to somebody as a gift and had it returned? ❜

❛ Did you know the father's DNA stays inside the mother for seven years? ❜

❛ Have you ever woken from a dream just to realize that you're still asleep? ❜

❛ Do you ever wish you were still asleep? ❜

❛ Do you ever wish you wouldn't wake up? ❜

I'm only small, I'm only weak.

❛ God, how could I even think of daring to exist? Looking just like this, I'm hideous.

❛ I worked real hard on the last one but the last one got me here. ❜

❛ I'm minding my own business but my presence makes you curse. ❜

❛ I should be getting better but I'm only getting worse. ❜

❛ And, God, how dare I even think of choosing here to die? 'Cause then, I'm just a problem that you have to take outside. ❜

❛ I know you hate the sight of me, I haunt you when you're fast asleep. ❜

❛ If only I had eight more lives. ❜

❛ You don't like it when I cry. ❜

❛ You would break me if you tried. And you will because I dared to be alive. ❜

❛ I'll never be like him. ❜

❛ You know my father isn't dead, but it don't feel like he's still here. ❜

❛ And my eyes tell me that he's harmless despite what my heart has to say. ❜

❛ So maybe just forget. Maybe move on, don't regret. ❜

❛ Or maybe this is just another trick that hasn't happened yet. ❜

❛ I thought that it was my fault and now sometimes I still do. ❜

❛ I can't bear to fake a smile when you walk into the room. ❜

❛ Everybody, get in line to meet the girl who flew too high. ❜

❛ Did it all to be included, my self-loathing so deep-rooted. ❜

❛ When I die, I won't have time to spend my money. ❜

❛ But I hope that you still love me. ❜

❛ A problem child, I was rough. But what do you do with a difficult grownup? ❜

❛ I thought I changed so much, nobody would notice it, and no one did. ❜

❛ I told everybody I was fine for a whole damn year. ❜

❛ Please, God, or whoever you are. ❜

❛ These days I get less calls 'cause no one wants to hear my voice. ❜

❛ I miss the days when I was gettin' texts that I could just avoid. ❜

❛ I don't ever wanna leave him, but I don't think it's my choice. ❜

❛ I don't think my pleas are heard because I'm screaming in the void. ❜

❛ Please, God, oh, you've gotta be sick. ❜

❛ Why do you make it hurt, and why's it over so quick? ❜

❛ Please, God, I'm finally loved. I finally found somebody I don't wanna get rid of. ❜

❛ You took a little while to respond to my prayer. ❜

❛ Please, God, no, this doesn't seem fair. ❜

❛ I'm tryin' not to show it, but I'm terribly scared. ❜

❛ They don't know I'm lonely. ❜

❛ They don't know I'm kind. ❜

❛ Does a story die with its narrator? ❜

❛ This is a cry for help, callin' for assistance. ❜

❛ What happened to the girl I knew? ❜

❛ I think I've been awake for days but it's so much fun. ❜

❛ I took another dose but I don't think it's micro. ❜

❛ Can't you see that I'm an imposter? ❜

❛ Where's the fun in doing well? ❜

❛ The good girls never kiss and tell. ❜

❛ I don't belong here, how 'bout you? ❜

❛ I still get punished for good deeds. ❜

#sentence starters #sentence meme #prompts #lyrics meme #halsey #long post

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queenofthearchipelago · 2 years ago

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Hey! I just saw your post about some meta doing good but then misunderstanding the characters at some point. If you do not mind sharing, what are certain misconceptions that you usually see and don’t agree with?

Hi! I don't mind sharing but before I answer this I wanna say that I do love that this fandom has so many interpretations of Aziraphale and Crowley's actions and thoughts and motivations. I think some of those interpretations don't always line up with everything we see of them in the show and I feel that both of them have areas where they can be misunderstood. But if anyone reading this finds themselves disagreeing with me, that you do see some of what I'm about to say in their characters, I'm not trying to take your version of Crowley and Aziraphale away from you and like, ruin that fun by saying people are wrong, or something. Fandom becomes really stiff when the culture only has one idea of who the characters are.

That said, I'll start with Crowley because I've always found him most relatable, and so I think about his character more than Aziraphale's.

The first thing is Crowley's temper. I've read quite a few metas talking about how Crowley needs to better manage his anger because it shuts Aziraphale down and makes it harder for him to talk. I don't see this. I mean, yes, Crowley has a temper. Crowley has been shown to be angry. But I've not seen it shut Aziraphale down. When Aziraphale gets nervous around an angered Crowley, it's always because Crowley has said something blasphemous. Such as at the bandstand when Crowley is cursing the Great Plan. Aziraphale becomes scared FOR Crowley and Crowley is never angry AT Aziraphale. I can't think of a scene off the top of my head where anything Crowley does makes Aziraphale feel like he can't say something he clearly wants to say.

But also, I feel that this take of Crowley's character, that he struggles with his temper around Aziraphale, somehow erases how gentle he really is with Aziraphale. He's always so patient with him, even when it would make sense for him to be off the rails angry. And also also, the two main times we see Crowley lose his temper around Aziraphale (the bandstand and then the fight in episode 1 of this season) are both times of great desperation. The world was ENDING. He was SCARED (He's really good at hiding how scared he is). And then Gabriel shows up and Crowley doesn't know how but he feels this will disrupt every single good thing in his life. And so he explodes in the street, something we don't have reason to think Aziraphale saw. Crowley literally left to go cool down. I think he did his best.

I also see a lot of metas speak to Crowley's apparent lack of self-worth. I've spoken about this before, I think Crowley is very confident in who he is. I think he knows himself better than Aziraphale knows himself. Crowley has ALWAYS known who he is, his arc is not one of self-discovery. It's actually Crowley's dedication to being himself despite what Hell would have him be that causes him conflict and intrigues Aziraphale so much.

That also leads into this idea that Crowley can't see himself clearly and therefore can't accept Aziraphale's love. As if he can't comprehend why Aziraphale might love him. But, we literally watch as Crowley graciously accepts every advance that Aziraphale makes. Crowley is the one who "goes too fast" and he probably has a lot of joy every time Aziraphale makes another step forward. It's Aziraphale who said, "Let's go out for lunch" the first time. It's Aziraphale who invited a demon into the bookshop meant to be an embassy for Heaven. It's Aziraphale who said "our car", and then Crowley gave him the keys. Crowley even blatantly says, "We've spent our entire existence pretending that we're not." This implies that he KNOWS. He knows Aziraphale has been pretending too, for 6,000 years, and before that too. Crowley knows he's loved, the problem was that he wasn't allowed to be loved by an angel, and neither of them ever got to say it out loud.

And then there are other, smaller things I see in metas that I don't generally agree with (though I completely understand how people got there). Which is this idea that Crowley feels rejected by Aziraphale. I mean, yes, but also no. I don't think Crowley got in the car at the end and drove away thinking that Aziraphale loves Heaven more than him. I think he's more angry that every single time Aziraphale falls to Earth, Heaven tugs on this rope around his waist and pulls him back up. I think Crowley understands Aziraphale's dilemma a lot better than we think he does.

And also, more recently I've seen some speculation about how Crowley wanting to run away is somehow a character flaw? Like, I agree with the point that both of them were wrong. Fixing Heaven won't work, so Crowley was right. But also, running away isn't a long term solution for them because they both love Earth too much. But I don't exactly see this as a character flaw? In season 1 when he mentions running away, let me remind you that THE WORLD WAS ENDING. He was desperate and he was scared. And in season 2, it wasn't so much a plea to literally run away into the stars and escape as it was an immortal being saying, "Look, Gabriel and Beelzelbub did it. Wherever they are, they're together, and they're dedicated to being happy together. Can we do that? Can we do that forever? In this bookshop or in the stars (in a cottage in the south downs?) Because I love you and I don't wanna think about belonging to anyone else anymore. WE don't need to belong to anyone else anymore. What do you say?"

And as for Aziraphale, I've said before that I don't think he wants Crowley to be an angel so that he can love him more. Aziraphale loves him as he is. And I think there are more articulate posts out there outlining why. The ask for Crowley to be an angel again has nothing to do with Crowley himself except that Aziraphale thinks Crowley would be safer that way. Aziraphale can fix Heaven FOR Crowley. Crowley's fall was wrong and he can now right that wrong. This happened, tragically, because Aziraphale loves him exactly as he is. And as much as Crowley's heart is broken right now, I don't think he doesn't know that. He knows the love he's had from Aziraphale these millennia was real. He knows it.

This became an essay, maybe one day I'll figure out how to get my points across quickly lol. But yeah, these are just my thoughts about who I understand these characters to be in canon. And I know that even though it's been nearly a month since the season dropped, people are still working through all the details that led up to our favorite angel stepping into an elevator and the demon who loves him more than life driving away alone in silence. I'm honestly still working through it too, there's still so much to think about.

#thanks for the ask!#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #crowley analysis #aziraphale analysis #thoughtsfromthequeen #asks

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piningbuck · 5 months ago

Text

i simply have to drop this somewhere otherwise i'll never stop tinkering with it and tinkering is not Writing

“You want to fake-date me?” Eddie seems completely unfazed by the collective shock radiating from the rest of the table. “Why not? It’s not like I’ve got someone else to real-date.”

untitled fake-dating fic - scene #1 It’s probably bad that Buck finds the whole situation hilarious, but hey—one of the few perks of heartbreak is that the universe is supposed to cut you some slack if you happen to snort at the dismal state of someone else’s love life.

Of course, Eddie disagrees. He smacks Buck’s arm with the back of his hand, his expression a mix of exasperation and secondhand embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says to Josh, before turning back to Buck with a glare. “He’s sorry.”

And the thing is, Buck is sorry. But before he can say so, Josh lets out the sigh of a tragic hero. “No, do laugh,” he says, staring mournfully at the giant scoop of crème brûlée wobbling on his spoon. “I deserve it.”

Another smack from Eddie.

“I’m sorry,” Buck hurries to clarify, ducking behind his Prosecco—or maybe it’s Eddie’s?—to avoid the judgmental eye-darts being thrown his way from every corner of the table. “I mean, it’s not that bad. It could happen to anyone. Well, maybe not anyone, but—”

“It could definitely happen to you,” Hen cuts in. And—fair.

If Buck had run into Tommy and his amazing new fiancé at the grocery store and somehow walked away from the cereal aisle with an invitation to their engagement party, he wouldn’t have just invented a crazy hot boyfriend. He’d have faked his own death. At the very least.

Karen giggles, which is forgivable. True love does something to your brain chemistry that turns everything your partner does downright hysterical, or so he’s read. But then Eddie snorts too.

Buck arranges his face into a wounded pout. “Hey!” He says, jabbing an elbow into Eddie’s ribs.

The grin Eddie cracks at him—indulgent, warm, brimming with a fondness that feels almost unbearable—is enough to dissolve Buck’s outrage, along with every other coherent thought in his head. For a moment, the heartbreak fades, the air in his lungs stills, and all that’s left is the quiet, overwhelming pull of Eddie’s smile.

If there’s one upside to getting dumped—again—it’s this: the way Eddie seamlessly slipped back into all the empty spaces in Buck’s life, as though they’d been carved out specifically for him. Buck hadn’t fully grasped how much he’d missed this kind of closeness—not until he found himself free to bask in it again without a trace of guilt.

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Chim leans back in his chair. “What Josh needs is a Dermot Mulroney.”

Eddie frowns. “A what?”

“A Dermot Mulroney,” Chim repeats, like it’s obvious. “You know, The Wedding Date?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Buck gasps, so scandalized he nearly knocks over his half-empty glass. “You’ve never seen The Wedding Date?”

Eddie gives him a blank look.

“Okay, okay,” Buck says, bending forward like he’s about to deliver the most important newsflash of the century. “Debra Messing hires this guy to be her fake boyfriend at her sister’s wedding, and then, plot twist, they fall in love. It’s a classic.” He’s already mentally blocking off Sunday for a mandatory movie night.

“Maybe this is how you find your soulmate,” Maddie suggests.

Josh groans, slumping back in the chair. “I don’t want a soulmate,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route. “I just want out of this mess.”

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” Eddie hums.

Josh lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, sure. Let me just pluck a male escort out of thin air.”

“I mean, I can do it,” Eddie says.

Buck’s entire body locks up. His glass freezes halfway to his lips, and for a moment, he’s pretty sure his heart stops beating.

After a long, long beat of silence, Hen breaks the tension with a dry, “Are you gunning for Buck’s spot as ally of the year?”

Josh stares at Eddie like he’s just suggested skydiving into an active volcano. “Just to clarify,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “You want to fake-date me?”

Eddie seems completely unfazed by the collective shock radiating from the rest of the table. “Why not? It’s not like I’ve got someone else to real-date.”

Josh scoffs, but there’s a flicker of intrigue in his eyes, like he’s already more then halfway convinced. “You think really highly of yourself, don’t you, Diaz? My fake boyfriend is supposed to look crazy hot.”

Eddie is wearing his sluttiest Henley—the blue one that’s at least two sizes too small, top buttons wide open. Buck can practically hear the slow, deliberate drag of Josh’s gaze as it sweeps over Eddie’s shoulders, down his arms, and across his chest. It’s the worst non-sound Buck has ever not heard, and he suddenly wishes he could unsee the way Josh’s eyebrows lift, just slightly, in approval.

“I mean,” Eddie says, shrugging with that infuriatingly casual confidence, “you could always ask Buck.”

The comment hangs in the air for a moment, and Buck’s brain stumbles over it. But before he can fully register what gave him pause, Josh glances at him quickly, almost as an afterthought, before his eyes snap back to Eddie like a magnet.

“Nah,” Josh says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll do.”

Eddie laughs—low, easy, and maybe, just maybe, a little flattered.

Hen leans over to Karen. “What is happening?”

Buck sets down his glass with exaggerated care, like it’s a bomb that might detonate if he’s not careful. “Or—or, hear me out—we don’t do that.”

“Here we go,” Karen whispers back.

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Oh, there are so many reasons why not. But Buck’s brain is a tangled mess of half-formed thoughts and rising panic, and he can’t seem to articulate any of them. Instead, he just sort of. Flails. “Because! Because it’s—it’s weird! You don’t fake-date your friends, that’s, like, a rule.”

“What?” Chimney says. “I’d totally fake-date Hen if she asked!”

“I appreciate that,” Hen raises her glass in a mock toast.

Buck’s stomach twists.

Something about this is wrong.

It’s not that Eddie is helping Josh. Eddie helps people all the time—that’s what he does. It’s that no one else in the room seems to think this is weird. Like, hello? Eddie is straight. What business does he have playing doting boyfriend for Josh?

“Okay, we’ll need to coordinate outfits. Something classic, nothing too matchy. And we’ll have to practice our backstory—”

Maddie laughs. “You guys are really doing this?”

“Of course we are,” Josh says, pointing a finger at Buck. “And you keep your weird friendship rules to yourself. Don’t you dare change his mind!”

“Nobody is changing my mind,” Eddie says, his voice steady and sure. “It’ll be fun.”

Buck forces a laugh, but it comes out all wrong—too high, too tight, like a rubber band stretched to its limit. “Yeah. Fun.” The word scrapes his throat, sharp and unpleasant.

Eddie’s idea of fun apparently involves getting dressed up and playing pretend with someone else. Someone who isn’t Buck.

It’s fine.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #buddie fanfic

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lost-inanotherlife · 4 days ago

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anon was right. youre an adult I think you're above vagueposting like this, if you have an issue with someone you really ought to have the guts to speak to them directly about it. you're a blog that posts very intelligent stuff and gets a lot of attention for it, when you vaguepost like that in such a small fandom you're gonna leave people questioning if it was about them and what they said to tick you off. it's a petty thing to do. I have a lot of respect for you and this blog and seeing you respond to a genuine concern with "do you feel called out" instead of actually addressing the fact that what you did there was wrong was kind of disappointing. you're entitled to have the opinions you have but all we ask is that you be mature about them.

Am I really entitled to have my opinions (not sarcasm, "genuine" question)? And who is this "all" that's asking me to be mature you're talking about? Who are you referring to? What is going on? I don't understand, lol.

I can only speak to YOU and I can safely say I've always engaged in respectful and interesting convos with YOU and you've done the same, I think. There are several posts on my own blog that can attest to that and, as a consquence, can attest to the fact that I don't shy away (aka "I have the guts" as you say) from voicing my opinions when I disagree with someone.

Having said that, I don't have to reblog and/or comment and/or add commentary to ALL the posts that I disagree with. It doesn't matter if YOU or you ALL think I should and/or if you or you ALL think what I did was wrong. Because that is what YOU/you ALL think, not what I think.

How do you know the previous ask was "a genuine concern"? It's because you read it that way? I didn't think it was genuine because I didn't read it as genuine, tbh. I really thought it was from someone who felt called out because if you write opinions you're sure about, you don't care whether me or anyone else think they're milquetoast/obtuse.At least this is how I see it, ofc. And your own ask betrays the fact that you think the same: apparently there are some people who might be ticked off by my comments, so it was likely one of those people who sent the ask. Ergo, I was a bit right in thinking they did feel call out. Or, if not right, let's say I had THE right to feel that way without any other context (the ask was anon).

Ngl, there are accounts whose takes I mildly-to-strongly disagree with but I wasn't referring to anyone in particular, it was really about posts in the "lost" tag and I did state that in my tag (well, to be fair, in not so many words but I thought I was clear). So these reactions feel quite weird to me.

Now, since you've been kind enough to give me some unsolicited piece of advice I don't necessarily disagree with (I did say I hate vagueposting), I think you'll be open to receive a piece of advice from me as well: your ask sounds very self-righteous to me. I appreciate directness and I suppose you mean well so I don't resent you for that but you do sound like someone who's very eager to point the finger and I think that's also not a good look.

All in all, I'm surprised to read that this ask comes from you because, as I've said, we've already done a little bit of "sparring" (affectionate) in the past and I thought you were cool with that. I was cool with that because you've always shared your opinions in an compelling way that invited further discussion. I don't know if this is the same for you, though. Just letting you know how I feel!

Finally, you/you ALL ask me to be more "mature": this feels a little bit like a punishment that doesn't fit the crime, yk? I don't think that my first vagueposting can be an indictment on the level of my maturity. But this is MY opinion, clearly you disagree. And I think... that's...fine?!

Thank you for finding the stuff on my blog "intelligent" but I can tell you that I do NOT get all the attention you might think I get! I'm not sure that I'm sorry that I've disappointed you so this won't be 100% "genuine" (i'm telling you this in advance) but I kinda didn't think it was gonna be such a big deal? Are, perhaps, other people out there, other than you of course, who feel the same way? Are my opinions THIS impactful? I write on here from the assumption that literally only 3 people actually care about what I write so, although not exactly sorry, this does make me feel like I do need to review the impact of my posts on the community! (if that's the case, i.e. if there are more people who share your sentiment).

#asks #lost #lost 2004

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sapphire-weapon · 26 days ago

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Holy shit, do you remember the blog I mentioned and you recognized? The guy didn’t just ignore me when I warned it was just a prank: he outright prefers to say "just a ploy to incite harassment and "shipping wars" in the fandom it seems. This person does this frequently and often invites people to send death threats to those who disagree with them as well".

I never would’ve thought a simple theory could escalate this much, it’s completely insane. Holy shit dude, you’ve got a lot of power in your hands when you think about it.

that's me alright, famous for starting and encouraging ship wars.

do you think maybe he's projecting onto me in embarrassment over that, like, year-long harassment campaign he helmed where his followers would dogpile and brigade anyone who dared to say that leon wanted to fuck shen mei?

i also love the use of ""shipping wars"" as though he doesn't know they're called ship wars -- or that he's trying to give the air that he's so far removed from that part of the fandom that he's wholly unfamiliar ships and ship wars in general. as though he wasn't the one crashing out on twitter like two years ago when he was baffled to learn that capcom doesn't care about gay people and doesn't build their games to cater to (let alone pander to) their gay audience at all, because he built his entire brand on the claim that chreon was intended canon romantic.

and then when it blew up in his face, he insisted leon was canonically asexual.

and then when that blew up in his face, he fucked off to DMC fandom.

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bubblegum-bros-sys · 2 months ago

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Hi friend! Genuine question. I would love to follow, but before I do, I wanted to check if proshippers or radqueers are allowed on your profile? If not you may politely block or simply say no. Thank you, have a pleasant day dear. :)

IM GONNA ANSWER THIS HONESTLY. THIS IS NOT AN INVITE FOR DISCOURSE. I AM VERY SOLID IN MY VALUES AND OPINIONS AND IF YOU DISAGREE WITH THEM, EITHER SHUT UP ABOUT IT OR BLOCK US, WE DONT CARE /lh /srs

Oh buddy the day has come where I must reveal my stance on proship and rad queer (not like I ACTUALLY have to but yk rent lowering gunshots or whatever, this account has gotten bigger than I wanted anyways)

AHEM (don’t be scared asker I have very nuanced opinions)

First things first, short answer is yes, you can interact, anyone’s allowed to interact, I don’t really give a shit and many of my headmates give even LESS of a shit. If I disagree with or dislike you, as long as you’re not causing problems or make me specifically and directly uncomfortable in some way then I don’t care, and if I do care, I will simply block and move on. I don’t really like having too much hate or discourse on my page (especially from other people, yes I know I post about discourse fairly often, it’s because people annoy me and I have a lot to say lol) no matter who it’s targeted towards so honestly I’d have more of an issue with anyone of any stance causing problems than anyone of any stance just like…existing

Second, everyone in my system has different opinions on LOTS of things, including this, so like anyone who’s not comfortable with ANY opinion on ANYTHING either needs to be prepared to be civil or just block us tbh

Third, I and most of my system personally align with what we understand to be the original meaning of “proship�� which is the whole “ship and let ship” “don’t like don’t read” kind of thing. I believe anything that exists anyways has a right to and if I dislike it I will simply not engage because good lord it’s not that difficult guys 🙏🙏🙏

Fourth, on the topic of radqueer, that is something that is EXTREMELY varied opinion wise in our system. I personally, and probably the most common opinion in our system, is that we kind of simply don’t care. It’s none of our business, we don’t fully understand it enough to have a super concrete opinion on it, I think trying to label our (personal, not general) extremely nuanced opinions is pointless. As long as you are not directly, knowingly, and intentionally hurting people, I do not care. I absolutely support all non-harmful paraphilias, and any paraphilias that COULD be harmful, I still support the people who have them, because they are people, many of whom cannot control their thoughts and feelings, just like anyone else. Again, as long as you are not directly, knowingly, and intentionally hurting people (which includes any form of non-consent) then I don’t care. If people can experience it, it’s part of life, and the second we put a line on where an experience is “too far” we open up more avenues for marginalized and oppressed people to get hurt.

And for TransIDs (or whatever alternative term people might use), to be fully honest, 95% of the time they are not harmful at all, they’re hardly different from xenogenders or literally just like…wanting to do something you currently don’t for whatever reason, and anything that possibly could be harmful, in our opinion, is more about how the person actually acts and understands the experience/identity/etc. they’re identifying as rather than…simply identifying as it. Idk if it’s an autistic thing but genuinely outside of people misusing or misunderstanding things, I don’t really get the concept of appropriation or gatekeeping on any front. I UNDERSTAND THE REASONS BEHIND IT, I understand a lot of it stems from people misunderstanding or misusing things, it stems from racism and colonization, it stems from ableism, it’s a way to protect your culture/experience (I guess??? I truly do not get it on a disability/neurodivergence/mental illness front tbh like yall are bordering on eugenics here with half your arguments just being “why would you want this???” You sound like a trans med that’s embarrassing) I get it. But your race and ethnicity and body and brain are all things you’re born into without say just like anything else is, and so many experiences overlap, and so many cultures have unknowingly made extremely similar practices/religions/clothing/make up/food/etc all throughout history. I feel like culture and experience is something that should be shared, and if someone resonates with something, they shouldn’t be blocked from it just because of the circumstances of how they were born

Tbh a lot of our opinions boil down to these key values and opinions:

1: don’t directly, intentionally, knowingly, and non-consensually hurt others

2: do whatever the fuck you want forever. If everyone was kind to each other it literally wouldn’t matter. Life is meant to be lived, experiences are meant to be had and shared and understood

3: anything that DOES exist has a RIGHT to exist, otherwise it wouldn’t exist, and again, the second you start trying to control that is the second you let controlling ANYTHING ANYONE disagrees with be ok, and that puts all of us in more danger

4: be kind and empathetic and understanding. Be open minded and LEARN. Stop shit talking when you don’t even know what you’re talking about. Way too many people, especially online, make half-baked opinions based on what they hear other people say and then are deathly stubborn about it, and that doesn’t help anyone. That’s what creates echo chambers and kills progress, creativity, individual thinking, and general kindness and understanding

5: I’m not god. I’m not omnipotent. I cannot and will not ever know, understand, or be able to control everything, it is pointless to try

6: at the end of the day we could all just fucking put our phones down and be people. People with varied experiences and feelings and thoughts and opinions, all of which are inherently valid, because they exist

I probably have more to say idk this is a very nuanced and honestly interesting topic to me but I’ve already got my block button locked and loaded for anyone trying to argue with me. I don’t care if you disagree, this is how I feel, and unlike a lot of people, I don’t let strangers on the internet dictate how I’m “allowed” to feel. If that were the case then literally I’d be a fucking neonazi because that shit is all over the internet. But I’m not, because I have critical thinking skills, confidence in myself, and arguably life ruining levels of empathy and thirst for knowledge (having low empathy is not a bad thing this is just part of the context for ME)

#alright everyone pack it up I would like this account to be purely for me and my system to do whatever the fuck we want like we intended #I have at least one irl who follows this account I guess I might have to see what they say #I’m kinda getting hella sick of hiding or softening my opinions for other people anyways #like I’m so over it actually I have a family who loves me a huge imagination and I know my people are out there I’ve got all I need #btw we’re DTeam fans to if anyone gives a fuck #throwing that out there cause extremely stupidly we get about the same reactions to that as we do this LMFAO #like cmon guys at least this is actually nuanced and controversial #and a lot of the BS towards DT fans stems from the same shit that causes all internet discourse #which is really just misinformation a lack of nuance and extreme bias #anyways uh peace up A town or however that song goes

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stringsofself · 11 months ago

Text

On Religion, Fictionkin, and the importance of 'Gatekeeping'

Long post. Under a cut. Herein when I say 'We' I mean the nebulous idea of a community, I will be using 'I' in this for us, for clarity.

I will be redacting the names of any people or events mentioned herein in passing. This is not a jab, a "Callout", or a focus on one person, event, situation, or otherwise, anything mentioned in passing as examples are just that, examples, and if you recognize any of the people, places, things, or events mentioned herein, you are invited to not name them, they are not individually important.

My last disclaimer is that this is an Essay, not a Debate, I will not be 'Engaging' anyone about it who disagrees. I will not be 'engaging' anyone about it who agrees either. Equality.

I state herein that I will be dropping the term 'Fictionkin', as it's been completely aided to ruin by people who aren't even Fictionkin, and that I place a new word down that I will be using, I will make another post just about this word as well, but do know I do that in this essay.

EDIT: Yes this is okay to reblog! No worries

When I say 'Spirit Animal' what do you think?

Your knee jerk reaction if you don't know me was probably to recoil, it's a term that's been appropriated to the point of near uselessness in conversations with people who aren't indigenous. My father is native, or rather, he's half native and half Salvadoran. But he has closer ties to his native roots, for this reason, I spent a lot of time with my indigenous nation on the reservation parts of my family lived on, and I've never been to El Salvador once.

Your next thought may be wondering why I don't drop what nation I'm from, it's because it's really easy to doxx people with that information, so I will not be doing so, it's not super important anyway, the only important part is that my people have a concept that has been appropriated into this nebulous concept of 'Spirit Animal', it's now a fundamentally useless word to me, and many other indigenous people as well, because people who don't believe the same things we do took a concept, and a word, and gave it their own meaning, and ran with it.

This post isn't about being native, and it's not about spirit animals, but it is about the idea of taking concepts and, more importantly, words that already exist and are attached to a belief system, and re-appropriating them into other meanings.

Where is this going? I'm getting there.

I've been out as 'Otherkin', specifically 'Deitykin' for around sixteen years now, and out as 'Fictionkin' for a large chunk of that. Before I continue I'd like to say that being Fictionkin is not 'A Delusion', it is not a medical condition, believe me I've seen therapists and psychologists, it's a keystone of my religious identity and spirituality, once upon a time I probably wouldn't have had to clarify that to my own community.

You see, it used to be that when you said you were 'Fictionkin' it mainly meant one of two things, either it was a religious belief, or you had caught on to the part of tumblr who began using it to mean 'I just really love and identify with this character, teehee!', and when that started happening, people for whom this was a religious belief, a deep an important part of their identity, pushed back, and said 'hey, we were here first, this is our religion, can you maybe get a new word for your roleplay?'

And that was the correct response, it is not only rude, but morally reprehensible to take something from people as important as a deeply set religious belief, and to say 'no, actually, you have to let us use it for this totally unrelated thing, that will make people assume the completely wrong thing of you'

It's this sort of colonizer mindset, this is why I started this off talking about the fact that I'm indigenous by the way, because I knew I was going to use this word as a comparison and I wanted people to know where I was coming from in regards to my relationship with it. But it is a very similar mindset, it's the mindset of 'I am going to use this, and you have to share, and if you aren't okay with that, you're an icky gatekeeper and the onus is on you to move'

No, it isn't, the onus is not on me, or anyone else for who this is a fundamental religious belief to 'move'.

Back then we were pretty good about setting boundaries, when someone would say 'I choose to identify as this character' or 'I just identify deeply with this character' the community was pretty good at standing its ground and going, no, that's not correct, there's no issue with that, but you need to get your own word, because this word exists, and we as a religious community are using it.

However I was recently made aware of the fact that apparently, somewhere along the way, some people decided that it was playground bullying to not allow people to appropriate spiritual beliefs and religion, now I'm not sure exactly when that started, I logged off the internet for a while to focus on my religion off the internet and also to deal with a fire and being homeless.

When I came back I still wasn't aware of it right away, in fact I wasn't aware of it until my spouse, who lives in the same home as me, attended an event and got to watch someone use the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly.

Now I did not choose to attend this event, I work a very busy job, I also wasn't aware there was a discord for it or I may have joined to people-watch, but in the end knew it wouldn't matter, because my spouse and I live together, and I can community watch over their shoulder should I desire to.

Back to the situation, someone used the term 'Fictionkin' incorrectly, or rather they used a term other than 'Fictionkin' and attached the meaning that already existed of the word 'Fictionkin' to it, because at some point when I wasn't looking, Fictionkin were pushed out of their own words and their own spaces in favor of this new meaning, which seems to range from anything from;

'I have medical delusions about being this character' 'I choose to ID as this character' 'I just identify very closely with this character'

to a myriad of other things. I'll circle back to this, the point is I was completely taken aback when I saw the people in charge of the group wrist slap not the person who was using the wrong definition and implying by extension that everyone using 'Fictionkin' was delusional, or choosing their identity, or similar, but the Fictionkin who were attempting to protect their words from being appropriated.

This is, to me, morally disgusting. I find it fundamentally abhorrent, and I recognized something in it, that tiny sliver of a moment where I was like, oh, this is exactly like how white people took things from my culture and ran with them to the point where they're fundamentally useless outside of spaces that have been carefully screened to only include the original users, because outside of that everyone will make wild assumptions. I get the same roiling feeling in my gut when someone goes 'Oh, fictionkin, like the people who have delusions!/Really like a character!' as I do when Britteneigh who works at Holister overhears me speaking about [REDACTED] and goes 'Oh my goshh you're talking about spirit animals! my spirit animal is-'

Before anyone gets into a huff, no, I am not 1:1 comparing being fictionkin to the oppression my people have faced, so take your hands off the keyboard, because I wouldn't have replied to your lack of reading comprehension anyway to be frank. One situation reminding me of another does not mean I am 1:1'ing the situations and the fact I have to explain this here before it even happens says a lot about my faith in tumblr's reading comprehension. I know.

Back to my essay, the feeling was very similar, this was a word I had used for a long time, a word I was around for when it was created, and a word I had watched be kept very carefully so as not to be watered down, so that an already small and spread out community would have a way of discussing our experiences, feelings, and needs, without becoming scattered, lost, and lonely.

Because that really is the point of having specific religious denominations, my father was a hobbyist theologist, I grew up with bookshelves popping up around me filled top to bottom with religious texts. There are Christian denominations you can't even get to share a room because their root beliefs are so different, so they have different words. Imagine for a moment that an 18 year old walks into your catholic church -- you're catholic in this scenario -- and tells you, someone who has been catholic since you yourself were a child, the following:

"I think your delusional dependence on the saints is really quirky and cute, I've been in touch with God himself for two years now, but you're cool too"

You would probably not be entirely happy, and I think most people would understand why. It's more complex than that of course, ironically I'm watering down a theological belief to make a point about not watering down theological beliefs, I can be a hypocrite, as a treat.

Allow me to loop back to my original point. I came back, feeling lonely and eager to re-engage with my religious community now that my life was more stable, only to find that at some point my religion had been bulldozed over in the name of (misguided, I'll get to that) "Inclusion". I had been, have been, left Spiritually Homeless so to speak, never knowing if a place I popped my head into would be for people like me, or for people so fundamentally different from me that we effectively have nothing in common.

I don't have anything against people with delusions, I have non-religious delusions when my OCD peaks. I don't have an issue with people who relate very closely with fictional characters. I don't even really have an issue with people who 'choose' to identify as a character other than the core idea of this essay. I don't mind sharing casual non kin or non religious spaces with these people, why would I?

I would say 'after all, they aren't hurting me'

Except like, here's the thing.

They Are.

I came back to what I considered my home, my religious community, and I found that while I had been gone, I and people like me had been forcibly removed from the spaces we had made, pushed out overwhelmingly by either people who had either appropriated our word outright, or worse still, by people who aren't fictionkin, have no right to speak on fictionkin (much less the words we use or how we defend our religious institutions), and who have bullied us out of our spaces on this unacceptable, fundamentally selfish, colonizer-minded idea of 'Not Gatekeeping', of 'Radical Inclusivity'.

They are hurting me by depriving me of spaces where I am comfortable, understood, don't need to constantly re-iterate my religion, and they are hurting me by depriving me of a word that historically has been the only real word to get into contact with the few other people I share a religion with, and by telling people I have a disorder that I do not have, as again, I do not have religious delusions, I simply partake in a niche religion. There is nothing wrong with having delusions, there is something wrong with force-diagnosing me by proxy.

And guess what. Sometimes things just aren't for everyone. Sometimes things just aren't for you. And you have to be okay with that. Or if you aren't okay with it, you're going to have to deal with it, because it's just the way things are.

Now, since I know someone is going to get into it, what I'm talking about here has nothing to do with the queer definition of Radical Inclusivity, not relevant, not related, not a religion, not the same, do not bother bringing it up.

When I say, 'I am Fictionkin', I want people to know right away two things.

I am a fictional character (or rather, I resemble a fictional character and can be considered a nonfictional version of them for all major purposes)

For spiritual reasons, this is a religion for me.

I do not want, at any point, for any reason, anyone to have to ask or wonder, if this is a self ID thing, a medical thing, a love of the media thing, I fucking hate half my media, shining resonance refrain is dogshit and here's why-

Different essay. Sorry.

This is getting quite long, so I will now turn around and backtrack to my original point.

Thanks to a lack of gatekeeping, partially from the community itself, and overwhelmingly by people who paint themselves as having authority who aren't even Fictionkin forcing Fictionkin out of their spaces to make way for unrelated people, the word no longer has meaning, and despite being there when it first began being used, it is no longer a label that fits or that I am comfortable with.

For this reason, I will be hereby using the term Fictotheism, Fictotheist, Fictotheological.

{Use: I practice Fictotheism, I am a Fictotheist, I am Fictotheological}

My fictionkin status is religious, it is spiritual, I will be using this word because that point is baked in, it will be difficult to appropriate by anyone else, I have created this word to be like a bra; it should feel uncomfortable to use for anyone whom it does not fit.

I do not care if other people use it, in fact, if it does fit you, please do. I am not demanding anyone use it, it was created for me, and for me alone, as someone who was pushed out of my original community, it is too late I believe to reclaim Fictionkin, which is unfortunate.

My hope is that a new word will primarily give people a clear immediate idea of what I am, and that if for some reason others should begin using it, that it will create a community that is once again not only in-contact, but at less risk of being pushed out of our own community.

My only request to anyone who uses it, is that you gatekeep it. I am not only asking you to gatekeep it. I am telling you to. It must be in order to keep the definition intact. 'I identify as a character perceived as fictional for religious reasons', this is the definition, there are no other definitions, so sayeth the lord. This is a joke by the way, I'm not that pompous.

Not the demand to gatekeep this word however, that was genuine.

In closing, the word Fictionkin has been stolen from the people who originally used it, and I think that's quite frankly disgusting, but there is no fixing it now, the only way we could have fixed it was to gatekeep it when we first started being pushed out. Regardless of which word picks up traction next, I hope that this time we, as a community, can come together to keep people; especially people who aren't even fictionkin, from forcing us out of our own churches.

I will end on this note, partially for humor, and partially to nip this in the bud.

Spouse: 'People will definitely try to force you to use Fictionkind or say it already exists for this reason (despite it also being watered down)'

Me: Good, they can get fucked, this is my word for me baybee!!

#Fictionkin #Alterhuman #Fictionkind #Fictionfolk #Personal Essay #Fictotheist #Fictotheological #Fictotheism

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watchyourbuck · 2 years ago

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17 please

Every step Eddie took, Buck followed suit. His eyebrows were contorted in worry, and he kept fidgeting.

“Are- are you sure this is gonna work?”

Eddie inhaled deeply, moving around the kitchen in the limited space he had, picking bowl after bowl of snacks. He turned to his boyfriend with a stern look. “Buck,” he said, his tone bordering on exasperated, “please stop worrying. It’s gonna be okay. Here,” he added, handing him the dishes forcefully, “take these to the table.”

Buck pursed his lips, pulling the bowls close to his body. “Eddie, I’m just- I don’t wanna fight ‘em.”

“No one’s fighting anyone.”

The promise sounded wobbly, like it could break at any moment. But, then again, Eddie had earned his trust. At least he wasn’t facing them on his own.

“Okay,” Buck whispered, defeated. “I’m- I’ll give you space.”

His boyfriend was very obviously tired, and he wasn’t being precisely useful.

“Park it,” Eddie ordered, sighing. He put his hand up, stopping Buck before he could make it through the threshold. “Come here.”

Buck obeyed, blinking away a few tears. Eddie grabbed his arm, pulling him in.

“It’s going to be okay,” he reassured him, placing his hands on Buck’s neck before leaning up to kiss him.

It was long, and soft and enough to make Buck’s shoulders relax.

Then the bell rang.

They were here.

Almost immediately, Buck’s look of panic returned to his face. Eddie breathed out, pulling away from him, then gave him a kiss on the cheek before walking to the door. “C’mon baby.”

Buck stayed behind. Frozen in the middle of the kitchen, with half a pound of mini toasts and salty chips.

Admittedly, it was kind of selfish, but he couldn’t let them in himself —besides, Eddie hadn’t waited for him, either.

Soon, though, the voices of Ramon and Helena Diaz, and Phillip and Margaret Buckley filled his ears to the brim. They were asking for him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Buck!”

“Coming!”

The bitter taste of the word ‘baby’ got stuck in his throat. Not yet, not yet.

Who told them this was a good idea?

Irrupting through the kitchen door was enough to make their guests stare. Eddie glanced between them, forcing a smile Buck knew fake a little too well. He copied it. “Hi- hi mom, d-dad,” he said, his voice quiet.

Eddie walked towards him, taking back the bowls into his own. “Go,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side in repetitive little motions.

“Oh, uh- yeah, h-hi!” Buck muttered, moving as fast as he could through their crowd. “Mr. Díaz, Mrs- Mrs. Díaz.”

Both men patted him on the back, reminding him how strong they actually were. He gulped. He was okay, he was safe.

Margaret kissed his cheek, leaving an imprint of her lips. Buck wiped it with the back of his hand, smiling down politely at her so as to not offend her. Helena barely acknowledged him; she simply glanced at her own son with suspicion.

Right, he guessed this was a very particular invitation after all.

As soon as he was done, he stepped back, returning to Eddie’s side. He had finally settled the bowls down on the table, where they belonged.

The six of them stared at each other.

“Mijo, what’s going on?” Helena blurted, crossing her left leg over her right one. “Don’t- don’t get me wrong,” she added, looking over at Buck’s parents, “I- I’m thrilled to see you all, but-,”

“Nothing, ma,” interrupted Eddie rashly, “Buck and I have- we have busy schedules, that’s all. You’re always on my case about seeing me more… we thought it’d be a nice-,”

“Buck’s not all that busy,” exclaimed Margaret, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “This… firefighting thing is more like a hobby.”

Buck felt his neck and cheeks color. Always good to know what your mother thought of your job.

“I disagree, Mrs. Buckley,” Eddie said after a second. “Being a firefighter is a highly demanding job, and some may think it resembles a hobby, but both Buck and I, and our entire team, actually…, we put all our efforts into taking care of you.”

The last word made Buck lower his head, his ears perking up. He knew Eddie better than anyone else in that room, and that was a direct shot.

“Edmundo,” called Ramon, his voice stern and his eyebrows furrowed. “Be respectful to your friend’s mother.”

Not that it should have, but he felt as though ‘friend’ had stabbed him in the throat.

Eddie fell silent. So much so that Buck raised his head and looked at him, his eyes wide and expectant. It took him a second, but he eventually returned the stare. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I thought we’d have more time of small talk, but- it is what it is.”

“Eddie.”

“Buck-,” he muttered, putting his hands up and closing his eyes. “It’s time”.

“I don’t understand,” interrupted Helena. She sounded upset already, as if she could sniff their confession from a mile away.

“I’m afraid neither do I,” followed Margaret, looking among the guests, but eventually blinking up at her husband.

He took her hand. “Care to tell us what’s going on, Evan?”

“It’s- Buck, dad,” he tried. “Whatever.”

“Okay,” repeated Eddie. “Everybody shut up.”

“Mijo!”

“Edmundo!”

“No, mom, dad. It’s time you listen to what we have to say.”

Buck gulped, blinking. He could hear his own heart in his ears, and it was making him dizzy. He looked at Eddie, who straightened up where he stood.

“You were right. We do have something to tell you,” he started. “This could have been a text, but out of respect for you, and for Buck, I’ve decided to do it this way.”

“Did you get a girl pregnant?” Ramon asked, short of standing up. Buck took a step back. Jesus Christ.

“No.”

“Then what’s so important you had to fly us out from Texas?”

Eddie licked his lips. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Mom, dad, Mr., Mrs. Buckley… Buck and I are together.”

The way Phillip’s face changed in real time made Buck realize Eddie had grabbed his hand in the process. He was holding it, and squeezing it. He felt like he was going to pass out, but he managed to squeeze back.

“What is this?” Phillip said, a disgusted look plastered on his face.

“Together, together?” Margaret said, her smile faltering.

In a hurry, Ramon stood up, and Buck couldn’t help his reaction. He took two steps back, hiding behind Eddie. “What are you telling me, Edmundo? That you’re a fa-?”

“Ramon!” Helena interrupted, mimicking her husband. She put herself in front of him, trying to push him back.

Eddie took a step forward, and their hands slid away from each other. “Yes,” he said, his features hard, and unnerved. “Yes, I am. You got a problem with that?”

“Evan,” said Phillip. “Come here right this second.”

Buck was breathing heavily. This is exactly what he didn’t want. Oh, god, oh, god. He put his foot up, but Eddie extended his arm, crossing his body. “No,” he said, “he’s done taking orders from you.”

“So, he’s taking them from you now?” Margaret said, putting her hands up in desperation. “Evan- what have you turned into?”

“Mom,” he tried, his voice weak. “I’m not- I didn’t turn into anything, I’ve always-,”

“This city has turned my boy into a homosexual,” she cried, covering her face with her hands.

Eddie scoffed. “Buck’s bisexual, Maggie. I’m gay.”

“You are no such thing!” Ramon exclaimed, stomping his foot on the wooden floorboards. “You are sick, and I will punch this sickness out of you if I have to.”

“Ramon!”

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie muttered, smiling. He ignored Buck’s tug on his shirt, taking another step forward. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Please, Eddie-,”

“Evan Buckley,” called Phillip. “We’re leaving. Go to the car.”

Buck frowned. “What? No.”

Phillip launched forward, keen on grabbing Buck by the shirt, but Eddie was faster. He put himself between them, staring up at his boyfriend’s father. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

“You’re not very tall.”

“But I was in the army, and I’ve seen torture that’d make you wet your pants like a little boy.”

“Edmundo!” Helena yelled, pushing past her husband to get to him. She grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away. “This is not who we raised you to be. What’s- what’s happened to you?”

“He takes it in the ass now,” scoffed Phillip, clicking his tongue mockingly.

Buck gasped, his eyes wide. Oh, hell no. “Actually, that’s me, dad.”

Silence. Eddie slowly turned to his boyfriend, the echo of fear resonating through his features.

“I’m the one that takes it the ass, dad, and boy do I love it.”

Like a maniac, Phillip reached for Buck. He grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him to himself. A few cushions were scattered on the floor, and it made them stumble. That was window enough for Eddie, who took the man’s wrist and turned it.

Everyone started yelling.

Buck fell to his knees, hitting his elbow on the glass table behind him. He winced, and Eddie ducked, dodging Phillip’s fist.

They both stood up in unison, finding their way back to each other. Eddie was the first to scream back. “All of you. Out. Now!”

“Eddie,” Helena whispered.

“Get out of my house. All of you.”

They all stared, but an ounce of common sense collectively reached their brains. One by one, they exited the perimeters, leaving Eddie to wrap his arm around his Buck protectively.

“I got you, baby, I got you.”

Buck broke into a sob.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Please take this as a very late Seven Sentence Sunday!

Tagged (yesterday) by @hippolotamus @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @jeeyuns @callmenewbie @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings & @lover-of-mine thank you so much! Go check their works if you haven’t yet💗

Tagging some friends and peeps who I believe may be interested in the ficlet! Let me know if you wish to be removed!! @your-catfish-friend @mattsire @butraura @bucksbirthmark @wildlife4life @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @buckleyobsessed @eddiebabygirldiaz @eddie---diaz @spagheddiediaz @malewifediaz @eowon @smilingbuckley @firemedicdiaz @princessfbi ✨

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