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wannab-urs · 2 years ago

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ALIENS

and javi being perfect as always ugh

bunny - one shot

Javier Peña x PhoneSexOperator!Reader - Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: Phone sex, masturbation, aliens??

A/N: Just for funsies. I’m gonna do a second part to this at some point in time. Is it considered a one shot then??? Idk. Enjoy ☎️

The first time you heard Javier Peña’s voice was in 1998.

Fresh off a call with one of your regulars, Dale, with whom you role played an alien abduction fantasy, detailing the things you would theoretically do to extract his sperm in an attempt to make an alien-human hybrid clone. You told him all about how you were wrapping your spindly, gray, extraterrestrial fingers around his cock, pumping his throbbing manhood, so warm, so deliciously human. From wherever he was, a wet slapping sound and shaky little moans filled your ears.

Sometimes you theoretically shoved things up his ass while he actually shoved things up his ass. Probing, he called it. Sometimes you’d theoretically take him in your tiny, lipless alien mouth while you sat at your kitchen counter and stretched your very human lips around a dildo, rutting up and down until you were gagging and gasping for air. Dale, on the other end, would start out whimpering no, don’t, I have a wife. Then as the squelching sounds of the dildo in your mouth grew wetter, faster, he would grunt out things like fuck yes, you fucking like that you naughty little alien?

Only after he came would he allow the façade to break, mumbling a thank you, telling you about how his wife thought his fetish was too weird to partake in this kind of role play. You said that you enjoyed his calls because it allowed you to be creative and… actually, you found it kind of hot. He said he’d talk to you soon and dropped the call.

Then the next call came in.

“Hi,” you purred, “What’s your name?”

“Javier,” he replied, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The dulcet baritone of his voice was smooth and sure. There was clinking and a long sip from his end, indicating that he was drinking.

“Bunny,” you told him, “What’re you drinking tonight, Javier?”

This was a fake name, of course, and was listed in your newspaper ad alongside a grainy black and white picture of a woman who was most definitely not you. Most men know this, sometimes asking what’s your real name? Or, what do you really look like? And you always tell them the same thing: I’m whatever you want me to be, handsome.

A fantasy. A shapeshifter. Custom-tailored to outfit their most depraved sexual cravings.

“Whiskey,” he answered, “How long have you been doing this… Bunny?”

As thinly-veiled as his disbelief was, you appreciated his attempt to suspend it when he said your fake name.

“About a year now,” you started off around your kitchen’s island counter, stepping heavy to let him hear your heels click-clack against the tiled flooring. That really got some men going.

The wet swallow of his throat, a slurp, then a quiet sigh. Another sip of his whiskey. He then inquired, “Do you like it?”

“I do,” you replied earnestly, looking up at your ceiling, studying the grooves of the light fixture hanging above you, “I get to talk to all kinds of interesting people.”

His throat rumbled in acknowledgment.

“How was your day today, handsome?” you prodded, trying to sus out what this man’s motive was for calling. Some people take a while to gather the courage to come out with it. A few just want to talk.

“It was shit,” he grumbled. The flick of a lighter, then a muffled inhale, exhale. Smoking.

“What can I do to make it better?” you asked, edging your voice along the rasp of your throat.

Javier took a long drag off (what you assumed to be) his cigarette, then said, “Tell me about something that makes you happy.”

You frowned and hummed in contemplation, searching your mind for what you think would make Bunny happy.

Then he added, “But don’t give me some horse shit answer like you’re just so happy with a cock crammed down your throat, ok sweetheart? Real answer.”

This made you laugh, and you told him, “Sure. Ok, let me think.”

“I like your laugh,” he commented softly while you were digging through your brain.

“Thank you, Javier,” you smiled, then started pacing around your island counter as you mulled over an answer that’s real, but not too real as to reveal the tender parts of yourself you keep separate from this job.

He waited patiently, sipping his drink and smoking.

“There’s a bird feeder in the garden of my apartment complex,” you confided as you leaned against the counter and crossed an arm across your soft middle, “In the morning I sit out on my deck and watch the birds while I drink coffee.”

“And that makes you happy?” he asked. His voice was flat and unbelieving.

“It does,” you confirmed, nodding your head as you shifted your weight from one leg to the other, “I think it’s important to take joy in the small things. Like how the sky looks when the sun is rising. Or when I see a black-crested titmouse at the bird feeder.”

“A what?” Javier chuckled, and it was warm and deep and genuine, “What’re you, a Boy Scout?”

“Bunny scout,” you joked.

Heat spread across your face like wildfire when he laughed at this. The sound made your heart skip a beat.

“And, what makes you happy, Javier?” you asked then, dropping your voice to sultry croon.

He grunted at this. The sound of a fridge opening. Ice clattering into his glass. The glug-glug-glug of whiskey being poured.

You pushed off the counter and walked around the island again, the click-clack of your heels on tile sounding off every second like a timer.

“I suppose, the company of a beautiful woman like you is enough to make me happy.”

“I thought you said no horse shit answers,” you teased.

He laughed again, which made you smile, then he cleared his throat and admitted quietly, “I’ve been trying to figure it out lately.”

“Trying to figure out what makes you happy?”

“Trying to figure out what happiness is,” he clarified.

The salience of his admission struck you. You hummed to emphasize its poignancy, then told him, “Happiness is whatever you want it to be, handsome.”

Javier was the one humming then. A long sip of his whiskey. The sound of a lighter sparking the tip of a cigarette.

“Can I ask you to do something for me, sweetheart?”

“Whatever you want, Javier,” you cooed.

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

You looked down at your baggy t-shirt and biker shorts, “A red lace bra and matching panties.”

“What you’re really wearing, Bunny,” he purred, “Let me see you how you are.”

“I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt,” you admitted with a smirk.

“Take your shirt off,” he instructed.

You placed the phone on the counter and pulled your shirt off over your head, dropping it next to the phone. When you brought it back to your ear, you notified him, “My shirt is off.”

“Mmm, good girl,” he breathed, “Bra?”

“Not wearing one,” you told him, “I’m… topless in my kitchen right now.”

“Squeeze your tits.”

With your free hand, you graze your breast, then pinch your nipple with a whimper, “I’m squeezing my tit.”

“The other one, too.”

You comply, attending to the opposite side with another airy whimper.

“Do you still have shorts on?”

“Yes.”

“Take them off.”

You shimmied your shorts and underwear down to your ankles, then stepped out of them, “They’re off.”

The jingling of a belt buckle. A zip. More jingling. A soft exhale.

“I’m touching myself,” you told him as you dragged your fingertip along your seam, exploring the ridges and valleys of your sex.

“Tell me more.”

“I’m rubbing my clit,” you narrate your actions in a throaty whisper, “Drawing circles around it, it feels so fucking good, Javier.”

“Suck on your fingers.”

You did this, humming and licking around your digits.

“Are they wet?”

“Yes.”

“Spit in your hand. I wanna hear it.”

You gathered a wad of saliva on your tongue and spit it onto your fingers.

“Good,” he rumbled, “Rub your clit again, sweetheart.”

A whimper falls from your lips as you follow his instructions, “Oh my god, Javier.”

He groaned and the sound dripped down your center, hot and tangible as it pooled inside you.

“Are you stroking your cock?” you asked him.

“Yes.”

“Good,” you purred, “Fuck, this feels so fucking amazing, baby.”

“Tell me more,” his voice was low and strained.

“Rubbing my swollen fucking clit, I’m so fucking wet,” you whined, and it was real, the heat gathering at your core and pooling between your legs.

“Let me hear how fucking wet you are, sweetheart.”

You slid your touch down your lips and spread your slick around, then sank two fingers into your cunt. With a shaky moan, you started fucking yourself, letting the wet squelch of your arousal sound off freely, breathing, “Can you hear that, Javier? How much you turn me on?”

“Oh my god, yes-” he groaned, “Are you fingering yourself?”

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Get on your knees,” he instructed, so you did, then he told you, “Put the phone on the ground so I can hear you. Keep doing what you’re doing, baby, make yourself feel fucking good. I wanna hear you make yourself cum.”

“Setting the phone down,” you told him, then put it to rest on the floor between your spread knees.

This man’s stern instructions swirled around in your head, filling you with fire. You followed the urges of your flesh, moaning wantonly as your hands worked your body, “Yes yes yes- just like that, Javier, that’s fucking perfect-”

You arched your back and let your eyes flutter shut, picturing this faceless stranger getting off on the sound of your moans, the wet sound of your fingers rutting in and out of your pussy. Frantic whimpers huffed from your throat as you chased this shimmering, golden orb of pleasure, “Yes, Javier, yes yes yes baby, I’m gonna cum- that’s it, Javier- oh my god yes, I’m fucking cumming-”

Your words caught in your throat. The strumming of your touch on your clit, your fingers inside you, the stranger stroking himself, it all tightened and lifted you. The swell of an orgasm overtook your body and crashed down on you. You released a shattered moan as your pussy fluttered around your fingers.

When you picked up the phone, your breath was ragged, chest heaving, “Did you get that, handsome?”

He was panting, too, “So fucking hot.”

“Did you cum for me?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I did.”

The flick of a lighter on the tip of a cigarette.

You giggled, “I wish I could have heard it.”

“Is that right?” he rumbled, taking a drag of his smoke.

“Yeah. I think it’s sexy,” you admitted, then added, “Maybe next time.”

“When can I talk to you next?”

You gave him your schedule. It became a weekly occurrence, these calls with Javi, which you eventually were given permission to call him. He was your favorite caller.

With most of your callers, there was an expectation that you would morph yourself into their fantasies. Which is fine. It’s something you enjoyed about your work as a phone sex operator. But there was something so freeing about your calls with Javi, how he wanted you to be yourself. Your real self turned him on more than any of the bullshit.

He never asked for your real name, although you could tell he wanted to know it. Every time he called you Bunny, it left his lips with a kind of disdain. Like he couldn’t stand you pretending to be someone he knew you weren’t. He opted to use sweetheart or baby instead, which you liked.

Javier was a loyal customer for two more years, until you were hired as a professor at The University of Texas San Antonio and finally had the financial freedom to quit your side gig as a phone sex operator. Truth be told, you grew quite attached to him. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him it was your last call when it happened. Goodbyes have never been your strong suit.

Little did you know, no goodbye was necessary. Because it wouldn’t be the last time you’d hear his voice.

#fic recs #javi peña fics #alley cat

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bisaster-energy · 1 year ago

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please bro this kuwameshi fic was supposed to be a quick one shot but the pacing is looking like a 2 chapter thing 🤧

#in the editing stages now 🤢#it was all supposed to be yusuke pov but now I think I'm gonna have to switch perspectives lmao #goddd if this comes out ooc I'm gonna blow my brains out but god i am trying #it's hard to get kurama's characterization cos like. he is a fox through and through as nice as he can be #I tried to implement that in a believable way like urameshi KNOWS kurama has a way of getting u to do stuff #without really letting on but I still want him to fall for it because he's hotheaded and impulsive #there's like. A bit of kurahi in it to which I didn't even intend for but that characters are gonna do what they want #the next chapter I think I'm gonna expand on keiko and kuwabara's relationship before i have yusuke come in with the steel chair #they study together!!! (Kurama comes sometimes) and eikichi is there bc i love her #maybe in a different fic I can expand on kuwabara and his cat (he's just like me fr) and the parallels between urameshi and cats cos #let's be real he acts like a fuckin alley cat #off topic another fic for another time but yeah . editing sucks :/

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immortalbutterflycos · 1 year ago

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I did it!

It's short for now, but it's the beginning of something!

I posted to my AO3!!!

(Tbh it would have been longer if I hadn't been so busy this past week but I haven't failed in my personal challenge in the first week and I'm honestly proud of myself for doing that much!)

#jegulus #the marauders #marauders era #wolfstar #regulus black #james potter #starchaser #sirius black #remus lupin #ao3fic #ao3 author #assassin au?#spy au?#no idea yet tbh #alley cat fic

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dittolicous · 1 year ago

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YOU!!!! YOU GET IT!!!! THE ABSOLUTE VISION!!!!

there is a criminal shortage of fanfics where ivankov bumps into the strawhats and immediately hones in on zoro and sanji like 👁👄👁 'oho i see now~' while sanji is torn between booking it as far as skywalk will take him or doing everything in his power to keep the other away from zoro

you cant tell me that mans gaydar wouldnt ping zoro and after spending 2 years training sanji, oh, he'll never let their lil thing go. cue wingman iva to a very mortified sanji

#iva getting exactly what he needs from zoro to cement his need to meddle #(and maybe also luffy cuz that boy is way too emotionally aware with his own crew)#(tho not a great deal cuz luffy being luffy he'd consider them already together and not bothered enough for ivas liking)#sanji breaking out in a cold sweat: oh god ivas plotting something #nami and robin breaking out the popcorn to watch all the fun #alas sanji will not escape with his dignity fully intact #but it will allllll be worth it in the end #(plus small side plot of iva judging sanjis kitchen like hmmmmmm yes ok while sanjis hissing like a territorial alley cat)#why are there so few iva & sanji fics #their dynamic is so fucking good #they gayest proudest queen in all the seas and his protégé sir big lover bi in denial #what whacky hijinks will they get up to?

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marsian-tango · 29 days ago

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Yandere Alien

Part 1

Yandere! Alien who’s been living with you for a few months now. It’s not easy living with an alien. You two are from completely different worlds, it’s a massive cultural shock for the both of you. He keeps talking about you being his bride, he can’t keep his hands to himself, and he just keeps trying to—what? Court you? Seduce you? You don’t even know anymore. This whole situation is just too weird.

Yandere! Alien who barely lets you out of the apartment. You’ve tried explaining to him that you can’t just stay home all the time, no matter how much he begs. You have a job, you need to go there sometimes to get money and provide for the two of you. Cause you know damn well he can’t go and do it himself. But he eventually accepts it, with a lot of tears involved in the process.

Yandere! Alien who has a phone now. You thought that the best way to check on him in case he does anything stupid is with a phone, and this also allows him to still be somehow connected with you, so it’s a win-win. But now you have to endure the hundreds of messages that he sends you throughout the day! He sends you memes that he finds funny, long paragraphs saying how much he misses you, a link to an ‘Alien x Reader’ fic—wait. What? This is how he spends his free time? Why is he even reading that?

Yandere! Alien who enjoys the midnight strolls that you take with him. You always show him new places, and never fail to make sure that it’s safe for him. He loves seeing all the bright neon lights, the big parks that are filled with colorful flowers and trees, and playing with the stray cats from the alleys you pass by. It’s very peaceful and intimate. Romantic even. He wishes he could take these same strolls during the day. It’s so unfair, he just wants to go out with his future bride in broad daylight, that’s not a crime! Would people really get that freaked out if they saw him? Really? He’s just a chill guy! Sure, he may have antennae, gray skin, and pointy ears. But he’s just like everybody else! Here, check him out. You’ll see just how much resemblance he has with male humans.

Yandere! Alien who’s been courting you ever since he met you, and you still haven’t reciprocated his feelings! He’s starting to get a bit impatient. He’s pretty sure he has seen every single rom-com there is, so why isn’t it working?! He cuddles you every night, makes you breakfast in the morning, he greets you with a kiss on your cheek when you come back from work. Ugh! He even ripped off his tracker chip from his body so no one on his planet would find him! Should he start courting you the way they do on his planet instead? You want him to behead your enemies and bring you their skin?

Yandere! Alien who on one hand knows that he can’t stop you from having friends and hanging out with them. But on the other hand he wants to stab them for taking you away from him. So he does the only logical thing, he breaks the one rule that you’ve asked him not to break. He leaves the apartment to stalk—make sure you’re okay! Can you blame him though? Those ‘friends’ of yours are a bunch of creeps. C’mon, why would a stinky human male hug you? That guy is probably trying to court you—why are you hugging him back?! No, nop, absolutely not. He cannot stand for this.

Yandere! Alien who carries you in his arms the second you get home, bringing you to your bedroom as you yell at him to let you go, kicking and pushing at him to try to break free. He ignores your failed attempts and mutes out your confused pries, finally letting you down on your bed. He pins you down to the mattress, getting on top of you to prevent you from escaping his hold. He’s tried so hard to show you just how much he wants you, needs you. You’re his savior, the person who takes care of him day after day. So why do you let other males get so close to you? But…this is on him. Perhaps he should’ve been clearer of his intentions, more assertive of his feelings. Oh, this has gone too far, he has to let you know exactly what he wants. There will be no doubts of his love for you when he’s done. He’ll make sure to show you all the love he has for you.

Yandere! Alien who caresses your skin so softly, as if he was afraid it would break. His hand creeping up under your shirt, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. You hope that you’re somehow misinterpreting the situation. You never thought that his approaches would’ve ended up in…this. All those times his hands grazed your waist when you passed by. When his touch would always linger a little too long. You didn’t think it would get to this, and look at you know.

Yandere! Alien who has kept you so busy ever since you met him, that you never had time to go on dates or meet new people. Now that you think about it, it’s been a while since you’ve relieved some stress. You certainly wouldn’t mind receiving some well needed attention. So…you can either let go of your common sense and enjoy yourself, with the knowledge that you’ll have to deal with an alien being ten times clingier than before and who will probably take this as your consent to getting married, or…just stick to your lucidity and turn him down…

Yandere! Alien who makes you forget you ever had common sense in the first place. C’mon, you have the right to have a good time, you’ll deal with the consequences later! So just lie down, relax, and let your lovely alien please you the way he knows how. That website he’s been watching has taught him all he needs to know about it. It really came in handy in the end, huh?

Yandere! Alien who will make you see stars.

Here it is! Part 2! I didn't think that the first part would get so many likes, so I kinda had to improvise this one. I know it's shorter than the first one, I just wanted to post something, anything. So I came up with this. I hope you like it. Thank you so much for all the support. Writting sure is difficult, but I really like it, and your support insipires me! Kisses <3

#yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc #reader insert #yandere alien #male yandere #x reader #yandere x darling

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shiorimakibawrites · 11 months ago

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Rollercoaster (Alley Cat #16)

Image Credit: kissmegoodbye.net / Nathan Dumlao / Amber Kipp

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 6808

Summary: Matt's attempts to relax after work are marred by worries. It's a night of ups and downs for both of you. Continuation of Part 15 - The Interrogation

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, swearing, emotional rollercoaster, referenced sex, referenced sexual harassment, referenced police misconduct, stress, anxiety, referenced hallucinations, rough kiss, forehead kiss

Alley Cat Masterlist

Matt Murdock Masterlist

My General Masterlist

Tags:@loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @bellaxgiornata, @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment

Also posted on AO3

Part 16 - Rollercoaster

Matt stretched his arms over his head. His muscles and joints complained loudly about how long he had been sitting at his desk today. But it couldn’t be helped. Shortly after lunch, he had discovered that Burke & Winthrop had filed even more motions in the Al-Farsi case. Most matched their usual pattern of almost but not quite frivolous but a couple had tripped over that particular line.

Big mistake, Matt thought with a smile. It probably wasn’t a nice smile. He was feeling the same vicious pleasure that he always did when he had someone on the ropes.

“Wow, whose getting their ass kicked this time?”

Foggy, standing in the door of his office, sounding cheerful despite the long day they both had. Karen had already left for the day. She said something about a lead she wanted to check out for a case she was sharing with Jessica. They had been working together a lot lately . . .

“What makes you think I’m kicking someone’s ass?” he asked.

“I know that smile, buddy,” Foggy said. “You’ve scented blood. So who’s the unlucky bastard, this time?”

“Burke & Winthrop,” Matt said. “You know how Justice Watanabe just warned them about their motion practice?”

“Yeah?” Foggy asked, growing excitement in his voice. “Did they ignore his warning?”

“They did,” Matt confirmed.

“Bad move,” Foggy said with a certain amount of relish. He knew well as Matt did that Justice Watanabe was a very serious, no nonsense judge. He didn’t make idle threats – if he told you he was going to sanction you for doing something, he was going to sanction you. Nor was he going to appreciate the inherent disrespect of having his instructions blatantly ignored like this. Rule 11 sanctions weren’t a guarantee – there was still time for Burke & Winthrop to withdraw the offending motions or modify them just enough to make them acceptable. But they might not and since Justice Watanabe had already warned them, it might not really matter if they do . . . still just a possibility but it was sweet.

“Wanna go to Josie’s?”

Matt considered the offer. It sounded good. He had done everything he could today. You were working – your message said you were even planning to continue working from home after you ate dinner. He hadn’t hung with his friends in a while . . . especially just him and Foggy.

“Sure, Fogs,” he said. “Will Karen and Jessica be joining us?”

“Nah,” Foggy said. Matt could hear the smile in his voice. “Just us avocados tonight.”

“We’re not just avocados, Foggy,” Matt teased. “We’re the best avocados in this city, remember?”

Foggy laughed. “Damn straight. But right now, this avocado needs a beer.”

It didn’t take them long to close up the office and make their way over to Josie’s. The bar had just the right amount of crowd tonight. Big enough to make the place feel lively without making it crowded. Or so loud that he had to cut the outing short before he developed a migraine. The conversation and laughter that filled the bar buffed up against him like a gentle wave. Something he was aware of but could largely ignore. He still held his white cane in his hand but there were enough other regulars in the crowd that he didn’t really need it to get a path cleared to the bar.

“Murdock, Nelson,” Josie greeted them with mock gruffness. He heard the thunk of two glasses hitting the bar and sliding toward them. He recognized the distinctive mixture of sour-sweet-bitter that made up the bar’s brand of draft beer.

“Josie, you are a saint,” Foggy said, grabbing his beer and taking a big gulp before he even tried to sit down. Matt couldn’t blame him. Neither had them had lucked out with opposing counsel today. Matt had gotten Burke & Winthrop. Foggy had Nigel Norwood from Norwood & Sons.

Norwood had been their classmate at Columbia. He didn’t like Matt but he seemed to loathe Foggy in particular. Neither of them had any idea why. Might have been pure snobbishness. Maybe the grandson of a US Senator, scion of a wealthy and prominent New York family hadn’t liked sharing a classroom with the son of a shopkeeper and a public school teacher. They knew that he hadn’t liked getting thoroughly trounced in mock trial by said son. Or that he hadn’t done much better against Foggy in real court cases. Maybe he didn’t like Foggy’s popularity with girls.

For all that Foggy complained about Matt getting all the pretty girls, Foggy had his fair share of admirers. Matt had found himself sexiled to the library several times while they were roommates.

Regardless of the reason, the end result was that Norwood was just as much of a headache as Burke & Winthrop in his own way. Anyone would need a beer after a day like that.

“Save it for your girlfriend, Nelson,” Josie retorted with equally feign annoyance. Matt could tell that she was actually pleased. The banter might have continued but another patron called for her attention and she walked away.

“Speaking of which,” Matt said, folding up his cane and sliding onto a stool. “Where is the lovely Ms. Stahl?”

“Work,” Foggy answered, getting onto his own stool. “Her trial date got moved up and the judge wants the briefing done yesterday.”

Matt made a sympathetic noise. They had all been there. Judges could be impatient like that. He hadn’t forgotten the time their Crim Law professor had her lecture interrupted by a judge who wanted to hear oral arguments on a motion to suppress right then and there. Knowing full well that trying to argue with the judge about his timing would just hurt her case, the professor had just rolled with it. And immediately turned it into a learning opportunity for the class, after getting permission to put the call on speaker phone.

He sipped his beer and wondered if the case you were working on was Marci’s. It was possible. You both worked for the same firm. You had worked as Marci’s paralegal previously. On the other hand, Lee, Everett & Kirby wasn’t exactly small. And there were hundreds of cases on the docket in this city. It could just as easily be a coincidence.

“She was very disappointed,” Foggy continued. “Said that she could really use a beer right now.”

“The changed dates stressed her that much?” Matt asked, frowning. That didn’t sound like Marci. Usually, she thrived under that kind of pressure.

Foggy snorted, “Of course not. She’s fine with that. It’s the new case that she just got assigned to. Or rather it’s who got assigned as her co-counsel on that case.”

“Creepy Asshole?”

“Creepy Asshole,” Foggy confirmed. He didn’t sound happy about it.

Matt scowled. He wasn’t happy about that either. According to Marci, Creepy Asshole was a coworker who treated her like an idiot and never looked higher than her breasts. He had hit on her a few times, through not recently. Apparently he behaved this way toward every woman at the firm but had some kind of connection to the partners that protected him for getting fired. That and he was smart enough to avoid doing and saying anything truly outrageous in front of witnesses.

Marci wouldn’t tell them the man’s name, claiming they might do something dramatic. Like what happened to that guy who had groped her in the library during undergrad. He and Foggy had protested that it was all an accident. Foggy hadn’t mentioned that those bushes said classmate was walking by had very sharp thorns. And Matt certainly hadn’t tripped him with his cane into those bushes. Honest.

That other classmates who exhibited similarly unacceptable behavior had equally bad luck with the topiary around them was sheer coincidence.

Marci hadn’t believe them then and she still didn’t. But not even the solemn vow that Creepy Asshole would have no unfortunate encounters with any plants (through he might have one with the devil) would convince Marci to give them a name.

“I know,” Foggy said, sounding as frustrated as he felt. “Let’s change the subject before I talk myself into borrowing certain items from your apartment. Where’s your new lady tonight?”

“Also working” Matt said. “Her court dates got moved up too.”

Foggy’s hum of acknowledgment was accompanied by the soft swish of hair. Softer than it used to be – Matt still wasn’t entirely used to Foggy’s hair being shorter than his shoulders. Along with other equally quiet sounds and tiny changes in the surrounding air that meant someone was nodding. “You planning on seeing her again?”

It was too easy. “Can’t. I’m blind, remember?”

An irritated huff of air. “I’m giving you a dirty look. You know perfectly well what I meant!”

“You walked right into that one, buddy,” Matt pointed out immediately. “But to answer your question, yes, I am planning to see her again.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“She makes a very good cake,” Foggy said, sounding almost serious. “And she has already paid us a retainer. Do I need to remind you that we need at least some paying clients?”

“No,” Matt said. “You don’t need to repeat your ‘Con Ed Does Not Accept Bananas’ speech.”

“Hey, don’t knock my bananas speech. It’s very convincing.”

“It is,” Matt said. “I agreed to the sliding scale, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Foggy said. “Despite your bleeding heart.”

“My bleeding heart? I believe it was you who agreed to take the Lincoln case pro bono.

Matt thought that Foggy might be giving him another dirty look. “Don’t act like you weren’t marshaling your arguments for why we had to take that case!”

He smirked. “Didn’t need to. I knew we were going to take that case from the moment Mr. Lincoln walked in our door.”

Foggy grumbled but rather tellingly didn’t argue. Mr. Lincoln had come to them because his landlord was trying to evict him for getting a guide dog, citing the building’s no pets policy. Which didn’t apply to service animals like Cedar. The landlord was probably banking on Mr. Lincoln either not knowing that or lacking the resources to fight it. Unfortunately for the landlord, Nelson & Murdock (for obvious reasons) took a rather dim view on disability discrimination.

Talk quickly turned away from work. Foggy shared the latest Nelson family gossip – who was getting married, which of his cousins was having (another) baby, how one of his little cousins had broken his arm attempting to jump from the roof onto a trampoline and how a different little cousin had gotten her brand-new pink dress covered in duckweed up to the waist while catching frogs . . .

The updates from Maggie had been almost staid by comparison. The teens had stolen some bottles of communion wine and attempted to get themselves drunk off of it. A black cat whose white markings made it look like it was wearing a priest’s collar had effectively moved into the church. Between its appearance and that its favorite napping spots being the pulpit and the confessional booth, the kids had taken to calling it Father Meow. Thankfully, Father Tomas took the cat’s habit of meowing loudly during certain amount of Mass and the resulting giggles in stride.

A home safe message from you still hadn’t arrived by the time Matt was finishing his beer but he wasn’t worried. Not yet. It didn’t normally take you this long to get home but you weren’t actually late. Not yet. There was no reason to worry yet. Maybe the subway was running slow today. Or you had decided to stop for take-out instead of cooking tonight. Or needed to run an errand like grabbing some milk or picking up the dry cleaning. He wasn’t worried.

Foggy finished his own beer – he had slowed down after that first big gulp – and from the sounds of the stool creaking, had shifted to look around.

“Looks like one of the pool tables is opening up,” Foggy said. “Wanna play?”

“Sure,” Matt said, eager to give his mind something to focus on. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was fine.

He played a couple games of pool. He drank a second beer. He engaged in playful banter with Foggy about food that ranged whether pineapple belonged on pizza to best foods. They agreed to disagree on the first (again). For the latter, Foggy’s champion was his grandmother’s chocolate cake (“You can’t even taste the sauerkraut!” / “Maybe you can’t.”) but Matt remained devoted to his dad’s stew (even if making it was always bittersweet and sometimes downright painful).

And the entire time his phone remained still and silent.

It was unlikely that he had missed the notification chime but he checked anyway. Not a single missed call, unheard voice mail, or unread text message . . . . you should have gotten home by now . . .

Fear began to blossom in his chest as he called you even as he tried to tell himself that he was worrying about nothing . . . maybe you had simply run into a friend and lost track of time. Lord knew he and Foggy could talk for hours without realizing how much time had passed . . .

The phone rang and rang but the only answer was a computer saying ‘Hello, you have reached the phone of . . .’

He left a message, tried to play off his concern by teasingly asking you if you somehow managed to end up in Queens. Again. It had been long enough . . .

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and returned his attention to the pool table. But he couldn’t concentrate on it . . . his mind was on his all too quiet phone . . . on sitting on the urge to go home, grab his burner and ask the spider kid if he had met any lost paralegals tonight even if that was bound to make the other vigilante curious . . .

“What’s wrong?” Foggy asked, his heartbeat shifting into its worried rhythm. He lowered his voice before continuing, “Are you hearing something that needs Daredevil?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Matt said and explained the situation.

“She’s probably fine,” Foggy said but his heart gave away the lie. He wasn’t convinced of that either. Even if you had decided to walk the entire way from the Upper East Side, you ought to be home by now. “You just called her . . . let’s give her a few more minutes to call back.”

Matt agreed and waited, trying not to think about all the ways you could be not fine . . . He wasn’t very successful, the vicious part of his imagination conjuring all of the evils that could have befallen you . . . those awful moments when someone he cared about (loved) heartbeat sputtered to a stop . . . St. Patrick, I beseech thee to protect . . .

You didn’t call back. Matt called again but as before, you didn’t answer. He left another message but couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice this time. As the minutes ticked by agonizingly slow . . . he picked at the label on the empty beer bottle and listened. Not to his phone but beyond . . . training his ears toward your apartment. Hoping that you were there. If you were simply ignoring him, it would hurt but at least you’d be alive . . . but what if you had some kind of accident and couldn’t reach your phone? Had you been lying on the floor of your apartment, in terrible pain, hoping he’d heard your cries for help?

But the only heartbeat he found in your apartment belonged to Houdini. He couldn’t heard that distinctive rhythm anywhere in your building . . .

A hand grabbing his shoulder shattered his concentration. The sounds of the city rose and threatened to drown him in a roaring river of noise. But that was a war that Matt had been fighting since he was nine. He hadn’t lost a battle in a while. He regained control and within it, recognized the hand gripping his shoulder. Along with increasing frantic voice that went with it. Foggy.

“-can hear me? Matt!”

“I can hear you,” Matt said. He tried not to be irritated at his best friend. Foggy had good reason to worry when Matt didn’t appear to be responding to sound. He had only discovered Matt like that once but apparently that was enough to get it permanently etched in Foggy’s mind.

“Did your hearing get wonky again?”

“No,” he said. “Just the opposite. I was trying to see if she was in her apartment or not.”

“Josie’s is close enough to her place that you can do that?” Foggy asked. He sounded surprised. Even after all this time and their many heart-to-hearts after their reconciliation, the extent of Matt’s senses still surprised him.

“Yes,” Matt said. “Just takes a little concentration.”

“Show off,” Foggy said. “So is she there?’

“No.”

“Alright, let’s start looking,” Foggy said, his hand sliding off Matt’s shoulder and into his pocket. He pulled something out – probably his phone. “First things first, let’s see if she ever actually left the office. She works at Lee, Everett & Kirby, right?”

Matt nodded.

“Would Marci know her?”

“She ought to,” Matt said. “She’s been Marci’s paralegal more than once.”

“Good,” Foggy said and did something on his phone. Calling someone as it began to ring . . then the familiar voice of Marci said, “Yes, Foggy Bear?”

“Hey Marci,” Foggy said, doing his best to sound casual and not worried as he asked if she knew if you had left the office today.

“How do you know my paralegal?” Marci demanded.

“I’m her attorney.”

“Why –”

“I’ll explain later,” Foggy cut her off. “She sent Matt a message two hours ago saying she was heading home and would text when she arrived but we haven’t heard anything since and she isn’t answering her phone. Is she still at the office?”

Marci made an irritated noise at being interrupted but answered the question. “Not as far as I know. I didn’t see her actually left this room but all of her things are gone . . . hang on, let me check if anyone saw her leave.”

He did his best to sit on his impatience while Marci asked a few colleagues if they had seen you . . . no, no, no, finally one said yes. They had been at the front desk and saw you walk out of the door, your briefcase in hand just over two hours ago.

“Thanks Marci, you’ve been very helpful,” Foggy said and hung up the phone before Marci could ask him any questions. “I’m going to pay for that later . . . Do you have any of her friends’ numbers?”

“No.” Something that he planned to rectify as soon as possible.

“Family? Could she have decided to to see one of them?”

“No,” Matt said, then shook his head. “And not easily. None of them live in New York . . . I think the sister is the closest. Somewhere in Massachusetts.”

However Foggy would have responded to that was cut off by his phone ringing. “Probably Marci to yell at me . . . no wait, that’s Brett. Why is he calling . . . Hello?”

“Nelson, are you and Murdock in New Jersey or something?”

Matt frowned in confusion. What?

“Noooo . . . why?” Foggy said, sounding as confused by the question as Matt felt.

“Because your client asked for you over an hour ago and your ugly mug still hasn’t shown up.”

“What?!” Both of them exclaimed.

“Didn’t you get a call?” There was a frown in Mahoney’s voice, a note of suspicion.

“Obviously not,” Foggy snapped. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

He hung up and stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “I think we might have found your girlfriend.”

“Quite possibly,” Matt agreed. Even if it wasn’t you, none of their clients deserved to have been left in interrogation for so long. Especially with detectives who seemed to be outright ignoring their right to counsel. “Let’s go.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Your legs were so wobbly that Matt almost had to carry you. He had offered. It had been tempting to agree. Very tempting. You had been brave. You had been strong. A not insignificant part of you didn’t want to be either of those things for a while. That part would have been perfectly fine with Matt carrying you around, face burrowed against his chest until you felt better. Or it was tomorrow and you had to face the world regardless. Whichever came first.

But another part of you was angry. Not at Foggy or Matt. You were confident that they hadn’t just left you there, that they had come as soon as they could. But at the detectives for making you feel so helpless and alone, for ignoring your repeated demands to see your attorney like you hadn’t said anything of the sort . . . the near certainty that they had done that to someone else and likely would again . . .

That anger was just a spark right now. Later, when you were feeling less tired and stressed, you were going be furious. But right now, all that anger could accomplish was making you insist on walking. Matt didn’t argue or even get snippy about your tone. Just took as much of your weight as you allowed and helped you walk over to the couch. He eased you both down onto the couch. You kicked off your heels and pulled your legs up, curling against his side. As close as you could get without actually crawling into his lap.

Which you had considered but decided against it. You had displayed enough embarrassing behavior for one night, thank you very much.

Not that Matt seemed to mind your neediness, curling his arm around your shoulders and encouraging you to rest your head on his shoulder. Which you did. The last tears were trickling down your face. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Let it slowly. Then another and another. You needed to get level, to be calm. There were things you needed to do before you could call it a day.

But those things would have wait another minute. Or ten. You could hear Foggy moving around, doing something that involved running water but Matt didn’t seemed concerned and it was his apartment . . . so you ignored those sounds in favor of listening to the soft nonsense Matt was murmuring into your hair and taking deep breaths.

You didn’t know how long you sat like that before you heard Foggy softly call your name from nearby. You crackled open an eye and saw him standing to the side of coffee table, holding out something for you. A washcloth.

You must have looked confused because he explained. “Don’t know about you but my eyes always hurt after crying like that. Especially after a long day staring at computer screens. A wet washcloth usually helps them feel better.”

Now that he mentioned it, your eyes did feel a little sore. And more than a little gritty. It couldn’t hurt. You took the washcloth and laid it across your closed eyes. Foggy was right. The coolness felt immediately soothing. “Thank you Foggy. That does help.”

“No problem,” he said with a rustle of clothing and footsteps. “Your tea should be done seeping soon and our food should be here in the next ten minutes.”

“Tea?” You repeated and sniffed the air. You could smell something vaguely herbal but a stronger and more familiar scent was also filling the air, along with a very familiar sound. “I smell coffee.”

“Wow, you two are already copying each other’s sentences?” Foggy teased. “I made the coffee mostly for me and Matt. If you want a cup, I won’t stop you but something without caffeine might be better after all that stress.”

It probably was. You did feel jittery. But you might get a cup of the coffee anyway. Even if you didn’t drink most of it, the warmth and aroma alone was comforting.

“What kind of tea?”

“Don’t know. Braille label just has ‘go to fucking sleep’ on it.”

“It does not,” Matt said. “It says ‘can’t sleep tea.’”

“I was paraphrasing,” Foggy countered. “Since I am positive that ‘can’t sleep’ in Matthew Murdock translates as ‘I haven’t sleep in a week’ to us non-ninjas.”

“I’ve never gone a week without sleep,” Matt argued. “Humans physically can’t stay awake that long.”

“True,” Foggy conceded before adding, “But I distinctively remember spring finals in our freshmen year. You went without sleep long enough to start hallucinating.”

“I wasn’t hallucinating,” Matt protested.

“You said, and I quote, ‘This dorm is a hive. Filled with bees. Buzz.’ Then kept saying buzz over and over again until I slapped my hand over your mouth. Then you licked my hand, Matthew.”

“You licked my hand first.”

“Objection! When did I allegedly lick your hand?”

“When you got drunk at that frat party and got it into your head to serenade that girl from your Punjabi class. At three in the morning. I was trying to shut you up before she threw something heavier than a slipper at you.”

You laughed. Which was probably their goal all long judging by how pleased they looked with themselves when you peeked out from behind the washcloth. The laughter felt good, releasing a tension that you hadn’t realized that you were carrying. You were still giggling when Foggy returned to living room and held out a mug to you. You took it and breathed it in. It might not have been coffee but the warmth seeping into your hands felt nice and it smelled good.

“All joking aside,” you said, looking up at Matt. “What’s in this tea?”

“Mostly chamomile and lavender,” he answered.

“That’s all it takes when you can’t sleep? A cup of flowery tea?” You asked, feeling more than a little jealous. Your insomnia was never so easily defeated . . .

“Not quite,” Matt said. “That’s just part of how I try to relax when I can’t sleep.”

There was the faintest suggestion of a blush dusting his cheeks and the tip of his ears. Which was both adorable and made you powerfully curious. What could make this man blush? Even just a little? He seemed so shameless. Especially last night when he was encouraging you to moan or praising how well you were taking his cock . . .

You felt your face flush at the memory and the accompanying urge to squirm. Then flushed even more when Matt’s head tilted slightly toward you and that knowing smirk starting to form. To distract yourself away from such thoughts before you got (more) worked up, you turned your gaze to the mug in your hands. There wasn’t much to distract your eye. The tea didn’t look much different from black tea other than a little lighter in color and the mug wasn’t decorated beyond being a nice shade of yellow.

You raised the mug to your lips and sipped the tea. The taste was mild, slightly sweet but not sugary. It wasn’t going to replace your beloved coffee anytime soon but you wouldn’t object to being offered another cup in the future. But you couldn’t resist the urge to look at Matt for long.

His mug didn’t match yours. It was white with a stylized drawing of two halved avocados and something written in braille underneath. If you had to guess, it probably said the same thing as the green lettering above it – Best Damn Avocados. Like one of those #1 Dad mugs. Looking closer, you realized that the line art of the avocados was raised. A look over at Foggy showed him drinking out an identical mug.

You found yourself feeling curious again. Those mugs looked something that had been custom-made. Did they really like avocados? You liked avocados too but not enough to get a custom mug. There was probably a story there but before you could ask, there was a knock on the door. Foggy put down his mug and went to the door. You heard the soft murmur of conversation before Foggy came back with a box with the name of local pizzeria in his hands.

The tantalizing aroma of fresh pizza filled the apartment. It made your mouth water. More embarrassingly, your stomach decided to remind everyone that you had missed dinner. Blood returned to your cheeks.

“Hungry?” Matt asked with a little amused smile.

“A little,” you answered ruefully as Foggy walked over with two plates in his hands. Pepperoni. A good choice. You had been expanding your palette since moving to New York but on bad days, you gravitated toward familiar things with happy memories attached to it. Like pepperoni pizza. Even if this hand-tossed crust with its classic leopard spotting was a far cry from the chain-restaurant or freezer section pizza of your childhood.

You must have been hungrier than you thought. You practically inhaled that first slice of pizza. Foggy offered to get you another slice but you quickly said no. He had only just sat down and barely gotten a bite of his own slice. You would get another one yourself. Your legs weren’t entirely on board with this plan. You stood and for a heart-stopping moment, they refused to take your weight.

You started to fall back. But then Matt was there, steadying you with one hand braced against your back, the other on your hip.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he gently chided. “I don’t think any of us wants to add a trip to the ER tonight.”

“Sure you don’t want me to get that pizza?” Foggy asked. He had half raisen from his chair.

“I’m sure,” you said. You reached down and wrapped your hand around Matt’s hand on your hip. You gave it a little squeeze. “I’m fine.”

The hand gave a squeeze of its own to your hip but he didn’t try to stop you from putting your weight back on your legs. This time they held. Matt’s hands slide off of your body with obvious reluctance as you moved toward the kitchen box and the waiting box of pizza. You got your second slice and returned to your previous spot on the couch.

This time you ate more slowly. You had been meaning to try this pizzeria – you walked by it on the way to work and it always smelled good – but hadn’t gotten around to it. It didn’t take long to realize that you should have listened to your nose. It was really good, much better than some of the other places you had tried. From now, you decided, you were getting your pizza from Slice of Life.

You felt a lot better now. The tasks ahead of you that have previously seemed so dauntingly felt manageable. Knowing this second wind wasn’t going to last forever, you cleared your throat and said, “We should probably get started on business.”

Both men seemed to study you for a minute, Matt with his listening closely pose and Foggy with shrewd eyes. But after that minute, both men nodded. Foggy took out a legal pad and pen from his satchel.

You had opened your mouth to begin when Foggy’s phone gave out a loud thrum. It wasn’t the first time the phone had buzzed at him. It had done so several times while you were eating. But each time, Foggy had looked at the call ID and declined the call. This time, however, he fumbled the phone and ended up answering. On speaker phone to boot because you heard a familiar voice all but growl, “Franklin.”

You winced. You recognized that tone. It had never been directed at you but you knew what it meant. Marci Stahl was out for blood.

“Hey Marci,” Foggy said with forced cheerfulness. It was obvious from the look on his face that he knew he was in hot water.

“Do. Not,” she hissed. “‘Hey Marci’ me, Franklin Nelson. I want to know what the hell is going on. Right now!”

After a quick glance at you for permission – Foggy explain the situation. Only in the broad strokes, omitting certain details. Like you had seen Daredevil more than once. And that Matt was the vigilante in question. Listening to his explanation answered a couple of your own questions – Marci was not in on the secret (yet) and how they had learned about the interrogation. Apparently there was at least one detective at that precinct who remembered that things like access to your legal counsel was a right, not a suggestion. Good to know.

“I see,” Marci said after Foggy had finished talking. She sounded more thoughtful than angry now. Which was a relief. “One question.”

“Fire away,” Foggy said as you raised your mug to drink the last of your tea.

“Murdock, are you fucking my paralegal?”

You managed – just barely – not to spray tea all over Matt’s coffee table or dribble it down your shirt. You also avoided chocking on it. Still, you were sputtering and your face felt like it was on fire.

“Ms. Stahl!” you protested.

“That sounds like a yes,” Marci said. “And call me Marci if you are dating Murdock. You are dating right, not just fucking?”

It wasn’t possible to die of embarrassment. Otherwise Jo would have killed you years ago. But sometimes, you thought as you buried your face in your hands, I really wished that it would.

You jumped a little when a hand gripped your knee. You peered through your fingers and saw it was Matt. Who squeezed your knee and sent you a reassuring smile before he answered Marci.

“Yes, Marci, we’re dating.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?” Matt looked genuinely curious. And if you were being honest, you were more than a little curious yourself about that answer.

“That hickey on her neck. You usually aren’t possessive enough of a one-night stand to mark them up like that.”

“Huh,” Foggy said slowly, looking he was mentally reviewing his memory. “I think she’s right.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m always right, Foggy Bear.”

Foggy Bear? That was unexpectedly cute. It also didn’t escape your notice that this was the second person to mention that hickey to you. It seemed your attempt at cover-up was even worse than you thought. Granted, both parties were rather observant people.

Still . . .

“Is there anything else I should be aware?” Marci asked.

“I had work product and similar confidential materials for the Rosenberg-Kowalski case in my briefcase,” you said. “So I refused to unlock it for police when they frisked me. They threatened to get a warrant for the contents.”

“They aren’t very likely to get one. Or a subpoena for that matter,” Marci pointed out.

“I know that,” you said. “But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t going to try. And I assume that you wouldn’t appreciate being caught unaware by such an attempt.”

“You assume correctly,” Marci said. “I’ll watch out for it. Which detectives from which precinct?”

“Tim Vaughn and Darla Reynolds with the 15th Precinct.”

Marci repeated the information in a way that suggested that she was writing that down. Then, after a brief conversation with Foggy, she said good-bye and hung up.

“Okay,” Foggy said, picking up his pen. “Let’s go over exactly what happened.”

You took a deep breathe. Then you started describing what happened, doing your best to remain calm. But when you got to the moment when you tried to get out your phone, your heart began to race with remembered fear. You felt Matt’s leg, pressed up against yours, became rigid.

“He threatened you with a gun?” Matt asked, his voice dark with growing anger. You looked over at him, saw the hands clenched tightly into fists. Then the muscles shifted under his clothes, like he was preparing to stand up. You knew with a visceral certainty that you couldn’t let him do that. If he stood up, he would make a beeline for the Daredevil suit. Assuming he even bothered stopping to grab his armor before darting out the window . . .

Your mind raced, trying to come up with something, anything, to convince him to stay where he was . . . You reached for him, cupping his face in your hands. Gently but firmly you encouraged him to turn his head to face you. Away from where you assumed he had hidden the Daredevil suit.

Once again, you were struck by how beautiful he looked like this. That naked rage blazing in his eyes should have been scary. And while you couldn’t say that it wasn’t intimidating, fear wasn’t your body’s overwhelming reaction.

No, you thought, feeling the wet heat building between your legs. Not fear at all.

His nostrils flared. Then his brow furrowed with the first hint of confusion. It was an opening. You massaged his cheeks with your thumbs. “Orange isn’t your color, baby.”

“He threatened you with a gun.”

“He never even drew the gun from its holster,” you pointed out mildly but his body remained rigid, his eyes filled with anger . . . and fear, you realized with a jolt. He was frightened. And like most men, he was channeling that fear into anger . . .

That give you an idea. It was risky but . . . Not wanting to give yourself time to talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. He didn’t respond at first. Long enough that you felt the first stirring of panic. Had you just ruined everything . . . but then you felt his mouth soften.

He started kissing you back, his hands raising to cradle your head as he deepened the kiss. It wasn’t a gentle, loving kiss. You didn’t expected it to be. You didn’t want it to be. You wanted him to turn that rage and its underlying fear into passion. And he did, biting and lapping into your mouth with a fierce intensity that left you breathless. Moaning, you didn’t resist as his hands slide down your back and started to tug you into his lap . . .

A sharp whistle pierced the air, startling you. You reeled back from Matt, almost falling off the couch. Where – ?

“Oi, lovebirds!”

Foggy, still lowering his hand from the whistle and looking rather disgusted with both of you. Embarrassment brought a fresh wave of warmth to your face. You had forgotten he was there. At least you weren’t alone in that particular boat. When you risked a glance at Matt, he had the same flushed, vaguely guilty expression on his face that you were pretty sure was gracing yours.

You forced yourself to look away. Before you got too distracted by his kiss-swollen mouth. Or mussed hair. Or . . . You sat up straight and did your best to ignore the empty ache in your cunt. Now really wasn’t the time.

“Can I trust you two to keep everything rated G until I leave?”

“Sorry Fogs. We’ll be good.”

You echoed that agreement.

Foggy looked skeptical but after a moment, gestured for you to continue your story. You did. Matt and Foggy both asked a few clarifying questions. Neither knew what to make of your observations about Reynolds. Matt added that she had smelled like stress, even more than usual for a cop. Still, it was possible that that what was going on was exactly how it appeared to be – a fishing expedition by a couple of overzealous detectives. But it was also possible there was something else going on. There just wasn’t enough information to be know either way. You’d all have to wait and see.

It wasn’t an answer that pleased any of you but it was what it was.

Matt walked you home. By the time you arrived, your second wind was fading fast. Maybe Matt’s sleepy tea was finally catching up with you. But maybe it was just this emotional rollercoaster of a day . . . Either way, you were practically asleep on your feet.

But you had a meowing cat at your feet who, understandably, wanted his dinner. Any dinner, as blurry eyed look showed that all of his bowls were empty. Even his water. Poor kitty. He deserved a much better human friend than you. You started to shuffle toward the cat food but Matt stopped you.

“Get ready for bed, sweetheart. I’ll feed Houdini for you.”

That sounded like a fantastic idea. You loved your cat but you were just so tired . . . You agreed and turned toward your bedroom. You paid very little attention to what you pulled out of the drawer for sleepwear. At this point, as long as it was clean and didn’t itch, you didn’t care what you were wearing. All you cared about was the siren’s call of your nice, comfortable bed with its fluffy pillows and soft blanket . . .

You were just awake enough to notice the warm, furry body joining you in the bed, tucking himself under your chin with a purr. Dimly, you noticed that he smelled like potting soil but you couldn’t remember why that was problem . . .

Just before everything faded away, you felt soft lips press against your forehead and deep voice say, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Ending Notes:

This chapter’s working title was “Debrief” but given both Matt and Reader go through a bit of an emotional rollercoaster in this chapter, I changed it.

On the ropes is an expression from boxing from where someone is being forced up against the ropes by an opponent’s attack. That someone is usually losing and will have difficulty getting back on the offensive. It used in common parlance to mean that someone is very near to giving up or being defeated.

Rule 11 is (Federal?) Rule of Civil Procedure 11 provides that a district court may sanction attorney or parties who submit pleadings for an improper purpose or that contain frivolous arguments or arguments that have no evidentiary support. Basically, if I’m understanding this right, do not waste the court’s time with utter nonsense. These sanctions is usually a monetary fee.

In addition to being a mobility aid, the white cane can also be used an identifier. Mostly so others know to give the blind person (and possibility the person guiding them, if they are being guided by a sighted person) enough room to walk safely.

Sexiled is a slang term for being banished by one’s roommate from the room/dorm/apartment so said roommate can have sex with their significant other with relative privacy.

Crim Law is a shortened form of Criminal Law.

The professor being called by the judge in the middle of class is an adaptation of a story that an attorney shared during a podcast about having to give arguments over the phone while on a beach dressed in swim trunks.

Con Ed is Consolidated Edison Inc is a utility providing electric and gas service in New York City as well as steam service in Manhattan.

Mr. Lincoln is a nod to Willie Lincoln, a minor character in the Daredevil comic who is a blind African American veteran.

As far as I know, that thing about the guide dog is true, provided the dog isn’t aggressive toward other tenants.

The broken arm thing is something that my younger sibling did when they were about ten.

Duckweed is a common name for aquatic plants that float on or just beneath the surface of still or slow-moving bodies of fresh water like a pond. Through the algae is might also be getting that dress dirty.

Pineapple on pizza is the subject sometimes rather serious debate. I have no strong opinions on the matter – generally I think the people who are eating that particular pizza are the only ones whose opinion of the toppings matter.

Chocolate Sauerkraut Cake is really a thing. I first encountered the concept in a video by B. Dylan Hollis on YouTube. Apparently, if made right, you cannot taste the sauerkraut but I think I’ll just stick with coconut for that texture.

Jack’s stew is an Irish-style stew with beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, and turnips stewed in beef stock and Guinness beer. Traditionally the stew is made with lamb, potatoes, onions, and water but like many common dishes, every family has their own version. Jack made it like his mother did with exception of using beef instead of lamb or mutton because the latter two tend to be more expensive than beef in the US.

Walking from Upper East Side to Hell’s Kitchen would take at least an hour, according to Google maps.

St. Patrick, in addition to being the patron saint of Ireland, is also the patron saint of paralegals. But I’m not Catholic so don’t quote me on that.

Chamomile and lavender are supposed be relaxing. Separately or together, they often are ingredients in calming and bedtime teas.

Leopard spotting on pizza is caused when the dough is fermenting in a cold environment which causes a lot of air bubbles to form and the intense heat of the oven makes those bubbles super pronounced, creating leopard-liked spotting.

Slice of Life is not, as far as I know, a real restaurant.

G Rating is one of the film ratings given out by the MPAA (Motion Picture Association of America), meaning for general audience. It is supposed to be suitable for young children with no violence, offensive language, or sexual activity.

#fan fiction #marvel daredevil #mcu daredevil #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #alley cat series #ao3 link #ongoing fic #matt murdock x fem!reader #hurt/comfort

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seresinhangmanjake · 8 months ago

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Come Back Knockin'

Benny Cross x reader (the bikeriders fic)

Summary: When Benny finds out you're pregnant, he panics and takes off. You don't think he's ever going to come back to you, so you start trying to figure out your future without your husband by your side. And then one day, there's a knock at your door.

Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free*, lots of cursing, mentions of abandonment, angst but not forever, mention of pregnancy, probably typos.

Words: 2900

Part 2: Come Back Together Benny Cross Masterlist

“Benny, where are you going!” you cry, watching in disbelief as he turns away from you and exits your shared bedroom. “Benny!”

He doesn’t stop at your call. Doesn’t even flinch. Your voice is a pathetic grasp around his wrist that he shakes off like a pesky mosquito. He’s leaving, you realize, and when your body finally catches up with that understanding, you rush after him.

His strides are long, double the length of yours, and he’s already got his jacket off the hook and is pulling it over his shoulders by the time you’re able to close in on him.

“Benny, don’t go!” you wail in a desperate plea, but it’s still useless, and a moment later you’re chasing him out the front door into the rain. “Please!”

You’re both drenched in an instant, hair stuck to your heads like a pair of drowned alley cats. Your nipples pebble through your thin, white nightgown that now shows every curve of your figure. The denim on his body deepens a few shades of blue from absorbing every drop of the downpour.

“Benny!” you try once more.

He doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he crosses the street toward his bike, so you stop your chase before your bare feet leave the last step of your front porch. All you can do is watch. Watch his long leg swing over the seat of the bike. Watch him kick the beast to life. Watch how he glows angelic-like under the intense ray of the streetlight; a spotlight on the man you love who is running away from you.

You don’t bother calling for him again. Your voice would only be muffled by the relentless drumming of heavy rain on pavement. Benny leans forward, and without checking for other vehicles, pulls into the street and drives until the darkness of night claims every speck of light from his bike.

He’s gone.

And you’re alone.

—

You hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed by the news—it’s why you waited nearly three weeks to tell him—but you didn’t foresee such anger over the actuality of being a father. When you told him you were pregnant, his face had darkened in a manner you’ve only witnessed right before his fist meets the jaw of a rival biker. And, in some respect, he'd treated you the same. Like you were a pest, a nuisance, an object put in his path solely for the sake of pissing him off; the difference being that Benny would never lay a hand on you. So instead, he'd left.

On day three of your husband’s absence, Johnny had stopped by to ‘see if the kid was still alive,’ and you were left with the burden and embarrassment of telling him that Benny had skipped town. Johnny had asked why, of course, so you told him, and by the way his features twisted from surprise to desolation, you knew he also saw little hope in your husband returning to you.

Benny has had his reasons for not wanting to be a father, failure a prominent knot in the back of his mind, but it’s not as if you planned this. It was an accident. An accident that you can’t just wish away because he doesn’t know how to handle being what you and this baby need him to be.

“I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” Johnny had said. You’d done your best to hold in the tears while long beats of melancholy silence passed between you. “Listen, you ever need anythin’, you know Betty and me, we love ya, so…”

You’d nodded, wrapping your arms around your middle to stave off a sudden chill. “Thanks, Johnny.”

He nodded as well, then he'd sighed and glanced around your quiet street as if expecting to see Benny ride up any second. “Well,” he said once it was clear neither of you would be finding that relief, “don’t be a stranger.”

He’d left after that and you haven’t seen him since. Not because you don’t appreciate him, but because he reminds you too much of Benny. Betty had called a few times—she’s as much a mother figure to you as Johnny was to Benny—but you weren’t very forthcoming with enthusiasm at talking baby plans and motherhood. At one point, in an effort to lift your spirits, she’d even mentioned throwing a shower, which immediately made you drop the phone and rush to the bathroom to lose your breakfast.

When you’d returned, the phone was dangling by the coiled cord, Betty’s concerned voice coming through the speaker. You’d put it up to your ear, told her you'd call her back, and hung up the damn thing. You didn’t call her back. You think she got the message.

In the weeks that have passed, many of the guys have come by to check on you, and in the beginning, you were somewhat receptive, but it was solely to abstain from hurting feelings and severing ties so harshly. You’re positive the relationships won’t last. You were in the biker lifestyle because of Benny. He brought you into a pre-established family unit, and without him, you don’t belong.

You know the day may come when you regret letting the club go. Its members are the only people who have reached out their hands to you, but for now, you’re too numb to care, and with that numbness comes self-destruction. And with your particular brand of self-destruction comes isolation. Solitude. Loneliness. You’ve put yourself in place to navigate the future alone. Finding a job to support your child, hoping you’ll make enough so you don’t lose your house—that’s your priority now, and you have no choice but to step up and figure it out.

—

As it turns out, no one wants to hire a pregnant woman. Well, no one you’ve contacted wants to hire a pregnant woman, but you’re willing to bet they’re a decent indicator of most companies' future rejection.

It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t be telling them of your condition, but your bones are built of honesty and when they ask if you’ll be able to work long-term, you don’t hesitate to reveal the truth. In fact, the truth is out of your mouth before the thought to lie slithers into your head.

You’re going to have to toughen up, be someone you’re not used to being, if you intend to survive. And that’s all you let yourself think about anymore. When Benny slips into your thoughts, you work tirelessly to shove him aside. It’s taken practice, self-discipline, but you’ve made some progress. Just yesterday you were finally able to overcome your urge to run to the window at hearing the grumble of a motor passing by your house.

The next goal is to bag up his clothes and stow them away in the attic, but you’ve yet to face his side of the closet without breaking down. And to make it all the more agonizing, the fabrics still smell like him. You could wash them five times over and it would do nothing to remove his scent.

Sometimes, at the peak of your pathetic impulses, you want to sneak inside and bury yourself amongst the cheap and tattered clothes. Turn them into a blanket. Forget everything. But you’ve managed to resist.

Baby steps, you internally repeat as you bring a spoonful of cereal to your lips. You like the sugary stuff now. The stuff that kids gobble down before school. Bad for an expectant mother, yes, but you’re not about to scold yourself for what little enjoyment you find in this life.

Suddenly, a knock taps on the door. Your head shoots up and your heartbeat stutters at the sound, but you don’t move to answer it. These days, it’s rare you answer it at all. The guys know not to bother you, as do Betty and Gail and Kathy. If they see you’re home, they leave their tupperware-filled home-cooked meals at your doorstep, knowing you’ll grab them once they leave. Anyone else—salesmen or mailmen or whomever—always gives up after a few minutes.

However, this knocking has yet to cease. It must be a salesman, you think with a groan, and he must not have gotten the memo from other neglected salesmen that you’re a house to avoid. You can’t afford the latest vacuum model, you don’t care to own a stack of encyclopedias, and for the love of god, if you have to tell one more well-dressed man that your missing-in-action biker husband is not in need of a new shaving brush you’re gonna start keeping Benny’s handgun on the entryway table.

The tapping turns into full-fledged banging that shakes the house, and now you’re irritated, offended on the weathered structure’s behalf. Your chair scrapes across the floor as you stand sharply and round the corner into the hall. A curse is on your lips as you wrap your hand around the knob, twist, and pull, but it dies. More than dies, it’s sucked right out of your lungs along with your breath.

You want to slap him, split his puffy lips and watch the blood run down his chin. You want to shove him back so he’ll fall down the stairs and land on his ass. You want to get your breath back because that curse is clawing for freedom and you desperately want to let it out. But you can’t. You’re frozen.

He looks like shit. Well, as much as Benny Cross can look like shit, which is quite unimpressive compared to other men, but at least he doesn’t look well-rested. There’s some satisfaction in that, limited as it may be.

“Hi, baby,” he says. The low tone shudders your spine. If he’s happy to see you he doesn’t show it, but you know that even if he is, he wouldn’t dare smile after what he did.

Your swallow is hard, painful, and as the ease with which he spoke those two words sinks in, every emotion you’ve felt since he vanished bubbles over the edge of your resolve.

“‘Hi, baby’?” you echo. “Are you serious? That’s the best you’ve got, you asshole?” Your hand smacks against his chest and the unexpectedness of it forces him to stumble back a foot. You follow his stumble, stepping out onto the porch. “It’s been six weeks, Benny!”

He sighs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I know.”

“Six fucking weeks!” With your second smack, his fingers latch around your wrist, but he doesn’t push your hand away, he keeps it planted above his heart, refusing to let you go.

Dipping his head, he stares directly into your eyes. The intensity momentarily stuns you. “I know,” he repeats.

“Oh, you know,” you say, trying to jerk out of his grasp. “You abandon your pregnant wife and you think knowing that you’ve done it means a damn thing to me? Fuck off!”

“No,” he calmly replies.

“Yes!” you bark.

“No.”

Tears begin to cloud your vision. He disappeared and broke your heart at the worst possible time and now that you don’t want him here, he refuses to leave. And how horrible, how fucking humiliating to have your husband dismiss your desires so flippantly.

“I hate you!” you snap.

“I love you.”

“You left!”

“I panicked.” His free hand lands on your shoulder and slides up your neck to cup your cheek. “I panicked, baby,” he says softly.

That gentle tone pierces your skin against your will and seeps into your veins, spreading throughout your body a sedating sensation. Just enough of the drug to slow your violent pulse without knocking you out completely. And in the absence of such potent rage, sorrow takes over.

Your bottom lip quivers. Salty drops create lines down your cheeks and drip off your chin onto the rotting floorboards beneath your feet. He was supposed to replace those. It was going to be a summer project but a month and a half has already been carved out of the season and the floorboards still bow under your weight.

“Why were you allowed to panic?” you whimper. “I didn’t get to panic, so how come you got to?”

He sighs, his calloused thumb stroking your cheek. He doesn’t have a response but you didn’t expect one, at least not one with any substance, so you continue. “You know what I’ve been doing while you were out panicking? Trying to find a job so I can afford this house and provide for our child the way a parent should. But no one’s been willing to hire me.”

Benny’s brow pinches and his grip on your hand tightens. Broad shoulders fall forward as if you've just placed a few hefty boulders upon them.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I shoulda been protecting you from those kinds of worries. I shoulda been here.”

“Well, you weren't.”

“I'm gonna be,” he tells you, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe that you believe him. “I am.”

You wish you could trust his word. You wish it was that simple. You wish you were more forgiving, but a situation conflicting enough to require this level of forgiveness is not something you’ve dealt with before. You’ve experienced loss in your life, and you know it well—your father left and your mother disengaged from motherhood, but neither were so rude as to put you in a place to contemplate forgiveness for their betrayal. Neither came back to request it.

“Will you wait here?” he asks, “and not lock me out when my back is turned? Please?”

You’re severely tempted to do just that because, frankly, he’s made you wait for him long enough. But for some reason, you don't. You cast your gaze aside, cross your arms, and after a couple of seconds, nod your head.

In your peripherals, you detect his light smile. Then he turns, walks back to his bike, and wrestles a brown paper-wrapped package out of the pack attached to his seat.

“What is this?” you ask as he returns to the porch and offers it to you.

“If I was just going to tell you then why would I have wrapped it?”

You almost roll your eyes at the image of Benny taking the time to wrap anything for anyone, as normally he’d enlist someone else (you) to do it, but looking at it, it really is a poorly packaged mess. Wrinkled and ripped in one spot, with a lop-sided bow tied from the string that’s holding the parcel together. Definitely Benny-quality work for this sort of task.

As you tear through the wrapping, Benny collects your scraps, balling the shredded paper together and setting that ball down on the porch railing. The small blanket in your hands is made of bright green fabric with fringed trim, and when you unfold it, hanging it high to get a look at the full thing, you see a white duckling embroidered into one of the corners.

You lower the blanket so you can meet Benny's eyes. “Why a duck?”

He sticks his hands in his front pockets and shrugs. “They didn't have any with little Harley’s,” he teases.

To your great internal shame, you have to choke down a chuckle. His innocent joke instantly reminds you that he’s the one man who can make you laugh, the one who won you over because of his subtle wittiness and his less subtle charm. And now you fucking miss him, damn it. You’d convinced yourself you’d gotten over that, but even as he stands within touching distance, holding distance, kissing distance, you miss him.

He clears his throat. “Um…if you don't like it I can–”

“No,” you stop him, shaking your head. “I don't particularly like you at the moment, but…” You exhale and give the gift another glance. “I like the blanket.”

Benny nods. His adam’s apple bobs harshly in his throat as you refold the blanket and clutch it to your chest.

“You think you could like me again one day?” he asks. “You know, if I prove myself real well.”

Your eyes narrow as they flick up to his ocean blues. “Prove yourself as what?”

“A husband,” he says. “A father.”

A husband. A father. One of which he’s been good at in the past—prior to the disappearing act, of course—and one of which you used to believe he’d be good at in the future if that was where fate led you, which it has. But…you don't know.

You have two options. That’s it. Yes or no. Can you risk it or not? It’s a lot to take in but the reality is, there’s a question you must answer before you can answer any others—did the bomb he threw at your lives shatter your heart to an unmendable state?

You chew on your cheek, your jaw ticks, and then with a huff, you straighten your spine.

“You can never do this again,” you declare firmly, poking your index finger into the center of his chest. “I mean it, Benny. If you do, we won't be here when you come back.”

The ropes of rigidness unravel from his body. “Baby, this is where I wanna be,” he says, stepping into your space once more. “I promise.”

You can feel your heartbeat jackrabbiting from his closeness now that your overwhelming emotions have somewhat subsided.

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” you tell him.

Benny grins. “That's fair.”

---

maybe a part 2? Let me know :)

Updated Taglist (if you wanna join)

#benny cross x reader #benny cross #the bikeriders #austin butler #the bikeriders fic #benny cross fic

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machveil · 3 months ago

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I’ve been cursed by visions of König so I'll write them for you🎀✨

CW: fleshlight (it’s not specifically said in the fic, but you know the ones that are, like, basically a torso and the upper thighs? that’s the vision), masturbation, heavy pinning, size difference, fingering and oral (toy!receiving), overstimulation, nasty man /affectionate

König presents himself as someone who demands respect, a Colonel, a man who gets his hands dirty and towers over others. it’s his job, his height and build doing nothing to ease fellow soldiers - intimidating, he could snap someone in half like a toothpick if he really wanted to. cold, pale eyes that strike fear into others. maybe that’s why you make him freeze up, unperturbed by his stature and rank. you wave when you see him, smile when you talk to him. he knows you respect him, but outwardly you treat him like an old friend. Horangi’s no better, but he doesn’t fully relax around König til they’re off duty, unlike you

it eats at him, he doesn’t look into ‘why’ for months, how you freely touch him absentmindedly, how you make his chest tighten up. he doesn’t understand why his heart sinks when you talk to others, he doesn’t understand why his stomach twists when you talk to him. you’re a teammate, a colleague he trusts, it’s natural for his mind to wander to you. he thinks about Horangi when he passes bars, thinks about how he’d wage bets on whatever game is playing on the dingy screen tucked between liquor shelves. he thinks about Nikto when a stray cat dips into an alley, scruffy and tough like his friend. he thinks about you while thrusting into a stupid fleshlight, gripping it a little too hard as a mixture of his pre and lube drools out of the toy

legs jerking a little when he sinks his cock fully into it, stilling as he breathes heavily. it’s comically small in his hands, eyes glued to where it envelopes him. would you look small like this? he knows you’d be better, bites his lip as he rolls his hips. you’d be warm, searing him from the inside out, comfortable in his hold. eyes fluttering shut, he can barely keep himself together, embarrassment creeping up his throat when he cums after a couple thrusts. he barely has to imagine you before spilling into the toy, moaning through the overestimation as he keeps bucking his hips. he barely got to make you feel good, so he tries again, a lewd mixture of thick white slick making a ring around his cock. he wouldn’t want to leave you unsatisfied, he knows he can do it

the whine that escapes him when he slips out the toy is pitiful, a sob leaving him as he slips two fingers into the fleshlight. he can do it, he promises he can make you cum— brain turning to mush as pumps them, quick movements that coat his hand. you’d make pretty nosies for him, for now he’ll settle for the squelching of lube and cum, frantically working the little hole. would you squeeze around him? he wishes this damn thing could, mind hazy as he sobs out a choked groan. would his fingers not be enough? the thought makes him anxious, suddenly pulling his fingers out. he can eat you out, readjusting himself to lay down, one hand working himself to another orgasm while his other holds the toy. he doesn’t care about his chin and nose getting wet, dumbly mouthing at the fleshlight

he doesn’t mind the mix of lube, cum, and spit, he figures it wouldn’t be different than how he’d treat you. soft murmured praise leaving him for being so good, crooked nose bumping against the toy. you’d tug at his hair, wouldn’t you? watch him lick and suck and worship your body? he can imagine it, feel the phantom touch of your legs over his shoulders, hand sloppily jacking himself off. would you keep up with him? let him manhandle you in bed, toy with you and make you cry out? suddenly he’s tensing up, hips jerking helplessly as he ruins his bedsheets, feet digging into the mattress as he gasps against his toy— against you. it’s normal to think about you, isn’t it? how he imagines you shushing him, petting his hair as buries his face between your thighs, soft little breaths leaving him

he was good, wasn’t he?

#ahaha #the voices!!!#konig #könig #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig headcanons #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x you #könig x reader #cod #cod thoughts #cod smut #call of duty #hit post

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ofbatsandballads · 3 months ago

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kindness you can’t afford

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds

a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.

divider credit: cafekitsune

Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.

Gotham’s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.

You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.

But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.

The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.

So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.

You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.

He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.

You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.

It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.

What the fuck did I do?

That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.

The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.

“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.

Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.

“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.

“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.

The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.

“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.

“Don’t need it,” he snaps.

“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.

You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.

“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.

He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.

You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.

“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.

“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.

“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.

“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.

“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”

The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.

“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.

Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.

“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.

The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.

“Well, close enough.”

Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.

“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”

A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.

“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.

He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.

And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.

You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.

You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.

Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️

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