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anjaelle · 1 year ago

Note

Hello darling 💙

Would you consider writing for Count Vronsky from Anna Karenina?

Pairing: Count Alexei Vronsky x Foreign Socialite!Reader Warnings: Borderline Toxic Infatuation, Vintage Slow Burn, (almost) Infidelity Summary: A foreign born socialite/heiress visits a friend in Russia and meets a straight up demon. For @bettytaylorversion (AU where Anna doesn't go back to Vronsky and chooses to stay with Karenin.) Word Count: 2.3K a/n: I remember that Tolstoy made this character so straightforward that you can kind of play around with him as much as you like without changing much about who he is at his core. I can't be left to my own devices. That being said, I don't want purists yelling at me. So I hope everyone takes some of my choices here with a grain of salt.

--x--

Everything about Russia felt intimidating to you: the language, the size of the country, the power of its military, and the show of their aristocratic wealth. You were wealthy. But this was a different kind of wealth. You came to visit your close friend who was another socialite that you met through overlapping inner circles. It'd taken you a while to accept the invitation as you weren't sure how kindly they'd take to a foreigner.

You understood some of the language based on what your friend taught you, but you still weren't confident enough to converse in just Russian. Instead you opted for French, which seemed to work well enough. You knew your native language was a lost cause. While some people in the parlor were polite, others had no interest in speaking with you. A small number seemed interested in you and your home country. Or maybe they just noticed your Very New and Very Parisian wardrobe with your collection of gifted jewels. They decided you were important enough to talk to.

When she introduced you to Count Alexei Vronsky, an officer in the army, you felt her grip on your elbow tighten just the slightest bit. You knew about him. She told you all about his affair with the married woman from Saint Petersburg. You weren't sure how you pictured the man. She said he was handsome, but you lived in a world full of beautiful people. How much different could he be?

That was a terrible miscalculation. The minute he met you, he watched you with the intense interest of a fox stalking its prey. You felt your cheeks warm and your heart thud when he pressed his lips to your gloved knuckle. You averted your eyes when he rose from his bow, not really wanting to convey anything uncouth about the interaction.

The first time he found you alone, you were in your friend's library looking at a map pinned to the wall. He told you about every country he'd lived in, every country he'd traveled through, and which ones he'd be eager to see soon. When you pointed out your country on the map, he licked his lips and an easy smile graced his beautiful face.

"I suppose I have no choice but to come see you now." He said in his thick accent.

You realized, then, that he reminded you of angels you'd see painted on the walls of grand, gilded churches. You told him that you and your fiance would be happy to invite him to your engagement party.

"Hmm." he said, eyeing the map. "Fiancés..." he finished the statement in Russian, so you couldn't understand him.

Before you excused yourself to go find your friend, his fingertips gently grazed the back of your hand, stopping you in your tracks. "Your fiancé is incredibly lucky to have such a beautiful, clever woman."

The second time he found you alone, you'd been exploring the estate and decided to rest in the garden among the wildflowers. As you raised your face to the summer sun, he made his presence known by clearing his throat, causing you to jump to your feet in surprise.

"Good afternoon, startled rabbit." He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes at him.

"How long have you been standing there?" You warily asked, anxiously adjusting your skirts and brushing the grass from your hair. He cocked his head, studying you, "Long enough to notice that your beauty in parlor candlelight cannot compare to how alluring you are in the light of day."

It was interesting to see him dressed so casually compared to the night before. You wondered what he was still doing at your friend's estate when you knew he had a home of his own. You quickly glanced at her window to see the curtains still closed.

When you boldly asked him if he'd been watching you, something akin to amusement danced across his face, "You like the idea of that? Me watching you?"

"I have a fiancé."

He took a step closer, "That doesn't answer my question."

“You didn’t answer mine.” You countered, looking him square in the eye.

That wasn’t particularly ladylike, and you weren’t sure how anyone would react if they happened upon you and Vronsky standing so close in the garden without a chaperone.

As if reading your mind, he glanced down at your lips, then his eyes fell lower to your bodice. Your engraved gold locket rested on the top of one breast, with your fiancé’s initials glittering under the sun.

“I wasn’t watching you. I was…preoccupied.” His eyes met yours again and you felt like you’d been splashed with icy water. “Your husband—my apologies—your fiancé…he is a man of means? That necklace of yours is exquisite.”

You weren’t stupid. He didn’t care about the necklace. “That is a very inappropriate question to ask.”

“So he is not a man of means.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Who gave you that necklace?”

“Why does it trouble you to know?”

“You deserve a better one.” He murmured. You were unsure if he was still speaking about the jewelry. His fingers ghosted over the exposed skin of your forearm, "I could do that for you. If you wish." You took one large step back and glanced again at your friend’s window to find her watching you both suspiciously.

For the remainder of your stay in Russia, your friend treated you coolly. Though she was kind in private, she wasn't as warm in the company of others. Specifically, in the presence of Count Vronsky who seemed eager to appear more often during your stay and even more eager to get you alone. You reminded yourself that it was a temporary trip, and that you'd be back at your father's estate--and back in your kind fiancé's arms--in no time.

"It's truly fortunate that you're betrothed," your friend said as you gathered your belongings to meet the carriage in the courtyard, "or it'd be a shame to see your name added to the Count's incredibly long list of jilted lovers." There was an edge of bitterness to her tone, but you chose not to bring it up. Instead you marked it as an incredibly odd ending to an otherwise enjoyable trip.

A month later, you nearly fell down the stairs when your father called you down to the foyer to greet his newest client who arrived that morning from Russia. Count Alexei Vronsky bowed as you descended, but you could see the mirth dancing behind his eyes when he righted his posture behind your father's back.

"He says you spoke extensively about my craftsmanship. He felt compelled to come by the shop for his own fitting while he was visiting!" Your father exclaimed merrily, pulling you in for a kiss on the forehead, "My brilliant girl. This will do wonders for us. I knew I could count on you."

Sure, you had spoken highly of you father's tailoring and shoemaking, because as popular as your father was it never hurt to expand the reach of his influence.

That being said, you were sure Vronsky wasn't there for that conversation, and you never continued any form of contact after you departed Russia. You assumed he learned about where you lived through mutual friends. You swore under your breath when your father left you alone to get his sketches from his workshop in the east wing of the estate. Vronsky eyed you briefly, then redirected his interest to the art and artifacts decorating your home. Ever the son born of Russian ice and stoicism, he looked out of place in the warm atmosphere of the home you grew up in.

"Your country is beautiful," he said, arching a dark brow, "a bit too hot for my liking. Though, it is nice to see you in your natural element. I don't think wildflowers like you belong in the comparative cold of a Russian summer."

You felt like you were being tested, but you decided that there wasn't much he could do in the confines of your home. He was, after all, in your territory. Your shoulders relaxed and you chanced a small smile his way, "You'd be surprised to know how resilient I can be."

Surprisingly, he laughed, "I don't think I'd be surprised at all. I know you better than you think I do."

You felt like you'd regret it, but you decided to ask anyway.

"What do you mean by that?"

He began to stroll through the hall of your foyer, pausing every so often to examine a portrait or vase as you trailed behind him.

"You attended your fiancé's nameday feast a few years ago. Of course, he was not your fiancé, then. He was merely your father's apprentice and a quite talented shoemaker from my country who moved and quickly fell in love with...your country." He chuckled to himself at a joke only he seemed to know. "I remember you. I remember that you were an absolute vision in white, and you danced with everyone in the room. Though you were incredibly quiet when you weren't wrapped up in the melody of the orchestra." He glanced over at your confused expression, fighting a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, "Like I said: startled rabbit. Always quiet. Always watching. I remember the way your dress hugged the delicate slope of your shoulders, and the way your necklace caressed your neck. That may have been the first time I craved to exist within the confines of a jeweled pendant. And though I was otherwise...occupied with someone...I do remember the way you consistently laughed when he whispered things to you. A kind gesture, as he's never been that funny."

"So you know him. You were there that night." You whispered, feeling chills running up your arm.

"I was," he shrugged, stopping again at a more recent portrait of you and your father, "as was my duty as his elder brother."

You felt your heart stop in your chest and your brain short circuited. Your fiancé never told you about any siblings, let alone an elder brother. You knew your fiance's father was possibly dead, and that his mother raised him alone in Russia. Was he lying about his life? You weren't sure what was conveyed on your face, but Count Vronsky turned to address you directly.

"My father was not an honorable man. He forbade us from speaking to my half-brother or acknowledging him. Of course, Father is dead now, and God hasn't struck me down for disrespecting the wishes of a dead man. This also isn't the first time I've ever sinned." He grinned widely at you and took a step closer, though you were too shocked to move. "From the minute I saw you, I knew I had to have you. And every time I've seen you since, I regretted not stealing you away for myself."

"That doesn't make any sense..." you murmured, hiding your anxious hands behind your back, "I've never met you before. I'd know. I'd remember."

"You make your presence known at those silly little soirées the ladies have. I never stay for very long, but I've always..." he took another step closer and you realized you'd been backed against a pillar, "I've always noticed you. Dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Sometimes smoking. Does your father know you smoke?"

You glanced down the hall over his shoulder, and in a small voice that surprised you, you whispered, "I don't always do that."

"Mhmm." He reached out to run his warm, slightly calloused fingers along the chain of your necklace, stopping just before the pendant that rested in the valley of your cleavage. Your chest involuntarily heaved, and your knees felt weak, "What other bad things do you 'not always' do?"

You parted your lips to attempt something sharp, but instead you swallowed hard and said, "I'm to be married."

"But you are not married." He was so close, "Do you know how badly I've wanted to come see you since you left?" You could smell the sweet wine of your country on his tongue as he whispered lowly to you, "The thought of his hands on you made me want to abandon all of my obligations to cross the sea. Did you think of me?"

Your gaze fell to his lips, slightly stained red, and then back up into his piercing blue eyes. God, he was beautiful. He caught the action.

"You did."

"I didn't."

"Your eyes betray you, wildflower." His hand grazed your hip above your skirt, and his lips ghosted over your own, "I thought about you every night. I think about how you'd look spread out for me on those expensive sheets your father bought you. Waiting for me. And you're wearing that charming necklace my brother gave you while my tongue is deep in that sweet little--"

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Vronsky swiftly turned away from you to examine the nearest vase again, as if nothing happened. You hadn't realized that your hands were grasping your skirt in your fists and that you were squeezing your thighs together.

You realized then that it'd been so long since you were last touched.

When your father entered the hall, he shot you a curious look before handing Vronsky his latest sketches.

"Here you go, young man. Let me know if these are to your liking. We can begin as early as tomorrow afternoon."

The blond shot your father a charming smile and bowed graciously, "Thank you for taking the time to help a stranger on such short notice."

The conversation sounded like white noise in your ears as you willed your heart to slow down. Even as you composed yourself and released your skirt from your hands, you still felt out of sorts.

When he turned to you and bowed again, he rose and allowed his eyes to trail down the length of your body.

"Always a pleasure to see you again."

#count vronsky #count vronsky x reader #aaron taylor johnson #atj x reader #it's taken me sooo long to edit and re-edit this i'm so sorry #thank you for waiting #jae writes

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hoseoksluna · 5 months ago

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HEAVEN-SENT | knj

pairing: idol!friend!namjoon x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.8k

summary: when a certain bad experience with a guy makes you run to namjoon, he heals you and changes you once and for all.

warnings: lack of willful consent in a way, crying, religion, smoking (namjoon smokes a cig, reader vapes), the context of this fic is of sexual relations though none are described, heavy daddy issues.

note: after i sat down to write last chapter of berries, i discovered that i simply couldn't because of what happened to me this week. there was nothing left for me to do, but to run to namjoon in my head and let him heal me. yes, unfortunately, the events that i wrote about in this fic happened to me. the dream, i had it last night. and the consolation in the form of words in the fic, i constructed it from everything my friends told me. to be honest, i feel deeply healed. i finished it in two hours or so and i feel so much better. now, like the reader i put myself into, i'm gonna take a shower and wash everything away. i'll be able to write berries after that. i love you, guys. sorry, if this is triggering in any way. i just needed to get it out.

“I think I heard… God in that dream.”

Your words create a wisp of tenderness in the air. Saddened, moist with the tears that sting in the back of your eyes. The sun of the summer has descended, hid beneath the city—and you feel as though the same occurred in your life, despite the fact you’re being held by someone who holds the skyscrapers and the manufactured greenery in between like a burden on his shoulders and could easily stop its departure if only he looked up to the heavens with puppy eyes.

God would’ve nodded. Flicked his fingers. The source of light and warmth would’ve paused, stared down on you, shone a little more mercifully. Beckon you out to breath in the fresh air, breathe in the protectiveness you find yourself to be in the middle of.

God protected you from a boy who had different intentions from you, led you into the arms of a man who’s able to take your pain and transform it into an eternal artwork of beauty and importance. A harmonious poetry, mixed with English and Korean, flooded with colors akin to the ones your eyes would stumble across on a field of wildflowers.

It’s where you are right now. No blanket, just the soil, the blossoms, the warmth from Namjoon’s body, your bruised knees and rawly abraded elbows—your injury from earlier that the boy feignedly kissed, but didn’t care much about. A means to get you into bed, nothing else. A banana vape in your fist while Namjoon holds his cigarette backwards, shielding the smoke with his palm, even though you’ve told him multiple times that you didn’t mind it.

You smoked so much of them with him within the hours you spent here and didn’t receive any sort of alleviation from it that you grew a certain distaste for it in your mouth. Settled for the sweetness of your vape. Enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed Namjoon’s closeness and a sense of safety that he radiated as he let you rest your head on his clavicle, leaning his entire weight on just one hand, and nothing else.

So unlike the boy, who would’ve kissed your feet if you let him take the endeavor further like he wanted.

You were on a first date with a boy you didn’t even know for a week. With a boy who stuck his tongue down your throat. Almost fondled the most private parts of your body, had you not stopped him. And who didn’t drive you home after.

The prose of the shallow, insolent face of a young male, who didn’t want to be provided with your love and empathy, who kissed you to shut you up, in fact. And the demons of your brokenness, conspired with your father complex, manipulated you into believing that he was moved by it, rather than repulsed by it as his only objective was getting you comfortable enough so you willingly give over something that doesn’t belong to him.

Your purity. Your private parts. Your femininity.

Two days later after the date, you had a dream. While you slept beside your best friends who spent the night smoking with you on the stairs outside of their apartment, helping you realize the truth—popping your bubble of pink vapor gained from the kiss and the male attention you’ve always had so little of. Many dreams swam past your sleeping consciousness, but only one resurfaced upon waking up.

A large beige room; a man standing in the middle of it as he made your bed while you stood clutching your pajamas to your broken, dejected form. You were looking at him, regarding him from head to toe. From his shortly cut, blond hair, to his broad shoulders and toned, muscular arms that would lift you without blinking. From the tank top he wore, to the dark shorts. And once you viewed the same bruises on his body that were on yours, concealed from his sight and awareness, you heard a gentle voice inside your heart. A voice, entwined with the purest form of love, which told you that this was the man you were supposed to be with, not the boy you were seeing.

You listened to the voice, obeyed it in a way that you didn’t quite understand—silently, tenderly. While you internally quivered in fear in regards to the male species. You were frightened of the man who was taking care of you—not because of who he was or what he potentially had done or would have done, but because of a very simple reason.

He was a man.

And you didn’t trust them.

Not anymore.

Namjoon was different. Namjoon was a man who was your friend for the longest time. A poet who nurtured his life. Who viewed the world’s secret poetry and sought it in every way he could. He was as much like you as you were like him. But you weren’t his and he wasn’t yours.

It wasn’t written in the prosaic constitution of this wretched world; and never will be.

He’s not the man in the dream.

He never made your bed, although he would if you needed it. But his heart doesn’t belong to love. It is tied to the arts; tied to the people he takes care of, works hard for. His heart belongs to his voice.

And his voice was silenced in deep indignation when you told him what happened to you. He’s known you for years; he’s known of your lack of manliness in your life—has supported it for as long as he’s walked beside you. Wrote you poems about how perhaps that’s what life is. Aloneness and the arts, the heartbreak if it crawls inside and what you do with it after. You’ve read them, worshiped them, obeyed them, even though your need for love always persisted within you.

And it led you here. Back to him, needing his poems, although now your deeper brokenness asks for his recitation.

But he’s still silent.

Not silent to your pain, however. Not silent to the tornado in your sternum that makes you pause between your words due to its intensity. That makes you look at the leaves of the grass instead of the earth within the pools of his eyes. But you can feel the strength of his indignation that is mightier than the whirlwind in your bones. And it’s warm, so terribly warm, growing warmer the longer he looks at you, in spite of the lowering of the heat of the sun and the evening sweeping past the field, the coldness of the soil as if it never had been touched by that heat.

Like you, almost.

“I think it was him who told me that,” you continue, brushing your thumb over your yellowing bruise upon your knee from your injury. “It’s why I remember the dream so vividly. Why it made me never want to see the guy again. Why it suddenly made me understand why my friends reacted the way they did when I told them what happened.”

You believe it, and nothing could cover your belief due to its force—its quiet, tender force that graces you with a little bit of strength to be here with him, to be able to share it with him with the said understanding and calmness, calmness so akin to nothingness.

How delightful it is, that state of emotions.

You feel as though you’re telling the story of another person. Perhaps Namjoon has done it in you by letting you talk without interrupting like your friends did. They outburst so colorfully and it made you feel so small and so stupid. Namjoon did no such thing—through his silence he put great meaning into your story.

And it feels nice. More than nice. You appreciate it with the little you’re able to feel towards a man.

“Why did you let him kiss you again?” Namjoon asks, softly, breaking that nearly long season of his silence with the kind of gentleness that only he’s capable of.

He must be a different breed, you conclude. One you’ll never have the opportunity to know, intimately.

Your mouth rounds in a faint pout because you know your answer, and sheepishly you camouflage it by taking a puff of your vape, expecting the banana flavor to give you the courage you need in order to say it.

You hear Namjoon follow you suit, sucking on the bud of his cigarette before he puts it out in yours and his makeshift ashtray—a bottle of water that you both drank. The hiss and the dying out drives you quicken your scrambling of bravery and you don’t really know where that vague sense of impatience comes from.

Namjoon is anything but impatient.

You sigh, taking another puff, blowing it into the wind, watching it where it takes it to. Wish you were taken elsewhere, too. By an invisible hand that means well. Take you to a place of joy and respect, of devotion and care.

You wonder if a place like this exists, at all.

“Because…” you trail off, the tornado in you thickening, threatening your calmness and you can’t stop the blooming of your pout, the deepening of it, either. “Because it was my first real kiss with a guy and I wanted experiences like that. I wanted to live. I wanted to have what everyone else has so easily.”

A beat of silence. The tornado enlarges. And you feel as though you were in the middle of it, not the other way around. The raw truth, you’ve said it. Thank God you said it to a person that knows he must handle it with care. It’s the reason why you ran to him. Why you invariably do.

“But he didn’t have your consent. He didn’t ask for it, so he didn’t have it. He just grabbed your head and kissed you. And because you wanted experiences doesn’t mean he had your consent.”

You furrow your brows, out of step with him. “It was me who kissed him at one point. I even bit his lip.”

For some reason, your uttered words cause you to look at him. With his arms wrapped around his knees and hands interlocked, he scowls. His scrunched brows cast a shadow upon his marble face, upon the thin line of his tightly pressed lips, and you fear you did something wrong.

“Did you kiss him because you wanted to kiss him or did you kiss him because you wanted experiences?”

That question shocks you and you can’t speak. You swivel your head back in shame, tipping it, and you twiddle your thumbs, the answer raw and obvious, out in the open without needing any transportation of words.

You felt comfortable with the guy. Had chemistry with him that would run deeper if you were on the same page as him. But there was something about him, which you still can’t pinpoint, that built a translucent wall between your heart and him. You didn’t find him attractive enough to kiss. You didn’t expect to be kissed either by the end of the date. But you went on with it for one sole reason.

The tornado explodes through you and Namjoon can feel it.

He places a hand on your shoulder. Makes you look at him with that singular gesture and your eyes well with tears, the residue and effect of the explosion.

“Never, and I mean never, do that again. Never do things that you aren’t innately hungry for and never do them in order to live a life you think you should,” he says and it’s a proverb that must be written in the book that had opened within your dream. “I don’t believe in God, but I do believe that you were protected from that piece of shit, who had the audacity to put his hands on you.”

And there it is, the recitation of a different poem, one you didn’t quite want, but find yourself to be in need of. Your tears flow without direction, dripping onto the petals of the violet and pink wildflowers that brush against your legs with every breath of the wind.

And you nod.

Maybe they needed it, too. Maybe that’s why you’re here, why God put that lesson in your life that made you run to Namjoon. He took your hand and gave you a role.

To be a helper of his.

Quench the thirst of the flowers and quench yours, too, through that work.

“No one is allowed to think they can touch you like that on the first date. I know how guys think. They think that because they paid for you, they paid for your body—and I’d kill them for that if I could,” he breathes out, waggling your shoulder to emphasize the importance of his words. And you breathe them in, consider them the scolding of a father, one that is done out of love and care and one that is good for you. Not meant to harm, not meant to express the voice of his upper hand. It’s meant for you. For your well-being. “He was dead to me the moment you told me you had to stop his hand from going further down. And the moment you told me he didn’t drive you home at night. That’s not someone you experience life with. That’s someone you walk past.”

You nod and you sob, weaving your way into his step, believing his words—the depth of them, the meaning of them, the end to the sentence piercing your heart because that’s how you met the guy. He stopped you on the street and chatted you up. Gave you a false sense of comfort and safety.

Namjoon kisses your worth over and over again, clutches your brokenness and puts it together with his gentle touch—all through his grip on your shoulder, through the verses of his poem.

He doesn’t dare to go further. Because he’s respectful, because he’s older, because he cares for you, regards you as human and not a piece of meat meant for satisfactory purposes. Thrown away after the deed is done.

You take mental notes of those attributes. Write them somewhere upon your flesh to remember later on.

Respectful. Older. Caring.

The antonyms of the boy you were seeing.

“Someone will come along who will serve life to you on a silver platter. He will find you and he will respect you. Will be afraid to touch you because of how golden you are; afraid to stain you. He will love you and only then will you love him back. That’s how you’ll know he’s the one. He’ll love you first,” Namjoon recites on, your tears dropping onto the back of his hand and trickling down his fingers. He grasps your hand and you feel the liquid of your understanding on his skin. Somehow it locks it in. “He’ll wait before he kisses you. And you’ll be filled with so much longing to kiss him that you’ll feel like bursting. That’s how it should be.”

You nod for the last time, overwhelmed, but changed. You believe the tornado won’t find you for a long time—for as long as Namjoon is here.

“Don’t rush. Do what you love to do, your hobbies. Read. You’re not missing out. You’re living already. You’re alive. You’re experiencing life, even if it means you’re doing it in the company of your friends, in a platonic realm. It counts.”

The last stanza.

He hugs you. Grateful, healed, reassured—he seeps those new attributes in you by giving names to them as he wraps his arms around you and you perceive that’s precisely what you’re feeling.

Grateful. Healed. Reassured.

And you perceive he showed you how love is meant to be expressed. The man does it first.

And when a storm rolls in and the wildflowers startle against your skin, Namjoon walks you home. Doesn’t leave until he knows you’re safe inside.

Heals what he didn’t break. Reteaches what you’ve been wrongly taught.

You’re living. You’re alive. You repeat those words to yourself as you undress yourself and wash away the wrong touch from your body, this time with great consciousness and will. And the vapor from the water, different from the one that was conjured from your madness of falsely living, seals in Namjoon’s touch on your skin, writes upon it the stanzas of his proverb.

You’ll remember them the next time.

And there will be a next time because you’re living. You’re alive.

Namjoon is a different breed because he must be an angel, dressed in white as he was. A helper just like you, ordained by God he doesn’t believe in for you.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be in your life at all because while you quenched your thirst, he filled up your hungry belly.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth.

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#namjoon fluff #namjoon scenarios #namjoon angst #knj x reader #knj fic #rm fluff #rm fic #bts scenarios #bts writing #namjoon x reader #namjoon imagine #kim namjoon #rm #bts rm #namjoon x you #namjoon x oc

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deafeningladyruins · 21 days ago

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Carnival of Shadows

4: The Duality

The morning after the storm, she woke to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight filtering through the tattered fabric of the tent. For a moment, she felt a disorienting sense of peace, as if the darkness had been a mere dream. But as she turned her head, she saw Art the Clown sitting nearby, his eyes closed as if in a trance. She rose quietly, not wanting to disturb him. Stepping outside, she inhaled the fresh, damp air, the carnival looking almost serene in the morning light. It was a stark contrast to the eerie atmosphere of the night, and she marveled at the duality of this place that seemed to mirror her own troubled mind.

As she walked through the carnival, she reflected on the previous night. Art's silent companionship had provided a strange comfort she had never felt before. Her thoughts were interrupted by a faint rustling sound. She turned to find Art standing in the doorway of the tent, watching her intently.

"Good morning," she said softly, unsure if he could hear her. "I didn't want to wake you."

Art tilted his head, his smile ever-present. He beckoned her to follow him, and she found herself intrigued by the promise of discovering more about him. They wandered through the carnival, Art leading her to a neglected garden overrun with wildflowers and weeds. It was a hidden oasis, a place of unexpected beauty amidst the decay.

"How did you find this place?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

Art didn't respond, but his gesture encompassed the entire garden. He then motioned for her to sit on a crumbling stone bench. She obliged, and Art began to gather some of the wildflowers, creating a bouquet with surprising skill and care. He handed it to her, and she smiled, touched by the unexpected gesture.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I never knew you could be so gentle."

Art's eyes softened, and for a moment, she glimpsed the person behind the grotesque facade. It was a fleeting moment, but it spoke volumes about the duality of his nature—his capacity for both horror and tenderness. As the days turned into weeks, they continued their nightly meetings at the carnival. She began to see more of Art's dual nature. During the day, he would show her the hidden beauty of the carnival, teaching her to see the world through his eyes. At night, he became her guardian, warding off the demons that tormented her mind.

One evening, while exploring a forgotten funhouse, she stumbled upon an old trunk filled with costumes and props. She laughed, pulling out a feathered mask and twirling around, feeling a rare moment of joy. Art watched her with amusement, then picked up a top hat and placed it on his head, joining her in the impromptu performance.

"You're not so scary when you're having fun," she teased, her laughter echoing through the funhouse.

Art's silent laugh was infectious, and they spent the evening playing dress-up, momentarily forgetting the darkness that surrounded them. It was in these moments of light-heartedness that she saw the true depth of their bond. They were two souls navigating a world that had cast them aside, finding solace in each other's company. As the night deepened, they sat side by side on a rusted merry-go-round, watching the stars twinkle above. She leaned her head on Art's shoulder, feeling a warmth that had been absent from her life for so long.

"Art," she began hesitantly, "do you ever wish things were different? That we didn't have to hide in the shadows?"

Art turned to face her, his eyes reflecting a sadness she hadn't seen before. He reached out and gently cupped her cheek, his touch conveying the words he couldn't speak. In that silent exchange, she understood that while they could not change their pasts, they could find a semblance of peace in each other. As they sat there, entwined in the darkness, she felt a renewed sense of hope. Their world was far from perfect, but it was theirs—a realm where the light and dark coexisted, just as they did. It was a place where they could be themselves, free from judgment and fear.

One night, Art decided to surprise her with a special outing. He led her to a part of the carnival she had never seen before, where the rides were still functional, albeit in a state of disrepair. With a flourish, he presented her with a ticket, and she couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Are we really going to have a date at the carnival?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Art nodded, his smile widening. He took her hand and led her to the first ride—a creaky old Ferris wheel. As they ascended, she felt a rush of exhilaration, the world below shrinking into insignificance. They rode the Ferris wheel, the carousel, and even the bumper cars, laughing and enjoying each moment as if they were carefree children. Art went out of his way to ensure she had fun, his antics bringing a smile to her face at every turn. He won her a stuffed animal at one of the game stalls, his silent determination endearing him to her even more. As the night wore on, they found themselves back at the Ferris wheel, the lights of the carnival casting a magical glow around them.

As they reached the top, she turned to Art, her heart full of gratitude and affection. "Thank you, Art. This has been the best night of my life."

Art's eyes softened, and he leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the anticipation building. Slowly, he closed the distance between them, his lips brushing against hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a moment of pure connection, a silent promise of the bond they shared.

As the Ferris wheel descended, she knew that their love, though unconventional and shrouded in darkness, was real. They had found each other in the most unlikely of places, and together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead.

---

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Follow me for more Art the clown

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astrandofgold · 2 years ago

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oh eyes like wildflowers

oh with your demons of change

#I got this done in about an hour and I won’t lie I’m so happy I was able to make something good after such a long art break #😅 sweet relief #death stranding #higgs monaghan #peter englert #death stranding 2 #ds2 #artists on tumblr #art #digital art #digital artist #artblr #painting #digital painting #Troy baker #lyrics: keep your head up by Ben Howard

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shastafirecracker · 1 year ago

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Wildflowers (VWBB '23)

Wildflowers (AO3) Trigun (canon soup, but Stampede-forward), Vash/Wolfwood 100K, Explicit Summary: Sir Nicholas the Punisher has been charged with a mission: enter the Forgotten Woods, track and trap the Beast Lord who lives there, and return it, alive, to the cult of the God-Emperor. The land is dying of a mysterious blight, and only the support of a few unhealthy Plants is keeping the last scraps of humanity alive. According to the Emperor, only the sacrifice of the Beast Lord will renew the land and save everyone.

Nicholas is wholly unprepared for what, and who, he finds in the woods.

[A fantasy AU with inspiration broadly drawn from Princess Mononoke, The Green Knight, and The Last Unicorn. Written for the @vashwoodbigbang.]

Cover art HERE by the absolutely fabulous Tenpoi

Spotify playlist for the fic here!

Pinterest board for the fic here!

Nicholas sketch by @mint-mango

I'll always remember you the same eyes like wildflowers with your demons of change

#sf writes #vwbb #trigun #trigun maximum #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #meryl stryfe #milly thompson #fantasy AU #vashwood #vashwood big bang

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therantfairysblog · 1 month ago

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Farewell

"Eat well, smile over there. Forgot the pain."

....

He reminiscing his memory saving a fragile child years ago, so traumatized, he couldn't even smile, his whole body shaking so hard when he rescued him.

"... is that sea, it so wide, and blue. My sisters use to narrated it from their books that i heard"

The first time he listened to that child's voice, it was a painful yet hopeful voice. His heart broke, he was the unwanted child who born for the sole purpose of being eaten, and were treat like a trash by his own cousin.

"i decided to be a slayer like you, Rengoku san."

One day, when he just coming home from his duty, the little child come over him, along with his son Kyujuro. Looking at them side by side, despite both are the same age, their physical are completely different.

"Are you sure? You don't need to wield a sword if you couldn't. Live a normal life" the child was so fragile, sometimes when he watch him, he was easily stumbled and fall.

Until the child was 14 years old, he was stay with him, and then he went to train with a water breathing cultivator, his friend. He take a quite a lot of time trained with him as his physical aren't helping but sometimes when he went there to visit his friend, the child always seen training with his all.

"this boy...is actually quite talented in swordmanship, although his body has a disadvantage on its own," his friend stated

" his body couldn't adapt fire breathing style, i guess he was good with yours"

"Yes, but i think he'll have his own style the way i see it. Rengoku san, this child, is he always eating that little?"

" Yes, unfortunately it's hard to convince him, perhaps it's much to do with his past"

"i hope he'll try to take care of his body, he worked hard but it'll ultimately strained his body over time"

It's only at the age of 17 years old that the little child he take care of successfully made his way into the corps. Along with his son, the two were always trained together.

When he fall into a slump, as her wife died of sickness, he completely change into the worst. Drunk, useless father, tainting the good reputation of his family name as the cultivator of flame hashiras.

That child. Never give up. Like his son, he made his way to the highest level of demon slayers corp, as a serpent hashira. The day he was appointed, with his new gold button uniform, that child coming to his home, as if to tell his father, the joy he experienced that day.

"Go away, just go home. There's nothing that change my mind. We aren't a comrades."

"...Rengoku san, thank you for giving me a chance to live. I hope, one day, you could feel the joy i feel. I would never forgot the day i see the land. That's why,...i wish i could see the same light in your eyes"

......

That' child hiding so many things to himself, when he accidently found notes in his room, weeks after the final battle, a note that the child use when he was learning to read and write from his wife.

It's the same way as he trained himself hard later. From a poor unreadable sentences, to a heartbreaking long sentences begging for forgiveness.

'The outside was so pretty, spring is beautiful, the cherry blossom are huge and blooming nicely.

My poor family , I'm so sorry, its my fault.

Unless i killed all the demons, i couldn't cleaning up my blood. I will become a demon slayer. Rengoku san is amazing, his son too. I will picking up the blade. With kaburamaru of course. He's my bestfriend.

I want to die. But not before I'm getting rid of demon. Demons are evils. I hate them.'

Despite some wording error, what 13 year's old child writing like this? A literal death wish?

...

" Be happy and live your life honorably in your next life. Every child deserve a happiness, and it's including you. I'm sorry for failing to be a good mentor to you.

Eat well, take care of yourself"

Fall almost over, the fallen leaves scattered around the final resting place of the child he saved. Somehow, a little wildflower was there, living silently in between the stone. He watch it and smile.

"see you later, goodbye"

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #obanai iguro #rengoku shinjuro #kny fanfic #kny headcanons

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clonedchaos · 2 months ago

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𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰- 𝔇𝔞𝔶 8: 𝔏𝔦𝔫𝔢

Summary

Joey had crossed the line more than once.

Rating: G/PG

<- Previous Part Next Part ->

Tried a bit of a different style with this one. Based off the song Wildflower by Billie Eilish

”Things fall apart and time breaks your heart I wasn't there, but I know

…

Did I cross the line?”

The Polaroid photo lay pinned on the cork board amongst an endless array of bills, notes, and phone numbers. Black ink smeared across the subject’s faces, turning it into an eerie art project.

The office had been ransacked. It was chaos, but organized. Frantically written notes, yet lengthy and precise in content. At a glance, you’d find the crazed drawings of a mad man. A man once fueled with novel ideas, now fallen into despair.

A conman.

A liar.

A traitor.

Joey Drew, founder of the once renowned studio of the same name. A place bursting with creativity, a hope for unheard voices to finally take the limelight.

What a fool you would be to believe such a thing.

Horrors unlike any other had sunk its claws into the foundations. It tugged at you, lured you in. It fed you false promises, no more real than the grandiose goals of your employer.

You would be hysterical.

Something as insignificant as an ink droplet would warp you, change you into what you feared becoming most. Hatred. Cowardice. Anger. Such poignant emotions… All weaknesses of the human condition.

In the blink of an eye, your humanity would be stripped from your being. Your soul now belonged to the demon roaming the halls. It smiled at you, a plastic expression no more genuine than Mr. Drew’s gratitude.

And to think this all started with just a pencil and a dream…

A story that unfolded not by Mr. Drew’s hand, but by another. A man whose name had all but faded to obscurity. Henry Stein.

He was supposed to save us. He would bring this nightmare to an end. Wouldn’t he?

You wanted to go home. Where was home? All you could remember was the machine, this prison. Your memories were like distant planets, blurry at first glance yet impossible to ever dream of reaching.

Something creaked behind you, breaking the silence. You jump and whirl around. You had gotten too comfortable, too careless. You should’ve seen the inky tendrils weaving up the walls. You should’ve paid attention to the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

The demon was already behind you, breathing down your neck. You reach for the nearest weapon.

Too late.

End of the line…

#ink demonth #the ink demonth #Based off Wildflower by Billie Eilish #2nd person pov #Joey drew #Machine Memories #Day 8: Line #Contemplation #tried something new #batim #batdr #batim fanfic #Cloned’s Bendy Fics #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #Idk what I was cooking here

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starsarefire824 · 4 months ago

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Drew the boys as they are in Demons of Change & Wildflower Eyes. Been missing them. 🥀

#byler #will byers #stranger things #mike wheeler #byler fanart #byler fanfic #justmyname #stranger things fanart #demons of change

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typingdyslexiaisathing · 2 months ago

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An Unexpected Plus One (Obey Me!) drabble

summary: Marzena was going to spend the night with Lucifer, only for one more to show up in the bed. Established relationships, talk of nightmares.

The Avatar of Pride looked more than pleased this fine evening. Having set aside all his work to actually go to sleep on time. With his beloved pact human there in his bed to be savoring the moment. The two of them spending a good few hours alone. The only light coming from the single candle by the bed.

But that soon changes as Marzena woke with a frightened shout. Which had Lucifer wake immediately to steady her as she gasped and panted for air. Her words coming out hoarse as she said, "Mammon... He had a night terror..."

Lucifer had little warning to prepare for said demon banging on his door. So he stood to go to the door and let Mammon know that Marzena was fine. But that did little to ease his concern when he saw the sheer state Mammon was in. The Avatar of Greed looked like he did upon their Fall. A broken hearted soul with tears streaming down his face for Mammon to tackle hug Lucifer and shudder. His words garbled from the fact his nose was running. Yet Lucifer soon went stock still in pure shock when Mammon sobbed out, "They killed you...! I couldn't save you before- There was so much blood! I was powerless to save you!"

The elder brother felt that hit him like arrows to his heart. So he sighed to hug Mammon tight to his front and breathe in Mammon's ear gentle words. "It did not happen and never will happen. I am here, Mammon. I always will be." So Lucifer gathered Mammon into his arms to carry the still shaking Mammon to the bed. Where Marzena had arranged the pillows to look very concerned and get in on the hugs once Lucifer sat down his cargo. Marzena giving Mammon gentle touches to have the air scent of wildflowers and sweet brandy to calm Mammon down a little. The magic heating Mammon's slightly chilled frame as Marzena told him, "There we go, sweetie. It's all okay. I know. It was horrid and felt real. But it was just a bad nightmare. We're all okay and safe."

Mammon was trying to calm down. Yet he was sobbing and shaking with every breath he took. So Lucifer shook his head to note with warmth, "Just what am I to do with you? We will simply have to keep you here for tonight. So lay down and rest." The Avatar of Greed nodded to hiccup as Lucifer laid himself down. With Mammon soon using Lucifer's chest for a pillow as Marzena tucked the two demons in. Then she joined to hug Mammon from behind and sigh. Mammon giving a sniffle to cling to Lucifer like he would fade away. Yet Lucifer just held Mammon close to run his fingers through those silver white strands. Until Mammon had eased into the bed due to sheer exhaustion. Yet Marzena didn't look too bother to simply hum at the sight. "Let's ask Solomon about making enchanted dreamcatchers for everyone. But you should make the one for Mammon specifically. That sounds good?"

Lucifer hummed at the idea to close his eyes and nod. "That sounds absolutely perfect to me. But I will not need help from a scheming sorcerer. I can make such on my own just fine." This had Marzena smirk. Then she too drifted off to sleep to hug two of her best demons close. The three souls resting together.

#obey me!#obey me! shall we date?#obey me shall we date #obey me: one master to rule them all #obey me! one master to rule them all #obey me #obey me! fanfiction #obey me! fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me oc

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mercysought · 19 days ago

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Asharen Lavellan Post Trespasser and Veilguard lore post

This first part will not have spoilers for Veilguard.

Between Trespasser and Veilguard (no spoilers):

After the Inquisition disbands, Asharen returns to her clan which camps around Antiva City. She visits and stays with her siblings and licks her wounds. A reminder that she is not the First of her clan. The First was her second eldest sibling, who died in the conclave. They have a different First by the time she returns.

Eventually, she settles in a small house just outside Antiva City. It has an orange tree in the backyard and some wildflowers that she takes care of.

She allows herself to just be Asharen Lavellan for a while. Not "Inquisitor", not anyone special just be. She goes out, has drinks, dances, sings, goes to markets, takes care of her trees, writes letters to her friends. All her letters are sent except those to Solas Those she buries by her trees, it feels cathartic.

It takes a very long time before she feels ready to pick up the sword again (so to speak). It takes a time of cycles between anger, sadness, betrayal, heartbreak and dealing with the new reality of her disability before she feels ready. The whole affair with the exalted council, the Qun and Fen'harel's agents shake her more than she'd like to admit.

The feeling of powerlessness takes a very long time to leave her.

I have some ideas about what drinking the well made and the impact, but I haven't fully formulated that for now!

She owns one eluvian which she keeps locked in the basement of her home - protected by rift runes to make sure that no one can come and go as they please. Mostly she fears more attempts on her life from the Qun and from Fen'harel agents (though the latter never truly come and she feels ashamed later to think that it might, but alas doesn't regret it)

She starts reaching out to build a network of trusted people to get information on Solas and where he might be. She reaches out to all the inner circle, this is how she starts working with Varric and Harding again.

This is also when she invests in a prosthetic for her arm.

It is with renewed peace and acceptance that she finally puts in the proper resources to track Solas down. And it's a lot of work, 8 years is a very long time, especially to keep her resolve.

Advisors she has once Veilguard starts (in italics are companions that are physically accompanying her):

All advisors she had before (minor capacity a lot of them)

Any inner circle companions that might be willing to help, Dorian and Varric being particularly large figures in this part of her life. Varric she was already close to, but she grew closer to Dorian here.

Morrigan / Merril

Émilie de Clair, who becomes a close advisor and friend

Maxima Aurum, whom she trades her Eluvian in exchange for more eyes and ears within the Magisterium (drabble here)

(will likely add more as I go)

Veilguard (end-game spoilers under the cut) this is all still subject to change as I sit, write and think more about it

The Inquisitor in my verse would not spend so much time in the South. Choosing instead to spend most of her time in the Lighthouse, acting as an advisor to Rook.

Asharen is, at this stage, a Veil and Rift Scholar. She is well-versed in the fade, but she is not a great general or even close to being able to keep the South holding together like the game implies. She goes to the South frequently though, to give them any support she can. However, that comes in the shape of either calming the fade, demons or spirits. She aids in whatever capacity she can - be it keeping the peace between leaders where she can, leveraging her contacts where she can, but she is there more as an advisor and maybe a religious figure to some? Not actually what is holding everyone together. The rest of her time she spends in the Lighthouse with Rook and the Veilguard. She is there as an advisor and will not accompany Rook in the field except on the missions where they plan to take down the Gods directly

Whatever free time she has (which is little to none) she would attempt to study a way of getting Solas out

She spends a lot of time working through the Crossroads, attempt to untie the corruption and finding any allies she can there, finding out more information on the gods, gather information to help Rook

Spending more tine in the Lighthouse, however, also means that she would have likely clocked at some point that Rook is seeing Varric and talking to him, which is something deeply troubling for her and she brings up with Rook and also troubling for what that might mean for Solas and the lengths he is willing to go.

She spends most of her time (respectfully) rifling through the Lighthouse, especially the libraries and she prays she finds nothing about herself there because she doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with that at that moment.

Enjoys the company of Emmrich, Harding and Bellara in particular. She doesn't prepare her coffee like Lucanis' but appreciates it especially given she needs it.

Which, speaking of, she attempts to aid in any way they can with the time they have if he is willing.

"Bury me in work", that's a very good descriptor for her during this time.

The conversations around his regrets just got about 50% more awkward, especially given the comments about Mythal that are made. You're welcome.

It will depend on the Rook but the second conversation, the one about Solas' relationship, happens at the Lighthouse and it's likely as frank as in the game presents it. The logic is that Asharen, knowing what has been happening with Rook, what will likely happen still, feels that she must humanise Solas in Rook's eyes if she is to have any chance at making sure that she will have a chance to talk him down the ledge. It is imperative.

In the end, she makes the decision to go with him in his journey to atone

About Solas and their relationship as I see it

Solas sends his letter and it only strengthens her resolve for what she must do

After Trespasser, she almost made herself believe that he was in her past. Forgiving him, yes that is possible, but getting back together is not something she believes possible or considers up until talking with Rook.

Deep down, and despite all of her conflicting feelings, her anger and her scabbed-over wounds, she still loves him (and she knows this is likely as close to a fatal character flaw as she'll get lmao)

For better or worse, Asharen believes up until the very end that there is a chance that he can be turned from the path he walks and the letter only makes her dig her heels deeper.

I still stand for the fact that Asharen wouldn't normally have such a frank and vulnerable discussion as she had with Rook in the game with just about anyone. I think Rook is more of a companion in this version and the fact that she sees this as the last hail mary to save him. She knows other people will not follow her word as they once did, nor will they see him as she does. Émilie certainly doesn't.

This being said, I am glad they say this in the game: Asharen would not have joined Solas even if he had asked. She sees this world as good, and him as part of it. And he is worth fighting for too. This doesn't mean he should not atone.

In-game, a Rook exploring the Crossroads will find bits and pieces of her letters that she buried in those trees (you can read them here)

She doesn't drink tea anymore, and it's his fault.

She loves this world and him, and she wants him to one day be able to see it as she does.

#this uh this got long huh #asharen lavellan ( headcanon )#( ok now I need to take a break but I will be writing a drabble and linking it here soonTM )#veilguard spoilers #( it's under a read more. the rest is safe! )

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bastardsallofyou · 1 year ago

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Over a year ago I wrote this headcanon, and I finally decided to add to it slightly!

It had been a successful week for Anathema and Newt, all things considered. While the idea of moving to a 300 year old bookshop was certainly a revelation for them both, and the country-raised Anathema felt especially out of place, Soho became their niche.

There were a surprising amount of vegan cafes in the area (Newt still argued, jokingly, that “We lived through the end of the world and you’re still worried about sushi? What if the world actually ended tomorrow and you hadn’t had a single hot-dog?” Anathema only had to bring up the fact that Newt had actually been a vegetarian before Armageddon, and they’d shut up quickly. Or, alternatively, make lingering eye contract as she ate. That’d do the trick.)

Clubs were dotted around the area, with neon signs grappling for their attention, but the two were the furthest people from the partying kind. That had been their biggest qualm about moving there- but if a quiet, well-read angel had survived three hundred years in Soho, they could stand a few more. It helped that there seemed to be a miraculous element to the bookshop that blocked out the noise, and filtered the neon flashing into toned-down mood lighting.

And so, they developed a routine. They went on walks in St James’ Park, and had brunch at cafes. They spent afternoons “helping” a certain angel and demon pack up the bookshop, though only three of them actually packed, while one spent hours meticulously dusting and whipping his head around if he heard a noise that sounded too harsh for the packing of one of his precious first editions. They’d watch movies with the curtains drawn, and Newt would attempt to fix Aziraphale’s ancient computer every evening. Occasionally, the pair splashed out on a fancy restaurant for dinner. They’d decided it was an appropriate use for the cash that would mysteriously appear on their coffee table, along with a bunch of flowers.

Depending on the week, the flowers would be one of two combinations. One was wildflowers, bursting displays of scarlet and amber, which changed along with the seasons. A note came alongside them, in the swirling handwriting of someone who had too much time on their hands: “Take care, my loves. Pop over if you need a good cup of tea and a chat.” Newt would rather spend an afternoon trying to fix computers (and failing miserably), as they were afraid they’d just spill the tea on Madame Tracy’s nice, pink carpet. That, and they’d walked in on a particularly flirty dinner date between her and the Sergeant, which had scarred them for life. But Tracey and Anathema had bonded over their shared love of the occult, and the witch knew just the right things to say so that the medium would make her the nicest cup of herbal tea.

The other would be the same year-round: orange pansies and white lilies. Hope, happiness, and a new beginning. And a note. Four words- two in a kind of swirling handwriting that was old and otherworldly rather than painstakingly practised; two in a rushed scribble, though the author had more time on his hands than any of them.

“Thank you.” Times two. One from each of them. One to each of you.

#good omens #Anathema Device #newt pulsifer #fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #i can't wait for season 2 or the trailer aaaa!!#writing

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1rsoldiersince2012 · 2 years ago

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Bound by Law (Matt Murdock x reader)

Words: 3289 (chapter 19)

Summary:

You and Matt met in the courtroom. Now, you may think that Matt was a knight in shining armour and defended you in the name of all United States laws, but that was not the case. Matt was totally destroying your client, and you wanted to tear him into pieces right then and right there, because with Murdock as your rival, your head is on the firm's plate with each case. Did Matt care? No, he only cared about bringing justice, he was a human-machine, driven by the need to bring righteousness no matter the cost. Or was he just that? What happens when you get involved in Fisk's business and Daredevil's lies against your will?

UPDATES EVERY FRIDAY

Find my other accounts on ao3 and wattpad! 💖

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1rSoldierSince2012

wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/1rsoldierSince2012

19. Things are about to change

A loud ringing beside your head forces you to open your heavy eyelids. Your arm hurt like hell, the headache was already forming in your head and that damned phone kept ringing like a demon sent from hell to torture you. Half asleep, you manage to answer it.

"Hello?" you rasp out, surprised by your own voice.

"When the hell were you going to tell me that you were attacked?" Hogarth's voice booms loudly in your ear, making you roll your eyes for a moment.

"I'm alive, Jeri, don't worry."

"We're gonna be in big trouble, you know. You should've called me right after everything. Or called the police, at least. Why did I have to go to the office to see everything wrecked? You have any idea how bad this is for business?" Hogarth kept talking, but you started to not pay attention to her blabbing. She didn't really care, she didn't call you to know how you feel. No.

"We're not in trouble as long as I don't press charges."

"How can you press charges on a man wearing all black and acting like he's a goddamn ninja?" Hogarth asks as if you just said the stupidest thing ever.

So, Benowitz confessed nothing. That bastard didn't wanna risk his career, obviously.

"Listen, it doesn't matter, I quit anyway."

There is a pause. Then Hogarth sighs and asks, "why?"

"Personal reasons. I will come some time to fill the documents and take my things." You say, but Hogarth remains silent. "Jeri, it's been a pleasure to work with you and Linda, truly."

"Y/n, get well." She simply says and hangs up. From a person like Hogarth, that was the most wholehearted conversation.

You drop your phone on the bed, missing Wesley's message and lift yourself up, the burning sensation in your arm intensifies. "Maybe I should see the doctor." You say to yourself and gently tap the tight bandage and notice first aid kit lying next to the doors, indicating that the Devil guy used your tools to patch you up.

A knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts. Hurrying, you open them a little and notice a familiar white walking stick and quickly close them, then taking a deep breath, you open them again after a moment.

"Murdock, what a surprise. What brought you here?" You lean on the threshold, still holding the door with your hurt arm, pretending that this sight of Matt wearing a dark button up shirt and a brown coat in front of you didn't make your heart beat a little faster.

"I heard what happened last night." He looks guiltily at the floor for a second, but you doubt what you're seeing, because he always had an odd way of presenting himself. Were all blind people like that? You never really met anyone else except Matt.

"Well, come in, don't want neighbors to hear everything. There's enough gossip already." You say and push the doors open widely, waiting for him to come inside.

Instead of coming in, he pulls a hand that he's been holding behind his back, and you see a bouquet of wildflowers, tied with a blue ribbon. "The owner of the shop told me these were freshly picked." Matt gives you the bouquet, and you feel blush creeping on your cheeks. No one has ever given you wildflowers... Since you broke up with Robert. No one else knew that you still loved them.

"Uh... Thank you... Matt." You clear your throat and close the door behind him. The tapping of his walking stick fills the empty space of your flat, and somehow you find it comforting.

"Where, uh..." He begins, acting awkward all of a sudden, although, he was already feeling like a fish in water, last night gave Matt a chance to explore your space.

"Oh, right, the couch." You guide him to the couch, biting your cheek when the hurt arm gets too much pressure. "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, please. If it's no bother, of course." He gives you one of the charming smiles and sits down.

"News fly fast, especially when someone gets injured like that. How do you feel?" Matt furrows his eyebrows and slightly tilts his head.

"No, don't worry." You leave the living room and disappear in the kitchen. Matt doesn't dare to say anything, and patiently waits for you to return, secretly getting more acquainted with your flat as yesterday he was in a hurry to take care of you, instead of getting familiar with the place.

"So. Who told you?" You return to the living room with a vase and put the flowers on the table.

"Amazing." You lie, your left hand unconsciously slides on the bandage, pain increasing.

"I don't think anyone feels amazing after they've been shot." Matt says in a disapproving tone.

"Grazed. Not shot. If that dumbass shot me, I would've bled to death until now. Who's your source of information? Foggy? Tell him to check his facts." You say almost angry and Matt feels guilty of what he has caused. If Nelson and Murdock already knew, it was just a question of when Wesley was going to call you, especially since you haven't replied to his message.

"Who's that dumbass?" He asks cautiously.

You hesitate to answer. You could blame the man in the mask, of course he scared the shit out of you, then interfered with your business... And got you out of possible murder of Benowitz... And got you home. All bandaged and stuff... "Didn't see his face." You simply say, hoping that he drops the subject. "I'm sure you're here not to ask me how I feel, yeah?"

"I don't really talk business with someone who's been hurt, especially someone close to me." Matt answers, sensing your previous hesitation. Before you could open your mouth or understand that he just put you in his close people list, the coffee maker starts beeping.

"I'll be right back." You say and disappear in the kitchen again, returning with two steaming cups, trying to gather words for him. Any words.

"How is your arm?" He asks, and you notice that he's sitting closer to you than before.

"It's okay. I think I'll go see a doctor or something. I... Don't trust my own skills."

"You bandaged yourself?"

"Why, yes, of course." You lie through your teeth, Matt Murdock is the last person who should know about the mysterious man in the mask who carried you home. "My father was a cop after all."

"Can I take a look?"

"A look?" You smile but take off your sweater anyway, sitting only in your t-shirt.

"You know what I mean." Matt sighs and stretches his hand out.

You turn, so he could touch your arm better. He lays his fingers on your skin, so softly, so gently. You involuntarily take a deep breath.

"Hm." He hums, tapping and squeezing a little, you almost hiss when he touches the wound. "Seems good, you did a good job on the bandages." He says, not hurrying to take off his hand.

"Since when you're an expert of that field, Murdock?" You huff a laugh, feeling coldness on your skin when he pulls his hand away, letting his fingers slide down to your bent elbow.

"My dad... Uh."

"Battling Jack Murdock, right?" You interfere, without letting him finish.

"Yes. I used to patch him up after the fights."

"Did you have your sight back then?" You ask as discreetly as possible.

"No. But I learned to adapt pretty quickly." Matt uncomfortably puts his hands in his lap.

"I've heard about your father a little. Although I was too young to understand things like boxing matches. I'm sorry." You suddenly feel terrible about bringing the sensitive topic.

"It's okay. So yeah, you did a pretty good job on the arm. But I think you should see a doctor in case of infection. Did you disinfect it?" Matt suddenly asks, catching you right in your web of lies again.

"Yeah, yeah, obviously." You laugh it off, noticing Matt's subtle smirk. "You really think so little of me, Murdock?"

"Wouldn't dare." He nods mysteriously, taking a sip of coffee. You mimic his action and feel relief when the hot drink reaches your throat. It felt like a century since you drank something. Or had a decent meal. Only Benowitz and his case is to blame.

A moment of silence is broken by you, "I quit."

Matt knits his eyebrows yet again and carefully puts his cup on the table. "What?"

"I quit, I'm leaving the firm." It felt good to say it out loud, fully convince yourself about the benefits of your decision, which mostly were not seeing Benowitz again. Or Todd.

"And you're going...where?" Matt finally voices out the question that's been on his mind for the last 24 hours.

"Canada. Probably. Although, I should start looking for a house if I want this plan of mine to work."

"Uh- where? Why... So far?" Matt asks carefully, hoping to not show how much he actually cares, but the stuttering gives him away.

"I just think that I need a change in my life. A big one." You close your eyes for a moment and fail to notice Matt's fallen face. Wheels turn in his head and an argument starts forming.

"You could work with us. That's a pretty big change." He tries to say in a joking form.

"And get fat from all those sweets that you get?"

"I wouldn't know even if you did." He smirks, and you feel a wave of blood rushing through your whole body. Matt hears the change in your heartbeat - that's what you're insecure about? But when did he care about how you looked like? Or anyone else? He didn't. First, he couldn't see, second - even if he did, church told to love everyone the way they were, except if they were criminals.

"Are you always like that, Murdock?" You ask, taking a big gulp of coffee.

"Like what?" He mirrors your action.

"Such a playboy, ladies man, you know? With that charming smirk always plastered on your face, always there to offer a helping hand. A real saint you are."

"Oh, I'm far from being saint, trust me."

"I would doubt about that."

Neither of you say anything else. The whole conversation feels awkward to you now, especially after you called him a ladies man. Matt, however, took that as a compliment.

"So." You say after putting your empty cup on the table and turning towards Matt.

"So?" He parrots.

"Nice flowers. Thank you again."

"No worries." He drops his hand on his thigh and rubs it a couple of times. Your eyes follow his movement and something turns inside your stomach, as if your heart left its place to run a couple of laps.

"Why did you bring them anyway? It's not like my lying in my deathbed." You feel like you can't drop the subject so easily, not after he mysteriously shows up on your doorstep the moment he learns about your accident.

"Y/n, what really happened yesterday in the office?" He avoids the flowers subject, feeling like there's not enough time to create a good lie.

"I... Uh... I was packing my stuff. Then Benowitz called and asked me to come to his office. I did. Then we got into a little argument. And... Some guy came in... He sort of attacked us." You croak, feeling a huge lump in your throat.

"Sort of?" He leans on the couch, fully turning toward you.

"Well, not sort of," you laugh a little, "he told Benowitz to drop the case, then pushed me, attacked Benowitz and then he... Pulled the trigger." You say closing your eyes tightly, trying to remember this version of your lie. Now you'll have to tell this to everyone.

"So that guy hurt you?"

"Yes."

"How-how did he look?" He asks cautiously again, trying to understand why you were lying.

"Like a man who doesn't want to be seen, known. Or heard. I think he's a ninja or something. The man in the mask." You open your eyes and look at him, sitting there crouched, a deep curve on his forehead indicates that he's lost in thought.

"What would you do if you saw him again?"

"What kind of question is that? Run, of course. You don't want to mess with guys like him. Lord knows, he may be a fucking assassin. Maybe we were supposed to die yesterday. Or maybe we'll die today. Especially when today's the case. Good luck on exposing Melissa." You lean forward and tap his forearm twice.

"They called today. The court's next week. Benowitz crapped his pants and said that he's in no condition to participate." Matt says, suddenly remembering what he came to tell you. Sort of.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"How do you imagine me working for you at all?" You suddenly ask.

"It would be a little tight with space, but I think we could manage it. Taking more cases. Earning real money." Matt says in a soft tone, almost daydreaming about this possibility. You happened to be one of the few lawyers left with good morals, and he wanted to have you by your side at any cost.

"My old office is half the size of yours."

"We'll have to share for the time being."

"I don't like distractions when I'm working." You smile.

"That is a problem that I'll be dedicated to solve." Matt is itching to get closer to you, to express his apology through the touch but something stops him from scaring you away again.

You take your phone from the table and notice unread message, quickly typing, 'everything's alright, just a little busy. what about you?'.

"Alright, I won't be disturbing you any more, get some rest, and... We'll be waiting for you in the office. Hopefully." Matt stands up, hesitating slightly.

"We'll see about that, Matt." You answer mysteriously, yet Matt knows that you'll come. What other choice did you have?

***

"You've been wHAT?" Pug yells and you pull your phone away from your ear for a moment.

"It's not a mortal wound, no need to shout, or I might need to visit doctor for the loss of hearing." You say and get comfortable on the couch, pulling up your long socks higher. If your mother saw you dressed in sweater and shorts, she would probably faint.

"Did you go to see the doctor?"

"No..." you drawl, closing your eyes for a moment when you hear a sharp inhale on the other side of the phone.

"If you were here with me, I would already be kicking your ass, shorty."

"Hey! You know what I told you about that nickname, caesar. "

"You know, I'm actually grateful about that, he was the ruler of Roman Empire after all, and you're just... shorter than me." Pug says in a mocking tone, but then returns to his serious self. As serious as he could get. "Are you feeling okay now? And don't lie."

"As for the arm, yes. It's pretty neatly bandaged."

"And if we're not talking about your arm?" Even miles away, Pug saw right through you.

"Honestly, I'm feeling some sort of relief. Everyone was getting on my nerves in that place." You sigh.

"So, where you off to now? LA? Finally visiting me?" Pug says with hope evident in his voice.

"No, I think I'll go to Nelson and Murdock. LA has always been your dream."

"Nelson and Murdock? As in the same Murdock who got you into that big talk with Hogarth?" Pug asks shocked.

"Yeah, the same. He brought me flowers this morning." You blush slightly.

"Oh, exciting! Are you guys a thing now?" Pug teases, smiling like he just won a lottery.

"God, no, don't be riddiculous." You try to laugh it off, unsuccessfully.

"You like him, you really do."

"Pug, please."

"Come on, it was time, you're not getting any younger."

"Gee thanks, we're the same age." You blow a raspberry and take your phone into the other hand.

"So, you didn't tell me who saved you." Pug sips his lukewarm coffee, which he forgot he made after you called. Who could blame him when the news were so... interesting.

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen." You say dramatically, waving your good arm in the air.

"This guy calls himself like that? Really?"

"I didn't ask what he likes to be called. People talk. Besides, I think he's a creep." You rub your eyes and hear a low chuckle from Pug.

"You should ask, maybe he saved you on purpose, you're gonna be his princess, or Lady Devil." Pug stands up in his living room, feeling the inspiration flood his body.

"You seriously need to get laid." You deadpan, sitting up as well. "He's a fucking creep, and God knows what other crimes he's commiting, vigilantism is illegal. He's a goddamn criminal already. And I have a feeling that it's not the first time that I get under his radar."

"And you need to get laid too. Preferably with someone who's not hiding under a mask, but in the worst case, he'll be suitable." Pug fires back with a smug smile on his face.

"I seriously don't know how we became friends."

"Best friends, shorty, don't forget I saved your ass when boring-Robby tried to get you back." Pug announces this as if it was a record-book-worthy achievement.

"Yeah, yeah, it was a genius idea to pretend we're a couple. Your hand was sweating, which reminds me -have you checked that with a doctor yet?" You mock his previous words, teasing him with the most awkward college experience.

"Yeah, right back at you, Lady Devil." Pug laughs awkwardly.

"Shut up." You laugh wholeheartedly, possibly for the first time in weeks. "Oh, speaking of the devils, my dad told me that he gave Robert my contacts."

"When did that happen?" Pug sits straight, rather surprised by the turn of events.

"I don't know, like a week ago. Or two. I'm dreading the moment he decides to visit."

"And you're telling me just now? I can't even express my disappointment, y/n."

"I know, Pug, I was busy. Besides, he's running for Sheriff's office or something like that."

"That guy? The same guy who looked like he was the biggest physics lover in the whole world?" Pug's voice goes an octave higher.

"How many Roberts do you know? Of course him. I'm honestly not surprised, my dad was his idol after all."

"Do I need to come to Hell's Kitchen to pretend to be your boyfriend again?" Pug starts his usual blabbing, "you know, we could say that we're engaged now."

"Jesus, Pug, pull yourself together. I... might have a backup plan myself. But I seriously doubt that he'll try to get back with me again." You lie back down, crossing your legs on the coffee table.

"Is your backup plan called Murdock by any chance?" Pug teases again.

"No, I might have another one."

"Now, seriously, how dare you not tell me everything the instant stuff happens? Are you having an affair with someone AND Murdock? Is it that devil guy?"

"No, leave Murdock out of this, we just kissed once, there's another guy, and I think I owe him a second date." You feel like you can't stop the words coming from your mouth, and before you realize that you've told Pug the thing you wanted to take to your grave with you, a gasp on the other side of the phone reaches your ears.

"You've kissed and he brought you flowers?! Please tell me you got laid with him."

"Why would I do that?" You ask in disbelief, already regretting this phone call.

"How did he kiss you? Was it simple or was he like a starving man? Or did you kiss him first? Y/n was it only a peck? You-"

You quickly end the phone call, feeling overwhelmed by the avalanche of questions and grab the pack of cigarettes from your table. Your landlady would probably beat you up if she saw you smoking inside, but now, you couldn't care less. Your phone lights up after a minute with Pug's message, 'that was the ultimate dick move, I'll get that information from you, one way or another.'

Letting out a chuckle, you blow out a smoke, turning on the TV to watch the news.

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