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chicgeekgirl89 · 1 year ago

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Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Gabriel Reyes, Andrea Reyes

Rating: T

CW: Blood

Summary: When Carlos responds to a call involving a bar brawl, he's surprised to find his fiancé injured and in the middle of it. But that's not the only surprise waiting for him...

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Lacerations

For @bluenet13

Read on AO3

Carlos doesn’t want to be at yet another bar brawl. They’re messy and loud and chaotic and they take forever because everyone is drunk and angry and it’s impossible to get a straight story out of them.

He’s been watching the minutes tick by ever since a call for assistance at The Driskill Bar came in. A couple other units had responded immediately, but if they need back up, he’s the next closest one. His shift is so close to over, he can practically taste freedom. If he can just make it a few more minutes he can head back to the station and clock out without having any part of tonight’s drunken revelry.

Ten minutes.

Nine minutes.

Eight minutes.

“Three-six-three H-20 this is dispatch, please respond.”

He sighs and clicks on his radio. “Dispatch, three-six-three H-20.”

“Three-six-three H-20 please respond to a disturbance at 604 Brazos Street,” the dispatcher says.

Damn it. Carlos allows himself a half a second to let his head thunk back against the headrest in defeat. He was so close.

“Three-six-three H-20 responding,” he says, flipping on the lights and sirens as he hits the gas and speeds along through the rapidly darkening streets of Austin.

There are five other cruisers already at the Driskill when he pulls up and an ambulance is rolling in behind him. Shit. This is a big one. He double checks that everything is secure on his belt as he heads inside Drunk people are sometimes more crafty than they look, and he doesn’t want anybody grabbing something they shouldn’t.

The Driskill isn’t what he expected. It’s clearly not some dive bar where drunken locals go to drown their sorrows after a long day. The place is posh and polished, all gleaming wood paneling, leather booth seats, and the floor isn’t even the slightest bit sticky.

That being said, it’s is a disaster. Tables on their sides, drinks and food all over, and people everywhere in varying states of distress. A couple officers are still wrestling with unruly patrons while others are doing cursory checks of anybody who might be injured.

He goes to help a woman who is lying on the ground, her blonde hair all a mess. “Are you hurt?” Carlos asks as he pulls her to her feet.

“No, no I think I’m okay. Thank you,” she says, straightening out her dress.

“I’m going to ask you to take a seat over there until an officer can talk to you,” he tells her, holding out a hand in the direction of a couple of booths that are untouched by tonight’s violence. “If you find you’re in any pain flag down an officer or a paramedic.”

She nods and carefully picks her way over to the seats as he turns and looks for another place to be useful.

There’s an officer near him struggling to cuff a burly man who keeps yelling something about, “That little bitch!” so Carlos lends a hand.

“That little bitch! He’s gonna pay for this!” the man continues to yell as they get him to his feet.

“Sir!” Carlos says sternly. “You need to calm down!”

“I’m not gonna calm down! He nearly strangled me!”

Carlos looks at the man’s massive neck and finds that a little hard to believe. “Who?” he asks. “Can you identify your assailant?”

The guy glares at him. “Yeah. It was that little bitch right over there.”

Carlos follows the line of his gaze and feels his stomach drop as he takes in a familiar tousle of brown hair. “Oh…no,” he says slowly.

“What’s wrong?” the other officer asks.

“That’s my little bitch,” he says and then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, my fiancé.”

As if he can feel the weight of Carlos’ gaze, T.K.’s grey eyes snap up and lock on Carlos’, relief flickering through them.

“You can go,” the officer tells him. “I got this.”

“Thanks.”

Carlos strides across the room, broken glass crunching under his shoes, heart beating rapidly in his chest. When he reaches T.K. he’s shocked by what he finds.

His lip is bleeding, his left cheekbone red and swollen.“T.K. oh my god,” is all Carlos can manage as he gawps at the damage to his fiancé’s face.

“Hey babe.” The words are tired and maybe a little embarrassed.

Carlos reaches out and gently cups T.K.’s chin, trying to get a closer look at his injuries. Despite his care, T.K. winces in pain and Carlos recoils immediately. “I’m sorry. T.K., I—are you okay?”

He’s glad those are the words that come out because what he’s thinking is, “What the fuck is going on and why are you in the middle of it?”

“I’ve been better,” T.K. says wanly, shifting uncomfortably on the barstool he’s sitting on, and it’s then that Carlos realizes he’s cuffed. And also covered in blood.

“Are you bleeding?” he asks, panic ripping through him, his hands going to T.K.’s shirt, searching for injuries.

“Just a little.” T.K. lifts his right shoulder a bit and Carlos walks behind his back to find deep lacerations slicing their way up his right arm. He swears and fumbles for the key on his belt, hands slipping as he tries to get it into the slot, a combination of nerves and the blood that is oozing from all the cuts.

“Are you allowed to do that?” T.K. asks.

“Shut up,” Carlos growls at him, too frantic to think about things like procedure. Right now he needs to figure out how bad this bleeding is and get it stopped.

He finally gets the cuffs off and tosses them to the floor. T.K. brings his hands around to his front, grimacing as he takes in the damage. “That actually looks worse than I thought it would,” he says, examining his arm. “I don’t think it hit an artery though. Bleeding’s too slow.”

“Who cuffed you like this?” Carlos asks, anger lacing his tone. Because whoever it is, he’s going to rip them a new one. There’s procedure and then there’s common sense. And cuffing a guy who is bleeding this badly is not common sense.

“Babe, it’s okay,” T.K. says as Carlos searches for something to staunch the bleeding.

He finds a pile of rags behind the bar that appear clean and uses one to firmly apply pressure. T.K. makes a strangled noise of pain. “Sorry, sorry,” Carlos says. “Paramedics should be in here any minute.”

“Great. I was hoping everyone we know would find out about this in the next hour,” T.K. says, his joke about the rampant gossip mill in the AFD falling flat since Carlos is really concerned about the amount of blood he’s losing.

“T.K. what are you doing here?” Carlos asks.

“Not what it looks like.”

“I am…trying to believe that,” Carlos says, even as images of the last time he saw T.K. looking like this in police issued handcuffs flashes through his mind. “I thought you were going to dinner at your dad’s?”

“Right,” T.K. says, looking cagey. “What I said was I was going to dinner with Dad. I just…didn’t specify whose.”

Carlos is beyond confused. “You only have one dad, T.K.”

“Son, I am telling you, that is not proper cuffing procedure.”

The voice, that combination of outrage and annoyance, that’s the voice that cheered at his baseball games, taught him how to fix a fence post, and bemoaned the Astro’s fate at the breakfast table. Carlos turns around, his already frayed nerves feeling like they’ve caught on fire. “Dad?!”

“Oh, Carlos, hello!” his dad calls from across the room. He’s sporting the beginnings of a black eye and looks like he’s trying to take shallow breaths. “Can you please tell this probie to stop cuffing me for half a second so I can show him how to do it the right way?”

The officer dealing with his father looks young and is clearly nervous. “It’s okay,” Carlos says, suddenly feeling weary. “I’ve got him.”

The officer bolts, probably to find someone who won’t give him an earful about doing his job correctly. Carlos grabs his dad by the arm and pulls him over to T.K. “Okay,” he says, officer persona sliding back into place as tries to get a grip on what he’s seeing. “What is going on here?”

Gabriel frowns at his son. “Aren’t you going to uncuff me?”

“Not until I get some answers.” His dad thinks he’s too soft? He’s about to find out just how not soft Carlos can be when he’s pissed.

T.K. and his dad exchange looks. “We were having a drink,” his dad starts.

“I was having a club soda,” T.K. says quickly.

“Yes, right,” Gabriel says with a nod. “And then that animal over there,” he nods toward the burly man Carlos had helped take down moments ago, “started making some…rather indelicate comments. So I politely suggested he stop.”

“Politely?” Carlos asks skeptically.

Gabriel looks offended. “Of course politely! Unfortunately he didn’t appreciate it.”

“So I, also politely, told him where he could go if he wanted to keep making comments like that,” T.K. says.

Carlos can feel his resolve slipping as he watches the two of them concoct their story. He’s not going to go soft though. No, he’s going to go ballistic.

“Well he didn’t appreciate that either,” Gabriel says with a chuckle. “So he threw a punch. And we punched back.”

“In self defense,” T.K. says quickly. “We didn’t start it. But then a few other people got involved too and then…you can figure out the rest.”

“How did this happen?” Carlos asks, indicating the deep wounds on T.K.’s arm.

T.K. grimaces. “Once things really started popping off, big boy got a little feisty. He smashed a bottle and came at me.”

“That was a close one,” Gabriel says, his face serious now.

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath so he won’t scream. “How did you get him off of you?”

T.K. immediately starts looking shifty again. “Um…your dad wasn’t the only one I was meeting tonight.”

He nods at something over Carlos’ shoulder and Carlos is afraid to turn around and look. When he finally does, he feels whatever shreds of police officer persona he was still holding onto evaporate. In fact, his cop swagger dries up so fast he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get it back.

“Mama?” he says weakly.

She’s sitting with another officer, her hand on his knee, eyes intent on his face.

“She broke a pool cue over that guy’s head,” Gabriel says, his eyes shining with pride. “Saved T.K.’s life.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Carlos mutters. He turns and looks at the two of them. “Stay here. Do not move.” Then he walks across the room until he’s standing directly next to his mother.

“You just have to tell her how you feel,” she’s telling the officer. “You can’t expect her to try and figure it out for herself.”

“But what if she doesn’t feel the same way?” the officer asks.

“Well then at least you’ll know.” She pats his knee gently. “And then you can move forward either way.”

This is too much. “Mom.”

She looks up, a smile blossoming on her face as she sees Carlos standing there. “Carlitos! What are you doing here?”

“My job Mom,” he says.

“This is your mom?” the officer asks, clearly confused.

“Yes,” Carlos says. “Apparently it was family night at the bar and no one invited me.”

“Okay, I’ll just…leave you to it then?” the office asks, clearly realizing he’s now in the middle of something.

“That would be great, thank you,” Carlos says.

Andrea gets to her feet as the officer wanders away. “Is T.K. all right?” she asks. “They’ve kept us all separated.”

“He’s hurt, but he’s okay. Are you all right?” Carlos asks, visually searching her for injuries. Unlike his father and T.K., she doesn’t seem to have a scratch on her.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” she says, waving him off. “Not my first bar fight.”

Her response spawns more questions than answers, but now isn’t the time. That’s when she finally spots T.K. and her husband. “Oh there they are!”

She walks toward them, forcing Carlos to follow. “Ay Dios mío, you both look terrible,” she says when she reaches them.

“It would have been worse if not for you,” T.K. says, even though the blood seeping through the rag on his arm indicates it’s pretty bad.

Carlos is reaching for another rag when the front doors open and paramedics finally start flooding in.

He waits, holding his tongue as the medics examine his father and wrap up T.K.’s arm with something better and more sanitary than threadbare bar rags. “We’ll be ready to transport in a little bit,” the paramedic says as he packs up his things and moves onto the next patient down the line.

“Okay,” Carlos says now that they have some space. “I need someone to explain to me what’s going on here.”

The three of them look at each other and Carlos crosses his arms over his chest. “Anytime now.”

“Your parents invited me to dinner,” T.K. finally says. “We had just gotten to the restaurant when the power went out.”

“We didn’t want to miss out on our time together, so we came here instead,” Andrea tells him.

“We made sure it was all right with T.K. first,” Gabriel says quickly. “We know about his recovery and we would never want to do anything to jeopardize it.”

“I still don’t understand why the three of you were together in the first place,” Carlos says.

“Can’t your parents spend time with your future husband?” Andrea says a little too innocently. “He’s family. We’re allowed.”

It would be sweet if Carlos couldn’t see right through it. He spears all of them with a look. Surprisingly, it’s Gabriel who breaks first. “Just tell him Andrea. He’s not going to let it go. That’s the same look he had on his face every time he wanted ice cream after dinner.”

Carlos does not appreciate his childhood being dragged into whatever scheming these three are up to, but he ignores the comment for now.

Andrea sighs. “We were meeting to talk about your birthday.”

“Your mother wants to have a party,” Gabriel says. “We were having dinner to plan it together.”

When he’s in less of a state of shock he’s going to appreciate that his parents wanted his future husband’s input and took him to dinner to get it. But right now, all he feels is anxious and mad. “My birthday,” he says slowly, eyes going to T.K., searching for the truth.

“Your birthday,” T.K. confirms.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Andrea says.

Carlos lets out a startled laugh. “Well I am surprised.” His mind is still struggling to put everything together. Half an hour ago he’d been mentally headed home. And now he’s stuck with this mess. “The three of you ended up in a bar brawl because of my birthday.”

“As previously stated, the bar brawl wasn’t intentional,” Gabriel says.

“Okay,” Carlos says, running a hand through his hair, then grimacing when his fingers catch awkwardly on the gelled down strands. “I’m going to go try and sort this out with the officer in charge. Don’t say anything. Don’t go anywhere.”

It takes a long conversation with the commander on the scene, a call to his boss, a call to his dad’s boss, and a chat with the owner of the bar who has shown up to survey the damage, for Carlos to get things straightened out. His dad’s good standing with the rangers and his own good standing with the APD work in his favor tonight, and he promises to have everyone come by the station in the morning to give their statements.

He’d thought that would be the biggest hurdle of the night. He was wrong.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Gabriel protests as the paramedics stand by, waiting to find out who’s riding in their ambulance and who’s not. “It’s just some bruised ribs and a black eye. I’ve had worse from playing with the grandkids.”

“Your ribs could be broken,” Carlos argues. “You need to see a doctor.”

“Boys stop arguing,” Andrea chastises. “You will go to the hospital and I will follow behind in the car.”

“You are also getting in the ambulance,” Carlos tells her.

“What? Me?” She laughs. “No, I don’t think so. The car is fine. Someone will need to drive it there anyway.”

“Okay, to be clear, I am the one in charge right now,” Carlos says, feeling like he’s about to snap. “If you don’t do what I’m asking you to do, I’m going to leave you here with all these other officers to fend for yourselves. Your options are to go sit in a cell for the night or to go to the hospital.”

“I think it’s a good idea if everyone gets checked out,” T.K. says softly.

Carlos can see pain in his eyes, the way his body is sagging a little on the barstool, and he feels a renewed urgency to get his fiancé taken care of as soon as humanly possible.

“Fine,” Andrea say shortly. “But I am not putting on one of those terrible hospital gowns.”

Carlos bundles them all into an ambulance and follows along behind in his cruiser. There are no lights and sirens necessary, and Carlos can’t decide if the silence is better or worse. It’s forcing him to sit in his anger and worry and exhaustion for far longer than he’d like, and he is not in a good mood by the time they get to the hospital.

His mom is completely fine, thank god. His dad does have a broken rib and a minor concussion, but no facial fractures. They’re both seen and cleared quickly and Carlos bids them a somewhat curt goodnight before going back to his fiancé, who is being sewn back together with thirty-four stitches. The wounds are deep and jagged and it takes a long time for the resident to get them all done.

Carlos holds T.K.’s good hand and wonders for how long this fresh image of T.K. on a gurney is going to haunt his nightmares this time. They’ve been through enough hospital trauma for him to know sleep is going to be hard to come by for a while. He consoles himself with the fact that at least this time his fiancé is conscious.

“I was going to tell you,” T.K. says as the last few stitches are finally going in, “about the surprise party. I knew you wouldn’t want it, so I was going to tell you and have you pretend to be surprised.”

“It’s crazy that the people that raised me still think surprising me is a good idea,” Carlos says ruefully.

“They’re just excited,” T.K. says. “And I think they’re trying a little extra hard to show that they’re supportive of the two of us. Of the engagement.”

“Well maybe next time they could show their support with a little less violence,” Carlos says, forcing a smile as he rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of T.K.’s free hand.

“Your mom probably saved my life tonight,” T.K. says. “At the very least she saved my face.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Which is the second best part of me.”

Carlos knows when he’s being goaded, he can see the sparkle in T.K.’s eyes. “I’m not going to ask you what the other one is. There are people around.”

T.K. bites his lip. “He’s a doctor. He knows things. It won’t bother him. Right doc?”

“I have learned not to get in the middle of this kind of conversation,” the doctor says diplomatically as he snips the last thread. “You’re all set T.K. I’m going to get a nurse to come in and go over the wound care instructions with you, all right?”

“Thank you,” T.K. says, turning his arm this way and that to examine the stitching. He waits until the curtain has closed behind the doctor before looking up at Carlos, eyes full of mischief. “The best part of me is my—“

Carlos quickly puts a finger over his lips. “I know what you think your best assets are,” he says, an amused smile on his face. “You don’t have to tell me.”

T.K. pulls back, uncowed. “Can I tell you yours then? It’s your d—“

“T.K. stop!” Carlos says, full on laughing now even as he nervously looks around to make sure nobody is in earshot.

“There you are,” T.K. says. “You’ve looked so stressed all night I thought maybe you’d forgotten how to laugh.”

“This was…not how I thought my evening would go,” Carlos says, reaching over and brushing T.K.’s hair away from his forehead. “And you know I’m not good at changing plans on the fly.”

“Well if it’s any consolation, it’s not how I saw my night going either,” T.K. says. He looks at Carlos intently. “Are you mad at me?”

Carlos does an emotional inspection of himself. “No,” he sighs. “No I don’t think so. Concerned about how many punches you have on your hospital rewards card. But not mad.”

It’s hard to be mad at T.K. He’s so sweet and soft and he looks at you with those Bambi eyes…and it’s extra hard to be mad at him when he’s hurt.

“Are you mad at your parents?”

That’s a more complicated question. “Maybe a little? They’re my parents. I expect better from them.”

“But not from me?” The sparkle is back.

“From you I expect chaos,” Carlos says, throwing T.K. a knowing look. “From them I expect…decorum.”

T.K. snorts. “Yeah I think decorum went out the window when your dad threw his beer across the bar and jumped on top of a six foot dude with skull tattoos.”

Carlos groans. “I’m going to be hearing about this night for the rest of my life.”

“Your mom is actually a lot more like Francesca than I would have thought,” T.K. says, referencing Carlos’ wild child sister.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Carlos says.

“Hey.” T.K.’s face softens. “Don’t be mad at them for too long, okay?”

The rest of his words remain unspoken, but Carlos can read them in his eyes anyway. You never know how long you have with them. His heart twinges painfully with the few memories that he has of Gwyn and T.K. together. He nods. “I won’t.”

The nurse arrives and Carlos listens intently to all her instructions since T.K.’s eyes are starting to droop a little, the adrenaline of the last few hours finally wearing off.

As they’re passing through the waiting room on the way out Carlos is surprised to see his parents sitting there. “I thought you were going home,” he says.

“We wanted to make sure T.K. was all right,” Andrea says as they both get to their feet. She turns her eyes to him. “How are you doing mijo?”

“All stitched up,” T.K. says. “A couple weeks and I’ll be back to normal.”

“I also wanted to…apologize.” Gabriel seems to struggle at getting the word past his lips. “For my part in what happened tonight. You’d think after all this time I’d learn to keep my mouth shut.”

T.K. shakes his head. “No one should have to deal with that kind of language. If you hadn’t started it, I would have.”

Something about the exchange flares warm in Carlos’ chest. The way his parents are caring for T.K., it’s the same way they’ve always cared for him and his sisters. It’s not perfect, but it’s full of love.

“Are you heading home now?” his mother asks.

“I have to take the cruiser back to the station first,” Carlos says. “We’ll pick up the Camaro there and then head back.”

“Oh that’s going to take too long!” Andrea says, worry furrowing her brow. “T.K. is practically dead on his feet. No, no. We can drive him back to your place.”

“Your car is at the bar,” Carlos points out.

“I had that nice young officer I was talking to drive it here,” Andrea says, as if this is completely normal. “You go take care of things at work and we’ll make sure T.K. gets home safely.”

Carlos looks at T.K. who seems to be waiting for his cue. “It would get you home faster,” he says.

“I don’t mind if they take me,” T.K. replies.

Carlos fixes his parents with a stern look. “No stopping anywhere along the way. Straight home.”

Andrea rolls her eyes. “You give the man a badge and he thinks he can boss his parents around.”

“Ma!”

“We’ll get him home safe and sound,” Gabriel assures him. “Scout’s honor.”

Carlos blows out a breath and turns so that he’s facing T.K. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I know,” T.K. says, closing his eyes as Carlos kisses his forehead.

“We’ll take good care of him,” Andrea says, gently putting an arm around T.K.’s shoulders and guiding him toward the door. “Tell me T.K., what kind of soup do you like? I will whip up a batch and bring it to you when we all meet at the station in the morning.”

How is it possible to feel like his parents are the most annoying people in the world right now, and also that T.K. is the safest he could possibly be with them by his side?

His father stops next to him. “He defended me tonight. He’s a good man.” He pats Carlos’ shoulder. “You made a good choice.”

T.K. has never felt like a choice. He’s fate. Destiny. All the dreams Carlos was too afraid to have, made incarnate. Slightly more of a chaos demon than Carlos would have imagined, but a dream come true nonetheless.

But that’s not something he can explain to his father. “He chose me too,” he says instead. “He chose you and mom, our family.” He looks up and meets his father’s gaze. “Thank you for choosing him back.”

His dad wordlessly squeezes his shoulder and follows the other two out the doors.

Carlos watches them go, three of the most important people in his world together and something inside of him cracks. Another little piece of the wall he built up so long ago, the one made of words like broken, unlovable, inadequate…the one he’d created to keep himself safe, falls away.

He’s making a family. And it’s good.

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #Carlos Reyes #T.K. Strand #911lsfic #Tarlos Fic #TK Strand Whump #Lacerations #Bad Things Happen Bingo

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skyfallslayer · 2 years ago

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The Devils Are Caught In Red Strings || Chapter 4: In The Blood

-Matt Murdock x Parker!OFC-

Series Masterlist

AO3 Link

♡Series Summary: Childhood friendships are a sacred thing... But so are secrets. This story revolves around a girl named Anya Hughes, an attorney by day and a vigilante by night. Join her into the struggles she’ll face, like her path coming back to haunt her, then facing a man who holds all the power, all while she develops a crush on her close friend. How long can she take all this until she falls apart? ♡

♡Chapter Summary: Two vicious Russian brothers working for Fisk, strike back in a way that makes Matt go feral while Anya deals with some unfortunate side effects. Meanwhile, Fisk moves to further consolidate his power in the criminal underworld. ♡

♡Date: 3/17/13 ♡

♡Rating:��Explicit ♡

♡Word Count: 12,741♡

♡Warning: Spoilers for the show; Canon Typical Violence; Blood and Injury; Strong Use of Language; Lying; Poorly Executed Fighting Scenes; Vomiting; Torture Session(s); Brief Decapitation Scene (Proceed with caution); Use of Pet Names; (Unknowingly) Frenemies to Lovers; Talks of Child Abuse; Mini Dissociation Episode; Talks of Dying/Being Killed; Foggy Being A Wingman; Matt and Foggy Are Great Friends; Karen's Throwing Hands; Claire Needs A Vacation (Yet Again); Anya Could Use One As Well; Poorly Translated Spanish/Russian Via Google (Let me know if I missed anything). READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!! ♡

♡A/N: Here we go. Here's where shit starts hitting the fan. It's time for Fisk to show his true colors, Matt going from total softy to the devil in seconds, Foggy being the best boi, Karen becoming a total badass, and Anya dealing with the effects of her father's torment. Hope ya'll are ready. Enjoy! ♡

Her whole body felt like it was on fire. Her whole world started to spin. The nausea clinged onto her like a bad habit. Her vocal chords were melting, she couldn’t even scream anything silent. She laid on her floor in agony, bad childhood memories flushed inside, reminding her why she was in this state to begin with.

// She’s flawed, honey. She can’t even use her abilities without getting sick. Such a disappointment. //

Her head was in the sand. Her eardrums are drowning in the water. Her stomach turned in a way she thought she was going to vomit again, but nothing would come up.

I gotta… Her fingertips twitched against the lament, desperate to move.

I gotta move. I need to–

Someone was knocking on her door. Loudly, but at a calming pace. This person wasn’t aware of what was going on with her; This person wasn't alarmed.

"Anya? You there?" A voice called out, making her quietly groan. She couldn't recognize who it was. She wanted to curl into a little ball.

"Hey, you there? You haven't been answering our calls. Matt and I are worried."

Matt and I? So, it's not Matt at the door. So that narrows it down to–

"Karen kind of forced me to come check up on you because of it."

Foggy. It's Foggy. She mentally curses, and forces herself to stand.

Shit. This is bad. He can't see me–

"So, are you home or– Jesus. Maybe you're out running around. Why didn't I think of that?"

She stumbles into the bathroom, kicking off her boots and taking off her clothes. She can't let him see her wearing these clothes or she's fucked. With trembling hands she tries snagging her bathrobe off its hook, only for her super strength to take over and pull it down completely causing a loud crash.

"Anya? Was that a crash? Are you okay? Anya?!"

She groans and slips it on, tying a knot before heading down the hallway. She could hear his frantic knocking again and his concerned shouting, and she only wishes she could pick up the pace without the worries of toppling over.

"Anya! I got a spare key, don't make me–" Foggy stops mid sentence as the apartment door swings open. He watches as his best friend clings to the door, looking like she was put through a wringer. "Jesus… you look…"

"Like shit?" Anya finishes, holding down the nausea.

"I couldn't say it better myself." He frowns worriedly, and silently asks If he could come in, which was granted. "What happened? What got you so sick?"

"You know that Mexican food place a block from here?" She asks, forming a lie on the fly as she closes the door.

"The one I suggested we should try?"

"Yeah. That one."

"Oh." He frowns. "So… No Bueno?"

"Si, Si, Señor."

"Awe. If I had known I would have brought you some soup."

She hums, cracking a smile. "I'd appreciate the kindness, Fog. I think I should be okay by the end of the day."

“If you say so.” He says, setting his work bag down for a second on the kitchen counter. That made her open her eyes more, and realize he was wearing a suit and tie.

She forces herself to look at the microwave clock and groans into her hands. “And… I’m seven hours late to work.” She mutters, embarrassed. “No wonder you came to check on me.”

He gives her a look of amusement and chuckles. “You seriously didn’t know?”

“Honestly, Foggy, I thought it was still night.”

And I really did think it was last night. It was yet another mission. This time she wanted to find out who this Wilson Fisk guy is that she and No-Eyes found out about after their client killed himself. But to her surprise, these people came in like a stampede and she had to use way more energy than she usually does. She could barely remember even getting home let alone falling on the floor, silently begging for the pain to stop as she blacked in and out of consciousness.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you guys worried.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay, Ann, really. If I had known you were this sick I would have come sooner.”

“No, I…” Anya sighs. “I should have been more aware of the time.” She crosses her arms, mad at herself. “So… anything happened at work?”

“Nope.” Foggy said, popping the ‘p’. “We closed early because of it. So, technically, you really didn’t miss anything.”

“But still, it’s my business too. I need to be there.” She replies, sighing again.

“Again, you didn't miss anything.” He said, reassuringly. “But, I think we’ll get something tomorrow. I got a gut feeling.”

That got her smile and chuckle. “Foggy, it’s Sunday. We’re closed Sundays.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She holds back another laugh. “But, you know, if you have a gut feeling…”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, my–” He holds his tongue. “You’re so…” She breaks out another laugh at him struggling to find the right word. “You know, I want to strangle you sometimes.”

“Oh, really?” Anya raises an eyebrow. “Awe, Mr. Nelson. Is this how you treat all the women you know?”

“Only the ones I truly care about, Miss Hughes.” Foggy points out with a gleam in his eye. “You seemed to be feeling better already, but I’ll give you Sunday off so you can rest, okay?”

“Will do, Boss.” She says, with a weak salute. “Now–” She lightly slaps him in the arm. “Go before I puke again.”

“Probably a good call.” He nods as he grabs his bag, sliding the straps on. “But, hey, if you’re not feeling better by tomorrow, one of us is dragging your ass to the doctor’s. Okay?”

“Okay.” Anya said, walking with him to the door. “So what’s on the agenda tonight? You going bar hopping for a wife again?”

He snorts. “Eh, maybe not tonight. I could use a break from that eel.”

She opens the door, letting him step out. “You know, Nelson, Landman & Zack’s Goldilocks is still single.” She said, with a mischievous smirk.

He gapes like a fish at her, pointing again. “You’re so mean.”

“What? You don’t want to be called ‘Foggy-Bear’ again?”

He groans loudly and walks down the hallway. “I absolutely do not want to be called that again.”

“Sure you don’t.” Her smile softens, knowing damn well he’s still hung up on his old girlfriend. “Hey, Foggy? Can you text the others to let them know I’m okay?”

“Already on it. But I don’t know if they’ll even answer.”

She furrowed her brows in a puzzle, leaning against the doorframe. “What do you mean?”

“Good question.” He spins on his heels, walking backwards while replying, “They’re both acting weirder than normal.”

He turns back around, turning a corner to leave towards the elevator. Anya purses her lips, closing her door, wondering what was up with Matt and Karen.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Meanwhile, on the other side of town. The door belonging to an occupied warehouse slammed open, and one of the Russian Brothers, Anatoly, bursts through and descends down the metal stairs to the outside world.

Anatoly tries to hide the panic in his voice as he talks on the phone. “Он здесь!... Как вы думаете, кто?” (*He’s here!... Who do you think?).

He looks behind himself, worriedly. “Нет, я не знаю, как он нас нашел… де мой брат?... Слушай, заткнись!” (*No, I don’t know how he found us… Where’s my brother?... Listen, shut up!).

He rounds the taxi parked outside. “Замолчи! Мне все равно, что он тебе сказал... позвони ему!” (*Shut up! I don’t care what he told you… get him on the phone!)

Anatoly hangs up and gets in the driver seat. Just as he started the car, one of his men fell from above and onto the hood. Broken glass and blood doused the windshield. Not even phased, he backs the taxi up at a high speed, the body rolling off into the road.

From the second story window, Matt dressed in usual attire listened as he drove off, silently cussing that he let the head Russian get away.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“You’ve been busy.” Claire said, threading the needle through his bloody skin.

“Yeah…” Matt replies with a soft groan.

“Sorry.” She frowns apologetically. “So, how’s that working out for you?”

He grins. “You should see the other guys.”

“I have.” She points out with a nod. “The one you threw off the roof, at my place? He’s in a coma. Do you know that?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

She pauses to look up at him. “How do you feel about that?”

There was a slight hesitation, but didn’t look too remorseful as he replied, “I’ll live.”

Claire finishes up, sitting up straight in her stool. She opens her mouth to speak, but the sound of something getting knocked over caught her attention.

“Hey!” She hisses at the cat. “Get off the counter!” She snaps, banging on the side table to try to scare it off.

Matt found that funny and chuckled. “Wow, you don’t like cats.”

“I’m allergic.” Claire explains. “I was supposed to be coming in, feeding this guy twice a day while my friend was out of town, not hiding out here using up all my sick days.”

“Just a while longer. Just till we know the Russians aren’t looking for you.” She pauses again, giving him a look that he picked up. “What?”

“You said, ‘We’.”

He nods slowly. “Well… this… ‘May’ person is on the lookout too.”

“Huh.” Claire said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you two weren’t on good terms?”

““Look–”” She begins, stepping closer. ““I’m not saying we should become partners, but if we’re going to figure out what’s going on here, we should not exactly push each other away. If we come across each other, we just deal with it.””

““And… if we do, we compare notes if we find something?”” He asked, carefully.

She nods once more. ““If you're okay with it, so am I.””

The memory faded away, the one that still seemed fresh each day since that night. “We came to an agreement. We promise to respect each other's spaces, but also not push each other away either.”

Claire looks at him surprised. “Wow. That’s… That’s interesting. Shocking, really.”

“Tell me about it.” He exhales heavily. “Although, Peaches annoys me, she’s not too bad out in the field.”

“Peaches?”

“Nickname. She smells like them.”

“Well, I don’t remember smelling that. But you’re the one with the super nose.” She replies, before digging around in her medical bag. “Since you two are communicating better, you two should consider getting some kind of body armor. Especially you, you look like you’ve been put through the grinder.”

“It would slow me down too much.”

“So will a bullet.” She says, cleaning the excess blood before putting a gauze over it.

His shit eating grin returns. “You worried about me?” He asked, holding the gauze in place as she grabbed the tape.

“What if I were?”

“I would tell you I’m a big boy, and not to be.”

She copies an expression similar to his. “Right. That’s why you keep ending up here.”

“Well… maybe I just like the sound of your voice.”

Claire hums, not fully convinced. “Sure I’m your gal? You haven’t exactly given me a special nickname yet.”

He tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean?”

“So what happens the night you come by and I’m already talking to someone else?” She asked, ignoring his question.

“Yeah…” Matt clears his throat, hearing that she was done taping his arm. “It crossed my mind.” He unzips his pants pocket holding out a burner phone for her to take. “Here.”

“Um…” She takes her glove off, taking it. “You shouldn’t have.”

He chuckles. “I didn’t. The burner’s for me. Memorize the number, put yours in. Next time I need to come by, I’ll call.”

“By ‘Come by’–” She gets up walking around the sofa. “Do you mean stumble in, bleeding half to death?”

Matt catches his shirt she threw at him without looking, and subtly shrugs. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed. You really gotta ease up.” Claire said, cleaning up the mess.

“No–” He groans quietly as he slides his shirt on. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“I can take care of myself, Mike. You know–”

“It’s not just about you. It’s a little more complicated than that.” He said, putting his mask on as she types her number into the burner. “You ever heard the name Wilson Fisk?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Who’s that?”

He frowns as he starts putting his gloves on. “Just a name somebody gave me. But there’s no public record. Nothing on the internet. Not one mention of Fisk.”

“Maybe whoever gave you his name was lying.”

“I would have known if he was.”

“How?” She asked, handing the phone over.

“Heartbeat.” He said, standing up.

“Right, of course. Heartbeat, So, what, you’re just gonna go out there punching whoever you can, hoping to find somebody who knows this Fisk guy?”

“Well, apply enough pressure, someone will break.” He pulls the mask down to cover his eyes, then opens up her window to the fire escape. “Sooner or later.”

He slips through and jumps over the railing, leaving behind a smiling Claire as she shakes her head.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

In a parking garage somewhere in the city, a small group of Russians were peeling off the names on the side of Taxicabs and replacing them with their own. Amongst this mess, the ever so nicely dressed James Wesley arrives at the scene, catching the leaders’ eyes as they strut over to him.

“Oof. Those look like they hurt.” Wesley says, mockingly to Anatoly’s busted up face.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I know how much your people delight in extolling the amount of pain they can endure, but maybe next time you could try ducking?” He continues, ignoring how Anatoly’s face hardened and his brother stepped close to him. “Leland’s finalized the paperwork–”

Wesley hands Vladimir the paperwork, his cold eyes looking over it carefully.

“Prohaszka’s holdings in Kitchen Cab have been acquired and transferred via third party to Veles Taxi. Your distribution infrastructure just doubled.”

“Tell your employer we are grateful.” Anatoly said, biting his hot tongue by saying that.

Wesley notices this but ignores it. “Don’t think he really cares at the moment. You were light again this week.”

Vladimir hands the paperwork over to his brother. “There was a complication.” He replies, truthfully.

“One you assured us you were addressing.”

“Do you know what he was asking?” Vladimir asks, stepping closer. “This fool who laid hands on my brother?”

Wesley shakes his head. “Not my concern.”

“It should be.” Anatoly says, sternly. “He was asking about your employer, by name. And then the night before yesterday, that masked woman was also snooping around for your employer’s name.”

It didn’t take a genius to see the small shock on Wesley's face before he covered it up. Calmly he says, “All the more reason to settle this. You sneeze, we catch a cold. Madame Gao and Mr. Nobu have expressed their disappointment.”

“We have not heard of this.” Vladimir says, suspicious.

“Hmm.” Wesley shrugs. “That’s because we’ve been talking behind your back, about how the Russians can’t seem to handle one man and one woman running around in masks.” Another shrug. “I mean, if he had an iron suit or a magic hammer, maybe that would explain why you keep getting your asses handed to you–”

“We told you what that woman can do.”

Wesley tilts his head. “Then, find a solution.”

“You wouldn’t be telling me this if you saw this woman who has the strength of men twice her size, and can paralyzed someone with just a touch.” Vladimir hisses through his teeth before getting fed up. “We’re done here.”

The brothers turn around, and start walking back to what they were doing beforehand as Wesley processes what he just said.

“She can paralyze?” He asks, but gets no response. He sighs. “Those two have weakened your operations.”

Vladimir stops to return a glare. “You think us weak?”

“This isn’t personal, Vladimir. It’s business. Distribution of Madame Gao’s product has been affected, which in turn is causing delays in other ventures. This is not acceptable. Fortunately, for all parties, my employer has agreed to help return you to solid footing.”

“How?” Anatoly asked, curious.

“By Aiding you in certain duties deemed vital to the continuation of service–”

Vladimir snickers. “He wants to take over.” He explains, trying to walk away again; But Wesley is like a dog with a bone.

“We value the services you provide, but clearly–” Wesley laughs lightly. “You need help providing them. We’ll all profit nicely under the new structure.”

“How nicely?” Anatoly asked, intrigued. This causes his brother to speak something snappy in Russian to him.

Vladimir then sighs, saying, “Tell Mr. Fisk–”

“We don’t say his name.” Wesley reminds, watching the Russian clench his jaw and take a threatening step forward.

“Tell… Mr. Fisk… that if he wants two pounds of flesh… he can come here and carve it himself.”

Wesley looks down, exhaling to hold his underlying anger in. “This is an offer, not an order.” He said, calmly. “The choice of how we proceed is yours. Talk it over with your brother. We’ll be in touch.”

Wesley walks away with some of his bodyguards, leaving the brothers to figure out what to do.

“Маленькая сучка. Обратитесь к Петру.” Vladimir says, bitterly (*Prissy little bitch. Reach out to Piotr).

“Почему?” Anatoly asked (*Why?).

“Почему вы думаете?” (*Why do you think?).

“Если работодатель Уэсли узнает–” (*If Wesley’s employer finds out–).

“Его «работодатель»?” Vladimir asked, fed up by that overused term (*His ‘Employer’?). “Вы знаете, почему Фиск не хочет, чтобы кто-нибудь произносил его имя? Хм? Потому что это выдаст, что он всего лишь мужчина.” (*Do you want to know why Fisk… doesn’t want anyone saying his name? Hmm? Because it would betray that he’s just a man.)

“Вот парень и девушка в масках… и посмотрите, что они с нами сделали.” Anatoly explains, slightly shaken (*So’s the guy and girl in masks… and look what they’ve done to us.)

Vladimir nods in agreement. “Ага.” He says, pondering a moment (*Yeah). “Что мы знаем о них?” (*What do you know about them?)

“Ничего.” Anatoly says with a sigh (*Nothing). “Семен, может быть, и нашел что-то... но спит как убитый.” (*Semyon might have found something… but he sleeps like the dead.)

“Иисус воскрес на третий день... Семен достаточно проспал.” (*Jesus rose the third day… Semyon has slept long enough.)

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The morning followed, and Karen sat across the Bulletin Reporter, Ben Urich, in a small diner across town.

“Did you look at it?” She asked, nervousness on the edge of her words.

“Yeah, I looked at it.” He replies, readjusting himself in the booth.

“And?”

“And… It's a story I’ve heard before. Company gets caught up in a scandal, files for bankruptcy, then quietly restructures under a new name.”

“They killed Daniel Fisher. They tried to kill me.” Karen reminds, putting emphasis on those major words. Was he seriously not getting it?

“I’m still a little unclear on that point.” Urich explains, truthfully. He touches the file on the table. “You say here Rance assaulted you in your apartment. And a man in a black mask, and a woman with purple eyes, saved your life?”

Karen nods slowly, realizing how ridiculous it sounded out loud. “Yes, but they just… they came out of nowhere. I mean… the woman literally phazed through my window. The man just showed up at my door.”

“And you’d never seen them before?”

“No.”

Urich stops and thinks, humming. “Stranger things, right?”

She sighs. “Well, what about Rance? Do you r-really believe that he j-just up and hung himself in jail?” She asked, a horrific memory coming along. “That guard tried to do the same thing to me. Why don’t you ask him?

“Farnum?” Urich asked, after taking a sip of coffee. “He’s dead. Ate the barrel of his gun in his basement.” He watches the horror flash across her face but he keeps going. “And your old boss, McClintock? Overdosed on pills or some such.” He raises an eyebrow. “You seeing a pattern here, Miss Page?”

Of course she did, anyone with a brain could see it plain as day. “Then why isn’t anyone looking into this?” She asked, confused.

He sets his mug down, leaning forward on the table. “You don’t understand how lucky you are. Count the angels on the head of a pin, and move on.”

She blinks. “So they just shuffle some papers and all this disappears?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me.” Karen said, almost laughing. “A construction company is brick and mortar, literally. You cannot just shift cranes and trailer and office equipment like you can numbers on a page. There has to be a trail if everything is being liquidated.”

Urich casts his glance down, his wheel turning before deciding to bail. He sets his empty mug down, grabbing his things. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Karen bats her eyes again. “What?” She asked, looking up as he stood. “So that’s it?”

“Stories like this are built on sources, Miss Page. Credible sources. I did some digging into your, uh… past activities.”

Karen holds her tongue at that statement, but she still lets a little steam seep through. “Well, I did some digging, too. I read every big story with your byline. The VA kickbacks, toxic runoff, t-the Teachers Union scandal. Hell… you pretty much brought down the Italian mob back when I was in diapers. What ever happened to that reporter, Mr. Urich?”

That seems to stir something deep inside him. Enough to make the older man a bit teary eyed. “He got old… and a hell of a lot less stupid.” He admits, and wanders off.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

In a hospital surrounded by all the life support equipment you could imagine, lies one of the Russians’ “clean up” members. Coming through the door with a bouquet of flowers and a balloon that was soon tossed aside by the brothers. They came to stand in front of the bed taking the terrible sight in.

“Боже мой.” Anatoly mumbles in shock (*My god).

“Дай мне комплект.” Vladimir said after a moment (*Give me the kit).

Anatoly hands him the kit before starting to move anything ‘unnecessary’ out of the way. “Это может убить его.” (*This could kill him.)

“Семена обычно посылают на такую работу. Он бы понял.” Vladimir explains, calmly (*Semyon’s usually the one we send for this sort of work. He’d understand.)

Vladimir gets out a bottle of epinephrine and a syringe, while Anatoly detaches the pulse oximeter and ventilator.

Vladimir starts putting the syringe together while asking, “Вы получили ответ от Петра?” (*You hear back from Piotr?)

Anatoly nods, shakily replying with, “Сказал, что позвонит, когда у него будет что-нибудь о перемещениях Фиска. Фиск осторожен. Если он заподозрит–” (*Said, he’d call when he had something on Fisk’s movements. Fisk is cautious. If he suspects–)

“И что? Чего ты так боишься?” (*Then what? What are you so afraid of?)

“Мы были в этой адской дыре три года.” Anatoly says, bitterly while showing off three fingers. (*We were in that hellhole for three years.) “От московских князей... до гадения в ведро. Я пообещал себе, что если мы когда-нибудь освободимся... мы больше никогда не потеряем то, что у нас было. Тем более не гордиться.”

(*From princes of Moscow… to shitting in a bucket. I promise myself If we ever got free… we’d never lose what we had again. Especially not to pride.)

Vladimir fills the needle replying, “Когда у нас ничего не было, мы обо всем договаривались.” (*Back when we had nothing, we agreed on everything.)

His brother scoffs. “Мы заблудились... в этой богатой стране.” (*We’ve lost our way… in this land of riches.)

“Тогда давай найдем его снова... вместе.” (*Then let’s find it again… together.)

Vladimir sets the empty bottle down, waiting for a nod before stabbing Semyon in the chest, pushing the drug inside. He pulls it out, setting it on the tray. They waited a few moments before locking eyes with each other, confused.

“Вы уверены… что это был адреналин?” Vladimir asked, worried (*You sure… this was epinephrine?). His question gets answered on cue when the comatosed man starts gasping and flailing around. “Вытащите его трубку.” (*Get his tube out).

Anatoly quickly pulls the tube out of the man’s throat, spit flying everywhere when he removes the mouthpiece. “Семен. Это мы, Анатолий и Владимир.” He says, trying to sound soothing (Semyon. It’s us, Anatoly and Vladimir).

Vladimir shakes his head when he sees his man taking deep breaths. “Вот так… Дыши… Дыши… и расскажи нам о людях, которые сделали это с тобой.” (*That’s it… Breathe… Breathe… and tell us about the people who did this to you.)

“Дьявол. Дьявол.” Semyon gasps, scared (*The devil. The devil).

The brothers shared a look.

“Был ли это просто человек в маске?” Anatoly asked, puzzled (*Was it just the masked man?).

Semyon made a noise that sounded like a no, before wheezing, “Дама была там. Светящийся... как призрак.” (*The lady was there. Glowing… like a ghost.)

“Призрак?” Vladimir said, brows together in confusion. He’s never heard the vigilante woman be described like that before (*Ghost?).

“Вы видели что-нибудь? Семен? Что-нибудь, что могло бы помочь нам найти их?” Anatoly asked, ignoring his brother’s question (*Did you see anything? Semyon? Anything that could help us find them?).

“С ними была женщина. Была женщина с дьяволом и его дамой…” Semyon gasps (*There was a woman with them. There was a woman with the devil and his lady…)

Semyon waits for Vladimir to lean in to whisper something before passing on to the other side.

With cold eyes, Vladimir says, “Get Sergei on the phone.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Anya popped a few pills in and took a swig of her drink. She nearly gagged at the taste, but she read online it helps an upset stomach so she’ll have to deal with it.

“How are you feeling?” Someone concernedly asked her.

She looks up from her spot on the precinct bench, finding her friend hovering close by. She flashes him a quick smile. “I’m doing alright. Better than before.”

“If you say so.” Matt said, coping her expression as he shifted down to sit next to her. “Wasn’t sure if you’d make it down here, if I’m being honest.”

She gives a dry chuckle, because she wasn’t sure if she was going to make it either. Her dizzy spells had subsided, but her nausea came in waves.

“I had to make some effort since I fucked up yesterday.” Anya said, making him laugh.

“You didn’t fuck up, Ann.” He replies, reassuringly but he hears her shaking her head.

“Dude, I didn’t even call. I missed a whole work day.”

“You were sick. It happens.”

“Yeah, but I still should have called.” She takes a sip of her drink, wincing.

“Maybe you should have stayed home. I mean we aren’t even supposed to be working today.” He said, frowning apologetically.

“Oh, yeah…” Anya realizes, facing him. “Why did you get me out of bed? I thought you cared about me, Murdock.”

Matt grins at her teasing. “Oh, you know me. Mr. Meanie Murdock.”

“Yeah, you jerk.” She taps his shoulder with hers, taking another swig. “Ugh…”

His eye brows shoot up above his shades. “That bad?”

“Oh, yeah. You can probably smell how strong it is.”

“Oh, definitely.” He said, honestly. The ginger in the beverage was strong, overwhelming (And she unknowingly agreed to this statement), but didn’t mention that out of politeness. “Why not drink some Ginger ale?”

“I wish I could. It doesn’t really do much for me anymore. I drank so much of that as a kid, I think I became immune.” She replies, frowning.

That was her mother’s solution for everything. Soda and skipping her next few meals; While her father on the other hand, never wanted to give her any kind of medicine when she overdid it with her abilities. He told her to ‘tough it out’, because she was a soldier. She wasn’t allowed to feel weak, wasn’t allowed to show weakness when she was forced to let him do his experiments on her. She wasn’t supposed to–

“Ann?” Matt touched her forearm, his contact making her jolt. He felt those fearful emerald eyes on him, and her heartbeat still pounding against her chest, ready to take a leap out of it.

“W-What…?” She mutters, shakily.

“Are you okay? You spaced out?” He asked, worriedly.

“I… I did…?”

His brows furrowed together. “Yeah. You did.”

“I…” She chokes, quietly. “I didn’t realize that…”

“Ann?”

“Hmm…?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I… am…?” She looks down to find her hands trembling. She didn’t even realize she was. “Oh…”

Matt finds himself growing before carefully taking the bottle from her hand, setting it down on the floor. He then takes her two hands into his, sensing her dazing off again. He gives her quivering palms a gentle squeeze.

“Anya?” He says, softly, quietly. “Hey. Can you look at me?” She hums again. “Can you look at me, sweetheart?” It takes his words a minute to register, but she did. “There you go.” He smiles gently. “Do you know where you are?”

“Um…” She swallows, slowly hearing the chattering in the background. “T-The… the police precinct…?”

“Yeah, you are.” He pushes a few stray hairs away from her face when she started spacing out again. “Can you come back to me here? Please?”

Anya closes her eyes, taking a moment to take a few deep breaths.

In and out.

Her heart starts to level out along with her breathing.

“There you go.” Matt said, her eyes opening. “You okay?”

She exhales again and nods. “Yeah.” She replies, truthfully. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He mentally sighs with relief. “You scared me for a second.”

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, feeling guilty.

“No, no. Don’t be.” He says, delicately. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I just…” She sighs. “I just hate… spacing out into… that.”

“I know. But it’s a perfectly normal reaction for someone who went through–” He pauses to search for the right word. Abuse. He wanted to say abuse. But even he still was kept in the dark of what happened to his friend in her childhood, so he kept it cleaner. “What you went through. I know it’s hard, but don’t hate yourself for something you can’t control.”

And that’s what made her love Matt as a friend. Even though he doesn’t know the full extent of what she went through, he was still always by her side no matter what happened. He was there for her on her good days and her bad days; Just like she was with him.

“You’re too good for me, Matty.” She replies, quietly, meaningfully.

He smiles again. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Comforting silence overcame them, taking a moment to enjoy it. They both didn’t realize they were still holding hands until Matt subconsciously brushed his thumbs over her knuckles. Their breaths hitched as their eyes locked. Those milky brown and burning green orbs held a little spark, a feeling they’ve been suppressing since they were young. Their noses were practically touching; Plumped lips just a centimeter away–

“Hey.” Foggy said, strolling by, getting their (flustered) attention (Anya pulls back, hiding her reddened face in her shoulder as Matt clears his throat; Their friend is still oblivious to their interaction). “You guys okay? You ready to check this client out?”

Matt looks at her again. “You okay? Or do you want to go home?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He asked, getting a hum as a reply. “Okay.”

It took them a second again to realize that they were still holding hands, before letting go. They both stood up, smoothing out their clothes. Taking a small step away.

“Okay, let’s do this.” Anya said, putting her game face on.

Matt copies with a nod. “Yep. Let’s get another client.”

It finally dawns on Foggy what happened, and opens his mouth to speak–

“Is he in the first room like always, Foggy?” Anya asked, starting to walk by him.

“Yeah, but–”

“Great. Let’s go, boys.”

Foggy bats his eyes, spinning on his heels to watch her walk on without even thinking to stop and wait. “But–”

“She’s not stopping.” Matt said, coming up next to him.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Foggy replies, looking at him now, puzzled. “Soooo… you and Anya–”

He holds his hand up. “Nothing happened. I was just helping her.”

The dirty blond raises an eyebrow. “Helping her? How?” He lowers his voice to say, “By eye fucking her?” That got his friend to blush and get hit in the calf by his cane. “Ow…”

“I w-was not…” Matt stutters, face the color of his shades. “N-not doing that. I can’t even see, you know?”

Foggy gives him a knowing look. “Even if you can’t, you can still see it in those eyes.”

He groans. “Foggy–”

“Come on, Matty.” Foggy gives him those puppy eyes. “Can you atleast… ask her out on a date? Go for coffee, that's just the two of you? I mean, I see how you look at her. That’s not a look a friend gives to another.”

Matt licks his lips, nervously, readjusting his stance. “She had an episode, Foggy.”

His face fell immediately. “Oh.” Foggy shifts uncomfortably, crossing his arms in a serious manner. “How bad was it?”

“Not… too bad like last time. She just spaced out this time.”

“I see.”

Matt sighs, grip tightening and loosening around his stick’s handle. “It’s my fault. I said something I shouldn’t have said.”

“Matt, it happens. Don’t take it to heart.”

“I know, but still. She’s my friend.”

“Which is exactly why I say you should go for it.” Foggy continues, and cuts off his partner when he tries to deny. “You can’t deny these hazel eyes, Matt. They see all, and all the truth.”

Matt tries to spew denial again, but decides otherwise. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Yes.” Foggy said, pumping his fist and getting a smile out of it. “And please do. I can’t stand those… googly eyes.”

“Again, I can’t see.” Matt said, with a chuckle. “But one of us still needs to take her home. Just in case.”

“Way ahead of you, lover-boy.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Cruising along the streets of the kitchen, the man we finally know the name of was lost in thought as his right hand explained everything going on, carefully shredding the dangerous waters of his boss’s mind.

“Anatoly may be the way in.” Wesley begins, glasses in hand. “He seems more amenable to the proposition, or at least not quite as… vitriolic as his brother.”

“Well…” Fisk says with a slight nod. “Confrontations can be expensive. I’d prefer to handle this quietly. How are we on the timeline?”

“Within a reasonable margin. Assuming we can settle with the Russians quickly.”

“We will. One way or another.”

“What about the masked idiots?”

This causes Fisk to sigh. “If the brothers can’t handle them, I’ll find another solution.” He replies as the car comes to a stop. He starts to get out, only to then grab Wesley by the arm. “No. You stay with the car.”

“Sir–” Wesley said, worriedly.

“I need to attend to this alone.” His pupil hesitates, but complies. “Thank you, Wesley.”

Fisk enters the art gallery from the other night, taking a easy stroll around, eyes searching for that special someone. That special someone who finds him first.

The brunette woman flashes a smile. “Well, hello there.”

“Hello.”

“How are you enjoying ‘Rabbit in a Snowstorm’?” She asked, coming over.

“You remember.” He said, bashful.

“Of course… it’s one of my favorite pieces.”

“I hung it in my bedroom.” He replies, taking a small step forward. “It’s the last thing I see every night.”

“That’s either very romantic or very sad.”

“I like to tell myself it’s the former.”

She chuckles. “Don’t we all?”

“I wanted…” He trails off, nervously. He takes another step forward. “I wanted to thank you for it… personally.”

“That’s really not necessary, but you’re welcome.” Her smile grew brighter. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He shakes his head. “No, I…” Fisk takes a step back, recollecting. “Yes. I was actually wondering if you cared to join me for dinner.”

“I’m the only one working here tonight.”

“That’s okay.” He replies, rubbing his hands together. “Another time then.” He walks away.

She tilts her head, amused. “That’s it?” She asked, chuckling. “You’re not gonna offer to buy every painting in here so I can close up early? A guy actually tried that once.”

Fisk lets that sink in and walks back over. “A woman that can be bought… isn’t worth having.”

That line seemed to win her over. “I’m partial to Italian.”

“We agree on more than art.” He replies, smiling.

She holds out her hand. “Vanessa.”

Shocked by the move but he still takes it, giving her a light shake. “W-Wilson.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Back at her ‘hideout’, Claire was placing a bowl of food for her friend’s cat. She walks away to blow her nose, quickly taking note that the feline wasn’t touching it.

“Eat it, you little bastard.” She says, sniffling

Claire starts trying to take her allergy pills only to hear scraping and rattling outside her door. Carefully she takes her phone out, and quietly walks towards the front, peaking through the peephole. Luckily, all she saw was an older woman pushing a cart full of groceries. She chuckles at her paranoid self, and finishes taking her pills, unaware of the ever growing silhouette outside the window.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The lawyer trio walked outside into the night, annoyance written on all their faces. They were supposed to be home relaxing, enjoying their day off; But when they got a call from Brett saying they had another potential client, they couldn’t say ‘No’. Which… you probably guess how that went.

“My mom wanted me to be a butcher, you know that?” Was the first thing Foggy said, making his friends sigh.

“Oh, not the butcher story.” Matt said, casting his head down.

“Oh, Jesus…” Anya mumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I said, ‘No, Mom, I want to be a lawyer’. I don’t remember what I said next.” Foggy continues, stringing them along the sidewalk.

“No, you never do.” The blind man replies with.

“But I’m fairly certain it wasn’t about bailing out a piss-drunk electrician who nearly burned his house down. Let’s cross.” He guides Matt across the street with Anya following next to them.

“Ed’s wife left him, Foggy. It was an accident.” She says, before pondering on that. “Admittedly involving cigarettes and gasoline, but still.”

“I could be carving my own corned beef. Making my own pickles, having a little shop of my own.”

“You got your own office.” Matt points out.

“We have office space. An actual office would involve… plantery and equipment, fax machines or whatever successful people use.” Foggy explains as they finally cross the street, stopping on the sidewalk.

Matt chuckles. “I don’t think they use fax machines anymore.”

“How would I know? Which is endemic to the problem.” Foggy faces them. “Guys, what if we’re doing this all wrong? What if Landman and Zack were the way to go?”

“You hated interning there.” Matt and Anya reply in sync.

“I hated being broke, and that is still creepy.” He said, pointing between the two.

“Come on, Fog, you think Landman and Zack would have helped out Ed?” Anya asked, watching him take a step off the curb to look for a cab.

“No. But they had free bagels... every morning.” Foggy replies, making them laugh a little. “And they had furniture that didn't smell like a pack of cigarettes. And elevators…” He blissfully sighs. “God, I miss the elevators.”

“We're doing good here, Foggy.” Matt reassures him.

“Are we?” He asked, hailing a cab.

“Yeah, we're making a difference.”

“If you say so.” He opens the cab door just as Matt’s (burner) phone starts to ring. “You coming, Hughes?”

“We’re splitting the fairs, aren’t we?” She teased making him snort. “Matt, you coming?” Nothing. “Matt?”

Foggy raises an eyebrow. “You get a new phone? Can we afford that?”

Matt answers the phone saying, “Hey, one sec.” He covers the phone with his hand. “ Guys, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“It's a girl, isn't it? You got a new phone just for your girls.” Foggy said, shaking his head. “My life sucks.” He gets into the cab.

“Don’t stay out too late, lover boy.” Anya poked with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She gets in as well as he nods.

“Get home safe.” Matt replies, the door closing. Once he hears that he brings the phone back to his ear. “Hey, what's up?” But all he heard was ruckus on the other end. “Claire? Claire, can you hear me?” He hears her scream on the other end. “Claire!”

Without any hesitation, Matt took off running.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Get home safe.” They heard him say before they closed the door.

Foggy quickly tells the driver where to go before settling down with a heavy sigh. He casts a gaze to his college friend who was trying to look preoccupied (probably because she knew what he was going to ask).

“So when are you going to ask him out?” He asked, point blank.

She bats her eyes his way. “What? Ask who?”

“Matt.” He watches her groan as her cheeks flushed pink (Which she tried to hide by looking away). He throws his hand up. “Come on, you’re like… hung up on him.”

“We’re just friends, Foggy.” She replies, even though it stung. “I’m sure Matt doesn’t see me as anything else if he’s interested in other women.”

Foggy gives her a look. “You don’t know that. Maybe he’s thinking just like you.”

Anya chuckles dryly. “You don’t know that, man.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” He lies, which she completely missed. “But, I still think you should at least ask him out on a date, OR–” He pressures before she cuts in. “Subtly confess.”

“And if he turns me down because he doesn’t feel the same way…?”

“Then, friend or not, I will come after him for hurting you. End of story.”

Another laugh. “With your… fisticuffs?”

He smiles. “With my fisticuffs.”

She sighs fondly and lays her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, big bro.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “I’m not that much older, you know.”

“Sure.” She hums at the comfortable silence, which was eventually broken when he said,

“I still think you should say something to him. I think you guys could be really happy together.”

She frowns. “I don’t think I could make him happy in that way.”

He raises an eyebrow, knowing damn well they could be really happy together since they both told him that they liked each other (although, he would never rat one or the other out). “But Matt loves you already as a friend. What are you so afraid of?”

What am I afraid of? She stays silent at his question, not wanting to tell him what she was truly terrified of.

Well…

I’m afraid my past will be too much for him.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Karen sits in on one of the back rows of an auction house. She subtly looks around, holding her sketchbook close, listening half heartedly too. She was there for one thing and one thing only. Investigating.

The Auctioneer starts rambling, pointing at an item on the screen. “5 and now 50. - 50 right there, and now 55. 55,000 here. - Now 60. 60,000. Who will bid 60,000? Do I have 60,000? - 55, going once, going twice. Sold for 55,000. Next up, lot 87… Liquidation of Union Allied Construction LLC.”

She keeps her reaction to that mellow, and places her pencil an inch above the paper, waiting.

“Forty-two desktops with Thunderbolt display, 14 copy machines, 62 IP phones, as well as supporting equipment listed in your catalog. Estimated value, 540,000. - We'll start the bidding at 70,000. Do I hear 70,000?”

Karen watches an older gentleman raise his paddle and starts sketching him, which she would repeat with everyone else following.

“70,000 right here, and now 75. - 75,000? I have 75 over here, and now 80. Do I have 80,000? - 80,000. 80,000 in the back, thank you. And now 90…”

Unknowingly to the blonde, Ben Urich had sat down behind her, looking distracted.

“Stop what you're doing. Don't turn around.” He says just above a whisper, making her freeze up. “This is how you get caught.”

“The hell do you care?” She replies, cold.

“To your right, a woman in a white blouse–” He begins, almost jolting from his seat when she starts to turn. “Eyes front. Jesus!” He sighs. “To your left, a man in a navy blue pinstripe suit.”

Karen quickly takes note of both. “Who are they?”

“Don't know. But they aren't bidding either.”

She scans the room with her eyes again, swallowing. “What do I do?”

“Spend the next hour raising your paddle. Win something. One of the smaller lots.” Was his suggestion.

She frowns. “I don't have any money.”

“Figure it out. Meet me at the diner when you're done.”

“How did you know I was here?” Nothing. “Ben?”

She quickly glances behind, finding the seat empty. She sucks in a breath as the bid finishes, trying to figure out how the fuck she was going to do this.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Anya already shedded her work clothes off and was slowly starting to put on her nightly ones. She fiddled with the straps on her cargo pants while thinking over her routine.

I should take it easy tonight. I shouldn’t use my abilities. No phasing, no paralyzing. Maybe use a little energy to escalate somewhere high, but keep it simple.

She nods at that, and slips on her hoodie.

And maybe… not do the eyes unless I come across someone. That should help lessen my chance of getting sick again.

She lets out a sigh, one that was mixed with frustration and exhaustion. She was supposed to be this ‘extraordinary’ soldier with powers, she wasn’t supposed to pass out after reaching a ‘limit’.

But again, I’m a girl who had a father who wanted to be a god. Jesus. She quickly braids her hair before tying the bandana over her mouth. She shakes her head.

Okay, gotta stop thinking about that. I need to relax and focus tonight. I gotta take it easy. She slipped on her boots and gloves, then opened up her window. She lets the cool breeze hit her face, welcoming her into the night. She smirks.

Alright. Let’s do this.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

In Claire’s trashed apartment, a young man, Santino, sat on the floor also banged up. His panting increases when he hears someone entering the room.

“It's okay. It's me, Santino.” Matt says, slowly coming over to crouch down in front of him. He pulls up his glasses, slowing off his features. “¿Me recuerdas?” (*Do you remember me?)

“Sí.” Santino shakes his head, still trembling despite recognizing him.

“Claire fue llevada por gente muy mala. Los oí decir su nombre. Necesito su ayuda. Por favor.” (*Claire's been taken by some very bad people. I heard them say your name. I need your help. Please.)

He sobs, looking ashamed. “No dije nada. No al principio. me llevaron al techo como tú lo hiciste con el hombre…Me dijeron si le decía algo a alguien… volverán por mi madre.” (*I didn't say anything. Not at first. Then they took me up to the roof like you did with that man… they told me if I said anything to anyone… they'd come back for my mother.)

“¿Sabes a dónde llevaron a Claire?” Matt asked, hopefully (*Do you know where they took Claire?).

Santino shook his head again. “No. Lo siento. Esos hombres la van a golpear por mi culpa.” (*No. I'm sorry… Those men are going to hurt her because of me.)

“No, no es tu culpa, Santino. Es mío.” Matt assures, touching his chest (*No, it’s not your fault, Santino. It’s mine). “¿Hay algo más que hayas oído o visto? ¿Algo que me pueda ayudar a encontrarla?” (*Is there anything else you heard or saw? Anything that might help me find her?)

The boy nods while thinking. “Los vi entrar en un taxi. Pero no por atrás, por delante. Como si fueran de ellos.” (*I saw them get into a taxi. But not in the back, in the front. Like it was theirs.)

“¿Cuál fuera compañía? ¿Viste el nombre?” (*What was the company? Did you see a name?)

He nods again, saying, “Veles. Veles Taxi.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Anya sat down on a rooftop ledge, scanning the skyline and listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary. She only perks up when she catches a whiff of the familiar scent of axe body spray.

She cocks her head, but doesn’t look back. “No-Eyes?” She calls out, sensing him coming closer.

“Are you doing anything?” Matt asked, urgently, his light footsteps seemed louder (Angier) than usual.

“No. I was taking it easy tonight.” Anya replies, fully facing him. “Why?”

“The Russians got Claire.”

Her eyes widened. “What?” She stands up. “You got a lead?”

“Santino told me that they saw the men who supposedly took her get into a taxi with the name, ‘Veles Taxi’.” He replies, sensing her respond to that name. “Ring a bell?”

“Sounds familiar.” She starts jogging her brain, conjuring up a memory from her childhood. “I got it.” She started walking towards the direction she thought of, and he was following closely behind. “It might be a long shot, and hopefully it’s still there, but I remember seeing this place in my childhood.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

At a fancy restaurant in the nicer part of Hell’s Kitchen, Fisk sat across from Vanessa, tasting the wine the (nervous looking) waiter poured.

“Yes.” He says, taking a liking to the taste. The waiter then pours some into his date’s glass. “I hope you like it.”

Vanessa picks up her glass, smelling the aroma before taking a sip. “It's delicious.” She says, with a smile.

“I don't know much about wine.” Fisk admits. “My assistant, he recommended it.”

“Maybe I should be out with him.” She teased, but didn't see him laughing. “That was a joke.”

“Yes… of course.”

She chuckles. “A bad one, but... mmm... You don't do this much, do you?”

“No. I've been preoccupied–” He fiddles with his cufflinks. “for a long time.”

Vanessa watches him closely before saying. “This is nice. I didn't even know it was here.”

“Yes, it just opened last month.”

“The city's really changing.”

“Not fast enough.”

“I don't know. Be a shame to see all the character scrubbed away.”

“You didn't grow up here, did you?”

She laughs again. “What gave it away?”

Fisk smiles for a split second. “When I was a kid, I used to dream what it would be like to…” He stops to think. “To live somewhere far away from Hell's Kitchen. Somewhere beautiful.”

“What made you stay?” Vanessa asked, curiously.

“I didn't. When I was 12 years old, my mother, she sent me to stay with relatives. Had a farm, middle of nowhere. Those were good years.”

“But you came back.”

“Yes. Time and distance, they afford a certain clarity. I realized that this city was a part of me, that it was in my blood. And I would do anything to make it a better place… for people like you.”

That made her smile fondly at him, and raised her glass. She waits for him to follow before saying, “To a better place.”

Then they both toast with their wine glasses.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Meanwhile, poor Claire was slammed to the floor, face covered in blood and deep bruises. She was soon picked back up and thrown into the side of a cab, letting her whole body slide to the floor. She started coughing roughly as the Russains looked at her with rage.

“You answer, he stops hitting you. Everyone is happy.” One said, and she shook her head.

“I told you… I don't know who they are…” She croaks, breathing heavily and sits on the ground.

Sergei clenches his jaw and slams the baseball bat in the window next to her head. She screams as the glass shatters around her.

“Tell me their names.” He hisses, tightening his grip on the weapon.

Claire whimpers and mouths, “I don't know.” Then whispers, “They never told me…” She screams again when the bat hits the cab. “They never told me!!”

One of the Russians stops Sergi from going again. “Сергей... Владимир сказал нам не убивать ее, пока она не заговорит.” (*Sergei...Vladimir told us not to kill her until she talks.)

Sergei frowns, sighing. “This gives me no pleasure. It really doesn't. But I have been given a job to do. So please, answer the questions that I was told to ask.” He holds the baseball bat under her chin, lifting it up. “Or I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”

Suddenly, the lights go out.

Sergei looks around before facing one of his men. “Михаил, проверь выключатель. Проверьте прерыватель!” (*Mikhail, check the breaker. Check the breaker!)

Claire starts sobbing as the men scramble to turn the lights on. Eventually, some of them just started turning the lights underneath the taxis on. Soon, the quiet chattering started getting louder, before someone started screaming.

“Mikhail? Mikhail!”

Claire throws her head back, laughing like a maniac. “You want to know their names? Ask them yourself.”

There was a loud rattling noise that seemed to encase everyone present. Everyone looked around nervously, trying to find the source of the sound. Claire, knowing what’s going on, slumped down further in her spot, protecting herself.

The rattling turned out to be some wiring, which soon wrapped itself around one of the Russians’ feet and dragged them across the garage floor. Upon contact he started shooting off his gun, creating a domino effect.

Bullets were falling like they were raindrops, all targeting in areas they swear they heard a noise. The vigilantes stayed in the dark, hidden from their eyes as they attacked when they spotted an opening. Matt was throwing anything he could get his hands on, while Anya was freezing anybody that got close.

Sergei, who was wandering around nervously, was watching the silhouettes of his men disappear into the darkness.

He bites his lip and grabs Claire. “Up.” He snaps, and tries to leave.

“Let her go.” Matt said, his voice echoing off the walls.

“I'm walking out of here.” He says, pointing the gun in different directions.

“No, you aren't.”

“I'm not playing with you, man. I'm walking out of here… I'll blow her brains out!!!”

“My acquaintance isn’t playing around either.”

Anya lands on top of a nearby taxi, startling him. Out of instinct he shot off a bullet, which misses a vital spot on her skin when she phases. The vigilante watches as the man becomes pale and shocked, taking a small step back as she glares with her glowing eyes.

“Призрак.” Sergei mumbles, shakily (*Ghost).

Matt comes up from behind, apprehending Sergei’s arm in an armbar. The Russian shoots a bullet scaring Claire, who was soon pulled free by Anya. Matt twists his arm making him cry and drop the weapon.

“You okay?” Anya whispers, painfully as she leans against the cab. But she doesn’t get an answer when she watches the nurse reaching for–

“It hurts, doesn't it? Being in pain, being afraid–” Matt whispers, darkly.

To his (and really anyone’s) surprise, Claire grabbed the baseball bat and hit Sergei over the head with it. The world got quiet again, except for the sound of the aluminum bat dropping and Claire’s hurtful sobbing.

Matt’s whole demeanor changed, immediately pulling her into a comforting hug. “It's okay.” He says, cradling her head, making her sob harder. “I'm here. I have you.”

While this was happening, Anya was dealing with a spinning world again. She suddenly felt her veins running hotter than usual and her heart pounding even more than before. And she got really, really nauseous. She couldn’t stop herself this time…

She pulled her mask down and vomited up acid.

Matt and Claire pulled apart upon the sound, and looked in her direction.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, worriedly as he finally started fully taking notice of her condition. The hefty panting and the heavy heartbeats. It was… overwhelming; Painful sounding. “Peaches?”

“May–” Claire begins, taking her in. “You’re… you look like you’re… glitching.”

Anya was shaking, shaking badly. But Claire had a point, she looked like she was a computer glitch. Her whole body would phase in and out, almost causing her to slip through the taxi her hand was laying against. She felt like she was about to pass out.

“I’m…” Anya chokes, and hunches over again when the nausea returns.

“You’re shaking.” Matt said, taking a step forward. “Let me–”

“N-No…” She winces. “Y-You can’t… d-do anything…” She bit her tongue when she felt her head starting to pound like a hammer. “I j-just… have to… l-let it pass.”

“Peaches–”

“I-I have to let it pass.” She says, sounding like she was being tortured.

She has to let it pass? What does that mean? Matt frowns, severely concerned.

Is this supposed to be normal?

“May, what’s going on? Why do you have to let it pass?” Claire asked, the nurturing side of her coming out, making her take a step towards her as well.

“I-I…” Anya pants, feeling like she was about to cry. “I overdid it. My abilities. I overdid it…”

“What?”

“Overdid? Is this normal?” Matt asked, deciding not to give her any more space, and walked over. “Is that why you said you were taking it easy tonight? Why didn’t you–”

“N-No-eyes…” Anya pants, her orbs landing on their nurse friend. “You got Claire?”

Matt tilts his head, confused. “Yeah, I got her. But–”

“Get her to safety.”

“What? What about– hey!”

Before he could stop her, Anya had used all her strength to push off the vehicle and run. She never stopped once no matter how many times they begged her to stop and come back.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Karen arrived at the diner, sliding in the booth across from Ben. She was still looking around nervously like earlier; Afraid of getting caught or chased by the people who worked for her old employer.

“You bid on anything?” He asked, while eating some eggs with a dab of hot sauce.

“Yeah. Some, uh... office equipment from a realtor. Nearly as old as I am.” She said, waving from the waitress.

“Win?”

“Yeah, 3,500 I don't have. I charged it to the law firm where I work. Probably just got my ass fired.”

“Beats the alternative.”

The waitress comes up with a steaming pot. “More coffee?”

“Uh, can I have a decaf?” Karen asked, politely.

“Oh, sure thing.” She walks away.

“Thanks.” Karen takes a brief moment to gather her thoughts. “How did you know I was gonna be there?” She asked, suspicious.

“Wasn't looking for you.” Urich replies, truthfully, as the waitress pours Karen’s coffee.

“I thought you weren't interested.” She said, realizing he was being honest.

“I said you should move on. Didn't say anything about me.”

“So I was right. About the office equipment. Union Allied or whatever it is that they're calling themselves now, they're buying it back. I mean, you follow that, maybe you find the guy behind the curtain.”

Urich pauses and puts his fork down to give her his whole attention. “You said you read a bunch of my articles. Remember the one about the, uh... the runoff? What that company was dumping into the river?”

“Yeah, sure.” She said, grabbing some sugar for her drink.

“Fished the guy that tipped me off out of that same river a month later.” Urich explains, watching her try to hide her discomfort. “And that fella trying to clean up the Teachers Union? Moved out of state… after flyers went up saying he was a pedophile. They underestimated what people in power will do to stay there. Didn't think you'd make the same mistake after what happened to you.”

Karen nervously takes a sip of her drink. “What about the woman? From your first series of articles about the VA? What happened to her?”

He frowns. “She met the worst fate.” He sits up straighter. “Married beneath her...to a workaholic who never appreciated her.”

Karen’s body slacked at the weight of his words. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–”

“We need to be smart. Smarter than they are.” Urich explains, seriously. “Don't visit me at the office anymore, and don't tell anyone else about this. If that doesn't work for you, get up and get the hell out of my life”.

She nods. “That works for me.”

“Good.” He clears his throat, leaning forward again. “First thing, sign the agreement from the Union Allied lawyer.”

“What? No!” She shakes her head. “No, I sign that, I can't ever talk publicly about this.”

“Yeah… but I'm not signing it.”

And those words made her smile.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Back at the garage, the brothers returned with some of their men, shocked upon what they found. Their teammates were scattered across the ground, some still unconscious while others were getting up at snail like pace.

“Сергей. Сергей…” Vladimir says, crouching down to his man. “Кто это сделал?” (*Sergei. Sergei… Who did this?)

“Мужчина и женщина в черном…” Sergei says, clearing his throat (*The man and woman in black…).

Anatoly’s phone rings and he quickly picks up. “…Хорошо. Оставайся там.” (*…All right. Stay there.) He looks at his brother. “Это был Петр. Фиск вышел из укрытия. Нам нужна его помощь, брат.” (*That was Piotr. Fisk has come out of hiding. We need his help, brother.)

“Я не преклонюсь перед этим человеком!” Vladimir says, bitterly as he stands up (*I will not bow before that man!).

“Тогда я пойду... И поклонюсь за нас обоих.” (*Then I will go...And bow for both of us.)

Vladimir looks away, thinking it over quickly. What other choice do they have at this point? He clenches his jaw, facing him again. “Идти. Заключить сделку.” (*Go. Make the deal.)

And with those words…

He only wishes he realized what he had just done.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Are you sure about dessert?” Fisk asked, a smile stretched across his face. “They have an incredible Zuppa Inglese.”

She copies his expression. “Don't children have that at birthday parties?” Vanessa teased, making them both laugh.

“Yes. When I was a kid, I loved it… Probably loved it a bit too much.”

“Well, now I have to know what it tastes like. You wanna split one?”

“Yes.” He gestures for the waiter who rushes over. “We'll have a Zuppa.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chocolate was always my downfall.” Vanessa whispers like a secret. “Milk chocolate, not the dark stuff they say is better for you.”

“I can order something else.” He assures, and she shakes her head.

“No, no, it's good to try new things. Get out of the comfort zone.”

“Yes, we get caught up in what we're doing… who we think we are.”

“So…” Vanessa begins, curious what’s on his mind. “Who are you, Wilson?”

“Tonight, I'm just a man... enjoying the company of a captivating woman.” He says, getting her to show her pearly whites once more. But there moment won’t last long when Antaloy suddenly shows up, Wesley on his tail.

“I told you he's indisposed.” Wesley says, trying to stop him but he’s shaken off.

“Sir, I need to speak with you.” Anatoly announces, bodyguards standing in his way.

“What is this?” Vanessa asked, worriedly as her date stood up (making the whole restaurant stand up as well in fear).

Fisk moves one of his guards out of the way to get to her. “We need to go... now. I'm sorry.” He said, truly apologetic. He guides her towards the door, the Russian still trying to get through.

“I want to tell you, my brother and I, we gratefully accept–” Anatoly continues, being sincere about his words.

“Wesley will take care of you.” Fisk tells him, before whispering to his assistant, “Put him in a car.”

“Understood.” Wesley said, knowing where this will end.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Promise you won't get mad.” Karen said to Foggy, who came back to the office to drop a few things off (he wasn’t expecting to see her until tomorrow).

“You bought a fax machine? From the early '90s.” Foggy asked, finding irony in since he was literally complaining to Matt and Anya about having a machine earlier.

“Oh, it's not that old... I think.” She says, nervously. “Um, but the rest of the stuff's coming tomorrow.”

“The rest?”

“Yeah, like, a printer and conference phones and a copier and... Yeah, there was an auction and, you know, we needed stuff, so I, um…” She frowns, fiddling with her hands. “Charged it to the office. But don't freak out, okay? I got a thing, uh, some money coming in from… You know what? It doesn't matter. You mad?”

He touches the fax machine, taking everything in. “Did I ever tell you my mom wanted me to be a butcher?” He asked, reeling back to his ‘coping’ story.

Karen gave him a strange look. “A butcher?” She said, confused about the direction this was suddenly going.

“Yeah. You know what I told her…?”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Back in Matt’s apartment, he had Claire set across from him at his dining table; A box full of amateur medical supplies next to him.

“This isn't gonna feel great.” He says, carefully dabbing the cut on her forehead.

“Ow.” She winces at the medicine seeping in. “You got pretty good hands for a blind guy.”

“Used to patch up my dad.” He replies, searching for a bandage.

“He ran around in a mask, too?”

“He was a boxer. Took a lot of beatings.”

“Huh. So you take after him then.” She says, making him laugh as he applies a butterfly bandage. “Ow… Shit.”

He frowns. “I'm sorry.”

Claire sighs. “It's okay. You've had a lot worse.”

“I m-mean…” He stutters, looking guilty. “I'm sorry for getting you into this. I… I never thought that I'd be putting anyone else at risk.”

She shakes her head subtly. “It was my choice. You didn't ask me to pull you from that dumpster.”

“No, you did it because you're a good person. And you almost got killed… because of me.”

“Tell me it was worth it. Tell me that you've got a plan… an end game.”

“Claire–”

“Anything?”

He sighs quietly. “I-I'm just trying to make my city a better place, that's all.”

Now it was her turn to sigh. “I think maybe it's a little more complicated than that now.” She points out.

“Nothing's changing out there.” He says, saddened. “No matter what I do, I'm just… I'm making things worse.”

“Tell that to the boy you saved from the Russians. Or all the other people you've helped.”

“And what about the people I've gotten hurt? What do I…” He inhales sharply. “What do I tell them?”

Claire lets his words sink in, which stirred all the emotions inside. “Feel my heart.” She blurts out, making him freeze. “Come on, feel it.” She picks his hand up and places it on her chest. “What is it telling you?”

Matt grows silent to figure it out, which makes him feel even more guilty than before. “That you're scared.” He whispers.

“Because I am.” She chokes with a small nod. “More than I've ever been in my life. And I am not alone.” Her eyes glass over. “But you can do something about it... for all of us, Mike.”

“Matthew.” He says, sensing her surprise gaze. “My name is Matthew.”

“Matthew?” She asked, after a while. He nods. “Well, alright. Nice to properly meet you, Matthew.”

That gets him to smile a little, relieved that she didn’t sound angry at him. “I’ll get the bed ready for you. And I’ll get you a towel if you want to shower.”

“That’ll be nice. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He starts tidying the first aid kit up, feeling Claire’s eyes on him while he does it.

“Matthew?” She finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think May, or whatever her real name is, is okay?”

He falters his movements, frowning. “May?” He said, hearing her nod. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“And you sure you don’t know who she is? Or at least have her number or something?” Claire asked, watching him shake his head.

“We never met until a few days before you found us in that dumpster. Never really had the chance to get to know each other.” Matt explains, upset at himself which was evident. “Now, for stuff like this, I wished we had contact with each other.”

She looks away, crossing her arms at the news. “I wish you could have seen her, Matthew. I wish I could explain it.” She replies, sighing. “It’s like…” She purses her lips, thinking of the right words. “It’s like she’s… not supposed to have those abilities.”

Matt casts his blind gaze outside, the neon lights reflecting off him. The colors were changing along with his emotions, one not staying intact for very long. He didn’t know how to feel about this situation. It’s not like they're friends, or partners really, they're more like… acquaintances…? However, he could agree with Claire on one thing. And that was–

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s supposed to have those either.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Anya stumbles through her apartment, barely thinking and seeing straight. But somehow, miraculously, she finds herself inside the bedroom closet, tearing it apart.

W-Where is it…? Where is it…?

She dumps out boxes and bags, emptying out pockets. She felt the nausea return again, and dark spots danced in the corner of her eyes.

Where is it? Where is–

She knocked over what she thought was a shoe box, watching as a vial rolled across the carpet, followed by a syringe. She practically fell over to get it, snagging it and holding it close as she sat against the door.

// One more dose of this, baby, and you’ll be stronger, more stable than before. Just one more dose. //

One more dose. Her father’s words lingered in her head, as her sweaty palms brought it closer to her face. The indigo colored serum was calling her (or maybe taunting her?) to take it. Just take it just like he wanted. To complete what he wanted.

She swallows the burning bile in her throat, shakily grabbing the syringe.

It was now or never. But then–

// Benny… you shouldn’t give it to her. //

Anya halts her actions. A very, very fuzzy memory was coming back. One she could hardly place in the timeline of her life.

// Maya, this is our chance. The breakthrough we’ve been needing. //

// I know it is. But look at the chart. Her heart’s in overdrive. If you give her the last dose it might kill her, and then all your hard work would go to waste. //

// I know. But we can’t waste anymore time. He’s getting inpatient. //

// Yes, but… if she dies, then you’ll have to start over. And with who, then? //

She exhales painfully, the items starting to slip out of her hands. Her eyelids felt like lead as they started to droop. And then…

She passes out again.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Will I see you again?” Fisk asked, hopeful as he walked his date back to her place.

Vanessa sighs as they stop in front of the building entrance. “I don't usually date customers.” Was her answer.

“You came out with me tonight.”

“And here we are, so…”

“I can… return the painting, and then I'd no longer be a–”

“I'm not interested in gestures, Wilson, or your money, or… whatever that was all about at the restaurant. I went out with you because…” She stops to choose her next words carefully. “There's something different about you. Not so sure it's a good thing now.”

“Like you said… I don't do this much. And I'm sorry that our night, it went sideways. But...I enjoyed our time together very much, Vanessa.” Fisk said, truthfully. “If you don't feel the same… even a little bit… just tell me, and I promise you won't see me again.”

Vanessa looks away, conflicted. “I…” She stutters, biting her lip. “Don't know how I feel.”

She doesn’t let him reply because she’s already inside the building before he could. While Fisk’s heart started to hurt it suddenly turned into hatred.

Hatred for a certain young Russian.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Meanwhile in the back of a familiar SUV, a long overdue conversation was being discussed.

“-And even after all that, you didn't even get a name out of the girl?” Wesley asked, unusually calm about all this.

“No.” Anatoly admits with a smack of his lips. “The man and woman in black came before our men had finished.”

“You were right to reach out to us, although… a call would have been more appropriate.”

“Look, I… I wanted to speak with him in person. Try to put the past behind us.” The Russian said, getting a hum which was right on cue for the vehicle to stop. “Why are we stopping?”

“They say the past is etched in stone, but it isn't. It's… smoke trapped in a closed room, swirling...changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking.” Wesley starts poetically saying. “But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can… never be completely erased. It lingers. Like the scent of burning wood.”

Anatoly gives him a strange look, which Wesley ignores to answer his cell phone.

“Sir?” Wesley said, listening closely. “Yes, passenger side.”

“Was that him?” The Russian asked, hopeful.

“Hmm. He'd like to have a word with you.”

Anatoly nods and mumbles something in his native language seconds before the door opens. An angry Wilson Fisk reaches inside and yanks him out, throwing him onto the ground. They both exchange some hits, equally spilling blood. At one point, Anatoly pulls out a knife, swinging it defensively. What thought could do some damage, he ends up seeing that Fisk’s suit was barely touched by the blade.

Fisk ends up pinning him to the SUV, breaking his wrist the weapon was in. “You embarrassed me.” He hisses, cradling the sides of the Russian’s head. “You embarrassed me in front of her.”

He then starts heading butting him a few times, then tossing him back at the ground. Anatoly tries to crawl to the car, and starts begging Wesley to help him in Russian; But Fisk’s right hand makes no movements that he’ll help. Instead, Fisk drags Anatoly by his hair to the car, laying him in the gap between the floor and the door…

Fisk slams the car door.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

As blood bathed the concrete with its glorious red color, Fisk never stopped until his enemy’s head was completely taken off.

Inhaling heavily, the man admired his bloody self in the window reflection. Frowning, he takes a few steps away, body still tense even after killing the bug. Wesley walks over carefully, offering his boss his handkerchief.

“Tell Mr. Potter, I'll need a new suit.” Fisk said after a moment, and wiped his face clean.

Wesley nods with a hum. “What about this?” He asked, gesturing to the body behind them.

“Take what's left of him and send it to his brother.”

“It'll start a war.”

“I'm counting on it.”

》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《《

-Taglist Is Open-

@uncle-eggy @fangirling-galore @superbreadsoul

@twsssmlmaa @winterschildren17

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folliesandfolderols · 11 months ago

Text

Writing prompts day 48

From this prompt list. If you've read this far, I'm not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn't written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here

Days 42-47 here

***

52. "I want you to say my name like that again."

***

For a long moment, Tim sagged into Damian's embrace, trying to catch his breath. However unintentional it might have been, having Damian's arms around him again felt like—

It felt like—

He tried to latch onto the concept it reminded him of, and his brain skittered away from the thought like a mouse when someone flipped on the light.

Well, it didn't really matter what it felt like, because Damian stepped away and he would have fallen if he hadn't fully expected the loss of support. Damian would've loved to have made him lose his balance as much as he made him lose his cool. Tim took a deep breath and made sure his face was under control before he turned around to face him.

"Well?" he asked.

Damian hid his own expression by stooping to retrieve his washcloth from where he'd dropped to the floor. "Well, what?"

"Do you believe me, finally? Or do I have to keep proving myself to you?" For some reason, the question made his stomach flutter.

Damian sneered. "Oh, I believe you. You've never been that good of an actor. I'm beginning to think you're simply pathetically deprived and that's why you can't seem to keep your hands to yourself. For someone who's so eager to get me to spread my favors around, you certainly are restraining yourself from doing the same." He picked up the soap as well and started rubbing it on the washcloth.

Tim shrugged. "I often don't practice what I preach. It's kind of a common failing around here. I've always been pretty monogamous, and pretty bad at pinpointing when relationship dynamics shift, plus Bernard and I were together for a long time. But right now there's not really anyone."

Damian froze, so briefly that Tim nearly missed it, and then began washing himself again. "I fail to see why you think your dreary excuse for a romantic history should interest me."

Tim laughed out loud at that. "Because you asked, even if you didn't do so directly. I speak 'saving face' as one of my first languages. Everybody raised rich does." It had been one of the things that drove Stephanie nuts. She was solidly working-class and blunt by nature besides.

Damian flushed dull red up his torso. "Be that as it may, clearly this was a foolish indulgence on my part and misguided self-vindication on yours. We have nothing in common."

"We at least have extreme sexual compatibility," Tim pointed out. "That's not as frequent an occurrence as you might think. And we must have other stuff in common too or we wouldn't both be here right now."

As if the words shattered the wall of Damian's usual reserve, his face twisted in clear bewilderment. "Then what are you saying? What do you want from me? I cannot comprehend the purpose of you leaving for months to avoid me and then returning to insist that yes, you did enjoy our time together, and I should have divined the truth of the situation though all evidence pointed to the contrary. If you're not lying, then what was the point?"

Tim struggled for the correct words. Not easy when he wasn't sure of the answer himself. He wanted to be right, and he wanted Damian to believe him, and he wanted to pull him into bed again right now, and he wanted to—

Basically, it kind of sounded, even in his own head, like he just wanted to jerk Damian around.

"I'm such an asshole," he said, voice shaky in his ears.

"Well, there's another point in the argument for our compatibility," Damian replied, but Tim didn't really process the words.

"I, um, I should go." He spun on his heel so quickly he nearly lost his balance and pushed the door open. That bizarre phantom pain was back again, radiating in spikes from his chest into each individual finger. He clutched one hand to his ribs, trying to press against the hurt.

Damian's voice followed him back to his own shower, which he hadn't realized he'd left running all this time. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You love to run away when someone points out your flagrant inconsistencies."

Tim knew he shouldn't answer, but he couldn't have Damian thinking it was somehow his own fault that Tim was a gross example of a human being. The hollowness in his stomach echoed through his words. "I'm trying to protect you. From me. I'm not . . . I haven't been a very good person, with you, lately." He scrubbed shower gel haphazardly across his body, trying to get through it as quickly as possible. "I'm really sorry." The apology didn't carry its usual burn. Probably because so many of his recent interactions with Damian had involved him expressing his regret.

Damian wrenched open the door and glowered at him, dressed in joggers and nothing else. "What did I say about using the paltry excuse of protecting someone who risks his life nightly from your feeble attempts at whatever the hell you think you're doing? Engage in whatever behavior suits you, but don't blame my fragility for it."

"I don't know what I want!" Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. "But I do know I don't want to make you pay the price for my indecision. So I'm just trying to get out of your sight. I would've thought you'd want that." He turned just enough to rotate the faucet off, then reached past Damian for the towel on the hook outside the door. He dried off quickly and wrapped it around his waist, noting with clinical detachment the quivering in his fingers. That was usually a sign that he'd pushed himself too far. In this case, though, he thought maybe it was a response to the agony vibrating through his cells. What the fuck was wrong with him? Maybe he should go see Leslie Thompkins?

Damian spoke over the deafening volume of his thoughts. "Don't presume to understand the things I want. Your deductive powers clearly aren't up to the task."

Tim paused in the act of rifling through his clothes one-handed, trying to find his underwear. "If they're not . . . do you want to tell me?" he asked.

Damian didn't answer for so long that Tim gave up waiting, finally finding his boxer briefs and pulling them on under his towel. He already felt exposed enough.

He dressed fully, sat down, and was lacing up his shoes when Damian broke his silence. "I am not certain of everything I want. But. Sometimes, I remember when I—that last night, the last time we slept together before you made your wish for detachment clear." His blush had returned, but he soldiered on with no other sign of embarrassment. "Do you recall?"

Tim flashed back to Damian's hands holding his hips still, his tongue working its way inside Tim while he writhed and begged for release. He flushed hot. "Yeah. It was pretty memorable."

"For me as well." Damian took a deep breath. "I want you to say my name like that again. That's one thing I know without any doubt whatsoever."

Sudden tears stung the corners of Tim's eyes. He pressed the heels of his hands to them, trying to get himself under control, and when he dropped his arms once more, Damian was gone.

days 49 and 50 here

#damitim #tim and damian and 150 prompts #like I know what you want #folliefic #nsft

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weirdthoughtsandideas · 1 year ago

Text

✨Writing Advent Calendar 2023 Day 24✨

Prompt: Elf

Aka: Luna and Ámbar buy an elf on a shelf and pranks Rey

Read on ao3 or under the cut.

The girls had seen it on TV: In American households, you had an elf that was supposed to spy on you for Santa. They thought it could be fun.

At dinner that night, they both looked at Sharon.

"Can we get an elf on the shelf?" Luna asked.

"Pardon?" Sharon replied.

"It's an elf doll that spies on children to make sure they behave!"

Sharon stared at Luna, and then at Ámbar.

"You know what? That actually sounds good. Maybe it can help you two behave better."

So, the next day, she had found an elf doll in a store and brought it home. The girls immediately put it in the living room.

"It really stares at you..." Ámbar said.

"I feel like I can't do anything wrong... I don't trust it..." Luna admitted.

"Good!" Sharon said. "This might have been your first good idea. If all it took for you to behave better was a plastic doll, I should have bought it long ago."

It worked well for a while. If Luna or Ámbar was nearby the doll, they suddenly put their guard up and made sure not to do anything bad.

Then, as they were watching TV and Sharon was further away doing taxes, Rey came into the room.

”Miss Benson-”

He suddenly let out a blood curdling scream. The girls turned around, intrigued.

”What’s wrong with you, Rey?” Sharon muttered.

”That doll…” He pointed at the elf on the shelf.

”That’s just a doll for the girls. You’re acting ridiculous.”

”Uh… very well…”

Ámbar and Luna exchanged looks. The girls were different in a lot of ways, but they united in one thing: Torturing Rey.

They wanted to hear his blood curdling scream again.

So, they grabbed their little elf doll and decided to put it somewhere else.

Rey came into the living room and sighed in relief when he noticed the elf had been removed.

Then he walked out to the hallway. Suddenly, he jumped startled.

The elf doll sat in the middle of the staircase.

Ámbar and Luna hid nearby, trying to not laugh too loudly as they saw his reaction.

”You children need to pick up after yourselves…” Rey sighed.

Later, at dinner, Luna had the elf sitting on an empty chair. It was not noticeable, unless you pulled out the chair.

”Miss Benson,” Rey said, walking into the room.

”What is it, Rey? You’re disrupting dinner.”

Ámbar gave Luna a nod, and Luna slowly made the elf doll peek out from the table. As it sat on the chair next to hers, she could hide her arm, and thus it looked like the elf stood up itself.

”Well, I just wanted- AAH!”

”What is wrong with you, Rey?!”

”Do you allow the girls to have their toys at dinner?” he asked.

”They are allowed to hold one doll, as long as they eat their dinner,” Sharon said. She had practically never had a childlike wonder herself, but she did understand a child’s attatchment to dolls. As a child she never played with any toys she got, but she liked stocking up dolls in a perfect row. Dolls were great, because they were like people that you could control how you wanted. So, she could understand the way you’d like to bring your doll with you everywhere. But because the girls had so many dolls, she had set up a rule to only let them have one with them at dinner.

”But did you have to bring… that doll?” Rey asked.

”The elf needs to watch me so that I don’t spill or play with my food!” Luna argued.

”You should bring it more often, it’s the first dinner in months where you haven’t spilled or played with your food,” Sharon said.

Rey couldn’t concentrate with the elf around. And it only got worse.

The girls started to leave it at the most random of places.

One time just in the floor in the upstairs hallway.

One time in the bathroom they knew Rey used.

The funniest case was hiding it in a cupboard. Rey opened it, thinking it was nothing special. Then he let out a scream as he noticed the doll lying there menacingly.

He grabbed the elf doll and threw it at the girls. ”Stop playing around.”

”Rey, what are you doing?” Sharon asked, witnessing him throw it at them.

”Miss Benson, this doll keeps being left everywhere! I can’t concentrate.”

”Oh, you’re being ridiculous! Don’t you have better things to do than bothering the children?”

”But they are bothering me!” Rey argued.

”They are just children…” Sharon sighed.

”Yes, Rey, we are just children!” Ámbar exclaimed.

”You better be nice, because the elf is watching everything!” Luna chimed in.

Rey took one more glance at it, and shuddered. He hoped this doll would break before the next year.

#2023 writing DCLA+ advent calendar

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fleetingnights0952 · 2 months ago

Text

Love

(1,2k words)

---

Character death, domestic violence, alcohol, suicide

(Tell me if i should add any other warnings)

Ao3: Love

---

It wasn't his intention for things to go this way.

He sits alone at the bar and stares down into his glass. Empty, again. He's been here for a while already, a couple of hours at most, but he can't bring himself to leave. He can't go home, not now at least. Not so soon after the fight.

He sighs and sets the empty glass back down on the table again. Someone comes over and grabs it. He’s tempted to order another, but he knows he shouldn't have more to drink, it’ll only make him do something stupid again.

But isn't it a little late for that?

He sighs dejectedly and, even though he knows he shouldn't, orders another glass. A minute or so later it is placed in front of him. He just stares at it, but then grabs the glass.

One more wouldn't hurt.

---

Everything after he leaves the bar is foggy. There’s only bits and pieces here and there. He knows he left the bar, started to walk to the dingy motel he’d checked in to earlier, but now he's here again, somehow.

Standing outside of their shared apartment, he raises his hand to knock at the door but stops himself. He shouldn't be here, he knows that. She probably doesn't want to see him.

Should he leave?

Before he can make up his mind, the door opens. She stares at him, wrapping her arms around herself, and he can't do anything else but stare back. There’s a bruise visible on her cheek, more on her arms, and he turns his gaze away. He doesn't want to look at them.

It’s his fault, and he knows it.

Instead he looks behind her and that's when he sees the packed bags on the floor, clothes strewn around. She’s going to leave him. She’s intending to leave him, all alone, without even hearing him out, not even telling him she is.

He looks at her again. The irritation that had started to fester at the bar coming to the surface again, feelings only getting enhanced by the alcohol. She isn't allowed to leave him.

She must see the shift in his eyes, because she steps back and tries to close the door again, trying to shut him out. He can’t allow her to, so he grabs the door and forces it open again. If she manages to close the door, he’ll lose her. He can't let that happen, he needs her.

She can’t leave him.

He pushes her back, further into the apartment and follows, keeping a harsh grip on her wrist. He pulls the door closed behind him and makes sure to lock it before taking a step closer, now face to face with her. Close enough to see the fear in her eyes. She struggles with his grip, trying to pull away, and it just irritates him even more. He's starting to get angry now, really angry. He has to do something.

He has to make sure she doesn’t leave.

---

It's quiet up here. If he’d known about it he would have gone up to the roof more often. He can see the city below him, all the people and cars going by, completely oblivious. It's calming, but it doesn't help much with the guilt eating away at him.

He did it.

It was absolutely not the intention, not at all. It shouldn't have gone like this. They should have talked, should have tried to fix things again, but he’d been drinking. Too much. They were just going to talk, but when he saw the bags on the floor-

He couldn't let her leave him. She is everything to him, but that doesn't change the fact that he did it.

He looks down at his hands.

He stood at the sink for several minutes trying to scrub away the blood, but he can still see traces of it under his fingernails. He couldn’t get it off, no matter how hard he tried. He eventually gave up and dried his hands.

He couldn't wash away bruised knuckles either.

The knife is still on the floor, next to her. He couldn't bring himself to pick it up again after he’d realized what he had done. Seeing her lying there made him finally wake up, breaking him out from the bubble of rage and alcohol. All of a sudden he was reminded of the weight of the knife in his hand, and the warm blood which was everywhere. On the floor, on his clothes, on his hands.

Everywhere.

And the way she just layed there, completely still, no movements at all. The amount of blood underneath her was enough for him to realize there was nothing he could do. After that he fled to the bathroom and threw up, coughing and gagging until there was nothing left.

He didn't go back into the living room again after that.

He looks out over the city again. It has started to blow, and he is shivering in the cold. His thin shirt doesn't do much to protect him from the wind, but his jacket is thrown over one of the chairs in the living room. He won't have to think about it much longer though.

He stands up.

Someone will find the body, it's inevitable. The police will get involved and he won't be able to get away. There is nowhere to go for him.

Even if he could somehow get away with it, he wouldn't be able to go back to a normal life after this. He is afraid. Afraid of himself, what he might do. What he apparently was able to do to those he loves.

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. That's one way to look at it. He knows he loved her, still does, but it didn't stop him from killing her. Because of an argument, a fucking argument. He can't even remember what it was about, probably something insignificant. Definitely nothing major enough to kill her for.

He walks closer to the edge, stepping up, staring down at the street below him. It's a smaller crowd there underneath him, people shouting and pointing. He can hear sirens in the distance. Has somebody already called the cops?

Did they know he killed her?

It hasn't really sunk in yet, but she's dead, gone for real, and it's his fault. His and no one else's. Any doubts he had before fades, getting replaced by only determination and acceptance. He knows what he needs to do, knows there’s no other options. He’s too big of a risk to those around him, a danger. This is the best solution, for everyone.

He looks out over the city one last time before he closes his eyes and takes another step forward, off of the edge. The feeling of falling envelops him, wind tugging at his clothes and hair, but there’s only peace in his mind.

He can hear people yelling at him, but he doesn't care.

He never imagined it would turn out this way, that this would be the end for him, but it's for the best. For everyone. He won't be able to hurt anyone again, ever.

He’s making sure of that.

---

Thoughts?

#writers on tumblr #writing #original story

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juniper-sunny · 2 years ago

Text

The Art in the Heart - Chapter 5

Silco is a man of many words, but is he a man of action? He has many promises to keep…

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act I | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | TW: Stalking | WC: 2.27k

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

taglist: @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

The scissor lift raises you to the top of the wall. You lift the plastic sheeting and rest your palm gingerly against the mural: it’s dry, and none of the paint seems to have washed away. Seems like your earlier precautions were adequate.

It might not be a good time to pick up where you left off, though. The weather report predicted it might be a couple more days before the rain stops completely. No point in making some more progress only for it to potentially wash away.

You feel a desire to linger, though. Silco might still stop by. At least you hope so. After he spent the night at your place, you’re more positive that your relationship has progressed from ‘acquaintances’ to ‘friends’, if not something more. Recalling the events of that night makes you laugh quietly to yourself.

________________________________________

After making Silco repeat his promise, you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Ostensibly to brush your teeth. What you really need is a moment to compose yourself.

You look at yourself in the mirror and shake your head. What the heck is wrong with you that you’re getting so worked up about a stranger dying? Because that’s all he is to you, or should be to you. People die in Zaun every day. Sometimes it’s not even at the hands of Enforcers, but just plain bad luck.

In another life, you probably could have been one of the Children of Zaun. Maybe working alongside Silco. After all, you do love the Undercity just as much as any one of them. Even if it weren’t for your lack of fighting prowess, you’re sure you could have made yourself useful to them in some other way.

Who are you kidding, though? Your current job is much less hazardous— and more preferable— than getting into scraps with Enforcers. Probably the most dangerous thing you’ve encountered in ages was a poorly trained Poro at the home of a Piltie merchant family. While the Children risk arrest, bodily injury, or death on every single mission.

No, if the Children find exhilaration in their exploits, it’s too anxiety-inducing for you. Hadn’t the overwhelming stress of tonight’s events proved you weren’t cut out for that kind of life?

What would Silco even think of you joining the Children?

Your head droops against the mirror. It’s too late at night to be asking these kinds of questions. You’re so tired that your sense of judgment is compromised. Not to mention how stupid it would be to throw away everything you worked for just for some guy. And he hadn’t even asked you to join the Children.

Or had he? Was he joking when he asked you to join him on his next mission? Or was he being sincere?

“Time for bed,” you mutter to yourself. Serious life decisions can wait until the morning, after a good sleep and breakfast. And after Silco leaves.

When you exit the bathroom, you find your guest lying on the ground at the foot of your bed. He’s folded his backpack into a makeshift pillow.

“What are you doing?” you ask, yawning.

“Could I trouble you for an extra blanket?”

“Get in the bed,” you point at it.

“Excuse me?” He props himself up on one elbow. Looking at you, confused.

Oh, right. He doesn’t know that you have a sleeping bag. You pull it and an extra pillow out of a storage box.

“The ground is more than good enough for me,” he protests.

“Get in the damn bed, Silco. And go to sleep,” you say as firmly as you can, considering that you’re ready to flop onto the floor yourself. Instead you walk over to the light switch. Ready to turn off the lights.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he gets up and tucks himself in.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“Don’t mention it,” you grunt.

You turn off the lights. When you crawl into your sleeping bag, you sigh loudly. The warmth encompasses you entirely and lulls you into slumber.

Silco calls out your name into the dark.

“Mmm?” you hum, too sleepy for words.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Silco.”

You wake up first the next morning. Something must be wrong with your alarm clock, as its usual low beeping seems extra loud today. Of course, last night of all nights, you just had to forget to turn it off.

You hurriedly smack it off, but when you look at Silco he continues slumbering peacefully. Thank goodness for small mercies.

It’s hard to make breakfast silently when your apartment is so small. Even though you’re doing your best to keep the noises to a minimum. He wakes up and shifts in the bed, rolling over to look at you.

“Good morning,” you chirp at him. Determined to make up for your grumpy attitude last night. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Good morning,” Silco yawns. He sits up and frowns. “You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s almost ready. Your clothes are in the dryer.”

“You needn’t have troubled yourself, I should get going—”

“It’s still raining, buddy. You’re not going anywhere.”

You point out your window, where the skies are still steel-gray and wet. Silco opens his mouth as if to argue, but the harsh tapping of the rain on the window drowns the thought before he can give life to it. He dips his head, bemused.

“I must have been a better man in my past life to be honored with such generosity,” he stretches his arms high. Unfolding himself like a cat as he steps out of your bed. He pulls his clothes out of the dryer, then heads to the bathroom.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I made a little bit of everything,” you call out to him. You start plating a full spread: bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, and fresh fruit.

Silco exits the bathroom wearing his outfit from last night. You let yourself sneak a glance at him out of the corner of your eye: his waist is somewhat narrower than his broad shoulders… what it would feel like to wrap your arms around—

“Do you normally eat breakfast standing?” He looks amused at the notion.

“Oh, no. Can you help with the table?”

You point to your drafting table. It’s adjustable so it’s good enough as a makeshift dining table. Despite its heft, he pulls it to the center of the room with ease. He pushes it level just in time for you to set the food out.

After handing out refreshments and dining utensils, you both dig in.

“Would you mind me asking what you were doing at the councilor’s last night?” he asks.

“Salo wanted a status update on the mural,” you say. “Could you pass the salt?”

“Really,” he doesn’t phrase it as a question. Silco hands you a salt shaker. “Was that the full extent of his intentions?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “What else could he want?”

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, as if he might find the right words to say on his plate.

“You were dressed quite… well. And you were upstairs.”

“So?” you continue munching away.

“His sleeping quarters were upstairs.”

You look up from your food, nonplussed.

“Perhaps you weren’t off the mark about Salo wanting a Zaunite mistress,” he jokes.

“No way,” you snort. “As if a gentleman of his caliber would ever deign to consort with the fissure folk.”

“You were invited to dinner at his home, no?” he smirks.

“I’m his employee. That’s all,” you shake your head.

“You’d be surprised at how many men find that appealing, as opposed to a deterrent.”

“Salo may be a Piltie prick, but I doubt that a Zaunite would ever be good enough for him,” you state matter-of-factly. “Most Topsiders will never see us as worthy, no matter what. I thought everybody knew that.”

“I must admit I don’t know many from the Undercity who work in such close proximity to Piltover’s elite,” he says. He resumes eating. “You’re the only one I know, actually,” he adds thoughtfully.

“I’m not much better than ‘the help’ to them,” you grimace. “If anything, Topsiders like to hire me to show off how charitable they are. Giving a gutter rat the opportunity to ‘rise above the circumstances of their birth’. But not too high, of course.”

You spoon more food into your mouth to stop yourself from rambling more. Gods, you’re complaining about your clientele not respecting you when too many Zaunites are straight-up unemployed and living in poverty. You’re luckier than most. Better remember to be grateful for what you got and stop complaining.

“Those sound like less than ideal circumstances to work under,” Silco looks at you sympathetically.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say hastily. “I’m really lucky to have a job I love. And it pays well.”

You put your fork down and look out your window. The cloudy skies are whitening, and the rainfall is now a soft and gentle drizzle.

“Everyone in the Undercity deserves a better life, whether they can or can’t work for it,” you say quietly. “I just wish more Pilties knew that too.”

He nods in agreement. “That’s perhaps the most difficult mission the Children have yet to complete: to earn the respect of Topside.”

“Maybe if we work together, we can get it done,” you grin at him.

“Our joint efforts would be a force to be reckoned with,” his lips quirk upwards. “We could burglarize the whole of Topside together.”

“We’ll teach them to respect us!”

“The Nation of Zaun would flourish under our leadership,” his smile widens.

“Wow… ‘the Nation of Zaun’... I like the sound of that,” you say in awe.

The conversation moves on to lighter topics after that. Considering the rocky start to your relationship, you have a decent amount in common with Silco: you were both born roughly around the same time and raised in orphanages, albeit different ones. Your childhoods were lean and tumultuous.

The similarities end there. Whereas your career as a painter pulled you up and out of Zaun, Silco worked as a miner for many years. He and his companions managed to carve out the Lanes, and the Children of Zaun was founded.

It’s fascinating to hear Silco’s history. His story and Zaun’s are one and the same, even if the Undercity was founded long before his birth. You could listen to him tell it over and over again.

When you’re both finished eating, the two of you squabble over putting away the dishes. He insists on helping. You’re not having any of it though, and you instead direct him to your storage box where he can find the blueprints he requested all those weeks ago. He packs those up along with the photos from last night.

Silco looks out the window to see that the rain has finally stopped. He turns to you with regret on his face.

“I’ve abused your hospitality for far too long,” he says. “I must be off.”

“Silco, it’s fine,” you reassure him. “You’re not the worst guest I’ve ever had.”

“Do you host such delightful sleepovers for many?” he asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are bright with curiosity.

“Only when I’m babysitting,” you answer. “Sometimes actual babies.”

He cocks his head, about to ask for details. You’re distracted by the thunk of a metal cylinder dropping into your pneumatic tube receiver.

“I have to take care of this,” you sigh. “Do you have everything?”

“Yes, thanks to you,” Silco pats his backpack.

As you walk him to the door, you feel tempted to reach out and grab his arm. Instead, you clear your throat to get his attention.

“Silco… you’ll come find me before the raid, right?”

“Of course,” his eyes are gentle and bright. “I would be remiss not to warn you. Should the worst come to pass—”

“But it won’t, right?” you cut him off. “You made a promise.”

He places a hand on the doorknob. He pauses contemplatively before answering, “Yes, I did, didn’t I.”

“Yeah. You better not break it.”

Silco opens the door. His black hair is dark against the backdrop of the bright skies.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he smiles.

He finally leaves. It takes all of your willpower to force yourself to stay inside. Even though you really want to watch him leave.

________________________________________

You haven’t seen Silco since that day, but you’re not worried. There’s no way he would break two promises.

You carefully drape the plastic sheeting back over the wall. Regardless of whether you can work today or not, right now is a good time to take stock of your supplies. Some of your brushes might need replacing and you’re definitely running low on certain paints.

As you take inventory of your materials, a stinging tingle crawls up the back of your neck.

It’s happening again. Someone is watching you.

You swing your head around frantically. There’s nobody there. But the tingling doesn’t stop. In fact, it’s getting worse.

The stinging turns into a stabbing pain.

Running footsteps approach you.

You instinctively crouch down. Pushing your face into your knees. Covering your neck with your hands. Trying to control your hyperventilating.

You slap a hand over your mouth.

The footsteps grow louder…

Then louder…

Then they pass. Fading away into the distance.

You take a deep, gulping breath. The back of your neck relaxes.

As you stand, you chastise yourself for being distracted. Whoever— or whatever— was watching you might be gone now, but the Undercity is never free from danger.

If it comes back again, you might not be so lucky.

Chapter 6

#Arcane #Arcane fanfic #Silco #Silco x Reader #Arcane Silco #Silco Arcane #tw stalking #stalking tw #my writing #The Art in the Heart #TAITH

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randomshyperson · 4 years ago

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Left Behind - Wanda Maximoff x Reader - #01 "Muddy Waters"

Summary: The one where you lived in the apartment under the Maximoff family in Sokovia, or, your journey as a Sokovian civilian to Avenger.

A/N: i want to know what people think of this, I feel like it's sounds good in my head but not exactly good in words. Also, this is shorter than what i usually write, i'm trying the "short" chapters a while.

Warnings (under constructions): Violence, mentions of fighting, cursing, light power abuse, war environments.

Words: 2.769 K

Dictionary for this chapter: Parshivets - brat || bratan - brother || dvornyaga - mutt || plague - chuma || Prostite - sorry || Vrediteli - pests || svin'ya - pig || devochka - girl || borot'sya - fight

All Works Masterlist || Read on AO3 || Part Two || Series Masterlist

//-//

Chapter One - Muddy Waters

Sokovia, 11 years ago.

You ran to catch up with one of the boys who was running away from you.

You didn't know his name, but you think he lived in the apartment below you, and since everyone always played together, and there were many children, you didn't know everyone's name. The only thing you really needed to know was who you had to pick up.

"Parshivets!" You heard your brother's voice shout through the window into the area where you were. "Come to dinner!"

"I'm kidding, bratan" You retorted as you stopped running and looked up, gesturing to your apartment window.

"Come up now, papa is telling you to!" Your brother ordered before sticking his head inside again.

Grumbling angrily, you waved goodbye to the other children.

When you reached your floor, you saw the Maximoff twins coming out of their apartment, and smiled at Pietro who noticed you from down the hall.

You hoped that your father would let you play with them later.

//-//

There was dust covering your eyes and nose.

You coughed, running your hand over your face, trying to understand what was happening around you, the sound of sirens and explosions muffled by the ringing in your ear.

"Papa?" You called out with hoarseness in your voice, still somewhat aroused. You blinked and realized that what was your room was now just a pile of rubble.

Feeling a sharp pain in your torso, you looked down, letting out a surprised exclamation at the iron wedged in your belly. You whimpered in pain, trying to move. "Papa." You called out again, completely confused and frightened.

You heard voices in the distance, and sounds on the rocks, but your eyes began to heavy again. Maybe you were going to fall asleep, and maybe sleep would take the pain away, so you closed your eyes.

//-//

"She needs medical assistance." A male voice sounded muffled in your ears. You blinked in confusion, the sky above you as something moved below. You were being carried.

"We have vacancies in district twelve." Said someone on the other side, you tried to look, but your whole body ached and you grumbled. The noise attracted the attention of the soldier carrying you on the stretcher, and he looked at you tenderly.

"Don't worry, kid." He spoke. "We found you in time. You are safe."

You felt your throat dry, and you wanted to ask for water, but you were too weak to speak.

"Papa." It was the only thing you could mumble before everything went dark again.

//-//

When you awoke again, you had a large white bandage around your waist, and the pain had subsided greatly. You were in one of the medical tents that you had seen once in the distance when you ran past the area where the soldiers were staying.

You looked around, frightened and confused, trying to understand what had happened. There was a man in a black suit walking around the stretchers, a notepad in his hands.

"Another casualty." He comments as he scribbles something on the sheet after looking at the girl lying a few beds ahead of his. You felt your stomach turn when you realized she wasn't actually asleep the second after. "It's already twenty-four."

The nurse next to him grumbled in agreement, and then she looked forward and noticed you awake, a gentle smile filling her expression as she turned away from the man to walk over to you.

You drank all the water she served you, and accepted the hug she gave you after telling you that your father and brother did not survive the attack. The man in black tried to reassure you that the orphanage in the district was the best in Sokovia, but you kept crying.

//-//

You stood still with your hands behind your back while the nurse measured your height.

"Look how well behaved you are." She comments with a smile, making you smile as well. She takes a few notes on the placard in front of you and then stoops down to your height. "Are you ready to join the other children?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, denying with your head. The nurse tilts her head to the side slightly.

"You don't have to be afraid." She says. "You're a big girl now, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." You reply.

"Then why are you scared?"

You shrug, looking down. The nurse sighs lightly, looking toward the door. You know that the children who have already been evaluated are outside the hospital, waiting for the bus from the orphanage.

"I miss my brother." You mumble softly next, causing the woman to glare at you. "He was better at playing than I was. And he always introduced me to the other children."

"You're going to have a lot of brothers now." It was the best thing the woman could think to say, and you nodded in understanding, ignoring the urge to cry. She handed you a lollipop on the way out and told you to behave. You said you would, but your fingers were crossed behind your back.

//-//

The orphanage was a dirty, dark place. The building was old and made strange noises if you stepped in certain places. And there were many children.

The war in Sokovia had left many marks on their country, and it was noticeable in places like this.

You were going to share the north dormitory with fifteen other children, and you had several rules to follow in your new home. The orphanage sisters repeated the guidelines all the way to the building as you walked down the bus corridor. You talked to no one along the way, your attention on the landscape visible through the window.

When you arrived, and were taken to your rooms to put on your uniforms and get ready for dinner and to be assigned the tasks you had started in the morning, you followed obediently, without really being present in the environment. Everything seemed a bit stuffy.

//-//

You stopped sweeping when the sound of voices caught your attention. And well, they caught the attention of all the other girls who were on the same shift as you, because they all looked away, and rushed to the windows to look out. You imitated the movement, and you could see outside a small circle of children forming in the backyard. It was a fight.

Your classmates ran outside, and you sighed, figuring that you weren't going to finish sweeping by yourself, so you'd better join them.

When you reached the small mess, you observed two boys pushing each other in the circle, exchanging insults, but not really hitting each other. The other orphans watched the scene curiously, waiting for the fight to escalate. You hoped this wouldn't happen, since the taller boy was accompanied by three others.

"You're a cheater, aren't you Maximoff?" Accused the blond boy with irritation. You blinked in surprise as you recognized the smaller boy. Your former neighbor, Pietro.

"And you're a bad loser, Sidorov." Retorted the other boy taking a step back to avoid the blond's hands.

"I'm not a loser, cheater." Sidorov thundered, lunging forward again and pushing Pietro to the ground.

You and the small crowd held your breath. The blond boy stepped forward again and hit Pietro in the nose.

Sidorov's friends laughed and Pietro grabbed the blond by the legs, knocking him to the ground. As they rolled in the dirt, the orphans began to shout "borot'sya" and you looked around. Your gaze caught Wanda Maximoff moving through the crowd and advancing toward her brother.

One of Sidorov's friends held her by the arms and she shouted at them to stop fighting. You bit your lip, feeling your heart race. You weren't friends with the twins, and you had no desire to get into a fight that wasn't yours. But they were the most familiar thing around at the moment, so your feet were moving.

You broke through the crowd and grabbed the garden hose, running toward the direction of the fight again. Sidorov was mounted on Pietro having managed to immobilize him, but before he could land the punch, you wrapped the hose around his neck and pulled him backward.

As he let out an exclamation of pain and surprise and fell backwards, trying to shake off the grip, you pulled Pietro off the ground.

"You could have killed me, girl!" gasped the boy on the ground with hatred in his eyes, their friends let go of Wanda to advance against you and Pietro, but someone shouted that the nuns were coming and you grabbed Pietro and Wanda's hand, pulling them to run away with you.

//-//

Breathing hard, you propped your hands on your knee.

"Did we lose them?" Pietro asked just as breathless as you. Wanda looked back, equally tired from the race.

"Yes." She replied as she looked around.

"Great." You grumbled standing up properly. You cleared your throat and shifted your weight between your feet, not knowing exactly what to say next. Pietro approached you, extending his hand.

"Thanks for helping me out back there." He says with a smile. You ignore his hand to raise your finger toward the bruise on his left eye, but you don't touch your face, leaving your finger in the air pointing toward the wound.

"You look like a badass now." You tease, causing the boy to laugh with flushed cheeks. "It's better than your dorky face at least."

"Hey." He retorts with false offense, still smiling. You look at Wanda next, and she is already looking at you curiously.

"You are Y/N." Wanda says. "You lived in the apartment downstairs."

Looking away, you mutter in agreement.

"We didn't know that other people survived the collapse." Pietro comments next, and you nod.

"Well, here we are." You say with irony, causing Wanda and Pietro to frown. Clearing your throat, you take a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I don't like to talk about it."

"It's okay, neither do I." Wanda commented and you gave her a short smile.

"We should get back." You say next, and the twins nod in agreement.

You walk ahead, kicking up a few rocks on the way, looking back a few times to see if they are still behind you.

They are.

//-//

Sokovia, ten years ago.

"Time to wake up little brats"

You grumbled in irritation as you heard the voice of the nursemaid, then the shrill noise of the bell. Gingerly rummaging in your covers, you got out of bed, equally as all your dorm mates.

"Today the governor will visit the orphanage and I expect you to be on your best behavior, or know that you will be punished if you embarrass Father Novikov." Warned Madame Ivanov, the housekeeper of the Sokovia Municipal Orphanage, or your home since the apartment complex where you lived was destroyed when a bomb fell on the structure during one of the civil war conflicts. "This will be my only warning to you, Vrediteli, I will take special care of those who do not behave."

Madama Ivanov looked directly at you, and you clenched your jaw, ignoring the urge to roll your eyes.

"Bath and breakfast." She ordered next. "And after chores, everyone properly dressed in the main courtyard."

Your colleagues moved first than you as soon as Madame left the room. You sighed, sitting up in bed. You hadn't slept very well the night before, dreaming of explosions again. But you didn't have time to think about it, and yawning, you got up again, heading toward the bathrooms.

//-//

You were covered from head to toe in mud. Madame Ivanov and Madame Pavlova looked at you wide-eyed, as did the rest of the room, and you swallowed hard. The room was completely silent, no one ventured to say anything. The perfectly aligned suit of the governor of Sokovia, now with a dark mud stain on his chest.

"Oh, look at this." The man spoke next, you remained static, staring at him wide-eyed. He chuckled, and you almost relaxed. Then a loud slap hit your face and you gasped in pain and surprise. "Do you have any idea how much that suit cost me, pest?" He asked between teeth, and you felt your stomach turn in anger. The man threatened to advance toward you again, and you didn't hesitate to punch him in the balls, drawing an angry exclamation from him and shocked sighs from all your colleagues.

"Don't ever touch me again, svin'ya" You retorted angrily before running away, intending to escape the punishment of the sisters who were sure to catch up with you eventually.

When you stopped running, you were many blocks from the orphanage, a spot below your ribs hurting badly. The mud dried against your skin and you grunted in disgust at the sensation.

Changing the direction of your steps, you snuck through the alleyways of the city, ignoring the looks of disapproval and curiosity people cast at the sight of a ten-year-old covered in mud in the outlying part of town.

You reached the small laundromat in the mall a few minutes later, and snuck into the northern outer entrance, trying not to be seen by the employees as you reached one of the tanks. Fortunately it was lunchtime, and the place was quite empty. You cleared your throat as you reached one of the windows, and the noise attracted the attention of the girl inside, distracted by the dirty fabrics in her hands.

"Damn it, you' scare the shit out of me!" Wanda exclaimed to you, and you laughed expectantly. She opened the window latch next, and you jumped in. "Why are you covered in mud? And why are you here?"

You shrugged, taking off your T-shirt and pants. Wanda hurried to fill a bucket of water as you walked over to one of the empty faucets, leaning over to wash your face.

Clean, you sighed.

"Sorry for showing up unannounced." You ask remembering Wanda's work rules. She would wake up earlier than you, and go to work in the laundry while you and Pietro would take any service you could get since steady jobs like Wanda's were very difficult. And since labor laws didn't apply to children, you and Pietro took Wanda's lunch whenever possible, and helped her wash clothes so she wouldn't be so tired. The rule was always to let her know because her boss couldn't find out about it.

"No problem." She retorts as she looks around for dry clothes for you. "But will you tell me what happened?"

You bite the inside of your cheeks, ducking your head.

"I was fighting." You grumbled and Wanda stopped the motion of reaching for a t-shirt in the upstairs closet, turning to you next with a worried look.

"Again, devochka?" She asked as she approached and used her hand to gently lift your chin up, searching your face for any sign of injury. Without the mud, the purple in your left eye was visible.

"Prostite, Wanda." You muttered in shame, but Wanda sighed shaking her head.

"Why were you fighting?"

You shrugged and Wanda bit her lips. "I tried to kick Nikolai but he shoved me in the mud, and punched me in the face. So I did as you taught me and ran. Only I ended up bumping into the governor."

Wanda's eyes widen at the story.

"So?"

You ducked your head again.

"He slapped me in the face." You say. "And I punched him in the balls."

Wanda blinked in surprise at the confession, and then laughed. You widened your eyes, surprised that she wasn't angry, and she shook her head with amusement, ruffling your hair.

"You've gone crazy." She commented. "The sisters are going to put you in charge of cleaning the bathrooms for the whole month."

You shrugged again, and Wanda walked away, going back to looking for a set of clothes for you.

"Where's Pietro?" She asked as she handed you a set of gray clothes that were probably laundry uniforms that got too old to wear.

"Gathering coal for Mr. Sidorov." You replied as you dressed. Wanda grumbled in understanding as she dipped your muddy clothes into the water.

"I'll bring your clothes to you when I'm done." She comments as she turns to you again, and you nod in agreement hurrying to climb in the window.

"Hey, Wanda." You call out before leaving, glancing at the girl as you lean on the window. "I'll bring you some candy. In thanks." You say with a smile, and don't wait for a reply, turning around.

Tag list> @mionemymind / @abimess / @stephanieromanoff / @yourtaletotell / @tomy5girls / @justagaypanicking / @thegayw1tch / @idek-5 // @myperfectlovepoem // @helloalycia // @ENSORCELLME // @AIMEZVOUSBRAHMS @imapotatao / @aimezvousbrahms/ @ensorcellme/ @helloalycia // @ichala || @madamevirgo

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wandaxreader #wandaxyou #wandamaximoffxreader #wanda x yn #avengers imagine #pietro maximoff x reader #wanda and pietro #avengers #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #marvel imagines #Left Behind

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fett-djarin · 3 years ago

Text

Hand to Hand Practice

helo its another Paz Vizsla x f!reader!

MINORS DNI

Crossposted to AO3

Rating: 18+

Length: 2.2k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT, sparring, rough sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, PiV, creampie, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), slight spanking, somewhat of a size kink? Please let me know if I missed anything!

NSFW UNDER THE CUT

Thump.

Your back hit the floor. The breath was knocked from your lungs from the impact. That bastard--he threw me!

“Come on girl, that’s the best you’ve got?” Paz taunted you from a few feet away. You huffed, swiping a hand across your forehead to wipe away the sweat that dripped from your temples.

“You know I can’t throw you around, Paz,” you snapped back at him, glaring venom at the ceiling. His amused chuckle crackled through the vocoder. The dark T-visor of his helm appeared above you, looking down at your prone form. Paz held a hand out for you to take. His palm dwarfed yours, and he pulled you to your feet with seemingly no effort.

You groaned, feeling your spine pop as you stretched. Paz moved back to his spot. He bent his knees, crouching slightly and distributing his weight in a defensive stance. He beckoned you forward with a curl of his fingers. “Again.”

There wasn’t much room to spar in his ship, so Paz had shoved everything not bolted down to the sides and tossed a few heavy blankets on the floor in place of a mat to spare you from being thrown straight onto metal. Because you were thrown. Quite often. Paz let you get a few hits in before bodily lifting you and ending your assault. You were a good shot with a blaster, one of the best--you were hardly ever in close-quarters combat. You knew the basics, but hardly ever used them or practiced. One bounty got too close for comfort, and you sported a new scar on your arm because of it. After it healed, you asked Paz to practice with you, maybe teach you some new maneuvers.

And to teach you, the big Mandalorian challenged you to take him down. You couldn’t knock him off his feet, he easily weighed over 300 pounds with his armor on. Trying to get him to move was like barreling into a tree. The best you could hope for was to outmatch him in speed, and not let him pick you up.

You shook out your arms, bouncing on the balls of your feet. Paz had taken his beskar off--save for the helmet--so he was only in his padded armor and you wouldn’t break your knuckles throwing punches. He cocked his head, and you knew he had a smug smirk on his face, waiting for you to launch yourself at him again. You moved.

You dodged the swipe he took at you, instead landing a hit of your own on his side. Paz was unfazed. He laughed, making another grab at you, which you danced back to avoid. The two of you circled each other--you, waiting for an opening; him, countering every movement. The next time you darted in for a swing, Paz grabbed your arm. He easily twisted you and had you pinned. You struggled against him knowing it would do you no good.

His hand settled at the base of your throat--not squeezing, just lightly resting there. You froze like a spooked tooka as a bright spark of pure arousal settled in your core. Oh, Maker…. He knew exactly what to do to have such an effect on you. Paz was so big--his hand was so big, dwarfing the delicate line of your neck. If he applied the slightest bit of pressure you would probably melt into the floor and then wither away from embarrassment. You wouldn’t be able to bear looking him in the face--visor? ever again. His thumb traced a light line over your collarbone. Heat flooded your face and you swallowed thickly.

“I win,” his rumbling voice murmured right by your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You steeled yourself, shaking off your feelings and stomping them out of your mind. “Again.” Then his arms tightened, drawing you back against his chest. Something thick and hard pressed against your lower back and you squirmed, pulling a groan from him.

Of course, sparring got him hard. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t work you up too.

“One more round,” you insisted. You ‘accidentally’ pushed your hips back against his erection as you squirmed out of his arms. Paz grunted, letting you go. You didn’t expect to win this round, even with his new distraction, but you didn’t want to. If you worked him up enough, maybe he’d snap. The thought of what he would do sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

You readied your stance. Paz did not pull his punches, not that you expected him to anyway. This was a game to him. He did manage to surprise you, though. For as big as he was, he could be fast. You had just ducked out of his reach when you felt him grasp your hips, and then you found yourself on your stomach, fall cushioned by the blankets. His weight settled on the back of your thighs. You couldn’t even twist to try and throw him off balance--he had you pinned.

He slowly leaned down, resting his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, caging you in. “Did you even try that time?” His fingers traced down your spine, then the warmth of his hand slid up under your shirt, teasing your skin. “Or did you just want this?” and he rolled his hips for emphasis, grinding himself against your ass and making you gasp.

When you didn’t answer, he chuckled. “Yeah. I thought so.”

His hands continued to skim up your sides, each touch building warmth in you. When you wriggled and whined, he paused. “D’you want this off, baby?” he asked with a light tug on your shirt.

“Please,” you breathed. Paz chuckled, then guided your shirt up and over your head. Your bindings followed shortly thereafter. He traced a finger down your spine, making you shudder. You tried to subtly press your thighs together to take the edge off, but from his seat on your legs, Paz felt your muscles tense. He tutted, rubbing his fingers over your clothed pussy, the barest hint of pressure making you all the more desperate.

His fingers hooked in the band of your pants and tugged lightly. His weight shifted off you and you lifted your hips to help him pull your pants and panties down, leaving you bare beneath him.

“Look at you,” he rumbled, palming your ass. “Pretty girl.” The gentle smack against your flesh made you gasp. You shifted your hips back against him, trying to entice him to move his touch to where you were wet and warm and dripping for him. Paz was a tease, but he was also not the most patient man. His fingers dipped down to your heat, rubbing light circles over your clit before pulling back to tease your entrance. Then he pulled away.

Your confused noise cut off as the warm glide of his tongue swiped through your folds from behind. A wanton moan left your mouth as your hips arched up, off the blankets piled on the floor, trying to grind back against his face. Paz’s big hands spread you apart, holding you open for him as he explored you with his tongue. Each lick, suck, and kiss was a warm wave of pleasure suffusing through you, building until you were squirming against his hold.

“Paz, Paz, please--” you choked out, teetering on the edge. He wouldn’t give you that last little push you needed to reach your high. You moaned, hips bucking against his hold, desperate for the final bit of stimulation your body craved. Paz held you steady, giving you pleasure as he saw fit.

“Cum on my mouth, pretty,” his voice, deep and gravelly and not filtered by the modulator, sent an extra spike of pleasure through you. His lips wrapped around your clit and he hummed, the little vibrations doing enough to coax you into orgasm. You weren’t bowled over by sensation as you sometimes were; instead, this orgasm was a slow, thick, rolling wave of heat spilling through you, spreading through your limbs and leaving you loose and boneless.

You just knew Paz had a self-satisfied smirk on his face seeing you blissed out and jelly-limbed on the floor of his ship. You hummed as his weight settled over the back of your thighs once more, the rough canvas of his pants dragging against your sensitive skin. He didn’t strip, instead opting to pull his cock from the confines of his clothing.

The thick length of Paz’s cock rested on the cleft of your ass. He groaned at the sight, your plush rear and the peek of your dripping pussy from between your thighs, his cock nestled between your cheeks, showing just how deep he would reach sheathed inside you. You tried wiggling your hips, enticing him to fuck you, but the steady weight of him on your thighs and his hands on your waist held you in place.

“This what you wanted? You didn’t wanna train--y’wanted to get fucked,” he punctuated his words with a thrust, grinding his cock against you.

“Yes, yes, fuck me--please, Paz, want you--” you babbled, hands fisting in the blankets beneath you. You rocked your hips against him. Paz’s breathing stuttered, and then he was spreading you open to watch as he sank his thick cock into your wet heat.

The press of the head of his cock had you gasping into the blankets, and then as he buried himself inch-by-inch, you couldn’t stop the little moans and whines that left you. You tried to relax your muscles, taking as much of him as you could, but your cunt spasmed around the intrusion. He grunted behind you, feeling your walls flutter around him as they stretched to accommodate his length. When his hips touched your ass, you shuddered, stuffed to your limit, the ache turning into a pleasant warmth licking at your core.

Paz rocked his hips slowly, only sliding an inch or so out before thrusting back in, and you clawed at the floor. You lifted your hips to the best of your ability, pushing yourself back against each thrust. He started slow--every time was like the first time, you were so tight around him, especially in this position. He didn’t want to hurt you--not in a way you didn’t ask for.

He squeezed your ass, massaging your hips and tugging you flush against him. He stopped moving, holding himself still while encouraging you to roll your hips against him. "That's it, baby, fuck yourself on my cock,” his voice was rough and dark, sending shivers through you. You whined, driving yourself back harder, desperate for more stimulation. You squeaked, trailing off into a moan as his hand cracked against the plump flesh of your ass. “You want more? Needy thing.”

He fucked you, and when Paz fucks, you’re gonna feel it for days. His hips pounded down into yours, each thrust sheathing his cock deep in your core and driving against that spot inside you that made you clench around him. Raw pleasure shot through you like unrefined electricity, burning bright along every nerve. Your toes curled in the blankets beneath you. The muffled sound of his clothed pelvis meeting your bare skin, mixed with the wet noise of your arousal, filled the ship. Each brutal snap of his thrusts drove you closer and closer to the edge, breathless moans torn from deep in your chest. The walls of your cunt fluttered around him, strangling his cock.

“Gonna cum for me, pretty baby?” When you didn’t answer, one of his hands wrapped around your jaw, tilting your head back and forcing your back into an arch. The angle made him spear even deeper into you and you nearly squealed. “I asked you a question.”

“F-fuck, yes, please, please, please--”

He shoved his hand between your hip and the floor, wrapping around your front so his big fingers could rub circles over your clit while he continued to fuck into you. He pressed demandingly at your clit and your legs trembled while you grasped desperately at anything within your reach to ground yourself, unaware of how loud your moans had grown. The dam of your orgasm finally broke, and you soaked his cock and the blanket beneath you as you came. Devastating waves of pleasure rocked through you and you clenched helplessly around his cock as he fucked you through it, his fingers continuing to tease your clit and making you jerk in his hold.

The tight, hot clamp of your cunt around his length had Paz following shortly behind you. Half a dozen shallow but firm thrusts, and he came with a rumbling groan as he sheathed himself inside you.

You trembled beneath him, flushed and sweaty and so, so deliciously boneless from the intensity of your orgasm. Paz gently pulled out, rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. You whimpered at the loss of his warmth, the comforting weight of him on your body.

“Easy,” he murmured. “‘M right here.” He would have laid down beside you, except the floor wasn’t the most comfortable, even with the blankets he had thrown on it--so instead he maneuvered you into his arms and lifted you with ease before placing you in his bunk. He quickly stripped off his heavier clothes before crawling in next to you and wrapping you in his arms. You curled into his chest, legs resting on either side of his.

Tentatively, you rocked your hips, the slickness of your combined releases dripping from you easing your motion. Paz squeezed your thigh in question and in warning. You grinned devilishly up at him.

“One more round?”

#paz vizsla x reader #paz vizsla x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizla x you #paz vizsla #paz vizla #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #reader insert #no y/n

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samstree · 3 years ago

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (1/3)

In which Jaskier chooses to lie, until he can no longer tell the truth.

(lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, geralt apologizes, post mountain, miscommunication, rated teen, read on AO3)

A big thanks to @wanderlust-t and @a-kind-of-merry-war for the prompt! <3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4]

“You are gonna run after him again, just like that? Don’t you remember what he did to you? What you went through?”

Essi leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching as Jaskier packs a second bag.

“Come one, poppet. Geralt was having a hard time back then, and now he’s come all the way to Oxenfurt to apologize.

“So what?”

“So I’m forgiving him.”

She grumbles a few rude words regarding the witcher’s lineage.

“Hey! That’s not nice.”

“And this is way too easy! Why can’t you see a disaster waiting to happen until it hits you in the face?” Essi exclaims. “Do you know what I would have done? I would make him grovel! Give him the cold shoulder. Or…or at least play it cool for a while longer so he knows not to take you for granted again! Sorry, but I’m…not like you.”

“Um…excuse you. I am plenty cool!”

“There’s nothing cool about being utterly in love and then getting cast aside over and over again, Jaskier. You know that.”

Jaskier sighs, walks to Essi and pulls her into a tight hug, all his scattered doublets ignored.

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries to tuck her curls away from her eyes but fails.

“Are you?” When she pulls back, there’s something inscrutable in those blue eyes, the curtain of blonde hair obscuring her emotions. “When you came down from the mountain, the way you couldn’t even … I don’t know. I just need to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It—” Jaskier opens his mouth to make an easy promise, but finds the words choking in his throat. “I, um—”

Essi squeezes him on the shoulder. “He’s apologized, profusely from what you told me, and he’s being nice now. He will certainly be nice for a while, but what happens after he wins you back? What’s preventing him from hurting you again?”

Jaskier has no answers for her, so he resorts to giving her another hug.

“At least, think about my cold shoulder tactic. Sometimes people need the reminder, just so they know what they can easily lose.”

“Essi—”

“Think about it.”

She presses a small kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and leaves him to his packing. Outside the window comes the familiar sound of Roache’s hooves, clicking against the cobblestone.

Jaskier straightens his tunic and lets out a heave. He can see Geralt is being good now, friendly even, after all these years of denying their friendship. Now, the witcher is even waiting downstairs to begin their next journey.

Essi is just being overly protective, Jaskier decides.

He winds down the stairs and finds Geralt cooing at Roach. The urge to melt in those golden amber eyes is overwhelming.

“We good?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s bags and secures them on Roach, side by side with his saddlebags.

“Good,” Jaskier lies.

---

The truth is, Jaskier has heard of this so-called “cold shoulder” tactic. He’s even contemplated it for longer than he’s willing to admit. Every time Geralt dismissed him as a friend, brushed him off, Jaskier couldn’t help but want to retaliate with equal measure.

What if he’s the one to give Geralt a time-out? What if when Geralt tells him to fuck off, he just…leaves? The same idea churned in Jaskier’s stomach for two decades, but in the end, he knows the answer—he can never bring himself to go through it. His feet would carry him back to Geralt before even taking a step away.

He was left anyway.

But now…

Jaskier can’t afford to be left again. Essi was right. He isn’t sure if he can pick himself up again. He barely managed it the first time.

Jaskier lets out an audible scoff as he comes to the realization. He’s going to do it. The cold shoulder tactic. It’s so cheesy that it feels like something only school girls would use to get attention from a crush. Keep your distance, string him along a little. That’s how you get him to notice you exist—

“Something funny?” Geralt turns on horseback, sunlight peaking through his silver hair, a curious frown between his brows. He’s towering, beautiful. He has always been the most beautiful person Jaskier knows, even if he doesn’t know it.

Jaskier strums an absent chord on his lute. “Just something Essi said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt nudges Roach forward. “I was thinking… You’ve never seen a basilisk, have you?”

“No?”

“There are rumors about a nest in the next town. Want to see it?”

A hint of smile hints at Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier’s heart almost leaps out of his throat. A basilisk hunt is one he’s been dying to watch for years, if not decades. He’s drooling with excitement just thinking about the ballad that will certainly sweep the continent off its feet.

“Of course I want—" The sentence stops in its tracks. Jaskier bites his tongue to hide the slip. “You know what, I think I’ll stay in town. This new song needs some polishing before its debut. I’m sure a big witcher such as yourself doesn’t need a bard’s moral support for a meager basilisk, right?”

Jaskier adds a wink for good measure, but Geralt is not amused. He’s staring from his vantage point, his expression inexplicable. Is it really so shocking that Jaskier will turn Geralt down this once, after all this time?

“I understand.” Geralt pauses before continuing, almost too carefully. “Perhaps I can help? Sing it for me tonight?”

“Sing it…for you?” Jaskier asks, dumbfounded. The lute in his hands suddenly feels a lot weightier than it is.

“You wanted my review for so long, Jaskier. I’m giving it to you now. I’m sure your playing will be…nice.”

Geralt looks at him with hope in his eyes, and Jaskier can’t help but let his ego grow a little. It’s unbelievable that a simple refusal is what got Geralt to finally say anything positive about his music. The tiny triumph fills his chest with unexpected giddiness.

“Maybe I will. We shall see,” he replies. His fingers strike another chord.

Jaskier feels a spring in his steps, urging him forward to the mare’s steady gait. Golden amber eyes are burning a hole into his back, but he doesn’t dare to look back lest the tiny bubble of this perfect moment break.

---

Night falls, and Jaskier scribbles down another line. The door opens and Geralt drags his feet into their shared room.

Jaskier makes no effort to get up.

Once upon a time, he would have raced across the room to greet Geralt, checked for injuries and fussed over any scrapes and cuts, all the while getting dismissed with the witcher’s grumbled words. He’d help remove those heavy armors when Geralt’s muscles ache from exhaustion and get ichor all over himself.

He will not do that tonight.

Play it cool, Essi’s words echo in his memory. Right, he’s doing things differently now.

Jaskier fixes his gaze on the notebook in his lap and listens as Geralt shuffles around the room, putting everything back in place. One by one, his armor pieces drop in the corner of the room.

“How was it?” he asks with the most nonchalant tone as if he’s just noticed the other man’s existence.

“Fine. The basilisk’s dead.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier chooses the single hum uncharacteristically as Geralt puts his swords against the doorframe and sits down on the single chair.

He’s so still, hovering even.

“What?” Jaskier finally looks at him. Geralt, as he claimed, looks fine, with only a smudge of a black ichor sticking to his hair. A frown appears between his brows.

Adorable.

Jaskier shakes the thought quickly.

“Your new song?” Geralt prompts.

“Oh yeah. Never mind. I don’t feel like singing.”

It’s another lie. A necessary one, Jaskier tells himself.

“You,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow, “don’t feel like singing?”

Jaskier clutches the notebook to his chest almost defensively, not sure what to do with the accusation. Is it a tragedy that Geralt knows him like the back of his hand? Or is it a shame that Jaskier is indeed buzzing with excitement to test out this song, with the most important person in his life?

“Well, I don’t.”

Jaskier keeps his chin up and scrambles off the bed to put away his books and pens. Geralt’s intent gaze is on his back again.

“Twenty years, and I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to sing.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well,” Jaskier bites back with a force that seems to come out of nowhere. “The bard may not want to entertain all the time, darling.”

The endearment sounds false, more like a jab. He lets out a dry chuckle and hopes to ease the tension but to no avail. Geralt’s eyes are wide with surprise. So Jaskier reaches for his bedroll as a distraction, but only serves to make the confusion deepen on Geralt’s face.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier lays it by the fire, on the soft rug that magically seems clean enough. It should be self-explanatory, but apparently not because Geralt is still staring quizzically.

“Sleeping.”

Geralt looks at the double bed and then back at Jaskier. “On the floor?”

“Thought I’d give you the space. I know how keyed up you are after the potions.”

Jaskier can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing as more words he doesn’t mean comes out of his mouth. He crosses his legs on the bedroll and pulls the blanket onto his lap to hide from Geralt’s scrutiny. But then, something dawns on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier…” Geralt rubs his forehead, his face pinched. “What I said in Oxenfurt, I meant it.”

“You do?”

“You can count on me now. It won’t be like…before.”

Their gazes meet, and Jaskier bears the intensity of it with everything he has. He feels bare, seen through by the amber gold he’s missed and cursed and loved so much.

“I’m here, and I’m all here, Jaskier. Please believe in me.”

“I do.”

It’s not the truth despite how much he wants to believe it. Jaskier wonders if lying to Geralt ever becomes easier.

He doesn’t know what is not convincing him. Geralt looks so genuine, and Jaskier wants more than anything to trust him again, but the smile on his face feels too stiff.

The plan is going as Jaskier wanted. He’s showing Geralt that his friendship doesn’t come freely anymore, and the witcher needs to make more effort, meet him halfway, somehow. Then how come as the quiet night creeps in, Jaskier only finds a hollow space in his chest?

The roaring fire in the hearth warms his back, but Jaskier clutches his blanket tighter. It can’t stave off the coldness left by the lack of a witcher’s body by his side.

---

Jaskier continues with the same scheme the next day.

Ignoring Geralt is not a difficult task in the beginning. The barmaid is a beautiful thing, doe-eyed and curious, has too many questions for her own good. She keeps asking about Jaskier’s ballads, and wouldn’t quite believe any crazy stories in them.

“Is it true that the White Wolf fought a sea serpent on the Skellige Isles? Surely, those creatures only exist in legends!”

She’s getting familiar, pressed up against Jaskier on the bench, almost pushing him back into Geralt’s side—the real subject of the topic, but it’s obvious her fascination lies only in Jaskier. Her brown eyes stay on the bard alone.

“Why don’t we find somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Is it a good one? It must be a heroic tale, isn’t it?”

“Heroic, of course. There’s also a twist. I won’t spoil it for you, but—” Jaskier winks, his fingers brushing past her wrist. “—it’s a love story that holds more heartbreak than you can bear.”

Her giggles are like soft wind chimes, and Jaskier guides her away from their table. He takes two steps and turns back, smacking himself on the head as if he’s only just thought of it.

“Oh, shoot! I know I promised to go the market with you, Geralt, but you see…” He gestures to the girl waiting expectantly in the near distance. There’s nothing I can do about it, he says with a shrug. “Have a good time, will you?”

Geralt is holding his tankard, his knuckles white and his face ice-cold. It’s like Jaskier is looking at one of those ice sculptures made by Oxenfurt’s art students every winter.

“You said you’d come.”

Geralt’s voice is so gentle, so full of dejection that Jaskier’s resolve almost breaks. He clears his throat and darts his eyes elsewhere. Those acting coaches back in school would have been disappointed in him for letting his emotions peak through, but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice what’s underneath this front.

“Surely you can find a new bridle for Roach by yourself,” Jaskier waves his hand in dismissal. “You are a big witcher.”

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, before speaking again. “And the pastry shop you wanted to visit?”

Jaskier thinks of the lemon cakes he’s been itching to try and swallows the yearning in his throat. Gods, being with Geralt all day with not a care in the world, and with the best sweets on the continent. What is he doing turning all this down?

“Well,” he insists, “Better company comes before cake, my dear.”

With that, Geralt lets go of the topic. His amber eyes drop back to the half-finished ale. “Better company. I see…”

“Surely you understand, Geralt.”

“Just—” Geralt purses his lips in an attempt at a smile. “Don’t exaggerate too much.”

Jaskier should feel bad as he walks out the tavern door with a beauty on his arm, he should, but instead, a pang of anger rises in his throat. How many times did Geralt abandon him at the sight of Yennefer in the past few years? How long did he brood on top of that mountain, recounting every bad choice he’d made in his life and decided that it was all Jaskier’s doing?

For once, Jaskier doesn’t want to put Geralt first in everything, waiting for a bone thrown in his direction, and the witcher—this infuriating man—is going to act like a kicked puppy.

Horrified at this burning rage, Jaskier turns only to watch helplessly as Geralt walks down the street in the opposite direction. He’s planted to the spot, unable to chase Geralt down, and clueless as to whether this plan is doing him any favors other than the fleeting satisfaction of getting back at his friend who was at fault.

Was.

Geralt was at fault. Jaskier has forgiven him, or at least, that’s what he said at first sight of his witcher’s travel-weary face back in Oxenfurt.

And yet, he’s punishing him still.

The barmaid is still waiting for Jaskier’s stories, her cheeks still round with a timid blush and her eyes gleaming with expectations.

The colorful adventures taste stale on his tongue and she loses interest too quickly before returning to her post. His mood sours further as the day stretches on.

Jaskier ends up wandering around town without an aim in mind. The only place he’s carefully avoiding is the market, and the stable, and the smith’s shop. Anywhere he might bump into Geralt. When night draws in, a sudden downpour catches him off guard and drenches him from inside out.

Great. Just the perfect ending to the worst—well, the second worst day of Jaskier’s life.

Candles are still lit as Jaskier enters the room. He finds Geralt fast asleep already, and on the table, right next to his writing supplies, is a lemon cake.

It’s drizzled in honey and looks just as enticing as he imagined.

Jaskier picks it up and finds a lump forming in his throat, choking him with guilt. He wants to scream, to let out the frustration at all the mistakes made in the past and haunting him still. He wants to cry. It’s just…

Now, he doesn’t know if he still deserves to.

---

Okay, I know I'm being mean to Geralt here, but don't worry, I’ gonna be mean to Jaskier in the next one ;)

Also, whatever Jaskier is doing here is very unhealthy. Don't try this at home.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier being an idiot #geralt apologizes #mutual pining #miscommunication #cursed jaskier #jaskier whump #reverse trope #lying spell

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chokemeanakin · 4 years ago

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I dont know if you are taking requests but if you are, could you please write something where reader has trouble masturbating, every time she tries she just CANT, so anakin (theyre just friends but they always had lots of sexual tension) helps her out and does it for her so she cums for the first time. THANK YOU!!!

A Dream Come True - Anakin Skywalker x fem Reader (smut)

Masterlist

Read it on ao3

Wc: 5.4k

A low warmth is rising in your belly, pulled from the depths by your wandering fingers. They’re working against your clit, rubbing it side to side, faster and hard, trying so desperately to remain in that warm haze of pleasure you’ve spent so long building up. It feels good, but you need more.

The many late nights spent with your girlfriends cross your mind, and how you would sit by idly during each one as they discussed their own personal affairs in the bedroom. You were the least experienced, but listened in awe as they told you the latest on what their partners have done to surprise them in bed. How they made them scream and shake, their eyes roll back into their head, and cum all over until they couldn’t take anymore.

You were too embarrassed to admit you’d never felt that way before. You thought you were broken.

Which is why you’re here, fingers glued to your hard nub, rubbing furiously to try and get yourself to feel something. You do feel something, but it’s not earth-shattering, leg-shaking, eye-rolling like your friends had described. Frustration fuels your movements as you attack your clit, holding your breath, forcing the warmth to build and build and build--

Nothing.

Your arm aches with the strain as you halt your movements, chest heaving when you allow yourself to breathe. Self-pity outweighs your disappointment as the subtle warmth dissipates, any pleasure that you had given yourself slipping away.

Broken, a small voice whispers inside your head. There’s something wrong with you.

What other reasoning could there be to explain why you can’t feel good?

Maybe, you argue, there needs to be something inside. That was always a big topic of discussion with your friends, how they “loved being filled.” Gathering your wits, you move your finger down, exploring your folds until you find your opening. Squeezing your eyes shut, you push a finger in, wincing at the sudden intrusion.

It stings more than anything, but you’re desperate so you decide to give it a chance. You’ve tried this before, and it’s never felt like anything more than a finger inside of you-- which is exactly what it is. And now, this situation proves to be the same. You feel around, hoping to find that spot everyone raves about, but your fingers are too short and the angle is weird. You push your finger in and out like how you think you’re supposed to, and it feels like nothing.

Maybe you need two?

You let another finger join the one that’s already inside, struggling to get it in.

Ow, you wince as your body rejects the intrusion. Your heartbeat picks up, a sudden anxiety joining the whirlwind of exasperation and discontent that has come from this situation. Is it supposed to hurt this much? The remnants of the need to satisfy yourself are still present, so you try again.

Making it back to your apartment had been a relief this evening, as all day you had been battling a relentless urge down below. You’re not too proud to admit that your… situation… had been a direct result of spending the day with Anakin, a good friend of yours who needed help finding a data entry in the corner of the Temple library. The entry supposedly had something to do with a cloaking mechanism for battleships, and when you had asked why he needed it when the Republic already had cloaking mechanisms, he mentioned that he was trying to translate the same technique to his own personal starship. No battlecraft as small as his has that ability, and with a ship as fast as his, it would give him a huge advantage on the battlefield.

You could listen to him talk about it all day.

You virtually had, as the data entry was just one small piece of paper-- a piece of scrap blueprint scrawled on a fragile, worried edge of some larger text, worn with time. You spent hours searching all over for it. Once you had finally dug it out of a dusty box in the deepest corner of the library, Anakin had lifted you into the air effortlessly, swinging you around as he hugged you and laughed.

You had walked home with a damp spot in your underwear, an undeniable throb that needed to be relieved.

He had no idea. No idea that his hands shot sparks up your spine as they closed around your waist. That his laugh turned your blood to lava, and his beautiful, smiling face made your heart skip a beat. He had no idea that he is the cause of your desperation, the reason you are torturing yourself by dangling an unknown pleasure before your face, knowing you can’t have it.

You manage to sink your second finger in a little, but the sting is too much, and you have to pull them both out.

Broken.

The door to your apartment suddenly swings open, and you throw your sheets over your bare legs in a panic. Your eyes find the clock next to your bed-- Shit. You’d lost track of the time.

The sound of those boots are unmistakable, and you find that praying you’re wrong is pointless when he calls out your name.

“Y/n--?” Anakin rounds the corner to peer into your room, features lighting up when he finally finds you. Curious eyes roam over your figure, wondering why you’re in bed when it was barely evening. “Are you feeling okay?”

Your cheeks flame with heat, and you can’t find the words to explain yourself out of this situation. Mentally, you’re beating yourself up for losing track of time, especially since you knew Anakin was coming over tonight. While searching for the data log, you mentioned you had always wanted to try his favorite childhood drink-- ruby bliels-- and he promised he’d treat you tonight after you found the blueprint. It was his thank you gift to you, but now you needed to find a way to get him out of your apartment before he realized what was going on.

Your mouth hangs open like a gaping fish, and you know it’s too late. Anakin’s brain is as fast as his superhuman reflexes, and you can see the gears click into place as his eyes flit from your red cheeks, to the messy covers strewn over your legs, to the crumpled panties lying discarded on the floor. Your hand is even still frozen between your legs, your activities becoming clear as he senses the remnants of pleasure and disappointment still hanging around the room.

“Oh…” is all he says, looking lost for a moment. You expect him to apologize and turn away, run out of the apartment and then never speak to you again. You wouldn’t blame him. Finding a friend in this position can never be a comfortable experience.

Instead a slow smirk crawls onto his face, and he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You need some help with that?”

You should have known. The smug little bastard-- of course he’d find this amusing. Your face grows impossibly redder, and you wish a black hole would just open beneath you already and swallow you up. Anakin finds your humiliation endearing, and laughs good-naturedly.

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it,” he slinks out of the doorway, crooking his finger in the air to close the door after him. “I’ll be in the kitchen setting up for the bliels when you’re done--”

“Wait!”

You’re just as shocked as he is at the words that leave your mouth. He freezes in place, the door still open a crack. There’s too many thoughts running through your head right now, but the one that stands out the most has you pulling your hand away from your center, sitting up in bed so you can address him clearly.

You never thought you’d be able to speak these words to him. For so long, you had wanted him in every way possible. But he’s a Jedi, unable to form attachments, and more than that-- a friend. A very good friend. And breaching the topic that you know you both feel for each other had the potential to ruin it all.

But the minute he had opened that door, still dressed in that black leather armor, hair perfectly curled and messy, so tall and strong and devilishly handsome leaning against your doorframe-- he was beautiful, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of his offering. Even if it might have been a joke.

You had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t.

“I… I do need help.”

There. You said it. And you’re pretty certain the only reason you could force the words past your lips is because his back is still facing you. But then he opens the door again, turns to meet your eyes, and cocks his head.

“Really?”

You’re not sure how to feel about the concern on his face. You guess it’s better than him being disgusted, or awkward, or uncomfortable. And it’s not an outright rejection. That realization gives you the push you need to explain yourself.

“I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Now he looks concerned. Walking a few steps into the room, he stops by the edge of your bed and folds his arms across his chest. He’s studying every inch of you, reaching into the force to try and gauge the nature of your words. “What do you mean?”

He’s standing so close now, you can see the blue of his eyes and the wrinkle between his furrowed brows. It does nothing to calm your sizzling nerves. However, you’re concrete on your desires now. While you would have liked to confess your feelings for him in a more… romantic way, the intensity of your need for him in this very moment overshadows rational thought. Besides, it’s not like this is a declaration of love. That could always come later. For right now, you need his help, and you’re certain that you can trust him not to make fun of you or shame you for trying in if he declines.

“I can’t…” you take a deep breath, staring at your hands in your lap. “I can’t make myself feel good.”

Your voice is so quiet, embarrassed and ashamed, but he catches the yearning under it all. His face smooths, comforted by the fact that you’re not injured or dying in some way. Deep down, something sparks alive in his veins.

That’s the issue? Well… it’s definitely something he can help you with.

“Hmm.” His face is thoughtful as he scans your position. His hand gestures vaguely down your body. “Do you want to show me what you’re doing?”

Your blood freezes at his request. For some reason, it didn’t cross your mind how asking for his help would require him to see you… naked.

“If you’re too embarrassed, we can just--”

You cut off his words by throwing the blanket off. There, like ripping off a bandaid. His eyes drink in the exposed skin of your legs, and although they’re closed and he can’t be seeing much more than he’s already seen before, they darken. A small twitch of his fingers, and the door clicks shut behind him.

He takes a seat on the side of the bed, next to your legs, and rests his metal hand on your knee. Your heart beats like a hummingbird's wings at the sudden proximity, and the nerves pile up again at the thought of what’s going to happen.

“Wait-- um… actually, can you come here?”

You reach out to take his metal hand from your knee, and pull him up the bed so that he’s hovering over you. He’s still sitting, the upper half of his body twisted toward you, caging you in with a hand on either side of you. He’s smiling softly, and his eyes twinkle with something fond.

He doesn’t need to ask to know that you’re nervous. The rigidity in your muscles, the flightyness of your eyes, the hammer of your heart-- he can feel it all, and he wants nothing more than to quell your fears. So he lifts an arm to cup your face in his large hand, smoothing a thumb over your cheekbone in a silent request for you to look at him.

Once you muster up the courage to meet his eyes, his smile grows, and he says something that steals your breath.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh, how long you’ve wanted him to say those words to you. Countless nights, you’d run them through your head, imagining all the scenarios in which it could happen. Certainly, this was not one of them, but you definitely aren’t going to complain.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you give him a nod, and lean forward a fraction in invitation. Your veins sing with anticipation, warmth spreading from your cheeks to every small nook and cranny of your body as he angles your face up toward his. Your eyes flutter close, and he leans down, and--

Bliss.

His lips are warm against yours, soft, applying the gentlest of pressures. You always thought he’d be a good kisser-- he was experienced, and he’d hinted at some of his more scandalous escapades a couple times in passing conversation. You’d asked him before, how he could do that when Jedi aren’t allowed to form attachments, which resulted in him going into a full lecture on how non-attachment didn’t translate to abstinence being “The Jedi Way”, even if it was supported within the Order. Really, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anything, until he fell on the defensive position that he was almost certain Obi-Wan had done stuff as well.

Which-- great. Now you realized you were less experienced than even two Jedi.

These thoughts are snuffed out like candles, one by one, as Anakin kisses you. In fact, your whole mind goes blank, a wave washing over all of your worries away and dragging them out to sea. You’re drifting on that wave, drowning in the heady feel of him, the warm taste of him. His slow inhale reminds you to breathe as he moves his lips against yours languidly. It’s heaven, the way he’s yours for just this moment. He might not think anything of this kiss, but to you, it’s like your deepest fantasies are coming true. With each moment that passes where he tilts his head and closes his lips over yours, you can pretend that he is yours, completely and unconditionally.

Eventually he pulls back, eyes fluttering open, and you realize you’re still lost at sea.

“Good?” his voice is low and raspy as his gaze bores into yours. You wonder if he knows how intense his eyes can be sometimes.

“Yes.”

He presses another quick kiss to your lips, your heart spasming at the act, before he trails kisses down your jaw, tasting the skin of your neck. Your breath picks up again, hands finding his curls as you gasp at the feeling. His teeth skim over the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he presses a kiss to your throbbing pulse. He means for the kisses to be distracting, soothing, so that you’ll be more comfortable with him, and he thinks it’s working until a faint moan leaves your mouth.

So it’s really working.

Anakin’s eyes flick up to yours, and you can feel the smirk against your skin. Embarrassment crashes down on you again but Anakin repeats the motion, nipping at your skin and then smoothing his tongue over the mark, sucking gently to try to elicit another reaction. You gift him one against your will, and suddenly he’s got lava pouring into his veins.

You’re so lost in the feeling of his mouth on you that you don’t even realize his warm hand has travelled from your face, down the middle of your body, gripping onto the pliant flesh of your thigh and pulling you toward him. You let him, rolling your body into him to try and relieve that reappearing ache in your center.

It’s the same feeling that had built up all day, and it’s returned with a vengeance. You can feel the wetness seep out, slicking your thighs up. Your clit throbs and your pussy clenches around nothing, begging for something to satisfy the ache. You rub your thighs together to help, but Anakin slides a hand to the inside of your thigh and coaxes your legs apart. Any embarrassment you felt before has been beat out by a yearning for his touch, the need to have his fingers on you, inside you--

“Show me how you’ve been doing it,” Anakin mumbles into your neck.

You open your eyes, pulled up from the haze of pleasure he’d submerged you in. Your hand only shakes slightly as you release his hair and bring it back to your skin. He pulls back a few inches to watch, the heat of his body so close to yours causing goosebumps to erupt all over your body.

His eyes hone in on your hand, following its descent to your warm center. You still can’t wrap your head around the fact that someone is seeing you like this, but now your veins sing with a satisfied realization that he’s the one seeing you like this. He’s the only one who ever has. And he seems to like what he’s seeing.

You don’t miss the way he inhales, the way his teeth capture a sliver of his bottom lip as your fingers finally reach your heat. You begin to do what you’ve always done-- rub your fingers back and forth over your nub, working that pleasure from it.

It feels good, different than what it felt like when you were alone. You’re sure his eyes on you, the proximity, his mere presence has something to do with that. You can still taste him on your lips and you close your eyes, licking them to relive the kiss. You focus on the warmth of his body, the dip of the bed where his arm is planted beside you, the weight of his other hand still holding your thigh open, the scent of his black leather and spice of his shampoo. It definitely feels better when he’s here, the knowledge of him watching adding to your excitement.

But still, you can only build yourself up to a certain point. The pleasure plateaus, and soon you begin to feel awkward at the fact that nothing is happening. It’s not enough to make you moan, or move, or show any reaction really. Your hand stills, and you look at him uncertainly.

Anakin blinks and brings his eyes back up. “Have you tried fingering yourself?”

You almost choke. You’re not sure why his blunt nature surprises you anymore.

He’s looking at you curiously, completely serious, waiting for an answer. So you clear your throat and slide your finger down to your entrance, pushing in.

It goes in easier than before, and there’s no sting. But you don’t even have to move to know you’re literally going to get nothing out of it, and trying is useless.

“This is what I’m talking about,” you tell him. “It doesn’t feel like anything. And when I try two, it hurts. I think I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he frowns, smoothing your hair away from your forehead and replacing it with a kiss. Your heart melts at the action that you’re sure is meant to be comforting, but only deepens your adoration of him. He sits up and you immediately miss him, although you understand he needs a better angle as he slides his hand from your thigh to the top of your pelvis. He hesitates, questioning. “Can I?”

You pull your finger out and push yourself up onto your forearms, nodding for him to go ahead.

His touch is light as a feather as his fingertips make contact with your swollen nub. Your breath hitches in your chest, thighs immediately opening wider on their own accord to get him to increase the pressure. He watches your face as he fulfills your silent request, massaging your clit in slow, gentle circles.

Fireworks are exploding behind your eyes, and you melt into a puddle on the bed. He’s barely even touching you, and somehow it already feels so much better than anything you’ve done to yourself. Quiet whimpers fall from your lips and the sounds make him need a steadying breath, reminding himself to go slow. Obviously, no one has ever touched you before, and he doesn’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.

The sight of your head tilted back, teeth biting at your lips to quiet your sounds, fingers clutching at the bedsheets-- a very sudden, very real desire to absolutely ruin you slams into him.

But no. That can come later.

He brings his metal hand up to your face, thumb tracing over your bottom lip and pulling it from your teeth. “You don’t have to be quiet with me,” he tells you, the ministrations on your clit with his other hand never ceasing. Instead, he picks up the pace, increasing the pressure, drinking in the sight of your hips moving against his fingers.

You’re absolutely drenched, dripping down your thighs and puddling onto the bedsheets. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this wet before, or felt this good before, and the warmth you’ve always felt is transforming into a ball of heat in your stomach. You hone into the feeling, the heat pulsing with each pass of his fingers, each wet slide of him against you--

“You have to breathe, Y/n,” Anakin chuckles, slowing his touch. You gasp in a deep breath, whining at the loss of friction, but he appeases you by slipping his fingers from your clit to your entrance. He doesn’t push in-- instead he circles his finger around it, collecting your slick, reading your every response.

“Please, can you…” you buck your hips up, but he doesn’t allow his finger to slide in until you finish your sentence. “Can you put it in?”

He can’t keep the tiny, darkly satisfied smile off his face. He’s always had fantasies of you like this, squirming beneath him and begging for his touch. He basks in the fulfilled wish of his, drinking in every second so he can remember it for later. Meanwhile, his finger massages your hole, dipping in with just the tip before pulling back out.

“Fuck,” you hiss, once again surprised at your own reaction. Your head is far past the point of clouding with lust, and now you’re dizzy with pleasure and the need to just have him inside of you already. “Anakin, please.”

“Patience,” he answers teasingly, although he does mean it. You can’t rush these things. And… he does have to admit that he loves seeing you so desperate and messy for him. Your neediness has him strain against his own pants, but he pushes that aside. For now, another dip of his finger into your throbbing pussy has you arch off the bed, urging him deeper, and it’s heaven to witness.

He didn’t want to go all in just yet, but you’re gushing around his finger and taking it so well. So he lets you have it, sinking his finger all the way into you. You feel him go deeper and deeper, the never-ending length of his finger a stark contrast to your shorter ones. He’s reaching places you were never able to, and even the slide of him inside you elicits a deep, warm pleasure that spreads to the tips of your fingers.

He keeps his finger all the way inside for a moment, still as he feels your walls clench around him. Once he’s sure you’re all good, he begins pressing into you with shallow thrusts, thumb returning to your clit and rubbing in time with each push of his finger.

Curses spill from your lips, and Anakin can’t help himself. He leans down over you and captures them in his mouth, swallowing your cries of pleasure. The kiss is wet, dirty, and the muffled sounds of your moans combat the indecent slick and slide below. Soon, another finger is nudging at your opening, and you press yourself deeper into his lips in anticipation of that painful sting.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, his finger slides in a couple inches and he keeps both of them there, letting you adjust as his thumb rolls over your clit. You had never been able to use two fingers before, and your head goes fuzzy as he pushes them deeper. Your walls stretch around him pleasantly, accepting the welcome intrusion as he reaches deep inside you.

How is it fair that he can make you feel so much better than you can make yourself? It doesn’t seem right in the whole grand scheme of things, but you decide not to question it as his fingers suddenly curl inside you, searching. It feels odd, and he pulls back from your lips to concentrate for a second until-- there. Found it.

You almost knock your head into his as you shoot up, a startled cry leaving your lips as your vision whites with pleasure. Your fingers claw at his back, meeting the leather that still sits on his shoulders, and scrabbling over the smooth material for purchase. Anakin laughs at your reaction, easing you into a more comfortable position as he holds you against him with his metal arm behind your back.

You can’t find it in you to care that he’s laughing, not as long as he keeps rolling the pads of his fingers into you like this. His wrist curls, applying a harder pressure as he rubs against that spot, and your head falls back, hips pushing forward, the lewdest sounds you’ve ever heard leaving your mouth.

“You like that,” he notes, proud smile ghosting over your lips. He kisses the corner of your mouth quick and sweet, then asks, “Is it better when I go slow or fast?”

“Both,” you gasp. “Either. All of it. Oh my--”

“Soft or hard?”

“Anakin--”

Your brain is unable to focus on much else other than the feel of his fingers coaxing that blissful heat from your center. He plays around with paces and pressures, but everything feels good, it feels great, it feels amazing, it feels euphoric. Before long, your legs are shaking and a weird feeling comes over you, and you’re crying out,

“What’s happening?”

Anakin pauses, his entire body stilling as he meets your eyes. You’re completely serious, that much he can tell by the vulnerability in your eyes. He frowns, unbelieving at this revelation.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

You whine and shift your hips into his hand, trying to get him to keep making you feel good. If this wasn’t your first time being with someone else, Anakin would have held your hip still and forced you to talk to him no matter how much you begged and pleaded. But, it was your first time with someone else, so he was deciding to be nice. He soothes your craving, resuming his movements but at a much slower pace. A pleased sigh from you fills the silence of him waiting expectantly for your answer.

“Um..” you swallow, hips meeting his hand with every thrust. “I don’t think so. No. Nothing’s ever felt… like… this…”

It’s like a sneeze, except much, much better. The way his fingers prod into you, slick with your arousal, the tips brushing and massaging against that spot that have you careening into his body. You would have toppled over on top of him if he wasn’t so strong and rooted to the bed. He holds your shivering body against his chest with his metal arm, lips marking their way around your chin and jaw as your head falls back in ecstasy.

He’s immensely turned on, that much is obvious from the painful straining in his pants. But it’s easy to ignore, knowing now that you’ve never fallen off that brink of pleasure before. He’s curious about it, oddly saddened by the fact, and wants nothing more than to show you the absolute highs he could help you reach. So he focuses back in on rubbing your clit with his thumb, fucking you deeply on his fingers. He allows you to clutch at his back and bury your hands in his hair, moaning in abandon.

Anakin shares you pleasure as the ball in your stomach unleashes, a blissful warmth crashing over you and invading your every cell. For a moment, your body isn’t yours-- it convulses and clenches around Anakin’s fingers, your cries bounce off the walls, your eyes squeeze closed. You hope the hands twisted into his hair don’t hurt him because you physically can’t let go as you ride that pleasure-filled haze, the feeling in your limbs abandoning you to be replaced with something much stronger.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are your gasps of air and the blood rushing through your ears. Anakin waits until your muscles relax, and then he slides his fingers out of you, smoothing his hand around your waist to join his other behind your back. He lays you down into the pillows again, burying his face in your neck as you struggle to get your legs to stop shaking.

“Y/n,” he mouths a line up your neck. “You there?”

“Mhm,” you gulp, the shock of that intense, pleasurable feeling just beginning to fade.

He pressed his deep chuckle into the spot right under your ear. “Good. I thought I lost you for a moment.”

If you were in your right state of mind, you would have laughed at his teasing. Now, all you can do is cup his face lazily in your boneless hands, pulling his face up so that you can look at him. His cheeks are flushed the slightest pink, eyes dark and sparkling, lips so red and full and inviting…

You kiss him, and he’s yours for a moment longer.

If only it could always be like this. If only this could be a daily experience, and afterwards you could take care of him, and you could feel that wonderful euphoria with him at the same time. If only he wouldn’t have to pull away soon, untangle himself from your still-shaking limbs, brush off what just happened, and be on his way. If only he could be yours forever.

All of this, you try to tell him through the kiss. Your lips are hot, sliding over with a wanton need. He feels your yearning, and he can tell it’s a different kind than earlier. You move to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his low voice murmurs, and now he doesn’t look so playful. In fact, he looks very serious, and the rumble of his words causes your stomach to drop. “You should know, Y/n, I want you too.”

The whole room could be on fire and burning and falling to ash around you, but you wouldn’t notice. Everything pales in comparison to the flames that erupt in your heart at the sound of his words.

“You do?”

He purses his lips, running his eyes up and down your face. You’re nervous, and hopeful, and so, so scared. And also… still shivering. Most likely due to the cold, at this point. And he’s sure the drunken affects of your orgasm are still holding sway over your mind.

“This is a conversation I think would be much better held over some ruby bliels,” he decides, and begins to unwind himself from you. You let him, that hopeful spark still searing through your veins. Before getting off the bed, he presses a kiss into your hand and then smooths over it with his thumb.

You want to say something cute or witty, but the only thing your dumb brain can come up with is, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he smiles fondly, moving toward the door. “I’ll meet you out there. Feel free to remain pantsless.”

This has you rolling your eyes, laughing lightly as you fall back against the pillows. Don’t tempt me.

The prospect of a future with Anakin is at the forefront of your brain, blood pumping thick as molasses as you struggle to convince yourself this is reality. He shuts the door behind him as you leave, and you roll onto your stomach to scream into the pillow.

This was a dream come true.

#anakin skywalker x fem reader #anakin x fem reader #anakin skywalker fic #anakin fic #anakin x fem reader fic #anakin skywalker x fem reader fic #soft anakin #friends to lovers #star wars prequels fic

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