#it's not an inevitable law of the universe that this is how it has to be

[redstrewn]

Part of me is team "leander is like that to everyone" bc he also plans to recruit MC into his Bloodhounds in the future ("not yet"). Despite knowing the Bloodhounds for years he isn't close to them. Makes me think he ups the charm and seduction to anyone who may be of use to him to get them to pledge their allegiance.

[genshin-scenarios]

spiderverse —!

Summary: Spider-verse AUs with the genshin guys! Each features a reader in a different role. There will be references to ‘Into the Spiderverse’ and other renditions of spiderman (vaguely).

Characters: Kinich, Heizou, Tighnari-Cyno, Venti, Wriothesley, Lyney

Kinich

By day, Kinich is a recluse who spends the better half of his free time volunteering at the local animal reserve. It’s also where he got bitten by a radioactive spider, and you can probably guess what happened next.

Ajaw is a unique phenomenon — a ‘Venom-like’ symbiote who latches specifically to technology. After Kinich managed to seal him away in a random cell phone, Ajaw has made a deal with the hero to become an assistant of sorts. If you listen carefully, you almost always hear a second voice coming out of Spiderman’s mask — Ajaw, trying to get Kinich to choose violence, while Kinich kicks him off the server for being a distraction.

However, times when they do work together are one of the most terrifying things anyone can see. Kinich’s spidersuit is engulfed in Ajaw’s power, and every lunge and strike is more destructive than the last. Often, Ajaw tries to overpower Kinich and take over his vessel, but Kinich has more than a few safety precautions to prevent the symbiote from possessing him fully. 

You’re a spiderhero from another universe, much like the situation in ITSV (except it’s only the two of you)! Some sort of interdimensional portal has stranded you in Kinich’s world, and you were quick to track him down when he was on shift at the animal reserve one day, appearing out of nowhere and gaining his suspicion. The night ended swiftly, with you escaping and leaving a thousand questions in his head, while the building’s alarms blared deafeningly, trying and failing to locate the intruder that has since disappeared into the shadows.

It’s a shortlived game of cat and mouse, considering how you wanted to get Kinich’s help in figuring out how to get home. One thing leads to another, and your secretive interactions admittedly become a large part of Kinich’s daily life. When he realises that you’re destined to leave his world to protect your own one day, Kinich is left with a feeling that’s foreign to him: gaping loneliness, sitting next to an empty spot on the rooftop that used to be yours. 

It’s not just the fact that you understand him on a level that most others never would — but having something to look forward to when he was Spiderman was such a saving grace. Swooping past skyscrapers alongside you, going on impromptu missions (dates), and revelling at how normal you look without your mask on. He recognises the lilt in your voice, the scrunch of your brow, and knows deep down that there's no way to undo how your existence has been engraved into him. 

…And deep down, he already feels the stab of how hollow it will feel, when those who’ve seen you two hanging out together inevitably ask where you’ve gone. And all he can say is that you’ve moved back to your city with your family, knowing there was no way for any of them to find you. 

Heizou

Shikanoin Heizou is a talented detective in Inazuma’s capital city, while Spiderman is a local hero. One works with the law while the other is sometimes considered a vigilante, but as far as Heizou is concerned, there was nothing wrong with using different methods to solve a case. So long as the outcome was the ideal, or best possible, he didn’t have the luxury of beating himself up over other ‘what ifs’ and ‘what can I do better’s.

Besides, Shikanoin Heizou was a genius detective, and with that came a high amount of success rates in his civilian profile. Spiderman, on the other hand, represents the parts of justice that sometimes can never be controlled — a criminal who was about to surrender, only to have been attacked by a third-party cop. A villain who realised the error of his ways and ended his life to spare the city, and the families Heizou reminded him still lived within it. 

…A friend who was stealing for the wrong reasons, and reached a tragic end. There are many ugly conclusions to the cases Heizou tackles, but all he can do is push on. While being Spiderman places more responsibility in his hands, it was better than not being able to do anything.

And even at times where Heizou’s morale is at an all time low, he can at least rely on your presence to make his days brighter. You’re a reporter who likes to visit him for psychological support and gossip — and while he’d never say it aloud, everyone with eyes can tell that you’re his favourite media staff. He gives you more intel and hints to your own cases than he does with anyone else, and even assists you as Spiderman from time to time.

Heizou isn’t one to place his trust in others easily, but when you defended ‘the detective Heizou’ during a run-in with ‘Spiderman’, who’d criticised the police’s slow progress on a large case, it was a little hard not to feel endeared. Heizou still remembers the frown etched into your face as you told him that the detectives were doing all they could. And to cooperate with them himself if he was so confident.

It’s an odd situation for sure, to see you acting wary with his hero-persona yet so warm and caring towards his civilian self. Regardless, Heizou’s main worry now is keeping you safe within a climate of risky investigations and volatile third-parties. So long as you place your faith in him, he’ll do everything he can to defend you in turn.

Tighnari-Cyno

Yes, this is a Tighnari x Reader x Cyno situation! 

Tighnari and Cyno are the two spidermen of Sumeru — they work together on a reluctant basis, since they are unaware of each other’s real identities. Not to mention that Tighnari (Vulpes) is more outspoken and sharp-tongued in his hero persona, while Cyno (Lupus) is endlessly talkative and fond of bad science jokes even at really bad times. 

It’s a little similar to their regular selves, but dialed up within the drama of their hero work. While they get along well enough, Tighnari is endlessly exasperated about Lupus, while Cyno thinks that Vulpes needs to lighten up. (You could say that they aggravate one-another).

It does kill Cyno to not tell his best friends about his secret identity, but he is more than aware of the danger it’ll bring to them all. Besides, it’s not like he’s working alone against these villains, so it’s fine! In fact, this would be a very cool thing to reveal decades into the future, once the danger has passed onto other heroes who adopt the mantel 

This is where you come in as their best friend in school! You can generally be found as a trio, and while everyone’s been ‘busier’ since the year started, you still make time to catch up with one-another about things going on in your lives.

…But, seeing as both Cyno and Tighnari are keeping their spider-selves a secret, they’ve developed different systems to make convincing stories about how they spend their weekend. Tighnari rambles something about collecting new plants to add to his collection, and then has to rush to the florist after he agrees to let you see them after this (he had to jump in through his room window to put everything into place.)

Meanwhile, Cyno keeps droning about some Dungeon and Dragon’s campaign he’s developing for your larger friendgroup to try, when in reality he has nothing written down. It’s mostly just inspired from his daydreaming during patrols as Lupus, which Vulpes always snaps him out of with a whack to the head. 

The kicker, however, is when you become a bystander to a large villain attack one day, and upon the conclusion of it, Tighnari may have accepted a thank-you kiss from you (on the cheek) as Vulpes. It was a stupid decision, seeing as you didn’t even know it was him. But Tighnari was too busy trying to hide his own flushing ears when you were retelling this, to notice the way Cyno’s expression blanked out (he is planning a confrontation with Vulpes as you speak). 

Said confrontation will be one of the few times he sees Vulpes looking uncertain, or embarrassed, which immediately throws Cyno off his initial anger. It makes Cyno question if Vulpes knew who you were in real life, but Cyno forces himself to stamp that curiosity away in favour of their secret identities.

Venti

You and Venti were close friends in Mondstadt, before you had to move to Liyue for family reasons. In reality, you were getting dragged into a different sort of superhero business, within a universe where many other heroes exist (like the MCU with the Avengers and etc).

As such, this AU takes on a more casual route! You’re thankfully not too far away, so Venti can visit you via a train or bus ride. But it’s never the same as when he’d knock on your window after a rough day, not able to tell you it was because of a mission as Barbatos (Spiderman), but you always accepted him with open arms anyways. Him visiting you like that was nothing new, even before he’d become a superhero. And Venti never intended to cut off that connection with you.

But, you never told him about your hero-business either. Which is why when Venti tries to visit your apartment on a whim (just to see how you were doing, and then leaving back to Mondstadt immediately since he was in the area after chasing a villain) — he can’t resist the urge to enter through the window when he sees that no one is there. 

He just wanted to see how different things might be, compared to your old place. He’s getting hit by a web-block of all things at this time, and god, he can’t bring himself to call you up just to listen to his woes, but he misses you.

After what only felt like a few seconds, he hears footsteps at the door. Venti panics, praying to all radioactive spiders in the world that his web-block is not active now and sticks to the ceiling as your parents come in to look for you, only to leave after realising you aren’t there.

He lets out a sigh of relief, soundlessly steps back onto the floor. Only to hear the sound of something charging up to shoot behind his back.

‘Hands on your head. Turn around.’ 

The last thing you thought you’d see as the suited-infiltrator followed your instructions, was to see your best friend’s face. Eyes widened in just as much surprise as you were feeling, before he breaks into a sheepish smile.

‘Venti?’ ‘...Can I put my hands down now?’ ‘What are you doing here?’

And so, Venti ends up staying the night. He hides while you grab two portions of dinner and set it on the desk. Explanations float into the air. You tell him that your family only moved because of a project from Morax Companies. One employing your parents, while another recruited you for a certain task force. 

Lore exchanges were quick to follow. Venti tries to defend his honour when you snort, asking him to reiterate that he was bitten by a radioactive spider. ‘So you can, like—stick to the wall and stuff? Like what I saw in the news?’ 

To make a point, Venti shoots a web to wrap around your wrist, using it to tug you forward towards him. You lose your balance and end up closer than he intended, forcing the room to fall into embarrassed silence. 

This was certainly going to be a long night.

Wriothesley

As the owner of an underground boxing ring, it was safe to say that Wriothesley’s origins as Spiderman was an incredibly tragic, and dramatic one. Forced into a corner as thugs attempted to take over his underground settlement, Wriothesley almost thought he wasn’t going to make it out alive when a stinging pain bit into the back of his neck.

Minutes later, the floor was cleared of hostiles, and order was restored. No one knows who Spiderman is until this day, other than you — the detective who’s always worked with Wriothesley for tough cases and invited him to casual teatime chats.

In his defence, working with you was a matter of course. You helped cover his tracks as Spiderman and the owner of an illegal business. …And you also came from the same orphanage as him. If there’s anyone who understands the need for an anchor within this world of muddled morals and false promises, it was you.

What he doesn’t appreciate, however, is the way you always find yourself in the middle of trouble. It comes with the territory of being the city’s best detective, but sometimes Wriothesley swears you have more enemies than him. More than a few times, he finds himself carrying you in his arms after a rather precarious mission, and you have the cheek to thank him and place a kiss on his lips, blocked by his mask. 

His fighting style does leave him with more injuries than not. Despite how most spiderheroes tend to use agility over strength, Wriothesley never shook off the habit of using punches and brute strength, in order to physically reorient his opponents. It’s less city damage, but the result is more strain on his body, and a silver lining of you exasperatedly scolding him as you treat his wounds. 

‘At this rate, I’m going to have to replace you as Spiderman if you ever get so injured you can’t continue.’

As if he’d ever let that happen. The last thing that’ll ever happen is him leaving your side, after all the hell you’ve been through together. If there was ever a world where you were separated, he knows that every version of himself would cross the multiverse for you.

Lyney

As a reverse, you are the Spiderman while Lyney, Lynette and Freminet are part of the Fatui — not necessarily just a villain organisation, but an antagonistic force with a dangerous set of special agents nevertheless.

You first meet when you’re fighting Lyney and Lynette, in an attempt to put a stop to the Fatui’s nefarious plans. They’re known as the Phantom Twins but are otherwise unnamed — but it's clear from that one interaction that one of said twins were incredibly talkative and taunting, aggravatingly so, whilst the other was a silent blade.

Next, you meet as your civilian selves in school. Neither party suspects anything of the other, but the main attraction comes in the form of Lyney developing a hopeless crush on you. He admires you from afar, and all you know about him is that he’s a friendly, charming classmate. 

Then, by night: chasing the twins across the city’s rooftops, attempting to get back an artefact they stole from the museum. If you don’t get it back soon, that one reporter that hates Spiderman’s guts is going to imply that you were in on the heist too, for sure.

In that moment of distracted thought, Lyney sneaks up from behind you and holds a weapon to your neck. Silently threatening to use it if you move, and it takes all the self control in your body to not act out when you hear the smirk in his voice. 

‘A little distracted today, are we? While I can empathise with having something on one’s mind, it really shouldn’t interrupt our dance. Unless you were thinking of another partner?’

It’s clear from his tone that his words were meant to purely taunt you. His false sympathy dripped like honey, making you see red.

If you ever got a chance to unmask these two, you already know who you’re going to get revenge on first. (Let’s just hope that this dance of double-lives doesn't interrupt each other too much, at the end of this saga. Perhaps Lyney will find out your secret identity first, and begin to sympathise with you — between his loyalty to the Fatui and his love for you, he surely will be put into a tough spot. And if he doesn’t play his cards right, he might just have to sacrifice himself to the fire to preserve your light.)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Copyright takedowns are a cautionary tale that few are heeding

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

We're living through one of those moments when millions of people become suddenly and overwhelmingly interested in fair use, one of the subtlest and worst-understood aspects of copyright law. It's not a subject you can master by skimming a Wikipedia article!

I've been talking about fair use with laypeople for more than 20 years. I've met so many people who possess the unshakable, serene confidence of the truly wrong, like the people who think fair use means you can take x words from a book, or y seconds from a song and it will always be fair, while anything more will never be.

Or the people who think that if you violate any of the four factors, your use can't be fair – or the people who think that if you fail all of the four factors, you must be infringing (people, the Supreme Court is calling and they want to tell you about the Betamax!).

You might think that you can never quote a song lyric in a book without infringing copyright, or that you must clear every musical sample. You might be rock solid certain that scraping the web to train an AI is infringing. If you hold those beliefs, you do not understand the "fact intensive" nature of fair use.

But you can learn! It's actually a really cool and interesting and gnarly subject, and it's a favorite of copyright scholars, who have really fascinating disagreements and discussions about the subject. These discussions often key off of the controversies of the moment, but inevitably they implicate earlier fights about everything from the piano roll to 2 Live Crew to antiracist retellings of Gone With the Wind.

One of the most interesting discussions of fair use you can ask for took place in 2019, when the NYU Engelberg Center on Innovation Law & Policy held a symposium called "Proving IP." One of the panels featured dueling musicologists debating the merits of the Blurred Lines case. That case marked a turning point in music copyright, with the Marvin Gaye estate successfully suing Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams for copying the "vibe" of Gaye's "Got to Give it Up."

Naturally, this discussion featured clips from both songs as the experts – joined by some of America's top copyright scholars – delved into the legal reasoning and future consequences of the case. It would be literally impossible to discuss this case without those clips.

And that's where the problems start: as soon as the symposium was uploaded to Youtube, it was flagged and removed by Content ID, Google's $100,000,000 copyright enforcement system. This initial takedown was fully automated, which is how Content ID works: rightsholders upload audio to claim it, and then Content ID removes other videos where that audio appears (rightsholders can also specify that videos with matching clips be demonetized, or that the ad revenue from those videos be diverted to the rightsholders).

But Content ID has a safety valve: an uploader whose video has been incorrectly flagged can challenge the takedown. The case is then punted to the rightsholder, who has to manually renew or drop their claim. In the case of this symposium, the rightsholder was Universal Music Group, the largest record company in the world. UMG's personnel reviewed the video and did not drop the claim.

99.99% of the time, that's where the story would end, for many reasons. First of all, most people don't understand fair use well enough to contest the judgment of a cosmically vast, unimaginably rich monopolist who wants to censor their video. Just as importantly, though, is that Content ID is a Byzantine system that is nearly as complex as fair use, but it's an entirely private affair, created and adjudicated by another galactic-scale monopolist (Google).

Google's copyright enforcement system is a cod-legal regime with all the downsides of the law, and a few wrinkles of its own (for example, it's a system without lawyers – just corporate experts doing battle with laypeople). And a single mis-step can result in your video being deleted or your account being permanently deleted, along with every video you've ever posted. For people who make their living on audiovisual content, losing your Youtube account is an extinction-level event:

https://www.eff.org/wp/unfiltered-how-youtubes-content-id-discourages-fair-use-and-dictates-what-we-see-online

So for the average Youtuber, Content ID is a kind of Kafka-as-a-Service system that is always avoided and never investigated. But the Engelbert Center isn't your average Youtuber: they boast some of the country's top copyright experts, specializing in exactly the questions Youtube's Content ID is supposed to be adjudicating.

So naturally, they challenged the takedown – only to have UMG double down. This is par for the course with UMG: they are infamous for refusing to consider fair use in takedown requests. Their stance is so unreasonable that a court actually found them guilty of violating the DMCA's provision against fraudulent takedowns:

https://www.eff.org/cases/lenz-v-universal

But the DMCA's takedown system is part of the real law, while Content ID is a fake law, created and overseen by a tech monopolist, not a court. So the fate of the Blurred Lines discussion turned on the Engelberg Center's ability to navigate both the law and the n-dimensional topology of Content ID's takedown flowchart.

It took more than a year, but eventually, Engelberg prevailed.

Until they didn't.

If Content ID was a person, it would be baby, specifically, a baby under 18 months old – that is, before the development of "object permanence." Until our 18th month (or so), we lack the ability to reason about things we can't see – this the period when small babies find peek-a-boo amazing. Object permanence is the ability to understand things that aren't in your immediate field of vision.

Content ID has no object permanence. Despite the fact that the Engelberg Blurred Lines panel was the most involved fair use question the system was ever called upon to parse, it managed to repeatedly forget that it had decided that the panel could stay up. Over and over since that initial determination, Content ID has taken down the video of the panel, forcing Engelberg to go through the whole process again.

But that's just for starters, because Youtube isn't the only place where a copyright enforcement bot is making billions of unsupervised, unaccountable decisions about what audiovisual material you're allowed to access.

Spotify is yet another monopolist, with a justifiable reputation for being extremely hostile to artists' interests, thanks in large part to the role that UMG and the other major record labels played in designing its business rules:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

Spotify has spent hundreds of millions of dollars trying to capture the podcasting market, in the hopes of converting one of the last truly open digital publishing systems into a product under its control:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/27/enshittification-resistance/#ummauerter-garten-nein

Thankfully, that campaign has failed – but millions of people have (unwisely) ditched their open podcatchers in favor of Spotify's pre-enshittified app, so everyone with a podcast now must target Spotify for distribution if they hope to reach those captive users.

Guess who has a podcast? The Engelberg Center.

Naturally, Engelberg's podcast includes the audio of that Blurred Lines panel, and that audio includes samples from both "Blurred Lines" and "Got To Give It Up."

So – naturally – UMG keeps taking down the podcast.

Spotify has its own answer to Content ID, and incredibly, it's even worse and harder to navigate than Google's pretend legal system. As Engelberg describes in its latest post, UMG and Spotify have colluded to ensure that this now-classic discussion of fair use will never be able to take advantage of fair use itself:

https://www.nyuengelberg.org/news/how-explaining-copyright-broke-the-spotify-copyright-system/

Remember, this is the best case scenario for arguing about fair use with a monopolist like UMG, Google, or Spotify. As Engelberg puts it:

The Engelberg Center had an extraordinarily high level of interest in pursuing this issue, and legal confidence in our position that would have cost an average podcaster tens of thousands of dollars to develop. That cannot be what is required to challenge the removal of a podcast episode.

Automated takedown systems are the tech industry's answer to the "notice-and-takedown" system that was invented to broker a peace between copyright law and the internet, starting with the US's 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act. The DMCA implements (and exceeds) a pair of 1996 UN treaties, the WIPO Copyright Treaty and the Performances and Phonograms Treaty, and most countries in the world have some version of notice-and-takedown.

Big corporate rightsholders claim that notice-and-takedown is a gift to the tech sector, one that allows tech companies to get away with copyright infringement. They want a "strict liability" regime, where any platform that allows a user to post something infringing is liable for that infringement, to the tune of $150,000 in statutory damages.

Of course, there's no way for a platform to know a priori whether something a user posts infringes on someone's copyright. There is no registry of everything that is copyrighted, and of course, fair use means that there are lots of ways to legally reproduce someone's work without their permission (or even when they object). Even if every person who ever has trained or ever will train as a copyright lawyer worked 24/7 for just one online platform to evaluate every tweet, video, audio clip and image for copyright infringement, they wouldn't be able to touch even 1% of what gets posted to that platform.

The "compromise" that the entertainment industry wants is automated takedown – a system like Content ID, where rightsholders register their copyrights and platforms block anything that matches the registry. This "filternet" proposal became law in the EU in 2019 with Article 17 of the Digital Single Market Directive:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/09/today-europe-lost-internet-now-we-fight-back

This was the most controversial directive in EU history, and – as experts warned at the time – there is no way to implement it without violating the GDPR, Europe's privacy law, so now it's stuck in limbo:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/05/eus-copyright-directive-still-about-filters-eus-top-court-limits-its-use

As critics pointed out during the EU debate, there are so many problems with filternets. For one thing, these copyright filters are very expensive: remember that Google has spent $100m on Content ID alone, and that only does a fraction of what filternet advocates demand. Building the filternet would cost so much that only the biggest tech monopolists could afford it, which is to say, filternets are a legal requirement to keep the tech monopolists in business and prevent smaller, better platforms from ever coming into existence.

Filternets are also incapable of telling the difference between similar files. This is especially problematic for classical musicians, who routinely find their work blocked or demonetized by Sony Music, which claims performances of all the most important classical music compositions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/08/copyfraud/#beethoven-just-wrote-music

Content ID can't tell the difference between your performance of "The Goldberg Variations" and Glenn Gould's. For classical musicians, the best case scenario is to have their online wages stolen by Sony, who fraudulently claim copyright to their recordings. The worst case scenario is that their video is blocked, their channel deleted, and their names blacklisted from ever opening another account on one of the monopoly platforms.

But when it comes to free expression, the role that notice-and-takedown and filternets play in the creative industries is really a sideshow. In creating a system of no-evidence-required takedowns, with no real consequences for fraudulent takedowns, these systems are huge gift to the world's worst criminals. For example, "reputation management" companies help convicted rapists, murderers, and even war criminals purge the internet of true accounts of their crimes by claiming copyright over them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#dark-ops

Remember how during the covid lockdowns, scumbags marketed junk devices by claiming that they'd protect you from the virus? Their products remained online, while the detailed scientific articles warning people about the fraud were speedily removed through false copyright claims:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/18/labor-shortage-discourse-time/#copyfraud

Copyfraud – making false copyright claims – is an extremely safe crime to commit, and it's not just quack covid remedy peddlers and war criminals who avail themselves of it. Tech giants like Adobe do not hesitate to abuse the takedown system, even when that means exposing millions of people to spyware:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/13/theres-an-app-for-that/#gnash

Dirty cops play loud, copyrighted music during confrontations with the public, in the hopes that this will trigger copyright filters on services like Youtube and Instagram and block videos of their misbehavior:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/10/duke-sucks/#bhpd

But even if you solved all these problems with filternets and takedown, this system would still choke on fair use and other copyright exceptions. These are "fact intensive" questions that the world's top experts struggle with (as anyone who watches the Blurred Lines panel can see). There's no way we can get software to accurately determine when a use is or isn't fair.

That's a question that the entertainment industry itself is increasingly conflicted about. The Blurred Lines judgment opened the floodgates to a new kind of copyright troll – grifters who sued the record labels and their biggest stars for taking the "vibe" of songs that no one ever heard of. Musicians like Ed Sheeran have been sued for millions of dollars over these alleged infringements. These suits caused the record industry to (ahem) change its tune on fair use, insisting that fair use should be broadly interpreted to protect people who made things that were similar to existing works. The labels understood that if "vibe rights" became accepted law, they'd end up in the kind of hell that the rest of us enter when we try to post things online – where anything they produce can trigger takedowns, long legal battles, and millions in liability:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/08/oh-why/#two-notes-and-running

But the music industry remains deeply conflicted over fair use. Take the curious case of Katy Perry's song "Dark Horse," which attracted a multimillion-dollar suit from an obscure Christian rapper who claimed that a brief phrase in "Dark Horse" was impermissibly similar to his song "A Joyful Noise."

Perry and her publisher, Warner Chappell, lost the suit and were ordered to pay $2.8m. While they subsequently won an appeal, this definitely put the cold grue up Warner Chappell's back. They could see a long future of similar suits launched by treasure hunters hoping for a quick settlement.

But here's where it gets unbelievably weird and darkly funny. A Youtuber named Adam Neely made a wildly successful viral video about the suit, taking Perry's side and defending her song. As part of that video, Neely included a few seconds' worth of "A Joyful Noise," the song that Perry was accused of copying.

In court, Warner Chappell had argued that "A Joyful Noise" was not similar to Perry's "Dark Horse." But when Warner had Google remove Neely's video, they claimed that the sample from "Joyful Noise" was actually taken from "Dark Horse." Incredibly, they maintained this position through multiple appeals through the Content ID system:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/05/warner-chappell-copyfraud/#warnerchappell

In other words, they maintained that the song that they'd told the court was totally dissimilar to their own was so indistinguishable from their own song that they couldn't tell the difference!

Now, this question of vibes, similarity and fair use has only gotten more intense since the takedown of Neely's video. Just this week, the RIAA sued several AI companies, claiming that the songs the AI shits out are infringingly similar to tracks in their catalog:

https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/record-labels-sue-music-generators-suno-and-udio-1235042056/

Even before "Blurred Lines," this was a difficult fair use question to answer, with lots of chewy nuances. Just ask George Harrison:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Sweet_Lord

But as the Engelberg panel's cohort of dueling musicologists and renowned copyright experts proved, this question only gets harder as time goes by. If you listen to that panel (if you can listen to that panel), you'll be hard pressed to come away with any certainty about the questions in this latest lawsuit.

The notice-and-takedown system is what's known as an "intermediary liability" rule. Platforms are "intermediaries" in that they connect end users with each other and with businesses. Ebay and Etsy and Amazon connect buyers and sellers; Facebook and Google and Tiktok connect performers, advertisers and publishers with audiences and so on.

For copyright, notice-and-takedown gives platforms a "safe harbor." A platform doesn't have to remove material after an allegation of infringement, but if they don't, they're jointly liable for any future judgment. In other words, Youtube isn't required to take down the Engelberg Blurred Lines panel, but if UMG sues Engelberg and wins a judgment, Google will also have to pay out.

During the adoption of the 1996 WIPO treaties and the 1998 US DMCA, this safe harbor rule was characterized as a balance between the rights of the public to publish online and the interest of rightsholders whose material might be infringed upon. The idea was that things that were likely to be infringing would be immediately removed once the platform received a notification, but that platforms would ignore spurious or obviously fraudulent takedowns.

That's not how it worked out. Whether it's Sony Music claiming to own your performance of "Fur Elise" or a war criminal claiming authorship over a newspaper story about his crimes, platforms nuke first and ask questions never. Why not? If they ignore a takedown and get it wrong, they suffer dire consequences ($150,000 per claim). But if they take action on a dodgy claim, there are no consequences. Of course they're just going to delete anything they're asked to delete.

This is how platforms always handle liability, and that's a lesson that we really should have internalized by now. After all, the DMCA is the second-most famous intermediary liability system for the internet – the most (in)famous is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act.

This is a 27-word law that says that platforms are not liable for civil damages arising from their users' speech. Now, this is a US law, and in the US, there aren't many civil damages from speech to begin with. The First Amendment makes it very hard to get a libel judgment, and even when these judgments are secured, damages are typically limited to "actual damages" – generally a low sum. Most of the worst online speech is actually not illegal: hate speech, misinformation and disinformation are all covered by the First Amendment.

Notwithstanding the First Amendment, there are categories of speech that US law criminalizes: actual threats of violence, criminal harassment, and committing certain kinds of legal, medical, election or financial fraud. These are all exempted from Section 230, which only provides immunity for civil suits, not criminal acts.

What Section 230 really protects platforms from is being named to unwinnable nuisance suits by unscrupulous parties who are betting that the platforms would rather remove legal speech that they object to than go to court. A generation of copyfraudsters have proved that this is a very safe bet:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

In other words, if you made a #MeToo accusation, or if you were a gig worker using an online forum to organize a union, or if you were blowing the whistle on your employer's toxic waste leaks, or if you were any other under-resourced person being bullied by a wealthy, powerful person or organization, that organization could shut you up by threatening to sue the platform that hosted your speech. The platform would immediately cave. But those same rich and powerful people would have access to the lawyers and back-channels that would prevent you from doing the same to them – that's why Sony can get your Brahms recital taken down, but you can't turn around and do the same to them.

This is true of every intermediary liability system, and it's been true since the earliest days of the internet, and it keeps getting proven to be true. Six years ago, Trump signed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that allowed platforms to be held civilly liable by survivors of sex trafficking. At the time, advocates claimed that this would only affect "sexual slavery" and would not impact consensual sex-work.

But from the start, and ever since, SESTA/FOSTA has primarily targeted consensual sex-work, to the immediate, lasting, and profound detriment of sex workers:

https://hackinghustling.org/what-is-sesta-fosta/

SESTA/FOSTA killed the "bad date" forums where sex workers circulated the details of violent and unstable clients, killed the online booking sites that allowed sex workers to screen their clients, and killed the payment processors that let sex workers avoid holding unsafe amounts of cash:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/09/fight-overturn-fosta-unconstitutional-internet-censorship-law-continues

SESTA/FOSTA made voluntary sex work more dangerous – and also made life harder for law enforcement efforts to target sex trafficking:

https://hackinghustling.org/erased-the-impact-of-fosta-sesta-2020/

Despite half a decade of SESTA/FOSTA, despite 15 years of filternets, despite a quarter century of notice-and-takedown, people continue to insist that getting rid of safe harbors will punish Big Tech and make life better for everyday internet users.

As of now, it seems likely that Section 230 will be dead by then end of 2025, even if there is nothing in place to replace it:

https://energycommerce.house.gov/posts/bipartisan-energy-and-commerce-leaders-announce-legislative-hearing-on-sunsetting-section-230

This isn't the win that some people think it is. By making platforms responsible for screening the content their users post, we create a system that only the largest tech monopolies can survive, and only then by removing or blocking anything that threatens or displeases the wealthy and powerful.

Filternets are not precision-guided takedown machines; they're indiscriminate cluster-bombs that destroy anything in the vicinity of illegal speech – including (and especially) the best-informed, most informative discussions of how these systems go wrong, and how that blocks the complaints of the powerless, the marginalized, and the abused.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/27/nuke-first/#ask-questions-never

Image: EFF https://www.eff.org/files/banner_library/yt-fu-1b.png

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[blughxreader]

Platonic Yandere!Batman x gn!Reader

Purge AU. Info on au. You receive your official government letter announcing a yandere's claim on you in tomorrow's Purge. Accompanying it are five crimson letters from the yanderes themselves. ~600 words

Dear [Name],

I want to take this first encounter to assuage your fears—you are in no danger.

The fear you must be feeling might be the most dreadful you’ve ever experienced, and I’ll forever regret it. While the monotonous bureaucracy of the Purge is taxing on everyone, it’s a necessary evil… Inside this letter, you’ll receive what brief explanation I can give you and, hopefully, comfort you in some capacity.

[Name], I’m your father, and this letter is my official and legal introduction. In the next 24 hours, I and your siblings will bring you home.

You don’t know this yet, but we met on a moonless evening many months ago. You were walking alone, trying to leave the emptying streets before Gotham’s evening crowd took hold of the city. I worried for you and decided to keep a close eye until you were home safely, but something about your demeanor kept my attention. How polite and unassuming, yet quick to navigate the streets you were. You drifted through the evening like a wayward spirit, eventually finding yourself in my heart and soul.

That chance encounter sent us spiraling down a destined path, one in which I never anticipated would lead to here. I never realized the grim darkness I had been living in until I experienced your light, and now, the day before our first meeting as father and child, the promise of eternal contentedness just beyond these 24 hours is almost too much to bear.

Your brothers and sisters are equally ecstatic. You’ll never be bored for a moment in your life moving forward, as the halls of our home are always thrum with the echoes of banter and excitement. I can’t promise it will be an easy life free from any sorrows, but your new family already loves you so, so dearly.

In time, I’m confident that you, too, will reflect on this event as the start of a better life.

However perfect your joining our family seems, I find myself asking how it came to this. How did I discover a soul as kind and lovely as yours? Despite all my failures and shortcomings, the world still crossed our paths and sent the merger of our lives into motion.

As a servant of justice, I’ve dedicated my life to protecting what is moral and just. I’ve spent decades refining my values and priorities, yet this has often left me at fragile crossroads between myself and my children.

I’m flawed. I’m imperfect. I don’t think I’ll ever be worthy of being your father. I need you to know these things before we meet, to save yourself from the inevitable misfortune that will strike us. Yet know this: there is not a force in this world that will keep me from you. I love you more than I love humanity, more than the Earth itself. I would defy the laws that govern the universe if it meant seeing you happy.

The world is dangerous and unpredictable. However inadequate I feel at protecting your light, I know you’re significantly more likely to fade from existence outside of my care.

To receive a crimson letter from the city a day before the Purge might be one of your darkest nightmares, and for that I’m sorry. With my heart, soul, and all my love for you, I promise to rectify the misery you and your biological family are experiencing. Please take comfort in the fact that you will be the most beloved and cherished person in the world.

I will give you everything. For your family’s sake, I hope they can rest easier with this knowledge.

Please remain put until we arrive.

See you soon.

Love,

Dad

Note... I love this self-hating old man. Damian's is finished and will be up soon! For more yandere batfam, visit my masterlist!

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps. 

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again. 

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable. 

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil. 

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature. 

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving. 

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear. 

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

[absolutepokemontrash]

The Types of Obey Me Character Fans:

(All of you are valid, and I am equally afraid of all of you)

Lucifer

“Look at this tragic, broken, man, I am either going to fix him or irreversibly damage him, I haven’t decided yet.”

OH YOU FUCKING KNOW THE OTHER TYPE.

“You are my daaaaaad! You’re my dad! Boogie woogie woogie!”

Mammon

This man is innocent. He has done nothing wrong ever. I love him. I will pet him gently for 88 minutes straight. That is my husband. That is my sweet blorbo.

This man is guilty of all crimes and I will be persecuting him to the fullest extent of the angst laws.

Haha funny greed boy hangs from the ceiling :3

Leviathan

I will be this man’s discord kitten. I want to sit on his lap while he plays God of War and does a bad impression of Kratos. I will let him infodump to me until the inevitable heat death of the universe because I love him so much.

WHEN ARE WE GONNA SEE LEVI IN HIS UNIFORM-

I’m forcibly shoving him outside to touch some grass out of love for him.

Satan

My husband is done so dirty by the writing, I will write essay after essay dissecting and explaining his character to a cold, uncaring internet, but that’s okay because my love for him will keep this fire burning-

Heehoo angry catboy nerd annoys Lucifer, and I love him

Satan please lose your shit and go feral, it’s sexy.

Asmodeus

That is my wife, my boyfriend, my side bitch, my everything. I want to be him. I love him. He’s done so dirty by the writing of the game and by a good chunk of the fanbase, I will love and cherish him as he deserves and destroy all his insecurities… or write a depressing amount of angst for him.

What a fine young man.

I would love to see him covered in the blood of his enemies.

He may not be my favourite but BOY HOWDY IS HE IN THE TOP THREE AND I WONT SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

Beelzebub

I love him deeply but how in the ever loving FUCK do I write for him-

Food himbo who’s pure and innocent and has never done anything wrong in his life-

THIS MAN HAS MADE NUMEROUS COMMENTS ABOUT EATING MC BUT I DONT CARE BECAUSE LOOK AT THAT PRECIOUS FACE-

Belphegor

Ugh, look at him. Disgusting. He has not bathed in seven years. I’m going to spray him with the hose.

I am single handedly the kinkiest fuck in this fandom. The horny Lucifer stans WISH they were as depraved as me.

I love him so much and I will cherish him above all things.

————————-

Tag yourself, I’m every kind of Mammon fan and 1 and 2 of Asmo’s fans.

[gabessquishytum]

Time for some dreamling crack! I apologize for the length, it got out of control. Destiny is done. He's just done, okay? He's had enough of his parents who were never there, siblings who are constantly up to some shit, and his ultra-serious job with no vacations. Moreover, being constantly chained to a book (especially when it's such a huge and heavy book) sucks. So, one day he makes an ultimate decision to go on a holiday into some remote galaxy for a century or two, but first, he needs to complete one task that he actually assigned to himself. Technically, he's not supposed to intervene and all that cosmic bullshit, but he's Destiny, and that's his destiny, pun intended. He's the CEO! The year is 1389. Destiny calls Death and tells her they need to go to Dream asap. She's surprised and slightly worried but obeys without questions. Dream is even more surprised - Destiny normally never visits, so the circumstances must be exceptional. Which they are. Destiny is in no mood for pleasantries and gets straight to the business, informing Dream that he needs to get laid for the common good. Dream bluescreens, and so does Death. 'I beg you pardon?' Dream blinks. Destiny never jokes, and he must have misheard… But Destiny, in his impassive, 100% serious tone, repeats that Dream does need to get laid. To prevent the deaths of thousands of dreamers in the 20th century, to prevent the grudge with hell, to save multiple dreams and nightmares, etc., but ultimately, to save himself from the ill fate. 'All this can be prevented if I get laid?' Dream's metaphorical head is spinning. 'Yes,' Destiny deadpans. 'Okay...' Death interrupts cautiously. 'Why am I here, though?' 'Because he needs to get laid regularly, and there is only one human who can handle this task. He must be made immortal for this reason.'

Dream feels like the Dream.exe file has been irrevocably damaged. 'I need to get laid regularly?' He repeats weakly. 'Brother, you know how important my function is. I have no time for-' 'This is exactly why you meet your doom in all the futures but one.' '…where I'm getting laid?' Destiny nods. Death beams. Dream pales to a previously unexisting shade of white. Without further ado, Destiny takes them all to the White Horse, buys some ale (his vacation mood starts to kick in - he expected more objections from Dream), and nods at one table. 'Robert Gadling. He is the chosen one.' 'Brother, you surely do not want me to lay with a mortal who has fleas and hasn't bathed for Delirium knows how long,' says terrified Dream. 'I surely do. Fleas are the least of your potential problems, little brother.' 'Alright.' Death says. 'Robert Gadling is immortal now. Can I go?' Destiny nods again. Death smiles and, before disappearing, loudly whispers to Dream to invite her to the wedding. Dream glances one last time at his brother and approaches Robert's table. If this is his destiny...and it's for the greater good of the universe and dreamers...Besides, this Robert Gadling is quite handsome - well, unwashed and smelly, but handsome still. Destiny is very pleased. Now, he only needs to sign up Desire for a few millennia of uncancellable therapy, and he can go drink his cocktails in a galaxy far, far away!

I love this, thank you so much for writing it all out. It really made me chuckle.

I'm absolutely obsessed with the idea of Destiny just getting really sick of the universe and all the bullshit that it contains. He's the equivalent of a harassed middle aged working parent attempting to keep everything under control and inevitably watching it all go to shit. He deserves such a good vacation, I hope there's a really good spa in the galaxy he's picked out.

Being the oldest sibling is hard, even when you come from a family of cosmic entities. And honestly? Destiny kind of likes the look of his new human brother-in-law. If this guy can keep Dream from going off the rails then that's wonderful, but the fact that he's cute? Also helps. Destiny may be blind but he is not immune to the Hobpropaganda. He's actually kind of not dreading the next family dinner? He can already see that it's going to run a whole lot smoother with Hob around the table.

But first: bottomless mimosas in a different star system. Bye, losers!

[dflogerzi]

It has taken me an entire night and the next morning to gather my thoughts. I think most of the world is doing just that as well. And who we are will be shown in how we now walk forward as people and as individuals.

I was a very little girl just in school when JFK was shot. I remember the day clearly even though I was very young. They dismissed us and sent us home, which looking back would never have happened in these times. I was far too little to be walking home the three or four blocks in the middle of the day, with no parent waiting.

I also remember when Reagan was shot. Clearly. Many people have not connected the family that was involved... and whom they were close friends with. I do not speak of it much any longer, I have learned that it does not serve anyone to do so. For in these days people firmly believe what they do, no reason to banter on. But I am going to say this... The very same people who saw out Kennedy almost did the same with Ronald Reagan. And I do not care a bit who believes me or not.

I had in the past few years bowed out of my own searches, journeying, and going down rabbit holes in an attempt to find quiet spaces for my days. I suppose I had decided to succumb to what I see as the inevitable. I saw no way out. I grew up around diversity, I played with children of all colors growing up, and I served in a military that even in the 1980's had every type of person in every single shade you could imagine. I was ahead of my time I suppose. So seeing all sides of the coin was always easy for me. And I have always straddled the middle ground.

What each of us should be asking ourselves today is this... What are my goals? My personal goals for myself, my children, and my grandchildren? How do I want to see my neighborhood? My library? My places to walk, explore, use as recreation, and take pause in? The preservation of art, history, and relics from the past? What is of the most importance?

Anyone who is not seeing where the world is being led to is not truly observing without the severe propaganda that has been purposely thrust upon the masses. It was legalized more than a decade ago in the United States, and it has been a major success in it's efforts. Mankind is losing, and in my opinion, on purpose. And we are even being openly told so. It is not being hidden. I think it is part of the NWO belief system actually... that we are told outright and we accept it. Or never listen. Like the sheep we are often likened to be.

So another attempt was made to end a life yesterday due to politics. And instead of a country who goes to the polls, in real and valid elections where EVERYONE casts one vote, legally and lawfully, a different future was instead being thrust upon a nation as an attempt. I would have far less worry about entering into a socialist and global state if I felt it was a REAL and lawful vote from every citizen of the country I belong to. I do not believe our elections are safe. And I believe they have not been universally in a long, long while.

We are not just looking at the character of our leaders... but we are looking at the character of each one of us. I am so grateful today that I am on the other side of my life span. And I am so sorry for our grandchildren who may never know some of the beauty of this world. It has been heart breaking to watch the decline of our civilizations.

So much evil. And I will submit from the cheap seats, up in the peanut gallery, that the very same people attempted to take a life yesterday as they have before. Some still alive as accomplices...

This is not about political parties. Anyone who believes that is sleeping far better than I am. This is about humanity. And integrity. And love for our world.

Okay. I suppose I will post this. And then onward with the day. Which is all each of us actually have. Seize it. As I am going to. Love to my friends here.

[sagelasters]

Ignore what doesn't align with you

Honestly doubts and negative thoughts is something everyone has, especially when you start getting into the law of assumption, and or you’ve been taught limited beliefs your whole life. I am a person who believes that your past doesn’t determine who you are, at least if you don’t let it. Growth is uncomfortable and requires stepping out of your comfort zone, it is something you constantly have to do in your journey. Now, it is not supposed to be stressful or hard being in the fulfilled state. It shouldn’t be making you feel sick or upset either, and you might need to reevaluate your self concept if it does. I needed to make that clear before I go into the subject I’m supposed to talk about today. 

Now, how do I deal with doubts and intrusive thoughts?

I set out a mission for myself and it’s just simply me assuming that I wake up in the void every night. And I’m naturally a very anxious person, a part of me always panics every time I don’t physically try to do something (forcing myself to do awake methods, even though they’re not very compatible with me). I am used to the mindset of having to work hard for my wishes, which hinders the mental process of feeling fulfilled. But I slowly realized that why the fuck would it be hard? I am literally in control of my own reality so, why should I stress over something trivial like this?

I felt silly so slowly, I started ignoring the thoughts that no longer served me, treating it like an annoying pest who kept whispering in my ears. It’s kind of like Eddie and Venom, in which you have two different beings in one body; the physical being and the spiritual being. Of course, Venom at the beginning was a big ball of chaos and kept prompting Eddie to make unwanted actions. It wasn’t until they found a common ground to settle on, that they decided to learn how to work together. When you learn to leave those doubts alone and let it drift away, instead of fighting it; you will feel much better. 

Don’t overthink, just because you can’t see it in 3D doesn’t mean your desires aren’t there. Your “failed” attempts never existed, erase and ignore what does not align with your assumptions. You are meant to have that desire because why else would you want it? You have a spiritual connection with that desire, and that’s fucking magical. The universe operates in many layers and oftentimes, our simple senses can’t see what’s moving behind the scene. Physicality is the last level and will only manifest when the inner you accepts it. 

And just because it didn’t happen quicker than you want, IT’S OKAY. You getting what you want is inevitable and what’s the worst case scenario? You abandoning the whole process, that’s the worst thing to ever happen. Don’t rely on the 3D and let yourself be enslaved by it. A god will never allow themself to be confined in a cage. A god is an entity of its own, and listens to no one but themself. A god knows what they are capable of and never doubt their powers.

That god is you.

So quit avoiding and fighting, it's like a never ending battle against yourself. It's only a cycle when you let yourself get stuck, and I know that it feels uncomfortable at first, but you will get used to it slowly. A toddler can't walk on its own unless it learns to, doesn't matter how many tries it took them. Birds soared the horizons because they had the courage to fly.

[rotzaprachim]

essential reading.

Opinion - There is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive. - by Peter Beinart

 And perhaps one day, when it finally becomes hideously clear that Hamas cannot free Palestinians by murdering children and Israel cannot subdue Gaza, even by razing it to the ground, those communities may become the germ of a mass movement for freedom that astonishes the world, as Black and white South Africans did decades ago. I’m confident I won’t live to see it. No gambler would stake a bet on it happening at all. But what’s the alternative, for those of us whose lives and histories are bound up with that small, ghastly, sacred place?

"In 1988, bombs exploded at restaurants, sporting events and arcades in South Africa. In response, the African National Congress, then in its 77th year of a struggle to overthrow white domination, did something remarkable: It accepted responsibility and pledged to prevent its fighters from conducting such operations in the future. Its logic was straightforward: Targeting civilians is wrong. “Our morality as revolutionaries,” the A.N.C. declared, “dictates that we respect the values underpinning the humane conduct of war.”

Historically, geographically and morally, the A.N.C. of 1988 is a universe away from the Hamas of 2023, so remote that its behavior may seem irrelevant to the horror that Hamas unleashed last weekend in southern Israel. But South Africa offers a counter-history, a glimpse into how ethical resistance works and how it can succeed. It offers not an instruction manual, but a place — in this season of agony and rage — to look for hope.

There was nothing inevitable about the A.N.C.’s policy, which, as Jeff Goodwin, a New York University sociologist, has documented, helped ensure that there was “so little terrorism in the anti-apartheid struggle.” So why didn’t the A.N.C. carry out the kind of gruesome massacres for which Hamas has become notorious? There’s no simple answer. But two factors are clear. First, the A.N.C.’s strategy for fighting apartheid was intimately linked to its vision of what should follow apartheid. It refused to terrify and traumatize white South Africans because it wasn’t trying to force them out. It was trying to win them over to a vision of a multiracial democracy.

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Second, the A.N.C. found it easier to maintain moral discipline — which required it to focus on popular, nonviolent resistance and use force only against military installations and industrial sites — because its strategy was showing signs of success. By 1988, when the A.N.C. expressed regret for killing civilians, more than 150 American universities had at least partially divested from companies doing business in South Africa, and the United States Congress had imposed sanctions on the apartheid regime. The result was a virtuous cycle: Ethical resistance elicited international support, and international support made ethical resistance easier to sustain.

In Israel today, the dynamic is almost exactly the opposite. Hamas, whose authoritarian, theocratic ideology could not be farther from the A.N.C.’s, has committed an unspeakable horror that may damage the Palestinian cause for decades to come. Yet when Palestinians resist their oppression in ethical ways — by calling for boycotts, sanctions and the application of international law — the United States and its allies work to ensure that those efforts fail, which convinces many Palestinians that ethical resistance doesn’t work, which empowers Hamas.

The savagery Hamas committed on Oct. 7 has made reversing this monstrous cycle much harder. It could take a generation. It will require a shared commitment to ending Palestinian oppression in ways that respect the infinite value of every human life. It will require Palestinians to forcefully oppose attacks on Jewish civilians, and Jews to support Palestinians when they resist oppression in humane ways — even though Palestinians and Jews who take such steps will risk making themselves pariahs among their own people. It will require new forms of political community, in Israel-Palestine and around the world, built around a democratic vision powerful enough to transcend tribal divides. The effort may fail. It has failed before. The alternative is to descend, flags waving, into hell.

As Jewish Israelis bury their dead and recite psalms for their captured, few want to hear at this moment that millions of Palestinians lack basic human rights. Neither do many Jews abroad. I understand; this attack has awakened the deepest traumas of our badly scarred people. But the truth remains: The denial of Palestinian freedom sits at the heart of this conflict, which began long before Hamas’s creation in the late 1980s.

Most of Gaza’s residents aren’t from Gaza. They’re the descendants of refugees who were expelled, or fled in fear, during Israel’s war of independence in 1948. They live in what Human Rights Watch has called an “open-air prison,” penned in by an Israeli state that — with help from Egypt — rations everything that goes in and out, from tomatoes to the travel documents children need to get lifesaving medical care. From this overcrowded cage, which the United Nations in 2017 declared “unlivable” for many residents in part because it lacks electricity and clean water, many Palestinians in Gaza can see the land that their parents and grandparents called home, though most may never step foot in it.

Palestinians in the West Bank are only slightly better off. For more than half a century, they have lived without due process, free movement, citizenship or the ability to vote for the government that controls their lives. Defenseless against an Israeli government that includes ministers openly committed to ethnic cleansing, many are being driven from their homes in what Palestinians compare to the mass expulsions of 1948. Americans and Israeli Jews have the luxury of ignoring these harsh realities. Palestinians do not. Indeed, the commander of Hamas’s military wing cited attacks on Palestinians in the West Bank in justifying its barbarism last weekend.

Just as Black South Africans resisted apartheid, Palestinians resist a system that has earned the same designation from the world’s leading human rights organizations and Israel’s own. After last weekend, some critics may claim Palestinians are incapable of resisting in ethical ways. But that’s not true. In 1936, during the British mandate, Palestinians began what some consider the longest anticolonial general strike in history. In 1976, on what became known as Land Day, thousands of Palestinian citizens demonstrated against the Israeli government’s seizure of Palestinian property in Israel’s north. The first intifada against Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, which lasted from roughly 1987 to 1993, consisted primarily of nonviolent boycotts of Israeli goods and a refusal to pay Israeli taxes. While some Palestinians threw stones and Molotov cocktails, armed attacks were rare, even in the face of an Israeli crackdown that took more than 1,000 Palestinian lives. In 2005, 173 Palestinian civil society organizations asked “people of conscience all over the world to impose broad boycotts and implement divestment initiatives against Israel similar to those applied to South Africa in the apartheid era.”

But in the United States, Palestinians received little credit for trying to follow Black South Africans’ largely nonviolent path. Instead, the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement’s call for full equality, including the right of Palestinian refugees to return home, was widely deemed antisemitic because it conflicts with the idea of a state that favors Jews.

It is true that these nonviolent efforts sit uncomfortably alongside an ugly history of civilian massacres: the murder of 67 Jews in Hebron in 1929 by local Palestinians after Haj Amin al-Husseini, the grand mufti of Jerusalem, claimed Jews were about to seize Al Aqsa Mosque; the airplane hijackings of the late 1960s and 1970s carried out primarily by the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and Yasir Arafat’s nationalist Fatah faction; the 1972 assassination of Israeli athletes in Munich carried out by the Palestinian organization Black September; and the suicide bombings of the 1990s and 2000s conducted by Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad and Fatah’s Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, whose victims included a friend of mine in rabbinical school who I dreamed might one day officiate my wedding.

And yet it is essential to remember that some Palestinians courageously condemned this inhuman violence. In 1979, Edward Said, the famed literary critic, declared himself “horrified at the hijacking of planes, the suicidal missions, the assassinations, the bombing of schools and hotels.” Rashid Khalidi, a Palestinian American historian, called the suicide bombings of the second intifada “a war crime.” After Hamas’s attack last weekend, a member of the Israeli parliament, Ayman Odeh, among the most prominent leaders of Israel’s Palestinian citizens, declared, “It is absolutely forbidden to accept any attacks on the innocent.”Tragically, this vision of ethical resistance is being repudiated by some pro-Palestinian activists in the United States. In a statement last week, National Students for Justice in Palestine, which represents more than 250 Palestinian solidarity groups in North America, called Hamas’s attack “a historic win for the Palestinian resistance” that proves that “total return and liberation to Palestine is near” and added, “from Rhodesia to South Africa to Algeria, no settler colony can hold out forever.” One of its posters featured a paraglider that some Hamas fighters used to enter Israel.

The reference to Algeria reveals the delusion underlying this celebration of abduction and murder. After eight years of hideous war, Algeria’s settlers returned to France. But there will be no Algerian solution in Israel-Palestine. Israel is too militarily powerful to be conquered. More fundamentally, Israeli Jews have no home country to which to return. They are already home.

Mr. Said understood this. “The Israeli Jew is there in the Middle East,” he advised Palestinians in 1974, “and we cannot, I might even say that we must not, pretend that he will not be there tomorrow, after the struggle is over.” The Jewish “attachment to the land,” he added, “is something we must face.” Because Mr. Said saw Israeli Jews as something other than mere colonizers, he understood the futility — as well as the immorality — of trying to terrorize them into flight.

The failure of Hamas and its American defenders to recognize that will make it much harder for Jews and Palestinians to resist together in ethical ways. Before last Saturday, it was possible, with some imagination, to envision a joint Palestinian-Jewish struggle for the mutual liberation of both peoples. There were glimmers in the protest movement against Benjamin Netanyahu’s judicial overhaul, through which more and more Israeli Jews grasped a connection between the denial of rights to Palestinians and the assault on their own. And there were signs in the United States, where almost 40 percent of American Jews under the age of 40 told the Jewish Electoral Institute in 2021 that they considered Israel an apartheid state. More Jews in the United States, and even Israel, were beginning to see Palestinian liberation as a form of Jewish liberation as well.

That potential alliance has now been gravely damaged. There are many Jews willing to join Palestinians in a movement to end apartheid, even if doing so alienates us from our communities, and in some cases, our families. But we will not lock arms with people who cheer the kidnapping or murder of a Jewish child.

The struggle to persuade Palestinian activists to repudiate Hamas’s crimes, affirm a vision of mutual coexistence and continue the spirit of Mr. Said and the A.N.C. will be waged inside the Palestinian camp. The role of non-Palestinians is different: to help create the conditions that allow ethical resistance to succeed.

Palestinians are not fundamentally different from other people facing oppression: When moral resistance doesn’t work, they try something else. In 1972, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, which was modeled on the civil rights movement in the United States, organized a march to oppose imprisonment without trial. Although some organizations, most notably the Provisional Irish Republican Army, had already embraced armed resistance, they grew stronger after British soldiers shot 26 unarmed civilians in what became known as Bloody Sunday. By the early 1980s, the Irish Republican Army had even detonated a bomb outside Harrods, the department store in London. As Kirssa Cline Ryckman, a political scientist, observed in a 2019 paper on why certain movements turn violent, a lack of progress in peaceful protest “can encourage the use of violence by convincing demonstrators that nonviolence will fail to achieve meaningful concessions.”

Israel, with America’s help, has done exactly that. It has repeatedly undermined Palestinians who sought to end Israel’s occupation through negotiations or nonviolent pressure. As part of the 1993 Oslo Accords, the Palestine Liberation Organization renounced violence and began working with Israel — albeit imperfectly — to prevent attacks on Israelis, something that revolutionary groups like the A.N.C. and the Irish Republican Army never did while their people remained under oppression. At first, as Khalil Shikaki, a Palestinian political scientist, has detailed, Palestinians supported cooperation with Israel because they thought it would deliver them a state. In early 1996, Palestinian support for the Oslo process reached 80 percent while support for violence against Israelis dropped to 20 percent.

The 1996 election of Benjamin Netanyahu, and the failure of Israel and its American patron to stop settlement growth, however, curdled Palestinian sentiment. Many Jewish Israelis believe that Ehud Barak, who succeeded Mr. Netanyahu, offered Palestinians a generous deal in 2000. Most Palestinians, however, saw Mr. Barak’s offer as falling far short of a fully sovereign state along the 1967 lines. And their disillusionment with a peace process that allowed Israel to entrench its hold over the territory on which they hoped to build their new country ushered in the violence of the second intifada. In Mr. Shikaki’s words, “The loss of confidence in the ability of the peace process to deliver a permanent agreement on acceptable terms had a dramatic impact on the level of Palestinian support for violence against Israelis.” As Palestinians abandoned hope, Hamas gained power.

After the brutal years of the second intifada, in which Hamas and other Palestinian armed groups repeatedly targeted Israeli civilians, President Mahmoud Abbas of the Palestinian Authority and Salam Fayyad, his prime minister from 2007 to 2013, worked to restore security cooperation and prevent anti-Israeli violence once again. Yet again, the strategy failed. The same Israeli leaders who applauded Mr. Fayyad undermined him in back rooms by funding the settlement growth that convinced Palestinians that security cooperation was bringing them only deepening occupation. Mr. Fayyad, in an interview with The Times’s Roger Cohen before he left office in 2013, admitted that because the “occupation regime is more entrenched,” Palestinians “question whether the P.A. can deliver. Meanwhile, Hamas gains recognition and is strengthened.”

As Palestinians lost faith that cooperation with Israel could end the occupation, many appealed to the world to hold Israel accountable for its violation of their rights. In response, both Democratic and Republican presidents have worked diligently to ensure that these nonviolent efforts fail. Since 1997, the United States has vetoed more than a dozen United Nations Security Council resolutions criticizing Israel for its actions in the West Bank and Gaza. This February, even as Israel’s far-right government was beginning a huge settlement expansion, the Biden administration reportedly wielded a veto threat to drastically dilute a Security Council resolution that would have condemned settlement growth.

Washington’s response to the International Criminal Court’s efforts to investigate potential Israeli war crimes is equally hostile. Despite lifting sanctions that the Trump administration imposed on I.C.C. officials investigating the United States’s conduct in Afghanistan, the Biden team remains adamantly opposed to any I.C.C. investigation into Israel’s actions.

The Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement, or B.D.S., which was founded in 2005 as a nonviolent alternative to the murderous second intifada and which speaks in the language of human rights and international law, has been similarly stymied, including by many of the same American politicians who celebrated the movement to boycott, divest from and sanction South Africa. Joe Biden, who is proud of his role in passing sanctions against South Africa, has condemned the B.D.S. movement, saying it “too often veers into antisemitism.” About 35 states — some of which once divested state funds from companies doing business in apartheid South Africa — have passed laws or issued executive orders punishing companies that boycott Israel. In many cases, those punishments apply even to businesses that boycott only Israeli settlements in the West Bank.

Palestinians have noticed. In the words of Dana El Kurd, a Palestinian American political scientist, “Palestinians have lost faith in the efficacy of nonviolent protest as well as the possible role of the international community.” Mohammed Deif, the commander of Hamas’s military wing, cited this disillusionment during last Saturday’s attack. “In light of the orgy of occupation and its denial of international laws and resolutions, and in light of American and Western support and international silence,” he declared, “we’ve decided to put an end to all this.”

Hamas — and no one else — bears the blame for its sadistic violence. But it can carry out such violence more easily, and with less backlash from ordinary Palestinians, because even many Palestinians who loathe the organization have lost hope that moral strategies can succeed. By treating Israel radically differently from how the United States treated South Africa in the 1980s, American politicians have made it harder for Palestinians to follow the A.N.C.’s ethical path. The Americans who claim to hate Hamas the most have empowered it again and again.

Israelis have just witnessed the greatest one-day loss of Jewish life since the Holocaust. For Palestinians, especially in Gaza, where Israel has now ordered more than one million people in the north to leave their homes, the days to come are likely to bring dislocation and death on a scale that should haunt the conscience of the world. Never in my lifetime have the prospects for justice and peace looked more remote. Yet the work of moral rebuilding must begin. In Israel-Palestine and around the world, pockets of Palestinians and Jews, aided by people of conscience of all backgrounds, must slowly construct networks of trust based on the simple principle that the lives of both Palestinians and Jews are precious and inextricably intertwined.

Israel desperately needs a genuinely Jewish and Palestinian political party, not because it can win power but because it can model a politics based on common liberal democratic values, not tribe. American Jews who rightly hate Hamas but know, in their bones, that Israel’s treatment of Palestinians is profoundly wrong must ask themselves a painful question: What nonviolent forms of Palestinian resistance to oppression will I support? More Palestinians and their supporters must express revulsion at the murder of innocent Israeli Jews and affirm that Palestinian liberation means living equally alongside them in safety and freedom.

From those reckonings, small, beloved communities can be born, and grow. And perhaps one day, when it finally becomes hideously clear that Hamas cannot free Palestinians by murdering children and Israel cannot subdue Gaza, even by razing it to the ground, those communities may become the germ of a mass movement for freedom that astonishes the world, as Black and white South Africans did decades ago. I’m confident I won’t live to see it. No gambler would stake a bet on it happening at all. But what’s the alternative, for those of us whose lives and histories are bound up with that small, ghastly, sacred place?

Like many others who care about the lives of both Palestinians and Jews, I have felt in recent days the greatest despair I have ever known. On Wednesday, a Palestinian friend sent me a note of consolation. She ended it with the words “only together.” Maybe that can be our motto.

[mysticstronomy]

WILL THE UNIVERSE EVER REACH EQUILIBRIUM??

Blog#406

Saturday, June 1st, 2024.

Welcome back,

In our experience, all physical systems eventually tend toward equilibrium: where entropy is maximized and no further energy can be extracted from it. This seems like an inevitable consequence of the second law of thermodynamics, and is absolute for any closed-and-isolated system. But our Universe is neither closed nor isolated, as it began from a hot and dense state and has been cooling, expanding, and clumping ever since the hot Big Bang.

Even though its entropy has increased dramatically, parts of it like stars, planets, and even biological organisms, routinely extract energy and put it to work toward creating ordered systems. It seems like equilibrium, even 13.8 billion years later, is still very far away in a cosmic sense.

But will the Universe — the ultimate out-of-equilibrium system, in some sense — eventually reach equilibrium after all? That’s what James Calautti wants to know, asking:

“Is it possible that in the far distant future, after every single star has died, after the white dwarfs and neutron stars have faded, and the black holes have decayed, will the universe achieve a state of equilibrium?”

If certain assumptions hold true about our Universe, then yes, we will eventually achieve a state of pure equilibrium: where no further energy can be extracted to do work or enable reactions of any type. But that’s not necessarily how it’s going to shake out, even in the end. Here’s what we need to consider.

When the Big Bang first began, the Universe had practically no structure in it at all. No stars, no galaxies, no atoms, no atomic nuclei. It was hot, dense, and incredibly uniform: where the least dense regions were still ~99.99% as dense as the average ones and the most dense regions were only ~100.01% as dense as the average. Even though it was filled with ultra-relativistic quanta of radiation, plus particles of matter and antimatter, its entropy was around S = 1088 kB, where kB is Boltzmann’s constant.

While 1088 may be a very large number, it’s not maximally large, especially not for the number of particles in the Universe.

Over time, as the Universe has cooled and gravitated, all sorts of structures have formed, from atomic nuclei to atoms to molecules, all the way up to planets, stars, stellar systems, galaxies, and clusters of galaxies embedded within a cosmic web. It’s as though the initially high energy state of the Universe, as the Universe expanded and cooled:

proceeded through a number of transitions,

where, from the hotter-and-denser conditions to the colder-and-sparser conditions, these transitions proceeded in an out-of-equilibrium fashion,

leading to the binding and formation of structure,

that seemingly created tiny “ordered” pockets at the expense of a larger-scale increase in “disorder,”

so that entropy increased tremendously over time. Today, the entropy of the Universe is about S = 10103 kB, or about 15 orders of magnitude (a factor of a quadrillion) greater than it was 13.8 billion years ago.

As time continues to march on, all sorts of energy-emitting reactions will still occur. Neutral atoms will form from the ionized plasmas in interstellar space. Light atomic nuclei will fuse into heavy ones inside the cores of stars. Clouds of gas will gravitationally collapse into bound structures like stars and planets. And massive objects will collapse down to create black holes, among many other natural processes. All of these processes, as well as many others, emit energy, which allows work — the physicist term for energy-that-gets-put-to-use — to be performed.

These processes all increase entropy on a global scale, but the emitted energy can be used to create regions that are more ordered, the same way that sunlight absorbed by photosynthetic organisms on Earth can be used to locally create order.

Nevertheless, the more energy-emitting reactions occur and the more time that passes, the greater the Universe’s entropy gets. As this occurs, there are now fewer opportunities for extracting energy from various processes. The Universe runs out of hydrogen, and fewer and fewer new stars form. Dark energy drives galaxy groups and clusters apart, and fewer cosmic mergers occur. More black holes form, and more compact masses get ejected into intergalactic space. Eventually, the entropy of the Universe starts to level off at a maximum value of around S = 10121 kB, which it will reach around ~1020 years from now.

At that point in the far future, all of the stars that exist today will have long since burned out. The future generations of stars that will have formed from their ashes and the remaining gas within galaxies will have burned out, too, leaving only stellar remnants behind: white dwarfs (which will have faded to black), neutron stars (which will have faded to black as well), black holes, and failed stars. On occasion, two failed stars will merge together and briefly create a low-mass red dwarf star: the last luminous lights present in our cosmos. When they burn out and fade to black as well, the last stellar lights will be extinguished.

Gravitational interactions will cause galactic remnants to decay and dissociate. Objects in orbital systems, like planets around stellar corpses, will see their orbits decay due to gravitational radiation, leading to inspirals and mergers. Black holes themselves will decay away through Hawking radiation, with stellar mass black holes taking ~1067 years to decay and the largest supermassive black holes taking upward of ~10100 years to decay away completely. Meanwhile, intergalactic space becomes sparser and sparser as dark energy continues to accelerate unbound objects away from one another. Eventually, there are no energy-producing sources left in the Universe, and the entropy of what remains is maximized.

Originally published on https://bigthink.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, June 5th, 2024)

"WHAT WAS BEFORE BIG BANG??"

[tsumuhours]

AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over. 

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you. 

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 22: Omegaverse

No Knot November | @em-bitterred Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1,083 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel, Omega Dean Winchester, Mating Cycles/In HeatPast, Rape/Non-con, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Non-con elements with sabotaged birth control/condom usage, reddit advice, Getting Together Summary: I (25/m/o) made a big deal out of observing No Knot November and now I’m afraid of telling my friends I failed Or Dean Winchester turns to the /r/NoKnotNovember community for advice after failing his No Knot November pledge

Scenting Lesson | @Destielshipper4Cas Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2,417 Main Tags/Warnings: Omega Castiel, Alpha Dean, Falling In Love, Strangers to Lovers, Scenting, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending Summary: Having grown up in a cult, Castiel has never learned how to scent properly. When a hot alpha moves in across the hall, he seems dead set on changing that.

Crossing Paths | @Destielshipper4Cas Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 3,544 Main Tags/Warnings: Angel of Death Castiel, Hunter Dean, Human Dean, Falling In Love, Strangers to Lovers, Omega Castiel, Alpha Dean, Happy Ending, First Kiss, Scenting, Talk about death, talk about suicide Summary: Only Dean Winchester could fall in love with Death. - In which Castiel is an angel of death, and one particularly stubborn hunter keeps cheating him.

I'll Show You Heaven If You Let Me | @samanddean76 Rating: Mature Word Count: 11,325 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, FBI Agent Castiel, Mob Grunt Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel, Omega Dean Winchester, Top Castiel, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Knotting, Claiming Bites, Mpreg, Protective Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Sam Is Kind Of A Dick, He Gets Better, Eventual Happy Ending, Revenge, Or Justice, BAMF Dean Winchester, FBI Agent Saw Wesson, Alpha Sam Wesson Summary: Omega Dean Winchester just wanted to take out his recycling in peace. But he finds a mystery Alpha unconscious on the ground, stashed behind the bins. Dean gets him inside, but then work calls. Once Dean returns home he finds that the mystery Alpha Castiel is recovered, and he's waiting to claim the Omega that saved him. The only problem? They're on opposite sides of the law. Now Dean has to risk all to earn back his freedom. But will he lose his true mate along the way?

Inevitably Yours | @envydean Rating: Explicit Word Count: 16,303 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha!Dean, Alpha!John, Alpha!Sam, alpha!Castiel, forced mating, Arranged Marriage, nonconsensual drug use, Angst with a Happy Ending, Challenges, alpha/alpha is frowned upon, good dad john, Pining, Fluff, bottom!Dean/Top!Cas (but they do switch in general) Summary: Dean Winchester is set to challenge Castiel Novak for an omega’s hand. Being given additional (and illegal) alpha hormones before the fight has some unwanted side effects on Dean that he wishes to keep secret. Locked in a room for the night while the Pack Alphas decide what to do, Dean and Castiel disappear into the night as their only option. Dean needs to figure out his feelings for his companion, lust from the drugs or real…

Living in a Haze | @girlsvmonsters Rating: Explicit Word Count: 27,000 Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, polyamory, non-traditional alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alpha/omega, top castiel/bottom dean winchester, omega dean winchester, alpha castiel, past sam/dean, mildly dubious consent, threats of rape/non-con, alternate universe, post-apocalypse Summary: The world has ended, literally. Zombies trample the place and devils devour souls for cheap thrills. But that doesn't bother Dean, who's gone a little crazy hanging out with the ghost of his dead brother. Dean isn't your typical omega. He's a hunter of pie who loves classic rock and decapitating the undead. Dean somehow attracts the unwanted attention of Lucifer Morningstar. Apparently he's got a thing for omegas with smart mouths. You could say he's especially smitten by Dean's ability to slip through his fingers. Devils do enjoy a good chase. As Dean thwarts the Prince of Utter Darkness he winds up falling into the arms of a horny alpha angel. Dean soon learns his guardian angel comes with a lot of ungodly baggage, one bag in the form of an incredibly annoying she devil who has a sinfully talented tongue. And then somehow Dean is part of a trio. A hunter, angel, and demon. It's an endless rollercoaster filled with horror, sex, and pie. So buckle up folks, cause there is never a dull day in hell.

The Ruse | @Destielshipper4Cas Rating: Explicit Word Count: 27,292 Main Tags/Warnings: Prince Dean, Commoner Cas, Strangers to Lovers, False Identity, Mistaken Identity, First Time, Omega Castiel, Alpha Dean, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bottom Castiel, Top Dean, Virgin Castiel, Happy Ending Summary: Castiel, a lowly commoner, is supposed to travel to the Winchester kingdom as a decoy, posing as Prince James who is to mate Prince Samuel of Winchester. On the way, he gets kidnapped by a group of bandits, led by a rugged alpha outlaw with an alluring scent. He has no idea that ‘Dean’ is actually the elder Winchester prince, heir to the throne, who has his own agenda.

The Stars Will Remember | @casblackfeathers Rating: Explicit Word Count: 60,997 Main Tags/Warnings: omega!castiel, alpha!dean, amnesia, established relationship, mutual pining, break up and make up, angst with a happy ending, hurt!castiel, hurt and comfort, sweet!dean, bottom!castiel Summary: Being a hunter was all Dean knew ever since his mother had been killed by a demon when he was four. Hunting, offing monsters, and then jumping to the next case was his life. Then he met the most alluring and breathtaking omega he had ever seen and spent the next five years loving the hell out of Cas, their life together filled with the domestic lovey-dovey stuff Dean had never thought he would dig so much. When a simple salt-and-burn goes sideways, it ends up with Cas’ memories stolen from him. Dean is left to pick up the pieces of the life they built together, his ‘make it up as he goes’ strategy to prove to his mate that Dean’s still worth a damn, his only chance at getting Cas back. He’s done a shitty-ass job at keeping Cas safe before, but he will pull out all the stops now to woo his mate again and stir the memories Dean knows are still there buried deep inside Cas’ mind.

Perdition | @Taymarpigeon Rating: Explicit Word Count: 233,955 Main Tags/Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Sickness & Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Possessive Behavior, BDSM, Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural)Omega Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Sadist Castiel/Masochist Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Extremely Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion, Abuse Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Biological Dom/sub, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Psychologist Dean Winchester, Mentions of Rape and Non-Con outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Medicinal Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, BAMF Dean Winchester, A pregnant woman dies, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Additional Warnings Apply Summary: It has been two years since Looking Glass. Two years since they met. Two years since they fell in love. Two years since Alastair came after him. Two years since Lucifer tried to kill them. Two years since Dean sat vigil by Castiel's bedside praying to a deity he doesn't believe in. Two years of healing, discovery and postcard-perfect moments. Two years... yet still the ghosts of their fathers haunt them.

[lonelierthanu]

Penmanship

Satoru Gojo x Gender-neutral Reader

series: incomplete

words: 2.4k

warnings: none apply; funny; meet-ugly; no mentioned female or male anatomy; no spoilers; no curses; slow build; slow to update; college au

summary: A band of barbie’s are after you because you somehow acquired a new boyfriend.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 …+

You’re not sure when the whispers started, but you knew when it started bothering you.

After the unfortunate escapade you had in Sherlock-Houdini’s house, you had left with his “ offer “ completely shut down. You decided to just bite the bullet and apologize to your niece and brother-in-law. It pains you to think about going home for winter break and having to tell them of your mistake, but nothing can be done if you’re being blackmailed for it. Due to lack of funds you’re set to head home next Friday even though the break starts this Friday, and honestly, you’re glad for the excuse to prolong the inevitable.

You’re also hoping that in these last few days before break, the weird atmosphere that seems to be following you will dissipate.

You started noticing it this morning, whenever you looked at someone it seemed they were already looking your way. Quick looks and rushed whispering gave you the impression that the topic of discussion was you. At first, you believed you might be crazy. Why in the world would anyone be talking about you. You were a random nobody that carefully skirted through university unnoticed and that’s how you’ve been living the past three years here.Why suddenly would people start noticing you, if you had done nothing differently?

But then a group of girls, whom you had vaguely remembered from somewhere but couldn’t place where, had come up and asked for your name. Once you confirmed that the name they were referring to was yours they laughed conivingly and walked away. As they walked away you heard one of them say, “She has nothing to worry about,” which only furthered your confusion.

A quick search into Rikki’s instagram story, confirmed your suspicions. Those girls ran in a pretty popular circle on the campus. All those fraternity boys and sorority girls seem to clique to each other, you made sure you stayed very far away from that scene. But Rikki, your roommate and beautiful social butterfly that she is, seemed to turn up in that scene quite a lot.

Regardless of the weird atmosphere persisting around you, you refused to let the whispers get to you.

Which is why you’re at your roommate's door as she packs to go home for the break, asking her why a group of her friends are cackling at you.

She sighs tiredly. Probably because she has a flight at four in the morning and only two hours to pack. Which you did try to tell her not to procrastinate it for this very reason. Rikki takes your phone to look at the picture of the girls who laughed at you that day.

“These are Kaiya’s friends,” she hands you back your phone and continues her task.

“Mm.” You hum in mock understanding; you pause for a moment,“...who’s Kaiya?” she sighs again.

“Vice President of her sorority,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh ok,” you nod, “but why are they laughing at me?” a third, exhausted sigh.

“Please,” she pleads, plopping flat on her bed, “I’m too tired for this,”

“Oh no no no,” You grab her wrist and hoist her back onto her feet. This girl can fall asleep standing up if she tried and you know that once she gets comfy she’s out like a light. You can’t have her fall asleep before you figure out what beef you’ve somehow cooked up with sorority girls you’ve never even met.

“I don’t know!” she whines. The lack of sleep is starting to get to her.

“C’mon Rikki, please. Just think, why would Kaiya and her band of misfit barbies be after me?”

She sits back on the bed and rests her head on her fist propped by her leg. She looks at you with a sleepy expression, the shadow under her eyes heavy. You can tell she’s thinking, but you’re not sure how hard considering she’s about ready to fall over as it is. She rubs her eyes aggressively and puts a finger to her temple to massage it. She groans, the gears presumably turning.

“Did anyone say anything to you?” you ask, in hopes of speeding up the thinking process. Then she looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. You begin to grow concerned. “What?” Rikki sighs and places her head back into her hands.

“I remember Masai talking about Mori getting back together with an ex that used to be involved with Suguru. It was rumored that she tried to take a pass at Satoru but he rejected her because he’s dating someone. News spread to Kaiya, who’s been trying to get in Satoru’s pants for months even when she was dating Mori, and she’s been trying to find out who it is,” Now you sigh, exhausted just from hearing about all of this drama. You don’t even know who any of these people are. “I don’t know if it correlates to you but that’s just what’s been going on lately,”

“I don’t know anybody you just named,” you deadpan. She dramatically flops backwards onto her bed, landing on a pile of clothes she has yet to fold, and groans loudly. She holds up her hand and begins counting off fingers.

“Well Kaiya is the one who’s after you,” one finger, “Mori is her most recent ex-boyfriend,” two fingers, “Masai is my friend and also questionably Kaiya’s friend,” three, “Satoru is the white haired dude that’s literally your project partner — I find it crazy that you still don’t know his name — “ you grimace, “and Suguru is his best friend,” She finishes, five fingers.

After the painful realization that you never once knew Herc-Sherlock-Houdini-Creepster’s name, you remember that the two of you have been spending more time together lately for the project, albeit at his request, but time together nonetheless. And now it makes you wonder if those girls think the two of you might actually be…together.

“I know the two of you have been talking more as of late so i’m thinking she assumes you’re the one Satoru is dating,” Rikki voices your worries out loud, you nod in response, not that she can see considering her eyes are closed.

You’re at a stand still. And a little confused. You’re not sure how you would go about fixing this issue, it seems that many bits of information come from the rumor mill and the little tidbit of you and satoru’s relationship might have been going around for a while. If you were to try to deny it now it might make it worse.

But if Satoru were to deny it then maybe the rumors would die off.

You get up to leave Rikki’s room, noticing she’s asleep and you decide to give her fifteen minutes to rest. You’ll wake her and help her pack. Since becoming project partners (and after the embarrassing fiasco at his house) you’ve exchanged phone numbers for convenience, so in the meantime, you’re gonna text Satoru about this little rumor.

Satoru, unsurprisingly, is awake at twelve in the morning. Anyone who knows him knows that he’s a night owl and an early bird. He doesn’t sleep much but he usually isn’t tired anyway. So, when his phone alerts him of a message, he reads it immediately unbeknownst to him that the person sending it thought he’d read it in the morning.

rumors going around that we’re dating?

Oh, Satoru’s eyebrows rise. You found out.

When Satoru first met you in the beginning of the school year he didn’t think much of you, he found your facial expressions funny, and he definitely noticed that you only scooted one chair over on purpose when he asked (demanded) for your seat. After that encounter though, you became just like every other blurry face in the crowd. And that day when he asked you for a pen, he really needed it. But when you handed him that extremely gaudy pen, he truly looked at you for the first time. 

You looked exhausted beyond belief, and he realized that throughout the time that you’ve been desk mates he’s barely seen you wear color, and the few times that you did he’s never seen you wear bright pink or anything Hello Kitty related. It intrigued him to say the least and he felt that he absolutely needed to know why you had this pen. When you explained, a part of him believed you, but the part that always had his guard up (from the absolute onslaught of advances from mostly Kaiya) was still on edge. 

At the end of class he put your pen in his bag, like he usually would with his own, and left to meet Suguru for lunch somewhere off campus. He genuinely forgot. So, when he was finally pressured, by Suguru, to go to class that Friday he was surprised that you still cared about the pen. It clicked in his mind that this might be an advance. Your overall demeanor and vibe didn’t tell him that it was you that was trying to get at him. But he figured since each of Kaiya’s friends have tried to get at him for her sake, he wouldn’t be surprised if she paid someone to try since he now knows all of her friends and their friends' faces. That had given him the idea to see if you could be persuaded to leave him alone. 

So, he bit the bullet. And invited you to his fraternity. He didn’t plan to actually sleep with you, he just wanted to know where you stood in Kayia’s ridiculous plan. Then when you blew up at him. He was embarrassed, at first, for his assumption when he realized you were completely serious about needing that pen back, but then quickly regained his resolve. He felt that he had missed any chances to speak to you again after that and decided to keep his distance, but he did plan to give you the pen back. He began to mourn the small banter-full interactions the two of you’d have.

He showed up late the following Monday and was told of the project and when he was told his partnering, he felt like a dream opportunity had fallen right into his lap. It excited him. He jumped at the opportunity to turn the tides. So, he asked you out. He didn’t care if you thought he was serious or not. If you did, then he’d have a genuine partner to keep people off his back and if you didn’t, then he could propose it as a fake dating situation and he wouldn’t have to pretend to like you romantically. But your general disdain for him ran deeper than he thought, and you rejected him outright.

It was fine though, that didn’t deter him from his plan. He started telling people that he was dating someone. The project was the perfect excuse to spend more time with you and make it look like you two were actually together. He never told anyone that the two of you were dating, but he knew the implications were there and that was the idea.

And now it seems you’ve somehow gotten looped in on the rumors. 

call me

The two of you had never called before. Your conversations stayed through text, but to be perfectly honest he preferred phone calls. He texted you first to see if you’d be comfortable and maybe 5 minutes passed before he just assumed you weren’t gonna call him. He was drafting a text to you when his phone began ringing and your contact was showing on his screen. He smirked and clicked the green button.

“Hi~” Satoru drawls almost seductively into the phone speaker but keeping his tone light so you can tell he’s not serious.

“Do you know if it’s true?” you say back, straight to the point, and Satoru wishes he could see your face. Since the moment he met you he’s learned that he loves seeing what kind of reaction he can get out of you. Any reaction pleases him really. Irritation is usually the emotion he’s met with but it’s hilarious every time.

“If what’s true?” He finds it hard to hold back the smile spreading on his face. Teasing you comes so easily. He hears you sigh on the other end.

“That there’s a rumor,”

“Hmm, I haven’t heard of any rumors,” he lies.

“There’s a rumor that you’re dating someone and today someone, Kaiya?” The name irks him beyond belief, “I don’t know if you know her but today her posse like, sized me up and I'm on her radar now. I talked to my roommate about it, and she thinks that maybe people are assuming we’re together? I want to know if you know anything about it,” Satoru didn’t anticipate that Kaiya would go out of her way to find you, but in hindsight that was a little naive of him.

“I have been telling people I’m with someone, I’m not,” he doesn’t know why he felt the need to clarify that, “because Kaiya has been trying to jump my bones for as long as I’ve known her. I’ve rejected her so many times but she’s relentless. I hoped that pretending to be in a relationship would get her off my back,” you sigh, you seem tired.

“That’s fine I guess but if someone asks could you please deny it?”

“Ouch baby, you don’t even want to pretend to date me?” he feigns hurt.

“No.” He just laughs.

“We’re still on for tomorrow right?”

“Yes, goodnight Satoru,” And Satoru finds himself still. He’s never heard you say his name before. The late hour forces your tone to be hushed, and deeper than usual, so hearing his name spoken in that tone does something to him. He’s not sure what but it’s solidified in his mind that he needs to hear it again.

“Goodnight baby~” he teases in hopes that he can elicit his name from your mouth one more time before this call ends.

“Don’t call me that.” you say, followed by the triple beeps indicating the call has been ended. He sighs and settles further into his sheets. Up until now he was beginning to think you either didn’t know his name or you hated him so much that the thought of tasting his name on your tongue made you want to throw up. He was glad neither possibility was true. A sliver of hope that you might be warming up to him was beginning to bloom.

(･ω<)☆

*pulls out popcorn* can’t wait to see what happens next guys! 😄🫳🍿

★prev next☆

[jerzwriter]

Mono~poly Chapter 5: Beautiful Days

A Tobias x Casey AU - Information and Notes

AU Premise: What happens when something that was supposed to be just fun turns into something real? When true love enters the equation between two people who view the very concept of love in different ways, can it work? In this alternate universe, we'll follow Casey and Tobias (and some others along the way) on their journey, where a happy ending is what both desire, but (as in life) nothing is guaranteed.

Fandom: Open Heart, Choices** Pairing: Tobias Carrick x Casey MacTavish F!MC Characters: Ethan Ramsey, Jackie Varma and OCs: Vivian Carrick, Jordan Carrick, Rose D'Allesandro, Addie Larkin, David MacTavish, Peter MacTavish, Diana Ellington-Rourke Rating: Teen Words: 5,300

Chapter Summary: The chapter begins with friends and family gathering for Tobias and Casey's big day. There is much revelry to be had, but for some, emotions run high. Later, the couple has settled into a happily married life where the honeymoon never seems to end. But as they prepare to celebrate their third anniversary, Casey receives an offer that is hard to refuse. Will that change things?

A/N: Participating in @choicesaugustchallenge Day 30 - Summer Wedding. A huge thank you to @angelasscribbles for prereading this for me!

The news spread like wildfire. It only took days for all of Boston to be abuzz over the engagement of Drs. Tobias Carrick and Casey MacTavish; it only took a few more before it was news in their hometowns, too. The announcement was met with a blend of joy and levity. While those who knew him had had a few years to get used to Tobias trading his swinging single life, and most were thrilled about his union with Casey, a dose of good-natured ribbing was bound to take place.

His mother, Vivian, was overjoyed and initiated her plans to deliver an August wedding that would leave people talking for years at once. With two confirmed bachelors as sons, she never thought she’d live to see this day, and she wasn't containing her excitement. When she stopped in to see Casey the morning of the wedding, she informed the young woman that she was erecting an altar for her daughter-in-law-to-be in her backyard, and Casey wasn't sure if she was joking.

In Casey’s corner of the world, her mother, Rose, was equally enthusiastic. Her reaction warmed Casey’s heart despite her fears over the inevitable conversations about how her father, David, would fit into the wedding plans. Those negotiations were fraught with tension and left Casey in tears - that’s the thing about the emotional baggage childhood delivers: it never fully goes away.

But Tobias was having none of it; he was totally serious about eloping if they failed to get their act together, and Casey was completely on board. That ultimatum was all Vivian needed to hear before she put the fear of God into both the D’Allesandro and MacTavish families. She promptly called a meeting, telling Tobias and Casey that she would take care of it all. Within an hour, Vivian emerged from the locked room with a satisfied grin and nary a hair out of place, assuring, “They will behave.”

Now, after months of planning and fuss... the day was finally here. It was time to celebrate the happy couple's love and commitment, and they were on top of the world.

After a chaotic morning, Casey was enjoying a quiet moment alone before the ceremony began. The soft hum of voices and laughter of guests who had gathered outside seeped through the venue’s walls as she adjusted the final touches of her wedding gown, its delicate lace and satin catching the light just so when Ethan entered the room.

His arrival went unnoticed. So, he leaned against the doorframe, allowing himself a few precious moments to take her in. A broad smile tugged at his lips, despite a hint of sadness lingering in his eyes. Clearing his throat to make his presence known, he moved toward her with the ease and familiarity of their long-standing bond.

“It’s not too late to run away,” he said with a playful grin. “Just say the word, and I’ll drive the getaway car.”

Casey turned toward him, her smile bright as her eyes met his. Ethan. Her dear friend, Ethan. While some might balk at a bride having her former lover as one of her bridal attendants, Tobias wholeheartedly supported her choice. He understood the depth of their friendship and was pleased that Casey would have him by her side on this special day. He wanted nothing more than for his bride to have everything her heart desired.

“Come on, Ethan," she teased. "You and Tobias buried the hatchet years ago. Do you really want to hurt him that bad?”

“Of course I don’t," he smiled. "And that would absolutely kill him.” He took a deep breath, his eyes still reflecting the bittersweet emotions in his heart. “You look absolutely stunning, Casey. You’re going to take Tobias’s breath away.”

“Thank you,” she blushed.

“He doesn’t deserve you – you know that, right?”

Casey winked playfully and adjusted the layers of her skirt. “I know!”

The tender moment burst when Jackie rushed into the room, her nervousness palpable. “Hate to bust this party up, but the photographer needs us in 15 minutes, and I have to finish getting the princess camera ready.”

Ethan’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Not ready? She's gorgeous! How can you improve on that?”

Casey chuckled softly. “See, I told you I needed him around to bolster my ego! But I do have some last minute touches to complete.” She shooed Ethan away. “Go - go join the other attendants and have fun. I’ll be down before you know it.”

Jackie clapped her hands the moment Ethan exited the room. “It’s almost showtime! You ready?”

Casey beamed with a joy that radiated from inside. “You better believe I am! I can’t believe it’s already time!”

Jackie looked at her friend in the mirror, her smile faltering just a bit. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered. “But you do have the prenup in order, right?”

The smile fell from Casey's face. “Jackie! Is that any way to talk to me 30 minutes before my wedding?” She tried to keep the mood light, but there was an unmistakable trace of annoyance in her voice. But it would take more than that to deter Jackie.

“You didn’t answer?”

Casey’s heart sank as she turned to her friend. “His family’s attorneys sent one over last week, but Tobias lost his mind. He insisted he didn’t want one; we’re going to be together forever, so…”

Jackie rolled her eyes, and it didn't go unnoticed. “Jackie, really? You’re my maid of honor! Tell me you’re joking about this! These are supposed to be the happiest moments of my life.”

Jackie’s internal struggle had her light-headed. She loved Casey, and she loved Tobias, too. She couldn’t deny their relationship had proven even the greatest skeptics wrong; they’d be relationship goals personified if not for that one promise. She was the only one who knew Casey had made it three years before, and if Tobias ever called in the offer of dabbling in non-monogamy, she wasn’t confident her friend would be able to handle it; if that happened, she doubted their marriage would survive. Still, Casey was relying on her, so Jackie forced herself back to the present.

“You know I’m an asshole,” she grinned. “I’m joking, girl. I love you, and I love Tobias, too. Come on. Let’s get you ready to marry your man.”

Casey took a deep breath as Jackie delicately placed the veil on her head. She’d have to be a fool to pretend she couldn't read Jackie's thoughts. Yet, at this moment, her heart was overflowing with joy, leaving no room for doubts. She loved Tobias with all her heart, and his love for her ran just as deep. She couldn’t imagine being happier than she was today. Yes, Casey was confident... this was forever.

The ceremony went off without a hitch; a Hollywood director couldn’t have scripted it better. Tobias wiped away tears as Casey walked down the aisle. She had opted to walk alone, and at that moment, he silently promised she’d never be alone again. Casey had struggled to hold back her tears - her make-up was flawless, after all - but her husband’s heartfelt vows diminished her resolve. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the officiant pronounced them husband and wife; the joy was unmistakable.

Vivian had meticulously planned the reception to be an elegant affair, but with Tobias & Casey as the bridal couple, there was bound to be some debauchery. Still, the revelry was kept in check, and after a couple of hours of staying glued to each other’s side, they began making the rounds. Tobias was on the dance floor with his friend Addie, who Casey had finally managed to wrangle into a bridesmaid’s dress.

“And they said it couldn’t be done,” Addie grinned.

“Ehh, that was a long time ago. Tell me you haven’t expected this from the moment I met Casey?”

“The moment? No. Absolutely not,” Addie laughed. “A year in... mmmm... maybe. But all I know is I’ve never seen you smile like this. I’m really happy for you, T.”

Tobias’s beamed, his face a picture of pride, joy, and contentment. “Thank you. I’m happy for me, too.” As they continued to dance, Addie leaned in closer, and Tobias returned to the playful banter that marked their friendship.

“Hey, I just realized... you’re here alone tonight. You’re always whining that you only get plus ones on your invites. Casey and I give you a plus two, and who do you bring? No one!”

“Relax!” she chortled. “It wasn’t intentional. My boyfriend is traveling with his band, and my girlfriend was going to come, but her Mom got sick, and she had to fly back to Dallas yesterday.”

“That’s too bad. I was hoping to get to know them better; I swear you’re hiding them from me.”  

“That’s not true,” she insisted. “The three of us are just pretty independent. But on the upside, I’m here stag, so if I run into any cute guests...”

Tobias barked out a laugh, “They won’t have a chance against you!”

Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find his mother, resplendent in an emerald green satin gown. “Mind if I cut in?” she asked.

Addie raised her hands with a playful smile. “As if I’d argue with you, Vivian.” She gave Tobias a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying off.

Tobias took his mother in his arms, his heart full of love and gratitude. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am for all you’ve done for us today?”

“A few times,” she nodded. “But please continue. I think I'm entitled to hear it multiple times since you made me wait so damn long for this day."

Tobias chuckled, and then his gaze landed on Casey. “I think it was worth the wait, don’t you?”

Vivian followed his line of sight and nodded with a smile. “Absolutely! Casey is a gem. I love her as if she is my own." She turned back to her son with a sigh. "You did good, Tobias. Now, don’t mess this up!”  

“I promise, Mom. See that smile on her face? I intend to make sure she looks that way every day for the rest of her life."

“That’s what I want to hear,” she smiled as they swayed to the music. “Is she enjoying the day?” taking a half-step back, she changed her tone. “Has her family been behaving?”

Tobias winced slightly, and Vivian knew he was grappling to decide if he should tell her the truth. “Overall, yes... but her Father and one of his relatives were overheard discussing how relieved they are that she ended up marrying a man.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Vivian spat. “Do I need to intervene?”

“No,” Tobias laughed. “We don't want bloodshed at the wedding, Ma. Besides, Casey shook it off, and her cousin, Peter, made it very clear that they needed to knock it off. Let’s just say I’m confident there won’t be any more incidents.”

“Well, as long as Casey is all right.”

“She is; she told me nothing is going to spoil today for her... for us.”

“I’m glad,” Vivian smiled. “Because this is a glorious day and if anyone messed it up... no promises on the bloodshed.”

The reception was winding down, but the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft music still filled the air. Casey was sitting at a table with friends, their spirits high as they recounted funny stories from the past and talked about the day’s events. Casey had her head tilted back in laughter when Tobias slipped up behind her and pulled her into a passionate kiss.

“All right, this has been the best day of my life, baby, but we have a honeymoon in Bali to get to... and honey... do I have plans for you.”

Sienna raised an eyebrow as she put down her drink. “So, what you’re saying is, in a couple of days, this will be demoted to the second or third best day of your life?”

Tobias’s brother Jordan chuckled from the other end of the table. “Well, their honeymoon is 14 days long, so this is going to be his 15th best day real soon.”

Casey rolled her eyes as the group burst into laughter, and then she looked at Jackie and Sienna’s way. “I should go get changed. Jackie, Sienna, mind helping me out of this dress?”

“Hey!” Tobias interjected with a teasing grin. “Isn’t that my job?”

“There will be plenty of time for that on the honeymoon,” Casey winked, giving him a gentle shove before she headed off, leaving Tobias and his friends behind. He ordered a bottle of the restaurant’s finest Scotch to continue the celebration. When it arrived, Ethan took it in hand, visibly approving the choice. He poured a glass for everyone as the toasting began.

“Here’s to Tobias!” Bryce started. “The man who swore he’d never do something as crazy as this, and look at him now... he’s totally whipped.”

“Seriously,” his brother, Jordan, chimed in. “I’m so happy, and not just because you took some family pressure to get hitched off of me! As the now sole confirmed bachelor of the Carrick family, I wish you the very best... Casey is precious - now, don’t screw this up!”

Ethan was the next to go. “To Tobias. You’ve married a wonderful woman. Casey’s very lucky but nowhere near as lucky as you. Remember to appreciate every moment.”

“Salut!”  the friends toasted as Ethan forced a smile. Seated at Tobias’s side, his friend Addie looped her arm in his and raised her glass.

“Hey, I’m not getting left out of this!” she insisted with a grin. “Cheers to my dear friend Tobias—the one person I thought was less likely to settle into monogamy than me. Just look at you proving us all wrong. But I get it... Casey is amazing, and I’m genuinely, truly happy for you.”

“Thank you," he winked. "So, you gonna join me over here on this monogamy train."

“Oh, no fucking chance!” Addie laughed.

There was only one person left, Casey’s cousin Peter. Both were only children, and they grew up closer than most siblings, and all eyes were on him when he raised his glass.

“Tobias, I’ve watched the love between you and Casey grow over the past three years. It’s hard to believe, but every time I see you, it appears to deepen and grow. I couldn't be happier for both of you. Here’s to a future filled with love, laughter, and everything your hearts desire. But remember... be good to her.”

“I wouldn’t dream of treating her any other way," Tobias insisted.

“Good,” Peter laughed, giving Ethan’s shoulder a playful slap on the shoulder. “Then you’ll save the two of us the trouble of having to dispose of your body.”

They all raised their glasses and drank. The warmth of the Scotch reflected the warm feeling in the room. Surrounded by love and well wishes, Tobias and Casey continued their journey. Neither could wait for the life they were about to build.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fluorescent lights in the diagnostic team’s office created the illusion of midday, even as dusk approached outside. What had once been a sterile, impersonal space had transformed over the years, thanks to Casey’s loving touch. Shelves that were once filled solely with medical journals and textbooks now showcased lush plants and carefully chosen photos. Ethan had initially approved the more formal shots— the team at award dinners, conferences, and the like—but Casey had managed to slip in some candid moments, too. Memories that highlighted the friendship the members of the team shared. Now, photos of them at local festivals, picking pumpkins in the fall, turning green at amusement parks, and smiling on a sunset cruise dotted the room. She had argued that they spent more time at work than they did at home, so their space should reflect that. Eventually, Ethan relented—with Casey involved, no one was surprised.

That cozy spot was where Casey, Ethan, and Jackie found themselves today as their workdays wound down. The faint hum of hospital activity provided a soothing background noise as their conversations turned to weekend plans. Ethan was attending a philharmonic concert, Jackie wanted nothing more than to catch up on sleep, and Casey couldn’t have been more excited to celebrate her third wedding anniversary.

“Three years already? How is that possible?” Jackie marveled.

“You made it to three years!” Ethan joked. “How is that possible?”

“Meh,” Casey smirked. “We have oodles of kinky sex and great communication – we’re set for life!”  

“Ugh,” Jackie groaned. “Did you have to bring the conversation there, Ethan?”

“Me?!” He protested. “Casey’s the one who turned this conversation.”

“Don’t act all puritanical, Dr. Ramsey!” Casey laughed. “My third wedding anniversary should bring back good memories for you, too.”

“This again?” Ethan moaned. “When are you going to let it go?”

 “As soon as you call her! You convincing Addie to go home with you once after my wedding is not enough to satiate me! You should know that! You two would be so good together.”

“Wait! Is that how he told you it happened!” Jackie jumped in. “I was there, and Addie was the one doing the seducing. Ramsey didn’t stand a chance.”

Ethan took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was a one-time private thing. You all really have to move on.”

“Fine!” Casey sighed. “I’ll just go on representing the happily married contingent of the diagnostic team for the foreseeable future.”

Just then, Tobias entered the room, his larger-than-life presence immediately commanding attention.

“Is that my beautiful wife talking? If so, you represent that contingency very well, baby.” With effortless charisma, he leaned over Casey’s chair and placed a lingering kiss on her lips.

“Great. Now we’re subjected to these two,” Ethan grumbled as Jackie groaned in agreement.

“What?” Tobias grinned as he poured a cup of coffee. “We’re at work! I know how to contain myself, you know.”

The room went silent as three sets of eyes stared at him incredulously. “All right, all right,” he smirked. “I know how to dial it down... to a degree. But you can’t blame me,” he added, sitting beside Casey. “The honeymoon never ends with this one.”

“Why are you here so early?” Casey asked, politely steering the conversation. “Your shift doesn’t begin for another hour.

“Correct, but yours ends in fifteen minutes. I thought we could grab dinner together in the cafeteria before you head out. You know,” he said, looking pointedly at Ethan. “Because my boss is an asshole who keeps scheduling us on opposite shifts.”

“That’s not true!” Ethan defended. “I go out of my to....”

“Relax! Relax!” Tobias laughed. After all these years, he still knew how to push Ethan’s buttons. “I’m teasing. Honestly, you do a great job making sure Casey and I get time together, and I appreciate it.”

Casey’s expression grew momentarily serious as her eyes met Ethan’s with a knowing look, but if Tobias noticed, he didn’t let on.

“So what do you say, baby? Dinner?” he asked.

Casey looked at her watch and nodded. “I do have errands to run after work. But if we go right now, I can squeeze you in.”

“Oh, honey, you can’t say squeeze me in and....”

“STOP IT!” Jackie yelled, holding her ears, and the happy couple laughed as they walked down the hall.

They settled into a quiet corner of the cafeteria, two chicken potpies—one of the better offerings—steamed between them. Casey smiled warmly at Tobias and reached across the table to gently squeeze his hand. She was so happy to see him, but she knew they had to tell him some news.

“Tobias,” she began, her voice tinged with apprehension. “You know the research Ethan and I have been doing on the inequities in diagnosing women’s health conditions?”

“Of course,” he replied, digging into his food. “You’ve been passionate about it. I really believe that if you keep at it, you could help bridge that gap and make a real difference.”

“Well,” she said, a mix of pride and nervousness in her eyes, “Apparently, you’re not the only one who thinks so. The National Institutes of Health agrees, and they’ve offered us an enormous grant to continue our studies. They want us to create a blueprint and train others nationwide.”

His eyes widened in disbelief as he grabbed her hand. “Honey! That’s incredible! This is huge! I’m so, so proud of you!”

“Thank you, baby,” she said softly. “But... I’m not sure I’m going to participate. I told Ethan I needed some time to think about it.”

He looked at her, both shocked and concerned. “You... you what?”

“Tobias, it’s difficult enough for us to make time to be together now. If I take this on, it’ll be in addition to my regular work. It means long hours and a lot of travel; I don't know if it's a good idea.”  

“Hon, we’ll figure it out,” he said firmly. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. You can’t turn it down. I won’t let you.”

Casey’s face twisted, her eyes filling with tears. “But we were talking about possibly starting a family soon,” she whispered. “This would put that on hold indefinitely.”

“Possibly,” He replied gently. “We didn't even decide for sure if we wanted kids.”

“But we were leaning that way.”

“And we still can,” he reassured her. “I’m the old one here, you’re not. If we have to delay it, so be it. But baby, you can’t pass this up opportunity.”

“You really wouldn't mind?” she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation.

“Mind? Do you have any idea how much I'm going to brag about this?” he grinned. “I'm going to be incorrigible. What does your wife do? Oh, that’s cute. Let me tell you about my wife.” He slid his chair closer to hers and brushed a stray hair from her face before he gave her a playful kiss. “Not only is my wife gorgeous,” he kissed her again. “Not only is she hot as hell,” another kiss. “She’s brilliant, and she's going to change the world.” He pulled her closer, this time capturing her lips in a lingering kiss, deeper and more intense. “My wife,” he whispered, “is perfect in every way, and I’m so glad she’s mine.”

A lump formed in Casey’s throat as tears filled her eyes. “Have I ever told you how happy I am that I married you?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “But tell me again.”

“Have I told you how...” but Tobias silenced her by gently placing a finger over her lips.

“Not now,” he whispered. “Later, when I get home from work. In bed, naked... tell me then.”

“Hey, if that’s how you want me to tell you, I won’t just tell you... I’ll show you, too!”

“That’s the idea,” he smirked.

Casey hugged him, noticing the time on the clock over his shoulder. “Oh, shoot! I’m sorry, honey, but I have to go.”

“What's so important that you’re cutting our time short?” he asked, holding tight to her hand.

“I have anniversary plans to attend to,” she smiled as she cleared her place.

“But that’s not until Saturday?” He groaned. “Why do you have to go now?”

Casey gave him a knowing look. “I need to make sure my lingerie is in order,” she winked. "You wouldn't want to interfere with that."

“All right,” he sighed dramatically, making a show of dropping her hand. “Then go! Get out of here. Please, go!”

“Fine!” she giggled, picking up her tray.

“And remember,” he called after her, “the traditional gift for the third anniversary is leather. Feel free to add that to the mix.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as she walked away.

Tobias chuckled to himself as a resident glanced over, looking a bit horrified. “What?” Tobias grinned, unbothered. "One more trip to HR won’t kill me.... and she's worth it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Casey hustled out of Edenbrook and headed toward the South End neighborhood they called home, with a smile tugging at her lips. The whole “lingerie situation” was already under control —she’d taken care of that weeks ago. But she had another stop to make, the Beacon Gallery.

She’d commissioned a painting by an up-and-coming artist to give to Tobias as an anniversary gift, and he asked for her to stop by and see it before he finished the work. The piece was eclectic, blending hues of their favorite colors and incorporating elements and symbols representing key moments from their time together. The general viewer might not decipher its meaning, but Casey knew Tobias would take one look at it, and his heart would melt.

The way Casey spoke about Tobias and described the deep love they shared moved the artist to name the piece Eternal Love. Casey smiled at the sentiment, believing it perfectly captured their bond.

But the gallery's owner balked at the idea. “That’s tempting fate!” He insisted. “Why do anything to welcome bad luck.”

Casey brushed him off, replying with confidence. “We don't need luck. We make our own own.”

The evening was beautiful, so when she left the gallery, she decided to take the long way home, strolling through the familiar streets she knew and loved so well. She was headed toward their favorite bakery to pick up a few things for dinner, when something unexpected caught her eye—a new gallery, one she was certain they’d never visited before.

She tried to recall if Tobias ever mentioned a new gallery opening. She was certain he had taken her to every existing gallery in Boston and beyond, and she was confident this one was new.

With her curiosity piqued, she crossed the street and gazed into the window. The artwork displayed was stunning—vibrant colors, bold strokes, and intricate details that she knew Tobias would love. The gallery itself looked almost empty, as if it was still being set up, so she decided to step inside.

The scent of fresh paint and varnish greeted her, as did crisp white walls that made the few displayed pieces stand out even more. Several other pieces remained wrapped, leaned against each other and a few sculptures were scattered throughout.

An abstract painting in the back of the gallery caught her eye. Its swirling, contrasting shades of blues, pinks, ombre, white, and gold danced across the canvas, evoking images of the four seasons. There was something both calming and chaotic about it, and it resonated with her. She reached out, almost touching the canvas, when a voice broke the silence.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice echoed.

Casey turned to find a tall, slender woman headed her way. Her sea of dark curls streaked with golden highlights was piled on top of her head, with a few curls cascading down onto her flawless tawny skin. She was beautiful in a way that was almost surreal like a figure in a painting come to life. Her movements were fluid and graceful, and as her warm, dark eyes met Casey’s, she momentarily forgot how to speak.

“Oh!” Casey replied, taking a startled step backward. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t realize! I’ll come back when—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” the woman said with a melodic laugh. “I won’t make any friends in my new neighborhood if I shoo everyone away.” She wiped her hands on the paint-splattered apron tied around her waist and extended a hand. “I’m Diana. I'm an artist - and I own the gallery, too.”

Casey relaxed, taking the woman’s hand. “I’m Casey. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Is all this your work?”

Diana looked around the room with pride. “Most of it is, but not everything.” She nodded toward the painting Casey had been admiring. “Do you like that one? That is mine.”  

“I do,” Casey replied, eyes returning to the painting. “It’s beautiful and captivating. From one angle, it’s so calming, but from another, it feels chaotic. It’s like it symbolizes… life.”

Diana’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I was going for. Not everyone sees it right away. Are you an artist yourself? Or a collector, perhaps?”

“Me?” Casey laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, no! When it comes to art appreciation, I’m a novice at best. My husband is the connoisseur in the family. He may be a doctor, but art is woven into his DNA. He’s spent the better part of the last six years trying to bring me up to speed, but I'm afraid I still feel like a fish out of water around it.”

“Well, you’ve got a great eye,” Diana smiled. “And I love that you’ve taken an interest in something so important to your husband. That’s very special.”

“Thank you,” Casey smiled. ���Actually, I just came from the Beacon Gallery. Our anniversary is Saturday, and I commissioned a painting for him. But I’ve got to admit…” She glanced back at the abstract. “I think he’d like this one even more.”

“Well, I certainly won’t stop you from buying another piece,” Diana winked, and Casey couldn’t help but be charmed.

“So, you’re new to Boston?” Casey asked.

“Yes,” Diana replied. “I have other galleries; my largest is in LA, and I have a smaller one near my home in Colorado. But I’ve wanted to establish an East Coast presence for a long time now. I came to the SoWa Winter Festiva last year and fell in love. Do you know when you can just feel from that start that it's going to be a perfect fit?"

"I do," Casey grinned. "When will you be opening? I can’t wait to see the rest of your work.”

“I officially open in two weeks, but I’m hosting a grand opening party next Saturday. It’s by invitation only, but I’d love for you and your husband to join us.”

Casey’s eyes lit up. “Really? Oh my God, he’ll be thrilled! Our anniversary is this Saturday—that would make the perfect addition to my gift.”

“I love that,” Diana said, clapping her hands together. “How many years are you celebrating?”

“Three."

“Ah, leather,” Diana playfully winked. “I assume you’ve already taken care of the traditional gift?"

Casey burst out laughing. “You knew that too quickly—you must be married yourself.”

“I am, and I have a crystal anniversary coming up. Fifteen years next month.”

“Fifteen?" Casey was stunned. "Wow, what did you do? Get married at ten?”

 “I knew I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you, Casey," Diana chuckled. “But now, you're my best friend! I’m so glad you stopped by—you’re officially my first friend in my new town.”

“I consider that an honor,” Casey said, genuinely touched. Her eyes landed on a stack of brochures on a nearby table. “Mind if I take a few of these? I work at Edenbrook Hospital, and I could hand them out to some of my peers.”

“I've got a beautiful new friend, and she's helping me spread the word? This really is my lucky day,” Diana said, handing her a stack of brochures and two elegant invitations. “I really hope to see you both at the grand opening.”

“I wouldn't miss it!” Casey smiled, tucking the brochures and invitations into her bag. “And don’t be surprised if I stop by before then. I wouldn't mind another sneak peek."

“Please do!” Diana enthused. “I’d love the company, and you can tell me all the good places to go in the neighborhood. If I don't find a good iced matcha latte soon, I might lose my mind."

“Ah! I know just the place! I'll be sure to stop in if I see you here!"

Casey walked home with a sense of contentment. Her day had started with a bright opportunity and now, she felt like she found something special in that gallery... and in Diana. She couldn’t wait to tell Tobias all about it.

When she arrived home, she set the brochures on the kitchen counter, and her fingers brushed over the invitations as she thought about how much Tobias would love this surprise. It really was the perfect addition to her anniversary gift: a new place they could explore together and a night where they could dress up to boot! She already had the perfect dress in mind.

She carefully hid the invitations in a box toward the back of her closet, not far from the lingerie and a few leather items that would be making an appearance on Saturday, as well. The thought made her smile; she couldn’t wait to celebrate! As she glanced at the clock, she realized Tobias would be home in a few hours. She had so much to look forward to. As she stepped into the shower, allowing the steam and warm water to envelop her, she felt a peace that soothed her to her core. It had been a wonderful day filled with new opportunities, new connections, and the promise of even more to come. She was so fortunate, and she couldn’t wait for all that was ahead.

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

[writeouswriter]

People out here like oooh I shouldn't be relating to this villainous character, this character who does bad things, this character who has questionable morals; yes, you should be! You should be looking at the warped funhouse mirror and analyzing what you see there! That is not an accident! The world is not black and white, good and bad, us and them; if you start thinking there's a clear dividing line, that you could never possibly relate or end up like them or they could never have ended up like you, that's how they get you!

You and the rest of humanity are a swirling pool of grey and these characters are, in many instances, a way to reflect on yourself... because recognizing the self through the other not only gives valuable insight into you and those around you in general, but also lets you see how you can avoid making the same mistakes or how you could, given differing and worse circumstances, see exactly where they're coming from and become just like them if the tables were turned, making you more mindful, more empathetic, more open to questioning or accepting your own flaws, and just... so much more.

That's inevitably worded fuzzily, and I've said it before, but the point is, it's not a bad thing to relate to these characters, it's an (often) *intended* and invariably human thing because humans are messy and complex and shaped by all kinds of simultaneously unique and yet universal shared experiences, and in the end, people are people are people, bound by the laws of chaos.

And yes, there may be some exceptions in how you may approach this, but not without nuance.