#and finally i can read braille

[sinkingtime]

Ok, so I've studied english, spanish, portuguese, french, japanese, german, latin, greek (ancient) and nahuatl. But I have to say, this is a ridiculously lenient definition of "speaks".

If you want me to communicate, it's just english and spanish, plus arguably portuguese but only by virtue of the famous transparency between those two.

And then I can read fiction in french and japanese, but slowly and with frequent dictionary pauses. Could presumably do the same for the others, with varying levels of effort, but I haven't really tested it since school.

how many languages do you speak?

(i’m counting languages where you took one class for a semester if you retained any of it congrats you are a little multilingual)

(reblog for bigger sample size!)

[vampiredaisiesss]

touch me — d.w. x reader

synopsis - you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. the lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter. you find him all the more beautiful like this.

trigger warning - older dean winchester (early 40s) with younger reader (early 20s)

He thinks about time, about how it marks you, about how each silver strand falling to the floor is another reminder of all the years between the two of you.

The harsh glare of the bathroom light is unforgiving, casting every line on his face into sharp focus. Dean watches your reflection in the mirror. The gentle snip-snip echoes off the tile walls as you work the scissor over his hair, your lip caught between your teeth.

Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror from your shower, making the edges of your reflection soft, dream-like. Your tank top's damp where his hair falls against it, and there's something so domestic about this moment it makes his chest ache.

You hum "Hey Jude" while you work, because of course you know that's what Mary sang when she cut his hair. Of course you know that's what he sometimes hummed in his sleep whenever he'd have a nightmare.

"You're thinking too loud, again," you murmur, running your fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"I've got shirts older than you," he says finally, the words tasting bitter on tongue.

You laugh out loud, and it sounds like every good thing he probably doesn't deserve. "And they're all flannel, and they all smell like gunpowder and cheap liquor that you probably spilled on them two decades ago, but never got dry-cleaned, and I love them." Your smile turns soft at the edges. "Just like I love the man wearing them."

"Kid—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't 'kid' me, Dean Winchester. Not when you're balls deep inside me every night." You pause for just enough time to fix him a determined stare, and he offers you a small smile.

"You think I don't know who I'm choosing? You think I haven't counted every scar, every gray hair, every year you spent saving the world before I was old enough to know it needed saving?"

The scissor is forgotten on the countertop as you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. Your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. The lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter.

You find him all the more beautiful like this.

Dean's throat tightens. You're stripping him bare with your touch. "Exactly. You could have anyone. Someone who—"

He swallows hard, but he's smiling now. His chest feels heavier with something else. "When you say it like that, sounds like I should be in a museum, not your bed."

"Someone who what? Someone who hasn't survived forty years in hell? Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a weapon? Someone who doesn't understand why I keep rock salt by the bed and devil's traps under the rugs?" You shake her head. "I don't want easy, Dean. I want you."

"There," you say finally, brushing loose hair from his neck. Your lips find that sensitive spot behind his ear, and he can feel you smile against his skin.

"Please," You chuckle. Your hands slide back into his hair, resuming cutting. "Museums are for looking, not touching. "And I'm very..." snip "...very..." snip "...fond of touching you."

"Touch me," he says, and it comes out like a prayer he never learned properly – rough and wanting and holy all at once. It curls around your heart in the shape of Dean's hand.

He reaches up, catches your hand before you can move away.

You touch him like you're reading braille, like every freckle on his body has a story to tell. Your lips trace constellations across the map of blue veins over his body. And when you finally put your lips on the scar along the side of his hip — the first ever souvenir he collected on his skin — you feel the smallest tremor in his breath. It’s so faint, but unmistakable, and for a moment, you could almost swear you made Dean Winchester mewl.

And you do.

[arkofangels]

Unintentional couple behaviour

Words: ~800–1300 per character

Characters: Matt Murdock (Daredevil), Foggy Nelson, Wilson Fisk, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Karen Page

Inspired by: Daredevil (2015) & Daredevil: Born Again (2025)
Premise: You two act like a loving couple all the time, so what happens when someone points it out?

── .✦ Matt Murdock:

You’ve always been there for Matt. You help him navigate the chaos of Hell’s Kitchen, patch up his wounds after a rough night, and make sure he eats something other than takeout. It’s second nature, looking out for him. He’s a mess sometimes, but he’s your mess.

It’s during a late-night case at Nelson & Murdock when Foggy finally says something. You’re sitting on the couch, handing Matt a coffee while he’s hunched over a braille case file. Foggy’s sprawled in a chair, eating leftover Chinese food.

“Man, you two are like an old married couple,” Foggy says, pointing his chopsticks at you. “You bring him coffee, you make sure he doesn’t die from his own stubbornness. It’s adorable.”

You freeze, the coffee cup still in your hand. “What?”

Matt tilts his head, his lips twitching like he’s suppressing a smile. “Foggy, don’t start.”

“No, no, I’m serious!” Foggy grins. “You’re always taking care of each other. It’s like you’re already picking out curtains for your shared apartment.”

Your face heats up. “I’m just… helping. He’d forget to eat otherwise.”

“Sure,” Foggy says, winking. “And Matt, when’s the last time you let anyone else stitch you up? Or carry your sorry ass home after a fight?”

Matt’s smirk fades, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Point made.”

You glance at Matt, then back at Foggy. “We’re not— It’s not like that.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow. “Keep telling yourself that.”

After Foggy leaves, the office feels too quiet. You’re still holding the coffee cup, and Matt’s pretending to read his file, but you can tell he’s listening to your heartbeat. He always does that when he’s nervous.

“Foggy’s just messing with us,” you say, breaking the silence.

Matt nods, but his fingers linger on the braille longer than necessary. “Yeah. He does that.”

You hesitate. “But… do we act like a couple?”

Matt’s head tilts toward you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off. But then he sets the file down and leans back in his chair. “I don’t know. Do we?”

Your stomach flips. You notice things now—how you always know when he’s had a bad night just by the way he walks, how he instinctively reaches for your arm when crossing the street, how his voice softens when he says your name.

“Matt,” you say quietly, “why do you let me take care of you?”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he stands, crossing the room until he’s close enough for you to feel the warmth of him. “Because it’s you,” he says simply. “I trust you.”

Your breath catches. His hand brushes your arm, and suddenly, the air feels heavier. “And you… you don’t mind it?” you ask.

Matt’s lips curve into a small, almost shy smile. “No. I don’t mind it.”

The next few days, you can’t stop thinking about it. Every time you hand him a file, every time he brushes past you in the office, every time he thanks you for something small, it feels different. Charged.

One night, you’re at his apartment, stitching up a cut on his shoulder from a fight. He’s shirtless, sitting on the couch, and the city’s neon lights filter through the window. You’re focused, but you can feel his eyes on you—or rather, his senses.

“You’re staring,” you mutter.

“I’m not staring,” he says, but there’s a teasing edge to his voice. “I’m… appreciating.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart races. “Foggy’s right. We’re ridiculous.”

Matt chuckles, then catches your wrist gently as you finish the stitch. “Maybe we are,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want to stop.”

You freeze, meeting his unseeing gaze. His thumb brushes your wrist, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss him.

Matt inhales sharply, but then he’s kissing you back, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. It’s soft but intense, like he’s been holding back for too long. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, and he’s breathing hard.

“Finally,” he whispers, a smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Took us long enough.”

── .✦ Foggy Nelson:

Foggy’s your best friend, your confidant, the guy who makes you laugh when Hell’s Kitchen feels like it’s swallowing you whole. You spend late nights at Josie’s, splitting greasy fries and trading stories. You’re always together, and it’s comfortable. Easy.

It’s Karen who brings it up first. You’re at the office, sorting through case files, while Foggy’s dramatically reenacting a courtroom argument for your amusement. Karen’s watching from her desk, a knowing smile on her face.

“You two are so cute,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “Like a rom-com couple waiting for the big kiss.”

You nearly drop the files. “What? Me and Foggy?”

Foggy freezes mid-gesture, his mouth open. “Uh… what?”

Karen laughs. “Come on. You’re always finishing each other’s sentences, sharing food, acting like you’ve been married for years. It’s obvious.”

You scoff, but your face is burning. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Karen says, clearly unconvinced. “Friends who act like they’re in love.”

Foggy clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Karen, you’re reading too much into it.”

But now you’re both hyper-aware. You notice how Foggy always saves you the last fry, how he drapes his jacket over your shoulders when it’s cold, how he looks at you just a little too long when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

At Josie’s that night, you’re quieter than usual. Foggy nudges your shoulder. “You okay? You’ve been weird since Karen’s little comment.”

You swirl your beer. “Do we… act like a couple?”

Foggy blinks, then laughs nervously. “What? No way. We’re just… you know, Foggy and Y/N. The dynamic duo.”

But he’s blushing, and you can’t let it go. “Foggy, be honest. Why do you always take care of me?”

He shrugs, but his eyes are soft. “Because you’re my favorite person. I want you to be happy.”

Your heart does a flip. You lean closer, teasing. “Favorite person, huh? That’s pretty romantic.”

Foggy’s blush deepens, but he doesn’t look away. “Maybe it is.”

The bar feels too small suddenly. You’re close enough to see the flecks in his eyes, to notice the way his breath hitches. “Foggy,” you say softly, “do you want this to be more?”

He swallows hard, then reaches for your hand under the table. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low. “I’ve wanted that for a while.”

You lace your fingers with his, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He laughs, a little shaky. “Didn’t want to ruin what we had. But… I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you.”

Your breath catches. Before you can stop yourself, you kiss him, right there in the middle of Josie’s. It’s warm, a little clumsy, but perfect. Foggy’s hand cups your cheek, and when you pull back, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“About time,” he says, and you both laugh.

── .✦ Wilson Fisk:

Wilson Fisk is a man of control, but with you, he’s different. You’re the one person he lets see his vulnerabilities, the one he trusts implicitly. You bring him tea when he’s stressed, adjust his tie before a meeting, and sit with him in silence when the weight of his empire feels too heavy.

It’s Vanessa who notices first. You’re at one of Fisk’s private dinners, standing close to him as you discuss a charity event. Vanessa watches you with a small, knowing smile.

“You two are quite the pair,” she says, sipping her wine. “You balance each other so well.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, we��re not—”

Fisk’s hand brushes yours, a subtle gesture that silences you. “Vanessa means well,” he says, his voice low and measured.

Vanessa’s smile widens. “I mean you act like partners. The way you look after him, the way he listens to you… it’s rare.”

You glance at Fisk, expecting him to dismiss it, but he’s watching you, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, Vanessa,” he says, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

After dinner, you’re alone in his office, organizing papers while he reviews contracts. You can’t shake Vanessa’s words. “Do we really act like that?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Fisk looks up, setting his pen down. “Like what?”

“Like… a couple.”

He leans back, considering. “Do you think we do?”

You fidget, suddenly nervous. “I mean, I take care of you. You let me. That’s not exactly typical for… whatever we are.”

Fisk stands, crossing the room to stand beside you. “You’re important to me,” he says, his voice soft but commanding. “More than anyone else.”

Your heart pounds. “And you’re important to me. But… is that all this is?”

He reaches out, tilting your chin so you meet his gaze. “What do you want it to be?”

The question hangs in the air. You’ve never dared to hope for more, but now, with him so close, it feels possible. “I want it to be real,” you whisper.

Fisk’s thumb brushes your cheek, and then he kisses you—slow, deliberate, like he’s claiming you. When he pulls back, his eyes are intense. “It’s always been real,” he says.

From that moment, nothing changes, but everything does. You’re still his anchor, his confidant, but now, you’re something more. And he makes sure you know it.

── .✦ Frank Castle:

Frank’s not the sentimental type. He’s all rough edges and quiet pain, but with you, he softens. You bring him coffee when he���s staking out a target, patch up his wounds in silence, and sit with him when the memories get too loud. You don’t push him, and he appreciates that.

It’s Micro who calls it out. You’re in Frank’s safehouse, helping him clean his guns while Micro hacks into a database. Micro glances up, smirking.

“You two are like a damn war movie romance,” he says. “The soldier and the one who keeps him human.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Micro, lay off the cheap novels.”

Frank grunts, not looking up from his rifle. “He’s got a point.”

You freeze, your hands stilling on the gun. “What?”

Frank shrugs, wiping down the barrel. “You’re always here. Takin’ care of me. Ain’t exactly standard procedure.”

Micro chuckles. “Yeah, and Frank doesn’t let just anyone patch him up. Or steal his coffee.”

You glance at Frank, but he’s focused on the gun, his jaw tight. “We’re just… partners,” you say, but it sounds weak even to you.

Micro raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Keep tellin’ yourselves that.”

Later, you’re alone with Frank, stitching up a gash on his arm. The safehouse is quiet, just the hum of the city outside. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy.

“Micro’s full of it,” you mutter, focusing on the needle.

Frank huffs. “Maybe. But he’s not wrong.”

You pause, meeting his gaze. “About what?”

“About us.” His voice is low, rough. “You’re the only one I let get this close.”

Your heart skips. “You let me because I’m stubborn.”

He smirks, just a little. “Maybe. Or maybe I want you here.”

You finish the stitch, but your hands linger on his arm. “Frank… what are we doing?”

He looks at you, really looks, and for once, there’s no wall between you. “Whatever it is, I don’t wanna stop.”

You lean in, hesitant, and he meets you halfway. The kiss is raw, desperate, like he’s been starving for it. When you pull back, he’s breathing hard, his hand cupping your face.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while,” he admits.

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “Took you long enough.”

── .✦ Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter:

Dex is precise, controlled, but with you, he’s almost gentle. You’re the one who calms him when his mind spirals, who listens when he talks about his past, who makes him feel like he’s more than a weapon. You bring him snacks during late-night FBI shifts, adjust his tie when he’s stressed, and sit with him in silence when he needs it.

It’s Ray Nadeem who points it out. You’re at the FBI office, dropping off a coffee for Dex while he’s reviewing case files. Ray watches you, amused.

“You two are like high school sweethearts,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Always looking out for each other.”

You laugh, brushing it off. “I’m just making sure he doesn’t starve.”

Dex glances up, his expression unreadable. “She’s just being nice,” he says, but there’s a softness in his voice.

Ray smirks. “Nice, huh? You don’t let anyone else bring you coffee. Or fix your tie.”

You notice Dex’s jaw tighten, but he doesn’t respond. After Ray leaves, you sit on the edge of Dex’s desk. “He’s just teasing,” you say.

Dex nods, but his eyes are on you, intense. “Maybe he’s right.”

Your heart skips. “Right about what?”

He sets his pen down, leaning closer. “You’re different. You make me… better.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how close he is. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dex.”

He watches you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he pulls back, clearing his throat. “Thanks for the coffee.”

The next few days, you’re hyper-aware of him. The way he stands closer than necessary, the way his hand brushes yours when you pass him something, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing grounding him.

One night, you’re at his apartment, helping him organize case files. He’s quieter than usual, and you can tell something’s off. “Dex, you okay?” you ask.

He looks at you, his control slipping. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “But I know I need you.”

Your breath catches. “Dex…”

He steps closer, hesitant. “Can I…?”

You nod, and he kisses you—careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you. But when you kiss him back, he lets go, pulling you close. It’s desperate, needy, and when you pull away, he’s trembling.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

You cup his face. “You don’t get to decide that.”

From then on, he’s still Dex—precise, intense—but with you, he’s softer. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

── .✦ Karen Page:

Karen Page is relentless, always chasing the truth, but with you, she’s softer, more grounded. You’re the one who brings her tea when she’s lost in her work, who walks her home after late nights at the Bulletin, who listens when she needs to unravel the chaos of her thoughts. You’re her calm in the storm, and she’s your spark.

It’s Foggy who brings it up this time. You’re at Josie’s, sharing a pitcher of cheap beer with Karen after a long day. She’s laughing at one of your stories, her hand resting lightly on your arm. Foggy’s at the bar, grabbing another round, when he comes back and smirks.

“You two are so domestic,” he says, setting the pitcher down. “Like you’ve been together forever, just waiting for the engagement announcement.”

You choke on your beer. “Foggy, what?”

Karen raises an eyebrow, but she’s grinning. “Yeah, care to explain?”

Foggy shrugs, unfazed. “Come on, you’re always together. Y/N brings you tea like it’s a sacred ritual, and Karen, you’re always stealing their jacket. You’re practically married.”

You laugh, but your face is warm. “I’m just looking out for her. She’d work herself to death otherwise.”

Karen nudges you, her smile playful. “And you’re the only one I let steal my fries, so what’s that say?”

Foggy snorts. “It says you’re in love, that’s what.”

Karen rolls her eyes, but you notice the way her cheeks flush. “Foggy, don’t you have a date to get to or something?”

He winks and heads off, leaving you and Karen alone. The bar’s noisy, but it feels like it’s just the two of you. You sip your beer, trying to ignore the way your heart’s pounding.

“Do we really act like that?” you ask, keeping your tone light.

Karen tilts her head, considering. “Like a couple?”

“Yeah.”

She leans back, her fingers tapping the glass. “I mean… we’re close. You’re always there for me, and I… I like having you around. A lot.”

You swallow, noticing the way her eyes linger on you. “I like being around you too.”

The air shifts, heavier now. You’ve always noticed the little things—how Karen’s laugh is brighter when you’re around, how she leans into you when you walk side by side, how she trusts you with her fears in a way she doesn’t with anyone else. And you? You’re always checking in on her, making sure she’s safe, saving her a seat without thinking.

The next few days, it’s impossible to ignore. Every time you hand her a cup of tea, every time she brushes your arm as she passes, it feels like more. Her smiles linger, and you catch her watching you when she thinks you’re not looking.

One evening, you’re at her apartment, helping her sort through research for a new story. The living room is a mess of papers and highlighters, and Karen’s sprawled on the couch, her hair falling into her face. You’re sitting on the floor, passing her notes, when she sighs and sets the papers down.

“Okay, I need a break,” she says, stretching. “And you need to stop being so perfect.”

You laugh, confused. “Perfect?”

“Yeah.” She sits up, looking at you with an intensity that makes your pulse race. “You’re always… you. Taking care of me, making me laugh, being there. It’s not fair.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I… I’m just doing what feels right.”

Karen leans forward, her voice softer. “Foggy’s right, you know. We act like we’re together. And I’ve been trying to figure out if that’s just how we are or if… I want it to be real.”

Your heart stops. “Do you?”

She nods, her eyes locked on yours. “Yeah. I do.”

You move to the couch, sitting beside her. “Karen, I’ve been falling for you for a while now. I just didn’t want to mess this up.”

She laughs, a little breathless. “God, we’re such idiots.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling. “But I’m okay with that.”

Karen reaches out, her hand resting on your cheek. “Can I…?”

You nod, and she kisses you—slow, warm, like she’s savoring every second. Her fingers slide into your hair, and you pull her closer, feeling the world fall away. When you break apart, she’s smiling, her forehead against yours.

“Finally,” she whispers, her voice teasing but soft.

You grin, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “Worth the wait.”

From then on, Karen’s still the fearless journalist, chasing truth with reckless abandon. But with you, she’s gentler, more open. You’re still her calm, and she’s still your spark—and now, it’s something more, something real.

[thepinkpanther83]

I had this idea for Eddie because his hair looks so fun to play with- you’re just chilling, watching tv on his couch and his head is in your lap. Without thinking, you start petting his hair, twisting the curls in your fingers and scritching at his scalp. Eddie would be torn between the soothing brain tingles and how good the contact feels and turns into a puddle of goo, with or without spice. If not your speed, no worries! I just love how you write Eddie and reader and this idea had me swinging and kicking my feet. 😅

-🌻🦡

Cover image by: Hellfire_Mvnson

Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow

One-Shot Request: “Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Thank you to my sweet Anony 🌻🦡 for this irresistibly tactile prompt, your idea had me swinging and kicking my feet, too. 😘 I had way too much fun bringing this one to life. Hope it gives you all the warm fuzzies and the brain-melting heat you were craving! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

��� Summary: It starts innocently, just you, Eddie, and a lazy afternoon on the couch. But when your fingers find their way into his thick curls, what was sweet and soothing turns sinfully indulgent fast. Turns out, Eddie Munson isn’t all that great at staying still.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Curl Me Up, Stroke Me Slow”

The couch creaked as Eddie flopped down onto it like a man dramatically dying of exhaustion. He stretched his legs out with a groan, one sock slipping halfway off his heel, the remote barely making it onto the coffee table before his hand gave up and let gravity win.

You were right behind him, dropping into your usual spot with a half-full bag of chips and a can of soda sweating condensation onto your palm. It had been a long day, errands, band practice, Hellfire drama, Dustin again, obviously, and the two of you were spent. And not in the good way.

Outside, the sun was starting to set. Inside, the TV was humming with the low growl of some B-grade horror flick that neither of you were really paying attention to. The light from the screen flickered over the room in irregular flashes, cool blue, blood red, flickers of shadow across the wall. But it wasn’t scary. It was quiet. Safe.

Eddie sighed, loud and unapologetic, then shifted so his head landed, plop, right in your lap.

“Comfiest pillow in Hawkins,” he mumbled, eyes closing with immediate dramatic flourish. “Might need to keep you here forever.”

You snorted. “That’s bold, considering I’m charging rent now.”

One of his eyes cracked open. “Is it by the hour?”

“Per groan.”

He groaned again, louder this time, just to be an ass.

“Cool. I’m already in debt.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand drifted automatically to his curls, just brushing over them as you got comfortable. You didn’t even think about it, just the natural pull of your fingers to him, like magnets drawn to soft static.

Eddie didn’t react right away. But then he exhaled… and it lingered. Like he’d been holding it in all day, and now that he was here, now that it was just the two of you on this beaten-up couch with popcorn salt in the cushions and holes in his socks, he could finally breathe.

The movie droned on, all grainy violence and terrible dialogue.

You weren’t watching. Not really.

Your fingers started moving again.

Slow. Absentminded.

Tracing a lazy path through his curls, just above the nape of his neck.

He made a noise, so soft you almost missed it.

Not quite a purr. Not quite a sigh.

Just a sleepy, involuntary sound of something in him unwinding.

You didn’t stop.

Why would you?

His hair was a dream. Thick and tangled curls and soft in places you didn’t expect. There were tighter curls at the base of his neck, little frizzed coils that wrapped around your fingertips. And when you started gently scratching at his scalp, just idly, lovingly, like you were reading braille, or petting a cat, he let out another one of those sleepy sounds.

“Hmm,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “That should be illegal.”

You smirked. “The scalp scritching?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’d report me?”

“No. I’d let it ruin my life.”

You giggled under your breath, but kept going, twisting a lock around your finger, then untangling it just to feel the slip. His hair glowed a little in the TV light, strands catching that deep brown-cherry warmth that was usually hidden in daylight. You could’ve sworn you felt him sink heavier into your lap.

Eddie Munson, going boneless. Loaf Mode: Activated.

That alone was a victory.

But you didn’t notice the little tension sneaking into the line of his jaw. Or the way his breathing had started to slow, not from sleep, but from something deeper… warmer… stirring just under the surface.

And he didn’t tell you.

Because right now? This was heaven.

And Eddie Munson would happily let it ruin him.

You didn’t even notice when your fingers started getting more deliberate.

One minute, you were absentmindedly stroking his hair, watching some half-forgotten horror villain stumble through a foggy graveyard. The next, your fingertips had started combing deeper, scratching gently at Eddie’s scalp, brushing behind his ears, twisting his curls around your knuckles like you were testing something. Tension? Texture? His restraint?

Whatever it was, he was failing. Spectacularly.

At first, it was subtle. A twitch of his jaw. The way his eyes fluttered a little longer with every stroke. Then came the sighs, barely-there, but felt. Felt in the way his shoulder tensed on top of your thigh, in the way he pressed his head a little harder into your lap, like he couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t sink deep enough into the cushions… or you.

And then…

He made a sound.

Low. Raspy. Almost a groan, but it ended with a stretch, as if he could blame the noise on something innocent. Something platonic.

You looked down at him.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just kept his lids half-lowered, lips parted, a lazy smirk ghosting across his mouth like he wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But you felt it.

The shift.

His body wasn’t loose anymore. It was too still. Like he was bracing for something. Like he was hyper-aware of every place your hand touched… and didn’t.

You traced the curve of his scalp behind his ear and he shuddered.

This is fine.

Totally normal. Just friends. Friends watching movies. Friends who sit close. Friends who play with each other’s hair and scratch their nails just right and… fuck. What is my dick doing. What is my dick doing. Calm down, man. Be cool. BE COOL-

“Y’know…” Eddie’s voice came out low, thick, and full of grit. “Keep that up, and I might start purring.”

You raised a brow, but your fingers didn’t stop. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” His eyes finally met yours. They were darker. “Unironically.”

You grinned, letting your fingernails lightly trace his temple. “Should I be flattered?”

Eddie didn’t answer at first. He just watched you. Lips parted. Pulse visible in his neck. His chest was rising and falling a little faster now, but so was yours.

His eyes flicked down.

Dangerous territory.

You twirled one of his curls tighter, tugging at the root, and it pulled the tiniest gasp out of him… barely audible, but there.

Your legs shifted beneath him. You didn’t think about it.

The TV droned on in the background, mostly forgotten to Eddie. The space between you and him shrunk and thickened at the same time. The air felt heavier. The couch felt smaller.

Eddie swallowed hard. Shifted his hips slightly.

His arm brushed your thigh, and for a second, your hand stilled.

That second was electric.

And then it passed, and your fingers resumed their rhythm.

Slower now.

Teasing.

Torturous.

Eddie Munson was not going to survive this.

You weren’t trying to tease him.

Not really.

But the second you brushed your nails just beneath the edge of his jaw, scratching softly behind his ear and dragging down the side of his neck, you felt it.

That subtle jerk of his thigh.

The way his whole body stiffened just a little. How his chest hitched on the inhale.

Your hand stilled, ever so slightly.

Wait a minute…

You glanced down, just a flick of your eyes, and that’s when you saw it: the faint but unmistakable shape of his cock tenting the front of his gray sweatpants.

Oh.

You froze.

Eddie didn’t.

He cleared his throat, the sound hoarse, barely biting back a curse as he shifted again, an attempt to adjust himself without it being obvious. A fail, honestly. He was pink in the ears now. His face looked calm, but that calm was cracked. His fingers twitched on his stomach like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

Then his eyes flicked up and locked with yours.

Wrecked was the only word for it.

Dark, heavy-lidded, and full of an aching kind of heat that made your stomach flip. Your fingers were still curled just shy of his collarbone, the ghost of that caress still hanging in the air between you.

“…Did I do something?” you asked, voice quiet but firm. Genuinely curious. A little amused.

Eddie huffed a breath through his nose. “Not unless you’re deliberately trying to make me lose my fucking mind.”

You blinked.

He smiled, crooked, shy, and so turned on you could feel it radiating from him.

You tilted your head. “I was just playing with your hair.”

He laughed, but it came out breathy, like he couldn’t quite catch it. “Yeah. And I was just watching the movie.”

You looked at the TV.

There was a man being eaten alive by possessed vines. Neither of you had truly looked at the screen in twenty minutes.

“…So,” you said slowly, your fingers brushing his curls again, lighter this time. “You’re hard because I touched your scalp?”

His face crumpled like that physically pained him.

“Jesus Christ, woman, don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry… should I’ve said ‘aroused due to cranial stimulation’?”

“I will leave this couch.”

“No you won’t.”

You dragged your nails gently behind his ear again, and stroked down his neck just to prove it.

Eddie moaned.

Soft and mortified.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut.

Your smile turned sharp, hungry. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He opened one eye.

You were grinning.

And you were still touching him.

And he was about to absolutely explode.

The movie played on like none of this was happening, some poor final girl screaming on screen while the living room turned into a pressure cooker of heat and hunger.

You hadn’t moved your hand from his curls.

And Eddie…

Eddie looked wrecked.

He stayed frozen in your lap for a second too long, breath shallow, pupils blown, mouth parted like he couldn’t remember how to speak. You could see him weighing his next move, jaw flexing like he was fighting himself.

Then, he shifted.

Turned onto his stomach in your lap with a groan so low and drawn out it felt filthy just to hear. His cheek pressed against your abdomen, lips brushing the fabric of your shirt, and his hands, those big, ringed hands, slid down the outsides of your thighs, then crept slowly, slowly between them.

“Eddie,” you whispered, heart thundering.

He looked up.

And fuck.

That look.

There was nothing sheepish in it now. Just hunger. Raw, reverent, starving.

“You can’t stroke me like that,” he murmured, voice rough and ruined, “and expect me not to do something about it, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

His fingers ghosted over the seam of your leggings, teasing the dip between your thighs.

You squirmed.

He smirked.

Then he pushed your legs apart, slow but deliberate, his hands curling under your knees as he sat up on his own, kneeling now between your thighs, still staring up at you like you were made of fucking magic.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, pressing a single, reverent kiss to your belly. “If you want me to. I will.”

Your hand threaded into his hair again… this time not for soothing.

For leverage.

You tugged.

His groan vibrated into your stomach.

“Don’t you dare,” you said.

The grin that spread across his face was filthy.

“Fuckin’ love when you boss me around.”

He moved like a man on a mission, mouth trailing kisses down your abdomen, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. He looked up one last time for confirmation, and you nodded.

That was all it took.

He dragged your leggings down slow, savoring it, kissing each new inch of exposed skin like it was holy. When he reached your panties, he growled.

“Pink?” he asked, cocking a brow.

“They were clean,” you muttered, flushed.

“They’re adorable. Gonna ruin ‘em.”

And then he did.

It started soft.

Lips brushing, barely touching, like you were testing the waters, seeing if this would break the spell or deepen it.

It deepened.

One soft kiss became two. Then three. Then a greedy, gasping fourth that had you both tipping sideways on the couch. Eddie’s hand cupped the back of your head, guiding your mouth against his like he’d needed this, craved it in the dark corners of his mind long before you ever put your fingers in his hair.

When you climbed into his lap, straddling him, his hands went everywhere. Palming your ass, dragging up your spine, clutching your hips like he could mold you to him if he held tight enough.

And God, the way you moved.

That first slow grind of your hips against his crotch made him whimper.

Yes, whimper.

Low and broken and real, like the friction was almost too much, his cock trapped against his thigh in his sweats, painfully hard now, aching for more.

“Jesus,” he hissed, bucking up just a little. “Fuck, baby, you’re… God. You’re soaked.”

Your shirt was bunched up under your arms now, his rough palms exploring every inch of your torso, your stomach, under your bra, feeling and memorizing like he’d never get the chance again.

“So fuckin’ sexy when you touch me like that,” he groaned, rolling his hips under yours again. “Can’t think straight.”

You smirked against his jaw, tongue darting out to taste the sweat beading along his throat. “Then shut up and let me do it again.”

And you did.

You rocked down, slow and delicious, grinding your clothed pussy against the thick line of his cock in his pants. He swore, head tipping back, eyes fluttering.

“Fuuuck… yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop-”

You didn’t.

Your mouths met again, messy and open, teeth clacking and tongues tangling as you chased the pressure. His ringed hand slid down the back of your panties, grabbing a handful of your ass, fingers dipping dangerously close to where you were dripping.

“I wanna taste you,” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. “Wanna fuckin’ drown in it.”

“You will,” you whispered, grinding harder. “Later.”

Eddie groaned like he’d just been denied heaven itself.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“And you’ll die happy.”

You were still in just your panties and a shirt, straddling Eddie’s lap like he was your throne, like he belonged underneath you. His hands were everywhere, gripping your ass, dragging you down to grind against the thick heat straining his sweatpants.

The way you moved? Languid, deliberate, sinful. A slow, teasing grind that had the head of his cock brushing right against your soaked panties through the soft cotton of his pants.

It drove him insane.

His breath hitched every time your hips rolled just right, dragging slick heat over his aching cock.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, fingers flexing hard into the curve of your ass. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You hummed against his lips, not bothering to hide the way your hips bucked a little harder in response. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he growled, voice low and ruined. “That from me? Just from my hair through your fingers?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just smiled and did it again, grinding slow and firm, right where he needed it most.

Eddie choked on a curse.

“Shit… don’t do that. I’ll fucking cum like this. I swear to God- can’t get enough of you.”

You grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it up, before quickly removing your bra, and Eddie barely got out a strangled sound before your tits were in his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, already leaning in, mouth hot and open as it latched to your nipple. He sucked hard, tongue laving over the sensitive bud until it peaked, then moved to the other like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t decide which one to worship harder.

His palms squeezed your tits roughly, thumbs flicking the tips while he bit, just enough to make you gasp.

Your fingers tugged at the waistband of your panties, but Eddie stopped you, growling against your skin.

“Let me,” he said, voice dark and dripping with hunger.

He slid them down with both hands, and when he got them off, saw how wet they were, saw how soaked you were underneath, he laughed.

Low.

Filthy.

Wrecked.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes wide with disbelief and lust. “You’re dripping for me. That’s so fucking hot I might actually pass out.”

You bit your lip and sank down just enough to slide your slick folds along the line of his cock again.

“Then maybe I better sit on your face after this,” you teased.

Eddie whined, whined, and grabbed your hips like his life depended on it.

“Deal,” he breathed. “But if you ride me first, I swear to God, I might cum.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “That’s the idea.”

Eddie’s hands were greedy. One gripped your hip, keeping you pressed against him, the other slid between your thighs like he had every right to be there, and honestly? After the way you were grinding on him, he did.

His fingers found your clit with practiced ease, the pad of his middle finger rubbing slow, maddening circles that made your whole body tighten.

“Yeah,” he whispered, watching your face like it was the only thing he’d ever believe in. “There it is. That’s what I wanted. Let me make you feel so good, baby.”

You gasped when he slid two fingers inside, the stretch perfect, the pace unhurried, just slow pumps, curling just right, stroking a spot that had your mouth falling open and your thighs starting to shake.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, already rocking your hips in rhythm, riding his fingers like you needed it to breathe. “Eddie…”

He leaned in, lips brushing your collarbone as he spoke, voice thick with heat.

“Bet you’d let me taste you right now,” he murmured, filthy and reverent. “Throw your legs over my shoulders, let me tongue-fuck you until you forget your name.”

Your breath caught. You clenched around his fingers, and he felt it, grinned like a man possessed.

“Ohhh, you like that idea,” he chuckled, voice smug and adoring. “Say the word, baby, and I’ll have you crying on my tongue in five minutes flat.”

You bit your lip, nervous but so fucking tempted.

He pulled his fingers free slowly, trailing them through your slick folds one more time just to watch your eyes flutter, then sucked them into his mouth with a groan that made your toes curl.

“Jesus Christ, you taste unreal.”

Your thighs tightened instinctively, and he clocked it immediately, pupils blown wide.

“C’mon,” he whispered, guiding you gently down onto the couch with him until he was flat on his back. “Sit on my face. Let me have you.”

You hovered above him, breath shaking, heart hammering.

“Eddie-”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, raw, tender, hungry.

You nodded.

“Then ride my fucking face, sweetheart.”

You climbed over him, straddled his chest, then inched up slowly, trembling and bashful… until your thighs framed his face, and he got his first full look at your soaked, swollen pussy.

“Holy fuck,” he moaned, hands gripping your thighs like he was about to pray to them.

The second your folds brushed his mouth, you lost your breath.

Eddie went feral.

His tongue licked a thick, wet stripe right up your slit, then circled your clit with dizzying precision. He sucked it between his lips, moaned into you like he was devouring the world’s sweetest sin.

Your hands shot to the back of the couch, hips stuttering as you began to grind against his face, the nerves and shyness melting away with every flick of his tongue.

He loved it.

Groaned like he was high on your taste. His tongue fucked into you, messy and hot, while his nose nudged your clit just enough to keep you right on the edge.

You were panting. Babbling. Shaking.

Eddie’s voice rasped from below you between licks, “That’s it, baby. Use me. Fuckin’ take what you need. God, I could die like this.”

And if the way you were riding his mouth was anything to go by?

You might just let him.

You didn’t even realize how tangled up you’d gotten until you were both breathless, your thighs shaking from the come-down, Eddie’s curls sticking to his forehead, his lips slick and red from absolutely worshipping you.

But you weren’t done.

Not even close.

“C’mere,” he rasped, voice wrecked as he pulled himself up, back resting against the arm of the couch. His chest heaved, the rise and fall of it downright hypnotic. His sweats were still clinging to his thighs, stretched over the hard, throbbing outline of his cock. “Wanna feel you around me.”

Your hands slipped beneath the waistband and tugged them down, revealing him fully, thick, flushed dark at the tip, leaking steadily with how long he’d been aching for you. His breath hitched when you touched him, fingers wrapping around the base.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, head thudding back, hips twitching. “You’re gonna ruin me for anyone else.” he murmured as he slipped off his shirt.

You didn’t answer. You just climbed over him, straddling his lap once more. The head of his cock caught at your entrance, and you both stilled, holding your breath like the next second would snap the world in two.

Then you sank down.

Slow. Deep. All the way.

Eddie let out a choked moan, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. His eyes rolled back, mouth open in stunned, desperate pleasure.

“Oh my God, sweetheart,” he gasped. “You’re so… shit- tight, fuckin’ squeezing me like you were made for it.”

Your head fell forward as you rocked your hips, adjusting to the stretch, the pressure of him filling you up so perfectly you swore it was science fiction. The couch groaned beneath you as you started to move, grinding, then lifting just enough to drop back down with a wet clap of skin on skin.

It was primal.

Unfiltered.

The kind of ride that wasn’t just sex… it was need.

Eddie was losing his mind beneath you, hips bucking up to meet each bounce, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, or a curse.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted. “Take what you need. Take every inch. Fuck… look at you.”

You met his eyes as you rode him, hair falling around your face, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He looked up at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.

And even though his jaw was clenched and his breath was ragged, you knew, he was holding on by a thread. Every nerve in his body was coiled tight, but he wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not until you did.

Your head dropped to his shoulder, forehead slick against his neck, and your nails dug into the meat of his upper back. “Eddie,” you whimpered, over and over again like a chant, like he was holy and you were on your knees in front of a shrine. “Eddie, Eddie, fuck, don’t stop-”

You kissed him hard, sloppy and deep, and you moaned into his mouth when you tasted yourself on his lips. His tongue tangled with yours, hands everywhere, your ass, your waist, gripping your back like he was trying to leave fingerprints behind.

The heat was unbearable. The sweat. The friction. The gasping, wet sounds filling the trailer with every bounce.

And the couch squeaked like it was trying to keep up.

He groaned, hips stuttering for a second as you clenched around him. “Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please, baby, tell me again, tell me how good it feels, tell me how much you need me-”

“You feel so fucking good, Eddie… don’t stop, don’t stop… please, I need you-” You were practically sobbing now, every muscle shaking as the heat coiled tight behind your ribs.

You met his eyes as you rode him, hair falling around your face, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He looked up at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.

“I won’t,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I won’t, baby, you’ve got me… fuck… I’m yours.”

Those last words shattered you.

“I’m gonna-” you whimpered, voice trembling, thighs shaking as you ground down harder.

Eddie’s voice dropped low, rough and reverent. “Cum for me. Do it while I’m still inside you. Wanna feel you fall apart, sweetheart. Wanna fuckin’ feel it.”

You cried out, clutching his shoulders as the orgasm ripped through you, white-hot, mind-melting and overwhelming. Your hips ground down hard, helpless, riding the high as your entire body convulsed around him.

That’s when Eddie broke.

He came with a strangled sound, groaning your name, moaning into your neck as he spilled inside you, hips jerking and breath coming in broken gasps, cock twitching inside you. His grip on your hips went vice-tight, keeping you flush to him as he rode out every last pulse, his hips jerking helplessly with every pulse of heat he spilled into you.

It was messy.

It was perfect.

You collapsed against him, chest to chest, both of you breathing like you’d run a marathon, sweat and sex sticking you together in the best way.

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your lips, gentle now. Soft. Still trembling with aftershocks.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You really shouldn’t have touched my hair like that.”

He was still buried deep inside you, hands gripping your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to the planet.

Your chest heaved, breasts brushing his forehead as he slumped forward, completely spent. His curls clung to his flushed face, damp with sweat, and his lips moved softly against your sternum as he groaned your name like it was the only word he remembered.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just panting. Heartbeats thudding in time. Skin sticky and slick where it pressed together. The couch beneath you was wrecked, smeared with sweat and sex and too much affection to clean up any time soon.

Finally, you exhaled a shaky laugh, fingers sliding into his curls again.

“Jesus,” you murmured, boneless and dumb with pleasure. “We’re a mess.”

Eddie didn’t lift his head. Just let out a choked little laugh into your cleavage. “I think you just rewired my fucking brain.”

You giggled, nudging your nose into his hair as he continued to stroke lazy circles over your bare thigh with a reverent kind of slowness.

“All this just from petting your hair?” you teased, smirking.

He finally looked up at you, eyes heavy-lidded and wrecked, and gave you that crooked grin that usually meant trouble.

“Yeah…” he said, voice rough. “You should pet my dick next.”

You snorted, smacked the back of his head gently, but you didn’t disagree.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000

Masterlist

[noorvell]

Anchor

pairing: Jackson!Tommy x F!Reader

summary: Joel is dead, Jackson is wrecked. And you're his lifeline. pt 2.

It’s in the way he won’t meet your eyes anymore.

You feel it first in the space between his hand and your back when he lies beside you at night—how it used to settle like a shield, heavy and warm, curved to the shape of your spine, and how now it hovers, undecided, before drawing back with a guilt-soft sigh. You feel it in the hush of his breath when he thinks you’re asleep, the way it catches, falters—the beginning of a name he doesn’t say out loud.

Joel.

The walls of the cabin creak with the spring thaw, soft water dripping off the edges of the tin roof, the air damp and laced with the smell of wet pine and distant smoke. The mountains beyond Jackson still hold snow, but the valley's gone to mud and pale green buds that will open into leaves by next week. The season turning, again. Unbothered by grief.

Tommy’s been staring at maps.

Not the kind you hang on walls for decoration, but the folded, stained kind—creases worn into fault lines by years of sweat and memory. He runs his fingers along them like braille. He traces rivers, roads, old routes he hasn't taken in years. You saw it first on the kitchen table, next to his untouched coffee. Then by the bed. Then in his jacket pocket. And tonight—spread open beneath the lamp’s dim yellow halo, casting long shadows over Seattle’s twisted streets and red-scratched notes scrawled in his familiar, rushed hand.

You know what it means.

And you’re tired of pretending not to.

“You’re going to go after her, aren’t you?”

Your voice is quiet. Not accusing. Not angry. Just tired. Like something that’s lived inside you too long has finally come up for air.

Tommy doesn't answer. Not right away. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes fix on a place somewhere over your shoulder—maybe a spot on the wall, maybe a memory. Maybe a ghost. His jaw shifts, clenches, unclenches. His hands remain still, but the tension in his shoulders speaks for him, rising like a tide about to break.

You step closer, close enough to see the way the lamplight pools in his lashes. Close enough to smell the earth on his skin from fixing the outer fence earlier that day. He’s been working too much lately. The kind of work that doesn’t need doing. Not really.

“You want to get her, right?” you ask again. No edge in your voice. Just the weight of a decade between you. The kind that makes words redundant.

This time, something shifts. A flicker. His shoulders dip—barely—but it's enough. Enough to know. Enough to feel the floor tilt beneath you.

“All right,” you say, and it lands like a stone in still water.

His head jerks slightly, his eyes—startled, sharp—finally finding yours. It’s like he’s forgotten you could read him this well. Forgotten what it means to be seen this way. And for a moment, something tender and pained passes between you, suspended like dust in sunlight.

You watch him swallow, mouth parting, unsure. And then the words come, fragile.

“No. Don’t—” He reaches for you, his voice catching. “You can’t.”

But you’ve already stepped forward, taken his hands, callused and warm, fingers stained with dirt and old blood. You place them on your waist, anchor him with the weight of your body.

“I will,” you say. “You said it yourself—together. That’s what this ring means.”

You lift your hand, the silver glint of the band catching the light. Simple. Worn. A symbol of something hard-won, something earned in blood and grit and the long, quiet ache of survival.

His hands rise to your face, slowly, reverently. Always so gentle, even now. As if you might break. As if he doesn’t know you’ve already been broken and rebuilt a dozen times since the world ended. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, and he leans in, forehead pressed to yours, like he can will you to change your mind through proximity alone.

“I’ve already lost my brother,” he breathes, voice low and raw, “I can’t—can’t risk you too.”

There it is. The fault line in his chest. The quake beneath the calm.

You close your eyes, let the words wash over you, but you don’t pull away.

“I’m not asking,” you say, soft but firm. “I’m as good a sniper as you. And I’m ten years younger. I’m not a liability. I’m an advantage.”

Tommy’s mouth opens like he might argue, but nothing comes out. He knows. You both know. You’ve always been his match—in the field, in the fight, in the way you love. He remembers what you did for the Fireflies, the missions no one wanted, the cities no one came back from. The time you bled out beside him behind a half-collapsed pharmacy in Capitol Hill, holding a pressure dressing with your own palm while whispering instructions through gritted teeth. The way you shot a man clean through the eye from a rooftop three blocks away without so much as blinking. You weren’t just good. You were his.

“I know the WLF,” you press, voice steadier now, memory running thick in your chest. “I know Seattle. I know the routes, the ambush points, how they move.”

You lean in, close enough that he can’t look away. “Don't forget I was stationed there. When they did the exchange with Fireflies. Before we burned our patches and ran.”

The air between you stills. Heavy with the ghost of that time. Seattle wasn’t just a city. It was trenches. Concrete and betrayal. You still remember the rain pooling in your boots, the crackle of a radio gone dead mid-sweep, the smell of rot in the downtown tunnels. You remember the names—Isaac, Owen—just faces then, just shadows in doorways and rifle scopes. Not yet tangled with Joel. Not yet stained with blood you’d have to reckon with years later.

“I trained with some of them,” you continue. “Drilled with them. I know how they think. How they work. Who they follow.”

Tommy flinches at that, and you know it’s not you he’s reacting to—it’s the inevitability. That this path winds backward just as much as forward. That going after Ellie means walking the same streets you both once bled on, only now with your hearts cracked wide open.

You say, quieter now: “You need someone who understands what you’re walking into. That’s me.”

And he knows you’re right. That’s the worst part.

His brow furrows. Fear and logic war on his face, tugging him in opposite directions. You can see him crumbling under the weight of it—love and grief, duty and dread. He looks like a man caught in the current, unable to swim to either shore.

“If you don’t let me come,” you say, quiet now, almost a whisper, “I’ll follow you. You know I will.”

He exhales, slow and shaking.

“If you try to avoid me,” you continue, “I’ll find you. I’ll shoot you in the foot and drag your stubborn ass back to Jackson.”

And that, at last, earns a cracked smile. Barely there. But it’s real. Like winter breaking. Like ice thawing under sun.

His eyes close.

A long silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, and everything said too late. The map lies forgotten on the table, its creases splitting at the seams, inked lines tracing old memories and future losses. Outside, the breeze slips through the cracked window and stirs the edges—Seattle fluttering like a heartbeat in the half-light.

Somewhere beyond, a horse snorts in the stable, the thud of hooves against damp ground echoing faintly. Life keeps moving. The world doesn't stop, not even now. Not even for Joel.

Tommy closes his eyes.

And in that darkness, the past rushes in like floodwater—too fast, too much. Joel’s laugh, sharp and crooked, rising off the back of a pickup at sunset. Ellie’s voice, high and angry and right. Your hand in his, years ago, bandaged and bloody, clutching his like a lifeline in a Denver alley while the sirens wailed and the Firefly insignia burned in your coat lining.

He sees it all. And none of it brings him peace.

He opens his eyes again, slow, as if sight itself hurts now. You’re standing there, not moving, just watching him, and Christ, it guts him—the stillness of you, the certainty. The way you carry your grief so quietly, so completely, and still remain upright.

“I don’t like it,” he says, and it scrapes its way out of his chest like something sharp-edged and unfinished.

You nod.

“I know.”

And then you step into him, and it’s not a kiss, not yet, not even a touch—but the air between you hums with it, like static before lightning. And finally—finally—he moves.

His arms come around you slowly at first, almost reverently, like he’s not sure he deserves it. Like he’s afraid you might vanish if he presses too hard. But you don’t. You lean into him like a tree bending toward water, fitting yourself into the hollow of him, one hand curling at the base of his neck, the other clutching the fabric at his side. And that’s when he lets go—lets the weight of it all fall forward, into you.

His face finds the warm crook of your neck, breath trembling against your skin. You smell like pine and gun oil and that little bit of lavender you found once in a trading stash, worn into your collar. You smell like home. Like before. Like something he thought was only going to live in memory now.

And he holds you.

Harder now. Desperate. The kind of hold that says: I am drowning, and you are the only thing I have left to hold on to.

He thinks of the nights in Denver. You in a rain-slick jacket, kneeling by a dying man with your jaw set and your hands steady, even though he knew you were shaking inside. You taking the shot no one else could. You coming back for him, always. Even when you shouldn't have.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers into your skin, voice raw and aching. “I can’t.”

Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through the strands going grey, and you hold him like you’re trying to stitch the pieces of him back together with your touch.

“They won’t make a widow of me,” you whisper, not angry, not pleading. Just sure.

He pulls back slowly, just enough to see your face, and his hands frame it like he’s memorizing you—every scar, every line, every freckle from years under broken skies. His thumbs brush your cheeks, and his eyes—wet, frantic, tired—search yours for something he can’t name.

And maybe he finds it. Maybe he always has.

Because this time, when he speaks, his voice doesn’t shake.

“No,” he says. “They won’t.”

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the terror recedes. Not gone. Never gone. But quieted. Because you’re here. And you’re not letting go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: first tommy fic, needed some angst otherwise it wouldn't be me. likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated. thanks for reading, see you next time.

@grayandthyme, hope you enjoy it.

[adelheidvonschicksal]

I know you’ve already kinda written smt similar, but maybe how LnD ML would cuddle?

Xavier can fall asleep in any position, loves almost any position as long as it doesn’t leave him with weird aches in the morning. However, he likes it when he can feel you the best, where your body can lay against his and when he wakes up, you’ll be there.

He’ll fall asleep with his head on your lap if you let him. He falls asleep in such unconventional places, but you make the perfect spot to catch up with a quick power nap. If you get visibly surprised and a little shy when he does so it’s a cute bonus, along with your fingers in his hair. If not, your shoulder makes a good replacement, especially on long station rides back home.

In bed, he likes to lay on top of you, letting him feel you completely, letting him smell the soft scent of your hair, letting him feel you breathing gently against his neck. It helps cut down on your little movements that wake him up (and it’s so easy to plea with you for a few minutes when you’re like this); and when you do get up, he can feel it and wake up with you when needed.

Zayne wants to protect you and make you feel loved. It’s difficult for him to say but his actions always prove it. So, he doesn’t mind giving you the more comfortable spot in any position. But you like to cuddle into him fully, pressed against his chest with his arms around you, not only because you love him but because the coolness from his evol helps you sleep comfortably through the night.

He’s worried about giving you too much. Sometimes, he doesn’t like to cuddle, preferring to make the smallest distance after you fall asleep; all so he can make sure your dreams are peaceful and to cup your cheek in his hand when you tense from a nightmare. It’s hard to shake off this need to keep watch over you, no matter the hour.

Even more-so, Zayne’s greatest desire is to be protected by you. His nightmares are much more frequent than yours. He likes waking up to you, squeezing onto his hand or spooning his back, your arms around him and drawn into his chest like a hug.

Zayne’s favorite position is holding you face-to-face, with his head pressed into your chest, your hand at the back of his nape, and your knees bent towards each other so your legs can meet and cross. There’s something safe and warm about being in your arms, like an eternal home. It chases away nightmares, but he isn’t ready to tell you how much he not only loves but needs it just yet.

…You know anyway.

Cuddling makes Rafayel shy when your relationship finally reaches that level. He’s happy you want to with him. Who could blame you, right?

He didn’t think the memories of doing so with you in a past life would affect him so heavily. The newness and familiarity of such a thing makes his ears red when it’s brought up. Still, why wouldn’t he indulge you?

It’s easy for him to be the big spoon, holding onto you tightly. It reminds him of cold nights in the desert from your travels long ago. It’s nostalgic, even the way his heart skips when you want to make him the little spoon.

His favorite position is when your head lays against his chest and your leg slides over his own. It’s where he can fasten an arm around your waist. It's where he can grasp onto the wrist of your playfully wandering hand and let your knuckles fall against his lips as if to read in braille the sweet words he whispers. And when he looks down, he can see you’re there; after so many centuries, you’re finally there again.

This time when you comment again on how fast his heart is beating and how cute you think it is, he doesn’t blush. It’s fine as long as listening to it helps you sleep better; he doesn’t mind the teasing this time. Rafayel will hold you tighter, as if he could pull you into that beating heart.

[kitto-paint]

Please Reblog, I'd like to design a cheap braille typewriter (prototyping by 3d printing, final design will be machined) I stumbled upon linked YouTube short and a thought: "designing 6/8 button typewriter is within my technical capabilities"

I have many design questions I wish I could test out

My roadblock is I don't know anyone who's visually impaired, and casually seeking random place to peddle my soon-to-be-invention is not something I'm capable of

Many design questions:

Paper type: what is minimal quality/density of paper for dots to be readable. Can thermal receipt paper be used for notes?

Embossed vs punched out: is that significant for the typewriter to not break paper? It's important for "undo", but that's pretty far in my building a typewriter plan

Typewriter size: My initial idea was something like a portable cash register with receipt paper spool and little tray for it to glide along (I quickly realized it's a bad design because it can't fit more than 7 characters, or I can make infinite scroll of a single line with questionable ergonomics). Ultimately is related to page size, so what would be best for it? A4 standard paper? Is being portable important?

Keyboard layout: Perkins Brallier have all it's buttons inline forming long row. Wouldn't single-hand keyboard in similar layout as braille dots be more convenient? (straight grid or mimicking angle of computer keyboard letters)

Typing feedback: should typed letter be instantly accessible and not obstructed by typewriter? Maybe typing with one hand and instantly proof-reading with another hand?

Typewriter or printer?: alternatively, I can make a little annoying-noise-making servo-powered printer that will punch out text. Arduino or Raspberry PI based (I have experience with both) It would be USB powered most benevolent printer, because it don't require ink to work

Thanks for reading! [I'm not transcribing my design scribble, because it's absolute dogshit, but it helped me formula requirements. I will add transcription to actually thought of designs]

Alternatively, if I'm tweaking right now and if that thing would be needed it would already exist, I'll go back to trying to get hired by random megacorp and that's the last time you hear of me talking about it 💀

[bluesunss]

Beautiful flowers Choi Su-bong x F!reader

summary: A young woman, unable to find love amidst the noise, seeks out silent, gray souls. But one night, a colorful stranger disrupts her silence. She allows herself to be swept away into a multicolored and painful embrace with this stranger whose scent feels so familiar.

warnings: parental neglect, unhealthy habits, swearing, au with no games

word count: 1.2k

a/n: Enjoy!! English isn’t my first language, so please correct me if you spot any typos :)

"Go fuck yourself.”

The first message in a long sequence of insults. Again. When men realised you would not go further - it always ended up this way. An onslaught of insults, torrents of hateful messages. Each grey soul would rot dark after a while.

In the end, you blocked that parasitic number. Your days then settled back into that monotonous routine: university, studying, home, and occasionally work. Once in a while, an invitation to a bar with friends would surface, and you’d follow the group to a club. It offered a distraction for a few hours. But in the end, everything always came crashing back.

That night, you had decided to go out once more - or rather, Se-mi had more or less forced you into it. You complied. A pretty dress, styled hair, perfume, a touch of makeup.

“Men expect a lot and do little.” Your mother used to say this - constantly repeating the folly of men, the importance of self-worth, of preserving one’s purity and inner beauty. The value of peace within over the chaos of relationships. And yet, it was ironic - when she returned home from work, and you leaned over the window ledge to watch yet another car sway to a stop. A familiar screeching sound.

For a woman who never ceased preaching self-respect, she seemed content to accept being nothing more than a backseat fling - never even the passenger princess. Beneath her mask of hypocrisy, you could trace a kind of pained mischief, like a blind person attempting to read Braille. Her lost illusions gripped your heart. Poor, misguided mother. Those who love us and offer counsel often neglect themselves in our stead.

But what could you do? Your fragile heart was weak. Men never entered the apartment. It was always the car. You only heard fragments - muffled sounds, faint groans. Men were mere dark silhouettes, faceless, voiceless. Instruments of pleasure, invisible agents silently eroding your mother’s vulnerabilities - a root carried by the wind, a reed that finally snapped

This wear and tear had painted itself onto you. It had seeped into your being, and now, your eyes sought nameless faces. Men devoid of identity. Each love reduced to a dull, gray soul - a quiet absurdity. Yet, you made efforts - like your mother. Acting differently. Acting too loudly. Laughing too heartily, kissing too passionately.

Then surrendering in the backseat. But you couldn’t. With each man, you retreated. Their gray souls stained yours, a snake tightening its grip around your neck, slowly suffocating you. So you pushed them away, and the insults came raining down - tease, slut, bitch, whore. And who knows what else.

Tonight, you wore less makeup than usual. You didn’t use your mother’s perfume, which had long since aged on her dresser. Nor her lipstick. Just a little - just a touch of lightness. Not tonight. Tonight, you wanted to believe in fairy tales, to imagine that each flower’s worth could be reborn from the ashes of winter.

Se-mi was already waiting outside.

“You good?” she asked. After a pause, she noticed. "I like your makeup. It suits you.”

You smiled, and she took your arm as you walked towards the club a few streets away. The night had already fallen, and it pressed heavily on your skull.

“We’ll stop by a dry cleaner first, and then drop the suit off at my place before going to the bar, okay? You can wait outside if you want.”

She rummaged through her bag, stopping in front of the shop.

“It’s for my cousin’s wedding, kind of urgent,” she smiled apologetically.

You nodded and waited outside. You weren’t a smoker, but you had a bad habit you couldn’t let go of - scraping walls. With your nails, whenever you saw rubble or rough surfaces, you couldn’t resist running your fingers over them, peeling off pieces. The dust crumbled under your touch, lodging itself under your nails, sometimes making them bleed. You only stopped when your hands were white with chalk and clay, mixed with crimson droplets.

Back then, when you hid under the sink in that tiny cupboard, you scratched at the wall. Over time, your mother and you discovered hundreds of small holes, which she thought were caused by termites. You never corrected her.

A scent tickled your nose. Artificially sweet, fruity, pleasant, yet laced with an intoxicating, incense-like undertone. A vape. You looked around, rubbing your hands together, slightly embarrassed. Where was it coming from? Who was it? The scent was familiar. A bit like orange and blueberry - Spain, when your mother had enough money from a secret admirer, and you could still afford vacations.

“Yo, señorita,” a voice called.

Turning your head, you saw a man leaning against a wall near the entrance of the bar, a few meters away. He inhaled a thick puff of vapor, then exhaled it through his nostrils. Not the most respectable behavior, but he didn’t seem to care. He had just catcalled a woman with long brown hair, braided in places. She shot him a dark look and walked on, and he chuckled. Then he felt your eyes on him and looked at you. Taking another drag from his vape, he stepped towards you.

What you hadn’t noticed in the dim light now became clear. Purple hair, a neon top. A face painted with color, rainbow nails. Long tattoos running down his fingers, his hand, and the back of his neck. Ringed-fingers. He tucked the vape into his pocket and stood before you.

“Staring is rude, y’know.”

You stared silently at him.

“If you want an autograph, just ask.”

He was the complete opposite of the men you sought. All colorful, all loud, all cocky. The polar opposite of the silence that filled your days. Only his eyes were black. But around them, a thin blue ring traced something like a galactic orbit, with a faint redness in his irises.

He blew the smoke into your face as you leaned back against the wall, waiting for Se-mi. The scent of your childhood struck you in full force, seeping into your pores. The oxymoron of your life in a single fragrance.

“Are you the quiet type?” he tilted his head. “And do you know who I am?”

You coughed, then it was your turn to shake your head, somewhat dazed by this spectacle.

“I’m the legend Thanos for you, girl.”

He revealed his nails, flashed a smile, and made a somewhat ridiculous showcasing gesture. His rings gleamed under the dim streetlight. A smile escaped you.

“You’re cute. Not my usual type, but cute.”

He scrutinized you carefully, and you did the same. His face was gentle despite a certain hardness - an almost paradoxical contrast. His thick eyebrows gave him a severe look, even in the darkness. And he seemed incapable of standing still.

“Yo, you good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Say something.”

Words… always words. Did one always have to surrender to words? Nothing. Just silence. For one night, you wanted noise, you didn’t want to be yourself anymore. You were tired of this damp skin and this sweaty dress, tired of your mother’s long fingers reflected in your own, tired of sinking into darkness when the only colors you loved were those of Spain and your childhood. And this man, with the scent of Spain, lavender-tinted hair, and cupid’s-bow lips, was meant to take you away for one night.

So you suddenly wrapped your arms around his neck, making him stumble backward, and just before your lips clumsily met, you did something you had never dared before - you looked him in the eyes. Then, as the glow between you turned warmer, you closed the space between your burning breaths and melted against his mouth, tasting of acidic childhood and sweetness.

Just for one night - to forget.

Just for one night - to remember.

The houses with white shutters. Friendly neighbors. Orange trees stretching in rows. Climbing those orange trees. The juice trickling down your neck, your arm, your throat, and summer pouring into your life. The remnants of a childhood destroyed by sunburns and crumbling walls. A taste so sunlit, so sweet, so fragrant.

The man grabbed your hip roughly, pushed you against the wall, and shoved his tongue down your throat. You yanked his hair, struggling to breathe - he was sloppy and clumsy but so good - god - he was so good, and you devoured him with fervor, sweet against you, his grip tightening as he kept murmuring “fuck, that’s hot.” He talked too much. You bit his lips, let your bag fall during this embrace, and pulled him between buildings, into a dark alley.

Then everything happened fast. Carnal desire consumed you - you wanted the flesh of this forbidden orange - the hem of your dress was lifted, an unbuckling sound. It was rough, good, illicit, and wild - everything your childhood had cursed and stolen from you.

You bit into his skin, sucked at the droplets of blood that surfaced, and he took you with such fervor that the world folded into that moment, into that intoxicating brutality.

When he finished, panting, he zipped up his jeans, muttering fuck, fucking hell, yes, señorita. You lowered your dress, legs trembling, lips quivering with the desire still burning. "Who are you?" he asked, eyes bright and cheeks slightly flushed, as he ran his hand through his purple hair. "Fuck, that was intense man."

You searched for your bag, found it on the ground, and started walking out of the alley.

"Hey, don’t leave, just tell me your name!" The man was following you, still adjusting his belt and his shirt. When he finished, he tried to catch your arm but you slipped away. Walking faster, you left him standing, a blurry mess.

Dazed, he remained there, breathless, his eyes unable to leave your retreating figure. You dusted off your clothes and caught your breath only when you reached the spot where Se-mi was waiting.

She held the package and smiled at you.

“It’s all good. Let’s go."

It was too dark for her to notice your flushed cheeks, your disheveled hair, or the tremor convulsing through your body and senses.

There, in that alley, you had left the evanescence of your most beautiful flower. And now, you had the right to wither.

lmk your opinion on this!!

[theflagscene]

The hand rubbing scene is the gayest sex scene GMMtv has ever had on screen, allow me to explain to you why.

Gifs by @wanderlust-in-my-soul 

Now I can’t speak as someone who is completely blind (obviously) but I can speak as someone who has been progressively losing their sight for the past 15 years - ironically enough from a car accident. Why hello Day, I see you! (pun intended) But I’m also a person who grew up HoH (hard of hearing) from the age of two years old onward, I had tubes put in my ears, wore hearing aids, the whole shebang. The chances of me actually regaining my ability to hear completely was very very slim, the fact that I did actually end up regaining some - not all - of my hearing by my late twenties was a damn shock to us all. The point being, when you are a person who’s lost one of your senses that you are used to having, your body starts to overcompensate.

Most everyone has heard/read/seen things about how removing one sense can lead to your other ones becoming stronger. There’s even been studies that show people born deaf or deafened at a very young age, that their brain starts to rewire itself to allow them to experience sound in a visual way, via touch. It’s sort of like how blind people learn to read braille in a way, the touch creates a picture in your mind allowing you to see the way that word looks and sounds and feels. Theres a whole bit in Scientific America you can check out if you want that breaks it down in layman terms without the writing acting like you’re stupid, which is always nice when it comes to medical jargon lol.

So my point that to Day, his sense of touch is not only in overdrive because it like much of the rest of his senses - smell seems to be a big one they’re leading with - are scambling to try and overcompensate for the sudden lack of sight that is getting worse as time passes. But because he had pulled away from basically the entire world post blindness setting in, spending the last year of his life in his room hardly interacting with anyone, his own mother and brother barely being allowed to touch him. That for Day, his sense of touch is absolutely frantic. Which is why it’s so important for Mhok to constantly place his hands on him, not only to help lead him back into the world but to allow Day to recognize him by touch alone. And it’s being shown that he is, Day already knows Mhok’s voice and it’s touched a bit on the way he smells (ciggs) but this last episode is really starting to show how the touch of people is starting to fully affect Day, especially when he’s out of the house and how Mhok is instantly recognized even though he always follows up his touch with a vocal confirmation that it is in fact him that is touching Day.

So that hand stroking scene, the way Mhok runs the pads of his fingers gently up the centre of Day’s palm, how he strokes the back of his hand like it’s a kitten. That right there could genuinely feel like sex to Day, if not sexual in manner at the very least. The fuzzy look Day gets in his eyes, going from blank, to blissful to bashful and then finally awkward. It wasn’t just because of the fact that the dude he lowkey is starting to have a crush on is rubbing his hand in what I’m seeing being called a ‘weirdly intimate way’. It’s because Day’s body and brain is reacting to that touch in a way that people with all five senses might not completely comprehend, imagine your most intense erogenous zone (btw the palms of the hands are occasionally considered one) now imagine if that intensity was ramped up by ten, or twenty or even fifty and then imagine that that erogenous zone was suddenly everywhere. The most innocuous part of your body could bring you the most incredible sensations, both sexual and emotional, that’s what Day is feeling.

Mhok, now Mhok, he’s not stupid. Far from it in fact, he’s clued in on that not only is Day queer but also that he has a bit of a crush on him. Mhok has also quickly adapted to how he needs to teach Day to see the world in a new way, hence all the touching and smelling and reinforcement that Day can in fact do things for himself, including asking for help when he needs it. So Mhok knew exactly what he was doing with the hand rubbing, sort of. Did he know the sensation would be heightened, my best bet is totally. But did he expect to have his reaction to it go beyond that of teasing? Given his own bashfulness, doubtful. When you’re dating someone with a loss of one or many senses, you tend to change your own preconceived notions of what intimacy with your partner is. For some people offering a foot rub to their partner is a clear come on, an offer for something to lead to more. But for a blind person, especially a newly blind person like Day. They use their hands to navigate their entire world - you literally read with your fingers - so a blind persons hands are basically their most important tools in a lot of ways. To have someone touch your hands with such care, such reverence, it’s not just intimate, it’s full on foreplay.

Mhok wasn’t just touching Day, he was touching Day. It was meant to be seen as intimate because it was intimate, so intimate, in a way I don’t think either Mhok nor Day were expecting it to be because neither had ever experienced something like that before. That scene was truly the beginning of their relationship shifting, that hand scene was kind of like their first kiss.

Gifs by @wanderlust-in-my-soul

[voidpacifist]

I have a new brainworm about steve harrington that I need (NEED!!) to share

imagine this for me: it's 1983. nothing eventful happens, at least in the supernatural sense. steve and nancy still date, he still drops his terrible friends when he realizes they're not gonna support him if it doesn't fit their agenda, he still accidentally becomes close to a bunch of seventh graders when nance asks him if he can babysit--

(not that he'd ever say no to her, but it's not what he envisioned the summer of '84 to be like, okay?)

--and overall, things are relatively normal for him. his parents continue to be absent, but they still get excited for him when they learn he has a girlfriend or won a new award at the end of the school year for something sporty or what have you. they're not bad people, they just don't know how to be good parents. and they're always, always away.

but the thing about 1983, is that his final interaction with tommy before he "broke up" their friendship by dating someone kind and sweet and "perfect" like nancy, was him getting absolutely wailed on. enough that he went to the hospital with a severe concussion and some damage to his optic nerve. the doctors told him he already has something going on with his vision to begin with, probably a genetic disease passed down from one of his folks, that increase his chances of going blind earlier in life. meaning, if push came to shove, his vision could go entirely if he got into any more scruples with ex-friends or people who just generally disliked him.

and then lucas sinclair asks him for dating advice, because he likes max mayfield, the new girl in his class, and ultimately it lands steve being the chauffeur for their first date just days after halloween in 1984. by now, he and nancy have broken up — they weren't emotionally available in the ways they needed to be with one another, and steve knows his dream of the future is different from her own. this time, there's no speech about bullshit or faking it. they simply both know that their expiration is upon them and call it quits.

(it still hurts, but he told lucas to shoot his shot, because if there's anything he's learned by dating nancy wheeler, it's that projecting his heartbreak and hurt onto others is a gateway to toxicity in the water; and by god he is not sabotaging this kids emotional maturity, okay? okay)

so he takes the kids to bennys burgers, because lucas insists it's "cool enough" for this girl, and he doesn't want to overdo it by going somewhere too fancy. but when steve returns to pick them up, there's a hiccup in the plan.

billy, maxs step-brother and steve's most recent bother at school, is there, gearing up to try and scare lucas off, or do something worse. steve, anointed babysitter and generally protective friend, steps in without hesitation. the fight that results makes the local news. steve lands in the hospital again.

his vision doesn't go completely, but it goes enough. enough that he can't drive, enough that he'll have to find large print books or simply relearn to read altogether in braille. enough that he's advised to get a cane or a guide dog. enough that, when all is said and done, his old life has been completely upended.

jonathan--

(the same jonathan who has now swept nancy off her feet the way steve used to)

--surprisingly, is the one who ends up getting close to steve after this. he tells steve about what it was like when will was found after being missing for a week, about how he knows it isn't the same, but that he relates to the feeling of oh god, everythings different and nothing I used to have is coming back. he doesn't divulge on the details, but steve knows he's serious about understanding the feeling.

even more surprising is nancy, who commands him every day that god dammit steve, your life is not coming back unless you take it back yourself and then reassures him in the same breath that he's not weak for needing help doing so.

and then the kids join in too. and steve harrington isnt a king anymore of anything, but he's the king of his own life, he's the king of himself. he starts going back to school even when he feels embarrassed to be there, like he's an imposter or ill equipped. he starts going to public places just to meet poorly concealed whispers with something friendly and witty in return. he starts taking his power back in a way that never needs to hurt anyone, that never needs to hurt himself.

he also discovers he loves bright colors — neons and pinks and reds especially. he takes a trip with nancy and barb one day to indy on some sort of girls trip (they've long since made up since the first house party, and barb latches onto steve as a best friend shockingly fast in the wake of his and tommy's split), and it's there that he meets someone punk for the first time. he develops a fixation on the colored hair, the leather and spikes and denim with safety pins in it. he badgers the girls about teaching him how to wear eyeliner.

it's his gateway into punk style, which is then a further path into the subculture itself, into colored laces and battle vests and the politics and social aspects. steve takes to it like a fish to water.

the name steve harrington used to mean something entirely different. even though he calls his parents every day since the incident, even though they've been back to see him multiple times, even though they've tried to be present in their strange, semi-absent way, they still haven't seen him since his transformation from local jock to local punk.

needless to say, he spends a lot more time educating them about his "waywardness" and a lot less time actually excitedly telling them about the next color of his hair. but the harringtons aren't unaware — they can see how while this may be a creative way for steve to begin expressing and discovering himself, it's also an armor. no one really wants to fuck with someone who will trip you with his cane if you're being an asshole, someone who wears a lot of spikes and other sharp objects on their body for fun.

so they let it be. and they stay a little longer, this time.

this shift doesn't go unnoticed by the local gossips, but it also doesn't go unnoticed by the "freaks and geeks" at school. he develops, quite by accident, a reputation that rivals that of the king of freaks at hawkins. eddie munson wears the title proudly, clings to it with every antic and every quip that feeds into the rumors about him. but he respects what it took for steve to get here.

so he invites him along to a hellfire session. which turns into two. which turns into steve becoming a party member, which turns into him excitedly telling the kids he babysits that he gets it now, that yes, they can absolutely host their games at his house as long as they have rides back home.

but as he and eddie get closer as friends, eddie notices that as well as steve has done accepting himself as he is, he still misses the things he used to do without thinking much about needing sight to do it. contact sports and movies and other very visually inclined things. and listen, eddie's happy that steve has renounced the toxic social scene of jockdom, he really is, but he also recognizes a guy who misses pieces of his old life.

(he finds himself missing his old life, the life before wayne, all the time, just for the parts that didn't hurt him)

so eddie, much to steves surprise, suggests he try joining the swim team for the final quarter of his senior year. and hey, fuck it, what can it hurt? he's already a nerd now as well as a punk as well as disabled — he can go for one more oddball, not-quite-jock occupation. the coach has several stipulations, all of which steve takes in stride.

he's granted a tryout. he doesn't make it on.

eddie, in his wildest nightmares, doesn't touch sports. he's already athletic in other regards, naturally good at sprinting and lifting heavy things from taking equipment to and from band practice. he doesn't think he actually needs sports, but he's willing to go with steve to lake jordan to keep practicing. he's seen how stubborn harrington is, and he's not about to stop it.

eventually, they do these laps across the lake and back (it's a pretty small lake) just to get high once they're done. and fuck, if steve can swim the length of the lake, he can get a job at the new starcourt mall. and he does. he's there at scoops ahoy the bare minimum of hours they're required to give him to technically say he's employed, but at least he has work. his friends visit him there after their own jobs are done for the day, and eddie consistently shows up just to bug him.

robin, his coworker, is impressed and startled by this version of steve. she'd say she doesn't trust it, but there's nothing to trust really, about the shock of bright green hair or the way his eyes aren't actually that focused looking, or about the way he casually tells stories about getting high and swimming the length of lake jordan. not to mention, the chemistry he can't physically or metaphorically see between him and eddie is laughable to her, and entirely too obvious.

she ends up with one bad trip from the wrong dealer, and steve stays with her through the comedown, and she realizes she would probably die for him, because he sits there and listens to her buzzed ramble about tammy thompson and his bagel crumbs and other dumb shit from when he was still in high school. he's the first person she's ever come out to, and she's the first person he's ever thought could be a soulmate, the kind he'd never give his body but would marry in a heartbeat if she asked him.

he tells her about billy. she tells him about her mother. they tell each other a lot of secrets, more than he's ever told jonathan and nancy, or barb, or even eddie.

and then their workplace gets set on fire from a gas leak after hours. they pack up and go to family video, because they're a package deal. it's barb being on the crew that convinces keith to let steve take the job, and he has a new shtick joking about being a blind guy who likes movies.

then eddie probably takes him to one or two or maybe five. then they maybe make out after one of their swims. then steve starts going to eddies shows at the hideout, starts going with him damn near everywhere, and this was the kind of companionship he needed from the get go but didn't have. the kind where they support each other's interests without changing themselves for it, the kind where there is love born from fierce and unwavering friendship, the kind where loyalty is unquestionable but agreeing all the time is optional. and god.

steve harrington has been blind for a year. and he wears metal in his face and color in his hair. and he and his friends gather for movies just for the enjoyment of it. and he swims the lakes of hawkins with his boyfriend. and he plays dungeons and dragons with the kids who haven't let go of him just yet. and his parents aren't who he needs them to be yet, but they're trying. everyones trying. and eveyrone is enough.

and he's enough, at the end of the day.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Superior Vena Cava

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt takes you to his apartment so Claire can patch you up, and he can keep you both safe. After the worst is over, he has some questions of his own he needs to have answered.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, injury, blood, flashback, allusions to domestic violence, medical talk that sounds like straight from a medical drama and is probably fake (I'm sorry)

Word Count: 4.1k

A/n: Again, it's been a while since the last chapter, but I finally got this done! The chapter title may seem weird or just randomly taken out of context, but the SVC actually plays a crucial role in returning blood to the heart, so I find that a pretty metaphor. Yes, I watch a lot of Grey's Anatomy. Yes, I googled. Yes, that poor patient would probably be dead in real life. If you're a medical professional reading this, just ignore any inconsistencies. I regret nothing. Hope you enjoy!

Read Chapter 18: Superior Vena Cava here on AO3!

He knows he should take you to a hospital. 

The thick stench of copper sticks to your skin in more places than one. Your heart pounds against your ribcage with a rhythm that ties a noose around his neck, tightening every time it seems to start fading. 

Matt’s veins are alight with something that burns hotter than fear. It is strange; he barely knows you, but the thought of losing you tears into his flesh like a million broken shards of glass, regardless, and it’s slowly killing him inside.

You’re hurt. You’re suffering. You’re broken in ways he can’t even comprehend, and he can feel you fading right before him. 

He should take you to a hospital, but he can’t. Because they took you when it should have been Claire, they took you because of him, and they will find a way to do it again. 

Matt did this to you. Not the Russians, not some higher power, him, and he won’t ever forgive himself for that. 

He runs faster than he ever has before, through dark alleyways and over rooftops. He carries you all the way to his apartment, the city eerily quiet in comparison to you. He can’t focus on anything else in this bubble he’s in. 

“I’ve got you,” he keeps whispering. “I’ve got you.”

And when Matt finally breaks through the rooftop access, down the stairs, and into his bedroom, the bubble bursts, and reality comes crashing in like a tidal wave. 

Claire stops her pacing when she hears the door slam, and her face falls at the sight of you, so small in the shrill purple of the Billboard outside. “Oh my God,” she breathes. 

He lowers you onto the bed like fragile porcelain. “She’s okay,” he says, though it is more to convince himself. “She’s gonna be okay.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Russians,” the word comes through gritted teeth. “They thought…” He swallows the treacherous onslaught of tears and turns them into a groan, “They thought she could tell them who I was.”

Claire stares at him, then back at you. She doesn’t dare touch you. Every inch of you seems fragile now. How terrifyingly familiar it must have felt to you, she thinks, to be taken and abused. How familiar the pain has to be. And it’s all her fault. 

It should have been her. 

Matt tears the mask off his face and kneels beside you, brushing a bloody strand of hair out of your face. His fingers dance over your skin, every bruise and crevice, painting a picture of you in his mind. It’s the first time your silhouette isn’t engulfed in flames. He can see you now, pain etched into every one of your features, and he reads it like Braille. There is too much of it—too much of everything.

He lowers his forehead to yours. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. You’re gonna be okay.”

Claire knows she should move, do anything but stand there, but her feet remain tethered to the ground. “Matt,” she says, “she needs a hospital.” 

But he shakes his head. “It’s not safe.” 

“She’s hurt!” 

“I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be, but you have to trust me right now. She’s not safe out there. You’re not safe.”

“It doesn’t matter! She could die!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he snaps. “But if I take her to a hospital, they’re gonna find her again, and then they’re gonna kill her. I can’t let that happen.”

A stray tear rolls down her cheek and lands on her tongue. Claire swallows it. She looks between you and him again, how he’s kneeling beside you, his hazel eyes watery and broken, and for a moment, she sees right through him. 

He’s not just the man in the mask whom she pulled out of her dumpster a few days ago, half dead because all he wanted was to save a little boy. He’s not just the man who brought chaos into her life, and he is not just a vigilante; he’s the lawyer who brought the light back to your eyes because he made you feel wanted, even if it was just for a moment before she told him to break your heart. But that was her fault, not his. 

He was good to you until Claire ruined it for you, all because she has never worried about someone more than you. You are like the sister she never had, and she ruined that, too. 

She could lose you any second, and it would be her fault. 

“Claire,” his voice reaches through to her. “Claire!”

Her eyes fall on him, and the panic makes her look back at you. Your chest is no longer heaving; she doesn’t even know if it’s still rising. It doesn’t look like it.

Matt frantically places a hand on your heart. “Her breathing’s slowed,” he says. “She’s not–”

That is enough for her. The roots around her ankles snap, shattering on the hardwood floor, and she runs to you.

“She might have fluid in her lungs,” she says. 

“What do you need?”

“Whatever you have in your first aid kit, and a knife.”

His face crumbles even more. “A knife?”

“Well, I have to cut her with something, Matthew,” she says. “Hurry!”

Matt scrambles to his feet. “Yeah,” he stammers, “okay.” 

He stays away only long enough to fetch Claire whatever she needs before he rushes back to your side, his hand clutching yours so tightly that your cold skin turns warm again, and then he holds you. He holds you for what feels like hours, counting every beat of your heart and every breath you take until they have steadied—until he knows you’re alive, and you’re not going anywhere. Only then does he allow himself to rest. 

Claire releases the fluid from your lungs with practiced ease, though her fingers shake with every step she runs through. She stitches your deepest wounds carefully and patches the rest with thick bandages that you would have given her a hard time for if you had been awake. She even feels the broken bone of your nose and resets the dislocation, praying that it will be enough. 

She doesn’t know if there is any brain damage from the trauma to your head, or when you will finally wake up—if you will wake up—but you are stable, for now. You are alive. That has to count for something, right? 

The body doesn’t grow numb to abuse; the mind does. It does all sorts of things to protect its host, but pain is still pain, and she is sure that deep down, you can feel all of it. You have been through far too much to get dragged into whatever this is, but it’s too late for that now, and that kills her. 

“You should let me take a look at your hands,” she murmurs.

Matt lifts his head from where it’s resting beside you, close enough to feel your breath on his skin. He rubs his fingers together, slowly. They’re rough with dried blood. Some of it is from him, but most of it is yours. 

“I, uh,” he clears his throat, “I shouldn’t leave her.”

“Heartbeat’s strong. Breathing’s normal. She’s okay.”

“I’m fine right here.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, even if it’s not, I still feel responsible.”

“You feel responsible?” Matt turns to her with a frown. “They took her because of me, not you.”

“They took her because they wanted me,” she argues. “She was only at the apartment because I told you to stand her up, and then I left her there on her own. How is that not my fault?”

“No, you were right. I’m no good for her,” he says.

“But you are.”

“What?”

Claire sighs. “When she came to me, I… I’ve seen her crushed before, but this? She was a completely different person. The fact you didn’t show up really got to her because she liked you, and in the short amount of time you’ve known her, you’ve somehow managed to make her happier than she’s been in a long time. And I’m sorry for… for telling you otherwise. I was trying to protect her, but she still got hurt. That’s on me for thinking I knew better,” she says. “Besides, you brought her back. Alive. The least I can do is patch you up.”

He hesitates for a moment, then carefully lowers your hand back down onto the mattress. “Okay.”

She gently opens the door and slides out into the living room. Matt doesn’t follow her right away, though; he makes sure you’re still breathing, still there, his hand hovering over your beating heart once more, and he tucks the blanket safely around you. 

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

He leaves the sliding door open more than a necessary inch on his way out. 

Claire tears off the used, blood-soaked gloves adorning her hands. She tries not to think too hard about what she just had to do, but the bloody gauze in the trash and the blood on her sweater serve as a constant reminder of the past few hours she will probably never forget. She quickly closes the lid before she can throw up in it.

She clears her throat. “Go wash your hands,” she says. “I need to grab some fresh gauze.”

Matt follows without a word. Because everything she can see, he can smell and taste, and there is nothing worse than your blood on the tip of his tongue and branded deep inside his nose for however long it may last. He won’t ever forget the lifeless weight of you as he carried you away from that underground garage. 

It hits him so much harder now, with his hands held under the faucet in his kitchen. Your blood mixes with his as it runs down the drain. He doesn’t realize how much more there is until Claire gently takes the sponge from him. 

“Matt.” She turns off the water. “That’s enough. You’re hurting yourself.”

His raw knuckles start to burn at the sudden contact with air.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He didn’t notice.

She doesn’t answer, just gently cleans the wounds, old and fresh. Thankfully, it doesn’t take her long to disinfect and wrap them. 

“There,” she says. “All done.”

“Thank you.”

A moment of silence follows before she asks, “Did you hurt them?”

“The Russians?” Matt asks. 

“Yeah.”

He nods. “Yeah, I did.”

“All of them?”

“Those I could find. Pretty sure I broke some bones.”

She exhales. “Good.” 

She falls quiet again after that.

The adrenaline that has been pumping hot through Matt’s veins all night starts to fade into nothing, leaving behind only a dull ache in his weary bones, and in the wake of it, he leans against the counter to steady himself. 

Your heartbeat sounds steadily from the next room. Not even Claire’s movements around the apartment as she cleans up the last of the mess can overshadow it. Everything outside of you has long ceased to exist. And the steady thud thud thud is comforting, too, in a way. It reminds him that the world has slowed its turning, and he can breathe again.

With the adrenaline gone and his thoughts clearer now, though, there is something he just can’t shake.

“Clair?” he asks.

She stops what she’s doing and turns to him. “Yeah?”

“You and Liv… You seem like you’ve known each other for a long time.”

He picks up on the change in her heartbeat and how hard she tries to hide it. 

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s, uh, been two years.” 

It’s not a question, but it sounds like one—like she, herself, is unsure about what she should share. The way she worries about you has kept him awake ever since she first told him that you were friends, and she forced him to push you away. As right as she was, because he is dangerous for you and anyone he comes close to, he can’t help but wonder how much more there is to it than her words have expressed.

Her heart flutters again. He doesn’t have to ask how you met; she just knows because suddenly, she starts talking, and it paints a better picture than he thought he would get. 

When Claire closes her eyes, she finds herself back in Metro General’s emergency room, two years ago, working the fifth night shift in a row on an hour of sleep. She did not expect anything crazy to happen. Not much crazier than usual, anyway. And she certainly did not expect you to roll in. 

It was a quiet night. She had just finished assisting with the discharge of several drunks who had gotten into a brawl, and handed them off to the police officers already waiting by the door. Non-emergent cases had been taken care of, and for the first time in weeks, it was no longer overcrowded.

The ER doctor had excused himself for a quick break, and she thought everything would be fine. They could manage for a few minutes on their own. The moment she turned her back to the door, though, someone shouted, “Incoming GSW to the chest, two minutes out!” 

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath. Not even a sip of water was granted to her. 

She barked orders at every nurse she could find, paging doctors and praying to God the (only) trauma surgeon on call would get there on time. Sirens began howling in the ambulance bay outside exactly five minutes later, and the double doors burst open.

“32-year-old male, two GSW to the chest,” the first responder began to recite as they wheeled the gurney in. 

Claire was about to take over, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the person perched on her patient’s abdomen, and… 

“What the hell?” she said.

The person’s hand was buried deep in the man’s chest cavity. 

“Blood pressure 70/40 and falling. He’s already lost a liter and a half,” you said, breathless and soaked with blood. “We bolused 2 bags of saline in the field, pushed one of EPI, but he’s losing too much blood. He needs a cardio-thoracic surgeon.”

Claire stared at you, bewildered. “Who are you and what are you doing sitting on that man’s chest?” 

You paused. “Seriously?”

“You have your hand inside my patient, so you better answer my question or I’ll call security!”

You gave an exasperated sigh, “My name’s Doctor Olivia Clarke, I’m a trauma surgeon, and my hand inside your patient is currently the only thing holding together this man’s SVC.”

Everyone held their breaths.

“You what?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Large caliber rounds, the second one tore right through, nicked the SVC. I had no choice.”

“Oh, my God.” She looked over the man; he looked so pale, the blood shining even brighter in contrast to his skin. “Did you cut into him?”

“Are you a surgeon?” you retorted.

Claire peeked over her shoulder, searching for the ER doctor who should already have been back from the break room, but he was nowhere to be found. 

“No, I’m a nurse,” she said. “But maybe you should–”

“Move off?” You scoffed. “Yeah, not a chance.”

“We paged cardio,” another nurse chimed in, “but it’s gonna take them another minute to get down here. I don’t know where Walker is.” The last part was directed at her, and she sighed.

She never thought she would end up in such a situation.

“He doesn’t have a minute!” you snapped. “If you can’t get a surgeon down here, you get me a suture kit and I’ll do it myself.”

“Do you have a license?” Claire asked.

You closed your eyes and sighed. “I don’t have it on me right now, but I promise you, I am a doctor.”

“I can’t let you operate on a man without authorization,” yet her voice wavered.

“Have I mentioned he’s dying?”

“It’s against protocol! Maybe if we switch–”

“Look,” you said, “you have two options. You can either help me save this man, which I am perfectly capable of doing, by the way, or you can watch him die.”

She hesitated. The nurses looked at her, at you, and then back at her. Even the EMT was watching the scene unfold with tired eyes of his own.

You wouldn’t lie, she thought, not about this. You had kept him alive this long, and the desperation in your voice suggested that you were not keen on letting him die. She could get fired for this, she knew that, but in that moment, Claire didn’t care about protocol; she cared about the life that was in your hands, and when you met her eyes with that pleading look, begging her to be on the right side of this, she couldn’t deny that she had no choice.

“Claire,” one of the nurses began to warn her, “this isn’t your call to make! It could get you in trouble. It could get all of us in trouble.”

But she cut him off, “Well, someone needs to make it.” Then, turning to you, she asked, “What do you need?”

You exhaled a sigh of relief. “I need blood, lots of it, a surgical kit, and 5-0 Prolene,” you said. “And page cardio again, tell them what we’re doing and that he’s gonna need an OR.”

Claire nodded. “Alright, you heard the lady. Let’s go!” 

You weren’t snappy or egotistical. Maybe your faith in yourself had seemed like every surgeon cliché wrapped into a neat package, at first, but you were good enough to have earned the right to brag. You worked as if you’d been doing it for years. She hadn’t assisted with surgery in a while, but when you asked her to place the clamps, she didn’t hesitate, because she felt comfortable enough with you to do this.

When both the ER doctor in charge and the cardio-thoracic surgeon arrived, you had already placed a perfect suture, and the man’s blood pressure was on the road to stabilizing. She met their eyes, and she knew that she was in trouble. But you? You didn’t even bat an eye.

“Tear in the SVC from a large caliber bullet. I placed a running suture to stop the bleeding, and pressure’s holding steady, but he’s gonna need assessment for further damage,” you stated, slipping your gloves off. With a nod toward the men, though without meeting their eyes, you added, “You’re welcome.”

You had no idea about the chaos you’d just caused. Or perhaps you had an inkling, and you were enjoying it. Either way, your work was done.

Once the chaos had ebbed, the man was out of surgery, and Claire had stood her ground during the sternest talking-to she had ever received from all her supervisors, she found you waiting in the visitors’ lounge.  

You were still pacing the space just before the doors leading to the operating rooms. You knew that your actions had broken all kinds of rules and that you had gotten everyone around you into at least a little bit of trouble, but you had been willing to sacrifice your credentials to save the life of a stranger, and that said a lot about you. 

She didn’t want to go as far as assuming that you thrived off of chaos. You didn’t seem like the type. But there was something reckless about you, a fire smoldering just beneath the surface. It was eating you alive. 

Claire didn’t get fired; they would have been crazy to do so. In a world where the ER doctor could accidentally doze off on his five-minute pee break, miss his pager going off because he was so overworked, and the few trauma surgeons they had were so busy they couldn’t make it in time for an actual trauma, Metro General could not afford to lose her. So, they bent the rules a little. 

She reached out to tap your shoulder. Claire wasn’t thinking about it; she just assumed it was the only way to get your attention. 

Big mistake.

You recoiled, arms wrapped around your torso in an attempt to shield yourself. The storm in your eyes was wild that night. She’d seen it before, but only in the patients who had come in with bruises all over them, claiming they tripped down the stairs. 

She didn’t want to assume.

“I’m sorry,” she said, moving her hand away as fast as she had touched you. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled again. “No, I’m– I’m sorry. I was just… in my head,” you said. But your arms remained wrapped around you.

She caught the faintest scar on your temple where you had tried to hide it with makeup. It seemed almost entirely faded—a few years old, maybe. Claire didn’t mean to stare, but with each passing second, the curiosity inside her grew into a beast too big to ignore.

“Do you know if he–” You motioned toward the doors.

She smiled. “He’s gonna make it through.”

You slumped against the nearest wall. “Oh, thank God!”

“No, thank you.” A pause. “I’m Claire, by the way,” she said.

“Olivia Clarke,” you said.

“Oh, believe me, I remember.”

That made you chuckle, “I caused quite a scene, didn’t I?”

“You saved a man’s life,” she said. “That was pretty impressive.”

Again, you chuckled. “Well, it might cost me my license, which is still on its way to me because apparently, New York City doesn’t want me to practice medicine. They just want me to stare at my post box all day and hope it gets there eventually, so…”

“Oh, you’re new to the city?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you from?” she asked.

You hesitated for the briefest moment before answering, but she noticed. “California,” you said.

“Long way from home, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t think I’d witness a shooting my second week here, but I guess it’s a good thing I was there.” You glanced down at your blood-stained hands. “Is it always like this?” you asked.

Claire sighed. “I could lie to you and say no, but bad shit happens here every day,” she said.

“Well,” you wiped your hands on your jeans, “at least the rent’s affordable.”

“An alien invasion will do that, yeah.”

“Right, I forgot about that.”

She laughed. She didn’t know why you were so nonchalant about it. With that attitude, you were certainly going to fit right in, she thought. 

Claire took another careful step toward you. “About your license,” she said then, “I talked to my supervisors. They’re not gonna report you or press charges, but you’re gonna have to show them your medical license.”

You frowned. “What? That’s…”

You seemed genuinely surprised. How little did you have to lose, she wondered, if you had already accepted your fate and hadn’t even seemed sad about it?

“Thank you,” you whispered, and it hit her then, just how wound up you were.

You didn’t allow anything to touch you, and nothing to shake you, because you had been shaken far too many times before. You were trying so hard not to fall apart.

Claire knew how to read people. It was part of her job description. She could see things others often missed because, to the untrained eye, human behavior tends to appear as an enigma. That night, though, she saw right through you for the first time, and she barely even knew you.

She couldn’t see your story, but she could see the pain, and she saw your scars. That was enough for her to know that you were not who you were trying to be. 

But who were you, she asked herself. Who was Olivia Clarke, and why was she such an obvious mask you wore like a shield?

She cleared her throat. “And our hospital administrator wants to talk to you,” she said. “About a job.”

“A job?” you asked.

“Cardio was impressed with your work, and we are extremely understaffed. The pay’s awful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a job. If you need one.”

You stammered, “I– I do need a job, yes.”

She pointed down the hall toward the dark-haired woman lying in wait. “Talk to her,” she said. 

“Okay,” you breathed. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Claire.”

“You’re welcome, Dr. Clarke.”

You just smiled at her and said, “You can call me Liv.” 

And you have been in her life ever since.

“Of course,” Matt chuckles softly, “because she’s the kind of person who puts her hand inside a man’s chest cavity.”

“She’s a fighter,” Claire says, eyes glued to the Billboard outside. 

“Yeah, she is.”

And you are a fighter, in more ways than he knows.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @thatonegamefish @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs @silas-aeiou @scoliobean @spn-reader @daisy-the-quake

[shiorimakibawrites]

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

A Tale of Two Men (Cozy Corners #1)

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

A Tale of Two Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”

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

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

“I take it that you disagree?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Infinitely.”

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

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

“Matt.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like a plan.”

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask you a question?”

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

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

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

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

“That’s a pretty name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a lawyer.”

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

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

“That’s a shame,” you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

“I saw that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it never came.

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

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

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

Then he threw himself at the man.

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

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

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

“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”

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

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

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

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

“Good! Now again . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The police,” he said.

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

“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.

“Going home.”

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

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

“No?”

“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spitfire?”

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

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

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

“Don’t worry about him.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“Not at the moment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[blackleatherjacketz]

Nocturne

Miguel O'Hara x Female Reader

Summary: Miguel wakes you in the middle of the night to fulfill your arrangement.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, Explicit, NSFW, Wake-Up Sex, Kissing, Biting, Scratching, Miguel's Fangs, Miguel's Claws, Blood Drinking, Groping, Fondling, Caressing, Teasing, Taunting, Miguel Ripping Your Panties in Half, Vaginal Sex, Doggy Style, Female Orgasm, *Bonus points if you catch the Sting reference*

Word Count: 1.6K+

Read my other MIGUEL stories!

You always feel him before anything else; before you can hear his footsteps bend the hardwood of your floorboards into a whiny creak, before he whispers your name longingly into your ear as he crawls into your bed, slipping beneath the sheets. He’s always careful not to stir you from your slumber too abruptly, crossing over that threshold of the waking world and into the hazy realm of your dreams with relative ease.

He first appears as tall stalks of grain in fields of gold beneath your fingertips, as wispy branches dangling from the tops of willow trees, surrounding your face and arms with soft, delicate touches. Those leaves gently lay themselves across your shoulders, pleating around your upper body as they pull you in closer to the aged tree trunk, slowly growing in warmth. The smell of his sweat and the heat of his breath eventually signals you to his presence beyond the sandman’s grasp, the kisses he plants onto your neck tenderly waking you as the trees begin to fade out of sight.

“Mmm, you’re late,” you mumble as your eyes flutter open, the blurry green numbers of your alarm clock showing three thirty in the morning.

“Am I?” He slides his hand beneath your shirt, tickling the skin on your torso like those dreamy willow branches before cupping your breast with his palm. “I ran into some trouble, but I can make it up to you,” he kisses his excuses into the nape of your neck, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching to get a quick moan from your lips. “I promise.”

“Uh-huh,” is all you can manage in response, his targeted handiwork distracting you from his tardiness as he pinches even harder, forcing your breath to quicken.

“What were you dreaming about anyways, huh?” He twists your nipple toward him, grinding his hips against your backside as his bare arousal grows between your cheeks, getting your body good and ready for what he has in mind, for what he always comes here for.

“All kinds of things,” you whisper, his erection more than prominent against your underwear as you instinctively rock back into him, your own moisture collecting between your folds as his kisses only get deeper.

“Oh yeah?” He lifts his knee between your legs, shifting his weight onto your hips with a quickness that forces you onto your stomach, keeping you right where he wants you. “Anything like this?”

The weight of his massive body resting on your lower back nearly forces the air out of your lungs as both of his hands graze over the gooseflesh cascading it’s way down your spine. Like a blind man reading braille for the very first time, he palpates every bump, studies every raised hair on your skin as if committing it to memory before slowly pushing the fabric of your t-shirt up above your shoulders. He waits for you to fully acclimate to the sensation of him laying on top of you before tickling the tiny spaces between your ribs just enough to get you to shiver and tense back up.

“Arms up, baby, you know the drill.”

Too drowsy to make any quippy retorts for your usual snarky banter, you follow his command and lift your arms above your head. You let your eyelids fall shut again as he disrobes you at an agonizing pace, peeling your sleeves off your biceps and forearms as he playfully nips at your shoulders and neck along the way. He takes his time massaging the muscles in your hands as your collar passes over your head, finally pulling your shirt from your fingers before silently dropping it onto the floor.

“You’re almost all healed up from last time,” he notices as he kisses his way back up your arm, sucking on the yellowing bruise he’d left on your shoulder just last week. “It’s like I was never even here.” He sits up and leans backward, slowly dragging his claws down the length of your torso just deep enough to leave tiny trails of white, disrupted skin in their wake. “Looks like I gotta fix that.”

Your back arches instinctively as the cool air of your bedroom shocks your nervous system, stinging your freshly exposed skin as you inhale with a quick hiss. You try not to writhe beneath him as the pain trickles down through each layer of your skin, settling into a deep somatic ache in its futile attempt to soothe your now reddened flesh.

“Nice and open for me now, huh?” You hear the fabric of your underwear being split down the middle before he mercilessly rips it apart, each thread separating in sequential succession before it falls to shreds around your hips. Another hiss from you turns into a high-pitched gasp, his expanding audacity almost making you regret your unspoken arrangement with him to trade your blood for sex.

Almost.

You hear him laugh in sheer delight before you feel him glide down across your folds as he wastes no time thrusting against you. You can feel him pause to grab hold of himself at the base, barely brushing over your swollen bud as he spreads your juices up and down your length, refusing to acknowledge the wounds he just created. “Where should we start this time, eh, cariño?”

“Miguel,” you plead, lifting your hips up to meet him just in time for him to pull back with another confident chuckle. “Miggy, please, I’m so tired.”

“Oh, you’re tired? Hmmm?” He taunts, playfully slapping the head of his cock against your ass as he spreads your cheeks apart with his opposite hand. “Maybe I should bite into one of your wrists this time, huh? Take a little bit more than usual… or try this spot over here by your ribs,” he pinches the skin behind your breast to make you flinch. “That seems pretty fucking ticklish.”

You whimper at his callousness, nodding your cheek against the pillow as he glides over your clit a few more times, relishing those little bursts of joy that counter the throbbing ache in your back as he continues to toy with your emotions. “Or maybe you could just…”

“How about here?” He cuts your suggestion short by grasping onto the muscles at the base of your neck, tracing the outline of your pulse as it races down your throat into your right shoulder. “Give that other side a break?”

“Mmm hmm,” you nod again, your mumbled word stifled as he finally thrusts inside you at the most delicious angle, turning that moan into a feral groan as he delves inside your slick, velvety walls.

The two of you sigh together as he fills that void deep within you, stretching you out inch by inch until you’ve enveloped him completely, his muscular thighs flush against the backs of yours. You can feel his heart beating through his chest as it rests against your broken skin, pausing in a brief moment of stasis before he pulls out and pushes back in at twice the speed. Closing your eyes again, you choose to focus on the tantalizing, rhythmic thrusts of pleasure he feeds up into your core, clenching down around him as you ignore the stinging friction of his body as he holds up his end of the deal.

Each ounce of pain he doles out is worth every pound of ecstasy that he delivers along with it; his hand smoothing its way across your hip and beneath your pelvis to find your bud, rubbing it up and down in perfect tempo with the dizzying movement of his hips. Like a classically trained musician, he plays you like a fiddle, knowing exactly how deep to push and how long to pull against your soaking wet organ in order to get you to play the tune that he wants. Your breathy moans reach notes you’ve never even dreamed of hitting before, the sound of his skin slapping against yours providing the perfect beat for his baritone growls as he wraps his other arm around your chest. Pulling you into him, he plays the last few notes leading up to your crescendo with such unmatched fervor that he can feel you vibrate around his bow.

You surrender to the music and let it move its way through you, its rapturous notes immersing your senses with such unbridled bliss that you can barely feel his bite. Your part of the deal never felt so good, so mundane compared to what he gives you in return every time that he drains that little bit of life from your veins. That sharp twinge sinks deep into your shoulder as the song he plays continues up into your spine, exploding in a symphony of the erratic drumbeats of his hips, the mismatched chorus of your moans and his muffled breath against your skin. The reverb shakes itself through you both in waves, pulsing through your core as you flutter around him, quaking into your extremities and out of your fingertips as you desperately grasp onto the sheets.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet when you come.” He finally whispers after getting his fill, lapping up the excess blood off your neck as he finishes sputtering his release inside you.

“Yeah?” You turn your neck to face him as your body continues to shake, running your fingers through his hair as he playfully licks and sucks the skin around your new bite. “How’s that?”

“Like honey, or butterscotch,” he smiles, pressing a trail of kisses into your cheek until he reaches your mouth, giving you a small sample of whatever it is that he can taste.

“I’ll take your word for it,” you whine as he pulls out, the absence of his girth leaving you feeling empty again as he lets go of you completely before laying down next to you. You tuck your head up under his armpit and wonder if you’ll be able to feel him laying next to you in your dreams after you finally fall asleep again.

[eaudecrow]

Well, I promised context to anyone who begged sweetly, and that’s sweet though for me. (I say as if I haven’t been dying to rant about them for weeks.)

The short story: The Target, aka Din, is the assassination target of Father Kilter’s adopted revenant kid, Pigeon. If Din dies, both they and Pidge will rot in an existence worse than hell, as the unjust death and necromancy magic fuses their souls together in eternal agony. Kilter stays in contact with Din via Sending and Dream spells to keep the two apart (and manages to steal their heart by being wet and pathetic and teaching them how to care).

The full story (buckle the fuckle up):

So. The Target. They have what we’ll call a… justified god complex. As the self-appointed harbinger of truth, they run around exposing secrets and toppling corrupt governments for the betterment of the world. Unfortunately, this makes them public enemy number one. So what did they do to keep themself safe?

Trade away their face, of course.

The Target bargained with Truth itself. They would give it their long-lived service, in exchange for the power to mete out justice and a face that cannot be remembered. The moment you look away, you forget it.

Now their enemies have a new problem to contend with. How do you kill someone who can’t be found or even identified? The answer comes in the form of a revenant: a being so hellbent on killing one person, it always knows their target’s position, regardless of what magic is used to hide them. And this target is so important to eliminate that a necromancy cult artificially manufactures one to go after them.

Enter Pidge.

For a while, the only thing Father Kilter could do when the Target got too close was hold Pigeon as they scratched and stabbed and clawed, trying to bring about their own end as well as some random stranger’s. He had no idea who the target was, no way to contact them and keep them far, far away from his kid, no way to keep them safe—so he jumped at the chance to spy on them when they happened to pass within viewing distance.

One poorly-timed hunting snare later, and Kilter was left hanging upside down, before their horse, at their mercy.

Luckily they seemed inclined to have mercy. Despite Kilter’s terrible attempts at lying and generally suspicious nervous energy, their curiosity was piqued. They let him down. They joined him for some wine, even, introducing themself as “Din”. The two had a chat that started with each trying to subtly pick the other apart, and ended with Kilter completely losing that battle—so desperate for a semblance of help and genuine connection, that he spilled his backstory and his secrets to this literally faceless stranger. All they had to do was touch his knee and say “you aren’t alone” and he was FINISHED. In the end, he had no choice but to trust that they had good intentions and the means with which to act upon them.

That’s where things are at in the canon campaign. Outside of that, @couchtaro and I have been going FERAL over future things such as:

Kilter finally being able to touch someone bare-handed in their shared Dreamscape

Them providing Kilter a place to sleep without being haunted by Pestilence’s manipulative nightmares, and it somehow devolving into cuddles

To get around the face enchantment, Kilter reading the arch of their nose and brow and lips like braille, memorizing the shape of their scar so that he can recognize them by touch

The Target’s myriad 14-foot thick, adamantium emotional barriers getting blasted to itty bitty pieces by Kilter fixing their blood-loss-induced hypothermia with his own body heat

They’re so suspicious of each other right now. Little do they know they’re in for a rollercoaster of learning what it means to love, and by proxy what it means to live. Thanks for asking @booksandberries!

[simplegeneral]

Feudalism of Fire AU: Post-War Horrors and Hopes

For a world 20 years at war, Pyrrhia seems to have a severe shortage of the main form of counted casualties in war, the wounded.

I guess some example of disabilities show are Starflight, Tamarin and Dune? I can only recall some unnamed others, but well, things look pretty normal for how things went.

So well, disabled dragons through Pyrrhia are a common sight in my AU, an unfortunate outcome of all those who might have been blessed or curse themselves for surviving their final moments.

I will focus mostly on the Sand Queendom, for it was where the majority of soldiers came to fight through it.

From the horrors of the western front, the most horrifying frost breath of the IceWings, ever growing in their victims through magical means, medical experts could do nothing but amputate the limbs for a lack of any known medicine ways to solve it.

To the East, SeaWings' explosives and weapons slashed and cut through many dragons. Especially in the known and feared SeaWing Vengeance Strikes, against the SkyWing murderers and monsters of the Summer Palace's massacre in 5011 AS, an event so shocking to the new Queen Ruby that she opened a large field hospital in Scarlet's former arena to treat the wounded, constantly arriving from the Sky Queendom itself, as her generals refuse to cooperate with their own queen.

Prothesis, Wings and Chariots

In the aftermath of the DoD's false brightest night conference in the same year, the treaty of peace was signed, presumably for the next 25 years, conflict was abolished from Pyrrhia, though no piece of paper could ever prevent war from coming.

The new Queen Burn had to face the horrifying numbers of disabled and amputees returning home from the war, one of her first degrees was the construction of a prothesis manufacture in the palace, which would distribute them for all those in need. The act seemed selfless at first, but of course, Burn's pragmatic was playing out, the Sand Queendom had a tremendous shortage of dragons in all fields, she needed all dragons she could have.

The contract was most simple, the Sand Queendom's treasures had ran dry through the reconstruction efforts, barter system was reestablished, Burn knew her subjects could not pay for such things, so each dragon would receive a prothesis and be expected to return to work as soon as possible. A most fair deal as seem by everyone.

The history of those prothesis is relatively simple, they existed for a long time, but just like the wounded in the post-war, they also begun been noticed by everyone as their numbers grew. Most of the time prior, there was one work accident or a death roll with a crocodile, done by some foolish dragonets.

With time in the post-war, those prothesis improved in quality, as well as diversified, including later mechanical flexible wings and the chariots.

Chariots were most often used by merchants to carry goods in short-distances within towns. But in the post-war, they gained a new meaning, giving mobility and independence back to those who lost both their front or back limbs.

The mechanical wings were the most recent of the bunch, an overall still unreliable technology, but seemed to work for short distance travels, a dragon may take many stops even then, but the second models, worked in cooperation with SkyWing smiths had improved realiability and reduced weight, a SkyWing feature not easily copied by any other tribe, and thus flying is almost a reality for many who lost their wings (one of the most common wounds, for the fabric is easily ripped apart).

Braille and Sign Language

Braille was not invented by Starflight, the dragonet tbh, had no idea how to even begin such affair, but thankfully, he didn't had to.

Burn and Scarlet once demanded from their linguists, scribes and scholars the development of a writing that could be read in total darkness, a point Burn was mostly focused to completely stuff out the need of camp fires in her campaigns, barracks and other military resting and preparation situations.

Their scribes came with Braille. At first, it was chaotic and desorganized, with many versions created by different scribes, but by trials through the years, one version was perfected and above all else, was readable.

Burn had mandatory the inclusion of braille in her military documents, and every soldier in training from now on had braille lessons. Her end goal however, was the complete replacement of the writing symbols in draconic, for then even when enemies captured her positions, and unfortunately any left documents of greater importance, they would have absolutely no idea what to get from braille writing.

What begun as military struck of genius, now served the commoners.

Burn had expanded braille lessons to anyone willing to take, and kept her mandatory braille inclusion on all papers, but had abandoned the need to overall replace draconic. A most blessing turn of events that the other queendoms had soon followed in her steps, as the head injuries from war had not been any particularly kinder to anyone.

Especially on the eastern front, against the SeaWing explosives, dragons who usually survived them would be deaf of one or both ears, a consequence of the shockwave and intense pressure in their eardrums.

Thankfully as well, the militaries through Pyrrhia had a vast array of signals that symbolized a silent language, great examples would be such as aquatic of the SeaWings, a completely independent language that would help their own deaf dragons, but to the rest of the tribes, no easier times would come ahead.

While the military symbols could be taught and understood by anyone, they were limited to quick and direct orders, not a full communication language. But according to Burn, deaf dragons should read and communicate through paper for the time being, as her linguists figured out a full communication through signals.

Unfortunately, unlike braille, which had several years prior to be developed, the future draconic sign language would be a much more recent study and far from perfected and completely readable to deaf dragons, but Burn had kept the effort going on for she will not abandon any dragons excluded from SandWing society.

Although dragons had been using their talons, wings and tails to express themselves, those were often simple emotions, far from anything close to a full communication method.

In 5013 AS, after two years of trials, one sign language was standartized, with surprising help of the students from the Jade Academy, and support from RainWing linguists, who had a full array of oratory and especially, signaling language through their scales,

Through their talons, wings and tails, dragons now had a full mean of understanding the other side, a combination of every unpractical methods used by RainWings and SeaWings to the other tribes, a silent language was finally developed.

While Burn have had retired all deaf dragons from her military, she had made an official degree that at every workplace, there must be at least one sign language taught dragon, as for all deaf dragons would be mandatory to learn.

Even at the sand palace itself, Burn has hired her own sign language teacher, becoming at this point a polyglot of all known draconic languages but aquatic. Part of it was her intention to build herself a new image in the post-war, not of a warmonger, but one queen who does not leave anyone behind, no one.

In the years to come, Burn masters sign language, and at her military parades, she does speeches and surprises everyone by also doing a speech through sign language to the deaf war veterans in the first row within complete sight range of her.

A bunch of sketches of some of the stuff I talked about.

Ngl, my great artistic dream is to become a concept artist, I don't need to work for any studio or game company, I just love the style itself!

[peppermintmagicianlynn]

TimBer Week 2024: Lazy Days

TimBer Week 2024 Day #4: Lazy Days

Bernard was never one for ‘cozy’ video games, but he’d gotten as a birthday present from his little cousin so he was making an effort to get into it. At the very least it was a cooking game and it flet appropriate for how his day had turned around.

At midmorning, Bernard had been up in his room, bored put of his gourd, when he’d gotten a text from Tim Drake. His classmate had asked about his plans for the day and given they were in a mutual state of ennui, they decided it would be more profitable to hang out. Bernard invited the other over to his house with a warning that he had better commit to a quiet day of nothing at all productive. Drake agreed and rolled up before noon.

What Bernard had not warned him of was that they wouldn’t be lazing around inside of the Dowd house. Instead, they would be in the camping tent Bernard has set up in the backyard which had also been a gift from his extended family. He’d practically been living out there and was excited to show it off to someone who could appreciate his efforts to make a comfy spot.

Drake had given him an appropriate amount of praise and after a few minutes to restock the space for the extra company, they’d both settled into their chosen activities. With the game volume turned off, Bernard was content by the sounds of clicking buttons, Drake’s occasional page flipping, and the whir of the portable heater that tirelessly defended them from hypothermia.

“How can you even see what you’re reading?” Bernard asked when he noticed how far Drake was from the heater. He was tucked so far into the beanbag chair that none of the red-hot coil’s light should have reached the pages of his book.

“It’s in braille,” was his response. “I’m teaching myself to read it, trial-by-fire.”

Which seemed sort of random and yet so very Tim Drake, just quietly picking up a new skill set like it was no big deal.

“Kudos to you, then.” Bernard went back to his game, stirring the pot of stew and tossing in another clove of garlic even though it made the overseeing chef yell about ‘waste’. It needed more garlic, okay?

The wind picked up outside, rattling the tent but not enough to upset anything on the inside. Bernard had been sure to secure the extension cord outside, so as long as it was still powering their heater, they were still safe to stay put. It was like living in a micro-world, away from the rest of the human population and free from everything about it. Just the two of them.

Bernard felt a bit of pride when the food critic showed him his final score – ten out of ten! - and decided that was enough for now. He set the system aside, stretched out his hunched back, and turned his attention to the other occupant of his micro-world.

Drake had his eye closed, giving all his focus to the ridged pages under his hands and whatever information he was getting from them. He was so immersed in his task, Bernard almost felt bad by his own compulsion to bring the boy back into the realm where they were still aware of each other’s presence.

Almost. “What are your reading?”

“The Odyssey. We analyzed it to death at my last school, so i know it by heart. I figured if I flubbed it trying to decipher the braille, I’d still understand most of what was going on and just guess my way through.”

“How much of it are you actually ‘reading’, then?”

“About 70%.”

“That’s pretty impressive. By our school’s standards, that’s practically a B+.”

Drake smirked. “Thank God for that.” Still with his eyes closed, he reached out his ‘reading’ hand in a fist for Bernard to bump.

The blonde laughed. Then on a wild impulse, asked “Read it to me.”

Drake cracked open one bright eye. “Have you never read The Odyssey before?”

“We got the abridged version back in middle school. They made us do so many book reports and even had us act out some of the scenes. It’s one of the only things we read that year that I that actually enjoyed.”

Drake had both eyes opened now and squinted them across the space at Bernard, humming in thought. “Only if you give me more chips. Barbecue-shrimp flavored, please.”

Bernard sighed like it was a great inconvenience, but he dug out one of the fun-sized bag he’d kept in his Bear-Den just for when Drake came over. “How can you stand these things? They’re gross.”

“You’re gross,” Drake retaliated before upending he bag and shaking a healthy amount into his mouth. Bernard watched him do so, amazed that neither loose chips nor crumbs landed on the open book pages. Once Drake got his fill, he set the bag aside but also bookmarked his page to set the volume down, too. The red blanket he’d stolen from Bernard’ lap was pushed aside so he could lean close to the heater, rotating his thin fingers in front of it with an obvious greed.

“Were your hands cold this whole time?”

“Yeah, it’s genetic. My mom hated the winter because her hands would freeze just from passing by an opened door.”

Bernard thought that over for a moment. Then he pushed off his own blankets and with a call of “Hold on to the book, I’ll be right back” he opened the tent flap and slipped out into the cold. He had something up in his room that could work well.

When he got back to the tent, Drake looked almost asleep in his chair, though the sudden blast of December chill brought him around immediately. Bernard did feel bad about that; Drake looked so wiped out when he showed up at their door. “Here, try these.”

The raven-haired boy must still have been a little groggy because he stared at the gloves in Bernard’s hands with a dazed look. “I can’t read braille with those on, Bern. The fabric gets in the way.”

“These ones won’t.” Bernard tossed them into the other’s lap. Once they were at touching radius, the other could finally realized why Bernard had been gone so long.

“Did you cut the fingers off?” he asked, holding up one black leather glove to see the tips had been removed. “Why would you do that? These look like an expensive brand!”

They likely were, but that meant very little to Bernard. The blond returned to his seat and once the blankets were tucked around him again, he shrugged. “I figured you could put them to better use than I would.” Then, with a smirk, “Plus, you’ve always had that ‘sickly orphan’ vibe going on. Fingerless gloves would work well for- hey!”

Bernard laughed as the balled-up chips bag was chucked at his head, bouncing of his temple because his hands were wrapped in his blankets.

“Ass.” But even as he said that, Drake slipped the gloves on with a smile. “Last chance to back out on my read-along. It’s going to be stilted and clunky the entire time.”

“Entertain me,” Bernard said. He made a big display of bringing the blankets up to his chin and sinking deeper into her beanbag chair. The picture of comfort and patience.

Drake laughed softly, then the sound of flipping pages as he returned to her previous spot. Bernard felt his heart pick up a little as Drake’s voice took on the same orating tone he slipped into when he had to read a passage in used in English Lit.

“The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.”

Water and wheat danced behind Bernard’s eyelids, sweeping him away to the town of Pylos where he would follow Telemachus and Athena on their search for Odysseus. But while he did love this story, it was less the words that captivated him so much as the voice that brought them to life.

Drake had been correct about his recitation being clunky; he stumbled through every other sentence. But there was such beautiful honesty in how hard he was trying. He’d hesitate at complicated words, double-back when he used the wrong pronunciation, but that just made it all the sweeter when he did succeed. Bernard could hear the touch of pride that coated his voice whenever he made it to the end of a stanza without stopping.

With blankets and snacks and a familiar voice to fill the space, there was no better way to spend an afternoon in December.