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shiorimakibawrites · 5 months

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

A Tale of Two Men (Part 1 of Cozy Corners)

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.

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.

#daredevil #fan fic #fan fiction #cozy corners #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #tw anxiety #tw panic attack #ao3 link

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surplus-of-sarcasm · 6 months

Text

31st Story

Part 2

TW: Captivity, implied past torture, blood mention, restraints, mistrust, starvation mention, defiant whumpee, corrupt system, knife

Heyyy! Long-time no see. I blame college 100% because it takes up all my time, seriously. Happy New Year tho 💙

Villain could tell himself he was already used to the cold, hard embrace of the dull rock of his cell, to the claustrophobia-inducing lack of windows, to the fact that the only times he ever got to see the light was when someone walked in to beat him senseless, a feat made incredibly easy with the help of the chains that shackled his wrists and ankles, not allowing for much movement.

He could pretend that being covered in blood and filth, dazed and starving, was nothing to him, that the maddening urge to find out what time it was wasn't gnawing at him torturously.

"In here, wishful thinking is all you are capable of," a sunken-faced, old prisoner had told him before he was thrown into his personal hellhole. He hadn't said anything, but he'd believed the old hag to be weak and hopeless, and thus so was her sentiment.

Right now, all he wondered was if he'd break even faster than that woman might have. The villain screwed his eyes shut, hoping it would stop the chain of thoughts poisoning his mind, but all that did was make him think clearer, every disturbing image he tried so desperately to expel growing clearer and more vivid by the moment.

It was bad enough handling the physical pain, where every time he so much as shifted his form slightly, the tormented muscles in his back would scream in protest. But the physical side was tolerable, compared to being left at the mercy of his mind; a cruel, sinister thing.

So consumed he was in his own reverie, he hadn't even noticed as the door to his cell was unlocked, at least not until the light skirting around the corner had him snapping his eyes open and sitting up.

"This doesn't look good on you," a silky, almost serpentine voice called out.

"Superhero?" he asked, despising the note of trepidation in his voice.

"No. Just her lacklustre twin," she scoffed.

"Vigilante," he deduced with a slight fall of his shoulders in relief. It's not that he believed Vigilante would treat him well, it's just that no one could rival Superhero in cruelty.

"Still ever the genius," she responded dryly.

"What do you want?" he asked, almost desperate. If she was here to torment him, he wanted her to get over with it. It was becoming progressively more difficult to bear the state in which he was in, the one chock-full of waiting and thinning patience, of hoping the pain would start so it could end, that this time would pass faster.

Except it never did.

"It's strange seeing someone normally so high and mighty like this," she attested, dodging his question.

The older version of him would have let out a frustrated snarl and cussed her out for annoying him, but now all he could do was bite his tongue and stare at her with his new resting face, broken and defeated.

"Well, I'm not here to hurt you," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

That was a response, albeit an indirect one. And of course, she wasn't here to hurt him. She was here to make sure he was comfortable, that he was enjoying his five-star stay in this resort in hell.

Sucks to have an army of enemies and not a single semblance of a friend.

He and Vigilante hadn't really had any direct bad blood, but he was a villain locked up in here, so by default, he was supposed to be her enemy, right? It didn't matter who walked in here or whether they knew him or not. They just loved to see him break, to see him, once so relentlessly powerful, reduced to less than nothing. Perhaps it brought them a sort of sick satisfaction, but he didn't know much about satisfaction anymore to judge.

"I'm going to get you out of here," she said casually, like promising him the impossible was some sort of small punishment, nothing to tear himself up about. Maybe she could rival her sister in cruelty.

Without warning, a hysterical laugh escaped his throat, only for him to bite his lip and stop abruptly, trying to clamp a hand over his mouth only for him to remember he was chained up.

Vigilante's face fell, and his own had silent tears streaming down it. He felt as though he couldn't breathe, as though bricks were raining down on his shoulders and crushing his bones into nothing. His whole being seemed to itch with dread.

"Villain?" Vigilante called out, looking a mixture of confused and horrified.

"Just get over with it! Torture me until the floor runs red with my blood, tell me how death is a mercy above vermin like myself, and tell me to take it with a smile. Hit me harder when I can't bring myself to do it. Hit me until I feel all the pain of death but never attain it. Remember my current words as defiance, as another crime I've committed. I think watching me be humbled to the nothing I truly am will entertain you as any show would," he spat, only for regret to colour his features just as fast.

"Damn it. Villain, I don't want to do. . .any of this to you," Vigilante started, careful, trying for a semblance of gentle, something she was never particularly good at. "Like I said, I'm going to get you out of here," she continued again, hoping the stern tone indicated she was serious and not somehow going to torture him.

She'd never particularly liked him, mainly because he'd always been ice-cold, calculated to a point he seemed inhuman at times, no emotion whatsoever showing up on his face, besides a cool smugness. And by virtue of all the terrible things he'd done, all the blood on his hands. And yet, he was far from the worst thing out there, and most definitely not the villain in her story.

"And let's pretend you're telling the truth, which is completely fine by me because any mercy I've ever had here has always been a pretence, a figment of my imagination, you know. What could you possibly gain from this?" He raised an eyebrow, bearing a small resemblance to his usual self. Well, at least there was a slight amount of fight left in him, even if he was clearly holding back tears now.

But the villain's question wasn't completely outlandish. Vigilante did want something from him, but it wasn't a favour he would ever come to hate. "I need your help. My sister may seem like the goddamn tooth fairy to those who don't know better, but we know what her regime is really doing. This isn't about fighting crime, it's about her insatiable addiction to power."

"And where do I belong here?" The villain's voice still held the same disbelieving tone, his shoulders managing to tense even further.

"You're one of the few people who challenged her, Villain. And as much as it pains me to say it, you're a good strategist," she explained, even though she knew she'd barely convinced him in the slightest.

"I can't be the only one fitting that description, but I can be the only one owing you a favour too," he answered. Even if he didn't look half as confident, half as untouchable as before, the criminal was still just as clever. But it also meant he wasn't believing her anytime soon. Still, he wasn't wrong. The villain may not have smelled like roses all the time, but he'd be loyal to make sure they were even; a man of his word.

"What's it gonna be, Villain? Come with me or stay here?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest, growing impatient.

Well, it didn't make sense for her to give him a choice if she was going to torture him, but sense no longer governed things in his mind, letting a fearful apprehension replace it, no matter how humiliating. The choice could easily be an illusion, another cruel joke in this comedy skit from the filthiest parts of hell.

But it could be a chance, and he was desperate. So desperate he'd risk feeling even further degraded when she laughed in his face and put him through whatever torment she'd have planned.

"Fine," he answered, looking up at her with trepidation in his eyes. He could already feel the regret tasting like salt on his tongue and the burn of acid at the back of his throat he recognised as shame.

So when the sound of his chains being unlocked rang in his ears, and the vigilante helped him up, the feeling of surprise was palpable.

"I just need to handcuff you while they can see us," she explained, noticing how slowly the villain nodded, mistrust still burning in his eyes.

She didn't like how weightless he seemed against her, barely able to walk. She hadn't fought him much, but she clearly remembered that while his frame was somewhat slender, the villain's build still used to be athletic. It was no surprise he'd deteriorated, but that didn't make his fate any less cruel.

"I'm moving him to the other facility," she announced, practically dragging the half-starved villain with her, the only response being curt nods from the guards.

They were lucky that no one here would dare question Superhero and by default, her sister, if they could even tell the difference between both.

And sure enough, there was an entry documented into the other facility, done with the help of a few handsomely paid workers. And while Superhero wouldn't buy into the lie for long, it would at least make sure she didn’t notice immediately that something was up.

✨️Break✨️

The drive to Vigilante's house was almost torturously long and reeking of the tension of two people who weren't used to each other. The villain ran his fingers over his wrists, now free of handcuffs, but they still hurt. All of him hurt, a constant, dull pain that he was almost used to, but that didn't mean he didn't miss the times where he could remember moments without aches all over his body.

That was only the least of it anyway.

"I think you'd want to clean up," the vigilante had suggested when they'd got to her house.

Instead of an off-hand "yeah" like he'd meant to, the first words that foolishly came tumbling out of his mouth were: "I can?"

This wasn't an option they gave him back there, and soon enough he'd stopped caring entirely.

"Oh," Vigilante had responded, giving him a solemn look. "I mean, yes, of course you can," she corrected hastily.

He nodded, quite literally shoving himself into the bathroom and swallowing down the awkward shame in his throat.

He'd grown so accustomed to pain that he'd barely even noticed the sting of the hot water on his open, practically fresh wounds, or how the shower water underneath him turned a dull pink. He was a lot more focused on how his sore muscles relaxed with the heat, how he seemed to get lighter with all the dirt off him, good sensations having become foreign to him in the time of his captivity.

He walked out to find a change of clothes (his clothes) on the bed in the room outside, catching his reflection in the mirror, bruises lining his cheekbones and jaw and heavy, dark circles underneath his eyes. The villain simply ignored the old memories of himself taking the time to style his hair and care for his skin, his mind hardwired for survival, looking around the room for anything he could use in case he had to defend himself.

Not that Vigilante was stupid enough for that.

Still, if she wished to hurt him, she could've done it faster, could've done it earlier. Maybe the villain wouldn't trust her blindly, but so far, he hated her less bitterly than he hated everyone else.

"How'd you get these?" he asked, walking out, looking down at the black zip-up hoodie and black sweats.

Vigilante shrugged. "From your place."

"You broke into my- whatever." It wasn't the strangest part about the situation now. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I think you need to rest," she suggested.

And she was entirely correct, given his exhaustion and how the shower had made him somewhat sleepy, so he nodded his head, walking into "his" room and waiting until she walked up to her room, waiting until he could walk out and check if she'd slept, and once he was sure, he walked into the kitchen, picking up a knife and bringing it to his room.

The villain knew it was scummy, but he wasn't about to risk being hurt again, and if the vigilante truly had good intentions, the knife would never be put to use. Still, the villain had managed to fall into a fitful sleep, still better than any night he spent curled up on a cold, hard floor.

Trust is never easy, especially for those who have been hurt one too many times. But people were not made to live forever encased in solitude, a safe option to the blind and foolish, but never a permanent solution. And while taking a risk in times of suffering might seem like a wretched fate, sometimes it is the lifeline you need to breathe again.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi @those-damn-snippets @genuinelythioehat-is-whump @ghostofnorth

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

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chimeracreates · 4 months

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Wake up with a hatchet over your head

You wake up with a hatchet over your head

#transformers earthspark #optimus prime #fanart #mine #hello i worked on this for like a week straight i feel absolutely exhausted now that it's done but i am SO PROUD #some notes on this: i wanted to use mind-controlled OP to represent optimus' anxieties about GHOST that he can't place (yet)#so i did that by using a silhouette as well to make it look impending. but slightly distant and formless. not yet realized basically #(also meant to invoke the sword of damocles and a sort of judge or executioner with the way the blade is raised. but at himself)#hello!! es op is one of my most favorite fictional characters ever! please talk to me about him!!!#maccadam #transformers

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lon3rlife · 1 month

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Panic attack

Rick Sanchez x Reader

My anxiety has really been kicking my ass lately. I’m going to try write this attempting to display how a panic attack feels to the best of my ability. Enjoy <3333

“Oh mann this is going to be the craziest party ever! I-I’m gonna get so fucking wasted-oh shitt this is going to be great. We’re going to party all god damn night.” Rick says rambling on about the crazy alien party you guys are going to. Rick has been talking about it for weeks saying that it’s pretty much a party that happens once a year on another planet where the whole planet parties and it’s supposed to be a lot of fun.

“Mhm yeah.” You say trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

Walking the streets of a whole different planet is usually not too triggering for your anxiety since you and Rick have been going on adventures together for quite some time, but tonight feels different. Your heart rate is speeding up and your thoughts are racing, but you try your best to try to stay present in the moment instead of ruminating on your bodily sensations.

You guys arrive at the party and you try to have some fun and relax a bit. You cling by Rick, who is having a wonderful time drinking and attempting to show off some of his “dance moves.” Maybe this time you were able to control your anxiety, maybe you can enjoy yourself for once.

“Shitt I need another drink, wanna go hit up the bar again?” Rick slurs out

As you guys are waiting for drinks at the bar things become way to much out of nowhere. Your heart rate picks up faster than before, your lungs feeling like they’re lacking oxygen causing you to hyperventilate trying to catch your breath, you feel so disconnected from your surroundings you don’t even know how you got here.

“Rick I need to get out of here now.” You say tugging on his lab coat

“Shitt this drink is as big as my head oh damnn, you should’ve gotten one this is fucking crazy.” Rick says still leaned over the bar counter not turning to notice your distress.

The world is slipping away. You have no clue what to do, it’s too late to attempt to take some deep breaths and calm down. You can’t even get a normal breath in.

“Rick seriously we need to go.” You say more urgently as tug on his lab coat again.

He finally turns around and sees you on the verge of tears, gasping for air.

“Rick I actually think I’m dying.” You choke out through shaky breaths

“Sweetheart I see people die daily I promise you you’re not dying.” He says with genuine concern. “Follow me.” He says leaving his drink at the counter.

You try following him out of the bar. The world is moving so fast yet so slow. You don’t know where you are, your legs feel like they’re about to give out from your shaking, and you’re leaning on any wall you can find to try to catch your breath.

“Let’s go home.” He finally says once he finds a quiet place to actually be able to hear each other talk.

“No you’re having fun I can’t ruin this for you, just portal me home and I’ll be fine. Go party I’ll be fine at home I promise.” You say, breath still shaking. You at least feel a little less overwhelmed being away from the music.

“This is more important, let’s get you home and we can watch a movie or something to get you to relax. I can party any time I want. And right now I want to make sure you’re okay.” He says with his arm wrapped around you keeping you close as he fumbles around in his coat pockets to get his portal gun.

You guys walk through the portal into his garage. The second you walk in you feel a weight get lifted off your chest. The familiarity of the place puts you at ease.

“Everyone’s asleep we can relax on the couch if you want.”

“That sounds nice.” You say as he softly holds your hand and guides you to the couch.

On the couch you lay on his chest as he softly runs his fingers through your hair.

“I’m sorry I made you have to leave.” You apologize still feeling guilty.

“Baby don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault at all, even though you had this panic attack you were still able to notice your symptoms and that’s a start. I’m so proud of you, and just know if you ever feel anxious please let me know and don’t feel bad about it.”

You’ve never seen him be so soft and genuine before. As he talks to you, you feel your eyes get heavy and due to the adrenaline rush of the panic attack you get tired enough to fall asleep.

You wake up the next morning on the couch with Rick’s arms wrapped around you sleeping peacefully, with his face nuzzled into your hair. You feel much more at ease and calm and feel so lucky to have Rick there to support you during your scariest moments. <3

#rick sanchez #rick sanchez x reader #rick and morty #fanfic #self ship #comfort #tw anxiety #rick c137 #rick sanchez x you #f/o #fan fiction #self insert

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quaranmine · 2 months

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my mom is reading firewatch au tonight 🙏

#she has never read ANY of my fanfic #her last point of reference for how i write fictional stories was that i showed her the doctor who story i wrote when i was 13 #glow up... i think #anyway. weird mix of anxiety + anticipation

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kurgy · 6 months

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| support me on patreon | ao3 |

Casey Sziska is a struggling musician finally cashing in on what he hopes is his big break by moving to a new city and signing a contract. His struggles come to a head when he meets and falls for the strange friend of his manager, Josh. The further Casey falls the more he uncovers about Josh's life that compels him to have to choose between his life, friends, and career, or saving him.

Casey was getting ready backstage in a small brick room with old concrete floors, fluorescents beaming overhead giving him just the slightest of headaches when coupled with the bright bulbs lining his dressing room mirror. An electric buzz of noise sounded just beyond the door that separated him from the rest of the packed club.

He was tired, wanted to sleep, but the previous night's attempt hadn't done him any favors in that regard either.

Looking over his appearance, turning his face from side to side and examining his shoddy work, he figured what he had going on was good enough.

His hair's thick and messy, sticking out like he'd just gotten out of bed (not entirely false, he supposed). He learned early on that keeping it shorter was easy, though wrestling it into styled submission not so much; so brushing out any tangles and just letting the wild mop of black be what it was suited him just fine.

He peered at his reflection in the mirror, scribbling some last touches of messy eyeliner around his eyes, hand pulling lightly at peach skin to make drawing the lines easier, even if it didn't.

His own green eyes stared back at him, a bright green that contrasts the black that surrounds them. His eyes studied the various silver piercings decorating his face.

He was fond of piercings; had a labret below his lip, a bridge across his nose, nostril piercings on both sides, and matching brow piercings to boot. His ears held their own matching black piercings.

He gave his reflection a solid glare, then wiggled his eyebrows with a grin before his face fell back to neutral.

Eh, good enough.

His eyes flickered to the left, the upper corner of the mirror reflecting Julie's back to him as she put up her pale blonde hair in a messy bun just visible in the mirror opposite his.

Julie's his friend, his best friend, and their band's bassist, and the band was the whole reason they were here.

A few years ago Casey started a small band with his friends, Julie and Devin.

He'd known Julie since kindergarten, she was practically family. She was thin, pale, long blonde hair always kept tied, and a few piercings of her own. She and Casey had more history than could be covered in such a short time, but Julie always had his back.

Devin was a high school friend. Taller than Julie, though still not quite as tall as Casey. Warm brown skin and styled curled hair. He joined their little group freshman year and settled in seamlessly. He took Casey to his first concert, played his first song, and practically leapt at the chance to be their drummer.

Casey had always been a singer, and had dedicated himself to being a guitarist as well, and once each of their preferred roles were filled, the three have been inseparable ever since. Starting a band was one of the first things they did as teenagers, even if they didn't do anything, and didn't seriously pursue it until later. They didn't get serious about actually releasing music until their first paid gig, a local rock festival, and the thrill of the whole experience is what made the three of them truly want this.

Their band name "Nowhere" didn't really have meaning, it was more of a placeholder than a real name, later on a running joke about how their little band was going "nowhere."

After a while it just stuck.

A sharp knock on the dressing room door startled him out of his thoughts before it opened, not waiting for their answer as an assistant he recognized from their new managers payroll waltzed in, not looking up from their clipboard before saying;

"Hey, Nowhere! It's time, you're on."

And walking out of the room.

Casey sighed, placing his head in his hands before running them loosely through his hair, the eyeliner smudging a bit around his eyes. It looked better that way.

A smaller hand patted him on the back, Julie.

"You ready?" She asked, the bags under her eyes noticeable even under her makeup.

He shrugged, standing and stretching his arms above his head in a more exaggerated move than needed, towering over the girl as he reached for his guitar, all the signal the other two needed to follow.

They waltzed out the door in no real hurry, Julie chewing lazily on a piece of gum that had long since lost its flavor, scrolling on her phone as she followed behind Casey.

Devin seemed largely uninterested in the whole thing, the same dark circles under his eyes, and curled hair somewhat frazzled as he followed behind Julie, staring blankly at the passing overhead lights lining the cement hallway leading to the stage.

Casey leading the way looked no better.

None of them seemed entirely up for this last minute performance, it being none of their ideas. No, their new manager Evan scheduled this show, despite the band's exhausted objections.

In truth they'd just moved to the city a little over a month ago, and Casey's apartment deal had immediately fallen through. He'd been crashing on Julie and Devin’s couch for 3 weeks before he found another apartment for rent in his price range.

For a while he wondered if he were stupid for not electing for a 3 bedroom with his bandmates, who had settled for a 2 bedroom once Casey had declined them, but really he preferred his privacy, and he found he appreciated that comfort even in the tiny studio he hauled his belongings into just 2 weeks ago. But with the leaky pipes and draft and more expenses pilling up, in-between work meetings and recording sessions, he'd found little time for rest.

So here they were, mere feet away from stepping in front of a crowd in some exclusive live music club they'd never get into otherwise, exhausted.

His back ached from moving boxes and sleeping on a couch much smaller than him much longer than he'd wanted. The only thing he's eaten in two days is a couple stale slices of pizza.

But he smiled, stepping hurriedly on stage with a flare and the screech of his guitar while a half attentive crowd turned. He played an improvised solo before Julie was screaming an enthusiastic greeting while their audience cheered.

Casey was nothing if not an excellent performer, he knew how to work a crowd. Charisma and flare were as easy as breathing on stage. He could barely see beyond the lights, blurring his vision of the faces staring at him, and here he could be as free as he wanted.

He announced a song, strumming a chord as Devin tapped his drumsticks, music starting strong before they were playing with more energy than they actually had to a delighted audience.

Yeah, good enough.

_____

They had a 3 song set, and although their follow-up act seemed to fit the vibe of a nightclub better than they had, the crowd wasn't as invested, which was a definite pickup in his mood.

He doubts any of these people would really remember their little punk band or the drinks in their hands by tomorrow morning.

He didn't mind, even exhausted he had fun playing, at least, and they enjoyed it enough for the whole thing not to go tits up. The sizable paycheck helped when rent was going to be due.

His voice was a bit hoarse and he was tired, but work was done and he was getting paid, so really it was a win.

He didn't have the luck of just leaving however. His manager decided an impromptu meet and greet was in order, and he didn't have the privilege of saying no.

His new manager was a man named Evan Danse, a real clean cut looking guy, kind of looks like he just stepped off a yacht party at any given moment, and his sweater and coiffed hair didn't really give him the "I manage a punk band" vibe you might expect.

Still, he wanted to manage them, and had done more for their actual careers in a short time than they had ever managed to do themselves in several, and they owed him. So, here Casey was, towering over the man as he walked him down a line of people waiting to meet him, all pleasant smiles and dainty handshakes with no real clue or care for who he was, which was fine; they shared the sentiment.

Casey was a big guy, always has been, and measuring at a steady 6’6” gave him a tendency to stand out. His build he'd worked for, he enjoyed the stability a workout gave him, and though he wouldn't describe himself this way, he had on occasion been told his stature and style were a bit intimidating.

He thought of that as Evan introduced him one by one to a variety of coworkers, colleagues, and all sorts of Evan's work related relationships that weren't expecting his latest work project to look quite like Casey.

People dispersed as they went along; introduction, smile, handshake, leave; rinse and repeat. The line tapered off in a mix of confusion and surprise until Evan presented him with the last, different from the others in Evan's presentation; a guy who caught Casey's eye with just how plainly he didn't seem to give a shit at what was happening.

He was shorter than Casey, not uncommon. Still, the guy was a good head shorter than him; skinny looking under too big clothes that only made him look smaller.

Casey's eyes met a head full of unruly hair, sandy blond and messily cropped, almost reaching the guy's shoulders. Hair was brushed to cover his face, like he were using it all like a curtain.

"Casey, I'd like to introduce you to a personal friend of mine." Evan said cheerfully, gesturing to the guy as he went to stand beside him, patting a hand against the guys back playfully. "This is Joshua."

Casey smiled even when Joshua failed to react, instead keeping a pleasant air about him as his sort-of boss introduced him to the weird little dude who wouldn't look at them; holding out his hand for the typical smile, handshake, leave, but Joshua didn't take it. He didn't look at Casey at all actually, his eyes downcast to stare at the phone he held in his hand. The screen illuminated what little of his face wasn't hidden under his hair, the shadows giving his blank stare an eerie sort of vibe.

Something felt off.

Casey was enamored with it all.

Joshua was thin, wearing oversized clothes; a big winter coat, a loose fitting shirt, and dark jeans, the cuffs were rolled up, whether for style or comfort he wasn't really sure, but it was a nice look on him.

He was pale, dark tiredness under his eyes like bruises, pink lips, sharp chin, face expressionless as he typed away furiously on his phone, still keeping his head down as the other two men stared expectantly.

Casey thought he was cute. Fluffy hair, long eyelashes, slender face..

He gave his best smile.

Evan was saying something about Joshua, apologizing for his attitude, but Casey stopped listening.

When it came to focusing his attention between his semi-annoying overly familiar ‘boss’ and the cute if a little standoffish stranger, there was really no competition.

He leaned forward ever so slightly, raising his hand close enough to Joshua for him to notice, but not so close to violate any boundaries, holding his hand at Joshua's rye level, certain it was visible.

Casey casually waved his hand, effectively gaining the smaller guy's attention.

His eyes shot up, seemingly put off by the action and ready to argue, gaze instantly locking with Casey's who kept the smile bright on his face.

His glare faltered a bit at that, cheeks growing slightly pink and looking away with a frown.

"Hey there." Casey said, voice smooth as he once again offered his hand. "I'm Casey."

Joshua nodded his head, carefully reaching out and taking Casey's hand in his.

" 'm Joshua." He muttered in response.

His voice was a little deeper than Casey expected, kind of raw, harsh; he liked it.

Evan watched the exchange with a curious, almost suspicious look, but he didn't speak up as Casey gave the smaller guy's hand a short, firm shake. Joshua's hand was small, bony, and cold.

"Joshua." Casey repeated, testing the sound on his tongue. "Josh?"

Joshua flustered a bit at the suggested nickname, face dusted pink as he shrugged, giving him a vague Okay.

Casey grinned as Josh continued on his phone, if a bit clumsier.

Casey liked being direct, especially when he liked someone, and he liked Josh. He was cute. If they clicked, tonight could end on a really high note.

"So, uh," Evan said suddenly, loudly, an unplaceable emotion behind his voice before clearing his throat purely to gain the two's attention. "Like I was saying Joshua is a friend of mine, it's sort of tradition to bring him along to performances from my artists, especially new ones."

"Yeah?" Casey cut him off almost immediately to turn back to Josh with a smile. "You saw us play?"

It sounded like a fun pastime, honestly. All sorts of music and venues for free? He knew at least he'd be down.

Josh started fidgeting awkwardly at Casey's question, a semi-sour expression on his face as he pulled his phone a little closer to his face, muttering; "Not…exactly, no."

Casey faltered for a fraction of a second, but that's fine. Sure, not the response he was expecting, but he can work with this.

"Hey, that's okay." He grinned. "Means next time I can really put my all in for you."

Josh was actually blushing now, his reactions to Casey's casual flirting was something to behold.

Evan cleared his throat at the two again, Casey suppressing a groan and just wanting him to go away, but the two looked to him regardless as he began boasting Casey's band and accomplishments like he were making some kind of sales pitch. It was directed more at Josh than him, obviously, but hearing someone else talk him up like this was just weird, and brought the building atmosphere to a screeching halt.

The surprise interruption from one of Evan's assistants was a definite blessing in disguise that had Casey sighing in relief, the woman walking up and whispering something in Evan's ear that caused him to give a dramatic roll of his eyes before shooing her away.

"Sorry, technical stuff." He said, turning to Josh. "Why don't you have a seat Joshua? Order some drinks, it's on me."

And with that he walked away, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Casey and Josh alone.

They stood in silence for a moment, music playing loud as bodies were crowded everywhere, some moving and swaying along on the dance floor, others grouped together with drinks and conversation while Casey on the other hand contemplated.

None of this really seemed Josh's speed at all, if the fact that he'd been squirreling away in a corner all night was any indication, and Casey was more than happy to chat it up somewhere the guy was more comfortable, if he wanted to; so he maneuvered to Josh's side, leaning in a little closer to speak low.

"There are some tables over there." He said, pointing a little ways towards the bar. "Wanna sit for a bit?"

Josh was less fidgety, and although the red returned to his face at the suggestion, he gave a casual shrug of confirmation anyway. Casey happily leads him towards the bar and chooses a table that leads into a larger lounge, a small couch on either side of their small table with a few chairs scattered here and there.

They both sat on the far left couch, side by side. Josh relaxed back, stretching his legs slightly with his eyes still fixed on his phone as he kept typing, Casey sitting beside him and stretching his arms a bit before relaxing back into the sofa as well.

They sat in silence for another moment. Josh was quiet, caught up in his phone, and Casey awkwardly rubbed at his neck while he tried to think of something to talk about, regain their previously derailed energy.

He peeked over Josh's shoulder, curious what was keeping him so focused on his phone.

He wasn't typing, he was playing one of those clicker app games. He wondered how something so repetitively boring could keep the guy's attention so thoroughly, then again who was he to judge? He seemed to enjoy it enough.

If Josh noticed him, he didn't seem to care, so he kept watching.

Casey didn't play these things personally, he wasn't into app games and didn't really know a lot about how these ones worked, but if it were possible to be good at it Josh certainly was. It was kind of fun to watch actually, better than zoning out in a loud club.

It was some kind of photography game, taking pictures was the goal, different targets popping up on screen as Josh quickly tapped each for a photo.

He sort of just watched Josh for a bit. Tapping and clicking his phone as pop-ups and scores flashed on screen.

Josh had an odd air about him, Casey couldn't exactly place it.

He's pretty, his features were so striking in Casey's eyes he wondered how the man went completely unnoticed; his fluttering sandy hair with bright strands catching in the light, slender face and soft lips a complimented contrast to his pale skin and dark eyes, heavily lidded with long pretty lashes. Together with the lights glowing off his skin, the tiredness under his eyes and just how still he was other than the movement of his fingers, the near emptiness illuminated in his eyes from the screens harsh glow, the way he could just barely tell he was breathing, it all felt so odd.

So interesting.

"You're pretty good at that." Casey smiled, a hint more of flirtation to his tone than before.

Josh stopped for a moment, eyes glancing at Casey before shifting back to the screen unfazed.

"Thanks." He murmured. “It's just tapping really fast I guess, passes the time though."

Josh prompting the conversation further had Casey delighted.

"You say that like you don't like it that much." He chuckled, Josh did too.

"Eh, it's so-so." He said. "This keeps my hands busy when I'm bored, but it's not exactly thrilling, just something to do."

"Well what do you like to do?"

Josh lowered his phone at the question, looking at him with a raised brow and his full attention.

"Stuff." He answered tentatively, only continuing when Casey's eager grin waited for elaboration. "Uh, games? Books? I like…coding.”

To his surprise Josh started talking about computer programming and code.

Casey sat almost dumbfounded while Josh spoke about programming far more eloquently than he'd believed he would, or could.

He wondered if Josh studied this kind of stuff, where his interest started, what he does for a living…the longer he talked the more Casey was interested in the guy.

"What about you? You're a musician, aren't you? You said you play. What do you play?" Josh asked suddenly.

Then Casey was grinning like an idiot.

"Well," he began. "I play guitar, mainly. Sometimes I play some backing instruments, like keyboard, drums, and I played piano when I was younger, but…"

Josh perked up a bit, looking curious and expectant as Casey eyed him with a smile.

Casey was most comfortable with a guitar, but he had a fondness for the piano. Telling Josh about his first time ever touching an instrument, being encouraged to listen and watch the church pianist play while he mimicked, catching on quickly and playing frequently at school, Josh looked at him in a sort of wonder like it were the most meaningful story he'd ever heard.

Josh was leaning closer to listen while Casey spoke, Casey did too until their shoulders were touching, neither minded much at all.

"Hey, stop me if I'm overstepping okay?” He said. “But as fun as talking with you is, this whole club scene doesn't really feel like your thing."

Josh chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah, I guess that's pretty obvious huh?"

Casey smiled, and took the next step.

"Wanna go somewhere?"

Josh looked at him a little confused, Casey kept talking.

"We could get something to eat, late night burger? I don't know the area that well but I'm pretty sure there's an arcade a few blocks away."

Josh's eyes widened a bit with realization, Casey couldn't tell if this was going good or bad, but he'd be damned if he backed out now.

"Or we could go to my place if you're cool with it, I don't have much, but I do have a ps5 and some movies, if you want."

"Sure."

The answer came faster and more steadfast than he thought it might, honestly, but Josh looked almost determined, his face more expressive than it had been before; his heavily lidded eyes and the pink blush of his cheeks gave him the feeling they were on the same wavelength here.

Casey smiled, leaning even closer, heart skipping when Josh leaned a bit as well. "You should shoot Evan a text, so he's not worried."

Josh nodded while they both stood up, he didn't seem to mind Casey keeping a bit closer while they head for the door.

#oc tag #Nowhere City #chapter 1 #horror romance #writing #queer fiction #artists on tumblr #anxiety posting my writing? its more likely than you think #now im gonna go stare at fire #Casey Sziska #Josh Anders #my doodles #New Harbor

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