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p1utofairy · 9 months

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PAC: “i just wanna be your favorite…” ⭐️🎀💍

• which fictional characters is your person most like?

disclaimer ✩: 18+ mature themes. take what resonates, leave what doesn't. i also just wanna say thank y'all from the bottom of my heart for the support <3 it means so much to me. enjoy!

pile 1 💸 —

"i can't wait 'til i get you on the floor, good-looking. hey, going hot, so hot, just like an oven. and ow! burned myself, i just had to touch it. but it's so fire, and it's all mine."

hiii pile 1! let me start off by saying your person is one fineeee m'fer! they look straight out of an old hollywood movie. suit & tie by justin timberlake ft. jay z won't stop playing in my head lol, their vibe is literally that song. they're gonna love taking you out to fun events and showing you off to people hehe i heard "trophy wife." this isn't in a superficial way by any means, they just really love how you look and how bright your personality shines. you have a mesmerizing appearance and an extraordinary personality to match. i feel like your eyes or their eyes is another main focus that will garner lots of compliments. ok, wow. back to the topic at hand! the characters i channeled were jay gatsby from ‘the great gatsby’, lon hammond from ‘the notebook’, and napoleon solo from ‘the man from U.N.C.L.E.’ now of course your person may not exactly look like these characters but the ✨vibes✨ are very much there. you're gonna have the time of your life with this person lol they are so damn fun and charismatic. i can hear them teasing you and and saying "don't be a brat, baby." with a sly smirk on their face LOL they're gonna make you feel so tingly and giddy inside ahhh. i feel like it was hard for them to settle down before you came into their life pile 1. they wanted to have their cake and eat it too. i mean this person could honestly have whatever they want, but you actually make them work for this relationship and they're not used to that. people (romantically and platonically) just fall for them at the drop of a dime because they are just so damn sexy, and it doesn't help that they're good with their words and actions. i just heard smooth operator by sade and ego by beyoncé at the same time lol this person is seriously a charmer! they can't help it though, they just love to socialize and have a good time. on the flip side, this sometimes weighs them down. the constant attention and socializing can make them feel overwhelmed at times. i'm thinking of ‘the great gatsby’ when jay kept throwing elaborate parties and inviting thousands of people to attend them, so that he could eventually catch daisy's attention. i'm hearing "when you're happy, they're happy!" random thought, but for some of you…your person could be from the UK/have a thick british accent. i also feel like your person is funny af, they've got jokes for dayssssss. they honestly take nothing serious…like if either of you had a bad day at work or just in general, TRUST that they will find a way to turn it around. like it'll actually amaze you how they just go through life vibing and you'll just be like how??? and i can hear them saying "i don't know, babe. i just got it like that." lol they're so cocky (but in an annoyingly hot way) you will never be able to stay mad at them. like if you were being petty and giving them the silent treatment for whatever reason…i can see you getting ready and they'd come up all close behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your neck and they'd be like "you still mad at me, baby?" and your brain would literally malfunction like €|>~€\€,\!|!]€]€YESNOYESNO.!:!,&:’ i'm crying this is hilarious. never a dull moment with them, pile 1. i'm telling ya!

other channeled messages:

theme from new york, new york by frank sinatra, gene kelly, tuxedo, her way by partynextdoor, sophisticated, expensive cologne, j'adore dior, pearly white teeth, cartier watch, swarovski crystals, meet me on the dance floor, babydoll by mariah carey, british, sprinter by dave & central cee, love island, damson idris, i'll make it happen, ballin’ by partynextdoor, diamonds are a girl's best friend

pile 2 💣 —

“who wants that perfect love story anyway, anyway. cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché. who wants that hero love that saves the day, anyway cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché.”

okayyyy pile 2, i see y'all with the bonnie and clyde vibes! let's buckle down and get serious though. i already feel like your person is very misunderstood. they might've had a rough childhood growing up or possibly struggled with connecting to their family. they feel like they fuck things up? they kinda think to themselves "why should i even try to be in a relationship, i'm a mess. i mess things up." it's actually sad because i feel like they're a great person (very soft and gentle) and when things go left/don't work out they immediately blame themselves because the blame was always put on them as a child. i'm hearing it's a "trauma response" :( aw pile 2 i feel like crying…your person really takes it on the chin and keeps it pushing. i can see them sitting on porch steps, gazing at the skyline and kinda just shrugging saying "that's just life i guess." they tend to self-sabotage before things even go into motion but before you two meet, they'll be pushed to confront their problems/fears. they have this cool, in-control, idgaf type of vibe on the outside but internally it's the opposite. i'm hearing pretty little fears by 6lack ft. j cole wow pile 2 they'll really have a soft spot for you. the characters i channeled were damon salvatore from ‘the vampire diaries’, luke glanton from ‘the place beyond the pines’ and tyler durden from ‘fight club’ which are some pretty complex personalities whew. your person is a loner by default, they feel like they really can't depend on many people. they've been left out in the cold so many times it's like they had no other choice but to become independent fast. when they meet you, pile 2…you're going to awaken them. i'm hearing j cole's verse in pretty little fears, “i'm loving your light, vulnerable. letting your guard down is honorable. 'specially when the past ain't been that friendly to you, but…there's magic in that.” it's gonna be insane to them how someone like you could display so much love, care and devotion towards them. i can see them keeping a really cute picture of you (or you two together) in their wallet/bag and just staring at it with a small smile on their face. you give them so much hope pile 2. they never knew they were capable of such strong emotions; love, happiness, joy. i can see you two laughing about something…you have this big grin on your face and when you turn your head to look at them, you just see them with a dopey smile on their face and a glint in their eyes just staring at you in awe. and you're just like "what?" but you don't even know how much you really mean to them in that moment. I'M ABOUT TO BURST INTO TEARS PLS I CAN'T. they're not used to anything stable, but you give them hope and anticipation for their future…with you. y'all are going to have to have so many enlightening, deep and forward-thinking conversations. i see them holding your hand and kissing your knuckles, taking random drives at night together while blasting music and going to the movies and talking/debating afterwards about what you hated and what you loved. k i'm crying, bye!

other channeled messages:

west coast by lana del rey, west side, successful relationship, turning tables by adele, cigarettes out the window by tv girl, well my boyfriend's in a band, ultraviolence album, someone like u (interlude) by ariana grande, toxic upbringing, scorpio moon, aries, smoking weed, american psycho, it's a forever thing

pile 3 🐚 —

“every little thing you do got me feeling some type of way. when you gimme that thunder you make my summer rain.”

welcome to your reading pile 3! idk why i wanted to say pile 333 hehe let's take that as a sign that you're about to meet your person soon. your person is so easy-going…like their energy feels so carefree and warm; like a nice summer breeze (i feel like some of you that chose this pile watch/really love the summer i turned pretty) i can see your person adjusting their sunglasses and saying "i'm just happy to be here." they're such a vibe lol. ok and why did i just randomly hear "no you're cute jeans." their sense of humor is so sjhfjdjcjdsn y'all are gonna have a lot of inside jokes together; internet memes especially. that "i'm sorry, i'm just in a silly goofy mood" shemar moore video just popped up in my head LMFAOOOO your person is hilarious pile 3. i channeled johnny storm from ‘fantastic four’, chad meeks-martin from ‘scream vi’, stefan salvatore from ‘the vampire diaries’ and conrad fisher from ‘the summer i turned pretty’ which are all pretty different but i see the vision pile 3…i see the vision. i feel like your person has just gotten back to themselves, because for awhile they weren't this upbeat and silly. i feel like this has to do with a past hurt/betrayal from either a friend or an ex-lover…that person took them for granted and made them feel small. i just randomly heard "katherine pierce" so maybe that person was very sneaky and never had good intentions in the first place. when they're with you though, they feel like a moth drawn to a flame. best friend by 50 cent just came to mind, "if i was your best friend, i want you 'round all the time. (i want you 'round me all the time) girl, i'll be your best friend if you promise you'll be mine (girl, promise you'll be mine)." i see you both posting funny photo dumps of you two together on instagram/instagram stories. i feel like y'all will be a PDA couple, and even if you aren't one of those type of people that likes all that…they're definitely gonna make you so happy that people visibly see the love between the two of you. i can see them kissing the side of your head, you slightly leaning into them…them giving you their hoodie/jacket to wear when you're cold. it's subtle things like that 🥹 so so so cute. you two have a very sacred, beautiful and divinely protected relationship. your person will be very generous with their time, money and love when it comes to you pile 3.

other channeled messages:

there goes my baby by usher, one in a million by ne-yo, connie baby, it's your world i'm just living in it, positions by ariana grande, unlock it by charlie xcx ft. kim petras & jay park, right my side by nicki minaj ft. chris brown, long walks on the beach, forever boy, vintage camera/digital camera, breakin’ my heart (pretty brown eyes) by mint condition, taylor swift, peter parker

pile 4 🌹—

“moment of honesty. someone's gotta take the lead tonight, who's it gonna be? i'm gonna sit right here and tell you all that comes to me. if you have something to say, you should say it right now.”

heyyy pile 4. i'm kinda stunned rn cause your person is sooooooooo captivated by you. like they wanted to skip all the bullshit and get right into it, and honestly…i #respect it. they think you're an absolute badass, you handle tough situations with so much grace. i'm hearing "you're better than me." lol they play no games pile 4, especially when it comes to you! i'm hearing that you've been through a lot, and it hasn't been easy for you to get to the point in your life that you're at now. they just wanna kiss you and make everything better. kiss it better by rihanna just started playing, "kiss it, kiss it, better baby." yeah your person is sensual af pile 4, it's givingggg taurus vibes. this is random af but i feel like they really love your back? if you wear a backless top or a backless dress, they will go absolutely FERAL. like fingers ghosting down your spine, their lips kissing down your neck…and don't get me started on the eye contact. their gaze is INTENSE. i’m hearing lyrics from nobody by selena gomez, "no kiss, no lips, no feel, no rush can keep me high, i swear no one…can love me like you do. can love me like you do, no." the characters i channeled were tobias eaton from ‘divergent’ and anakin skywalker from ‘star wars prequel trilogy’ which is so on brand. those 2 did not play about tris and padmé, ok?! you are their whole world pile 4. if it's not you, they don't want it. they feel so relaxed around you…like they can finally breathe. i can see them standing in a serious stance (obviously tense af) pondering about something and you just come behind them and wrap them in a big bear hug and they just…melt. they finally take that deep breath that they didn't even realize they were holding in for so long. they usually keep their feelings to themselves, but you create such a great safe space for them to be so open, honest and vulnerable; and vice versa. i'm also hearing that they are a very hands-on type of person, so whatever you need done/fixed, they sure as hell will find a way to do it for you. i can also see you two chilling/relaxing together a lot. don't get me wrong this person will always find something for you two to do, but there's something about that downtime (watching a movie while cuddled up with you on the couch, spending time with you and your loved ones/friends or taking a late night drive with you) that makes them think to themselves, "damn i really love life." 😮‍💨 you've got them locked in pile 4. it's so sweet & amazing.

other channeled messages:

1 of 1, peppers by lana del rey ft. tommy genesis, skywalker by miguel ft. travis scott, adore by cashmere cat ft. ariana grande, it's us against the world baby, 90210, pisces, dream guy, sauvage cologne, miss dior, sagittarius rising, virgo's groove by beyoncé, 1:11, best i ever had (remix) by drake & nicki minaj, all i want is you by miguel ft. j cole, bouquet of flowers, tennis bracelet, wild thoughts by dj khaled ft. rihanna & bryson tiller, cpr by summer walker

#pac #pac reading #love pac #pick a card #love reading #intuitive reading #tarot reading #pick a pile #energy reading #tarot pac #pick a card reading #p1utofairy

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jiminrings · 3 months

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fail-safe (2)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you've heard nothing about it, so you're thankful.

alternatively, yoongi reminds you of home in more ways than one.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, brother's best friend AND single dad au, eventual fluff, a lot of yearning but For What, they reunite but at what cost rlly, jealousy, self-loathing, unrequited love (initial), deja vu but in the worst possible form, eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: i am So sorry for this .

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

Love is terribly human and fragile, and it’s Yoongi, Hyewon, and their son sleeping on your bed.

#target audience im on my knees IM SO SO SORRY HOW R U FEELING!!!!#yoongi imagine #yoongi oneshot #yoongi oneshots #yoongi series #yoongi angst #yoongi angst imagine #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi au #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #bts yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader

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togrowoldinv · 5 months

Text

The Bodyguard

Bodyguard!Natasha Romanoff x Actress!Reader

Natasha is tasked with being bodyguard to you and you two grow close. Maybe too close, but would she dare cross that line?

Note: I have finally written an installment of this au I’ve been thinking about. Let me know what y’all think! Enjoy!

Natasha Masterlist 1, Natasha Masterlist 2, Natasha Masterlist 3, Main Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff is great at her job. In fact, she is so good that she has been in high demand in the bodyguard industry for years. She is tough, but her clients have nothing but good things to say about her.

Nat recently finished an assignment, and she is available. Your agent jumped on the opportunity to hire her to protect you. As an up-and-coming actress, you need a highly skilled security team. And you’re not exactly the easiest person to protect. You like to ditch your security whenever you can.

When she arrives at work, Natasha waits in her boss’s office to get her assignment. Fury walks in the door with a grin on his face. That’s never good, Nat thinks.

“How bad is it?” Nat asks.

Fury chuckles. “Have you heard of Y/n y/l/n?”

“The actress?”

“That’s the one,” Fury says. “Three movies in one year that reached number one at the box office.”

“And I bet she’s a pain in the ass,” Natasha says dryly. She crosses her arms. “You just told me that I was done covering actors.”

“Plans change, Romanoff. You’ll be meeting Miss y/l/n tomorrow at her New York penthouse.”

“Great,” Nat says sarcastically. “Next time I get to choose the job.”

“In your dreams,” Fury quips back.

Nat leaves his office and passes Carol and Valkyrie in the common area of the office. The two look suspicious as they straighten their clothes, but Nat is focused on finding out more about you.

“New assignment?” Valkyrie asks Nat.

“Yeah, an actress. Just my luck.”

“So, you got the Y/n y/l/n job? Impressive,” Carol says.

“Tell me that when the assignment is over,” Natasha replies. She walks to the door but stops short to turn around and say one last word to the woman. “Hey, we all know about you two by the way. It’s nice.”

Nat smirks and leaves the office. She spends the rest of the day googling you and trying to find out everything she can. Your portfolio is impressive, she must admit.

The next morning, Natasha wakes up early and goes for a run before getting ready to meet you. She wears a black suit and her beautiful red hair in a braid. The drive to your penthouse doesn’t take long.

You’re still in your pajamas when she arrives, but your assistant lets her in anyway. She takes a look around for a quick security check while she waits for you to emerge from your bedroom.

“Miss y/l/n, your new bodyguard is here,” your assistant, Kate, says.

Natasha comes into your view and your words catch in your throat. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen such a beautiful woman.

“Oh, hi,” you say to her.

“Hello, Miss y/l/n,” she speaks, and your heart flutters. She holds out her hand for you to shake. “I’m Agent Romanoff.”

“Call me y/n,” you say as you shake her hand.

“I’d prefer to keep it professional, Miss y/l/n,” she says, trying to ignore that she finds you attractive.

“Right, okay.”

“I have a few rules,” Agent Romanoff begins. “Don’t try to lose me anywhere. It won’t work. Listen to me when I am trying to get you out of a situation or avoiding it all together.”

She pauses when you get out your phone to check a message. You reply and she waits to speak again.

“That was two rules,” you say. “Not a few.”

“Well, I assumed you stopped listening, so I stopped talking,” Nat says.

“I was listening.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me the last rule,” you say.

“That will have to wait,” your assistant interrupts you. “The car is here to take you to the photoshoot.”

Natasha turns to her, “I’ll need information about anyone who drives Miss y/l/n, and you’ll need to include me on all itineraries from this point on.”

“Okay,” Kate replies.

“Thank you.”

You grab your jacket and purse before heading down to the car that’s waiting outside. Nat follows you closely. There are a few fans waiting but nothing compared to some days. You get inside the car, and she sits in the seat next to you.

She buckles up and waits for you expectantly to do the same. The car is in motion before you do it, so takes it upon herself to reach over you and grab the belt.

“What are you doing?!” You ask her.

“You’re not invincible,” Nat says while clicking your belt into place.

You groan in annoyance, but you do feel warm at the thought of someone caring enough for you to make sure you are buckled. You really need to surround yourself with better people.

At the photoshoot, Nat stands guard. She stays out of the way but keeps an eye on you. She doesn’t mind watching you wear beautiful clothes and pose in appealing ways. The whole thing kind of turns her on.

The first few weeks of her employment goes like this. You attend events, parties, and photoshoots. You don’t give Nat any trouble. That is until the night of your birthday party.

The first part of the night went fine. So many people showed up that you didn’t even know them all, but that’s the industry for you. You are sitting at a table and flirting with one of your new colleagues when things take a turn for the worst.

“How about we find somewhere more private?” He leans in and asks you.

“Maybe another time,” you say. You like him just fine, but you really don’t want to leave the party yet.

“Come on, baby. It’ll be fun.”

“Not tonight,” you reply.

You glance towards Nat who is across the room. She catches your eyes and walks closer to you, keeping her distance but ready to help if you need her.

“Y/n, let’s go,” the man says, taking your hand and trying to pull you up.

“No,” you say firmly.

“She said no,” your actress friend that you’re closest to, Wanda, jumps in.

“Come on,” he still won’t relent. His grip is tightening on your arm. It hurts. He leans closer to your lips. “Let’s just-”

“Hands off of her,” he is interrupted by Natasha getting in his face. She pushes his chest to get him off of you. He releases your arm, but doesn’t back down from Nat.

“What are you going to do about it?” He attempts to taunt her.

“Leave,” Nat says. “Or I’ll put you through that wall.”

“So dramatic,” he says. But he backs away and heads towards the door.

Once he is out of sight, Natasha turns back to you. Wanda and a few others are trying to protect you, but you only want comfort from one person. You practically jump into her arms as you try to hide your tears from anyone else. Nat hugs you back, but with hesitance.

She feels safe and warm as you let yourself go in her arms. Her black leather jacket collects your tears. She walks with you in her arms away from the crowd.

“Are you alright?” She asks, real concern in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” you say, but you don’t look it. Nat walks you to your car and inside the vehicle.

You look out the window and try to hold back your tears.

“Let me see your arm,” Nat says after a few minutes.

You hold it out for her to examine. She doesn’t see any injuries. Her touch is featherlight as she rubs her hands over the aching muscles.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get near you again,” she says.

“Thanks, Agent Romanoff,” you reply.

“You can call me Natasha,” she says.

“I love that name,” you tell her. She smirks.

“I’ll step in sooner next time, okay?”

“Okay. Maybe we need a code word or something,” you suggest.

“Like spies,” Nat jokes. You crack a smile, and she feels better about your state. “Let’s see. You can switch your drink from one hand to another.”

“We’ll workshop it, Natasha,” you say.

Nat nods. When you arrive at home, Nat helps you inside. She typically leaves you for the night, but you ask her to stay. Natasha sleeps on the couch.

When you wake in the morning, you find her sitting upright and ready to work. You sigh, thinking about the events from last night.

“What is it? Am I just not pretty?” You ask Natasha as you throw yourself onto the couch next to her.

“You know I can’t answer that and be professional,” Natasha replies.

She tries not to smirk at the way you dramatically sat down. She is slowly opening up to the idea of enjoying being around you as more than just her client.

“But you could just tell me because it seems that no one wants to date me,” you say.

“Y/n,” Natasha warns. “Trust me you are not the problem. I know for a fact people tell you that you are pretty all the time. Those assholes that go after you say it. You wouldn’t be a successful actress if you weren’t pretty.”

“Maybe, but I really don’t feel pretty.”

You sit up straighter and wait for Natasha’s response.

“You’re beautiful, y/n,” Natasha says sincerely.

“Really?”

“Really. Inside and out,” she says.

“I don’t know about that,” you reply despondently.

“I know. Look I haven’t known you but a few weeks, but I know that you’re a good person, y/n. And that makes you more beautiful than a million other people in the same position that you’re in,” Natasha explains.

There is no hesitation in her voice. It is nothing but the truth.

You feel yourself leaning in closer to her, but she moves away breaking the closeness. You try not to frown.

“Rule number three: We can’t get too close to each other,” Natasha says. “I have to protect you with a clear mind.”

“Okay,” you say. “But maybe we could break the rules, Natasha?”

To be continued…

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #bodyguard!natasha #actress!reader

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writers-hes · 10 months

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Sydney Saw it First (c. berzatto x reader)

You’re Carmy’s friend from Noma and he asks tou to mentor Marcus before he heads to Copenhagen to stage. Sydney thinks you’re both fools in love and she’s determined to fix it. (fluff, sydney being the best wingman, inspired by the scene in new girl when nick points his shoes to jess, two fools in love)

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It was hard for anyone to read if the Carmen Berzatto cared.

Some days, he was loving but most days he was tenacious. It’s not like he meant it. It was just how he was wired; how he reacts to things. The crew learned that the hard way, when he exploded on Marcus, when he screamed at Sydney…when the stress gets to him, it really gets to him.

He’s imposed penance on himself for his actions, secluding himself from the world…being unreachable. If there was one thing in the world that he craved and that he was afraid of, it was love. So he secludes himself until he feels alone. Relationships were unnatural to him.

But it came naturally with you.

You were training to become a pastry chef at Noma when Carmy was there. You met each other at the halls, shared friends that it was inevitable for you two to become friends. He was your first taste tester when you first made croissants. He helped you make your own sourdough starter for the sourdough cookies that you were experimenting on. You were the first person whom he cooked his mom’s picatta. You were his sous chef, helping him prep the vegetables on important dates. When news arrived detailing Mikey’s death, you were the first person he called.

You two were great. You were great.

If anyone deserved praise, Carmy thought that it was you.

He didn’t know why but when he saw that Marcus was really interested in pastry, he called you; asked you to come and teach a really, really eager student that was going to stage in Copenhagen soon. Sydney also suggested that sweets are needed in a restaurant. You didn’t hesitate to board the plane upon his request. If anything, you were glad that he was finally asking you for a favor. It only meant that he was still—if not more—comfortable with you.

You arrived in Chicago all smiles, and greetings. It was Richie and Carmy who picked you up from the airport and Richi was floored. How did his cousin even manage to tolerate you? He didn’t hate you immediately, of course. In any case, Carmy told you about his little girl; you decided to bring her a little gift.

“I didn’t know what to get you but Carmy said that you have a daughter so I got this instead,” you said, extending a toy. “My niece has the same one…so, I figured…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie nodded. He muttered a small ‘thanks’ before helping you with you luggage.

The night before, Carmy instructed everyone during family to behave.

“Look, there will be no funny business, alright? My friend is flying in tomorrow to oversee Marcus and act as his mentor while we fix the Bear. No taking her knife away, no screaming, no fighting, no fucking anything, alright, chefs?” he asked. When he was met with silence, “Alright, Chefs?”

A couple of ‘heards’ were thrown.

“Who is this friend, anyway, Jeff?” Tina asked. “You didn’t tell us to behave when Sydney over here first came,”

“Someone from Copenhagen. She, uh—“

“She?” Sweeps asked, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. “You got a girl, chef?”

“No,” he replied. “She studied in Copenhagen as a pastry chef, okay? No big deal—“ he proceeds to mention your name and how you’re just really super cool. “No big deal—“

“Wait, Chef, that’s a big deal!” Marcus said. “Oh, you know her recipes are all over my station, right?” he asked. “Sydney—“

“I went to the place she worked at in New York after I graduated. Everything’s just so…good. Amazing,” she recalled. “So, yes, it’s a big deal,”

“Yeah, whatever. Just promise me to behave, alright?” Carmy asked. “She’ll have to make do with what we currently have but I’ll try to stock up and set up the station before she arrives tomorrow.”

You arrived at the Beef—er, the Bear a day after your arrival in Chicago. You were able to find a place that was near the city center for a good deal. You were here indefinitely, still trying to figure out if you wanted to run your own bakery or just work with others for the rest of your life. Seeing Carmy take the leap was insipiring.

“Hello, chefs, I’m Y/N,” you said, a friendly smile gracing your features. Carmy was right beside you, watching everyone. “I’m a pastry chef and I graduated with Carmy in Copenhagen. I’m here to mentor Marcus but of course, if you have any questions regarding anything, you can ask me. I know how to cook too…and uh, I’ll be taking care of family tonight,”

Carmy jerks from his relaxed position.

“You sure?” he asks softly. “I can take care of family, if you’re too tired.”

“Yeah. It’s like initiation,” you nod, looking at him and then looking back at the new faces in front of you again. “Do you have any questions…”

Sydney raises her hand.

“Um, I’m sorry if this comes across rude but why are you here?” she asked.

“Oh, well, I’m not really tied down to anything right now. When Carmy called me, asking if I could come here, I decided to go. I’m here in Chicago indefinitely and I’ve been receiving invitations to cook, teach a class, whatever. I might accept some of those,” you said. Sydned nodded. Damn, Noma’s chefs were being chased from left and right. She was in the presence of two.

“Do you have a little notebook?” Tina asked, making Sydney scofd. “With recipes?”

“Um, no,” you shook your head. “I keep all my notes in my head and then write it afterwards,” Tina liked you already.

“What do you think about Carmen Berzatto—“

“Anyway, that’s all, Chefs! Marcus, come to the office with me, chef,” Carmy said, breaking up the huddle, and making you laugh. He discreetly pulls down your shirt, a sign that you should follow him too to the office. When you were both out of earshot, Sydney asked no one in particular.

“That girl and Chef? There’s something,”

That afternoon, during family, Sydney watched the two of you like a hawk. Confirming her suspicions when Carmy stayed for family and sat beside you.

Sydney notices it for the second time. You were going over the Noma “picture book” with Marcus, telling him how some of the desserts came about.

“What’s this?” Marcus asked, pointing at a photo of the dessert that put you on the map.

“That’s a dish of candied hallabong peel, with a prosecco peach sorbet, on a bed of meringue, topped with candied cherries. I got it because some of my friends went to Jeju sometime and brought back this orange hybrid. I think….I think we can recreate it but it wouldn’t be the same without the orange.”

“What about the flesh and the juice?”

“I turned it into like an orange-chocolate cake with chocolate mousse,”

Carmy was just passing by but he decided to watch you interact with his employees instead.

“Anyways, where’s your chocolate cake? Let’s taste it and compare it from the last one. Also, I can send you my recipe for sourdough doughnuts. Just give me your email,” you said, looking up briefly to find Carmy already looking at you. It made him feel good to see you incorporate yourself so well in the kitchen. Well, it’s not like the Bear is open but his staff went to you for some tips and advice. They were all undergoing some sort of training to make everything more elevated. “Hey, Carm. Do you need anything?”

“Hey-hey,” he coughed, ashamed for being caught. “Nothing. Uh—“

“Chef, did you ever try Y/N’s stuff?” Marcus asked. He’d really, really, really want to taste something that you made someday. They were all delicate and so detailed. It’s probably why you got multiple awards at such a young age.

“I did. She used to bring big Tupperware containers of things they made in the kitchen,”

“He finished them all,” you told Marcus. “Wouldn’t spare me a bite,”

“I don’t know, bug,” he teased. “I vividly remember you begging me to do it because you were so sick of fucking croissants.”

“You’re so annoying,” you huffed, a playful smile on your face. “Go on now. Marcus and I have stuff to do and you’re distracting us.”

“In my own restaurant,” Carmy mutters, shaking his head. Sydney’s eyes immediately directed to Tina. Did you see? Did you hear the word ‘Bug’?. Tina only shrugged.

Sugar dropped in to check on the improvements being done at the Bear when she saw you and Carmen at the back, talking. She had to double take what she saw because it was quite…odd to see him talk to you with the same twinkle he used to have. She has never seen him like this. He was genuinely laughing at some of the things that you were saying, a shared plate of leftover chocolate cake between the two of you.

“Who’s the girl outside?” Sugar asked, looking at Richie and Sydney for answers.

“Some fancy pastry chef Carmy met in Copenhagen,” Richie replied. “It’s a whole bet now, you know? They’re always out in their own world ever since she got here,”

“Everyone puts in 10 to predict what’s going to happen,” Tina said. “You’re betting?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sugar says, giving a bill to Tina. “I bet…I bet they’ll fall in love right before she leaves Chicago. Like, on the way to the airport. Carmy’s going to tell her that he loves her and she stays,”

Laughter echoes in the room.

“This is not some fucking movie, cousin,” Richie said. “Obviously, Carmy’s not gonna do shit about it.”

“I think…she’ll call him over and they’ll share a moment,” Marcus said. “He’s always at her place, did you know that?”

Meanwhile, unaware of the ongoing bet, Carmy looks at you.

“What do you think about Chicago?” he asked, a cigarette hanging idly on his fingers.

“It’s nice…chilly,” you said. “But it’s nice. I’ve been offered jobs here, you know?”

“Hm?” he asked. “Are you planning to take them?”

“I’m…thinking about them. They’re all the same but like, I want my own bakery, you know? My own place.” you said. “It’s going to be a lot of work if I do that and I don’t necessarily have the staff to do all that.” you said.

“If you want…you can come stay with us if you’re not sure,” he offers. “Like a pastry chef. Actually, I’ll have to ask Sugar and Sydney if it’s alright with them but you can stay here,”

“Bear, I don’t want to impose—“

Sydney was walking outside to throw the trash but she stopped her trackes when she heard you talk.

“I want you here,” Carmy said with conviction. “But if you don’t-don’t like it here in Chicago, I wouldn’t mind either, you know? It’s just that…I want you here and-and fuck, I don’t know. I guess working with you made it so much more fun again, you know? Like us in Copenhagen. I mean, we’re always a team and-and it’s nice to have you here with me. Sugar and spice? Sweet and spicy or whatever the fuck they called us back then,” he chuckled, inhaling his cigarette to calm himself down. “We can make it work,”

“Yeah, yeah. You go talk about it to Nat and Syd,” you said, taking a swig of your water. “And then we’ll talk. Cool?”

“Cool,” he shrugged. Sydney leaves and goes back to where the commotion was.

“I change my scenario,” she said.

“You can’t do that, Sydney,” Richie said. “It’s a bet! You have to pay again,”

Sydney breathed, what was ten more, right? Fuck.

“Fuck, sure, okay. Whatever,” she said, giving Richie the bill. “She’ll stay here. She’ll realize the there’s nothing waiting for her back home and she’ll stay here,”

“Where did you get this?” Fak asked. “Quite—oh my God. Sydney, did you fucking cheat?”

“No, I didn’t fucking cheat!” she defended, it was a lie. “Can’t you see the two of them? Always in their own world? How would Carmy let her go?”

“Jeffrey has a point,” Tina shrugged. “But if she loses, just know that you lost twice, Jeff,”

“I know,”

You, Sydney, and Carm all went to his apartment. It was where the two of them made a menu while you acted as a consultant and a taste tester. Their palates were fucked and they didn’t know what to do or what to cook anymore. So they asked you. But you weren’t there today. You and Marcus were in your apartment, making up stuff for dessert. The Beef has officially closed down and is a rubbled mess. There was no space and Carmy just wanted to be there with you.

“Can I ask you something and you can tell me to fuck off?” Sydney asked while she watched Carmy plate the hamachi crudo.

“Hm?”

“Do you…have feelings for Y/N?” she asked, looking at Carmy. He blushed, his ears turning red for being caught.

“Is it obvious?”

“To everyone but her,” she shrugged.

“Fuck, really? I thought I was being discreet,”

“Oh, you can stay here! You’re so good and so smart and so pretty,” Sydney gushed, mocking Carmen.

“Fuck off,” he laughs. “I…I do,”

“Yeah?”

“I just…just…she’s uh, so amazing, and like, I’ve been feeling these feelings since…since Copenhagen,” he mumbles, finishing the garnish with an oil.

“Damn. You never made a move?” she asked, getting forks. She gives one to Carmen and they both taste the crudo. It was amazing. “That’s good,”

“It is. Good job, Syd,” Carmy replied.

“It was her who told me to try adding jalapeno slices,” Syd said.

“You can’t do that,” Carmy warned her. Why did she want to get you two together so bad? “But I haven’t done anything. I mean, like, she was dating these guys and they’re so cool that-that it was never really my turn,” he remembered.

“But you’re the best chef in the world! That trumps that,” she encouraged. “None of them worked out?”

“No,” Carmy shook his head. “She’d always end things and I don’t want that for myself. She told me none of them worked out…wasn’t what she was, uh, looking for?”

“Oh,” Sydney nodded. “Well, if you’re feeling brave enough…”

“I haven’t been having…fun,” Carmy acknowledges. “With the Beef and the Bear until she got here, you know? Made me feel like I was young in Copenhagen again,”

“Another question. You can say fuck off if you want,” Sydney says and watches as Carmy bites a smile. “The last one. Is that why you asked her to stay? It’s just that I heard you the other day and…”

“Fuck off,” he laughs but Sydney noticed how everything about him conveyed everything that she needed to know.

“This is a quenelle,” you told Marcus. You, Marcus, Carm, and Sydney were at your apartment. It was bigger than Carmy’s and your oven didn’t have jeans in them. “This took me at least a hundred tries,” you chuckled. “You just…away, back, and then hands…” You demonstrated, making a quenelle of a yuzu mousse.

“Damn, Chef. How’d you do that?” Marcus asked, trying it for himself. He failed, his quenelle being a little bit smaller than yours.

“I had a friend named Luca. He didn’t let me out of the kitchen until I made a perfect one,” you recalled. “Carmy was there and he was laughing at me. He could do it in like three tries and I remember hating him,”

“You hate me?” he asked, leaning on the countertop. He didn’t like to hear about Luca. He only wanted you to talk about the two of you.

“Hey, Bear. Try this?” you asked, spooning him the raspberry curd. Carmy opens his mouth and you walk over, feeding him the pinkish liquid and then watching his face. “It goes with a black sesame shell. Do you like it?”

He notices your close proximity and flushes.

“Y-yeah,” he coughed, looking away. “Really good. Uh, very good,”

“No notes?” you asked and he swore he could kiss you right there because you were so beautiful.

“No notes,”

“Thanks, Chef,” you said. Sydney whistles as you help Marcus master his quenelle. Carmy looks at her and she teases him with a mockery of what he just said.

Carmy and Marcus left after cleaning up. You and Sydney decided to have a girl’s night. You were both sitting on the couch, mud masks on your faces when she turned to you fully.

“You know, he likes you right?”

“Who?” you asked, trying to fit a handful of chips.

“Carmy,” you heard and you choked on the bits of chips in your mouth.

“Fuck!” you choked. “Sydney!” You were coughing while Sydney handed you a glass of vodka cranberry. You gulp it down. “You—can’t say shit like that!”

“What?” she laughed. “Look, I’m not kidding! Whenever he talks to you, his feet are pointed at you. I’ve read enough fucking books and body language shit to know that he’s interested,”

“I don’t think so,” you said. “That’s bullshit,”

“It’s not though,” she shrugged. “He asked you to stay for a reason,”

“He needs a pastry chef,” you shrugged. “Besides, he and I are friends, Sydney. I’ve been trying to get him jealous all my time in Copenhagen but he never…he never got the signal,”

“Oh,” Sydney nods. Two idiots in love. “Have you ever tried telling him?”

“Of course not! He’s always on about how he doesn’t have the energy to love or date. I tried the jealousy thing before but it never worked. Trust me, there’s nothing.”

Carmy arrives at your doorstep the next morning, bright and early. Sydney had already left, telling you something about stopping by at her dad’s apartment to get stuff. You were going to the Bear with him to help Sydney choose plates for the restaurant.

“Good morning,” he greets. Two cups of take-out coffee in his hands. “I got us some coffee while we walk on the way,”

“Thank you,” You took the cup from his hands and clutched your jacket tighter. It was so, so, so cold. “Didn’t know it was going to be this chilly today,”

“You wanna wear my jacket?”

“You’ll be cold,”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said, already taking off the jacket to the best of his one-handed ability. He was only wearing a gray sweater underneath. “I have something. See?” He doesn’t take no for an answer, taking your coffee and your bag from you so you could wear the colorful jacket.

“Thanks, Bear,” you said, smiling at him. The sight of you in his clothes does something to him and he couldn’t help except give you a slight nod before forging on in the chilly Chicago weather.

You both entered the Beef giggling amongst yourselves when the usual buzzing stopped.

“Remember when Luca—“

You halted, finding the silence odd. You looked around to see everyone looking at you.

“What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Carmy asked, removing his hand from the small of your back. “Syd—“

“Love the sweater,” Richie teases. You look down and feel the warmth on your cheeks.

“It was cold and he asked me to wear it,” you shrugged, leaving Carmen to deal with the staff out front. You were signalling Sydney for help but she only looked away. Traitor. “Um—“

“Y/N, if you could please help me out here,” Carmy called you.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,”

“He’s not!” you huffed before walking over. “What is it?”

“I need you to time me, is that okay?” he asked. He nodded towards the stopwatch and you complied. “Thank you. I just need to check or like, map out the kitchen you know?”

“Of course,” you replied.

“Do you need help getting on—“

“It’s okay it’s just an old thing,” you replied.

“Yo, cousin! If you’re done eye fucking, Sugar needs you.” Richie calls.

“We’re not eye-eye fucking!” you complained. “What the fuck?” You stood up from your corner before you could even work and accidentally looked down. If a man is interested his feet will—

You move to the side and Carmy follows. And then to the side again.

“Y/N–“

“Stay there,” you asked, walking around him and him turning around. “Carm!”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders. He looks down to his shoes. “Are my shoes dirty?”

“No, it’s just—“ you tried again but Carm still followed. “Sydney told me about like, how when a guy is, uh,”

“Cousin!”

“Fuck, okay. Let’s talk about it later okay? Once everyone’s out?” he asked, looking at you. “Can we do that?” His jacket felt softer on you than it ever did on him.

“Yea-yeah,” you nodded. “I’ll go help Sydney,”

The afternoon passed by and you were alone at The Bear. You waited for Carmen to finish up at the dining area like you promised. Your heart was beating so fast, maybe a thousand miles an hour. What Sydney said has been on your mind and what if it wasn’t true and you get embarrassed? Fuck, could you even handle that?

You sighed, burying your head between your hands when Carmy walks over to you.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Everything alright?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod. “Can you stay there and just, I don’t know, be Carmy?” you asked, standing up to test the theory again. He just stands there, dumbfounded. You circle around him and he follows. You were looking on the ground.

“Fuck, what the fuck?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with my shoes? I know they’re old and not—“

“Carmen, shh,”

“What?” he asked, grasping your shoulders for the second time that day to steady you. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck, I don’t—“

“What’s wrong?”

“Sydney told me that there’s like, this body language thing and like, uh, says that when a guy is interested his shoes are always pointing at you and well, she told me to look at yours,” you rambled, looking away in embarrassment. “Look, if this will be weird between the two of us, I mean—“

“Why would it matter?” he asked, hands inching closer to your neck. He was nervous but maybe this is the opening that he’s been waiting for for years. When you didn’t reply, he asked again. “Why would it matter?”

“Because…because I’ve been trying to make you jealous for years in Copenhagen and it never worked,” you whispered. You were embarrassed. It felt like you were in high school telling your crush that you liked him. “I know you don’t see me that way,” you replied, trying to look for the right words. Carmy lets you finish. He wanted to hear you. “And it’s fine. If this is stupid, let’s forget that this ever happened. Okay? God, I’m so fucking embarrassed right now,”

“Hey, hey,” he cooes, his thumb tucked the hair back and then caressed your cheek. “Whoever said that I wasn’t jealous? I had to leave all the time because I was so fucking jealous. Those guys were cool. Don’t-don’t be embarrassed, okay? I like hearing that-you, uh, like me,”

“Carmy…don’t lie to me, okay? You don’t have to pretend—hm,”

Carmy had just kissed you. Carmen Berzatto just kissed you. You were clutching on his shirt so tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he’ll be gone. But he doesn’t. He just trails his hands down to your back, touching skin to skin until you’re one.

“I’ve been waiting years to do that,” Carmy rasps, breathing heavily.

“Yeah? Then, do it again,” you whispered, smirking slightly at how he seemed to blush hard. Before you could tease him though, he tucks your hair back again, bringing your lips closer to his.

He did.

A/N: Thank you for giving my recent fics so much love and for being so motivating. Your kind words really make my day and I hope that you love this too. Don’t forget to reblog and comment! Thanks again!

TAGLIST: @kpopgirlbtssvt

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #fanfiction #fluff #the bear #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fic #carmen berzatto fluff #the bear fx

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lincolndjarin · 4 months

Text

Every Now and Then - ch. one

[ I Dream of Something Wild ]

pairing : joel miller x f!reader, platonicsoulmate!tommy & f!reader

word count : 6.4k

summary : Joel Miller destroyed you. He loved you, then he left, leaving you in the New York City, QZ. But he's a good southern gentleman, so of course he didn't leave you without a reminder of the time you spent together. Four years later you're living in Jackson, in a lovely little ranch house. (With your reminder.) The last person you want to see is Joel Miller, unfortunately you've never been particularly lucky.

tags/warnings : 18+ mdni, angst, canon typical violence, injury, language, manipulation, joel takes advantage of readers situation, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, she is picked up by joel at one point but i'm a firm believer that he's strong enough to lift any one who may find themselves in the pov of our reader, joel is possessive and controlling, dark!joel miller in a sense?? like he's not really dark now but he's going to be, multiple time lines, not canon compliant, mentions of prostitution, i sorta made up my own timeline, i probs missed tags sorry!!

a/n : i really need to fix my writing schedule so i'm hoping that having a new fic to put my energy into is going to help!! also sorry if this chapter doesn't have much going on i need to set up a lot of stuff but i promise more action in future chapters

ao3 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ main masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ kofi

He crept up on you like the shadows as the sun sets in the west. An all encompassing darkness that blotted out the sun until all that was left was night. He sunk his claws into you so deep that your eyes adjusted to the dark, and you didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you shrunk away from the inevitable sunrise that made him cower away from the dawn as if he never really was big and scary.

And in the light of day you saw him for what he really was.

He was just a man, who was once a boy, who was scared of the dark.

So he made himself big, and terrifying, and he grew so accustomed to the thing he once feared that the very idea of anything else made him recoil.

You feel something akin to pity when you think of him now. That doesn’t mean you forgive him, but when you can stomach it you try to, for the sake of your peace. You’d probably be happier if you could just forgive him.

But you can’t.

So you don’t.

It’s hard when his own blood doesn’t think he’s a good man. Tommy was afraid of him. Terrified at the very thought of his big brother. You can recall several nights where you had woken up to him screaming in the sleeping bag beside you, absolutely petrified of a memory that had inevitably snuck in through the darkness. You never feared him quite like that, but seeing the effect he has on Tommy makes your stomach churn, a painful reminder of your own suffering.

Most of the time it’s easier to just not think of him at all, despite the reminders he’s branded into you forever. You ignore him when he tries to soak back into your very being, but at the end of the day he’s unavoidable. You see him in the dark brown eyes of others, hear him in Tommy’s southern drawl, taste him when you have the occasional sip of whiskey. He tries and tries relentlessly to worm his way back into you, but you never let him. You put up walls and you focus on other things, anything, that isn’t Joel Miller. And even though you can’t forget him entirely you manage to ignore the memory of the man you once loved for several years.

Until one day it’s impossible to keep the thought of him away.

Until he himself makes it impossible.

Then - NEW YORK CITY, QUARANTINE ZONE : 2019

“Stay off of it or you’re going to lose it.”

That’s what the QZ doctor had told you. A couple weeks of bed rest was the most he could offer when you came to him with your broken ankle.

A couple weeks without working is a death sentence.

If you don’t work you won’t be able to afford food. And you don’t have anybody to fall back on, no family, no friends, not even an acquaintance to borrow funds from.

Lose your leg or starve.

As appealing as it sounds, starvation isn’t an option, too painful.

So you have to work. The only issue with that is you’ve been blacklisted, the stupid doctor had you put on a no-shift list. You beg them to let you work, you’ll do anything, but they never budge.

You only have enough ration cards stocked up to make it to the end of the week so you have to consider your other options. You could sell yourself. It certainly isn’t uncommon and the money’s good but it’s too dangerous, especially if you can’t run on your leg. You’ve seen too many people get hurt in that profession to risk it. You don’t have a trade. You’re terrible at sewing, you can’t cook, there isn’t a need for much of anything else and you own nothing valuable.

So there’s only one other option for you.

You steal.

You dress inconspicuously, in your only pair of jeans and a plain shirt, both of which are getting rather tattered at this point but you have nothing else. With your jacket on you pull up your hood and you do the exact thing you aren’t supposed to do, and you walk.

The conditions in the QZ are poor enough that your limp doesn’t stand out. You walk up and down the streets all day, slow and steady, with your head down and you don’t take risks. You don’t take anything big or obvious, just little things. A single ration card peeking out of a pocket, a pocket knife off a vendor's table, stale bread, set away from the good stuff where no one is looking. And you return home each night with your pockets full and your leg aching.

By the end of your second week you’re still barely scraping by but you’re managing. What little ration cards you manage to snatch you use to buy food, but it’s still nothing compared to what you’re used to making. Your ankle feels worse by the day.

You need more.

You need to find a source of income that will let you rest or you’re going to lose your leg, which will leave you in an even worse position. It isn’t until you hear your neighbor slam his door that you come up with an idea.

Your neighbor probably has more cards than he knows what to do with, and he’s always coming and going so he probably wouldn’t even notice if you skimmed a little off the top. Nothing substantial, just enough to keep you going and give your leg time to heal.

The only problem is your neighbors reputation.

You doubt you’d have much of a chance of surviving him if you got caught. Joel Miller was a bit of an urban legend around the QZ. Of course you only knew him as your stoic neighbor, just a guy who didn’t make a lot of noise and came home at strange hours, and sometimes disappeared for days at a time.

But everyone else acted as if he was some kind of Boogey Man. You didn’t see him much in the streets but when you did children ran and people whispered, and while you had no knowledge of how he earned that reputation you knew it probably wasn’t pretty.

So you’d have to be careful.

He’s gone now, you’d heard him stopping down the hall so you decide it couldn’t hurt to take a peek, just scout out the area.

You climb out onto the fire escape, your leg aching as you do, and you use the dull little knife you’d stolen a few days ago to shimmy open his window lock. It slides open pretty easily, he’s probably rather confident that nobody would ever mess with him so he doesn’t seem to have the usual precautions taken to protect his belongings.

Lucky you.

Stepping into the room you wince as you land on your bad leg, stumbling onto the floor, knocking a board loose in the process.

“Shit.” You groan, sitting up quickly, trying to put everything back in its proper place when you catch a glimmer of something under the floor.

A revolver.

You shouldn’t be here. Joel Miller is a dangerous man, you knew that but you did this anyway, you can’t help but feel incredibly stupid as you stare at the weapon. You feel so stupid that you don’t even hear the click of a lock. You don’t even bother with the ration cards you can see peeking out from under the gun, you just want to leave and forget that you ever thought this was a good idea. It’s a struggle, getting back to your feet, your leg is throbbing, begging for a rest you can’t afford to take right now. With a groan you push the window open, eager for this silly idea to be over you try to figure out the best way to go about this. You’re starting to lose feeling in your leg, should you go bad leg first or try to balance on it while shimmying the rest of your body out the window?

You never get to decide what the best course of action is because your head is slammed against the wall, your knees crumple underneath you as you hit the floor, the room spinning as your leg bends at an angle that makes you shriek. You slap your hand over your mouth but it’s far too late for that. He’s been here the whole time. It’s dark but you can still make out the foreboding shape of his figure. The broad shouldered beast that’s glaring down at you, his boot nudging your chin roughly as you bite back a shriek of fear.

“I could report you to FEDRA for this.” The gruff voice whispers into the darkness.

You’re desperate to avoid lockup, you know you’ll die in there, or worse. Although you’re not entirely sure what’s going to happen to you either way.

“I- I’ll tell them about your contraband.” You point frantically at the loose floor board. “They’ll lock you up too.” His glare is unwavering as he stares down at you. You’re a little worried that he might just kill you himself, there would be no consequences, no one would be looking for you.

No one would look for you.

The thought makes you shudder and even though you try to stop yourself you feel your eyes beginning to water. You hear footsteps, watching his outline move across the room before you’re shrinking away from the light of a dim lamp in the corner.

“You gotta be real dumb to find yourself in this situation.” He mutters, turning back around to stare at you. His gaze makes you want to cover yourself up, it’s like he can see every single part of you within that icy glare. You’ve never taken the time to really, truly look at him before but you do now, after all this might be your last chance to look at anything at all.

He isn’t a terrible last sight.

Sure, he’s ominous enough to make you want to try and run despite the ache in your calf right now, but that doesn’t make him any less handsome. In a rugged, weathered sort of way. He’s older than you thought, gray sprinkled throughout the mess of curls framing his face. What a nice face it is. Soft where it needs to be soft, sharp where it needs to be sharp. He marches back over to you, easily taking the pocket knife from your hand and crouching down in front of you.

“Give me one good reason not to finish you off right now.” He points the blade in the direction of your leg. “Seems like it’d be a mercy at this point.”

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe it would be a mercy to just let him put you out of your misery. Why have you been fighting so hard? You can’t seem to recall a reason other than the fact that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mind tells you that you’re supposed to keep fighting but you can’t think of a single driving force. You’re in pain, constantly, you live in a world that wants you dead, and you have no one relying on you.

You don’t have a good reason, other than the fact that surviving is all you know how to do. So you look up at him and you nod. Taking in the sight of the pretty, frightening man one last time before closing your eyes.

It feels good. You feel good, for the first time in a long time, knowing that you won’t hurt anymore. You won’t have to be afraid of someone kicking your door in, you won’t have to worry about where your next meal is going to come from, and you won’t have to worry about turning into a monster. It’s a mercy.

So you close your eyes.

Suddenly grateful for the killer before you, your guardian angel, here to deliver you the peace you didn’t know you needed.

You wait patiently for the sting of a blade or the embrace of his hands around your throat but all you're met with is a sigh. When you finally find the courage to open your eyes he’s sitting on the edge of the bed across from you, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just go.” He grumbles, muttering a few other words you don’t catch.

You’re almost disappointed, having accepted this was the end, and now you’re being shoved back into the cold and unforgiving world. You start to get to your feet but your knees buckle under you. You try again, willing your leg to just work but much to your dismay you can’t even straighten out your leg anymore. When you try to move it all you find yourself only able to bend your knee a few inches.

Shit.

You think of the fall you took on the way in and wonder if you finally pushed yourself to the limit. If you go back to the doctor will he remove the entire thing? Maybe you should just ask Joel to finish the job before it comes to that. It would be a kindness, between a quick death here or a slow death starving in your apartment you’ll take the quick way every time. Before you even have a chance to ask he’s on his feet. Maybe his patience has run out and you won’t have to ask at all.

“Let me.” His voice rattles around in your head, so low and commanding that you put up no resistance as he lifts you up under your arms and sets you down on the edge of the bed where he just was. He flips the knife out, going to cut your jeans off of you but you stop him.

“Wait!” He freezes in place, giving you an impatient look. “These are my only jeans, just- just pull them down.” Before you can realize how embarrassing it might be to show your neighbor your faded pink panties, you're already unbuttoning your pants, lifting your hips up so he can pull them down your legs with a roll of his eyes. It’s painful, the feeling of the denim running against your skin but it’s better than not having any pants at all.

Fuck.

It’s been a while since you’ve actually looked at your leg. You’re surprised he was able to get your jeans off with how swollen it is, the flesh bulging around your ankle and now up your calf. The skin is shiny and blotchy with shades of purple and red. The sight of it makes you want to hurl but you manage to swallow the urge, looking away as he pokes at the tender flesh.

“Christ girl, what the hell did you do?” When he grabs your ankle to lift your leg you yelp in pain, making him set your leg back down instinctively.

“I just- it’s just a broken ankle.” You mumble as he gives you an incredulous look.

“Like hell it is.” Something about the sternness of his voice demands your obedience as you nod. “Wanna tell me what really happened?”

“Well I- I fell and-” You struggle to find an excuse to justify how bad you let this get but you come up empty. So you tell the truth. “I fell off a ladder while painting over graffiti during my shift and broke my ankle. The doctor told me to stay off of it and- well, I couldn’t afford not to work so I just… didn’t” You rush through your words, staring anywhere else but into his demanding gaze as you explain yourself.

“So you turned to stealin’.” He says it like the fact it is and you can only bring yourself to nod. “You need antibiotics.” He says just as matter of factly. “You know how much that sort of thing costs?”

A lot.

More than you’d have even if you were working overtime.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes.

His eyes were so dark that day they threatened to swallow you whole. Were they always that dark? Or was it just that day, the first day, when he realized that he had you.

“Look, I don’t do this kinda thing for just anybody. But I can help you.” He had sounded so kind, his hint of a smile had seemed so promising.

“I can’t afford it-”

“You can use alternative methods to pay me back.”

You told him you’d think about it.

And he hadn’t pushed you, he had simply helped you back into your jeans and carried you back to your apartment. He told you he’d check on you tomorrow and see if you had an answer for him.

So when the next day came and you had a fever and your leg was throbbing, demanding your attention you’d been all too eager to accept his help.

And just like that, it was your idea.

It wasn’t his, he was blameless, you asked him to help you. And it didn’t matter who had suggested it first, it mattered who brought it up after.

You had been certain that when he had told you you’d be using alternative methods to pay him back that his intentions were unsavory. And at that point you didn’t really care, you’d made your peace with that. The medicine you needed wasn’t cheap and you could find worse looking men who didn’t take care of themselves the way Joel did.

But he wanted nothing of the sort.

Southern Manners.

All he wanted was for you to take care of his apartment when he was out with his business partner, a woman who didn’t seem to dislike you but certainly didn’t care for you. He told you to take a week to just rest, take the medicine he brought you, eat the food that he fed you, and be good. So you did as he asked. And after a week you could move a bit more, you started spending your days at Joel’s tidying up and organizing while he was gone, it was much easier to stay off your leg for most of the day and he always made sure there was food and books for you while he was gone. And when he returned he would help you hobble back to your place and help you into bed without complaint and with a promise that he’d be back in the morning.

But you still don’t relax around him.

It doesn’t make sense. Even someone who wasn’t known for their cruelty wouldn’t just take a stranger in. You’d like to believe that there’s good in people but you know better than to have that kind of faith. There isn’t enough left of the world to share the remains. Yet Joel does. He doesn’t ask to know you better and he certainly doesn’t tell you about himself yet he shows you more kindness than anyone else in your life has before.

He must like having someone to take care of.

That’s how you explain it to yourself.

You watch him with Tess and it’s clear who’s in charge there, she barely even lets him stitch her up when she returns to the apartment. Joel gets frustrated every time, huffing and pacing around the room before finding some way to tend to you in her place. Icing your leg, or bringing you a new book to read, or feeding you.

It took a few months for your leg to heal, it had been in such bad shape a part of you worried that it might never be the same as it once was.

After the first month of your arrangement Joel told you his knees hurt and he wouldn’t be able to carry you home, you offered to just walk yourself over, your leg didn’t hurt that bad anymore and you were more than capable of walking short distances. But he insisted you stay, told you you could sleep in the bed and he’d take the couch.

But his knees hurt, you couldn’t let him do that.

And you told him you’d take the couch and he told you he wouldn’t feel right making you sleep on the couch with your leg the way it was.

So you told him you’d both just sleep in the bed. It wasn’t a big deal. You trusted him, of course you did, he had an opportunity to exploit you and he didn’t, if he was going to hurt you he would have done it already.

He had acted unsure.

You know now that it was acting.

So you had insisted. You told him it was okay, you told him you felt safe with him.

It was your idea.

Even though it hadn’t been your idea to stay that night.

You had insisted he get in the bed with you.

A fact that he would bring up often in the months to come.

He would still help you to your apartment some nights, but just as often he’d complain about his knees and you’d stay. You got used to his warmth, you got used to waking up in his arms and not talking about it in the morning.

So it made sense when he told you that you should keep your pajamas at his apartment.

It made sense when he got a toothbrush for you to keep in his bathroom cabinet.

It made sense when he told you that he couldn’t find new clothes in your size and you could just wear his.

It made sense when he told you that he and Tess had never been a thing, so you had no reason to feel weird about sleeping in his bed.

And it made sense when he told you that he’d hold onto the keys to your apartment, afterall you wouldn’t want to lose them.

Joel Miller was a glue trap. And you had waded across his sticky surface without a care in the world, never realizing that it was getting harder and harder to move until you were standing still. Until the only way you were going to escape was by biting off your own leg.

You don’t remember when you stopped returning to your own apartment completely, but you know that it happened early on, before you’d even started chewing.

Now - JACKSON, WYOMING : 2023

“Ruth?” You’re gonna be late if you don’t find her soon. The turntable in the corner of the kitchen plays a 3 Doors Down song as you lift the table cloth, searching for the little girl. “We don’t have time to play, we need to get you to school.” You groan, turning to face the boy currently sitting in a highchair he’s just about grown out of. “Do you know where she is?” You cross your arms in front of your chest, glaring at him as he shrugs.

Of course he isn’t going to tell. They look out for each other before anyone else, a fact that normally fills you with joy but not when they’re ganging up against you. Thankfully you catch his eye as he shoots a glance at the pantry. Pulling the door open you’re quickly met with the sight of Ruth, giggling on the floor. You pick her up, putting her in her own highchair before setting a plate of fruits down in front of her.

“Eat. We don’t have time to play this morning, young lady.” You poke your fork in her direction as you sit down across from them.

“Eat.” She repeats in a mocking tone, her brother erupting into a fit of giggles at the impression as you sigh. They need to be at the community center in half an hour. You make the job schedules on Friday and you need as much time as possible if you want to finish them in one day. You’re having a hard time focusing on the mess your son is making as he smashes each blueberry down onto the table before popping them into his mouth as you try to schedule your own weekend.

You need to finish all of your work today while the kids are gone so you don’t have to juggle watching them and working later, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue, scheduling should only take a few hours if you really zero in on it. You have dinner with Tommy and Maria tomorrow and you promised to bring dessert so you’ll have to take the kids to the market tonight, which also means you’re going to have to find supplies to barter with before you go.

You have nothing planned on Sunday.

You’ll have to change that.

You hate having nothing to do.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as a blueberry hits you in the forehead. Both twins laugh now as you frown at them.

“Behave or I’ll tell your aunt that you’ve been bad.” Both children look at each other nervously before returning to their breakfast. You were never stern enough with them. You loved them too much, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to yell at them, and it wasn’t like they were troublemakers by any means, they were just kids with a lot of energy in the mornings. And when they did misbehave a small threat of telling Maria was enough to make them stop whatever it was they were doing.

You finish up your own plate and start getting ready to leave as the kids start giggling again to themselves. When their plates are empty you use a wet washcloth to clean their hands and faces before lifting each of them out of their respective seats, letting them run off a bit more energy before you head out. You set all three bags down in front of the door. Yours being the beige over the shoulder bag accompanied by two little backpacks. Ruth’s green canvas bag is covered in mud and other remnants of the yard that she’s brought in with her but Arthur’s purple backpack is kept neat and tidy. You slip into your coat before turning just in time to watch your son dive into the couch, quickly followed by his sister.

“Come on little ducks. Time for school.” You take their jackets off the hook, holding them out to them as they rush over to you, tugging their own coats on before grabbing their bags, once you pull the door open they both rush out into the cool autumn morning, talking to each other in hushed tones. Always secrets with those two. It would probably make you a little worried if these were normal circumstances, the way they don’t let anyone in except each other, with you being the only exception. But the world is a terrifying place, it brings you peace to know that they have each other.

A part of you is certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle just one.

One little person relying on you, all while you’re doing your best to hold it all together? It sounds like a nightmare. It’s better that they have each other. Once you’re standing outside the community center, busy with parents dropping off their children, you kneel down.

“Be good, if you behave today you can go to the market tonight.” The promise of the market has both of them grinning, showing off the teeth they’ve both recently had grow in. “I love you, I’ll see you in a bit.” You hold open your arms, each of them taking their respective sides as they wrap themselves around you. You take your daughter's face in your hands before pressing a kiss to her forehead, repeating the motion with your son. After a few “love you mama’s” they both run into the building, once you’re sure they’re safe inside you head off in the direction of town hall.

You have what you would call the best job in town, despite the fact that no one else seems to want to do it.

Maria understood when you arrived that you needed something that let you work from home if needed, you needed something that kept your mind busy but also gave you time with the kids. So you took care of the parts of Jackson most didn’t think about.

You document all of the citizens, you make the shift schedules, and you make sure everyone has the necessities. You take care of housing, when big hauls from scavenging come in you divide them up among the people who need them. You make the meal schedules for the dining hall, and you make the crop schedules.

You keep Jackson moving.

When you arrived all of this was Maria’s job along with her other duties, when you told her you wanted something engaging and demanding she was more than willing to pass off those duties to you. So now you’ve got to make the schedule. Town hall is nothing more than a house with several desks for people doing work similar to yours but thankfully you’ve been lucky enough to reserve your own office in one of the bedrooms.

Most Friday's Maria visits you for lunch but you know she’s on patrol currently, another perk of this job is knowing where everyone is, all the time.

No surprises.

You hate surprises. (With a few exceptions.)

One of the exceptions is waiting for you in your office, Tommy sits with his legs up on your desk, reading over this past week's schedule.

“You put me on crop harvest way more than anyone else.” He grumbles, tossing your notebook down.

“It’s the end of the season, everyones on crop harvest.” You lean down, kissing his cheek before taking your place across from him, immediately getting to work as he groans.

“Maria gets to go on patrol.”

“Council gets first dibs on patrols during harvest season.” The tip of your favorite pen is dry so you quickly bring it to your mouth, wetting it with your tongue before you start writing out jobs for this upcoming week. The second he sees how many farming related jobs you’re listing he leans back in his chair, groaning and running his fingers through his dark curls.

Today’s his day off. You always gave anyone doing more manual labor three days off instead of two.

“I can get you on one patrol shift but they’re going to need your help with the corn.” You write his name in with the Monday and Tuesday patrol squad, filling in the rest of his week with harvest as he grins.

“Thank you, darlin’.” He drawls. You hate that nickname, you hate that he isn’t the first to give it to you but you never complain, you’d let Tommy get away with murder at this point. It’s the least you can do considering everything he’s given you.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. You’re only getting a two-day weekend next week.” You mumble, searching through the list of citizens, trying to pick out the people you know won’t mind the hard work.

“Fine by me.” You have a complicated relationship with that smile of his. You can love it all you want but that doesn’t change the fact that it makes you uneasy, it doesn’t help that you’re starting to see that same smile in your son.

“I was thinking about berry cobbler for tomorrow night.” Molly twisted her ankle last week, make sure she isn’t standing. You put her down for shucking corn, she can sit in the dining hall and work.

“We have a bunch of extra sweet potatoes if you want to make sweet potato pie.” He takes your crop ledger, flipping through it, clearly not reading a thing.

“Ruth hates sweet potatoes.” Marcus insists he’s capable of doing manual labor, his pride won’t let him act his age. You put him down for pushing the wheelbarrows, he won’t have to bend down to pick anything up but hopefully he’ll still feel like he’s doing enough. You’ve told him countless times that at his age he shouldn’t be working so hard but he always insists.

“Shit, forgot about that. Maria might have some apples.”

“I’ll stop by tonight before I take the kids to the market.”

You’re thankful for Tommy.

He keeps your mind busy with conversation while you work, and he’s one of the only people you actually trust. By the time you’re almost done you know you need to go get the kids, with a conflicted glance at the clock you start to gather your things but Tommy beats you to it.

“I’ll go get them, Maria should be home from patrol soon, she’ll want to see them.” He’s already putting his coat on so you stay seated.

“Are you sure?” You already know there’s no reason to argue, he’s stubborn, just like his brother.

“It’s the least I can do to make up for bothering you all day.” He steps around the desk to give you a peck on the cheek before going to leave. “Just come by the house when you’re done, no rush.” And just like that he’s gone.

You make quick work of your remaining duties. Finishing everything within a half an hour before heading out in the direction of the Miller’s farm house on the edge of town. It’s only a few houses away from your ranch house, a fact that you couldn’t be more grateful for, if it weren’t for Tommy and Maria you aren’t sure you’d have been able to handle those first few months of parenthood. Most people in town assumed Tommy must be the father purely based on how much effort he put into taking care of not only them, but you as well. As you make your way up their porch steps and into the living room you’re also reminded of the similarities. You can’t blame people for making assumptions, even Maria thought he was the father. The twins have his eyes, (which by association means that they also have his eyes, but you try not to dwell on that.) Ruth has your nose but Arthur has that Miller curve already starting to show on his little nose. Both little ones are sitting in the big recliner with their uncle as he tries to get them to settle down while he reads to them but the second they see you, both are scrambling out of the chair to hug your legs.

And everything goes exactly how it’s supposed to.

(Of course it does, you plan every day down to the minute.)

You give Tommy the list of things you need along with a few things he can trade them for and he takes the kids down the street to the market as you sit at the kitchen counter, talking to Maria about her patrol. You had all planned to go to the market together but she’d insisted she was tired and you didn’t want her to be here alone so you stayed, helping her cook dinner. And you talked about all the things you knew you would, something cute the kids did, how her patrol went, what things you could put on the dining hall menu in the coming weeks.

It’s all exactly how it should be.

Until she frowns.

“Are you busy Sunday?” You had sensed something was wrong with her but you assumed maybe she was just a little rattled coming off of a three day patrol.

“No, did you need something?” You continue to chop up the sweet potatoes she now planned to use tonight instead of tomorrow.

“We found a couple of strays, I thought maybe we could get them settled in.”

Odd.

Normally finding survivors would be the first thing she mentioned after returning, even stranger is the fact that she’d often waste no time getting them supplies and a home to make their own. But you're not one to question Maria’s judgment.

“Sure, we can do that Sunday morning.” You want to ask questions about it but she’s already changed the subject to doing a clothing drive at the community center so you don’t press. Despite the way the look on her face is bothering you.

It wasn’t fear, or discomfort, or something you could explain away with the excuse of the strays being off putting or violent.

It’s a look of pity.

As if she feels bad for even asking.

It unsettles you enough to leave it be. Making idle chit chat with her until Tommy returns with the twins and you take them home. It unsettles you as you make your own dinner, as you give the twins a bath, and as you help them into their pajamas and read them a story. It never leaves your mind.

“Goodnight Ruthie.” You lean down to kiss her forehead, watching her eyes flutter shut as she continues to fight sleep. Always the stubborn one.

“Night Mama.” You take the stuffed bear from the foot of her bed, tucking it in beside her before quietly standing, walking across the room to your son's bed.

“Goodnight Arthur.” You lean down, kissing both of his rosy cheeks, he doesn’t fight sleep the way his sister does. So similar but so different.

“Goodnight Mama.” His little voice has the same southern drawl you know he’s been picking up from Tommy.

“I love you, little ducks.” You smile at him, turning to see that Ruth is already asleep, you tuck in the blankets around Arthur before leaving, keeping the door cracked open a bit so the light from the kitchen can act as a night light.

God, you're tired.

You’re quick to shower and slip into your own pajamas, crawling into bed with a yawn. You take the book from your nightstand, flipping through until you find where you left off yesterday.

You never really know what’s going on in the books you read, they serve a singular purpose and it isn’t entertainment.

You read until you fall asleep, they’re just a distraction to keep your mind busy with thoughts so he can’t sneak in right before you fall asleep and embed himself in your dreams.

It works.

Your dreams never feature him.

They aren’t good dreams by any means, they’re wild. Often of your journey to Jackson, the fear you felt then. But you’ll take that over Joel any day. Tonight isn’t any different, your sleep is restless as you fight the memories of fighting for survival in those woods, but instead of your usual nightmares of infected hunting you through the trees you’re faced with a sight that somehow makes you even more uneasy than the living dead.

The look on Maria’s face when she told you about the two strays.

support me on kofi!!

a/n : this fic has been bouncing around in my brain for months now and it feels so fucking good to finally start it omfg. sorry if this felt a little slow, i really needed to set a tone and a base for the story, sorry!!

#lincolndjarin #fic : every now and then #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #tlou fic #joel x reader #the last of us fic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

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psychoticallytrans · 10 months

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This post is specifically meant to help kids and emerging adults that were not taught what you might not want to share online.

The purpose of not sharing personal information is to make it more difficult to connect up information about you, and especially to make it difficult to connect the "you" online to the "you" offline. The reasons one may want to do this range from maintaining safe relationships outside of an abusive relationship, to making it harder to put together enough information to break into their bank account, to being actively concerned about doxxing and swatting.

For any of these reasons, if you're not completely sure you will be fine having that information on the internet indefinitely, it's best not to share it in the first place. The internet is full of turmoil, but we all know that some posts never die, and that others are archived.

Here's some information that is generally considered a bad idea to share publicly or privately online, with the exception of applying for jobs or working with online financial and legal systems, and some strong alternatives.

Your full legal name, or any particularly distinctive part of your legal name. My first name has less than six hundred people with it in the States. I use a nickname on this blog for a reason. Nicknames are a great alternative to legal names.

Your birthday, especially if you also share your exact age. That allows for people to look for you based on your exact birth date, which is a very powerful piece of information. Unlike your legal name, there's no way I know of to change it. Consider not sharing this at all. For age, "minor" or "adult" are all the information a reasonable person should need.

Your precise location. Big cities, like Tokyo, New York City, or London, have a high enough population to act as a bit of a smokescreen, but as a rule of thumb, stick to stating a local with at least a million people in it. I often just use my time zone, since it's the main thing people need to know online.

There's other information that is questionable to share openly online, particularly your personal phone number and email, but those are the three big pieces of information that it's generally not a good idea to share either publicly or privately. This is because they can be plugged into background checkers and other databases to try to find you offline. The more information you share, the more someone can narrow down who you are. If that is something you are concerned about, consider following these guidelines about what not to share.

I encourage people to add onto and spread around this post.

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juleswrites223 · 3 months

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Charles Leclerc x Reader•ꪆৎ⋅

Context: He’s the Instagram boyfriend to the super cool, chronically online finance bro girlie.

a/n: Here it is. A mixture of twitter and insta smau for ma boi charles. This was kinda short because i even wrote the carlos angst fic.

yourusername

yourusername a few fun days in the office

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe, carmenmmundt and 4,00,897 more

comments have been limited...

f1wags

f1wags Y/N Y/L/N in New york today. Ms. Y/L/N looking fine as ever

comments

ynloverz Admin is so real for that caption

iil_predestinato f1wags is now a Y/N Y/L/N fan account

chaleclerc_16 real

charles_pookie she's so cool

char_y/n only finance bro i like

yn_fanacc she's an icon she's the IT girl

charles_16 charles is so lucky

user im new to f1, can someone tell me who she is?

ynleclerc_16 she's has a really high profile job at some huge finance company in new york. Oh she is also the girlfriend of Charles Leclerc, who drives for Scuderia Ferrari. yn_fans i love how people just don't think of her only as Charles' girlfriend wagsofF1 yeah like how with most wags their main personality and what their known for is just being an F1 driver's gf ynbabes thats why i love Y/N, she's a self made woman and she geniuely loves Charles and he loves her. She's not with him for his fame or money and i love that about her.

charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc off season with ma chérie

tagged: yourusername

comments

yourusername 💋💋

yn-charles i love how their so unserious on twitter

chalec16 oh to have a old money relationship like theirs

ynloverz dude their both self made millionaires, they don't come from old money families

yn_y/l/n_14 the fact that they both worked so hard to get where they are. Honestly i have nothing but respect for them.

lando_norris so when can i hang out with Y/N? I mean you guys*

carlossainz55 ^^^ maxverstappen ^^^ charles_leclerc never charles_leclerc you guys only wanna hang out with her yourusername babe dont be like that. You guys are welcome over anytime!! chachaslide_16 nah not the charles disrespect😭 charles_yn not the drivers preferring charles' gf over him💀

lilymhe my wife is back in monaco???

yourusername yes babess 😘 come over anytime alex_albon uh what charles_leclerc wife? babes??

yourusername

yourusername with ma girls 🎀🪞🩰🦢🕯️

tagged: lilymhe, carmenmmundt

comments have been limited

lilymhe you are the best chef in the world 💋

carmenmmundt had a lot of fun darling❤️

charles_leclerc babe i miss you come home now

yourusername i miss you too, literally on my way!

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc smau

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puckarchives · 4 months

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personally, i found it very attractive: l. hughes

blurb: in which an interview with the devils' upcoming rookie takes the intern by suprise. / word count: 1.5k / pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader

To be fair, all that I wanted to do was leave the Prudential Center, go home, and take a long bath. The game between the New Jersey Devils and the New York Rangers had gone into overtime, and as much as I loved my job, it truly had been a long day.

Flashing my lanyard at the security guard standing outside of the Devils' locker room, I was ushered into the room, joining the growing cohort of other journalists; writers who had made their entire career off of reporting on the comings-and-goings in the sports world. Now that the team had been solidified with major additions, and taken players off of their Injury Report roster, the Devils had put up a good fight against their Hudson River rivals.

Grabbing my phone and opening voice notes, I made a beeline for the one player that I needed to cover— Luke Hughes, one of the newest additions to the Devils, and a hell of a defenseman that I needed to talk to on his play earlier on the ice. And, thanks to the work I had put in weeks before trying to get this same interview, I had the opportunity to actually talk to him, instead of having to wait around in a circle while other journalists droned on (and asked) practically the same questions over and over again.

I had fallen in love with sports journalism because of this— because of the opportunity to speak with the players who have it their all on that ice, and who had a true passion for the game they played.

I once again flashed my I.D. to one of the team's publicists, Sharyl, and she smiled over at me— shaking my hand and calling over Luke.

"Hi Y/N! How are you holding up over this season?" she asked as we stood in our corner, both angled to see the player coming towards us.

"Hi Sharyl, I'm doing well! Just finished up my third-year, and I just need this last interview to finish up the project I've been working on these past few weeks," I told her. It was true— I had been working on this player profile for the past few weeks, and currently, this single nineteen-year-old rookie was the only person left on my list before I could publish the article that I was hoping would help my career.

"Oh that sounds so good, sweetheart! I know just how many hours you've been putting in here, and I'm so excited to read!" the older lady said.

"Here's Luke now!" she said, saying hello to the defenseman, and then turning back to me.

"Luke, this is Y/N, the reporter I mentioned from ESPN's journalism internship cohort. She's just going to go over a few things with you, and finish up her profile," she told the curly-haired boy.

"Hi, Luke, I'm Y/N, it's nice to meet you!" I spoke up, putting my hand out for him to shake.

It seemed to take him a few moments to catch up with me; and, to be fair, that was to be expected. I was his age, and from the way Sharyl was speaking about me, you'd expect me to be much older, or even a man. When I had begun working for ESPN's College Internship program, I had started with baseball as my main coverage sport— slowly growing from that to hockey as the seasons changed, and then, finally, landing on the Devils as my main beat at the beginning of the season. With all that, however, I knew the way people looked at me— questioning as to why an eighteen year old college student was interviewing men in sports that others thought I didn't even know existed, or even know how they worked. So, his reaction was expected.

The six-two boy in front of me seemed to be struck out of whatever stupor he was in, however, and shook my hand back.

"Hi, Y/N, it's nice to meet you. Sharyl said you'd be stopping by," he said. He was quiet, and I could tell how much of a toll the game had on him— despite being freshly showered, he sported his signature smirk— looking down at me as the cheers and celebrations kept it up behind him.

"Yeah! I just have a few questions to ask, but do you want to follow me out to the media office? It shouldn't take too long, especially since I'm sure you want to go celebrate your win tonight," I told him.

Not really looking for a response, I looked over the boy— he was, admittedly, cute. His eyes were full of life— and he filled out his after-game clothing well. That, and the coupling of beauty marks over his face just enhanced how handsome he was. God, get it together, I told myself. You're on the job!

Finding ourselves in one of the various media offices hosted in the Prudential Center's basement, I sat down across from the rookie, and waited until we were both situated to start the interview.

“So, thank you for sitting down with me! It was a long game out there, but you’re really pushing through,” I laughed, trying to ease the tension I could feel on my end. I really didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of this very cute boy, and even less knowing that he was a professional player in the sport I covered heavily.

“No— no it’s all okay, no worries,” he said, “I’d rather be here than listening to Shmido trying to recap the entirety of the second-half,” he laughed.

“Well, you’re the first to say that,” I smiled back. “So, now that you’re on your second official NHL game, I kind of have to point out— you went from playing for Michigan, and then skating for the league in just a few weeks, and you admittedly have had a huge transformation—” I started.

“Yeah I got faster,” he laughed, his cheeks tinging a shade of pink, and I couldn’t really lie to myself and blame it on his earlier celebrations. “Don’t worry, you can say it— Jacky has.”

“Well, I’ll be honest, it’s really been great to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you the entire game,” I said, and then admittedly felt my own cheeks flush, because truly, what was I thinking? Was I openly flirting with a guy I was supposed to be interviewing? Before I could feel myself blush even further, or even make the situation even more awkward, the silence was broken with Luke’s laugh— a stark and loud chuckle that made me look up automatically. His blush had now traveled from his cheeks to the tip of his hair, peeking out of his wet curls.

He ran his hand through his hair, “Well I mean, that’s definitely great to hear— are you serious?” he said, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if he was joking— if he was making fun of my obvious lack of flirting ability, or egging me on.

“Very,” I said. “It was a great game, and the goal you made in OT was just so smooth! Personally, I found it very attractive” I said; I had spent the entirety of the game looking at Luke skating— the smooth and strategic moves he made on the ice, passing the puck back and forth as if he was moving in water. He was beautiful on the ice— weaving between the opposing team’s players quicker and way more efficiently to the point where they couldn’t even keep up with him.

“And I have to point out the pass you made to Jack in the second-half and the assist you sent to Nico! I haven’t seen a lot of puck work that really resembled that in such a while, and—” I cut myself off, trying not to let myself ramble any farther in front of the boy I could feel myself crushing on.

“I mean that’s really a high compliment, thank you,” he said. “I mean, I know this might not be entirely appropriate for the interview, but I’m free after this, if you are two?” he asked. This had to be some kind of cliche, I thought, not really thinking that he had just asked me out.

I did, however, hope he wasn’t egging me on— and, besides, after this profile came out, I wouldn't be covering the NJ Devils until next season, so why not? Why not spend an afternoon with a hot hockey player who I had already called cute? “You know what? I am also free, and I was going to get dinner, if you wanted to join me,” I responded, hoping the youngest Hughes would take me up on the offer too. “I also don’t have class tomorrow, so yes, I am very free after this,” I laughed.

The boy in front of me smiled up, pushing the curls falling in his face back, and saying a quick “Well, then let’s get this thing started.”

#luke hughes #new jersey devils #nj devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl blurb #nhl imagine

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bratzforchris · 7 months

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Billionaire Baby

❃

Summary: In which Luke pays off your tuition in full and only asks for one thing in return

Pairing: Sugar daddy and investment banker!Luke x sub!reader

Warnings: Smut, dom/sub dynamics, nonsexual submission, overstimulation, jacuzzi fucking, doggy style, mentions of free use, unprotected p in v, fingering, underage drinking given to reader by Luke, sugar daddy mentions, student (university/18+) x older male relationship, bondage, Luke has an obedience kink, overall really fucking filthy and a bit fluffy ;)

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: Luke leans more towards boyfriend instead of sugar daddy than I originally planned, but I still adore this work anyway. I put my heart and soul into this piece, so reblogs are much appreciated :)!

DNI under 18

❃

“What the fuck…” You mumbled, scrolling through your email.

You were sitting in the library, trying to study for your upcoming biochem exam, but failing a bit. You were getting distracted by everything, hence why you were scrolling through your email on your laptop instead of studying. The email was from two hours ago and it was asking you to come to the dean’s office today at three for a meeting.

You began to panic a bit, wondering why on earth the dean wanted to have a meeting with you. You had never, ever been in trouble academically or ever, for that matter. You were a bit behind on your loan payments, but not so much they were rescinding your admission, right? You cursed when you realized that it was currently two-thirty, and the dean’s office was on the other side of campus.

Quickly shoving your laptop, books, and stationery into your bookbag, you hurried out of the library that you loved oh-so-dearly. Going to Columbia University had been your dream since second grade, and that day that you saw the main library on your tour in tenth grade just confirmed that this was the school for you.

You slowed your pace a bit when you got closer to the building, taking a moment to soak in the crisp, fall air and the splotches of autumn that decorated the New York City sidewalks. You pulled your cardigan tighter around yourself and hurried up the steps of the School of Professional Studies.

“Hi,” You whispered quietly to the lady at the front desk as you signed in.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, eyeing you up and down. “You’re a very lucky girl.” she winked.

You furrowed your brow, wanting to ask what she meant, but not wanting to be rude. You eventually just shook your head and sat down in the lobby while you waited to be called back. This was a huge school, full of children of the rich and famous. She must’ve had you confused with someone else.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” the dean asked, walking out into the lobby. “Follow me.”

You quickly picked up your backpack and followed him, deep into the building where his office was sat. You struggled a bit to keep up with his long strides, being a bit out of breath when you finally reached his office.

“Take a seat,” he said not unkindly, opening the door for you. “This will be quick.”

You took a tentative seat on one of the down chairs on the opposite side of the desk, trying to control your breathing. You were afraid your features would show your fear, so you tried to keep your face even.

“Ms. Y/L/N, you are extremely lucky…” he started. “Your tuition has been paid in full by an anonymous donor, to include everything you will need to complete your undergraduate degree.” he smiled.

“I’m sorry, what?” You asked, trying to stay polite, but also wanting to know what the fuck was going on.

“Someone has paid your tuition in full. Do you have any idea who it could be?”

“I…no…” You said, hoping the blush wouldn’t creep onto your cheeks.

You knew exactly who it was. There was only one person in your life that had that much money. Ivy League schooling wasn’t cheap, after all. You wouldn’t tell the dean who it was, though. That wouldn’t be good for a number of reasons.

“Enjoy your time here at Columbia, Y/N. You’re free to go.” the dean smiled, nodding towards the door.

You stood on shaky legs and walked out of the room, trying to process what you had just heard. No more student loan payments, no more living paycheck-to-paycheck, no more working at your shitty fast food job until 2 am. You pulled your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans and typed out a message as you walked out of the building and stood on the steps.

You: was it you???

Luke: Was what me, darling?

You: you know exactly what i’m talking about

You sighed, deciding to walk the half a block to your favorite cafe while you waited for Luke’s response. Your relationship with the blond was complicated. He wasn’t quite your sugar daddy, but he also wasn’t fully your boyfriend. It was never meant to spiral into a relationship, but Luke made you want more. Being a Columbia graduate himself, you had met him at a philanthropy event last spring. You had shared drinks and dancing, before he took you back to his large penthouse for a hook-up.

Ever since then, Luke had made it clear that he enjoyed your company. He spoiled you beyond belief, both with material things and with a very active sex life. Being a Wall Street investment banker had given him the attitude that he would take what he wanted, and you were no exception. As much as you were an independent woman in your studies, having Luke in your life took some of the stress away. Going over to his place after a long day of classes, only to receive a mountain of physical affection and usually a gift or two, was just what you needed.

Just as you finished ordering your chai latte, your phone pinged with a new message. You sat down at a cozy table in the corner and pulled out your laptop while you waited for your coffee, looking over the text.

Luke: Come over. You’re done with classes for today, right?

Luke: I’ll order dinner.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose from your braid behind your ear. You quickly typed out a message, thumbs flying across the screen. Even as frustrated as you were at the possibility of Luke paying off all of your tuition, you couldn’t help the way your heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing him.

You: getting coffee, then i will<3

You smiled when Luke typed back three red hearts. He was never one for emojis, mostly because of how professional he was. Every now and then though, you were the lucky one to see that softer, less-professional side of him. As soon as your coffee was placed in your hand, you dashed out the cafe door, walking towards the nearest subway station to catch the train to Luke’s apartment at the southern end of Central Park.

Your heart was absolutely racing as you got closer and closer to the blond. Luke was unlike anyone you had ever met. He had an almost electric pull on you. Luke bore a striking resemblance to a prince, or maybe a king. The way he commanded his office and then carried that dominance home to you was probably the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your twenty years of life.

As soon as the subway pulled up to your stop, you were leaping off the train and up the stairs to the sidewalk. As soon as you got out of the tunnel, you couldn’t help but to crane your neck. No matter how many times you came to Luke’s apartment, you couldn’t help but to be in utter awe when you came upon Billionaire’s Row. The sky-high buildings made of glass and steel were highlighted so beautifully by the rest of the city lights.

You hurried your pace a bit, eager to see Luke inside of one of those penthouse suites. Eventually, you came upon the building that you knew all too well. Walking inside the lobby, the man at the front desk smiled at you, his name tag reading Randy.

“He’s home,” he smiled. “Right over here.”

“Thanks,” You smiled. “I don’t mind taking the regular elevator, y’know.”

“Oh, please. Take this one.” he unlocked the private elevator that would take you directly to Luke’s apartment.

“Thank you,” You smiled as the doors began to close when you stepped in. “I’ll see you later?”

“If you leave tonight.” Randy chuckled.

As soon as you were on your way up, your heart began to flutter faster. You hadn’t seen Luke in a few days because the stock market had been picking up and so had your classes, which made you so beyond eager to be around him once again. The elevator dinged and the doors to Luke’s apartment opened.

You stepped out onto the plushy, white carpet, looking around for the blond. “Luke?”

“Hey baby,” he hummed, coming out of the kitchen and wrapping you in a hug. “Miss me?”

You giggled when he buried his face in your neck, his stubble scratching your neck. “I did.” You said sweetly.

As soon as Luke pulled back, you looked up into his deep blue eyes before speaking again. “Luke, were you the ‘anonymous donor’ that paid my tuition?”

“I was. What? I can’t spoil my girl?” he led you into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down.

“Luke,” You insisted. “I never said that, but that’s hundreds of thousands of dollars. You don’t need to do that.”

“Watch your mouth, princess.” Luke gave you a stern look as he poured you a glass of Merlot.

You blushed, shrinking under his gaze. Even when it wasn’t sexual, Luke had a dominant aire about him. Maybe it was because he worked in such a high power industry, or maybe it was just the way he was, but the blond made you want to submit to him, clinging onto his every word.

“I just want to make sure we’re, y’know, equal. I want to make sure you feel loved, too.”

Luke slid the wine glass across the island to you, where you had taken a seat at the bar. “I don’t need that.”

You snorted. “Contrary to popular belief, you like feeling loved too.” You craned your neck and placed a kiss on his cheek.

Luke rolled his eyes, walking around the island and wrapping his arms around your midsection. “So you wanna know how you can make me feel appreciated?”

“If you wanna call it that, sure.” You shrugged.

“You can be my little toy for the next week. You’re free use for me,” he smirked, growling softly in your ear. “You think that’s equal?”

You nodded quickly, knowing Luke was going to take free advantage of the week, but not caring. “I think so.” You giggled.

“You know I love you, right?” Luke asked. “I don’t want you worrying about your tuition anymore. It’s done, it’s taken care of. You’re going to relax and let me make you feel good, darling.” he hummed, massaging your shoulders.

You blushed under the subtle dominance of Luke’s words, relaxing into his touch. You nudged your head into Luke’s chest and he chuckled softly, knowing exactly what you wanted.

“You’re so cute when you need me, baby girl.” he picked you, holding you under the ass and abandoning your wine glass on the counter so he could carry you to his large master bedroom.

You laid your head on his shoulder, speaking out a soft ‘I love you’. It had been a long day between classes and the stress of the news you’d received and now you just needed Luke to take care of you so you could relax for a little while.

Luke placed you down on his soft, silken sheets when you reached his bedroom, humming softly. “On your knees, honey.”

You did as he asked, kneeling softly and looking up at your dom with soft doe eyes. You were practically reeling with relaxation and happiness over Luke’s validation. You watched him softly while he bustled around the room, taking off his watch and getting things ready for the night.

“Good girl, baby,” Luke praised you. “You’re doing perfect, honey.”

“Thank you.” You said sweetly, knowing Luke enjoyed it when you responded verbally.

“Go wait in the bathroom for me, honey. I’ll be there soon.” Luke told you, looking at you sternly but speaking softly.

You scampered off to Luke’s luxurious bathroom, wondering what he had in mind. Usually, he would dom you in bed. You wasted no time on kneeling on the bath mat beside the jacuzzi tub, still fully clothed. If there was one thing you loved to do, it was be Luke’s sub. Something about letting someone else take the reins and guide you, sexually or not, helped you relieve your stress from attending such a demanding university.

Luke didn’t make you wait long. He came into the bathroom and saw you kneeling, giving you immediate praise. “Look at you, honey. Waiting like a good girl.” he cooed, flashing that million-dollar smile that had been on the cover of Forbes magazine last month.

You blushed, giggling softly. You could feel yourself slipping into subspace, that floaty feeling taking over your head as Luke fussed over you and took care of you. You leaned into his touch as he ran a hand through your hair, before moving to start the bath water.

“Nothing like a nice bath to help you relax, right love?” he smirked. “Arms up.”

You did as the blond asked and Luke pulled off your sweater. He left your glasses on, but reached for the button on your jeans. Luke slowly helped you stand up and then pulled your pants and your panties off, trailing little kisses from your collarbone down to your pubic bone. You could feel the way your body had completely relaxed into your subspace, molding like jelly at whatever Luke told you to do.

The blond fiddled with the settings on the tub, turning on the jets and adding the red lights, which were his absolute favorite. Luke put your favorite, rose-scented bath bomb into the tub before speaking. “Get in the bath, honey.”

You stepped into the large jacuzzi tub, holding Luke’s hand and sinking into the warm, fizzy water. “Thank you.”

Luke smirked, enjoying the way your face was tulip-pink at all the attention being showered on you by him. He wasn’t going to push you today; he had seen the stress lines that had burrowed their way deep onto your face. Besides, you two still needed to have the tuition conversation and he didn’t want you to be totally fucked out for that. Just enough to help you relax.

“I think you need some entertainment while you’re in the bath, hmm? Wouldn’t want you getting distracted…” he smirked, running his ring-clad pointer finger under your chin.

You immediately rested your chin on the ledge of the large tub, watching Luke with expectant eyes. He pulled back for a moment, just enough to make sure you were fully paying attention, but not enough to make you panic. Luke began to undo the buttons of his white shirt, smirking at you as he teased you so fucking slowly, ringed fingers pulsing as he worked.

Letting out a few soft, sensual moans didn’t seem to phase the blond. He simply continued to slowly undress, making sure you were watching the whole time. He wasn’t not not acknowledging you, but he also wasn’t giving you the attention you were oh-so-craving. Finally, Luke came to his gray, Calvin Klein boxers. He slid them off slowly, smirking at you as he did so.

“Mmmm, want you to dom me, Luke. Please. It’s so big.” You whined.

“Ahh ahh, we don’t whine, honey. I think you forgot to ask nicely, hmm?” Luke stood towering over you, completely naked, but in all his godlike authority.

Even in your fuzzy subspace, you could see why all of Luke’s female assistants fawned over him. He looked like something sent straight from Mount Olympus with his blond curls, perfect nose, and regal body type. He had a commanding aura about him, no matter what he was doing, and despite his multiple (yes, multiple) PhDs from different Ivy League universities, it was easy to understand how he did so well in the New York Stock Exchange.

“Sorry sir,” You whispered out. “Can you please dom me?” You asked in a sultry tone.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Luke planted a kiss on your head as he stepped into the tub with you. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You giggled and blushed, still kneeling even in the bath. You kept your eyes trained on Luke, which proved a difficult task from here. Luke’s master bathroom was made up of crystal clear glass windows that allowed for a view of practically the whole city since he lived on the 69th floor. With the sun starting to fade into a hazy dusk and the lights of the skyscrapers popping on one-by-one, it was hard not to get distracted, but you wanted Luke’s pleasure much more than you wanted to enjoy the view.

You and Luke sat face-to-face, and he watched your eyes intently, wondering what joys he would unlock tonight. He began to rub your thigh up and down with his hand under the soapy water, keeping his eyes trained on you.

“Relax, pretty girl,” he whispered. “Just let me take care of you.”

You began to relax under Luke’s touch and gaze, that is, until he began to sneak his fingers closer and closer to your opening. You unconsciously clenched your thighs around Luke’s hand, your nerves sensitive. You began to whimper, wiggling your hips closer to meet his fingers.

“Oh god.” You whined.

Luke smirked, running his fingers along your wet slit and trailing it over your clit. He smirked as he did so, scooting closer to you. “I want you to cum all over my fingers, princess. Get all that stressed properly fucked out.”

You moaned, thrusting your hips against Luke’s pulsating fingers. The blond began to make small, raindrop-like pulses on your electric spot, enjoying the view as you squirmed under him, practically riding his fingers.

“Good girl, honey. Takin’ it like the slutty little school girl that you are.” he coached you.

Your climax was beginning to build up, and you couldn’t help the moans and whimpers that escaped from your mouth as Luke finger-fucked you. As he tapped near your clit, he used three fingers on the other hand to slowly slide them in and out of your pussy.

“That’s it, baby. That feel good? Yeah?” he smiled, knowing you were entirely too close to say anything other than small ‘yes’’s and ‘uh huh’’s.

You were nearly crying as you tried to hold yourself back from clenching and cumming all over Luke’s fingers until he told you to do so. Your sex was absolutely throbbing with the way Luke was touching you, and the warm water from the tub was not making it any easier.

“Luke,” You nearly screamed out. “Making me need to cum.”

The blond gave one last time of really working up your rhythm, before kissing your chest. “Go ahead and cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You quickly released, and your walls began to clench around Luke’s fingers, coating them in your cum. The blond coached you through your climax, offering lots of praise and compliments.

“You are so pretty when you cum, princess,” he cooed when you had finished, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Takin’ my fingers like a good girl.”

You blushed under Luke’s words, leaning your head against his shoulder when he pulled you into his bare chest, hand running up and down your side. Luke had an almost intoxicating way of making your orgasms one of the most exhausting, but best, things you did.

“I think you need one more for good measure. Make sure all that stress is properly fucked out, yeah?” he asked you.

You quickly nodded, never saying no to Luke pleasuring you. The blond ran his fingers through your hair and down your face and upper body, making sure to keep you fully relaxed in subspace. Because you were essentially sitting on his lap, you could feel Luke’s cock hardening under you and you couldn’t help the blush that spread across your cheeks.

“Turn around on your knees, honey,” Luke coached, moving you off his lap. “Right over the jet.”

Doing as Luke asked, you had to bite your lip at the sensation of the rushing water tingling your clit. “Oh.” You moaned.

The blue-eyed man chuckled, caressing your upper back. “Feels so good, doesn’t it, princess?” he whispered in your ear.

You nodded, gripping the edge of the tub to keep yourself steady. Luke grabbed his white button-down that he had oh-so-conveniently placed on the tub ledge. He quickly used it to wrap your hands around the faucet.

“I want to make sure you enjoy this in the right way.”

You moaned at Luke’s erotic words, angling your hips back so that your ass would meet Luke’s boner. He pulled you back by the hips slowly, offering you lots of praise as your body melted like butter in his hands, allowing him to touch where and however. The blond told you to stay on your knees and lean forward into your bond, angling your back, and you whined as you felt the pressure placed on your already sensitive pussy, even without Luke’s dick.

Luke was practically a sex expert, and he knew your anatomy almost better than you did. That being said, he knew he needed to take you from behind in order to hit your G-spot. Your second orgasm was always faster than the first, and he wanted to make sure that he would get the pleasure of you cumming not only on his fingers, but on his dick as well.

He slowly straddled you from behind, his hips pushing into your ass, before inserting only his tip into you. The pleasure on the blond’s face was evident as he heard you release tiny moans and pants, already nearly overstimulated, just from an inch of him inside you.

“Someone’s eager,” he chuckled. “Did studying all day wear you out? Made you nice and needy for my dick, baby?”

You moaned, nodding your head and straddling against your restraints. “Yes…” You breathed out. “Yes sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Good girl.” Luke slid more of his dick inside of you, painstakingly teasing you.

You pushed your ass further against him, trying to take as much of him into you as possible. Luke was a big fan of doggy style and you had gone through this many times before; Luke didn’t give in to what you wanted right away, but nevertheless, you always tried. You tried desperately to distract yourself by looking out at the scenic cityspace in front of you, but the view was no match for the magic that was Luke.

“You are so fucking hot when you listen to me, Y/N,” Luke growled, tugging on the ends of your hair slightly. “Obeying just the way you’re supposed to like a good sugar baby.”

You moaned, craning your neck back and arching your back as the jets overstimulated your clit and electric spot and Luke’s dick teased your hole. “Uh huh…oh god, Luke.” You whined.

Finally, after what felt like forever to you, Luke slammed all eight inches of himself inside of you, bucking his hips so that you could feel his shaft pulsating. He began to ride you at an almost frenzy rhythm, slamming his hips into yours so that the sound of skin hitting skin and jacuzzi water splashing echoed around the room. The blond knew that if people in other high-rises looked hard enough, they could see him riding you doggy-style within an inch of your life. He didn’t care, though. You wanted to act like a good sub that was practically begging with your eyes for a slutty fuck, that’s what you would get. Besides, billionaires were too scandalous themselves to speak about their colleagues’ sex lives.

“Luke,” You nearly sobbed out, overstimulated by the jets rocking your clit and Luke railing you from behind. “Need to cum.”

Your second orgasm was always faster than your first and you could feel the tight ball building up in your lower stomach, begging to be released. The overstimulation from pressure on your clit and penetration from Luke was having tears running down your cheeks. Luke wasn’t letting up though. He wanted you to be so worn out that you could just relax and let him take care of you.

“You can cum, honey,” he hummed, fucking into you one last time before slapping your ass. “Cum all over my dick.”

You immediately did as told, crying out and straining against your bond as you released your climax. “Uh uh…feels so good.” You panted out, walls clenching around his cock.

Luke rubbed your back as you did so, gently guiding you through it. “That’s it. Good girl. Cumming all over my dick.”

You moaned loudly, thoroughly exhausted. “Thank you.”

“Ah ah,” he tutted. “You’re not done yet, baby girl,” Luke slowly untied the shirt that had bonded you. “Turn around.” he huffed coldly.

You did as he asked, looking up at him through your lashes. He had a smirk on his face, body radiating dominance and power as he lifted your heads above your head and tied them once again to the faucet with the shirt, only this time, you were facing him.

“You really thought you were gonna be done without me getting my pleasure off you?” the blond asked.

You blushed under his gaze, unconsciously bucking your hips to meet his. “Use me. I love you, so use me.” You panted.

“Think you need a nice facial to help you relax, hmm sweetie?”

You nodded quickly, knowing what Luke was getting at. “Please.” You said, eyeing his massively-hard boner.

Luke began to pump himself with his right hand, rings still on. It was probably the hottest thing you’d ever seen, with his head thrown back, blond curls wet and plastered to his forehead, and his muscles bulging as he worked himself. You wiggled in the grasp of his white shirt, moaning loudly. You were beginning to get cold in the water without his body on you and you were making it very clear that you wanted him again.

“Gonna cum, baby.” he huffed out.

“Do it. Cum all over me, sir.” You whined in a sultry voice.

Luke didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately came all over your face, coating your eyes and cheeks in white ropes of cum.

“God, baby. So pretty.” he said, watching you blink the cum out of your eyelashes as he rode out his high.

You blushed. “It’s because of you.”

Luke reached for a washcloth in the fine basket beside the large tub and dipped it into the water, slowly wiping your face off with the warm, wet rag. “I love seeing you when you know you belong to me, princess.” he crooned.

You giggled softly, loving the floaty feeling that was coming from being in your subspace. “Thank you.”

The blue-eyed man continued to wash you off with the cloth, removing the stickiness from your face and body. Luke looked over and realized he had left a crystal champagne flute by the tub the night before.

“Do you need your hair washed, princess?” he asked.

You immediately nodded, absolutely loving it when Luke washed your hair. “Please.”

Luke smiled, placing a kiss on your forehead before using the flute as a sort of cup to wet your hair and using his own shampoo (which was vanilla scented, but no one else needed to know) to wash your hair. You melted under his touch, allowing Luke to take full control, directing you to close your eyes and lean your head back so he could wash your hair.

“All done, honey. Sit in the bath while I dry off.”

His words hardly registered in your brain. The wonderful feeling of being totally fucked out and having someone wash your hair had made you so sleepy. Luke quickly stepped out of the jacuzzi, wrapping a plush, white towel around himself and grabbing his phone from the vanity. The view of you naked, fucked out, in his huge jacuzzi and against the background of crystal-clear glass and the lights of Billionaire’s Row in Manhattan was too pretty for him not to snap a photo of.

The blond quickly dried himself off and dressed in a pair of cozy gray sweats with no shirt. No matter how much money he made off of Wall Street, that outfit would always be his pajamas. Luke pulled the plug in the tub, lifting you out of the tub easily and wrapping you in a pink towel with your initials monogrammed that you left at his apartment for hookups like tonight.

“Kneel, honey, so I can dry you off,” he told you. “Good girl.”

You melted under Luke’s touch as he dried you off and lathered you with sweet-smelling lotion. He slipped your red, silken nightie with lace details over your head before picking you up. Being your sugar daddy, he figured it was only fair to spoil you after you had pleasured him so well and that was exactly what he planned on doing. Luke carried you to bed, tucking you in softly. “What are you feeling for dinner, baby?”

You shrugged, feeling so sleepy and out of it. “You pick.”

“Nope, it’s your night, princess.” he chuckled softly.

“You already did, well, what you did today with the money and all. Let me order it.” You said, reaching for your phone.

“No ma’am,” Luke jerked it back. “You’re going to let me spoil you. You have two choices, baby. Seafood or steak.”

“..steak. Thank you.” You blushed.

Even though you had known Luke since the spring, you were still getting used to the whole “sugar daddy” thing. It was still rather unfamiliar to you to let someone else care for you, especially someone as rich as Luke. The blond easily ordered the food from both his and your favorite Michelin Star restaurant, easily curling up in bed with you after.

“Thank you for today. For everything. Are you sure it’s okay?” You asked quietly.

“Princess, I told you. The only thing you owe me is free use of that slutty little body for the next week.” he told you, burying his face into your neck as he spooned you.

You blushed and giggled softly, pushing yourself further into him. “That sounds good to me. But seriously, thank you. Helping me with my education means more to me than you know.”

“I know. That’s why I did it. Besides, smart girls are hot girls.” he smirked.

You happily cuddled into Luke’s side, sighing happily. And if Luke spent the rest of the night being beyond soft and caring for you, no one else had to know.

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unbidden-yidden · 6 months

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Okay so in the same vein as this post, I want to reality check the people who keep asking (yes I've been this person too, don't @ me) why oh why are Jews the only group leftists are willing to categorically deny self-determination to, and the reason is that most of them are tits deep in Christian supercessionism and don't even know it and have absolutely no desire to change that.

The reason they deny self-determination to Jews is the same reason that they would deny any claim to self-determination of, say, Mormons. If the Mormon church tried to claim Utah because it's the epicenter and birthplace of Mormonism [Edit: apparently the birthplace of Mormonism is western New York and not Utah whoops, but the point stands] and therefore they may as well have an indigenous claim to it, people with brains would rightfully lose their shit.

"But it's a culture too, not just a religion!"

So? Have you met any Mormons and spent time with them? They have their own culture.

"Okay but Jews are an ancient people!"

Please look at the batshit Mormon theological view of the Twelve Tribes and their attitudes towards Native Americans.

"Okay but our history is real!" Yep! These people don't know the first thing about Judaism and Jewish history and don't care.

The reality is that most westerners are hellbent on ignoring Jewish history and ethnoreligious identity because literally all of western civilization is built on Christian supercessionism. Even the people who leave Christianity and hate it (and "all religions") with a violent passion still refuse to engage in learning about Jewish cultural and ethnic history because you cannot do it without engaging the history and texts that they blame as the roots of Christianity and therefore they discredit all of it out of hand.

Obviously they're super fucking wrong about this. You, my fellow yid, and I, both know that. But unraveling the supercessionism means understanding their culpability in Jewish suffering and how they benefit from institutionalized antisemitism.

They are extremely unlikely to do that.

Why? Because if they unlearn Judaism as "just a religion" &/or "Christianity without Jesus" and begin to understand it as an indigenous Levantine group, they then have to reckon with the reality of how much Christianity has stolen from Jews and how much of their hatred for Jews is baked into their western goyische psyche by intentional Christian misunderstandings of Judaism.

Am Yisrael cannot to them be a real people with deep tribal roots and a strong culture, because then they would have to separate Judaism from Christianity and question their assumptions about us and our history.

"But Judaism accepts converts!"

Okay, as someone who "converted," I'm going to say no, not really, actually. Conversion is a convenient shorthand, but it's not accurate. Converting to Judaism means a mutually consensual adoption into the Tribe, after thorough vetting, at least a year of study and perseverance but probably more, and the main, primary promise that you make is about choosing to share the collective fate of the Jewish people. Yes, this adoption and naturalization is through the medium of the spiritual/religious aspect of Jewish identity, but it's way more than that. To be a Jew is to know that I might get stabbed on my walk to shul for being visibly Jewish, and to accept that possibility because the idea of not living as a Jew is worse. Gerim have to be ride or die because a serious chunk of Jewish history is on the "die" side of that equation. You have to be just a little bit nuts voluntarily take on that risk (reminder that I say this as a ger who is happily Jewish) and it must come from a place of profound love for and identification with the Jewish people. And once you join the family, that's it. You don't get to ever stop being a member of the family, even if you become estranged from it.

It's a people, with a deep history and culture, and anyone who joins it takes on both. Obviously your genetic makeup and ancestry don't change, but everything else does.

Understanding that major difference in Judaism in a serious way means that they would have to let go of their world view that their religion and culture are separate, that Christianity intentionally divorced faith from culture in order to acquire as many converts as possible, and then begin to understand how Christianity has shaped their understanding of culture, tradition, what religion is, ethics, and values. And they would have to then make an effort to separate their understanding of Judaism and what they think they know about us from Christianity, however they do or don't relate to it.

#I wish I was more articulate right now with this #but oh well

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 8 months

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I don't think non-New Yorkers know how funny Miles and Wiles having Jordans is.

Like it's REALLY funny and really Brooklyn - New York of him.

Miles, Wiles, and Jordan Sneakers - Clever Cultural Characterisation

[A MEDIUM length post were I talk about Brooklyn Sneaker Culture and it's use in ATSV]

Have you ever wondered -

Why is Miles the only one wearing branded clothing?

When all other brands are either spoofed or replaced, why is Miles - the main character wearing such VERY BLATANTLY branded sneakers?

And why is Nike, a random shoe brand, the choice to go with?

There's a reason the creators show Miles' creativity and personality through his shoes.

And it's because

JORDANS HAVE A CHOKEHOLD - on Black Guys in High School from NYC

And this might be bizarre to some and idk if it translates to other black communities- (please tell me if it does)

But here in Brooklyn, almost every masc guy in my high school was OBSESSED with Jordans. Most guys I knew can name certain releases by looking at them, and had multiple pairs in different colors

JORDANS WERE LIKE SOCIAL CURRENCY - from middle school all the way to college. And it's a very cultural thing here in Brooklyn.

What colors you had and how many are something you bragged about. Many guys own multiple different colorways of Jordan's and will WAIT in line hours for a new release.

There's a store call Flight Club here in the city, and sometimes you'll see the line going out the door, of well dressed black guys waiting for the new release of Nikes to start going on sale.

Of course Adidas is popular, but no where near the culture hold as Nike to us.

I remember begging my parents for like a week until they brought me Black Air Force 1s

And I STILL have them over ten years later. They're too small, but they're holding up well. And even until this day, my home town is lined with sneaker stores. There's one around the corner from me rn.

Here it really is natural for guys LOVE JORDANS and to use them as a form of self expression. It's not odd for Fashion is on the minds of black guys in Brooklyn.

Even in high school, guys were matching their outfits and always trying to get the latest brand name. Mind you, this is an inner-city school full of 98% low income black kids. For us that was a social language.

Some shoes even have their own 'personalities' tied to them:

For example:

Black Air Force 1s (the one above) are often called 'hit a lick' shoes. Hitting a lick means to rob someone. So there's this idea that if you have those on you about that action lol it's an chill inside joke though it isn't serious.

White Air Forces are seen for guys who DON'T do that because they're too worried about getting their white ass shoes so clean.

Keep the above in mind for the next part

Hair cuts - like shape-ups and fades, Backpacks, and Shoes are three big things that were a fashion influence in my high school HARD.

Trends also are a big thing here, and they come on really quickly. I remember for maybe four years a brand called Sprayground got big, and after all SO many high school kids started collecting these $80 bags in all different colors. I wanted one so bad.

A lot of them had illustrations of things like money or weed.

If you see a mfer with the shark mouth bookbag RUN he's the biggest fuckboy you've ever met.

Which is to say - !42 WOULD HAVE ONE OF THESE BAGS

Guys get SO INTO THEM

How many of the iconic orange boxes that you lined up in your room (yes they keep them) was something you boasted about.

MFers would deadass have this in the corner of their room and bring you over talking about sum 'it's decor' SIR IT'S A HOARDING ADDICTION

They'll walk different, and NEVER squat, because doing that might crease the leather along the toe box. And creased Jordans are not fresh so what's the point - they're ruined. A guy in my class use to being plastic bags and tie them around his ankles when it rained then he walked home.

Like look at this Reddit post I found -

'is he stupid' 😭😭that's so mean but like here EVERY guy just assumes you know not to do that to Jordans ever

And that's why the creators do it - AND THEY DO IT WELL

And it's so impressive their deep understanding of this very specific thing that happens in mostly black high schools in NYC.

Cause that's not something you can just search up and research really.

Because of our culture - Miles & Miles!42's shoes are a silent language in their own right.

Like Miles!42's shoes are one of the first things we see about him.

They're the first thing we're suppose to notice - because it let's is compare him to Miles.

Miles' Jordans are iconic - the white and red shoes.

They're clean and white, with pops of color and personality. Like Miles, he's about being the good of Spider-man, while also getting himself and adding his own colors to it.

And because it's natural to the character and the culture, they let his shoes be the signal that Wiles is not like Miles. He has a different style, in fighting, in speaking, in personality, from his hair literally down to his shoes.

REMEMBER HOW I TALKED ABOUT SHOES HAVING PERSONALITY AND THE BLACK AIR FORCES ??????

Wiles' shoes are VERY similar to Black Air Force 1s. It's basically that with utility bags and purple detailing.

That's a signal - like I said: WILES IS ABOUT THAT ACTION. He's here to get his lick back.

From his standpoint, as a black guy from Brooklyn with his personality, he would know about this culture. He'd know the message black Nikes send where he's from.

It'd be natural for him - Hell yeah he'd go for the black Jordans.

He's speaking his social language.

Wiles' doesn't have to say 'fuck around and find out' he got on Air Forces with bags on them - HE'S ABOUT IT.

The writers didn't wake up one day and say 'Oh Nike wants a brand deal?! Okay cool'.

They don't show Wiles' shoes to be like 'LOOKY BUY THE NICE SHOES' - We are shown this shot

For them to be like : This is who Miles!42 is.

Because of sneakers.

Isn't that COOL? ISN'T IT. ISN'T IT COOL THE SOCIAL DYNAMICS OF INNER CITY BLACK KIDS IN NEW YORK??

But it's really funny to me to see Wiles shoes and be like 'damn he bout to fuck Miles up'.

THE IDEA OF THEM FEIGNING OVER JORDANS Fyyofydyogoc

Do guys where you are do this?? Like is this a thing y'all know any Sneakerheads.

Anyway I would put a pic of Hobie but I'm on mobile so they won't let me and I'm lazy

Bye.

#no proofreading fuck it we ball #spiderman #atsv #marvel #spider man #across the spiderverse #atsv miles #atsv analysis #miles morales #miles g #miles 42 #Earth 42 miles #Earth 42 Miles Morales

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ravenromanova · 8 months

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Too close

Pairings: Ghostface Bucky x Female reader (I got this idea from a tiktok i saw of someone that made a scream poster of bucky as ghostface and i died and i also read a natasha ghostface fic and it was so good and i thought why not make one of bucky!) This is the fic that inspired this, by @abbyromanoff you can run but you cant hide

Warnings: Mentions of killing, blood, SMUT 18+!!!!! Mask kink, knife play, Blood kink, Daddy kink, Breeding kink, unprotected sex (Bucky and the reader have sex in another room from an unalived person) (My darkest fantasies are coming out to play here sue me) DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!!!!!!!!

Summary- Bucky doesn’t like it when people get too close to his girl. What happens when you figure out why everyone you talk to suddenly dies. Will you run?

Kinktober masterlist - Main masterlist - Send me requests!!

“This just in another the mysterious serial killer known as ghostface has claimed another victim. 22 year old Jordan Rodriguez was found in her new york apartment with 50 stab wounds. She was found by her roommate Janice after she came home from work. Officers haven’t given many details as to if they are any leads into who this killer could be. But they have advised everyone within the brooklyn area to be inside by 8pm to limit any risks.” The nightly news reporters vice echos through your apartment as you watch through hooded eyes.

This was the fifth person this week to die a brutal death and not to mention you seem to have had an interaction with everyone that has died. Fear floods your veins as your head runs a thousand miles and hour and what this could mean. Is someone out to hurt you? Do you have a stalker who is killing everyone you know to get you alone? Are you next? That’s all you can think about before your thoughts are cut off by the front door opening.

You shriek and jump off the couch and run to the kitchen to grab whatever knife you can. You decide to duck behind your island with the knife as you hear footsteps walk in. The footsteps are heavy yet soft as the approach you. It’s not until the figure comes closer to you that you jump in front of them and attempt to stab them but they catch your hand.

“Woah they’re tiger” The voice says and you drop the knife once you realize who it is. You flick on the kitchen light before walking over to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders and hugging him.

“I’m sorry jamie” You apologize to your boyfriend and he just chuckles in response.

“It’s okay babydoll, but what has you so freaked out?” He asks looking at your with eyes of concern.

You sigh as you look at him before you decide to tell him what’s wrong. “The news- They said another person has been killed…A-And i knew the person who was killed, Ive known all the people who’ve died this week! What-what if someone is out to hurt me? What i-if i- die?” Your voice breaks as you speak your fears. He looks at you and brings you in for another hug.

“Oh babydoll it’s going to be okay im sure it’s nothing” He said calmly as she stroked your back and kissing the top of your head.

You sighed as you looked at him while you nodded your head. Maybe you were just being paranoid you thought, maybe this is just one big coincidence and you’ll be fine. Yea… you’ll be fine.

“Yea maybe you’re right” You didn’t sound too convinced with your own words but you try to shake off the feeling that something bad is happening.

“Come on babydoll lets get you into bed so you stop overthinking in that pretty little head of yours” His voice is so soft and sweet as he takes your hand in his and walks you two to the bedroom. When the both of you enter the room he tells you to lay down and then goes to get something. Thirty seconds later he comes back with your favorite blanket and stuffed animal and slides in bed next to you.

That night the two of you cuddle and have cute little conversations that help ease your overthinking. You fell asleep with him whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

What you didn’t know was that Bucky was panicking since he stepped foot into the apartment. He thought he had been caught when you attempted to stab him but luckily for him you were as clueless as ever.

~one week later~

You sighed as you watched the news and they reported the 8th murder in two weeks. And very unfortunately for you, you had known the persons who died…just like the rest of them. That really didn’t help with the overthinking that’s for sure.

It was around 4am when you decided to turn off the tv and head to bed. Your brows furrowed when you realized Bucky wasnt home yet. You thought maybe he had gotten an overnight shift at the garage but normally he tells you that. You decided to check ‘find my friends’ since it kinda worried you that he wasnt home.

When his location showed that he was at an apartment complex your heart sank. A thousand possibilities were running through your head as you threw some sweats on, grabbed your keys and headed out the door to find your boyfriend.

The whole car ride you were full of anxiety and your brain wouldn’t shut up. Once you pulled up to the complex you quickly ran to the car not in the mood to play around if he was fucking someone else. You followed the gps and walked right up to the front door but you noticed it was open slightly. So what did you do? You walked right into the dark apartment despite not knowing who or what you’d find.

But what you did find sent bile to your throat. There was a figure dressed in all black standing over who you thought was your boyfriend with a knife in their hand.

“BUCKY!” You screamed as you ran over to the body on the floor. It wasnt until you got up close that you realized that the person wasnt Bucky…It was the barista that served you your coffee this morning. Your thoughts ran wild as you mumbled incoherent words under your breath.

But those were quickly cut off once your heard the masked figured laughing. You whipped your head around and stared at the figure in horror.

“Oh Kotenok you’re so precious” The masked figured said as he slowly removed his mask. Your eyes widened as you saw who was under the mask… It was Bucky. You quickly stood up and backed away from him as you started to hyperventilate.

“W-What the hell?” You finally said after you finally slowed your breathing down. Bucky chuckled as he came closer to you and wiped some sweat off his forehead.

“I guess it’s finally time to tell you-“ He said as she took off the costume and dropped the knife. You stared at him as his hand come up to caress your cheek. “You see kotenok i never meant for any of this to happen- But these people-t-they flirt with you and get too close to you. And i cant have that, i cant have people wanting to take what’s mine. And see i wouldn’t mind so much that people mindlessly flirt with you… if you didn’t flirt back” He seethed as he grabbed your face.

You were speechless at his confession never in a million years did you think he’d do this. But the idea that you’re his motive, that he just wants to keep you to his self is intoxicating. You look up at him with doe eyes before you finally find the words to say.

“You do all of this to make sure that i stay yours” Your voice heightens in excitement as you wait for his response.

His grip tightens on your face as he speaks. “Yes kotenok i do- i cant stand the thought of someone else having you the way i do” He confess as his eyes darken at the way you smirk.

“That’s- the hottest thing i think you’ve ever said to me” Bucky smiles devilishly at your words and suddenly picks you up and pushes you against the wall. His lips are on yours within a seconds time and the kiss is the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done.

“Put the mask back on” The words come out breathless as your chest rises due to the lack of air. He smirks as he walks you over to the couch and lays you down before grabbing the mask and knife again. He put the mask back on and then slowly stalks towards you and he twirls the knife in his hand.

“Oh fuck” You whisper under your breath when he climbs on top of you. Even though you cant see his face you know for a fact he’s smirking. He wastes no time in ripping off your shirt along with your sweats leaving you in just your panties.

“So pretty” His voice comes out a little muffled as he speaks due to the mask but it made it so much hotter. He then takes the knife that he wiped off and drags it across your bare chest. Your breath hitches in your throat as the cool metal hits your skin. Bucky then drags the knife down your torso and slices your panties off and drags it across your bare pussy.

“Please” You beg as you grab the hand with the knife and place it on your stomach. He places the blade on your skin and digs it in just a little, “Mark me” Bucky wastes no time in carving his initials into your skin he leaves a little ‘J.B.B’ on your stomach, before wiping the blood away with his thumb. Your grab his thumb and slowly bring it to your mouth before you clean his thumb off.

“Fucking hell kotenok” He groans at your actions. Bucky grows impatient as he throws the knife across the room making note to pick it back up later. He then spreads your pussy and starts to play with your clit and your back arches in reaction.

“Please daddy” You beg and then he adds two fingers into you in a swift motion and chooses a relentless pace. This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever done but right now, in this moment you dont give a flying fuck.

The pleasure you feel is beyond intense as Bucky curls his fingers and hits your g-spot just right. You let out a screaming moan as your first orgasm bursts through you. “Oh fuck” You breathe out the best you can as you slowly takes off his pants and boxers exposing his hard cock standing at attention for you.

“I want you so bad please daddy” He doesn’t need much motivation after you give him the go ahead. Bucky slams his cock into you hard and fast and you scream in response to his movement.

“Yes yes yes” You chant as you sit up and wrap your arms around him as Bucky slams into you. The room is filled with the filthy noises of your pussy and his balls slapping your skin.

“Gonna fucking breed you kotenok” He grunts and picks up his speed chasing his high. You can feel your second orgasm build up as he talks about breeding you.

“Oh please breed me daddy- fuck- wanna be full of your babies” You plead as you grind your hips down on his cock earning a guttural moan from him.

“Yea? You want that your little slut? You wanna have my kids?” He asks even though he already knows the answer. You dont find the words to respond and just opt for nodding your head. And in turn Bucky changes the position so he’s back on top and he thrusts into you like never before. Your moans become louder and his pace gets rougher. The both of you end up finishing within a matter of minutes and once you do you take the mask off him and just stare at him.

You take a moment and rub your thumb over his bottom lip before you bring him into a passionate kiss. Bucky grunts into the kiss and wraps his arms around your waist lovingly. After you break the kiss you look into his blue eyes and smile softly.

“I love you” You whisper and put your forehead against his. In this moment you love him more than you ever thought possible. Did he murder someone? Yes. Did he kill almost a dozen people just for you? Yes. But he also did it because he loves you and that just makes your heart swell. You get an idea after a minute of just looking at him.

“Let’s clean this place up and then run away, Lets go some where else where it can be just us” You say with a pleading looking in your eyes. Bucky agrees and nods before getting you both dressed again.

The two of you clean up the mess and decide of what to do with the body before heading back home to pack your things. That night while in a way tragic was also the start of the rest of your lives together and you couldn’t be happier.

~the end~

i do not give permission for my work to me translated or copied on other websites

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farfromstrange · 2 months

Text

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.”

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

“How would you know?” you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?”

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him.

“Don’t call me that,” you growl.

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out.

“Published by Columbia University.”

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in.

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his.

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins.

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur.

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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