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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐧

series summary: Two years had passed since your break up with Jack, a fellow Statesmen agent. But everything re-ignites again when Champ asks you to go San Francisco to investigate the disappearance of multiple women across the country and, sadly enough, agent Malibu. While doing anything with Jack is chaos enough, you also run in to another ex, a man that actually showed you kindness and someone you thought you could spend the rest of your days with that is until he started asking too many questions about your job, Frankie Morales.

pairing(s): jack daniels x fem!reader, past frankie morales x fem!reader, eventual (+endgame pairing) jack daniels x fem!reader x frankie morales

chapter summary: The story of how you and Frankie met. In present day Jack brings his car to the garage Frankie works at.

word count: 7.1k

chapter warnings: use of weed, alcohol consumption, getting high with frankie morales, high sex, piv sex, reader talking about her break up with jack, self-destructive tendencies (reader), mild exhibitionism, dirty talking, creampie, mention of reader being on the pill, statesmen agent!reader, brief mention of frankie's cocain addiction, reader heavily relying on weed and alcohol for comfort frankie trying to help

a/n: and here we are once again! thank you to all those who were patient with me and supported this series despite it being months, I love you all and enjoy! xx

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

It was a hot day when he met you.

After his license was taken away, and after the… unfortunate events Santi had dragged him into, Frankie had decided to dedicate himself to volunteer work—volunteer work that specifically included animals. He knew someone, someone way back, named Maria and Maria worked at the local animal shelter. Frankie gave her a call and the next day he was learning the ropes of what they did.

Initially, Frankie thought he would be visiting once a week—but there was a lot that needed to be done and he wasn’t above getting his hands dirty for the sake of the poor animals who were abandoned. Every morning he had a habit of greeting all the dogs. It was a bittersweet experience. He loved seeing how excited they got, but he also became heartbroken when he saw the dogs that had lost all hope. They would just sit in their cages, head bowed down, only their eyes moving when Frankie came in to clean their living spaces. He felt a special bond between him and them.

He fixed all the cages the first week, he asked for pillows, for new water bowls. Frankie became a loud protestor of mistreated animals. In the end it made him feel selfish. He wasn’t doing much, but even that little bit of effort made his heart feel lighter after all the shit he’d done. It made him feel good.

Frankie practically begged Will and Benny to adopt a dog, a black old terrier that deserved a happy home. Frankie would be the first to admit that the small dog wasn’t really Will and Benny’s style, but he asked them anyway. Much to his gratitude, the brothers said yes.

He thought of Pope, but he was still traveling way too frequently, meaning that he wasn’t the best person to adopt an animal.

That’s how his days went. Most of his time was spent at the shelter, the rest of his time was dedicated to getting his license back. And of course, he had to work, which he did at the neighborhood car repair shop. The pay wasn’t much but it was decent. Enough for him to buy food.

He was filling the water bowls when you came in. His shirt stuck to his skin, his back damp and dark in color with sweat. You looked around nervously.

“Hello there, you looking to adopt?”

You looked away, biting your bottom lip. Frankie noticed your swollen eyes, your running nose. Raising an eyebrow, he cocked his head to the side—you were crying.

“Hi,” you chirped, albeit anxiously. “Sorry, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. My friend told me to get out and I didn’t really wanna see anyone so I ended up coming here.”

“That’s okay,” he answered with a sudden sense to comfort you. His fingers twitched, the need to place a hand over your shoulder overwhelming. He pushed those thoughts aside. “We can look around. I have time, and the dogs always get excited to see new people,”

“That makes me sad since I can’t take any of them home,” you mutter, finally lifting your gaze and looking at him for the first time. “Can I help with anything? You have volunteers right?”

“We sure do,” he nodded, smiling. “And we never say no to some extra spare hands. I don’t really have anything specific in mind so let me show you around first. Does that sound good?”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

Frankie led the way, walking slowly to give you a chance to take in everything around you. You seemed to be trying your best to stay calm by wrapping your arms around your frame. Again, his need to offer comfort overwhelmed him. He’s not one to place his nose into things that didn’t concern him, but in a way, he could relate to your need to both go out and heal—but also wanting to stay away from people. He understood that.

"Here are the dog kennels," Frankie said, pointing to a row of cages that housed dogs of all sizes and breeds. "We try to make them as comfortable as possible, but they're still waiting for their forever homes."

“Do people often adopt?”

“It’s more common now, thankfully,” he grumbles, anger twisting in his stomach. “But people still want “pure breeds” which is a load of shit if you ask me. There are also the people who adopt but can’t handle the responsibility and bring them back which is—” bitter laughter dropped from his lips. “I wouldn’t really describe myself as a temperamental person but some people I swear to god,”

“Must be frustrating.”

“It is.”

His answer had come from a place of slight shock. Frankie was used to people being more…emphatic. He was used to the “awwws” and the sad “ohhhs” coming from the people who visited. But instead of that, or remarking on how cruel humanity was (which was another answer he frequently got), you just stated a fact. You just pointed out the obvious. Which was slightly unnerving since that obvious thing was what he was feeling.

The dogs barked and jumped up at the sound of voices, wagging their tails. Frankie stopped to pat a few of them on the head, and he watched you smile as you got closer to the cages, patting a mix between a greyhound and a husky.

“So loving,” you murmured, fascinated. “One of his eyes is blue.”

“He’s a husky mix, his name is Thor—well, I call him Thor.”

“Marvel fan?”

“Nah, it just felt fitting.”

Moving on, Frankie continued to talk about the shelter and its operations. He told you about how they rely on donations and volunteers to keep running, and how they work to rehabilitate animals who have been abused or neglected. He hoped to keep his voice gentle and soothing, and he was pleased that you slowly started to open up.

"Are you here full time?” you asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.

“I wish but no.”

“Work?”

He nodded, “Work.”

It was odd talking to you. It almost felt like you couldn’t speak in full sentences. It was clear to him that you were in some kind of emotional turmoil—something he noticed not because of his killer observation skills but due to the fact the whites of your eyes were red. He wondered what kind of person you were without whatever it was that was weighing you down.

He wondered what your smile might look like.

Frankie didn't ask what you did in your spare time, which would be a natural way to continue the conversation, instead, he showed you the rest of the shelter. He showed you the cats lounging in their cages, the birds chirping in their aviary, and even some rabbits hopping around in a pen. You lean forward, observing the tiny bodies of cuteness through the dirty glass. Frankie almost sees the twitch of your lip, but before it transforms into an expression you straighten up and roll your shoulders.

“What can I help with?”

Frankie asked you out on a date two weeks later. He liked to think it was due to the peer pressure coming from Pope and Benny rather than his undeniable infatuation with you.

You were hardworking, emotional, and quick to point out stupidity. After learning more about the shelter and its issues, which was impressively quick, you started to constantly butt heads with Frankie. He knew your intentions were good, which is why he didn’t mind your passion coming out as impatience. You wanted to help. You wanted to see results. He understood quickly that according to you, the other volunteers were weak-handed, and didn’t want to get their hands dirty—but Frankie found that you were a little too eager to get your hands dirty.

But he never said anything. He kept his observations to himself and asked you out for dinner at his place, he didn’t really have the budget to take you out, and his cooking was way better compared to Burger King or any other fast food chain.

You showed up half an hour late with an apologetic smile and a bottle of red wine.

“Sorry,” you said before hello. “Traffic was insane,”

“Don’t worry about it,” he answers with a soft smile. “Come on in.”

He took the bottle from you and waited until you’d completely passed the threshold, he noticed that you had a slight limp to your step. He closed the door and followed you inside.

“Are you okay? You’re limping,”

You were visibly surprised by the question, shoulders raising. Frankie understood then that you were attempting to hide it, and he flustered at the thought, he hadn’t meant to call you out or anything.

“An asshole kid kicked me,” you sighed, clearly exasperated. “I was just waiting for the light to turn green and this little demon spawn kicked me while holding his mother’s hand. It hurt as hell, but surprise surprise mama satan said nothing!”

Frankie placed the wine on the table and wiped his palms on his jeans, he was sweating. “Parents tend to be worse than the children they’re rising,” he cleared his throat. “Is it sprained? I can wrap it up for you if you want.”

He held his breath when you walked up to him, placing a flat hand over his chest.

“Eager to lick my wounds already,” you hummed, a faint glimmer in your eyes. “How chivalrous.”

“Force of habit,” he grinned, which was followed up by a loud swallow. “I have a lot of friends that tend to get into trouble.”

“Are these the soldier buddies I heard so much about?” you pull back your hand.

He watched as you head for the couch, shrugging your jacket off before taking a seat. With practiced ease, he grabbed two crystal wine glasses and a sleek wine opener from the kitchen. He uncorked a bottle of red wine, letting the rich aroma fill the room, and poured it carefully into the glasses.

Frankie had made a somewhat decent charcuterie board. He raided his local grocery store the day before and picked up some basic items: a block of cheddar cheese, a package of sliced salami, a jar of olives, and a sleeve of crackers. He also added some grapes and cherry tomatoes for color.

He arranged everything on a wooden cutting board and placed it on the coffee table prior to your arrival. He was pleased to see that you’d already made yourself comfortable by crossing your legs, nibbling on a cracker topped with cheese and salami.

“Thank you,” you said with a mouthful when Frankie placed the glass in front of you. Swallowing, you took the glass by the stem and brought it to your lips, swallowing the ruby liquid. “This is great. I really needed this,”

“You do know that this isn’t the main course right?” he chuckled, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. “My budget isn’t that tight. We have pasta.”

“Ohh pasta,” you sighed, licking your lips. Frankie’s eyes followed the bath of your tongue. “And that’s not what I meant. I’m just…I was trying to express gratitude I guess. It’s been a while since I felt good and I’m pretty sure it’s all thanks to you.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s not true,” he couldn’t help but draw slow patterns across the back of your bare neck. He felt like a man possessed with the need to touch you, no matter how minimal. “You’re quite competent. I don’t think you need to give credit to me for your own healing.”

“I can’t exactly discredit you either,” you smiled, shaking your head. “I’m sorry for being—” you swallowed, words seemingly failing you. “—for being not myself.”

“Would it be okay if I ask what happened?” his, voice a beat above a whisper. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t seem like the type to talk about your feelings a lot.”

“You’re too observant for comfort,” the fact that you smiled when saying it relieved him. “But I don’t mind talking about it. I feel like you deserve some kind of explanation—”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Even so…I would…like to talk about it,” you took another sip of your wine before turning to him completely, fingers nervously moving up and down the glass stem. “This is going to be cliche.”

“I have no issues with cliches,” he smiled, the pads of his fingers pressing firmer into your skin. “Cliches are cliche for a reason.”

“That’s a nice thought.”

A moment of silence. You took another sip, lips shimmering with the residue left from the wine.

“I was somewhat recently broken up with. I want to say it was a nasty breakup but it actually wasn’t—which shouldn’t bother me but it does.”

Frankie remained quiet, waiting for you to continue. He didn’t dare to move or even breathe, in the passing silent seconds. Your chest raised as you took a deep breath, remembering made you wince.

“We’re coworkers so I see him quite often. He’s also not the easiest person to get along with—and that’s not just me saying that. He kept a lot of things to himself, and it made me think ‘why be in a relationship if we’re not going to comfort and be honest with each other’ he took it well, actually. A week later I heard him being with someone else. I—I took it pretty bad.”

“That’s okay,” Frankie said without waiting a beat. “He sounds like an asshole. And no one should expect you to take it with a smile.”

“I guess not.” you sighed and leaned over to place the glass on the table. “I’m not being a very good date am I?”

It wasn’t difficult to see that you were deflecting. However, being a man of his word, Frankie didn’t press for more details. He would learn more about the man that broke your heart with time, and even if he didn’t, that was alright, as long as he was able to make you smile, it didn’t matter to him what happened in your past.

Considering his own mistakes and misfortunes, he hoped that you would spare him the same consideration.

“You’re being a lovely date,” he answered, leaning closer. He noticed the way your eyes dropped to his lips, a soft exhale escaping them.

“That’s an awfully generous statement.”

It was the way your lashes fluttered when he fully cradled your nape, squeezing softly, he allowed his lips to brush yours. Your eyes closed in a sort of surrender. Maybe he should’ve thought about it more before allowing himself to be a distraction. That was he was; a distraction—a balm to soothe your heart. He didn’t mind being the cure. Maybe that was fucked up of him.

In that moment he liked to think that some part of him was using you too, for his own comfort. You treated him like he was a pure man, excluded from all sin. It’s far from the truth but it was nice for someone to look at him with admiration instead of ‘you fucked up’.

He kissed you. Wine stained lips molding together, tongues intertwining, leaving no room to breathe. He inhaled your scent, smoke, and something sweet he couldn’t quite place his finger on. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip, teeth gently digging into the soft flesh. Your hands skimmed his waist, goosebumps pebbling under the fabric of his shirt as he felt your fingers moving up and down.

Frankie was the one to part away, but again, he kept you close, his forehead against yours. Your eyes remained closed, lips looking tender and swollen under the dim lights.

“Frankie, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“I don't mean to be presumptuous or anything, but I didn't just bring wine with me. I actually brought some weed, if that's something you'd be interested in smoking," you opened your eyes, staring directly into Frankie’s. “I know it's not for everyone, but it might be a nice way to unwind a bit."

In hindsight, Frankie probably should say no. He didn’t have any issues with you smoking it, but he just wasn’t sure if he should. It had been a while. He remembered using it a lot when he wanted to forget, or before inhaling a shit ton of coke, which he hasn’t done—at least not to that amount—since his license got taken away.

His cock twitched when you dragged your lips down the column of his neck, pressing a kiss into his shoulder. He exhaled slowly, something that could be easily confused with a sigh. Your grip on his waist tightened. He didn’t want you to feel like he didn’t understand, or that he was against it. He wasn’t.

While you laid another kiss above his collarbone, he placed one on your temple.

“Sounds great.”

They were on the floor. Smoke lingered deep in their lungs, a cloud of cannabis entrailing and curling around them both. Frankie had no idea how they ended up there; backs pressed against the couch cushions, coffee table pushed ahead, empty charcuterie board on your side. Their limbs were tangled with each other, your legs propped over Frankie’s thighs.

His fingers curled around the meat of your thigh, stroking and squeezing the muscle affectionately.

“What does it mean to be a bad person?” you asked suddenly.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He slid his hand forward, following the peak of your knee and moving to your calf, there he drummed his thumb against the bone. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know that’s why I’m asking,” you chuckled, you shimmied closer until the curve of your bottom touched the outside of his thigh. “Everything is so gray. I want to be a good person, always have. But then why am I suffering? Why am I having these thoughts that convince me I’m a waste? I thought being good meant sacrificing parts of yourself, to do good no matter what—being good means not thinking about yourself, that is what I was told. And I think I do that. With my job—”

Your sentence came to an abrupt halt, you shook your head and Frankie could feel the tremors of the movement mirroring in his lap. He dragged his nails up and down your leg, imagining that a shudder would settle over your spine from it.

“If being good means making sacrifices for it, why is it that the people who don’t are happier than me?”

“You don’t know if they’re happy or not.”

“That might be true but I do know that they’re not struggling like I am. They’re not lonely. They’re not afraid of it. Me on the other hand, I cry myself to sleep almost every night,” you shook your head, legs slowly starting to recoil. “Sorry, I—I can’t think, that was such a childish thing to complain about. You’re right. I don’t know what people think, maybe they’re just as tortured as I am.”

Frankie kept your legs over his lap, forcefully so. “I don’t think it’s childish,” he exhaled one breath and inhaled two. His fingers slid down to your ankle, and there he felt your beating pulse. Your breath hitched. “I just think you’re hurt. We’re all afraid of something. You’re not alone in that.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Losing myself.”

The air around them stilled. Frankie’s mind threatened to spiral, he took heavy breaths, trying to focus on something, anything. He felt his heart beating in his throat and he swallowed—again and again. Your veins throbbed under the pads of his fingers, he focused on that, he thought that he could hear the blood rushing in your veins.

“I think you’re too stubborn to lose yourself,” you whispered, hooking a finger under his chin and lifting his gaze back to you. “But I’ll tell you something, if you do, I’ll pull you out of it.”

He smiled, his heartbeat finally slowing, “And I’ll always be there for you. You won’t have to worry about being alone. No matter what, I’ll be there. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He blinked and when he opened his eyes again you were straddling his lap. Frankie’s hands moved on instinct, large palms securing you by resting on your back. His lips found yours, he licked himself into your mouth, teeth digging into your bottom lip maybe a bit too hard. You moaned into his mouth and he swallowed every noise, he sucked the air from your lungs, urging the sway of your hips. Before he knew it, your shirt was off, and so was his. Naked bodies came together, the softness of your breasts against his chest. You kissed him like it was your last day on earth—like you needed it to survive.

He cradled your breasts with both hands, pushing them towards his mouth. He flattened his tongue over the pebbled nipples, sucking them between his lips as much as he could. His cock strained against the zipper of his jeans, painfully so. But he didn’t care about that. How could he when you were grinding down on him, head thrown back and mewling as his teeth nipped the sensitive flesh?

More, you kept on begging, more.

Frankie was eager to give you what you wanted. A fog settled over his mind, his common sense heavily guided by his need to fuck. Within the haze, the ungrounded whispered promises, they both managed to strip themselves. He couldn’t help himself. He squeezed, pinched, and bit. You returned it in kind. Nails raked over his back, teeth marks formed dents in his skin.

His cock ached to be buried in you. It dripped heavily, precum smeared the inside of your thighs and stomach. Your chest heaving, placing both hands on his shoulders you lifted yourself up. His head fell back, his hands kneading your ass indulgingly as you sank into him.

Frankie’s eyes rolled back. You were so fucking wet—wet and incredibly warm. He cursed into your skin, buried his face between your breasts, and kissed wherever his lips touched. You shuddered around him, walls clenched tightly around his cock. A stuttered breath left you both, his nails bit into your skin, the skin above his stomach taut as your arm slowly coiled around his neck.

“Need you to move, querida,” he groaned, teeth grazing the swell of your breast.

You relied on him to be able to move, it felt more poetic than it actually was. His muscles strained as you moved, your planted feet doing little work to lift your weight. Instead, you used him like an overhead bar, trusting him enough that he wouldn’t let you fall. It was beautiful, in a way. You trusted him even when he didn’t trust himself.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, nipping your chin. “This pretty pussy feels like it was made for me to fuck.”

He felt you shudder through his cock, his balls tight when your movements began to falter, legs shaking. “It was,” you gasped, clamping around him. “Frankie—I’m close. P-Please just—” your words cut off with a moan, head falling over his. He heard you sniffling.

Frankie’s hands drew soothing patters over your back, feeling every dip and curve of your body.

“Do you want me to make you come?” he asked.

“Please.”

With his feet firmly planted on the floor, he pushed up into you, burying himself as deep as he could. Your arms curled around his head like spiderwebs, the scent of sex and cannabis clung to your skin, breasts heavy as they swayed with his thrusts.

He couldn’t help himself. You felt tight, warm—just aching for him to fill up. His entire body clenched as he shoved you down, his cock fully engulfed by your heat. He spilled into you, it’s so overwhelming that it’s borderline painful. He could fuck you until the end of time.

A sudden worry consumed him. Frankie was quick to smooth your back with open palms, looking up at you with soft and pleading eyes.

“S-Shit, I’m sorry—”

But on the contrary, you seemed glad. You seemed satisfied and happy.

“Don’t worry,” you let out a shaky breath. “I’m on the pill.”

He found you half unconscious sprawled upon the couch. It wasn’t the first time Frankie found you like this, like a picture of his past, showcasing his worst moments and forcing him to re-live them. You groaned as he lifted you up, pushing you into a sitting position. He parted your fingers and shoved a glass of cool water into your hand. You smileed in a daze.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice scratchy and dry. “How was your day?”

Frankie didn’t answer. He scoffed and continued to clean up, when that was done he guided you to the bathroom. He placed you into the warm water, scrubbing the sweat off your skin. You started crying then. Shaking and muttering apologies, that he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t really think that way. Was it sad to see you like this, yes, no doubt about it. But he didn’t blame you. He didn’t think you were being evil or malevolent. You needed help.

He needed help once too. And you weren’t anything that he couldn’t handle. Just a shit ton of weed and alcohol. He just needed to be here and it would be okay. He wanted to keep his promise.

Frankie told you as such. Not that you believed him. But he said it anyway. Reminding you that he was here, that it was okay. He would talk about himself, what he’d gone through without going into much detail. He didn’t think you were ready to hear that part of him yet.

He smoothly guided the loofa over your skin, suds moving up and down. He noticed the bruises on your arms, your ribs.

“What are these?” he asked.

You looked down, shaking your head. “From work,” you quickly said. “I fell. Nothing important.”

Frankie nodded and didn’t press any further.

But the bruises didn’t stop.

Every night when you came back from work, you had bruises, cuts, it almost looked like you were fighting but with who he had no idea. It became a problem. Him asking. It agitated you, made you lash out. And you lashing out made him lash out. He never wanted to break up, the opposite, he wanted to be with you.

The words just slipped.

“You need to tell me what’s going on so I can help. Do you want me to leave, is that it?”

“Maybe you should.” Frankie made a face and you sighed. “Maybe it’s better for the both of us if we spend some time apart. Honestly, it’s probably better for you. I’m not…I’m not well, Frankie. You deserve someone better.”

“What does that even mean?” Should he be angry? Should he put weight on these words that you were saying?

“It means that my…my feelings aren’t enough to make this work.”

“I think they’re plenty.”

“They’re not, Frankie. You know that. This isn’t fair to you. You deserve someone who’s whole, someone who isn’t broken.”

“Stop calling yourself that,” he snapped. “you’re not broken. I never thought that you were.”

You walked up to him, a single tear trickling down your cheek as you placed a hand to his rough, stubbled cheek. "Goodbye, Frankie. Thank you," you whispered, before leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips.

Frankie's eyes widened in surprise, his body tensing for a moment before he relaxed into the kiss. It was brief, but it spoke volumes - of regret, of love, of loss.

When he left Frankie heard the sound of glass shattering against a hard surface.

Frankie regretted everything. He regretted Benny talking him into flying to San Francisco and he regretted saying yes to coming to this shitshow of a club just because Benny went on and on about how it was the hottest new thing.

And typical of Benny, he was nowhere to be found.

The air around him was suffocating. It smelled of alcohol and sweet perfume that was strong enough that he felt his nose might fall off at any given moment. People around him danced and laughed. He never felt more out of place in his life. He lifted his ballcap and ran his fingers through his hair. He should definitely go back to his hotel room. He’s sure Benny would understand. Besides what was the alternative? Find a random person to fuck? He wasn’t really in the mood to make pleasantries and act like he was fine when in reality he wasn't.

Needless to say, the breakup had affected him more than he cared to admit.

A group of girls shoved him around and his eyes went over the many drunk people in the club. He was desperately hoping Benny would miraculously appear in the midst of the people. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

His eyes caught glimpse of a couple sitting in one of the booths. It was hard to see due to the red light but still, he could never truly forget what you looked like, no matter how dimly lit it was. The man you were sitting with somewhat resembled him, he was clean-shaven, his mustache trimmed and neat. His eyes traced the curve of his nose, the dip of his eyebrows, the flat line of his lips. Frankie found the cowboy hat to be comical but he couldn’t really judge anyone when he wore a baseball cap 24/7.

The cowboy leaned into your ear and murmured something but you were heavily distracted, your gaze glued to Frankie. It truly must’ve been a shock seeing him here. Not wanting to be rude, Frankie smiled, it was forced, it was broad but it was the best he could do as he headed in your direction. It just happened. He hadn’t really thought about it.

“Hey.” he said.

You looked up, a forced smile slowly spreading across your face. Frankie was somewhat pleased he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward. But despite it all, it was good to see you.

“Hey,” you answered, a slight tremble in your voice. “How are you, Frankie?”

“I’m good, you?”

“Doing better,” this time, he noticed, your smile was a sincere one. “What are you doing here? This place doesn’t exactly scream ‘this is a hangout place for Frankie Morales’.”

He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. For a second, he’d forgotten there was someone else with you. His heart sank when he heard the deep voice cut through the greetings from the past.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, buttercup?”

Both you and Frankie turned to Jack, Frankie’s eyes scanned the other man with a hint of curiosity. He followed the way the other’s arm was tightly wrapped around your waist. Jealousy rolled in his stomach, he was glad that you were happy, of course. Still, he couldn’t deny the loud blood rush in his ears.

“Frankie this is Ja– Bruce. This is Bruce,” you said, Frankie raised an eyebrow at the mixup. He wasn’t stupid. “He’s my–”

Bruce (Frankie didn’t believe that was the man’s name but he’d play along for now) cut in, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Boyfriend,” he leaned forward with an extended hand. With a kind, yet emotionless smile, Frankie squeezed the aforementioned limb. “Nice to meet you, Frankie.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

It wasn’t.

The air was thick with tension. You moved uncomfortably in your seat, as Frankie held “Bruce”’s gaze. He’s not sure what it was but the other man managed to rail him up by simply just sitting. It was an odd feeling, usually, Frankie was known to be level-headed in these kinds of situations. After everything he’s seen, he just assumed stuff like this wouldn’t bother him anymore. He pinched his brows together. It was uncomfortable to think that he was just faking not being bothered. Acting above it all.

His jaw tensed, his skin incredibly warm. Suddenly the music and the loud chatter faded into the background, all he could focus on was the other man—even you had become a blurred image to a degree. The man smiled, his hand on your waist gradually sliding up your body while answering Frankie’s gaze. The latter swallowed.

You gasped when the same hand cupped your breast and began to knead it.

“What are you doing?”

Frankie’s mouth went dry.

“Don’t fret, I’m just giving our friend a little show,”

Frankie vaguely noticed you staring at him, he was frozen still. His gaze was glued to the hand lazily squeezing your breast. Bruce nuzzled the dip of your jawline, lips gently grazing the line of your neck, and he breathed you in. Frankie licked his lips, his fingers twitching against the denim of his pants. Something primal stirred in him when your breath hitched. The red light gave the two of them a vibrant, erotic hue. The front of his jeans suddenly felt tight, uncomfortable.

The cowboy’s other hand traveled down to the wetness that Frankie’s sure had grown substantially between your legs. He noted the way your eyes rolled back, his finger underneath your dress, he imagined the other tracing your clothed folds.

“Do you enjoy being watched, dear?” he purred into your skin, his voice low and mocking. Then he looked up to Frankie who was frozen still. “Look at you, staring at her like a deer in headlights. Don’t you wanna come over here and feel how wet she is?”

Frankie had to stop himself from leaning forward, he was more than ready to take that extra step. His skin tingled. His eyes flit from the other man to you. He saw the way you stared at him, blinking heavily, a silent plea for him to come closer. He furrowed his brows, if you wanted to he’d happily take a seat next to you. He stepped closer, his heart skipped a beat. Bruce seemed to be delighted.

“Are you sure?” Frankie asked you.

You’re about to nod– No, not about to, you’re in the midst of nodding, but the movement was cut short when you saw something Frankie couldn’t. You were staring through him, your eyes went wide.

“Shit.”

Frankie watched dumbfounded as you grabbed Bruce by the arm and tugged him along as you scurried up from the booth. He took a step back, trying to make sense of what was happening. Bruce glared at you and yanked his arm away.

“What the hell–”

“It’s him– Albert Dunn, the waitress tipped him off. Come on Jack we need to go,”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Jack?”

He fucking knew his name wasn’t Bruce. He didn’t look like a Bruce.

Jack rushed to the door, leaving you alone. Frankie was worried, but he also felt anger simmering in his gut. So you went back to your ex, the ex that made you feel like shit and pushed you to seek comfort in other substances. Oh yeah, he was definitely angry.

He took a hold of your wrist and pulled you close so his voice could reach you.

“That was Jack? I thought–” he sighed and shook his head, it was hard to swallow his frustrations down but somehow he managed to do it. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, right? You’re safe?”

You nodded as you attempted to peel yourself away from his grasp, but he didn’t let you. He squeezed your wrists hard enough to be understood as a warning.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”

He felt defeated at that moment, his stomach sinking and his pulse slowing. His grip around your wrists loosened, and despite the crowd, it felt like it was only the two of you present. The bass of the music made his heart thud accordingly, his gaze dropped to the floor.

“I’ll call you,” you said suddenly.

Before Frankie could answer, you ran and disappeared into the crowd. He just stood there, hands lifeless against his body. Some part of him wanted to chase after you, but another part knew that he shouldn’t.

He didn’t know when but he jerked when a hand smacked his shoulder. Frankie turned only to see Benny, his smile faded as he saw Frankie’s expression.

“Are you alright, Fish?”

He wasn’t.

Frankie was working on a car for what felt like hours.

Sweat drips down his forehead and neck, leaving streaks of dirt on his skin. He wipes his oily hands on the rag that hangs from his back pocket, his eyes squinting against the hot sun. The air around him is thick with the smell of gasoline and motor oil, but he barely notices it anymore.

He sighs as he stands up, his knees aching from being hunched over for so long. The car is almost done, but he needs a break. He reaches for his water bottle, taking a long drink before leaning against the hood of the car.

That's when he hears it - the roar of an engine. He turns his head to see a vintage Ford Bronco driving towards him. He raises an eyebrow, surprised. It's not every day that a classic car like that pulls into his garage.

As the car comes to a stop, he walks towards it, wiping his hands on his jeans. He squints into the driver's seat, but he can't make out the driver's face. He shrugs, assuming it's just another customer, and goes back to his work.

But as the driver gets out of the car, Frankie's heart skips a beat—which he doesn’t appreciate. It's Jack. He feels a rush of emotion that he can't quite place. The man hops out of the car and greets him by tipping his hat. Frankie doesn’t return Jack’s enthusiasm. He just stares at him, confused.

“Need your car fixed?” he asks, hoping this is just a coincidence.

“Not quite,” Jack drawls. “I actually wanted to apologize for my behavior a week back—in the bar.” he adds when Frankie gave him a quizzical look. “I would like to buy you a drink.”

Frankie waves him off in dismissal, “No need. It’s nice for you to apologize but we don’t need to be friends. It’s weird.”

“I suppose it is,” he grins. “Just one drink.”

“Why?”

“I just want to talk,” he answers, teeth poking above his lip. “I don’t bite, promise.”

Frankie seems to have a lot of regrets nowadays. This is just one of many.

They walk into a dimly lit bar, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the hot day. Jack leads the way to a booth in the corner, and they both slide in, facing each other. Every muscle Frankie feels uncomfortably tight over his bones.

He really shouldn’t be here.

Jack orders them both a whiskey on the rocks, and he unpromptedly clinks his glass against Frankie’s. The first sip burns down Frankie's throat, but he relishes the sensation.

“So… you’re a mechanic?” Jack asks.

“She didn’t tell you much about me did she?” Frankie smiles, the corners of his lips twitch. “No, I guess she wouldn’t. Why would she tell her boyfriend about her ex.”

“We aren’t actually—” Jack swallows. “We aren’t actually a couple. We ain’t even friends to be truthful, just acquaintances.”

“From work?” Frankie asks despite knowing the answer, the other nods.

Frankie takes another sip of his whiskey and studies Jack’s face. There’s something different about him now. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself or the set of his jaw, but Frankie can’t quite put his finger on it. Frankie leans back against the booth, his eyes fixed on Jack’s face. He can feel his body tensing up again, despite the coolness of the air conditioning. He takes another sip of his whiskey, hoping it will calm his nerves.

“Listen, Jack,” Frankie says, his voice low. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anythin’,” Jack says, his eyes meeting Frankie’s.

“Then why are we here?”

“I was just curious about what kind of man you are,” he swipes over his bottom lip. “She might’ve not spoken about you much but when she did, she did speak highly of you.”

Jack leans in closer, his arm brushing against Frankie's.

“It seems like you’re a much better man than I could ever be.”

“I wouldn’t really go that far. I don’t know you and I don’t know what she said but nothing is ever that simple.”

Frankie observes as Jack’s eyebrows slowly raise, eyes only slightly wider. The other seems taken aback by the words and Frankie’s not really sure why. Maybe Jack still wasn’t aware that good and bad didn’t exist, that they were just terms. No one is really truly bad or truly good, you understand that after being at war, after shooting others that had families and loved one’s before they shot you.

He shakes his head, trying to rid his thoughts of unpleasant memories. Those thoughts were only reserved for the late hours till morning—

Frankie feels the heat rising in his cheeks as Jack's hand brushes against his knee. He tries to ignore it, but he can't help but feel a stirring in his chest.

They start to get closer, their arms touching as they lean in to talk. Frankie can feel the heat of Jack's body next to his. Jack’s gaze lingers on him. He takes a sip of his drink, trying to steady his nerves. Frankie’s leg bobs up and down, he should leave.

“I should go,” Frankie chokes out, he shifts in his seat, getting ready to get up.

“Stay.”

Frankie can feel Jack’s breath on his cheek and his heart starts to race. It’s just a voice. Jack’s not even touching him, he not holding his wrists, doesn’t have a gun to his head but despite it, Frankie stills.

“I appreciate the drink,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “But I’m fine.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jack asks.

“I’m sure,” he says, his eyes locked with Jack’s.

Jack leans in even closer, his lips just inches away from Frankie’s ear. “Alright then,” he whispers, his breath sending shivers down Frankie’s spine. “See you later, Francisco.”

Frankie can’t throw himself out of the bar fast enough.

The world around him spins, the cars louder, brighter the before. He heaves a breath. What the hell was that? He thinks over and over. The warmth of Jack’s breath still lingers and Frankie crosses the street, adamant about putting as much distance as he can.

When he’s on the other side, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t recognize the caller ID but takes any kind of distraction with open arms and answers.

“Hello?”

“Frankie it’s me,” you say and an odd sense of relief washes over him. “Can we meet up?”

He stops, takes deep breaths of the city air. His throat is dry and he lifts his head to the sky.

“Sure,” he answers. “How does tomorrow sound?”

#frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x f!reader #frankie morales x you x jack daniels #frankie morales x reader x jack daniels #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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theewokingdead · 1 year

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Chapter One - Timing is Everything (Benny x f!Reader)

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!Reader Summary: Living in Colorado, Benny struggles to deal with what happened in Colombia. A chance encounter starts to change his life - and yours. Word Count: 2.5k+ Rating: Explicit 18+ (for eventual smut in future chapters) Content: Language, PTSD, broody Benny. A/N: This series has been floating in my head since December. I can't listen to Garrett Hedlund's music without thinking about it. As always, thanks to @icanbeyourjedi and @musings-of-a-rose for offering some suggestions and encouraging me to write this. Please follow and turn on notifications for @theewokingdeadwrites to know when I update.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Benny never used to hate the rain.

As a child, he loved donning his green rubber boots and matching raincoat to jump in the puddles. He loved wrestling in the mud with his brother, Will; the constant losses he endured in his younger years fueled his growth into a young man who could complete against someone older and bigger. He loved fishing with his dad in the drizzle, the drops knocking gnats and other various bugs into the water, giving the fish a good meal and making them easier to catch. Most of all, he loved when it signaled that spring, and soon after summer, was on its way.

As an adult, Benny continued to find comfort and joy in the rain, even while crawling in the mud and running laps or completing missions in the pouring rain. The storms that frightened others made him feel energized – alive. He always longed for home, and the rain kept him close to it, the smell in the air always the same no matter where he was.

Benny loved the rain. Loved. The mission in Colombia changed everything.

Despite his intentions of making a fresh start in Colorado, as the cold rain beats against him, memories of Colombia flood his mind. It’s all so clear. The drops drenching his body as they stalked Lorea’s compound, his gloved hands gripping the gun he prayed he wouldn’t have to use. The way his wet clothes clung to him when he walked in the room to see Will injured on the floor, fearing the worst for just a moment before swallowing all emotion to focus on getting his brother – brothers - to safety. The chill in his bone as he shivered under the rock on the mountain, trying to focus on listening to the droplets as they hit the leaves, but only hearing the terrified cries of the innocent children on the cocaine farm, the sorrowful screams of their elders.

“You’re a good man, Benny,” Will had said to him. Yet hours later, he was quick to blame him for Tom's death, the fire he demanded they light to keep warm leading the vengeful villagers right to them. Santi denied that it was anyone’s fault, but Benny knows, deep down, that he is the reason for the folded flag on the living room shelf of the Davis’ home.

The smell of freshly roasted espresso permeates his nostrils, bringing him back to the present. Desperate to find refuge from the downpour, his feet carried him into a little coffee shop. Rain drips from the bill of his hat and his body trembles with cold. He sweeps the hat off his head and lightly shakes the water off, giving the room a quick glimpse of his golden hair.

Benny looks around, seeing the shop is small and warm. Large, plush couches fill the front, the small tables between them covered with books and board games. Wood and metal barstools line the length of the counter, where a single barista is smiling at him.

“Hello!” the barista greets, her liveliness a stark contrast to the dreary day outside. “What can I get started for you?”

Benny isn’t sure what to order. He’s not much of a coffee drinker and isn’t in the mood to venture trying one of those fancy coffees everyone seems to rave about.

“I’ll, uh…” He glances up at the menu for a moment before looking back at the barista, her smile friendly, warm, and patient. “I’ll have a small dark roast, please.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Neither, thanks,” Benny replies. In his mind, there’s a joke about how he likes his coffee like his soul: dark and bitter. But she’s probably heard it a million times, and, truth be told, he’s not really in a joking mood.

“Anything else? We have all sorts of baked goods. Croissants, bagels, cake pops…”

“Uhh…” He briefly examines the glass case, not wanting to disappoint the barista by saying no. “How about a cookie? Chocolate chip?”

“Not much of a risk taker, are you?” she playfully jests, reaching into the case to pull out a large, gooey cookie. She places it in a small paper bag then slides it across the counter toward him, adding with a wink, “Good choice.”

After paying for his order, Benny turns to find a spot to sit, choosing one of the small tables lining the far wall of the shop. Taking a sip of his coffee, he catches a glance at his surroundings. The rain seems to have kept customers at bay, the shop surprisingly empty for the time of day. There are only a few people here, working away on laptops or reading from textbooks and notebooks scattered in front of them, clearly students from the university down the street.

Benny envies them - they have their whole lives ahead of them, not yet spoiled by the brutalities of the world. He was their age when life brutally taught him just how fragile it can be – too fucking young to know it. Too young to be tricked into fighting someone else’s war, to watch the soldiers – his friends – get blown to bits.

He evaded far too many close calls, and every single time he was asked the same question: How’d you get so lucky?

Lucky. The word always made Benny internally scoff. Is it really lucky to be in the right place at the wrong time? Is it lucky to be the one left behind to wonder why it was them and not him?

Guess it wasn’t my time, he’d always reply with a shrug and a grin, always using his boyish charm and sense of humor to mask the pain within, not letting anyone see that he was constantly wondering Why?

Cradling his coffee with both hands, Benny watches the steam rise out of the cup and into the air, lost in thought. He thinks of his eighteenth birthday, of the phone call with Will when he told him his plan to enlist. Stay where you belong, Will had said, all but begging him not to follow him into the military. But Benny’s mind was made up and he was too bullheaded to listen. I go where you go, Will.

He can’t help but wonder where he’d be in life had he listened to his brother just the one damn time. Things wouldn’t necessarily be better, just different. Different than the hell he’s been living the last three and a half years, brought on by the mental war he fights inside himself nearly every damn day.

As it always does when he gets too deep in thought, Benny’s mind spirals, a series of what-its seeping in and taking over. Emotions flare from the dormant images that flash in his brain. Benny feels himself slipping into the abyss, spiraling back in time toa nother place, and he knows he has to ground himself.

Rising to his feet, he moves to the counter. “Excuse me, ma’am… Do you have a pen I can borrow?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” the barista replies with a smile, finding a pen near the register and holding it out for him to take. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

In the months since he returned to Colorado, the past has increasingly creeped into his mind, his thoughts harder to contain than ever before. He never knows what the catalyst will be – the blood oozing from an injured animal, a gunshot ringing in the distance, the backfire of his father’s old farm truck, the rumble of thunder, even the smell of fresh paint. He feels like a fucking child again, always afraid – except now it’s not the boogeyman lurking around the corner, but his past.

Though work around the farm keeps him physically exhausted, it doesn’t help him move through his feelings the way fighting used to. Fighting required him to be completely present and focused, forcing him to learn how to quiet the negative and judgmental voices in his head. It allowed him to forget his problems – at least temporarily. Benny had to find a new outlet, and it quickly became writing.

He keeps a journal tucked under his mattress, his old hiding spot for Playboys that Will used to sneak him now a safe space for all his deepest, darkest thoughts. His English teachers always commended him in school for his writing, but it was never something he cared to pursue, staying away from what others boys deemed “sissy shit.” But now it’s the only thing that helps him make sense of his emotions and ease his pain; the only thing that helps him communicate what he’s feeling – even if it’s only the four walls of his bedroom that hears the lyrics he wrote as he strums on his old guitar.

Benny doesn’t know how long he sits there, pouring his soul onto white coffee shop napkins. He purges the words from his brain, bold black ink furiously spewing the thoughts that poison him. The more the pen moves, the freer he feels. He doesn’t stop, writing until his fingers are numb, his hand cramping.

After filling two napkins with his thoughts and ideas, Benny stops to peruse what he wrote, circling and making notes near keywords before moving onto a third napkin to create some sort of order out of the chaos. He jots down lyrics, crossing out wrong words and replacing them with ones that seem to fit better. It pours out easily at first, a couple verses about luck and fate and how they’re bullshit – put in less harsh words.

But he loses steam as quickly as it had come, finding it hard to get the words to rhyme or flow properly, not even able to find the right words. Just about everything feels off; it just doesn’t work. He’s not even sure what direction, if any, the song is headed in. Maybe that’s the problem: it lacks direction.

Sighing in frustration, Benny sets the pen down and checks the watch on his wrist.

“Shit,” he utters, realizing he stayed too long at the coffee shop. Now he’ll need to hurry to his appointment at the Driver’s License Office – something he’s already put off for far too long. Something about updating his license makes it all feel final, like there’s no going back to Tampa or his life as an MMA fighter. It should make him excited to close that chapter, but he has no idea what the next chapter holds. For the first time in his life, that scares him.

After scrambling to gather his things, he sets the borrowed pen down on the counter and hastily thanks the barista once more while quickly walking the remaining distance to the door. Using his shoulder to nudge the door open, he stops to peer out at the rain, drops beating heavily on the awning above him. Before taking another step, he hears a voice, which causes him to pause.

“Wait! Wait!”

Benny’s head snaps in the direction of the noise, his eyes locking on a figure running through the sheets of rain in his direction. He’s confused, watching as the figure emerges from the gloom and stops after reaching the safety of the awning. He sees that you have one arm tucked into the front of your coat, the other stretching the material to keep whatever you appear to be smuggling safe.

“Thank you!” you say breathlessly, knowing you would have struggled to open the door if he hadn’t come out at the right time. “Thank you so much, uh-”

“Benny,” he replies, a hint of confusion in his voice as he stares at you, water dripping from your clothes and nose.

“Benny,” you repeat, flipping a piece of wet hair out of your face, revealing a pair of the most beautiful eyes, a mix of colors that make him want to look closer. The face surrounding those remarkable eyes is just as stunning.

Letting your coat out of your clutch, you remove your arm, revealing a stack of papers in your hand.

“Would you like one?” you question, offering him a flyer. “Hot off the press, and, somehow, perfectly dry.”

“Thanks,” Benny says, accepting the paper with his free hand, looking down at it with confusion. “I’ll, uh… I’ll do my best to keep it that way.”

“Be ready for a very thorough inspection the next time I see you,” you tease in a serious tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” Benny replies, which forces your mouth to twist into a smile, small but pretty enough to bring a man to his knees. Benny would do anything to never see it leave your face. “I hope I don’t disappoint.”

You softly stare up at his bright blue eyes, eyes that draw you in and seem to hold you captive. A flush creeps up on to your cheeks, ashamed of the scenarios your dirty mind instantly conjured up. Just the sound of those two simple words sends blood pumping to your core. Are you really so sex deprived that you’re thinking about a stranger attending to your needs? You curl your lips inward and gently bite down while dropping your eyes to the ground, hoping he doesn’t notice how flustered you’ve become.

“Well… Thanks again, Benny. Hope to see you again soon.”

Benny’s gaze follows you as you cross the threshold into the shop, watching as you walk up to the counter and drop the papers. Then, he turns and looks out into the rain, trying to processes what just happened, missing the glance you give over your shoulder. A soft smile on his face, he runs into rain. Somehow, the drops feel warmer than they did earlier that day.

As he walks into the driver's license building, he mindlessly hums the melody of a song that he’s not yet written.

After dropping the stack of freshly printed flyers on the counter, you disappear into the back of the shop to change into fresh clothes that you keep tucked away – you lost count of how many spills and other various mishaps happened before you learned your lesson to keep spares on hand.

Once you reemerge, you immediately get to work, using the lull in customers to tidy up the space. Bending down to pick up a discarded napkin on the floor near the tables lining the far wall, you see that it’s just than just garbage. It’s filled with handwritten notes, the handwriting beautiful, neat, and unique, almost like a font. The first letter of each word and every ‘A’ is capitalized. The words themselves are just as beautiful, the lines seeming to read like a poem – or maybe a song? A few words are crossed out and replaced with another, arrows drawn to indicate that parts should be moved, but you comprehend what’s intended.

I’ve had close calls

When it could’ve been me

I was young when I learned just how fragile life can be

I lost friends of mine

I guess it wasn’t my time

When you look up, wondering who could’ve written something so beautiful, tears swim in your eyes. Even though you don't know the author, it feels like you’ve peeked directly into their soul, and for some unknown reason, you feel compelled to share your own in return.

#benny miller #benjamin miller #benjamin benny miller #benny miller x you #benny miller x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fan fiction #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #garrett hedlund #garrett hedlund x you #garrett hedlund x reader #garrett hedlund characters #garrett hedlund fanfiction #timing is everything series #catie writes

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theetherealbloom · 1 year

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NOTRE DAME - CH. 3

Chapter 3: The Undone and The Divine

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. Will their connection illuminate a path to salvation in a city of darkness or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Religion, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT, Shy Reader, Mentions of Abuse, Criminal Activities, Mobsters/Mafia, Character Death, Slowish Burn, Disassociation,

Word Count: 11.9k

A/N: This was lowkey tough to write with all the technicalities but I managed to push through it lol. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Song: Only If For A Night by Florence + The Machine

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dividers @/saradika-graphics

A FEW DAYS LATER…

NEW YORK CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT – MORNING

As you blink, fragments of your past weave their way into your consciousness, like threads of a tapestry unraveling in your mind. Memories unfold, revealing moments of rigorous training, ethereal wisdom, and a mentor whose guidance shaped you into the person you are today.

You remember living in a tranquil sanctuary, surrounded by ancient texts and mystical artifacts. The air hums with energy as you practice intricate movements, honing your skills under the watchful eye of a wise and enigmatic figure. The connection between you is unspoken yet profound, a bond forged through years of shared knowledge and profound teachings.

Visions of battles fought against formidable adversaries dance before your eyes. You wielded powers beyond comprehension, manipulating the very fabric of reality with finesse and precision. In those moments, you were a guardian of balance, a protector of realms unseen.

But the flashbacks recede, vanishing like whispers in the wind. You find yourself in the bustling corridors of the New York City Police Department, surrounded by the everyday realities of life. The voice of Brett Mahoney pulls you back to the present, concern etched on his face. "You good? You seem kinda out of it."

You look up from the paperwork you were filing for a domestic violence case and force a small smile. "Mhm, just a little tired," you respond, trying to shake off the remnants of the past and the previous nights of helping Matt from the sidelines. Mahoney takes a sip of his coffee before continuing, "You know, my mom has been askin’ for you. You aren't giving her cigarettes with those cookies too, are you?"

You snort, the corners of your lips curling with amusement. "Nah, I actually have a secret life as a drug dealer and deliver her cookies laced with crack," you quip, easing the tension in the room. Brett chuckles at your joke as you put down the pen and hand the file to another officer. "Why, what's up?" you ask, genuinely interested. Brett sighs, his voice tinged with weariness. "Could you maybe visit her? I've been pulling a lot of shifts lately, and dealing with reports of some masked vigilante beating up a bunch of criminals has taken up a lot of my time."

You sigh, feigning concern at the news. "New York is something else," you remark. Brett hums in agreement, understanding the chaos of the city all too well. "So, could you do it? Drop by and give her more of those cocaine cookies?" he asks, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

You nod, with your expression sincere. "Sure, I'll stop by in a bit," you promise, knowing that a visit to Brett's mother would bring a sense of joy and connection amidst the chaos of your secret battles.

MAHONEY RESIDENCE – DAY

You give a gentle knock on the door of the Mahoney residence, and a warm smile spreads across your face as it swings open to reveal Bess Mahoney, an elderly woman with a kind expression. "Hi, dear. Come inside," she welcomes you, gesturing for you to enter. Expressing your gratitude, you respond, "Thank you, Bess. I brought some of those cookies you like! Sister Maggie and Sister Catherine helped me bake them."

As you step into the cozy living room, the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the air, creating an atmosphere of comfort and familiarity. Bess's eyes light up with delight, and she takes your hand in hers. "You're such a sweetheart, always thinking of me," she says, her voice tinged with genuine affection. "Those nuns at the church have been a blessing to this neighborhood."

You nod, a sense of warmth and purpose swelling within you. "They truly are," you reply, feeling grateful for the support and guidance the sisters have provided throughout your journey. "They've taught me so much about compassion and making a difference in people's lives."

As you sit at the kitchen table, the taste of the homemade cookies still lingering on your tongue, a sense of calm settles over you. The weight of the world and the secret battles you face momentarily fade away in the presence of Bess's warm company.

Just as you begin to bask in the comfort of the moment, Bess's voice breaks the tranquility. "I need a favor from you, honey," she says, her tone carrying a hint of concern. Your eyebrows furrow, and you lean in, attentively asking, "Is something wrong?"

Bess waves her hand dismissively. “Not with me, but with a dear friend of mine, Elena Cardenas. She's a lovely woman, and she's facing trouble. You see, she owns a rent-controlled apartment in Hell's Kitchen, but her landlord suddenly wants to evict her.”

Your frown deepens, empathizing with the injustice of the situation. Nodding in understanding, you urge Bess to continue. She smiles and explains, “I suggested she reach out to the new firm in the city, Nelson and Murdock. They have a reputation for being very good at what they do.”

Your eyes widen in surprise and realization. "Oh, yes. I've heard of them. They’re very good.” The memory of your encounter with Matt Murdock resurfaces, the card tucked safely in your pocket. It seems fate has intertwined your paths once again.

Bess's smile grows wider, her eyes gleaming with hope. "Perfect. Honey, I need you to go with Elena Cardenas to their office. She's as old as me, and it would grant me peace of mind knowing she arrives there safely."

You look into Bess's eyes, seeing the genuine concern and trust she places in you. There is no denying the importance of this favor, and deep down, you know you can't refuse. With a resolute expression, you reply, "Of course, Bess. What's her address and phone number? I'll make sure Elena gets to Nelson and Murdock's office."

A forced smile graces your lips, masking any hesitation or trepidation. At this moment, you understand that there is no avoiding this task. It is a chance to help someone in need, to make a difference in their life, and honor the trust Bess has placed in you.

As Bess shares the necessary details, you commit them to memory, knowing that this journey will bring its challenges and revelations. You rise from the table, ready to fulfill your role as a guardian in the shadows, guided by the light of friendship and the pursuit of justice.

With a final nod of assurance to Bess, you bid her farewell, leaving her with the comforting knowledge that Elena Cardenas will be well taken care of. As you step out into the bustling streets of Hell's Kitchen, you carry within you the determination to stand for those who need it most.

NELSON AND MURDOCK ATTORNEY’S AT LAW – DAY

You guide Mrs. Cardenas to the address scribbled on the card provided by Matt. As you approach the designated location, a paper sign catches your attention, proudly displaying the name "Nelson and Murdock Attorney's at Law." It's the place you were directed to, and you offer Mrs. Cardenas a comforting smile before proceeding.

You raise your hand and knock on the door, with it slightly open and already spotting the people inside. “Hi, uhm, I’m looking for Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock.”

As Mrs. Cardenas follows you inside, you can't help but feel a sense of reassurance, knowing that you've brought her to a place where she will be heard and supported. With Karen's presence and the promise of Nelson and Murdock's assistance, you are hopeful that justice will prevail and that Mrs. Cardenas will find the resolution she deserves.

Matt breathes a sigh of relief as he hears you, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You're okay," he states, his worry evident in his tone. You raise an eyebrow in response, a hint of curiosity lacing your words. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Though your response isn't a complete answer, it holds a semblance of truth. Deep down, you understand that recovery takes time, and your body bears the evidence of the journey you've been through. Matt's heightened senses allow him to perceive the subtle clues that reveal your ongoing healing process. The scent of cortisol and antiseptic lingers in the air around you, a testament to the challenges you've faced and the resilience you've shown.

You glance at the man standing beside Matt, presuming him to be his friend and partner, Foggy. He scrutinizes both of you with a curious expression and poses the question, "You two know each other?" Your mind races to come up with a plausible explanation, and you quickly respond, "We go to the same church."

Foggy's gaze shifts between you and Matt, seemingly skeptical of your answer. He turns to Matt, seeking confirmation. Matt simply nods, but it's evident that Foggy isn't fully convinced. He remarks with a hint of sarcasm, "So, is that what they call it now?"

A blush creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed by the implication. Before Matt can intervene, you shake your head, determined to clarify the situation. "No, seriously. I'm also Catholic, and I work at the church. I’m also a social worker at Metro-General."

You hope that this additional information will dispel any misconceptions and assure Foggy of your genuine connection to the church. He needs to understand that your involvement extends beyond deception.

Foggy raises his eyebrows, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "That sounds like a lot of work," he remarks, acknowledging the dedication required for your role. You smile, "Yeah, it can be challenging, but I’ll manage."

Matt, however, senses the underlying tension and the half-truth in your response. His heightened senses enable him to pick up on the subtleties of your emotions. You clear your throat, aware that the truth cannot be concealed from him indefinitely.

"Anyways," you continue, shifting the focus of the conversation, "you said I could come here and ask for your legal services. This is Elena Cardenas." With a nod, you introduce Elena, hoping that the urgency of her situation will capture their attention.

Foggy and Matt guide both of you to their small conference room, offering seats to discuss the pressing matter at hand. As you take your place at the table, the heaviness of the situation settles upon you. You await their guidance and expertise, knowing that their legal services might be the key to helping Mrs. Cardenas in her time of need.

"Bess Mahoney? Brett's mom?" Foggy seeks clarification as you mention Bess referring Elena to them. Elena nods in confirmation. "Sí, she referred me. Dice que le da puros."

Karen, the woman you were introduced to earlier, chuckles. "Something about cigars?" Foggy looks at Karen with surprise. "You know Spanish?" Karen shakes her head. "Oh, just what I remember from high school."

Matt, his expression serious, turns his attention to Mrs. Cardenas. "Mrs. Cardenas, please tell us what happened." Mrs. Cardenas struggles to translate her Spanish into English, doing her best to convey the details. "Mi casa es rent-control. But the landlord, Señor Tully..."

"Armand Tully? Sleaze bag who owns buildings all over town," Foggy interjects, recognizing the name. Mrs. Cardenas nods. "Sí, y Señor Tully..." She switches back to speaking in Spanish, and Karen takes it upon herself to translate. "He wants to convert the apartments into condominiums. And he wants the residents to leave." Mrs. Cardenas continues, "Men came weeks ago. They claimed they were workers. And they destroyed the apartments with a… I don't know that last word.”

"Sledgehammer," Matt utters simultaneously, his voice aligning with your own words. The synchronized response captures the attention of everyone in the room, their focus shifting toward the shared statement. "College," Foggy adds, clarifying the source of his knowledge. As he tilts his head in curiosity, his unsteady gaze falls upon you, silently inquiring about your proficiency in Spanish. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips nervously before you respond, "Um, I learned it when I was young. Sometime around middle school."

"You ever have a client that wants to chat in Punjabi, I'm your man," Foggy says cheerfully, injecting a light-hearted comment into the conversation. You smile in response, appreciating his sense of humor. Karen, on the other hand, looks between you and Matt, slightly uncertain.

"Um... Do you want to do this?" she asks, seeking confirmation from Matt. His voice carries a flirtatious tone as he replies, "No, no. I like listening to your voice." Karen blushes in response, clearly affected by Matt's smooth and charming personality. Foggy sighs, “Go on, Mrs. Cardenas.” And your attention shifts between the three of them.

The world you once cherished loses its luster, fading into a somber tableau. Each breath becomes a shallow rhythm, failing to ground you in the swirling tempest of emotions. Jealousy, heavy as a stone, settles in the pit of your stomach, reminding you of desires that can never be fulfilled.

Hurt and longing intertwine, composing a poignant symphony within your chest. The truth resonates deep within your being: Matt will never be yours. It's a bitter pill to swallow, a gold rush of emotions crashing against the shores of the unrequited.

Yet, during this storm, you find solace in acknowledging your feelings. Envy and sadness are natural companions when faced with the undeniable connection between Matt and Karen, including the nights before with him and Claire. It serves as a stark reminder that your feelings can be elusive, slipping through your grasp like grains of sand.

You've always held a profound love for this world, cherishing its every detail. But now, it feels as though everything is slipping away, slipping beyond your grasp. The sun rises dutifully, even when unasked, illuminating the beauty around you. Most days, you wouldn't think twice about the things that go right in your life.

As the weight of your emotions threatens to consume you, Matt's heightened senses pick up on the shifting energy in the room. He turns his head towards you, his moving gaze piercing through the haze of your disquiet.

"Hey," he calls your name softly, his voice laced with concern, “Are you okay? You went sort of quiet…” Startled, you hastily put on a fake smile, hoping to mask the tumultuous thoughts and feelings that swirl within you. It's a delicate dance, maintaining the facade while grappling with the ache in your heart.

You meet his eyes behind his glasses, your eyes betraying a flicker of vulnerability before you quickly avert your gaze. Deep down, you know he senses something is amiss, but you can't bear to burden him with your inner turmoil. So, you play the part, presenting a semblance of composure despite the storm raging within.

With a subtle nod, you signal your understanding, silently acknowledging his attention and care. It's a fleeting moment, fleeting like the delicate petals of a wilting flower, but you carry on, concealing the depths of your emotions behind a practiced smile, “Mhm. I’m fine, just remembered something, my apologies.”

As Mrs. Cardenas continues to voice her concerns in Spanish, detailing the dire conditions in her building, and the absence of necessities like working sinks and pipes, a sense of despair fills the air. Her words echo with the weight of helplessness, as she recounts the failed attempts to seek assistance.

Karen steps in, fluently translating Mrs. Cardenas' words, revealing the futility of their interactions with the police. "The police couldn't help, they don’t know what to do." Karen conveys, her voice carrying the frustration and disappointment that hangs in the room. Mrs. Cardenas's voice rises with passion as she shares the police's response, emphasizing their inability to address the situation.

Matt's shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh of frustration, his expression mirroring the collective disappointment in the room. It's a shared recognition of the limitations faced by those in need, the overwhelming bureaucracy that leaves them stranded without a lifeline.

Foggy looks at one of the documents, “This says Tully offered them 10,000 to give up their rent control and vacate the premises. Maybe we can pressure him into giving a better payout.” Karen stands up and reaches for a tissue box behind the two of you and then places it on the table before sitting back down.

Mrs. Cardenas shakes her head, “No, Señor Foggy. We do no want money. We want to stay in our homes.” A glimmer of determination flickers on Matt's face, a silent promise to do what he can to rectify the injustice. Though the challenges ahead may be daunting, he refuses to let the circumstances crush their hope. With unwavering resolve, he leans forward, ready to confront the city's indifference. He begins to converse with Mrs. Cardenas in Spanish, telling her that Foggy will speak to Tully’s lawyer.

As Mrs. Cardenas expresses her gratitude with a heartfelt "Oh, gracias Senor Murdock! Muchas gracias," Matt responds with a simple "Bueno." He stands up, his hands on his hips, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. You rise from your seat alongside Mrs. Cardenas, ready to escort her out.

With the meeting finished, you follow Karen out of the conference room, expressing your gratitude for her assistance and the accommodating nature of their firm. Stepping out onto the city's bustling streets, you bid farewell to Mrs. Cardenas, reminding her to remain cautious on her way home. Your paths diverge, each heading in separate directions, carrying the weight of the day's challenges and hope for a better future.

Lost in your thoughts, you find yourself standing outside the steps of Foggy and Matt's office building, retrieving your phone from your pocket to check your next task. Suddenly, a small object collides with the heel of your shoe, drawing your attention. Matt's voice breaks the silence, apologizing for the accidental encounter.

"Oh, Matt! I'm sorry," you respond, a hint of surprise in your wide eyes. Swiftly, you step aside, allowing him to pass without any further obstruction. The brief interaction lingers in the air, a fleeting moment of shared acknowledgment before resuming your respective paths in the bustling cityscape.

However, Matt's question catches you off guard. "You're still here?" he asks, his curiosity evident. You pause for a moment, considering his words before replying, "Uh, yeah. I'm on my way to the precinct to update Officer Mahoney."

A warm smile spreads across Matt's face as he suggests, "We can go together if you want. I'm heading there as well to look for any complaints against Tully." You blink in surprise at his offer, caught off guard by his genuine willingness to accompany you. Unsure of how to respond, you stumble over your words, "Uh, well..."

Before you can come up with an excuse, Matt's grin widens, sensing your momentary hesitation. "Mind if I hold on to your arm as we walk there?" he asks, his voice filled with a playful charm. Your brain momentarily halts, caught off guard by his request, but you manage to nod and squeak out, "Mhm. Yeah, Sure."

His touch is gentle yet firm as he takes hold of your arm, leading the way through the bustling streets of New York City. Despite knowing that he doesn't need guidance, you play along, maintaining the facade of ignorance about his vigilante activities. Matt's heightened senses remain ever vigilant, attuned to your every heartbeat, breath, and blink. He focuses on your scent and the subtle notes of your perfume, a reminder of the close proximity and unspoken connection between the two of you.

You make a conscious effort to steady your heartbeat, reminding yourself that this is merely a shared journey to fulfill your respective roles. There is no need to stress or overanalyze the situation. However, when Matt squeezes your arm to gain your attention, you are brought back to the present moment.

"Why did you want to become a social worker?" Matt's voice breaks through your thoughts, and you take a moment to gather your thoughts before responding. "I... um... I wanted to help people who have experienced a difficult time. I wanted to offer them a fresh start, free from judgment," you answer honestly, feeling a sense of purpose and compassion in your words.

Matt nods, seemingly appreciating the raw truth in your response. The two of you continue walking side by side, the rhythm of your steps creating a gentle harmony as you navigate the busy streets. “Why did you want to become a lawyer?” You asked as you looked up at him.

Matt's lips curve into a thoughtful smile as he considers your question. His voice carries a hint of nostalgia as he begins to share his motivations. "I wanted to become a lawyer because I believed in the power of justice. I wanted to be someone who could make a difference, who could fight for those who couldn't fight for themselves."

His words resonate with a sense of purpose and determination. As you listen, you can't help but admire his unwavering commitment to upholding the ideals of justice. The bustling city fades into the background, and for a moment, it feels as if it's just the two of you, united by a shared desire to make the world a better place.

As the conversation unfolds, you find yourself becoming more immersed in Matt's story, drawn to the passion and sincerity in his words. Together, you continue your journey, the streets of New York serving as the backdrop to your aspirations and the beginning of a deeper connection.

NEW YORK CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT – NOON

Mahoney eyes you both curiously before making an assumption, "Oh, are you two a..." You interrupt quickly, your cheeks flushing, "No, no! We're just colleagues. I came back to pick up the signed forms, and I need to return them to the DV shelter."

Matt offers a comforting smile while you fumble with your words. He gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before letting you pass by Mahoney to the police desks where the forms are kept. As you hurriedly scan the documents, you steal a glance over your shoulder and notice Matt taking a seat on one of the nearby benches.

The officer informs you that it will take a few minutes to process the forms, advising you to have a seat. Nervously, you settle next to Matt on the bench, stealing a quick glance at him. He appears slightly preoccupied, his head slightly tilted as if he's listening intently for something.

Suddenly, Matt gasps and springs up, freezing in place. The deafening sound of a gunshot echoes through the vicinity, causing you to startle. Chaos ensues as police officers react swiftly, their voices blending with the commotion.

"We've got shots fired!" one of the officers announces, sending a shiver down your spine. An unsettling feeling washes over you, confirming your suspicions that something is seriously amiss.

Matt's heightened senses hones in on the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat. He detects the unmistakable scent and taste of your surging cortisol, the stress hormone permeating the air. The subtle perspiration on your palms and the quiver in your breath are all indicators of your escalating anxiety.

He turns to your slightly shaking figure, recognizing the paralyzing effect the situation has had on you. Time seems to have come to a standstill for everyone else, but you remain trapped in your frozen moment. Matt approaches you with gentle steps, his voice a soothing whisper as he calls your name, attempting to coax you out of your daze. "Hey... Hey... I'm right here. You're with me."

Amidst the chaos around you, Matt extends his hand towards you, a lifeline of reassurance and support. Without hesitation, you feel his firm grip enveloping your trembling fingers, grounding you in the turmoil. The world may still be a blur, but his touch serves as a beacon of stability, guiding you through uncertainty.

Gradually, a sense of self returns to you, and you become aware of Matt's steady presence beside you. You realize that he had taken the lead, guiding you away from the chaotic scene and into a serene alleyway where the noise of the outside world fades into the background. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you gather the courage to speak.

"I... I'm sorry," you say, your voice tinged with a mix of apology and confusion. "I should be used to this by now. I don't know why I reacted the way I did. I'm sorry."

Matt's expression softens, his gaze filled with empathy as he reaches out a hand to gently touch your arm. "There's no need to apologize," he reassures you, his voice gentle yet resolute. "It’s okay. I got you. You’re safe with me, always.”

You take a moment to collect yourself, appreciating his understanding. The weight of the moment begins to lift as you find solace in his presence. Together, you stand in the quiet alleyway, finding comfort in the shared understanding between two individuals whose lives are entwined in the extraordinary.

SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK CITY,

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE SHELTER – EVENING

As you leave the vicinity of the DV shelter, your mind is filled with a mix of emotions and thoughts. You reach into your pocket and retrieve your cell phone, switching it on to reconnect with the outside world. The city streets, typically bustling with activity, now exude an unusual stillness. It's as if something has shifted, causing a palpable sense of imbalance to permeate the air.

The once-familiar sounds of honking cars and bustling footsteps are replaced by an eerie silence, amplifying the weight of the moment. Your gaze scans the surroundings, searching for any signs or clues as to what may have caused this unsettling change. Is it merely a figment of your imagination, or is there a tangible disturbance in the equilibrium of the city?

Questions swirl in your mind as you continue walking, your steps measured and alert. The cool air brushes against your skin, carrying with it a sense of anticipation and apprehension. Whatever has transpired, you can't shake the feeling that it holds significance, that it's a precursor to events yet to unfold.

Your eyes are drawn to the distance, and a chill runs down your spine as you spot a column of smoke rising ominously into the air. Before you can fully process what's happening, chaos erupts near you. A nearby building explodes with a deafening blast, shattering windows and sending debris flying in all directions.

The ground shakes beneath your feet as the force of the explosion reverberates through the surrounding area. You hear the muffled panic ensuing as people scramble for safety, their cries of fear and confusion blending with the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. Time seems to slow down as you take in the destruction and the plumes of smoke billowing into the sky.

Adrenaline courses through your veins, fueling your determination to navigate the chaos and find a way to help those in need. With a deep breath, you steel yourself and take the first steps towards assisting in any way you can, your heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty and the urgent need to restore order during this unforeseen catastrophe.

As the smoke fills the air and sirens continue to blare, you swiftly make your way toward the DV shelter. Your heart pounds in your chest as you fear for the safety of those inside. Relief washes over you as you find everyone relatively unharmed, with only minor injuries and scratches.

With a quick assessment of the situation, you determine that the immediate needs at the shelter are being taken care of. Your attention now shifts to the nearby buildings that were directly impacted by the blast. Determination fuels your every step as you rush toward the affected area, ready to lend a helping hand.

Arriving at the scene, you're met with the devastating aftermath of the explosion. The damaged buildings stand as a somber testament to the chaos that unfolded. As you survey the area, your eyes widen in recognition—this was one of the Russian hideouts, a grim reminder of the criminal underbelly lurking in the city.

The sight of lifeless bodies and charred weapons strewn across the ground sends a chill down your spine. The realization hits you hard, deepening the gravity of the situation. This was no ordinary incident; it was part of a larger web of criminal activity.

Choosing to distance yourself from the rubble, you follow the blazing lights of police cars that race past you. Instinctively, you move toward the source of the commotion, seeking answers and hoping to find a way to help.

Amid the chaos, you come upon a scene that stops you in your tracks. Matt, fully dressed in his black attire, stands a few feet away, his fist raised as he prepares to strike down Ranskahov, seeking revenge for the harm inflicted upon you and Claire. Your heart races as you watch from behind Corbin and the police officers, realizing the complexities of the situation.

They raise their guns, pointing them at the Masked Man. The officers close in, their intentions unclear. You remain hidden, your powers shimmering as you turn yourself invisible, ready to assist Matt in his fight against these corrupt cops who are undoubtedly on Fisk's payroll.

Amidst the tension and uncertainty, you hope that Matt hasn't picked up on your presence just yet. You prepare yourself to join the fray, your determination burning strong. One of the cops yells, “Don’t you move! Don’t you freakin’ move! Interlock your fingers behind your head and get on your knees. On your knees! Do it! Do it now!”

You approach Matt with a purposeful stride, your hand lightly grazing his shoulder to signal your presence. His whispered question hangs in the air, but instead of offering a direct response, you tap into your abilities. With a melodic distortion, your voice takes on an otherworldly quality as you reply, "Someone who wants to help you."

Positioning yourself in front of the officers, you unleash your powers, manipulating their perceptions and distorting their vision. Ranskahov is shot during the scuffle, but in a dazzling display, your form glimmers and shimmers, weaving a tapestry of illusion and enchantment. The officers, caught off guard by the sudden alteration of reality, find themselves disoriented and bewildered.

The fight unfolds with a fluidity and grace that seems almost supernatural. You seamlessly blend your powers and a touch of magic to incapacitate a majority of the officers. Your movements are precise, calculated, and mesmerizing to behold.

As the chaos subsides and the last of the officers are neutralized, you stand amidst the aftermath, your power still crackling in the air. Your eyes meet Matt's figure, standing and heaving, there's a flicker of recognition mixed with intrigue. The truth of your abilities and your intentions remains shrouded, but in this pivotal moment, a connection forms between you and the masked vigilante.

As Matt's plea reaches your ears, “Stay with me.” A surge of emotions courses through you, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed facade you wear. You turn away, your heart aching with unspoken words, and feel the tremor in your voice as you distort it, a painful reflection of your inner turmoil. "I wish I could," you confess, your voice quivering with regret and longing.

You quickly come to a realization, understanding that the situation calls for a strategic approach. While your instincts urge you to stay by Matt's side and offer your support, you also recognize the importance of ensuring the safety of others in the vicinity. The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders as you grasp the need to cover more ground.

With a determined resolve, you decide to extend your reach beyond Matt's immediate presence. You understand that there are civilians at risk, their lives hanging in the balance amidst the chaos. You know that by safeguarding the innocent and aiding those in distress, you are contributing to the overall mission of protecting the city.

Though your heart may ache at the thought of being separated from Matt, you understand the necessity of this approach. The strength of your bond and shared purpose will endure, even if you are physically apart. And as you cover ground, ensuring the safety of others, you hold onto the hope that Matt will do the same, fighting against the forces of darkness to bring justice and protect the vulnerable.

Matt's expression was filled with a mix of hope and desperation. His voice, barely above a whisper, carries a weight of vulnerability. "Will I see you again?" he asks, his voice laced with uncertainty.

A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you meet his distant gaze through the mask, wanting to offer reassurance amidst the uncertainty. "I’ll find you," you promise, determination shining in your eyes.

At that moment, you fade away, slipping from his grasp like a whisper lost in the wind. You become a ghost, a phantom presence lingering in the recesses of his mind. Like the ephemeral glimmer of a comet in the night sky, you leave a lasting impression, a celestial spectacle he cannot forget.

Lost in the depths of his thoughts, Matt ponders your enigmatic presence. He remains uncertain of your identity, your purpose, and the boundaries that separate you. Yet, he can't help but believe that you are his miracle, a guardian angel sent to watch over him, even if he feels unworthy of such grace.

As you continue on your path, the echoes of his whispered plea and your promise linger in your heart. The connection forged in that fleeting encounter leaves an indelible mark on your soul. And though the journey ahead may be arduous and fraught with challenges, the hope of crossing paths with him again becomes a beacon that guides you through the darkness.

METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL - EVENING

Sometimes, the city feels distant, like a place lost in time, where the radio stations play unfamiliar tunes and discuss a God who prefers modesty. In those moments, you find yourself caught between where you've been and the vast unknown that lies ahead.

As you rush through the doors of Metro-General, the Emergency Department buzzes with activity. The blaring sound of a television grabs your attention, broadcasting the breaking news of the devastating explosions that rocked Hell's Kitchen.

As you swiftly navigate through the chaos and devastation surrounding the hospital, your keen senses alert you to the cries of injured civilians in desperate need of help. Your heart swells with empathy as you rush to their aid, displaying both strength and compassion.

With steady hands and a reassuring voice, you guide a couple of injured civilians toward safety, providing them solace amidst the chaos. Despite the urgency of the situation, you take the time to offer comforting words and gentle reassurance, ensuring they know they are not alone in this turmoil.

Their pain becomes your own, and your determination to protect and heal emanates from your every action. With unwavering resolve, you navigate the labyrinthine hallways, instinctively seeking out the areas where medical assistance is most needed. As you tend to the injured, your presence alone provides a sense of calm and reassurance. You tirelessly work to stabilize their conditions, offering a compassionate touch and a comforting word in the face of unimaginable pain. Your selflessness is evident in every action, as you prioritize the well-being of others above all else.

In the chaos, you spot Foggy and Karen, their faces filled with worry, bringing in an injured Mrs. Cardenas. Your eyes meet Claire's from down the hall, and you hasten your steps to join their group, ready to lend a helping hand.

"Are you guys okay?" you inquire, concern evident in your voice. Foggy, Karen, and Claire exchange worried glances, their eyes lingering on the bruises and scratches that mar your skin.

"What happened to you? You're covered in bruises," Karen observes, her voice filled with genuine concern. Quick on your feet, you conjure a plausible lie, hoping to shield them from the truth.

"Oh, I was near one of the explosions, but I managed to escape unscathed," you assure them, your voice resolute, despite the smudged dirt on your skin and the disarray of your appearance. Claire's perceptive gaze meets yours, silently acknowledging that there's more to the story. Though unspoken, her understanding serves as a comforting reassurance that your secret is safe for now.

After swiftly delegating Mrs. Cardenas and attending to Foggy's wound, you are pulled aside by Claire and guided into a nearby stairwell. Concern fills your voice as you whisper, "Are we supposed to be in here?" She places a finger to her lips, urging you to keep quiet, and shows you her phone, indicating that Matt is calling. Your eyes widen in apprehension as you look up at Claire, waiting for her to answer the call. She puts it on low volume speaker, ensuring your involvement.

"I need your help. I've found someone who has crucial information about what I've been investigating, but he's been shot," Matt's gravelly voice resonates through the speaker. Claire rolls her eyes in exasperation and suggests, "Why don't you call 911?"

"I can't. The police are the ones who shot him. They'd probably like a chance to finish the job," Matt explains, prompting Claire to seek your confirmation. You nod silently, conveying your agreement. Claire sighs in resignation and questions, "You want me to come to you... in the middle of all this?"

"No, I want you to walk me through stabilizing him," Matt replies. Claire rolls her eyes once again, and you stifle a laugh at their familiar banter. Claire responds over the phone, "It's not as easy as it looks in the movies, you know?" Matt retorts playfully, "I don't really go to the movies. I like records, though.”

You can't help but roll your eyes this time, thinking to yourself how much of a flirt Matt can be. Claire sighs and relents, “All right.” Matt then continues, “There's something else you need to know. The man I'm trying to save… it's Vladimir.”

Matt continues, "There's something else you need to know. The man I'm trying to save... it's Vladimir."

Frustration washes over you, and you briefly close your eyes, looking away from the phone. Claire's voice echoes with anger, "The jerk who had me beaten up? That's who you want me to help?"

Matt sighs, pleading, “Look, you have every right to tell me to go to hell, but he's important, Claire. What he knows could bring Fisk down and save more people like you from getting hurt.”

A heavy silence hangs over the line as you stand next to Claire, offering her a sympathetic gaze. You mouth the word "please" while Matt calls out for Claire once again.

Claire's voice crackles through the phone with a sense of urgency, "Is there an exit wound?" Matt's response is barely audible, his voice filled with gratitude, "Thank you." He pauses momentarily, his throat clearing before he continues, “Uh, no. The bullet's still inside him. It's still half a degree hotter than the surrounding tissue.”

Claire then asks, “Is there any kind of first aid kit?” To which Matt replies, “I'm in a warehouse. Abandoned.” Claire looks at you and then raises her eyebrows, “Tell me what's there, anything you can use.”

"Alright, hang on," Matt's voice crackles through the phone, filled with determination. You exchange a glance with Claire, your expression a mix of concern and anxiety. The weight of the situation hangs heavy in the air as you prepare to guide Matt through a risky procedure.

Matt's voice comes through, listing the items he has at his disposal. “Uh, half a box of nails... broken glass... wood, duct tape, old roadside emergency kit, a lot of plastic sheeting…” Each item carries its potential, a makeshift arsenal in their desperate circumstances.

Claire's voice cuts through the tension, her focus sharp. “The kit, are there any flares in it?” Your eyebrows raise in surprise as Matt confirms, “Yeah, two.”

Claire hums, her mind working out a plan. “Alright... you're gonna cauterize the wound.” The gravity of her words sinks in, knowing the pain and risk involved.

Matt's voice carries a hint of uncertainty, "Shouldn't I dig the bullet out first?" Claire shrugs, her voice steady and experienced. You squint up at her, silently taking in her expertise. "Remember what I said about this not being a movie? You cut him open and start digging around, you'll kill him. This way, at least he has a chance of not bleeding out before you get what you need out of him... and... it'll hurt like a son of a bitch, so bonus."

A brief pause follows as Matt absorbs Claire's instructions. His determination shines through as he asks, "Alright, how do I do this?" Claire sighs, her voice soothing yet firm, "Just light the flare, hold it close to his skin until the entry wound seals." The simplicity of her instructions masks the high stakes and the immense trust placed in Matt's hands.

Silence hangs in the air, the weight of the moment palpable. You remain on the line, a silent presence of support, as Matt prepares to undertake this risky procedure that could save a life or plunge them further into peril, “Okay, I'm gonna put you on speaker.”

With a sense of urgency, you snatch the phone from Claire's hand, pressing the mute button swiftly. Concern etches across your face as you realize the importance of determining the precise location where Matt finds himself. You need to be prepared for any potential obstacles or dangers that lie ahead.

Claire's expression betrays her worry as she shakes her head, hesitant to let you venture into the unknown. She understands the risks involved and fears for your safety. But your determination shines through as you meet her gaze, emphasizing the significance of your collective mission.

You lock eyes with Claire, conveying the gravity of the situation. You know that time is of the essence, and every decision carries weight. Countless lives hang in the balance, and you can't stand idly by. Your voice carries conviction as you implore Claire to make the crucial inquiry.

"I need to know where he is, Claire," you insist, your tone filled with urgency. "We can't leave anything to chance. Lives are at stake."

Claire hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting between you and the phone. She understands the weight of your words and the responsibility that comes with them. Finally, she nods and takes back the phone, once again connecting with Matt. His voice reverberates through the line, calling out for Claire. She responds her tone steady yet laced with concern.

"Yeah... still here," Claire answers, her voice filled with determination. "But before you start, can you let me know which area you're in? Just in case."

The line falls silent for a brief moment, tension filling the air. Then, Matt's voice breaks through, his words carrying a hint of relief. "Northwest corner of 47th and 12th," he reveals, giving you a lifeline in this race against time.

You meet Claire's gaze, gratitude shining in your eyes. It's a silent acknowledgment of her pivotal role in acquiring this crucial information. With a nod, you quickly formulate your next course of action, knowing that there is no time to waste.

Without further delay, you take a deep breath and quietly exit the stairwell, ready to face the challenges ahead and join Matt in his fight.

ABANDONED BUILDING, NORTHWEST CORNER OF 47TH AND 12TH – EVENING

You try your best to stay out of sight and hide between the shadows of the alleyways. There are sirens wailing and police radio chattering, multiple officers, and their K9s. Ben Urich is also discussing with the two detectives when you arrive and you have a concerned look on your face as you feel your powers pulse and vibrate as you will them to life, rendering the illusion of invisibility as you walked past the officers and climbed up a fire escape to get to where Matt is.

By the time you reached the second floor, you spot Vladimir, his bloodied and wounded form sprawled on the ground, a testament to the brutality of the situation. As you take in the scene, your eyes scan the surroundings, checking the perimeter for any signs of danger. Matt, focused and composed, is busy securing a police officer to a rusty metal pole, ensuring he remains restrained.

Vladimir's voice strained and sputtering with blood, reaches your ears. "You've been busy," he manages to say, his words laced with both exhaustion and curiosity. You position yourself near the window panes, keeping watch as Matt diligently proceeds to silence the officer with a layer of duct tape across his mouth.

Vladimir's head tilts at an odd angle as he groggily asks, "How do you know this?" You turn to witness Matt's nonchalant shrug, his response filled with an air of mystery. "Lucky guess," he casually remarks, his instincts proving sharp even in the direst of situations.

Suddenly, the sound of helicopter blades reverberates through the building, confirming the accuracy of Matt's prediction. Matt bends down to pick up a discarded pistol, skillfully unloading and disassembling it without hesitation. Vladimir's eyes widen at the sight, his voice dripping with frustration. "We could have used that."

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Matt's lips as he retrieves a sturdy metal cylinder pipe instead. "I'm not big on guns," he states with conviction, his actions speaking volumes about his principles.

In an instant, Matt is standing next to you by the window, attuned to the world outside. Together, you listen to the symphony of heartbeats, barks, and radio chatter, a cacophony of chaos that defines the battlefield surrounding the building. As Vladimir groans in pain, the effects of the cauterization evident, he musters the strength to voice his discontent. "You... burned me?" he coughs out, his disbelief palpable.

Matt's response is both matter-of-fact and compassionate. "Yeah, I had to stop the bleeding," he states, his determination to save lives shining through. Vladimir's anguished cry fills the air, a testament to the excruciating pain he is enduring as Matt drags him against a wooden crate for him to lean on.

Matt's voice remains steady, his resolve unyielding. "Bullet's still inside you. Wouldn't move around, if I were you." In the midst of their tense exchange, Vladimir musters the strength to voice his defiance. "You expect me to say thank you?" he sputters out, his words laced with a mix of bitterness and defiance.

Matt’s voice grows deeper, “If I didn't need you alive, we wouldn't be having this conversation.” Vladimir chuckles weakly and coughs, “So you just stand there and let me die, huh? But you couldn't kill me yourself. Is that where you draw the line?”

Matt kneels down, his determination etched on his face as he growls, "Tell me what I want to know about Fisk." Vladimir, blood dripping from his mouth, musters a defiant response, "You think you're different... from me? From him? But you'll get there. Sooner or later... we all do, men like us."

Moved by the intensity of the moment, you stand beside Matt, offering your support. Your hand gently rests on his shoulder, providing a silent reassurance. As your touch connects with him, you feel his body freeze, his muscles tensing. Matt cranes his neck to the side, his heightened senses acknowledging your presence. His voice, barely audible, carries a mix of surprise and relief as he whispers, "You were looking for me."

Your hand instinctively moves down to his arm, offering a comforting squeeze. You lean closer to his ear, your words a soft murmur, "I'm always looking for you."

Matt turns his head slightly, his attention briefly shifting to your presence, but he doesn't linger on it. Instead, he focuses on Vladimir, the urgency of the situation pulling him back into the moment. "A man like Fisk just took out your entire operation," Matt asserts, his voice carrying a weight of authority. "And he may not own all the cops, but he owns enough that you won't make it into a prison cell. Right now, I'm your only shot at getting out of this building alive."

Vladimir, his breathing heavy, musters the strength to share crucial information. "His lapdog came to us first. He told us his employer had taken note. He complimented... us on our business. Invited us to be part of something bigger... to expand... if we entered into an agreement."

Matt's gravelly voice cuts through the tension, his question demanding answers. "What did Fisk offer?" he asks, his focus unwavering.

Vladimir shrugs, a grimace forming on his blood-stained face. "Police looking other way... aid from politicians... and access to Chinese and their heroin."

Surprised by the revelation, Matt presses further, "He's working with the Chinese?" Vladimir's mocking tone sends a wave of frustration through Matt. "You really don't know anything, do you? Just snapping at scraps falling from the table."

Frustrated but undeterred, Matt licks his lips, determined to gather more information. "I want names. Everything you know about them and how they connect to Fisk."

Vladimir's energy wanes, his voice growing weaker. "There's only one name that matters. The man that can tie it all together." Matt's urgency rises as he implores, "Who?"

With a distant gaze, Vladimir reminisces, his voice trailing off, "We were going to rule this city... my brother and I."

Matt, sensing the opportunity slipping away, growls urgently, "Vladimir, the name!"

Struggling to form the words, Vladimir's voice fades before he utters something in Russian. Suddenly, he catches Matt off guard, headbutting him and launching a swift attack with a wooden plank. Matt groans, winded and disoriented, trying to regain his footing amidst the chaos.

Defiantly, Vladimir cries out, "This is not how I die. This is not how it happens." Matt, refusing to yield, pushes himself up from the floor, his resolve unyielding. The room becomes a blur of grunts, punches, and strikes as the two adversaries engage in a fierce battle. In a stunning turn of events, Matt gains the upper hand, bringing Vladimir down to the ground, causing the old wooden floors to splinter beneath their weight. The deafening sound of planks clattering and the heavy thump of their bodies hitting the floor below reverberate through the room, causing you to flinch.

Your heart races with panic as you witness the aftermath of the intense confrontation. Matt lies motionless, his body splayed across the fractured floor. Fear and concern grip you, overpowering any rational thought. Without hesitation, you tap into your unique abilities.

Drawing upon the illusory energy within you, you summon your powers. An ethereal shimmer envelops your form, rendering you visible once again. With a focused determination, you concentrate your energy, allowing it to manifest beneath your feet.

Gradually, you lift off the ground, defying gravity as you hover above the wreckage. Your descent through the gaping hole in the floor is guided by a combination of instinct and concern. Matt's stillness propels you forward, an invisible force compelling you to reach him.

As you gently lower yourself to the lower level, your touch meets the battered body of the man you have the urge to care for. Tenderly, you cradle his head in your hands, checking for signs of life. Matt stirs, his breath shallow but present, and relief washes over you.

With a mixture of relief and worry etched on your face, you whisper softly, "Come on, stay with me." Your voice carries a blend of encouragement and concern, urging him to regain his strength. The sounds of the dog barking and distant sirens serving as a constant reminder of the perilous situation. Time is of the essence, and you know that you must act swiftly to ensure Matt's safety and the success of their mission.

As Matt groans in pain, you lend him your support, his weight partially resting against you. He grimaces and spits out a mouthful of blood, the metallic taste lingering in the air. Your heart aches at the sight, fueling your determination to help him through this ordeal.

While maintaining your grip on Matt, he turns his head towards the motionless Vladimir, his gaze filled with a mix of pain and defiance. His voice carries a hint of a growl as he addresses his defeated adversary, "That wasn't very smart."

Vladimir's body remains still, but his eyes continue to glare at Matt with a piercing intensity. With a mocking sneer, he taunts, "But it was fun, wasn't it? Watching you bleed. And finally seeing what your little guardian angel looks like."

You swallow nervously, the weight of the situation pressing upon you. Matt's response is laced with contempt, his voice dripping with defiance and a touch of blood, "You think this is a game?"

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Vladimir's mouth as he retorts, "If it was a game, you'd be losing."

Meanwhile, you shift your focus to tending to Matt's injuries as best you can amidst the chaos. Your hands brush away the dirt and debris, offering a semblance of comfort in the midst of their harsh surroundings. Drawing upon the energy of your glamour, you channel it to alleviate some of the soreness and minor wounds, providing a small measure of relief.

As Vladimir's eyes flutter closed, Matt freezes for a moment before mustering his strength and pushing himself up. He hurriedly moves to Vladimir's side and begins performing chest compressions, his voice filled with desperation, "No... No... Come on. I'm not done with you yet. You hear me? I'm not done with you yet."

Sensing the urgency of the situation, you quickly join Matt, gently taking hold of his arms and urging him to step aside. Reluctantly, he complies and shifts his focus to your actions. You concentrate on the rhythm of your compressions, your hands applying measured pressure to Vladimir's chest.

The room is charged with tension as you continue the life-saving procedure. The sound of your hands connecting with Vladimir's chest echoes through the air. However, just as you feel a flicker of doubt, your powers surge to life, channeling a surge of magic into his body. The shock jolts Vladimir's heart, coaxing it back into a normal rhythm.

Coughing and gasping for air, Vladimir's eyes widen in confusion. He struggles to comprehend what just occurred. Unamused, you respond with a hint of annoyance in your tone, "You died. I brought you back. You're welcome."

Vladimir gazes up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and disdain. With a hint of mockery, he taunts, "You can't even stand there and let me die, even after I almost killed the one you're so eager to protect. Does he even know your name?"

Gritting your teeth, you feel Matt's presence beside you. Shaking your head, you reply, "It doesn't matter. Give us the information we need about Fisk."

However, the sudden sounds from outside the building catch your attention, causing both you and Matt to tense up. Your eyes meet his, silently communicating the urgency of the situation. Matt swiftly positions himself atop a wooden table, his palms pressed against its surface to sense the vibrations of the concrete. He cranes his neck, absorbing every piece of information from the surroundings. The rumbling of the nearby train tracks triggers an idea in his mind.

Curious, Vladimir asks, "What are you doing?" Matt responds with determination in his voice, "Finding us a way out."

Moving swiftly, Matt strides over to a corner of the room, and you follow his lead. He squats down, removing the wooden planks and debris that obstruct the way. Your eyes catch sight of a metal grate, likely leading to the sewer. Matt starts pulling at the bars, and you join him, lending your strength to the task at hand. However, just as you begin, the crackling of a radio fills the room, and a voice at the other end speaks up, "I'd like to speak to the man in the mask, please."

Your eyes shoot up to Matt, a mix of anxiety and anticipation evident in your expression, as the voice on the radio continues to speak. "Hello. Are you there? Can you hear me?" Matt's attention is drawn to the radio lying on the floor. He quickly reaches for a piece of wood, using his gloved hand to turn it over, and then picks up the device. "Who is this?" he inquires, his voice laced with caution.

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you realize the significance of this moment. "I think you know," you respond, your voice tinged with apprehension. "You've been asking about me. I thought it was time we spoke." While keeping your hands on the metal grate beneath you, you strain to listen to the conversation unfolding between Matt and the man on the other end of the line, whom you assume to be Fisk.

"Say your name," Matt demands, his tone firm and unwavering. Fisk counters, "You first." There's a brief pause before Fisk continues, "That's what I thought. You and I have a lot in common."

Matt whispers deeply, his voice filled with conviction, "We're nothing alike."

Fisk disagrees, his voice dripping with smugness, "That's what you'll tell yourself."

"You're feeding off this city... like a cancer," Matt states matter-of-factly, his words cutting through the tension.

"I want to save this city, like you... only on a scale that matters," Fisk retorts, his tone implying a twisted sense of righteousness.

"Now tell that to the people you've hurt," Matt challenges, his voice holding a blend of anger and determination.

"Young man... life is not a fairy tale. Not everyone deserves... a happy ending," Fisk responds nonchalantly, his words leaving a bitter taste in the air.

You gather the remaining strength within you, attempting to summon your powers once more, but they flicker out, leaving you frustrated and on the verge of tears.

"I'm gonna find you... and I'm gonna make you pay for what you've done," Matt threatens, his voice seething with righteous fury. Fisk doesn't miss a beat, his tone unwavering, "No, you are not. Not that I don't admire what you're trying to do... to change the world... with nothing but desire and your own two hands... secure in the knowledge that you're doing the right thing, the only thing. That's something that I do understand. But we both can't have what we want. So... your part... in this drama, by necessity, comes to an end."

"It's gonna take a lot more than a voice on a radio to stop me," Matt declares defiantly, kneeling on the floor. He can sense your fatigue and nausea, and his concern for you simmers beneath his anger.

"It's not me you need to worry about. It's the city you just blew the hell out of," Fisk says, revealing his true intentions. As you lift your head, you lock eyes with Matt, realizing that Fisk has played his cards perfectly, orchestrating the situation in his favor.

Matt stands up and moves closer to you, a knowing smirk on his face. He chuckles over the radio, "You... You think anyone's gonna believe that?"

"You're running around in a mask, holing up with a known felon in the wake of a series of bombings. There's that police officer you're holding hostage, so... yes. Actually, I do. But it doesn't have to be this way. The Russian... is he alive?" Fisk inquires. Matt turns the radio toward Vladimir, who spits back, "I'm still here, you fat shit!"

Matt's smirk widens as he presses the radio button, triumphantly saying, "Does that answer your question?"

"It's a one-time offer. You kill the Russian, and we'll call the night a push. You know what he's done... to women... to children..." Fisk presents his proposition, his voice dripping with malice. Matt's boot lands on Vladimir's hand, preventing him from grabbing a sharp piece of wood, eliciting a pained groan. Matt effortlessly grabs the wooden piece and hurls it across the room.

"To the people of this city that you claim to care about," Fisk adds, his words fueling Matt's anger.

"You just confirmed how important he is. That must worry you, what he might tell me," Matt asserts, exposing Fisk's fear. Fisk retorts, "Which means he hasn't told you anything yet."

You sense Matt's anger boiling beneath the surface as he kicks some rubble aside in frustration, causing you to flinch. Matt turns his body towards you, and you direct your attention back to the metal grate. You shake your head, attempting to muster the last ounce of energy within you, determined to replenish your magic before Fisk's men close in on all of you.

"You're a child playing at being a hero," Fisk taunts, his words intended to provoke. Matt licks his lower lip in frustration before responding, "No, no, I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm just a guy that got fed up with men like you and I decided to do something about it."

"That's what makes you dangerous. It's not the mask. It's not the skills. It's your ideology. The lone man... who thinks he can make a difference," Fisk states grimly. Disagreement knits your eyebrows together, but you can see the way Matt's lips curl downwards, haunted by a memory that quietly slips under the door of his mind. It rewinds the tapes, presenting evidence that what Fisk is saying holds a grain of truth. In that moment, your heart aches at the thought of Matt believing it.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself you've won. It'll make what I'm gonna do to you so much more satisfying," Matt says, his voice filled with determination. Fisk replies coldly, "Your part ends tonight."

"And if that's true, others will take my place. They'll see what I was trying to do, and they'll make sure..." Matt's sentence is cut short by Fisk's interruption, "No, they won't. The city will burn you in effigy. Your name, your very existence... will be met with abhorrence and disgust."

The sudden clamoring and screams from outside weigh heavily on your chest, making it difficult to breathe. Matt's voice, filled with pain, resonates, "What did you do?"

"What you forced me to do. Goodbye. I'm afraid we won't speak again," Fisk declares, severing the connection. Matt pushes himself off the wall, his frustration and anger erupting in a furious yell before he hurls the radio, shattering it against the wall with a display of his strength.

Realizing that you need a few minutes to recover before attempting to tackle the stubborn metal grate once again, you find a spot on the ground to sit down. Leaning your back against the wall, you catch your breath, pushing stray strands of hair away from your face with tired fingers.

Matt, ever determined, moves towards the metal grate, ready to give it another try. However, just as he starts to exert his strength, the shrill ring of his phone interrupts his efforts. He pauses, panting, and answers with a weary tone, "It's really not a good time."

You pay little attention to who might be on the other end of the line, but you can hear fragments of Claire's voice filtering through the speaker. A brief moment passes before Matt pants out a response, "No. It was Fisk. It's all Fisk."

Feeling a mixture of exhaustion and curiosity, you observe Matt as he moves to the other side of the room, engaging in the phone conversation. His head tilts to the side, his expression grave, as he listens intently. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, his usually confident voice falters, "Claire. Um... What you said, before I left... I was..."

His words trail off, and you can sense the weight of his emotions. "No, don't be," he continues, his voice filled with sincerity. "It turns out you were... You were right... about me. I just don't want you getting caught up if it goes that way. If we don't get a chance to talk again... you take care of yourself."

It becomes apparent to you how easily Matt pushes away those he cares about, as if his hands act as barriers, closing off access to his own heart. The anger, fear, and sadness that he keeps hidden beneath the surface remain locked away in a secluded room within him. Pushing yourself up from the wall, you ignore the pain in your hands from previous attempts to claw at the grate. Squatting down, you grip the metal tightly, determination etched on your face.

Both Matt and Vladimir move to assist you, but your voice, filtered with resolve, reverberates through the room, "Stop." Their movements freeze, and you feel the surge of power within you growing. The energy manipulates the metal grate, causing it to shift and tremble under your command. A sharp cry of pain escapes your lips, and with great effort, you finally give in, collapsing to the side.

Matt acts swiftly, catching your limp figure in his arms, providing support as you struggle to catch your breath. You watch as the shimmering magic that surrounded the grate fades away, but to your surprise, the grate itself is completely gone. Your eyes widen in astonishment at the display of your newfound abilities. A snort escapes you, mingling with the pain and exhaustion, "You were right. This isn't how we die."

With Matt's help, you manage to make your way down the ladder, gripping a flashlight tightly in your hand. The stench of sewage only adds to the disorientation, but you push through, determined to keep moving forward. Matt takes on the responsibility of supporting your weight, doing his best to assist you. He guides Vladimir to a wall on the side, allowing him a moment to catch his breath.

Vladimir's voice cuts through the air, filled with confusion, "Where are we?"

"Access tunnels," Matt responds, his voice containing a hint of knowledge. "The city was built on a network of these, most of them sealed up years ago." His head tilts as he hones in on the approaching sounds of police officers, hot on your trail.

"Alright, we have to keep moving, find a way to the street," Matt declares, his determination resurfacing. With one side supporting Vladimir and the other struggling to support you, you all continue on, navigating the maze-like tunnels in search of an escape route to the surface.

As you turn your attention to the locked door, your mind races with ideas on how to open it. However, before you can offer your assistance, Matt's swift reflexes come into play. He swiftly throws Vladimir aside, propelling him away from the immediate danger. The sound of a commanding voice fills the air, yelling, "Freeze!"

Reacting on instinct, you instinctively duck, narrowly avoiding the hail of gunfire that erupts in the tunnel. Matt's finely honed senses and skills kick into high gear as he gracefully evades the bullets, his movements fluid and precise. Your powers surge within you, and you harness their energy to create ethereal spheres of shimmering illusions. With a focused intention, you launch the illusions at one of the officers, causing him to become disoriented and rendering him unconscious.

Seizing the opportunity, you spot Matt's discarded metal pipe on the ground and swiftly grab it. With a surge of energy, you infuse the pipe with power, transforming it into a formidable weapon. Expertly aiming, you hurl the energized pipe at the second officer, striking him square in the head. At the same time, you unleash a beam of projection, creating mirages and shimmers that disorient the remaining officer.

Matt's skills are unmatched as he swiftly disarms the final officer, his movements seamless and calculated. With the immediate threat neutralized, he stands by your side, both of you breathing heavily from the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You lean against the wall, wincing at the sharp pain in your side, and take a moment to catch your breath. Meanwhile, Vladimir has managed to secure one of the rifles and points it toward the two of you.

"We need to go. There are five more coming. They're working for Fisk, probably not even real cops. We don't have time for this," Matt pants out urgently, his voice laced with concern. You frown, realizing the severity of the situation, but before you can react, Vladimir interrupts with a pained voice, "I think... maybe I stay."

Matt tries to reason with him, his voice tinged with desperation, "We can still make it out of here. You can turn evidence on Fisk, we can expose him..."

Vladimir shakes his head, his voice resolute, "He controls... all police... judges. There's only one way to stop him, you know this."

Matt firmly denies, "No. I'm not a killer."

"The moment you put on the mask... you got into a cage with animals. Animals don't stop fighting. Not until one of them is dead," Vladimir states, his words carrying the weight of bitter experience. He groans as he pushes himself up from the floor, his determination unwavering. His gaze shifts between you and Matt, and then settles on you. "And he will do it... to everyone you care about. Will you feel the same way then? Or will you be a man... and do what you know you must do?"

Vladimir's words hang heavy in the air, their impact sinking in. You close your eyes for a moment, contemplating the choices before you. The distant sound of chatter and approaching footsteps snaps your attention back to the present. Vladimir's gaze shifts between all of you, his voice filled with urgency, "Go."

Summoning the last reserves of your energy, you focus your powers once more. With a burst of golden energy, you direct a powerful surge towards the locked door. The door buckles under the force, hinges groaning and splintering, until finally, it bursts open, revealing an escape route from the turmoil, bloodshed, and the weighty decisions that lingered in the air.

Together, you and Matt rush through the newly opened passage, leaving behind the dissonance and unfortunate resolve of Vladimir.

End Notes:

Yes yes, I KNOW. Does Matt know? It’s you?? We’ll find out in the next chapter. Hehehe. Yay for the black suit :> I was supposed to split this into two parts but ehhh I couldn’t help myself.

Lowkey blacked out while writing this chonky chapter so uhhh if there are any mistakes... my bad! 😣

Okay time for the next episode! See ya 👋

TAGLIST:

@scoliobean

#matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x reader #matthew murdock x reader #matthew murdock #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fem!reader #notre dame etherealbloom #notre dame series #notre dame matt murdock #notre dame ethereal #matthew murdock x fem!reader

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fdrsamericanflagduckfloaty · 1 year

Note

Drop the Miku Binder TJ rant bestie

okay so like

i was just thinking about it, and, like, i think it's fucking nuts but also really weird how the hamilton fandom (which i'm in but i swear i'm not an uwu lams turtles shipper please) somehow took this CRUSTY, TERF-BANGED, UGLY, OLD, REDHEADED, RAPIST ASS MOTHERFUCKER,

and turned his ugly ass into this.

like damn what the hell- what- how???? okay like yeah, they're using daveed diggs as a base for this bullshit, which, okay, fine, but YOU DID NOT NEED TO ADD THE INFO. The idea itself is funny but also a bit weird, however im 99% sure Diggs himself wore that shirt. However, all of the extra info??? come on. Where'd the fandom get this istg y'all-

Also, also, they did something similar by making John Laurens (gay blonde dumbass) into an UWU turtles boy. ....why. Bi trash coffee gremlin tumblr over-worked sleep-deprived alexander hamilton. like yeah relatable but. why. small bean big sweater uwu innocent boy blushy short james madison. ...why. bro was stubborn and would pick a fight and was the 'fuck you' type of shy.

I just find it wild the fandom made this and it is the entirety of the fandom into one. There's the good sides, there's the bad, and there's this. Which encompasses the ENTIRE. FUCKING. FANDOM.

The fandom has its headcanons, it has its perks, but then you reach the side where everyone is just a wild fucking original character. They don't model the historical figures anymore- they're just OCs with the name 'Philip Hamilton' or 'John Laurens' or god forbid our third U.S president 'Thomas Jefferson' slapped onto it.

I'm also so confused as to how this is what the fandom is known for. We have some good fics, we have hella good art, we have a M U S I C A L , and then the first thought people have of the Ham fandom is Miku Binder Third President Founding Fucker Slaveowner Thomas Jefferson.

I also find it kind of offensive (almost put insluting oh my ufckjg-) that they made a founder become this but like he'd probably be really pissed so please keep fucking up his memory lmao he deserves it

But like... also why. What made them think of this.

Like yeah I write 20k word TR smut but you don't see me drawing it.

You don't see me making him an UWU e-boy.

...Eh I probably would for shits and giggles tbh

But like this is founding father Thomas Jefferson. Third Pres. Second VP. First Sec. of State. And he is a furry, ex-cocaine addict. Also btw do they mean John Laurens or John Adams as the former drug dealer part because neither are better but it'd really help

Also bro literally raped his 14 year old slave and had like 6 kids with her. He had her room DIRECTLY NEXT TO HIS. He RAPED HIS DEAD WIFE'S HALF-SISTER. AND HE'S A SAD UWU MAN WHO DID NOTHING WRONG?

Let's not forget this same person made a post saying Lizzie (the Queen) would be reincarnated as a horse when she died. I'm serious. Deadass.

However, it's also funny as fuck because this entire thing is a tarnish to Jefferson and I fucking HATE that bastard so like good job lol

At the same time though it's still super weird??? But insane??? Because how did this become one of the Tumblr exclusives??? like it's Tumblr history at this point. Twitter history. You cannot express any like for the Hamilton musical before you get the 'have you seen miku binder thomas jefferson' and it's like 'well shit'.

But also remember: THIS IS NOT AN OC TO FUCK AROUND WITH. Hamilton the Musical specifically gave you and presented you the founder. Thomas Jefferson. Played by Daveed Diggs. Just because it is played by a POC, but also modernized, and vastly different from the actual founder and President, does not mean that at its core it is NOT STILL THE SAME PERSON.

If you name it Thomas Jefferson, if you use the presentation of him given by Daveed Diggs, you are still using that white fucking slave-owning racist motherfucker, and that's the point of it all.

I find it stupid but funny but also insane, and I wouldn't care, unless I KNEW IT WAS SERIOUS. The artist made it seriously. They made John Laurens. They made Philip Hamilton. They did this seriously.

but like also look at this lmao

This meme of Thomas Jefferson in a Hatsune Miku binder really got trending on Twitter at one point

It's an infamous, hellish, classic meme of both Tumblr and the Hamilton fandom, and it deserves what attention it's got, but Jesus please never unironically make shit like this again, Hamilfans, we're stained by this we don't need another😭🔫

EDIT:

i have more

So like, I just remembered: it kinda romanticizes these guys??? The musical??? so like don't get me wrong i love the music but... it puts them into this light. This pink light. It paints Hamilton as an abolitionist who was outspoken about it. When, in reality, dude traded and sold slaves for his in-laws + wasn't all that outspoken about it + was against immigrants or migrants, WHEN DUDE WAS FROM THE ISLANDS. HE HAD SCOTTISH BLOOD. AND HE'S AGAINST IT? Hypocrisy at its finest.

Washington also owned slaves and ran his own plantation too, so he's not off the hook. Madison, the 'uwu small bean' of the fandom, also owned slaves and ran a plantation. So the main people of this entire fiasco are slave-owners. Perfect. But also I've heard Ron Chernow's book on Hamilton, the entire start of the musical, is a bit biased to Ham himself, so...

You could be saying 'but FDRsduckfloaty, Sally is mentioned!' yes. But however, not enough. Not more. It's not even implied more than potentially ONCE what he did, and I'm not sure it ever was! Cabinet battle 3 states it flat-out but it was cut. For your info, Ben Franklin and John Adams are the only two you can really like in the slavery aspect. Ben bought them but let them go for their freedom, and John detested slavery and was against it. Never owned one.

Jefferson did add a slavery clause to the declaration but it was discarded, and he didn't fight half as much as he could have. Maybe he did and since it was the 1700s he didn't have a lot of support, but surely he could've done something like, I don't know, call it out after his terms? Once you're done gaining your second term and out of office, they can't do shit to it or your presidency, since it's over.

So the musical itself has its own problem and the fandom is even worse. It blatantly disregards that a LOT. A hella lot of the amrev fandom + a small part of the ham fandom has called TJeffs out for it but I mean can we please not make shit like Miku Binder Jefferson and act like he wasn't an actual child rapist???

This video does pretty well at it. I will admit the tagline 'America then, told by America now' almost sends shivers down my spine for what it really means. But then again I find men not knowing they'd make it down into the history books for starting the world's global power and the world's economic powerhouse pretty interesting. Doing something big and knowing it's historical, but not that it's going to form a very, VERY large country, where you'll be honored down the road and called a Founding Father of an entire nation? Signing papers and not knowing they're the founding stones of a country and still looked up to today? Intriguing.

But like still fuck Thomas Jefferson lmao

youtube

there's a lot more videos on it that dig deep, but the point is, that Hamilton is a good musical with good songs but it's also very... complex, and a bit problematic, Thomas Jefferson is a little bitch, and you should stan 1776 before you ever stan Hamilton. 1776 does not do this. It is much more realistic. 1776 has Benjamin Franklin and that's an immediate win. Be more like a 1776, be less like a Hamilton.

#miku binder thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson #this is the rant that woulda stayed in drafts #rant post #hamilton fandom #not just hamilton no no the fandom itself

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love-kurdt · 1 year

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Beat You to the Phone (steddie)

@cosmos-lore asked: 40 steddie

Prompt: “I want a baby.”

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: homophobic slurs, grooming (in the context of eddie’s parents), parent death, parental abuse and trauma

A/N: i hope this is what u wanted! i took this in the angst/fluff route. for all my other readers who have sent in asks, fear not! i’m working on all of them as we speak. they’ll be rolling out soon, slowly but surely.

For as long as he could remember, Eddie Munson had sworn to himself that he would never, ever become a father. It wasn’t in his blood. It made sense, since his own dad didn’t have a cell of paternal instinct in his body, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Charles Lancaster had never been a good man, let alone a good parent. After all, he had met sixteen year old Marie Munson when he was twenty-five. He groomed and brainwashed her into thinking that she loved him before knocking her up. After Eddie was born, he was barely present, citing work as his reason for being an absent father.

The first five years of Eddie’s childhood were good. He never went without, and always felt safe. His mom was an angel on earth. She was the one who bought Eddie his first guitar, and taught him “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles for his first tune. She was the one who brought Eddie to have picnics in the park, with peanut butter and honey sandwiches. She was the one who’d tuck him in at night, say a short prayer, and kiss him on the forehead. She was always there for him, until she wasn’t. He had found Marie dead on the bathroom floor after his first day of kindergarten, and it was all downhill from there.

Charles had been selling drugs to keep himself (and Eddie, of course, how could he ever forget) afloat. It wasn’t long before he got caught carrying copious amounts of cocaine over state lines and was sent to prison, meanwhile Eddie was on the brink of being registered into the foster care system. That was, until Wayne Munson swooped in and saved the day. Or rather, saved Eddie’s entire future.

Wayne hated the phrase, “like his own.” He did not raise Eddie “like his own,” or love Eddie “like his own.” He raised and loved Eddie as his own. He saw his nephew as a son. From the first day that little Eddie ran into the trailer, stood still for a moment, then ran right back to Wayne to jump into his arms squealing, “Thank you Unc’o Wayne,” Wayne knew that he’d made the best decision of his life.

He watched Eddie grow up. Eddie became fascinated with fantasy and mythology, and Wayne watched him spend hours upon hours creating characters for that dungeons game he was always talking about. He watched Eddie play his acoustic guitar, scribbling lyrics into his marble composition notebook. Wayne always felt as if he was looking right at his sister whenever Eddie would play. He watched Eddie approach the trailer with a black eye, asking Wayne what a “faggot” was. They had a long talk that night, filled with hot cocoa and tears.

Years later, in 1986, he watched police carry a girl (Chrissy, they called her) out of his home who looked like she’d been tossed off a cliff. He watched the entire town lose its collective mind and accuse his nephew, his son, of murdering that poor girl. He watched Eddie return home, half dead, carried on the back of a kid with the most terrified look on his face, as if he were to say, “I need him alive just as much as you do.”

He watched as Eddie brought that same kid home one sunny day in 1987, and his suspicions were right on the money. His name was Steve, Steve Harrington, and he had the tallest hair that Wayne had ever seen. “He’s my boyfriend, and I love him,” Eddie had said. Wayne could have been skeptical; after all, he was a Harrington, but he had saved Eddie's life. And for that, he loved him too. He didn’t even hesitate to say yes when Steve was kicked out of his parents' home for his sexuality.

Though they were young, they got married in a small ceremony in the company of friends and family in May of 1989. Eddie and Steve moved into their own trailer, right next to Wayne. That way, he was close by if they needed anything, and could also maintain some sense of safety for his nephew and his illegal husband.

The topic of grandkids was never really discussed. Wayne knew how adamant Eddie was about not turning up like his father, and if not having kids was part of that vow, then so be it. He respected that. However, Wayne had absolutely no idea about the conversation that was happening next door.

—

“I want a baby,” Eddie heard Steve whisper in his ear. They’d been cuddling that morning for the past half hour and Eddie was just about to fall back asleep. His eyes snapped open at what his husband had just suggested.

“Jesus H. Christ, Steve, warn a person!” he turned around from his little spoon position to face Steve, who was blushing red and removing his hands from Eddie’s waist to cover his face in embarrassment.

“Shit, I should have prefaced it or something,” he shook his head. “Sorry. It’s not like it could actually happen anyway, because… well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie chuckled, reaching up to caress Steve’s cheek with his cold rings, which he knew he loved. He leaned into the touch as Eddie continued, “And that’s kind of a blessing in itself, because I honestly don’t want kids.”

Now it was Steve’s turn for his eyes to snap open. “But like, you know I’ve always wanted a family. And I want it with you. I want to have it all, the six kids in a Winnebago, the dog and cat, the whole nine yards.” Steve rolled away on the bed, laying on his back, leaving Eddie feeling colder than before. “And I swear to god, ever since Nance and Jonathan had Austin, I’ve had the worst baby fever that any man has ever had”

Of course Steve was jealous of Nancy and Jonathan. Who wouldn’t? They’d rekindled their relationship over the winter break of Nancy’s sophomore year at Emerson, and she wound up getting pregnant after one time of having sex before going back to school. But she persevered through school and endured the pregnancy, because she and Jonathan both wanted to start a family, even if she was only twenty and Jonathan was twenty one. Both of their families had been extremely supportive and accepting as well, which made things even harder for Steve to watch, because, why couldn’t he have that? Oh, right, because he was gay, and now because his husband didn’t want children.

“And you think I haven’t had it too?” Eddie sat up, running his fingers through his messy hair and looking down at Steve, whose face implied shock. “Believe me, I have! Do you know how much I want to be the dad I never had?” Eddie’s voice got wobbly. “To teach them D&D and guitar, to make funny voices for every single one of their stuffed animals, to make ring-o-noodle soup when they’re under the weather, to watch them standing backstage at one of my shows when they’re old enough?”

He cleared his throat before continuing. He could not cry. Not over this. “I want that more than anything! But what you don’t know is how sick to my stomach that makes me feel. The thought of me, Eddie Munson, as a fucking father? No way! It’s not in my genes, man.”

Steve sat up now, scooching towards Eddie and pulling him into his chest. Eddie obliged, because he could never resist Steve’s chest hair. It should have been illegal. “Well, man, will you maybe at least think about it?” Eddie shook his head and went to talk, but Steve spoke again, “It doesn’t even have to be through surrogacy, so it wouldn’t be biological if that’s what you’re worried about. I found this adoption agency in New York that just opened their doors to same sex couples—”

Steve was desperate. Eddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “No. I can’t. I just… it’s a whole thing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Steve exhaled into Eddie’s hair, pulling him closer and squeezing his heavily tattooed bicep. “We can revisit this ‘whole thing’ another time.”

At that, Eddie pulled away once more, standing up next to the bed and looking down at his lover with disdain. “I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m saying. I don’t want a kid, I will never want a kid.” He paced for a few moments. “I can’t end up like my dad. He already haunts me, and he’s in fucking prison.”

“But you aren’t your dad!” Steve protested. “I for one think you’d be a great one! You’re so good with the teens.”

“Yeah, because I’m their dungeon master,” Eddie laughed incredulously, “I’m not feeding, clothing, and tucking them into bed every night.”

“Baby,” Steve said, standing up to join Eddie on his side of the room, “I know you’re scared, and I know you’re hesitant to even consider the thought of being a dad, but this is… fuck, this is everything I’ve ever wanted.” He took Eddie’s left hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the black band on his ring finger. He heard the familiar clinking of metal against metal when his silver band collided with Eddie’s. “I lost my parents, and regardless of how shitty they were, they were still family. I lost the house, which was supposed to be in my name until I came out to them. And I lost my reputation, which I’ve been working for years to improve.”

Eddie dropped Steve’s hand, taking a step back. “Why, because King Steve can’t reign over his kingdom if he’s a fag, right?”

“King Steve died the moment Dustin dragged me back to my car in 1984, you know that,” Steve snapped. “You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”

“…But you thought about it,” Eddie replied in a deeper tone than usual that made Steve’s skin crawl.

“No, I—” he threw his hands up in the air, “I mean that I’m tired of sacrificing! Jesus, Munson, I gave up everything for you! The least you could do is put your feelings aside for this one thing!”

“Like I said, Munson,” Eddie retorted, their shared last name rolling off his tongue with fire, “I cannot, and will not change my mind about this. I am not fit to be a father, and to be honest, I don’t think you’re meant to be one either.” Eddie finally broke, feeling a tear run down his face.

“How can you say that to me?” Steve crossed his arms against his chest. “You’re just projecting your own insecurity onto me. That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it, though? If you’re so upset about making sacrifices, good luck having kids. Because that’s what parenthood is alllll about. You put your own ambitions aside and support your kids through everything. You give them what they need, and even if you can’t, you find a way,” Eddie let out a choked sob, not even caring at this point. “You find a way, because your kids are not supposed to do it themselves. They’re supposed to be happy, carefree, stupid, funny, ignorant little shits who just want to be loved.” His heart was breaking with every sentence he spoke and the walls he’d constructed to protect himself were now crumbling to the ground. “No kid deserves to find their dead mom at home with her eyes still open. Steve, I see her eyes all the fucking time. They were bloodshot. I can’t listen to the Beatles, not because I hate them like I told you, but because my mom taught me all of their songs on the guitar and I can’t bear to hear them. I still feel the metal shears against my head from when my dad shaved it, telling me to ‘man up, I didn’t raise a fairy.’ I remember the way my dad would lose his temper and beat me until I passed out. I don’t want my past to affect how I would raise them. Like, what if I get angry and hit my own child? What if I make rash decisions and end up causing more harm and trauma than good? I’m absolutely terrified of being the antagonist in my kid’s life. And I’m absolutely terrified that you’re going to leave me for someone who can give you what I can’t.”

Steve’s expression softened, feeling absolutely horrible. He slowly moved back towards Eddie, who was trying his hardest to stop the flow of tears, but it wasn’t working. When Steve pulled him in for a hug, Eddie didn’t even object. He cried and cried into Steve’s shoulder, grasping onto the back of Steve’s shirt for dear life.

“I’m so, so sorry, my love,” Steve pulled back the slightest bit and kissed Eddie’s temple. “It’s okay, I understand. We don’t have to have kids. It’s okay, I was being selfish and wasn’t willing to listen to your side. I’m sorry.”

Eddie only shook his head. “No, you’re right. You’ve sacrificed so much for me, and I don’t want something like this to cause me to lose you.”

“You could never lose me, even if you tried,” Steve replied, to which Eddie barked out a laugh.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Robin literally got us shirts that say ‘If found please return to Eddie’ and ‘I’m Eddie.’”

Steve pulled back and held Eddie’s face in his hands, wiping the stray tears off his cheeks. “We really are meant for each other, aren’t we?” he asked. “I can be okay with just us two. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Eddie replied, and leaned forward to kiss Steve. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck as Steve’s met his waist, pulling him in closer. Steve swiped his tongue over Eddie’s bottom lip, and he let him in, gasping for air while Steve let out a low moan. Eddie tugged at Steve’s hair, making him pull his head back from Eddie’s, feigning a pout.

“Eds… lemmemakeoutwithyou,” Steve whined, going to kiss Eddie again, but was stopped with a bony hand on his sternum.

“Before things go any further, I… I think we could maybe give that adoption agency a call.” Eddie said, and Steve’s eyes widened.

“Are you serious? Like, I don’t want you to do something you were very much against barely ten minutes ago. But if you are serious… can we?”

Eddie smirked, twirling a piece of Steve’s hair at the nape of his neck. “Beat you to the phone.”

#steddie #eddie munson #stranger things #steveddie #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things 4 #steve x eddie

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orchideous-nox · 5 months

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Have Yourself A Merry Roseweed Christmas

In honour of it being the season for giving, I decided to bring back my favourite crack ship, Roseweed (Evan Rosier x weed selling cobbler's boy < 3 from my cowboy au fics) as a present to my friend @futurequibblerjournalist

If you are seeing this and don't celebrate Christmas or havent read my wolfstar or rosekiller cowboy au, then enjoy the most niche 420 (ha) words that will probably mean nothing to everyone else! Without further delay (because I have been annoying my dear friend about this for a week and a half at this point), enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~

Snow fell in Montreal on Christmas Eve like a thick flurry of cocaine. Not that weed selling cobbler’s boy < 3 had any experience with coke, his heart only beating with the adrenaline of two addictions, weed and Evan Rosier. Shovelling a clear path on the driveway, he glanced up to see the front door opening. Out stepped his fiancé, holding two mugs of hot chocolate, offering one out to weed selling as he got closer. Weed selling pulled him in by the waist, kissing his lips quickly before taking the mug and watching steam curl up.

“My love, my light, my life, I do not deserve you. You are too good to me.” Grinned weed selling, hand resting on the small of Evan’s back. They were a long way from Oklahoma, visiting the Rosier family for Christmas before returning home in the new year.

“Oh, weed seller, there is no doubt in my mind that my love for you could stretch father than the edge of the last galaxy a mind could even fathom.” With a blush to his cheeks, weed seller, kissed Evan again with a smile, letting himself linger.

“You always say the most wonderful things. You must truly love me.” He muttered against Evan’s lips before finally pulling away and taking a sip of his hot chocolate, smelling something different about it.

“It’s hot chocolate infused with cannabis.” Evan grinned, drinking from his own mug and watching as weed seller began walking inside, leaving his shovel propped up on the porch. Evan must have lit a candle because weed seller could smell the strong scent he’d come to associate with the night they got engaged.

“Oh, babe, you really are the best.” He sighed as he walked into the living room. Around the room, his favourite candles covered every surface, lit to fill the room with the ever present smell of weed.

“Don’t get emotional, please!” Evan placed his mug down, hurrying over to weed selling cobbler’s boy < 3 and cupping his face in his hands, thumbs wiping away tears he hadn’t even realised were there.

“I’m not crying, love, the candles are just really strong.” He laughed, shaking his head until he realised the record player was on, the soft sounds of La Vie en Rose crackled through the speaker and he set down his hot chocolate, taking Evan into his arms. They swayed gently, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“Merry Christmas, weed selling. I love you.”

“I love you too, my dear, Merry Christmas.”

#evan rosier #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #hp marauders #dead gay wizards from the 70s #roseweed #weed selling cobbler's boy #evan rosier fic #fanfic writing #fanfiction #fanfics #fanfic #fandom #marauders fandom

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mariana-oconnor · 1 year

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The Yellow Face pt 1

Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the kind; the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to recount are the two which present the strongest features of interest.

Aha, so Sherlock isn't going to solve this one. Interesting. I feel like ACD uses this device specifically to make his audience want to beat Holmes at his own game.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some professional object to be served.

This is the most relatable Sherlock Holmes has ever been, and he's been pretty damn relatable. Well, not the boxing thing. But the wanting exercise to have a purpose thing.

Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices

Just the cocaine. 'He didn't do any drugs - except the cocaine, obvs' feels a bit like saying 'He never drives - except for the drag racing'

For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

Wow... I'm trying very hard not to do queer readings of these stories (idky, I just feel like it's obvious) but sometimes things come up and I know phrases have changed in meaning. But is there any doubt as to why people romantically link these characters?

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy.”

We get to see his encyclopaedic knowledge of tobacco ash in action. Not just a reported skill.

Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to do that.

When I was a small child who had just graduated to glass rather than plastic cups, I used to bite bits out of them. I wasn't particularly strong, although I did have quite good teeth back then. I was just quite stupid and didn't understand the consequences of my actions. However, I have never smoked a pipe, so don't know if biting down on it is a traditional part of the experience.

“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”

Is this going to be another story where Holmes tells people to talk to their spouses?

From every gesture and expression I could see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose them.

Hey, Watson. Look at you reading people. Good for you.

And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her life and in her thought of which I know as little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want to know why.

Oh yeah, they need to talk to each other. Communication problems.

She went out to America when she was young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died of it.

Well this is already tragic and we haven't even got to the mystery yet.

"I have seen his death certificate."

That's weirdly specific, while also being vague pronoun use - the husband or the child? - and also a totally normal thing to say. I guess it's the husband because... that would be necessary for the marriage? But why bring that up? Like, from a Doylist perspective it makes sense to provide that information to the reader, but it's such a weird sentence to just slip in. I'm sure this information won't be at all important later on.

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me."

That is... definitely a choice she made. It doesn't seem like the best choice, especially since apparently it was all her idea. I suppose there must have been a reason for it, but Effie... not sure it was your best idea.

“’And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’ “’Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’ “So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I never thought any more of the matter.

OK, he's already one of the most respectful husbands we've seen in these stories just for this. He agreed to look after her money, but to give it to her with no questions asked if she needed it. She asked for a large sum of money, so asking 'what for?' is genuinely a reasonable question, but when gently reminded of his promise he agrees to give her the money with only a little more curiosity. I'm not going to quibble about him questioning her slightly. According to the Bank of England, she asked for the equivalent of £10,000. If your spouse asks for £10,000 randomly one day it's pretty natural to ask what it's for... or you're a billionnaire I guess.

Now, she's a bit sus right now. That's a lot of money on no notice. I guess she has some skeletons in her past she has to pay off in some way.

But also, if you 'never thought any more of the matter' then why were you thinking of it enough to bring it up now? Clearly you definitely thought more on the matter... It strikes me that I may have praised you too soon. You don't seem to be being entirely truthful.

"I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly unnatural."

Mask? We're all agreed it's a mask, right? livid white, set and rigid? That describes a mask. Or a robot. But if it's a robot, then this is not the story I was expecting and I've really forgotten a lot about these stories since I last read them.

It's not a robot, right?

In the alternate universe where the 5 orange pips killer is the restless ghosts of the murdered, this is a robot.

She was deadly pale and breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the morning?

Night running? Probably not. Stargazing? Moonbathing? Ancient rites and rituals? Dancing skyclad?

Probably not any of those things. I agree, it is a strange time to go a-wandering. And she is being super sneaky about it. This is another tick against the 'sus' box. Although I do suspect this is going to be something like her being blackmailed by her former husband who didn't actually die at all or something like that. Not that she doesn't have the right to go walking the country lanes at 3am. She can do whatever she wants. Bit weird though.

Was it usual to keep pocket watches under pillows? I used to keep books under my pillow when I was younger - and stuffed down the side of my bed. And hidden in my duvet cover. But that was because I stayed up too late reading and had to hide them quickly when I needed to pretend to be asleep. Did bedside tables not exist in the 1890s? Internet tells me they became popular in the Georgian period. Why not keep your watch beside your bed then. This is entirely unimportant, I'm just surprised that anyone would keep something like a pocket watch under their pillow. He must have a really good pillow.

"I had sat for about twenty minutes"

That's not very long. So it's either not an affair or her affair partner has some stamina issues. I jest, I jest. That wouldn't really be a Sherlock Holmes kind of mystery.

"Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more unlikely than the last."

Well, it's less than 10 minutes walk away, so that narrows down your answers somewhat. Probably the neighbour's house, given your narrative so far, Mr Munro.

“’Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of any assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’ “’So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’"

I mean, yes. But also that's a perfectly good reason for her to be coming out of the cottage. Visiting neighbours, particularly in more rural areas, particularly during this time period, would have been entirely normal. Unless women still had to be introduced by their husbands/fathers at this point, but I don't think that was the case by the end of the Victorian era like it was in Austen. I get that she's being sus, but this is the least suspicious thing she's done. You're right, but your logic is faulty.

“’How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the bottom.’ “’No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and pulled me back with convulsive strength.

This is also an entirely reasonable reaction to your husband deciding to invade the new neighbours' house while angry.

Maybe it's her kid?

"'If you come home with me, all will be well. If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’ [...] ’I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’ said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.’

Oh dear, no one's coming out well from this. On the one hand, that's quite the ultimatum she's making. On the other hand... that's quite the ultimatum he's making.

So far nothing she's done has been particularly terrible. I mean... a twenty minute walk in the middle of the night isn't bad. Visiting the neighbours isn't bad. All he's got is suspicions that she's lying to him. Meanwhile, she's emotionally blackmailing him with their relationship. I know this is all going to turn out to be very dramatic, because it's a Holmes case, but at the same time, Mr Munro is definitely overreacting right here.

“On the third day, however, I had ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and her duty."

Oh no... you're being a dick, Mr Munro. The promise you made her give was completely unreasonable. There is literally no way she can tell you everything she plans to do and even if she could, that's a dick move. And now, based on one night time walk and visit next door you're claiming that her leaving the house is drawing her away from her duty? I believed in you, Mr Munro. She is being a bit weird, yes, but you're being controlling and for absolutely no good reason.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to make sure that she was not in the house."

These are not the actions of a rational human being. This is paranoia. If your wife thinks she needs to collude with the servants against you, then your marriage is nowhere near as happy as you seem to think.

"Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a shadow over my life."

What fucking shadow? The only thing casting a shadow over your life right now is you. You have 0 evidence that your wife is doing anything wrong. And the more you talk, the more convinced I am that she could absolutely have needed to take a walk at 3am just to get away from you. I don't think that's going to be the solution to the mystery, but I wouldn't blame her at this point.

And you did so well with the money! Although I suppose we only have your word for any of that, so who knows what actually happened there.

If it turns out that her child didn't die of Yellow Fever at all, but was just left disfigured and/or disabled and now she's visiting them, it's not going to go well for you, my dude.

"I did not even knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into the passage."

Fucking rude.

That's how you get a poker to the head, btw.

"The furniture and pictures were of the most common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my request only three months ago."

Mr Monro is kind of a snob, huh? If I liked him more, I might suggest that he and Watson get together for judging sessions.

FINE the picture is weird and evidence of some sort of weird secret. Congratulations, by trespassing and being a controlling dick you have uncovered one (1) piece of evidence that your wife is embroiled in some sort of secret relationship. But I really do think it's going to be maternal.

"It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what I should do for the best."

Well you sure have handled it well so far. /sarcasm.

If this is the first problem in your marriage and your first instinct was to fly completely off the handle and barge into someone else's house and search it from top to bottom just because your wife *checks notes*... went for a short walk in the nighttime and... visited the neighbours? then you are not stable enough for marriage. Oh and she wanted some money a little while before this, but you specifically said that you'd all but forgotten about it (which I doubt since it was the first thing you brought up) and you didn't know if it had any bearing on anything else.

Again, I have only vague recollections of this one. The only thing I really remember is the face in the window, everything else is a blur.

Current theory: her child didn't die, but survived the yellow fever with serious lasting effects. She couldn't support them alone, so she set them up with someone to look after them and when she was properly settled down with a comfortable a life, a (supposedly) loving husband and enough money, she used that £10,000 to bring the child to her and settle them in the cottage across the way so they would be close to each other.

Why all of that would need to be such a secret, I don't know, however. There must be some scandal involved somehow. If we didn't already know she'd been married before, I would have said the child was born out of wedlock, but even if that were the case surely she could just say it was the child of her first husband anyway and in this time with no internet, no one would have been any the wiser?

#Letters from Watson #Sherlock Holmes #long post #The Yellow Face #This guy just keeps getting worse as it continues #The paranoia is strong in this one #She was gone 20 minutes #She had to get there and back #That doesn't leave a lot of time for scandal #Most perfunctory lovers' rendezvous of all time

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wubwubnparmaham · 2 months

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could i ask your pronouns? i talk about you all the time to my friends who i'm advertising love endless to, but i just feel weird if i'm doing it wrong.

It's no secret that i've gotten a barrage of asks like this over the years, and I always shied away from answering them, but I got one after this that detailed out they'd read "Only You Can Be My Alpha" and had picked up on some stuff I was saying there, and then got confused about why my author pseudonym was Marigold Winters, that I decided now was the time to talk about this.

This is as deeply personal as I'll ever get on here.

Answer below:

Only a small amount of people will see this, but I expect that some of the people that routinely ask about it will naturally be included in that group, so I'll speak to you guys directly.

I'm AFAB, I'll start with that. From the years of 2012 to 2015, I was severely sexually abused, day-in-day-out. Truly just, as bad as it gets, and I was a minor, and he was an older man, that somehow had the ability to steal me away from my family and live with him alone in an apartment before I'd even graduated high school. It's irrevocably tied up in the drug abuse I went through in that time period because he was a dealer on top of being an addict, so everything bad was all connected to the same abuser.

When I finally came out of that situation, without fully realizing what I was doing at the time, I wanted to separate myself from every single part of what I was when I was under his oppressive clutches. I didn't ever want to be seen as a girl again, or an object of sexual objectification to the male species. The very thought made me sick. I wanted to be untouchable. My name almost immediately became a dead name, never to be spoken again, because that was the name of the person who had been abused. I cut my hair off, I trashed my clothes, and I got rid of anything that that "other me" was connected to. I quite literally metaphorically killed myself.

Pre-trauma processing, this progression made sense to me because in middle school I was completely androgynous, and I wore boy clothes, and people I wasn't super close friends with used to think I was a boy because I had an androgynous name on top of that, and it used to make me feel good. Correct. I had a girlfriend, and we used to pretend I was her "boyfriend" in private, and I played the male role with her, and there were just so many other tiny details of my masculinity to look back on that I highlighted in my younger years as being "signs"; honestly, some of that was always coming from a very real place, but to say the timing of Jackson had nothing to do with trauma is a gross oversight. To me, though, at that time, it seemed to me that I'd always been heading in the direction of being a masculine-presenting person, even if I had this "big feminine phase" in high school, the timing of which my abuser was around for. Post-high school, when Jackson emerged, it started to feel like I'd been living some sort of lie in all that feminine-presenting "nonsense"; that my true self had always been the boy I was in or thought I was in middle school.

To speak on the name, my absent father had long since made the choice that were I born a boy, my name would have been James, so I went with that at first, but I'd always been distinctly connected to the name Jackson, and it was also the name of my hometown, so I changed it to that super early into being masculine-presenting, using he/him pronouns exclusively and FEELING like I was being entirely true to myself.

I lived this way for a long time, refusing to acknowledge any of the trauma I experienced and what kind of role it had played in me destroying the girl I had been. On top of that, at the same time, I was experiencing a barrage of health complications that came after such heavy cocaine use and the malnourishment that comes from that and concurrent anorexia. Some of you might remember the kidney issues I'd speak of in my author's notes and the surgeries that I underwent, even if I didn't speak on the rest of it. I used writing as a newly-discovered coping mechanism to get me through that tenuous time where I quite literally thought I was going to die (I was close to getting sepsis, and it was just a huge mess), and I had nothing but free time to try to get some of this shit in my heart out. Only You became an allegory for the gender confusion and dysphoria, and Love Endless became an allegory for the drugs.

In 2019, I started going to therapy and doing heavy trauma work, trying to find myself in the aftermath of everything that happened. I started to realize that Jackson was more or less a convenient escape of sexual abuse trauma rather than a truly lifelong truth about me (someone I wanted to be for the rest of my life), and it was incredibly hard to detach from that, but I knew I needed to. I went through this embarrassing "nevermind" period where I deleted nearly every picture of Jackson from my social media accounts, switched all my pronouns back, deleted posts that talked about anything having to do with him, and I never explained a fucking thing. I just didn't have the words. It was, and will forever be, TOO personal to give out the depths of all of that to people that still have to see me in real life from time to time, pft. The questions stopped coming after a few years, and now it's like it never happened, which is wild, but there you have it.

That being said, here in this ao3/tumblr writer world, the very world that I initially (semi-secretly) poured my trauma into and single-handedly used to get me through the aftermath of that trauma in itself, it was like I got land-locked. I was known strictly as Jackson here, because that's who I was when I stepped into this world, and after such a long time of associating me with that name and referring to me as that, I didn't feel the need to "correct" anyone, even when it wasn't the most modernly relevant thing out in the "real world". I still felt a deep connection to the man I had been, and it still felt genuine to remain as that person to an audience who weren't privy to any of these complex nuances behind everything to begin with, and Jackson IS the author of my stories, point-blank-period. I may have edited them non-stop since then, but he wrote the bitches originally, so it just....yeah.

To set the timeline, I detransitioned in late 2019 when I entered university, and I've been feminine-presenting ever since. Many of the friends I have now never even knew Jackson. It's all very surreal to me, honestly. I feel a certain level of "guilt" for not reporting this for all these years, but it's truly just so fucking personal and insane that I didn't know how to broach the subject. My deadname is still dead to me (still working on that trauma-processing aspect of getting my fucking name back), but I go by my middle name now, and it's been that way for the last four or so years, and she/her pronouns are the general standard in my "real" life.

I invite anyone to still refer to me as Jackson if it feels right because there's a part of me that still doesn't want to let him go; that still feels him somewhere in there, always valid and relevant to who I am in my weird ass history, and close to my heart.

But if you really want to know my name (if anyone ever asks—and not my deadname, mind you, but my middle name) I'll tell you.

That said, there IS a part of Jackson that IS still hard to contend with, because there's just unspeakable pain wrapped up in his desperate survival-mode creation, but I lived that way in my life for so long, through multiple relationships, being the boyfriend I thought I was in middle school but in a truly genuine way, that he's still like...idk, real to me? Jackson is inseparable from me, though technically part of my "past".

IT'S COMPLICATED.

I will always go by any pronouns you want to throw around in this universe of tumblr, because so god-damn much of me (every version imaginable) is wrapped up in this account. It's truly a free-for-all. Little known fact, but if you were to scroll down far enough in my page, you'd start to see nothing but drugs and painful shit from before I found one direction. So many versions of myself have been on this account, it's not even funny.

I'm sorry in a way for continuing this double life of sorts, and I didn't have to confess to any of this, but I felt it was time. I'm sorry that I ignored so many thoughtful asks of what my pronouns are, but I just wasn't ready to talk about any of this because of how entwined it was with the darkest of the darkest pain.

I really hope anyone doesn't feel upset by this. I love you all.

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tinybaileaf · 8 months

Text

25 Things I Learned by 25

1. Drink it.

2. Don’t get a $30 tattoo in Some Guy’s garage.

3. The app isn’t always better.

4. I love you.

5. Don’t make multiple major life decisions at once (read: signs of a hypomanic episode).

6. Sometimes you drive six and a half hours just to sit in a hot tub.

7. You’re not his mother.

8. You’re not your mother.

9. Cocaine is everywhere.

10. Listen to healing chants.

11. You should start and abandon journaling again.

12. They were right: Gratitude is everything.

13. Buy clothes that complement you, not clothes that just look good on the rack.

14. Doodle on restaurant receipts.

15. Wide-leg pants are not the Devil.

16. Occasionally read a novel that looks uninteresting.

17. Don’t leave too soon.

18. Airlines can and will fuck you.

19. Collect something small but lively (e.g., buttons, cool rocks, fortune cookie slips).

20. Always carry the following: a lighter, a pen, cash, candy, baby aspirin, and nail clippers.

21. Your natural brow shape is great, actually.

22. Indulge your Teenage and Kid Self.

23. Say it with your chest at the doctor’s office.

24. Aloe vera is the answer.

25. If the opportunity presents itself, hold their hand.

#text

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fentyjjk · 11 months

Text

| pairing namjoon x reader x jungkook

| genre angst, cheating

| warnings cheating, mentions of smut, mentions of substance abuse, implied threats of murder, jungkookdeservesbetter, kindagivingwattpadbutiwrotethisat3amSPAREME, unedited, (you do this irl your a pos)

| synopsis an affair with your husband's best friend leads to a messy confession on your wedding day. it all goes downhill from there.

| read me this is 1/2 parts (and unedited)

The fabric delicately layered your body contrasting the demanding stare Namjoon was sending your way. He wanted you to reciprocate it so badly. A small glance would reassure him that even after you say “I do” and spend a beautiful two weeks in Cabo fucking your then husband all over your luxurious suite you’re still his.You’ll still crave him hopefully as badly as he does you. Your water works are fake Namjoon thinks, when a tear slipped from your eyes as Jungkook read his vows you dotted under your waterline and then began full on crying as Jungkook gave the most mundane promise to love and protect you as long as he lived. You recite your vows as well, more or less the same as Jungkook’s with different wording.

And then you said it. “I do.” And for Namjoon at least it sunk in, he’d no longer be hooking up with his best friend's girlfriend turned fiance, but his wife. The meaning behind that added label made him feel uneasy. It wasn’t like he hadn't tried to put you off from going through with the wedding, even a few months ago when you quietly called him inside your shared bathroom asking him what to do since Jungkook had proposed. He was dumbfounded hearing you cry over the phone, but one thing's for certain he had to do his absolute best to prevent the wedding. But as he watched Jungkook dip and kiss you his heart swelled with guilt because he knew even after Jungkook married you, he’d still want you.

“Let's give a round of applause for the lovely bride!” The “host” of the wedding was Jungkook’s mother, a retired wedding planner who was knowledgeable on how to make her one and only son's wedding day one to remember. The entire thing was beautiful gold and white decorations filled the church, the hall, and the ceremony room; the chandelier hung high and bright. Even the fucking cake looked expensive. And despite the luxurious finger foods Mrs.Jeon had carefully picked out the alcohol was particularly inviting to Namjoon.

He couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. You looked so genuinely happy with Jungkook; smiling, kissing him, staring at your ring with that longing look on your face when Jungkook wasn’t present. Not to mention you had been avoiding Namjoon since the proposal. You hooked up sparsely leading up to the wedding but the last few weeks you’d all but ghosted him. You couldn’t feel guilty now, not after everything with Namjoon. He didn’t want to accept any sort of truth that you may very well have thought of him as just a good hookup. No, you told him you loved him, granted it was after you’d both snorted a shit load of cocaine and some drinks, it had to mean something, right?

“Now we will have our best man's speech.” The spotlight shined down on Namjoon as he messily wiped the beer from his lips walking towards the stage. All eyes on him. Ms.Jeon, ever the perfectionist, had insisted on everyone getting “mic'd up” as she dubbed it instead of using facial microphones so the speeches could have more emotion. As he got on stage he turned towards the right. To anyone else, he's directing his speech to the lovely couple, but no, he needs to see you. He saw you walk down the aisle, he was at dress rehearsals where you ignored him, but he hasn’t been able to see you glow like this before. Even post orgasm when you glow the most and smile at him until his heart is ready to jump out of his chest, you’ve never looked like that. The white dress compliments your dark skin beautifully, the silver jewelry naturally complimenting your undertones, your hair that he would pull after you’d just got straightened now loosely pulled into a bun with two curly strands framing your beautiful face. You looked stunning.

For some reason Namjoon began to feel jealousy creeping up on him. He’d never fancied the idea of marriage, or kids like you and Jungkook did. All that traditional shit wasn’t for him as he’d say and he made that clear to you, but now as he gazes at Jungkook next to you holding your hand in his, his mood turns sour. It isn’t long before Ms.Jeon coughs signaling for him to begin, smiling at the waiting guests whilst glancing at Namjoon expecting his speech.

However it never comes, instead tears fill his eyes. Not once since he’d gotten on stage had you looked at him. He should’ve expected this avoidant behavior; it's all he’s been getting recently, but now it makes his heart clench in agony. Then, he sniffles and you look up, hearing the action

over the speakers. He’s already looking at you, you knew he would be, his eyes haven’t left you since your mother handed you off to Jungkook. If Jungkook wasn’t so God awfully clueless, he probably would’ve picked up by now that you’ve been stepping out on him with Namjoon for the past three years.

The first hookup was unintentional. You and Jungkook had only been dating for two weeks and he had yet to introduce you to his closest mates and oddly enough you two weren’t in the honeymoon phase. You argued a lot. One thing led to another and you ended up at a bar downtown in Seoul while Jungkook blew up your phone demanding you come back to “figure our shit out” as he’d lightly put it in text. Loyalty wasn’t on your mind when you saw Namjoon at the bar. Nor when he brought you a drink and fucked you in the parking lot, or when he took you back to a hotel. Ironically enough he’d told you the reason he couldn’t go back to his dorm was because his roommate (unbeknownst to you Jungkook) had requested he’d not come home until he resolved the argument between him and his girlfriend. That first night together was unbelievably passionate. The way he cared for you and made you feel comfortable whilst simultaneously pounding you down into the mattress is what got you hooked on him.

And that would've been the end of it had you not gone to Jungkook’s dorm a few days later only to discover your quick little hookup was his roommate and even worse his closest friend. Your world came crashing down when he’d introduced you two and you had to pretend you didn’t know the man as if you hadn’t spent five long hours doing anything and everything to each other in a random hotel room. A moment alone with Namjoon when Jungkook left to get you both food you agreed it couldn’t happen again.

Unfortunately for the both of you, the tension between you was palatable and soon you found yourself going to their shared dorm for Namjoon. When Jungkook would pop up unexpectedly you’d tell him you came to surprise him. Things got a little harder to keep under wraps when he came home drunk after a night out with his frat while you were riding Namjoon, but it was dark and Namjoon covered you immediately. After that incident he’d made the commute to your place whenever he needed you, which was often, but you didn’t mind. Besides the amazing sex, Namjoon and you had a lot in common. It was always enjoyable to talk to him post-sex, he was great company. The thought of what a relationship would be like with him crossed your mind often, but that’d be difficult to explain to Jungkook without ruining their friendship.

So you settled for keeping things in the dark with Namjoon, having him like this was wrong and unfair to Jungkook who didn’t deserve it, but you needed Namjoon too. It wasn’t right to compare the men, but Namjoon was a year older and it showed in the way he made love to you, it wasn’t just sex to you more often than not he was loving your body, which was dangerous. Making love is easily tangled with “feelings” and you couldn’t leave Jungkook. You could tell that Namjoon was getting needy for you to do so even if he wouldn’t say it out loud, he’d gazed at you as you redressed as if you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen..

And then you ruined it.

Namjoon and you also shared a love of hardcore drugs, you weren’t addicts per say, but when presented with cocaine for getting your degree you couldn’t opt out. Then you two fucked like routine, and you said you love him. And he reciprocated that sentiment. For you at least that’s where things went downhill. The mess of emotions you felt paired with the rather intimate sex you two had after the cocaine induced confessions didn’t help your mind feel any better when the very next day Jungkook fucking proposed to you.

This is why you can’t look at Namjoon. Earlier when you promised Jungkook you loved him in front of friends and family your mind was anywhere but on him, it was on his best man, his best friend, Namjoon. You keep thinking about how wrong the whole thing was, when he kissed you, how you’d wished it was Namjoon instead. And when you cried it wasn’t because Jungkook was pouring his heart out to you it was because guilt and anguish was eating away at you. You’d married a guy you hadn’t loved for three years, all while the man you actually wanted watched.

When he sniffled you had to look at him. He looked broken like a kicked puppy. Onlookers probably thought he was emotional over his friend getting married but you knew better. He reciprocated the way you felt. The emotions you felt were all there in his eyes even if he held a false smile, you knew. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, he bolted leaving the room as everyone gasped. Your eyes followed his back as he left the doors closing behind him with you and Jungkook’s initials printed in gold. Jungkook softly guided your face towards him by your chin smiling softly.

“He’ll be fine, he usually gets emotional at things like these,” he heartedly laughs rubbing the back of your palm as his mother continues the ceremony, “come on, it’s almost time for the garter pull.” You pulled your lips up into a smile feeling anything but happy even though it’s your wedding day.

Namjoon found a bottle of beer on his descent to the exit stopping inside the storage room to properly loathe himself. How did he get himself into this situation? Hell, maybe this was his karma, the woman he loved marrying his best friend. Karma had real fucked up ways of paying back debt. Nothing hurt more than seeing you look at Jungkook, lovingly, you never looked at Namjoon that way and the thought caused him to punch the wall opposite him. He heaved, pulling his bloodied hand out of the wall leaning his body onto it. He began crying again laughing to himself as he did so, maybe he’d gone crazy. There was nothing he could do to be with you now without ruining everything, he knew that and that thought alone drove him to madness.

The door opened and he sighed, turning towards it preparing to explain the hole in the wall, but he didn’t have to. It was you, and for once you weren’t smiling. You looked as broken as Namjoon did and that made him slightly happy. He wasn’t the only one being affected; you also were feeling down about the whole thing.

Closing the door behind you, you stared at each other. None of you spoke, just observed each other in the dimly lit closet, he looked good in a suit. The sleeves tightly wrapped around his large biceps, his body was ridiculous naked, but in a suit he looked even better. Under different circumstances you probably would’ve taken him right here in the closet, but it’d be obvious you were missing from your wedding.

Finally he spoke, low and raspy, “Congrats.” He smiled as tears threatened to spill, “you look gr-” You pressed your lips to his shushing him and at once everything fell into place. His arms reached behind you holding you close to his chest as your hands reached for his hair lightly tugging on the dyed locs. “Y/n..” he held his head against yours, breathing you in as you panted. His heart skipped a beat as he realized the kiss felt different from all the others you’ve shared. It feels like a goodbye. You were officially leaving him. You began to separate yourself from him and he grabbed your wrists, “No, Y/n, I can’t-”

“I’m married, Joon, this ends here.” You reached up wiping your tears, you don’t even remember when you started crying yourself.

He breathed a scoff licking the corner of his mouth, “So that’s it? Three years and nothing?” You turned away taking a deep breath, this was it, you told yourself, it’s over. You moved towards the door and he grabbed your waist, kissing your ear down to your neck whispering: “I love you, Y/n, I can’t just end it here.. Please..” his hands moved from your waist to your clothed breast, you bit your lip to hold back a moan.

“Namjoon..” you feel him beginning to grind against your dress, he was hard. He turned you around, taking your hand in his he placed it on his crotch.

“See what you do to me, Y/n?” You knew it was wrong but you began to softly stroke the clothed length as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “Do you love me too?” Your eyes snapped up to his, there’d be no excuse come morning. You couldn’t say you were high, you’re completely sober, you knew there’d be no coming back and still you confirmed his thoughts.

“Yes, I love you too.” He smiled genuinely this time as more tears flowed, but it was different this time, as was your smile it wasn’t fake and practiced in the mirror, it was real. What you two had was real. There was no stopping now, you reconnected your lips as he took off his suit jacket loosening his tie.

“You look beautiful.” He breathed as he released your curly hair from your bun, he loved your natural hair. It was rare to see it in this state and not pin straight and this was his treat. He deluded himself to think you kept your hair in its natural state for your wedding for him and he’s actually not that far off. When deciding how to style your hair you weighed the looks Namjoon wanted with Jungkook’s and chose to favor Joon’s. He deserved that at least.

But just as things began to feel right the world came crashing down around you again.

The door opened.

And there stood Jungkook and almost your entire guest list.

“J-Jungkook-” he looked at your disheveled state and then Namjoon’s.

He scoffed, “Would you like to tell me what my best man and my wife are doing in the closet, honey?” Jungkook was a very kind soft spoken man, it's one of the reasons you felt better with Namjoon. Things weren’t happy all the time. But much like everyone else he had a dark side. And now for the first time you’re seeing it. His eyes seemed to dilate as he zeroed in on your neck, you barely could focus on the disapproving look on the attendees faces because Jungkook has never looked at you like this. He always held love and adoration when he looked at you, it made you feel sick, but this look is different, murderous. You take a step back almost tripping on the dress Namjoon catches your arm steadying you. Jungkook’s jaw tightens as he stares at the action. “Don’t fucking touch her.” Namjoon silently pulled away from you as Jungkook glared into you.

It was bad enough he found out but with the entire guest list watching him tear you a new one added the icing on top. By morning you knew this would be in the headlines: The Heir of Jeon Enterprises wife Y/n L/n was a cheater and she was cheating with his best friend Kim Namjoon. This situation was fucking awful and you couldn’t escape. You felt like you had been nailed to the floor.

“You fucking slu-”

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Turning his attention towards Namjoon he jerked his head back in shock, appalled that Namjoon dare speak to him especially after ruining his wedding day. Jungkook looked away from you two up at the ceiling, his tongue outlining his cheek, he couldn’t lose his calm.

But as he looked back down at the proximity between you two he thought fuck it and swung. The crowd gasped along with you as Namjoon fell to the floor, motionless. Concerned, you turned towards him, but Jungkook’s voice stopped you. “Help him up, I’ll break your fucking jaw.” You knew he meant it, it was in his eyes, that unwithered rage.

“J-Jungkook, I can explain-”

He shook his head, rolling up his sleeves to expose his tattoos. “Ah, the shut the fuck up, Y/n.” He tilted his head to the side, “I knew.” He admitted. Your mouth fell agape, he knew.. He fucking knew! A million questions raced through your mind in that instant but the mental traffic was halted as he spoke again, “or I thought I did. I saw some text messages between you two which seemed like the end of a short affair, that was a year ago. I thought the affair ended, I let it go, but I guess I was wrong.” He laughed bitterly stepping closer to you, you stepped back until you hit the wall, “I gave you everything!” He shouted at you, “you almost went homeless and I fucking took you in! I loved you, hell, I love you, and you’re in this small ass closet confessing to another man on our fucking wedding day?” You’ve never heard Jungkook sound or look as hurt as he does now nor have you ever heard him swear at you unless it was in bed, but this was something completely different. “Oh and by the way lover boy over there forgot about his microphone.” He nodded to Namjoon’s body you looked over at him and Jungkook turned your chin towards him harshly, “you have no idea how much I’m holding back right now.” He toys with his ring finger, he laughs cynically his dark eyes teasing you as he leans in and whispers, “you and Namjoon should be thanking God that murder is illegal.” You swallow as your hands shake uncontrollably. You thought Jungkook would be mad if he ever found out for sure, but murder? He just told you he’s angry enough to murder you. Your mouth trembles as he pulls back a dark smile encompassing his gentle features. “Don’t look so scared, all these people here, you have nothing to worry about.” The words would reassure you had he not grabbed your wrist and began dragging you down the hallway as everyone watched.

Sadly, you didn’t know everything about Jungkook.

Some people, like Namjoon did and he still thought you were worth the risk. That’s what bothered him most.

And now you are going to pay for it.

“Jungkook! Jungkook I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby!” He closed you into the passenger side and quickly rounded the car. As he started the engine you reached for the door handle and he smiled. “Get out, Y/n. I dare you.” You froze and he pulled off, a dark smile resting on his lips. “Good girl.”

#bts namjoon ff #bts namjoon fanfiction #vivwrites #ff #namjoon angst #namjoon x reader

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