#and not me in the middle of a daredevil rewatch that’s been going on for months and I’m only halfway through season 2

[hollandorks]

shadows in the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

chapter eighteen

summary: more than a year after the events of middle of the night, y/n and Bruce are happily engaged and working to lower the amount of crime in Gotham. However, a new killer calling himself the Riddler has other plans for their happiness…set during the events of the movie, mostly canonical, some changes made to fit the story

a/n: I am so sorry this took so long to get posted! In case you missed it, I had my wisdom teeth removed which knocked me on my ass for a full week. But during that time I rewatched Daredevil and hyperfixated again, all of which created the perfect storm of writer’s block for this fic. But the newest chapter is finally here! Thanks for your patience! Only a handful of chapters left, plus the epilogue...

Series Masterlist

word count: 4070

She thought she heard the words “For your own good,” before darkness overtook her and the world fell away.

Bruce’s POV

The moment Bruce figured out where the shot had come from, he panicked. 

Y/n had been looking to see if she could find a lead–and the Riddler was up there, shooting. Where was y/n? 

He was already reeling from Falcone’s confession. Whatever I know, whatever I’ve done, it’s all going with me to my grave…even that little incident last year with the gala. 

Falcone had been responsible for all of it–whether it was to wipe out those like the ex-mayor who were gaining too much power, or if he had been the puppet master all along, Falcone had been responsible. 

He didn’t have time for those thoughts, though. Y/n was up there in that apartment building somewhere, where the Riddler was shooting. 

Bruce burst through the window into the apartment building, every nerve singing with adrenaline. But the apartment was empty. No y/n, no Riddler. Bruce checked his phone for anything from her. The only thing she had sent was the number to the apartment he was currently standing in. 

And nothing else. 

The cops burst in, guns drawn, shouting and sounding like a pack of wild animals. 

Bruce turned and pocketed his phone with an easy motion. He strode towards Gordon, a familiar anger roiling within him as he said, “He’s gone.” 

The other police officers began to search the apartment while Gordon followed Bruce to the open window and the rifle that had been left behind. There was a perfect view of where they’d all been standing only minutes before. Of Carmine Falcone’s body. 

“He’s been here this whole time,” Gordon said, disgust coloring his tone darkly. 

Bruce glanced around before he murmured, “Y/n came to look around while I was inside the club. She was trying to figure out where those photos of the mayor had been taken. Trying to find a lead.” He told himself not to panic–he was certain he’d hear from her soon. Maybe she was looking in another area, completely unaware of the chaos that had happened, was still happening. “She sent me the apartment number.” 

But Bruce also remembered the Riddler’s words in his video. He liked y/n, had been inspired by her. So what if he’d seen her poking around? What if–

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Gordon murmured back. “I’m sure she’s fine.” 

Bruce almost snorted. He wasn’t confident in her ability to stay out of trouble, even after their most recent conversation. She’d found the apartment, somehow, and texted it to him so he’d know. But then had she left? Was she waiting at the Batmobile for him? Up on the roof? Had she followed the Riddler as he’d escaped? 

A crackle of one of the nearby radios interrupted Bruce’s thoughts.

“Lieutenant!” said another officer, holding up the radio for Gordon. “Martinez.” 

“Yeah?” Gordon said into the radio. 

Martinez’s voice was a harried whisper. “Lieutenant, we got a witness here, says she saw someone coming down the fire escape right after the shot. She said he went into the corner diner. The guy’s sitting by himself at the counter, right now.” 

Gordon and Bruce exchanged a look. Maybe the witness was y/n. But why wouldn’t she have called Bruce or Gordon first? Unless she wanted to keep an eye on the Riddler herself, keep him from getting away, and had grabbed the first officer she’d come across. There were dozens in the area at that moment, after all. 

Bruce, Gordon, and several of the other officers around them all rushed back outside. Bruce didn’t bother with the stairs, merely attaching his grappling hook to the fire escape outside the window and swinging down. 

A bunch of officers were converging on the diner already, moving in quickly and efficiently while Bruce watched. He found Officer Martinez, who had his gun drawn but hanging loosely at his side, ready but not trigger-happy. 

“Where’s the witness?” he asked, startling Martinez so badly his gun jerked up. As soon as Martinez saw who was next to him, he lowered the gun again with a guilty expression. 

“Right over there,” Martinez said with a nod. He joined the procession going towards the diner, Gordon at the helm. 

Bruce’s heart leapt hopefully as he followed the man’s gaze but–

It wasn’t her. 

He resisted the urge to curse. As Gordon and the others stormed the diner, Bruce sent y/n a text with shaking fingers. Where was she? He called her right after he sent the text. 

Straight to voicemail. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard. 

If she wasn’t the witness and she wasn’t answering her phone…Bruce’s thoughts turned dark. 

If that bastard had hurt her, done anything to her–Bruce didn’t care about his no killing rule. He would tear the Riddler limb from limb, rip him apart piece by piece, if he had done anything to her. He would make the man suffer for a long, long time until either Bruce got tired of it or the Riddler died from his injuries. 

Bruce strode to the window of the diner, watching as the man who called himself the Riddler was forcefully shoved against the counter and handcuffed. The Riddler met Bruce’s gaze through the fogged glass and smiled. 

Bruce suddenly had a very bad feeling. 

The man was utterly normal in every way, almost boyish, and it only made that sickening smile more unnerving. Like the Riddler knew something Bruce didn’t. Like he had done something they hadn’t yet discovered. 

Within minutes, Bruce was back at the apartment with Gordon, eyes searching through the clutter and chaos for something, anything, to tell him where y/n was as forensic examiners went over the place inch by inch. 

Because something had happened to her. He was sure of it. He shoved the worry and fear down, down, down until his head could clear enough to think. Gordon seemed to understand the urgency, muttering to another cop about keeping an eye out for anything strange. 

“Stranger than this?” The cop huffed a laugh. He had a point, Bruce supposed. The apartment was…like seeing inside the mind of a killer. 

Newspaper clippings were papered across the walls that weren’t covered with full shelves. Bruce’s gaze snagged on a few. With a start, he realized he recognized several of them. A lot of them showed y/n. Those that didn’t have her in them showed his parents. He was very sick to his stomach, even as a hot wave of rage crested within him in the same breath. 

There was their engagement announcement. The grand opening of the Gotham Project, with y/n radiant as she cut the ribbon, Bruce himself just a shadow behind her, trying to make sure the attention was on her and not him. There were articles about the gala too–and a taped up picture of y/n, the one Alfred had used in the engagement announcement, that had the words “informant” scrawled across it with an arrow pointing to an article about the gala. 

And there were notebooks everywhere–journals–giving insight into the actual mind of the Riddler. Bruce felt another chill skitter down his spine. Something wasn’t right here, and it wasn’t just because they were in the living space of a killer. He grabbed at one of the journals, flipping slowly through it. The chill only worsened. 

The question was a refrain in his mind as he skimmed the words within the journal. Where is she where is she where is she where is she?

One of the officers was giving Bruce a dirty look. “Hey, Lieutenant! You really okay with this? What about chain of evidence?” 

Gordon turned from where he’d been speaking with someone else. 

Bruce didn’t have time for any of that bullshit. “You should see this,” he told Gordon. He held out the journal. He ignored the aggravating officer completely. 

“He’s wearing gloves,” Gordon told the complaining officer in a dry tone. Bruce felt grateful for a moment that Gordon had his back. That Gordon would help him find y/n. 

“Friday, July 16th. My life has been a cruel riddle I could not solve, suffocating my mind, no escape,” Gordon began reading. “But then, today, I saw it. A single word on this ledger, sitting on the desk beside me. ‘Renewal.’ The empty promise they sold to me as a child in that orphanage. One look inside, and finally I understood. My whole life has been preparing me for this. The moment when I would learn the truth. When I could finally strike back and expose their lies.”

As Gordon read, Bruce looked around the apartment again, eyes searching for more clues, more hints. He saw prototypes for the various instruments of torture and bombs the Riddler had already used. Cages, full of rats. Bruce zeroed in on the chittering animals even as Gordon continued reading the journal entry in a low, steady voice. 

“If you want people to understand, really understand, you can’t just give them the answers. You have to confront them, torture them with the horrifying questions, just like they tortured me. I know now what I must become.” Gordon paused, voice wavering slightly. “Jesus.”

Bruce frowned slightly at one of the cages. Not a rat, but a bat. 

“Don’t think that rat likes you, man,” Gordon said from behind him as the bat started thrashing against its cage. 

“This one’s not a rat,” Bruce said as he reached for the card addressed for him, taped to the top of the cage’s interior. Attached to the card was something Bruce recognized, if only from its outline. 

“What is that?” Gordon asked as Bruce handed it over. 

They’d drawn some attention now. The officer who was concerned about the chain of evidence asked, “Some kind of pry tool?” as another officer stepped forward and said, “Is it a chisel?” 

“It’s a murder weapon. He killed Mitchell with it. The edge will match the floorboard impression in the mayor’s study.” Bruce flipped open the card as he explained. 

There were only two words written inside. “‘My confession’?” Gordon read. “What’s he confessing to? He already told us he killed Mitchell.” 

The chill weighing down Bruce’s limbs was growing stronger with every moment. He tried to keep his mind from leaping there but–maybe the Riddler had recently committed another murder right on the coattails of his attack on Falcone. 

“This isn’t over,” Bruce said, trying to convey to Gordon what he was thinking with just his eyes. His heart was starting to thrash in his chest like the bat inside the cage next to him. It pounded out one word in its panic–her name. He had to reign it in, couldn’t let anyone know how deeply invested in her wellbeing he was. No one other than Gordon, who already at least knew she’d been working with him that night. 

Bruce’s internal spiral was interrupted by one of the forensic examiners who was standing beside a computer. “Oh, man. He’s been posting all kinds of shit online. He’s got, like, 500 followers. Real fringe types.” 

Bruce was finally able to take in the full scale of the Riddler’s insanity as he got a close look at that wall of newspaper articles. Across the top it read THE TRUTH ABOUT GOTHAM. A campaign poster for Mitchell had the eyes scratched out. Another from Bruce’s father’s campaign had the word MURDERER written over it in red. 

And pictures of y/n–so many pictures of y/n with notes written in ciphers all around them. One article, bigger than the others, from the year before with the ex-mayor’s mugshot on it: Is Gotham’s corruption at an end? Bruce recognized that article–y/n had frowned at it all morning the day it came out. It had been a couple of weeks after their first date. Her fingers had absently pressed against the scar at her abdomen as she’d read. 

Another large article caught his eye. WHO IS THE BATMAN? it read. 

“His final post was last night,” the same man was saying, but Bruce wasn’t listening. “Some video. Got a lot of views, but it’s password-protected.” 

“Can you get in?” Gordon asked. 

“Copying his drive now. Take some time, but we’ll get in.”

But Bruce was wholly focused on the words next to the Batman article. I know the REAL you, it said, white words over a background colored black. 

Heart pounding, the pieces started rapidly falling into place as Gordon said, “Show me the post.” 

“It’s right here.” 

“‘The Truth Unmasked,’” Gordon murmured. 

Y/n, the articles about Thomas Wayne, Riddler’s obsession with the Batman. Had taking her been some sort of trap? A trap for him? 

“I think I’m his last target,” Bruce said. His voice was calm despite the weight of the revelation hitting him so hard his knees wanted to buckle.

“You?” Gordon said. Bruce was grateful he didn’t dismiss him outright despite the skeptical look. 

“Maybe this is all coming to an end,” Bruce said softly as he continued staring at that video. What did it say? Had it revealed his identity? Did it have one final clue for Gotham to figure it out themselves? 

“What is?” Gordon asked, a note of urgency in his voice. 

“The Batman.” Bruce swallowed hard. Outside, his body was still, but the inside of his mind was a hurricane of panic. Fear thrashed inside of him like gale-force winds, storm surges of cold rage chasing the fear, his whole body feeling beat up with the force of it even as he remained outwardly unmoved. 

Gordon’s phone started ringing. 

But Bruce didn’t have time to panic. First, he had to make sure y/n was safe. His mind whirled with several plans at once as he tried to figure out what to do. If his identity was the price to pay to keep her safe, so be it. He would pay it a thousand times over if he had to. He’d planned for the possibility anyways–funneling money and assets into accounts she could access should something happen to him, should he go to jail or get killed or injured so severely he turned into a vegetable. He’d left instructions for Alfred to take y/n and run as far as possible should Bruce’s identity be revealed. No need for it to blow back on either of them. 

How had the Riddler figured it out? Bruce needed to know–but only once he knew y/n was safe. 

Gordon was staring at Bruce as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone call. 

“Right,” he said slowly as he hung up. This is it, Bruce thought. “Riddler’s asking for you. At Arkham.” 

Bruce nodded slightly. He stepped forward to leave, but paused next to Gordon. “You’re a good cop,” he said. He tried to convey everything in those few words–gratitude for the man who had helped him without needing to know his identity, a man who hadn’t been corrupted when so many others had. A man who had helped him keep y/n safe, who had saved her life at the gala when Bruce had been able to. 

Gordon looked utterly puzzled at the compliment. “I’ll keep looking for her, yeah?” he said in a soft voice. 

“Yeah,” Bruce repeated. He’d find a way to beat her location out of the Riddler if he had to, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Gordon continue to look for her. Bruce would have lied, would have told Gordon to “call Bruce Wayne to let him know she was missing” but there was no use. Not when his identity was about to become public knowledge. 

As Bruce went back outside to where he’d left the Batmobile–where they’d left it, y/n with her pictures and he to go save Selina and capture Falcone–he called y/n’s phone again. No answer. He bit back a curse as he started the car with a growl that echoed his own urgency. There was no sign of her. 

Where was she? Was she hurt? Was she–

Bruce shut the thought down. No. The Riddler was inspired by her. And she wasn’t corrupt, like all of his other victims had been. She had no ties to corruption other than whatever vague ties she now had to Thomas Wayne because of Bruce. 

The Riddler wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t. 

Bruce clung to that lie as he sped toward Arkham, toward answers, towards the end of the Batman. 

Reader’s POV

The world came back to y/n slowly. Her head ached fiercely. Her mouth tasted like cotton. No–that was actual cloth in her mouth. She groaned around it and tried to wriggle so she could take it out. 

Her hands and feet were tied. 

Her eyes snapped open just as a boot connected with her thigh. 

“Quiet,” an unfamiliar voice hissed. Y/n couldn’t help the grunt of pain from the kick, though. It was on the same side as her bruised hip, the one that had cracked against the stone floor when she’d tackled that boy at the memorial. God–the memorial. That had been weeks ago, it felt like. But it had only been a handful of days. So much had happened in those short few days. 

Squinting around the pain in her head, y/n glanced up at the man who had spoken. He was dressed in a familiar dark green coat, mask, and glasses. 

The Riddler. 

Her heart dropped.

He had taken her. 

She inhaled shakily through her nose. Her hands were bound in front of her, thankfully, and her ankles were bound as well, but the Riddler had a rifle in his hands and was staring down at her. 

Y/n decided to wait to try any kind of Houdini act, even as she cursed colorfully in her mind. 

She took a moment to glance around, confusion warring with fear to be at the forefront of her mind. She was surrounded by metal–walkways, supports, wires. Above her was a domed glass ceiling that vaguely stirred recognition, though she couldn’t immediately place it. 

It wasn’t until she looked over and down that she realized where she was. 

The fear whited out every sight, every sound, everything except for a faint roaring in her ears. 

Below her was Gotham Square Garden Stadium. There were people everywhere, rows upon rows of seating, digital signs for Bella Reál, and a stage set at the center. 

And y/n was above it all. 

She squirmed in earnest now, panicked, needing to get out, to get away. The Riddler was planning something for the event, and it wouldn’t be good. 

And Bruce–Bruce had no idea where she was. None. He had no idea what was coming, what the Riddler had planned. 

Fuck, she thought desperately. Fuck. This isn’t good. It was an understatement. Falcone was dead, y/n was a captive, and there were soon going to be hundreds if not thousands of people at the event. 

“I said quiet,” the voice hissed again, and there was another burst of pain against her leg as he kicked her again. 

Y/n glared up at him, but then stilled. 

There were other men, all dressed the same, all peering at her curiously.

All carrying rifles.

The fear turned into something darker, sharper. She felt like a cornered animal, trapped with no hope of escape. 

She had to let Bruce know, had to tell him the event was being targeted. But how? 

She tried to subtly check if she still had her phone. Maybe she could text Bruce, or Gordon, or both. There had to be something she could do. 

But her phone was gone. 

The fear made it hard to come up with a plan. She was tied up, surrounded by guns, and Bruce had no idea where she was. But if she didn’t do something, anything, people were going to die. A lot of people. And maybe Bruce. Because even though he’d be too late to stop the destruction that was surely coming, Bruce would still come and he would still fight. And he would lose. 

Y/n had to do something. 

She was still wearing her suit, though her mask was gone. She supposed she didn’t really need it anyways. These men, if they were aligned with the Riddler, knew who she was, what she’d done. And maybe that was why she was still alive. 

Would the Riddler have her killed? Or was she simply under guard for now, until he could come? Because she realized now that none of the masked men around her were him. The man who had kicked her was too tall, too lean. The real Riddler would be close to her, gloating, probably asking her questions, if he were here. 

No, the real Riddler wasn’t here. At least not yet. 

Think, y/n told herself. He didn’t kill her when they were alone in the apartment. Why? 

Either it was because she was an inspiration to him–the thought of which still made her physically ill–or it was for something else. 

She didn’t like where her mind went. 

“Two minutes,” came a breath of a whisper from the man who’d kicked her. She saw the whisper passed around the gathered men. 

Two minutes until what? 

Y/n tried not to bring attention to herself, not yet, not until she had some sort of a plan. 

Okay, so the Riddler either had some sort of weird crush on her, or she was a part of something bigger than that. Based on his actions so far, she was a part of something bigger. He hadn’t planned for her to show up, but he also hadn’t seemed too surprised. 

His whispered words came back to her, right before pain had exploded in her head and the world had gone dark. 

For your own good. 

He was protecting her. From what? For what? From accidentally getting caught in the crossfire at the event that was going to take place below them? That seemed most likely. 

But she had a feeling that she was bait. 

Bait for Bruce. 

For Batman. 

She had to do something, fear be damned. 

She very casually stretched out her bound feet and winced a little, as if working out the numbness. 

“I’m going to stop you,” she said through her gag to the men around her, though none of the words actually came out as anything other than garbled noise. If they were wanting her to keep quiet, the noise would draw their attention, which is what she wanted. 

The man who’d kicked her twice now came striding back over. Even with the mask on, she could see the ire flashing in his eyes. 

He leaned over in front of her, gun pointing dangerously close to her face, and hissed, “I don’t care what he says, I’ll put a bullet in you if you don’t shut up.” 

Interesting, she thought. Riddler definitely didn’t want her dead. 

Threat of bullets or no, she had to at least try to help until Bruce would show up. Knowing the Riddler, he’d left clues. She just hoped that Bruce figured them out soon enough to stop this, whatever it was. 

Quick as a flash, y/n struck out with her legs, swiping the guy’s ankles. He went tumbling down, barely managing to hold his gun aloft as he fell. Her shoulders slammed into the floor as the movement made her lose her balance. She wasted no time and kicked both heels into his face, grimacing at the muffled crunch of his nose breaking behind the mask. She kicked again and his gun went skidding away from them both. 

Three other men came hurrying forward. One of them yanked her back roughly by the back of her neck.

She had to hand it to them, they were quiet. Even with a broken nose, the man in front of her hadn’t shouted or cursed. The rest of them had reacted quickly, quietly, and efficiently. Who the fuck were they? 

She glared at the man as he got to his feet before her. He glared back. Someone handed him back his gun. 

He raised it and pointed it at her. 

Fuck, she thought again. She hadn’t thought he’d actually shoot her. And all she’d done was give him a broken nose. 

She braced herself for the inevitable shot. 

Then came the first explosion.

Next Chapter

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#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #the batman x reader #batman x reader #bruce wayne fic #battinson fic #the batman fic #batman fic #the batman 2022 #the batman #battinson #bruce wayne #robert pattinson #sitn #shadows in the night #hehe oops another cliffhanger but at least y'all know what's going on this time

[angelaiswriting]

Escape | Sergei (Daredevil)

[credits for the base video]

✏️ Pairing: Sergei x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: in the aftermath of the Hell's Kitchen bombings, you find yourself on the run to safety with Sergei and Vladimir.

✏️ A/N: I haven't written a word since last December. I also did not rewatch Daredevil, I just wanted to get out of my slump, so I hope the vague (lol why tf do I even worry) details about what happened to Vlad and the Russians aren't that far off. This is just some self-indulgent porn with plot while I try to decide whether this is my last fic on here or not. If this side of the fandom still exists... enjoy! 💌

✏️ Warnings: pre-established relationship, Vlad and Sergei being bffs, fluff (imo), kind of an angsty (?) ending for Vlad but he's alive and physically fine! 18+ ONLY (mentions of violence, death, blood, injuries, feeling stalked/observed/tailed; oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob?, p in v sex, coming inside, brief cockwarming, mentions of people hearing you have sex and of voyeurism)

✏️ Word-count: 16,982

ESCAPE

It’s like an out-of-body experience, and you feel like you are the only fixed point in this whirlwind of details.

The smell of smoke and blood that sticks to your lover like some ugly sticker.

The rain drizzling outside.

Hushed Russian in and out of the bedroom, the utility-closet-turned-into-vault room, the living room.

The stench of your own fear.

He’s shoving random essentials into a duffel bag, Sergei. Underwear from your side of the drawer. Your toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, while their glass holder shatters on the floor. Your laptop. Your gun―the one he taught you how to shoot but that you never really had to use before. Money from the safe. Your documents―the real and the counterfeit ones.

Yours yours yours.

It takes you forever to realize everything he’s shoving into that bag belongs to you. That’s when the panic kicks in, and suddenly you’re back inside your body, standing half-dressed in the middle of the living room, barely registering anything Sergei is saying.

The apartment stops spinning when he shakes you by the shoulders and grabs a hold of your face.

He’s bleeding from his left eyebrow, and you can see where he tried to clean himself without success. There’s a spot on his right cheek where the skin is simply no more.

“Listen to me!” He’s not really screaming, but it still feels like he is, and you flinch. The raw desperation in his voice, in the tremor of his hands almost makes you gag. “Milaya, please.”

“What the hell happened to you?” you manage to ask through the thick stupor paralyzing your mind.

Your heart is so loud in your chest, so unbelievably heavy, it’s so hard to hear what he’s saying; to give meaning to his words, his actions.

Why’s he kneeling on the floor, helping you put on your pants like you were a child?

Why’s he so dirty? Blood on his skin and clothes alike. You have the nagging feeling that it’s all his, this time―

“You need to leave.”

―that tonight’s not one of his usual ones. It doesn’t feel like he’s just come back from a fight one bit. For a moment you wonder if this had been caused by some misunderstanding between him and Vladimir, after―

“Take the car and go as far as you can.”

―after Anatoly died―got killed―his murder still feels so surreal, an open, gaping wound.

“You have to leave the country―”

Why is it you you you? Why’s he only talking about you?

What the fuck is going on?

It’s weird, to be stuck in a body much slower than your mind. Your grasp on reality becomes looser, until―

He’s not coming with you.

It’s like holding on to curtains, too frail to withstand the full body weight of a person.

“I’m not leaving you.”

The mere thought of doing so has you nauseous. Your stomach twists and turns, and you feel the exact moment you start breaking out in cold sweat.

This isn’t how an eventual escape plan was ever supposed to go. You were supposed to leave together, to remain together through thick and thin. Swim or drown, whatever that would be, but do it together.

“Take this.” He’s not listening to you. Instead, he shoves that duffel bag in your hands as he kneels down again, already grabbing you by the ankle to slide your right foot into your shoe.

The sight of him on his knees in front of you, dressing you, getting you ready to get out of here, chills you to the bone. There’s this freezing, sticky fear spreading everywhere inside you―bones, flesh, soul. Like you’re never going to see him ever again if you let him go now. Like it’s always going to be you―singular―if you walk out of the door without him by your side.

“Find a way out of the country.”

You think you’re not strong enough to fight off this nausea, this dread.

He’s still not listening. You barely are, too, in his defense.

“I’m not going into hiding without you!”

You’re immobile as he rushes around. He fetches weapons, ammo cartridges, the receiver unit you’ve been using to check their GPS beacons after Anatoly got killed.

“There’s no time for this!” The desperation in his voice thickens, but it’s the look in his eyes that freezes you for a moment longer. There’s a light in them you have never seen before. If you were already suspicious about the situation before, you are even more now. This man is a thousand light years from the Sergei you know.

He’s shoving you backward before you can fully recover from your stupor, but then you’re fighting back against his hands for the first time in your life.

“No!” And you’re so loud, and trembling so hard, that for a heartbeat he stumbles. There’s actual terror in his eyes when you sandwich his cheeks between your hands. “Don’t send me away,” you beg. There’s no time for any of this―you might know nothing about the situation you’re in right now, but you know the urgency behind Sergei’s words and actions must have a reason. “Come with me,” you continue, but he’s quick at cutting you off.

You read it in his eyes, in the way his expression hardens―he’s going to hurt you so that he can successfully drive you away unless you manage to stop him first.

“I don’t have time for your stubbornness!” He pushes past you and you feel yourself move the way you’d watch someone else do it. Your hand is wrapped around his elbow before he can make his way out of the door.

“Whatever this is, we can face it together,” you plead.

You made each other that promise when you made your relationship official. It’s supposed to be you and he together against the world, and not… whatever card he is trying to pull. And if it’s scary, then the better: you would protect him and he would protect you. If it’s some issue between him and the guy, then they already know that you’re a package deal.

“Everyone else is dead.” He turns around but he still doesn’t look at you. He looks past you, at that empty spot on the cupboard where you’ve always wanted to place a framed picture of the two of you together. “The garage is gone, they bombed us. Vova…” He swallows. It’s like it physically pains him, to voice these things out loud, and you’re sure it does. He’s spent such a long time with them… Hell, even your blood freezes in your veins―it thickens, it makes you sick. “I can’t have you die as well. Fuck, I can’t.”

That’s when his gaze meets yours, and that’s also when you get the final confirmation that he’s deadly serious. Not that you had doubts before―Sergei has never been a hurricane in your life, let alone in your apartment, always so eerily calm instead―it cements the fear in your body, and locks your muscles up.

“So what? You stay behind and die by yourself?” You scoff, doing your best to swallow your fear for his own sake. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He tries to retort―you see how his lips part, how the look in his eyes darkens. You’ve never seen him this pale, almost gray, and you were there, when he almost bled his way into the grave three years ago.

“There’s no bloody time for this!” He’s stern, running out of time more than you even know. More than you could even guess. There’s still blood trickling down his face―down his eyebrow, where it’s finally starting to coagulate, and down his cheek, where it definitely must hurt like hell.

“We have thirty seconds,” you insist, pulling him into your arms and locking your hold around him.

He hisses. You take that as a sign he must be injured somewhere underneath his clothes.

You think you can feel his heartbeat against your chest more than you do hear your own in your ears with how this is making you.

The gun in his shoulder holster is pressed up against the inside of your arm, freezing cold.

Twenty-five more seconds.

You wonder how much more it’s going to hurt when he finally slows down and his mind has the time to catch up with the situation, with what happened tonight. You can barely even wrap your head around what Sergei said earlier, about how everyone’s gone―

seventeen seconds

―and so close after Anatoly’s death. No one took it well, but especially Vladimir has been another kind of angry, a whole new breed of caged animal.

“Stay by my side,” you whisper against the dirty skin of his uninjured cheek. “I’ll stay by yours.”

“Milaya…” His voice trembles and then cracks, and you know he still has enough energy to fight you on this.

Those thirty seconds ran out five seconds ago.

“We can fight this together.” You hug him tighter for a second, two at most―you’re losing your ability to keep track of time.

A series of beeps comes from the tracking device in the back pocket of Sergei’s jeans, then. He freezes in your arms for another second, almost burned by the unexpected sound. You see it on his face when he pulls back―how he had already lost hope and how it’s back now, all of a sudden, punching him in the stomach and twisting.

Vladimir.

Who else would be so obnoxiously loud and annoying while pressing the emergency button on his GPS beacon?

You’d kiss every inch of his stupid face―if not for your own relief, then for that you see wash over your lover’s features. Something lights up in his eyes, and you can almost feel his new determination to survive when he meets your gaze.

You smile. “Grab your bag, I’ll get the keys.”

*

You don’t stop driving for the next three days, you and Sergei taking turns behind the wheel while Vladimir moans at every hole in the road from the backseat.

You’re no nurse, but you gave it your best when you stopped at dawn, after leaving New York behind, the first and last time you stopped for more than five minutes.

“I’m so sorry,” you grimace, looking into the rearview mirror when the car bumps yet again on the uneven road.

He swims in and out of consciousness, Vladimir, while Sergei tries to get some sleep in the passenger’s seat. You were supposed to switch one hour ago, but you didn’t have the heart to wake him up. You can drive a bit longer, you know you can.

“It’s alright, Kukolka.” Vladimir’s hushed Russian unsettles you more than his failed attempt at a reassuring smile.

“As soon as we’re out of the country, I’ll find someone to check you out,” but you’re not even sure he’s heard you.

It’s right there in the back of your throat―the bile, the nausea this situation causes you. Out of worry, that is―after seeing Anatoly’s corpse, the way he was killed, you’re not sure the sight of anything else could get you as sick as that did. But Vladimir has lost more blood and it makes you comfortable to calculate, and you’re not sure how much longer he can hold on before absolutely having to get actual medical help.

Sergei stirs in his seat then, and this time he’s the one groaning. You worry about him, too, of course. You’ve done your best to patch him up, to clean his wounds, but you worry there might be more inside his body, where you can’t physically see.

You hand him your bottle of water when he moves―purposefully, this time―and you realize he’s awake.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” He’s looking at you, you see it from the corner of your eye, and then he turns in his seat to check on Vladimir.

You don’t answer him. “I’m stopping at the next gas station for food,” you announce instead. Sergei packed this car with meds months ago, but food was never a priority. You thought you’d have a long life in Hell’s Kitchen, after all. “We’ll be at the meeting point by tomorrow night.”

Next to you, he hums. You see his arm move from your peripheral vision before you feel the wrapped-up palm of his hand on the left side of your neck. The movement of his thumb as he caresses your skin soothes you, and suddenly you’re not as tense anymore. You didn’t even know how much you needed the reassurance of his physical touch until you finally had it.

“That’s not what I asked.” His lips are so close to your ear that the unexpected caress of his tired voice makes you shiver in your seat. Then, he’s pulling your sun visor down. “How long has it been since you should’ve woken me up?” he asks again.

He’s sitting back in his seat now, but his hand is still on the side of your neck. It almost makes you cry, how absolutely normal and domestic this feels, if you don’t focus on how wounded he is or on the man on the backseat, fighting to stay on this side of consciousness.

Then, it hits you. You and Sergei have never gone on a car trip before, despite it being on your wish list of things to do as a couple.

“Not that long,” you lie, but it takes you a second too long, and he reads you way better than he’s ever read his best friend in the back of the car. Still, he doesn’t outright call you out on it. Instead, he says, “Pull over.” The tone of his voice doesn’t leave room for discussions, but you’re nothing if not stubborn.

“You’ll take over after I stop.”

“Yes, and I’m saying you’re stopping the car now.”

You don’t reply this time, nor do you slow down. You simply turn your head for a moment, the road ahead of you empty for miles, and fix him with a glance.

“Stop bothering her, Yurchenko,” comes a voice from the back.

You quickly glance up at the rearview mirror and find Vladimir trying to sit up straight, still as pale as he was this morning, but not as much as he had been when you dragged him out of the tunnels of the New York City sewage system.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Sergei mutters under his breath. You almost physically feel him roll his eyes, and for a moment, his fingertips press a little harder into the side of your neck. “Fuck, you’re annoying even with a foot in your grave.”

“Yeah? And you drive over all the bad parts of the road,” rebukes Vladimir. “Do you do that on purpose? At least she is nice, and she apologizes.”

That last addition earns you an unamused look from Sergei. You catch glimpses of it the few times in a row you quickly glance in his direction.

You shrug. “What? He’s in pain.”

“I am, too. Never heard you do the same to me.”

Vladimir opens his mouth before you can reply yourself. “That’s because you’re always asleep when you’re not driving.”

A chuckle escapes your lips. It all feels normal, for a moment. This is just your usual Friday night out, sitting in a booth, sandwiched between Sergei and Vladimir to act as a shield to their (almost) constant bickering. Anatoly would joke about you being the third wheel in their relationship, back when you and Sergei had first started dating, five years ago. They always bicker so childishly, but then they’d also go into the deepest pit of hell for each other.

You wonder if this is their way to cope with what happened, with what brought you to drive away towards an abandoned hangar to leave the country.

“Maybe you should drive then!”

Vladimir is already trying to sit up right between both of your seats when you slap Sergei’s thigh.

“Just so he can drive us into a ditch?” You scoff. “Over my dead body. Now be quiet, the both of you, until we get to that gas station or I’ll drop you both off here in buttfuck nowhere.”

They both know you wouldn’t actually follow through with your threat, but they still have enough decency to do as you say.

The next two hours are spent in peace, or as peaceful as that silence can feel. You’re not even sure your idea of turning on the radio was a good one, because it makes the otherwise lack of conversation incredibly surreal. You barely have the guts to glance to your right, even when Sergei places his left hand on your thigh. You dare not ask what he’s thinking about, or where his mind is compared to his body, not even when a quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms that Vladimir has fallen asleep once again.

You pull up in the eerily empty parking lot of a gas station less than two hours later, not long after dusk.

“I’ll take care of the food,” you say, fetching some of the cash Sergei hid in the armrest between the front seats. “You drag Vlad to the restroom.”

“Grab chips?” It’s so weirdly normal, again, the way he asks it, the way he looks at you when you turn toward him. If it weren’t for the band-aids and faint bruises on his face, you would even fall for this illusion of normalcy.

You nod with a smile on your face. And before you can push the door open, you feel him lean over to your side and then he’s kissing you. Every thought, every worry in your brain gets obliterated in less than a heartbeat. His hands on each side of your neck pull you closer into him―and to a time and place that don’t belong to the here-and-now.

He’s pulling away before you can even fully recover from the unexpected kiss. There’s a smirk on his face that is just so absolutely Sergei, in a way, that you chuckle.

“Be careful.” His words are a warning, but there’s a look in his eyes and a tone to his voice that have you under the impression that he’s pleading you.

Sergei rarely ever begs.

You nod, and then you lean forward to peck his lips. “You, too.”

“Feels a bit like I’m third-wheeling you two lovebirds.”

The car is back to being silent when both you and Sergei turn to look at your friend. That devil sure is hard to die, you gotta give him that.

“Let me know if you need help burying his corpse when I’m back,” you throw in while looking at your man before getting out of the car.

The night air is chilly, but the light of the full moon in a black sky full of twinkling stars doesn’t make it feel as scary as your first night in hiding felt.

Even the small convenience store is quiet when you step inside―unsurprisingly so. That does feel a little like you’re in a movie, with some robber just waiting to walk in, gun in hand. The weight of your own weapon against your ribcage is comforting enough, however, and after pulling your scarf a little higher over your mouth and nose, you pick up a shopping basket.

You get some sandwich bread and pickled vegetables, some beef jerky to shut Vladimir up with when he gets a little more sour and annoying, some food to last you for a couple of days more in case things don’t go according to plan, and, obviously, Sergei’s favorite chips.

At the counter, when you pay for the food and the gas to pull from the pump in front of which you parked, the farthest away from the mini-mart, the clerk tries to make small talk. He looks young, like he might still be in his first years of college if the books on the stool next to him are anything to go by, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that unsettles you. Even on a bad day (and today isn’t exactly a great day), you’re sure you would be able to take him down barehanded, but there’s something today… You feel it in the air, smell it like a bloodhound, and it makes you stand on edge, pulled as tight as a bowstring.

“Cold, isn’t it?” smiles the boy. The neon light above him catches on his lip piercing and it drags a shiver down your spine.

You do your best not to turn around in case this isn’t just inside your head. Instead, you smile back politely, replying with a single, emphasized, “Freezing.”

In the second he looks away to ring up the three jugs of water you put on the counter, you quickly glance to your left, where a display with sunglasses stands. You don’t see any movement on the mirror lenses of one of the pairs on display.

“Are you getting one of those as well?”

You wonder if it’s just something in your head, this feeling. Some play of your mind, after having spent so much time keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure no one was tailing you. You wonder whether no one really has. Whether it’s normal. Whether whoever organized that attack really thinks every target has died, whether now you’re just being paranoid.

“No, thanks. Just looking.”

Why’s this dude so fucking slow at putting your stuff into the plastic bag? Why’s he staring at you the way he is?

“Crazy, huh?” he asks, smiling again. For the second time, he gives you goosebumps.

Hurry the fuck up, you beg in your mind.

“What is?”

“Those bombings in Hell’s Kitchen.” The dude nods toward the television, mounted on the wall to your right. There’s still a service covering the attack you’re running away from. “New York’s really going crazy, man. I wonder what happened.”

You nod. “Crazy indeed.”

Your fingers itch to touch your gun and make sure it’s still there―it is, you know it without looking, but it’s still an urge that you can’t really shake off.

You shift your weight onto your other leg.

“You not from ‘round here, are you?”

The beef jerky is finally in the bag. Only the chips have remained now.

You shake your head. “I’m from further south,” you lie. “Going north to visit family.”

You’d kiss his forehead when he finally puts those fucking chips inside the bag.

He nods and smiles like you’re saying the most interesting shit he’s ever heard in his lifetime. “Say, need a hand carrying this stuff to the car?” he asks when he’s finally giving you the rest of your money after you pay for both groceries and gas. “I can help you pump.”

The look in his eyes when he says that, when he smirks at his own choice of words, makes your stomach turn upside down.

You’re positive you can carry everything yourself―two jugs of water in one hand, the third and the bag of food in the other. You’ve had to carry far heavier things in your life than groceries for two days.

“Nah, I’m fine.” You hope he catches the drift by the tone of your voice―pleasant but still blistering nonetheless―but he’s already pulling up the reclinable part of the counter to step out.

“It’s fine, it’s a chill evening anyway. Got nothing else to do.”

You’re too scared to make a scene. What if you do and the people who wanted your people dead find you? You might have told Sergei you’d die with him, but not now. There are still quite a few years of your life you want to spend by his side.

The boy tries to get a hold of your shopping bag when some movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention. Your heartbeat skyrockets, and your brain threatens to go into survival mode. You’re mentally mapping possible ways out and obstacles on your path before you can even consciously realize you’re doing it.

The bell above the door jingles when the door opens, and you’re this close to dropping everything to grab your gun and take shelter behind one of the shelves.

“Babe?” Sergei’s voice crashes everything to a halt. He’s standing there like some fucking Prince Charming, face hidden behind a combo of black scarf and beanie―his best attempt at hiding just what a bad shape his face has been reduced to. “Got everything?”

It’s just when you reply, “Yes,” and start making your way toward him, all the while holding back that sigh of relief, that you realize what he’s just called you. He never calls you “baby” or any variation of it―neither in English nor in Russian―and you never do the same. Over time, it has become a code word of yours.

Better get the hell outta here.

He’s right behind you when you leave after saying the weirdest goodbye to the cashier boy. Sergei takes the jugs of water from your grasp and doesn’t question you when you speedwalk to the car.

“I have this really weird feeling about this place,” you say, shoving everything on the backseat next to a confused, but highly alert Vladimir.

“D’you think they’re looking for us?” Sergei asks as he starts pumping gas. You notice how he’s keeping an eye on the store you just left, and when you glance in that direction, you notice the boy has left the confines of the counter and is now standing outside, by the double doors, idly smoking a cigarette.

Why would anyone here even know you?

And why would anyone back in Hell’s Kitchen have pictures of Sergei and Vladimir for an eventual manhunt?

How would they even know someone survived the attack? Would they really look for the corpses?

The boy waves at you. You awkwardly wave back. It’s something straight out of a movie, almost like you’re surrounded beyond the borders of this light island of a gas station.

The hairs on the back of your neck are standing straight, and you hug yourself against the chill of the evening breeze―although you’re actually touching your gun, finally making sure it’s still where you put it.

You haven’t forgotten how Sergei hasn’t told you the reason why he called you ‘babe’ earlier. You haven’t forgotten about that. Just like you haven’t forgotten you also need to pee, but you’re sure you can hold it in a little longer. You’d honestly rather bite your own hand off than walk out to where the toilets are here, especially with how that boy is still staring at you.

Neither you nor Sergei say a word for the next half an hour, not even when Vladimir complains about “fucking stupid American bread” and your “poor choices for food” (when he’d really been surviving off of vodka, cigarettes, and fast-food take-outs before you entered the picture and he became an almost constant fixed addition at your kitchen table.)

“Saw anything weird in that shop?” Sergei’s jaw is clenched tight when you turn to look at him, and his hold on the steering wheel is white-knuckled. It’s enough to shut Vladimir up.

You wonder what he means by that.

“Not really, but I had the weirdest feeling. I kept on checking my back on some sunglasses on the counter.” You recall how much that unsettled you back there, but you don’t tell him that. “That dude almost insisted on taking me back to the car and ‘helping me pump’.”

He clenches his teeth that tad bit harder, and you almost worry he’s going to grind them to the gums.

“Serzh?” you call, lightly touching the stubble on his cheek, tracing the edge of the band-aid on his wound.

“There were four bikes on the back, a few feet from the toilets.” He glances in your direction first and then in the rearview mirror. As you turn to check the empty road behind you, shrouded in darkness, he continues, “I didn’t see anyone in that store with you and that dude, though.”

“Bikes were well taken care of, too,” adds Vladimir.

It makes your stomach sink, but at least now you know you weren’t just being paranoid.

“We heard some noises outside while we were pissing, like someone trying to be quiet.”

“Do you think they’re already after you?” you wonder out loud, and then more to yourself, “and this far away?”

“I doubt it.” Sergei shakes his head. His right hand leaves the steering wheel and grabs a hold of your left thigh, giving it what feels like his attempt at a reassuring squeeze. “But I think there were people there that were up to no good. I found someone’s golden necklace on the floor by the trash.”

Vladimir mutters something against ‘pieces of shit preying on women,’ but then he’s digging into the sandwich he’s managed to make with food he despises so much and he shuts up.

Sergei briefly glances at him through the rearview mirror before giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “You still remember how to shoot that gun, da?”

“We went to the shooting range just two weeks ago!” you complain. “Of course, I do.”

“It’s different when you’re shooting real people.”

Vladimir interjects. “I’ve always told you to let her come along to our business stuff.”

Sergei curses behind gritted teeth, nerves ready to go off. “I’m not punching you just because you’re still my boss but if you were anyone else right now, I’d be taking you out of your misery.”

“Don’t fight, you two,” you sigh, turning back and pinching Vlad’s inner thigh until he winces in pain. “I’d fight to survive,” you then reassure Sergei. “Either with a gun, a knife, or my hands.”

You see him visibly relax. It’s almost like he’s finally breathing normally now. The knuckles of his left hand aren’t white anymore on the steering wheel, and the hand on your thigh is more like a comforting weight now than him trying to anchor himself.

“And you were there,” you add, after taking the two sandwiches Vladimir’s handing you. One for you, one for Sergei. “I always trust you to get to me on time.”

He looks at you for a moment longer, the road ahead of you straight and completely empty, before he takes a bite of his dinner.

There’s a lot more behind your words than you do say out loud. Like when he got back home to you, a few nights ago, ready to send you―and only you―to safety. Or like tonight, when he opened the door of that store and looked and felt just like a savior to you, Ariadne’s thread leading you to safety.

*

Thirty hours later, you’re in Cuba.

The flight from the meeting point to a remote location on the outskirts of Cuban civilization was relatively calm, even with the delay that caused the pilots to show up six hours later than agreed upon. The drive to the house of the man who’s helping you, however, ends up being a bit more tense. Between Vladimir’s constant moaning and grunting and Sergei fighting to stay awake, you were on high alert, all your nerves pulled almost to their limits.

The guy’s villa is nice, though. Surrounded by thick, tall walls. Entrances guarded by his men. The perimeter of the whole property is studded with security cameras―you have no doubt every square foot inside the house is constantly filmed as well. It’s what reassures you for the first time ever since Sergei woke you up at such an ungodly hour five days ago. It’s not even because of your own safety that you feel yourself finally breathe and your tense muscles loosen up―it’s for the reassurance Sergei is safe, here, finally. Vladimir as well, but truth be told, after all the complaining he’s done after getting rescued, you’d kick him in his shins yourself if you had the chance to.

“I knew I’d see you again,” Homer smiles, kissing the back of your hand as Sergei shoots daggers from his eyes―he’s still not over the fact that this sleazy man tried to court you while you were already taken.

Homer is not the guy’s real name, of course. Not even the Ranskahov brothers ever knew it, no one does. He would have told you if you had slept with him, and you’re still pissed at how annoyed Vlad had been when he found out you had, in fact, turned down the offer―you also haven’t forgotten how Sergei had almost raised hell in the face of both offenses.

Still, Homer was your best bet at a last-minute alliance―Vladimir and his men still did help him get out of the Stated unscathed, so there’s always been this favor card Homer had to pay back. The fact that you make him hard in his pants is just a precious added bonus that gives you brighter hope at the prospect of also leaving the American continent alive.

“Thank you for having our back.” Seeing Vladimir openly struggle to keep his balance as he moves forward to stand in front of his unexpected ally surprises you.

“You helped me when no one else did. It’s just fair I pay back your generosity,” comes the reply.

You let Sergei pull you back by one of your hips until you are standing side by side with him.

Homer chuckles at that and sends a wink in your direction. “I got the message three years ago,” he reassures Sergei. “The princess is taken. I won’t make a move unless she does first.”

“She won’t.”

There are not many instances you’ve witnessed where Sergei has been possessive of you, but this guy has always been an exception. You can only hope neither your man’s possessiveness nor Homer’s fascination with you will pose a threat to your survival.

Things seem to go well, however. The man of the house lends you his personal medical team to have a look at both Sergei and Vladimir while you get to enjoy a stroll in Homer’s greenhouse after being denied access to the rooms of the house dedicated to the clinic.

It unsettles you a bit and robs you of the chance to enjoy your own private botanical tour among colorful flowers of every kind. If anything, Homer keeps his hands and comments to himself―although you’re not so sure about where his gaze wanders when you’re not looking at him―and he limits himself to a retelling of what each flower is called and what their characteristics are.

Two of his armed men follow you close by, but whether it’s because you’re seen as a possible threat or that’s just another day in this house for them, you cannot tell. Still, you feel watched―every single one of your moves is being recorded, and you can’t quite tell how comfortable you are with that.

Honestly speaking, you feel quite safe here, but you wouldn’t step into the fire and guarantee the same for the two men you’ve come here with. Homer might still want you, after all, and now that Vladimir’s group has pretty much been exterminated, two Russians don’t pose that much of a threat anymore. The fact that they used to be far more powerful than Homer himself doesn’t even matter because they’re not that powerful now. They’re closer to defeat than they are to victory, and a smart person thirsty for power would definitely take advantage of that.

With that realization, the humid air of the greenhouse thickens. You feel it weigh down on your shoulders as Homer shows you some hibiscus plants, apparently his pride and joy.

“Ah, here are my favorites!” he exclaims. “What do you think? I import special fertilizer just for them.”

You smile, but inside your body, a million and one thoughts are eating away at your stomach, each worse than the last. “They’re quite the beauty,” you find yourself honestly agreeing.

This had better be your paranoia getting the best of you. Because while Homer would get nothing by killing what’s left of your friends, he would also get nothing by helping them. And in a world where letting them live could potentially get him something back in the future, you prefer to try and give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Still, they don’t quite compare to your beauty.” He places a flower behind your ear, one he cut with the shiny scissors he managed to fetch while you were lost in thought, and smiles at you.

“We’re finally in agreement.” It’s the second time in less than forty-eight hours that Sergei’s voice reaches you like a beacon of light.

Homer turns in his direction as well and you don’t miss that flash of disappointment speed across the look in his eyes.

Your anxieties find some peace. He’s still alive, there’s nothing to worry about―for the time being, at least. The band-aid on his right cheek has been changed, and the appearance of his face looks much cleaner now, including the cut on his eyebrow you stitched up after leaving New York City.

“However, she’s much more than just a pretty face,” he continues, sternly. If Vlad were here now, he would chew his head off, but you welcome his words.

Your fingers entwine with his when he finally reaches your side, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. You feel a bit too exposed without your gun, so it’s great to finally be reunited with the man you love.

“How’s Vlad?” you ask, looking up into his eyes and exploiting the excuse to finally lock Homer out of your mind for a minute.

“Getting treated and stitched up. He has a couple of broken bones, too. Maybe that’s why he was crankier than usual,” he smirks, his Russian ringing amused.

You slap his arm, and from the corner of your eye, you notice the way Homer is looking at the two of you. Trying to decipher what that might mean is something you’d rather not do, at least not in front of him, so you allow Sergei to be the first to speak up again.

“We’d really better get going now, if it’s okay with you,” he says, eyeing what he realizes to be a new nuisance in the life he shares with you. “Neither of us has had a chance to shower since last week.”

You don’t really reek yet, but now that you’re reminded of the fact, you do start to feel uncomfortable in your own clothes.

Homer doesn’t complain, nor does he try to hold you back. Instead, he smiles understandingly and makes chit-chat as he leads you to your rooms. Plural. Separate rooms, that’s what you’re given. Granted, they’re next to each other, but they’re two separate rooms nonetheless. It rubs Sergei the wrong way.

You’d also really not sleep alone in this mansion, especially when it belongs to a man who seems to still be set on pursuing you if not romantically, at least physically.

“No need for all these rooms, we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” You know Sergei’s more than good at lying. He’s an expert at what he does―no wonder why, after Anatoly, he’s always been Vladimir’s right hand. Still, it surprises you, how calm he is right now, his way with words when you’re sure the boxer in him is itching to come out and fight. “One for Vlad and one for the two of us―” he continues, raising your joined hands― “will be more than enough.”

Sergei almost starts talking shit about your host when you make your way inside the room, after fetching your bags. However, having known him and his antics for so long, you’re much quicker than he has the time to be, and you silence him with a kiss.

God.

Fuck.

Maybe this is it.

This is the moment you realize you can finally catch your breath for a while. Slow down, stop glancing into the rearview mirror.

It feels like you haven’t kissed in forever. Like you’ve been apart for so long, even despite the extremely long car drive you’ve been on. Without your endless worries and the fear of someone tailing you, it’s almost like you can finally get close again. Vladimir Ranskahov out of the picture―love him to pieces on a good day as you may―definitely helps.

Sergei kisses you back with the same intensity, like he’s parched and trying to drink you in, and when he pulls you in closer to him by your butt cheeks, you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck.

“I saw cameras everywhere in this house,” you whisper into the band-aid on his cheek when he moves his kisses from your lips to your neck. “Are you sure we can trust him?” Your voice remains low, barely above a whisper; you wonder whether the guest rooms have been bugged as well.

Sergei sighs into your skin, and his fingertips dig into your hips for a moment. “I don’t,” he says, hushed Russian into your cheek when he kisses it. “I want you a billion kilometers away from him.”

He picks up the hibiscus flower Homer placed behind your ear and, being careful not to pull on your hair, pulls it off of you.

“I’m going to fucking kill him if he dares to touch you again.” He doesn’t whisper―maybe fear isn’t tickling his stomach as it does yours―and you can only hope neither Homer nor his men know the Russian language beyond a da, privet, spasibo. Do svidaniya, too, if we want to be generous.

Still, you don’t think openly insulting the man in his own lair is a smart idea.

“Nothing happened,” you try to reassure him instead of voicing your concerns, cupping his good cheek as he crushes that flower in his fist. “You know he’s not the one I want.”

“I trust you, I just don’t trust him,” he insists. He closes his eyes with a sigh. “I think he’s made it clear enough that he just. doesn’t. care.” He enunciates the last three words slowly, emphatically, with petulance in his voice that’s usually so very characteristic of Vladimir when he complains. Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas, you guess.

“We can simply ignore him,” you press on, bunching up the hem of his shirt in your fists. “We’ll leave as soon as Vlad’s fit to do it safely.”

A groan. “Fuck Vova.”

“I’d rather fuck you,” you bite back, tongue in cheek, a finger tracing the skin of his abdomen above the hem of his jeans. “After we take a shower,” you add when he gives you his best oh-I-will-fuck-you-alright face. “And then, you’ll tell me exactly what happened that night.”

You figure it’s a good compromise: you both get to have some fun, take your mind off of things, and then you’ll finally get your answers.

Why you had to leave.

Who attacked Vladimir and his men.

If everyone really is dead.

What the fuck is going on.

And what the fuck will happen now.

The shower is far bigger than any other you’ve ever seen in person, least of all used. You step in first while Sergei undresses, and you let the water cascade down your face.

A contented sigh leaves your lips.

You already know you will write down this shower in your book as the best so far.

The gentle stream of water is a much-needed, warm caress on your face and shoulders, even down your back, after it started aching one day into your desperate drive to safety. The tension in your muscles starts trickling down toward the drain, and the sensation of being absolutely filthy eases up a bit. You feel like you could even postpone lunch―all you’re in the mood for right now is this shower, some Sergei, a side dish of the answers you’ve been waiting for, and then a long nap as sweet as dessert.

Behind you, Sergei whistles appreciatively, no doubt enjoying the view of your naked body.

It makes you chuckle. How normal this feels now doesn’t weigh down on you the way that same feeling did back in the car.

You grin as you turn around, hands rubbing up your face to flick away the water raining down on you. Your cheeky comeback withers on your tongue and turns into a gasp when your eyes land on him. It’s not because he’s already hardening between his legs, but rather because he is absolutely covered in bruises.

He never mentioned being that hurt before. You’ve seen him numerous times after his fights, and his body has never looked like that―so hurt, so bruised with a pain that must run much deeper than skin level. You have heard him groan here and there―at this point probably when he couldn’t stand it anymore―but never would you have thought him to be this hurt.

“Oh, my god, Serzh…”

You can barely understand how he’s moving without flinching.

“I’m alright,” he reassures you softly when he reaches you. He grabs you by your hands and places them on his chest. His heartbeat is right beneath your fingertips and his bruises. Your right thumb caresses up and down his skin as you take in the sight before you.

You try not to let your lip quiver.

His strength and abilities are no secret to you but seeing him hurt is always a pang in your guts. Today the sensation cuts deeper, it twists and turns, stings even.

“I’m alright,” he repeats, taking your face in his hands and kissing you.

It serves as a good distraction, if anything. When you close your eyes, the mental photocopy of his marred body slowly fades away, until all you feel is his body flush against your front.

He takes one extra step forward with you in his arms and then he turns the shower off.

Your heads tilt when the kiss deepens and now you can feel how your heart picks up its rhythm for a different reason than you being worried for him. His hands move from your neck, down your shoulders and sides. When they reach your waist, your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your throat.

“I’ll heal so quick, milaya…” he whispers into the crook of your neck before kissing you there. “Promise you I’m fine now.”

A graze of his teeth, a swipe of his tongue, and you can feel yourself throb in a place that’s not your chest.

Still, “You should’ve told me,” you complain meekly.

You’re so pliant in his hands, practically boneless. Your knees don’t give out on you just because he has you so close against him.

He feels rock hard against your abdomen, almost a reminder of how deep he’s going to be inside you in not that long. It makes your head spin. He makes your head spin.

Your hands come up to his hair, then. They’re wet against his body untouched by water. Every part of him is.

“You’re the remedy to all my ailments,” he professes into your skin.

You chuckle. Maybe it’s because of his words, or the way he teasingly gives your ass a squeeze. Maybe it’s both.

“Let me shower you first,” he continues before you can tell him to stop with the jokes. “Then, when we’re done, we’ll show that douche how fucking taken you are. I bet that peeper has cameras in bathrooms as well.”

He pecks your lips and then pulls on your lower lip with his teeth. He doesn’t make a move, though. He waits for your green light. You know he’d limit himself to a simple shower if you said no, no matter how hard he could be.

You’re way past the embarrassment, however. After Anatoly caught the two of you fucking in the garage when you thought everyone had left, you stopped caring.

So, you grin. “Let’s show him,” you giggle.

Sergei is incredibly gentle as he showers you, lathers you in the scent of this new soap you’re being lent. His words, however, are anything but. “Bet he wishes you’d smell like him,” he whispers into your ear from behind.

You chuckle at his jealousy, even when his hands get to massaging your breasts and his erection nestles itself between your butt cheeks. “What’s gotten into you?” you giggle. He knows he’s your ride-or-die, after all.

“I’d say you, but it’s been so long since we've done that.” The pout in his voice is as clear as day.

He seems to have an idea, then, and he spins the two of you around.

“Look at you,” he grins. His soapy hands trail down your sides and then back up. His teeth nip at the crook of your neck the moment his hands give your boobs another squeeze. A bit rougher, this time.

But you’re not looking at your own reflection in the mirror. You’re looking at him, most of his bruises now hidden by your body standing in front of his.

He notices that, picks up on your line of thought the second your gazes meet in the mirror. He says something about you thinking way too much, about how it’s so new, the fact that you’re not running your mouth as much as usual instead. When he turns you back around, he distracts you by shampooing your hair.

“I don’t know how you managed to act as if you weren’t hurt.” You hope the reason is not a dumb I didn’t want you to worry.

“It looks worse than it really is, I promise.” He smiles at you as he massages your scalp and it’s like just any other day, when you’d choose to shower together because your jobs kept you apart long enough during the day.

You decide to bypass the sight of his stitched brow and bandaged cheek. You focus on the light freckles on his face instead, on the way they must have shaved his stubble before, during, or after his visit with Homer’s doctor.

“Let me shower you as well,” you smile softly when he’s done rinsing the suds out of your hair. Then, you turn the shower off. He laughs when you add a whispered stinky under your breath.

There’s half a plan quickly forming in your mind, and it has nothing to do with running away from this house and not even with your (maybe paranoid) worries.

You gently scrub his chest with a soapy loofah, careful to be as light as you can when going over all the sore spots on his body. His hands are firmly planted on your hips, squeezing lightly every now and then, like a cat. He’s also looking at you and you mirror his smile with a mischievous smirk of your own.

His cock is still hard between your bodies.

You don’t give him time to suspect anything. One second your left hand is holding onto his bicep, the next it’s wrapped around the base of his erection.

He hisses in surprise, a sound that lasts a fraction of a second, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your toes curl against the tiled floor.

“Milaya…” he warns, voice dripping the same desire that’s making him heavy between his legs.

Some would say you’re playing a dangerous game, poking the bear while it’s chilling. But you want him to prove it to you―that he’s fine, that he’s not really hurt. (Frankly, you also want him to fuck this nightmare of an adventure out of your system. It doesn’t matter whether Homer hears. Hell, it doesn’t even matter whether he watches!)

“What?” You bat your eyelashes at him, badly hiding your mischief behind a broken innocence mask.

You move your hand up, tease the underside of his glans with your thumb, then move your hand back down.

He moans under his breath, never once breaking eye contact. It makes you throb between your legs. You don’t even know if it’s the water still on your skin, or if you’re actually dripping.

“’tis what you wanted, no?”

The loofah is somewhere on the floor by now. Your left hand lazily, without rhythm, strokes him while your right hand moves up his chest. Then, it’s resting behind his neck.

“Know what?” you whisper millimeters from his parted lips. His breathing has become labored. “’think I’ll make you come like this first.”

You’re beaming. His breathing is shivering slightly. Is he trying to stay quiet?

“Fuck, you’re a minx,” he breathes, his hands pulling you in closer by your hips, until your hand barely has room to move.

He kisses the grin off of your lips. There’s a certain insistence behind the action, and he pulls on your lower lip, then adds his tongue to the mix.

You moan first, and then he follows suit when your hand reaches the head of his cock and twists.

His fingertips dig into the plush of your ass, forcing you closer. The kiss distracts you, so his slap on one of your butt cheeks catches you by surprise, makes you whimper right into his mouth.

The movement of your left hand on his cock quickens in response while the fingers of your right hand slip into his hair, at the base of his neck.

You tug on the strands.

He groans.

In your hold, his cock twitches.

His impatience becomes your own then, and you’re barely aware of the way your thighs are pressing together―trying to relieve or chase a sensation, you don’t know, you’re a little too busy to give it actual thought.

In the middle of the two of you kissing, of your hand pumping him, he finds himself with his back against the wall. The cold tiles against his skin make him hiss―or maybe it’s his bruises. Again, maybe a bit of both.

He ruts into your hand.

When your thumb teases at his head, the sound he lets out is a bit of a moan, a bit of a groan, a bit of a broken chuckle. He calls your name against your lips and when you look up at him, you notice he has his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.

You try not to whimper, but your breathing still does falter. Your heart in your chest is a deafening machine, and your mind, the weakest will to ever exist.

You’re on your knees before you can take the conscious decision to, thighs tightly squeezed shut together. There are still remains of body wash drying on your chest from when you hugged him instead of rinsing him.

It takes Sergei your tongue licking up the length of his erection to realize the change in your position. Eyelids heady, lips parted, the look he fixes you with is enough to make you beam with pride, like you’re the sexiest being to ever walk the Earth.

You give him a grin, and then you’re taking him all the way to the back of your mouth. His hands are in your hair the second the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. Suddenly, there are Ukrainian curses slipping out of his lips, here and there, a sign that he’s losing control in favor of the pleasure you’re bringing him.

It doesn’t take him long to come. It never really does―he’s always had a thing for your mouth, whether you use it for words or to suck the living soul out of him.

He always swears he’s in love with you, and this time isn’t an exception. He’s groaning it right now, voice quivering. His hands are keeping you in place, your nose touching his pelvis, ropes of cum shooting down your throat. Under these conditions, your only response to his declaration can obviously be a moan. It heightens the sensations for him, his cock still in your mouth, and he’s quick to pull out.

When you look up, his chest is flushed, the tips of his ears red, and he’s out of breath.

The smirk you send his way makes him chuckle breathlessly, your head still in his grasp.

“Fuck, I missed that mouth.”

One of his thumbs moves towards the corner of your lips, where some of his cum has slipped out.

“You barely even gag anymore.”

The muscles in his thighs contract when he watches you suck the pad of his thumb clean.

“Keep that up and I’ll get hard again,” he warns, cradling your face like you’re worth more than this whole damned mansion. You are―he doesn’t really, explicitly tell you so, but it’s clear in the way he acts, like he worships the very ground you walk on.

“Isn’t that the point?” you smile, standing up. Your lips automatically meet his, and his hands automatically find their place on your hips. “I want you so bad, Serzh…” you whisper against him, one hand blindingly going for the shower head.

It’s hard to rinse the dried body wash off of his body when he’s so insistently kissing your neck, so close to him you could almost feel his heartbeat against your own. Giggling ensues when you force him back and you wipe his front clean with one hand while doing your best not to spray water on his injured face.

The look on his face as he watches your every move is worth a thousand words, if not more. It makes blood rush to your face, and your gaze moves to his chest, his eyes too expressive for your own sanity. Like he wants to devour you, drink you in, and it’s not even because of the competition he wants to ward off.

“My turn now,” he suddenly says, grabbing that damned shower head from your hand and hanging it back in its place. Then, you’re the one against the wall and he’s the one on his knees.

Fuck, do you love this sight!

“’been thinking about this sweet pussy for so long…” He makes a sound in the back of his throat, like he can’t believe he’s finally being served dessert―despite it definitely being his favorite.

You let him maneuver you until your left leg is on his shoulder, your hands in his hair, but when he inches closer, you pull at his strands―

―not quick enough: he’s already licking a stripe up your pussy, until he places a kiss on your clit. Your mind clouds over, and it’s like having cotton in your mouth. “Not with that cheek,” you manage to complain through the haze brought on by him going to town on your core. You don’t want to somehow, accidentally, mess up his freshly bandaged wound.

“’s fine, I don’t need it to eat you out, do I?” He kisses your inner thigh, the one resting on his shoulder, and when you look down, he’s already looking up at you.

There’s a gleam in his eyes, like he’s promising you heaven on Earth. Like by the time he’s done with you, you won’t even be able to tell what day it is.

And who are you to say no? Oral with Sergei is a glorious experience, unlike any other you’ve lived through, maybe only surpassed by the actual sex―with him, of course.

It starts off toe-curling, with the tip of his tongue teasing your clit and one of his fingers pushing into the heat of your pussy.

You barely hear what he groans―so fucking wet already―your mind is simply too hazy. It’s spinning right after, when he starts suckling, and that one finger turns into two.

You hear yourself then, underneath his moans and your own. The sound of your slick, of how wet you are as the movements of his hand change rhythm and angle. When he starts hitting that spot, ravaging you like a man starved, you fear your knee giving out.

“God,” you moan out, pulling on his hair subconsciously―and maybe a bit too hard. Whether you believe in God, or in many, or none altogether, he eats you out in such a way that he does feel like one. Like he could make you see stars or even the entire universe without really making you leave the room or lift a finger.

The pitch of your moans heightens when he adds a third finger, stretching you to make you take him, and you feel yourself clenching impossibly tight around his digits.

Oh, fuck, how much did you miss this! You didn’t really think about this part of your relationship while on the run, but now you never want to leave this bathroom.

When you gather the strength to peek at the mirror, you’re met with the sight of your hair, wet and messy against the tiled wall. Your left calf is hiding part of a nasty bruise on his back. Even in his current state, however, he doesn’t show signs of hurt or discomfort.

Then he does something. Either with his mouth or his fingers―you’re honestly too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you to even rationally realize what’s rubbing you the right way. All you know is that your breathing deepens, your moans turn into whines, and your eyes cross behind closed eyelids.

“God, like that, don’t stop,” you beg, only half coherent, as one of your hands moves up to grab a hold of your boob. It’s like you’re looking for support, even despite knowing he’d never let you fall, never let you get hurt.

Your brain doesn’t even fully register what he’s saying to you above the deafening galloping of your heartbeat.

You just need to come so badly… Maybe you even tell him so, and maybe he adds a little more vigor behind his actions. His fingers curl just right inside you, and he doesn’t get up for air one second. Mouth suctioned to your clit, he gives you all he’s capable of.

Maybe he even looks up at the way you’re playing with your breasts. Maybe he even makes a comment―you definitely feel the vibrations of it against your core the same way you feel those of his moans. All you know is that you’re coming, pulled under the surface of coherence by the wave of this sudden orgasm. It blinds you, even when your eyelids are already closed, and you swear your heart skips quite a few beats.

Maybe you even do see god this time (maybe in the shape of your lover), as you give in to the pleasure, surrender to its onslaught, and spill your orgasm on Sergei’s face―if you weren’t soaring so far high up the heavens, you’d definitely force him to pull back and not mess up his injuries. But you don’t even think you’re part of this world anymore.

It takes you quite a while to come back to your senses. Slowly, the fixture lights in the ceiling come back into focus and your blood stops roaring in your ears. Your breathing is still quick, and you barely register the way your legs are quivering―

fuck, you want to do it again

―both feet on the ground.

It takes you a moment more to realize Sergei is standing right in front of you, his hands on your hips, one of his legs between yours to help you keep your balance.

His dick feels impossibly hard again, pressed against your thigh by your close proximity.

“You were so fucking loud,” he beams, looking prouder than he’s ever looked. You match him on that intensity, but in your case, it’s just because of how fucked out you are. “Squirted and all.” He’s so smug about him―you want to kiss him until he’s as breathless as you are. “I bet everyone in this house heard you.”

You don’t even have the energy to let yourself be embarrassed by that possibility. Sergei always has this effect on you: he obliterates everything else, until he’s the only focus of your attention.

“Serzh…” It comes out as an airy whine, your call of his name. You’ve barely touched the ground that you already want to float up again.

He hums, and then, “What?” right against your lips. He peppers them in kisses as light as feathers until he’s pulling breathless chuckles out of you.

“Please.”

You’re throbbing again, tingling all over.

On your thigh, you feel how his cock is already leaking.

“Please what?”

He’s on your neck, adding to his own work of art of hickeys. His hands are cupping your breasts, testing their weight, then teasing your hardened nipples.

Your hands shoot up to his biceps when he twists one of your nipples between deft fingers, a drawn-out moan diving from your lips.

You swear you could drown in him.

“Please, fuck me.” You look into his eyes as you say it. His pupils are blown and the lower part of his face is still glistening in your juices.

You taste yourself on his tongue when you kiss him. You should be looking for Vladimir, joining Homer for lunch, but you can’t even move yourself from this spot in the shower.

Before you can start pleading with him again, you’re taking matters into your own hands―his cock in your left hand, to be precise―and you’re turning around to face the wall. The cold tiles against your sensitive nipples pull a whine from the very center of your being.

From behind you, Sergei chuckles into your neck, entertaining the way you swipe the head of his cock along your dripping entrance but refraining from even slipping just the tip in.

“You want it from the back?” he murmurs, kissing your skin where he’s just stopped teasing you with his tongue.

So, what if you’re already delirious?

“Yesss.” The sound of that s stretches for a second too long, until the air is caught in your throat when he grants you with the tiniest thrust, enough to taunt your heat with his head.

“How bad?” he asks, one hand at the base of your throat and the fingers of the other inching down your front, your abdom― oh, fuck.

The moan that escapes you when he circles your clit once is so loud, it rings in your own ears.

All you can muster up after that is a questioning hum, his burning-hot presence behind you―against you―is enough to make your toes curl.

“How bad do you want it?”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he touches your clit again at the same time his cock breaches your entrance to give you just the bare minimum.

“So bad.” Your voice is reduced to a whisper. As you anticipate what’s to come, your lungs struggle to take in enough air. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t take me right now,” you manage to breathe out when a hand on your hip stops your attempts at fucking yourself back onto his dick.

You hear the vibrations of his chuckle in your back and then, when you least expect it, he’s abruptly thrusting up into your pussy. It catches you off guard, and you’re so worked up you almost fear you’re going to come on the spot.

You don’t.

Instead, you find yourself wrapped up in his arms, his hips unmoving. You can’t distinguish whether it’s his cock pulsing inside your pussy or whether it’s all just you.

“I almost fucked you in that car with Vova in the back,” he confesses, voice strained and breath labored. “I needed to feel you so bad to know everything was fine.”

Are you even still breathing?

Are you choking on his dick or is it still in your pussy?

Your hips writhe, walls clenching down around him.

“You still with me?”

You manage to nod against his shoulder, barely aware of all the small moans that are slipping past your lips.

He smiles into your temple, and then he’s taking a step back. Two. Three. You feel each movement deep in your core, where he’s still safely lodged, and you’re on your tiptoes, doing your best to keep up with him.

When he turns the both of you around and makes you lean forward, you realize he’s brought you to stand between the twin sinks on the counter, right in front of the wall-long mirror. You catch his eye in your reflection, his body curled over yours so that he can press kisses to the crook of your neck. His cock pushes the tiniest bit deeper this way and it makes you moan, eyelids so heavied down by pleasure that it’s hard to keep them open.

“Wouldn’t want to crack either of our skulls in the shower,” he explains, finally―finally―pulling his hips back just to then thrust the air out of you the next second.

“Fuck.” How are you still even capable of forming words?

Your shoulders sink down for a moment as your weight rests on your forearms. Sergei’s hands on your hips luckily hold you up.

You call his name, pleadingly. The head of his cock is bullying this spot inside you that makes your eyes almost cross, fuck, you really need to come.

Maybe he’s even in your chest. Honestly who knows at this point. You feel him everywhere.

“You’re always so tight,” he pants, fucking into you so hard your breath hitches in your throat. You find it impossible to believe he’s just got out of the worst physical and mental scare of your lives. “So… wet― shit―”

His hips stutter when his right hand finds its rightful place between your legs, on your cunt. You clench around him so hard when he starts playing with your clit again that he swears he can see stars even with his eyes open.

“Fuck, you’re the death of me,” he groans, meeting your blurring gaze in the mirror that’s starting to fog up. He gives one of your boobs a squeeze with his free hand before he starts playing with your sensitive nipple― “And what a sweet death that’d be.”

―to be fair, every part of you is. Sensitive, that is, and overstimulated. All your nerve endings are alight, fired up by the way he’s fucking into you, like it’s a sport he’s fucking elite at.

It empties your mind completely as your body is full of him. Your mind is, too, and your chant of his name rises in volume.

Fuck, you’re so close. His movements on your overstimulated clit almost make you sob.

If this is how you die, you’ll honestly welcome it with a full heart. There’s no part of you that doesn’t feel full to the brim anyway right now, for that matter.

You tell him in between moans, how close you are, how good he’s fucking you. Even if you’re covered in sweat, you’ve probably never felt so good as you do now. Is it because you’re surrounded by the illusion of safety in this house? Fuck, you don’t know.

“I’m so close, too,” echoes Sergei’s voice.

With the last of his strength, he pulls you up. His right hand is still stubbornly playing with your poor clit; his left arm keeps you upright, your back against his chest, and his hand under your chin keeps your head facing forward.

The sight in the mirror almost does you in. There are drops of sweat rolling down the side of his face. His skin is flushed in exertion, but it’s the hunger in his eyes that makes you moan out loud, loudly. Then your breasts, bouncing with each thrust into your heat. Then the smallest glimpse of his cock, rock hard, a pearly ring of your juices at the base.

“Shit, where do you want me?” he groans―“Inside?”―in a broken voice.

“Please,” you sob back. “Yes.”

You’re holding onto his left arm for dear life, unable to hold back your orgasm any longer. It hits you with the force of a freight train when Sergei simultaneously gives your throat a gentle squeeze while his right fingers flick your clit one last time. Everything goes white behind your closed eyelids, and you can’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears.

Your walls spasming around his dick trigger his own release and you both fall forward, almost boneless. You do hear his moans right next to your ear and he’s also not holding them back. His whole weight is on you, his left arm trapped between your chest and the countertop, while his hips still haphazardly rut into yours as your pussy milks him to the last drop.

He doesn’t pull out for the longest time, nor does he straighten himself up. You don’t complain, though―even with this whole man on top of you, it’s like you’ve never breathed better. To your chagrin, the time eventually comes for him to move, however. You lift your head a bit to watch his reflection in the mirror and you chuckle when you feel him tap his cock a few times against your entrance, after he pulls out.

“You’re already leaking.”

“Oh, no!” Your voice drips with sarcasm, and suddenly you’re being lifted up and turned around.

“Still running that mouth of yours?” There’s a touch of amused disbelief in his voice when he asks that, and you giggle against his lips before you kiss him.

“Maybe you should put something in it to fill it up,” you tease.

He does put something into you to fill you up, then. Just, it’s not in your mouth. The three middle fingers of his right hand breach your entrance―they make you gasp―effectively stopping his cum from dripping down your legs even more and to the floor.

“That can be arranged,” he smirks, satisfied by your reaction.

He walks you back into the room like that, three fingers up your cunt and his tongue in your mouth, his lips against yours.

“That porn performance―” comes a voice as soon as you make it out of the bathroom― “for free? Damn, you’re nasty!”

If looks could kill, Sergei’s would have Vladimir dead and buried already.

“What are you doing here?” You don’t know why, but Sergei’s Russian makes you flutter around his fingers. Your reaction earns you a glance from him, and then he moves his fingers in a beckoning motion a couple of times.

There’s no holding back the moan that rips up your throat, it doesn’t even matter that Vladimir has a first-row ticket for the view of your ass, the drops of sticky white semen that dripped down your inner thigh no more than two minutes ago; hell, even that of his best buddy’s fingers nestled deep in your heat!

Your hands give Sergei’s biceps a squeeze, and then out of your lips comes the gentle call for, “Serzh.”

“Came to fetch you for lunch, stayed for the show.” You don’t need to turn around to be able to envision Vladimir’s shit-eating grin. “Hurry up getting dressed, we’re already late.”

*

You get seated right opposite Homer at the dining table. Try as you might, however, you can’t refrain from squirming in your seat. His gaze is fixed on you, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s also been an indirect witness to your escapade in the bathroom of his guest room. Not that you owe him an explanation about anything, but still…

Whether it pissed him off or he found it amusing, though, he doesn’t bring it up. He says absolutely nothing on the topic, and luckily so. You’re not sure you’d be able to keep in the fact that you’re dripping someone’s cum in your by-now ruined panties anymore otherwise.

If anything, your meal goes on smoothly, which means that the discomfort is only yours to bear. Maybe you’ll pull on Vladimir’s ears for not calling you as soon as he walked into your bedroom. Maybe the ground will open up like a hungry mouth and swallow you before you can be done with your tomato salad.

You don’t even follow the conversation the men are having until Vlad says something odd. Your hospitality feels like being home, in Russia―which, for as long as you can remember, has always been code for guys, shit’s about to hit the fan.

You can semi-freely talk about it only a few hours later, when you’re granted permission to take a walk into town, posing as semi-normal tourists.

Vladimir keeps his comments about you and Sergei going at it like rabbits for himself. Instead, he picks an ice cream place in the noisiest part of town and drops down a plastic chair with a lemon-strawberry cup in his hand.

It’s good to see him do so much better already after a check-up and IVs, but it’s a bit unsettling that he’s also picked up on the weird air at Homer’s estate.

“We gotta leave as soon as possible,” he says in Russian, unhurried, even if you can almost see the cogs turn in his head. “I got in touch with the cousin of one of the guys,” he doesn’t say which, however. Does he feel stalked?

You look around, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, mentally registering all the faces you manage to lay your gaze on as you eat your own ice cream. Sergei catches your eye and when you tiredly smile at him, he gives your knee a squeeze.

He hasn’t managed to tell you anything about that night, yet.

“He’ll make us disappear in Costa Rica,” he continues, leaning closer across the table and lowering his voice. “We’ll continue from there.”

“You sure we can trust him?” That question is out of your mouth before you can rein it in. After all, Homer was supposed to be a trusted man as well―not that he’s explicitly done anything against any of you (if his flirting doesn’t count), but there’s still something unexplainably off when he’s around.

Someone at the edge of the plaza catches your eye then. It’s a man you have never seen, but he’s staring right at you. During this trip your paranoia has been proved well-justified so far, so you don’t dismiss it this time: you lean across the table with the flirtiest smile you can muster for a man who’s not the one you love and you steal some of Vladimir’s ice cream with your own plastic spoon. At the same time, so close to his face you could even count the freckles on the bridge of his nose if you wanted, you quickly glance to the side without moving your head an inch.

Far from being stupid, Vladimir picks up the message immediately and pretends to be flirting back. “You’d better give me a repeat of your show tomorrow,” he says in the end, wincing a bit when he sits back against his chair. “Maybe we can have a three-way on the beach after dark.”

Luckily, Sergei plays along.

In your mind, ‘tomorrow’ echoes a thousand times. How did he manage to organize another escape so quickly when he had had a whole foot in his grave this morning?

You hope this time, your escape will end well.

Quickly enough, the topic of conversation changes and it’s just two friends talking normally with each other.

You? You keep pretending you’re watching everything around you through the eyes of a tourist. Instead, you see how the guy you spotted earlier is still there, looking in your direction from above the newspaper in his hands. A young couple has been on a video call since you sat down, and their phone seems to be tilted more in your direction and it is theirs. A bunch of kids, who had been playing football on the other side of the fountain when you got your ice creams, have moved closer; they’re not clamoring as much anymore, either.

You hope it’s just your paranoia. But you do spot a guy with an in-ear device at the entrance to the square, on the far left.

And if it’s not paranoia, is it Homer? Is it the people from Hell’s Kitchen?

That night the house is dead silent and in spite of it, you still struggle to fall asleep. Your brain mulls over a billion things at once. Homer. Your escape trip from New York. The people you left behind under the rubbish. The guy that’s apparently taking you to Costa Rica. Homer’s gaze everywhere on your body, making you squirm in discomfort at being ogled so openly, so disrespectfully.

Sergei’s lightly snoring next to you when you turn around. For a moment, you contemplate waking him up―maybe he can help you fall asleep―but you eventually decide not to. Running away has been exhausting for you; with his injuries and what he must have been through, he must have been hit even harder. He should probably get as much sleep as he can now that things are relatively quiet.

You turn around as slowly as possible, trying to slip out from under Sergei’s arm without waking him up.

When you get out of bed, you pick up your burner phone as you go. There are no new messages, no missed calls. It doesn’t surprise you.

[1:07 AM] you: you awake?

It takes him a few minutes to answer, but you’re glad he’s there, battling with insomnia on the other side of the hallway just as you. When it’s messages in a row.

[1:11 AM] V: yeah

[1:11 AM] V: why?

[1:11 AM] V: something happened?

You smile: you’re not the only paranoid bitch apparently.

[1:12 AM] you: everythings fine. cant sleep.

[1:12 AM] V: He’d bite my head off if the dicking down came from me. Sorry doll.

You glance at Sergei from where you’re sitting on the floor, but your snort doesn’t seem to have disturbed his sleep.

Vladimir, that sly motherfucker. He knows Sergei would tear his dick off even just for the fact that he’s thought of his woman. This morning was just an accident, so to speak, but there’s not a ‘second chance’ in your lover’s vocabulary, at least not in this field.

[1:15 AM] V: What? You considering it? ;)

Your uneven breathing is the only sign you’re doing your best to keep the laughter from spilling out of your lips.

[1:16 AM] you: you wish bby :*

“Milaya?” When you look up, Sergei’s rubbing his eyes, blearily looking at you after switching the bedside table lamp on. “What’re you doing there?”

The gruff in his voice shouldn’t rub you the way it does. You’re reminded of the first stage of your relationship, when you worked off hours and often came back home in the middle of the night. He’d demand you wake him up, and then he’d fuck you to sleep, his rough voice whispering obscenities in your ear or into the skin of your neck, your chest―even your inner thighs, if you still had the energy to let him eat you out before you clocked out for the night.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply. It’s no surprise that your knees buckle when you stand up and make your way to bed, your mind so deep in the gutter.

He eyes the phone in your hands. “Everything okay?”

You hum and slide into his open arms. The way his head nuzzled your chest makes you chuckle and your fingers comb through his short hair.

“Yeah. Vova can’t sleep either.”

When you look down at him, he’s pouting. “You were texting my best friend? You could’ve talked to me…” He might be dangerous when it comes to other people, but it’s mainly playful banter when it comes to Vladimir, you’re sure. Had you wanted him, you would have already made him yours. The dude hasn’t posed a danger for years now.

“I wanted to let you rest,” you reply, but Sergei’s hands are already starting to wander, and they distract you for a heartbeat or two. “After Hell’s Kitchen… You just haven’t been sleeping well.”

He scoffs in amusement, but the way he kisses your lips right after tells you he’s so very grateful―lucky, as he always says―to have you.

“That’s just because I didn’t have a chance to fuck you,” he smirks, his words crude. They hang heavy in the space between your lips, and heavy is the hand on your hipbone now that he’s hovering over you. “Can I do it?”

You can’t deny him, not when he looks at you like that―like you’re the goddess he worships―and not when hunger is already starting to simmer in your womb. So, you entertain him.

“Do what?”

“Do you.”

You laugh, breathless.

“C’mon, just let me get my dick wet. It’ll help you fall asleep so fast.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, still smiling. You bend your legs at the knees to trap him between them. It’s a blessing, the fact that you went to bed just wearing a t-shirt because you can feel the warmth of his erection against you through your panties. “You really can’t be romantic even just for a minute!”

He nuzzles the crook of your neck, kisses where your marked skin still feels tender and loved. He comes down on his elbows, and all of you is pressed against all of him. It’s the most comforting weight there is.

“Let me make love to you,” he corrects himself, rutting against you once. “Let me make you feel safe.”

A kiss to your lips, then his tongue comes out to lick at you once before you give him access. It goes on and on, the kiss; it lengthens until you have to pull away for air.

“Let me be on top.” You don’t even need to beg: he turns onto his back and pulls you with himself until you’re straddling his lower abdomen.

“No prep?” he wonders, surprised laced through his voice.

You shake your head. “’m wet enough already with the way you run your stupid mouth.”

He grins.

You make quick work of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to whip his cock out. The tip is already reddened and leaking pre-cum. You smirk, look at him, then look back. You wonder how he always manages to work himself up so quickly, but then you realize he has the same effect on you―you’re dripping when you pull your panties to the side―so you don’t ask.

The way he lets himself go into a single, long groan as you slowly slide down on his cock gives you a full-body shudder. Your hands bunch his t-shirt in your fingers and your eyes almost cross. When you finally sit down on him, his erection buried inside you to the hilt, the air slips past your lips in a quivering breath.

“Fuck, feels so good,” you whisper, leaning forward until you’re lying fully on him. “You feel so good.” The stretch is delicious, and you feel how your walls flutter to make room for the size of him.

“Always such a snug fit.” His hands grab your hips, and he thrusts into you once, then once more. Two orgasms each this morning clearly weren’t enough, but tonight you stop him.

“Don’t more, let me feel you like this.”

He doesn’t complain, not even when you both already know cockwarming isn’t his forte.

“Tell me about Hell’s Kitchen. The fuck happened?”

“Now?!” he gasps, making you look at him. “While my dick’s in your pussy?”

“As good a time as any. I’ll fall asleep after. I figured it’d be easier for you than being in my mouth.”

A sigh.

It’s silent for a while, and then the dam opens. He tells you as much as he knows. Which, admittedly, isn’t much. Or he’s trying not to burden you too much.

You wish he’d lean on you, share his pain so that you can be each other’s crutch.

He tells you about the masked mudak, the one that’s been messing with them and their business for months. Fisk and his schemes. Then the bombing at the garage―his fingers dig harder into your flesh when he talks about that―the explosion, the smell, the blood when he had tried to pull Grisha out of the ruins. He was coughing up so much blood already, the poor kid, and Sergei had to look the other way when he gave in to his plea to be shot and taken out of his misery. He had been a breathing corpse, mutilated by the fallen ruins―bricks and poles and sin.

Sergei doesn’t tell you that, though. He doesn’t paint a picture.

It’s already a miracle he manages to get to the end of his recall with a still-hard cock. His arms hold you close, and you feel the way his chest constricts.

You try not to grumble. Just a couple of weeks ago Grisha had come to you asking for advice―there was this girl, prettier than the sun and moon combined, and he wanted to do all the right things to ask her out. You wonder if he did. If he followed your advice. Or had he still been waiting for his chance when his world went off?

You don’t speak for a moment, simply listening to the changing rhythm of his heart. Then, you apologize for pressing him into giving you an explanation, and you kiss him until he forgets all those bad things for the time being.

That night you make love to him, try to ease the nightmares and the bad memories plaguing his mind. When tears start trickling down the sides of his face, his eyes closed, you hold onto him a little tighter, a little closer, and you fall asleep still connected with each other.

If you could shield him from what happened, shift its weight onto your shoulder, you would.

*

The day after, you stay out late for dinner. Vladimir came up with some bullshit excuse about him wanting to celebrate life with you and Sergei, and Homer let him go.

Did the guy also send someone else after you? You have no clue, and frankly, you don’t even look around to try and spot his goons. You’ve mainly been picking at your food with your fork all day. Sergei managed to sleep like a baby―of which you’re proud―but your mind has been stuck on the memory of Grisha in your living room, pacing back and forth while he spilled his heart out. How he hadn’t wanted to go to the guys because he just knew they’d tease him to no end. How he didn’t know what to do―his parents had been the worst example to follow in just about any field of life, and he didn’t know what to do. Sergei’s woman is the nicest person on Earth, someone had told him, so he had come to your apartment when he knew Sergei was out with the guys.

You think about how he had just been nineteen; he would have turned twenty on Christmas day; you had already planned to invite him over for a few days so that he wouldn’t have had to be alone―your heart squeezes in on itself, and you sigh.

“It’s all gonna be over soon, Doll,” Vladimir smiles, patting your hand on the table with his bandaged one.

You look at him. The dark circles under his eyes. The bruises on his face. His split lip. You know there’s much more underneath his clothes that you can’t see right now―but that you have seen too many times whenever you stopped to clean his wounds in the car. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last almost ten days, and like he’s lost ten more. A shell of his old self―no brother, no freedom, no business―a bird-dog trying his best to reach a place where no one knows his name, or his face.

Sergei also looks like the vocabulary definition of exhaustion. One day of relative freedom―yesterday―was enough to deplete his reserve of energy. Now all he wants to do is escape. And forget.

You smile. For their sake, you tell yourself. Be their crutch like they’ve been yours.

“Is it going well?” you ask, turning your hand around so that you can hold the one Vladimir still has on yours.

He hasn’t told neither you nor Sergei his plan, and neither of you has asked. You figured the less people knew about it, the more chances you’d have to make it.

He nods. He’s the only one whose stomach isn’t knotted up. Is it because he was mostly passed out during your first escape? You guess that could be the answer.

There aren’t many patrons left when a group of men walks in. It’s hard not to spot them; they stick out like black birds among the colors of the restaurant.

Are they Homer’s?

They spot you. You see the way the look in their eyes changes when their (apparent) leader’s gaze locks with yours. You’re the only one facing them, Sergei and Vladimir sitting at the other side of the table.

They walk closer. They’re seven tables away.

Six.

Three.

Your hand wraps tightly around your knife.

Two.

The man in the front smiles. It reaches his eyes. You think he’s going to flirt with you, cause a scene, create chaos.

“You must be Sergei’s woman,” he says when he and his men sit at the table behind you.

It takes you a moment for your brain to realize he’s spoken Russian. You’ve never been more relieved to hear a language before in your life.

Was Vlad waiting for your escorts? Is that why he insisted on staying that long?

You breathe out in relief and when you look at your companions, they’re both grinning. Sergei gives you a nod of his head, his foot teasing yours under the table in reassurance.

“We met some dogs,” says the man behind you. You don’t dare turn around. “We sorted them out, but their owner might come looking.”

Things move quickly after that. Your heart hammers in your chest with the same strength as the night Sergei woke you up in the middle of the night, but this time it’s not out of fear. There’s excitement scorching through your veins, and adrenaline is probably already kicking in.

You’re out of the restaurant, your hand securely wrapped in Sergei’s. Vladimir is in front of you; the men his friend sent are all around. It’s like being a celebrity, even when you’re not.

It goes to your head.

Your heart beats so hard it hurts. It seems to pulse in your eardrums, and there’s a restlessness everywhere in your body―your fingers, your arms, your legs. It’s like your body wants to run, desperately, and yet it’s stuck at a much slower rhythm.

You meet Sergei’s gaze. He gives your hand a squeeze, mouths an I love you, and you think you want to marry him. Right here, right now. You want to take his face in your hands and kiss the living daylights out of him.

Your head hurts.

It’s sort of exhilarating, in a way you didn’t predict.

You’re on a boat. Then a much bigger one.

The men’s leader and two others are in the helicopter with you, Vladimir, and Sergei. You have no idea how you even got on it.

Your head hurts.

*

They move you a lot in Costa Rica. You never spend more than one night in the same place. As it turns out, his friends are trusty, this time. You’re introduced to Andrei’s cousin, the one Vladimir has mentioned, and you have to witness the way his soul cracks behind the look in his eyes when he’s told the news.

Danger still feels really close, but just like your escape from Cuba, it’s fucking exhilarating. A whirlwind you can barely keep up with.

You have some of the best sex of your life―it’s the only thing that helps burn out that extra energy making you restless. You think Vladimir is never going to let you and Sergei live it down. You promise him he can sit and watch if he wants, and maybe one night he does, in the armchair by the window of your temporary room, and you enjoy the way he looks at you while Sergei fucks you from behind.

When you reach Romania, the home of some more friends of Vladimir’s (you wonder how he even manages to have so many when he can be such an annoying ass), you’re all positively exhausted. It’s been three weeks since leaving Hell’s Kitchen behind, but it feels like much longer than that. Three years, or maybe three lifetimes.

You don’t have many memories from Cuba; you didn’t have the time to form any, after all. Homer and his flowers, the shower, that ice cream in the sunny plaza. Costa Rica is a whole other story; when you think about it, there’s still phantom soreness between your legs and Vladimir’s taste still tingles your tongue, that one time Sergei miraculously agreed to let you suck him off.

Life in Romania, by the Moldovan border, is nice and quiet, and there’s not much to do in the countryside you’re sent to for your own protection. You enjoy the walks―at dawn, at sunset, in the midday sun.

Skinny dipping with Sergei after dinner quickly becomes your favorite activity. He’s so real and solid in this life that now feels like such an illusion. You let him love you, and he lets you love him, too. There’s not a place around the house where you haven’t touched each other, kissed, hugged.

You start to pick up the language and around the four-month mark in the country, you feel like it’s finally starting to click. You find a part-time job, Serzh does, too. It keeps you busy―away from the frenzy of New York City, and away from the dreadful stillness of a life so out of your routine all of a sudden.

Sergei puts a ring around your finger one night, as you’re lying in bed, the smell of sex still lingering in the air even despite the open window. He says marriage is just a formality, but he definitely can go down that route if you want. He’s still going to spend the rest of his life by your side regardless.

You think you could give him anything he wants. Could and would, no ifs and no buts.

Vladimir turns restless, however. He seems to slowly sink, like a stone not dense and not heavy enough to immediately reach the bed of the river. He feels stuck, and you see the way he can’t seem to be able to go on. The exhilaration of your escape has left his system―much more slowly than the adrenaline did, but you see he’s running on reserve now.

You think you’re losing a piece of him each day that passes.

You’re stuck in the indecision of what to do. If you bring up old memories, the scars on his body start bleeding again. If you shut them down, the black hole in his chest grows and eats away at him right before your eyes.

Revenge starts being brought up. It’s always late at night, when he’s had a bit too much to drink. He brings up Anatoly as you and Sergei watch on, unable to do anything. He brings up his brother and the way he was murdered. Brings up Fisk, Gao, Nobu, the masked mudak. He burns with the intensity of a sun, and the bitter cold of outer space.

You fear losing him to his demons. Sergei doesn’t know how to bridle him anymore.

One night, he starts crying. He’s had a glass too many―a bottle too many―and you find yourself sitting in the garden, the warm July breeze contributing to the scorching heat of his skin. He’s feverish―he has been for a couple of days now.

Sergei’s smoking a few meters away, eyes trained on the night sky as he stands barefoot on the grass, wearing nothing but an old pair of knee-length pants. You see the way his jaw clenches in the moonlight, and you know he’s close to tears as well.

It scares you shitless.

Vladimir allows you to hold him in your arms, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, wetting you with his tears and his saliva, where he cries broken sobs into the skin of your shoulder.

Maybe it’s always been just a matter of time before what happened in Hell’s Kitchen caught up with him.

Maybe it’s also just a matter of time before this wave of destruction slows down to a halt. You hope maybe next summer, he won’t be drinking this much. By the summer after that, he’ll be able to hang mirrors in the house without shattering them. By the three-year mark, he’ll be sprouting in the spring and thriving in the summer.

Sergei turns around and finds you already staring at him. On his lips stretches the small, sad smile that mirrors your own. You think you see gratitude in his eyes before he goes inside to fetch a blanket. He wraps Vladimir up like a child and drags him inside.

That night you both lie on the floor of Vladimir’s room, as still as statues, listening closely to the way he breathes while he sleeps.

“Is he gonna be alright?” Sergei whispers, dread in his eyes as he looks at you for an answer, like you’re a deity that can see the future.

You trace the lines of his face, his lips. You kiss him lightly, even despite the smell of smoke that’s left behind from earlier. “Eventually,” you promise―a lie, but also a hope.

You don’t tell Sergei, but you think Vladimir is still on the run. You can only hope he will slow down, stop, look around, see he’s safe, still alive, and that his demons haven’t followed him into his physical reality.

Bye, thank you for reading my fic. 💌

#sergei daredevil #sergei daredevil x reader #daredevil imagine #reader insert #angelaiswriting

[wonderlandmind4]

Idk why it took me so long to actually understand Matt in season 2. The first time watching that season I was mainly like “oh. Oh no. Oh man. Wait do I love Frank Castle. Oh that sucks big time.” But after the let’s not count rewatch of the show;

He literally tries to be everything for everyone to help and please everyone. He is pulled in so many different directions and stretches himself waaayyy too thin, and yes, trauma response I think, and the toxicity of a stained past relationship (Elektra refused to leave him be) mixed with his Daredevil side, while trying to be a good “boyfriend” (I’m using that term lightly) to Karen and a good partner/friend to Foggy and a good lawyer and it all just falls between the giant cracks into a pile of burning shit.

I’ve seen people call him an asshole and while he hadn’t been the greatest friend/partner, I think I understand what being in that position he puts himself does and entails. He tried to say no to Elektra but she also knew what to say and spin to get him to eventually say yes and knew how to hit that “Matt can’t say no to helping people” button of his. He wanted to help Frank, he wanted to be that important someone/boyfriend to Karen. He wanted to be that best friend and good partner and lawyer for Foggy.

So, you have Elektra who, in my opinion, doesn’t fully accept or understand his passion for his day job (even if she thought she’d be helping) and tries telling/convincing him that he’s all DD and again hits that people helping/protective button. You have Foggy who is rightfully angry at Matt- for dropping the ball Matt first picked up himself and forced into Foggy, for leaving him hanging and for not telling him about Elektra- also not fully accepting or understanding Matt’s need to be Daredevil.

You have Karen who is also rightfully disappointed and angry and kept in the dark, because she’s smart, she knows there’s definitely a lot more going on that both Matt and Foggy aren’t telling her and it puts pressure on her being in the middle, and maybe if Matt just told her his secret earlier things would have been different and I honestly think she would’ve definitely supported both sides of Matt.

So Matt tries to be all these things and more to everyone around him (even keeping Frank from dying and fighting for his right to a fair trail) and it all goes to shit in the end.

(This isn’t new to anyone who has watched the Netflix Daredevil.)

But honestly, even the first time around, even the 10th, 15th time around….I never thought of Matt as a full on asshole in S2. I think that yes, not the greatest friend, dropped giant important things and prioritized things incorrectly, tried to set rules with Elektra but didn’t stand very firmly on them and didn’t quite set boundaries with her when it came to some um, personal space. Didn’t properly explain to Karen what was happening or going on of why his ex was in his bed in the first place.

I think he felt caught in such a delicate web of people not accepting or understanding both sides of him, his passion and love for being a lawyer and DD. Ended up trying to Be All The Things and having it ruin a friendship/relationship/partnership and definitely ended with his own fears of abandonment coming true in more ways than one. But I understand why and where he was trying to come from and be.

….why do I have so much to say and think and theorize about this damn character. 🤷🏻‍♀️🥲

#THIS IS JUST MY OWN THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS #DONT COME AT ME IM FRAGILE #Matt Murdock #Daredevil #daredevil season 2 #also I love foggy and Karen and Frank and Elektra #it’s 1am these are my rambling thoughts

[soleadita]

tag 9 people you want to get to know better

tagged by @scattered-winter and @kitkatpancakestack, ty friends <3 (and i think @hotcinnamonsunset also tagged me a while ago but i was overwhelmed from bingo night and it got lost in my notifs. sorry friend!!)

three ships: sterek, buddie, and…hm. allydia? (i wanted to diversify my answers and not have two teen wolf ships but i’m having a real head empty no thoughts day)(WAIT!!! retroactively editing this to add ronance <333)

first ever ship: if we're going, like, literally first ship ever in my entire life, i think it'd have to be ty and amy from the heartland books or sam and jake from the phantom stallion series. (something about them rewired my little 10-year-old brain. if i'd known fanfic existed back then...)

last song: all my love by noah kahan (i'm late to the noah kahan train but fuck. you were all RIGHT about stick season it's amazing.)

last movie: glass onion!!

currently reading: braiding sweetgrass by dr. robin wall kimmerer, and re-reading six of crows (it's a slow re-read but it is happening)

currently watching: making my way through first watches of sports night and ER (both thanks to people on my dash talking about them in THE most intriguing ways), and i'm also in the middle of a daredevil rewatch

currently consuming: at this literal exact moment, just water. but most recently, a cup of chocolatey coffee with whipped cream (i wanted hot chocolate but that would've been too much effort)

currently craving: posole my beloved

hmm…tagging (with absolutely no pressure to participate <3) @stardustsea, @1yr0, @xjustonemoremiraclex, @bipolarediaz, @merriestdiaz, @itwoodbeprefect, and @shortsighted-owl

(and i feel like i’ve seen this or similar ones going around for a while so if you’ve already done this, sorry!! <3)

#the first ship one is EMBARRASSING but i wanted to be a horse girl (gn) soo bad as a kid so i lived vicariously through subpar horse series #tag games #about me

[coolnerdyandalone]

on FIMQ deleting her content and COVID-19 (and a gratuitous larry fic rec)

@freddiesmyqueen first of all queen i hope you’re doing ok although i know some shit must have gone down for you to delete/private list all your videos and i hope you know that the larry community supports you always. Also your talent is TRULY unmatched in the world of video editing - no one makes edits quite like you and that’s why your loss impacts the community so profoundly. 

secondly, i know at least i was hoping to turn to rewatching all of FIMQ’s videos while i’m being quarantined due to the coronavirus. and i’m willing to bet that i’m not the only one. this is a scary time and for people like me who feel profoundly alone right now, the only way for me to calm my nerves and fears is by reverting to the content and community that helped me feel not so alone when i was in middle and high school. For me, that looks like watching FIMQ videos and reading my favorite larry fanfics (which i will also link below).  because of this i thought it might be helpful to repost some links that were posted by @bluemoonlarryandkaylor for a signal boost (if my teeny-tiny account can be called a signal boost). 

link to a google drive with FIMQ videos: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1ONwfLOd_IYvAL5OUDqDb_LLgQsDpd9il

link to an acct with some FIMQ re-uploads: https://www.youtube.com/user/Joana3961/videos

link to FIMQ vids with spanish subtitles: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLIouodFhArMkQhOHxv2t2NgxTwl6KvXAT

and now if you want to look at some good old fashioned larry fics that are my ABSOLUTE faves and could 100% be actual novels/movies, keep reading:

And Then A Bit** by @infinitelymint aka the best fanfic ever written (basically larry fakes a relationship for publicity with each other and it could be cannon if you really wanted to hope upon hopes): https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415272/chapters/2972746 (159k)

“We’d like to give the fans what they want.” Magee states, placing his hand on the table in front of him and leaning forward. “We want to give them Larry Stylinson.”

Or, take a parallel universe where Louis and Harry were never together, mix in a two year hiatus and an impending comeback, pour in a dash of lost fans, two tablespoons of strong friendship and a Modest! employee with a good idea. Add a squeeze of pretending to be a couple, lots of kisses and a tattoo or two. Stir. Serve: the mother of all publicity stunts.

(aka Harry and Louis fake a relationship for publicity. Eventually it becomes a lot less fake and a lot more real.)

Escapade** by @haydolce aka the Jack McQueen fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034197/chapters/9071932 (146k)

In the grand scheme of things, finding a date for a wedding should be no problem for Louis Tomlinson. He's rich. He's handsome. He's reasonably well behaved. But when the wedding is for his lifelong best friend (and former boyfriend), and is happening in under a month, finding a date for the ceremony and accompanying festivities becomes more of an adventure than he ever could have planned for.

California Sold** by @isthatyoularry​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157680/chapters/11877494 (123k)

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

Bring Your Body Baby (I Could Bring You Fame) by @theboyfriendstagram : https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263903/chapters/9652944 (84k)

Eighteen year old Harry Styles just graduated high school and landed a summer job as a waterboy for his favorite football team. His job description is simple: be ready to hand water and towels to players if needed. That didn’t seem to include Louis Tomlinson though, a twenty-three year old, recently transferred Paris Saint-German player, who seems to like making Harry’s job much more difficult than it has to be.

OR  

A self-indulgent AU that takes place over the summer of 2015. 18 year old Harry hates pining after people he can't have, and 23 year old footballer Louis loves flirting with people even though it never means anything.

Pull Me Under** by @zarah5 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/870766/chapters/1672104 (140k)

AU. As the first British footballer to come out at the prime of his career, it helps that Louis Tomlinson is in a long-term, committed relationship. Even if that relationship is fake. (Featuring Niall as Louis' favourite teammate, Liam as Louis' agent, and Zayn as Liam's boyfriend, who just happens to be good friends with one Harry Styles.) 

You You You** by @isthatyoularry : https://archiveofourown.org/works/846690/chapters/1617212 (137k)

“Infamous boybander leaves club together with unknown,” read the headline. Underneath were pictures of a boy with dark curls, green eyes and very tight pants. They both studied the article for a moment, reading it through quickly. “Is that…?” Louis frowned. That guy almost looked exactly like... "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" "Louis," Niall said, looking absolutely fucked over. "You just fucked the most wanted guy on earth. You just fucked Harry Styles of One Direction."

Or, the one where Harry and Louis meet at a club and Louis takes Harry home, only for him to realize that the boy who just made him breakfast half naked is Harry Styles from One Direction.

Like an Endless Summer by @horsegirlharry : https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365494/chapters/25442085 (87k)

“You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles.

“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.”

---

Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun.

Three French Hems by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064493 (20k)

In which Louis is a designer at Burberry and Harry spends December wearing Lanvin… and Lanvin… and Lanvin.

The Dead of July aka the Marvel Fic by @whimsicule  : https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594570/chapters/7928520 (117k)

Being an Avenger means continuing to be Captain America and smiling and being honorable for the public and Harry does his best. But it doesn’t give him time to figure out who he is supposed to be once he takes off his uniform and puts the shield to the side. Just being Harry had always involved Louis, and Harry fears he doesn’t know how to exist without him.

or: Harry is Captain America, and Louis’ been dead for 70 years.

Gods & Monsters by  @mizzwilde : https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090982/chapters/4550871 (201k)

The instructions were simple: seduce and destroy Harry Styles. Not once did they discuss the option of Louis actually falling in love. So, naturally, that's exactly what he did.

Love is a Rebellious Bird aka LIARB aka the orchestra fic aka dont hum bolero by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162438/chapters/2362331 (135k)

AU in which the boys still make music. Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best. Zayn and Liam are around too.

Don't hum Bolero.

My English Love Affair** by @isthatyoularry​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873962 (19k)

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can’t Lose by @haydolce : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799241/chapters/13366498 (113k)

American Uni AU. Harry Styles is a frat boy football star from the wealthy Styles Family athletic dynasty. A celebrity among football fans, he knows how to play, he knows how to party, and he knows how to fuck (all of which is well known among his legion of admirers).

Louis Tomlinson is a student and an athlete, but his similarities to Harry end there. Intelligent, focused, independent, and completely uninterested in Harry’s charms, Louis is an anomaly in a world ruled by football.

A bet about the pair, who might be more similar than they originally thought, brings them together. Shakespeare, ballet, Disney, football, library chats, running, accidental spooning, Daredevil and Domino’s Pizza all blend into one big friendship Frappucino, but who will win in the end?

Wild and Unruly aka the Cowboy fic by @100percentsassy and @gloriaandrews : https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723093/chapters/6099611 (124k)

Harry is a cowboy sitting on the biggest oil reservoir in Wyoming, and Louis is the paralegal assigned to pressure him into selling his land.

For As Long As I Can Remember (It’s Been December)** by @greenfeelings​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051122/chapters/34892210 (128k)

After recovering from a severe accident that causes Harry to lose his memory of three years, he moves to London to start his life over as a star chef. Little does he know that when he falls in love with Louis at first sight, it’s not the first time they meet.

Featuring an unintentional game of hot and cold, Harry chasing memories that won’t come back, Louis burying himself in work to try and forget what he can’t forget, Liam being torn between two of his best friends, Zayn as a moral compass and Niall saving the day with good music and brutal honesty.

the boys of fall** aka the american football fic by @godgavemelou​ : https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443037 (21k)

“And everyone, this is Harry Styles. He’s going to be our starting quarterback this year.”

Louis looks at him, the tall and lanky Harry Styles, and takes it all in. He’s got hair to his shoulders that curls at the ends, tattoos all down his arms, and a bright smile on his face as the team cheers him on. He’s lean and fit, and absolutely beautiful, and Louis hates him to the core.

OR an american football au where the boys play for the university of tennessee, and harry and louis quite hate each other.

** indicates that the fic is a log-in required fic, but if you want the pdf i can send it to you

#FIMQ #freddieismyqueen #freddiesmyqueen #larry #Larry Stylinson #larry proof #LARRY IS REAL #Larry theory #covid2019 #covid_19 #coronavirus #quarantine #loneliness #alone #not alone #community #larry community #larry videos #larry fic #larry fanfiction #larry fanfic rec #larry fic rec #fic rec

[hartigays]

Ship History Meme

Embrace your past and get to know your friends’ fandom origins!

Rules: Post gifs of your fandoms / ships starting with your most current hyperfixation and work backwards. (Bonus points if you share any stories about how or when you got into that ship! But not necessary!!) Then tag anyone whose fandom history you’d like to learn about!

I was tagged by: @gideongrace thanks bby!! 💜

Most Recent: barisi (law and order: svu)

How did I get into it? it’s my current hyperfixation but i’ve shipped it for a long time, basically since the first moment that barba and carisi were on the show at the same time years ago, and then i started reading fic when they finally had screentime together for the first time. i rewatch random seasons of svu every now and then and i always resume my love for these two when i do

Next: effoff (sex education)

How did I get into it? i recently decided to finally binge sex education and it’s just another situation where the moment they had screentime together, esp adam being an asshole to eric (cause i knew they were gonna do something w that i just KNEW IT), i was totally a goner for them

Next: harringrove (stranger things)

How did I get into it? oh god they’re my constant, my ~touchestone~, i will never not love these two idiot boys (i have other hyperfixations rn but they’ll always be my number ones) but i didn’t actually get into them until like january of 2019?? i’d been in between fandoms and decided to rewatch st and noticed their chemistry for the first time and i was like hold up.........then i tested the waters n read some fic and here we are

Next: thiam (teen wolf)

How did I get into it? so i’d watched teen wolf from day 1 that it aired, but i stopped circa-s5 because it was just. so bad i could NOT. i loved theo but the whole premise of s5 i just couldn’t get into. so i stopped for a few years, then one day i decided to finally watch s5 and ofc s6 naturally, and i got v attached to theo and liam. started reading fic and hyperfixated on s6 quite a bit and became a hardcore thiam shipper

Next: rickyl (the walking dead)

How did I get into it? i don’t know. i don’t even watch twd anymore, i stopped after the mid-season finale of s6, but i’ve always loved rick and daryl’s relationship. i still rewatch the first 4 seasons every now and then and get back into my rickyl hyperfixation. this is also a ride-or-die ship of mine that i’ve had for a long time and i go back to it often

Next: stucky (captain america trilogy)

How did I get into it? this is such an old ship of mine that i really don’t even remember. i’ve been watching marvel movies since i was in middle school, and i started getting into the fandom around my freshman year of high school. the cap movies were always my favorite and bucky was (and still is) my favorite fictional character, so me shipping stucky just evolved naturally. they are my number 1 ship of all time and i’m not ashamed to admit it

Next: sterek (teen wolf)

How did I get into it? I WAS LIKE 12 AND IT WAS MY FIRST M/M SHIP, they are the OG’s, the lights of my life, the fire of my loins. i started watching teen wolf when it first aired and around the same time had just joined tumblr about a year before, so i was already getting into the fandom side of tumblr when i started following teen wolf blogs. a lot of people were posting about sterek and it peaked my interest, and i v quickly got invested!!

Next: mulder x scully (the x-files)

How did I get into it? i’ve been watching txf since i was literally an infant. if we wanna be technical, actually since i was in the womb (my mom is a major txf fan and she apparently watched it all the time when she was pregnant with me). i always watched it with my mom growing up, and mulder and scully were so obviously in love how could lil ol’ me not develop a serious love for them??

Honorable mentions (in no particular order): reddie (IT movies), david x patrick (schitt’s creek), malira (teen wolf), kastle (daredevil, the punisher), newtmas (tmr series), sciles (teen wolf), clexa (the 100), bellarke (the 100), bensler (law and order: svu), dorisi (law and order: svu), bucky x loki (marvel)

i’m tagging: @grabmyboner @hoegrove @biillyhargroves @wndasmaximoffs @etterklang @brokebackmountains @mustardprecum @granpappy-winchester @aspartaeme @billyscamar0 @avalonlights and anyone else who wants to do this :-)

#thanks again for the tag babes!! ❤️ #tag game #long post

[incomprehensiblelentils]

49. top 5 netflix originals!

I am interpreting this as “TV shows” although I can do one for movies if someone wants (that list would be like, four genuinely good teen romcoms and A Christmas Prince 3)

I also forgot everything I have ever seen and liked and literally had to look up lists of Netflix shows lmfao. oh and disclaimer I have not seen like 70% of the most popular series and will probably never watch them out of laziness, spite, or disinterest.

Daredevil - I just love my doofus Catholic guilt boysona Matt Murdock and his disaster friends so much. But I also think this is the most cohesive of the Marvel Netflix shows by a landslide, and other than Luke Cage, the only one I’d bother rewatching all the way through. (I did not even attempt JJ s3, my blood pressure could not handle it.)

GLOW - There are rough patches in this show (why is Sam still there, I HATE him and also like 90% of the other men tbh) but I think it’s doing a lot of really cool things with its characters and I also love cheesy 80s aesthetic, as it turns out.

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power - This is just very fun and good! I would never have been allowed to watch this as a child but I would have looooooved it. The theme song is a joke but that’s fine, it’s doing its best.

One Day at a Time - Are they even allowed to call it a Netflix Original anymore? idk. anyway this is charming and even though I don’t love the laugh track format I enjoy the characters enough that I can deal with it.

Free Rein - lol nOBODY is going to agree with me on this but I do not care! This is a show for 10 year old horse girls about friendship and class differences and talking honestly about your problems and it’s absolute nonsense and has very little regard for actual horsemanship and I love it and I’m very sad that it’s not getting a fourth season. It has also won 3 Daytime Emmys and the opening credits look like they were created on iMovie by a middle schooler. I cannot recommend it enough. <3

#areax

[spockismyspermdonor]

Matt Murdock x reader based on the song Like Real People Do by Hozier because every Hozier song makes me wanna fall in love and who better to fall in love with than mah boi Matt

Matt Murdock x reader based on the song Like Real People Do by Hozier because every Hozier song makes me wanna fall in love and who better to fall in love with than mah boi Matt

I’m currently rewatching all of Daredevil and the Punisher (almost finished with season 1) and I have been strongly reminded of how much I love Matt Murdock and I really hope his character is still as incredible in season 3. I’m very nervous.

Also, the reader is based on a character I made for the Punisher series that I need to start working on. Basically, she’s a mutant with cool healing powers and she can identify people’s injuries and illnesses just by focusing her energy on them.

This takes place a little after season 1.

Like Real People Do.

Strong alcohol and heavy smokers give the dingy bar its never-changing scent. The lighting is scarce and the patrons even scarcer. A total of 6 people are here tonight, all of them alone. You included. You would say the night has just begun, meaning things could still liven up, but you wouldn’t mind if it didn’t. You sit in the far corner of the room, back against the wall, able to see everything but the front door.

Just then, another loner walks into the establishment, bringing the body count up to 7. You stop in the middle of taking a swig of your Guinness. There’s something familiar about this newcomer. You turn your torso to look.

A man in a cheap gray suit with dark shades and a white cane is walking up to the bar.

“Jameson on the rocks, please.”

His voice is scruffy and somehow soft at the same time. You recognize it in the same moment you recognize all the bruises and cuts below his clothing. You sensed them just yesterday, although that man had seemed quite different than the one sitting a few yards from you now. You swallow the last of your beer and decide you just have to say hello.

You walk up to the man with a purpose, doing a good job of keeping your slightly tipsy ass completely on balance. He doesn’t turn towards you as you sit on the stool beside him and order another beer. Then you glance over at him.

“You know, a handsome man such as yourself shouldn’t be out alone at night. You never know what could happen, especially in this city.” You make sure to lay on the playfulness so he knows for sure that you’re joking.

The man chuckles lightly, shifting ever so slightly in your direction.

“Does me being blind have anything to do with that?”

“Oh, it was the main concern. Of course.” You then lean in a little closer and talk a little softer.

“Don’t want you running into anything dangerous, do we?”

“I think I can take care of myself, but thank you for the concern.”

“Mmm… I know you can.”

“And how’s that?”

Making sure no one can hear what you say, you scooch your mouth as close to his ear as you can without it being weird.

“Because you’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

The man’s demeanor stiffens at the turn of a dime. You can tell he’s gone on the offensive and is ready to fight, so you take a step back.

“I believe we met last night in the alley behind the Salvation Army on 46th street. My name’s Y/N.”

You extend your hand, exuding all the sincerity and warmth you have to help him relax and prove to him that you’re on his side. He surely remembers your little chat last night. It was mostly about how he was confused as to who you were because he’d never heard of or seen you before, which was fair. Still a little insulting, but fair because you were new to the scene. You started going out not long before Fisk was exposed.

Your soft smile and steady heartbeat prove to your companion you mean no harm, but he’s still a little hesitant in taking your hand and shaking it once.

“Matt Murdock.”

“A Matthew. Interesting. It’s nice to meet the daytime you.”

“Likewise.” You appreciate the small upturn at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s move this conversation to a more secluded area, yeah?”

Matt lets out his held breathe, “yes, please.”

You lead the way with your arm reaching out behind you, barely grazing the side of his wrist as a guide that you know he doesn’t need. You return to the table you were at before, the best private vantage point in the whole bar.

The two of you take seats opposing one another. Matt’s body has fully relaxed, but you know he is still keeping his guard up.

“So, why a suit?”

“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I actually just got Fisk convicted.”

“Ah, so you take care of criminals in more ways than one. I’m impressed.”

“What about you though? You help people in more ways than one. I know you heal and can somehow heal others, but you also have some serious skills with a blade. AND you’re a doctor, right?”

“Not anymore.”

You weren’t expecting Matt to bring up such a sore subject so soon. You liked the guy but you didn’t want him knowing your whole backstory already. You quickly changed the subject.

“So, you can’t use your eyes to see, but you know everything that’s happening around you. How does that work?”

“That’s a bit of a long story.”

Yikes. There’s his backstory. He doesn’t seem ready to share that yet either. You glance over Matt’s shoulder and see the dusty jukebox in the back corner.

“Do you dance, Mr. Murdock?”

“A little, Ms. L/N.”

“Perfect. Give me one moment.”

You swiftly move your way over to the jukebox, throw in the dollar that you have left for tonight and pick the first song that pops up in the “smooth tracks” section. A soft melody on a banjo rings out.

I had a thought, dear, however scary

about that night the bugs and the dirt.

You go back to Matt and gingerly take his hand into yours. He stands with a grin and follows you to the small place between the speaker and the bathroom.

Why were you digging? What did you bury

before those hands pulled me from the earth?

You place your left hand on his right shoulder and continue holding his left hand with your right. Matt takes his glasses off and places them in his pocket with his free hand before placing it on the back of your waist. The pair of you start slowly swaying to and fro, shimming around in a circle.

I will not ask you where you came from.

I will not ask you, neither should you.

You take a glance up and are stunned by Matt’s irises. In the dim yellow glow of the bar lights, their shade of brown is somewhere between honey and chocolate, appearing to be two little sweets for you to hunger for. Even though they aren’t able to focus on you, it somehow feels like they are looking deep into yours. The blind trust you give to him scares you for a moment.

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips.

We should just kiss like real people do.

“So how did you know it was me?” You’ve been anticipating this question.

“I can sense injuries and illnesses in people. I do have some influence over a person’s healing too, but it’s mainly my medical training that does the trick. I recognized your bruises, which are everywhere, and your many fractures and cracks, new and old.”

“That’s incredible… but also weird.”

You both laugh and break a little tension that has built from everyone else in the bar noticing your dance.

“I don’t think you have any room to talk.”

“You’re probably right.” Matt remarks with a little chuckle.

I knew that look dear, eyes always seeking,

was there in someone that dug long ago.

“What we do- it all feels like a lot, but... it’s worth it. Don’t you think?”

Matt takes a moment to think about his answer.

So I will not ask you why you were creeping.

In some sad way, I already know.

“I think it can be, yeah. It also feels way less daunting when you’re not doing it alone.”

You smile. He’s right. You didn’t realize it until he just said it, but ever since your encounter last night, you felt a little lighter, as if you didn’t have to hold so much on your plate anymore. It allowed you to take a breath and go out to the bar for once. You earned it.

“I agree.”

I will not ask you where you came from.

I will not ask you and neither would you.

The both of you continue to sway as you feel the song nearing its end. That song was your last dollar so you were done drinking tonight. You thought about how badly you now wanted to be out in the city, helping whoever you could. With Daredevil by your side, you could know about anyone that was in trouble and he could have backup to take on even more bad guys. You both could accomplish so much more.

“What if we went out and kicked ass together? Right now.”

The possibilities are starting to build in your gut, pushing up adrenaline. You both stop swaying.

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips.

We should just kiss like real people do.

“Well? What are we waiting for?” Matt smiles and you copy.

Before even thinking about it, you pop up on your toes and kiss your lips to Matt’s cheek. His scruff tickles your nose and chin and his aftershave zips into your nostrils, leaving a minty burn behind.

With his hand still in yours, you bop back down and lead the way out of the bar and into the next adventure of your life.

I could not ask you where you came from.

I could not ask you, neither could you.

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips.

We could just kiss like real people do.

#daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #superhero!reader #songbased #marvel #fanfiction #request #flung-through-galaxies #goddamnilovemattmurdock

[the-maxrecords-blog]

where the wild things went

Vice: Hello Max. This is your first film in five years. What on earth have you been doing with your time?

Max: Just living, you know? Living, going to school, getting done with school.

Vice: Did you ever worry, "Hang on, what if I've forgotten how to act"?

Max: I didn't really think about it until the first day or two shooting then I was like, "What the fuck am I doing here?". For the first couple of days the learning curve was pretty steep again.

Vice: How does one even go about preparing to play a sociopath? Presumably it wasn't method acting.

Max: I kind of feel like there is no such thing as acting that isn't method to some degree because if you're not actually experiencing it, then you're a fucking liar. I was talking with Billy [O'Brien - director] about it and - I forget the word that he keeps using - but it's an intuitive process. You just kind of feel it out, you know? I was pretty miserable while we were shooting, just because you're in a super dark brain space all day. Especially living in a place like Minnesota where we were shooting, six days a week. You don't get the opportunity to turn it off, you know? And that's great as far as the actual creative process goes but it sucks as far as trying to be a person.

Vice: Have you ever done a psychopath test?

Max: I don't think so.

Vice: Would you like to do one?

Max: Yeah, let's do it! Is it legit or is it some Facebook nonsense?

Vice: Oh, Facebook nonsense probably.

Max: So you're not licensed?

Vice: We're not unlicensed.

Max: I'm pretty sure it's an either-or thing.

Vice: So there are eight statements. You either agree or disagree. First one: "You rarely catch me making any plans. I'm far too spontaneous".

Max: Yeah, absolutely.

Vice: "If I got a better offer, I wouldn't mind cancelling longstanding plans".

Max: Yeah, that's probably true.

Vice: "It would be fun to drive fast cars, ride rollercoasters or go skydiving".

Max: I've been skydiving. Fast cars are fun. I don't get the appeal of rollercoasters. I guess I haven't really done a true roller coaster. It feels artificial.

Vice: Shall we disagree?

Max: No, let's agree.

Vice: Alright. "I think it's okay to step over other people to achieve my ambitions".

Max: I don't know. I don't think you necessarily need to it. I can't think of many situations that I've been in where that's necessary, where there isn't some other course of action you could take. Let's disagree.

Vice: Do you have an ambition?

Max: In the broader context of my life, I just want to gain skills. Recently I was doing an outdoor programme back in the States through this thing called NOLS [National Outdoor Leadership School], so I was off doing that for a couple of months. Getting better at being outdoors and learning how the natural world works. And I love playing music so getting better at that. Just learning to be a better, more competent person. Trying to not be a dick.

Vice: It's a good motto. Okay: "I'm very persuasive and getting people to get what I want is a real talent of mine".

Max: Agree! I think I'm pretty good at that. I've been manipulating my parents for years.

Vice: The perks of being a child star... What was that whole experience like?

Max: Really awful! Especially for children, the film world is just terrible. You can't grow up in that world and still have a connection to reality. At least if you're, like, really in it. Especially the poor folks out there who have stage parents. It's just so sheltered. The creative aspect of acting is one of the more amazing things that I've gotten to experience but everything outside of that is pretty bizarre.

Vice: Was it enough to make you think you might not want to do it anymore?

Max: I think, probably, yeah. Especially once Where the Wild Things Are came out. And that was my first real acting role too. Being thrown in the deep end as a young, pretty vulnerable person. And then you have an experience like that and there's all this stigma around it, back in the "real world". I went to the same school since I was in second grade, through most of high school, and I knew all these kids and they were my friends before and after but there was, coming back, this weird stigma, these weird assumptions that if you're in a film, you're an asshole and you don't exist in a grounded real world way.

Vice: What are your memories of working on that film?

Max: It was really important to Spike that the set was conducive to a child. So we had a million kids on set. All the crew was kind of invited to bring their families. And as a way to kind of understand the vibe that Spike wanted to cultivate, there was always music on set. The Smiths, Cemetery Gates and Big Mouth Strikes Again, all those songs. I have really wonderful nine-year-old memories of romping around on set and that music playing.

Vice: How does one move past an experience like that and into the world of adult acting?

Max: I think you just grow up and learn to be a person. I think one of the biggest learning curves for me, as a result of those experiences and then applying that to the real world, was that it took me a long time to learn to take a compliment. From twelve through to however old, you just kind of shut down. There's this assumption of an agenda. But you grow up and you learn to be a person and you temper the experiences of working in the film world with what people are actually like and you balance that.

Vice: Is there one thing you know now that you wish you knew then?

Max: No, I don't think so. I am the person I am as a result of a lot of those experiences and I love the people that I met and especially those people that I have experiences with. It is what it is. Can't change the past!

Vice: Okay: "My ability to make quick decisions means that I would suit a dangerous job".

Max: [Takes long time to decide answer] I dunno... The idea of being a smokejumper appeals to me.

Vice: What's a smokejumper?

Max: It's a term for the folks in the US that are forest firefighters and jump out of airplanes. That appeals to me.

Vice: What do you think you'd be doing if you weren't acting?

Max: Working in outdoor education probably. Working with kids or being in the outdoors. Or both.

Vice: Do you have a desire to keep acting?

Max: Yeah. I mean, I like doing it and I think creatively it's really cool and the people you get the opportunities to work with are often really wonderful people. It allows me to do other things in my own life. My parents have kind of helped me gain this perspective of it, but I think it's best for me to view it as a hobby. I like acting but I don't think it's healthy to do films back to back.

Vice: What was it about this script?

Max: I love Billy and I love Nick Ryan, the producer. I love Robbie Ryan, our cinematographer and I think, aesthetically, just the, Midwest middle America vibe, that's really cool. And the humour of the script. It's genuine and it has real emotion embedded in it but it's funny! That Fargo humour really appeals to me.

Vice: Do you have a favourite movie?

Max: It changes periodically, of course. Birdman has been one of my favourite films ever. It came out a couple of years ago and I've watched it half a dozen times. The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. I rewatched that pretty recently and remembered how good it was. People keep talking to me about Donnie Darko in relation to this film and I like that one quite a bit.

Vice:"When others are crumbling under pressure, I'm usually the one with a cool head". Agree or disagree?

Max: Yes. I think so.

Vice: When was was the last time you lost your cool?

Max: I've been working on that skill and I think I'm getting pretty good at it. It's been awhile since I've been genuinely, deeply upset about something. One of my favourite things in the world is this scar right here [shows us a fairly impressive scar on his knuckle]. I got it punching walls. It was like the perfect teenage angst motivation. The first time, I was really upset in my house because I had read something about the use of American drone warfare and just how upsetting it was and how a bunch of civilians had just been murdered somewhere in the world. And then the second time was me being upsetting at my parents.

Vice: Alright, last one: "I'm rarely to blame for things going wrong, it's usually the fault of the people around me".

Max: I mean, yeah. But I'll disagree.

Vice: Okay, let's see your results… You're 61% psychopath! "Though your conscience is in the right place, you have a pragmatic streak and generally aren't afraid to do your own dirty work".

Max: I'll take that.

Vice: There's more! "You're no shrinking violet but you're no daredevil either. You generally have a little trouble seeing things from other people's perspectives, but at the same time you're no pushover. Everything in moderation, including moderation, might sum up your approach to life".

Max: I like that. I'll take it!

Credits: Vice.com

Source: https://i-d.vice.com/en_gb/topic/max-records

#vice #max records #john wayne cleaver #I Am Not A Serial Killer #acting #Where The Wild Things Are #movie #boy

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West Week Ever: Pop Culture In Review - 2/10/17

Last night, my friend Mike and I went to check out The Lego Batman Movie. Seeing as how we were the only two people in the theater, I’m not quite sure what its weekend box office is gonna look like. I bet John Wick: Chapter 2 takes #1, since that’s where everyone seemed to be heading. Anyway, I LOVED the film. First up, it considers EVERYTHING canon. If you saw it onscreen, then it happened in that universe. The whole thing is kind of surreal, as the movie focuses on Batman’s loner status, while also confronting his complicated relationship with The Joker. On the Batman Beyond cartoon, there’s an episode where old Bruce Wayne and his protege, Terry McGinnis, go to a Batman-themed musical. Bruce can’t get over how goofy the whole thing seems, but I feel like this film is the movie version of that musical. It doesn’t have the camp of the ’66 show, but it’s a movie that never really takes itself seriously. I loved the liberties they took, like making Jim and Barbara Gordon people of color (voiced by Hector Elizondo and Rosario Dawson). It doesn’t hurt the story any, while bringing some diversity to the Lego world. I also liked how it tied in concepts from The Lego Movie, such as the fact that Batman is a Master Builder. I’m not going to spoil the movie for you, but I feel like it’s strong until the middle of the second act, at which point it switches from a Lego Batman movie to a Lego Dimensions movie. Trust me, you’ll understand when you see it, and I think you’ll agree that the story gets a bit weaker at that point. In any case, I can’t wait for it to hit Blu Ray, so I can rewatch it a thousand times to catch all the Easter eggs.

This week, we got a trailer for a new season of Arrow. Wait, what? That was actually for Iron Fist? Huh. Yeah, I was really underwhelmed by that trailer. Finn Jones doesn’t seem like a great actor, there’s not a lot of Kung Fu on display, and it seems like it’s more focused on corporate takeover, as Danny Rand tries to reclaim his family’s business. Since it’s a Netflix Marvel show, there’s also Rosario Dawson and another damn hallway fight. I welcome the former, but I’m SO over the latter. I’ll get around to watching it, but the days of me binge-watching a Marvel season the weekend of its release are long gone. Considering I still need to watch Daredevil season 2 and Luke Cage, I’ll be lucky to get around to it in 2017. That said, I know a lot of y’all will binge it that day, and will tell me if it sucks or not.

In other TV news, it’s rumored that NBC wants to spin Saturday Night Live‘s Weekend Update segment into a weekly 30-minute show. I guess they looked at John Oliver and Samantha Bee, and realized they might be leaving money on the table. Still, Jost and Che as “polarizing”, at best, and I’m not sure if that segment has the legs to air 30 minutes every week, in the same format. Plus, would it also remain a part of SNL, or would it be excised completely? I think this would’ve been a good idea in an election year, as there’s just so much news to cover, but now that all that is behind us, I’m just not sure this is going to work. And then what happens? If it does leave SNL, would it come crawling back next season, with its tail between its legs? The difference between Last Week Tonight/Full Frontal and Weekend Update is that those cable shows are actually smart, with smart hosts. Plus, they can get away with a bit more because cable. Weekend Update has gotten a lot more biting since Trump was elected, but is it too little, too late? Are the SNL writers up to the task of this project? I just feel like it’s a bad idea that will dilute the Weekend Update and SNL brands.

It was also announced that Viacom will be rebranding Spike TV as the Paramount Network. In my lifetime, I don’t think I’ve witnessed a network go through as many format changes as that one. As far back as I can remember, it was The Nashville Network. Then, to appeal to a wider audience, it became The National Network. Then, to appeal to dudebros, it became Spike TV. Now, I don’t even know who they’re targeting. I also don’t know why they chose this particular name. It’s like they have short memories or something. After all, there’s already been a Paramount Network. Sure, most of us referred to it as UPN and not the United Paramount Network, but that’s what those letters stood for. And it was the definition of “failed experiment”. Sure, it hobbled along for about 10 years, but its legacy is basically Star Trek: Voyager, America’s Next Top Model and Girlfriends. Outside of that, it gave us such critical darlings as Shasta McNasty, Homeboys In Outer Space, and The Secret Diary of Desmond Pfeiffer. Hey, let’s see how many shitty (that means all of them) UPN shows I can list without looking them up: DiResta, Legend, Platypus Man, Hitz, Good News, Sparks, Dilbert, Marker, The Watcher, The Sentinel…yeah,that’s enough to make my point, which is you probably don’t remember any of these. UPN did NOTHING for the Paramount brand, and its effects are still being felt 11 years after its demise. So why, WHY would Viacom want to go down this road again? Anyway, the early plans for the rebranding call for the network to be a warehouse for hit Viacom programming from their other networks. It’s basically just gonna be the Now That’s What I Call Viacom Channel, posting the highlights from MTV, Nick, Nick Jr, etc. In fact, there are no concrete plans for the future of other Viacom networks, such as VH1, CMT, and TVLand, but reports say that there’s no immediate push to shut them down.

It was also rumored that there are already talks of an American Idol revival, but this time on NBC. Now, keep in mind the show just ended its run on Fox last year. The idea is that The Voice would be reduced to one cycle a year, and then they would slot Idol in one of its old slots. I feel like NBC sees the value in that show in that it actually creates household names – something The Voice has failed to do after 11 seasons. The focus is too much on the judges, and the winners have gone nowhere. Quick, name a winner of The Voice without looking it up. Hell, I watched the first season, and I can’t even remember that guy (I looked it up: Javier Colon. Who? Right). So, there’s definitely something to be gained from acquiring the franchise. That said, though, I also feel like a network only gets one of those shows. Fox had Idol, NBC had The Voice, ABC had Rising Star, and CBS had some show that got canceled that I forgot. Fox hurt Idol by double-dipping and picking up The X-Factor. That show never caught on in the US, and it hurt the Fox singing competition brand. If NBC picks up Idol, it’s going to do the same to The Voice. I mean, how much longer does America want to see Blake Shelton and Adam Levine bicker at each other? Sure, there’s a new dynamic now that Blake and Gwen Stefani are dating and both judges, but unless the show breaks them up, I don’t know how engaging that’s gonna be. And Miley Cyrus as a coach? Now, let me say that Bangerz was a great album. I’ve written about how awesome it was. But I don’t think Miley is established enough as a singer to be coaching anyone. She’s more known for her antics than her music. Then again, Paula Abdul was a has been, judging the talent of tomorrow, but that was intrinsic to the formula. Ultimately, America chose the Idol, and the show brought in established stars as coaches. The Voice has an unnecessary layer. They have talented judges, but then they also have the coaches, and then America. As Idol showed us, ANYBODY cane a judge, which is going to be an important thing for NBC to remember once it comes to for contracts to be renegotiated. Anyway, I think Idol needs to rest a few more years before they dust it off. It was once a powerhouse, but television AND music changed over time. Let the industry figure out its next steps before trying to reenter it.

I don’t know about you, but I grew up with women, which meant I did a tour of duty with soap operas. I started with Days of Our Lives back in the late 80s, then shifted to The Young and the Restless, and then shifted back to Days in the 00s. And besides Victor Newman, there is no soap villain quite as diabolical as Stefano DiMera. Well, the actor who portrayed him, Joseph Mascolo, died back in December, but his final filmed episode aired yesterday.  Although Mascolo had been battling Alzheimers for the past few years, he had portrayed the character for around 30 years. For some reason (I haven’t watched in a while), he was in prison (he’s killed/led to the death of a lot of folks. But they typically come back after contract negotiations), and at the end of the episode, he escapes! What a beautiful ending, knowing that he will be forever “in the wind”, as they can’t really catch him again unless they recast him. Seeing as how the rumor is Days is coming to an end this year, they won’t even have time to do that, with scripts written about 6 months in advance. So, here’s a toast to one of the greatest villains to ever grace the television set. You will be missed, you evil son of a bitch.

Let’s get a little controversial, shall we? This week, comedian George Lopez got in hot water for kicking a woman out of one of his shows when she objected to a racially-charged joke he told. Basically he said, “There are only two rules in the Latino family: Don’t marry somebody black and don’t park in front of our house.” Apparently, a woman gave him the finger after that joke, to which he began to tell her to “sit [her] fucking ass down or get the fuck out.” Now, comedians are on his side because they say he was just shutting down a heckler. Meanwhile, the general public is on her side because they’re offended by the joke, and don’t see why he had to kick her out for objecting. Here’s my take: First of all, he’s told variations of this joke for years. He used to joke about how his grandmother wouldn’t even want President Obama in her house. If you’re familiar with his material, then his joke the other night shouldn’t surprise you. Now, for the folks offended by the joke: was he wrong? All I know is my own life experience. I dated a Cuban, and as polite and Ivy League-educated as I could be, I was still the Black guy who could only illicit grunts from her father. And I don’t know anyone named Esmeralda Jenkins or Manuela Johnson. Growing up where I did, Black guys didn’t get Latinas or Asian girls. Those girls’ families weren’t gonna stand for that! So, this is one of those jokes that’s grounded in truth. It might rub some folks the wrong way, but it’s not necessarily untrue. Where I stand, I don’t think he really did anything wrong. After all, that’s how comedians handle folks who they feel are interrupting their show, and the joke itself was par for the Lopez course. I wouldn’t say it was “haha funny”, but it wasn’t wrong.

Things You Might Have Missed This Week

An animated series based on the Castlevania video game is coming to Netflix later this year. Hopefully it will star gay Simon Belmont from Captain N: The Game Master.

Kate McKinnon will voice Ms. Frizzle in Netflix’s reboot of The Magic School Bus

Speaking of Netflix, Love, The OA, and Trollhunters have all been renewed by the streaming service.

Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin, announced that she’s retiring after her next album is released.

After 25 years over covering the Olympics, Bob Costas announced he’s handing the reins over to Mike Tirico

Entertainment newsmagazine show The Insider has been canceled after 13 seasons.

Formerly of USA’s Satisfaction, Blair Redford has been cast as the first mutant in Fox’s X-Men TV series

Not to be outdone by Beyoncé, it was announced that George and Amal Clooney are expecting twins. Those Hollywood In Vitro clinics are working overtime these days!

Speaking of babies, Jason Statham proved he’s the Transporter of Sperm, as he announced he’s expecting a baby with girlfriend Rosie Huntington-Whiteley

I don’t like Tom Brady. Don’t like a thing about him. I find it odd that you can be suspended for cheating AND win the Super Bowl in the same damn season. That said, that was a Hell of a comeback during Sunday’s Super Bowl LI. Somehow, the Atlanta Falcons blew a 25-point lead, allowing the New England Patriots to mount an amazing comeback and win their 5th Super Bowl title. It was the first Super Bowl to go into overtime. There was Edelman’s amazing catch. Some are calling it the most exciting game of football ever. But in the end there can only be one winner, and that was the Patriots. So, with that in mind, the New England Patriots had the West Week Ever.

#80s #Batman #DC #Marvel #Movies #Music #Politics #Race #Star Trek #Television #Toys #Video Games #West Week Ever #X-Men