#journalist!reader

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 11/12)

gasp she's finally here !!!

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: the last day of tour has arrived and you're pushed to make a difficult choice

contains: enemies to lovers trope, alcohol consumption, smoking, sexual themes, mentions of oral, angst, and more glimpses of eddie being boyfriend coded <3

word count: 6k

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song inspo for this chappy, thx to my stink @mmunson86 ily hehe:

Sunday mornings are meant for being lazy.

You wake up, you toss around in bed for a bit, maybe turn on the TV, and order food if you’re at a nice hotel like you are now— which had been your plan. You had wanted to try the strawberry crepes here for ages, and you planned to finally order it to start the last day of your short-lived tour on the right foot— but apparently, someone doesn’t believe in the mainstream concept of Sunday morning.

It’s seven in the morning when you get a knock on your door. You want to ignore it— and you have every intention to do so— except the person at the door is incessant and apparently doesn’t get the hint of silence.

It makes sense, though, when you open the door to see who is banging on your door like a madman. Eddie, of course. 

“Housekeeping!”

He’s got a cute, wide smile and damp curls that make your chest flutter even though you still have one foot in a dream. Although, you think the dream might be the man standing before you, clad in jeans and a graphic tee, and beaming at you.

“Eddie, it’s seven in the morning.” You grumble.

Eddie’s smile widens, “I know. Perfect time for a walk in the park.” He says before pushing past you and walking into your room. Your eyebrows furrow as you watch him walk over to your window and open the blinds. You rapidly blink at the sunlight, “I– what? A walk?”

Eddie turns to you, smiling still as he nods, “Yes. Down at Central Park. They’ve always got cute dogs down there, and I know a place with pancakes to die for.”

You’re too tired to even wrap your mind around how cute of an image Eddie with dogs would be, “Woah… woah, woah, wait— Eddie, I— I would love to,” you blink hard, “But I’m still half asleep, and I only got to bed like four hours ago, so I think I’d pass out on a walk right now.” You softly laugh.

You feel a twinge of guilt stir in your gut, so you step forward to Eddie, reaching out to rest a hand on his bicep and gently squeeze, “Why don’t we order coffee up and sit on the balcony until my mind warms up a bit?” You offer.

Which, now that you think of it, was a perfect idea because there’s a cool breeze this morning that gives you an excuse to press up against Eddie’s side and curl into the heat of him as you sip on warm coffee and watch Eddie burn through cigarettes. Eddie was bold enough to drag your legs to rest across his lap, and you decide to blame your compliance on lack of sleep rather than desire.

“Are you nervous for tonight?” You wonder aloud, watching as the morning sun cracks through his fluttering eyelashes. Eddie’s lips pull into a smile, “No.” He leans into you, “Are you?”

You snort, pressing your fingers into the warm ceramic mug, “Why would I be nervous?”

Eddie shrugs, “Maybe I’ve got a surprise up my sleeve or something.” He teases. His fingers are warm and send goosebumps across your skin as they dance across your leg, inching up your thigh until you slightly squirm. Eddie doesn’t even try to hide the smirk on his lips.

You ignore his wandering hands as best as you can, although the lick of heat that runs up your spine when he fiddles with the hem of your baggy shirt sends your mind spinning, a dull throb of your center when his knuckles brush the crease of your hip. You raise an eyebrow, gazing at him and cocking your head to the side, “Well, do you?”

Eddie glances at you, busy drawing stars inside your thighs, “No.”

You roll your eyes, shoving your foot into his jean-clad thigh as he barks out a laugh, hands squeezing your bare calves. “That’s not funny, Munson. You’re on probation, you know?”

Eddie tilts his head, dreamy gaze in his eyes as he gently squeezes your calves, “I know. I’m working on it, though… which reminds me—” You take a deep breath, slinking your legs out of his grip and sitting up straight to stretch, “Think I’m in the mood for those pancakes now.” You hum.

Eddie gazes at you, jaw loose as he watches you stand up and completely dodge what he’s been spinning out about for the last twenty-four hours. “Birdie—” “Yeah, I’m starving now that I think of it. Let’s go.” You wrap your fingers around his wrist and tug him up, ignoring his grumbles of protest.

It should be studied, the pull Eddie has on you, because here you both are in a booth at an old breakfast diner, and all you can think about is how you want nothing more than to slink over to the other side and burrow yourself in the warmth of his embrace.

But Eddie’s friends are here.

The entire ensemble: Nancy, Robin, Steve, Gareth, Jeff, and even Eric, who you hardly even see because he’s the busiest with groupies out of the Corroded Coffin band.

They caught you and Eddie on your way down to the lobby, and well… they just tagged along. Eddie wasn’t so happy about it, mumbling about how he can never shake these assholes, but you just snickered and told him to be nice.

So, now, you’re sitting across from Eddie in a diner with the smell of pancakes and maple syrup wafting through the air and a friendly chatter ringing throughout the table.

You try your hardest to pay attention to the conversations, but it’s hard when Eddie is glancing at you with these eyes that melt your insides. It doesn’t help when he leans forward on the table, shoulders pressing into the edge as his fingers skim your knee beneath it. You raise an eyebrow when he takes a menu, opens it, and stands it up to block the view of his friends as he beckons you forward. You lean forward, chest fluttering at the sight of Eddie’s pretty eyes so up close, pouty lips and curly hair that you want to reach out and card your fingers through. He’s a dream, no doubt about it.

“Let’s ditch them.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “You can’t ditch your friends, Eddie.”

Eddie makes a face, “Why not? They crashed, and I have work to do.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “Work?”

Eddie grumbles, his voice carrying an obvious tone, “Yeah, I’ve only got until tonight to pay my dues.” He reminds you. You hum with a teasing glint, “I reckon that’s a fault on your part, Munson.”

Before Eddie can respond, the menu is torn out of his hands to reveal Gareth and Jeff snickering, “You do know we can still see you two, right?” Eric teases.

Eddie rolls his eyes, “I don’t know if you dipshits got the memo, but you definitely weren’t invited to this.”

You giggle, nudging your foot against his shin, “Don’t be rude,” You mumble. “Yeah, Eddie, don’t be rude.” Robin teases. 

Eddie grumbles, ignoring his snickering friends as he stands up, “All of you can fuck right off.” He sticks up a decorated middle finger to his table of friends, and you smile as you slide out of the booth, warmth spreading through your body when he reaches around to grab your sweater. 

“Oh, come on, we were just joking, Eds!”

Eddie waves them off, slinking an arm around your body to rest a hand on the small of your back, gently ushering you toward the exit as his friends create a scene.

“Hey, don’t be late to soundcheck, asshole, we won’t hear the end of it from Richie!” Jeff calls out, but Eddie doesn’t answer because he’s walking you both outside of the diner and muttering something about them being a pain in his ass.

“We could just take a flight out somewhere far away from them, princess. Say the word, and I’ll book it.” Eddie jokingly offers. You smile as you take your sweater from him with a small thanks, “They love you. That’s a good thing to have.” You remind him. Eddie rolls his eyes, scratching at the back of his neck as you begin walking down the street, “Sure, except not when I have important things to do. Which, when are you gonna put me out of my misery and tell me what you think?”

You hum, feing ignorance as you blink up at Eddie, “Think about what, Eddie?” 

Eddie stares at you, blinking once before his lips spread into a smile, “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” He teasingly says through gritted teeth, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you in as he jokingly presses his palm to your face, laughing as you squeal and squirm in his hold. “Eddie Munson thinks I’m pretty. How cute.” You mock as you grapple at his wrist, prying his hand from your face, “Only took him a month to figure that out.”

Eddie laughs, “See, that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” He drawls, “I always knew you were pretty. I never thought you weren’t pretty. Who told you that?” “Nobody told me that; you just,” you shrug, “Kind of hated my guts, so it went hand in hand.”

Eddie’s eyes soften at that, and your cheeks warm as his gaze zones in on you. You clear your throat, glancing away, “Are we going to eat or what, Munson? I told you I’m starving, and you just dragged me out of that diner, so.” 

Eddie nods, “Yeah, yeah,” He waves before lacing his fingers with yours to drag you along, “I got a place in mind; let’s go.”

“If you wanted strawberries on your pancakes, then you should’ve asked for them.”

Eddie, you are learning, has sticky fingers. Sticky in the metaphorical sense where he just takes things without asking and sticky in the literal sense where he keeps reaching over to steal strawberries from your plate and ends up dipping his fingers in your maple syrup as well.

He’s like a child for fucks sake! Touching things he shouldn’t be touching and grinning at you with a ‘you can’t do anything about it because I’m cute’ glint in his eyes.

You watch as Eddie sucks the syrup off his thumb and smirks at you as he says, “Sharing is caring, you know?”

You look at his plate, tilting your head with a smirk before asking, “Yeah? Then can I have your hash browns?” Eddie glances at his plate, a frown spreading across his lips as he looks at you, “But there’s barely any left.” He points out.

Your eyebrows raise, and he sighs in defeat, cutting into his hash browns to give you half of it. You snicker as he carefully reaches over to put the side dish on your plate, pursing your lips to hold a laugh when you look up at him. “What’s so funny?” He grumbles, stabbing into his food and shoving a fork full into his mouth.

“Nothing. I just, like, hate hash browns.”

Eddie stops midchew, looking up at you for a brief moment. He’s silent as he resumes chewing his food and swallowing, quietly eyeing you for a moment before clearing his throat. “You hate hash browns?” He asks.

You nod as you take a bite of your eggs, and Eddie looks at you like you just told him something concerning. “I—... what do you mean you hate hash browns? Do you like potatoes?”

You shrug, taking a sip of your drink, “Sure.”

“Do you like fries?”

“I love fries.”

“Tater tots?”

“I like them every now and then,” You shrug.

Eddie’s head cocks in confusion, eyes narrowing, “So what’s the problem with hash browns?”

Your eyebrows raise, and an amused smile spreads across your lips, “Holy shit. I’m getting the sense that you might, I don’t know… love hash browns or something?”

Eddie scoffs, “Of course I fucking love hash browns. Are you fucking kidding me? Who doesn’t like hash browns?”

“Tommy Lommi.”

“Well then, they’re fucking weird— wait…” Eddie blinks at you and stares like you’ve just discovered time travel. “What do you mean, Tommy Lommi? How do you know Tommy Lommi hates hash browns?”

You shrug, “Ate breakfast with the band a few years ago. They gave him hash browns, and he returned the entire plate. A lot of people hate hash browns, Eddie.”

Eddie waves a hand in dismissal, scooting closer to the table as he responds in a hurried and amused tone, “You had breakfast with Black fucking Sabbath?” He exclaims.

You hold back a smile as you blink at the man before you, his brown eyes wide and blown from adrenaline, “Yeah, it— it was, like, a work thing. I was doing a short piece on them, so Anna and I had lunch with them and their manager.” At the mention of your manager's name, you make a mental note to call and update her on your piece.

Eddie raises two hands to his head, grasping his hair like he’s in distress, as he lets out a loud sound, drawing attention. You giggle, reaching out to grab his wrist and lower him back down to the table, “Eddie, you’re making a scene—” “You met Ozzy, and you just, like, casually forgot to mention that to me? Like he’s not my idol? Like he’s not my literal lord and savior? Do you even care about me?” He exclaims in a loud voice. 

Your eyes widen in amusement as the man practically spins out right in front of you. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think it— wait, haven’t you met him before? Like on a red carpet or something?”

Eddie scoffs, leaning back into the booth and pulling a face like the words you’ve just said are rubbish. “Yeah, right. Like Ozzy Osborne would willingly surround himself with a bunch of untrained nuts like the boys of Corroded Coffin. He’s a professional, Birdie. That’s an insult.”

You giggle, gently nudging your plate away, taking a deep breath from feeling so full as you shrug, “Maybe if you cleaned up your act, it would happen.” You teasingly say.

Eddie looks at you, runs his eyes over your face, and smirks as he folds his arms over his chest, reaching up with one hand to twirl a piece of his hair between his fingers. “Yeah? And how do you suggest we do that?” He slinks his feet forward, gently tapping his shoe against yours before hooking an ankle around yours.

You hum, “I don’t know. Maybe cut back on the parties. Less reckless act and more calculated rockstar. Less groupies… none, if that.” You mutter the last part, and Eddie snickers. He hums as well, tipping his head side to side as if he’s thinking, “And would you say maybe,” He clears his throat, “Like, a girlfriend would do good as well?”

You huff out a laugh, “Nice try, Munson.” You snicker. “You’re far from girlfriend status with me.” 

Eddie lowly hums, taking a deep breath as he shifts in his seat, “Yeah, well, I intend on changing that, so, are you done eating?”

Eddie’s sure that Richie will chew him out.

It’s the last day of tour before the next leg starts in a month, and Eddie is almost an hour late to soundcheck. Richie was adamant about being on schedule for today because it’s the last show, and Richie’s a goddamn perfectionist (who would take on the job of managing a group of rowdy rockstars if they have the personality of a fucking sergeant?). But honestly, Eddie doesn’t have a single bone in him that cares because— well, why would he care when he’s spent all day with you practically pressed into his side? 

You’re Eddie’s every dream compacted into the cutest, kindest, prettiest human he’s ever fucking known, and Eddie keeps having these moments where he wants to smash his head through a brick wall for ever letting a cruel word form on his tongue towards you. He would pay an endless amount of money to rewind time and do it over again, do it right, and give you the respect you deserve.

Then maybe you would stop dodging his kisses.

“Come on, just one?” He begs, watching as you walk a few steps ahead of him. Eddie won’t lie; it’s a great view he’s got from behind. You’re wearing these black ripped jeans that hug your ass and thighs so perfectly Eddie wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you.

You shake your head, “Nope. A kiss has never been a kiss with you, and I’m not too keen on giving Richie more reasons to put me in time-out. You’re also definitely still on probation.”

Eddie grunts, “This is just cruel, sweetheart.”

He jogs a bit to catch up to speed with you, “While we’re on the topic, what’d he say to you?”

You glance at Eddie, brows furrowing, “Who? Richie?”

Eddie nods, and you shrug. “I assume the same thing he told you. Told me to hold off on it until the magazine blows over in the fanbase.”

Eddie hums because, well, that’s not what Richie told Eddie. Actually, Richie told Eddie to just forget it, don’t even attempt to do anything with that woman because when you fuck up, I’m gonna be the one left to clean it up. And isn’t that Richie’s fucking job? Isn’t that precisely why Richie was hired? To clean up the boys’ mess and make their appearance seem squeaky clean. 

“I don’t blame him, though.” 

Eddie’s neck practically snaps in your direction, and he has to stop you from walking any further down the backstage hallways because what the fuck are you saying right now?

“What do you mean?”

You shrug, glancing up at Eddie, “I mean, he’s just doing his job, Eddie. He’s trying to protect your image, and, honestly, I didn’t understand where he was coming from until he pointed out that I’m still practically press in the eyes of the industry, so.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.” Eddie snaps. Doesn’t mean to snap, really. Doesn’t mean to have a harsh tone or sound upset with you because he’s not. He’s upset with the situation and the absolute mess he’s created from having his head up his ass for so long. He’s upset because he doesn’t want to wait until the magazine blows over. He’s upset because he’s finally admitting to what he wants, and you’re right there, and he wants to work on getting you but fucking Richie— jesus christ, Eddie’s going to choke that bastard.

“That doesn’t even fucking make sense,” Eddie exclaims, “I already fucked up. There’s not much to fuck up at this rate.”

“It’s different when there’s feelings involved, Eddie.” And Eddie doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that you sound as if you’re siding with Richie, and he doesn’t like that you’re using your hot ass journalist tone with him. “What difference does it make?” Eddie stresses.

“Because shit could hit the fan. Things could go bad again, and, in Richie’s eyes, I could easily become an enemy. It’s a rational call to make.”

No.

No, no, no, this isn’t what Eddie wants, and it’s not how Eddie wants you picturing what you two could be— a disaster. 

Eddie blinks, heart pounding in his chest because god, he wants you and he’s scared he’s lost you before even getting the chance to fix things. “So… is that— is that what you want? To wait?”

You gaze up at Eddie, “I— no?”

Eddie frowns, stomach churning as you look away to avoid his gaze, “That didn’t sound confident. You don’t want to do this?”

“It’s… That’s not what I’m saying. I just— I’m not quite sure where this is aiming.”

“What do you mean? I told you how I feel.”

You make an exasperated noise, stepping out from the wall Eddie had you caged against, “No, you haven’t told me how you feel. You’ve told me what you want. That’s not enough.”

And you’re looking at Eddie with these eyes that make him want to crack open his chest and let you see it for yourself because fuck, the only time Eddie has ever confessed his feelings to someone, she ended up breaking his heart without a single care in the world.

And for this entire month, you’ve been slipping from Eddie’s hands, but this is the time that he’s actually felt it. He feels dizzy and sick and so angry with himself.

“I— well, how do you feel?” Eddie asks.

It’s like time slows as you gaze up at Eddie, eyes filled with so many words and uncertainty that Eddie has only himself to blame for. “I don’t know.” You softly reply.

Eddie says nothing as he stares back, gently nodding as you slink your arms around yourself, “I don’t know, Eddie. I’m… I don’t know this side of you— and that’s not to say I don’t like or want it, but— but what happens when we get bored without the chase?” 

Eddie’s heart breaks. 

“When?”

Your eyes fall shut, and you shake your head, “That’s not what I meant–” “But that’s what you said.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. You know what I mean, Eddie.”

Eddie scoffs as he steps back, “No, Birdie, honestly, I don’t. I’m actually, like, really fucking confused right now.”

Your face twists in defense and your eyes glint with something that Eddie can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes him want to scream. “You seriously can’t be upset with me for being hesitant on this, Eddie.”

Eddie looks at you, pauses, and holds his breath before shaking his head, “No, I’m—” He steps forward, “I’m sorry. I’m not upset.”

Your lips are pulled into a frown as Eddie reaches out to softly skim his knuckles across your elbow, silently asking for you to stay open for him. “I’m not upset with you.” He repeats. 

You don’t step closer or move away, and Eddie takes that as a win either way. But before either of you can say anything else, Eddie is being whisked away with his assistant and promising to finish the conversation afterward.

You don’t see Eddie for the rest of the day, and for the first time, it’s not Eddie’s fault but yours.

You regret to admit that the small dispute you and Eddie had caused you to spiral within your thoughts, and you spent most of the day holed up in your room packing, writing, pacing, and thinking until you exhausted yourself. On a good note, though, the day passes quickly, and before you know it, you’re making your way down the Madison Square Garden backstage halls.

You’ve walked these halls enough to know your way around by heart now, so you don’t have trouble finding the dressing room. The usual small group of ladies that stand outside are there in their Sunday best for the show finale, passing a blunt between each other— and you don’t even notice the missing leader of the group until she’s storming out of the room.

“Fuck you, Eddie!” She turns to yell into the room. You watch from a few feet away, stunned and slightly terrified. She’s beautiful, even as mad as she is now; her red hair is styled in bouncy curls that jump and jolt with each wave of her hand, her heeled boots clicking on the ground with each stomp of her heel. She steps into the room, pointing at someone who you can only assume to be Eddie, but the door obstructs your view, “I knew you before you had a single fucking dime! If you think for one second she’s gonna stick with you through all of your bullshit rock and roll facade, then you’re wrong!” She snaps.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Kenny, please get rid of her.” You hear the familiar grumble of Eddie’s voice. Kenny, the security guard by the door, steps forward and ushers the angry woman away from the threshold. “Don’t fucking touch me.” She snatches her arm from his hold, and Kenny lifts a hand in surrender, “Look, I’m gonna have to get you banned from the building if you don’t leave. Make my job easier, please.” Kenny replies in a bored tone.

The girl scoffs with a roll of her eyes before turning around and storming down the hall, her posse quickly trotting behind.

You don’t hear the usual chatter in the dressing room, so you’re slightly suspicious as you walk up, kindly smiling towards Kenny as he lets you in. The door shuts behind you, and you take in the empty room, void of the usual hustle of band members and staff. 

“Kenny, I swear to god, if it’s another groupie, I’m gonna fire you.” You hear Eddie say from the ensuite restroom. Eddie doesn’t notice you as he walks into the room, busy ruffling his hair up for the show and walking toward the vanity, “I already told you who to let in.” 

Finally, Eddie lifts his head, a cigarette hanging from his lips as his eyes brighten when he sees you through the vanity mirror. You smile, shifting in your spot as Eddie whips around to look at you, “Hi.”

Eddie’s eyes widen as he takes in the view, eyes raking over your body as he blindly snuffs out his cigarette on the wooden vanity, face stunned as he walks over to you, “What the fuck?” He lowly says.

He’s reaching out to loop his fingers around your wrist and bring you closer, eyes traveling further and further down your frame, “What the fuck?” He repeats.

“Eddie,” You groan. “Where the fuck have you been hiding this, princess?” He exclaims.

“It’s nothing. Stop.” You grumble, but Eddie only shakes his head, “Nothing? Are you insane?” He steps back, hand wrapped in yours as his teeth dig into his bottom lip, “Let me look at you, come on.”

Your dress is black, tight, and form-fitting, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a puffy lace hem matching the long sleeves' scrunchie endings. Two thin black straps hug your shoulders, tauntingly digging into your collarbones. The dress stops just above the middle of your thigh, leaving little to the imagination—- much in Eddie’s favor. Below the dress peeks out a black garter belt, two shiny silver clips winking at Eddie as they hold up your black thigh-high stockings. Your feet are held in shiny black stilettos. Sex.

Eddie nearly whimpers.

Eddie wants to sink to his knees, push up the skirt of your dress, and stuff his face between your legs. He wants to make you cum on his tongue until you’re pushing him away and begging for a break. Wants to feel the nylon stretch of your stockings scratching up against his ears as your legs clamp around his head. God, Eddie wants it, he wants it so fucking bad.

You smell sweet and taste even sweeter when Eddie presses his lips to yours, practically swallowing you whole— he would if he had the choice. Your lips split into a smile against Eddie’s, breathily laughing as he blindly leads you to the vanity, walking until he feels your body softly thud against the counter.

“Jesus. I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it,” Eddie grumbles against your lips, sloppy and wet, as he trails down to your jaw, neck, and collarbones. His hands are greedy as they grapple at your hips, squeezing the thicker parts to tilt you towards him, groaning when your pelvis drags against his quickly hardening length. You pant his name, one hand dropping to steady yourself against the counter as the other hand sinks into his damp, curly strands. Eddie groans, stuffing his face into your neck, licking and biting as he grinds you against him. You’re all whiney breaths and moans, and Eddie just can’t help himself when he nudges his nose against the strap of your dress before sticking his tongue out and dragging it up the length of the flimsy black piece.

Your head drops back, chest rising and falling with a sinful glisten under the vanity lights as Eddie drags his tongue all the way from your shoulder to your chin before smashing his lips back onto yours, fingers curled around the base of your neck. Wet, hot, and heavy.

Your lips curl against Eddie’s mouth, hips grinding against him, “S-should I be concerned about the angry woman that just stormed out of here?” You lowly ask.

Eddie laughs, smearing his lips against yours, teasingly flicking his tongue into your mouth, “Definitely not. Good fucking riddance.” Eddie can’t wait to tell you all about how he learned about Lany’s money-greedy actions that led him to the page of every tabloid with a false girlfriend.

You fail terribly to hold the snort that rises in your throat, and Eddie cuts it off with his mouth, swallowing your hums as he presses his body into yours. 

“Want you.” Eddie needily whispers. You whine, fingers curling against Eddie’s roots to draw a throaty groan from him. “Need to have you, baby—” “I— wait, wait, wait.” Your hands are pressing against Eddie’s shoulders, and god, Eddie feels lightheaded as he pulls away, blown-out eyes blinking down at you.

You huff, squirming against the counter, breath heavy and bated as you reach down to tug your dress down, “We need to talk.” 

Eddie swallows, running a hand through his hair as he gazes at you— and fuck, he’s so hard, and you’re so pretty, and Eddie thinks he might bust just looking at you.

Still, Eddie blinks through the thick fog of arousal and nods, taking a moment to not-so-discreetly adjust himself within his pants. 

Ever the gentleman, Eddie offers you the seat at the vanity, but you only shake your head, and well— fuck, Eddie just wants to get back to kissing you so he doesn’t fight it. He hops up onto the chair and gazes at you as you lean back against the vanity, fingers fidgeting with one another.

You’re avoiding Eddie’s gaze, and Eddie doesn’t like it very much, so he distracts himself by lighting a cigarette, but it does little to aid him in distraction when the words slip from your mouth.

“I think we need time away from each other.”

Eddie’s looking at you like you just told him you killed his dog, and you hate that you start feeling as if you’re wrecking everything when you know— when you both know— this is the best thing for the future.

The unlit cigarette between Eddie’s lips is removed and tossed to the side as he blinks at you, shaking his head with a confused and hurt expression, “W–what do you mean?”

You slink your arms across your body from instinct, mentally pushing yourself to stand on the rocky island you’ve built— because even though you want nothing more than to cave and throw yourself into Eddie’s arms and start over, it’s not right. You didn’t start on a good note, and it’s unfair to yourself or Eddie to avoid fully acknowledging that just because of your intense pull toward one another. You both need time.

“I don’t understand.”

“Just so we can have the space to figure out what we want and need from each other, you know?”

Eddie runs a hand over his face, “Is this about what happened earlier? Because I was being an asshole, I know, and I’m sorry, but just give me a chance–” You shake your head, stepping closer to Eddie and running your fingers over his wrists, “No. No, that’s not what this is about— I mean, it might’ve spurred it on, but it was on my mind before that.”

Eddie’s face twists in defeat, “I want to fix what I did, baby, just give me a chance.” 

You push his long bangs from his eyes, “I am, Eddie. I promise I am. But I need space— we need space.”

Eddie doesn’t even look at you, and your heart aches. “Everything’s been so quick, Eddie. It’s only been a month, and there’s been so many emotions—”

“That’s bullshit, Birdie, and you know it.”

You tense at his harsh tone, “Excuse me?”

“You said when,” He reminds you, “When you get bored. You really expect me to believe you ‘just want space’? You’re scared.” 

Your eyebrows dip in anger then, eyes narrowing at the man in front of you as your chest tightens, “And you’re not?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, ringed hands flailing in exasperation. “Yes, I’m fucking scared, obviously. I never would’ve fucked up this bad if I wasn’t scared.”

Your eyes are brimmed with tears, and you’re beginning to think maybe you shouldn’t have even come tonight. Maybe you should’ve just left without a single word and made Eddie hate you all over again. At least the foundations of your relationship were solid and clearly stated then.

How could everything have gotten so confusing in such little time?

Eddie notices your shifting demeanor and breathes, rubbing his eyes and smudging his eyeliner. You fight the instinct to reach out and fix it for him. “Okay, so… you want time apart.”

You nod, fingers twisting amongst themselves. Eddie turns his rings around his knuckles as silence cracks down on you both. Eddie swallows, eyes catching yours for a split moment, “Okay.” He nods.

You want to sink your hands into his and tell him you’re hurting just as much, wanting him just as much, but if you touch him now, you’re afraid you’ll never let go.

“It’ll be good, Eds.” You softly say.

The curtain of his hair obstructs Eddie’s face, but through the tiny windows, you can see the twitch of pain that flashes across his features. “Are you staying for the show?” He asks, eyes trained on his busy fingers, rings glistening in the lights. God, you want to give in to him so badly.

You shift in your spot, clearing your throat and blinking away tears, “I’ll never leave if I do…”

As if on cue, Kenny opens the door and pokes his head into the room, calling for Eddie to notify him of the running clock. You and Eddie only speak through gazes for a split moment, and you both know if he stays any longer, neither will leave this room. You only have enough strength to nod towards the door.

You can’t even watch Eddie leave. Because watching Eddie go seems to be the recurring theme of the month— but now, you’re sending him away— and it hurts. You were so close yet so far away from justice.

The dressing room is vast and holds Eddie's phantom presence and smell, and you can’t seem to hold the silent tears that end up soaking your cheeks. You can hear the distant screaming of fans, the loud booming of the opening to a song, and deep down, you understand that if you don’t leave now, you’ll end up in the crowd, there’s no doubt.

You don’t recognize the opening song for tonight, but you hear the words and Eddie’s voice crystal clear— tugging you back with every step you take towards the arena's door.

My head is haunting me and my heart feels like a ghost

I need to feel something, 'cause I'm still so far from home

Cross your heart and hope to die

Promise me you'll never leave my side

…..

So, you can drag me through hell

If it meant I could hold your hand

I will follow you, 'cause I'm under your spell

And you can throw me to the flames

I will follow you, I will follow you

The song echoes in your mind from the time the door slams shut to the moment you step into your cold apartment in Michigan, and it never stops.

————

part twelve

————

a/n: OHHH PLS DONT HATE ME IT HAD TO BE DONE AND IM SORRY THIS IS ON NEW YEARS EVE !!! these two will be back for one more round of fun in 2024. ok let me shut up before i start saying all my sob shit

as always, thank u for reading if you've made it this far and i appreciate any feedback, ILY AND I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE A BEAUTIFUL NEW YEARS, STAY SAFE PLS <3

————

cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @ye0nvibezzn @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2

@daddyhetfield @s-u-t @hereforshmut @mmunson86 @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @birdsinmywalls @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @spideydreams00 @lorosette @prestinalove @sirensleepingsoundly @nabiiturner @catherinnn @mossiswriting @kellsck @joannamuns9n @siriuslysmoking

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson au #rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcanon #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut #rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader #journalist!reader #Spotify

[farfromstrange]

Watching the AMC tv adaptation of Anne Rice’s “Interview With The Vampire”, I got back into the mood of writing for my series ‘Total Eclipse Of The Heart’, but since it’s been a while since I’ve written anything fantasy-related, I decided to practice my vampire writing a bit more with a little One Shot. I’m going to tease it before I post it. I’m too excited not to. This baby will be yours tomorrow, and I will use my Matt Murdock Tag List for this, but if you want to be tagged (and you haven’t filled out my Tag List Form), let me know and I’ll tag you for this! Anyway, without further ado, here is a little sneak peak…

Interview With The Vampire

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Vampirism, angst, SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), oral sex, unprotected p in v (but it’s with a vampire, so not sure if that counts as a warning), blood play, biting, marking, scent kink, mentions of suicidal thoughts, violence, age gap, Dom!Matt, long One-Shot (it’s a word-count beast)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

ACTUAL SNEAK PEEK UNDER THE CUT

[…]

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps.

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again.

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable.

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil.

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him around, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature.

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving.

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

[…]

#matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #vampire!matt murdock #matt murdock x you #matt murdock angst #matt murdock smut #daredevil x reader #journalist!reader #alternate universe #interview with the vampire #reader insert #charlie cox

[writingfics-passingtime]

Off the Record (Part 2/3)

Synopsis: More determined than ever to help Murdock prove a beloved humanitarian is a criminal and a fraud, you step into the snake pit.

Required reading: Off the Record (Part 1/3)

Word Count: ~26,800 

Content Warnings: Swearing, sex (steamy, not smut), talks of murder, suicide, violence and misogyny. 

Author’s note: I am wholeheartedly sorry for how long this took, and I appreciate all your kind words expressing excitement to read this next part. Part 3/3 is already halfway done. I had to write them concurrently to make sure the important details in Part 3 were set up here. It’ll make sense soon.

The second act of a story is the part that usually contains around 50% of the plot; this is a doozy. I hope you still find it fun to read, and I hope you hold out for Part 3 (it’s my favourite by far).

Happy reading 💜 

Frank Sinatra was onto something when he called New York’s capitol “the city that never sleeps;” whether it was Thursday at eleven a.m. or Saturday night at ten, the streets bustled with life and with hurry. 

Now, currently, it was right before eight on a Monday morning and you’d just paid for a coffee at the cart on the corner of the block that held your office building. As you stood off to the side of the pavement to wait for the perky barista to call your name, you pulled out your phone and did your best to avoid the masses manoeuvring around you. Something about Monday mornings made everything that much busier, more rushed, more urgent to start another week of work even though half the people on the streets nursed poorly-hidden hangovers. Your phone in your hand felt heavier than usual. 

You selected the contact you meant to call and immediately started second-guessing yourself in a way you hadn’t in a long time. You certainly had reason to talk to him, considering the research you’d done over the weekend, but something about calling Matt Murdock created a mental hurdle that felt hard to overcome. Maybe because you hadn’t talked since you’d left his apartment late Saturday morning, but more likely because it’d been hard to not think about him all weekend. 

That was uncomfortable - thinking about someone so much - not because you’d never thought about someone that much before but because, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew what it meant.

Deciding it would be much worse and much more obvious to not talk to him at all, you pressed on his contact and held the phone to your ear.

The phone buzzed on the bedside table and called your name over and over again in that mechanical female voice, rousing Matt from his sleep right near the end of his cycle. Half-bleary, he answered the phone.

“Hi,” he cleared his throat and propped himself up on one elbow, lending half an ear to trying to gauge what time in the morning it was.

“You’re not seriously still asleep,” you joked, looking at your watch. “Murdock, it’s quarter to eight.”

“Long night,” was all he offered in explanation, because he couldn’t really go into details of the fist-fight he’d had with some Korean gangsters near the docks. 

He wondered how you’d react if he dropped that kind of information on you. To tell you what he’d been up to, how he was disrupting their crystal meth operation, how his head still ached from the elbow that’d met the base of his skull before he managed to knock the guy unconscious. It was a pipe dream, being able to talk so openly like that, so he instead turned his curiosity to musing over whether or not you could hear the smile in his voice when he’d answered your question. It had been uncontainable, really, which was an uncomfortable reality. 

“Uh, what’s up?” He sniffed and sat up fully, resting his back against the headboard to keep himself upright and alert.

“I did a little digging over the weekend,” you started, then accepted the coffee after your name had been called in your peripherals. “Thanks,” you nodded to the barista and started making your way towards your office building. “Into shareholders, investors, everything I could legally get my hands on. He looks clean.”

“But we know he’s not.”

“Exactly.”

Matt had to let himself feel somewhat honoured that you hadn’t asked the obvious question. “What makes you so sure I didn’t mishear the bodyguard at the gala?”

You laughed once or twice, before answering, “Murdock, there aren’t a lot of things I know for sure, but I know you have some crazy keen perception. Far more than you let on.”

“You callin’ me a liar?” He teased with a grin.

“That was a compliment, actually,” you teased back. “Anyway, I have a bunch of files for you but they’re physical copies and not in Braille. Do you have some kind of copy-machine-type device that I can run them through to translate?”

Matt considered suggesting the obvious - send them with a bike messenger - though, since it was obvious, he knew you’d have done that if that’s what you wanted to do. “Looking for an excuse to see me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “Tell me how the Avery case is going without my help?”

Matt bumped his eyebrows and let himself smile again. “Thank you, for your help. Swing by the office around six?”

“See you then,” you said, fiddling with the lid of your coffee, desperately trying to not sound like you were in any way more than a normal amount of looking forward to seeing him.

Once he bade you farewell and you replaced the phone in your pocket, you got to work on putting yourself into the zone of thinking about your job. 

Your footsteps brought you closer to the building and your mind suddenly whirred with all the things you needed to get done today, all the files you’d poured over throughout the weekend, the heat of the coffee against your fingers through the thin paper cup. Then, you walked through the glass revolving door and into the marble lobby of the building which housed the offices of the New York Weekly Herald.

It was a nice office building, some may call it luxury, home to various law firms and business firms and all kinds of firms where the employees wore six-thousand-dollar suits and ate sushi for lunch every day. Your boss, the well-respected Darren Flynn, liked being surrounded by it all. The other tenants of the building didn't seem to hate on the only news agency around. Sure, there were a few awkward times you'd step into an elevator with a CFO you'd just raked over the coals in a third-page expose on a shady deal they'd invested their company's shares in, but the non-execs seemed to like you. Some would give you approving smiles when you took their bosses to task. The cynical part of you knew it was because you'd just added another strike to the ledger of someone who stood on the coveted higher rung of the career-ladder. It was better to not trust any of them. 

Except the kid, Jonah.

Jonah Keen was a 20-year-old reluctant intern at his father's investment banking firm - the one that owned the top four floors of the building. Jonah hated everything about capitalism and banking (as much as one could while still actively benefitting from it). So sometimes the charismatic young lad would slip you a compliment on an article, or a piece of insider info on the world Jacobs and Keen Investments. Anything to get his mind off the numbers.

This morning, it was just you two on the elevator.

"Good weekend?" You asked, taking the careful first sip of your coffee. It was still a little too hot.

"I think I met the one," he smirked sweetly, brown eyes twinkling behind his messy sandy blonde hair. He slipped his hands into his pockets, self-satisfied. You rolled your eyes.

"You say that every other week. What's this guy like? Wait, let me guess… tall, curly hair, glasses, sparse tattoos, quotes Nietzsche. His name is Theodore or some liberal arts shit like that."

"No need to be a bitch," he joked, then clicked his tongue. "His name is Carson.” He paused, then added, “And he prefers Freud."

"These philosophy students are gonna ruin your life," you warned with a chuckle. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you about safe sex?"

"God, you need to get laid."

You scoffed a laugh, then fell silent as you tried to not make it obvious that you’d most definitely been laid on Friday night. And Saturday morning. Several times, in fact. Jonah could sniff these things out in awkward silences, so you quickly asked, "Hey, do you guys do any trading for Arthur Reynolds?"

“No, but,” he turned to you excitedly, “Izzy Reynolds recently brought her post-divorce fortune to us, so she might actually be in the office sometime soon.”

You gave him a firm look. “Don’t harass the poor woman. She’s recently divorced from one of the richest men in America. I doubt she needs a super-fan drooling over her, pestering her to sign the cover of whatever magazine she was recently on-”

“It was Vogue Japan, actually. And she’s the most iconic high-fashion model of our era.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well she is to me,” he rolled his eyes before settling them on his phone. "Oh yeah, you had the gala thing. Did you get the interview?”

"No," you sighed. "I kinda blew it. That'll be a fun one to explain to Darren in approximately two minutes." The elevator slowed and dinged for your floor. “Hey, will you let me know if any info on Reynolds comes up? Arthur, not his ex-wife.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

"Thanks Jay," you sang sweetly and stepped off the elevator, into the hallway before the internal lobby of the Weekly Herald.

The "Weekly" thing is what made the job so good; instead of rushing to get information out first, your readers, both dedicated and casual, had faith that the stories coming from the Herald were well-researched and not rushed. There was time to dig and to fact-check and make sure it was all well and good before publishing. You weren't sure you could work for one of those fast turnaround regimes. Dealing with the retractions would be hell enough without a boss breathing down your neck to find the truth in less than twelve hours. It always took longer than that.

Darren Flynn was a good boss with high standards and a penchant for not micromanaging his investigative journalists. He had a lot of faith in you, mentored you closely in your earlier years, and took care of you security-wise when some stories were looking hairy. Only once or twice had he pulled the plug, and in hindsight you had to admit he was right to do so. One of those times was with Fisk. A writer from The Bulletin turned up dead not too long after. That probably would've been you. Darren had to nearly force you to write some middle-page puff piece of Fisk's art collection after your dinner with him, just to make sure he'd stay off your scent. To thank you for the kind words you’d written about his collection, Fisk had sent a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine and a hand-written card - both of which you promptly hurled into a dumpster. Later, you cursed yourself for not saving the card to have a sample of his DNA available, just in case.

You applied your lipstick in a reflective part of the elevator's frame and made sure your hair looked perfect. Today, dressing like you dressed every day, for the first time in a long time, felt more like a convincing ruse than it felt like yourself. Once again, your phone felt heavy in the pocket of your sleek charcoal grey blazer. You inspected your black slacks and pull-on boots to make sure no coffee had dripped from the lid and stained any part of your outfit, then took a deep breath in and out before approaching the sliding glass door to the office.

As you walked into the lobby and smiled at Samantha on reception, who gave you a fake smile back, you thought about when you'd started here those four years ago. The way you dressed like a Powerful Woman On A Mission had always been following the "dress for who you want to be" rule. It felt good to wear pantsuits and red lipstick, to feel both sexy and professional. It was fun, to see people shift from not taking you that seriously to realising you were out for blood in the form of undeniable hard-hitting truth, not just out to one day become a news anchor that read things other people had written.

You had a few rules which got you through: Don’t talk shit about colleagues out loud, don't sleep with anyone you work with, stand up for the truth, stand up for yourself, and do your own proofreading.

As you walked through the cubicles to your office, you saw Darren emerging from your door. You stopped in your tracks and gave him a curious glance. It's not like you were late - you didn't have "hours," just stories. Though, you tried your best to always be here on Monday mornings as a gesture of good faith, to get emails answered, to be around for general office stuff, et cetera.

Shit. Maybe Reynolds called him and told on you. 

You took a deep breath and kept walking towards your boss, opening your mouth to begin explaining why you blew it at the gala.

"Great job with Reynolds.”

Once more, you halted in place. Darren’s demeanour was sincere, his eyebrows raised behind his glasses. "I don't know what you said to him, but you must've said something good."

You squinted, furrowing your brow. “I didn't think it went that well,” you admitted. “We barely talked.”

Darren's eyebrows lowered, then a smile broke out as he shrugged and nodded towards your door. "You should check your office."

Still confused, you walked past, ignoring the stares and whispers from the mass of cubicles, nicknamed the Bull Pen, full of interns, proof-readers and lower-level writers who were either working their way up or stuck in the trenches of tiny columns on the sides of pages. 

After a few steps, that confused look stayed on your face but your heart pounded hard in your throat as you caught a glimpse of what sat on your desk: one of the biggest bouquets of flowers you'd ever seen.

There must have been at least a hundred and fifty white roses in a cylindrical crystal vase sitting on top of the dark oak work table. You walked over and picked up the card poking out from between some petals. The thick, pearl-finished card contained two things printed on it, foiled in silver: a cell phone number, and the name Arthur. 

You turned the card over. Nothing else.

Dumbfounded, you turned to where Darren was standing in your doorway with his arms folded and his eyebrows raised. “I insulted his taste in art," you further admitted, looking back down at the card. "This is… very unexpected."

"Maybe he liked your honesty."

"Or maybe he wants something."

"Find out.” Darren left little room for debate and then left you alone with your thoughts, several dozen roses, and the personal phone number of a man who was notoriously hard to contact. 

Brain kicking into overdrive, you walked over and shut the glass door to your office. Maybe you could still see the snarky glares between the employees who you never got along with anyway, but you didn't have to hear them too. 

You moved the flowers to sit on top of a small filing cabinet in the corner of your office and played with the card between your fingertips. The uncomfortable thought surfaced - rude of it actually, considering you didn't want to think about what he'd think - and you wondered if you should tell Murdock. Then, that stupid high-school insecurity clenched in your stomach and you wondered if that would be talking to him too much. What would he think if you called? You'd already called him that morning. Literally ten minutes ago. What if he thought you thought you two were something more than a hookup, or two people working a case kind of together? Why did it matter?

Promptly shaking it out of your mind, you instead distracted yourself by pulling out your laptop to answer some unrelated emails. You stayed on top of them pretty well so there were less than a dozen. But with every reply it became harder to not see the ginormous mass of petals staring at you from the other side of the room. It was also hard to ignore the card sitting on your desk, holding your golden ticket to your name on the first page. As much as you did this for yourself, you couldn’t shake the temptation of knowing you were the one to get his words on paper.

A knock at your door brought you out of a minor spiral and back to the present where your Work Best Friend was letting herself into your office.

“Spill,” Vera said, closing your door behind her and immediately walking over to the flowers to take in their grandeur. Her sleek black hair fell like silk just below her slender shoulders, her dark brown eyes gave you a stern glance as if she’d just caught you hiding something major.

“Arthur Reynolds,” you said, not trying to disguise how flat your voice sounded. Your phone buzzed and you immediately grabbed it. Just an email. You calmed the blush that arose when you realised who you’d hoped it was.

“Yeah, that much is obvious,” she gave you another look. 

It was no secret you were on the Reynolds story - there was a large board in the Bullpen of every writer and their assignments. In theory, if someone stumbled upon a source, or some information unrelated to their own work, then they’d know who to send it to. In practice, it bred jealousy and contempt. You got the gist Darren didn’t mind the competition it instilled in some of the newer writers. Vera was at a similar enough level to you that you two could be friends without there being too much weird drama or resentment. Sure, sometimes one of you would get placed on a story the other had wanted, but it’s not like either of you were at fault, so you dealt with it as it came. Still, she was human, so she had to ask: “Did you sleep with him?”

It was a joke, so you gave her flat look before turning back to delete a spam email. “No. He’s off.”

“Off what?”

“Like… milk two days past its expiration date,” you winced at the bad metaphor. “Not trustworthy, hopefully harmless.”

She had to laugh as she turned to rest her back again the wall opposite you. Then, you met her eye and she saw something sincerely uneasy in it. “Woah,” her face fell. “You’re actually spooked.”

“It’s fine,” you sniffed and looked back at your laptop. “No way will Darren let me ignore all that,” you nodded towards the flowers.

“If you don’t feel safe-”

“I don’t feel unsafe,” you interjected, then gave her your full attention and stopped being rude. Allowing yourself to take in the sight of the flowers, you fidgeting your fingers in front of you with your elbows resting on the arms of your office chair. “Ultra-rich guys like him, the ones into art, tend to be big on symbolism so-” Your phone buzzed again, and you grabbed it a little too quickly. Again. It wasn’t- … it wasn’t anyone. Just a breaking news notification from the New York Times.

After catching the headline you looked back up to Vera. “Aren’t you on Stark Watch this month?”

“Yeah,” she turned a single white rose between her fingers. “Why?”

“The Avengers just ran some kind of operation in Eastern Europe,” you slid your phone across the desk and she walked over to look at the headline. “Looks like they broke into some kind of scientific research facility. A few casualties.”

She sighed. “See you in three days.” You laughed, knowing how all-encompassing these stories could be. Vera would be deep in sources and research for the foreseeable future. “When I come up for air, I want to hear all about the reason you keep looking at your phone,” she said slyly, standing and walking to your door. You opened your mouth to protect, but she turned just before she walked away and smiled cheekily, “and I want his name.”

There was no point in denial or protest; Vera was far too perceptive and in too much of a rush to stay and listen to such useless words like What are you talking about. She winked through the glass as she absconded from reality and into the world of trying to report on superhuman conflict. You didn’t envy her. You’d had a handful of run-in’s with Tony Stark, even a Martini-fuelled proposition on his part, before his assistant-turned-CEO-turned-girlfriend(?) inevitably would come in, apologise for him, and give you the card of the official press contact for Stark Industries. You’d never called the line. Granted, those experiences had been before the Iron Man Revelation. 

Vera had her work cut out for her.

Still wanting to distract yourself, you scrolled a baby apparel website to send a gift to Richie. After fifteen minutes of looking through the options, very effectively distracting yourself, you ended up two onesies in your cart. Then, there was a knock at your open door and Darren stuck his head in. "What did Reynolds say?"

You paused, sat back in your seat, then met him with a blank look. You shrugged. "Haven't called him."

"Why not?"

You wondered if you should tell him about... everything. About Nelson and Murdock, about Avery and the bodega fire, the conversation, the fucking painting. Instead, you decided to hold your tongue on the details. "There's something off about him."

Darren's brow furrowed and he waited for more information.

"He has shitty taste in art," you offered lamely. Your boss looked unimpressed.

"Any journalist would kill for the chance to talk to Arthur Reynolds," he reminded you of the obvious with an unknowingly poor choice of words. You looked back at the card and sighed as Darren instructed, "Call him," before closing your office door and walking back to his own. You sighed and picked up your phone, wondering what the hell you were in for.

As you put in your wireless earbuds and dialled his number, you stood and moved across your office to look out onto the streets below. The weekend’s storm had mostly subsided but the skies remained grey with the early-mid autumn crisp. It wasn't too cold yet, though winter was starting to peek into the mornings with a chilled reminder that sleet and early sunsets would soon be here. The phone rang four times before Reynolds answered.

"I was wondering when you'd call," he laughed his greeting. "I was starting to wonder whether or not I should send another bouquet."

He was smooth, and his innate English charm brought an involuntary half-smile to your lips. "How did you know it was me?"

"Not many people have this line," he explained. You smiled again.

"Yet you entrust it to a journalist you met for five minutes, and in those five minutes she insulted your favourite painting."

He chuckled again, a warm sound. "In my position, there aren’t many people brave enough to say a truth I may find insulting. I liked your honesty."

"In that case, the flowers are a bit much."

"Duly noted," he said with a smile in his voice.

You paused, smiled, and played with his card in your fingers. "I like honesty too. Why the flowers? Why the private line?"

"I'd like to see you again. Perhaps show you more of my collection, restore your faith in my tastes."

"Are you offering me an interview?"

"After that bouquet, I suppose your boss will be champing at the bit to have you sit down with me."

The card stilled with its points held delicately between your fingertips. "So it's just business?"

"You sound disappointed," he braved a tease. You smiled and bit the side of your tongue. You blushed too. Why were you blushing?

"Not at all," you cleared your throat. "You haven't done an interview in three years. I'd be lying if I said I was in any way disappointed."

"Over dinner, then. How does tomorrow evening suit?"

"Just fine."

"I'll send a car to your workplace. Eight o’clock?"

"Wonderful," you replied coyly, hearing the satisfied smirk in his voice. Looking over at the white roses, you knew a returned gesture of good will was necessary. In a split-second decision, you said, "I’m assuming I won’t have the need for my private security.”

White roses symbolised purity. Loyalty. Innocence; Reynolds was trying to tell you he was good, he wasn't a threat, he'd never do anything to hurt anyone. In your experience, anyone who'd spend a couple hundred dollars as a gesture of their goodness was the furthest thing from it. So it was a risk, offering to go there alone, but you knew he wouldn't do anything to you. He wouldn't even have a way of knowing you were onto him. It was probably about sex. Or even just about not feeling alone. He was recently divorced, after all.

"You may bring your own people if you wish," he said casually. "Though I am more than capable of ensuring your safety."

"Your guys are probably better than my rent-a-cop," you drew and forced a small laugh. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Reynolds."

"Arthur,” he urged. “Until then," he signed off and you ended the call. 

Your shoulders immediately dropped their tension as you did, and you breathed a little easier now that it was done. You stayed looking out the window, deep in thought. Some renegade dark clouds scattered large raindrops across the panes of glass for a few minutes before it cleared again. As the grey clouds ebbed and flowed over the skies of New York City… that sound of the rain hitting the window, the gentle onslaught hitting the pavement below, it brought about memories of feelings which flushed heat through your cheeks. With an involuntary lick of your drying lips, and a heave of a deeper breath, you thought of him. Of Murdock. Of the rain against the windows of his loft, of the billboard bathing your skin in red light, the music of the storm framing the rhythm of his skin against yours. The way his fingers tangled and tugged through your hair. His impossibly strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you on top of him and-

Interview! You scolded yourself with a clearing of your throat and snap refocusing of your vision. Tomorrow night. Important interview. It shouldn’t be that easy to get lost in thoughts of someone. Arthur Reynolds. You needed to focus. So you swallowed your apprehension and returned to your desk to begin crafting your questions.

The billionaire had done a lot for the world… allegedly. Mostly things you were vaguely aware of. However, you needed to appear like an expert in him - which, you were certain he’d enjoy far too much. So you made yourself another cup of coffee and immersed yourself in the world of Arthur Reynolds.

Amidst clients, current and new, Matt found himself with an annoyingly small amount time to ponder what you might tell him later that day. All he wanted to think about was the way he could hear your smile through the phone that morning. 

Some strange fondness bloomed within him when the first (real) voice he’d heard that morning had been yours. Maybe because it reminded him of waking up on Saturday morning tangled in the sheets and you, or maybe because your voice felt like something he’d gotten used to a long time ago. Which, of course, he hadn’t. But it felt right, and that was uncomfortable - having it feel so right to talk to you.

All of those thoughts and feelings had to wait. Mrs Helena Friar’s landlord was trying to evict her for not paying a plumbing bill from a pipe that was already broken when she moved in, and Matt was listening intently to her every word. It was hard, though, thoughts of you aside, because the double-mint gum she’d chewed to mask the cigarette smoke on her breath couldn’t remove the soot settled into her sweater. She fidgeted her fingers too, which was either a Nervous Thing or a Her Thing, but not a Thing that could be commented on. All that mattered to Nelson and Murdock was that there was no deception in her voice, and there was sure-fire evidence they would win this claim. 

Mrs Friar was the third new client Matt had seen that day, and the last who’d been in the waiting room when he re-opened his office door late-afternoon. 

You’d be here soon. 

To talk about Avery. The case. Reynolds. All of it. 

Based on the way you spoke earlier, Matt knew you were coming with something to bring to the table. He knew things too, but not things he could explain knowing. Because while you’d been pouring over documents and calling sources, he'd been pursuing a different route. One which ran outside the course of the law and the confines of what you knew. 

Matt Murdock perused other sale offers on smaller businesses, looking for that one little store that would decline the development's big money offer just like Harold Avery did. Whether it be another small grocer, or a bakery, a barber, an Asian vegetable market - whatever it was, it had to be out there. Matt doubted Reynolds would be brash and stupid enough to order another torching, but there was a long list of ways to make someone comply. Many, if not most of which, involved inflicting pain and suffering.

Daredevil went out in the dead of night and scoped out his top pick - a thriving vegetable market owned by a Japanese couple in their late fifties. Their teenage son and daughter helped out after school and on the weekends. They had a customer base who loved them, valued their convenient location and their charming hospitality. Matt Murdock had gone in the day and was offered warm advice on the best way to roast the lotus root he’d picked up to inspect with his senses. 

They were good people. With a store sitting right in prime development territory.

The Devil waited. He listened. Nothing happened for the few hours he sat atop a nearby roof in the early hours of Sunday morning. People walked past, sure, but no one stopped to look in the now-darkened windows (the neon lights had stopped humming). No one tested the doors. No one took photos of the store front or surrounding streets. No one messed with the security camera out front that had this little whirring auto-zoom whenever someone stepped into its range. 

A strange scuffle on a roof a block away then took his attention, and he left his post to go break up the fight. There had been a lot of weird fights lately. A lot of talk about new people on the street with new technology. Every once in a while Matt would come across some criminal with some weaponry way too advanced for it to be of here. But it’d been that way since the Battle for New York. 

The military tried their best to take control of it all but it would’ve been impossible to get it rounded up completely. It was a headache for Matt though. Literally; that alien technology emitted some low frequency that oscillated through his skull like nothing else on Earth could. 

Saturday night was one of those nights. Even though he managed to remove the blaster from the gang that’d come across it, probably during a burglary, and evidently wanted to test it, that low frequency stuck in his head for a few days. That would explain the offensive throbbing in his head. 

That, or Mrs Friar’s double mint gum.

Or perhaps it was the ticking of the clock in the small finance firm next door. It clicked on in the back of his soundscape, reminding Matt that every second passed was a second closer to being with you.

You finally came up for air around 5:30pm when Vera sent you a message saying she’d be here late - did you want dinner too? You checked the time, politely declined, wished her luck, and started packing your things to go.

An intrusive blush prickled against your cheeks when you remembered where you were going. A damn schoolgirl, he had you like. You wondered if he knew what he did to you. You mulled it over, overthinking it while you closed up your office and made your way down the corridor alongside the half-empty Bull Pen. When you stepped into the elevator you wondered if he didn’t know. How would he know? Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep last night. 

You had no idea what came over you, so you told yourself to snap out of it, play it cool, focus on the facts, the entire cab ride over to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Schools in Guatemala. Haiti. Honduras. 

Charity offices in New York and Haiti. 

Expanding across Central America. 

All girls’ schools to address education inequality in- 

“That’ll be fifteen twenty.” 

After thanking and paying the cab driver, you stepped out of the backseat and onto the pavement. Standing before the few stone steps which led up to the front door of the office building, you thought back to last Thursday when you came here for the first time. You mentally mapped the wooden floors and painted doors, the forgotten swing tags under tweed chairs. This time, you told yourself, you’d gather more information. Sounds, smells, feelings- no, fuck, not feelings. 

You were getting distracted, so you clutched the stack of papers against your chest, walked up the stairs and entered the ground floor of the building. 

Matt sat up straighter when he heard the undeniable sound of your footfall. Perfect timing; Foggy and Karen were making noise about dinner and it would be better if they weren’t around. Fuck- no, not that you and he needed privacy… it just-

“Hey,” Karen’s sweet voice, with the final echos of a laugh from the joke Foggy just told her, resounded through his office after her fist gently rapped on the door. Matt lifted his head and smiled in response. “We’re gonna get Chinese. You in?” 

“No, thank you,” Matt cleared his throat and kept it casual. “I’m actually expecting-” 

“Ah, I thought I felt a chill in the air.” 

Matt sighed and hung his head at Foggy’s less-than-welcoming greeting when you walked into the waiting room. 

“Don’t think that’s my fault,” you scoffed. “It’s fall and your windows are hardly up to code, Nelson,” you shot back with something smug in your voice. Matt rolled his eyes but found himself fighting a smile. He heard Karen turn and try to compensate for Foggy’s icy demeanour. 

“We’re just getting dinner,” she said. Matt heard Foggy let out a curt breath. “Matt said you two have a meeting?” 

“In the books?” You stepped further in and peeked to where Murdock sat at his desk. He didn’t wave. “How official. You two have fun,” you shrugged off Foggy’s under-the-breath comment of relief and walked into Murdock’s office around the same time Karen had gathered her coat and rushed Foggy out the door; she, evidently, was on the same page as the more level-headed lawyer about keeping you and Nelson out of arm’s reach of each other. 

“Sorry about him,” Murdock tilted his head with a sheepish grunt. You waved it off, then responded verbally too. 

“Tame, compared to some other subjects of my pieces,” you placed your bag down beside the couch. It struck you immediately that you had no idea what to say first. Should you ask how his weekend was? Or if he’d heard from Avery? Had he thought about you since Saturday early afternoon, after round three, when you regretfully pulled yourself from his apartment? How his Monday was? 

“What do you have there?” He broke the awkward silence first by gesturing to the papers rustling in your hands.

“Some research,” you said, thankful to let your mind grasp onto what you were best at. “Too much for me to talk you through but there might be something in here of use. You can copy these into Braille?” 

Matt nodded and held his hand out for the stack. He wished he could say it didn’t matter how long it would take, he’d rather sit and listen to you read every single word. But the papers met his palm, and he took them from you. 

“What stuck out to you?” 

“Well…” You twisted one of your plain golden rings between your fingertips and let out a long exhale, wondering where you should start. “I’m sure you know the basic things about Reynolds, like everyone does: he inherited family money from his father’s patented products, he invested in things like clean energy and software development, he invested well, and couldn’t stop making money if he tried.” 

You began pacing around the room, taking in how the floor felt beneath your feet. It gave more in certain places.

“On a trip to Haiti in his late twenties, he was made aware of the gender education gap and felt compelled to help address the problem. Since then, he’s set up four girls’ schools in Haiti, then two in Honduras, one in Guatemala. He sources all volunteers through a global recruitment organisation called OneWorld. He’s looking at some places in Mexico…” 

You paused, the room smelled like cologne and fabric softener, black coffee, and that paper smell no office was immune from. You digressed with a shrug. 

“… but I’d guess cartel activity would make that difficult right now.” 

“What else?” 

“He’s squeaky clean,” you said. Tentatively. “On paper, that is.” 

“But you’re not buying it.” 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “He stopped doing interviews three years ago, after a particularly twisted piece on his marriage. He married his now-ex-wife Isabel when she was twenty-three and he was thirty-nine. Some outlets called him a creep but most of the negative press was directed towards her and he went… nuclear. His office released a statement that he wouldn’t engage with any media, in retaliation for their unfair comments about his wife.”

“But now they’re divorced.” 

“Now they’re divorced,” you confirmed, nodding to yourself. “Honestly, Murdock, I don’t know where to start. All of his operations are based overseas, he has no motive to torch a convenience store.”

“Yet…”

“Yeah, I believe you,” you laughed nervously. “And I don’t trust him. I can’t explain it.” 

Matt smiled, and flirted a little. “And here I thought you were supposed to be so good with words.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered with a laugh and an eye-roll. “You know you need me and those documents.” 

“You could've sent a bike messenger.”

There was something intrigued in his voice that didn't match the unimpressed nature of his words. It brought a small smirk to your lips, hearing the way he matched your tone from a few nights before when you told him he could've just asked your size. Instead, he had to go and put his hands all over you and make you breakfast the next morning.

"I know what you're implying," you smirked wider and stepped further into his office. "I don't need an excuse to see you. I know how to ask for what I want."

"Oh, I know you do." His turn to smirk. Damn him, for looking so good in a suit. Damn him for being a lawyer and forcing you to look at his rugged features in a clean-cut package.

"Before you so rudely interrupted, I was going to say… I couldn't link any of the development companies to Reynolds," you swallowed and moved on, lest he dare assume he had some kind of upper hand in this situation. "There were a few names that came up again and again, across multiple companies. Some competitors."

"Shareholders or partners?"

"Shareholders."

"It's not illegal to have a diverse portfolio. It's not even a red flag," Matt pointed out, taking extra notice of how the room felt more complete with you in it, and how you'd walked in like you knew the place like the back of your hand. Probably because you did. Because you'd clocked every nook and cranny upon your first entry and built some kind of world in your mind. 

"These names," you continued. "R. Hayworth, M. Branson, P. Patel, R. Madison..." You trailed off from rattling through the common names you remembered. "I don’t know, maybe you’ll find something I missed."

Matt had to grin at the way you'd swapped so easily from talks of pleasure to talks of business. 

“What?” You challenged, seeing his smile. He sat up a little straighter and nodded his head to the machine on the cabinet against the wall behind his desk, telling you what he was going to do with the files you gave him.

“Nothing,” he cleared his throat. “That scanner transcribes from text to braille.” He swivelled in his chair to roll over and start the process.

Your eyes followed him as he turned and you noticed his collar was slightly bent up at the back. Without giving it much thought, you stepped between the back of his chair and his desk, saying "Oh, hey, your shirt..." and then took the fabric between your fingers to fix it.

Matt could hear what you were going to do before you did it, before you said it, and he cursed himself for not taking more care this morning with his tie. As much as he tried not to flinch, he couldn't help it when a few of your fingers very innocently brushed along the skin above his collar.

Your eyes and smile widened, your hands paused in place, you shot a glance to his hands. One had a stack of papers, the other was on the switch. "Payback's a bitch, huh?" You smirked and danced your perfectly polished nails along the side of his neck. He let out a spluttered, breathy laugh and scrunched up his shoulders.

"You-hou're insane," he twitched and slammed down the papers on top of the scanner and made a swift reach for your hands that'd travelled up his neck. "Hey!" He called out and flinched harder when your fingertips fluttered against the sides of his ears. You laughed, even though your revenge was cut short by his grasp closing around your wrists. 

He yanked your hands down in front of him. You gasped through your laughter as the force of his pull made you hinge at the hips, bringing you forward, down to where your chin would be rested against his shoulder. Your cheek brushed against his and you pulled on your wrists, finding his hold strong and unrelenting. He turned his face towards you, and he wore an antagonised half-smirk. "Really?" You couldn’t help but look at his lips. It was impossible to not notice how close they were to yours.

You swallowed the remainder of your giggles and promised, "I was just doing you a favour." 

"Mmm?"

"Mmm," you nodded, letting your cheek brush against his once again. 

He felt the warmth of your skin. The deep, slow exhale through your nose.  The flex of your hands in his iron grip. Your heart thudded through your chest and against his shoulder. He released one of your hands, letting it hang just by his hips - perhaps to tempt you into trying something more, or simply to test the waters to see if you were foolish enough to egg him on further - and his hand lifted up to your face. His fingertip found your lips and your heart pounded faster as your warm breath rolled against his skin. His half-smirk widened into an almost-grin.

"Do you wear lipstick often?" he asked.

"Most days."

"Not today.”

Your mouth went a little dry but you couldn't lick your lips with his hand still there. You cleared your throat, "I haven’t touched it up in a while."

"Right," he laughed, and then pressed the back of his fingers against your cheek. It licked heat against his skin. "Why are you blushing?"

"Murdock," you growled and made to stand but he didn't let go of your wrist. In an impressive manoeuvre, he turned his swivel chair without painfully twisting your wrist or waning his hold, then stood up toe-to-toe with you. Your words caught in your throat at his proximity and the damn smirk he still wore, and you took an instinctive step backwards. He matched it, forwards, and lifted his free hand to once again caress your cheek.

"Still blushing," he taunted in a low rasp. You scoffed and took another step back, he matched it again, then again. The backs of your upper legs hit the edge of his desk. "You could've sent a bike messenger."

No. No, he wasn't allowed the upper hand. He wasn't allowed to turn you into some fawning blushing girl with a crush. So you gathered your confidence, and your will to defy, you stood straight up and started pulling your wrist from his grasp with a casual indifference. "Well, if you're not happy to have me here, I can-mmm-"

He cut you off, stealing the words straight out of your mouth with a deep, decisive kiss. After kissing him back for just a few seconds, you pulled away and turned your head to the side to say, "Seriously, Murdock, I can just go."

"Stop talking," he ordered with a frustrated sigh before his lips met that place where your shoulder became your neck, pulling a satisfied breath from somewhere unreached within you.

You smiled through your heavy breath. “It’s not my fault you look hot when you’re exasperated.”

With a grunt of aggravation he wrapped his fingers around the lapel of your blazer and tore it away from your shoulders before silencing you with his lips back on yours. In the process of working your arms out of your sleeves you felt your hand knock a mug that sat on his desk. Before you had the chance to gasp, he caught it pre-disaster and lifted it away from the table.

Breathless, you narrowed your eyes as he pulled away. "How... how did you..."

"I heard it," he panted back, turning to place it on the filing cabinet alongside his own cup.

You winced in confusion. "You caught it so fast." But any thoughts of the cup soon left your mind when his fingers slipped through the gap between his top button and his dark grey tie. He slid his knuckle through the knot, loosening it with a suave ease. He, slowly, stepped back towards you. You clicked your tongue and teased, "I just fixed your collar and now you've gotta go do a thing li-... like that." The last words came out in a whisper, cause he'd given you a look that made your knees weak. It was so perfectly him: strong, playful, domineering, gratified. 

He stepped his body against yours with his tie loosened. His rough hands met your waist and he used that grip to lift you several inches to sit on the table. His palms shoved, sliding you back so your knees bent over the edge. Murdock then stood between your legs and pulled you back forwards so you'd crash into him. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but not because of the force. You opened your mouth to speak, to say anything, to snark at him or say something sarcastic but he took of his glasses and worked his suit jacket off before you came up with anything good.

He half-grinned. "I didn't think you'd actually stop talking." He tossed his jacket behind him, landing it on the chair, and then leaned down to plant his hands on the desk either side of your hips. His closeness forced you to lean back the smallest amount. "For the record, you could've just said this is what you came for,” he poked with an almost-wink.

You scoffed and adverted your eyes, feeling your pulse racing at his proximity. “For the record, you… you can just-”

He cocked his head and took your chin between his fingers to make you face him. He couldn’t see you, but you felt like he could, so it worked all the same. “You’re adorable when you’re speechless,” he slid his hand down to gently grasp around the front of your neck, then leaned in to silence any comebacks you’d formulated. Your pulse pounded against his fingerprints, his palm, as you deepened the kiss and got to work on the buttons of his shirt. You only managed to undo three of them before he suddenly gave a low, hungry growl against your lips and hoisted you off the desk.

“Woah there,” you laughed breathlessly. A frankly undignified noise fell through your mouth and into his as your back was braced against the wall with enough force to almost be painful. It didn’t hurt. Instead, it sent a wave of carnal desire coursing through to the tips of your fingers, so you buried them in his hair and pulled him in to kiss him in a way he’d never forget. 

Matt felt a noise of pleasure mount in his throat as you took his lower lip between your teeth and caressed your fingers through his hair. You kissed him with passion, your nails against his scalp sending pleasant waves of bliss down the back of his neck to make him shiver. You felt it, and you seemed to like the reactions you were able to pull, because he felt your mouth tense into a smirk against his. 

The salacious struggle for the upper hand was part of the fun, and at least half of the pleasure when it came to the two of you, so he shoved you more securely against the wall and prepared his next move.

He kissed you too, eagerly. His steadfast hands stayed planted on the backs of your thighs to keep you secure above the ground. His body kept your back flush against the wall. Murdock then began, every so often, along with a satisfied deeper breath, kneading his hands further into your skin. 

The contracting of his fingertips was slow and strong, just the right amount of tension to pull a groan from you too. After several fun, breathless minutes, it changed. You flinched when his right hand suddenly squeezed faster than it had before, and then the left. Murdock picked up the pace of his movements, his hands slid further down towards your knees. One particularly quick dig made your leg twitch, and made you break the kiss with a gasp.

"H-hey," you panted, letting your head fall against the wooden wall as Murdock took the chance to breathe deep against your neck. His warm exhale was starlight against your skin. You closed your eyes and smiled. But his hands squeezed again and you jolted. "Wahatch it," you scolded in a whisper.

He chuckled against your skin. "Watch it?" Then, he dug his fingers in again, this time pulsing them once or twice. You squirmed against him and kicked yourself for your poor choice of words. Then, you realised what he was doing so you decided he wasn't owed an apology.

"Muhurdock," you sniffed, then managed to hold in what was sure to be an undignified squeak when he dug his fingertips in again. You opened your mouth to protest, to swear at him, to antagonise him further, but his lips against the place below your ear made your words turn to mush at the tip of your tongue. You clutched the back of his shirt and hummed in agreement, then heard him sniff a laugh. 

He wasn't done. 

He suddenly dug his fingers into the sensitive muscle at the back of your legs and this time, instead of stopping after one or two second, he took to running his kneading hands up and down the length of your thighs. You yelped and immediately unhooked your ankles from around his waist. Thankfully, he had a good enough hold on you to keep you from falling as you silently writhed for a few seconds before your ticklishness got the best of you and you burst into laughter.

His warm smart-ass chuckle rumbled against your neck. You could hear and feel the way his lips were spread into a grin. As much as you were enjoying this playful side of him, he was still tickling the shit out of you, and you didn't have much control over your reactions.

“H-HEY!” You gasped for breath and tried to hold in your laughter, leaning your neck away from his lips and giving a sustained push at his shoulders. Another embarrassing squeak burst through when his middle finger found a particularly sensitive point of muscle in your leg. You slammed your head into the wall, just enough to feel but not enough to injure. Apparently, enough for Matt to stop, laugh and ask if you were alright. “I’m fine!” You urged in a higher-pitched tone that usual. “What the hell?!” You growled and squirmed even though his cursed hands had stopped. For now.

He suddenly pulled you away from the wall. The instinct was for you to wrap your legs around his waist again, so you did, as he strode over to the couch in one or two steps and placed you down beneath him. He hovered over you with a strong arm planted on the back of the seat, the other just beside your head. “Next time you try to do the whole cutesy, flirting your way to sex, it’s not gonna work out for you,” he said, voice sincere and dangerous. “That’s a promise.”

You laughed once, jaw slack from his call-out. Instead of addressing it, you cheeked, “Are you saying.. it’s gonna work this time?”

His smirk widened and regained some warmth now that he knew you were in for sure. Before you could see him break into a grin, he was kissing you, and that hand on the back of the couch was making its way towards the buckle of your belt.

The air felt thicker, warmer and sweeter as a bare-chested Murdock collapsed against you, both of you panting to catch your breaths. A smile stayed coy across your lips while the haze turned to clarity, and before you knew it you were laughing and so was he. 

His stubbled jaw moved gently against yours in a move for him to press a tender kiss to the side of your neck through his chuckling. You felt his lips part to say something snarky. 

“Don’t say it-”

“You could’ve sent a bike messenger.” 

“I hate you,” you deadpanned and brought your arms up to half-heartedly push at his shoulders. Unfortunately, it worked. He propped himself up to hover over you, perhaps afraid the bulk of his body was making it harder for you to breath. It was, but not in any way that was unwelcome. 

If you hadn’t known his gaze was hollow, you’d have called it adoring. Then again, expressions were so much more than eyes. It made your smile turn shy seeing the content look on his face. It looked like… more than just sex. And that made your stomach turn - the idea of this being more. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

He tilted his head, his lips slightly pursed in thought, his stare fixed at the place just above your left ear. His eyebrows bumped as he said, “It’s a lucky day in general.” The grin had curled into his lips before he finished the sentence. You laughed and reached up to tap his cheek once in a gentle scold, which only made him grin wider. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then flinched and went silent. 

“What?” You whispered, sensing the shift in tone.

He turned his ear towards the door. 

“Shit,” he whispered back, and then stuck his hand down to feel around the ground for his pants. The shift in him from exertion to urgency made you sit up and instinctively fumble for your own discarded pieces of clothing.

“What?”

“Foggy. Karen. They’re-,” he gestured with his hand towards the main part of the office, “coming back up.”

“Shit,” you agreed and rushed to put your clothes on as fast as you could. While you worked your pants back onto your legs you recalled something you’d read about blindness during your weekend research. “Where are they?” 

“Coming up the stairs.” He slotted his arms into his sleeves and shrugged the white fabric over his shoulders. 

You pulled the pants over your hips. “I heard the soundscape for people who are blind is like… I don’t know, an X-ray of a building.” 

Evidently hearing the question in your voice, he half-shrugged and then nodded, “I wouldn’t disagree with that.” 

“That’s incredible,” you admitted, throwing your shirt on and tucking it in before letting out a seethe of frustration at your intricate belt buckle. 

“That thing’s like a padlock,” he commented, doing his final button, smirking sexily as he heard your buckle tighten.

“Could‘ve fooled me. You made quick work of it.”

“Hurry,” he rushed, then kicked over a shoe to you. You kicked his back, managing enough accuracy to nudge it into his socked foot.

“I’m hurrying. Hey, isn’t it supposed to be a red flag when guys leave their socks on during sex?” You teased.

“You tell me,” he slipped his foot into his shoe. “You’re the one who reads GQ.”

You pulled on your own shoes, thanking your past self for not opting for lace-up boots today, and hurriedly pulled the blazer around your shoulders.

“Your other shoe’s by- yeah,” you tried to slow your breathing and fix your hair to make it look like it wasn’t just tangled up in Matt Murdock’s fist.

Matt pulled his other shoe on and moved around to sit behind his desk, opening the computer, beckoning you to come pretend like you were looking over his shoulder, just as he heard the front office door open and Karen and Foggy step back inside.

“No, but there are some developers who have similar shareholders even though they’re competitors,” you said, seamlessly dropping into conversation. Matt suppressed his smirk as he heard you pick up that stack of papers from behind his desk and leaf through them. You pressed a few buttons on the copy machine.

“So you were saying shareholders don’t have conflict of interest, so they-”

The door to Matt’s office opened with that familiar way Foggy did it. There was no hesitation, no knock, just an air of suspicion entering with him.

“Hi Foggy,” Matt leaned back and stretched like he’d been there since his friends left. “Good dinner?”

“How does this thing work?” Matt heard you mutter and slide a batch of files into the tray to be copied into Braille.

Foggy was silent. Matt could feel the tension in the room as his best friend analysed the scene before him. The continual beeping on the printer said you were trying to figure it out, and then the subtle encouraging chime told him you did. Once the paper was in the tray, you turned to both the men.

“Where’s the restroom?”

“Down the hall, third door to the left.” Foggy’s voice came harsh and accusatory. If you’d responded to his unspoken skepticism, it wasn’t verbal or with your body language, so Matt couldn’t quite be sure. He only heard you murmur a quick ‘be right back,’ and then go in search of what you needed. 

The room was silent, or, Foggy was silent, until you’d closed that front office door. 

Foggy spoke slowly, in a low and dangerous question. “In the sacred offices of Nelson and Murdock?” 

Matt swallowed, trying to play it off like he didn’t know what his friend was on about, but clearly something in the room had given him away.

Still, he tried. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Matt!” Foggy called with a loud, exasperated sigh. The noise brought Karen into the room, which brought Matt’s hand to his forehead resignedly.

“What’s going on?” She demanded.

“Matt had sex with her.”

“Foggy, I-”

“In this very office.”

“Wha- really?” Karen scoffed, a little shocked. “Wait… just now?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his glas- oh. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He’d taken them off to… He gave Foggy his best part-scolding, part-pleading look. “This really isn’t a conversation we need to be having.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Foggy yelled again. “Talk about conflict of interest, Matt. Is that what you were talking about when I came in?”

“No,” Matt took the chance to change the course of this conversation. “We were talking about the research she’d done on the businesses who made offers to Avery.”

“And?”

“And she found more than a few dozen. We were going to cross-reference names, survey other businesses on the block and maybe identify Reynolds’ next target.” 

“So Reynolds’ name is on some of these companies?”

“… No, but-”

“It’s a waste of time, then!”

“-Foggy, listen to me, he’s probably operating under a false name or-”

“Or maybe you heard wrong.” 

Foggy doubt dropped like a bomb, releasing an awkward silence into the room. Matt clenched his jaw, trying to contain his agitation. “I didn’t hear wrong.” 

“Maybe you were distracted.” 

“I didn’t hear wrong.” 

Locked heads and horns in their argument, the only thing that made them flinch was the sound of you reentering the premises. Matt had heard you coming but didn’t feel the need to placate Foggy before then; you knew what he could be like. 

“What’s going on?” You asked upon approach. 

Foggy spun on his heel to face you and say with an obviously fake cheerfulness, “Thank you so much for your help on the Avery case, but we’ll take it from here.”

Your eyebrows raised at his sudden, though not entirely unexpected, affront. “Really,” you deadpanned.

He tried to fake smile but it looked more like a sneer. “Really.”

“How are you going to talk to Reynolds then?”

“We don’t need to,” Foggy declared. “The Reynolds lead is dead. We’re going to get our client’s charges dropped based on lack of evidence against him.” 

“Right,” you scoffed, then got personal. “Isn’t your client still in custody? Exactly what other leads are you pursuing?”

“That’s privileged information.” 

You crossed your arms and spat back quietly. “We both know the Reynolds lead is the only one you have, and I now have a direct line to him.” You walked past him back into Murdock’s office, seeing the weight of your most recent declaration take hold. “Lucky for you, I want to take him down just as bad. So how about we do this together.” 

Silence casted across the room. The air felt thicker again, but not in that pleasant way it had a mere five minutes before. Nelson’s jaw clenched and released in a myriad of seconds before he let out a big sigh through his nose. 

“Am I supposed to really believe you’re here to help?” He scoffed and gave you a scathing look that stung a bit more than you’d like to admit. 

Matt started to speak up from behind you. “Foggy-”

"Nuh-uh, no," Nelson held his hands up and shook his head. "We are not jeopardising our case with your- your philandering!"

Your cheeks burned but you held in any overt reactions. How did he know?! You quickly scanned the room for obvious signs as they continued with their back-and-forth.

"Foggy, we need her-"

"We managed just fine without her until now and we'll-"

“-think rationally-”

"-Manage fine now that she's leaving!" He ignored you and directed all his frustration towards his partner.

"No," the darker-haired man shook his head and stood. "I'm sorry, Foggy. No. This isn’t about any of us. Avery needs her."

Murdock sure could give a solemn and final look for someone who didn't... well, look. Nelson's defiance puffed his chest as he clenched his jaw and looked between the two philanderers he caught near-red-handed. Then, he settled. His head turned to the side in thought, and he looked back up between you two with some plan in his head.

"Fine. But we're doing this right."

He walked out of the office, leaving the door open as he went. Karen followed. 

You whipped your head towards Murdock and whispered, “How did he know?!”

A confused shrug was all he gave you before Matt heard Foggy open the door to his own private work room, then shuffle around some papers, then put something in the photocopier. Matt swallowed, sighed and rubbed his temples between his fingers.

"What?" You asked, picking up on his deductions.

Matt lifted his head so you could see his flat and sullen expression. "Foggy's gonna-"

"Sign it!" Nelson declared as he strode back into the room with an air of victory, his head held high and a few sheets of paper in his hands. He slammed them in front of Murdock. You weren't too far away so you could see there was one copy which held both text and braille, and you could then see Murdock's fingertip running along the page. He paused and stuck his tongue against his cheek. Something told you whatever on the page is exactly what he'd expected it to be, and it didn't make him happy.

"Seriously?" Murdock scoffed. "This is unnecessary."

"This is the only way I allow it," Nelson said with rage just below the surface. "Sign it, or I'm handling Avery on my own."

Murdock sighed again and reached for a pen with one hand, the other finding the place for his signature. "It's a contract," he told you as he closed his hands around a blue ballpoint.

You lifted an eyebrow towards Nelson. "A no-sex contract?"

"Effectively;" Matt mumbled, and dropped: “This will make you our client."

"Your client?"

"Attorney-client relationships aren't allowed in New York," Nelson turned to you, ever-smug, crossing his arms and smiling to the sound of his friend's signature scratching across the page. "So sign the document to hire us as your legal firm,” he raised a pointed finger towards the door for dramatic effect, “or get the hell out."

"Foggy!" 

Matt surprised even himself with more protective anger in his voice than he'd anticipated there would be. Maybe because he was frustrated that he was now legally obligated to not do the thing he was thinking about all weekend, or maybe because he felt like Foggy was being unfair on you; he'd never do this if he liked you, and he didn't have good reasons to dislike you. Either way, Foggy was out of line talking to you like that. Matt wouldn’t stand for it.

Murdock's defence of you surged something new in your chest, making your heart beat quicker and giving you the need to suppress a grateful smile. Still, you were unwilling to create a riff between these best friends. "It's okay, Murdock," you assured, keeping your voice low but strong. "I want to help." 

So you walked over, picked up the pen and the paper, and skimmed through the basic contract. There wasn’t much to it. You read every word. Then, you nodded, silently asking yourself what the hell you were in for, and leaned over the desk to sign away the right to act on the only spark you’d felt in years. But there were lives at stake. 

This wasn’t about you. 

No sooner had your pen left the page did Nelson whisk it away to file, shutting the door after himself as he left. 

You let out a laugh through your nose and clicked the pen shut, fiddling with it in your hands as the strange silence ebbed between you and Murdock. Perched against his desk, you watched as he let out another sigh and leaned back in his swivel chair. 

“I guess that wasn’t the smartest idea,” he cleared his throat, referring to the philandering you’d just done.

A smile played at your lips. He looked kind of cute, all bashful like that. “Guess not,” you shrugged, twisting the pen around your knuckles. After letting it stew for a few moments, you added, “It was fun, though. I’d do it again if it wouldn’t get you disbarred.” 

He gave a bright laugh before standing up and grabbing the copies from the printer behind him. “Good to know,” he said so quietly, it may have been just to himself. Still, it made your cheeks even warmer. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you had a direct line to Reynolds?” 

Oh.

Matt’s face twitched into a frown when he heard how you reacted to his question. Your heart started beating faster, anxiously, your breath stopped for a second or two before it sounded like you were making a conscious effort to measure it. There had been a pen twirling gracefully between your fingers but it was now still and- ah, you put it down. You stood, away from his desk, so he turned and let you see the displeasure on his face. He got the gist that you saw his look, because you tried to sound casual and unbothered when you told him what had transpired that morning. 

“He got in touch with me.” 

“What?”

"In the form of about a hundred and fifty white roses. Delivered to my office, along with his phone number. He’s granted me an interview tomorrow night. Over dinner.”

Matt’s jaw tensed, he tilted his head towards the ceiling in exasperation. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Delivered to my office,” you repeated. “There’s no way I was getting out of meeting up with him after that bouquet was paraded through the Bullpen, right in front of my boss."

“He’s cornered you into it,” Matt scoffed. “It’s a trap. How on earth could fall for it?”

“I didn’t fall for anything,” you argued back. “You think I don’t know what he’s doing? He chose white roses for a reason, Murdock. What exactly do you think is going to happen to me? The entire staff of the Weekly Herald knows I’m going to dinner with him, he- he’s not gonna do anything.”

“Who knows, hmm?” Matt let out a frustrated huff, then shook his head before letting it hang. “You’re smarter than this.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you snarked, now having lost your patience. “You know, I thought you’d be happy about this, considering it’s maybe the only chance to clear Avery’s name?”

“Harold Avery is my responsibility,” Matt’s jaw set in stone, his right hand met his hip. He lifted his head and cursed himself for getting you involved in this. “Let me do my job.”

“Okay. Let me do mine.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What for?”

“Just-” Matt had to stop himself from gripping the papers too tight, lest the stack crumble under his fear which was poorly disguised as annoyance. “I’m coming.”

“No. You’re not,” you said finally. You were both silent for several seconds, then you spoke up again. Your question and tone didn’t seem to be searching for a rise from him - instead it was genuine wonder: “Do you really think I can’t handle myself?”

What a complicated fucking question, Matt thought. Of course you could. Of course you couldn’t. Of course he could protect you. Unless he couldn’t. 

He could, though… maybe he- no. He couldn’t get the devil involved. Not now. Not yet.

You both ruminated in thick silence. It was a complicated question, perhaps an unfair one, and maybe you wouldn’t have asked it if your temper hadn’t flared at the assumption he thought you weren’t strong enough to do this. Then again, if he didn’t think you were, maybe you weren’t. 

What- no. He’s not… he’s just a one-night-stand. His opinion doesn’t mean anything. … It doesn’t. 

“Murdock,” you prompted. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” His response was instant, and it put your heart at ease. Wait- mind. It put your mind at ease. The heart had nothing to do with this. It was just sex. Still, you smiled softly at the papers in his hand, and you asked him a favour.

“Then trust my judgement.”

You could tell he didn’t want to. The rational side of your brain said he just didn’t want you screwing up his case, and the hopeful part said he didn’t want you to put yourself in danger.

Matt couldn’t stand the thought of you walking into Reynolds’ home. Being surrounded by his things and his people and paintings that set you on a steep edge, but you’d asked him to trust your judgement. But he couldn’t.

“I can’t.” His rough voice came from his slightly-tilted head, and your heart sank as your eyes lifted to catch the worried look on his face. “I can’t condone this after hearing the fear in your voice after you met him at the gala. How can you ask me to forget that?” 

“Well, I don’t need your permission,” you sniffed, ignoring his plea. Hot tears threatened impending arrival but if he wasn’t going to trust you then you weren’t about to allow him another piece of your vulnerability.

“You’re being reckless.” 

You snapped. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion.” 

You stood in silence yet again, this time a new, tense, uncomfortable one. Full of so much unspoken fear, frustration, longing and a new breed of separation brought about by the paper you’d just signed. You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your own files from the copier. “By the way,” you gritted your teeth as you passed him again and picked your bag up from the ground, “Since you’re the one who brought up Fisk last time,” you shoved the files in your bag and hoisted it onto your shoulder, and then your coat over your arm, “Let’s not forget his incarceration created a power-vacuum. Think about that, as you think about Reynolds. I do.”

Murdock’s face softened in confusion for a few seconds before he opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. 

“I need to do more prep for the interview.” 

Matt could hear the hurt and the emotion building in your chest, so he didn’t try to stop you. Better to err on the side of respecting your decision to leave. 

Frustration swelled around your beating heart as you made a hasty exit, wondering if he was going to stop you. You hated that selfish part of you that wanted him to stand between you and the door, to not let you go, to say he cared too much to let you do something so reckless. It was a stupid, unfair internal test - some kind of defence mechanism that immature part of you set up to make him fail, to prove he wasn’t right. 

But he let you go, and so you went. 

Armed with your stack of files and fierce determination. 

“You look like shit.” 

You laughed through your nose at Vera’s sarcasm thrown from the doorway of your office. Your fixed gaze didn’t leave the small handheld mirror resting against your ajar laptop lid. Lipstick could be tricky business. 

The sun had set a while ago. There weren’t that many people left in the office. Just the ones stuck on hard assignments. 

“Stark Watch going that bad, huh?” You quipped back to your friend, who entered and unfolded her arms. She bumped her brow and nodded, motioning for you to stand up and show her the complete look. You obliged, fixing your hair and giving a quick view of the back of the navy blue dress. 

“If I wore that I’d look like a mother of the bride,” she shook her head and refolded her arms as you turned to give her a scolding look for her self-deprecation. “You know that it’s not fair, right? That you look amazing in everything you wear?”

“Please, it’s laundry day.” You turned and checked the time. Ten minutes until the car would be outside to take you to Reynolds. “Really, though. How’s that Avengers story panning out?” 

“About as well as you’d expect- oh, come here.” You, again, obliged and walked over to where she wanted to do up the clasp above the zipper on the back of your dress. She digressed. “I’m being stonewalled by Potts, the comms team has some cookie-cutter non-answer, and Steve Rogers still won’t return my phone calls.”

“He probably doesn’t know how to use a phone.”

“That’s it,” she chuckled once and you stepped away to finish collecting your things. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

You paused, laughed once uncomfortably, then continued putting your things in your purse. 

“Is it Reynolds, or the mystery man?” 

“There’s no mystery man.” 

“You’re a terrible liar-” 

“Vera-” You stood up and let her see a flash of the cocktail of emotions you’d been feeling. “There’s… it can’t happen.” You turned back and shoved your hairspray and on-the-go makeup bag back into the drawer it came from. The snap closing of the drawer was a sharp enough sound that it made you stop for a second and just listen. 

The way he taught you. 

Car horns, office air-con, the clock in the corner, the silent scream of the white roses that still sat in the corner, Vera-

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was softer, and more grounded. You nodded in agreement and slipped on your coat, not quite meeting her eye. 

“In another life,” you shrugged the sleeves on more comfortably and only then met her gaze. Some part of you detested the pity in her dark brown eyes, but you supposed only for prideful reasons. It was nice, to have a friend like her care about things like this. To notice. “You wouldn’t have liked him anyway. He’s too good.” 

She let out a puff of air that sounded almost like a laugh, then reached out to fix the lapel of your coat. Vera took a step back and looked you up and down with a proud-yet-somewhat-sad friend smile. “I’m not the one who thinks you don’t deserve that.” 

The only chance you had to protest was the beginnings of a severe look which was to be followed by denial, but there was something a little too knowing in her eyes. Before it got too heavy, she winked, “Don’t sleep with Reynolds.” 

You rolled your eyes, smiled, and pushed past her, not dignifying her half-joke with an answer. 

His ride was prompt. 

A sleek, black private car with a dark interior and the undeniable scent of luxury glided through the streets, helmed by a driver who didn’t speak a word to you. Not when he opened the door for you, not while he was driving, not when he opened the door for you again. When you thanked him, his only response was a tight nod. 

Before you knew it, you were on the sidewalk right before the grand entrance to the Golden Empress. 

The building was fairly new in its own right, but had elements of Old American Money in its architecture, decor and branding. It certainly was an impressive building, all seventy-two stories of it, and Arthur Reynolds owned the entire top floor. 

The first floor held a bar and restaurant and so was generally open to the public. Or, at least, the members of the public who could afford the extravagance of an eight-course meal and forty-dollar cocktails; getting inside was easy enough. The path was rife with good manners and hospitality and it wasn’t a mission to find your way to the reception of the residential portion of the building. 

You approached the front desk and spoke to a man with dark brown hair that was perfectly in place. He was articulate and professional. He checked your ID, confirmed you were permitted into Reynolds’ property, and ushered you towards the elevators. 

“This elevator is for the penthouse only,” he explained as he flashed a card in front of an RFID scanner to order the doors to open. “Only one stop. Please, ma’am, enjoy your stay.” 

You half-expected him to mention the Golden Empress had a dry-cleaning service, or how wonderful breakfast could be downstairs in the cafe, or that Mr Reynolds would have a car here for you in the morning, but that would be far too presumptuous for an establishment of this caliber. 

The elevator was spacious, giving just enough to look at with the dark brown patterned wallpaper that matched the feeling of the lobby and bar you passed. It was trimmed in dark wood, the carpet a rich forest green, a stained walnut-framed mirror adorned the back wall. You checked your reflection in it, and you felt beautiful. But for what? He wouldn’t know. 

This is a long way up, was the tangible thought that pulled you from spiralling into thoughts of Murdock. He hadn’t called today. You hadn’t called either. You hadn’t quite figured out if you should give him a debrief after this whole thing. If you ever made it out of the elevator, that is. Seventy-two stories. Who would have thought it would take this long to get up there? You turned away from the mirror, and for a second you wished you were invisible. 

The elevator came to a gentle stop and then opened towards an empty hallway. Already, it was a stark contrast from the rest of the building. You stepped onto smooth, white marbled floors. The walls were also white, sparsely fixed with a minimalist painting here, a vase there, a security camera in each corner. 

Your heels clicked and echoed as you approached a set of large double doors. Before you could knock, they opened. 

The first look at Reynolds’ home was like a perfectly curated first bite of a gourmet meal; there was a hint of all the flavours, and a glimpse at how they all worked together. 

White marble coated the floors in a seamless transition from the hallway. A glance into the living area off to the left showed some rugs that looked too cozy to be in a place like this, but they added that touch of homeliness needed for a living room with thick angular architecture. Square pillars rose up from the ground, bordering the almost-archway from the front hall to where the room opened up to high-ceilings with two-story windows. 

There was a blaze in the fire place. The whole room was warm, in noticeable contrast to the way it should feel. Clean and sterile, with that flicker of roaring flame spilling golden light across black couches and glass coffee tables. 

Footsteps approached. Reynolds himself. 

The way he smiled at you was warm, friendly, and disarming. But you weren’t quite without your wits just yet. His curly light brown hair was clean and styled but not perfect like the man at reception’s, and his navy blue suit didn’t look like he’d just put it on - hallmarks of a busy man who’d made time for you in his schedule. You wondered if he had more work to do after you’d left that evening. 

“Beautiful home,” you greeted him with a polite smile. “Have I seen it in an issue of Architectural Digest?” 

“Thank you,” he smiled back. “And no, I’d never allow such a thing.”

“Your coat, madam?” Another voice from behind you. Someone with an unsettlingly quiet step accepted your coat as you began shrugging it off your shoulders. They walked away and you met your host’s eye in time to catch him looking at the way the dress fit you perfectly. 

“Did you design it yourself?” You asked, beginning to follow after he gestured with his arm off to the right. You fell into step with him and walked across the large living and entertaining room towards what sounded like a kitchen. 

“No,” he laughed warmly and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Several creative minds with an eye far greater than mine answered my calls, much to my gratitude. We’ll need to have our meal outside but I’ve arranged for some heaters so it shouldn’t be too cold.” 

You’ll need to?

He led you through the large, empty dining room that bordered on the kitchen and was surrounded by floor to ceiling glass windows and sliding doors. His hand met the latch, platinum watch glinting in the dim light, and he pulled the door open. 

You were met with a gust of autumn air and the near-irresistible urge to ask why the hell you couldn’t use the perfectly good dining table that stood an arm’s reach away. 

“I assume you’ll be recording our conversation,” he answered the obvious question as he stepped onto the balcony. You followed, this time with more reluctance, and you nodded. He digressed. “One aspect of the home I insisted upon was to place harmless signal jammers inside each wall,” he explained. 

He stepped aside and revealed a beautifully laid table right next to the glass-fronted balcony wall. You smiled at the simplicity of it, and fought a knowing smile at how much it reminded you of a few dates you���d been on. No candles, though. So you supposed he had plausible deniability. 

“Signal jammers,” you repeated, approaching the table in step with your host. 

“No recording devices of any kind work within the walls,” he confirmed, and pulled your chair out for you. 

You took your seat. “Smart,” was all you said. “Must be nice to know you can never be recorded without your consent. But what about security?” 

He took his own seat with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I detest the idea of cameras inside my own home,” he gave you a sullen look. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would.” 

What was he doing in his home that he didn’t want recorded? Scandalous affairs? Shady business deals? Several untoward things, you could only assume. Perhaps it wasn’t proper to speculate. 

“Thank you for this,” you said honestly. He didn’t need to know the depth of it. “I know you’re a private person and the media hasn’t always been kind to your family. I am very curious about your charitable work in Central America.”

He flashed a kind, bashful smile and sat back in his seat. A waiter who’d perfected the art of subtlety filled your glasses with water, and then placed a small starter between the two of you. 

“This isn’t some expose on my failed marriage?” He narrowed his eyes in jest. 

You smiled back and pulled the recording device from your bag. “Not at all.” You set it on the table, declaring it live, and clicked it on. “We don’t need to talk about any of that. Though, I’m curious to know if there was something from your past, from growing up, that set these countries in your sights. Why Haiti first?” 

“That,” he began, reaching forward to pick up his glass. “Is a long story.” 

Reynolds recounted his experience from nearly fifteen years ago, when he visited Haiti for the first time with his family. They’d been staying in the best part of town but he had an insatiable desire to see the parts the tourists shouldn’t. The twenty-eight-year-old Arthur paid a local a handsome sum for a dose of reality. Of the suburbs where gangs ruled brutally, the sickening sound of starvation only being overshadowed by bullets. 

You asked question after question, leading him along his own story that you’d researched, looking for depth, searching for any clue that might unravel something hidden. 

“Why elsewhere?” You finally asked. He raised his eyebrows through a bite of the seared chicken meal you two had been served. “Why not London?” You clarified. “Why not New York? Certainly people need help in your own backyard.” 

“Who’s to say I won’t?” 

“You’re beginning work here in New York?” 

He paused under the guise of finishing his mouthful and you could’ve sworn his eyes narrowed for less than a second. “Not yet. I don’t currently have any business interests in town.” 

There it was. There was the first obvious lie. 

“None?” You raised your own wine glass with an air of innocence. “That’s unusual for a billionaire.” 

“I suppose. Why do you ask?” 

Just as you were about to brush it off as curiosity, the most peculiar sound reverberated through the hallway, then kitchen, then dining room, out onto the balcony. 

Footsteps. 

Little footsteps, approaching with a fast and young cadence and weight. 

Arthur's jaw went a bit slack when his eyes landed on the source of the sound approaching from behind you. The second you saw the young boy, who could be no more than five or six, you immediately reached over and clicked the tape off. 

Your host’s eyes flitted to your finger on the button, then to your sincere and solemn gaze, and as soon as you could see the thankfulness in his stare you heard the boy shout with a giggle: "Daddy!"

Arthur Reynolds didn't have any children.

At least, that's what the world thought. 

But up ran a blonde-haired hazel-eyed little boy who wrapped his arms around his father's neck and grinned up and him. Reynolds stuttered for a second or two before his hand met the boy's hair to ruffle it affectionately. "My boy," he greeted in a low playful growl before leaning down to pick him up. His kid wrapped his arms again around his father’s neck, and Arthur looked at you nervously. "Affectionate wee thing," he muttered before pulling away to give his son a curious glance. "Where's Mummy?"

"She said she was on an island this week so I get to stay with you," he answered. The look on Arthur's face told you he'd no idea the boy's mother was planning it, and also that he was a strange mix of frustrated and used to it.

Could this be it? Could this be the deep, dark secret you were trying to uncover?

"Fetch Rosie from her room, will you?" Arthur called to the waiter, who nodded and dashed inside. Sitting down while turning his son to sit in his lap, Arthur gave you a glance before picking up a piece of chicken between his fingers. "Have you had your supper?" He held it out to the boy, who took it and popped it in his mouth.

"Yes, Mummy bought me chicken nuggets."

"Did she now," he sighed. "Do you tell her you far prefer grass-fed cutlets?"

"I like them both," he declared, chewing politely on the piece of meat. His accent was a mixture of American and British English, and was rather sweet. You didn't dare speak to the child directly, knowing this was definitely not something you should insert yourself into.

"Where's the restroom?" You asked quietly.

Arthur looked at you meaningfully, and his face softened. "You don't have to go."

Now that surprised you. You smiled shyly just as a young girl, late teens or earliest twenties, came onto the balcony.

"Rosie!" The boy shouted and squirmed off his father's lap.

"You've come back to play with me!" She grinned. "Let's leave your father to his dinner." He rushed over and grabbed her outstretched hand. As she led him inside, you heard the end of her saying: "Let’s get you ready for bed, Malcolm," before the door was shut again.

It was silent for a few moments as Arthur settled his chair back closer to the table and dusted his suit jacket. When he looked up at you, you raised your eyebrows and smiled patiently.

"You learn to keep a nanny on call after your ex-wife absconds to the Bahamas and leaves your child on your doorstep," he sighed, taking a swig of wine. "If she'll do it once, she'll do it again. Serves me right."

"He's a cute kid," you cradled your own glass and gave him a level look. "I understand why you hide him. The world won’t hear about him from me. That's a promise," you nodded sincerely. He smiled sadly and nodded back.

"You're not going to extort me for your silence?"

"Now there's an idea," you joked, Arthur chuckled once through his nose.

"I married Isabel for his sake," he suddenly admitted, playing with the end of the serrated knife which sat resting on his plate. "It was supposed to be a one-time thing, you understand. Then, it was twice and she was pregnant. Sweet girl from a good middle-class family, I thought, well, she'd fit in well-enough with my life and work... I'm afraid I may have corrupted her with the company I keep." He picked up the knife, turned it over once in his hand and the stuck it firmly into the table, before looking up at you and charming, "Serves me right for wanting a raucous night of fun with a 22-year-old high-fashion model."

You'd expected him to elaborate and say something like alimony, or child-support, or impromptu drop-offs but instead he said:

"I gave my child a broken family." His finger traversed the handle of the knife, and something more genuinely somber filled the space between you two. “I fear I’ve turned into everything I dislike in a father.” 

“It’s not hard to tell that your son thinks the world of you,” you countered. Arthur replied to your comforting words with a mere smile. Then, he removed the knife from the table and set it down beside his plate. 

“This is truly more than I bargained for, inviting a journalist into my home,” he joked. 

You beamed a smile and shrugged, picking up your near-finished glass of wine. 

“Since I did so generously invite you in, granting you an interview anyone in your position would kill for… might you do something for me?” 

The wine ran hot down your throat as a pang of annoyance rang in your ears. Of course he wanted something. You tried to hide your disappointment, but not too much, as you swallowed that final sip and nodded. “Depends,” you looked up to lock eyes with him. His stare was intense, as always, but warm. Maybe. He hadn’t stopped smiling. He signalled for the waiter to come and top up your glasses. 

You and Arthur were both silent as your cups were refilled and your plates cleared. The staff were silent. Professional. With a precision of those who didn’t tolerate mistakes. His eyes never left yours and so your stare also stayed firm. Then, you were alone on the balcony again. 

He reached forward and picked up his glass. “You’re an exceptional storyteller, as I’m sure you know,” he started. Your heartbeat became noticeable but you didn’t show it. Did he know you didn’t trust him? You picked up your wine glass.  

“That’s kind of you to say.” 

“Oh, no need for humility,” he assured. “You carry yourself with the confidence of a woman who knows exactly what she’s capable of.” 

“Thank you.” 

He tilted his head in response as he sipped his wine. “So,” he looked at his glass and then back up to you. “Tell me your story.” 

“My story,” you repeated, then leaned back in your seat. Maybe it was an automatic reaction to put distance between the two of you, to give you space to consider it, but he didn’t allow it to go unmentioned. 

“You’re not used to being on the other side of your work.”

“Of course not.” You crossed one arm over yourself, another honest reaction. His eyes flicked to it and then back to yours. 

“My, aren’t we suddenly very shy,” he teased. Your cheeks burned behind the wine glass and you gave him a bashful look, sitting up and not quite meeting his eye as you placed the glass down. You leaned forward, resting your arms on the tablecloth.

“I’ve never been accused of being shy,” you said with a small smirk. He returned that smirk, with an air of cockiness, and then placed his own glass down. “Because I’m not.” 

“That’s yet to be seen,” he shrugged. 

You scoffed, smiled wider, and rolled your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you egged, feeling your heart unexpectedly flutter at his undivided attention. Before you could wonder whether or not it was a bad idea, fuelled by two glasses of wine and the need to prove rich men wrong, you said, “Tell me what you want to know.” 

He asked about your family and you told him, mostly. He asked about college, about journalism, and you told him. But you didn’t tell him about volleyball. You didn’t tell him about the shoulder surgery or the way it still ached when you were tired; that felt too intimate. He asked you about Fisk and your ears perked up. You told him about the dinner, about your boss refusing to let you take him to task. Reynolds laughed and made some joke about how he hoped you didn’t find too many similarities between himself and Fisk. You laughed along, and let yourself imagine the biggest secret in this man’s life was Malcolm.

“Fisk’s collection was impressive,” you conceded. “At least I didn’t have to lie about it in the article.” 

“Speaking of,” Reynolds smiled and looked out over the city, then back to you.“I believe a tour of my private collection was due,” he spoke across the table while the waiter cleared your meals away. You smiled and nodded. 

“That would be nice,” you agreed. “It’ll add some nice grounding to the story.” 

You stood after he did, placing the recording device in your purse. Before you retracted your hand you made a split-second decision to subtly switch it back on, just so you’d know for sure if he was being truthful about the emitters built into the walls. “Where should I leave this?” You asked after you’d zipped the bag. 

Reynolds signalled to another member of his staff, who came up and graciously, effortlessly, accepted the bag. You didn’t know where it would go but knew you’d get it back later. Then, you realised you maybe shouldn’t have switched it back on in case they looked inside. Ignoring that sickly pang of anxiety in your stomach, deciding to unapologetically stick to your decision, you followed your host as he stepped back inside his home. 

You quickly learned that, though spacious, the home had many hallways. It was hard to believe all of this could fit on top of the building, even though the Golden Empress was titanic; it seemed to go on forever. You considered making some comment about why he’d bother to own a collection of art that was so hard to access, but thought better of it before the stained the pleasantness between you two. You followed on.

After a final left turn, you were faced with a long, slim room that somewhat resembled an art gallery. In fact, it pretty much was a gallery. 

“This room was designed by Pat Laurent - a world renown gallery architect, and a dear friend,” he smiled down towards you and held an arm forward to invite you to step into the colourful world. “His expertise ensures the pieces are viewed in the best possible circumstances, and stored in the correct atmospheric conditions.” 

A quick glance confirmed Reynolds certainly preferred bold colours. The collection ranged from minimalist to abstract, surrealism to hyperrealism. Still, all the colours were bold and brash and demanded to be seen. Yet, here they were, so well hidden down a maze of, dare you say clinical, white marbled hallways. 

That had to mean something. 

You became more aware of your breath as you walked down the aisle created by the row of flat leather chaises in the centre of the room. You looked at the pieces in the order which they were meant to be viewed. After all, who were you to question Pat Laurent and his expertise. Reynolds stayed one or two steps behind you and, notably, stayed silent. 

You could almost feel his gaze dead fixed on your reactions. You noticed your heartbeat in his lack of comment… he was waiting for something.

Then, one piece in particular made your brow lower and the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. It was at the end of the line and had a few dedicated fixtures pouring white light on it from above, bringing out the intense crimsons, browns, blacks, a hint of purple peaked out from beneath the reds. Aware you were being watched, you lied with a small nod of approval. When you turned your head to look at him, he didn’t look away or hide that he’d been watching you. A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, and he looked at the painting. 

“Ophelia’s End,” he spoke the name of the work.

You looked back at it also. It was an intensely melancholic piece but, like with the rest of his collection, there was an underlying violence to it. Something painful and dreadful and downright sinister that put your nerves on edge with every slash of red across the canvas.

"One of Lind's great works," Reynolds told you as he took a few more steps to settle beside where you stood resolute. "Inspired by the untimely death of his fiancee."

You swallowed thickly as you took in the texture of the cuts of colours. "Must've been a violent end."

Reynolds hummed in agreement, then turned to walk a few, slow steps away from it. From you. Somehow, his presence was still there. Somehow, he seemed to fill the room. Maybe because it was filled with reflection of himself, his desires, his inner depths. 

Your fingers found each other in front of your body and you fidgeted with one of your rings, turning it over between the pads of your fingertips in some kind of grab at reality. Instead of the metaphorical.

"How did she die?"

"A nasty fall,” he started. You heard him turn back towards you, and then approach your other side from behind. You hated how it made you feel. Once again, his art took grip of your throat. Of your breath. It didn’t seem fair, or right, that he seemed to understand that. “Too many glasses of wine and a tumble from their penthouse balcony.”

Your heart rose to your throat as you remembered the elevator ride. How long it took for such a streamlined piece of engineering. Even though it didn’t feel like it in this room, this… bunker, you were high in the sky. Almost definitely higher than Ophelia had been.

"She was drunk?" You could still taste Reynolds’ choice of wine on your lips.

"She had a reputation. For being reckless."

You looked closer at the painting and knew that Reynolds could see what you saw; there was nothing reckless and accidental on this canvas - even though it was made to look that way. The "random slashes" of paint had clean edges, clean starts and ends. They were supposed to look splattered, supposed to look like some random event or some outpouring of emotion and tragedy in an artistic medium. But just as each stroke was intentional, without a hint of accident, so was Ophelia's untimely end. 

Her death was no wine-fuelled balancing act on a balcony's edge; this painting was Lind's confession.

The threat wasn't lost on you, not for one second. Not the way you were also in the penthouse suite. How you’d eaten dinner among the skyline, inches from the edge. It was probably just for this moment. The moment when he had you alone, looking at your fate should you continue. Maybe it was all so the words could truly, devastatingly, perfectly, sink in when his low voice would challenge you from just a step behind your shoulder:

“Tell me, does a legally blind attorney really make for that good a bodyguard?"

The humourless laugh burst once through your lips before you could stop it. It was pure shock. You stuck your tongue against the inside of your cheek and directed your glare towards the uppermost part of the painting. Gathering all the confidence in you, you said, “You’d be surprised.” You turned to face him, finding him far closer than you would’ve liked. His hands were still clasped behind his back and he looked down at you curiously, victoriously, as you continued. “Some people are more perceptive than you’d think.” 

He narrowed his eyes the smallest amount, then tilted his head in thought. You didn’t dare break eye contact with him. He knew about Murdock. How much did he know? You obviously couldn’t ask him. Part of you wasn’t even that surprised, considering how many resources a man of his wealth might have. Still, here you were in his home, surrounded by his paintings, and you felt like you were looking over a very steep edge. Or, balcony. Now that he’d all but explicitly threatened to kill you and make it look like an accident. 

That same charming smile broke out across his face after you gave him nothing to read. “It’s getting rather late, don’t you think?” 

You watched his expressions for a few seconds, waiting for any sign of discomfort on his part. It didn’t come. So you nodded, not breaking your stare. Maybe you let your look linger. Maybe you played with it a bit. Maybe you were trying to gauge how tempted he could be, or appear to be. Still, nothing came. So you smiled and said, “I’ll call a cab.”

“No need,” he said, then turned and started walking away. Confounded, you started after him. “A car is outside. I look forward to reading your article.” 

Idiot. You’re an idiot. 

That’s what you told yourself over and over again as one of the house staff wordlessly led you back through the maze. Your bag was returned with your coat, the door opened for you, the elevator called. With a large slash across your dignity, you decided you hated Arthur Reynolds. 

What just happened? 

There were too many emotions slamming through your nerves, piquing every alarm bell you’d honed over the years. How could you let your guard down like that? The colours of the rooms and moments you were in all blurred together as your fight and flight responses were triggered. You had to get out of here.

Focus, just… focus.

You began trying to gather the pieces, to make sense of it all, to process why he was able to surprise you like this. You went in on high alert and he still came out with the upper hand. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Weaving through the lobbies, past the scents of the bars full of heinously expensive drinks, under chandeliers, past mahogany desks, under the cover of dim light, you got the hell out of the building as fast as humanly possible. 

After scurrying down the front steps you were flagged down by the same driver as earlier. “Ma’am!” He called as you almost walked past. It was the first time you heard him speak. His accent was Hispanic. Thick and heavy. 

You turned to him and got close enough to be assertive. “Where are you supposed to take me?” You demanded, chest heavy with anxiety. He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You looked between his eyes for any sign of malice, then your eyes flicked down to his coat. No obvious signs of a gun. He was confused. You took a step back. “No.” 

“Ma’am,” he said again, and went to open the back door. You shook your head and walked away. 

“No!” You called over your shoulder, and walked over to the rows of taxis lined up to take people home. You opened the door of a random car, but not the one closest to you. The address of your office building fumbled through your lips as you shut the door behind you.

As soon as the taxi began moving you removed the recording device from your purse. It was still on. Your pulse pounded deep in your stomach as you pressed the stop button. You’d need to download the file to your computer in order to play it back but at least you’d know for sure if what he said about the jammers was true. It would be best to check tonight, while your memory was still fresh, just in case your conversation on the balcony wasn’t taped - you’d need to write down everything you could remember so there could still be an article. 

Fuck. The article. 

You leaned forward on your elbows and placed your face in your hands, telling yourself to keep it together. But he got inside. He got past your walls. All it took was the smallest amount of vulnerability on his part and you were eating out of his hand and off his stupid thin plates. You kicked yourself for the way you’d hung on his every word. The genuine interest you had. The way you actually thought he trusted you when he let you stay around his son.

He’d played you. Effortlessly, it seemed. 

You sniffed and sat back up, looking out over the streets ablaze with Manhattan nightlife. It all became a blur through the windows of the cab. There was some tinny jazz playing through the radio. The driver was humming along. The seats had that new-car smell but- oh, yeah, that was definitely just an air freshener. Your fingers found the fraying seam of the seat cushion and you focused on everything this little world could tell you. Like he taught you. 

Him. Murdock. 

Suppressing any thoughts of calling him at the first sign of trouble, you paid and tipped your driver before exiting the cab and swiping into your office building. The recording device was still clutched in your fist. You held it tight but carefully as the elevator rose. Your fingers felt fixed to the thing but it was too risky to peel your eyes away or be driven off-course, so you ignored everything and everyone from the moment you stepped off the elevator to when you reached your office. 

Your footsteps were heavy and decisive alongside the Bull Pen. Conversations halted when some people noticed that hard and determined look in your eye but no one dared to say a thing. Vera’s own glass-sided office was on the way. She was so immersed in her own work that she didn’t notice you marching past. You didn’t have time to explain anyway. You shut the door to your office and didn’t even put your bag down before opening your laptop and plugging the recording device in. 

It took a painstaking amount of time to download the file. In reality it wasn’t more than a few minutes but it felt like hours. You paced, and ruminated, and kicked yourself over and over again for being so naive as to get surprised by him. This didn’t happen to you. Threats, sure, but not threats that caught you off-guard. 

As you were trying to pinpoint the exact moment when you let your guard down, the computer dinged to signal the file had been transferred. You almost tripped trying to get to it. 

You pulled your chair close to the desk, the arms of it clunked against the wood and shook the furniture but you clicked on the file to open it and inspect the shape of the wave forms. From the start it looked like standard dialogue audio - what you’d expect from a conversation - and towards the end it suddenly went flat. Not nothing, no, just… flat. Hovering the mouse over the file, you scrubbed the listening point until just before the line went flat.

There was the tell-tale muffled jingling and clicking of a bunch of things in a bag. In your purse, where you’d put the switched-on recording device before following Reynolds back inside for a tour of his gallery. Someone moved and carried the bag for a few seconds, there was the sound of footsteps, and then static. Just… static. A solid, steady-state white noise. It wasn’t overpowering anything - it’s all there was. 

Reynolds hadn’t been lying about the walls and the signal-jamming devices. 

You smiled, almost uncontrollably, because you knew what it meant. 

“Hey,” a knock on his office door pulled Matt from his thoughts. If Foggy, who’d knocked, had asked what got him so focused, Matt probably would’ve pulled some random case file name out of his head and rattled it off. He’d have felt guilty about it later, maybe, but it had become second-nature to lie to his best friend after all that time he lived a double life without Foggy being none the wiser. 

“Hey,” was all he replied. Foggy was silent at the door and Matt got the sense he had something on his mind, so he raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s late.” 

“It is late,” he agreed. 

“You going out tonight?” 

Matt listened for a second and determined that Karen hadn’t come back after she’d left an hour ago. He and Foggy were alone. 

“No,” Matt shook his head. “Not like that.” 

“Really? Cause you’ve got this look on your face like you want to hit someone.” Matt raised his eyebrows again and Foggy sighed. “It’s me. I’m the one you want to hit.”

“I’d never hit you, Foggy.” 

“You’re pissed about the contract.” 

Matt sighed and sat back in his seat. Yes, of course he was pissed about the contract, but it’s not like that was the whole story, so it wouldn’t be right to blame Foggy entirely for his current state. “Sure… but It’s not just that- She’s…” He sighed again and took off his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Infuriating?” 

“Yeah.”

“A total pain in the ass?”

“That too.” 

“And you can’t stop thinkin’ about her, can you?” 

Matt didn’t respond, which was a response in itself. He held a thick silence in tandem with his best friend. Foggy wasn’t going to apologise - Matt knew that he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. It’d been the right call. 

“Looking out for people is who you are, Matt.” The strap shifting over his shoulder told Matt that Foggy was ready to leave. Of course, as always, he had to drop some profound last word. Allow it to marinate while they were apart, so maybe they were joined by some thoughts. “Has it ever occurred to you that she’s not the kind of person who wants to be looked after?” After letting out a long exhale, Foggy tapped the doorframe once and said, “Night, pal.” 

Matt listened as he left. All he could hear was the silence of his phone, which still hadn’t said your name.

Your one-bedroom apartment was small but you had no complaints about it. You’d had alright experiences with roommates, though after sharing a home with particularly pedantic graphic designer named Mindy for an agonising year, you swore off sharing your living space. Even if it meant you’d be confined to a studio apartment with a cockroach problem for all of eternity. Thankfully, your job paid well enough and you got enough freelance gigs on the side, that you could afford a modest one-bedroom place just outside Manhattan.

It didn’t take too long to get home, unless it was rush-hour. Late on a Tuesday evening, less than ten minutes after leaving your office you could be walking in the front lobby of your building.

It towed the line between cramped and cozy, leaning towards cozy thanks to the furniture an interior-designed friend from college helped you find and arrange. The hardwood floors and high ceilings were added bonuses of the clean, relatively pest-free space. The kitchen had been renovated right before you’d moved in so it now featured a granite countertop island, polished gold fittings and brand new plumbing which hadn’t failed you yet. 

Most importantly, it was yours. 

So on nights like tonight, when all you wanted was a place to feel safe and settled, it greeted you with open arms when you put the key in the lock and pressed forward inside. Immediately setting your bags down on a stylish wood and metal table that sat beneath a barely-used key hook and a large mirror with a vintage golden frame, you locked the door behind you, switched on the lights, and made your way to the fridge to pull out a half-finished bottle of wine and take a swig directly from it. Unnecessary dishes be damned. Take that, Mindy. 

After another sip, you set the bottle down and made your way to your room to throw on a comfortable set of sweats and get to work on writing out your thoughts. You picked up your clutch on your way and fished in it for your phone, checking to see if anyone had called between the cab and now. Or, not anyone. Him. He still hadn’t. 

An instinctive hand met the light switch just inside your bedroom as you pushed the door open even further. The warm white light filled the room and something in your peripherals immediately caught your attention. You looked up, then dropped your bag from shock as that now-shaking hand flew to your mouth.

It took everything in you not to scream. 

Matt turned his cellphone over in his hand and wondered if it had lost charge. He knew it hadn’t, but he wished a dead battery was the reason you hadn’t called. Maybe you were still there. With Reynolds. Maybe you would be there for several more hours. What if you stayed until the morning? Matt put his phone down so he wouldn’t crush it, and he tried to stop torturing himself with the far-fetched thought. 

As if it were a lesson in ‘a watched pot never boils,’ the moment he placed his phone down and began wondering if he should don his bulletproof suit and break into Reynolds’ penthouse to find you, the device vibrated harshly against his desk. His heart beat harder and his hand was around the phone less than a second after the first declaration of your name.

“Hi,” he answered, trying to sound casual and unbothered. Instead of greeting him back, your voice sounded rattled.

"A-are you still at your office?"

Matt planted a hand on his desk and stood to his feet. "What's wrong?"

You were silent on the line, trying to form the words to explain the horrifying scene before you, not really understanding how you would even begin to describe the horror show you'd been met with when you walked in your bedroom door.

"Uh… Reynolds. He- he had someone break into my apartment."

"What?! Are you hurt?"

"No," you breathed out, feeling that familiar grip around your windpipe the longer you looked at the gift he left you. "I- um, I wasn't here.”

“Good, good,” you heard him sigh in relief. "Did they take anything?"

"Nuh-no," you stuttered, crouching to pick up the bag you’d dropped and slowly back out of your room. "It's what they left that's the problem."

There, right in front of you, above the white comforter you settled into each night, hanging from the wall with all her beauty and pain finding her resting place above your bed, was Ophelia's End.

It took a hell of a lot of convincing on your part to make sure Murdock didn’t jump in a cab and race through the streets to meet you. He was unwilling to let you be alone after you said you’d explain more later. In order to stop him from doing anything rash you agreed to meet him at his office and keep him on the line until you were there. You couldn’t say you were mad at the overprotectiveness, since your heartbeat was still racing dangerously. 

His low, grazed voice came through the line every minute or two. “You still there?”

You’d feel an emotional smile pull at one side of your lips, and reply, “I’m still here.”

You threw a haphazard selection of clothing into a night bag, along with your toiletry pouch, all the while trying to simultaneously avoid and desensitise yourself to the painting which hung above your bed. It was sickening to have it so close. It was unnaturally large and it demanded attention, yet, until now, had stayed hidden in the depths of Arthur Reynolds’ penthouse abode. Laurent was right. It looked better with the proper lighting.

“What’s happening?” 

“Almost done. I’m still here.”

It all happened so fast. Your mind was racing and attempting grabs at concrete thoughts while your subconscious took care of what needed to be done. Before you knew it, you were out on the street hailing a taxi with several bags in your hands. You were still in the navy dress from dinner and the straps of the heels were beginning to become noticeable. Murdock was still on the line when you slid into the backseat, even though you two weren’t talking much so he wouldn’t distract you from doing what you needed to do. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah. Still here.”

The cab was mostly silent except for the reggae playing through the fuzzy car radio. Towards the end of the ride, the driver made eye contact in the rearview mirror and said, “All dressed up, ma’am. Somethin’ special on tonight?”

You smiled kindly and shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Well you have a good night now,” he nodded in thanks for the $20 you put in his hand with a small mutter to keep the change. Then, you were once again outside the offices of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. 

You took a deep breath, which you then held in your chest as you saw the front door of the building swing open and Murdock emerge. His look of both worry and relief was stark under the light from the lampposts bordering the stone staircase up to the front door. Laurent would think this light suited him. He released a tense breath and lowered the phone from his ear. You also relinquished your breath and took steps towards him, immediately feeling meek and out of place. 

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologise, please, it’s-”

“-I didn’t know who else to call,” you rushed to explain as you ascended the steps, trying to justify why he was the safest person you knew - someone you, in fact, barely knew. You finally stood on the landing before him and let your shoulders drop their tension.

Matt listened to result of the myriad of things which were currently making your heart race. He didn’t expect to feel the way he did; relieved, that you felt safe enough to find shelter in him again, to have you standing in front of him alive and in-tact, albeit scared out of your mind in a way you were yet to fully admit with words. He gripped his walking stick and used his other hand to reach out, find your shoulder and then slip his hand behind it to usher you inside, through the hallways, up the stairs.

“Tell me everything.” He finally said as you two made your way into his private office inside the firm. 

You threw your bag down on the floor and then slumped down onto his couch. That couch. The lights were off, obvious as to why, but enough light from the clouded street lamps siphoned through the windows, through the blinds, casting lined shadows across the floor. You looked up at him. Passing cars and filtered light from nearby windows peeked through gaps and danced across his face in something striking and beautiful. 

He was beautiful. In any light, and in none at all. 

You stood up in front of him and resisted the urge to kiss him, though the gentleness of the moment dared to lull you into a trance. 

“We had dinner,” you started. Matt listened as your fingertips played against each other. You were wearing a different perfume tonight and this all felt so different from a mere few nights ago. Yet, he still had that inexplicable desire to pull you into his arms. To feel your skin beneath his fingers and your pulse beneath his breath.

Foggy was right to make him sign that possibility away; Matt could feel the magnetism of your attraction and knew you were both craving a distraction. 

“It was fine,” you said honestly. “He was a gentleman. Charming, polite…” you trailed off and bit the inside of your cheek. “We talked about his work, his charities, his passions. He asked me about mine. It felt natural,” you admitted. Murdock was silent, prompting you to continue. “He then asked to show me his art collection and there was this one… Ophelia’s End,” you sighed, feeling stupid. “Olivier Lind painted it after his fiancée fell to her death from their penthouse apartment. The police ruled it an accident but he just got away with it because he’s rich and they couldn’t prove anything.” 

Matt felt his brow lower. “So he showed you a painting,” he repeated. 

Indignation rose in your chest at his question. He’s a lawyer, you reminded yourself. He’s gathering facts. He’s not questioning your… is he? “Yes,” you sniffed. “A painting that depicted a murder made to look like an accident.” 

“And this is the only painting he showed you?” 

“No, he-” You folded your arms across your chest. “No. But it was the one he made a point of.” You saw Murdock’s forehead knit in confusion. He was clearly trying to work out why this was such a big deal. So you finished the puzzle. “It was hanging above my bed when I got home.” 

His demeanour changed in an instant. All his doubt, dissipated. He stood taller and his jaw rippled as it clenched tight. He stepped past you and placed an iron grip on the door handle. Your hand was on top of his in a second. 

Now… this was interesting. His instinct was to act. He was capable of acting. 

Strange, for a blind man to hold so much confidence in a movement to do something he shouldn’t be able to do. 

“Murdock.” 

He heard the way you said his name, and it was a challenge. Your hand on top of his felt more like burning curiosity than an attempt at stopping him, which made him remember what you knew. More, remember what you didn’t know. His instinct to go, to take action, had been noticed. Of course it had. Of course you had.

Something conflicted was brewing beneath his skin. You could feel it in the way his grip around the door handle waned. He turned his head, his face only inches from yours. His upper arm was tense, pressed against your chest, but then relaxed and fell to his side. He didn’t move to step away, so you didn’t either. There was helplessness in him. He wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t. Could he?

A million excuses for him to leave rolled to the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them all. He wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t do so without letting you in. 

“You’re staying with me.”

“I can afford a hotel,” you said. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“For what?”

“Sex.”

“Who said anything about sex?”

“Well, what else would it be?” You shot back. It didn’t feel right to direct everything you were feeling at him, but he was here, and he should know the kind of person you were. Not the person who deserved his help or kindness.

“I pulled you into this mess,” Matt breathed out, holding out his hands before dropping them in defeat. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“No,” you shook your head. “It was my decision to get involved. No one makes me do anything.”

“That’s for sure,” he let out a tense breath, and you cracked a sad smile. You leaned down to pick up your bag, still conflicted about leaving.

“I’ll be okay.”

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and watched as he stood silently, mulling something over. Half-expecting him to argue further, you reached for the door. The handle was pulled from your fingers as his hand planted against the frosted pane and forcefully shut the door with something just shy of a slam. You turned to face him, partially boxed between the wood, his body, and his arm.

“Is this what you wanted? Hmm?” He demanded. You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued. “For me to prove I care? For me to stop you?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Bullshit.”

Pricks of blush sprung up beneath your cheeks as you swallowed and took in a shaky breath. “We can’t do this. You could get disbarred.” 

Matt’s demeanour softened, he licked his parted lips, “It’s not-…” and he sighed as he took in the question, the hurt and the fear in your words. Matt’s heart ached at the lingering thought that it may have been far too long since someone asked for your company for any other reason than sex. What was worse, he got the feeling you felt like you didn’t deserve any better than that.

Your turned your head a little when the hand planted on the door you were backed against slid down and met your shoulder. He slipped his fingers under the strap and relieved you of the bag, tossing it off to the side. Your heart quickened as he took a step closer, already feeling the peace of his closeness. 

Well, if he doesn’t care about his law licence… you thought as you anticipated the feeling of his lips on yours and his fingers tangling through your hair. You didn’t come here for that, but at least you’d be able to feel his strength and safety around you tonight. 

He stepped closer, but he didn’t kiss you. 

His hand moved across your shoulder to cradle the back of your neck, his other slipped over your waist and travelled up to the centre of your back as he pulled you into him. If you’d had any words, you were sure you would have stuttered them out. He was just... holding you. 

Slowly, you wrapped one arm around his waist and leaned forward, onto your toes, to slip your other arm over his shoulder. He held you tighter, letting out a deep breath through his nose as you held him closer in turn.

The comfort was immeasurable, the feeling of it all somewhat overwhelming. Armoured cars, private security packing heat, a four-star General for a father and self-defences classes all paled in comparison to the indescribable safety found in a dark law office, wrapped in the arms of Matt Murdock. 

You knew you were in trouble in so, so many ways. Yes, there was a billionaire who threatened to kill you but here you were falling hard and fast for someone you felt a million miles away from. Even though you could hear his heartbeat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that so much of him was hidden from everyone. Hidden from you. 

“I’m a little scared,” you whispered your half-confession against his shoulder.

He squeezed the back of your neck before splaying his hand and running it down your back. “I know.” He pulled away, and you instantly longed to step forward and back into his arms. The saving grace was the hand he placed at your jaw, his stare focused on a place just below your eyes. “Stay with me. Just for tonight.”

Matt knew he needed you tonight. If you weren’t in his apartment he‘d put on that suit and Reynolds’ face would end up like something he could only imagine would grace one of his disgusting gallery walls. Not unlike the one hanging above your bed, warning you to tread carefully. He felt the urge to kiss you, he could hear your pulse begging for it, feel your eyes on his lips, but it didn’t feel like the right time.

“Okay,” you whispered, then cleared your throat and nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Matt nodded back and then knelt to pick up your bags. “Let’s go.” 

Sleeping separately didn’t feel necessary considering the somber cloud that’d fallen over you both on the ride back to Murdock’s loft. 

You, with the threats and the questions. Him, with the pining and the answers. Ironically in sync, you two wrestled in tandem with your inner desires and better judgements, doubting and hoping this could one day come to fruition. 

It was an easy break from thoughts of Reynolds and his impenetrable reputation, to reminisce on mere days ago when you thought Murdock’s air of mystery was a facet of his charm. But you’d never liked the mysteries no one had ever solved. The cold cases - they made you angry. They made your teeth grind and set you on the edge of your seat. You avoided them like reasonable people avoided the plague. 

You had the terrible feeling that Murdock would be your cold case; the thing you looked back on in thirty years as the cypher you never solved. It was sure to haunt you worse than any threat could. 

His sheets were still as soft and they smelt clean, fresh and inviting. They cooled your skin as you slipped into them, and they quickly warmed by the pleasant glow of two bodies expelling their heat, energy, and final waking breaths. His, at least. You couldn’t quite fall over the ledge. 

So after what felt like several hours of his steady breathing nearly lulling you into something resembling readiness to sleep, you cut your losses and turned your thoughts to the files in your bag that you’d left on his couch. 

The cold hardwood bit at your feet while you snuck as quietly as possible out of his bedroom. Your eyes had adjusted so there was no need for any lights, especially since the neon billboard across the alley had apparently been reserved for some drink brand all through the night. It wasn’t too erratic in movement so it was almost pleasant to have the purple light pouring through the windows. 

It was easy to get lost in, as was the research you started doing on your laptop. You poured over facts you’d already read, and- 

"Can't sleep?"

You flinched in place when his voice pulled you from your trance. “Jeez, Murdock.” Placing a hand over your wildly beating heart, you then sighed and pushed the hair away from your face. "Guess not."

He knew better than to try convincing you to come back to bed, or to at least not attempt to hide your worry from him, but he knew that was a useless course of conversation. The only way you'd be back there is if he threw you over his shoulder and forced you to abandon the laptop he'd heard you clicking away at. Which, if he allowed his mind to wander, he's pretty sure you'd enjoy a little too much. Another time. Certainly not now.

"Coffee?"

"No, you..." You sighed and hung your head, doing your best to not let your lack of sleep turn into a whip that would crack in his direction. "You should go back to sleep. Don't worry about me."

"I have a contentious relationship with sleep," he said, crossing the living room and into the kitchen. Your gaze followed him as he did, and you squinted a bit.

"You slept just fine on Friday night."

"I was a little worn out," he remarked with a smart lilt to his voice. The one that told you he was fighting a smile. You? You didn't fight your smile as well as he did. "Don't get me wrong, you're exasperating, but not to the point of exhaustion."

"Exhaustion?" You laughed. "That's a strong word for Friday night."

He half-grinned as he pulled a french press and a brown paper carton bag of ground coffee onto the bench. He had an electric kettle, which you didn't see all too often, but maybe it was safer for someone like him. Then again, nothing about him made you feel like he was in any way less able than you. If anything, definitely more able.

Instead of addressing your quip, he asked you what you were doing.

"The painting he put in my apartment is worth over six hundred thousand," you told him. "I obviously don't want the painting and I certainly don't want to pay taxes on it."

"New York doesn't have a gift tax," Matt explained as he poured a ballpark amount of coffee into the glass plunger. 

The second you mentioned the painting, he heard the way your heart began to beat just that much faster. Fair, considering the freshness of the shock. But there was more. Something sinister tainted the air. He heard the unmistakable sound of your nervous swallow, and the undeniable care with which you tried to conceal your anxiety.

"Is a threat a gift?"

Matt would have laughed at the humour you tried to put into your voice - at the way you tried to make it seem like a lighthearted joke - but he’d read enough cases, sat in enough courtrooms and met with enough women to understand how many of them used an edge of humour in an effort to not come across as dramatic. 

So he lowered his voice and answered your question. The water in the bottom of the kettle began a hissing bubbling in his peripherals. "Assuming you didn't exchange any funds while you were there, anything he could misrepresent as a payment or even a partial payment for the painting, you're in the clear. And six hundred thousand dollars richer."

"Hmm," you chuckled once, then shook your head. "Maybe it was a bribe. I'll see what my accountant says. 

To you, the room may have been relatively quiet. To Matt, he could still hear your heartbeat, your unsteady breathing, the water was coming to a boil now, Mrs Gonzales was asleep but she’d left her TV on. Again. That leaky pipe in apartment 312 still hadn’t been fixed, your finger moved so fast around the trackpad, the wooden chair creaked as you adjusted and- ding! The kettle was done. 

Matt left you to your distractions and let the water and coffee combine in that magical way. He wondered what to say. He knew what he wanted to ask but he wondered if it would be too far. Then again, you’d never seemed like a closed-off person. Not to him, anyway. Which didn’t seem fair to you, that here you were sitting at his kitchen table less than thirty feet away from a trunk in the closet that held New York’s greatest secret since Tony Stark revealed he was Iron Man through a mouthful of cheeseburger. 

He walked over slowly, then placed the cup down beside your hand. He heard your head tilt up, no doubt with questions of where his walking stick was and why he even bothered with it. You didn’t ask, though, so maybe you assumed he knew his home well enough to fare without it. Perhaps it was a lie of omission to not tell you. So were a lot of things. 

You watched as Murdock took the seat next to you with an unspoken question written all over his face. “What?” You asked softly, sliding your hand around the mug. 

“Will you describe it to me?” 

You raised your eyebrows. “The painting?” 

He nodded. “I want to understand. What you saw. What he said.” 

And so you told him the lead-up. You told him about Ophelia. He heard your fingers swipe around your laptop as you recounted some article on her “accidental” death, and then you explained the gruesome art of it all. 

“The base of the canvas is a dark, grainy, grey. Like asphalt. It wasn’t hyper-realistic but you’d know what it is if you knew the story. The perspective was a birds-eye view, like someone painted it from above. But there was this… this movement to the piece that could only be captured by someone who watched the scene unfold. Lind doesn’t deny he was there, so that makes sense.” You’d said that last sentence in a voice barely above a whisper. 

Against better judgement, Matt reached out and placed his hand over yours. He heard your heart pound for one or two seconds, and then settle. Relax. Because of him. Oh, he was in trouble. 

“Then, um- …the colours,” you started regaining your composure. It was nearly four in the morning. You hadn’t slept. He didn’t blame you for your faltering words. “Dark reds and browns, splashes of this grotesque off-pink and flecks of shattered white. Some muted purples. All of it… flayed. Like a beautiful thing broken open. Like a final act of destruction. He wanted to destroy her. He didn’t even let her die as herself. You’d think that such a scene would emit chaos but it didn’t- it… it was so clinical. Ordered and intentional. I’d bet my new six-hundred-thousand dollar fortune that Lind murdered Ophelia.” 

Matt squeezed your hand when he heard your mouth curl into a wry smile at the mention of your small windfall. It was a grasp at some kind of humour, or a lightening of the mood, but it didn’t feel right. And it didn’t feel like you. 

“He knew I’d know what he was saying, I know it sounds crazy,” you rushed to justify yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic.”

“You’re afraid,” Matt said to you. You scoffed and then let out the rest of your breath. 

“A little,” you conceded. “But more than that, I’m angry. I’m fired up, and all I want is to wipe that smug look off his face and every last dollar from his bank account.” 

Murdock squeezed your hand again and then took a sip of his own coffee. The hand holding yours was strong and steadfast, warm and dependable. You were then faced with the uncomfortable reality that you did not want him to let go. 

So you did, before he could. 

You wrapped your hands around your mug and took a sip of the fresh, hot coffee. It was perfect and invigorating, the ideal companion to the fire now stoked in your belly. “We can do this,” you declared. Murdock tilted his head and you caught a glimpse of those dangerously inviting brown eyes of his. “He wouldn’t threaten me if there was nothing. People don’t go to those lengths if there’s nothing to hide. He showed his hand.” 

Matt’s stomach flipped with the idea of you staying involved in this, even after Reynolds made it obvious he could get to you in your sleep. There was no sign of wavering in your ironlike statement, however, so he knew it was a choice between working alongside you or working against you. At least if he was by your side he had a better chance of keeping you safe. That was much more favourable than posting the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen on a nearby rooftop to listen for any threats. 

So he said, “Where to from here?” 

“I keep digging, you keep trying to get Avery acquitted.” He heard your smile grow with the realisation that he wasn’t fighting you. “We can do this, Murdock,” you said again, this time he could feel the way you truly believed it. 

He half-grinned. “You have a nice smile.” 

You were silent for a moment, perhaps collecting yourself and trying not to blush. “Shut up, you wouldn’t know that,” you muttered, drawing the mug back to your lips. 

“I can hear it,” he motioned to his own mouth as he smiled. “In your voice. It’s nice.” 

The hot coffee jarred your senses once again, as did the pulse of abashment which swarmed through your chest and into your cheeks. You cleared your throat as you set the coffee back down and gave him a level look, since apparently he could hear your expressions. “You shouldn’t do that.”

He smiled wider, his voice still soft. “Do what?”

“Saying things like that will get you fired.” 

He chuckled and held his hands up in surrender, quietly satisfied that you were just as frustrated by the inability to act on your desire as he was. Maybe it wasn’t fair to flirt with you and tempt your resolve but he had the feeling you’d be doing the exact same in no time. 

You noticed your heartbeat, the way you felt drawn into his atmosphere and the sudden dryness of your mouth. Fuck, this would be hard. But how much more amazing would it be to finally have him once you’d won. If he still wanted you then. Hopefully. Though, since he’d just opened the door for skirting the lines of temptation, maybe you’d flirt back and make it hard for him too. 

Desperate to end the moment before it became too difficult to turn back, you turned back to your computer and clicked on the waiting tab that held a record of the owners of Ophelia’s End. “Let’s see who he bought this from,” you cleared your throat. “There’s an ownership directory and maybe there’ll be a hint in who he doesn’t business with so...”

You’d actually stopped breathing when you trailed off. Matt’s senses pricked. The shift of the energy in the room brought the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. You’d seen something, and you were putting a piece in place. After several seconds, he couldn’t bear to not be let in. 

“What?” 

“Ophelia’s End, he… I think bought it under his ex-wife's name," you said. “First name of the most recent buyer is Isabel.” You scrambled to open a new tab. “I know she took his name and used it when she broke into the socialite side of high fashion, cause everyone knows her as Izzy Reynolds but- fuck. Here!” Your finger jutted at the screen. Murdock’s eyebrows raised. "This directory of ownership says it was purchased by Isabel Branson. That’s her maiden name."

Matt froze. You froze. 

If you'd had hearing as good as his you were sure you would've heard the cogs in your heads turning at a break-neck speed. 

That name.

"Branson."

You said it at the same time. 

Then, you raced to your bag on the couch and pulled out the stack of files you'd made to copy at Nelson and Murdock's text to braille printer. Leafing through in the mix of dim lamps and purple light pouring through from the neon billboard, you started taking out the pages with the last name Branson on it.

"How many?"

"Four so far. Make it five. M. Branson."

"I thought her name was Isabel."

"They have a son named Malcolm."

"What?"

"It has to be him."

“Wait, they have a child?” 

You grunted as the papers slipped and shuffled. “Yeah.”

"And you didn't think to tell me this sooner?"

"I just found out during dinner when the kid came bursting through the door," you muttered, laying down three more pages each with a company invested in by M. Branson. "I told Arthur I wouldn't say anything. He keeps his kid hidden for a reason."

"Arthur?"

"What, is that a problem?" You challenged, pausing to underscore your annoyance. Now was not the time for this conversation. "That I call him by his first name?"

His fingers around his mug twitched, as did his jaw. "You don't call me Matt."

"It's not that deep," you sniffed, continuing to leaf through the pages until you'd gotten them all. “Eleven,” you breathed out, looking at the stack in your hand before tossing it down on the table by which you stood. “Almost a quarter of these companies and it’s Reynolds investing as his son. Why? Why wouldn’t he put his own name on these shares?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Tax evasion? Hiding assets? Money-laundering?” You ran your hands over your head and then let them both drop to your side. “This is something, right? Tell me it’s something.” 

“It’s strange.” 

You huffed, then shook your head. “Okay, well I’ll take that. Thank you,” you dripped sarcastically. “What can we do?” 

There was a clear and obvious answer at the forefront of Matt’s mind. The more he tried to come up with another solution, the more it seemed like the only viable option. He listened to you pace around the living room, both of you deep in thought. He longed to jump inside your head, to calm you, to hold you again and say it would be alright and he could handle it from here. But there was no way you’d back down, so he had to say it out loud.

“Fisk,” he spoke with reluctance. You turned to him. “He’ll need to be brought down like Fisk.”

“I agree,” you replied slowly, remembering the fanfare of Fisk’s trail mere months ago. “But we’ll need hard evidence to convince the state to charge him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Your brow lowered in thought. If not by the law, then- “Then what-”

Then, you realised.

Your head shook before you could stop it. “You can’t mean…”

He elaborated and confirmed your suspicions. “You said yourself there was no way the cops brought down Fisk without Daredevil.”

“Yeah, but-”

“We could leak information to him.”

“How?”

“Put the word out on the street.”

“How?”

He cocked his head and smirked wryly, trying to bring a little humour into the situation himself. “Not all my clients are innocent.” You groaned in discontent and shook your head. Your mind raced to list every possible thing that could go wrong with this plan. Murdock kept talking. “There are several people who owe me a favour, I could-”

“No, Murdock,” you winced and planted your hands on the back of his couch. Your hands gripped the worn leather, your body and mind conflicted by your knee-jerk defiance. You turned around to face him, to reason with him, “If he’s out there in back alleys beating the shit out of people to get dirt on the richest man in New York, how long do you think it’ll take for it to get back to Reynolds that someone else is onto him?”

“He won’t link it back to you.”

“I’m not worried about me; he knows who you are too.”

“What?”

You scoffed a sarcastic laugh, rolling your eyes as you remembered Reynolds’ words. The scoff was to distract yourself from remembering the chill that ran down your spine when: “He asked how good of a bodyguard you could be, considering you’re a visually impaired lawyer.”

“You can say blind.”

“Do you know Daredevil’s identity?”

Matt didn’t know whether his heart wanted to beat wildly or grind to a halt, but he felt himself noticeably flinch at your unexpected question. Which is maybe why you asked it like that. Suddenly. He exhaled slowly, picking up on the way you were keenly watching. He closed his eyes and he heard the beginning of the words form deep in your bones where you held your most sacred truths. Even though he already knew it was your sentiment, it scathed something delicate and new to hear it said out loud:

“I don’t want to know who he is.”

He turned his head away you. He couldn’t bear to show you his face, not completely anyway. He laughed sadly and let the sound of a minor car collision two blocks away bring his face more away from you, more towards the city he made an internal oath to protect. “I thought you wanted to know everything.”

“Not this,” you whispered. “I can’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what the line is.” You took a gentle step towards him, and twisted the knife. “The line between vigilante and criminal has always been blurry.” You turned the blade again. “I don’t know how many people he’d have to hurt for me to turn him in, knowing what Fisk would have people do to his family. That shouldn’t be up to me.”

“Why would it be?” He turned to face you, betrayal lacerating his voice.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Did he really not understand? This man who could hear your deepest fears in the shallowest breaths and feel the pain of long-past torn muscles beneath your skin - how could he not understand?

“Because that’s what I do. It’s who I am. I reveal truth, I don’t hide it. I… I thought you-”

“I do understand.”

“I thought you agreed. I thought the truth mattered to you.”

He clenched his jaw. “It does.”

“More than anything?” 

Matt opened his mouth but just sighed and shook his head in confusion, shrugging along the way.

You pressed him. “What could be more important?”

Matt was confronted with the urge to unleash the reality of all he’d ever done into your open arms. To argue through disheveled justifications that every lie he’d ever told to was to protect and preserve life. Life, was more important than truth. In order to protect life, compromises must be made. Examples must be made of those who’d dared to threaten it.

How could you not understand that?

This woman who’d burst into his life full of uncompromising, unapologetic tenacity. How many hours of sleep had you already lost to his problems? How much longer would you stay, obviously unsatisfied by his apparent unwillingness to let you in?

It scared him to know that he would tell you everything if that’s what it took.

He’d open that chest in the bottom of his wardrobe and place that bulletproof mask in your hands. He’d guide your fingertips over the ridges, over the scales and horns. All his secrets, so willingly spilled through his fingers would seep into your skin and you’d understand. He’d help you understand. 

He’d help you know.

Therein lay the problem. Here, as he wanted nothing more than to hold you in his arms, to breathe in the desire you felt and the peace you gave and took, he knew there was half of him you never wanted to know. So as recompense for all the truth he’d never be able to give you, he answered your question with resolute honesty. 

What was more important that truth?

“Justice.”

The single word landed softer than you thought it would. Maybe because you were prepared for it. You could hardly say it was disappointing or surprising, considering his career path. Still, you hadn’t pegged him as the type to sympathise with vigilantes. You sighed and closed your eyes before rubbing them roughly, feeling your fatigue creep into your peripheral vision and your legs start to sway you where you stood.

Sensing you were on an brink, overtired and wired, Matt stood up from the table. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, bringing your gaze to him. He walked over and tentatively reached out, finding either side of your upper arms. He felt you shake your head, obviously knowing what he was about to say. 

“No,” you said. 

“You should try to get some sleep.” 

“No,” you said again, shaking your head once more. 

He didn’t give any signs of annoyance, anything that would antagonise or patronise you, he just said, “Please. There was a threat on your life, you can’t pretend everything is business as usual.” 

“People have threatened my life before-”

“I can feel your fear.” His voice was a low rumble travelling through you. “The way you’re holding your tension.” You relaxed your arms, but you supposed that just proved his point, so you opened your mouth to argue. He continued, “I can hear it in your voice. The conflict. It’s different this time. Why?”

“Because I… I actually started to trust him and I-”

You stopped thinking about pulling away and lifted your head to look up at where he wore a good and decent disposition. And it hit you like a ton of bricks. 

You trusted him. Murdock. 

And that was the problem.

Trusting someone too soon is exactly how you got a convulsive canvas stretched above your bed. Letting your guard down is how a fucking painting was allowed in to terrorise your mind. That never would’ve happened if you’d reminded yourself that the people you investigate shouldn’t be trusted. But here you were, prone. Distracted. In his house and under his hands, yet again. Allowing him to feel intimate things like skin and fear. All of these feelings were a dangerous distraction. 

Thank god for Nelson and his stupid contract. 

Beginning to bury thoughts of “what if” and “maybe one day,” you started to shift the narrative. To build the world that would protect you. You reminded yourself that, when it came to Murdock, the questions were quickly outweighing the answers and you got the feeling he wasn’t willing to balance the scales. Whether that was because of you or him didn’t matter. 

What mattered, in this world, is that you could feel a cavern of well-kept secrets below the surface of his skin. You could hear it in the words he avoided. You’d tasted everything unsaid. What a fool he was, to teach you to observe and to build the world with more than just sight. Because now you knew: his world was impenetrable. Fortified by a lifetime of making the decision to lay brick after brick of a wall so high maybe he thought it would reach his God. 

“He fooled me,” was all you said to finish your sentence, before hardening your stare so you could feel yourself regain control. “Besides, you just gave me caffeine,” you reminded him with a dry laugh, then pulled away to walk past him. Your shoulder brushed his as you made the steps to take your place back at the table. The chair legs scraped against the wooden floor yet again, and you began to get back to work. “I’m not stopping until I figure out what he’s up to.”

There was a shift in the atmosphere between you two. A cool emptiness left hanging where you once stood right next to him. 

Matt listened for a few moments to see if you’d change your mind. There was no hesitance behind your decision. Instead, there was something more determined. Like how you sounded the first half a dozen times you’d met each other. 

Maybe you could sense the wall he’d put up to protect his other self from falling prey to your deductive skills, and maybe you’d taken it as a sign that he wasn’t being honest with you. He wasn’t sure. Whatever had happened, sometime between Monday and now, you’d decided that he’d gotten too close. 

It wouldn’t be fair to question why you were pushing him away when he was keeping half of himself hidden. Your entire life was about the pursuit of truth, digging for facts, uncovering the hidden realities of everything and everyone you encountered. If he were to believe the best in your capabilities, which he did, he’d have to assume you could feel the devil in him even if you had no idea what you were feeling. 

So he took his seat, picked up his documents, swallowed his languishing, and wondered if Arthur Reynolds had any idea what was in store for him. 

It seemed unthinkable that someone could even dream of taking down a man as powerful, loved and revered as Reynolds. He was sacrosanct. Supposedly untouchable. Yet, there you were. 

The laws of nature and of paradox dictated that if an unstoppable force exists then an immovable object could not. You told Matt you would not stop until Arthur Reynolds had fallen from grace, and you told the truth.

So Reynolds would be moved. 

Hell, he’d be destroyed. 

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[profoundtyrantharmony]

Hi everyone !! Does anyone of you know some youtuber!reader // blogger!reader // vlogger!reader // journalist!reader with loki, thor, steve, bucky or poly ? Can be on Tumblr AO3 or even Wattpad 😉

I searched but didn't find a lot, maybe you could help 😊

Thanks a lot, please reblog so more people can see 🤗🥰

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[luvhughes43]

is it over now? | jack hughes

part two of the beginning

au masterlist⭐️

note: i switched to first person pov for this story just to test it out. Inbox me if you’d want to go back to 3rd person.

warnings: pregnancy, birth

word count: 4.7k

the doctors waiting room is cold and uninviting. i stare up at all the pregnancy posters that litter the walls, and soon my gaze falls to all the mothers and all the fathers. they all sit, talking quietly amongst themselves. the women are gorgeously radiant, and if this were any other time i’d compare their beauty to mine. 

instead, i linger on the way they interact with their husbands, boyfriends, whatever. small touches, whispers, and smiles all burn into my mind like a useless cd. 

“y/n l/n?” a nurse in all blue interrupts my thoughts, she gestures for me to follow her and i do. 

like the waiting room, the small room i’m brought into is cold. i wonder briefly what jacks doing right now. if he had gotten my message or if he’s still asleep. i try to imagine his reaction but i can’t bring myself to conjure up an accurate depiction of him. everything is off - and i fear if i keep trying to imagine this man who’s not my jack, that i’ll somehow forget the real one. 

“we’re just going to do some tests, all very basic things. i need to know your medical history, and i’ll have to do a complete physical assessment,” a doctor walks into the room, clipboard in hand. she doesn’t look at me as she speaks, but I absentmindedly nod to her words anyway. 

“Okay so, is this your first pregnancy?” the doctor asks. 

“Yes” i nod.

“And, do you have any medical history I should be aware of? Past procedures, family history, etc” the doctor looks up from their notes and i pause. 

“Uh, i -” my cell phone buzzes in my purse and i quickly reach for it. Its a notification from sephora, something about how there’s a last minute sale and that i should buy some overpriced body spray. 

“I had my tonsils taken out when I was five, but other than that i’ve had no other procedures” my words come out shaky, as if i’m confused. i turn my phone over again, willing for another notification to pop up. It’s 11:40am, and jack is definitely awake by now. 

the doctor calls a nurse in to prep for the examination. everythings a blur as i lean back. the nurse, short with reddish-blonde hair, has to ask me to lift up the bottom of my shirt twice. 

“And if you look over here, this is where your baby is,” the doctor is confident in her speech as she shifts the little wand around my stomach. 

the appointment was nightmarish. 

the nurse sent me home with a little packet of information sheets, all different colours and all about different things. i don’t want to look at them, so i shove them into the bottom of my purse when i get out of the office. 

⋆ ★

vivienne always made sure to wake up an hour before jack. she liked to make herself a fancy coffee with her espresso machine, and she liked to plan out her events for the day. she had decided that they’d go to the grocery store sometime before noon, hit the mall for an outfit to wear to dinner, and then of course dinner with viviennes friends at 7. 

after her coffee, Vivienne tiptoed her way back into her bedroom. she was proud of the fact that Jack liked to stay here. she made sure her bedding was always fresh and clean when he was over, and she made sure to spray a little bit of her perfume on his pillows so he’d get used to falling asleep to the scent of her. 

Vivienne grabbed a hold of Jack's phone on his nightstand, and slowly slid it off the side of the table and into the palm of her hand. she turned it over, bombarded with the amount of notifications that littered his phone screen. she slid up, quickly typing his passcode. she had to be mindful of her next moves. she didn’t have long to do her routine digging. 

“It’s not really fair for you to be with vivienne if you still have feelings for y/n”

“will you drop it? you were the one who told me to go for viv”

“Jack-”

“No! Dawson, you were the one who begged me to move on. I am. What happened with me and y/n-"Jack cuts himself off. “what happened.. It’s done now. leave me alone” 

Vivienne recalled the conversation she overheard a few weeks ago and she couldn’t shake it from her mind. So, she did what any girlfriend would do and searched the girls username on instagram. 

She hadn’t thought y/n would be any type of problem in hers and Jack's relationship. That was until Jack and Vivienne were laying in bed, with Jack wanting to show Vivienne a picture he had taken a while ago on a roadie. He was scrolling past his photo albums when she saw it. The “it” being a photo album titled “❤️” filled with pictures of jack and y/n at art galleries and whatnot. 

Ynuser: 1 dm request

Accept | Delete

Vivienne clicked onto the dm, and when she saw the words pregnant and yours her blood ran cold. She angled her body away from Jack, and with his reassuring snores clouding her mind, she reread the dm again. 

Jack, I don't even know how to tell you this. It doesn’t feel right. But, I took a pregnancy test and it came back positive. I’ve booked an appointment with my obgyn for tomorrow and they’re going to confirm the test for me. You're the only person that I've been with since we’ve gotten together so it’s for sure yours. If you need a paternity test or anything at all just let me know and we can sort it out. Please reach out and we can talk about this in person. I’m sorry.

“Fuck” Vivienne cursed as she clicked Jacks phone off. She turned around and stared at the man in question while debating her options. 

Letting Jack find the message on his own was the most obvious answer but… would he still want to be with her when he found out about the baby? If it even is his, Vivienne rolled her eyes at the thought. 

The next logical option was to delete the message and block the girl. Jack would never have to know, and Vivienne would just have to be the perfect girlfriend for the next little while. She’d make him his favourite foods, dress extra hot, and do everything in her power to make sure he forgot about his ex. 

Vivienne turned Jack's phone on again, and without a second thought, swiftly declined the message request before blocking the girl. 

To make sure her tracks were completely cleared, she searched the girls name up in his contact list and blocked her there as well. 

And, just as quickly as Vivienne had picked up her boyfriends phone, she had set it back down. 

⋆ ★

After the appointment, I was stuck in meetings for the rest of the day with no opportunities to check my phone. During my appointed bathroom breaks, I was too anxious to check. My hands trembled as I hovered over the instagram app, too nervous to see if he had read the message. 

I thought about the next message that I would send all day. Would I send the doctors confirmation? My next appointment date? The reason why I found out about the pregnancy so late? 

When I got out from work, I decided to walk the 45 minutes home instead of taking the Subway. I hoped that the semi-fresh air would clear my mind. 

By the time I unlocked the front door of my apartment, it was 6:45pm. Jack would have gotten out of practice, and he would probably be at home grilling himself a piece of chicken while his rice cooked. 

I pull my boots off and wander into my bathroom. i shut the door behind me, giving myself some privacy from my own space. When I close my eyes, all the memories of Jack and I flicker through my mind like one of those plastic children's cameras.

I take a deep breath, before finally pulling my phone out of my pocket and turning it on. I click into instagram and my stomach drops. 

jackhughes

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what the fuck was i going to do.

⋆ ★

“Claudia!” my voice was hoarse from crying as I pounded on my best friend's door with my fists. I had run all the way to Claudia's apartment, and luckily someone was walking into her apartment complex so I didn't have to buzz in. 

Claudia's door swung open, and she immediately pulled me inside and into her arms. “What's wrong?” she practically cooed, not a stranger to my breakdowns. 

“J-jack he-” I couldn't stomach the rest.

“Babe, slow down… breathe..” Claudia stressed as she started doing breathing exercises for me to copy. I followed her movements, and when I was deemed calm enough she moved me over to sit on her couch. 

I take a few minutes to recover before explaining what happened. 

“I’m going to kill him” Claudia sneered after I had explained the pregnancy, the message, and how my ex boyfriend-turned-baby daddy had blocked me. 

“What am I going to do?” I was crying again. I was bordering on exhaustion as I leaned my head against the back of Claudia's couch and wailed.  

My hand found its place at the top of my stomach, where the faintest baby bump had begun to form. 

⋆ ★

vivienne just added to their story!

vivienne

liked by jackhughes, trevorzegras, alixearle, and others

vivienne mr nhl man

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user01 VIVIENNE HAS A BF??

user02 viv baby who is it

user04 vivnation lost

user05 jack and trevor liking ohhh wow…

user06 is it jack?

user07 i thought jack has a gf?

user06 he was seen out with a girl a few times months ago but that was it lol

user08 the nhl girlies lost

⋆ ★

ynuser

liked by claudia, and others

ynuser my baby🤍

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claudia im a proud honorary aunt❤️

user00 congrats!! 

user01 Congratulations on your pregnancy sweetie! We have to get together sometime soon😘❤️

⋆ ★

the pregnancy was lonely. It was all long hours at work, quiet doctor appointments, and late nights binge sessions watching gossip girl with whatever craving plagued my mind. 

I tried my hardest to stay away from social media, my heart cracking a little more every time jack came across my feed with his rumoured new girlfriend. of course, i knew it wasn’t a rumour, which just made everything more miserable. 

“Do you want to know the gender?” the ultrasound tech asked as she shielded the sonogram screen away from my view. 

I nod, “yes, please”

Claudia squeezes my hand. “Are you sure? I can throw you a gender reveal party if you want? Or we can do something with just the two of us?” 

I didn’t want to hurt Claudias feelings, but it wouldn’t be the same without jack. 

I must have took too long to answer though, because the ultrasound tech looked at me with pity filled eyes as she said, “i’ll put the gender info in an envelope for you to take home”

All i could do was nod. 

⋆ ★

“Im sorry, blair.. But you lost the baby”

“where’s chuck?”

“B, he lost a lot of blood, and he never woke up” 

Gossip girl season 5 played in the background as I picked at my newest pregnancy craving, strawberry cupcakes from a bakery off seventh ave. 

i sighed heavily as i continued watching the show. this has got to be the saddest episode… i thought as blair started praying for chucks survival. As the scene went on, tears pricked my own eyes as i thought about the past five months. 

i was almost done with my 2nd trimester, and i was still refusing to acknowledge my pregnancy. I felt as if i were walking through water, i was restricted in all of my movements and my mind was cloudy like i had just spent all day in the michigan summer sun. 

The episode finished, with blair telling chuck that she loved him but that she couldn’t be with him and that she couldnt tell him why. 

When the screen turned black and i was faced with my reflection, i started sobbing. 

Heavy tears rolled down my cheeks and fell onto my duvet, which turned the cream coloured blanket into spots of grey. 

Without thinking, I rolled out of bed and threw on a thick sweater that I found strewn against a chair backing. I wandered out into my entryway, shoving on a pair of my mini uggs as I searched high and low for that stupid little envelope that my tech gave me. 

It was in my purse, hidden behind a hundred other little things. Once the envelope was grasped firmly in my hands, i ripped open my door and rushed down onto the street. 

I didn’t have a lot of time to think this through. If i placed the order now, everything would be okay and fine...

Truth be told, i was afraid that if i didn’t order a gender reveal cupcake that i would be doing my baby a disservice. I promised to myself that i would be able to do this without jacks support, and yet here i was crumbling under the pressure of motherhood. 

The bakery shop chimed with my arrival, and then i was in the small line up to make an order. 

“Hey, what can i get for you tod-”

“Can i get a gender reveal cupcake? Or one of those little cakes?” i ask, thrusting my envelope into the guy at the registers hands. 

He looked taken aback before responding very politely, “i’m sorry, you’re going to have to make an order online” 

“Oh,” my shoulders sag in disappointment. I hadn't thought far enough ahead. 

the guy stared at the crumpled up envelope in his hand, and then back at me. “Why don’t you go sit down and i’ll figure something out for you,” his voice was kind as he noticed my dishevelled state. 

I nod, and then move to an empty seat in the corner of the bakery. Another employee was sweeping the floors, and i realize that the store must be due to close soon. I need to pull myself together… 

About ten minutes later, the guy from before walked over with a little white box in his hand. On top of the box sat my envelope which was now cleanly cut into. 

“It’s not the prettiest thing in the world,” the guy chuckled as he placed the small box in front of me, “but it should work” 

“Thank you,” i stutter, pulling a crisp $10 bill out of my pocket and handing it over to the guy. 

At first he shakes his head in an attempt to decline the money, but I insist he takes it anyway. 

back at home, i get comfy at my kitchen table where i finally open up my box. It was a vanilla cupcake with white vanilla frosting. 

I take a deep breath before taking a small bite, and when i swallow, i see the remaining pink icing that filled the inside of the cupcake. 

“we’re having a little girl,” i whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks as i rub my bump soothingly. 

⋆ ★

Jack Hughes was stuck. He felt bad for Vivienne and he felt bad for himself. It wasn’t Viviennes fault that his attention was elsewhere because on paper, Vivienne Aiden was probably who most would consider his perfect match. 

Vivienne was gorgeous, she had an online career going for her, and her apartment did smell amazing… but something just wasn’t right. 

When she fell asleep beside him, Jack would pull out his phone and scroll through his photo album full of pictures of his ex-girlfriend. He would wonder what she was doing, what new journalist piece she was working on, and most importantly, if she was happy. He couldn’t bear searching her up online, for fear of seeing she had moved on (which, let's be honest, is very hypocritical of him), so Jack settled with his photo album. 

When Jack finally closed his eyes for the night, he imagined the sleeping figure next to him was his y/n. Vanilla scent was swapped with coconut, a windy spring turned into an endless summer, and the lingering emptiness felt like coming home after a long roadie. 

And in the morning, when y/ns lovely green eyes woke him up, he would blink to find Vivienne staring back at him, and whatever relief he had accustomed himself with in sleep came crashing down again. 

⋆ ★

ynuser posted on their story! 

jackhughes posted on their story!

Vivienne posted on their story!

⋆ ★

Vivienne wasn’t an idiot. she could feel the small shifts in Jack's behaviour. He was slowly distancing himself from her and she wouldn't allow that to happen. 

Therefore, she sent him a teasing photo, planned a romantic dinner at her apartment, and took care of business. 

Create an Account

User: user257483475

ynuser

Dm Request

User257483475: how does it feel knowing that you’re going to be a single mom?

User257483475: must be tough knowing that the daddy doesn’t want it

User257483475: if i were you i wouldn’t even try

Read

⋆ ★

“I can’t believe you're having a little girl!” Claudia squealed as she met me at the front of a baby store. I was now 6 months along, and I hadn’t done any of the necessary baby shopping yet. 

We walked into the store, light pinks and blues and purples clouding my vision. “I can't believe it either! A little girl…” I smile, picking up a little onesie. 

Claudia gets a basket, and we start to make our way through the store. “Have you thought of any names yet?” she asks as she holds up what might've been the cutest baby dress i’ve ever seen. 

I placed the dress in the basket. “I’ve been toying with a few names but it just feels strange” I pick up another little dress and put it in the basket as well. “I’m sure once I see the nursery all together it’ll feel a little more real and i’ll be able to pick something out” 

Claudia smiles at me sympathetically before taking the shopping basket out of my hand and guiding me towards the furniture section.

“I was thinking-” my phone buzzes causing me to pause. I pull out my phone, only to see a few instagram notifications. 

User257483475: viviennes so pretty, i bet you're real jealous huh?

User257483475: jack didn't even want to post you publicly and now he wont even acknowledge his baby… he never loved you.

User257483475: i wish you the worst xx

Read

“y/n? What were you thinking?” Claudia asks, immediately noticing my pause. She walks over to me, one hand on my shoulder as she tries to gauge my facial expressions. “Are you okay?”

I don't want to speak, and so I thrust my phone into Claudia's hands. 

She gasps when she reads the first message from a few weeks ago, and I can feel her tense beside me as she lets her hand drop from my shoulder.

“What the fuck!” she seethes as she stares at all the messages littering my phone.

“How do they know the baby’s Jacks? How do they even know I'm pregnant? My account’s private!” I utter as I close my eyes. 

“Who’s Vivienne?” Claudia asks as she switches out of my dms and onto the search page. I watch her type in Vivienne's name.

“She’s Jack’s girlfriend,” I reply just as Claudia presses on her instagram account. The newest picture on her feed was of her and Jack at some cafe… I felt nauseous. 

“Well, she’s obviously the one sending the messages” my best friend states firmly. Great I thought. Could my life get any more fucked up? 

That night at home, I easily verifiy that it was Vivienne behind the account. For all the scheming she liked to do, she wasn’t very good at covering her tracks. 

First, I used my laptop to try and log into her main instagram account. When I got the password wrong, I clicked the option for instagram to send a code for password resetting via email. The email, half unblurred, showed up on screen. Then, i moved onto the account who’s been sending me nasty messages. Repeated the process, and wouldn’t you know! Vivienne Aiden didn’t doesn’t know how to make a fake email for her fake account, that she uses to harass her boyfriend's ex! Nice. 

With that little confirmation, I blocked both her and the account she’s using to send me messages. 

⋆ ★

My baby’s nursery is painted a soft pink. Her crib is a beige wood, and there’s white flowy curtains with a blackout curtain set underneath. flower prints decorate the walls, and my baby’s name is highlighted on a beautiful homemade blanket which was gifted to me by one of my coworkers. 

“Are you ready, baby?” my mom asks to which I nod. I watch her silently as her hands weave between different sets of baby clothes.

She’s helping me get the nursery finished for babygirls birth next month. 

“I’m nervous, but i’m ready,” I smile, waddling over to the blush pink rocking chair that sits in the corner of the room. 

⋆ ★

“i’m not ready! i need jack!” i cry, squeezing my eyes shut tight as pain overtook my body. i could hear the nurses faintly in the background of my own thoughts, shouting something about an excess of blood. 

a group of nurses stand around me, all shouting different orders to one another. “ma’am you’re bleeding-“ 

“i need, i just need-“ 

a sweet looking nurse cut me off. “sweetie, you’re going to be alright. just breathe, i’ll be right here with you this whole time!” she grabs ahold of my hand to which i squeeze tightly. 

the room spins and my whole body feels cold. I could tell that the nurses started going about their business from all the pinching and poking that was going on, but i couldn’t figure out where all the pain was coming from.

⋆ ★

“Mommy?” I whispered. My mom whipped her head in my direction upon my words. 

“Oh sweetie,” she coos, tears lingering in her eyes as she sits on the edge of my hospital bed. she grabs ahold of my hand. 

“Is…” I start to ask about my daughter but a cry falls from my lips. 

My mom grabs my hand tighter and brushes my hair out of my face. “She’s in the NICU, but the nurses say she’s doing well” 

“Can I see her?” my voice is hoarse. My mom jumps up from the bed and fills an empty paper cup with water. She passes the cup to me, and I gratefully drink its contents. 

“I’ll go get a nurse, okay? She’ll tell you everything you need to know”

I had been asleep for roughly ten hours after my daughters birth. The doctor told me that the pain I woke up to last night was from blood clots, which is the reason behind all the blood and the premature birth. Luckily though, I was pretty close to full term, and I got to the hospital at the perfect time therefore babygirl would only have to stay at the NICU for a few short weeks to monitor her development. 

“what’s her name, sweetheart?” my mom whispered softly to me while her hand ghosted across hairline.

“Leighton Rowe LN,” I replied sleepily as I stared at my baby in my arms. Leightons sweet face suddenly made all the pain worth it.

my mom brushed my damp hair out of my face. “that’s beautiful,” she cooed, and when she gestured towards the baby I tiredly nodded.

as my mom took my baby out of my arms to coddle, i let my eyes close and then i softly drifted off to sleep.

⋆ ★

It was a few months later when it happened. claudia was at my apartment, watching leighton while i ran around the city to get some much needed errands done. i stop at my favourite coffee shop, a place that i hadn’t been to since jack and i broke up. 

i order my usual, a mocha to go, and when i turn to leave jack had just opened the door. I stumble back, not prepared to see jack in the flesh. He looks familiar and yet completely different. 

“y/n,” he greets me, his tone uncertain as he takes a step towards me. How dare he.

“If your girlfriend sends me one more fucking text i swear i’ll ruin her life” i start, my words threatening as i let the weight of viviennes words fall onto my shoulders. for months shes been creating new accounts and messaging me, and despite hitting the "block all and future accounts" feature she still managed to harass me.

“I get that you don’t want to have a baby, but she’s here, and I'm capable of doing it without you. I have been doing it without you. So get your girlfriend to stop harassing me or i’ll press charges,” i spit out, pushing past a shell-shocked jack and storming out onto the street. 

⋆ ★

“I have a baby!” jack shouts angrily, kicking one of vivienne's wooden dinning room chairs. “You hid my baby from me!” 

Vivienne stares, glassy eyed as she watches her boyfriend stomp around her apartment. “Jack, i didn’t mean for it to go this far i-”

“You what? What was the plan here?” he shouts again, running a hand frustratingly through his hair. Jack stops, whipping around to face vivienne again. “Show me the messages.”

“What?” she cries. 

“y/n said you were sending her messages. Show me them” jack repeats, causing vivienne to jump up in alarm. If he saw even half of the things she sent…

Jack storms up to vivienne who immediately pulls her phone out of her pocket. She switches onto one of her many burner accounts used to send y/n messages. 

Jack sat on the couch, hunched over while he read through every single message. He felt sick. 

he hates you

It must suck knowing that your child's dad doesn't want her

Jacks going to be the best daddy to our future baby… its too bad he didn’t want that for you. 

“Jack we can fix this, i swear i’ll do better and-”

Jack stood up abruptly, letting viviennes phone tumble to the ground with a loud thud. “We’re- we’re past done. I don't even know what to say to you,” jack stutters, tears falling steadily down his cheeks. 

“Baby, i’m so sorry” vivienne cries. she tries to reach out to jack, be he swats her hands away. 

Jack backs away, and without another word he leaves viviennes apartment with the slam of a door.  he had to make this right to y/n and his... baby.

-

part three

#journalist au! #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fic #jack hughes imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fic

[nottawriter]

Twitter post by Kelly_McKernan:

If we don’t fight back against predatory practices and exploitation against AI right now, than what was it all for? Raise a ruckus. Let’s do this.

#wga strike #wga west #wga east #support the wga #i stand with the wga #sag strike #sag aftra #IASTE #actors #artists #writers #photography #programmers #journalist #animation #writers strike #writers and readers

[vettelsvee]

BEE HOTELS | Sebastian Vettel

f1 masterlist | wattpad | ao3 | instagram

sebastian vettel x wife!journalist!reader

summary: seb's suzuka biodiversity project goes according to plan... or will he have some surprises that he might reject at first?

word count: 1983

warnings: none of it really! just seb being the standard, as i always write him (almost always, oops). use of y/n y/l/n

taglist: @celemilii bc i wrote this for her as a birthday present! i recommend you to read her works bc she's just like me: we write about the oldies.

you can send your one shots requests here! feedback is truly appreciated!

The painting in yellow and black tones increasingly filled his hands. Sweat dripped from his forehead, not only due to the sun that was blazing that day in Suzuka but also because of the stress he was feeling to ensure that the project turned out as planned: flawlessly.

Sebastian had spent months not only brainstorming and meticulously preparing for that Japanese Grand Prix weekend but also dedicating himself wholeheartedly the night before to build each of the hotels that his former colleagues were now painting.

He was exhausted, but the feeling of happiness he was experiencing at that moment was immense. The conversations among the other drivers couldn't be more positive. They seemed to be enjoying the process, constantly sharing laughter and jokes among them as they continued with their task the best they could.

While the German was focused on ensuring that everything was going perfectly, he could gradually see, out of the corner of his eye, a figure he knew perfectly well in any form.

"Y/N, what are you doing here?" 

Her husband's tone surprised Y/N, who lowered her arms, disheartened, knowing that the hug she was about to give would most likely not be reciprocated.

"I came to see you. What else would I do?" replied the journalist, ignoring Seb's behavior. "And to interview you too, but you already know it."

The blonde frowned, feeling a bit confused by the situation. Interview him? How could there be nothing he wouldn't know?

"Interview me?" he innocently asked.

"Didn't Britta tell you?"

Sebastian shook his head once again. Y/N’s gaze shifted to Roeske, who averted his eyes at the mess he knew he had caused with the couple. The former driver's PR knew that if he had said anything beforehand, Seb would have likely rejected the offer and, most importantly, gotten upset. Besides, he knew that such a refusal would upset Mrs. Vettel, and that would end up in a pointless argument between the couple.

"Well, you know how Britta is. She didn't mention anything about interviewing me today, especially not by you. You know, with so many things she has to keep track of..." Vettel tried to excuse her.

The journalist shook her head and once again looked at the PR, seeking confirmation from his side. A single nod was enough to acknowledge that her client was right.

"Y/N, schön, we need to maintain professionalism," Vettel stated firmly, seeing that neither of the two women responded. "I don't think it's very appropriate to mix our personal life with the professional one. We've always done it this way, and we should..."

"To hell with professionalism, darling," she interrupted, raising her voice. "We've been pretending to be professional for too many years to keep doing it. You've been retired for almost a year, living the life you've always wanted with our children and me," she explained, trying to convince him. "It won't hurt if you let go and be yourself, if we just are ourselves."

Sebastian remained silent for a few seconds that felt eternal for the woman. He knew Y/N was right, he knew nothing would happen if they showed themselves as the couple they were in private, but his shyer side, the most introverted one, the one that wanted to protect his privacy above all and, above all, his family, felt a kind of fear that this would end up making him completely vulnerable to public scrutiny.

"Alright, let's do the interview," the German finally said, causing his wife to start hopping around before pouncing on him and kissing him all over his face.

"Where should we start, Mr. Vettel?"

"What about giving Mrs. Vettel a kiss?" he replied, playing along with the game the journalist had started. "You know, to help ease any tensions..."

Sebastian didn't need to say anything more for his wife to take his face in her hands and pull him towards her, giving him a kiss that lasted not only longer than they would have allowed on another occasion, but also longer than they themselves expected.

They ended up pulling away after a few seconds, just as they began to hear cheers, applause, and comments from the other drivers, who were watching the couple enthralled, as they had never shown themselves in such a way during their years in Formula 1.

"Carry on with what you're doing!" the four-time world champion shouted, trying not to sound angry. "I don't want anything left unfinished!"

Y/N couldn't help but blush and lower her head in embarrassment at all the attention she was drawing.

"Um... shall we start now, darling?" the journalist spoke again, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Yes, yes, of course. Go ahead, ask me anything."

She quickly pulled out her notebook, where she had written down a large number of questions to ask her husband as if she hadn't actually worked hand in hand with him on the project. She tried to maintain professionalism despite the still uncomfortable situation they were immersed in.

Seb, who seemed to notice how tense the woman was, decided to do things a little differently, although it was more than obvious that it took him some effort to take the first step.

Quickly and with trembling hands, he wrapped his right arm around his wife's waist and slowly guided her to sit on the ground next to him. She resisted at first because, deep down, she was also afraid to show herself as she truly was with the love of her life; but when she saw how the German also invited the cameraman who was filming them to sit on the ground, she knew there was no choice but to listen to the guy who initially meant nothing to her but ended up becoming her everything.

"More comfortable like this, right, schön?" Sebastian wanted to know, even though he already knew the answer.

"Yes, I think it will be more comfortable, darling," she replied, allowing herself to be guided by her husband's behavior, although once again blushing slightly.

With her head resting on his shoulder, the journalist took her notebook in her hands again, flipping through the page where she had the first question of what would undoubtedly be the most fake interview not only she had ever done but probably would do in her extensive career as a journalist.

"Well, let's start, darling. What inspired you the most to start this biodiversity project?"

"Well, as you know, I've always felt a special connection with nature and the environment. Do you remember the conversations we used to have, like, I don't know, about twelve or thirteen years ago?" she nodded. Of course, she remembered. How could she forget when he revealed to her how much the issue mattered to him at his home in Monaco, even before they had started dating? "I wanted to do something to show the importance of biodiversity, so these bee hotels seemed perfect to me."

"And why Suzuka, Seb?"

"Do you really need an answer to that question?" the man countered, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you already knew."

Now it was Y/N who looked less than pleased. Of course she knew why he had chosen Suzuka, it's just that the viewers, possibly, didn't.

"Suzuka is a very special place for me, both professionally and personally," the German continued. "This place has witnessed many important moments of my life, and I wanted to somehow give back everything it has done for me. Its people, I mean," he hastened to add. The journalist laughed at the incoherence of the response, earning herself a playful punch on the arm and some affectionate insults.

The interview continued in such a way that, more than a recording that would be broadcast on various media later, it seemed like one of those informal chats the couple used to have in their room, lying on the bed they both shared, after reading a story to their children and leaving them completely asleep.

Laughs, knowing looks, and even some intimate memories that ended up being revealed to the camera flowed effortlessly. Sebastian couldn't stop playing with Sally's hands and hair, caressing them so delicately that she seemed like a porcelain doll. The journalist, on her part, couldn't stop running her index finger up and down her husband's arm, writing invisible messages about how much she loved him.

"To finish I'd like to know something, darling. How was the process of designing and building each one of those bee hotels?"

"As you already know, and for those who are watching, I was lucky to work with a local carpenter yesterday. We worked on them all day long, and even part of the night. There are eleven in total: one for each team, and one for me," replied the German with a big smile.

His wife started laughing, and her lips twisted in a way that it wasn't hard for Vettel to recognize that his wife was hiding something.

"In fact, there are twelve, Seb," the journalist said with a playful tone.

"What do you mean twelve?" he asked, quite confused. "Love, you were there yesterday. There were eleven. One for each team, one for every two drivers, and another for..."

"I made one myself and I painted it too. Well... some parts are already painted because I asked the kids, secretly, to paint them so you could have a little piece of them here..."

The former driver was impressed by his wife's confession, and he couldn't help but feel emotional. Even a couple of tears threatened to leave his eyes when he saw Y/N, completely excited, getting up from the grass and fixing her clothes before reaching out her hand to him.

"What are you waiting for, Seb? Come on, you have to see it!"

Seb followed her, feeling a mix of very strange emotions after sharing life with this girl for so many years. When they arrived, they stopped in front of it, Britta taking photos from every possible angle and then starting a video call with the couple's children, who were staying with Seb’s parents.

"Schön, this is... God, I have no words. It's incredible."

Y/N smiled proudly before heading towards the structure and start explaining him everything.

"I've drawn us here, right in the front," indeed, there were two larger figures next to three smaller ones, surrounded by flowers and trees. "And here are the kids' drawings. Honestly, I don't know what they've drawn, but... I knew it would make you happy to have a little piece of them too."

The blonde bent down in front of the hotel made by his wife, examining it carefully as he traced with his fingers the strokes that Emily, Matilda, and Ben had made who knows when, and that seemed to have been well hidden. They were simple, clumsy, but he knew that behind them there was something much more important: the purest love he had ever experienced and that nothing and no one could surpass, not even his wife.

"It's wonderful, Y/N. You have no idea what this means to me."

Y/N could only approach her husband and give him a chaste kiss on the lips, not caring this time what happened next.

"I did it for you, Seb. I love you, we love you," she corrected herself, turning towards the mobile phone in front of them that Britta still held, referring to their children, who could be heard excitedly. "You are the sunshine of our lives and you deserve much more than this."

Sebastian didn't hesitate to, once again, kiss Y/N, and then hug her tightly, continuing to give her kisses on her temples.

"I wouldn't be the sunshine of your life if you weren't in it," he whispered in her ear. "You are the sunshine of my life. I love you, Y/N. Thank you for everything."

#formula 1 #sebastian vettel #sv5 #f1 #formula one #sebastian vettel x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #vettel #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel x yn #formula one x reader #formula 1 x you #formula one x you #formula 1 one shot #formula one x y/n #formula 1 x yn #fluff #dad sebastian vettel #journalist reader #formula one one shot #sebastian vettel one shot #sebastian vettel imagine #save the bees #bee hotels

[mellissawritings]

Attractive things they do - Identity v

Contains : Melly, Orpheus, Norton, Alice, Frederick

A/n : I am not very proud of this one and it's also my first time writing something like that, so cut me some slack ya'll 😭

Melly

I think everything about that woman is attractive, I mean come on. She is graceful, elegant, and gentle. The main thing thought would be her voice and how she moves. There isn't really only one thing she does that attracts people to her 😭

Orpheus

Def fixing his clothes nonstop, paying FULL attention to people he talks to (if he's interested lmfao), like literally staring into your eyes without looking away once, slowly nodding and giving this focused gaze. It may be uncomfortable for some people because his stare is intense, but he just thinks it's polite, so 😭

Norton

His resting bitch face is probably attractive itself since he is handsome, but it for some it may give off "do not approach me" vibes. It's 100% intentional from him btw. He doesn't want to have to do anything with anyone if it's not money we're talking about.

Rolles up sleeves + his rough arms.

Always leaning onto something, doorframe, counter, wall, his spine is not straight and neither he is.

Alice

The thing she'll do would probably give off vibes from the one motherly teacher that every girl has crush on. Very doting, very caring.

If she knows you a bit, she always puts her hand on your arm or back. Not affectionately, but she is very physical.

Smiles a lot when she's talking to someone (casually, not investigating)

When she is investigating people and things, her eyebrows are furrowed and her face is lightly scrunched in focused motion. Similarly to Orpheus but it's hotter since she's a woman.

Frederick

Checks up if you know him well, always asks if you're feeling okay since he himself, is usually in pain. Will always have this soft look in his eyes when you ask him the same.

I hc him as tall and lanky man, so he 100% leans to hear you better.

And it's probably only me but the way he played on the piano and his dark circles under eyes are soo omg 😭

I need here more people who are down bad for this 5. Anyways I hope you enjoyed it :3 you can request something else here on in my askbox!!

#alice deross #melly plinius #norton campbell #orpheus #frederick kreiburg #alice idv #melly idv #norton idv #orpheus idv #frederick idv #journalist idv #entomologist idv #prospector idv #composer idv #novelist idv #identity v #identity v x reader #idv #idv journalist #idv prospector #idv novelist #idv entomologist #idv composer #norton x reader #identity v fanfic #writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #headcanon #writerscommunity

[fishermanshook]

LOVELANGUAGE.com (Suvivors! x gn!reader)

# day 6 w/ @philomena-propellente ‘s valentines event! , cut 4 length , grammar and spelling warning

INTRO

You just started dating them, and now it’s your job to figure out just how they show their undying love for you.

꒰wc꒱ 1.4k

The Prospector 

Norton doesn’t have the money to buy or get you anything fancy. It hurts his heart a little because he would love to splurge a bit on you, but also being stuck in a dangerous manor game doesn’t help either of your situations. (Especially when you are low on clues to get food…)

Norton’s love language is Physical Touch. This man is (already) all over you from the beginning to the end of your relationship. He just loves the way you feel in his arms and it makes him feel a tone better.

You should also make sure to reciprocate these actions. Norton will probably feel even more loved by you knowing that you want to touch him as well.

Please hold this man gently in your hands as he rests his head on your lap.

The Journalist

Alice most likely has her time slots filled with random things she has to get done, so as her partner, she would like you to understand and accept the fact that she can’t spend a lot of time around or with you. What she can do, are Acts of Service.

What she lacks in time management she makes up for in getting things done for you. Too tired to grab your laundry? She’s on it. Need a snack but you're too lazy to go and get it? She’ll be right back babe. And as a last resort, she would take your place in a match for you. ONLY if something bad has come up and the two of you have discussed every possible route you can take. (and only if you promise to heal her up + kiss her bandages.)

Alice adores every part of you and she seems like one to not fall very easily. So be thankful and glad to have someone like her in your life, and don’t take her for granted.

Please be gentle with her cuts and bruises as you heal her back up again.

The Mercenary 

Naib loves his alone time as much as he loves you, and he loves you a lot. Like Alice, you have to understand that he sometimes needs to be on his own for the time being. You search for him if you’d like, but he’d rather only wish you do if it’s an emergency. He will seek you out when he wishes for you to see you. (and that’s often.)

Naib seems like he would also dabble in Acts of Service. He’d do a lot for you, free of charge. Well, as long as you’ll cuddle him later. (Maybe make him something sweet?) The Mercenary would go as far as to kill for you, but would only wish to resort to this if necessary.

Naib is a man of few words and has his walls up at all times. (Like someone else I know… *cough cough* GANJI *cough cough*) You’ve managed to worm into his heart and he doesn’t plan on letting go any time soon.

Please hold this man in your arms when he inevitably wakes up from his recurring nightmares.

Cheerleader

Lily can be easily described as a bundle of energy just waiting to be released. She’s a great company and fills any void of loneliness in your bones. She is bright, funny, and overall an amazing person.

Lily has been cheering on others her entire life. Encouraging her brother as she watched him climb the ranks is a fond memory of hers and is cherished deeply. For these and many other reasons, Lily’s love language is Words of Affirmation.

To think that Lily’s enthusiasm would lack or stop when it came to you is just silly. If anything, it grows even stronger. You become her motivation to take on the day and the challenges that come with it. To run for her life if it meant she gets to see you at the exit game waiting for her arrival.

Please cheer her on as well, she needs you just as much as you need her.

The Seer

Eli should have predicted this, should’ve known he would fall head over heels for someone in the manor. But at last, you can’t change the past, or the future. Eli’s learned that the hard way. So while you're here with him now, let him bask in the light you radiate.

Eli Clark is one for Words of Affirmation alongside Physical Touch. Your skin is warm against his and envelops him completely. The Seer has always kept you close to him. Whether it be his hand entangled in yours, an arm around your waist, or anything else, he enjoys keeping you close to him.

Eli knows how words can affect people, so he always tries to compliment you when he can. Your outfit, your match performance, anything, and everything gets a smile and a nice compliment from him.

Please let this man wrap his arms around your waist as he hums an unrecognizable song in your ears.

The Priestess

Fiona is a self-proclaimed devotee to her god, but nowadays, she finds her devotion slipping. Her faith, disintegrating into ashes the longer she’s stuck in here. It’s given her a lot of time to think, but it’s also given her more time to spend with you. To forget about the unknown wonders of the world and just embrace your presence in its entirety.

Fiona Gilman’s love language is undoubtedly Quality Time.  She enjoys nothing more than to spend time with you outside the games. She doesn’t mind what or who it’s with, just that you're there. She also seems like she’s a sucker for picnics. Just the two of you is best, but if you insist on having others then that’s fine as well.

The Priestess has spent most of her days devoting herself to her religion and belief, which you don’t shame her for. She knows that her beliefs may not align with others, but she appreciates that you don’t give her crap about it. If she ever does find her faith in her god restoring, she would love to show you some of her practices.

Please accompany her on walks long after your curfew with only the stars as your witnesses.

ADDED BONUS’! 

 Bloody Queen

Mary was born with wealth and nobility to her name, she knows the power money has over people and the influence it can make. So she more than understands the currency of this strange manor. Not that she’s complaining though, she has more than enough clues and fragments to last a lifetime.

Mary Kriegburg's love language is Gifting. She has the clues too, so why not splurge on a new outfit for her daring? It’s the best way for her to show you that no amount of money can compare to the love that floods her unbeating heart.

If you do end up gifting something back to her, handmade or bought, she will cherish it. It may seem that Mary doesn’t like the handmade doll you made of her, but she sleeps with it during the nights you can’t accompany her. Her bed does feel cooler without you.

Please cherish everything she gives you, as she will do the same for you.

 The Photographer

Joseph doesn't get to see you often, as the two of you have your respective matches you're forced to perform in. And for whom? You'll never know. When your games are done for the day, he'll choose to seek you out. While he does prefer his own alone time, he wishes to be with you.

Joseph Desaulniers's love language has to do with Quality Time. He spends his time wisely so that he can save more for when both of you are available. The Photographer enjoys afternoon tea parties with you. Talk about anything or keep your mouth shut, he won't mind either. Your presence warms his dead body and it's such a welcoming feeling for the man that he yearns for it.

Joseph has already lost his brother in an already tragic manner, the Photographer keeps you close to ensure you don't meet an unexpected demise while he's not there. No, he doesn't want you to go back to your dorm room yet. Just stay by him for a moment longer and let him know you're not going anywhere one last time.

Please soak up the sun with him as he takes another picture of you.

note: RAHHHHHH I LOVE THIS (don’t come at me if you thought different love languages for them okay 😭)

(2024)©️fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

#⋆˚ 💗˖° HEAD OVER HEELS! #philomena's files #idv #idv x reader #idv fluff #idv survivor #the prospector idv #norton x reader #norton campbell #the journalist #alice deross #journalist x you #fanfiction #identityv #the cheerleader #lily barriere #the seer #seer x reader #Eli Clark #eli clark x reader #bloody Queen #bloody Queen idv #Eli Clark idv #joseph desaulnier #the photographer #joseph desaulniers x reader #the priestess #fiona gilman #Fiona Gilman x reader #Naib subeditor x reader

[ramp-it-up]

The Playlist: F*cking Bucky

Summary: Bucky’s seduction powers are on 100. Can you continue to resist him, or will you give in?

Pairing: Dark CEO! Bucky Barnes x Journalist! Reader

Word count: more than 3K

Warnings: As always, 18+ ONLY, SMUT. Minors DNI. Steve, Sam and Natasha, pining playlists, jealousy, flirting, voyeurism, eavesdropping, cybersex, dirty talk, unknown? masturbation for an audience, running for pleasure, degradation kink, definite Dom/sub elements, orgasm denial, edging, narrated masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up), pulling out, after care, pining, manipulation, mention of loss, surveillance, Dark Bucky.

A/N: I meant to put this out on the weekend, but instead I went outside, lol. This is part of the Playlist Series. Read the previous part, Chill, Buck. @ysmmsy and @blackwidownat2814 are my exquisite muses who created the playlists, with more to come. 😉 Thanks you both! 🥰 please leave feedback, like and reblog. It helps to inspire me. 😊

The playlist is real and is linked here!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

“Hell no, Max.”

Your agent, Maxine Shaw, just offered you a ridiculous amount of money for a writing gig. It was right up your alley as you had background knowledge on the subject.

The only problem was that it involved working very closely with James Buchanan Barnes.

“First of all, one month? That's an impossible timeline. Second, Barnes is an asshole.”

That wasn’t exactly true, he was just annoying, but you felt hyperbole was appropriate for this situation.

Max leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re going to turn down this amount of money for a cake job? I’m told he already has a manuscript, you’d basically be an editor and gap filler.” 

Max stared at you, incredulous. 

“This isn’t ghostwriting, you would get a legitimate byline. A story about Barnes is sure to be a bestseller.”

Then she leaned forward and really scrutinized you.

“Romanoff said you might not be up to it. I laughed in her face. Was she right?”

You opened and then closed your mouth, face heating up. Telling you that you couldn’t accomplish something was a sure fire way to get you to do that something.

But surely Natasha didn’t know that.

You raised your chin.

“Send me the info.”

Bucky walked into the room at 8:30 am, exactly the same time he did everyday, when he was confident that he would be the first to arrive. Sam and Steve usually didn’t arrive until 9. He liked his quiet time.

This morning, however, he was greeted with laughter in the room and Natasha waiting for him as the elevator opened.

“Morning, Boss.”

She handed Bucky some files and watched as he stared at the scene in front of him: you sandwiched between Sam and Steve on the couch.

“Well, hello, Buck! I see you finally made it in this morning.”

Steve stood up first, then Sam who grinned at Bucky, who only had eyes for you.

Bucky raised his eyebrow as he came toward you, then stopped short of being able to reach out and touch.

He took you in as he approached. You were wearing a wrap dress that showcased your figure nicely. Almost too nicely. You looked amazing. He knew his friends and he knew they had already checked you out. Possessiveness coursed through Bucky’s body as he looked down at you.

That little jaw clench and the glare in Bucky’s eye did things to you. You felt as if you were in trouble. 

And why did that make you wet? 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Bucky addressed you as you looked up at him, staring at him with those damn doe eyes. You looked a little scared. It made him want to pull you into the bathroom and…He cleared his throat.

“Ms. YLN wanted to begin her work with you by interviewing your two best friends who also happen to be the COO and the CFO of CapTech. We were just about to start breakfast.”

Bucky scanned the room to see the dining table set up with quite the spread.

“Begin her work?” 

Although he was responding to Nat’s statement, he was looking straight at you.

“I’m beginning my work on the memoir. Background information.”

Bucky looked confused for a moment, then he turned to Natasha. 

“Ah, the memoir. I didn't realize we’d decided on the writer for that.”

Natasha was nonplussed. She shrugged.

“Well, YN did such a fantastic job on the profile that I thought she deserved first shot at this.”

Bucky looked annoyed, but then looked back at you.

“Of course. I hope you didn’t feel pressured.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. He didn’t seem to want you to do this. Well, fuck him. You drew yourself up to your full height, which in heels was four inches shorter than him.

“The contracts are signed, Mr. Barnes. But if you want to break them…”

“I’m not sure we can afford that,” interjected Sam, ever the CFO. “That’s not a good financial plan.” 

Then he turned to you, smile blinding. You couldn’t help but smile back at him. 

“I guess you’re right, Mr. Wilson. Because I would hold you to the termination fee.”

Bucky scowled as your tone changed to playful. Steve was already at the table pulling out your chair.

“Okay. Sam has been monopolizing your time all morning, let’s talk about what it takes to operate this company day to day…”

You chuckled and shook your head as you sat down, Sam and Steve flanking you at the table. Bucky simmered as you held court with his buddies. He watched and listened to the conversation through narrowed eyes.

“…we got into quite a few scraps when we were kids in Brooklyn, isn’t that right , Buck?”

“That’s right.” 

Bucky sipped his coffee and then responded.  

“Did Steve tell you that he weighed 90 pounds when we graduated high school?”

“Low blow…” you heard Sam say as he coughed.

You glared at Bucky, then turned to appraise Steve.

“Well, looks like he filled out nicely.” 

You put your hand on Steve’s arm and he flexed for you. You didn’t have to pretend to be impressed at the muscles underneath his suit coat.

Bucky felt both like an asshole for the jab at Steve, and a tongue tied fool, because he couldn’t find anything civil to say when his buddies were blatantly flirting with you. And when you were flirting back.

Another half hour of conversation with Sam and Steve gained you some information for the direction you wanted to steer the memoir.  The only problem was, you hadn’t read what Bucky had written. When Sam and Steve and Nat excused themselves for their 10 o’clock meeting, Bucky walked you to the door.

“I know that you don’t want me to take this job, but I have some good ideas if you let me read your manuscript….”

Bucky held up his hand.

“Wait. You know what now?”

You drew yourself up to your full height.

“Well, I…”  

You stopped for a moment and looked him in the eyes. 

“I know you said you wouldn’t ask me for anything ever again. And I know that Ms. Romanoff presented this to my agent, so I won’t charge you the termination fee..”

Bucky interrupted you again.

“I was referring to asking you anything… personal.” 

Bucky’s eyes told the story. He’d just accepted your curve. So why were you disappointed?

“You are a very talented writer. Of course I want you to do this.” 

Bucky looked down at the floor and your cute toes in your open toed heels. 

When he looked back up at you, the little boy was back.

“I just felt… 

Bucky paused and you felt as if you’d tripped and fallen into the pools of his eyes.

“Natasha didn’t let me know she had asked you so soon…”

“Oh…”

After you said it, you realized that you had been holding your breath. You took in air and watched his mouth quirk up on one side. 

“I see. You wanted to be in control of the situation.”

Bucky’s look changed; sky blue eyes turned grey.

“I do like being in control.”

All of a sudden, you couldn’t breathe again.

Maybe you liked him being in control too, the way your body was responding. Your mouth opened wider and your eyes dilated.

Bucky noticed your reaction but just took note, raised his eyebrow, and barreled ahead. You’d just given him the key to unlock the puzzle of you. His mind whirred with a plan.

“I have a home office in my brownstone. I work on my story there. Sam and Steve are… distracting.”

Sam who? Steve what? There was no other man on the earth right now.

Bucky was thinking there was no other woman but you. He cleared his throat.

“The only working copy of my manuscript is on my encrypted computer there, along with the only hard copies. We will work there.”

You hesitated before answering, and Bucky filled the void.

“I’ll send you the address and also the code to the door.”

Bucky leaned toward you and you thought he was going to kiss you, but he swerved and pressed the down button on the elevator.

This man.

“I’ll see you in the afternoon? I’ll take a late lunch and go home early. 3pm or 4pm?” 

Bucky looked at you intently as you struggled to think. He was so cute.

“3 pm it is,” He chuckled, replying only when you didn't answer.

You stepped backward into the elevator when you heard the door open.

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky smirked as the doors closed. He turned to face Sam and Steve and the barrage that he knew was coming.

That afternoon, you carefully read the code that Bucky texted you when you arrived at his Brownstone. It was not very far at all from your apartment. How convenient, you thought. You admired the nice dark brick facade and the surrounding neighborhood. Very nice.

You entered the code on the door and pushed the heavy oak door open.

Inside, Bucky’s place was immaculate. From the piano, to the large windows, to the high ceilings and natural wood, you could tell that only the finest materials had been used. You smelled fresh paint, but also a fresh clean linen scent. 

You looked around the place and did not see a trace of Bucky’s former life except for a picture of him and Sam and Steve when they were younger.

You heard what you thought was a groan from the other room. You stopped moving and listened for it again. When you heard it, you moved toward the sound, hoping that no one was hurt.

“You are killing me, Doll.”

It was Bucky’s voice, and you thought you heard a smile in it. You stopped in the hallway and listened further.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous. I wanna see all of you. You wanna do that for me? Show me allll of you?”

You listened and quickly surmised that Bucky was talking to someone who wasn’t in the room. And he was doing more than talking.

Your cheeks heated and you felt some kind of way, but then you thought, this was his house, he was a man, and he had needs. And you’d rejected him. You couldn’t be mad. Could you?

Besides, you were the one in the wrong by eavesdropping. You tried to quietly go back out to the entryway.

“Stop! Don’t move.”

You froze, thinking you’d been caught.

“I need to see that pussy weep for me. Can you show me how I make you feel Doll? I can tell that you want me from the look on that pretty little face. Show me what is mine. I’ll show you what is yours.

You couldn’t help but peek around the corner, and had to cover your mouth in shock. Bucky was stroking himself! 

You pressed yourself up against the wall and closed your eyes, mortified. But then what you saw registered in your brain.

Bucky Barnes was hung like a horse.

You clenched your thighs together and bit your lip. Surely, you were mistaken. You had to look again.

This time, you stayed long enough to verify what you saw. Bucky’s large hand was wrapped around a beautiful specimen of a cock. He had earbuds in and was staring at a laptop screen, showing whomever he was talking to what he was working with. 

That lucky bitch.

“You want this dick?”

You peered around the corner and saw Bucky holding his cock up and pointing it at the computer. You could help but stare, because even across the room, you could tell it was huge, uncut, tan and veiny, the shiny head appearing and reappearing as he slowly jacked it.

‘I want it bad,’ you thought, and licked your lips. Then you bit your bottom lip, surprised at yourself.

“Ahhhh, shitt! I love when you do that. Touch yourself for me, please Doll?”

You straightened up again, heart beating a mile a minute. Why did you have the urge to do what he was commanding? You closed your eyes and willed your hands to stay at your sides.

“Be a good girl. Don't be a bad one. You know what happens to bad girls when I get my hands on them.”

You stood still and closed your eyes, trying to decide if you wanted to be a good girl or a bad one. You decided to be a professional woman. You started to tiptoe back down the hall.

“You better not run. Come back here. Don’t run from this dick…”

You heard Bucky murmuring to his mystery person as you slinked away. You stopped in the vestibule, shook. You heard your heart pounding in your ears and decided to just leave and walk home.

You reached your apartment in no time.

You decided to text Bucky about your appointment. You still had work to do so you decided to put what you witnessed out of your mind.

He didn’t answer, probably because he was in the shower washing cum off of his…

You had to stop. 

You decided to go for a run to clear your head.

Your pace was good. You checked your time as you rounded the curve for the second kilometer of your run. Someone swerved past you. You looked up at that voice.

“Hey, you!”

You looked back, stunned to see Bucky running, looking amazing in those shorts and a muscle shirt. Damn.

You averted your eyes from his crotch to look at him, but you kept going. He circled back to run beside you.

You were salty. He could run, but he didn’t have time to meet with you? 

“‘Lo. What are you up to?”

The question seemed straightforward enough. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm to be found. Yet you still sideyed him.

“You good?”

Bucky sounded worried when you didn’t respond.

That voice. The connotation that phrase brought up. Yes, you were a good girl, Mr. Barnes, Sir.

You shook your head, but said, “Sure, just wondering what happened to our meeting this afternoon.”

Bucky stopped and you looked back again, but then he caught up with you.

“That wasn’t… today, was it?”

“Yeeeessss?”

Bucky looked confused. 

“I clearly remember setting our meeting up for 4 pm tomorrow afternoon…”

He looked so cute and earnest.

“No, we set it up for 3 pm today….”

At this point, you both stopped and were staring at each other. To be honest, you had been so flustered when setting up the appointment and then with the events of this afternoon, you really didn’t know what was up.

The tension between you was palpable as you stared into Bucky’s baby blues.

Bucky furrowed his brow and started to speak a couple of times. Then, you both burst out laughing.

“You know, I was kind of distracted this morning, so, I really don’t remember clearly.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving and his tongue snaked out to wet his lips. You were in his orbit, attracted to him in the worst way, but you started jogging again. That long distance chick must have Bucky wide open.

“She must be hot…”

Real subtle, y/n, you thought. 

“What? Who?” 

The surprise in Bucky’s voice was evident. You stopped again.

“I mean, must be something, or someone powerful to distract that mind of yours.”

You looked up into Bucky’s eyes, not caring if the jealousy was showing. He beamed down at you and you felt like the center of the world. But he had someone else. Right?

“Yeah, only someone powerful could distract me like that.” 

Bucky sucked his bottom lip and released it slowly while surveying your body in your tight running shorts and tank top. You felt like a bad girl. Then, Bucky resumed jogging.

“I mean, as CEO of a tech company, you probably meet women all over the world. Could be hard to navigate long distance relationships.”

You were not even trying to hide your nosiness. Bucky chuckled.

“It is hard. That’s why I don’t do long distance.”

Your surprise made you almost stumble.

“I haven’t had a real relationship since…”

Bucky glanced at you.

“Well, in a good while.”

“Hmmmmm. But you have needs. Right?”

Bucky stopped and stood toe to toe with you, so close.

“Yes, I have needs.”

He looked right through you.

“Don’t you?”

Then he took off running again.

It took you a minute to digest what he was saying, and when you got it, you slowed down. Bucky ran back to you and you both stopped again.

“So are we doing this?”

You looked up at him and stepped closer.

“I mean, you gotta run, I gotta run. Are we gonna do this? Can you keep up with me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky’s smile dropped, and his eyes became stormy again.

“I’m pretty fast now.”

“I bet. Don’t make me have to chase you, little girl.”

Your toes curled in your shoes. Bucky Barnes could get it. It was a done deal. You were exhausted of running from him, but this time he turned and ran, and you ran after him.

It was quite the workout, and Bucky most certainly paced with you, but your time was getting markedly better on the route through Bridge Park. When you ended up at the door to your apartment building, you turned to face Bucky, panting. 

“Wanna invite me up?”

You wanted nothing more. But you couldn’t help your reflex.

“No.”

“Yeah. Right. I get it. Had to ask.”

“Even though you said you wouldn’t.”

He smirked down at you. He’d been growing his hair out a little and a lock was flopping forward. You almost reached up to brush it out of his eyes, but you knew that if you touched him, even his hair, it would be game over.

Bucky’s hands were at his sides, clenched in fists to keep from touching you. He wanted to lean down to kiss you, but he wanted you to make the first move.

“Why do you want to come up?”

“For a drink…” Bucky licked his lips. “… of water.”

You gulped, your own throat parched with desire. Your eyes shined his body, to the glistening torso that was visible through the shirt to those short shorts.

“Oh.”

Now you felt rude as fuck.

“I didn’t hydrate properly…” It seemed that Bucky was getting closer, “… before the run.” 

Now he was looking over your head to try and control the inevitable. You wondered if he got off on his call earlier. Did he have any left over for you? You looked down and then toward the river when you swore you saw a bulge in Bucky’s shorts.

Somehow, you were closer to him, if you looked up, and he bent down, your lips would touch.

You turned your head and spoke to the car parked to his right.

“So you’re saying you’re…thirsty…”

“Yes…”

Bucky’s voice was gravelly and fucking sexy.

“I can bring a bottle down…”

Bucky shook his head and looked down the street.

“Nah, by the time you go up and come back down, I can get home…”

You looked toward Bucky’s house.

“Oh…”

You felt like an idiot. For a writer, you couldn’t find any other words than ‘oh.’

“Then come…come on up.”

You had to concentrate not to stutter.

“Thank you! Such a good one.”

You could hear Bucky’s smile behind you and you could practically feel his eyes on your ass as you climbed the stairs.

When you reached your apartment and entered,  Bucky looked around and then went to the window as you went into your tiny kitchen to get him a water bottle.

He turned around and looked at you piercingly as you brought it to him. You’d kicked off your running shoes when you entered the door and that made him that much taller when you were in front of him.

Bucky grabbed the bottle. Your fingers touched yet you didn’t pull them back. As you looked into his eyes, you noticed something.

“I just realized, you’re not wearing your glasses.”

He smirked at you.

“Contacts. Not a good look to have fogged up glasses when your face is getting wet…”

Your mouth opened slightly.

“...While you’re running.” 

Bucy took a sip of water, then a lager gulp, emptying the glass.

“Thank you. It was so good of you…” He looked down at you. “I feel like thanking you in some way…”

He looked around the room and then back at you. You felt guilty as hell.

“Don’t thank me. I don’t deserve it.”

He cocked his head at you.

“Tell me why you think that.”

“Because…” 

You went on to tell him what happened earlier that afternoon. His face was inscrutable as he registered the information.

“Sooo… you eavesdropped on a private conversation. A very private conversation. And then snuck back out of my home without saying anything.”

“Y-yes.”

Why did you feel as if you were in danger as Bucky moved closer to you?

“Is that why you were asking about my needs earlier?”

You didn’t, you couldn’t answer.

“Is it because you liked what you saw?”

He was circling you now, like a predator, and you were frozen to the spot. When he got behind you he raised his voice, just a little. 

“Answer me. ”

You shivered at his smooth, dangerous tone.

“I- I-yes- no- I don’t know….”

He came back around in front of you.

“Well, I can alleviate some speculation. As I said, I don’t do long distance relationships, but I can pay for what I need. And that’s nobody’s business because no one has any claim on me. Especially you. Because you said you didn’t want it. Didn’t you?”

You just stared but he gave you that look and you replied.

“I said that. Yes.”

“Have you changed your mind? What do you want, y/n?”

“I want…” 

You looked down at the floor, gathering your strength. Then back up at Bucky. 

“I want you.”

“Oh. You got aroused by what you saw, and now you want me to give you…satisfaction?…” 

You nodded, biting your lip. Now was not the time for games the way your panties were drenched.

“I feel like a little bit of a whore. And I need to be punished. Immediately.”

Your jaw dropped at what you just said.

Bucky grinned.

“Oh really. That critical? Well let’s see what we can do…”

He finally touched you, grabbing your waist and pulling you toward him for a kiss. It was everything, passionate, with a promise.

“Where is your bed?

You smiled up at him, took his hand, and led him to your bedroom.

Bucky kissed you senseless as soon as you entered the room. You took off your tank and sports bra and Bucky discarded his muscle shirt. Your eyes watered at his bare chest and abs.

He stood back and admired you.

“So gotdamn gorgeous,” Bucky whispered, almost to himself. “Take off those shorts. Don’t forget the panties.”

You hurried to obey, the situation making your pussy cry for his attention. He reached out to touch you, thumbs gently thrumming your nipples. You threw your head back and moaned. Then he drew his hands back. You looked up, mind scattered.

“I was so wrong when I assumed that you were a good girl earlier. And I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”

Bucky watched as you bit your lip.

“You are not a good girl. Good girls don’t eavesdrop. I’m going to show you what happens to bad girls when I get my hands on them.”

The thrill that ran through your body was like nothing else.

“Do you want me to show you that? Do you want this?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky drew in a breath.

“Get on your knees.”

You obeyed in .3 seconds.

“Yessss. That’s it. So obedient for me.” 

Bucky caressed the side of your face. You turned and captured his thumb in your mouth, sucking and looking up at him.

“Fuck, is that what you want? You want to suck my dick?”

You nodded, taking his thumb with you, which caused him to press it in deeper. He leaned down toward you.

“Now why would I want to go ahead and do that? You’ve been a very bad girl.”

Bucky straightened up, and pulled his dick out of his running shorts. It was more beautiful up close. You sighed as he started stroking it right in your face. 

“Do you see how I’m already dripping for you?”

You looked up at his cock, a beautiful clear bead of precum shining on its tip. Then you looked up at him and nodded.

“It’s a shame that you won’t get to suck it like you want to...” 

You whimpered in disappointment. He ignored you.

“Now, spread those knees apart and let me see how you would have gotten off tonight while you thought of me stroking off.”

He drew in a ragged breath as you looked up at him with those eyes and started to touch yourself.

“Wider, let me see that pussy from up here.”

You shifted so that he could see better what you were doing.

“Shit. That looks delicious. Get it nice and creamy for me. I’m gonna have my fill of you tonight.”

He looked pained as he jerked himself, drops of precum landing on your body. Your juices made for an audible display of your current situation; desperate for Bucky Barnes’ cock.

“Stop! Hands away.”

Bucky glared at you when you whined.

“Don’t act like a brat. You brought this on yourself. Get on the bed, ass up.”

You did as you were told, hoping that he would finally touch you.

“Now play some more for me.”

Bucky groaned as you wiggled your ass and reached for yourself.

“Stop, suck your fingers and get them wet, then stick them in as far as they will go.”

You whimpered and did as you were told, but your fingers were inadequate for what you wanted. Why you needed.

“Fuck, that little pussy looks so good. Add another finger. If I’m gonna fuck you, you need to be stretched out more than that.”

Next thing you knew, you felt his lips on your lower ones, and his tongue was doing unspeakable things to you as you fingered yourself. You saw stars at the obscene way that Bucky Barnes was eating you out.

The way he was smacking his lips and yours was curdling your brian. His tongue started licking you faster and faster and his lips were sucking your clit until you almost came. Then he stopped. You groaned in frustration.

Bucky stood up and backed away, stroking himself again.

“Turn over, do it again while I stroke myself off.” 

Again, you did as you were told.

This time, you licked your fingers obscenely, fellating them so that he could see what his cock was missing. He groaned and stroked faster as you circled your clit skillfully, playing with your nipple with your other hand.

“Fuck that looks so fucking….” 

Then he looked you in the eyes.

“You’re trying to get fucked, aren’t you?”

You nodded, trying not to seem too eager, but you were just his cock slut at this point.

“Well, if you can keep going as long as I say, and not cum, I might give you this dick.”

You bit your lip at the challenge, going to town on yourself, as nasty as you wanted to be. The faces and the grunts that came from him made it really hard to stay on earth, so you closed your eyes.

“Open. Your. Fucking. Eyes. You fucking slut.”

You snapped your eyes opened and were about to cum when you saw his big hand going a mile a minute around his bick cock, making his shiny red head appear and reappear in his palm, but he commanded, “Stop!” just in time, and grabbed your ankle, pulling you down to the edge of the bed.

“You’re about to get it now. Are you ready?”

“Yes!”

Bucky spread your thighs and spread them wide, swiping his slick cock head at your entrance.

“Can you take this cock?”

“I need it!”

“Want it raw? Want me to stretch this little pussy out?” 

Bucky was already inching inside you, causing a delicious burn that you wanted more of.

“Fuck yes!”

“Then be a good girl and….” 

Bucky slid inside you, making you take his cock like you’d never had to before with anyone else.

“Sooooo fucking wet and soooo fucking tight.” 

Bucky looked down at you, eyes shining. His chest was heaving with the effort to restrain himself. He couldn’t believe that he was where he’d wanted to be for a while now. And so he smiled at you.

“This pussy seems made for me.”

And then he started to move. It was a mind numbing experience of sensations, his thick, pulsing cock skating in the slick of your tight, stretched cunt. He fell down to his elbows and pressed his forehead against yours as you both looked down and watched the phenomenon.

“How does it feel, Sir?”

Bucky closed his eyes and groaned as his hips faltered.

“Am I wet enough?”

“Fuck!”

Your voice in his ear was making him lose the facade of control that he had hanging by a string now that he was inside you.

“Feelsss…. Feels like… Fuck! …Don’t ask me…”

“Don’t ask what? How my pussy feels for you?”

“Holy mother of god I….”

Bucky took your thighs in his hand, pulled you to the edge of the bed again and started pounding. Then, he took your windpipe between his thumb and forefinger.

“That’ll teach you to try to…”

The way your eyes rolled back in your head had Bucky spurting inside of you already. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…..”

Bucky was fucking you ruthlessly. You’d never had it like this.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

You clenched around his cock and Bucky pulled out at the last possible second, shooting his cum on your stomach while reaching down and plucking your clit with his thumb. You finally came with a loud yell and a smile.

When you opened your eyes, Bucky was still milking his cock over you, so you reached down, gathered some cum on your fingers, and inserted them in your mouth. Bucky’s eyes rolled and he pulsed a last little bit of spend on your body.

“Where is your bathroom?”

You pointed toward your right and Bucky went in, ran some water and came out cleaned up, and with a washcloth for you. He sat down on the bed and tenderly took care of you. Then, he leaned down and kissed the belly that he’d just used. He leaned on his elbow and stared at you.

“You satisfied?”

“Hmmmmm. Yes.”

Bucky looked worried, then cleared his throat.

“Good. That was… it was very good for me too.” 

You smiled at him, trying to reassure him, then you started to speak. He stopped you.

“No worries, this shouldn’t affect our working relationship. We’re both adults. We can be professional, right?”

What you wanted was the farthest thing from professional, but you replied, “Right.”

Bucky kissed your nose, then stood up and started getting dressed. You got up and put on your robe, seeing him to the door.

Bucky smiled at you as he left.

“Tomorrow, 4 pm. My brownstone.”

You smiled back.

“And please announce yourself when you come in?”

Bucky winked as he started down the stairs, leaving you watching him until you couldn’t see him anymore.

When he was gone, and you were alone in your apartment, you wondered how the fuck You we’re supposed to be professional when you were addicted to that dick.

You were thinking hard when Bucky sent you a message 10 minutes later.

The text said:

Something to play with ;)

Early the next morning, too early, Bucky woke up drenched in sweat and reached for his glasses, medicine, and the bottle of water next to his bed.

It had been a while since he’d had the familiar nightmare about what happened Sarah. And his baby.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed and came back to the present. He got up to run the shower and looked into the mirror. He felt guilty for not having Sarah on his mind as much lately. But you were quite the distraction. 

He’d finally found a reason to move on with his life. 

You.

You and Sarah were nothing alike. Your spirit, and your spunk were unlike any other person he’d ever met. He couldn’t bend you to his will.

Not that Sarah had been a pushover, but with her, it had been so easy. Bucky and Sarah fell for each other at first sight and immediately started sneaking around behind Sam’s back. They’d been like yin and yang, not the oil and water that you and he had become. 

Bucky looked deep into his own eyes in the mirror to see if they still reflected the feral violence he wreaked on the men who tried to kidnap them and inadvertently killed his wife and baby in the process. 

Now, five years after all of that you made Bucky’s heart race again, something that running couldn’t even do.

It was meant to be.

After five years out of the limelight, everyone was curious about the sorrow-filled story of what happened to James Buchanan Barnes, and your light, humor-filled piece was skillfully written and hinted at the deeper story. It was good journalism without being mean spirited and he respected you for your skill. 

He wanted you for your body, and he wanted in your mind and soul. 

Bucky Barnes needed you. Now that he had given you a taste of the physical, he just need to make you fall in love with him.

He wished that you were here beside him where you belonged, but all in due time. His plan was proceeding perfectly. 

Bucky did his breathing exercises and walked into a cool morning shower. After that, Bucky settled into bed with his laptop to make sure that you were okay.

The surveillance team he hired was in place outside your building, and you seemed to be sleeping peacefully from what he could see from the cameras placed inside your apartment.

Bucky sighed and closed his laptop, attempting to turn off his brain so that he could gain a few more moments of sleep as the sun started to rise.

What a day today would be.

Feedback is the essence of life. Reblog and read the next in the series, Bucky Charms.

#ask dj #dj answers #the playlist séries #Bucky Barnes #ceo!bucky barnes #ceo! bucky x journalist! reader #ceo! bucky #ceo! bucky x black reader #ceo! Bucky x black journalist reader #steve rogers #Sam Wilson #Natasha Romanoff #marvel fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #the Playlist series

[turbulentscrawl]

Kinda going off of your whole process behind matchups, but what do you think the ideal personality would be for some of the survivors (Alice, Norton, Eli, Naib, or whoever else you choose!) Like, what would they want/need in a partner? I feel like some of them could work well with a variety of personality types tbh…

Anyways, keep up the good work!

I don't want to give EVERYTHING way 🤭so these are a bit short. I'm also not super familiar with Alice yet, so her's are a bit more superficial. Added Andrew!

Norton

-HAS to be with someone who respects his alone-time. He does better with someone who’s overall not that clingy, but at the very least you need to be able to let him go when he says he needs space. When he asks for that, it’s largely because he’s nervous about hurting you when he’s not fully in control of his emotions.

-He can’t be with someone rich. If he was, there’s a very good chance he doesn’t have genuine feelings for them. There is a small exception to this in the manor, because it’s something of an equalizer and money doesn’t help anyone here. But outside? Norton (Aus excluded) is always going to be a frugal thrift-er, and he’d be easily annoyed by someone who blows their money like it grows on trees.

-He does better with fellow introverts too. He can do group stuff sometimes, but he prefers intimate, not-noisy environments. He’s spent most of his life alone so big events, public activities, and big social groups just feel foreign to him.

Naib

-The main thing for Naib is you not being a nosey nancy. Especially outside of the manor, he needs a partner who isn’t going to ask questions about what he does for work. He brings home the bacon and that’s got to be enough for you.

-It’s also better for him to be with someone who doesn’t mind his paranoid protectiveness. As much as he wants you to stay out of his business, he wants to be IN yours. Not to be controlling, but so he’s always prepared to come running if something happens. He can live without this trait in a partner, but it will be a constant point of tension if you don’t like it.

-Otherwise, Naib can get along with just about anyone who treats him decently. He sees the appeal in several personality types.

Eli

-Eli also works with many different types of people! He’s a very patient and calm man who makes and effort to understand everyone’s actions and opinions. The only people I straight-up can’t see him being with are those who intentionally try to bring out negative emotions as tests or pranks. He enjoys some light teasing, but if you try to rile him up or make him jealous, he’s just going to disengage from you because that’s blatantly unkind. He wants to foster good-vibes only with his partner.

-He does very much like skinship, though, so it’s best if his partner likes both giving and receiving Physical Touch as a love language.

-He’s a lot more likely to be sweet on someone who’s kind and generous. And he’s very intuitive, so he knows when this is genuine…if you’re faking it to manipulate/get in his good graces.

Alice

-As a journalist, she needs a partner who can keep their mouth shut. Like, you’re more than welcome to gossip TO HER. But she literally pays her bills by being nosey, and exclusivity of information is part of that. So don’t share things you learn from her…but DO share things you learn from others with her.

-She’s brave to a fault. Like Alice sometimes genuinely does not sense danger sometimes, so she would appreciate a partner who looks out for her when she can’t do it herself.

Andrew

-You have to be open-minded and nonjudgemental. He’s been treated poorly most of his life because of how he looks, and if he sees you treating other people with similar backstories well, his opinion of you skyrockets. (even though he won’t make it known for some time.) If you gossip to him about other people’s superficial stuff, kiss your relationship goodbye.

-Does best with someone patient and intuitive. He’s defensive and has an attitude, sometimes even without meaning to. He requires a lot of grace as far as overlooking the shit he says. His verbal communication will improve with time, and he will apologize for any slipups as his trust in you grows, but you have to be able to wait out the road bumps first.

-He also does better with a fellow introvert than an extrovert. For friendships, it doesn’t matter, but for a romantic partner he has more insecurities and concerns about you leaving him for someone else. If you like to spend a lot of time with other people, like being the center of attention, or feed on other’s approval, Andrew will have a harder time reigning in those thoughts that he’s not important to you.

#idv x reader #identity v #andrew kreiss x reader #norton campbell x reader #naib subedar x reader #eli clark x reader #alice deross x reader #idv journalist #idv gravekeeper #idv seer #idv prospector #idv mercenary

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 1/12)

yes i have eighty different rockstar!eddie's now, pls don't look at me, i rewatched almost famous and had a moment, k bye, enjoy!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you're a writer for rolling stone magazine and eddie hates the media so... he hates you

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, and eddie being an asshole <3

word count: 4.5k

| next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

You love your job more than anything.

You love that it allows you to travel, that it’s centered around music, and that you get to meet people and make friends and do extravagant things you would’ve never imagined you’d be doing. You love your job.

“I love my job.” It’s starting to taste like a lie when it reaches your tongue.

You mutter it to yourself again, looking around the bright hallway and searching for any fucking door with the words ‘CORRODED COFFIN’ written on it.

You glance at the watch on your wrist, teeth digging into the soft skin of your cheek as you keep walking down the corridor. 

You feel as if you’ve been walking down this hall for years, miles of white stone wall and shiny gray cement floors, equipment littered here and there with staff walking through doors and yelling commands.

You follow the echo of chatter and soft giggles, the sound getting closer and closer until a group of girls meets you. A red-headed girl lazily chews gum and stands against the wall, glaring at you from behind her blood-red shades. You take the chance to ask them your pressing question, “Do you know where I could find the dressing room for Corroded Coffin?” You ask.

The girls glare at you and giggle, eyeing you and, without a doubt judging your lack of fishnets and leather clothing. Brown leather boots, flared jeans, and a white long sleeve— you don’t belong here. “You a reporter or something?” 

You look at the redheaded girl, pursing your lips and taking a steady breath, reaching up to grasp the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, ignoring the snickering girls on the side. You clench the leather band of your bag in your palm, “I’m doing a piece on the band.”

The girl silently studies you; a ghost of a smile passes her lips, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You shift on your feet, eyebrows furrowing, “Yeah um… they’re big on music and—“ “I know what Rolling Stone Magazine is.”

You love your job.

You steadily breathe, clenching your bag once again. Your feet ache in these boots, and your jeans are teetering on the cusp of too tight after you ate a quick dinner— you want to go home. “The boys won’t speak with Rolling Stone.”

It falls silent between the two of you, and you glance at the other three girls, huddled together and passing a joint. “They don’t like watered-down shitty tabloids like yours. They won’t want to see you.” The redhead explains, silently reaching over to accept her turn with the joint.

You watch as she brings the burning paper to her lips, taking a long drag and smirking at you. She expects you to take her word and leave, but you’ve dealt with enough people like her to know she’s bullshitting you.

“Could you please point me toward their dressing room?” You ask, reconstructing your previous question because you now understand that, without a doubt, these women know where the dressing room is.

She laughs and points across the hall, some feet from where you’re all standing. You can see the first few letters of the band's name from your angle, and you internally rejoice. You thank her and walk over to the door, mentally reviewing your introduction a few times before laying a few knocks on the heavy black door.

There’s no response for a moment, and you try not to let the snickering sound of the girls tick you off. You lift your hand to knock again, but the door swings open before you can do it. A tall, muscular man glares down at you, dressed in black with a scowl. He must be security.

“Hi, I’m a writer for—“ “Groupies aren’t coming in yet; wait out in the back.” 

Your face twists in offense, glaring at the man as you, yet again, clench your fist in annoyance, “I’m not a fucking group—“ The door slams shut before you can finish your sentence. 

“Fuckin’ asshole.” You mutter to yourself. 

You love your job.

The girls snicker behind you, and you feel your face heat in embarrassment and annoyance. Why is nearly everybody in this industry just a bunch of assholes? You figure you’ll just have to wait for the band members to come out, leaning back to press your back against the wall and patiently wait.

From outside, you can hear the chaotic noise of yelling and loud banter from inside the room— the clatter of furniture breaking and thuds against the wall. You remember when behavior like this used to shock you, but artists seem to have reckless behavior nowadays.

The group of girls chatter amongst themselves, and you busy yourself with following the cracks in the floor. You stand there with aching feet and a mental ticking clock for what feels like hours, and you almost give up until the door flies open and three boys stumble out, reeking of alcohol and weed and musk. 

You watch as they all brush past you, ignoring you for the group of girls standing across the hallway, cheering their names and draping their arms across their shoulders. 

“And who might you be?”

You turn around at the gravelly voice, locking eyes with a glazed pool of brown. The last of the group, the fourth member— and, by what you can piece together given the notorious long dark brown locks dusting his shoulders, Eddie Munson. You clear your throat, stepping forward and telling him your name. You extend a hand for him to shake and ignore how his gaze rolls over every inch of your body.

“I’m a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine,” you explain, retracting your hand when he only glances at the kind gesture. He stands before you, an uninterested smirk dancing against his lips. He’s dressed in black jeans and black leather boots that look worn to hell despite his bottomless pit of a wallet. A black sheer button-down top, fully open to expose his sweat-glistened chest, shiny chains hanging from his neck and kissing his collarbones. His ringed fingers are wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, tiny sticky streams of spilled alcohol coating the bottle.

“I’m here to interview your band.” You add. 

He laughs, spit-slick lips forming a mocking smile as he speaks, “My band?” 

You blink, “Yes, you’re all a band, right?” You motion to the boys, still chatting with the girls across from where you stand, ignoring the sight of one of the members groping a girl as she giggles. “Heavy metal band, Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie snickers, “Yeah, toots, we’re a band,” he lifts the bottle to his lips, speaking over the rim, “But this isn’t my band.” He tips the drink back and gulps down the bitter drink.

You watch as he takes it down without a single twitch of displeasure. You take a deep breath, shifting on your feet as you ignore his smart response, “Okay, well, it won’t be long,” you try to reason, reaching for your bag to dig out your notepad.

“Just a few questions; I won’t take much of your time—” Eddie cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “Listen, princess,” he presses his hand against the wall beside you, using the hand wrapped around the whiskey to gesture as he speaks. “While I’d love to sit and chitchat like a couple of teenage girls, we’ve got two issues here, sweetheart.”

“One,” he raises his index finger, “We don’t do interviews before shows.” He explains as if it’s common knowledge. He lifts another finger, “And two,” he steps closer, a sickening grin spreading across his lips when you step back. “We want nothing to do with your shitty dick-sucking career-crushing poor excuse of a magazine.”

You stare at him, a million different responses churning in your head, and you so badly want to read him to filth, but you really fucking love your job.

“Mr. Munson, I promise you—” “Where are you from?”

What is it with these assholes and cutting you off mid-sentence? 

You swallow your pride and answer, “Michigan.” Eddie hums, nodding his head, clicking his teeth as if tasting the state on his tongue. “I’ll tell you this, Michigan,” he bumps the bottle against your shoulder, and you grimace at the drop of liquor that seeps into your shirt. “We’re not doing your shitty piece of a story, but we’ll graciously give you a nice view of the show from the side stage.” He grins, patting your shoulder once and winking.

A staff member passes by you, alerting the band that they have less than a minute to be on stage. You open your mouth to object to his offer, but the boy is downing the rest of the bottle and shoving the bottle into your chest, “Enjoy the show, Michigan.” 

You watch in disbelief as he walks off with his band members, the other members not even glancing your way as they holler and cheer down the corridor of the venue. For the 80th time tonight, you clutch the band of your bag and curse to yourself.

Fuckin’ dipshit rockstars.

Against your better judgment, you, again, swallow your pride and watch the show from the side of the stage. You decline any drinks offers, wanting to stay as sober as possible for the interview after the show (if you can weasel one out of them). 

Corroded Coffin knows how to put on a show. Each band member works the crowd in ways you have rarely witnessed in this industry— it’s not difficult to see their appeal to the younger generation of music listeners.

None of the members outshine the other; they are all equally in the spotlight, playing their part to create a well-oiled machine of an act. Granted, most of the show is concerningly chaotic; Gareth kicked his foot into his drum set near the end, Jeff smashed the fret of his guitar over the side of an amp, Eddie made out with a fan and Gareth, and the other member you can’t seem to name for the life of you sprayed the front row with multiple bottles of liquor.

It’s chaotic, an endless list of violations without a doubt, but the fans eat it out of the palm of their hands.

You don’t even bother trying to get their attention when they run off the stage, quietly watching from afar as they’re cheered on by VIP fans, managers, and staff. Security rushes them to the green room, where a line of fans waits with various pieces of merchandise to be signed.

You follow, silently taking in the busy scene, saying nothing when you catch a few members stealthily swiping tiny bags of party favors from fans. It’s a movie of never-ending noise and movement, and you’re wondering how they put up with this every night.

You glance at your watch and grunt in annoyance, half past midnight, well past the time you’d hoped to be back in your hotel room.

You stand aside and watch the room as the squealing fans go to each boy, getting autographs and Polaroids to commemorate the moment. Gareth is a flirt, shakes every girl's hand and only lingers for the ones he fancies, gazes into their eyes like they’re the only girl in the room, and smirks when they giggle and lean into his touch. Tells them they’re pretty, compliments their dresses and tops, and gazes at their chest for too long until staff breaks the moment and tells the girls to ‘keep the line moving, ladies’. 

Jeff is almost the same, except he’s less performative with it. He’s got a hint of a gentleman in him, thanks each fan for coming, and asks how they liked the show with a sneaky glint in his eyes and a sly smirk. Winks at one of the girls and leans in to whisper something in her ear, something you can’t read from his lips, but later on, you will see them step onto the tour bus together, snickering like sneaky teenagers.

The bass player, the one whose name always slips your mind, has gone off somewhere with a groupie; you watched them slip away from the madness the second he stepped off stage. 

And Eddie— Eddie can’t stop glaring at you. Can’t stop looking at you and making you squirm because he wants you gone. He’s got an arm draped around a girl's shoulder, neck craned down to hear what she whispers, and through the chaos of the room and the pretty girl practically pawing at his chest and giggling in his ear, Eddie still manages to find the time to look at you. Curly bangs wet with sweat sticking to his forehead, cheeks rosy and flushed with adrenaline, wide eyes diminished beneath smudged black eyeliner. He looks like an animal, damp and matted, searing gaze dripping with malice. 

You almost take the bait and cower.

A hand is placed on your shoulder, breaking your silent staring contest with Eddie as a man steps into your view. He is taller than you, older with lines of age sinking into his skin, glaring down at you over the end of his cigarette as he speaks, “Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You wonder how he was able to pick you out, but your itchy jeans and suffocating boots quickly remind you that you don’t exactly fit into the crowd. You nod, sticking a hand out and telling him your name. “You must be Richie, the manager?” You assume, kindly smiling when he takes your hand with a friendly grip in greeting.

“I’m here to interview your boys. We called this morning,” you remind him. He nods, puffs out a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth as he speaks, “Yeah, uh… The thing with that is,” he tilts his head to scratch at the stubble on his chin, “I’m not so sure the boys’ll be up for that.” 

You breathily laugh, glancing at the boys behind him, ignoring when Eddie glances your way, “Yeah, I gathered that already.”

The man hums, reaching up to pluck the burning paper from his lip, blowing the smoke away from your face before speaking, “Yeah, Eddie’s not too keen on big media. Bad run-in from the past.” He explains. You nod understandingly, “The Face?”

The man nods, taking another hit, “Tore ‘em to shreds.” You nod, crossing your arms over your chest with a breath, “I remember.” He offers you a hit, and you shake your head, kindly waving him off.

“Shitty, you came all this way, though. Where you from?”

You don’t look at him as you respond, too focused on the man across the room, his attention locked in on the fans now that he sees you’re being taken care of— like an unwanted intruder being exterminated. But you’re not an intruder. You’re a journalist, a writer, a listener— and you’re damn good at it. 

Before you can thoroughly think about the repercussions, your mouth is running, gaze still locked on Eddie, “I can get them on the cover.”

Richie pauses his rambling at that, pauses the lift of his cigarette to his lips, and looks at you, waiting for you to say it was a joke or something— but it’s not. Your gaze flitters to him, your expression unwavering as you wait for him to respond. “The cover?”

You nod once, watching as he takes one long drag of his cigarette. “We can do one big interview with them all,” you begin, “I’ll tag along for a few shows to gather more on the experience, get a photoshoot booked and have them on the cover for the July issue.” You’re pulling strings, tugging at what sounds enticing and will get you where you need to be. You’re good at your job, you’ve done this before, and you know how to bend things to your will because the rockstars— the rockstars are always easy to break.

Richie glances over his shoulder and grunts, rubbing a hand over his face before turning back to you, “Okay, um,” he sighs and curses under his breath, “Let me see if I can talk them into it, yeah?” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and starts searching his pockets. “We’ve got a residency tour in New York next,” he announces, finally fishing out his wallet and sifting through cards until he finds what he needs. He offers the card to you, “Think you can meet us there?”

You take the card and glance over it before glancing at the boy once again. You nod, and he smiles, “Give me a call when you land; I’ll let you know if it’s a go.”

He leaves without another word, and you stay standing for a bit, rubbing the card between your fingers as you watch the boys meet the last of their fans tonight, Eddie no longer looks your way, and you hope he does for just a split second so he can know— so he can realize that he lost.

You give up when he seems too preoccupied with the girls, stuffing the card in your purse and making your way toward the exit. You’ll have to settle for rubbing it in when you see them in New York.

You spent the better part of your week convincing Anna, your manager, to give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to pull through with a cover story. Anna wasn’t so excited when you told her you offered them a cover, but Anna is never excited by your ideas; she’s always worried until the final product comes out like a fine piece of gold. Treasure. You create treasure, and Anna knows this, so she finally relents and lets you go through with it— “You better get me the biggest story ever made. Bigger than Madonna.”

You can do bigger than Madonna— and seeing as your subject is four young men at the peak of worldwide fame, ‘bigger than Madonna’ will be a piece of cake.

You grab the hotel phone the second you get in, dialing the number on the creased business card you’d fished out from your bag. Your knee bounces in anticipation, teeth digging into your lip as you listen to each agonizing ring, almost thinking Richie gave you a fake card before finally, the phone picks up, “Hello?” It’s groggy, like he’d just woke up.

“Hi, it’s Rolling Stone Magazine,”

He groans on the other end, and you can hear the rustling of sheets, and you assume he’s sitting up in bed, “Rolling Stone Magazine… Oh— oh, uh… are you here?” He asks. You nod before answering with a short yes. 

“Are we on for today?” You ask. He’s silent for a few moments, nothing but sleepy, distant grunts filtering through the speaker. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we’re on just uh,” you pick at the seam of your jeans as you wait for him to finish his thought, “Come to the garden at around three; they’ve got rehearsals, and you can try to squeeze in after.”

You thank him and end the call, placing the phone back on the stand and sighing as you glance around the room. This will be your home for the next month; Anna advised you to stay for the entire residency tour despite your reassurance that you can complete the story in a week— “A big story, birdie. A massive one. A good one. That doesn’t happen in a week.”

So, one month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie doesn’t like rehearsals. 

He thinks they’re stupid and useless and take up too much time of the day when he could spend it doing something else. Could be writing, could be out having fun with the boys and getting high as a kite, could be fucking that redheaded groupie, Lany. He could be doing so many things, but instead, he’s up on stage in an empty arena listening for feedback in the mic and testing the amps for the guitars. 

“Let’s do that last track one more time; I think I’m picking up a bit of feedback on you, Gareth.”

Eddie sits down on the edge of the drum riser, sticking a cigarette between his lips and lighting it up. He tilts his head back and blows up toward the beaming lights, squinting at the bright rays and imagining them enveloping him. He closes his eyes and imagines it’s the sun, thinking about Hawkins and the last summers he spent with the gang. Thinks about Dustin and Lucas and Max and Mike. Steve, Nance, and Robin. Thinks about how he hasn’t called or visited in a while, even though he got their card on his birthday.

He feels shitty for not calling home; he itches to make the call now and let them know that he misses them and wishes they could fly out more often to watch the band play. They’re all busy, though; the kids are about to start college— dusted the shit out of high school, which Eddie obviously flew in to watch them walk the stage— and the older half of them are all getting jobs, looking for their next big step in life, and Eddie misses them.

His reminiscent thoughts are cut through with the sharp and loud slamming of the arena door, grasping his attention in seconds. He blinks a few times to get the light out of his eyes, squinting at where the noise came from— and Eddie’s mind is fresh off a joint, so he’s not a hundred percent sure if he’s just envisioning that journalist from the other day or she’s actually here.

He stands up from the drum riser, stepping further into the stage as he watches you walk down the rows of seats; barely acknowledges the stage manager when he asks him to play the riff from track four until Jeff walks into his line of sight, “Come on, man, I wanna get this over with.”

Eddie situates his fingers over the frets of his guitar, watching as you find a seat in the third row and settle in, settling your bag in your lap and holding it to you as you silently watch the crew work the stage. He plays the riff a few times, until they can fix that god-awful ringing noise behind the higher notes, and when they finally wrap up rehearsals, Eddie makes a beeline to the front row where Richie is standing, quietly chatting with a staff member about where he wants the road cases to go. Eddie doesn’t care much for their conversation, steps in, and promptly interrupts, “Why the fuck is that journalist here?”

Richard turns to him and raises his eyebrows, “Sir?”

The staff member leaves as Eddie leans in and points over Richard's shoulder to where you sit, still quietly watching the stage, bright lights illuminating your face like you’re some god-sent fucking angel— and you’re not. Eddie knows you’re not. He sees straight through your friendly act. “The journalist, Richie. Why is she here?” He slowly repeats.

Richie glances at you and looks back at Eddie, “She’s doing a story on the band—” “No, she’s fucking not.”

Richie stares at Eddie, blinks for a silent moment before speaking, “Son,” —and sometimes Richie reminds Eddie of Wayne, and it scares him, “She’s gonna put you on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.” Richie points your way. Eddie falters momentarily, mindlessly blinking and shaking his head, “Cover?”

Richie laughs and pats Eddie on the shoulder, “Yeah. The fucking cover,” he says, “so, whether you like it or not, you’re doing the interview. This is what the band needs.”

Eddie shakes his head, curly strands brushing the muscles of his shoulders, “We don’t need a goddamn cover, Richie. We’re not doing a fucking story—” “Yes, you are.” Richie doesn’t mean to make his voice boom through the arena, but it attracts attention either way, and he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before clapping a hand onto the back of Eddie’s shoulder, turning both away from the stage.

“You’re putting out an album in a few months. You want it to sell, don’t you?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other as he glances over his shoulder, annoyed when he catches you watching— almost smirks when you quickly look away as if you’d been caught red-handed. Despite Eddie’s strong will, he nods because fucking obviously he wants the album to sell— but at what cost?

Richie nods and squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, “Good. Then you’ll do the interview. She’ll be with us for all of New York, so play nice. We need a good piece.” and leaves Eddie with a pat on his shoulder. 

Eddie stands there for a moment, gathering himself and trying to cope with the fact that some fucking narc will be on their back for the next month. He doesn’t see or hear you walk up to him until you say his name. The barricade separates you, your fingers gripping the black railing as you stand before him. Eddie’s hands are on his hips, not moving an inch as he looks at you.

“I know you don’t want me here, but I… I’m just doing my job, and if you can cooperate, this will be easier for the both of us.”

And Eddie— god, Eddie can’t fucking believe the audacity.

“Did you fuck Richie?”

He watches you pull back, blinking at him as you stare silently. Eddie tilts his head, eyebrows raising to push the answer from you, “No, I didn’t—” You shake your head and blink hard in confusion, “Why would I—” “Because you want a good story.” Eddie snaps, “Right?”

Because that’s all anybody ever wants from him. A good story. A tale to tell their friends about. Tell them the secrets they pulled from Eddie Munson, tell them about the famous rockstar that fucked them backstage, tell them they know what makes him crack. A good story.

You gape at him, lost and shocked by the sudden confrontation. 

You straighten up and tilt your head, eyes growing harsh with anger as you respond, “No. I didn’t fuck Richie. I don’t fuck to get where I want, I pull strings, and I make it work,” you snap, “I treat people with the respect they deserve, and I get what I want. You could learn a few things from that.”

And with that, you’re gone. Leaving Eddie behind with a twisted face of annoyance. He watches you walk over to where Richie is and greet him, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to watch or tune in to the conversation, storming through the arena and grabbing his coat to get in the car and tell the driver to take him to his hotel.

One month. Twelve shows and thirty days. One month.

Eddie can play along, he thinks. How hard can it be?

————

part two

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #hiii heres another wip don't say anything shhhh #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson au #rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcanon #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut #rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader #journalist!reader

[harveywritings92]

[Horangi and Journalist! reader get left behind enemy lines, as they’re hiding and figuring out their next move, Horangi hands R/n a pistol he took off of a dead soldier.]

R/n, tries to push the gun back: Oh no, I don’t really use guns unless they use water for ammo.

Horangi: Well tough luck, things are gonna get bad from here on out...Well, bad for you you’re a woman, they’ll just kill me. 

R/n, reluctantly takes the gun: Um, shouldn’t you like teach me to use it?

Horangi: Shouldn’t be hard for you figure out, just think of it as a camera. 

R/n, looks confused:

Horangi, flatly: Point and shoot. 

R/n: Oh...Right. *under her breath* ‘Cept cameras don’t kill people or take yer eye out from the knockback! 

Horangi, grabbing some other things of the dead soldier: Alright, let’s go before this guys friends notice he’s missing.

[Horangi leads R/n farer towards the jungle where the next evac point is.]

#call of duty modern warfare incorrect quotes #call of duty kortac #Civvy! Reader #journalist! reader #afab reader #kim horangi hong jin #cod horangi #horangi x reader #tw: guns #tw: death mention #call of duty x reader #call of duty warzone

[robinsno1lesbian]

𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫!𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐱 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

editor nancy wheeler x journalist reader headcanons

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: working for nancy wheeler? absolutely. especially when your new boss likes to fuck you occasionally...

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1819

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ mature content! (MDNI), implied cheating, fingering, oral, strap on, pet names, praise kink, overstimulation, semi-public sex, mention of spanking (once), dom!nancy wheeler, not beta read so errors are guaranteed (as always let me know if i missed anything :) )

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: currently experiencing nancy wheeler brainrot. (can you tell?)

from your very first day at your new job, nancy has an eye on you. 

she's always caring & gentle with you, encouraging you to bring up your ideas for future articles.

she's also extremely considerate of your ideas. and even though you don't immediately notice it, there is some favoritism going on (out of all of your coworkers, nancy definitely likes you best)

but it takes you quite some time to notice and to understand what she wants from you.

the first thing you do notice is the way she always seeks physical touch:

the way she leans against you from behind to read what you've written so far.

the way she places her slender fingers on your shoulder, tightening them over your skin...

but it doesn't bother you. not in the slightest.

you can't help yourself but lean back against her...ass pressed against her front. to push your shoulders further into her palms.

and you know that she knows

one day she is wearing a loose blouse.

your eyes immediately move down her body, to where the blouse is stuffed into the hem of a tight black skirt.

she would approach you with an extra sway of her hips, causing your heart to beat a mile a minute.

and, as if that didn't get you worked up yet, she leans over your desk to talk to you.

the blouse barely covers her as she hovers over you.

"meet me in my office after work"

and just like that, you spend the rest of your day with soaked panties and a heart that is racing in anticipation.

that is how you ended up bent over nancy's desk for the first time all while she's pounding into you from behind

"such a pretty pussy. take me so well"

every single day that follows at work is pure bliss

you never thought you'd end up in such a situation, especially not with your boss...but oh well...

nancy turns out to be the biggest tease

she's even touchier with you after that first incident: putting her hand on your thighs under your desk, rubbing your back while she praises you for your work

“oh i love how you phrased that..."

and then, lowering her voice while bringing her mouth to your ear...

“i think...yeah i think i'm gonna reward you for that later. would you like that?" 

she knows exactly how to make you want her, even in the most inconvenient times.

she will just call you into her office, ask you to close the door on your way in and then slam you against the wall.

and her touch is so different from anything you have ever known. her fingers are firm and confident as they flick over your clit.

nancy just knows exactly what she's doing.

giving head is something nancy is particularly passionate about.

she'll sit you down on her table, spread you wide open for her, and put her head between your thighs until you're a squirming mess for her.

and she enjoys it.

“fuck- god y/n- taste so good on my tongue. never tasted such a good pussy before god"

she'll appreciate it when you hold onto her head, pull and tug her hair to where you want her.

and she enjoys the sharp pain on her scalp when you're close to cumming and tug more harshly. it's the one weakness of hers you love to take advantage of.

nancy loves being possessive with you. you know you can't have her -not outside of the office at least- but when she fucks you, you're all hers.

you've seen the way she slips the ring off of her finger before you walk into her office. you've heard her on the phone with whoever is waiting for her at home.

you know this is wrong. but all doubts are out of the window when she's thrusting into you. telling you about the stressful day that she had and how she needs to have you.

and who are you to decline such a sweet offer?

you'd never tell but you love it when she gets like this. when she's stressed out or even angry after work and she is in need of some stress relief. 

that stress relief happens to be you.

she would pound her fingers into you until you're completely fucked out. 

she'd just go on about how terrible everything went, while her knuckles meet your cunt over and over again. 

nancy loves it when you ride her in her chair.

she would just sit and watch, sometimes hold your hands behind your back to restrict your movements all while you lose it on her strap.

"such a needy girl aren't you? you love it when i take you like this don't you? say it...say it!"

and, god, you will say it. in fact, you would do anything for nancy when she's this deep inside of you, fucking you better than anyone ever has.

you can't help but babble mindless nothings against her ear while she pounds into you.

but your begging and moaning only turns nancy on further, only motivates her to move her hips faster to meet yours over and over again.

"oh are you gonna cum pretty girl? are you gonna cum for me? yeah?"

her mocking tone drives you insane. you love it.

you're drooling all over her, your head against her neck as your vision blurs.

but nancy is relentless.

she won't stop until you come all around her strap.

and sometimes she won't stop after that either...sometimes nancy will fuck you through one orgasm after the other until you're nothing but a sobbing mess.

after you've come down from your height and nancy has moved her strap out of you, don't you dare think she's done with you.

"do you see that? see the mess you've made?"

she'll spread her legs, let you see the glistening dildo that is attached to her and stands between her thighs.

"clean it up"

and before you know it, you're on your knees for her, sucking her strap clean.

nancy loves to take you all over the office, late at night when your coworkers have left already...

over your desk; her body between your thighs, your leg wrapped around her hip and three of her fingers knuckle deep inside you. she loves watching your face when she makes you scream through the entire top floor in pleasure.

"that's it. that's right...god you sound so pretty when you scream for me..."

against the window of her office; with your body bent over while she's eating you out from behind, her hands set firmly on your ass.

she could lap on your throbbing cunt for hours, taking in every drip of arousal you can give her.

and she's not afraid to land some hard smacks on your ass, that never fail to make you whimper (the perfect combination of pain and pleasure) 

“oh such a dirty girl...bet you love it when i do that. don't you?" 

in the elevator; once the doors have closed behind you, and neither of you can wait until the safety of nightfall, she will press you up against the wall and shove her leg between your thighs.

"we don't have much time. you better make good use of it"

you are, by all means, your boss's personal fuck toy.

and, as humiliating as it might be, you love it.

you love it when she fucks you, hard and fast, when she makes you moan out her name, and when she makes you get on your knees for her.

"come on, let me use that pretty mouth of yours"

you would go down on nancy anytime, but it is quite a rare occasion.

when she does ask you to do so it fucking paradise.

she would hold you by the hair, rock her hips into your pretty face while her arousal drips down your chin.

"oh- oh god- right there y/n"

her soft moans ring in your ears.

“such a good girl, letting me fuck her tongue like this"

and when she comes, she does it loudly; her back arching in a beautiful bend, her mouth open, her juices flowing out of her.

on some days, nancy loves to watch you sit on the edge of her table while you're fucking yourself for her.

she simply leans back in her chair to enjoy the little show you're giving her.

you're throwing your head back, moaning -begging- for her to finally touch you.

but she's just sitting there, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

"look at me while you play with that pretty pussy of yours. does it feel good?"

of course it doesn't feel half as good as it does when she's fucking you but you're taking it nonetheless, rolling your hips against your fingers as if they weren't your own.

but just when you're about to cum, she asks you to stop. and if you can't, she'll get up and force your fingers out of your needy cunt.

"need me this bad don't you? that you're willing to make such a mess of your of your pretty fingers? such a dirty mess..."

when she finally plunges her own fingers into you, she’s picking up a fast pace while making you see stars.

and it doesn't end here.

it usually ends with her on her knees, making you gush all over her tongue with her fingers still buried inside of you.

one of nancy's favorite ways to make you cum is on her thigh though.

so that she can feel the wetness of your bare cunt against her slacks. 

she'll guide your hips against herself, helping you chase your orgasm while her mouth mumbles dirty things against your neck.

 "oh what a dirty slut you are. look at my pants...they were new too...can't believe you've made such a mess of them"

you will be left without another choice besides holding onto her black blazer for dear life, using it to hold your body upright. 

and when you finally get home from work, it all gets worse, your pussy aching for nancy's touch.

you fall asleep with your thighs rubbing together in anticipation of what's to come on the next day.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

comments & reblogs are always appreciated 🫶🏼

#nancy wheeler #nancy wheeler x reader #nancy wheeler smut #nancy wheeler x female reader #nancy wheeler x you #nancy wheeler x y/n #nancy wheeler fanfic #nancy wheeler imagine #dom!nancy wheeler #ronance #ronance smut #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things xreader #stranger things x you #stranger things imagine #nancy stranger things #nancy wheeler headcanons #stranger things smut #editor!nancy x journalist!reader

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

Superman/Clark Kent x Janitor Reader Blurb

"I should if looked over those documents more thoroughly.." The rookie journalist of the daily planet said to himself. The dark halls of the building quiet and not a soul in sight. His blue eyes narrow once he saw his desk further in the darkness.

Picking it up, he re-reads over his notes with little light from the lights outside.

"Sir, you alright?"

"..!" Gasping in suprise, he dropped his notepad. Where..!

"Here you go."

Looking down, he saw someone pick up his book. Thier hat obscuring his face to them from the shadows of the night.

Dusting it off, they stand up and show him the notepad. Tilting their head to the side, most likely inspecting Clark.

"Sir..!"

Snapping out of his thoughts, the young Kent takes the item. Carefully grasping it as he shoots a meek look.

"S-sorry, I had to review some notes-" Clark explains, not really sure if he was meeting your eyes or not.

Was his powers not working today? He didn't even here your footsteps, nor-.

"It's alright, just be careful. I just waxed this floor. Do you need anything else, sir?"

"Ah, uhm, call me Clark please."

You nod your head, your plain expressions becoming soft. "Clark. You be careful, it's not wise to come into the building after hours. We don't you to be getting into a accident and slip on the floor."

"We?"

"Me and you." You huff with a kind tone. Patting his shoulder, easily push him towards the elevator.

Stopping once you noticed the vending machines.

"Juice? Water? Or you a soda person?" You ask him.

Sputtering at your actions, Clark felt unsure of everything that was happening around him as you type in whatever you choose and the same for him as the two of you stood next to each other in the elevator.

"You know, it's good to have a guard up." You drawl out absent-mindedly. Sipping from your can of fresh soda.

"Why..?"

"Because, it gives you character." You responded cheerily, sipping more of your soda as Clark stared at the can.

His gripping it to harshly as it exploded and all the liquid had flew all over the elevator walls.

"Ah."

You say with widen eyes, easily pulling off your work jacket as you wrap it around Clark's shoulders. The syrupy soda dripping onto the floor as you made it to the bottom floor.

[Inspired by the new Superman show and old one. I couldn't help it!]

#super man #superman x reader #yandere superman #superhero #superman #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #lois lane #journalists x reader #yandere dc #dc x reader #my adventures with superman #dc #janitor #y/n #dc x y/n #dc x you

[luvhughes43]

the beginning | jack hughes

au masterlist⭐️

summary: jack and yns relationship is super lowkey, but what happens when yn starts doubting why their relationship is so private?

warnings: pregnancy

word count: 5.6k

The first time you met Jack Hughes you were job shadowing a colleague of yours. It was your first real week of working at the New York Times, and with how busy the team's schedule was you were sent down with Lewis from the sports column to report on… something hockey related. You weren’t really sure, and Lewis didn’t care to fill you in. 

You had never given hockey two thoughts when you were growing up. Your father wasn’t interested in any sports aside from the usual football game on thanksgiving (which you had a theory he just watched to get out of festive activities and house work). And anyway, there was only one local ice rink where you grew up so you’d never really had the opportunity to learn about the sport. 

All that to say, you had no idea what you were doing. You watched Lewis pin his “The Athletic” reporters badge, and you fiddled with your visitors pass as you waited for the press conference to start. 

When the conference did start, you jotted down notes absentmindedly on your notepad. About halfway through the meeting, your attention is immediately pulled to a side door where a few men stood, snickering and whispering to each other. 

One of the men noticed you though, smirking half-heartedly in your direction as he nodded his head towards you. That small action caused the rest of the boys to look over in your direction. Your face flushed, and before you could look away your eyes connected with those of maybe the cutest guy you’ve ever seen. His hair was brown and overgrown, and his whole face lit up when he laughed. 

“Ow!” you whispered, rubbing your arm to try and alleviate the pain that was Lewis elbow knocking into your side. He pointed to the man speaking at the front of the room, and immediately looked away from you with an annoyed expression etched onto his face. “i’m sorry,” you whispered to Lewis but he shook his head in response. “pay attention.” his harsh tone brought you back to reality, and with one more glance at the cute man in the corner, you return all your attention back to the conference. 

⋆ ★

“Journalists still use notepads?” a teasing voice asks, and when you lift your head up from your notebook you see the same man from earlier staring at you. 

“We use recorders too but I'm just job shadowing so I didn’t think I needed it. Lewis the-” you stop your sentence short, well aware of the fact that this guy probably didn’t care about your writing tools or your coworker. 

The guy surprises you though. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and nods at you to continue. 

“Lewis, he works for the athletic paper. anyway, i was assigned to shadow him today because the woman who i was going to shadow had this breaking news story she had to cover,” 

“why didn’t you go with her?” the man asks, genuinely curious. 

“Well it's my first week and the woman is really particular about how she works. She said if I followed her she’d only get distracted,” you finish your story with the shrug of your shoulder. 

the guy nods in understanding before he pushes himself off and away from the wall. He squints a little and points to your name tag.

“Oh, i’m Y/n” you say, adjusting your name tag so he could read it properly. 

“I'm Jack” he smiles at you, and before either of you has time to say anything else, Lewis walks over to you grumbling. 

“It’s time to go,” 

you smile politely at Jack and he reciprocates. 

“See you around, Y/n” he raises his hand in a boyish fashion before retreating out of the hallway. 

⋆ ★

“It's so cold!” you shivered, voice quivering as you try to warm yourself up with the palm of your hands. you decided not to wear a coat tonight, against your better judgements, and now the frigid Manhattan air came to bite you in the ass. 

your friend nodded, teeth chattering as you two ran across the street and down the next block. 

your friends apartment came up first, and so she rushes out a quick goodbye before you set off down the street again. 

“Fuck! Where am I?” you hear a mans voice ask off in the distance. You wouldn’t normally try and investigate, but when you looked up and saw the familiar mop of brown hair, you made the decision to go over and talk to him.

“Jack?” you asked, hands still rubbing up and down your arms to try and provide you some warmth. 

Jack looks up startled, and once he recognizes it's you he relaxes again.

“Y/n right? From work?” he asks, and you nod as you step closer to him. The street lamps illuminate his face perfectly, hues of yellow and orange highlighting his features well.

“Yeah,” you nodded, face twisting in confusion as you watch Jack shrug out of his jacket. 

“I’ll let you wear my coat if you help me get.. here” Jack points to the blue destination point on his phone. 

You weigh your options, you could take his coat and help him out.. Meaning that you got to spend more time with him.. or, you could go home to the warmth of your apartment..

You hold your hand out for his jacket, and Jack smiles as he passes it over to you. 

You peer at his phone, taking a mental note of where he’s trying to go before leading him in the right direction. 

“Have you ever used google maps before?” you laugh teasingly, watching as the direction changes and the walk time gets shorter. “you were going in the complete opposite direction”

Jack chuckles, “my bad” 

The walk is silent for a minute, before Jack starts questioning you. “So… Do you usually take walks with strangers?”

“You're not a stranger, I met you like two days ago” you joke, knowing full well it's probably not wise to walk the streets with a man you've only ever spoken a few sentences to. 

Jack nods, and when you glance in his direction you see the hint of a smile grace his lips. “So, have you lived here long?” Jack asked at a stoplight. 

“I’ve lived in Manhattan for a year now. I did an internship last year for journalism and then they hired me” you explain as the walking light turns on and you both cross the street. “What about you? How long have you been in jersey?”

“I live in Jersey for the hockey season. I've been in Jersey for 4 years now? I think?” Jack speaks, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his NJD hoodie. “I grew up in Canada though, and I live in Michigan during the summers'' he explains.

“I’m from Denver, but I don't go visit much. I went to college here on the east coast and ended up staying through the summers to work” you speak, surprised at how easy it is to talk to Jack.

“I didn’t go to school,” Jack blurts out, and you bring your arm up to try and disguise your giggles as a cough. Jack seems embarrassed by his small outburst and quickly clarifies, “like I was drafted and went straight to the nhl” 

“That must’ve been hard” you hum, and Jack quirks an eyebrow at you. “Like, having to be in the real world so soon”

“you moved on your own at 18”

“Yeah but I moved for school. You were straight into the pros. That must've been a lot of pressure” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but you can tell by the way he’s carrying himself that your words rang true. 

“Anyway,” you pick up the conversation. “I really like living here. Yeah my hours are kind of insane, and rent is beyond… but I really like the city” 

“I think i’d live here,” Jack replies as he surveys the mostly empty streets. “there's always so much to do”

You nod, getting ready to cross the next street. “Uh, where are you going?” you call out, as Jack starts walking down the wrong street.

“There's a pizza place!” he says simply, and you stare at him confusedly before he explains. “I’m going to a bar, I can't drink without eating something” Jack shrugs and you walk to where he paused. He points to the small 24 hour pizza shop he wants to go to, and you both walk inside. 

After you both order, and you're sitting at your table with your food, you start to question things. “So, why were you wandering the streets? How did you get here from Jersey?” you ask, blowing on your steaming pizza before you take a bite. 

Jack mirrors you, taking a bite before he answers. “My friends and I all came together. They went out for dinner first but there was this shop I wanted to check out, they’ve got sick shoes, anyway that's not the point. they dropped me off at the store and so my plan was to just walk and meet up with them after but I… well got lost” 

You and Jack continue talking, time completely slipping by both of your minds as you let the conversation flow. You learnt that Jack did in fact like to read, and you made sure to give him a few recommendations before you both parted ways. 

“Do you want your jacket back?” you ask, already starting to shrug out of the warm material. 

He holds up a hand to stop you, “No you should wear it its cold-”

“I'm just walking back to my apartment I should be fine,” you say, shimmying your shoulder and letting the sleeve fall from your arm.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” Jack's question stuns you. 

“Aren’t you supposed to meet up with your friends?”

Jack only shrugs, “it’s only like 12 i’ve got plenty of time to catch up with them”

You nod slowly as you readjust Jack's coat on your body. 

“Plus, wouldn’t want you to take up any other stranger if they ask for directions” Jack jokes, “might make me jealous” 

You knew his comment was supposed to be a joke but… butterflies. Literal butterflies. 

Fifteen minutes later and you were outside of your apartment building. 

“Thank you” you say, “for the pizza and for letting me wear your jacket” 

Jack smiles at you brightly, and you couldn't help but smile back at him. It was like a natural reaction. 

“Thank you for taking me to where I needed to go,” Jack takes his turn in thanking you.

“But I didn't..” 

“It's the thought that counts” Jack grins as he pulls out his phone. “But, since you didn’t walk me to where i was going… i’ll accept your number as an apology”

“Apology?” you laughed, placing a hand over your heart and pretending to be shocked by his words. “If I recall you were the one who wanted to stop for pizza and to walk me home” 

“You're right, you're right,” Jack says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

“But I will give you my number,” you say, holding your hand out to accept Jack's phone. When you pass his phone back, your contact fresh in his list, Jack beams. 

“I’ll call you!” Jack yells out as he starts walking down the street. 

“How about you text me when you make it to the bar!” you shout back. “And by the way! You're going in the wrong direction!” you shout again, and Jack sighs loudly. He dramatically turns around before walking your way again. 

Before he has the time to say anything more, you give him a few directions so he doesn’t get anymore lost. 

Less than 30 minutes later, while finishing up your skincare routine, your phone lights up with a notification. 

Jack H: I made it! Thanks for tonight and for the directions

You went to sleep that night with a smile plastered onto your face.

⋆ ★

After that first “date” you and Jack routinely made plans to hang out. It started off with Jack texting you whenever he happened to be in the city, which then translated to you inviting him to all the new places in town you wanted to try. 

“I don't know how I feel about that,” Jack speaks in between spoonfuls of his ice cream. You two had just gotten out of an exhibit, something about ancient rome. 

“What? You never think about the roman empire?” you retort, thinking about Jack's interview that was posted earlier in the year. Jack rolled his eyes at you, but he smiled nonetheless. 

“Like, how do they even have all that stuff? It's been so long” 

“Yeah.. the armour was cool though,” you respond, shuffling across the crosswalk with Jack trailing after you. 

There’s a brief pause as you walk up White Street towards the little italian restaurant Jack wanted to stop at. 

“So, I was looking online and there’s this new exhibition popping up soon. Something about the elements and sensors… I don't know, it looked cool” Jack breaks the silence, and you have to bite back your smile. He was looking up exhibits for the two of you to go to? Last week he was talking about how much he didn't understand modern art!

“Since when are you interested in the arts?” you tease, knocking your shoulder against Jacks playfully. He looks down at you, eyes crinkled as he smiles. 

“It’s something to do,” Jack shrugs, “plus, let's not lie here! You’d love to hang out with me more,” Jack laughs teasingly, but you can sense the hope that lies beneath his words. 

“I’d love to hang out with you” your hand brushed against Jack without your knowledge. Your hand feels like it's on fire from the small contact. 

“It's a date then!” Jack cheers, grabbing ahold of your hand to steer you in the right direction. You could only hope he meant a real date. 

⋆ ★

The exhibit was great, but your time with Jack was even better. He always found ways to make even the most mundane things light up with colour. By the end of the night, you were positive that if you didn't ask Jack out on an official date, you’d lose your mind. 

Jack, ever the gentlemen, walked you up all 6 floors of your apartment. “I had a lot of fun tonight,” you say as soon as you reach your front door. 

Jack nods, easily agreeing with you. “I think i’m a changed man, that art thing was so cool” 

You laughed lightly, leaning against your door as you watched Jack ruffle his hair with his hand. “My turn to pick the activity next time?” you ask. 

“Yeah but no more ancient rome things” Jack easily jokes. 

“How about something more…” you hedge, unsure of how to ask Jack out. Of course you’ve asked him to go out places before but… this was very different. 

Jack leans against the staircase railing, tilting his head signalling for you to continue.

“Like…” you contine, all words escaping you as your attention is suddenly caught to the sight of his bare arms.

“A date?” Jack prompts, smirking as he catches you staring at him. 

Upon hearing the word date you're immediately crashing back to reality. Your hearts beating wildly, something you hadn’t felt since the early days of university. 

You nod, “yeah, yeah.. Like a date” you shake your head to clear it, and when you meet Jack's eyes he beams. 

“I’ll be waiting for you to text me the location then…” Jack's voice trails as he walks closer to you, leaning in as he presses a quick kiss to your check.

You stand there momentarily stunned, watching as he slowly walks backwards to the top of your floor's staircase. “I’ll see you on our date?” Jack calls out, and you mirror his bright smile. 

“I’ll see you on our date!” you call back, watching as Jack starts walking down the stairs. 

you were falling hard. 

⋆ ★

The big date came and went, and you and Jack continued dating silently. It was nice just being with him, away from all the pressures of his fans and his large social media presence. You had a small private account, so you would post some pictures on there, but you never officially went “public” with your relationship. 

Ynuser

Liked by jackhughes, claudia, and others

Ynuser life recently...

Tagged: jackhughes

That didnt mean there weren’t close calls though. With Jack being extremely popular, there were a few times when the two of you were photographed out by fans. 

After the first incident, you thought nothing of it. Of course someone would see you guys eventually. Although you weren’t sure how you felt about being photographed by random people out in public… Jack was always quick to reassure you that people would eventually forget about the photos. 

It wasn’t the forgetting you were worried about though. After being with Jack for a few months, your twitter feed started recommending you hockey content. Which was fine at first, until you saw all the speculations of yours and Jack's relationship.

You muted all the hockey terms you could think of on your twitter account… but that didn’t stop you from thinking of all those accounts words. Was it true that you weren’t Jack's type? Is that why he wasn’t posting you on his social media accounts? Did he actually prefer going to small coffee shops and art exhibitions? Or was he trying to hide you from the outside world? 

Even though you knew you liked your relationship being private… Was there an ulterior motive on Jack's end? Did he not find you pretty enough to post on main? You started to spiral. 

⋆ ★

The bar was much more crowded than you would've liked, but when your boyfriend invited you out you easily agreed. 

You sat in the corner of the booth all night, sipping on your vodka sodas and listening in on the conversation around you. The devils were doing good so far this season, and as a result, Jack had decided it was time to drag you out with him to the bar. You wished he hadn’t.

It’s not like you were an insecure person… (that was somewhat a lie), but when every girl was gorgeous and hitting on your boyfriend… it made you doubt things.

You watched all night as Jack looked at other girls, and your spiralling started to feel a lot more real. 

“Who is she?” you screamed, tears streaming down your face as your boyfriend of two years stared at you in shock.

“Baby, she doesn’t mean anything to me! I swear! It's you who-”

“When was the last time you slept together?” you shouted, your boyfriend winced at your biting words. 

“Last weekend…” your boyfriend finally admitted the truth. You had your suspicions that he was cheating on you for weeks now… and each time you brought it up he convinced you that you were crazy. “But baby!” his voice was frantic as you grabbed your bag and started shoving things into it. 

Your eyes were wild as you stared into the eyes of the boy that you had loved. When he had nothing else to say, you zipped up your bag and left. Your chest arched and your heart burned… you promised that you would never let yourself get cheated on again. 

A blonde touches Jack's arm. You know this because you're watching it happen, right in front of your eyes. You swig your now warm soda, blinking hard to will away the tears. 

You look away from the sight, causing you to miss the way Jack's eyes immediately try to seek yours after he brushes the girl away. 

The drive to your apartment was quiet. 

“Baby, what's wrong?” Jack asks, and despite how much you want to call him out, you feel juvenile about it. 

“Nothing,” you sigh, shifting in your seat so that you can look at Jack. He looks at you tenderly, as if whatever mysterious thing that's hurting you is hurting him too. 

“You can tell me anything, you know that right?” Jack speaks up again a minute later, this time his eyes are trained on the road. 

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m just tired. Work was busy today”

Jack hummed in response, and that was the end of the conversation. As usual, he walked you up to your apartment, and then you kissed him goodbye. 

When he left you stayed up in bed and questioned everything. You knew you were being insecure, but were you paranoid too? You didn’t want to be hurt again and you were fearful that you would be cheated on again. It was irrational, you knew. But your ex was always being hit on and he took one of the girls up on… no. You wouldn’t let that man ruin anything else in your life. 

Everythings fine… you whisper to yourself, and soon enough you fall asleep.

⋆ ★

Things got worse from then on. Whenever Jack was gone on roadies you would read through every comment you could find about Jack’s types, his ex gfs, anything that you could find. You couldn’t help but compare yourself to them. It was like some cruel, sick addiction that you needed to keep up with. 

user82

Liked by jackhughes, and others

user82 recently… 🍸

“She's just a friend! What are you talking about?” Jack was immediately defensive when you brought up his liking habits.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be some insecure girlfriend but-”

“You are insecure!” Jack's voice is loud and his words slice through you like swords. 

Your eyes immediately start to water, “baby, I didn’t mean it” Jack rushes to your side, hand on your shoulder as he tries to get a good look at you. 

“I’m sorry…” you cry, your hands coming up to shield your face away from him. 

“No, I'm sorry. You're not insecure you’re right” Jack tries to soothe you but your mind goes numb. 

Baby, she doesn’t mean anything to me! But baby! baby, I didn’t mean it…

You let Jack drag you over to the couch, where you spend the rest of the night cuddling and watching some movie that was really just static noise. 

Your chest aches and your heart burns, but you knew that Jack was right. You were insecure. You didn't think you were as pretty as the girls who wanted him, and now you certainly didn’t think you were deserving of an instagram post. 

Baby, she doesn’t mean anything to me! But baby! baby, I didn’t mean it…

Baby, she doesn’t mean anything to me! But baby! baby, I didn’t mean it…

Baby, she doesn’t mean anything to me! But baby! baby, I didn’t mean it…

⋆ ★

After that night, you tried to distance yourself from Jack Hughes. When he was on roadies, you would take extra long to reply to his texts. You were also suddenly picking up more hours at work, volunteering to cover stories nobody wanted to cover. 

On the other side of things, Jack was confused. He had thought after his apologies that everything would be fine? He thought you needed space, so he gave you plenty. But now it seemed like the two of you weren’t even together anymore. 

“Dude, just talk to her” Trevor's voice was somehow still loud over the phone. 

“Yeah but she wants space” Jack sighed, as if Trevor had no idea how girls worked. 

“Okay… and did she tell you that?”

“I can tell” 

Trevor shuffled on the other end of the line. “Okay Jack, listen. You guys have been together what? A year now? You can’t just throw away your whole relationship because she may or may not be a little insecure. Why don't you talk to her? Like actually sit and figure this out” 

For the first time, Jack thought, Trevor was making some sense.

“I want to be with you! Do you want to be with me?” Jack's voice was unintentionally rough and loud as he questioned you. 

“Of course I want to be with you!” your voice is just as loud. 

“Then what's the big deal!” Jack is visibly annoyed as if you're some person that's wasting his time.   

“Well, don’t like other girls' instagram posts and stare at models in public!” you retort, crossing your arms childishly. Jack throws his hands up in the air, sighing loudly. 

“I like you, what don't you understand?” Jack enunciates each word loudly and waves his hands around wildly in some effort to make his point clear.

“Why can't you understand that I just need some reassurance!” you cry out, completely worn out by this conversation. 

“Reassurance? I’m not going to cheat on you! Why do you think so low of me?” Jack pauses, seeming to connect the dots in his head. “Oh. this is about him” Jacks voice turns cold and you feel the oncoming sting in your throat. 

“Just because you’ve been cheated on before doesn’t mean that it's going to happen again.” your cheeks felt wet. Were you crying? 

“I don't think you’re going to cheat on me” you whisper, arms wrapping around yourself in a bad attempt at trying to calm yourself down. 

Jack stands still, staring at you with glaring eyes. 

“I just want… I want…” you can't even finish your sentence. You didn’t know what you wanted. You just felt so bad about yourself. 

Jack stares, nodding his head in exasperation as he watches you cry. “Yeah, well, when you figure that out call me” 

“Jack please,” you call to him through tears, following him down your hallway as you watch him walk away. 

You never called. 

⋆ ★

A month went by, and you felt the breakup in every aspect of your life. Work reminded you of that first day with Jack. Your apartment reminded you of all the times he would walk you home… you missed him. 

“We’re going out tonight! Enough being sad” your coworker, Claudia, exclaimed as she walked into your apartment. She was holding a saks bag, no doubt filled to the brim with outfit options for the night ahead. 

“I’m not feeling it” you mumble, eyes immediately finding focus on your tv screen. 

“It's been a month yn.. If you don't go out now, you're never going to” Claudia's voice is soft. She sets the bag of clothes beside you on the couch, and she silent starts showing you your options. 

“That ones cute” your voice is muffled but Claudia hears you anyway. 

“Perfect!” She smiles, setting your choice to the side and pulling out a plastic bag full of accessories. 

You felt ridiculous. You were wearing heels much too small, and your dress was way too tight. The drinks though… definitely hit the spot. And after a while, you didn’t think of Jack at all. 

“I’m having so  much fun!” your words were slurred as you slung one of your arms around Claudia's shoulder. She smiled happily at you, tipsily swaying your hips so you were both dancing to the beat of the music that was blasting throughout the club. 

“Is that…?” Claudia starts but then abruptly stops, almost as if she had seen a ghost. 

“Is that what!” you shout cheerfully, spinning yourself and Claudia around so that you could see what she saw. 

“Y/n don't!” Claudia tries to reposition you but it is too late. 

In the middle of the dance floor stood Jack Hughes, your Jack Hughes, and some girl that looked oddly familiar. As if sensing your gaze, the girl turned. It was the girl from instagram. 

“I’m going to be sick!” you moaned, hand covering your mouth as Claudia quickly rushes you outside of the club. Luckily, the two of you make it outside rather quickly, and then you're heaving onto the streets of New York. 

“I am so sorry! I had no idea that he’d be here!” Claudia speaks apologetically, holding your hair out of your face as you continue dry heaving. 

“He's with.. Oh my god” you emptied out what must've been everything in your stomach. “Claudia, he's with her!” you cried, drunkenly leaning into your friends side. Claudia grabbed hold of you, walking you down the street so that the two of you could hail a cab. “I know, i’m so sorry”

Once you were situated in the cab, you leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes. You pictured the look on Jack’s face when he saw you. Surprise, then shock, was it regret next? You weren’t sure. Then you imagined the girl he was with. Pretty, and perfect, and you wanted to cry all over again. 

“I'm blocking him!” you slurred, pulling out your phone and heading straight to your contacts. Claudia nodded along, concern etched in every feature on her face. 

Your hand hovers over the block button. “No! I’m deleting him! He's done. I don't ever want to talk to him again!” you cry, ignoring the cab driver's face as he looks on in disapproval.

“Do what will make you feel better hun,” Claudia speaks to you softly, giving you the courage to block and delete Jack from your phone and life. 

⋆ ★

After that night, you were steadily getting sick. You thought nothing of it at first, chalking up all your symptoms to stress and your recent breakup. It wasn’t until you checked your email that your world stopped spinning. 

Amazon: Upcoming Delivery

Hi Yn Ln,

This confirms your purchase from Tampax

Your visa has not been charged yet - we’ll email you when it has been charged.

Thank you for using Amazon Pay.

Your phone fell to the ground with a large thud, and you ran to your kitchen to check your calendar. You flipped through the pages, looking for the little red dots that signified the days that you had gotten your period. You flipped through the months.

February

January

December

You couldn’t think as you stuffed your feet into your ugg boots. You put your jacket on while you half-ran down the stairs, and if it weren’t for the man on the 3rd floor grabbing your arm to steady you, you would've crashed down the remaining flights. 

Your nearest bodega was only one block away, and when you got there a minute later, panting and trying to catch your breath, reality had finally set in. 

Your breathing was laboured and loud as you came to a stop in front of the pregnancy tests. How was this your life? 

You bought one of every kind, and you tried to ignore the burning gaze of the cashier who rang all your items through. 

“That’ll be $65.24” 

It seemed like less than a minute later you were back in your apartment. All of your surroundings blur into nothingness as you pull the tests out of your coat jacket. 

You stumble into your bathroom, slam the door shut behind you, and peel off your leggings. 

You decide to take all the tests at once, leaving only two for backups in case you did something wrong. The last test shook violently in your hand, and only then did you realize that you were crying. 

Positive

Pregnant

+

Two lines

⋆ ★

The first thing you had done when you found out you were pregnant last night was block Jack Hughes. He was the only person you had slept with in the past 3 months, and in your frustration you blamed him. Your relationship was over with, he had moved on, and now you were pregnant? Life was cruel. 

After a long debate, a night full of crying, and an afternoon of rest and relaxation… you decided it was best that you told Jack about the pregnancy. 

You type in Jack's contact: a nickname, two white hearts and a sword emoji that represented something you couldn’t quite recall in your panic induced state. When his nickname showed no results, you hit the backspace button and typed in his full name, which you assumed you might have switched to when you saw him out with another girl. 

No result. 

You dropped your phone into the sink with a loud clatter. 

fuck. 

That night's events replayed in your mind like a bad film. You had blocked and deleted Jack's contact. 

You wipe the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand, breathing in deeply as you reach into the sink and pick up your phone. Everythings fine… you have him on instagram. You can just message him there. 

jackhughes

unblock

Life truly was cruel, you thought, sobs racking your body as you let yourself slide onto your bathroom floor. 

You unblocked Jack, only to find that his follow was removed. 

It's fine… you reassured yourself as you hit the unblock button and started drafting your message. He’ll see it. He has too. 

⋆ ★

You checked to see if he had seen the dm the next evening, and to your surprise, you were blocked.

Tears immediately started blurring your vision and you couldn't help but cry out in pain. 

What the fuck were you going to do.

part two

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