Whatever you do don't think about Foggy Nelson getting emotional when he hears Pearl sing "It's Over Isn't It" bc he's still having trouble after his fallout with Matt. DONT DO IT BC IT WILL HURT YOU AS I HAVE HURT MYSELF W IT
What about Matt x Reader x Foggy all watching Steven Universe together? The three of you are entangled in each other in a giant cuddle on the couch and Foggy is keeping a running commentary of what the characters are doing since Matt can't see it. At first Matt was reluctant about watching it with the two of you because he was worried y'all would be annoyed at having to describe the what was happening, but really you and Matt both loved to listen to Foggy speak. His voice was soothing and he had the most amazing way of describing the colors of some of the more beautiful scenery. His descriptions of what the characters looked like were always kind and he seemed to be able to get to a part of their character/being just by looking at them.
Everytime there's a song in the show Matt's got the cutest smile on his face just listening to the two of you sing along. Usually it annoyed him for people to sing along with whatever they were watching, it tended to overwhelm his senses, but there's something he loves about listening to the two of you harmonize. Once you'd all seen the musical episodes a few times, Matt actually joins in with singing and you and Foggy get the biggest grins on your faces and sing even more enthusiastically.
One morning when you've woken up before either of them, you disentangled yourself from them and make your way to the kitchen (not before grinning about how they immediately snuggled closer to one another to compensate for the loss of your body heat). You go to the fridge and hum as you pull out all that you need to make pancakes. As your preparing breakfast for the three of you, your humming evolves into full-blown singing. You're startled as your pulling the last pancake out of the pan because two voices begin mingling with yours on either side of you. Matt and Foggy wrap their arms around you and kiss you on either cheek, smooshing your face. This truly is happiness.
How kind and amazing do you think Foggy would be while his wife's pregnant? Like I can't stop imagining him being a total belly talker, just constantly telling stories to the baby. And always wanting to put his hands on it and LOVING the baby kicks, they're definitely the best part of his day.
Oh my god, I have so many feelings about Foggy Nelson as a soon-to-be dad.
HE ABSOLUTELY WOULD BE A BELLY TALKER! And he’d sing to your belly, too!
You’re both lounging one evening watching re-runs of Steven Universe. Foggy’s sitting in the floor in front of you and you’re running your fingers through his hair. He loves to have his hair played with. So you’re both watching this cute cartoon and it’s the Island Adventure episode. So when Steven pulls out his ukulele and starts singing to Lars and Sadie, Foggy turns around and lays both his hands gently on your big pregnant belly. He caresses your belly and sings along with Steven and you start crying because you’re hormonal and he’s just being so sweet and precious and his voice sounds so lovely.
You feel your stomach give a jerk and at that same moment Foggy’s head jerks up to look at your face. His eyes are wide and he’s grinning ear-to-ear when he says “it kicked!” and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look more thrilled and in awe than in that moment.
+Jam Buds; +YES YES; +IS DUETED BY THE PAIR OF YOU NEARLY EVERY MORNING WHILE YOU MAKE BREAKFAST; +PLS TALK TO ME ABT FOGGY AND CARTOONS; +hc;
Bruh, I’m so here for Foggy loving cartoons. Like he’d be so into Steven Universe that he goes out and buys a ukulele so he can teach himself the songs. You love how the higher pitched instrument sounds with his deeper tones. You break down and start learning how to play, too, because now he’s got you hooked on the show as well and you’re determined to learn to play Peace and Love (On The Planet Earth).
For Halloween that year, the two of you go to a costume party dressed as Steven and Connie. He of course brings the uke with him and the two of you are asked several times by different groups of people to repeat your duet of “Jam Buds” and the extended theme song.
The year before you had been dressed as Flame Princess and Foggy had gone as the Earl of Lemongrab. He thinks the character is funny in a frustrating sort of way. You of course introduce him to Rick and Morty because, “Foggy, you’ll never guess who voices these characters and who created this show!”
His favorite song in Adventure Time is Everything Stays. Marceline is one of his favorite characters because she’s had a rough life and in some ways she reminds him of Matty.
You had been home sick when you discovered Gravity Falls, so you didn’t feel guilty at all when he’d come home from work and you’d made your way through the entire first season. He comes in and you’re like “oh, my god, Foggy. You’ve got to watch this show, you’re gonna love it.”
Mabel is his favorite character because she’s so sweet and innocent and he appreciates her sense of humor.
Foggy is totally a good singer when he's being serious. Some nights after a particularly stressful day, the two of you will be lying in bed. Your head's on his chest and Foggy's stroking your back gently. "Baby, will you sing to me?" you whisper. He smiles and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Of course," he replies and ponders for a moment on what to sing you. Finally, he settles on something he knows will make you happy, but that is soft enough to be almost a lullaby. You drift off to sleep with his voice still rumbling in his chest at your ear.
Ok but kinky!foggy getting you a pair of vibrating panties. You decide to wear them one day to work and while you're sitting there having a conversation with Karen the vibrator starts on the lowest setting and your voice squeaks. You cough to try to cover it and Karen asks if you're okay. You laugh it off as just "choking on air, sorry."
The conversation continues as normal but each time you've regained composure and almost been able to ignore the vibrations, Foggy turns it up higher. After the third up in power, you're squirming in your seat and you're worried Karen must have heard the vibrations that time because she's asking you if you feel well. Just as she's saying "I think you might have a fever," Foggy comes out of his office, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying a coffee mug. He's wearing a look of concern on his face, but you notice the glint in his eye.
"Yeah y/n, you're looking a little flushed. D'you need me to take you home?"
"No, I can't go home just yet. Y'know, I think I forgot to eat breakfast and I'm feeling a little lightheaded... Karen, if I gave you some money would you mind stopping by that Thai place on the corner? It's nearly lunch time anyway."
As soon as she's out the door Foggy pulls you into his office and pins you to the closed door, mouth on your neck. You wrap your legs around his waist and grind into him. He groans and bucks his hips and you don't think you can take another second of teasing.
As if he can read your mind, Foggy drags his mouth to the shell of your ear and whispers, "tell me what you want. Beg for it."
"Please, Foggy. Please, I need-- I need to cum," you whisper frantically. "Oh, God, Foggy. Please."
"Good girl," he says with a smile before kissing you passionately and turning the vibrator up as high as it will go. Your orgasm crashes over you and you have to bury your face in his neck to muffle the moans that are falling from your lips. Foggy turns the dial on the remote for the vibrator down slowly until it finally stops and you begin relaxing into his arms. Only a few tremors of pleasure shake you now.
"You did such a good job. I'm so proud of you," he praises and presses gentle kisses to your cheeks.
Across the hall from Foggy's office, Matt, mortified after being unable to block the sounds of what just happened, is considering throwing you both out of the window.
Author’s Note: Yes, I am trash. If you would like a smutty part 2, hit me up with an ask or something!
Rating: T/M, nothing really explicit but it is HEAVILY implied towards the end
Warning: James Wesley being a fuckin’ creep. I’m serious, if guys purposely intimidating women squicks you, do not read.
Word Count: 3.5k
The man from Confederated Global Investments is—
Handsome.
You hadn’t been expecting that.
He’s handsome, and he’s well-spoken, and he’s disturbingly charismatic, and he introduces himself with a crooked grin and takes your hand and presses a barely-there kiss to your knuckles like it’s nothing, his thumb just barely skimming over the pulse point at the flat of your wrist, pressing down, noting the way your heartbeat stutters and skips. You try not to shiver.
“James Wesley,” He says. His voice is rich and smooth and deliberate—aristocratic, really—and the way he’s looking at you makes your cheeks flare with suffocating, blistering heat. “And, of course, I know who you are, (Name)—may I call you (Name)?”
“I—“ you start to say, fiddling uncomfortably with the strap of your bookbag.
“Actually, I think Miss (Last Name) would be more appropriate,” Matt interrupts. He steps forward, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder, and he’s smiling, but it looks—fake, strained, taut—and his hand tightens almost imperceptibly around the handle of his walking stick.
Wesley huffs out a laugh, and raises an eyebrow, his eyes flickering from Matt to Karen to Foggy, his gaze steady, deliberate, even, searching and studying and assessing them, one by one. His eyes focus back on yours. They’re piercing and bright and suddenly you find yourself itching to take a very large step backwards. You don’t.
Slowly, he releases your hand. His skin is warm and soft and faintly calloused.
“Of course,” Wesley says, a tiny little ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Although, I’m sure we’ll get to know each other well enough by the time this is over. Don’t you think?”
You swallow thickly.
It doesn’t sound like a challenge. It doesn’t sound like a threat.
It sounds like a promise.
You shiver. He notices.
And he smiles.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The meeting itself is uneventful.
Afterwards, Karen and Matt and Foggy pack up their notes and binders and head out front to catch a cab. You had parked in back. After spending a good five minutes assuring Matt that yes, you would be fine on your own, and yes, you would be careful, and yes, you know that it’s dangerous, you head for the elevator, alone.
And Wesley is there.
He’s leaned up against the wall opposite the conference room, one hand thrust into his pocket, the other holding a slim new-model smartphone out in front of him. His tie—charcoal grey, not quite black—is knotted loosely around his throat, disappearing into his neatly buttoned jacket. He’s tall, and lean, and he looks vaguely imposing in the crisp, tight-fitted lines of his suit, emanating confidence and a self-assured sort of power. You bite down on your lower lip.
“Miss (Last Name),” Wesley says, straightening up and walking towards you, sliding his phone back into his jacket pocket. He sounds surprised. For some reason, you don’t think it’s genuine.
“Oh—Hi,” you say, painfully aware of the rapidly dwindling space between the two of you, and even though he stops a foot away, it still feels too close.
“I assumed you would have left with your—associates,” he says, tilting his head and smiling faintly, “For lack of a better word.”
“No, they—they took a cab,” you explain, wincing at the way your voice wavers and the way his eyebrow arches because he’s noticed, of course he noticed—“I parked out back, so I was just—”
The elevator bell chimes. You fall silent.
The stainless steel doors glide open, and Wesley steps inside, his Oxfords—Gucci or Prada or Salvatore, probably, something expensive and Italian— scuffing against the blood-red carpet. Dimly, you realize you have no other choice but to follow.
The doors slide shut.
“First floor?” he asks politely.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His hand lingers by the panels of buttons, traces around the edges of the one marked with a black “1”. Unease trickles down your spine.
“Can I ask you something, Miss (Last Name)?” Wesley inquires, cocking his head to the side. He turns to face you.
He didn’t press the button. The doors are closed. Suddenly, the elevator seems a lot smaller.
You bite your lip. “Sure. I mean—of course.”
His mouth curves into what might have passed as a reassuring smile. But you know better.
He takes a step towards you. You take a step back. The cool metal railing along the wood-paneled wall digs into your spine, and you nervously smooth your hands down the rumpled front of your skirt.
Wesley moves closer. “Why is it that you look so afraid of me?” he asks, his voice calm, casual, as the space between the two of you gets smaller and smaller, as your heartbeat speeds up and your blood pounds through your veins, unnaturally fast, unnaturally hard—
“I’m not afraid of you,” you manage to say, pushing past the discomfort buzzing like electricity in your stomach, like lightning or like thunder or like the stupid faulty wiring in Matt and Foggy’s office— “I don’t…I barely know you, Mr.—“
“Please,” he interrupts. “I prefer just Wesley.”
He moves closer. Your breath catches.
“Wesley, then.”
He cocks his head, lets a crooked, deliberate smile spread slowly across his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to upset you.”
You shiver, and fold your arms over your chest. “It’s—fine.”
He takes one more step.
You stop breathing. You stop moving. You stop thinking.
“I’d just hate to think anyone I worked with would feel uncomfortable around me, you understand,” Wesley says.
And—his voice isn’t more than a whisper, now, a murmur, his head is tilted down and he’s standing close, he’s standing too close, he smells faintly of sandalwood and something rich and warm and—and bad for you, you remind yourself, very very bad—
“I don’t,” you choke out. “I’m just—getting used to things. I’m—it’s fine.”
“Good.” Wesley huffs out a quiet chuckle, and smiles, looks down at you, his eyes dark and intense and unnervingly focused, “I’m glad this was taken care of.”
And then—
He steps back.
You exhale shakily.
He adjusts his tie, and he presses the button for the ground floor.
The elevator jolts and begins to move.
You straighten the hem of your skirt.
Wesley smoothens out the creases in his suit cuffs.
The doors open with a ding.
“Oh, and, (Name)—“ he says, “I apologize if I caused you any discomfort. I’d hate for us to get off on a bad start.”
His hand lingers for an inappropriately long moment on the small of your back as he ushers you through the doors.
He really is a brilliant liar.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Wesley comes to watch the court proceedings for the first case.
He’s in the third row of hard-backed mahogany benches, his navy-blue suit crisp and impeccable as always, and he doesn’t even move, he just sits there and stares at the back of your head as you struggle to remember the basis of what you’re doing.
After, he corners you in the stairwell.
“(Name),” he says.
You turn around slowly, the hem of your skirt swishing around your knees. “Wesley,” you manage to say. “Hi. I was, just, um—“
“Ah. I understand; you have places to be.” He smiles. It’s charming—disarming—not that it meant anything. “I just wanted to say that you did an amazing job today. Truly.”
“Oh. Well—Thank you,” you say awkwardly, your shoes clacking against the last few marble steps down to the carpeted landing. His hand brushes yours on the polished wooden banister, his skin warm and faintly calloused—and you don’t have to look at him to know that it’s not an accident, you don’t need to see that impossibly maddening perfect smirk on his face to know that he meant to do it, the suffocating pre-storm tension thick and heavy in the air is already enough—
You turn around anyway.
His eyes are dark. Your tie suddenly feels too tight, too constricting, knotted too closely around your neck. You fight the urge to loosen it.
“You’re sure Nelson and Murdock won’t reconsider the offer?” He continues, unaffected.
“No, I don’t—I don’t think so, I mean, we’ve got a lot going on already,” you stumble over your words, “With—um—you know, getting the firm up and running and stuff, it’s pretty hard—“
“I see,” Wesley muses, leaning against the wall, nonchalantly placing himself between you and the stairs. He grimaces. “Can’t imagine what that must be like, building up from scratch—You were presented with a rather promising career opportunity at Landman and Zack, as well, I believe? I’m surprised you didn’t accept.”
Your hands curl into fists around the fabric of your skirt. He’s standing a foot or so away from you, but still, it feels too close, the slant of his smile too deliberate, too confident, the way his eyes rake over your body not quite fast enough to be casual. “I—well, I didn’t like what they were doing, I guess, so I just—decided not to.”
He studies you intently, and then sighs. “And I suppose there’s no chance you’ll reconsider my offer?”
You swallow, and shake your head. “No—sorry, but—no.”
“That’s… unfortunate. A shame, really,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing over the elaborate paneling on the walls, “My employer would greatly appreciate your… talents.”
You swallow, cross your arms over your chest—and in a sudden swell of bravery, you say, “Your employer—Wilson Fisk, right? From the news?”
The words—the name—it tastes bitter and filthy and wrong, like it doesn’t fit, like it’s not meant to be spoken and it’s not meant to be used. You resist the urge to shudder. Deliberately, you straighten your shoulders.
Wesley tenses. His smile falters. He runs his tongue over his teeth.
You realize your mistake as he steps forward. He’s tall, but he’s not an athlete. He’s not built like Matt, he’s not strong, but he’s graceful and he’s confident and he moves with some sort of undefined purpose, like he knows something that you don’t, like he’s aware of every single thing you do in a way that you can’t possibly understand. But that doesn’t matter.
What matters is that he’s walking towards you—gracefully, slowly, predatorily—and that you had backed up into a corner, the small of your back pressed up against the seam of the off-white wainscoting on the wall, your skirt hitched up, just a little, the fabric bunched around your thighs.
Wesley makes a sound, in the back of his throat—a breathless sort of laugh, unexpected and unsettling and unplanned— and you wonder, briefly, what he’s thinking, because his face is impassive, his skin frozen and impeccably smooth, his eyes unreadable and dark and nearly mesmerizing—
He stops in front of you, head cocked to the side.
“Yes,” Wesley says. “Yes, he is my—employer. Why do you ask?”
He sounds unaffected. Careless, even, like it doesn’t affect him, like he’s not doing this on purpose, relishing in the tension between you.
You want to get away. You want to go and get out to your car and lock the doors, you want to find somewhere to hide so that you don’t have to deal with it, with him, you want James Wesley to just up and disappear.
But—
You can’t move.
He’s so close that he could reach out and touch you, trail his fingers down the inside of your arm, trace the vein there all the way down to your wrist, and the thought—
It makes you freeze. It makes you stop breathing. It makes you press your thighs together, and it makes you shiver, and it makes you wonder what the hell is actually wrong with you.
You swallow. Your heart thunders dangerously, treacherously, in the hollow of your ribcage. “I—don’t know. I was just—“
A faint, chilling smile flits across his face.
There’s a moment of pressing, suffocating, nearly tangible silence.
And then he laughs. Warmly. Disarmingly.
“Of course. You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, adjusting his suit cuffs. “I’m still not adjusted to my—to Mr. Fisk’s name being so—public.”
“It’s—it’s fine,” you stutter.
Wesley glances at his watch, frowns, and steps back. “Oh—I’m sorry, I’m going to be late to my next appointment,” he says apologetically. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon,” he pauses, laughs—“Until then, (Name).”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It’s not an accident.
You weren’t sure, not at first, because Wesley is an expert at invading personal boundaries while still staying within the confines of what is considered to be completely socially acceptable.
He’s polite. He’s charming. He’s the perfect gentleman. He holds open doors and pulls out your chair during appointments, he walks you to your car when the meetings last into the night—
It looks proper. Perfunctory. Invisible.
Because he also looks at you strangely, and he corners you in stairwells and hallways and he lets his hand linger on your shoulder for just a second too long, leans down close to your ear to speak to you when you’re alone, standing just close enough to make you shiver but not enough for anyone else to notice.
Wesley finds you in a small, out-of-the-way library on a Thursday night. It’s not a coincidence. It’s not by chance.
It’s deliberate.
You don’t bother wondering how he found you.
“(Name),” he says, his features perfectly arranged into an expression of polite surprise. “What are you doing here?”
You fight the urge to shudder, and plaster a tired smile on your face.
“Just—research,” you respond. You close your book—a dusty tome on obscure sub-laws in the state of New York—and stand up. Your chair scrapes back noisily.
Wesley glances down at the watch around his wrist, an expensive bronze-framed Rolex. “It’s late,” he comments, trailing after you. He’s standing uncomfortably close. You bite down on your bottom lip.
“Yeah, I was—I was just leaving,” you say, sliding the book back into place on the dusty shelf.
He lifts an eyebrow, as if pleasantly surprised. “So was I. It’s dark, I can walk you down to your car.”
You duck your head, adjusting the strap of your book bag. “Actually,” you stutter, “I- um, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“We’re both going to the same place,” he points out reasonably. “And the city can get quite dangerous at night. It would be rude of me not to offer you an escort.”
Your throat feels dry. “I—yeah, I guess so.”
His hand rests lightly between your shoulder blades, guiding you towards the door.
Wesley ushers you outside into the cold night air, still hazy with gasoline and exhaust fumes. You wrap your coat more tightly around yourself as the wind kicks up, your skirt rustling around your thighs.
Behind you, he library door closes with a creak of wood and the neat snick of the lock.
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, and Wesley studies you intensely for a moment, his eyes bright and searing, cool grey-blue. Dimly, it registers that Matt and Foggy and Karen aren’t close by, ready to jump in and protect you, not this time—no, this time you are well and truly alone.
You lick your lips and very resolutely do not shiver.
He leads the way across the parking lot, his pace deliberately slow. Grating.
“Do you enjoy spending time in the library?” he asks politely, looking down at you.
“I guess—yeah. I like to read.” You wrap your arms around your torso.
He smiles. “As do I.”
You continue on in silence, footsteps echoing against the cracked, sun-bleached pavement. The darkness seems almost suffocating, pressing in on all sides. You fight the urge to walk faster.
Wesley pauses.
“(Name), do you recall what I asked you in the elevator a few weeks ago?”
You hesitate. You glance over to your car, illuminated a few feet away in the yellow light of a street lamp, and you exhale shakily—because you had been so close, so close to going home and getting away and being safe—
“No,” you lie, your voice soft.
And Wesley—
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. You can’t quite make out his expression in the darkness, but you don’t need to, not when the silence is so pressing, taut and heavy and nearly solid, really, forming a physical barrier between you. It gives you time to think. And when it was over, when he finally spoke again—
You would remember to move away. You would remember to step back.
You don’t.
“I asked you,” he says, his voice calm, casual, almost, “If you were afraid of me.”
You swallow, and shift your weight, suddenly feeling dangerously off-balance. “Right. And—I said… I said no.”
“You lied. But—I knew that.” He chuckles, and takes a step forward. You move back, your thighs pressing up against the trunk of your car. “That’s not the point. The point is—I realized that I may have asked the wrong question.”
“Does it matter?”
He chuckles, and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, actually,” he says. “I think it does.”
He steps closer.
He steps into the light from the streetlamp.
Your breath catches.
Because—
Wesley is looking at you, staring, really, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded and calculating, and he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to pin you back against the trunk of your car and tug off your too-big overcoat and slide his hands up under your skirt. And— the idea of it, the thought, the possibility— it inspires a desperate pulsating ache deep in your body, dull and hot, a mixture of dread and anticipation and something that you refuse to label as desire.
Except you’re breathing too fast. You press your thighs together.
He takes a step forward.
Just a step.
And then—
He’s suddenly close enough for you to reach out and touch him, if you wanted to, if you could bring yourself to physically move, and the crisp lines of his charcoal-grey suit barely brush against your skin when he raises his hand as if to brush your hair back from your forehead, but he doesn’t touch you. Of course he doesn’t touch you.
You inhale shakily; he smells like expensive cologne and aftershave and sandalwood, something that’s appealing even though it probably—definitely—shouldn’t be, but you register your heartbeat skipping faster anyway.
“So,” Wesley murmurs, his voice rich and low and smooth, his mouth dangerously close to your ear, “I believe the real question would be—“
He pauses. You hold your breath.
“Miss (Last Name)—just how badly do you actually want me?”
You go completely still.
Some small, insignificant part of your brain still capable of logical thought screams at you to leave. To run, as far and as fast as you could, to get in your car and lock the doors and get away. But you can’t. You can’t move. You can barely think.
“I—I don’t—“
“I’d like it if we could be honest with each other, he continues, his voice still casual. “It’s a simple question, really.”
You swallow. Your mouth is dry.
And you can’t—
You’re searching for something—anything—to say, because the air feels pressing and heavy with possibilities and choices and your brain is short-circuiting with confusion and the utter inability to process what is happening, what you suspect is going to happen next.
“I could,” he murmurs, leaning forward, hands pressed up against the car, one on either side of your body, “Rather easily, I might add—I could reach out and unzip that appallingly tiny skirt of yours, (Name). Right now. And you would let me, wouldn’t you? That would be an answer for the both of us, don’t you think? Would you like me to do that?”
His hands are gliding over your hips, inching down, barely brushing against your skin—and it’s something about the confidence in his voice or the way the insignia ring on his thumb catches in your waistband or the self-assured, challenging smirk stretching across his mouth, but it gets to you, it liquefies your muscles and sends a barely noticeable tremor of want through your bloodstream that shakes you right down to your core.
It would be so easy to just say yes.
Distantly, you hear the creak of the library door opening across the parking lot.
And then, just like that, the moment is severed.
He steps back. You inhale sharply.
And—
Wesley smiles. He smiles often, really, although it doesn’t usually mean anything—but this smile is different, because it’s small and it’s secretive and it’s calculating, and then he says,
“Goodnight, (Name). I expect you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
He turns away, and walks towards his car.
You stand there, shocked, even after he’s long gone.
