#don't you just love....... living in such a catholic country :)

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

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

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear. 

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

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

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

If you are a movie fan and haven't read the book yet, here are some irrelevant details from the book

Henry owns a cardigan

Arthur and Catherine meet on a Henry V play (which they named Henry after), which Catherine went to see and saw Arthur playing. She "shook off her security to disappear into London and dance all night".

Pez listens to kpop, and he got Alex into it

Nora watches drag race and got Henry into it

Henry is an Elton John fan (actually relevant in the book)

Alex is a Hall & Oates fan

Alex wears glasses (actually relevant in the book)

Henry is described by Alex as having lots of moles

Bea is the rockstar girlfriend, at the end of the book she plays on a concert and everything. She plays the guitar and is always wearing a leather jacket. She also has a fat cat called Mr Wobbles. And the queen wanted her to learn violin “since it was more proper” instead of guitar. “Bea was allowed to learn both, but she went to uni for classical violin.”

During the turkey phonecall, Henry is wearing a peely face mask

Amy is trans and has a pansexual wife

(Actually relevant) Catherine was not off in another country the whole story, just battling intense grief for her husband's death, so she wasn't present in her children's life, so they felt as if they lost both parents.

There's no king, she's actually a queen, her name is Mary and she should die (she's so so much worse on the book than the king is on the movie)

David is a service dog

(Actually relevant in the book) June bought a teen magazine at 15 and 13 year old Alex would sneak into her room to stare at the magazine (and the picture of a blonde 14 year old British prince on it).

Bea is the middle kid, Henry is the youngest

Henry is canonically on therapy and on antidepressants (since the start of the book)

I don't remember if they mentioned it on the movie but Arthur was James Bond and died of pancreatic cancer.

Alex’s favorite Olympic sport is rhythmic gymnastics

Bea had an addiction problem when Henry was about 17 (as a way to cope after their father's death) and only got herself into rehab after Henry went to her and started crying about dad was dead and he was gay and scared so she couldn't kill herself. That's how he came out to her

Alex doesn't wanna be president at the end of the book, he starts law school

Henry favourite star wars is Jedi, Alex's is Empire

June is allergic to peanuts

Alex runs and runs to cope and clear his head

He did not know he was bi until after Henry kissed him. Yes, he had a friend with benefits relationship with his high school friend Liam, but he genuinely thought it was perfectly platonic and straight

Also he doesn't keep on touch with Liam after high school (their friendship just slowly fades away, with living so far and Alex being suddenly famous) but they reconnect at the end

Alex and Henry move in together on a brownstone on Brooklyn, eventually they marry (after Henry abdicates) on the lake house, they move to a farmhouse on Austin, they spend their honeymoon unpacking

Pez is lactose intolerant

Bluebonnet is June’s code name, Barracuda is Alex’s

Henry is a big Austen fan, and makes references to her books through the story

Amy knits

Zahra has a sister who recently had a baby

June forced Alex into dresses as a kid

Henry’s favorite food is a cheap falafel stand ten minutes from the palace

Henry really likes sailing

Shaan has a motorbike

Alex is allergic to dust

Henry keeps a copy of Le Monde, the newspaper from the day they were in Paris, on his room

Alex and Nora dated when Alex was 17 and Nora 18 but realized they were definitely better off as friends. When they are bored, they like to create rumors about their relationship

Alex makes tons of lists to organize

Alex wears chinos, and claims kakhis are for white people

Nora is very good at math

Alex grew up catholic

At the end of their e-mails, Alex and Henry quoted historical lgbt love letters

Nora’s one-bedroom is “full of books and plants she tends to with complex spreadsheets of watering schedules.”

Nora is bisexual and on the aro spectrum (not canon on the book than she’s aro, but Casey did mention it somewhere)

Arthur gifted Henry a telescope for his seventh birthday

The karaoke scene happens not while on Texas but in some club full of queer people. The whole group is there, Pez got them matching kimonos. Alex’s says Hoe Dameron, Henry’s says Prince Buttercup. Aside from Henry singing Don’t Stop Me Now, Bea sings Call Me by Blondie, and Pez sings So Emotional by Whitney Houston in a “shockingly flawless falsetto”.

The lakehouse confessions happens while at night

The Kensington fight (after the lakehouse confession) is much more dramatic, they don’t go to the v&a that night, but the next night. That morning Henry got up early, and brought Alex coffee when he woke up. They made up.

Also Alex takes his coffee with cinnamon

Alex, Nora and Henry are gen z, while June is a millennial

#this has lots of things about Alex but we just know so so much about him #rwrb #casey mcquiston #red white and royal blue #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #red white & royal blue #rwrb movie #rwrb film #nora holleran #june claremont diaz #bea fox mountchristen windsor #shaan srivastava #zahra bankston #amy chen #pez okonjo #rwrb alex #rwrb on prime #red white and royal blue movie

[bengiyo]

Hi, i'm a newish bl drama watcher from thailand that just started watching thai bls. i'm a bit ashamed to say that for a long time as a gay man living here i've been avoiding bl shows like the plague cuz of both the fandom reputation and of misconception from my yaoi era which i leave far behind. i'm just want to ask how did you got into watching thai bls and what were you preconception before you got into it.

Welcome to the Tumblr side of BL fandom. I'd actually like to also hear more of your experience with yaoi and BL as a gay person growing up in Thailand if you're willing to share.

For me, I'm a Black American from the Gulf Coast (the South). I grew up in a Catholic city and spent my entire adolescence in the closet. Despite having a sense of who I was as early as 8 years old, I kept most of that to myself. Because I didn't talk about it much with people, I found out most information about queer media and queerness from the internet.

I entered BL via queer cinema. I think the first explicitly gay character that I remember from TV was Marco from Degrassi: The Next Generation. There were probably others, and definitely more subtle expressions, but when I think about the oldest gay character I remember and connect to, it's Marco. I don't like counting things like shipping Shawn and Corey on Boy Meets World or Tai and Matt on Digimon for oldest gay characters. Sailor Moon can't even count because we got a censored version of it in America.

I got access to satellite television away from observing eyes around age 16 and started watching content on Logo back when they aired gay content regularly. I watched basically whatever I could late at night. It's how I saw movies like Get Real (1998), Beautiful Thing (1996), and Bent (1997). It's also how I saw Queer as Folk (2000-2005) Noah's Arc (2005-06).

After hitting adulthood I mostly got lost in video games and standard American TV for a while, but I did basically show up to any Gay Event in TV. I appreciate that Stef and Lena from The Fosters (2013-2018) were some of the only TV lesbians to survive the horror of 2016.

I watched a bunch of movies in this time, many of which appear on the Queer Cinema Syllabus I made for a hypothetical Westerner new to BL and queer cinema, which @wen-kexing-apologist has decided to try to complete.

I got into Thai BL in 2018 accidentally. I started seeing gifsets of Kongpob telling Arthit he'll make him his wife passing around Tumblr and was basically like, "Right, what's all this then?"

I had watched a few Thai gay films, mostly notably Love of Siam (2007), Bangkok Love Story (2007), How to Win at Checkers Every Time (2015), and The Blue Hour (2015), but this was the first time I was seeing a long series made available so easily from any Asian country.

From there I got into Make It Right (2016-17) and Love Sick the series (2014). Once I realized that yaoi had moved beyond manga and a few anime adaptations, I went looking for a lot more. I basically haven't left since I started in about 2016 with SOTUS.

There's my basic entry into the genre. I don't think I was as worried about fandom and worries at the time because so much of being a fan of queer cinema was a mostly-private experience for me for so long. I didn't realize that BL fans active in the space would predominantly be women or queers figuring themselves out. It took a while to adjust to that, and also to adjust my expectations of the kinds of queer stories BL distributors were willing to fund.

That being said, I tend to agree with @absolutebl that BL has a useful role in normalization for non-queer audiences who encounter it. I like cheering BL when it does things I think work really well, and also deriding it when I think it does things that are offensive to help nudge the genre and offer my perspective as a gay man.

I like the place we're at right now where there's way too much to watch for any person with other hobbies and responsibilities because it means that people can pick and choose what's to their tastes.

More often than not, I'm probably most-invested in something airing from Japan because of my melancholy nature, but there's so much variety these days that it's okay if you don't like everything. I certainly don't!

I'm glad you joined us on Tumblr and look forward to your thoughts!

#answered #thai bl #fandom life #about me

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for taking a cross-country trip without telling my parents?

🔜🚇 for ID purposes, my friends will get it lmao

This is being submitted after the trip was taken, so it's in retrospect. I can live with being an asshole if I'm labeled one, I just had a lot of conflicting feelings preceding said trip, even if by now I don't regret it because it was fun. At this point I'm just curious!

I am 26yo and AFAB nonbinary. This is relevant.

During the first week of the year, I took a trip across the USA to go to a convention to meet up with some internet friends I am close to; some id met before, but most were mutuals/people I video chat with regularly.

My parents are extremely catholic. They're very suspicious about online friends in general (so much so I stopped talking to them about going online when I was in high school), and are very transphobic so I'm not out to them. Since I'm AFAB, they're very "oh be careful out there and NEVER do anything alone because it's DANGEROUS." Which feels like a load of crap to me; I'm taking a vacation, not going for a jaunt down a dark alley. My mother in particular is also very into conformity, so I've never told her about my con-going, fandom loving ways.

So I planned and went on this trip, entirely in secret, and lied the entire time I was there. And I had a genuinely great time, no regrets, and not once did I feel unsafe. I told my housemate (almost 26) my flight details and whereabouts so I had backup if needed, and figured that was fine on the safety front. Also I am financially independent, so none of their money was used.

The conflict: obvious I lied a lot. I know my parents would disapprove and would be so mad if they knew. A few of their ideas just center around me being safe, so I felt kinda bad, you know?

A lot of folks will see my age and say I can do what I want, but being brought up by overprotective Christians will indeed make realizing if you're being reasonable or not a whole lot harder! I'm also working on figuring out how to proceed in the future; I still talk to them bc of my elderly pets and extended family. It's complex to navigate. I wanna throw this one to tumblr to decide, I think it would be good to get some random perspective in here. I'll be replying to questions in the comments off anon once/if it's posted :)

So tumblr AITA for taking a secret trip that my parents would've disapproved of top-to-bottom and straight up lying about it?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[creedslove]

BETRAYED - PART NINE

Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: Pedro invites you to be his plus one for the night but his attention is caught by another woman and leaves you with a broken heart

Warnings: fluff, like, a lot of fluff, implied age gap, mentions of death, and descriptions of a catholic wedding (I just wrote down how they go in my country, but no, it's not *the* wedding you're thinking about) and mentions of smut

A/N: Just one more chapter and we wrap up this story!!! I hope you guys enjoy this one because I know my heart melted while I wrote it!!!

A/N part 2: still can't manually tag people on the works because I use the app and it won't let me do it, that's why I don't have a tag list at all!

3.4k words

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX | PART SEVEN | PART EIGHT

One year later

You stood at the altar feeling excitedly but also a little anxious. A bunch of familiar faces stared at you taking in all the details of the ceremony that was about to begin.

You could even spot Pedro among the guests, he looked handsome, as he always did, his hair was a little longer now, making it wilder in a way it made him sexier than before. He noticed your eyes on him and winked, as if he encouraged you in that situation

And that's why being a bridesmaid was so fun. While the focus wasn't necessarily you and your group of bridesmaids, you were all in the spotlight while the bride took long to arrive.

You could practically hear all the thoughts crossing people's minds, how they judged the dresses, the makeups and the hairstyles. It always happened and you wouldn't be any exception, but not that you cared very much about it, as you were so happy for your best friend Nat tying the knot with her dream guy, nothing would bother you at all.

As you felt Pedro's gaze on you, burning your skin, you thought of everything that happened this past year. It didn't even feel real, after you left his home that morning, you never returned. And he kept his word of not coming after you, which was all you needed in order to get your life back on track.

The first thing you did when you got home was to change all the locks to prevent anyone from breaking into your house. It didn't matter if it was Liev, a burglar or Pedro himself. You never wanted to walk into your home, a place you assumed safe and find someone uninvited there. Then, your second part of your action plan was to look for another gym, so you could train without having to change your schedule every single time you didn't want to run into someone in there. You wanted to exercise, to see people, to feel the endorphins flood your body and not step on eggshells all the time. Needless to say, it was a good decision.

Then, you just focused on yourself.

You finally finished your studies, you found a job that made you happier and paid well too. You took short trips here and there, getting to know new places and you also looked at yourself in the mirror and realized you were more beautiful than ever, and that was why you were loving yourself, you took care of yourself and you put yourself in the first place, just like it should've been from the beginning.

You still had feelings for Pedro, of course, but the distance helped manage it, some days you were able to go by without even thinking of him, and others you missed him deeply. You didn't know if his feelings for you changed, but you weren't as close as you once were. However, you weren't estranged either. It was just that your lifestyles got simply too different and your lives took different paths, making it so hard to be around each other.

After Pedro's career took off he became almost impossible to reach - physically at least.

He was already well-known when you two had all that story going on, of course, but now it had reached stratospherical levels. He was a big deal, he was a big celebrity, all your social media was flooded by videos, his interviews and his pictures. You began following his career, from afar, admiring him, how far he'd come, feeling your chest burst with pride every time he was nominated for an award or you saw him walking down a red carpet. It was still disturbing to you to see how much he was harassed by the media, how he couldn't walk down the street without being photographed and how they picked on the whole daddy thing. Sometimes it was a little funny though, seeing him blush and her visibly embarrassed at that. You often chuckled to yourself when you eventually saw his fans writing the sweetest things about him, how they called him their boyfriend or future husband, if only they knew your story, they'd call you crazy for turning him down. Because to them, Pedro was perfect, a prince charming. And to you, he was just a human being, with flaws and qualities, like everyone else.

You two didn't go the whole year without speaking, quite the opposite, your phone would buzz eventually, receiving a text or two from him. And you would often text him as well. Just simple things: birthday messages, wishing each other happy holidays or checking up on each other. Nothing too intimate, but enough to show you still cared and worried about each other.

He watched your stories and liked your pictures, and you did the same. Being there, even if you weren't there anymore. It was confusing, but it worked for a while.

When you realized you were able to see his pictures with fans, co-stars and women you had no idea who they were and your whole body didn't heat up in anxiety and jealousy and your heart didn't drop at your toes, at the mere thought crossing your mind of them being his lay for the night, you knew you were ready to let him in.

Not exactly let him in, you didn't know if he still cared about you like that, or if you would still have anything in common, or if he would even bother becoming your friend again now that he had met some many different people. But you still decided to text him, best case scenario he would reply and you would have a conversation, worst case scenario he would leave you on 'seen' and you would move on with your life, because you lived for yourself now, and not for Pedro.

Of course he replied to your message right away. He smiled big when he read it and couldn't even believe after all that time you were the one engaging in a conversation with him. God knows how many times it took all of his willpower to erase the gigantic texts he wrote you and just drop a 'Merry Christmas' or 'Happy Birthday, mariposa' he'd promised you he would let you live your life, and just like a butterfly, he let you be free but now you were flying to him again - maybe, that was what he hoped at least, so he allowed himself to daydream.

You'd sent a simple text telling him how much you enjoyed his new series, and if he had time next time he was in town, maybe you could go for drinks. He replied almost immediately, saying he couldn't wait.

And your conversation began.

Slowly, you would text through the day about many things, while he was away and lonely, he told you all about his shooting routine and what he did for fun so far away from home.

You updated him on everything knew in your life, seeing how proud of you and happy he really got. You briefly mentioned you were thinking of learning a second language, to which he quickly suggested Spanish.

But when your uncle died you didn't get a text from him. Instead, Pedro managed to get a short break from filming and hopped on a plane. He wanted to be there for you, it didn't matter to him if he was going to be there as a friend or as a possible boyfriend, he just wanted to hold you while you cried because he knew how important family was to you. He wanted to attend the funeral by your side, to dry your tears and tell you comforting words. And that was exactly what he did.

You couldn't believe your eyes when he showed up there, in black and pulling you into his embrace, which reminded you it used to be your favorite place in the world and at that moment, it became your favorite again.

You had no strength to discuss feelings with him, and he wasn't after that either. He just wanted to try and make that moment a little less miserable for you.

But the moment the funeral service was over, Pedro would have to come back to his work again. He apologized a hundred times for not being able to stay longer with you, but you assured him it was alright, not forgetting to thank him for coming all the way just to be with you.

He said goodbye with one of his warm hugs and a peck on the cheek, that landed way too close to your lips, it didn't matter if it was on purpose or not. The damage had already been done.

From the moment you realized he had left his job - the thing you assumed he loved the most in life - for you without expecting anything in return. That familiar warmth in your chest appeared after months and months of it being dormant. It was hard to deny how much you loved Pedro.

•••

You had always heard horrible stories about women who agreed to becoming bridesmaids and had to deal with the infamous bridezilla. You were sure it wouldn't be Nat's case, but those women were not exaggerating when they said you would have to put a lot of effort, energy and even money to a moment that wasn't even yours.

While all the guests were comfortably sitting down, you along with the other girls and the bestmen had to stand up the whole ceremony. You knew the priest was probably saying beautiful words about love and stuff, as you could see the emotion in some people's eyes and how some of them even sniffed and shed one or two tears, but you were just not paying attention. Church services weren't really your thing, you tried really hard not to get bored, but it was too late, you were already bored.

That's why your eyes scanned the whole place, not really focusing on anything in particular, you just hoped time would go by faster and you wished you would all skip to the reception, because there were other things you wanted to do and mostly other people you wanted to talk to. You looked all over the church decoration and though it looked very beautiful and elegant you thought about how you would never have a wedding in a place like that. Then you watched Nat's wedding dress closely. Of course you'd seen it a couple of times already since the early stages of planning and preparing the wedding, but at that moment it looked different and you couldn't stop yourself from wondering if you'd ever get married at all and wear a pretty dress like that. You shook those thoughts away from your mine and looked at the guests absent-mindedly, not watching anything in particular until your eyes locked with Pedro's.

He didn't even blink and sustained your look, he was completely oblivious to a wedding happening just a few feet away from you, as you were really the only thing that mattered to him.

After flying to you for your uncle's funeral, you weren't able to meet again, as he was more and more caught up at work and you also had your own life. So when he got the invitation to the wedding, he didn't think twice before confirming his attendance, though he didn't really care that much about the bride and groom, he was still thankful to them.

You blushed softly and smiled big at him, he wasn't too distant, just a few rows away from the altar, close enough for you to see when he mouthed 'hermosa' making you look down in shyness. You knew Nat and Pedro had seen each other maybe five or six times and the only times she talked to him was to tell him how much her boyfriend - and now husband - loved Mandalorian. So you knew she had only invited him because of you and Pedro had only showed up to the wedding because of you as well. It felt quite good, you had to admit and for that, you even forced yourself to pay attention to the ceremony again.

Once the reception started you thought the fun would start as well, but you were wrong. Now, the bridesmaids duty kept you busy each passing second. First you had to follow the bride and groom to the photo session, then you had to assist the bride to make her big entrance, and after it you had to help her go to the restroom, which was the most chaotic part: four girls helping another lift up layers and layers of cloth in order to be able to pee.

And when you realized, it was already dinner time. As the food was served people stayed at their tables, usually guests were starving after the whole marathon of sitting through a long and tedious ceremony, then endless waiting until the bride and groom showed up.

The whole time you and Pedro exchanged looks and smiles, he even texted you in hopes to talk to you, but you were way too busy to check your phone, at the same time as soon as some guests recognized Pedro, he was bombarded with requests for selfies, autographs and girls throwing themselves at him. And he was way too nice to decline those requests even if it bothered him - though he declined the girls right away.

You thanked the heavens when dinner was finished, you knew the dance floor would be finally open to the guests until you remembered a very tacky wedding custom.

The bride was going to throw the bouquet. You pinched the bridge of your nose in embarrassment, you've always hated that moment, ever since you were a kid and your parents dragged you to relative's weddings.

Just a bunch of women going all savage over a couple of flowers made you cringe to the core, so you stepped aside and waited for the small crowd to gather. You tried to brush it off at the insistence of some people, but when Nat cleared her throat and gave you accusatory eyes, you even tried to argue. But she motioned her head towards Pedro and you saw him waiting for you to get in the small commotion. He had his hands inside his pocket and a dirty smirk, he couldn't wait to see you pick the bouquet, he was sure you'd look gorgeous.

You on the other hand felt embarrassed and awkward to stand there, Nat got in position and showed all the single ladies the bouquet, making them all shout in excitement. She looked at you and winked softly, and you gulped. Oh no, there was only one thing worse than fighting over a bouquet of flowers in front of a crowd of people, and that was definitely receiving the bouquet out of pity.

So when she threw it towards you, you stood still, making absolutely no move and watched it as it flew right past you.

You turned around and saw when two women were almost on the floor, struggling to get the bouquet. Nat frowned at you, confused as to why you didn't get it, you just shrugged at her. You didn't want to get married, there was only one thing you wanted to do, and when you thought you were finally able to do it, the DJ announced it was time for the waltz.

You rolled your eyes, as annoyance spread through your body. It had been hours all you were trying to do was to exchange a couple of words with Pedro, but that seemed impossible.

The guests all gathered around the bride and groom as they showed their rehearsed steps, some people swooning over them but you just looked around, trying to find Pedro, needing to see him and talk to him. But he wasn't there anymore.

Had he gone home? You knew he enjoyed parties, but you weren't sure about wedding parties, especially the ones where he was harassed every five minutes by people who insistently wanted pictures or just goof around a movie star.

But he wouldn't just leave you without saying goodbye, would he? Over the months your relationship became stronger even if you weren't physically close.

You were deep in thought as you felt someone touching your wrist, making you jump a little at the sudden touch and turned around, seeing Pedro standing there.

And he looked good. Very good.

He was wearing a dark suit, all in black. It hung tight to the right places as he looked absolutely like sin. His hair was messy like always and you caught a few gray streaks on his beard and that made you weak at the knees.

You smiled big and held his hand "Pedro! I thought you'd left!"

He raised his eyebrow and chuckled "do you really think I'd sit through a whole wedding and then leave before talking to the only reason why I'm here in the first place?" He held your hand and eyed you up and down, not even hiding how much he appreciated your looks "I don't mean to be one of those bitchy people who come to the party and trash talk it, but when we get married we'll have a lot less church and a lot more party"

Pedro's words stirred something inside of you, even if it was a joke, you felt yourself blushing.

"Too bad it won't happen, I mean, I didn't catch the bouquet so…" you replied in a shy way and made him laugh as well

"Yeah, well, we can figure this out later, right now I'd like to have a dance with the most beautiful girl at the party?" He offered his hand to you, and you hesitated at first

"It depends, Pedro" you saw his confusion, finding it quite amusing

"It depends on what, hermosa?" He questioned curiously

"Where's your plus one?" You saw how he frowned not really getting where you were going

"What plus one, Y/N? I came alone…"

You laughed softly and nodded, taking a step closer and accepting his invitation.

"I was just making sure, you know, I was friends with a guy once and he pulled such a jerk move, where he invited a plus one to a party and ditched her to dance with another girl and ended up taking this other girl home and left his plus one really heartbroken"

A deep shade of crimson spread through his face as he was at a loss of words for a while. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard.

"H-he sounds like a real dick" he replied a little self conscious, not sure if you were joking or playing games

"He really was, but I heard he managed to change into a better person and his plus one even forgave him after all"

His smile was wide and the relief in his eyes was visible as he wrapped his arms around your waist and glued your body to his. It was a slow ballad and you wrapped your arms around his neck at the same time you swayed your hips together.

"Thank you for forgiving me, I really missed you" he whispered against your ear, your faces were inches apart and you closed your eyes, his cologne lingering on your skin. You took your hand to the back of his neck, stroking his hair and feeling it softly between your fingers.

"We needed this, Pedro… I guess now we could start things over" you said and welcomed his lips against yours, as they crashed in a needy contact. You moaned lowly at the feel of his tongue against yours. His hands squeezed your waist and if you could get any closer to him, you would have, because you could swear that was not enough.

His kiss was intense and unlike the other times, he wasn't trying to overpower you and make you accept him playing dirty with your hormones, he was kissing you, feeling you and taking you as his. And you wanted it as much as he did.

When you broke the kiss, he nibbled your bottom lip, caressing your cheek and not giving a care in the world if someone filmed or photographed you.

You danced as if there was no tomorrow, as the ballad was over, you danced with Pedro to any kind of songs that came in the playlist, you had fun and when sexier songs came up, you dance even more, loving how you rubbed your body against his and Pedro never spared any neck kiss or groping your body.

By the time you could feel a tent against your ass, you turned to him, kissing his lips again.

"I guess it's time to get out of here, princesa" he whispered into your ear and squeezed your ass. You moaned against his lips as you couldn't agree more.

_____

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did, it was just so easy to write I was really into it. I loved it so much and I can't believe this series is almost over 😞 also, if y'all don't go soft on Pedro now I don't know what to do, LMAO

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal headcanon #pedro pascal headcanons #javier pena #javier peña #joel miller

[littlewriterfullofwords]

Merry Christmas

Parring: Dr. Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Summary: You throw some Christmas party at your house where you show the BAU team your traditiona

Warnings: fluff

A/N: Hi! So, I'm currently in the 2nd season of CM, so there aren't more characters or anything, I'm new to the series, kinda, so please forgive. Second, the traditions in the ff are my country's traditions. Feel free to share yours in the comments!

"Merry Christmas!" Penelope opened her arms to hug you at the doorframe, big smile decorating her beautiful face. "Thank you for the invitation, sweetheart."

"I'm glad you came." You moved a bit to the side to let your coworker come in. "Make yourself at home, Pen."

"Sure will do." She winked at you and started to walk around your house, from time to time she was making nice comments about the decor.

The next person to come was Spencer. In a red sweater, Mr. "I know it all" greeted you with little, and cute, hand waving, his iconic move.

And after him, the others came in, in the order: Jason, Emily with JJ, Aaron and Derek.

"Your Christmas is a lot different than ours." Started Emily when you put another fish on the table.

"Yeah. Only 12 dishes? You have to try everything? That's insane." Murmured Derek with a glass of dried-fruit juice. "Where did you all get that from?"

"The Bible." Before you could answer, Spencer was faster. "You know, according to the Bible, there were 12 apostles so Catholic countries put 12 dishes on the Christmas table. They also leave an empty seat for an unannounced guest or, more spiritual, for those that had died."

"Yeah." You nodded with a smile. "That's right. Just the tradition, nothing more."

"Tradition is good." Whispered Gideon. "Tells a lot about the person."

"Once again, thank you for having us." Hotchner interrupted the info dump. "It might be a new experience for us, but that's life, right? We learning."

"Oh, stop. You making my angel blush!" Garcia petted your back in a soothing manner but with a smile on her face.

You were glad they came. Hey, they were family and Christmas is family time. You needed them now due to your family being all dead.

After dinner, came the present time! Everyone gathered in the living room and Derek, with a red Santa's hat, started to dispense the presents. Of course, he had to add something funny before giving it to the final owner, which has been making everyone laugh.

The atmosphere was amazing. It felt family-like and you didn't want it to go away any moment soon.

"It's party time!" Said Morgan, and with Emily by his side, they opened champagne and other alcoholic drinks they had brought.

Immediately , it reminded you of New Year Eve and the party your friends had always thrown. There was always lots of alcohol, music, dancing and many more.

"Let's go!" JJ grabbed your wrist and pulled into the dancing circle, you had no other choice but to join them, and you did.

Saying you weren't having the best time of your life would be a lie. You were so happy with those people, you were ready to call the your fucking family, and in your head you were. You loved each of them in your own way, and you hoped they noticed that. Well, they were profilers, they sure did.

The clock on the wall was showing 3:15am, with its quiet ticking interrupting the quiet carols. You turned off the tap in the kitchen and dried your hands. Everyone was asleep, either on the couch, armchairs or floor while you had been washing the dishes and cleaning after the party.

As quiet as possible, you came back to the living room with blankets and covered everyone with one, you didn't want them to catch a cold.

"Happy Christmas." You whispered with a shy smile before you started walking to the stairs.

"Happy Christmas, Y/N." The quiet voice of Reid's made you stop in the half way and smile again before you looked his way.

"I thought you were sleeping. Sorry if I woke you up."

"You didn't, don't worry." He shook his head with his innocent smile you liked so much.

"Would you like to join me for a movie?" You hesitated some time before asking that, it was your little secret.

"Sure." Spencer lifted himself from the armchair and came up to you, then followed you upstairs.

You had this thing, you needed to watch your favourite movie after Christmas Eve to fall asleep. It was hard to explain why only this time of year but you didn't complain. You loved the movie, so it was a pleasure.

"If you don't mind, we will watch 'The Nightmare before Christmas'." You said when you finally reached your room and turned on the TV.

"Whatever you want. I'm fine with that." Spencer sat next to you, on the floor by the bed and placed his head on his knees. "Did you know that Tim Burton only produced the movie, not directed it?"

"I read it somewhere. But thank you for reminding me that." A little smile appeared on your lips before you clicked 'play' and the movie began.

Only a few minutes of the movie passed and in the corner of your eye you saw Spencer rock back and forth.

"You know you can say that, right?" You whispered with your head turned his way and a smile. "That's okay. Go on."

"Did you know that Danny Elfman only voices Jack's singing, not his spoken voice?" With your permission, Reid lets out his kept breath, what made you chuckle, and he started to talk. "He also voices two other characters, Barrel and the Clown."

"Really? That's so amazing." You whispered. "It's good to have you by my side."

"Oh, that's... nothing big." Spencer scratched the back of his head in a shy manner.

You moved on with the movie, with Reid giving you some fun facts about it. And even though you knew all that, you'd been a fan since day one, you've been listening carefully like if you didn't know them. You loved listening to Spencer, you loved his knowledge and how passionately he was sharing it. You loved... Spencer. You liked it or not, you were in love with him and his knowledge.

Unluckily, the movie ended, so did your time with Reid.

"Thank you for your company." You said and turned the TV off. "And thank you for coming...to the party. I had the best time."

"We should be thankful." Chuckled Spencer. "You taught us a lot. We now understand more."

"Don't tell me you don't profile each other on a daily basis?" You joked.

"We do....At least I do. Especially Hotch." Reid looked at the open door as if Aaron was about to come in. "He's the easiest to read."

"True." You both laughed but immediately hushed it because you remembered about sleepyheads downstairs. "Especially his mood."

Your coworker smiled and nodded his head as an agreement.

You both were going along very well, even too well sometimes, from Emily's point of view (good meaning). She really often has been telling you, that you and Spenc were acting like siblings.

"If you want, you can stay here." You offered when Reid started to get up from the ground, you didn't think what were you saying.

"I-...A-... I'll go downstairs. I have my stuff there." He looked hesitant and a bit embarrassed, especially his eyes were hesitant.

"Sure." You nodded and watched him leave the room. "Spenc."

Seconds after him leaving, you called after him and ran up to him.

"Yeah?" Asked Reid with confusion.

"Merry Christmas." Shy kiss was planted on Spencer's cheek before you turned around and disappeared behind the door to your room.

"Me-....merry Christmas." Whispered the man while touching the place your lips touched.

#ff writer #ff #spotify #criminal minds #criminal minds ff #criminalminds #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader

[dreamerswriter]

The Burning Revelation

I actually like the fact that they are here. Makes this feel like a genuine school event to have other students besides us attend this. On the flip side, Idia, don't tell Pina about that! (Though, he's got a soft spot for my Persephone OC)

Pfft, it is not the worst thing that has happened to me in terms of adventures and games. I do love how traumatized the man is. The look of fear is wonderful.

Idia's reaction to everything is amazing. I love how he talks in this event so much.

NO! I actually dropped my phone! I love Chenya and Neige is too sweet! You shall be avenged! Gods, you can tell how much both care about their friends so much. Hey, since Rollo got a card, can they please?

This is exactly what I am hoping for in the next book. Idia's the smartest person in that room right now. He's trying to think and solve the problem. He knows what's going on and tries to tell the others what to do. Yes, that's my boy!

Azul: I AM GOING BACK TO THE OCEAN AFTER THIS!

Oh gods, that almost killed him. I WAS RIGHT! YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE LET YOUR HEIR GO TO ANOTHER COUNTRY WITHOUT PROPER BACKGROUNDS AND CHECKS! THERE GOES DRAGON BOY!

Ok, so he did go with his guards, but still. Actually, ok, again, KH fan first, but lore-wise, Silver could purge the darkness, so he's pretty powerful. Sebek is trained and also a fae. They did their job of protecting their king. That being said, who told Lilia this happened. Bat Dad must've had a heart attack. Death really is trying to take him, huh?

Azul and Idia are going to drive Rollo insane. That being said, I love both their lines so much!

Hey man, I'm mortal and even I didn't use magical flowers to kill other mages for their magic. I am pretty sure you're the villain here. Which is definitely saying something since we have Azul.

Idia's definitely believes that he's in some RPG right now. He's trying to cope, Azul. Let him. But also, I laughed.

NRC Boys: Oh? We don't have magic? That's fine. We will just beat the living crap out of you!

To be honest, I didn't expect that to be their go-to option, but then again, these are mostly the same cast who wanted to fight a literal ghost bride and her ghost knights.

Side note, I like to imagine Idia carrying about an invasive species of plants is a reference to Hades and Persephone.

Huh. He actually knows our name. Well, I already saw your sleeves and ankles, when are you proposing to Yuu? That being said, he really tried to save us from being hurt. He really does care about Yuu's safety. What a nice dragon boy!

Also, wow, everything is on fire. That's about right for Catholics and how to solve most of their problems. That and not actually reading the Bible.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #glorious masquerade #twisted wonderland idia #twisted wonderland ruggie #twisted wonderland rollo #twisted wonderland riddle #twisted wonderland deuce #twisted wonderland chenya #twisted wonderland neige #twisted wonderland rook #twisted wonderland epel #twisted wonderland azul #twisted wonderland malleus #twisted wonderland silver #twisted wonderland sebek #twst malleyuu

[asteroidtroglodyte]

[exert of a conversation between Martin Scorsese, Paul Shrader, and Roger Ebert from 1976 regarding Scorsese’s 1973 film Goncharov]

…

Scorsese: Because there's a lot of violence to this picture, some of the New York reviews are calling it an exploitation film. Jesus! I went flat broke making this film! My films haven't made a lot of money, you know? Right now, I'm living off my next film.

Schrader: If it's an exploitation film, I wish we had a dollar for every time you were told it would never be a success at all. That screenplay got turned down by everybody.

Scorsese: We showed it to some New York media educators, and I thought we'd get lynched! We showed it to some student editors...there was this wise guy there I recognized from a screening we had of "Alice." He asks whether, after all my success, I'm about ready to fall on my ass. I've hardly gotten started!

Schrader: You got zero valid reactions immediately after the screenings. The immediate response is usually very visceral and angry, but I remember, this one, silence. The anger came later. But, if this film weren't controversial, there'd be something wrong with the country.

Ebert: What you give us in this guy, Goncharov, who comes from nowhere - we get hardly any background - eventually we realize he's seething inside, he's got all this violence bottled up....

Scorsese: And he goes back again and again to where the violence is. One of the reviewers, I think it was Andrew Sarris, said how many times can you use [The Clocks] as a metaphor for hell? But that's the thing about hell - it goes on and on. And he couldn't get out of it. But you're right that we don't tell you where he comes from, or what his story is. Obviously, he comes from somewhere and he picked up these problems along the way.

Schrader: You told me you wrote it that way after thinking about the way they handled "In Cold Blood." They tell you all about Perry Smith's background, how he developed his problems, and immediately it becomes less interesting because his problems aren't your problems, but his symptoms are your symptoms.

Ebert: Pauline Kael has said that Scorsese, Robert Altman and Francis Ford Coppola are the three most interesting directors in the country right now - and that it might be due to their Catholicism, that after Watergate, the nation feels a sort of guilt and needs to make a form of reparation, and that Catholics understand guilt in a way that others don't, that they were brought up on it.

Scorsese: Guilt. There's nothing you can tell me about guilt.

Schrader: I've got a lot of Protestant guilt.

Scorsese: You can't make movies any more in which the whole country seems to make sense. After Vietnam, after Watergate, it's not just a temporary thing; it's a permanent thing the country's going through. All the things we held sacred - the whole Time-Life empire...whoosh! Well, Time's still left.

Ebert: In a lot of your movies, there's this… ambivalent attitude, toward women. The men are fascinated by women, but they don't quite know how to relate to them...

Scorsese: The goddess-whore complex. You're raised to worship women, but you don't know how to approach them on a human level, on a sexual level. That's the thing with Katya, with Sofia, he loves them but he doesn’t really see them as people. They go from garbage to goddess and back and forth.

Ebert: I’m reminded of Katya with the candles in her bedroom.

Scorsese: Exactly, she's like a saint to him! He can't imagine these people treating her the way they do. Before he goes to avenge her, it's almost like he cleanses himself, like in "The Virgin Spring" when Max von Sydow scourges himself with the branches before he goes out to avenge his daughter's death.

Schrader: We actually had that shot in the movie, and we took it out. Goncharov whips himself with a towel before he goes out with his guns. We took it out because it looked a little forced and unnatural.

Scorsese: But the Catholic thing? I suppose there are a lot of Catholic references in the film, even if they're only my own personal reference. Like the moment when he burns the flowers before he goes out to kill. And when he's buying the guns and the dealer lays them out one at a time on the velvet, like arranging the altar during Mass.

…

#goncharov #roger ebert #martin scorsese

[a-queer-seminarian]

big ol' worry dump, i promise i'll post something rebloggable soon but i'm still processing everything and have not had time to write it coherently! cw queerphobia from the pulpit, church hurt, verbal violence, and brief csa mention (not a specific case)

SO. for anyone not keeping up, this past Sunday i visited my childhood church in ohio, and was devastated when near the end of his homily (Catholic word for sermon haha) my childhood pastor suddenly switched from celebrating the Spirit who bursts through closed doors to proclaiming that The Church Is Under Attack from people like the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. :/

After he finished and sat down, i stood up and got behind the lectern/pulpit to remind him and everyone in the room that queer and trans people have the Holy Spirit too, because his words implied otherwise. And i could not risk that any other person there felt suddenly and utterly alone — i had to make sure they knew that not everyone agreed with our priest's message.

(Here's a place you can watch a clip of the homily — obviously mega content warning for homophobia, please keep yourself safe and remember you are loved!! — as well as my response)

Not long into speaking, I was escorted peacefully out of the building. Two parishioners followed and found me outside, and thanked me for what i said. They were very sweet <3

As we were talking, another parishioner stormed out and got very, very verbally violent. It was scary shit.

Other parishioners eventually came out and led Scary Man away, thankfully. The church's other, younger & newer priest, Father Jim, also came out to apologize profusely to us. Then i went home. My wife and i flew home to Georgia the next morning.

____

and...stuff keeps happening.

i did not expect this to make the news, but it did. the Cleveland Plain Dealer wrote on it, and so have other papers across the country.

an officer called me to ask if i wanted to press charges on Scary Man. I don't, because i'm just not convinced the results would be helpful to actually stopping him from doing what he did again.

if anyone has resources or someone smart i could talk to for advice on alternatives to cops & court for a situation like this, please hit me up!!!

after agreeing to an interview with the Plain Dealer reporter, which used my first and last name, folks have been finding me on social media to offer their support, which actually has been so uplifting and i plan to post some of the messages later!

my parents are proud of me and support me BUT my mom is worried sick that someone is going to, like, find out where i live and come attack me. i'd be more worried that they find out who my parents are and go attack them, tbh.

i've had more sudden spikes of adrenaline in the past five days than i have in the past like, 2 years lol

i've also talked with more different individuals on the phone in the past five days than i had over the rest of 2023 so far

i was scrolling through twitter last night and randomly came across a tweet featuring a TikTok of a cut-down version of my priest's homily + my response...i really don't like what parts they cut out, or what they titled it. and it's got over a million views. :OOO

there's a lot of confusion in the replies — people who don't realize i'm a former parishioner, not an active one; people not knowing how to gender me which is fine but it's, you know, getting a little grating; and of course, people resorting to saying Father Tim must be "closeted gay" or otherwise have a Sinister Secret himself to say what he said...I hate that kind of rhetoric.

Not every person who spouts homophobia is secretly gay. The Biggest Homophobes are usually, shockingly, straight.

And flippantly suggesting that anyone, even a Catholic priest, is a pedophile without facts to back that accusation up only serves to harm csa victims — because then when there really is a case that needs to be pursued, people may not take it seriously.

one big thing that's bothering me about how everyone on every side of the debate is interpreting Father Tim's homily is they are focusing mostly on his condemnation of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence — and while I certainly oppose what he said about them, it's actually the first half of his message that scared me more: the stuff about the church being under attack and how Christians must defend it. He ended with a vague reminder to do so "peacefully," without any examples about how that's even done. And obviously, Scary Man didn't absorb that part of the message.

sigh. i was really hoping that agreeing to an interview with the plain dealer reporter who wrote the first article would give me a chance to explain why i felt i had to interrupt Mass, but unfortunately they didn't include those quotes. i'm really disappointed.

that article's title also says "attendee fired back," using exactly the kind of violence-coded language that I had a problem with in F. Tim's homily. So that's really unfortunate.

which is why i want to write up my perspective. i did send a long ass email to father tim the other night explaining what i did, why his message was hurtful AND fueled his parishioner's violence, and asking if we could talk about alternative ways to hold Scary Man accountable beyond the law. he hasn't responded yet.

anyway. yeah. it's been. a lot. good vibes and prayers are so very appreciated! and seriously, if anyone has resources about alternatives to legal action when we're dealing with someone who got very verbally violent and physically aggressive, i'd love some help figuring out what to do. also any thoughts about like, keeping myself safe? yeah

Anyway, gonna end with the affirmation that God made us Good; human diversity is what it looks like to be in the image of an Infinite creator; and queerness is a holy gift that the Body of Christ can't do without!!

Amen and amen.

#log #gonna start tagging these #Pentecost Incident

[sixminutestoriesblog]

cardinals

In the dead of winter, surrounded by monochrome colors for months on end, there's something about a little bird bursting with song, vigor and the most obnoxious red color he can wear that can't help but lift even the darkest of moods. These cheery little chaps, duded up in reds that would make Santa feel embarrassed of his drab colors are year round residents who don't migrate, picking one spot and adapting to the ecosystem there, so they're one of the few birds that don't head south when the cold weather starts to set in. They also don't molt their flashy summer feathers in exchange for drabber colors that will blend in with the winter foliage. Because of this, the bright red cardinal has become a symbol of winter and winter holidays, unabashedly popping past the empty colors filling up our windows and doorways, splashing his vibrancy for all to enjoy. Well, the male does. The female cardinal is a much softer brown, busy blending in with the scenery while her flashy husband is out drawing all the attention. As the one nest sitting, this works out better for her. Flashy though her mate may be, he's loyal to her and cardinals are known for staying together once they're paired up for the rest of their lives, raising their children as a couple and even staying together out of mating season. Not all cardinals, mind you. These feisty little birds can split up to chose someone else if it suits them and there's no guarantee that the bright boi caring for his lady's chicks is caring for his own kids. Cardinals are social creatures though and once they find a group they like, and a mate they like, they're usually very content to stay put that way.

Cardinals are native to the Americas, ranging from southern Canada all the way down to central America. They've also been introduced to Hawai'i and Bermuda. As such, most of the folklore surrounding them comes from the Americas. I did find some for other countries, like China, Japan, Italy and England but given the lack of them having even heard of these birds until later as well as the fact that they have their own 'red birds' that aren't cardinals but people might confuse, I'm just going to focus on what developed in the Americas when it comes to superstitions and folklore for the cardinal.

The first of these is that when settlers came to the New World from the old they saw these jaunty little fellows and immediately went religious. Cardinals are named 'cardinals' after the Roman Catholic priests of the same name. Europeans saw the bright red feathers that matched the color of the priests' robes and the little tufted 'mohawk' the bird sports that seemed to resemble the red hats the priests wore and from that point on the bird was an official member of the Catholic clergy!

Birds in general have long been associated with the afterlife and there's a saying that "when cardinals appear, angels are near". Cardinals are also believed to be the souls of ancestors by some groups or send by the spirits of the dead and in parts of the US to see a cardinal meant that a loved one was letting you know they had died and you could expect a call to inform you of it soon. Unlike some harbingers of death however, cardinals were meant to offer hope and comfort during this time, promising that the living were loved by the newly departed. The Cherokee believed that cardinals carried the souls of the departed to the afterlife.

Cardinals signaled more than a loved one passing however. The Choctaw tell the story of how a red bird helped a man woo his love. Since cardinals are often monogamous they've come to stand for love and loyalty and their red color associated them with passion. Seeing a cardinal while you're single could mean that love is just around the corner for you. If you're not interested in romance, hearing the song of the social little cardinal means that you'll have a visitor soon.

Both certain Native American tribes and Appalachian folklore say that cardinals have the ability to predict rain with their singing. Hearing a cardinal's song in the morning, meant rain by that night.

The Cherokee tell the story of how the cardinal got his brilliant red color by helping Wolf pick off the hardened dung that Raccoon had smeared across his eyes while he slept, making him unable to open them. Once the helpful bird had picked away at the hardened mess enough for Wolf to finally see, Wolf told the bird of a nearby stone that had red streaks of color on it that the bird could go and paint himself with. Red paint symbolized war, success, strength and spiritual protection. In other Cherokee stories, the red bird was the transformed daughter of the Sun, who had died from snakebite but was brought back from the land of the dead in a box. While inside the box, she begged the men carrying her back to the land of the living to give her food or water but they ignored her because they'd been ordered not to open the box until they were safely back. Then the girl said she was smothering and, fearing she might die again, they cracked the box open. The second they did, a bit of red flew swiftly out of the box and away. The Sun's daughter had become a cardinal. In some of the stories, humanity lost their immortality because they let her escape.

Cardinals are symbols of hope, life, energy, love and family. This cheerful little bird really does do it all.

#folklore #cardinal #bird #superstition #cottagecore #birb #red bird #choctaw #cherokee #appalachia #birds #cardinals #northern cardinal #backyard birds

[redditreceipts]

introduction post

I am a white woman in her twenties. I live in a former socialist republic, I am autistic, bisexual and het-partnered. I have been raised catholic but recently I have been looking into witchcraft. I like doing sports, my favorites are running and swimming. I also have a lot of plants around my house and balcony which I love. English is not my first language, so excuse me if I sometimes sound weird haha

I have been active in my local LGBT-community for some years, I especially volunteered in an organisation by going to schools and advising the classes and teachers in how to be more inclusive of different ethnicities and LGBT students. I have also been active in our local LGBT youth group. In the last two years, I have been more active in volunteering for refugees and asylum seekers. Many of the refugees I have translated and organised stuff for have fled domestic abuse, and I have come into connection with feminism through their insights. My experiences with lesbian, gay and bisexual refugees and women who fled abusive environments have led me to adopt a more materialist worldview, instead of the identity-centered type of activism that most of the people in the LGBT-youth groups had. In the last couple of months, I also got more interested in environmental activism and have been active there, but with all the identity-focused bs it is really hard to not just give up haha I also was part of our local Antifa group for a while, but they were quite extremist and I don't support them anymore.

I would call myself a materialist feminist, and I really like a lot of Marx's and Engel's work. I think that the patriarchy is part of the system of justification for why people are forced to perform free labour under a capitalism: childcare, emotional labour, pregnancy, domestic work etc. are unpaid labour that are justified by patriarchal expectations of women. l believe that true women's liberation can only be achieved when the grueling inequality in our society is lessened and the resources are distributed at least somewhat justly. What that looks like, I don't know, but I think that encouraging women to recognize themselves as an exploited class is crucial in the process of societal liberation and justice.

However, I know that I am quite privileged: I am white, from an industrialized country, and in a straight relationship. There are things that I don't understand as well, and I want to learn from people who have more insight where I have none. Please call me out if you feel that I made a mistake, because I honestly want to evolve my worldview. I really think that we can improve things together.

[vampiremiffy]

religion IS misoginy

People have used religion to justify oppresion towards women since ever, men love to use Eve has an example of "women's innate evil" because she's the one who bite the forbiden fruit and tempted Adam to do the same, blaming women for all evil in humanity (despite being God, a male according to them, who created evil in the first place)but what men don't do is to blame other evil ON MEN

Cain was the first person to ever murdered someone, he is male, but nobody is blaming all men for this, or Judas turning up Jesus and therefor stealing him from humankind. Its "not all men" when men who we have all the proof that have existed because we are living among them are killing, raping, stealing, oppresing, but its "all women" just because in your fairytale religion is a woman who bite a fruit in a myth (despite AGAIN, God, a male, is the one who put the fruit there and knew they would eat it)

Religion is a tool to oppress, is to make us feel we are inferior to men and keep us in their power. Free yourself and stop submiting yourself to a religion who see you as less than

(i'm talking about the bible and christianity only because i was raised catholic and my country is mainly evangelical and christian, theres no big population of jews/muslims)

#radfem #radblr #feminism #radical feminism #anti religion #religion #male violence #gender critical #anti theist #atheism #christianity #double standards #christian doctrine

[the-whispers-of-death]

So I did get asked to expand more on the version of Stone who has a daughter and I'm a man who jumps on the first opportunity he gets to talk about his different AUs (someone please let me know if you all want to know about the AU where Stone still gets lent to the 141 but was previously in a squad called The Tigers, I don't care that it would make my OCs' count be 10 OCs,)

Anyways, so as previously stated in the dilf!reader post, this version of Stone got pregnant at sixteen because that's when he got kicked out by his father. So he gets kicked out on his sixteenth birthday, in November, and so he's in North Carolina now and he's living on the streets. (This is obviously before he transitions, since he does that when he enlists in the U.S. Navy two years later.)

He luckily manages to get a spot in the local youth homeless shelter and he spent quite a while there, and that's how he met the other dad. They were both sixteen, both kicked out and struggling to survive. It's important to note that Stone had barely any sex education due to previously being isolated and home-schooled by his father, so that's how he ended up getting pregnant because he didn't know any better.

The boy who impregnates him leaves the youth shelter before Stone finds out that he's pregnant and they never meet up again, because Stone was like "Why tell him something that would change his entire worldview?" And originally, Stone plans on putting his daughter up for adoption when she's born, because at this point in time he's planning to enlist in the U.S. Navy when he will turn seventeen.

But then he sees his daughter on the ultrasound and he just can't give her up, and he's now living in a Catholic church because a priest had taken him in when a staff of the youth shelter told said priest that Stone had gotten pregnant. The priest promises that the church will help him raise the child and so Stone keeps his daughter.

Flash-forward about nine months and Stone gives birth to his daughter, who he names Saira after his mother because while she did abandon him, the very few memories he has of her are better than the numerous memories he has of his father. He'll never admit this to anyone but Saira, but he cried for the first time in years (and honestly the only time after that) when he held her tiny baby form in his arms.

Stone and Saira both spend her first year of life in the church, due to the fact that Stone can't enlist in the U.S. Navy at seventeen because of there being no record of him having any education. So he's not only taking care of a child, he's also on a program that will give him his education so he can enlist when he's eighteen.

We're just going to condense everything that happens after he gets enlisted in the U.S. Navy because that's sixteen years. Saira grows up like any military brat, always on bases and in foreign countries. Despite how her father grew up, Stone made sure to give her as much freedom as he could while also making sure she was safe. He was heavy on making sure she grew up differently than how he did, so while he couldn't really express his emotions well, she knew he loved her.

He learned how to ride a bike so he could then teach her how to, he filled his entire house with children's books when she was younger, so he could read with her and help her improve on her reading comprehension (he refused to let her potentially be bullied about not being smart). He was so soft with her, kissing every boo-boo she got (every soldier who saw him do that was jealous because they wanted to get the same treatment when they were injured but they instead got his roughness) and he made sure she never got touch-starved.

Also in this AU, Kali spends way more time with Stone since he's Auntie Ashok here (though Saira tries several times over the years to set up her father and Kali) and he's part of the reason Saira knows how to smile and laugh (because poor Stone, even in this AU he can't manage to figure out to smile). He was the cool and fun uncle, helping Stone with anything he could help with.

And by the time Stone gets lent to the 141, she's about to be seventeen, obviously able to follow Stone to where the SAS base the 141 works out of, staying with an old Marine friend Stone served with who has a daughter Saira's age while Stone works. She's a senior and about to go to prom, which scares Stone so much because where did the time go by???

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod #task force 141 #task force 141 oc #call of duty oc #cod oc #task force 141 oc: stone #call of duty oc: stone #cod oc: stone #girl dad!Stone #I didn't know how to end this post lol #I could talk on and on about Saira and Stone but I won't #unless you want me to #there's a lot of inaccuracies here but let's just sweep it under the rug with the excuse of this being fictional #:)

[our-genderfluid-experience]

im in the closet and so is my bi bff. im genderfluid/pan and sometimes we joke about coming out to our parents (mostly me) but doubt itll ever happen due to how religious it would be (sometimes i dream about it tho... maybe more than her idk) and hypothetically just think about cutting everyone off and flying out to avoid the backlash (just being silly) and the "interventions" of spiels of how gays go to hell and God wouldnt like That (i am still a christian... somewhat i think and its not uncommon in the spaces ive been to have gay/trans people in the church spaces something about Anglican churches etc, in my country. i just dont have the same exact beliefs as my parents)

sometimes i lie awake about the implications of coming out, the worst case scenario, how id probably no one to tell my achievements anymore, no one to be happy for me the way they had, no one to comfort me or be there when i get married etc. and i joked about how id just get up and leave and fuckall if i die alone to my friend even tho it fills me with loneliness and sadness ;w; anyway um she suddenly took one of my jokes seriously one night and say to me that she'll probably never come out because she loves her parents too much and i just idk. felt hurt. did she think i didnt love them either? i think she didnt mean it that way and i cleared it out that i was just joking about my plans bcuz idk if i want to do it actually (tho i feel like its an inevitable canon plot point with every trans ppl atp) but i just think about it sometimes. i love them but yk. i want to live.

maybe i wont actually cut them off as they try to process that but idk.

i dont think they'll like hurt me or anything but mentally and emotionally probably yes even if they probably mean well. i dont think i want to be in the closet forever?? idk im just sad about what she said ngl. and my future.

sorry just had to vent

i just dont think she gets how painful itd be to me. my parents and their extended family are Baptists. she has mostly catholic relatives (which in my experience from school and friends and gay teachers etc is more accepting ngl) and her dad is pretty accepting, having a brother who is gay and stuff. i dont wanna do a suffering olympics here but the more i think about forever in the closet the more i wanna puke lol

I have a religious family (Catholic), and I'm still religious as well. You wanting to come out to your family is not selfish or "proving you don't love them" in any way. You are who you are and you can't change that. You don't always have to rely on your family to get those feelings of achievement, love, happiness. You can make some friends who will basically become a second family, and they will be there to be happy for you and support you.

Catholics may be a bit more supportive than Baptists (idk I haven't met anyone who's Baptist), but they aren't super supportive (maybe that's just my family idk), but my family probably isn't the best example.

Anyway, you won't be stuck in the closet forever. Once you get old enough to move out, you aren't under your parents' rules anymore. If you ever need to vent some more, you can send me a message or an ask 💖

[skyethebisexualwolfwizard]

I love going through old poems and tweaking them again and again to make the meaning more clear

My land of birth and pride,

sandy shores, and calming tide.

Its people in which I side.

Fervour for freedom we don't hide.

We've been conquered many times,

by neighbours and by lands far away.

The Americans yet to admit to their crimes,

The Spanish who forced us to pay and pray.

Diverse in our culture, now more homogeneous,

destroyed by the friars who were "righteous".

Yet we all act as the kings did, as if we lost nought.

We are undoing everything for which we fought.

We sell our greatest souls to our oppressors,

our own government has become moles, serving our captors.

Both giving us nothing for our skills.

Just the salaries of the artisans taxed and brought back to barely pay bills.

They sacrifice their time and love for this country.

Only to be faced with discrimination and broken banks.

While back here we suffer the consequences of their "clemency".

Our country has a myriad of problems, yet no aid or apology from Spain or the Yanks

And now. I leave, despite wanting to help.

All of this guilt within me, and all I can do is yelp.

Is it wrong to work to go somewhere better?

Abandon this place instead of fighting to end this terror?

I sacrifice my love for my home, for me?

To be my true self? To have safety and freedom?

I just feel as if I cannot fight if I myself am not free

Is it selfish? Is it wrong? For me to have a chance so seldom?

No, I will have my cake and eat it too.

I promise to continue fighting valiantly.

Even if I have to fight the ignorant majority.

I promise to stoke my fervour and fury.

Even if I am in a far land living freely.

I may be doing this to leave and be free,

to be myself, to be safe, to be happy.

But I will never stop fighting for humanity,

for love, for the ability to be free from land to sea.

I carry my guilt knowing I leave many suffering.

And I will always remember that every second I live free and enjoying.

I will leave as I truly can't take not being able to be me, to be free

But I won't forget the many at home and abroad all suffering unjustly.

Farewell to the Philippines, I will fight for you to be free from the shackles of imperialism.

Farewell to my neighbors and friends, I will never stop fighting this old schism.

We will escape the exploitation of the West, and no longer be under capitalism.

And free ourselves from the friars who imposed Catholism.

Mahal ko kayo mga kaibigan, kahit a-alis na ako hindi ko kakalimutan kayo.

Mahal ko kayong lahat kahit pu-punta ako sa mga bayan na malayo.

Baka may araw na pwede umuwi ako dito.

Kapag ang mga bakla ay pwede mag-sabi na "ito ang totoong sarili ko".

#wizardpostingn't #philippines #poem #poetry #writeblr

[wanderlustmagician]

heyheyheyheyhey

uuuuuh

ramble about some weird history fixation of yours

plz <3

Ooooooooo :3 you have said the magic words

I tried answering this from my phone twice and it wiped it. So had to wait on the tablet xD

I've always enjoyed doing research and reading on various bad ass women in history. I find it so fun and fascinating that several different countries can say that they're at their most prolific and successful when they're ruled by a Queen. It's usually the Kings where a lot of the drama is, but even then the Queens are being bad asses behind the scenes.

One area of history I circle back to a lot is Henry VIII and his wives. Mostly his wives, they're honestly the more interesting ones in that trainwreck. Catherine of Aragon was essentially being held hostage after her first husband, Arthur, and Henry's elder brother died suddenly. Arthur is super kind of tragic, to me. A lot of what little records of him remain show a very lonely existence. He didn't really get to be around his family a lot and grew up with a lot of expectations resting on him. He was only 15 when he died. Anyways Henry's father, Henry VII (and don't get me started on the naming thing back then, I do my family's ancestry stuff and it makes me absolutely CRAZY), didn't want to lose a very profitable alliance with what was a united Spain and, if I remember right, also didn't want to return her very expensive dowry. So he just... refused to send her back?? So rude. Anyways, little future Henry VIII spends that time learning the things he didn't get to learn when he was the spare and wooing Catherine. It works. She is successfully wooed.

They're married for 20 years. Two decades. The people LOVE her. She is an A+ Queen according to the people. She's invested in the arts, she's investing creating a culturally diverse court. She sponsors young noble ladies to go learn about the courts, culture, and arts in other ladies countries/courts. Anne Boelin is one these ladies she sponsored. We can get to her another day though. Catherine is emulating her mother, Isabella I of Castille, and her court. Things she learned at her mother's knee growing up. Being from Spain, she was a very devout Catholic as was her daughter, Mary.

Then after many years of being a devoted queen, suffering through the trauma and agony of many miscarriages and children lost young or stillborn, and having to live as a hostage - Henry VIII betrays her by casting away their now formerly shared faith, disavowing their marriage and casting away their daughter, and imprisoning her till she eventually dies. She never gets to go back to Spain, never sees her daughter again, and is forced to die dishonored and alone.

And what's worse, to me, is that Henry VIII loved her, but when it came down to making a choice between his wife and his legacy... he absolutely made the wrong choice and then kept making it. By the time of his death, he'd thrown both away.

I could have kept going but this was getting long and if I started on Anne Boelin, I wouldn't have been able to stop. Henry VIII did Catherine of Aragon dirty, but so did his father and a lot of the people in her life ( I think the only person who was ever on her side was Arthur, her first husband, but he died after like five months... so who knows how long that energy would have lasted.) However, Anne Boelin got done almost worse for how much he loved her versus how he handled the end.

I dunno if this is what you were hoping for but tadaaaa. Thank you for the ask Somer <3

#sassy somer #wandering thoughts #asks