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#like no this is my story you’re ruining it
hiaon · 2 days
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hello mister!
would you ever be up to writing a story Mulan-like style, in which a country is at war and young adults who are alphas go to fight, and for some reason omega!male!reader decides to pass as an alpha (or even a beta who volunteered instead of getting drafted) and goes to war. Perhaps even before a battle, maybe when the troops are still training, his commander (an alpha dilf who is like 35 while reader is like 20) finds out that the reader is an omega while he’s in heat and he just goes on to breed the reader, maybe even get his poor subordinate knocked up?
Dubcon if you want, but if you’re not comfortable with it, do whatever you want!!
Sorry for this :p and thanks for reading!
'Helping'
Commander x Male! Bottom! Reader
Also this was a very great idea. I had to write it as fast as possible.. But I took forever so 🤡🤡
Disclaimer: Dubcon, fingering, Corruption kink.
Should I write more in 1st person POV? It's been a while... I should have made this 1st person POV.. Nvm.. Next suggestion or my own story. I'll make it 1st person POV.
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It was hard enough to be accepted to go out to war. But somehow your secondary gender made it worst, you we're in heat and don't know what to do.
Secondary genders are the once that makes sure either your going to be in a comfortable position or you suffer. Beta makes up 60% of the world. Alphas are the most respected secondary gender, either a man or a woman, you are still guaranteed to have a happy life.
While.. Omegas are that everybody finds charming when the omega is a women. But not a man, imagine when a man giving birth.. It's just ruin the reputation and image of a man. So when they figure out when a boy is an omega.. They usually just forcefully take them. But your a lucky one.
Your father had this magical pill that you still don't know where the origins of, make you take them everyday so you'll seem more like an beta.
So some people seemed confused that you look so feminine. But they eventually brushed it off.
Thanks to the pills that your father gave to you every day your scent just seems like any other beta. Until, your father was being forced to serve the kingdom and fight for war. You wasn't an option because betas are only 21 and above only, you we're only 20 at that time, and most importantly the standard recruitment is that you have to be an alpha. Your father was an alpha.
Your father had 2 days until he goes to the troops camp. But you we're stubborn, you wanted your father to have happy days, and have peace. So you took your father's place. Also took all the pills that you had which was 3 months worth of the pills, but also you knew it wasn't going to last long.
But you kept your Identity safe. But they we're confused on why you had such an feminine body. It eventually toned down with that.
But you eventually befriend 3 humble looking fellows and, you manage to get close with the commander not because of great communication.. Its because on how much you get hurt when practicing.. Which was a lot of times.
You noticed that you he was in the infirmary tent a lot. You sometimes start small-talks, he speaks so little so you eventually just stopped.
You and your teammates we're preparing to attack tomorrow, so you guys we're prepping the swords, armor, shield and ect... Meanwhile you we're done with preparing with the things needed, you decided to take a bath since you always talk the bath last. It's just more comfortable that way.
While you we're bathing you felt something weird. In your stomach area. It started to burn you never experienced this your whole life, is it because you stopped taking the pills? More likely ran out of it.
You never forgot to take the pills, because your father say so, so this what happens when you skip..?
You started to feel cold on how hot you we're getting, the new sensations makes you less aware that somebody was entering the water with you.
"[Y/N]" that voice startled you.
"O-oh!." You really needed something. You just didn't know why.
"[Y/N] I have been wanting to ask you something for quite some time." Your Comander said after briefly saying— "Are you truly a beta?"
The commander looked like he wants answers.
You couldn't contain it anymore and to had no shame in asking it was too cold for and hot at the same time—
"Command.. Commander.. Can you please hu.. hug me.!" The commander was stunned for a moment, and hugged him all of the sudden.
"I know now, I know what you are." The commander picked you up in a bride style and put on a towel on to your body and coving you face along with it.. Yes, he was walking naked towards his tent. No one was allowed in there. But it seems like you was going to be in that tent for a while.
You just feel that some people saw but the commander did not give two shits about them.
He just kept on walking to the tent, as if he wasn't at all naked at all..
He placed you into— you assumed his bed.
"Do you even know how to take care of your heat?" The Commander asked you. But to be honest, you don't know even what a heat is.
"Uhm." As you we're trying to answer, the commander was still standing up while getting in between your legs.
"You don't have to answer that, besides, I like it that way." The commander said while spreading his way to you hole, and your slick made it less painful. So that's why it's there.
"W-what are you doing Ack!" The commander's fingers keeps on going deeper than it should. When he hit the spot you made a lot of noise, so he kept hitting it.
"Ahh.! Commande-er.! Please stop!" You said that but you really didn't want him to stop. This was the thing you didn't know you needed the most.
"Mhm.." The commander took out his two fingers and licked it. It was kind of embarrassing for him to do that, and you don't even know the reason.
"Try telling me if it hurt or not okay?" The commander told you as he aligned his member to your hole.
"Wha-" You stopped mid sentence when you see that his member trying to enter your small hole.
"Commander.. That thing isn't going to fit me.." You got a little scared.
"Don't worry, it will." The commander said with confidence.
It took some time to get used to his size. But when you did you two we're like bunnies in heat, but you literally are.
After he came two times, and you came 4 times you guys cleaned each other in the river. He insisted for you to sleep in his tent but he already did do much for you, you we're embarrassed to take too much.
So you declined and you tried to sleep in your bed, but you couldn't on how much happened today...
But now you know where to go after when you're in heat.
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Little skit:
A little while after you lay down in your bed you, you hear people come in.
A trio walked to their beds and sat down. A guy broke the silence.
"Hey man, did you see that the Commander had brought a woman in his tent!" [F/N](1) said wanting to talk about the situation.
"Yeahh it's no doubt that it was woman! I mean.. Did you see those smooth long legs!?" [F/N](2) said.
You just pretended you weren't there...
"People! You don't know if that woman is Commander's wife!? You'll get killed immediately if Commander finds out you know!!" [F/N](3) said in an annoyed voice, he just didn't want rumors to spread about that poor woman..
"Oh. my. shit, your right I better go to sleep and pretend I saw nothin'..." [F/N](2) said and immediately fell asleep.
"Seriously, how does he do that.." [F/N] (1) staring blandly at the sleeping man who was talking a lot about 5 seconds ago..
"Some kind of super power of something.." [F/N](3) said while he was sitting and preparing to sleep.
You pretend that you didn't hear any of that.
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farfromstrange · 2 days
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Watching the AMC tv adaptation of Anne Rice’s “Interview With The Vampire”, I got back into the mood of writing for my series ‘Total Eclipse Of The Heart’, but since it’s been a while since I’ve written anything fantasy-related, I decided to practice my vampire writing a bit more with a little One Shot. I’m going to tease it before I post it. I’m too excited not to. This baby will be yours tomorrow, and I will use my Matt Murdock Tag List for this, but if you want to be tagged (and you haven’t filled out my Tag List Form), let me know and I’ll tag you for this! Anyway, without further ado, here is a little sneak peak…
Interview With The Vampire
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Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: Vampirism, angst, SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), oral sex, unprotected p in v (but it’s with a vampire, so not sure if that counts as a warning), blood play, biting, marking, scent kink, mentions of suicidal thoughts, violence, age gap, Dom!Matt, long One-Shot (it’s a word-count beast)
Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.
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ACTUAL SNEAK PEEK UNDER THE CUT
[…]
The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps.
Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again.
Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’
The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable.
In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil.
If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him around, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature.
Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving.
An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.
[…]
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blbrrymilk · 20 hours
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HSR 2.1 spoilers
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my thoughts on Sunday have really increased since watching the story 😵‍💫 a few things to note
Sunday couldn’t be any more opposite to the way someone like aventurine lives. He’s very outspoken about this when speaking to Ratio/ how much he dislikes aventurine for being a crazed gambler-an unpredictable person who takes risks, and he cannot read their motives or predict their actions accurately. Aventurine is the complete and total opposite of Sunday. (Ratio even grimaces at Sunday’s comments on Aventurine- commenting that Sunday needs to seek a therapist 😭)
Sunday exhibits many signs of controlling behavior. Perhaps he’s even a perfectionist- or someone with unchecked obsessive compulsive disorder. Everything must be done meticulously and carefully under his watch. There’s no room for a wild card or any cracks in his empire. Even one crack may cause everything he’s worked for to crumble- so it must be dealt with immediately.
Sunday even criticized the way Aventurine was dressed 😭 commenting that he didn’t take the time to make sure his appearance was perfect before going out in public. His clothes perfectly pressed and tucked in place. (This tells me Sunday must take immense care in detail on his daily routine) he has to look perfect since he’s the face of Penacony. His pristine white suit always free of wrinkles and his white gloves and shoes are spotless. He makes sure you do the same, every single day..
Sunday giving the reader a daily inspection 🫣🫣 he checks your clothes each morning (he’s already planned and laid out your outfit on the bed. You have no choice but to wear what Sunday decides is best.) Sunday will come in, and check that you’re ready. He circles you like a shark, slowly and meticulously- tucking your hair into place and brushing any lint or dust from your clothes, fixing your buttons and ties. turning you around with his hands to check your appearance closely. You have to look perfect, too.
This also extends to the way you’re expected to act and speak while you’re in public with him. He doesn’t want his image ruined. You’re made to speak from scripted cards. Only ever saying “yes”, smiling, praising Sunday and praising Penacony as a marvelous and harmonious place.
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radio-writes · 20 hours
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Oh my lord.
If the reader were ever to meet the Hazbin gang, she would start to feel like she built genuine connections with them (and she is!) but Alastor is getting jealous that his precious wife’s attention is being diverted from him. So what does he do?
A. Be happy that his wife is finally making genuine friends that she always lacked.
B. Gaslighting her into thinking that they’re not actually her friends and make up a story about how they hate her.
B is the correct answer 😭
Alastor would so be like:
“My dear! Do you really think these people like you? They’re just pretending they like you because you’re my wife! Silly girl!“
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Oh he would have a field day ruining her hopes if she ever made friends, Hotel Gang or not.
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"Oh I'm sure, they're genuine, kind, people dear. I'm sure they only asked you about our marriage out of curiosity. I doubt they'd be anything like those damn nosy papers back in our lifetime—you'd bee too smart not to notice if they were."
"They're so funny, your friends. Why, I even overheard one of them the other day joke about how your hair looked like a bird's nest. HA!"
"Since you're all such good friends, perhaps they should know just how many people you've ripped to shreds with your bare hands? I'm sure they're open-minded and accepting people!"
He would enjoy watching his dear wife ruin those friendships herself. He would love to have a new way to get her to dance for him—specially since the old ways are bound to grow dull through decades in Hell together.
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bumblehoneybee · 2 days
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Siblings
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No one likes a trip to the lab. Broken arms, frayed wires, all easily fixed in theory by the brilliant scientists that Playtime employs, but their bedside manner tended to be. . . lacking in comparison.
Yet for whatever reason, Dr. Stanton always has such trouble with the Capture twins. They’ve heard the stories of mean scientists, even experienced some stories for themselves, yet they never seem to care about being in the lab so much. Any roughness they receive from the scientists is always shot back, though sometimes it ends in punishment.
But solitary confinement doesn’t seem to bother them either. It certainly doesn’t sway them from being so rough on one another.
“Poly broke my eye again!” Kody shouts the moment he steps into Dr. Stanton’s office.
Dr. Stanton gives a long, weary sigh. Since when was she their primary caretaker? Didn’t Playtime higher people for that? “Poly? Is that true?”
“Yes. . .” Poly says slowly. Everyone remains quiet, waiting for inevitable follow up. “But not intentionally.”
Kody’s reels whir loudly. “NOT INTENTIONALLY MY ASS!”
“Not my fault you got in the way of our cartwheel competition!”
Dr. Stanton looks at her. “You can cartwheel?”
“Oh!” Kody wails, lamenting to the ceiling. Dr. Stanton just sighs again, already typing up the incident report. “Oh, my picture perfect face! Ruined! How will I ever go on camera again?”
“You can’t even record yourself.” Dr. Stanton comments dryly.
“You’re the only one you can’t record.” Poly agrees. “Besides, BB and I have always said you had a face for radio more than anything else.”
“BB??” Kody shrieks, struck. “BB!! Not BB!!!”
“Yeah-”
“You lie!”
“Enough!” Dr. Stanton snaps. The twins stop their bickering and stare at her. She feels very watched under their gazes, but she knows that Kody’s not recording, even as he whirs on in his anger. And Poly snaps when she takes photos, so any nervousness is unjustified. “If you want your eye fixed, Kody, then I suggest you calm down.”
“It’s Poly’s fault!” Kody whines, pointing to his sister. Poly just scoffs. “She always antagonizes me.”
“You’re the one that’s shouting murder!” Poly argues, crossing her arms over her chest. With several clicks, she lowers down to a shorter height, able to look Dr. Stanton in her eyes. Her arms are still long, however, which makes her look more cartoony than serious. “He’s overreacting to an accident, Doc-”
“Poly.”
“-and I wanna see you replace his eye! It always looks so cool and freaky-!”
“Hey!” Kody shouts. A headache blossoms in Dr. Stanton’s temples. “That’s my head you’re talking about! Gross, Poly! Why do you wanna watch her open my head??”
“Cause I wanna see how empty it is!”
“ENOUGH!” Dr. Stanton shouts. Both toys leap into the air, startled by the outburst. Dr. Stanton just shoves at Poly’s chest, forcing her out the door. “Get out! Get out you stupid fucking thing!”
Poly stumbles out the door, balance off kilter with her arms longer than her legs. Dr. Stanton doesn’t care, however, slamming the door shut behind her.
The silence that rings out afterwards is a sweet, sweet balm on the doctor’s frayed nerves. She didn’t sign up for this when applying to be a toy engineer. Toys aren’t usually supposed to talk and argue and bicker. Toys don’t usually need to be punished.
“Let’s fix your damn eye.” Dr. Stanton grumbles.
Kody just nods, still whirring away.
By the time Kody walks out, his eye is good as new. Poly says nothing, waiting until Dr. Stanton yells at them to leave and slams her door again before she joins his side.
“Well?” She asks, voice hushed as they make their way back to the Studio.
Kody pops his loading door open, revealing the bright teal tape. “It’s called a debrief for someone named Claire Harper. I dunno, but it’s gotta be important, right?”
“Most of the tapes so far have been.” Poly says. The pair pause, watching some scientists walk by. “Hiya! Want to settle an argument?”
“No.” They both say, hurrying off. Poly just shrugs at her brother.
“I’ll work on burning it tonight.” Kody says, flipping the door closed again. “I’ll return the copy tonight after you bust my leg.”
“Solitary confinement!” Poly waves a fist in the air. “Woo! Hopefully there will be bugs to document.”
“If they let you keep your film.” Kody agrees, a hand hovering his stomach. “I hope. . . Do you think these will help anyone?”
“They’re proof.” Poly says.
“If someone finds them.” Kody sighs, dropping his arm. “I’ll need to hide them really well so no one bad find them. Someone good needs to find them instead. Someone. . . Someone who’s gonna fix all this.”
“Our guardian angel.” Poly jokes.
“Our superhero in disguise!” Kody says, pretending to swoon. “Who knows! Maybe they’re here right now.” He pauses, glancing at the three feet that walk across the ground. “Maybe they’ll save us.”
Poly carefully curls her fingers around Kody’s. “Maybe they will.”
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deepouterspacecandy · 12 hours
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Abby at a rave!?!?!
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Rave Abby? Holy hell, my heart exploded into a million chromatic sparks when I read this.
Man, this concept makes me SO happy you have no idea.
You’ve now entered my neck of the woods. Welcome. 👽
Let’s fire up the bass cannon. 😈🍄✨️
This is going to be a future fic, no doubt about it, because when I tell you there are pages upon pages of ideas swishing through my mind like lasers—just—I’m smiling so huge right now.
But I’m sweating it out on the treadmill at the moment, and I’ll need to sit with this for a minute to develop some ideas into a proper, fleshed-out story. Or multiple.
Okay. Let's brainstorm for a sec.
It depends on what kind of raver you are. Not all of us enjoy all genres of EDM. Some of us are more fluid. It also depends on whether you’re in an established relationship with her or if you meet at a rave and fall in love which, that’s a whole ass topic in and of itself.
Please let my weak lesbian heart write that one for you amazing souls because good GOD.
A first kiss with Abigail Anderson at a rave is just delicious in every form. Sneaky makeout sessions are also invited to the party if you're both down and being respectful about it.
Maybe the loving vibes and rhythmic grinding start to get to her, and she drags you off into a dark corner. Talk to her about it, I dunno. She's your girl.
The nature of the rave is also a factor to consider.
Is it a bush rave? Are we giving our support to local artists in a deserted warehouse that our energy completely transforms into a whole new realm? Are we talking festivals where you get to freak out about it for months ahead of time (annoying the ever loving hell out of her) before bouncing from stage to stage to discover so many great new—okay.
This is about Abby, not me. Hahaha.
Established relationship Abby is absolutely swaying back and forth behind you to some hypnotic Trance melodies, arms wrapped around your neck so you can lean back against her shoulder and sob when your favourite artist interrupts their set long enough to RUIN you with a beautiful speech about depression and everyone in the crowd is just bawling all around you.
Oddly specific, right? Look away. 🥹💜
She’d press a soft kiss to the top of your head and nuzzle into you, understanding wholeheartedly what it feels like to experience so much stimulation and emotion all at once.
Well, now we’ve got to talk about clothing!
What does she wear? That depends too. But black on black, for sure.
Unless you beg her to go all out with you. The thing is, she definitely pores over her outfits. Understated or not. It’s just that she’s less inclined to paint herself with glitter and don fluffy, flashing earrings.
She doesn’t need anything glitzy because everything she wears electrifies you. It's her deep soul and her presence that stands out most.
Oh god, is she a Techno girl? Trance? Deep House? Trap? Is she a dirty little Drum & Bass gremlin?
What is happening to my brain right now?
Established relationship Abby is also a headbanger because you’re a headbanger, and she’d follow you to the molten core of the earth.
When you’re losing yourself at the rail, rocking out with hundreds of other people you’ve never met, all moving in unison to the heaviest of heavy bass drops, she’s got you caged in (again, from behind) and shielded away from being forced from your spot or squished.
Just be careful not to clip her in the chin with your excited little skull because then you'll have to whip around and apologize with a thousand kisses all over her pretty face.
Back up a tiny bit Abigail, come on.
You can look at her girl, but pretty please don’t touch because that is likely to go sideways rather quickly. Unless you’re consensually swapping Kandi, then you’ve got a special pass.
She secretly adores watching you play with all your new rave gifts. Her heart melts onto the floor at the way you smile down at the beautiful and goofy bracelets that say shit like Space Cadet and PLURfect and Wubz and Rave Daddy.
You give that last one to her, and she wears it with pride.
Abby also wears your god-awful bright purple holographic hydration pack for the same reason she carries the groceries and holds your bag for you back home—but also to keep you from going too hard and not drinking your dang water! You’ll be way too captivated by your surroundings to remember to replenish it, and she’s got your back.
I must stop now because I swear this will go on forever. Time to succumb to the gym stuff and keep being all muscly and whatnot.
I’m so sorry for the ramble, LOL.
Always ask me rave stuff. Always. 💖
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acermp100 · 3 days
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WAWA WEEK PART 2: THE WAWAING
26/3 - Exorcism: VESSELS
Reigen, Dimple, and Serizawa are out on a mission to take out something that's been affecting an old, abandoned industrial area.
Teen rating. Some depictions of animal abuse, hurt animals. Mild horror themes. More implied Seri/Rei cause I can't help it ok. 3k~ words
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Clouds shifted over the sun leaving the last bit of brightness lost amongst disused smoke stacks and broken power lines. Every building rose to the same five story height- wide glass panel windows at the top with mortar and brick for the walls, all cracked and stained with grease. Cheap, corrugated metal served as roofs which did little else but keep out the weather, though rust and time had ruined that as well.
“Great.” Reigen had just finished lighting a cigarette and was now looking up at the darkening sky, a line of smoke rising from his lips. “Let’s get this done before it starts to rain.”
What few bits of nature that remained had barely managed to cling on. Serizawa remembered a movie where some old building had been reclaimed and covered in vines with plants breaking through the rubble that covered ground. Not here. Dried, brown grass peaked out from between the edges of the concrete paths, and what little dirt there was hosted nothing but sickly brambles that barely reached up a few feet. Glass lay shattered alongside other random debris causing their path to wind despite the straight, gridded construction. Not a single bird or insect could be heard.
“I think-“ Serizawa paused, giving a distant stare toward the far building on their left. A weak gust of wind billowed up dust that was less dirt and more eroded concert and rust. “I think I sense something.”
“Ugh.” Dimple floated over with little arms flopping down from his gaseous form. “No you don’t.” He cast an arrant glace at Serizawa. “Stop trying to impress all the time.”
A blush. Serizawa turned away.
“Hey.” Reigen exhaled through both his nose and lips, smoke trailing up and fading into the cloudy sky. A stiff hand rose nearly slicing through the floating spirit. “I only brought you along to help us ID this thing. Not to sass my employees.”
“Yeah whatever.” Dimple floated up right behind Reigen’s head. “Guess I’ll just have to sass only you then.”
Serizawa rubbed the back of his neck, still avoiding any eye contact. He really had felt something ahead, just weak and hard to focus on. Then he heard it: some scratching on the stone as a shadow moved along the side of the building. His feet shifted against the dusty path and he put himself between his boss and the entity, one arm ready at his side and the other out to keep Reigen from walking any closer.
“Stand back, Reigen-san!”
The air grew tense in the silence with only a few rustling sounds. Then there came a hiss and pebbles flew up as a cat bolted from its meager cover and fled down the path they had just came from.
“Ha ha!” Dimple made an exaggerated flip in the air. “A cat! You’re all worked up over a stupid stray cat!”
Frowning, Serizawa lowered his arm while his shoulders drooped. The client had reported a terrible spirit here that could even claw through the brick walls and metal support beams. Wasn’t it good he was being more safe than sorry?
“Wait.” Reigen stepped forward, holding his own serious expression despite the false alarm. “Look, there’s another one.”
Another cat emerged from a hole in the building’s wall followed by a smaller kitten: one ginger and one a dark tabby. They wandered across the path into another broken wall before disappearing.
“Odd there’s even animals here.” Reigen brought up a hand to his chin in contemplation. “This wasn’t any kind of food processing plant or storage. All construction and industry. Not like they’d have rats to prey on.”
Serizawa took comfort in Reigen’s knowledge but still let out a long exhale. Stay calm and focused, your boss is counting on you. He peered up into the sky to gather a few ounces of clarity before looking around for any more animals. Not a tree in site yet a few sparrows were sitting on an exposed metal pipe. Maybe that’s what the cats were feeding on? But then what were they eating? He flicked a glance at his boss hoping he had some kind of answer.
“Welp.” Reigen gave a stretch, bringing his cigarette up for a needed drag. “I’m gonna call this one a false alarm.” He turned and exhaled the lung full. “This is probably just some old lady feeding strays that someone thought was a witch or whatever.”
“No.” Serizawa took a few steps away from the group, staring ahead. “I still feel something.”
Crows started to caw from atop the building they had been heading for. There appeared to be over a dozen. All three watched as they formed a perfect circle in the air.
“I do too.” Dimple floated over with his arms crossed.
Reigen brought his hands up. “Alright, so give us some intel on it then.” He gestured at the floating green cloud. “You said you would actually be of help on this job.”
“Can it, pink tie.” A roll of the eyes. “We’re still far away. I can’t magically see through a wall that’s like 100 meters in front of us.”
“Humph.” Reigen grumbled under his breath. “Um, Serizawa?” He looked over at the esper now glaring up at a crow perched on the roof just to their left. “What do you see?”
Dimple jerked back. “Shit!”
That crow. Its eyes looked different. And the beak: somehow it was smiling. He didn’t care if he was wrong again, he had to protect Reigen. His arm rose involuntarily with the palm open and out while his eyes narrowed. Energy focused from his chest to his fingers, forming a concentrated burst. The crow turned and raised its wings at the last moment, flying off with a cackling, mocking call. All that was left was a crater in the stone where it has stood.
“Shit.” Dimple repeated as all three watched the bird fly into the far building through a broken window. All the other crows followed.
“So- demon crow spirit?” A pointing finger towards the window in the distance. Reigen stood before Serizawa and Dimple with his arms posed against his hips for only a moment before he started gesturing once more. “Obviously it’s controlling them. Probably stole some shiny, expensive trinket from our client.”
Dimple sank in the air. “Not even close, dude.”
Reigen crossed his arms. “Ok then oh wise ass- Hey wait!”
He had to stop this. Now. It was far more powerful than he thought, able to hide its true abilities with so many other vessels around it. His shoes skidded along the ground as he turned and entered the largest hole in the wall. Upper right in a bird, along the ground in a rat, along one of the beams as a cat- Serizawa tried to focus but could only stand there with his aura fuming for something to target.
“Oi- hey new c-company rule.” Reigen had caught up and now leaned against the opening with a hand on his chest, breathing hard. The cigarette had been left behind. “No running off into a creepy wareho- oh fuck.”
Serizawa had already noticed. This is where all the plants were. Oddly sick flowers grew along the ground with thorny brambles and a few stunted trees clinging to dead leaves. Above, vines hung down and stretched across the ceiling blocking whatever light would have came in through the holes in the roof. And amidst this cursed greenhouse stood a number of dogs, cats, and rats; all staring over at their new guests.
“Yeah. I was afraid of this.” Dimple had enough sense to only peek inside. “It’s a common type of spirit: posses some living thing and drain its energy over time. Normally likes to feed off of one thing at a time then move on to another victim, but some- well.” There came a hiss from the cats joined by crow calls. “Some like to make a collection.”
Serizawa gritted his teeth, brow furrowed with fists at his side. Left, up, right. Stop moving. Stop hiding. I won’t let you hurt anything else.
“Ohh! More friends to play with!” The voice echoed with a cackle of a cawing bird. The rest flew up into the air forming a fluttering circle around the hawk at the center. “I’ve always wanted a human for my own!” Wings rose, the feathers rotted and falling off. “And you brought a little green snack too.”
“Welp, good luck guys!”
And there went Dimple, flying off through the hole. Reigen shifted until he was behind Serizawa.
“You got this. Take it out.”
Nodding, Serizawa waited for the spirit to make the predictable first move. Knowing it was only lingering in the hawk as a decoy, he kept eying the other animals for a shift in energy. There! A dog tried a lunge from a flanking position but Serizawa was able to turn and release a wave in counter attack. A whine as the poor creature flopped to the ground, its drained body no longer supported by the evil spirit.
“Ohhh you missed!”
A cat, then a rat. Serizawa kept his power in check as to not harm the animals, but it proved difficult with how weak they already were.
“And again! Oh you are so much fun.”
The spirit would concentrate in one while influencing others around it only to jump to another and repeat. This led to an odd hive mind of uniform movement: the creatures mouths all open and eyes wide, stepping closer and closer. A cat latched on to his leg. It was a little ginger like the ones he remembered seeing in an alley he hid in one day after school as a kid. Serizawa frowned.
“What’s the matter? Don’t want to hurt the little kitties?”
More cats were now clawing at his pants with rats and the larger dogs not far behind. Serizawa could feel Reigen’s retreat backwards and he panicked.
“No Reigen-san!” He took his boss’s arm and pulled him close. “Stay by me or you’ll just end up another vessel for it.” Realizing he had gripped too hard he released, meeting Reigen’s eyes. “I’ll protect you.”
Reigen for once had nothing to say, only a nod with a frightened gaze looking back. Gathering his energy around them, Serizawa released a sphere that started from his chest and swelled larger into a shield. Every animal that came in contact with it were pushed back until there was now an angry force of claws and teeth and feathers pounding against the barrier. At least they were not being harmed.
“So cute. Think you’re so clever.”
Serizawa glared as the voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“But you forgot something.”
He tensed, waiting for an attack. A screech as the hawk slammed against the barrier, body broken with unnatural eyes staring right into Serizawa’s. The voice came out as a twisted yell.
“I ALWAYS GET WHAT I WANT.”
The barrier flared for a moment before cracking, releasing a wave of energy. All the animals were now still, most fallen over, others confused and weak on shaking legs.
Serizawa scanned the warehouse in a long arc, checking every animal, every possible vessel. Suddenly a hand rested on his shoulder, causing him to jerk as he turned, mind only now catching up with reality as he stared, wide eyed at his boss.
“Aw, what’s wrong?” Reigen’s face was now pale with sharp teeth poking out from his lips. The words came out as a horrible, mocking hiss. “Did you like this one?”
“No- NO!”
Serizawa stepped back, watching as Reigen stumbled and fell forward, his movement like a child learning to walk. He couldn’t help it and rushed forward, trying to support him. The skin felt cold but there was still a heartbeat.
“Reigen-san!”
A twisted, inhuman face grinned back. “Mine now! So much better than dogs and cats!”
Without thinking, Serizawa gripped Reigen by the collar and lifted him up, pinning the body against the wall a few inches off the ground. His limbs trembled while his muscles clenched along with his jaw.
“Let him go. Now.” His voice came out low and steady in contrast to his frantic mind and raging aura.
Another smile. “You should be the one letting go.” A hand raised and rested on one of Serizawa’s tensed, shaking arms, the now clawed fingers trailing down his sleeve. “I like this one.” The neck lurched forward with a crack. Inhuman eyes glared back, the pupils shrinking to small black pinpoints. “So good luck getting me out with him still alive.”
The grip tightened as Serizawa raised Reigen up higher. His boss was still in there, lost, forced to a corner helpless only to watch. Ignoring the confident grin, Serizawa closed his eyes, blocking out any other stimulus save for the auras around him. The animals were weak but clinging. Dimple was still a far way off; powerless against something like this. And in the middle of it all hung Reigen’s energy. It was not yet weakened only entwined: the evil spirit’s tendrils weaved all around like some fungal infection. But there had to be a way. Like a tangled ball of yawn he had to be able to undo the knots.
“H-hey! How are you doing that?!”
The claws raked at Serizawa’s chest, ripping his suit up. Legs thrashed and lungs hissed in fruitless desperation. Amid the writhing he stood firm, focused as he carefully guided his aura between the monster and his boss.  The growling turned to a weary groan. Serizawa opened his eyes to color returning to Reigen’s face and the teeth and claws fading away.
He glared at the remaining bit of the spirit still clinging on. “You can’t have him.”
A burst of energy rose, sweeping up the wall originating from Reigen’s form. Both their suit ties and hair were blown up along with several stones and debris. The wall behind cracked. Screaming started, not from Reigen’s mouth but from inside him before the sprit was torn out, thrashing in the air one last time while Serizawa closed his anger around it. The wind stopped.
“Ugh.” Reigen slumped in Serizawa’s hold, head of messy hair against his shoulder. “Wha- what happened?”
At once Serizawa shifted his grip, guiding his boss down to the ground where he held up his chest and head. Gone was his intense stare with only concern looking down now.
“Are you alright?” Tears started to form as he realized his hadn’t prevented the spirit from draining some of Reigen’s life force. “Please be alright.”
“Feel like I woke up from a hangover.” Reigen tried to raise his head but instead just grumbled and brought a hand up to his forehead. It was only then he realized Serizawa was cradling him in gentle arms- their faces inches from each other. His fingers traced the claw marks on his employee’s suit. “Um. I think I definitely missed something.”
“Reigen-san!” Serizawa trembled before hugging his boss against his chest. “I’m so sorry! I messed up!” He was sobbing now as he buried his face in Reigen’s neck. “It was going to take you I tried to get it out but now you are hurt.” His arms hugged tighter. “I was supposed to protect you!”
“W-woah! Hey!” Reigen protested. “It’s ok big guy! I’m fine.” He pushed back a bit and tried to give some comfort. “Just a headache. So no worries.” A grin, cheeks blushing. “You did great.”
Serizawa’s tear filled eyes met Reigen’s and in their embrace, their lips grew closer, heat rising between them.
“Yeah dang. Even I can admit you did pretty good.”
Dimple floated over, causing Serizawa to drop Reigen in embarrassment.
“Sorry, Reigen-san!” He brushed off some of the dust on both of them, helping Reigen to stand.
A cough. “Where the hell have you been?” Reigen glared up at Dimple, cheeks still red. “Coulda maybe used a heads up or some support.”
“Sorry greatest psychic.” Dimple sneered back. “Best I could have done is maybe posses you first, but that thing was too powerful.” He picked at his nose, eyeing the dying plants twisted vines. “It would have just kicked me out.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Reigen coughed again. “Why did I even bring you?”
Serizawa frowned down at his boss. “Can you walk, Reigen-san?” He bent over him ever worried.
“Uh. Give me like five minutes.”
Dimple floated in between the two before they could make googly eyes at each other again. “You brought me because instead of researching spirits yourself, the two of you sit on the couch watching cute animal videos together during office breaks.”
Both looked away, clearly called out. One of the cats hobbled up followed by a dog. Despite the trauma they were happy to see humans. The cat gave a face rub against Serizawa’s leg. Reigen got to pet the dog.
“Huh. They seem to be way less um- dying? Than before.” Reigen stiffly rose to his feet as the dog wandered out of the building, tail wagging.
“Yeah. Should be fine. The thing kept them alive so they just need some food and rest.”
Dimple watched as the other animals scattered back to their own lives. The birds preened at their feathers before taking awkward launches into the air.
“We stopped it. So no one else will get hurt.” Reigen grimaced and faltered his first few steps.
Serizawa instantly wrapped his arms around his boss again. “Reigen-san. The rain is coming.”
Dimple was still ranting in the background. “What do you mean ‘we’? All you did was nearly piss yourself and get possessed.”
The two couldn’t hear him anymore. Reigen let out a sigh. “Yeah. We should get going. I can probably maybe make it to the bus stop.”
Serizawa gave a short bow of his head, one of his arm around Reigen’s back as the man held on to his suit lapel. “If you allow me, Reigen-san,” he paused for a moment to allow his brain catch up with his mouth, “I can carry you.”
Reigen blinked back. “A-Alright.” His voice snapped back into its confident prose. “But only this one time. This is an extenuating circumstance that requires advanced, unorthodox protocols to handle properly. I’ll have to amend the employee handbook to include more robust first aid and recovery instructions.”
Serizawa cracked a grin. How was he too weak to walk but able to fling his hands around like that still?
“Understood.” Another bow of his head as he support his boss’s weight under the knees and back, lifting him up.
He walked steadily, stealing a few glances down at Reigen who was struggling to keep his eyes open after the entire ordeal. A few drops of rain fell, their arrival producing little musical sounds as they hit the metal roofs. Dimple floated after, having long given up on anything getting through to them.    
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ziracona · 5 months
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There’s a lot of valid criticisms for games like DA and Fallout, but I am so sick to death, especially in fallout, of people talking about faction flaws and incompatibilities, like they’re bad game design. There’s this really fucking annoying thing people who play games do a lot, where they act like your companions are Pokémon. You don’t gotta catch them all!! The fact some of your companions hate each other, or have thoroughly incompatible goals and beliefs, is a feature not a bug! It’s not bad game design you are playing the game wrong!! You aren’t supposed to try and keep every faction alive and headcanon that you took them all over and made them good. You’re welcome to do that if you want, but the game not doing that isn’t bad game design. You are playing the game wrong!
There is no ‘golden end’ for New Vegas and that is a feature, not a bug! The point is that there is no idealistic perfect solution. Yes obviously House is better than Legion, and both Independent and NCR are better than House, in different ways, but neither is actually perfect for the region and that’s on purpose. There is no perfect war that fixes everything. That’s the point. It’s to interact with reality! With the complexity. There is no black and white good and bad easy answer. You do what you believe in. That’s /why/ faction companions exist. Or—you do what you want. You want to play an evil raider in FO4 and run with Porter? You do you! But Preston will hate you. This is a feature not a bug!! Goals are meant to be incompatible and choices to exclude other pathways!! That’s literally the point! Your factions aren’t pokemon your companions aren’t pokemon you do not catch them all, you commit to what you believe in, and people die or leave you or turn against you, and others stay! That’s how it fucking works. If you want to play a milk toast run where your goal is to keep as many groups alive regardless of how bad they are or will hurt a region, that’s your goal, but you’re playing the game contrary to the way it’s meant to be played, and your frustration is wrong not the game design!!! Faction companions exists so no matter what faction you believe in, you get a companion. They are not friends they are not meant to like each other you are not meant to keep them all. Commit to what you believe in and be willing to cut ties and make choices that have some actual fucking weight
Or don’t again you do you it’s not bad to play Pokémon but quit acting like it’s bad game design that that’s not the intent; it’s not — gamers who play too much are just obsessed with keeping every companion alive and on their side, and prioritize that weird goal over story and in-world impact it’s not a bug it’s a feature. It’s not a flaw the Brotherhood in fo4 sucks ass and won’t change; make a fucking choice. It’s not a flaw the Institute is evil and won’t change; make a fucking choice. The backup end is for if you fail every faction quest line, not the ‘right end’ you’re just bad at video game.
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rahabs · 5 months
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My brain apparently picked “right before my sister’s birthday dinner” as the time to have a complete meltdown. I hate this.
#A lot has been going on guys I’m sorry#The job hunt is going like shit#My sister left her partner who has turned into an abusive shithead so now everything is a mess#I’ve been gaining weight again and so I hate my appearance and my body#And I just feel ugly and inadequate and like a Colossal Failure because that is what I am lbr.#I am nearly thirty and this is not where I thought I’d be.#I’m overqualified for the jobs I want and the only ones left are private practice family law which I might as well kms#But it doesn’t matter because no one is hiring anyway!#So I just sit and get fatter and uglier#And no matter what I do everything just gets worse.#I tried to curl my hair to look nice today for the dinner#Only for every single thing I tried to end up in failure as always.#I’ve never been able to curl my hair and I don’t know why#I tried multiple different curling wands and a straightener and tutorials and nothing. Just kinked ends as always#Which is story of my life. Every time I try to look nice I end up looking worse than if I hadn’t tried at all#Same with my bar call tbh I tried to have nice hair and now I can’t even look at my bar photos because my hair is so fucking ugly#My law grad photo was the same so I didn’t even buy them#Even my parents had to admit they were bad photos. I got hit with windstorm that ruined my hair#Again every time I try the universe just goes Haha You Thought You Could Be Pretty?#Please Remember You’re the Ugly One in the Family :)#The ugly one the failure all those degrees and nothing to show for it beyond an education that does nothing#Because I am nothing! Awesome#The only thing my law degree is good for is making my sister feel better#And I can only do so much because it’s a conflict otherwise.#Explain processes and likelihoods to her and support her as her ex fucks everything up and that’s about it#He threatened to come to the house and make things ‘ugly’ while I was the only one there (unbeknownst to him)#Then I dropped concealer on my leggings and it wouldn’t come out mmm#Just tired. Why do I try again?
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rozicheeks · 1 year
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HI
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farfromstrange · 14 hours
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Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader
-> Main Masterlist
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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!
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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. 
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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
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sy-fri · 1 year
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Absolutely horrendous trying to find good spideypool. Halfway through some of the most engaging romantic toe curling shit and it’ll describe Peter as “the teen” and FUCK
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wonderloste · 2 years
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💇‍♀️    for   your    muse    to    play    with    my    muse’s    hair / ikki and darcy!! + combining it with 🌸 so he can place flowers in it too :')
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&  RE  :  inbox cleaning    /    @dangaer.
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OF ALL THE THINGS THAT HAD ROTTED AWAY IN THE MIDST  of the Red Queen’s onslaught, he thinks the fields and fields of flowers that had wilted among Heart’s and Diamond’s borders are the most tragic loss. He had loved spending his days in his apothecary so long ago, stringing them up with imbued magicks from ceiling to floor. He looks now to the budding mixture of roses and lilies engulfing Ikki’s arms  —  gifts from the Fairy Queen to celebrate his arrival, woven with the last remaining drops of magic that held their kingdom together, ensuring their immortal bloomings. Blue and white, from the petals to the stem ... it was all very fitting, a motif to both the color of Ikki’s soul and the title he bore. It looked so pale in comparison to the garish red that the White Rabbit himself wore.
His arm brushes the outsider’s as he raises his hands to gently weave his fingers between the fabric of the bow that keeps his hair neatly tied back. In doing so, he glances up at him with a placid expression, though the moment their eyes meet, his own expression breaks its monotone in favor of a bashful smile. In truth, he hated taking his hair down, simple a request as Ikki’s may have been. He utterly abhors the concept of appearing disheveled in any way to those around him. Prim, proper, every piece of Darcy White was a puzzle that fit perfectly with that which slid into place next to it. A single ruffle out of place was one too many and yet, he would unravel every part of him if only he was the one to ask. No matter how mundane, or how terribly intimate. Such small things were so important to him. Even still, it’s so very like him to fold his bow with the utmost care to place by his side  :  his monocle closely follows.
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“I do not believe they will suit me.”  He had already guessed what his intentions were, evidenced in the way he obediently sits off the edge of the bed without needing to be told. He’s sure he catches a quirk to Ikki’s lips as he spreads the flowers out around his bow, but he doesn’t prod. It’s so unceremonious, the way he feels him move around the bed on his knees once he’s done, working his way over to sit behind him. It’s the heat of their closeness at his back that makes Darcy stiffen, his lips pressing together in an absent attempt not to jump  ...  but already, his ears quiver as pink blossoms ‘pon his skin, starting embarrassingly at the nape of his neck. It goes beyond simply being a demure man  :  touch starved is not the half of it, attention starved more apt. He anticipates it so dearly that the moment the hume’s fingers begin to thread through his loosened hair, the rabbit has to uselessly kick his legs beneath him to keep from launching himself off the bed. The feeling tickles. His eyes close, tightly, for a moment... then he releases a steadying sigh. He tries not to think too deeply on how the flow of time is altered around them. Sped up, at first, then slowed back to normal with the calming of his breaths...
He can imagine him behind him, with his fingers brushing against the back of his neck as they do now, smiling in either poorly hidden amusement  —  or something deeper that was never meant to be hidden in the first place. The first flower is plucked from the bed and so it begins, the weaving of the stem into his hair.
“I am taking one of them,”  he declares after a beat longer of silence than he’d intended. His voice cracks a little, but he peaks open his eyes and reaches over to take one of the flowers from the spread. It’s a blue lily, pristine, untouched by the waging wars of this realm. In this moment together, looking at these, holed up in the barriers of Diamond Kingdom, one would think them nothing but two men, smitten with one-another, not a singular care in the world. Despite the dark of the White Rabbit’s goals that lurk ‘neath the surface  ...  there is something in that thought that lightens his heart. He twirls the flower between his fingers, taking another deep breath as he steadies himself enough to correct his posture and lean back properly to the feeling of flowers tenderly twisting through his hair.
For the first time in quite some time, he lays his burdens down and lets his shoulders relax. Careful not to disturb him, his gaze flits towards the greenhouse-esque ceiling of the room, gazing distantly at the glowing vines and flora that twisted throughout.  “Part of me wonders if I should read your intentions.”  When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, less gripped by anxiety and lack of surety.  “Did you think of me immediately upon receiving these flowers? Was it an afterthought? Perhaps you simply had no other use for them, as the act of grabbing a vase for a kingdom we cannot stay in would be rather ridiculous. And then I think to myself... I am overthinking it.”  His eyes soften, smiling waning in response to his own lack of confidence.  “It is simply enough that you had ever given thought to me to begin with. Because, more than all else, I wish to be seen by you.”
He feels Ikki’s hands pause as they are tangled in his hair and the falter makes his hand lower against Darcy’s neck  :  a touch brief enough that it does not linger before he starts, but that the rabbit notices all the same. It occurs to him, in that moment, when he feels him reach for the ribbon so that he may tie off his hair once again  —  meaning, presumably, he is done with the arrangement of flowers he had wished to decorate him with  —  that for all the speeches, monologues, and declarations he has made at the other man’s behest, not a single one of them had ever been quite so simple as the concept of ‘ I just wished to spend an ordinary moment with you. ‘
He waits until the ribbon is tied and although he can already tell the bow itself is not quite up to his posh and prickly standards, he disregards it in favor of shifting ‘pon the bed so that he may face the other. He turns to rest on his knees, face to face with the one he has singularly dedicated the entirety of his heart and soul to, empty and absent as both parts of him now were. Absently, his hand raises to touch flowers carefully weaved into his hair, now held in place by the ribbon that had been returned. In his other hand, the lily he had stolen from the lineup lies in wait  :  and shortly after, he reaches to gently tuck the stem behind Ikki’s ear. His touch lingers, unapologetically, as his fingers cup his jaw with tenderness.
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“Je t’aime de toute mon âme.”  It takes careful situating not to knock them over on the unstable surface of the bed, but he pushes himself forward on his knees enough that he is able to touch the tips of their noses together. There’s adoring humor in the way he stops there, but he smiles at him, fond and affectionate.  “I am so happy here with you, Ikki.”  And that is what he leaves it at, away from his usual ramblings and poetic rants. He supposes there are moments, even in worlds as chaotic as this, where small occurrences are simple and they are enough. One would think that the end of it, but he closes his eyes and leans closer, down enough that with the help of his hand tilting Ikki’s face, he is able to press a kiss more firmly to the corner of his mouth. And although he moves so that his lips linger over the outsider’s properly, he does not close the distance, smile turning somewhat playful as he pulls away.
Darcy falls back to a sit, legs tucked underneath him. The change in posture makes it so that he looks up at Ikki now. His grin quickly turns coquettish.  “T’would be rather unbecoming of me to steal a kiss from an outsider who has shown me such gracious acts of love from the bottom of his heart this evening. ‘Tis a pity, is it not? I suppose I will simply have to wait for you, instead.”  He’s being intentionally hoity-toity, actively taunting him with express purpose as if daring him, though despite that he still looks him directly in the eye as if he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  “As lovely as I am certain your work is, the flower far better suits you.”  He doesn’t flinch away to indicate he is ready to return to form for once, rather, moves to rest his own hands in his lap expectantly. Distance between them, truthfully, is the last thing he wants. Lovestricken, his head cocks to the side as he breathes a sigh of pure, utter, unburdened adoration.  “They match your beautiful eyes, mon coeur...”
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alexandreakarev · 1 year
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This is a BLOG SET UP tag drop.  Wishlist, answered, promos, about blog, permanent starter call, stats are all tags under the cut. This tag set up are different quotes for all the tags in this section.
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* … ( OOC : ramblings. ) › ❝ she has a mouth like unswept glass. it will CUT you when you least expect it. ❞ * … ( OOC : ooc answered. ) › ❝ you have the words to change a nation and yet? you’ve been BITING your tongue. ❞ * … ( OOC : about the mun. ) › ❝ she has kind of said too much. and you’ve said ENOUGH. promise that she is just another narcissist. ❞ * … ( OOC : original poetry. ) › ❝ prefers her work to be RECOGNISED rather than hidden. either way? she won’t go speechless. ❞ * … ( OOC : self promo. ) › ❝ a little self-promo featured on the dash never really KILLED anyone. has it? ❞ * … ( OOC : promo. ) › ❝ the best people completely DESERVING of all of your love & attention on shining spotlights of their own. ❞ * … ( OOC : musings. ) › ❝ she is brave and STRONG and broken all at once. ❞ * … ( OOC : nsfw. ) › ❝ mascara runnin’ and lipstick smudged. wearing a red wine stained dress with a hint of the DEVIL in her eyes. ❞ * … ( OOC : desires. ) › ❝ took her hours just to do her makeup right. if you’re the reason it gets ruined she’ll be PISSED tonight. ❞ * … ( OOC : wanted plots. ) › ❝ wish I never hung up the phone like I did. WISH you knew that I’d never forget you as long as I live. ❞ * … ( OOC : wishlist. ) › ❝ let a shooting star run across a MIDNIGHT sky. throw a coin into a wishing well. make a wish now. ❞ * … ( OOC : ask meme. ) › ❝ she hates playing MIND games but yet continues pulling and pushing. loving you is a losing game. ❞ * … ( OOC : about blog. ) › ❝ doesn’t start with once upon a time. you know what she’ll introduce the LEGACY with? always and forever. ❞ * … ( OOC : plotting starter call. ) › ❝ handle it? are you kidding? she’s the master of SKILLFULLY planning the next tactical moves. ❞ * … ( OOC : statistics. ) › ❝ you and me got a whole lot of history. so does it ever drive you CRAZY just how fast the night changes? ❞ * … ( OOC : templates. ) › ❝ your lack of proper organisation causes her serious DISTRESS beyond what you could possibly fathom. ❞ * … ( OOC : credits. ) › ❝ the ABSOLUTE best lifesaving content creators. ❞ … ( OOC : all headcanons. ) › ❝ fact is deleted scenes should’ve made canon. would take over CONTROL of her original narrative. ❞ * … ( OOC : all replies. ) › ❝ written in these walls are the STORIES that I can’t explain. leave my heart open but it stays here empty. ❞ * … ( OOC : all answered. ) › ❝ watch out for a furious writer with a vocabulary of sharpened CONVICTION and quills in her arsenal. ❞ * … ( OOC : all edits. ) › ❝ nobody remembers the easy. they REMEMBER the blood, sweat and tears shed on the journey. ❞ * … ( OOC : reblogged. ) › ❝ don’t play the person. play to rig the game of the unfair system. and BREAK through the walls of it. ❞ * … ( OOC : reshared. ) › ❝ she’ll intend to keep these polaroids with her CAPTIONED signature to remember for when she’s grey. ❞ * … ( OOC : psa. ) › ❝ thank you next. in ADVANCE? you’re welcome. ❞ * … ( OOC : verses. ) › ❝ mayhaps in another world things would’ve been DIFFERENT. and I could’ve made you stay. ❞ * … ( OOC : verse drop. ) › ❝ she wants to be your midnights. are we out of the woods yet? tell me where do broken hearts go. ❞ * … ( OOC : queue. ) › ❝ just called to say this is the LAST you’ll be hearing from me. ‘cause now i’ve moved on. ❞
#tag drop#* … ( OOC : ramblings. )   ›   ❝ she has a mouth like unswept glass. it will CUT you when you least expect it. ❞#* … ( OOC : ooc answered. )   ›   ❝ you have the words to change a nation and yet? you’ve been BITING your tongue. ❞#* … ( OOC : about the mun. )   ›   ❝ she has kind of said too much. and you’ve said ENOUGH. promise that she is just another narcissist. ❞#* … ( OOC : original poetry. )   ›   ❝ prefers her work to be RECOGNISED rather than kept hidden away. either way? she wont go speechless. #* … ( OOC : self promo. )   ›   ❝ a little self-promo featured on the dash never really KILLED anyone. has it? ❞#* … ( OOC : promo. )   ›   ❝ the best people completely DESERVING of all of your love & attention on shining spotlights of their own. ❞#* … ( OOC : musings. )   ›   ❝ she is brave and STRONG and broken all at once. ❞#* … ( OOC : nsfw. )   ›   ❝ mascara runnin’ and lipstick smudged. wearing a red wine stained dress with a hint of the DEVIL in her eyes. ❞#* … ( OOC : desires. )   ›   ❝ took her hours just to do her makeup right. if you’re the reason it gets ruined she’ll be PISSED tonight. ❞#* … ( OOC : wanted plots. )   ›   ❝ wish I never hung up the phone like I did. WISH you knew that I’d never forget you as long as I live. ❞#* … ( OOC : wishlist. )   ›   ❝ let a shooting star run across a MIDNIGHT sky. throw a coin into a wishing well. make a wish now. ❞#* … ( OOC : ask meme. )   ›   ❝ she hates playing MIND games but continues pushing and pulling. loving you is a losing game. ❞#* … ( OOC : about blog. )   ›   ❝ doesn’t start with once upon a time. you know what she’ll introducd the LEGACY with? always and forever.#* … ( OOC : plotting starter call. )   ›   ❝ handle it? are you kidding? she’s the master of SKILLFULLY planning the next tactical moves. ❞#* … ( OOC : statistics. ) ⠀ › ⠀ ❝ you and me got a whole lot of history. so does it ever drive you CRAZY just how fast the night changes? ❞#* … ( OOC : templates. )   ›   ❝ your lack of proper organisation causes her serious DISTRESS beyond what you could possibly fathom. ❞#* … ( OOC : credits. )   ›   ❝ the ABSOLUTE best lifesaving content creators. ❞#* … ( OOC : all headcanons. )   ›   ❝ fact is deleted scenes should’ve made canon. would take over CONTROL of her original narrative. ❞#* … ( OOC : all replies. )   ›   ❝ written in these walls are STORIES I can’t explain. leave my heart open but it stays here empty. ❞#* … ( OOC : all answered. )   ›   ❝ watch out for a furious writer with a vocabulary of sharpened CONVICTION and quills in her arsenal. ❞#* … ( OOC : all edits. )   ›   ❝ nobody remembers the easy. they REMEMBER the blood sweat and tears shed on the journey. ❞#* … ( OOC : reblogged. )   ›   ❝ don’t play the person. play to rig the game of the unfair system. and BREAK through the walls of it. ❞#* … ( OOC : reshared. )   ›   ❝ she’ll intend to keep these polaroids with her CAPTIONED signature to remember for when she’s grey. ❞#* … ( OOC : psa. )   ›   ❝ thank you next. in ADVANCE? you’re welcome. ❞#* … ( OOC : verses. )   ›   ❝ mayhaps in another world things would’ve been DIFFERENT. and I could’ve made you stay. ❞#* … ( OOC : verse drop. )   ›   ❝ she wants to be your midnights. are we out of the woods yet? tell me where do broken hearts go. ❞#* … ( OOC : queue. )   ›   ❝ just called to say this is the LAST you’ll be hearing from me. ‘cause now i’ve moved on. ❞
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insanechayne · 3 months
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#sometimes I wonder if this is worth all the trouble it’s caused me#to keep holding on to someone who seems to want to be let go#trying harder and harder to keep this friendship going but every day we break down a little more#I still have so many questions that I need answers to but I know you won’t give me that clarity#time is supposed to heal all wounds but mine have only gotten worse the longer we’ve let things last this way#I just don’t have anyone or anything that can fully replace you or what you do for me#I know you’re toxic and you used me and I have better friends in my real life and my wonderful girlfriend with me#I know I have everyone’s support but I still can’t let you go#you’ve always been my safe space and we talk every single day and I can tell you anything and I just don’t have that with anyone else#the transition process is slow and grueling and I’m not strong enough to fully see it through#part of me wishes I’d never met you because look how much we’ve hurt and ruined each other#part of me wishes I’d met you sooner so I could have had more time with you the way we used to be#I wish I had someone I could just rant all of this out to without consequence#just tell them the whole story from an outside perspective and get some help with all of this bullshit#I feel like I’m burdening my girlfriend when I talk about you#I feel like I’m annoying my friends if I’m complaining about us#I can’t talk to you because you just get upset and shut me down#I’m so messed up and confused and I don’t know what to do anymore#so I make these stupid tag posts on here that you’ll never see and just let my feelings out#because where else better to do that than on my own personal blog right#I wish I could just turn all of these emotions off and stop caring about you and distance myself until I could fully cut you off#feel like I’m just dangling from strings here like a marionette that you’re toying with#personal
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tonycries · 26 days
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Wanna Do Bad Things To You
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Synopsis. He fucks you like he hates you. You didn’t mean to fuck your old friend-with-benefits - truly - it just kinda happened.
Pairing. Multiple x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! Reader, hate sex, ex-friends-with-benefits, slight angst, he’s still in love with you,  unprotected sex, jealous sex (from his side), choking, marking, pet names (my love, sweetheart), swearing.
Word count. 1.5k
A/N. Ummmmmmmm yeah. Art by @_3eam on X.
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He fucks you like he hates you.
“Shut the fuck up, you little slut.”
“Do it then. What? Scared he’ll do it bet-”
Cut off by a pathetic gurgle - his large hand around your throat. Ringed fingers tightening right above your pulse, the cold metal digging into your searing skin. 
Your vision is bleary, blood roaring in your ears as he leans down, muscled front against your back. His breath is hot against your face as he whispers lowly, “Running your mouth a bit too much, my love. You do the same with him as well?”
Shivers run down your spine - all the way to your cunt, pulsing and clenching furiously around his throbbing tip. Teasing your dripping entrance. Unmoving.
Your walls burn, struggling at the stretch of his thick head, yet still wanting the bastard to fucking move. Such a fucking tease. He was always like this - even back when you two were together, but that’s a story for another time.
Turning to glare at him over your shoulder, “So what if I do? Who are you to tell me what to do?”
You’re either an idiot or a mastermind. 
Maybe both. Because you feel his achingly hard cock twitch animalistically inside you, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across those kiss-bitten lips you knew too well. You hated how much you wanted them on yours right now. 
“You’re right. I’m not anyone to you.” he murmurs venomously, swiftly capturing the tender skin of your exposed neck, sharp teeth digging into you. Branding you. 
You keen, hips bucking uselessly against his bruising grip on your hips as he pulls away. God, you felt so used - and it made your walls flutter around him so desperately. 
Two long fingers reach up to squeeze your cheeks together mockingly into a pathetic pout, forcing you to look at him. “But I’m gonna ruin you for everyone. Including that little prick you’ve tried to replace me with.”
Your eyes flutter open in shock - you didn’t even realize they were scrunched up - getting lost in the ones boring into yours, half-lidded and pupils blown ferally. Electricity jolts through your body at the pure lust and rage whirling in his intense gaze. 
You two were going to be the deaths of each other.
You two were always going to end up like this.
You’ve barely even finished the thought before his flushed tip is kissing your cervix so painfully good. 
“Hah- Oh, fuck. Fuck you.” Eyes rolling to the back of your head as he sheaths himself completely in you. A low hiss leaves his swollen lips as he pulls out agonizingly slow, inch by inch, prominent veins dragging along your g-spot. 
“Fuck, you sure you hate me? Because this pussy seems like she can’t get enough of me, hm?”
Whatever retort on the tip of your tongue is cut off by his rock-hard cock bullying its way back into your snug cunt. He fucks you animalistically, heavy balls stinging your pussy as his cock rams in and out of your hole over and over at a relentless pace. 
Strangled mewls of ah! ah! ah! leave your swollen lips as large fingers presses tight circles into your clit at a merciless rhythm matching the cadence of his hips. 
You mindlessly writhe against him, you felt so full - so split open on his cock. It was too much to handle. He was always too much to take. 
“Now now, don’t hah- run away from me, my love. If you’re going to act like such a fucking slut then take it like one.” he purrs, lip curling into a smug smirk that you wanted to smack off his pretty face. You couldn’t stand him - but you couldn’t get enough of him either.
“I’m not the hah- o-one that runs away. And- hngh- I’m not your ‘love’” you grit, because God forbid you go down without a fight - even when you’re falling apart completely under him.
What else could he have even expected? You always did see through him.
God, did he love that bitchy mouth of yours. 
Huffing out a surprised laugh, he wraps a strong arm around your waist pulling you deeper onto his throbbing cock - grip hard enough that he knows you’ll have marks to remember him by. Not like he planned on letting you ever forget him in the first place.
“You always did know how to push my buttons, huh, my love?” 
“Could say the same for you, sweetheart.”
Fuck that stupid fucking petname. How is it that even after years of not hearing it, his heart still lurches the same as it falls out of your mouth? That annoying, nagging part of his brain wonders if you call him the same thing.
And maybe you could read minds - he wouldn’t be surprised - because you open those pretty lips to say “Though, you’re not my sweetheart anymore, huh?”
Unexplainable anger seethes under his skin in a way that makes him want to claw it off. 
“Fuck you.” he hisses, turning your face so his mouth clashes with yours. It’s all bruising urgency and teeth clashing at the breathless dance of your tongues. 
His cock speeds up it’s abuse on your cunt, fucking you with impatient, harsh thrusts that have his leaking tip kissing your cervix. Had it not been for his firm hand around your throat, you were sure you’d have been slammed into the headboard creaking in protest.
“You drive me fucking insane. Fuck you.”
He hates the whines of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, and how it’s his favorite song.
He hates the tears clinging to your lashes in a way that makes him want to burn down anything that made you cry. Including himself.
He hates the way your cunt clamps down on him as if it hurts to part - he wishes you felt the same.
He hates the way he can’t let you go.
You were perfect, so perfect. Too perfect for him. He was probably better for you - all stability and reassurance where he is nothing but a whirlwind of change. 
In one, fluid move, he’s pulled out of the snug heaven of your dripping cunt - flipping you onto your back to stare into those beautiful eyes that haunt him every night. 
"Let's forget everything else, if just for tonight."
And with those words, he’s back inside you again, ramming into you with purpose. Though his thrusts are as unforgiving as ever, something about the air feels charged with something different. A rawness that both of you would have shied away from. 
“Th-this doesn’t hngh- fix us, y’know.”
“I know, my love.”
His low words muffled as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, kissing the bite mark with a tenderness that doesn’t translate into his hips. And you can’t overthink it - because your head is only filled with him and the way your cunt is milking his thick cock so good. 
And later you’ll probably blame your foggy thoughts for the reason why your hands subconsciously wrap around his muscled shoulders, pulling him so impossibly close until you can feel his heartbeat thundering under your touch - in sync with your own. One. Two. Three.
“Ah! Shit. Doing so good, cunt made jus’ f’me. You’re made jus’ f’me.” choked moans leave his throat as he pulls away ever-so-slightly to look into your fucked out eyes. 
“Perfect f’me, my love.”
Maybe at his words - or maybe at his predatory, blown-out gaze - you buck your hips to desperately meet his. Breathless moans of his name leaving your bruised lips.
With a final, purposeful thrust of his cock, he pulls you once more into a familiar, searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. You see stars as you cum, mind barely registering the thick ropes of his seed that fill your quivering cunt.
A low groan leaves him as his cum forms a thick, white ring around his base, dripping down your legs and onto the bedsheets that he knew were your favorite. It was feral - and at least for this moment, it made him feel like yours. 
Some carnal part of him keeps bucking his hips into you as if on instinct, letting you ride out your highs together. Fucking his cum deeper and deeper the way he would as lovers, his strong arms wrapped around you to keep you from moving away. But he didn’t have to, because right now you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Keeping you close. As if he never wanted to let go - both of your bodies a mindless whisper of what your minds craved. 
A delicate intimacy that only your bodies could bring rings in the sex-filled air. And when he finally stops, body collapsing onto yours - he whispers a secret. Meant for only the two of you in this quiet world.
“Fuck me like you still love me.”
Because by God was he in love with you.
- Gojo, TOJI, SUGURU, Atsumu, SUNA, Tsukishima, SAKUSA, EREN
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A/N. Maybe I’ll do some fluff next week to make up for this…
Plagiarism not authorized.
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