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farfromstrange · 21 days

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.”

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

“How would you know?” you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?”

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him.

“Don’t call me that,” you growl.

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out.

“Published by Columbia University.”

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in.

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his.

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins.

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur.

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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novasdarling · 11 months

Text

Piece of Art

Yandere! Chrollo x reader

Tw: Murder, Blood, Kidnapping, Drugging, Restraining(physical), Female Reader

It was already getting late, and the sky was dimming as you entered the museum. Many others joining you, some leaving. It was busy but not as filled as it will be when it opens to the public in a few days. Somehow through work, you'd managed to get VIP tickets to the exhibit. A perk you quite enjoyed with your employer.

Tonight was a small treat for yourself. A new exhibit had opened, and it had been heavily publicized, banners and posters plastered all throughout town. It was displaying paintings and sculptures from hundreds of years ago. Art that hadn't been in the public eye for at least over a century. Many weren't even verified that they existed. All the details that were given were that the gallery was made possible thanks to a private donation.

Making your way to the exhibit, all you could think was how the hell could anyone own all this art. How it was possible to acquire such rare pieces. The money and power they must have had, or still have. To just give away such a collection. Regardless, how did they manage to keep so many pieces hidden, pieces that weren't even confirmed? You were sure they wouldn't reveal it. It was easier for the museum to simply say thank you and make a profit. Something you were in no place to disagree with as you made your way through the doors.

Unsure of where to start, wandering around the exhibit was your best option. A clockwise motion, then working your way to the pieces in the center would guarantee you the ability to see every piece. This wasn't a cheap night, you'd make the most of it. Trying to take time admiring each piece the best you can. Reading every little bit of information they provided. It was interesting to read about the subject's life, about the painter's vision. Or seeing these statues that have been around longer than your country by centuries. It made you feel so small. To see all these pieces that have such a history. To see all those faces that once lived, once smiled. Emorlized in paint and stone. There was one piece that caught your attention. It was one of two women looking at the audience. One covers her face, appearing to be laughing, while the other looks at you with an adorning expression. You could see it now, some man had made an ill attempt at a flirt with the woman more forward. The two find it amusing, trying to stifle a laugh only for the woman behind to fail. A moment you could relate to even though you lived centuries apart. It was fun to try to put stories to things and try to relate to them. Image them having similar problems and stories as you. It made them feel more human, rather than just paint.

"You've been staring at this one for a while." A man's voice was speaking to you. Louder than the others around you. Sounding like it was coming from behind you.

"Oh, sorry, am I in your way?" You began moving off to the side. Letting him see.

Looking back to see who had spoken. The man was tall and looked lean. He was handsome, you couldn't deny that. His hair was a bit wild, almost looked like he cut it at home. It worked on him though. Though his choice of headband was a bit odd, then again this was an art exhibit. They did tend to pull in an interesting crowd.

"No of course not. I was just admiring how you looked at the art."

An embarrassing blush had grown on your cheeks. You didn't realize just how long you had been staring at this one painting. Not catching that another may be noticing it. You didn't know what to do so you stepped to the side and allowed space for the man to come closer to the painting. Smiling as he stepped forwards. He gave you a smile as he looked between you and the art.

"I didn't mean to interrupt." You claimed he was not. Falling over your words as he stared at you. "Good then."

Giving a smile before looking back at the painting. Not expecting the man to continue the conversation. Assuming he had just been polite and wanted you to move.

"I'm Chrollo by the way."

Introducing yourself after a few seconds of pause. Looking him over, you admired his choice of accessories. Blue earrings dangled from his ears and his odd headband wrapped around his forehead. A fashion statement for sure. Along with his feathered coat. These galleries always did tend to invite some intriguing people.

"Why this photo?"

"Sorry?"

"Why has this photo captured you for so long?"

That was a good question. Once you hadn't been prepared to answer to anyone other than yourself. After a few moments, you explained why you had stayed on this one for so long, and how you liked to link these people in the art to yourself. Imagine that even though centuries separate you from them. That you guys could still connect in some ways. Share some similarities. Chrollo grinned as you explained your reasoning. Watching as your face flushed, you seemed embarrassed by your thoughts.

"I never thought to look at them that way." Chrollo smiled, trying to ease you. "Perhaps I should have you as my guide. You could show me a whole new perspective."

It was odd to have someone being so sweet and charming to you. Especially someone you had just met. You couldn't lie, it felt nice to have someone to share your thoughts with. To have somebody who appreciated how you viewed things. To share your beliefs and views. Even if for a few moments, he could think you were interesting.

Chrollo took you around the gallery, asking you again and again to share your thoughts. It felt nice to have someone like him be curious about what you thought. You could have talked all night, and shared every thought. How each piece of art made you feel. Chrollo shared his thoughts too, but he seemed more eager on listening to yours.

The two of you had viewed almost every piece of art. From the paintings to the sculptures. There were still a few left to see. Some of the bigger pieces still had crowds surrounding them.

"It's crazy how these pieces got donated." Turning to him as you spoke. "Imagine being able to collect all of these and just, donate them."

Chrollo nodded, looking at you like you any word that fell from your lips was pure gold. He brought you to another painting. Stating it was a piece he was excited to see and had heard about it for years. There were a few people crowding around the painting, so you two waited.

"It's refreshing that others actually enjoy and value these pieces. You'd be surprised by what I've heard tonight. People talking about how bored they art. How the art is subpar. I even heard some guy begging his girlfriend to go home."

You couldn't help but laugh. Agreeing, it was shameful how some didn't appreciate what was here like you two. Especially since some of these pieces are the first time the public has ever viewed them.

The people had moved, allowing you two to move up. Getting a better view of the painting Chrollo wanted to show you. Both of you stared at it, marvelling at the art before you. It was beautiful. You could see why he liked it so much. The colours, the way everyone in it was painted. It must have taken months to do. Leaning forward, you read the information piece under it to learn who was in it and who had painted it. It had been donated by the same private collector. One of the few pieces to have been believed to be lost to history, if it even existed. A fire at the buyer's home a few years after it was commissioned was thought to have taken it. Yet, here it stood. The subjects standing next to a table. The wife and husband sitting, while the children were spread around. The fabrics looked so real. The way the satin looked stunning, the shadows that created the folds. It was absurd to think how anyone could paint like that. As you read more about it, you realized this piece was the centrepiece. One of the few they didn't announce would be here, that it even existed. A surprise for the instalment.

"Chrollo, isn't this the first time this piece has been seen, like to the public?" Chrollo nodded as you straightened up again. "It says," You pointed to the information piece in front of you. "that there were no accurate records it even existed beside a receipt from the painter to the family. How did you know it was going to be here."

You watched his face, curious to hear his explanation. Perhaps he had studied art and new things you didn't. Or had an inside source, but Chrollo didn't say anything. He just looked ahead at the painting for a bit. It looked like he was thinking of an answer. You didn't think much of it, maybe you were correct. Maybe he had some inside source that told him about the new installments. If you had a source like that, you would be using them every time there was a new gallery opening or exhibit.

"Hmmm"

That was all he offered you before pulling out his phone and messaging someone. Still not looking at you. Staring straight ahead when he put his phone away. Not letting you know what he was thinking, not answering you either. Before you could say something, try to get him to answer you. Chrollo had pulled you closer to him. A hand wrapped around your waist. A sudden move that had startled you. Odd since you two hadn't touched each other the whole night. You couldn't even push away from him as the lights were abruptly cut off. The lights from the ceiling, the wall lights, the ones hanging directly over the pieces. All were off. The room was pushed into darkness. You couldn't see your hand in front of you or Chrollo beside you. Yet, you could feel him, his arm tightly holding onto you. As people screamed and yelled around you. Trying to figure out what was going on. Pushing past you, falling over. It was most likely a power outage.

"What the hell is going on."

"Shh, you'll see." Chrollo had leaned in. Whispering in your ear. He was closer than you remembered.

You could feel people move around you, bumping into each other including you. People still yelling and just as confused as you were. You were waiting for an announcement to be made, a worker to yell something. How there was a power outage somehow, or perhaps someone had accidentally flipped a switch. Yet, it didn't come, minutes passed. Feeling dragged out. You were trying to look around, let your eyes adjust, but Chrollo didn't let up with his hold on you. Keeping you by his side. You were about to say something. Tell him to let go when you unexpectedly heard a door open and close behind you. Turning your head as far back as you could, you saw a bit of light disappear as the door shut. Someone had entered, or left? You weren't sure, but you hoped it was a worker entering to help. Waiting for someone to yell, or for any kind of new sounds. Only to hear something you didn't expect. Not a voice asking if everyone was okay. No, instead there were yells. Different than before, they sounded scared and hurt. Then another sound, it sounded like something dropping to the floor. Originally you guessed it was the art. Someone had managed to fuck up and bump into something, but this was too heavy. Too condensed to be a wooden frame falling and the statues would probably just shatter. No, it was more like a body hitting the floor. Someone must have tripped, or run into someone. However, the noise repeated itself. Again and again, yells and falls.

It happened too swiftly, and you didn't have any time to properly react. The screams and bodies hitting the floor had made their way across the room. Until there was silence again, but it felt different. Not like everyone was quiet. Rather, it felt like no one else was there. That you and Chrollo were alone. His weight was a comforting thing now. Something you were leaning into. He was an anchor in this confusing chaos.

"My apologies, but I have to go. I'll see you again my dear."

Chrollo's weight was lifted from your body. His grip was gone. When you went to grab onto him and call out his name. You were met with empty air. You couldn't reach his body anymore. Taking step after step, calling out to him. No answer came. No acknowledgement came. It was like he wasn't there anymore. Like he was gone. It wasn't until you tripped that you stopped calling out his name. You had managed to fall over something on the ground. Your eyes hadn't adjusted yet, still too dark to see what was around you. Falling onto the ground. Trying to catch yourself, placing your hands in front of you to brace yourself. Landing hard on the ground. As your hands made contact with the ground, they failed to keep you upright. Instead, they slipped on something wet on the floor. Pushing them forward, allowing your head to hit the ground. Not as hard as if your hands hadn't broken the fall somewhat. Though still making you see stars.

You were on the floor, face in the liquid. Unable to fully move yet. Too dark to see what had happened, and too much in pain to try to get up. Laying in the liquid, you tried to focus on attempting to see and not on the pain. Trying to see what was next to you. It felt like there was something close to your face like there was a presence there. Abruptly the lights were back on. Blinding you, forcing you to shut your eyes. It burned, to go from darkness to blinding light.

"Hey! Hey! Is everyone okay?" You could hear the doors open, someone had come in yelling, but there was no answer.

No one was answering the man back. Only the same silence from moments before.

"Oh, God."

There was panic and disgust in his voice now. The man was now calling to others, telling them to call the police. You couldn't understand why and a part of you didn't want to know. You didn't want to know why it was so silent, why no one answered him. But you needed to. Needed to let the person know you were there.

"I-I'm here."

You opened your eyes while trying to push up. The first thing you saw was red. Red liquid on the floor, on your hands. It was what your hands had slipped on when you fell. You weren't an idiot, wishing you were for a moment. You knew what it was. Blood, it was blood. There was no mistaking it. Looking around to see where it had come from. Unable to stop the sudden scream that left your mouth. The blood was not coming from you, but rather from all around you. People's heads were bashed in, and necks snapped. Some injuries you weren't sure how they occurred. But they all seemed to lead to blood. It was spread across the floor. On the walls.

You weren't sure what had happened after you saw the blood. You must have gotten people's attention because one minute you were on the floor, next you were in a hospital with officers asking you questions. Your doctors and nurses yelling at them, trying to get them to stop asking questions and let them help you. You were clearly in shock. Unable to form a worthy sentence.

Days went by, and you were treated in the hospital. Seen by several psychologists. Hoping to get you to talk and explain what happened at the exhibit. How everyone there had died, how you were the lone survivor and where did all the art go. Every time they spoke, you just looked at them confused. Confused and scared. On the second day, you had managed to overhear the officers trying to figure out where the art went. The cameras were blacked out for the whole evening. It was clear this event was extremely planned. Though that meant nothing to you, you were just trying to process being surrounded by dead people and covered in their blood.

It must have been close to a week by the time you were able to properly speak. To try to explain to the officers that had been camping outside your door. You were just as confused as they were. Unsure of what had happened. All you could remember was the man you had talked to the whole evening. That was their only lead, a man named Chrollo and you. The survivor. The officers kept pushing, wanting more when you had none to give. You tried to recall the night from getting ready to the moments before the lights were cut off. At first, they seemed suspicious, questioning why you were left alive when over 100 other guests were bludgeoned to death. Though no actual evidence could tie you as a culprit. That didn't matter, you and the mysterious Chrollo were their only lead. Though once the hospital cleared you after being there for over two weeks, there was nothing they could do. They escorted you home. Giving you their number before leaving. Reminding you to call if any small memory comes back and not to leave town.

It was strange to be home. Strange from being covered in blood, to the sterile white hospital, to a familiar and calm environment. Coming back to an empty house, having it so quiet after all those nights in the hospital. Hearing the nurses and doctors. The intercom, the family visits. Then there were the cops. There was always noise, but now there was nothing. Just your dark house and the silence filling it. It bothered you, the silence just reminded you of that night. The silence of death.

Walking into the house, you shut and locked the door behind you. Putting down all the paper they had given you when you got discharged on the dining table. You paused at the light switch, fingers brushing the switch. Although it was dark inside, there was a part of you that couldn't bring yourself to flip the switch. The memory of what occurred the last time the lights were thrown on made you freeze. No, it was better for the lights to remain off. You would just use your muscle memory to navigate in the dark. There was no point in turning the lights on. You were exhausted, wanting nothing more than your own bed. Wanting the comfort of familiarity, of safety.

It was like that for a few days. You rarely turned on the lights, too afraid to see those people again. Terrified the flash of lights would bring those poor bodies back. Bloody and dead, laying at your feet again. It was irrational, you knew that. Yet, the lights stayed off.

Work had given you as much time as you needed. They couldn't risk bringing back a traumatized worker and having them do something liable. It gave you time to try to process what had happened, to try to get those people out of your head. Tuning the noise of the few yells, the smell of the blood. Trying to get everything out of your head. Trying to ignore how your mind strayed back to that night, going over every little detail. It could have been you, you could have been on the floor with the rest. But why weren't you? Why were you spared? What bothered you most was Chrollo. His body wasn't found, which meant he survived. He did wish you goodbye before the lights were cut. The police thought he was involved, that he was part of the murders and heist, but there was no trace of his existence. You had spent that evening with a goddamn killer. A maniac that had managed to sweet-talk you for hours. The thought made you nauseous.

Even as the days went by, the police weren't able to find the culprits. The lead of Chrollo had fallen short. No man under that name had bought any tickets, had gotten parking, they even checked restaurants in the area to see if anyone had reservations under that name in the last few weeks before the gallery had opened. There was no trace of the man you met that night. The idea of him being out there bothered you. He let you live, after all, he told you who he was, whether it was a fake name or not. He still introduced himself to you. Still struck up a conversation with you. Stayed with you all night, and most oddly, let you live. Killed everyone, but you. Someone who had either directly killed all those others or had some hand in it had so easily left you. Paranoia began to creep in as the days passed, as you dwelled on the thought of it more and more. Certain he was going to come back. Chrollo was going to finish his job, and tie up any loose ends. Or the cops were going to finally just put everything on you. Pin the murders on you since the evidence was getting them nowhere. It would be easier for them, to wrap up their case. You were sure the public would buy it. Instead of getting better, you were getting worse. Becoming more overwhelmed as time went on. Barely moving from your bedroom, keeping the curtains shut out of fear. Friends and neighbours tried to call and visit, but you ignored them. Too frightened to even open the door, to look out your window in case it was him. Night was the worst.

It was always dark in your home, as you still declined to turn certain lights on. Terrified you'd see the bodies when you flipped the switch. Though there were still moments when you feared the dark. Worrying about what you couldn't see, what may lurk in it. It had taken you a few days from your first arrival home to manage to even turn on some lights, mostly lamps or small rooms like the bathroom. Lights that would only give enough light to illuminate no more than a couple feet in front of them. Yet, your mind refused to allow larger rooms to be fully lit. The darkness was the better.

Muscle memory had saved you, keeping you on your two feet instead of face-first into the floor. Even at nights just like this one when you didn't have the sun peeking in from the cracks of the curtains. You could still navigate the house. Letting the lights you kept on all the time in certain rooms bleed into the others you ventured into.

You were cleaning up the dinner you had eaten. Some dry ramen packs you had found in the back of your cupboard. The last of what was keeping you fed. Using the lamps from your hallway to see around you as you put the garbage away before going back to the sink. The lights were nice, dull enough they hadn't disturbed you when you turned them on a day ago. You were making progress, right? One little light on was a show of getting better. It had to be. Though as you placed the bowl in the sink. Taking a look at the clock on the stove, realizing it was already well past midnight. The ramen had been the only thing you'd eaten all day. You couldn't help but laugh, swearing to yourself under your breath. It was a lie. You weren't getting better. A stupid little light in a room away meant nothing. Rubbing your face as you thought about what this meant. What being stuck in this horrid condition meant, in this paralyzing fear over fucking lights meant. If you didn't get better who knows when you can go back to work. Sure they had been accommodating, but how long would that last? A few more weeks at most. You needed to get back into the swing of things. Get back to a semi-normal schedule and behaviour. The pressure and weight of everything felt like it got heavier. Bearing a bigger load on your shoulders was becoming too much. It was all too much.

"Fuck." You were pissed, throwing your fork against the wall. "I'm not getting better. I-I'm not." Tears were forming. It wasn't fair.

"No, you are not."

Someone had just answered you back, somebody had spoken back to you within this empty house. You froze, taking a moment to process what just happened. Though when you heard a quick "hmmm" prompt from the speaker. You knew who it was. It was the same voice that haunted your thoughts all this time since the gallery. It was him, the man who had been so sweet to you that night. That had flattered and entertained you. The man who had then killed and left you. It was Chrollo, there was no mistaking it. Your lips began to shiver, too petrified to turn around and be right. Or worse be wrong and have another unfamiliar threat.

Your mind began to race, thinking of why the hell he was here after all this time. He was here to finish the job, wasn't he? He was going to kill you. Tie up the loose ends. Perhaps you had said too much. You couldn't turn around. Couldn't face the man that had killed so many with ease. You couldn't face your soon-to-be killer. Shutting your eyes tight, waiting as the seconds ticked by.

"Not even a 'hello?' or a 'how have you been?' Manners my dear."

He expected a greeting. That sick maniac wanted you to greet him as if you were long-time friends who hadn't seen each other for a few days. It was a sick joke, wanting to act friendly after everything. After he left you surrounded by bloody bodies, left you as the lone survivor to be endlessly questioned by the police. Left you to live in fear. You were pissed before. Angry at yourself for failing to adapt and get better. Yet, as you stood there, taking in what was happening. You realized that no, you weren't angry at yourself. You were furious at him. Pissed he left you like this and caused so much harm to the one he left alive. He didn't spare you, no he just damaged your life in a different way.

"Why are you here?" It was soft and meek, but it came out in one swift breath.

"Why not? Am I not welcomed."

Welcomed? Welcomed? Did he assume you'd welcome him with open arms, and accept your death with gratitude and glee? His words tipped you over the edge. Spinning around, now facing him. You looked him over. He looked mostly the same as that night. With only a few differences. He was still wearing many of the same clothes but he lacked the charm of that night. Looking a bit dishevelled. He wore the same jacket, but the shirt under was in a lot worse condition. His hair was greased back, it looked dirty. As if it was just his unwashed hair keeping it back, not any product. How was this the same man you had managed to keep you interested all night?

"Just kill me. I don't want to play anymore."

The fight in you was abruptly gone. You didn't want to play his game anymore. Pretend to be happy, and play his little friendship game. Let him get some sick satisfaction from it all. Cause that's what it all must have been. Some sick little game, that lets you think you got away before he visits and watches the hope leave your eyes. There was no hope in you, just tiredness, anger and fear. You wanted it all gone.

"And what if I do."

There was no response. All you could do was stare. Stare with repulsion towards him.

"Hmm?" Chrollo had begun stepping forward. Making his way to you.

"P-Please, just make it easy." It was a heartbreaking plea, but it was all you had. A request for a swift death.

"And why would I do that?"

In a few long steps, Chrollo was now in front of you. Pressing his body against yours. It was uncomfortable. Having him so close, having him in your house. It was vile and wrong.

Refusing to look him in the eyes. Keeping your head down and eyes shut. Waiting for him to strike. He was going to kill you. Would he leave your body here for the cops or your neighbours to find? Or would he try to hide your body? Leave you to just become a missing person poster.

"You really think I'm going to kill you?" You gave a weak nod. "Hmm, I guess that makes sense. A good guess, but I'm not."

At that, you looked up at him. Shocked at his response. If he wasn't going to kill you. Why would he be here? Why the hell would he be here if he wasn't going to finish the job? That rage from before was rising up again. You reckoned he was lying. That he was toying with you, giving you that sense of hope. Playing with you, dragging out the kill.

"Don't lie to me. Please, just-just make it painless."

Chrollo let out a chuckle, he found your words entertaining. Lifting his hand up, pausing when you flinched.

"Relax my dear. I said I wasn't."

His hand brushed the side of your face. Tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. It was a soft touch, such soft hands for a killer. So tender for someone who had killed all those that night. Even with his soft touch, you were frozen and stiff.

"I see I've caused so much worry." Chrollo leaned in. Face right by yours. Lips brushing against yours. "My apologies."

Chrollo's lips were right on yours. Kissing you. Demanding more action and presence from you, but you couldn't kiss back. You could feel his disappointment in your lack of action. Yet, he still continued the kiss. Placing a hand at the back of your head. Forcing the kiss to deepen as much as he could do with such a stiff partner. His tongue swiped across your lips. You knew he wanted more, it made you want to throw up. Though it fueled a sudden surge of confidence that came over you. A want to survive and not play his game. Your arms shot forward. Pushing as hard as you could on his chest. Shoving Chrollo away from you. Managing to create some space between the two of you. It wasn't much, but it was enough to move away from him. Lurching forwards, you made your way from Chrollo. Darting out of the room, and through the house. Trying to get to any door. The front door was closest. You made your way to it. Dodging any tables or couches, even in the dark you could navigate your place. But when you could see the door, you saw him. He was in front of it. The light shining from a powder room not too far from him showcased his features. He was smiling. Enjoying your little attempt.

Chrollo was blocking the front door. Stopping, you turned and made your way to the back door. You would have to go through the living room and kitchen to make it to the backroom. Pushing yourself, you ran. Trying to get to it before him. You just needed to get out and run to a neighbour. Or even yell for help. Anything to get the attention of someone. Running through the living room, then the kitchen. Feeling the sweat drip down your back. You had gotten to the backroom, only to see him. He was there again. Standing, blocking the door. Blocking your way out. There had to be another way out, maybe back to the front door again could work. Turning around, attempting to run back. You couldn't even get three steps away before his arms were wrapped around you. Keeping you in place, holding you still and incapable of moving. You tried to kick and hit. Anything to try to get him to let go. When you noticed none of that was working, you went to your last resort, screaming. But Chrollo's hand covered your mouth before you could get a sound out. Your heart was pumping, beating so fast. Tears came down as you sobbed into his hand. You were finally going to die. Die in your home, a place you considered safe.

"Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." Chrollo pressed his head against the side of yours. His mouth was close to your ear. "Calm down, you're going to be alright. Just listen to what I say."

You tried to come down, trying to soothe yourself. Levelling out your breathing. It was hard but eventually manageable. Anything to buy you some time, to try to run again when he let go. After a few minutes, you were breathing close to normal.

"Where's the girl from that night, huh? The sweet little thing that enjoyed looking at art all night? I miss her" Chrollo placed a kiss on your soaked cheek. "I need you to relax sweetie, okay? Can you do that? Stay calm?"

His tone was patronizing, his tone felt like he was talking to some child. Bile climbed up your throat. He was a murderer and a jerk. You tried to nod while his hand over your mouth kept you in place.

"Good girl. Now, swallow."

Without any warning Chrollo's hand over your mouth was moved, only to have his other quickly shove something between your lips. His hand made its way back over your mouth, while he pinched your nose. Forcing you to swallow whatever he had shoved in your mouth if you wanted to breathe. You attempted to refuse but couldn't last long. You could feel him smiling against your cheek when he realized you swallowed. Praises left his lips at how good you were being now, how corporating you will be when you two leave. You had no idea what he meant, but it didn't matter whether you understood or not. Because soon you felt strange, your legs felt frail. Your head felt heavy. This wasn't just the adrenaline leaving your body. Chrollo had drugged you. You gave one last effort, trying to pull from his grasp, but your hands could barely lift past your waist. Too heavy and weak to do anything. Your body was shutting down quicker than you could process, unable to help you at this point. Your eyes were even failing you, begging to be shut. Eyelids begging to shut, refusing to stay open any longer. Even after begging him to not play with you, he was doing what he wanted.

"It'll be fine. You'll be home soon."

His words confused you. You were home, he was in your home. He was the one who ruined your home, your safety. But your thoughts stopped as you slipped away. Slumping in his grasp unable to do anything. If only you could see the satisfaction on Chrollo's face as he carried you out. He knew you'd curse at him.

#yandere #yandere hxh #yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hunter x hunter x reader #yandere x reader #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo hxh #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #hxh #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter #chrollo fic #yandere anime

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reasonsforhope · 9 months

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AYESHA RASCOE, HOST:

With Spain and Portugal saying that hundreds of people have died from the heat waves sweeping through Europe this month, the longer-term view might come as a surprise. Over the past 50 years, the number of deaths attributed to weather-related disasters has actually fallen. Yes, you heard that right. The World Meteorological Organization says that the number of disasters has increased five times over the past 50 years, but the number of fatalities has fallen by two-thirds. Vox climate writer Umair Irfan has delved into this paradox and joins us now. Welcome to the program, Umair.

UMAIR IRFAN: Thanks for having me, Ayesha.

RASCOE: So how can this be? Like, how can the number of deaths be falling even though we hear the news, we see the disasters? You know, seas are rising, summers are hotter, hurricanes seem to be getting stronger. So how is it possible that deaths can be down?

IRFAN: Well, there are two main factors here. One is better forecasting - basically being able to get ahead of these disasters and then hopefully being able to get people out of harm's way. So that's really prominent with things like hurricanes and heat waves. We can actually see those things days in advance. The other side of the equation is how well we can cope with things like storms, fires and heat waves when they do occur. So we have better tools - things like sea walls. We have better building codes. We have firefighting teams that can get people out of fire zones. And so between those two aspects - you know, the better forecasting and the better tools - we've been able to avert a lot of deaths, even though the global population has grown about fourfold since the start of the 20th century.

RASCOE: Are the technological advances that you're talking about available even in less-developed areas?

IRFAN: It's not, unfortunately. And you're hitting on a very important point. You know, the WMO pointed out that about 90% of disaster-related fatalities that occur today are occurring in developing countries. And there's a huge gap in terms of being able to anticipate these disasters before they occur and being able to respond to them and being able to rebuild in their aftermath. And that really is a big shortfall that a lot of world leaders are starting to get concerned about...

You know, the World Meteorological Organization, they launched this initiative to basically say that they want the whole world covered by disaster early warning systems over the next five years. And they think that this is something that's going to be taking a big bite out of the fatalities and the casualties caused by these disasters. So I think it's worth highlighting the progress that's made, but also the progress that we still need to make.

-via NPR, July 17, 2022

Thanks so much to @gardening-tea-lesbian for the link!

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 1 year

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Don't expect a call | Xavier Thorpe x Addams!Reader

Summary: Your and Xavier's relationship unexpectedly turn into something else over the summer

Word count: 1.9k

Request: 6, 9, 22 with xavier please!! I'm dying to see what you will write with them, knowing how awesome your works in general are! Have a good day 💜 ‘‘Would you just shut up and kiss me already.’‘ + “I wasn’t done kissing you.” + ‘’How can you be so blind?’’

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Following the death of Principal Weems, the rest of the semester was canceled and everyone went home. Students and parents crowded the hall with their suitcases, making it difficult to navigate. Lurch would be picking you and Wednesday up, but you needed to find your sister first.

Your shoulder was still tender from the arrow you took during the battle against Crackstone, but it was healing well. There will undoubtedly be a scar, but nothing too noticeable.

Your eyes searched for a pink blob, figuring Wednesday would be with Enid. Since the battle, the two have been attached to the hip.

During your search, your eyes fell on Xavier at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing. He waved and you lifted your eyebrows. What could he want?

The heels of your shoes clicked as you walked up the stairs and made your way to Xavier. You and him had started on the wrong foot at your arrival at Nevermore, but you were good now.

A smile grew on his face when you appeared in his sightline, happy to see you were on your two feet and well. He tried to visit you at the infirmary, but you were already gone when he showed up.

''I heard you're a free man now,'' you said flatly.

Xavier nodded once. ''Yep. All charges dismissed.''

Although you weren't the one who wrongly framed him, you felt a little responsible for the time he spent behind bars. Wednesday needed to apologize for what she put him through. Those days and nights he spent in the small cell must've been long, sad and lonely — even for a solitaire like Xavier.

''I got you something. It's a thank you for taking that arrow for me. You didn't have to do that.'' He handed you a black box with a matching ribbon, trying to conceal how smitten he was for you. ''Welcome to the 21st century, Addams.''

You opened the top, impressed by the fancy wrapping, and revealed the small object inside the box: a brand new and shiny cell phone. Your eyes shifted to the gift giver.

''My number's in there already.''

''It's bold of you to assume I would need it.'' You closed the box. ''I hope you don't expect me to call you.''

Xavier shook his head. He would be waiting forever. ''No. Never. But I'd settle for a text, though.''

''Goodbye, Xavier.''

For the first weeks of being home, you ignored every one of his texts. You made it look like you didn't care, but deep down you were very happy to get a message from him. Thing kept telling you it was rude to not answer and that you should text him back, but Xavier knew to expect nothing from you. You doubted he was offended by your silence.

After a full month of silence, you started giving him short answers once in a while. He was surprised the first time you replied. He even sent you a shocked emoji of his face. But you had to tell him that the quote he was reciting was wrong.

And, you were starting to miss him. Just a little.

One late evening, you found yourself looking him up on social media. There were mostly artsy pictures of tubes of paint and dirty brushes, paintings, a garden you assumed to be in his backyard, and the most recent, a selfie of him and Ajax. According to the posting date, it had been taken a few days ago. You noticed Xavier's hair had gotten longer. He was now able to do a full ponytail without having shorter pieces falling out at the front.

He looked handsome.

Summer came, and so did Enid. After begging her parents to let her take a flight across the country to visit you and Wednesday — mostly Wednesday —, they finally agreed. Her mom said it was her reward for finally wolfing out, which sounded wrong to your ears.

Your parents were surprised when they saw her coming out of the Addams' black Cadillac, looking the exact opposite of their daughters, but they grew fond of her very quickly. After two days, she was already part of the family.

While Wednesday was slowly and secretly falling for the sweet werewolf who favored the color pink, you caught yourself developing feelings for Xavier. He had taught you how to make video calls and it was so much better than texting.

''What is this called again?'' you asked, seeing Xavier's face through the small screen.

''Facetime.''

''Oh. Yes.'' You always forgot the name. ''I like this.'' I like seeing you.

Xavier smiled, his dimples poking through his cheeks.

You began talking about the black dahlias you grew in your mother's greenhouse and although Xavier didn't know shit about plants and flowers, he listened to everything you had to say. He loved listening to your voice.

As summer went on, it was getting more and more difficult for him to hide his feelings. Even through a screen. He was falling hard for you. But you didn't like him that way and, although he deeply wished you would feel the same, he respected that. He liked you so much that he just wanted to be around you — or in your life —, including being okay with being placed in the friendzone, even if that was obviously the last place he wanted to be.

The leaves began changing colors and Lurch drove the Addams clan to the academy. A single black dahlia rested on your lap, which earned a confused look from your sister. If you wanted to bring flowers to your dorm, wouldn't it have been more practical to bring a pot?

You ignored her question and went back to looking out the window until the gates of Nevermore Academy came in sight. A strange feeling bubbled in your stomach and your mother didn't fail to notice the slight twitch of your lips.

After saying goodbye to your parents and Pugsley, Wednesday left to find Enid and your eyes searched the quad for Xavier. You spotted his best friend, and found the green eyed artist by his side.

A small smile curled on your lips, but you quickly composed yourself. To make up, you gave a death stare to the first year boy on your right. He quickly hung his head down. It wasn't nice, but you had a reputation to maintain.

Raising your eyes back to Xavier, you watched as he laughed at something Ajax must have said. It was nice to see him in person and not trapped in a tiny phone screen.

You smoothed your dress and went to him. ''Hi.''

Xavier's attention snapped the second you opened your mouth, a melody to his ears. ''Hi,'' he greeted back, trying to fight the smile on his face but failing.

Beside him, Ajax bit back a snicker, then excused himself.

''This is for you,'' you said, handing him the black dahlia you were holding. ''Grown in my personal greenhouse.''

A soft flush coloring his cheeks. Xavier acted standoffish with everyone, but you had him wrapped around your little finger.

A misogynist would be offended, saying men offer flowers to women. Not Xavier.

He accepted the single flower and twirled it between his fingers. ‘’It’s beautiful. Looks more a deep burgundy and a deep mahogany than black, though.’’

You scoffed lightly. ‘’Trying to impress me with your artist vocabulary?’’

‘’Is it working?’’

‘’No.’’

The corner of his mouth curled.

He would never admit it out loud, but Xavier loved when you’re mean to him. Your blunt honesty and one-liners that knocked people off their pedestals was part of your personality and he found it endearing.

Xavier's phone alarm went off and his smile fell. He fished the device out of his pocket, then read the reminder with a disappointed face. ‘’I gotta go. I have a video appointment with my therapist in ten minutes.’’

You didn't want him to leave, but you couldn't hold him back.

‘’Okay. I'll see you later.’’

‘’Do you...want to walk with me to the dormitory?’’ Xavier asked, holding his breath as he waited for your answer.

You gave him a single nod and headed toward the right aisle of the Academy.

As you were walking, Xavier’s arm could brush yours from time to time. Each time it did, you felt spiders in your stomach. You could smell his cologne too. A mix of pine and something else you couldn't decipher.

‘’After Dr. Kinbott's death and everything that followed, my father was quick to find me a new therapist. An expensive one that would fix all of his son’s crazies in the most secrecy.’’ Xavier scoffed, shaking his head at his father's terrible parenting. ’’She’s been helping me deal with the aftermath of my arrest and put order into my thoughts. I thought my life would go back to how it was before I got arrested, but it didn’t. Although I was proven innocent, some still believe I murdered those people.’’

‘’Tyler was the monster—’’ you quickly said.

‘’I know.’’ He dropped his head, his next words quieter. ‘’But I guess it’s easier to believe an outcast did it than the sheriff’s ‘normie’ son...’’

This made your heart ache for Xavier. He may be obstinate and irrational at times, but he would never murder somebody. Especially not Rowan, who he used to call his roommate and friend. They had a fallout a little before his death, but nothing that would have pushed Xavier to kill him.

If you heard anyone say something bad about him, they better run or they'll know what you're capable of. The Addams were known to be crazy, but you preferred to say wildly devoted to the ones you love — whether it be a friend, a family member or a lover. There's nothing you wouldn't do to defend or protect the ones you cared about.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when you reached the boys' dormitory.

That walk was over way too soon.

‘’Xavier?’’ He shifted his green eyes down at you, your height difference more apparent when you were standing close. ‘’Before we part, there's something I need to tell you.’’

He drew his eyebrows, a wash of concern over his face. ‘’I’m listening.’’

‘’This summer has been revealing for me. I found in you a friend I didn't know I needed. I've always been a lonely person and I'm comfortable that way, but it's nice to have a friend. But as the days and weeks went by, I found myself looking forward to your every text and call and sometimes, I never wanted them to end,’’ you admitted transparently. ‘’It took me a while to figure out why I was feeling that way and why I always had spiders in my stomach every time someone mentioned your name. Xavier, I…I think I want us to be more than friends. I don’t know if that’s how I’m supposed to say it, but—’’

Just like in those horrifying normies rom-coms, Xavier crashed his lips on yours, interrupting you with a kiss.

You took a few seconds to react, not expecting him to do this, but then responded to his kiss, standing on your tiptoes and curling a hand behind his neck to pull him closer. Xavier’s lips moved over yours with extreme softness, kissing you the way he always wanted to.

You pulled back for air, finding yourself smiling when seeing a smudge of your lipstick on his face. It wasn’t that noticeable, but you liked that it was there. ‘’I've never been in love before, so I cannot promise you I'll be a perfect lover—’’

Xavier shook his head. ‘’I don't care. Perfect is boring anyway.’’ He held back a grin, pressing his forehead against yours. ''I prefer spooky and kooky.''

—

Wednesday taglist: @sofiaadler @partyfly @hoodforcalum @thelilacmourning @ellessecretobsession @su-alteza-emia @achoo—uu @not-leaprvt @xaviersgf @peterparkerdilf @roadworkaheadisurehopeitdoes @dragon-chica @coldtacozinepanda @wrldofsage @eddiemunsonsluvrrr @capriaura @officialsaturn @babyfiva @maevaomizzolo @kelloggs-world @whosljt @ajpanda181 @belovedrey @emerycrt @elizabitchsshit @heaven-hiding @lilithlikestoread @est-liber @moonisu @dessxoxsworld @parker-nite @bellblake121890 @vesperazhier @kaldurahms-lover @beeebo234 @nephilimsss @mayuphoenix @sweetheartlizzie07 @watermelon-18 @snixx2088 @555stargirl555 @robinscardigan @chumchum19 @lilttblog @aphex2winn @heizenka @mystargirl-interlude @hwrtsiren @babygirljay20 @wildflowerlyss @strangersomeone @openfandoms @charlottelaffin @iheartmaddyperez @starless-starkov @ali-r3n @poppet05 @ell0ra-br3kk3r

@rhaenyraswife @teaganthemorningstar @aphex2winn @moompie @ifevilwhyhot @oliviah-25 @spenglerslime @wetwilliam02 @yellowcupcakes @haileyismoo @theyslayallday @wrldofsage @manofworm @rhydianissuperior @supersanelyromantic @nicangel13 @toylewestinnyc @meme-queen-1999 @rottenstyx @mxxny-lupin @idli-dosa @silenzju @ar40s @sweeterheartxamerica @renaissancewhxre @jordierama @lilppsblog @harrystylesfp @katsuki420 @ravenssh1t @izzy-laufeyson @iluvwomenblog @kenzi-woycehoski @arunaposeidondottie @liidiaaag @lilaconner @katsukis1wife @momoewn @amithesimpoffandoms @chaotic-fangirl-blog @hawkegfs @lyxrix @mommyruuetrue @acornacreacure @lucassinclairsgf @youdontneedtoknowthisinformation @aabananaa @starrrslove @marissapearle @sshesang @scarxvodka @xoxo-zainab @illf4iry @yourfavdummy @leoluvsur-pappy @kcskye123 @wenvierismycomfort @pedrosprincess @luvvtxinityy @targaryenmoony @icarly23

All and more taglist: @spiokybirdstarfish @kenqki @liidiaaag @hawkegfs @gillybear17 @areaderinlove @acornacreacure @black-rose-29 @fudge13 @cece05 @rosie-cameron @Caxddce @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @hi-bored-as-fcuk-rn @lovelyy-moonlight @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @marzipaanz

#xavier thorpe #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe imagine #xavier thorpe x you #wednesday #wednesday imagine

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themirokai · 3 months

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now I wanna know- why isn't drinking water free in the US?

Hi there friend! Thanks very much for taking the bait from this post. Buckle up, this is a long one.

If you want to put out a cistern and collect rainwater and use that, congratulations! Your water is free! Plus the cost of maintaining your cistern and keeping it clean. If you’re lucky enough to live somewhere with a high enough water table to have a well, then your water is also free + the cost of the well and well maintenance.

But if you want water to come out of your tap on demand and you can’t or don’t want to maintain a cistern and you can’t or don’t want to have a well… you need public water!

How do we get public water? Well, a government entity (usually. there are some private utilities, but that’s a different post. I have strong feelings) has rights to take water out of a river or a lake, or they have a reservoir, or they have access to an aquifer. Then they have to transport the water out of the source. This generally requires aqueducts or massive pipes, which are expensive and need to be maintained, which is also expensive. The pipe leading out of one of my utility’s reservoirs is 12 feet in diameter.

Does the water go directly from the source to your home? Nope! It gets piped to a water filtration plant! The process of modern water filtration is complicated but it involves both physical and chemical treatment to make sure the water isn’t carrying any parasites, harmful bacteria, or pollutants and it has the right pH. Not only are these filtration plants extremely expensive to build and maintain but the process of operating them is extremely expensive, both in terms of hiring skilled staff and having appropriate materials for the filters and chemical treatment.

After the treated water (called “finished water” in the biz) is ready it does get piped to your house.

If you use public water, do you know where your local water filtration plant is? No? That probably means it’s not in your immediate neighborhood, which probably means it’s several miles or more away. To get to your house, the water needs to travel through an extensive pipe network. These pipes are smaller but they have to remain pressurized so that no contaminants can get into the water on its way to your house. But pipes break! Especially if you live somewhere with a freeze/thaw cycle. Maintaining this pipe network is, you guessed it, expensive! It requires materials and extremely skilled workers who perform in very very difficult conditions. Plus lots of engineering to keep the whole system pressurized even when one part of it breaks. Oh, and you know what lots of pipes were made out of in the early 20th century? Lead! So all around the country utilities need to make extensive and costly infrastructure upgrades because now we know lead pipes are really freaking bad.

Okay, so you get the basic picture. And I haven’t even gotten into Safe Drinking Water Act compliance, but most of that happens at the filtration plant. Oo! Or desalinization because some utilities pull their water from the sea and need to take the salt out. I know basically nothing about this except that it is likely complicated and expensive to do at scale.

This is essentially why I get frustrated by people who argue “why should we pay for something that falls out of the sky?” Because finished water doesn’t fall from the sky and it sure as hell doesn’t fall from the sky into your faucet. (Side note: as a public utility official I have been screamed at by the “it falls from the sky” people. A thing I like about the private sector is that people scream at me a lot less.)

Now, there is a very strong argument to be made that because water is necessary for human life, it should be provided by the government for free to everyone. And just like the costs of roads or public education, this should be part of the public budget and paid for by taxes and no one should have a water bill. I don’t disagree with this. I’m sure that’s how it’s done in some countries.

I don’t have a well-researched answer on the history of water utilities but I do have some facts and some (very) educated conjectures. Water rights in the US are complicated (another separate post!) but they’re based on private ownership. Ever since white people came to this country people have been claiming ownership over water and charging each other money for taking water out of rivers or lakes or the ground. You can measure how much of it someone uses and charge them for it. Water is treated like a commodity because unlike other public goods, it *can* be treated like a commodity and then, you know, capitalism. Again, I’m not saying that’s right.

But as a society, if we believe that no one should have a water bill, then we need to figure out how to pay for all the very expensive steps in the process I outlined at the top. Could that just be taxes? Sure, if you have a system that supports taxes at that level. Do I believe that public funding of water infrastructure would be a fuckton better than a lot of things we use taxes for now? Absolutely! But that requires massive institutional change and this isn’t generally an issue that people know enough about to demand change.

If you read this far, congratulations! You now know more stuff about drinking water!

#hey if you enjoyed reading this consider reblogging it #it took me a while to write up #and I love educating people about this stuff #also if you have follow up questions please send them along #miro does asks #miro irl #drinking water #public utilities #water utilities #public water #long post

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 7 months

Note

Hello! Could I please request Ragnarok characters with a Joan of arc reader? If you don't know, Joan was a powerful female warrior and commander in the 15th century in France, she was the reason why France won the 100 year old war against the United Kingdom, she was also described to be very passionate and open minded, she won her first battle at 14 years old but after her win against the British Empire, at 19 years old, she was accused of being a witch and then she was burned alive

Romantic: Thor, Lu Bu, Poseidon, Jack the Ripper, Heracles, Shiva (? Maybe, you can choose with him), Raiden, Buddha, Hades, Qin Shi Huang, Nikola and Leonidas

Platonic: Odin, Zeus, Adam, Zerofuku

I also feel like Brunhilde would choose her to fight in Ragnarok because she is quite strong, and also has great strategy (because of her being a commander) and during the battle reader absolutely DESTROYS her opponent, but is still very respectful

That's all! Thank you very much if you do my request! (Sorry for bad writing, english isn't my first language)

-You had only been 19 when you died, being burned at the stake at the hands of your enemies, deeming you a heretic while you were only following God’s will, serving and saving your country.

-You were immortalized as one of the greatest heroes of all time, despite your age, and many respect you for what you had been able to accomplish in your life.

-In Valhalla, you were welcomed with a grand feast, many praising your hard work, but you surprised them with your humble, almost shy, nature, thanking them so sincerely.

-You learned the hard truth, after meeting God, who had spoken with you, that he didn’t care who died for him, only caring about spreading his name, as he brushed you off when you asked to do more for him.

-It was hard for you, learning the cruelty of gods, not just your god, but other gods as well, learning how they liked to toy with humans, treating them as mere playthings.

-There were gods that you met during your time that weren’t like that, ones that were truly kind people, but there was always good with bad, and gods were no exception.

-Many looked down on you, as you were just a human, but many grew to respect you, seeing you demand respect, not for yourself, but for others, calling them out on their cruelty, they were the ones who created humanity, and those in power should never abuse those who look up to them for guidance and protection.

-You gained a reputation of a human warrior who never backed down for what was right, even putting yourself at risk, but you never shied away, and for that, many of the gods did come to respect not only you, but other humans as well, seeing their dedication and determination despite the adversity.

-When Ragnarok was announced, you were disappointing in the gods for wanting to take the easy way out, but there were some who spoke against the destruction of humanity and were willing to give humanity a chance, but they were outvoted.

-Brunnhilde approached you to be a fighter and while you are not one for violence, you accepted, determined to save humanity, because you knew that there was good in humanity, just like with the gods.

-You surprised everyone by requesting to fight first, as you had a challenge to put to the gods and when you walked out, holding a sword and shield in full armor, you stunned all by immediately kneeling, showing respect to your opponent.

-As you stood, you spoke, issuing your challenge, “I will fight for humanity, but I beg the gods to show mercy if I am able to prove that humanity deserves to live on!”

-Zeus, intrigued by your dedication, allowed you to continue on, coming down into the arena, and you spoke, “If I win, give humanity another chance and call this tournament off. Senseless death is not the way to settle things. And if I am destined to fall, then you gods may decide our fates from there, just as you always have, I just pray that you don’t turn your back on those who looked up to you.”

-Your words rang out around the arena, hearing your challenge and hearing your jab at their poor treatment and management of humans.

-The humans were quick to rally behind you, cheering loudly for you, chanting out your name as the gods looks stunned, seeing the fire in your eyes.

-Shocking everyone, Zeus agreed to the terms of your challenge, filling the arena with a lot of shouts of shock and outrage.

-You kneeled down, showing him the respect he deserved, thanking him for his kindness, he said nothing to you before leaving the arena to face your opponent, Eris, Goddess of Chaos.

-Despite being a young maiden, you were a warrior, a champion for humanity, and you were ready to give everything to give humanity this one chance at survival.

-Eris mocked you, calling you and the other humans weak, but her mouth dropped at your clap back, “You gods made us that way. If we weren’t weak, you wouldn’t be able to push us around. This is why we fight back, to prove that we are stronger than you made us.”

-She charged and you quickly went on the attack, your moves sharp and precise, showing the years of hard work and training you’ve put into being a warrior, easily beating back Eris, stunning all, showing that just because you had power, if you didn’t know how to use it, it was useless.

-In the end, you stood over Eris, your sword at her throat, eyes ablaze and she swallowed hard, not wanting to die, but you had bested her in every way and she stunned all by submitting, forfeiting the match to you.

-Eris was a prideful goddess, she would never admit defeat to anyone, and for you, a human, to make her do that in front of everyone, you very quickly proved that humanity was truly strong. You then stunned her, offering her a hand up and she looked up at you in shock, thinking you were mocking her, but there was no trace of that in your eyes, you truly wanted to help her, and for that, she took your hand and you pulled her up and she gave you a small nod in thanks.

-Zeus couldn’t help but smile, bowing his head to you, agreeing to his side of the bargain and he spoke, giving a passionate speech about how the gods need to be the gods they claim to be, they need to guide and care for their creations, they wanted the humans to truly believe in them and give them a reason to believe.

-You couldn’t help but smile, tears welling in your eyes as the stadium cheered loudly, cheering for you and Eris for the fight, cheering that humanity was safe and the gods were going to be the gods they always should have been.

-While appreciative of your actions and hard work, there were some who were disappointed that they didn’t get to fight, as they had been hoping for a real challenge and this competition was going to give them that. However, your drive was impressive, and they respected you for that, it made them want to know a bit more about you, they wanted to know what drove you to fight so hard. However, they were stunned to find that despite your level headed approach to combat, fighting with ferocity and precision, you were still a young maiden, one that was a little shy when it came to relationships and flirting. This made you all the more alluring to (Love) who found this to be cute, wanting to see what other sides there were of you.

-Shiva, Thor, Lu Bu, Raiden, and Leonidas

-Was impressed with you, as he had never met someone like you before, especially a woman, but found himself drawn to you, wanting to know more about you. He was respectful to you, as you had respect for him, something he did appreciate, and he didn’t push the idea of a relationship with you until he got to know you more, mainly because he initially wasn’t thinking about it, he just wanted to know more about you. He found your shyness with romance endearing, thinking it was cute, as you were always such a confident person, both on and off the battlefield. It awoke something in him, finding it alluring, wanting to see more of that cute shy side that not many would get to see. He wanted to keep it all for himself, not hesitating to tease you to see it, finding you adorable, but he knew, if you wanted to, you could probably kick his ass. You were truly a unique person.

-Hades, Poseidon, Qin Shi Huang, Jack, and Odin

-Immediately sought you out after the fight, wanting to know if you were okay, as you did take a couple of hard hits, but wanted to congratulate you for your hard earned victory, and to thank you for what you did for humanity. He was stunned by your drive, seeing your motivation to protect humanity, willing to give your life to give them a chance. While a bit disappointed for not being able to fight, as he was curious on who he would have fought and if he would have won or not, he wasn’t going to complain to you, not after all the hard work you put in to make it happen. Was stunned to see that despite everything, all your hard work and dedication, you were still so humble, thanking him for his kind words with a shy smile on your lips. He was not expecting to see your face turn bright red when he asked you out for a drink, to thank you for your hard work, but he couldn’t help but grin, you looked so cute!

-Hercules, Nikola, and Buddha

-Came to you after the fight, seeking you out in the infirmary as you had taken a couple of hard hits, and Brunnhilde told you to get checked out, not wanting to risk your health or safety. Immediately came over and put his hand on your head, like you were a child, asking if you were okay (for Zerofuku he dove into your arms, hugging you around your waist). You assured him you were okay and he was relieved, but silent for a moment before he sat beside you and quietly praised you, telling you that you were an amazing person for your dedication. Your cheeks warmed at his praise, but you thanked him before you smiled, “I just wanted to give everyone something to believe in.” He patted your head again, smiling softly, “You’re a good person, Y/N.” you smiled again, getting cleared from the nurses and he spoke, “C’mon- the other warriors who were going to participate set up a feast for you- to thank you.” You were surprised, but immediately smiled, thanking him warmly.

-Zeus, Adam, and Zerofuku

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror hades #ror poseidon #ror qin shi huang #ror jack the ripper #ror odin #ror heracles #ror nikola tesla #ror buddha #ror zeus #ror adam #ror zerofuku

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natimiles · 2 months

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Bringing Mozart into the 21st century and making him travel by modern transportation

Tags: lots of cursing; spoilers from his route?

“No fucking way” is his first response when you show him a car and tell him you’ll use it to get around town. He’d walk a thousand miles, but he won’t climb into this... thing.

He ends up having to climb into the thing.

His first ride, he thought it was worse than carriages. The big front window gives him full vision of everything, and HE. IS. PANICKING.

Mozart: There’s another one coming this way! *screeches* MC: Mozart, they’re just changing lanes. It’s fine, you’re fine. Mozart: Oh my God, we’re gonna die… *starts muttering under his breath* MC: … MC: Are you praying???

He’s gripping the seat and the grab handle so tightly that his knuckles are white. He’s not breathing the entire ride.

As soon as the car stops, he opens the door and throws himself out. He’s praying again, but now he’s thanking God he survived this hell. Good luck making him enter the car again to ride back home.

The first time you get on a highway is wild. If he was already losing his mind before, imagine when you’re going faster. He’s gripping the seat, screeching, and praying. All at once. The whole time.

He might’ve passed out. If the sudden silence is any indication...

You can’t make him board an airplane. The first time you tried was to go back to your home country, and he caused a scene at the airport. You had to dope him with sleeping pills.

He won’t board that huge, dangerous thing that flies again. How the fuck do they even fly???

Once he gets used to cars, things get easier. But it takes him a while, though.

He still yelps when he’s distracted and suddenly sees a car changing lanes.

He will open the window and pick fights. Someone didn’t signal? A car suddenly cuts in front of you? A pedestrian runs in front of your car out of the crosswalk? He’s screaming in German at the person.

You can try to make him ride a motorcycle, but it’ll be worse. He’ll cling to you, probably make you lose balance, and you two fall. And then he’s like “I told you these things are fucking dangerous!”

He won’t let you ride motorcycles again, even if you’re alone.

If you show him a car with autopilot, he freaks out. He’ll remember the time he went to buy a piano and it was playing by itself. Does the 21st century have haunted things too?

Masterlists

#I wanted to make a headcanon for so long hasiuehasiuehas #finally did it yay #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp wolf #ikevamp hcs #ikevamp headcanons #ikemen vampire headcanons

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neonovember · 1 year

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steve rogers as a husband headcanon!

things about husband!steve that just makes sense

steve isn’t big on pda, thinks affection should be something private, he’s old school like that, there are some exceptions however, some very fun ones

even though he might be abit of an aversion to pda, steve will make sure that you know he’s just there

whether it be holding your hand, or his palm guiding you through a big crowd, he always feels a need to keep you at arms length.

steve is extremely protective of you..like bordering on possessiveness. he’ll even go as far are ignoring his own morals to make it sure, that people know his yours. It’s just that you’re the one thing that ever really grounds him back to earth, in moments where he gets lost in time and memories from before

“Hey I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of popsicle here, the iron suit is ready for you” Tony smirks, his legs perched against the coffee table. The Avengers are scattered around the tower's living room, half drunk and the other half trying to. You feel Steve’s grip on your waist tighten, and from the corner of your eye, you notice his orbs turning a ink-black. He leans across to Tony, whispering into his ear, the words falling out of his mouth like wine and into Tony. Tony’s eyes bludge comically, his throat bops as he swallows, nodding along to whatever Steve was saying, looking at you. Steve smiles, into his ear, it’s eerie, the way his canines glint under the high ceiling lights. You wish to the gods that you were given Bucky’s hearing but without a second, as if you had dreamt it in front of you, Steve is back beside you, only this time you feel his fingers slip between your thighs.

for some reason, I don’t get the whole “Steve being a horrible cook” trope, I genuinely think he’s an amazing cook and BAKER! that man can bake a mean batch of cookies

steve loves loves loves, calling you mrs rogers, or his wife. the first time he said it was well before you both uttered your vows, he just knew. oh and if you call him your husband? poor man will probably be hard for the rest of the day

steve has a breeding kink. we all know this, it’s practically attached to his file along with super soldier. but what most people don’t know is that he fucking lovess when you’re pregnant, it’s like senses go on overdrive until all he breathes, thinks and eats ;) is you.

steve has this fear of abandonment, mostly because he was, by his own country for a century. It seeps into his relationships, you’ll see if when he comes home from long missions and it’s as if he’s walking on eggs shells. His shoulders are tense and his holding his breath as if he’s just waiting to find the house bare and empty and your belongings gone. He gets really sensitive then, all murmurs and soft kisses and just holding you to remind himself you’re here.

there will absolutely be a time where steve fucks over the kitchen sink. the dirty dishes left abandoned (should I write this?)

steve can get a little anxious, and so his wedding band is something he’ll ALWAYS play with, he’ll twist its around his finger as a kind of reminder.

you love to tease him by bringing him lunch at the compound, wearing one of those sun dresses he adores because it gets him so. fucking. hard. He wont ever tell you though, just have to deal with it until he can get home, and by then you already panty less and on your knees waiting for him.

steve will probably force you to train with him, even if you can kick ass, he’ll pull a fitzgerald and force those trainers on you. poor boy is just scared that something will happen to you when his not there, plus, seeing you fight kinda turns him on. (just like anything else you do really)

Steve’s really bad at technology, we all know this, but he absolutely will try to learn how to use a phone so he can send you texts and updates throughout the day. he’ll take random pics of tony and sam when their not looking, take some Facebook mom ass selfies, take pictures of things he wants to draw and ask you if they’d look nice, he’s mind just constantly finds it’s way to you

cockwarming with husband!steve. that’s it

you help steve open up to the new things in this century, take him out to help him ease himself into the real world. people forget he never really got that chance, he died in one war only to be pushed into another.

it’s through you that steve learns that he’s obsessed with avocado. on toast, in milkshakes, everything, he’d literally a millennial

when things get too much, you’ll draw a bath and the both of you will just sit in the steaming water filled with some bubbles, candles illuminating the room instead of lights, and the ceiling to floor windows open. skin to skin helps steve calm his nerves, and it’s not abnormal for you both to stay in that position for hours

steve still gets shy around you, no matter how many years he’s been with you, he’s still that boy from brooklyn with a heart too big for him

steve has absolutely zero self control when it comes to you, say something nice about a necklace you see passing by? It’s on your neck the next day. Hears the sound of a slight rumble in your stomach? Steve’s whipping out his apron and making you eat something

steve is the type of man to never let you go to bed angry, even if you’ve both had a fight and he ends up on the coach it won’t be too long before you both find yourselves in the middle of the hallway missing each others touch

“babygirl, honey, my wife, doll, gorgeous”

you take priority over a lot of things in Steve’s mind, he’s never ever late to dinner, he’d rather lose his leg than disappoint you

sundays are for sex and sleeping

steve fucked you one time really hard over a drawer or ottoman and BROKE IT. now he’ll spend saturdays carpenting reinforced drawers, counters and bed frames ;)

makeup sex, and face and thigh riding <3

steve always feels as if he’s leaving a part of himself at home or with you whenever he leaves, he’s constantly watching the clock and bouncing that leg of his to get back to you.

steve would probably let bucky watch him fuck you..maybe.

even though I believe steve would be really possessive I also think he could easily be very private about his relationship with you. like that scene in aou where we meet Clint’s family? fury will probably drive up to some big cabin house with the avengers in the back and they’d be confused af when they open the door to find steve and you cooking in the kitchen with your kids running around the place.

“How much longer Fury, my backs starting to ache with this stiff as seat and Bucky’s feet in my face” groans Sam, leaning away from Bucky’s towering figure. “It should be around the corner” motions Fury, and just as promised the avengers pull into an expansive cabin house, elegant with is softened wood and timber gate ribboning around the land that seemed to stretch endlessly. When Fury had told them that he needed to grab something, they didn’t think it would end up with corny 70’s tunes cranking out throughout the car, one and a half hours from the city.

“This looks…lived in” Nat remarks, her fingers brushing against her holister, ears perked for any signs of human activity.

“Yeah, Fury, are you having us raid some lumberjacks generational home” Tony barks, stretching out his arms

“Just shut up and follow me” Fury sighs, before stepping through the gate and following the stone path. Wiping his boots across the mat, his reaches for the door, opening into the hallway of the strange home.

“Wipe your shoes, she hates when you trek mud in” Fury calls before walking in as if he owned the place

“She?” Thor whispers, what they all but Bucky thought. They followed unspeaking down the hallway leading to an open floor, the scene infront of them had their mouths hanging.

There Steve, their stone faces leader, fucking sautéing onions on large brimstone stove, laughter falling from his lips as you whispered into his neck. You were a sight to see, a dress falling onto your body like silk, cascading againts your curves, your hair was in an updo, curls draining your face and a bright smiling lighting up your eyes.

You were absolutely gorgeous, and to see Steve react to your affection in such a way told them you were more than just an old friend

“Bucky!” You smiles, reaching for the dark haired man, squeezing him in a tight hug.

“Hey sweet girl” Bucky smiles, gripping you.

Sam looked towards Bucky in disbelief, eyes shooting bullets at Steve in mock betrayal

“Really? You’re going to tell the ex murderer about your little secret life but not your saviour?” Sam mutters, before steve laughs gripping his chest.

“Sam meet my wife, doll now you know why I don’t let them near you” Steve whispers into your ear, making you giggle.

Sam reaches for your hand but you ignore it, going for a hug. “Oomf, hello to you too” Sam laughs hugging you back

“Hey Fury” You smile, waving a hand towards the man who nods in return.

“You all must be Natasha, Thor, Clint and Tony?, it’s so great to finally meet you” You speak, dimples pressed into your cheek

Clint seems to be the only one who snaps out of the rest of the avengers stupor, “I see you’ve pulled a Barton” He jokes, hugging you.

Once the rest of them finally greet you, along with some condescending remarks from Tony about “how the hell did you land her?!” The avengers sit around the table, drinking beer and eating good food and getting used to seeing Steve with his wife on his lap.

that’s all I have for steve at the moment, I’ll probably add way more later but I haven’t been uploading in ages and thought this would a quick little head canon for our spark spangled soldier!

p.s! requests are always open ;)

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simpingland · 2 years

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Wolfs and dragons, both have claws and teeth // Aemond Targaryen x Stark!preg!oc

Aemond aims to be a legendary Targaryan, but his wife Evanna founds more amusing his new interest on becoming the father of a legend. But traumas exist and pregnancies can feel like centuries.

Oc and Aemond are BFF but won't admit it, they also fall in love very subtly and Aemond is such a quiet simp for Oc.

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Aemond was a good father, but a quiet one. That was Evanna's first observation when he aproach the baby. She had fear he wouldn't appear until need it. Her father barely dined with her or her siblings. So, why would the prince, the one obsess with training and who didn't even liked her, be different? Her mother, the former Lady Lannister, warmed her once, at least a child will make the unhappiness feel like a duty completed. Yes, she had given the crown a proper heir, or thats what she thought, before birthing a girl.

The marriage was arranged easily, the second daughter of Jason Lannister was to wed the third child of the King. Maybe that was the only time her father counted on her and to be rewarded by a men like Jason meant danger for Evanna. She loved her mother deeply, she stayed by her side for fourteen years. Her mother's name was Lyrra, a Stark, always the best storyteller in Casterly Rock, a northern woman by definition, a mother of three children, none of them with her brunette hair or grey eyes. But she could see the roots of herself on her little Evanna, always quiet, but noble and truthful, her eyes never lied and she wasn't able to keep a secret. But she was also feisty when she was angered, and sensible when needed. A child with a dignity that didn't suited her blonde locks. Mother and daughter longed for something more in their lives. She wanted to take her mother back to the north, to send her protection and company, she wanted Lyrra to be part of the family that recognised her talent and personality, she would do her duty to free her mother from her owns. But when she died on the labors of a future baby brother, Evanna was left with ashes in her tongue and a cold hand between her small ones. She remembered the blood, she only remembered her blood, and the pain was so huge, so dark and blurry, she buried her mother deep in her memory. Because remembering her meant that her duty was pointless, that fate was cruel, and that every great soul could drown on their own puddle of blood and bones.

She told this to Aemond on their wedding night. The bedding was done, he denied to be pushed by people and Evanna thanked him by kissing him when he put her near. They didn't like each other, he saw in her a dull girl who inherited nothing but the golden hair of the Lannisters and a few golden jewellery. The rest of her was pure north, that cold country, strange and folkloric. But she was pretty, as every Lannister was, and her silence made her invisible in room full of snakes. He knew that she not only could hear, but she guarded everything in that little pretty head and judge with her eyes what she found interesting. Aemond had been the center of that interest the first two weeks of their betrothal, but he thought it was, obviously, because of the missing eye. But it wasn't only that. On the celebration, the now princess Evanna gifted him one of the rarest books in the Seven Kingdoms. A book about the diverse religions on Westeros and legends circulating around villages he didn't even heard about. All those stories were collected by more than a thousand maesters, each from different parts of the world.

"There's a chapter dedicated to Valyrian blood and it's descendents" she told him when a drunk Aegon laughed at the gift.

She knew about his interests of politics, and as a good northern girl, she included people's believes and traditions in the same aspect. At the end, isn't a king chosen by the gods to protect their people? He even felt ashamed of gifting her a simple silved ring.

"Little wolfs, little lions and little dragons... all have claws and teeth, sharp, always sharp" said Helaena the moment she greeted the bride.

The first time they laid together was better than what Evanna expected. They kissed gently and she was kindly treated by the prince. It hurted a bit but for the softness of Aemond made it simple and easy. They rested on the same bed, the limits of confidence already crossed and there was no need of looking for another bed when they already laid in that huge one.

"You are smarter that I thought" he said, looking at the cealing.

"I'm doing what I have to do, and to do it well I have to numb myself..."she looked at the ceiling too "It takes a bit of time, tho"

"You can be smart with me"

"You won't like it, my prince. Men think they want to be corrected until they reach perfection, but the hard truth comes and flaws appear. And at the end of they day they only want a wife to fuck at night and a wife to hush their babes at morning"

"Where did you learn all that gory philosophy" he looked at her.

"My mother"

"A Stark, sounds about right then"

It was then when she told him about her. Aemond could not relate, but he was the kind of person who found more confort in others point of view about pain. Maybe an absent father like Viserys wasn't as bad as Jason Lannister, and even tho he loved her mother Alicent, the bond between a mother and daughter was something else. And to lose a mother like that...it was a bigger ache than most.

On the weeks that followed, the newly weds barely changed their routines. Only at night the things were different. They would sit together at dinner when the family reunited, often commenting in the background, other times Evanna dined alone but ate a piece of lemon cake with Aemond, who just finished training or reading. They would share pages of books, the nights on the bed ended with conversations about the old Westeros, talles about beyond the wall or a bit of gossip about the Red Keep. They slept together because Aemond found a strange friend on that chamber, he felt no need of a bigger bed. Some nights he would kiss her again like the wedding night, and another attempt for an heir accured. Evanna enjoyed those nights, but because he insisted on ignoring her the majority of the days, she kept her illusions out of her mind.

Soon she found herself with a child. She vomited every single morning, Aemond already gone for the day. Alone, she cleaned herself, she pitied the maidens too much. She felt humiliated by her own body. When Aemond was told the news he felt divided. He was contempt about entering this part of his life, the father of a future Targaryen, a child who could build his own legend, like he was doing at the moment. But he thought of Evanna, such a beautiful woman, she now will be reduced as a mother of a Targaryen. She won't be able to ride every morning as she used to, or read as much as she likes to, or dance careless as the young lady she still was. All the looks she received for herself will be pass to the heir she will bleed on a few moons. One night, Evanna felt asleep before Aemond, something unusual. So he stared at her for so long one can't even count. Why was she so tired all of a sudden? It was she the one who spend her day fencing and traveling. The lack of sleep made Aemond woke a bit later than usual, so when he was about to leave, he heard the early morning sickness of his wife. He had never seen her in such pain. She was criying softly and tryed to push him away, not letting him help her.

"I've lost an eye when I was barely twelve,I've seen blood on the most violents of combats, I train day and night to kill my enemies when the time comes...you think this will repel me, Evanna?" He pulled softly her hair, caressing her back. He had seen her mother do this to Helaena back when she was pregnant.

"It does repel me" she said, tearing up for the pression.

"I'll call the maidens, you'll go with me and take some fresh air and fresh water" he said, helping her up.

The fatter she got, the more fake smiles she was giving around the halls of the Red Keep. The only one acting normal was Aemond, he kept eating cakes with her, he kept holding the chair besides him on the big dinners, and he acted as his there wasn't a bundle the size of a watermelon under Evanna's dress. She liked that, she felt good around him, because he respected her loneliness and at the same time, he was the only one making her forget about it. Aemond on the other hand, spend her days thinking about her, he made sure that lemon and flour arrived well, thinking on names and writing down every name that made a mark on history, to inspire their future son.

The week Rhaenyra came back to King's Landing, she was on the final days of the labors, according to the maester. The princess recognised the pregnancy as the first one of Evanna and she also remembered her mother's fate, a very similar one to her own dear one. Rhaenyra reached her late in the night to congratulate her on the baby, as everyone does to a pregnant woman. She eyed the girl first, thinking about what she would have liked to hear during her first pregnancy.

"I know mothers should never safe a bigger place for any of their children...but the ones that scares you the most always drags you the furthest. For me was Jace...the first one" she smiled looking at the teenage boy who drank with his own grandfather and step-father. "I was absolutely terrified when I was pregnant with him...and the fear continued with Luke and Joffrey..." she turned to look at Evanna. "It is a hard thing to do, my mother said it was our own batterfield...but to create them, to have a creature that makes you feel need it...your love for them would grow inside you the moment the get into your world... I deeply believe that my mother's love was so big that it keeps protecting me and my loved ones. And I believe deeply that your mother's love will be with you when the time comes".

She spoke and instead of caressing Evanna's belly like everyone did, she caressed Evanna's face. The soft exchange was not missed by Aemond at the other side of the room. They wished each other a very sincere goodbye and when they left back to Dragonstone Evanna embraced her out of an impulse.

The night he saw the two woman talking he came to bed quieter than usual. She looked at her husband cautiously because for the first time since the pregnancy, he looked stroked by the belly of Evanna. He stared at it as if he was impressed by a pregnancy, maybe he just realised that I'm going to pop up in any giving moment, she thought. But when he lied by her side she knew what it was.

"He has never kicked you" he spoke.

"He moves, i can reassured you" Evanna smiled at his concern "but he hasn't kick yet, such a good baby". She then slowly took his hand and put it in her belly. "Let's see if he's awake, maybe he likes you more". Aemond remained still, both waiting for a response.

"Do we agree on the baby being a boy?" He asked.

"Well, you were the first one doing it...I just follow, kind of manifesting our wish"

"I didn't know you wanted a boy...always thought woman preferred girls" he moved his hand around the belly trying to awake the occupant.

"I'll be glad if he's a boy, everything would be so easy..."

"You would be "glad" if is a boy, but you do "wish" for a girl. Confess it" he looked at her, half smiling.

"I just want everything to go well" she half confessed. Of course she wanted a girl, a girl for her to raise, a loyal companion, maybe a selfish wish that would be enjoyed until she has to marry her little girl off. She now became the puzzled one when Aemond put his head under her shoulders, his face extremely close to her belly.

"Maybe this little dragon is so offended by our assumptions that refused to move...Is that the case? Is my little dragon a feisty baby girl?" He whispered, stroking the belly.

It was then when a kick was thrown. Evanna cryed out, not too laud or alarming. Just a little scare, but Aemond sense it too. They exchanged a look. She decided to rise her sleeping gown up to her breast, fully showing the belly. They observed it for a few moments, hesitating. "Speak again"

"Was I right? You would do well by listening to me so early, making me a proud father...if for the contrary you are just rebelling against me...we will have a talk before you even learn how to, little dragon" he said in a serious tone, Evanna smiled, she barely saw the goofyness of his husband. He did have a sense of humor, but not the kind of humor that included to degrade himself just to make a kid laugh. He enjoyed this version of him. The baby kicked again and they both let out a stupid noise of surprise.

"I couldn't tell which option he, or she, chose" she smiled at him. "Buy the baby certainly likes your voice".

That made Aemond smile. The baby started to kick softly. Evanna hummed the first song that came to mind, maybe the baby could feel the vibrations. Aemond then putted his head in Evanna's chest, his hand still on the moving belly. They slept like that for the rest of the night.

Three days later, Jason Lannister visited her daughter. A dinner was held, even though the maester recommended rest for the pregnant woman, she felt the need of showing for her father, to remind him that she was as part of the family as he wanted her (or himself) to be. Viserys order to put her chair by his side, he had grown font of his good daughter and Alicent wanted her closer than usually as well. The night was full of stupid comments by the Lannister, only his brother Tyland felt confident enough to shut him. Aemond could feel the uncomfort of his wife.

"I want to propose a toast to my daughter, Evanna" he didn't even stood up. But Aemond did, cup in his hand, and the rest raised with him as well, only Jason was awkwardly left down. He stood then. "My only daughter, you completed the dream I dreamed for yourself. You may look like me, but the Seven made you with your mother in their eyes, kind and dignified". Evanna was emotional, the first time she heard his father praise her mother, she loved to be compare to the person she loved the most. He then chucked "Let's hope the Seven gave more hips to the daughter than they did to the late mother".

Only Jason laughed alone. To stunned to speak, they looked at him, he only quickly stopped at the silence. Evanna stood up, breath heavy on her chest. She got closer to her father. She spoke slowly once she faced him.

"I hate you so much, father....I hope you die slowly, chocking on your own blood, nobody to save your body and soul"

Anger possessed the lord, his hand raised to hit the girl, but the noise of a sword unsheathing made him stop. It was Aemond, pointing at the lord.

"Don't dare touch my wife ever again, Lord Lannister, or you won't have fingers left to put your pretty rings"

The tension kept the room in silence. The King was offended, his late wife's death came into his mind again, and he was willing to punish the Lord. But the girl started to panic.

"I...I think something happened" she cryed, fear eating her face. Alicent ran to her, Helaena tried to help, holding Evanna by the hands and back while Alicent look at the girls underskirt, the water broke, a little blood dropped too.

It went to fast, but too slow too. It was more of an endless compilation of fast pacing around. She heard the King's word to Lord Lannister, letting him know that her daughter was what would keep him alive after that comment. Aemond did not know what to do. Few men entered their wives labors, the screams of Evanna scared him too. She was in pain, that was for sure, but he knew it was something else in her mind.

Evanna only could say a word, "no". She said no to everything. To knee in front of the bed she said no, to hold still she said no, to breath deeply she said no, to push when the pain strikes she said no. Alicent took her face in her hands.

"Lyrra Stark survived and succeed this pain three times before she was took by the gods. She was as much of a wolf as you, she is here with you tonight".

"I CAN'T FEEL HER HERE" she cried.

"She is, Evanna, but you can't barely breath how are you suppose to feel her. Now, my dear, look at me, breath deeply. Do it for her".

She breathed, Alicent with her. Hands tight, eyes locked. The pushes started and the cries travelled the castle.

The men of the family paced on the dinner room. Jason didn't left immediately, he was willing to meet his grandson. So he drank alone, Tyland looked at him trying to scold him in silence. At the screams, Viserys touch his sons shoulder.

"It's in their nature, Aemond. It makes you wonder if soldiers are lucky their pain is quicker and smaller"

"Women have this tendency of exaggerating, your grace...when a baby was delivered on my house our Father used to take us for a hunting. He was annoyed by mother...I undertood him after my first son..." said Jason, he was already drunk, so Aemond only gave him a look. He looked at the King and bowed before heading to his wife's quarters.

He reached the door when the last pushed was announced. So he was there when the crying started. It was a baby's screams, a healthy angry baby. The now mother was bleeding, sweating and crying. She didn't saw him, but Alicent did. The Queen smiled at him and stood up, leaving Evanna to catch her breath.

"Evanna did amazing. So quick, very clean. She hasn't bleed to much. In my experience, I say she will be fine" she steped behind.

The maids cut the umbilical cord, the after birth was easily done and the baby covered in a blanket. The mother begged to see the baby.

"A girl, princess" said the midwife, a serious tone.

The little of hair she had was brunette, pail like a Targaryen but when she opened her eyes, they were grey, Stark grey eyes. For a moment she feared for Aemond's wishes, but she was mesmerised by her baby. She had in her arms the evidence of her heritage. She had made a little werewolf. She saw her dearest friend alive once again.

Everyone left, except Aemond. The bed was properly accommodated for the mother to rest. Aemond helped her get into it, but he didn't hold his daughter yet. He only saw. She was sleeping at the arms of her mother. Maybe he thought she had been unfaithful, that the baby was a bastard. But he had a feeling, something in his chest made him trust his wife, and she recognised in the baby some features identical to Helaena's and Aegon's babies. The lips form, the long of the noses. And the baby had her grey eyes open so wide...it was Aemond's eyes, the same distance between then, and the way her mouth rested. She was her daughter too, she was a Stark, but a Targaryen as well.

"I guess you were right, we offended her the whole time" She tried to joke.

"Well, that explains why she refused to look like a proper Targaryen" he said, also joking, but being as dry as always. He laid next to them. It was then when he decided to take her in his arms. The baby started to cry. The mother tried to hushed her softly but she cried more and more. So Aemond did something that worked once.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone...Jenny would dance with her ghosts..." he started to recit. He didn't sing, he just spoke. "The ones she had lost and the ones she had found...And the ones who had loved her the most...The ones who'd been gone for so very long. She couldn't remember their names...They spun her around on the damp old stones. Spun away all her sorrow and pain..." he started to rock her, she stopped crying and started to close her eyes. "And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave...Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave".

The baby was sleeping. Father, mother and daughter cuddle up in the bed, both parents looking at the little person inside the blanket as if it was a box full of explosives. When she left a sudden but soft sigh they couldn't help but smile, feeling relieved at the sign of a peacefully sleeping creature. The wife looked at the husband and the husband looked at the wife. They both did it at the same time, perfectly connected, they kissed. Long and sweet. She then felt asleep on his shoulder. He was left with the two woman. What was he doing now with all those names annotated? None of them were female names...well, if he looked again, a Targaryen name wouldn't suit her. Aemond remembered a story then and his mind was made up.

Her little dragon, her little werewolf, both have claws and teeth, sharp, always sharp.

Lyrra Targaryen, first of her name.

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