#I SCREAMED WHEN I SAW MATT

[talyn-gray]

DDBA EP3 SPOILERS

Matt hears it on the morning news the next morning. Hector Ayala, found dead on a sidewalk in the White Tiger suit and mask. Not even forty two hours after he revealed the man's identity. Guilt catches around his throat like a noose and something deep inside him says he deserves to feel like he's suffocating.

okay, okay i needed to get that out of my system. in all seriousness i fucking lost it when Matt outed Hector as a vigilante. My immediate thought was 'what the fuck he'd never do that because he knows how it feels to have a secret of that gravity exposed' and then the very real weight of it returned. THIS is Matt without Foggy. This is Matt with no anchor, no point of reference for when to pull back the reigns. he has truly gone off the deep end and i think he knows it because he didn't tell Kirsten or Cherry he was planning on doing that. It's cruel but he thinks he's doing something necessary.

Matty... you're like an ex situationship I worry about

[snapbackslide]

Happy birthday to this very special guy 💜💚💙❤️ | 25.03.14

[thequeenofmyownscreen]

Spenser, directly to Brennan : "We're going to step behind this thing [the astrolabe in the décor]. And we're going to talk. You have the option of saying "yes" to his demands here, or of saying "no". If you say "no", you could fight your way out of this. It will be a dice roll. On a 1, 2, or 3, he will kill you and will replace you. On a 4, 5, or 6, you survive and he dies."

THE SHRIEK I LET OUT

[reneke]

my lord

[ziggyplayedguitar96]

THEY GOT NO. 1 PARTY ANTHEM

[skitskatdacat63]

Everyone in The Talented Mr Ripley is just the physical embodiment of a Leyendecker painting(including the homoerotica!!)

[augustheart]

why did i read so much mighty crusaders stuff? to test my abilities

[blackshadowswriter]

BESTIE WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, YOU ARE SO INSANE I LOVE YOU

Ok i'm ngl, I've been horrendously absent from here, but then I pop back in bc I need some of your fics to get me through the day, and then I see you've posted this?? fucking?? masterpiece???

The way I gasped at the summary and then gasped even louder at the warnings and then gasped again at the word count 😭😭 you spoil us too much with your writing girl and i'll always eat it up

I LOVE the premise to this so much, like I was already obsessed with your other vampire!reader x Matt series, but then I saw this one was VAMPIRE!MATT and I was like sign me tf plss 😫🙏 the idea of an interview is so creative and I could already tell there was gonna be so much sexy tensy where tf did that shorthand come from, i mean sexual tension ofcc

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.

Reader is such a mood with this one, like they said "don't talk about it" and she said "fuck you, I'm gonna" and I absolutely love that for her

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

POETRYYYY, also I love how Matt takes the effort to write pretty and with a whole ass fountain pen, like mans is down BAD trynna impress her and I get it tbh

You don’t know me, but I know you.

DRAMATIC ASS MATTHEW BUT ALSO THAT'S KINDA HOT, WHY'D THAT GIVE ME CHILLS

also i might be chronically online too much, but this just made me hear that one "you dont know me but i know you" sound in my head 😭

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

The 242 sounded so fucking dry LMAO like I can hear Matt saying it with a heavy sigh, poor baby is too done with this life 😭

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.

AGAIN DRAMATIC FOR NO REASON MATTHEW WHY, also the way this would have scared the shit outta me so badly, reader is sm stronger than i could ever be 😖✊

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged.

LMAO BABY YOU JUST WAITTTT tbh matty would be hot anyways so idc id fuck him any age OK IM SORRY

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.

THE WAY MY FACE TRANSFORMED INTO THE SMIRKY EMOJI BECAUSE I KNEW EXACTLYYY WHERE THIS IS GOING, BITY SEX LETS GOOOO

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.

MATTHEW IN THE BLACK SUIT WITH THE WHITE DRESS SHIRT, I CAN'T ✋😩😫 NOT TO MENTION THE CHEST HAIR, BESTIE YOU'RE KILLING ME WITH THIS

thank you sm for your service with the white shirt and the chest hair, you are my saviorrrrr

“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.”

DIRTY MIND DIRTY MIND, MATTHEW YOU NAUGHTY CATHOLIC tbf he has reason to be smug, like i wouldnt say that either, now 'get in' is a different story-ok ill stop being horny now

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.

I LOVE how you worked Elektra in like that, like it's an AU but it follows the plot SO WELL and your description of her actually has me IN LOVE, ITS GORGEOUS

I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.

THE LINEEE HE SAID IT, HE SAID THE LINE YESS, peak writing at its finest, bestie 😌👏

“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."

OH MY GOD, THE RELIGIOUS IMAGERY, I LOVE IT? BESTIE YOU'RE ACTUALLY A FUCKING POET HOLY SHIT. "im judas and i retired the day I was crucified" ASDLKFJA THIS IS THE BEST SHIT I'VE EVER READ, IDK WHY THIS ONE LINE MAKES ME FERAL BUT IT'S SO GOOD WHAT THE FUCK

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 HALO HE BELIEVES ARE HORNS, GOOD LORD AGAIN??? MORE BEAUTIFUL RELIGIOUS IMAGERY??? HOW ARE YOU COMING UP WITH THIS BESTIE, IM IN ACTUAL LOVE RN

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. 

help i cant breath now MATT PINING HER AGAINST THE WALL AND JUST TOWERING OVER HER IS SO HOT AHHH

and his eyes, pls they're so pretty 😩 READER IS LIVING MY DREAM RIGHT NOWWW

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. 

ADLKFJSD THEY ARE SUCH SOULMATES, THE PARALLEL OF THOSE LINES IM GONNA JUMP OFF A BRIDGE, THEY'RE SO PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER

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

This shit simultaneously has me tearing up and feral clawing at my screen because INVISBLE STRING I LOVE THAT, THEY ARE SO SWEET THIS IS WHAT I CALL LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT and also ETERNAL SACRIFICE? HELP THEY ARE SO DEVOTED I CANT

He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction.

🎶this life is sweeter than fiction🎶 I LOVE THE REFERENCES, I thought "invisible string" was just a coincidence but thissss

“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.”

THEM 😭😩🤧🥰 literally they are such goals fr, like idc he's a vampire that makes him hotter I WANT THIS TOO, I LOVE HOW SWEET THEY ARE, THE SALVATION PART IS SO BEAUTIFULLLL

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.

And now im crying, "his angel" THIS IS SO FUCKING SWEET AND AGAIN SO POETICALLY BEAUTIFUL OMFGGG "the only blood he ever wants to taste" THIS IS PEAK DEVOTION RIGHT HERE

bestie you put crack in this fic and didn't disclose it and that should be illegal because holy shittt you have me HOOKED on this, like I am DESPERATE for more of them, I LOVE IT SO MUCH YOU ARE SUCH AN AMAZING WRITERRRR

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.” 

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

“How would you know?” you counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[autumnmatt]

𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

summary: matt is playing fornite with his two brothers and he gets to loud when he keeps losing, causing his girlfriend to wake up from her slumber.

classification: fluff

warnings: kissing, pet names, suggestive language, use of y/n

it was about 3 in the morning and you were fast asleep in yours and matts bed, snuggled up in a blanket with matts stuffed pug mr. wrinkleton tucked under your arm.

matt on the other hand was in the middle of a very intense fornite match with his brothers nick and chris. there were about 10 people left in that match and your boyfriend was very determined to win.

all was going good during the game play until him and his brothers came across this very sweaty team. “on me on me!! these kids are good I need backup quickkk” matt yelled to nick and chris through his headset.

he then faced one of the opposing teammates but of course he lost the battle between them and got knocked. “FUCKKKKK” he screamed out of frustration. nick also got killed a little while after matt did by the same person.

y/n wasn’t that much of a heavy sleeper so when he started to yell out, she shifted in bed a little opening up her eyes to see what the yelling was coming from.

she looked up and saw the bright screen in front of her with fornite being played along with her boyfriend sitting in his gaming chair banging on the desk from just getting killed. she puts the blanket over her head and closes her eyes in an attempt to fall back asleep.

“CHRIS DUDE YOURE SO BAD THOSE KIDS WERE ASS” matt yells, slamming his controller on the desk making a very loud sound that could be heard throughout the room.

y/n tossed and turned once more slowly losing the battle of getting back to sleep. so she got up, yanked the covers off of her body, and started sleepily walking over towards matt, dragging her feet with every step she took.

once she made it over to the chair where he sat she stood there, waiting for matt to realize she was standing here. and once he did he could see the pout forming on her lips, instantly feeling guilt for being so loud so late at night.

“oh baby I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” he frowned, muting his mic and taking his headset off then holding his arms out to her and patting his lap, inviting her to come sit down.

she straddled him and rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying the comfort of his warm body and taking in his familiar scent, the scent she loved most.

“go back to sleep baby, I promise I’ll keep it down”. he said and kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms around her so that he could still have access to the controller also slowly rubbing up and down on her lower back.

“come to bed with me.” she groaned into his shoulder. she was already strarting to fall back asleep.

“of course I will baby.” he smiled taking his hands off the controller putting the headset on one last time to tells his brothers his was going to sleep. he shut of his computer, put his headset and controller up and gently picked her up to bring to the bed.

you wrapped your arms around his neck to prevent yourself from falling out of his arms. your face now buried into his chest.

he set you down on your side of the bed before walking over to his pulling the blanket over the both of you and situating the pillows so they were at a comfortable position under your heads.

you faced him for a few seconds to say your goodnights. you kissed his lips lazily before speaking. “goodnight I love you.” you spoke up, resting your head onto his chest and wrapping your arms around him.

“goodnight I love you too baby”. he said before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. he kissed your forehead before you slowly drifted off to sleep in each others arms.

a/n: AHHHH I think this is so cute. my 2nd story on here, thank you so much for the love on my first story and definitely send me some requests. hope you enjoyed this fic, love you all!!!

taglist: @stayingstromboli @conspiracy-ash

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[sweetshuga]

「 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 ’𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 ✧ 𝑪.𝑺 」

ᯓ 𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕 + 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒃𝒚 @malsmind «𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏» ────

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻! ⋆ strangers to something ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ pet names ⋆ pussy eating ⋆ munch!chris ⋆ (kinda) mean!chris ⋆ dom!chris ⋆ fingering ⋆ degradation kink? ⋆ praise kink ⋆ edging? ⋆ squirting + more.

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 𝟑 𝒌

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: This is a collab with @malsmind (aka my baby momma) It took me 3 business days to write this ’cause I’m so fucking slow like that (ty for being patient Mal, luv uuu).

𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝑰𝒏 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒅: English is not my first language!

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: What happens when Chris actually ends up reading your anonymous confession out loud?

Act 1: Chris is definitely not a munch...

You sat on one of the seats in the third row from the front, nibbling on your bottom lip as you smoothed out your pink t-shirt that had "Certified Munch" written in capital letters on the front. You had incorporated the tee so well in your outfit that no one paid much attention to it—not like they could with all the excitement buzzing in the air.

Your heart thumped against your ribcage in anticipation as you waited for the triplets to appear. The countdown began and everyone went crazy, screaming the numbers as it decreased down to 1.

The cheers were loud when the triplets appeared. Screams of excitement filled the air when they laughed and talked on the microphone, greeting their fans before making themselves comfortable on the sofas.

About 15 minutes in, Chris stood up and brought a briefcase to the table in between the two sofas as Nick and Matt talked about the anonymous confessions from the last tour. Chris handed Nick a few q-cards before walking over to the sofa Matt sat at, handing him half of the remainder of the cards before sitting down beside him.

Nick had the honour to read out the first confession, then it was Chris’ turn.

"It might seem like a hot take and I might be wrong but Chris is definitely not a munch..." As Chris began reading the confession, his brows furrowed, voice getting more quieter with each word as his brain worked to comprehend what he just read out loud.

Your eyes widened slowly when you heard what you wrote being read out loud by none other than Chris himself. You were not expecting him to read yours. You had written the anonymous confession as a joke, thinking they would never read it in front of a whole damn crowd.

The triplets exchanged a glance, confused as to how the card was in there even though they had sorted out which ones to read and which ones to not.

The auditorium filled with giggles from those that understood what it meant and small murmurs from people that weren’t quite getting it.

After a few awkward seconds, Chris burst out laughing, reading the card again as he shook his head in amusement. "Wow... Who even wrote this?" He chuckled, eyes raking the crowd until it landed on you—he knew immediately that it was you.

What gave it away? C’mon now, you were wearing such a bold t-shirt—it’s too much of a coincidence not to be you.

You quickly shook your head no when they asked if you wanted to elaborate. Even though you were the one that wrote such a crude thing, you weren’t ready to confront it or be confronted about it.

Nick and Matt made some jokes here and there before it was Matt’s turn to read out a confession. Chris, however, had an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at the crowd before shifting his attention back to Matt when he started to read the next confession.

Act 2: Meet Chris backstage?

After the show ended, people were getting ready to leave and so were you. That’s when a security guard – you saw when you first entered the stadium – suddenly approached you.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stood up from your seat with your bag, afraid that you had gotten into trouble from the stunt you pulled with the anonymous confession.

The security guard spoke before you could ask him what was wrong. "Chris asked me to bring you backstage." You froze, blinking rapidly as you muttered out a very confused "what?" making the guy repeat himself.

You couldn’t believe it.

Chris? As in the Christopher Sturniolo asking you to come backstage? Yeah, it had to be a sick joke. But the security guard didn’t look like he was joking and that was messing with your head.

In the end, you followed the security guard backstage, still very much confused and nervous, but now with growing excitement.

As you walked further down a corridor and towards a room labelled "personnel only", the realization that you were indeed meeting Chris was heavy, enough to take your breath away.

As you entered the room, there he was; Chris Sturniolo. Your heart was beating so hard that you could hear it in your ears when he looked up from his phone. A slow smirk plastered on his lips as he stood up from the couch he was sitting on and walked towards you.

The security guard walked out of the room, leaving you two alone in the room. The room felt so small even though it was spacious enough. The air felt thick, enough to make you feel like you were suffocating as you swallowed hard.

"So..." Chris drawled, his head tilting slightly as his eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. "You’re the one who wrote that munch shit?" He barely hid his amusement, his voice thick with unspent laughter.

You could only nod your head, embarrassed by the sudden unexpected confrontation. Chris’ smirk widened when he took in your nervousness—it only emboldened him.

"What did you mean by that?" He asked on purpose, knowing exactly what you meant but it wouldn’t be so fun to just let it go that easily now would it?

"By what?" You asked back dumbly, your brain short-circuiting as you tried to comprehend the fact that you were talking to Chris. He didn’t even give you a moment to collect yourself as he moved closer, standing so close that you could feel his body heat.

"What did you mean by... not a munch?" His voice was slightly quieter, more intimate as he held eye contact—obviously testing you, wanting to see your reaction.

"You, um, just don’t seem like the type to enjoy giving head...?" Your words came out more as a question, as if you were doubting it yourself. Cursing internally, you let out a barely audible sigh, slightly annoyed by how much you were stammering.

You weren’t usually this nervous or quiet when talking to people, but something about the way he was looking at you; the way he was smirking smugly like he could read your thoughts; the way there was a hint of blatant teasing in his tone—it all left your knees weak.

"Tell me." He began, pausing to make you squirm—which he succeeded in doing. "How do you know if I enjoy eating pussy or not?" He asked bluntly, causing your breath to stutter.

"I don’t know..." You mumbled, feeling wetness pool in your panties from the way he was talking to you. You were getting so damned turned on and Chris wasn’t even doing anything, just asking you a few simple questions.

It was almost laughable how affected you were.

"Well, now I wanna prove to you that I do in fact enjoy it a lot." His smirk widened, knowing damn well what he was doing to you.

He stepped closer until his body touched yours, slowly backing you towards the nearest wall as you blinked rapidly, stumbling slightly as your breath hitched again. "Wha-" The words you tried to say died in your throat before you could say them.

"Jus’ wanna prove you wrong, baby." He said, tilting your face slightly up with his hand and leaning down as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His breath ghosted over your lips, causing them to part subtly.

"Or are you gonna be stubborn and go around spreading bullshit about me when you don’t know shit?" He whispered harshly against your lips and you quickly shook your head no, making him smirk smugly.

"Good girl."

Act 3: Prove ’em wrong

Your head was thrown back in ecstasy, eyes rolling back in your skull as Chris’ mouth devoured your cunt. Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging at the strands as your thighs trembled subtly where it sat on his shoulders.

Chris moaned against your pussy, his fingers digging possessively in the supple flesh of your ass as he pulled you closer to his face.

"So fucking good." He groaned as he pulled back, sitting up. His fingers replaced his mouth, two long digits slowly sliding inside your greedy cunt and curling upwards to rub against that spongy spot that made your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Here?" He smirked, pressing harder against your sweet spot, eliciting a needy moan from you. "Feels soo good doesn’t it?" He taunted as he started to finger-fuck you, holding your hips down with his free hand to stop you from bucking your hips.

Chris let out an airy chuckle when he heard the desperate noises slipping past your lips. "You’ve to be a little quieter, ma..." He trailed off, his smirk widening as he continued. "Unless you want people to hear what a fucking whore you are."

Your face burned with embarrassment and humiliation, but there was a spark of what seemed like... excitement? The degrading words only succeeded in doubling your pleasure, getting you closer and closer to the edge as you clutched onto the couch cushions for dear life.

"Fuuck, y’hear that?" He groaned, referring to the wet squelches from his fingers ramming into your sopping pussy over and over again. "S’fucking wet... All because of me." He breathed out, trying to hide how much this was affecting him.

He felt your inner muscles flutter around his fingers, your moans growing in both volume and desperation as you got closer to coming undone, but Chris wasn’t done with you yet.

A pathetic whine escaped you when he pulled out his fingers, sucking your juices off of them with a delighted hum. His lips curled at the corners and you knew that he was well aware of what he was doing to you.

"So pretty." He ran his thumb over your swollen, pulsating clit, making you jump slightly from how sensitive you were, a needy whimper tumbling out before you could stop it.

"Such pretty noises," he muttered under his breath, but it was loud enough for you to hear and it sent shivers down your spine. You were sure that Chris felt your body tremble, judging by the way his smirk widened into a smug grin.

"You want more?" He asked, his hands now caressing your thighs as he waited for your reply even though he knew the answer already, but he wanted to hear you say it.

Chris clicked his tongue when you nodded. "Ah-ah, words baby, use your words." You were too far gone to care about how desperate you sounded as you whimpered. "Please, Chris... I need you- your fingers, your mouth- anything, please..."

"Theere you go." He drawled. "Wasn’t so hard now was it?"

His head dipped down again, arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulled you closer to him. His tongue flattened out to lick stripes up your slit before his thumbs spread open your folds. The sight of your glistening pussy made him salivate as he swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

He leaned in and closed his lips around your clit, sucking gently as his fingers prodded at your entrance before slipping inside again. A whiny sound ripped from your throat as your eyes rolled back briefly before closing shut. You were seeing stars from the suction on your clit from his mouth.

Your increasingly loud moans spurred him on, making him redouble his efforts to push you over the edge.

Your body tensed, thighs trembling slightly as your breath hitched—coming in short gasps. Chris groaned against your pussy when he felt your insides contract around his fingers, pulsing rhythmically all while greedily pulling him in deeper.

"Ch-chris-- I’m gonna—ffuuuck--" Your breath hitched, your mouth opening in a silent scream as your eyes snapped open, landing on the delicious sight between your legs.

A low drawn out moan left your lips when the pressure in your stomach finally burst—white-hot pleasure running through your whole body.

Chris gasped softly when a clear liquid sprayed out, making him recoil back from surprise. He blinked, brain short-circuiting as his fingers stilled inside you before finally realising that you were squirting.

"Fuuck, did you just squirt? That’s so fucking sexy." He groaned as his fingers started to pound into you without waiting for a response, purposely curling up to hit your g-spot in hopes to make you squirt again.

You were so sensitive from orgasming that you could feel your second release approaching terrifyingly quickly. Your eyes widened as you clutched onto his arm—trying to ground yourself from the intense pleasure and also to distract yourself to not cum so quickly.

Chris’ head was in between your thighs before you knew it, eating you out like you were his last fucking meal. Your hips bucked—only to get held down by his free hand. You could only lay there and take it as his mouth and fingers worked you to the edge again.

It was a matter of seconds before you were cumming all over his face—quite literally. He wasn’t surprised this time around, just kept eating you out even as you gushed all over him, lapping up your release like it was his favourite ice cream.

You nearly forgot where you were as you moaned loudly until Chris’ hand left your hip and clamped over your mouth instead, effectively muffling your cries of pleasure.

He kept licking and sucking your sensitive bundle of nerves all while his fingers petted your gummy walls until you were boneless, small whimpers being muffled by his hand.

Chris pulled back to admire the sight of your trembling body, proud of his handiwork. His hand and face were coated in your release and the sight made your stomach do somersaults.

He didn’t even need you to tell him that you were wrong with your anonymous confession—he already knew your answer since your body answered it for him. A satisfied smirk plastered on his lips as he walked over to the small table in the corner of the room to retrieve tissues and wet wipes.

He began cleaning up your inner thighs when he came back, making sure you were clean before cleaning up his face, hand and the couch, from your release, watching with a mischievous gleam in his eyes as you shakily wore your lace panties back on.

"Cute shit you got there." He commented, tossing the used wet wipes and tissues in the trash can. "You into that? Cute lacy sets?" He teased, chuckling softly to himself when you nodded, finding you more and more adorable.

Chris was painfully hard, adjusting himself in his pants as he manspread, trying to relieve the tension. He saw you looking at his lap, making him spread his legs more without even realising it.

"You need... um, help? With that?" You gestured vaguely at his lap, running a hand through your hair as you tried to fix it.

Chris just shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Nah, I’m fine, you jus’ worry about fixing your clothes, can’t go around looking so edible." He grinned, and you couldn’t help a chuckle at his words.

Fuck, how much you loved this man.

As you two sat on the couch – fixing yourselves and drinking water – you suddenly remembered that you had an instant film camera in your bag. You quickly walked over to the table to get it as Chris raised an eyebrow at your enthusiasm.

"Can we take a picture?" You asked as you walked back to the couch where Chris was.

"Now? After I ate you out like my life depended on it?" He teased, but didn’t say no as he stood up, running a hand through his hair to fix it but only succeeded in making it messier instead.

Chris took the camera from you as he pulled you into his side, his arm wrapping around your waist before angling the camera to capture you both.

You smiled for the picture, relaxing against him. A short shuttering sound came from the camera before a small picture slowly slid up from the top. Chris took it when it was fully out, shaking it firmly before he held it still in his hand, watching as the ink slowly darkened.

"Can you write your signature too?" You decided to use the opportunity to ask for his signature as well—which he gladly wrote down on the back. He wrote something else after his signature, but you were too dazed from the whole experience to notice it.

Chris handed you the picture and your camera, his fingers lingering on yours for a beat before he took his hand away, looking away as he cleared his throat.

After a few seconds, he looked back at you again with a friendly smile on his face, but his gaze lingered on your lips like he was longing for it—telling a very different story from the smile he was giving you.

You put the picture and camera in your bag, fixing your t-shirt one last time, not even noticing the way he was looking at you.

"Well..." He paused, looking into your eyes when you looked at him, searching yours with his blue ones. "It was a pleasure to meet you-" Before he could say anything else, his phone rang, breaking the moment between you two.

Chris let out a soft sigh when he saw the caller id.

"Nick’s calling me, probably wondering where I am... I gotta go." He flashed you an apologetic smile. "See you around." He pulled you into a quick hug before walking towards the door.

Chris looked back and waved slightly, flashing you a teasing smirk before he walked out of the room, leaving your heart beating rapidly from the encounter.

See you around, huh?

As you walked out of the stadium a few minutes later, you rummaged through your bag and took out the picture, biting back a wide grin as you looked at it. Your heart skipped a beat when you turned the picture around, seeing a phone number written below Chris’ signature with "Let’s keep in touch :)" written beside it.

No. Fucking. Way.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSTAY WITH ME WHILE I SHOWER? * MATT STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　Where Y/N can't take a shower alone after watching supernatural videos, and now Matt has to stay with her in the bathroom.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　No.

WARNINGS　::　Mentions of supernatural.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I had this idea yesterday after spending the whole day listening to supernatural stories and making my best friend stay on FaceTime with me while I showered 😭

The bathroom was filled with the sound of rushing water, steam curling against the mirror, making everything look hazy and soft. Y/N stood beneath the shower, arms wrapped around herself, shampoo barely lathered in her hair. Her heart pounded just a little too fast, and her mind raced with the worst possible scenarios.

She knew - knew - this was her own fault. Matt had told her so many times that watching scary videos late at night, alone, with the lights off, would mess with her head. But did she listen?

No.

Because she loved that eerie, spine-tingling feeling. The adrenaline rush. The way she’d clutch her blanket and gasp when Sam and Colby on YouTube suddenly heard something, or the guys who explored abandoned places on TikTok suddenly saw something.

It was all fun and games until she was here, alone in the shower, vulnerable, eyes closed, and suddenly convinced that if she dared to tilt her head back and rinse the shampoo out, she’d open her eyes to see something - someone - standing in the corner of the bathroom.

Her stomach dropped.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

She blinked, body rigid, the water running down her back, making her shiver despite the heat. Her mind was running wild. What if she wasn't alone in here? What if something was watching her right now, peeking from behind the steam in her shower door like in those cursed Reddit stories?

Nope.

Panic bubbled up in her chest. And before she could second-guess herself, she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled.

"MATT!"

In the living room, Matt was sprawled on the middle of the couch, manspreading, one arm slung over his stomach. Nick sat beside him while Chris was practically hanging off the side of the couch, eyes glued to the TV. They were watching some random movie chosen by Nick, and Matt was only half paying attention.

At least, until Y/N’s scream ripped through the house.

His whole body jolted.

"What the-"

Nick and Chris both turned their heads toward the hall that led to Matt's bathroom.

Chris smirked, looking at Nick.

"Bet you fifty bucks she forgot her towel again."

Nick huffed out a laugh.

"Easiest money of my life."

"MATT!"

Matt was already getting up.

"Hold on, hold on, I'm coming!"

Chris called after him.

"If it’s the towel, tell her she owes me fifty bucks!"

Matt ignored him, crossing the small space between the living room and their bathroom in a couple of steps. The door was shut, steam curling out from the crack beneath it.

Matt pushed it open a little, peeking his head inside while keeping his body outside.

The steam made his hair frizz slightly as he squinted through the haze, his eyes finding Y/N standing under the shower, arms hugging herself.

His brows furrowed.

"Babe? You good? You need a towel or something?"

Y/N’s eyes darted to him, and her voice came through, desperate.

"Can you come in here?"

Matt frowned deeper.

"What?"

"Matt, please."

With a sigh, he finally pushed the door open fully, stepping inside and closing it behind him.

The heat hit him immediately, steam wrapping around his body as he turned to face the shower properly.

And there she was.

Standing directly under the water, arms still clutching herself, her hair up, full of white bubbles from her shampoo, looking at him like he was her last hope for survival.

Matt blinked.

"Angel, what the hell are you doing?"

Y/N let out a frustrated whine.

"I’m scared!"

Matt squinted.

"Scared? Of what?"

"Something is watching me!"

A beat of silence.

Then, he snorted.

"Oh my God."

Y/N groaned, stomping one foot on the shower floor.

"Matt, I’m serious! I can’t even close my eyes to rinse my hair! I swear there's eyes everywhere."

Matt was grinning now, crossing his arms as he leaned against the marble sink, watching her like she was the most ridiculous person he’d ever seen.

"I told you not to watch that shit."

Y/N pouted.

"I know."

Matt’s grin widened.

"But you just had to, huh?"

She huffed, turning away from him dramatically.

"Shut up."

Matt shook his head, still very much amused, before sighing and plopping down on the closed toilet seat.

"Alright, go on. Shower. I’ll sit here so the demons don’t get you."

Y/N’s whole body relaxed instantly, turning the front of her body to face him again, smiling softly.

"Thank you."

Matt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still grinning like an idiot.

"Can't believe you're literally scared of shampooing your hair. This is crazy."

She shot him a glare, grabbing her vanilla-scented shampoo bottle and squirting some more into her palm.

"I hate you."

Matt chuckled.

"No, you don't."

She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I really do."

"Mhm."

She rubbed her palms to spread the product, finally closing her eyes, but before she could reach for her hair again, she peeked at Matt one last time. Just to make sure he was still there.

And he was.

Sitting on the toilet seat, arms crossed, bright blue eyes eyeing her like she was the most ridiculous, adorable, overdramatic person in the world.

And maybe she was.

But at least now, she could wash her hair in peace.

© vanteguccir

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐤𝐞 — 𝐌.𝐒.

Synopsis: Matt only wants one thing for his birthday.

Warnings: Smut, pussy drunk Matt.

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Please,”

Matt was desperate as he begged you with puppy eyes. It was his birthday. You wanted to please him, but he wanted nothing more than to eat up and have his own birthday treat.

“Baby, it’s your birthday—“

“Exactly! Please. I want this, this is all I want, sweetheart,”

You couldn’t refuse as you saw him frustratedly grasping at your hips. With nod, you hesitantly tangle your fingers in his hair as his lips litter small kisses up and down your inner thigh.

“—make sure,” he sucks a hungry mark, letting his teeth dig in your inner thigh. “—pull my hair. Hard, baby. I love when you do that shit. So much,” he pleas.

His tongue slowly traces further between your legs until he comes face to face with your core. Slowly reaching out a finger, he stares with his eyes at the rush of glistening wetness coating his pointer finger. Hungrily, his mouth seals around the digit. He lets out a soft groan, his eyes closing in bliss from the pure content he gets front the familiar taste.

“Keep these righttttt,” Matt shifts your legs wider on the bed, “—here. Yeah,” his eyes swiftly meet yours as he brings his mouth down. He kissed down to your slit, maintaining his lingering gaze on your face.

Your mouth goes ajar as he starts to get lost with his explorations. Fingers grip in his hair tight, eliciting a sharp moan from his end that leaves your spread legs wanting to snap shut. His palms hold them, massaging into the skin as he tongue fucks into you.

“Keep ‘em nice and open for me, it’s my birthday and I get what I want, hm?” He gives kitten licks to your pussy in between words, his half hooded eyes dropping to close as he completely reattaches his mouth. “—‘s all I want hmmm,” he sighs contently, grinning against you as your voice shrieks from the vibrations of his mouth.

It all feels so good—too good. Sloppy, romantic sensations leave your back arching off the bed and legs maneuvering to close together. Matt’s prying your legs open, his mouth getting hungrier as he feels you clench around his tongue and gush out more familiar flavored slick.

“Matt—“

He moans against you. His nose bumping at your clit and tongue massage along your convulsing walls lead you closer to the edge as your legs flex off the bed.

“Give it to me, c’mon,” he encourages. The words and hungrier movements of his mouth devouring you leave you screaming with sealed lips. He lets out a deep noise of pure ecstasy as you attempt to yank his head back from the overwhelming stimulation.

“—‘s too much, baby. I…”

But Matt is lost with his pleasure, completely drunk of you as he continues the same, sloppy antics. Each time you try to pull him away by yanking his hair, you see his closed eyes peep open as his pupils roll back. Sure, you’re wet, but the precum leaking from his dick is starting to not just be precum.

“That’s it, fuck—“ he hisses. You see his hips rut into the mattress as he slurps up more juices from your leaking pussy. “Pull my hair, baby…just like that, oh god,”

As the movements still, he feels himself start to form a small puddle of cum on the bed. But his actions still don’t stop. They’ve gotten messier and that drives you insane. You can feel his intense hands spreading you open, salvia and slick trickling down your inner thighs as he shakes his face to stimulate you roughly.

“Matt! I—mmmm,” you helplessly writhe as his grip stays firm.

“My birthday, right? Just sit here and lemme eat this pussy—my pussy. My perfect fuckin girl,” he whispers open mouthed, trying to keep himself attached to your heat through his slurred words.

Your boyfriend isn’t focused on your pleasure, he’s focused on his. His hungry tongue, his starved mouth, all chasing after you. You try to take calm shaky breaths. It’s gonna be awhile like this. After all, it is his birthday.

“Hmmm….fuckin’ delicious. Who, who needs birthday cake?”

[amirasainz]

The team principal reader x various is everything to me 😩 Can we get like Reader’s first day in the paddock? Like everyone’s looking at her and she’s totally oblivious to all this? And everyone’s tripping on their feet trying to make a good impression?

All Eyes on Her

The paddock had never been quieter.

Well—technically it wasn’t quiet. Reporters were still shouting, engineers were still hauling crates, team members still darted between garages like sparks of electricity. But somehow, when she walked in, the whole atmosphere paused. The sound remained, but every single soul stilled.

And the hush was caused by her.

Yn Yln.

McLaren’s brand-new, 22-year-old team principal. A figure of tabloid rumors and Twitter frenzy all winter long. Speculated, underestimated, doubted. Until now. Until this moment.

Because now she wasn’t just a press release or a blurry vacation photo from Monaco.

Now she was here.

And she was everything.

Her Louis Buitton heels clicked against the concrete like a countdown to impact. Precision. Confidence. Destruction. Her tailored navy McLaren blouse was half-tucked into high-waisted black trousers, cinched at the waist with a belt that screamed quiet luxury. In one hand, she held her iPad, glowing with race simulations and tire degradation charts. Over her eyes, her designer sunglasses reflected the shimmering desert light and the chaos around her.

And draped from her wrist like an afterthought? A matte Birkin bag the color of burnt caramel. Understated. Impossibly expensive.

Her expression was unreadable. Calculating. Focused. She didn’t spare a glance at the stunned faces gawking at her from every direction.

She just walked.

Oscar, halfway through his smoothie, choked on the straw.

“Is that—?”

“Yes,” Lando said before he could finish, voice low and reverent. “That’s her.”

Oscar’s eyes were wide. “She’s even cooler than in the Zoom meetings.”

“She’s not real,” Lando muttered. “We manifested her. There’s no way this is real.”

And then—just as Yn reached the McLaren hospitality unit—she lifted her sunglasses, saw them, and smiled.

A slow, warm, affectionate smile.

And both drivers nearly passed out on the spot.

“My drivers!” she called, voice like silk but with command woven into every syllable.

She walked up, heels sharp, bag swinging, and kissed each of them on both cheeks.

Lando was the first to fumble his words. “Uh—bonjour—hi—hey—bonjour again?”

Oscar’s brain shut off entirely.

Yn tilted her head and gave them both a fond look. “You’ve both been causing chaos without me, haven’t you?”

Lando blinked. “Only a little.”

Oscar finally found his voice. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too.” She smiled at both of them. “Let’s win something this year, yeah?”

Both of them nodded in unison like puppies. “Yes. Yes, please. Let’s win everything.”

All around the paddock, eyes followed her.

Lewis, dressed in a sleek red Ferrari polo, had paused mid-interview. “Sorry, can you repeat that?” he asked the reporter, gaze still on Yn. “Bit distracted.”

The interviewer chuckled. “You’re not the only one.”

Lewis tilted his head as he watched her greet the engineers. “McLaren’s new principal?”

“Yup.”

Lewis gave a low, appreciative whistle. “They didn’t say she was a goddess.”

Carlos, freshly transferred to Williams, leaned against the pit wall and watched her breeze past. His jaw dropped slightly, arms folded, then quickly unfolded as he straightened up and smoothed his hair back.

Next to him, Alex gave a soft laugh. “You okay, man?”

“She hasn’t even looked at me,” Carlos whispered. “I need to walk past again.”

Alex raised a brow. “Didn’t you walk past her twice already?”

“She didn’t notice. I need to be more—Spanish.”

“Carlos, you are Spanish.”

“Exactly.”

Across the garage block, Kimi watched from the Mercedes hospitality unit, sipping his water bottle. His cheeks were flushed, his ears red.

“She’s… terrifyingly beautiful,” he mumbled.

George patted him on the back. “Welcome to F1.”

Yuki, standing outside the RB motorhome, had a full plate of snacks in hand and dropped all of them when she walked by.

“Shit!” he cried as fruit tumbled to the ground. He glanced up—and Yn was already ten meters ahead, her attention fully on her tablet, oblivious to the chaos in her wake.

Behind Yuki, Liam let out a low chuckle. “You good, mate?”

“No. I need to marry her.”

Ollie, the young Haas rookie, stood completely still, eyes wide, heart thumping.

He was so stunned, he didn’t even realize he’d walked into the side of the media pen structure.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I’m concussed. And in love.”

In the middle of a media scrum, Charles turned to see Yn stroll past in a flash of style and poise, her presence like gravity in human form.

He blinked.

“She’s—she’s my type.”

Pierre, standing next to him, looked mildly offended. “She’s everyone’s type.”

“I feel like I need to say something French around her,” Charles said, dreamily. “Like… baguette.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Just don’t embarrass us.”

Inside the McLaren garage, Yn had finally settled in front of the data screens. She’d already pointed out three flaws in the aero report and adjusted Oscar’s sim setup with a few flicks of her fingers.

Her team was completely under her spell.

And completely loyal.

One of the junior engineers whispered to another, “I’d walk barefoot through gravel if she asked.”

“Same.”

“She didn’t even look at Ferrari’s hospitality.”

“She doesn’t have to. Ferrari looked at her.”

Back on the pit lane, Lando and Oscar stood like two knights guarding a queen.

Oscar leaned toward Lando. “So how long until she realizes every driver is trying to impress her?”

“She won’t,” Lando said, eyes still following her movements. “She doesn’t see herself like that.”

“She called us her drivers,” Oscar said with a ridiculous grin.

“I know.” Lando grinned right back. “I’m never getting over that.”

That night, after the day’s chaos, she finally took off her heels and dropped onto the couch in the McLaren motorhome. Her Birkin rested beside her. Her sunglasses were off. Her feet ached. But she smiled.

“Good first day?” Lando asked, poking his head in.

She gave him a tired but genuine smile. “I didn’t fall on my face. That’s a win.”

Oscar stepped in with a smoothie. “You do know the entire paddock is obsessed with you, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando snorted. “No, seriously. It’s embarrassing. We saw Yuki drop his food. Carlos has walked by five times. Kimi spilled his water.”

Oscar handed her the smoothie. “Charles said ‘baguette’ at the sight of you.”

She laughed. Really laughed.

And they both fell a little harder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My requests are open for the principal reader!

[thetreetopinn]

Sources for Somerton's Plagiarism from Hbomberguy's Video (as much as I could get)

I went back through Harry's video, focused entirely on the sources James Somerton pulled from in the hopes of creating as much of a comprehensive list as I could--though my Google-Fu is not very strong. I did however find something I thought was forever lost and that made me very happy--specifically the magazine Midlands Zone containing the column by Steven Spinks that Harry poignantly used as an illustration of gay erasure... while Somerton uses it to sound like HE is waxing remorseful about the very subject.

This is not a complete list, I'm sure. For one thing, I was only able to attempt to pull sources that Harry himself mentioned in the video. Surely there's so very much more out there. I expect there to be a great deal more internet archeology to unearth just how much writing and culture Somerton has stolen like he's the British Museum of Natural History but for gay people.

- - - - -

Harry's list of mentioned youtubers:

Alexander Avila - https://www.youtube.com/@alexander_avila Matt Baume - https://www.youtube.com/@MattBaume Khadija Mbowe - https://www.youtube.com/@KhadijaMbowe Lady Emily - https://www.youtube.com/@LadyEmilyPresents Shanspeare - https://www.youtube.com/@Shanspeare RickiHirsch - https://www.youtube.com/@RickiHirsch VerilyBitchie - https://www.youtube.com/@verilybitchie

Harry created a convenient playlist of videos by these and other people he wants to bring to everyone's attention.

Please give them your support.

- - - - -

Midlands Zone Magazine - Column by Steven Spinks

After a great deal of searching, I found an archive of the "Midlands Zone" magazine, where you can read through past issues dating all the way back to February 2014. I have also found the issue from which Somerton took Spinks' poignant discussion of gay erasure: Overall archive Specific Issue - Pages 16-17

It will not allow you to download it, but you can read it exactly as it appeared in print form.

- - - - -

My best effort to find the exact book or article Somerton lifted from to be able to get attention to the original writers

Tinker Bells and Evil Queens By Sean Griffin

The Celluloid Closet By Vito Russo Wikipedia article about the book Wikipedia article about the documentary My weak google-fu could not find where you can access the book or documentary. Check your local municipal or university library for book or documentary, or if you know a good source for one or both, please reblog with it added

Camp and the Gay Sensibility By Jack Babuscio

The Groundbreaking Queerness of Disney's Mulan By Jes Tom Personal site with links to social media accounts

Why Rebel Without a Cause was a milestone for gay rights By Peter Howell

Why "The Craft" is still the best Halloween coming out movie By Andrew Park

Opinion: From facehuggers to phallic tails, is 'Alien' one of the queerest films ever? By Dani Leever

Women and Queerness in Horror: Jennifer's Body By Zoe Fortier

[Pride 2019] We Have Such Sights to Show You: Hellraiser and the Spectrum of Queerness By Alejandra Gonzalez

Revealing the Hellbound Heart of Clive Barker's 'Hellraiser' By Colin Arason

Queering James Cameron's Aliens (1986) By Bart Bishop

Demeter and Persephone in space: transformation, femininity, and myth in the 'Alien' films By David Greven

Fears of a millennial masculinity: Scream's queer killers By David Greven (Scholarly site, unable to access original work, offers a way to request a full copy of the text in PDF)

Queer Subtext in Stephen King's It - Part 1: 'Reddie' Character Analysis By Rachel Brands Rachel is the very unfortunate lady who found out she was being stolen from because she supported Somerton through Patreon and saw one of his videos early with her writing--lacking any form of citation or credit

How 'It: Chapter Two' Leaves Richie Tozier Behind By Joelle Monique

When Horror Becomes Strength: Queer Armor in Stephen King's 'IT' By Alex London

Why Queer People Love Witchcraft By Amanda Kohr

'The Favourite' Queers The Past And The Present By Giorgi Plys-Garzotto

(Wuko) Crush (Mako x Wu) By MoonFlower on YouTube

5 Terrible Movies With Awesome Hidden Meanings By J.F. Sargent

The Radicalization of Sexuality: The Queer Casae of Jeffrey Dahmer By Ian Barnard

Netflix's 'Dahmer' backlash highlights ethical issues in the platform's obsession with true crime By Shivani Dubey

The Possible Disturbing Dissonance Between Hajime Isayama's Beliefs and Attack on Titan's Themes Original Article by "Seldom Musings" (Author has made all posts not related to Attack On Titan private and has retired from the blog)

Everyone Loves Attack on Titan. So Why Does Everyone Hate Attack on Titan? By Gita Jackson

- - - - -

The following people are otherwise named in the video. There are no direct citations of articles or books by them in said video. I am unable to guarantee that I have identified the correct individual.

Darren Elliott-Smith Michaela Barton David Church Claire Sisco King Amanda Howell Jessica Roy

- - - - -

Telos announced and cancelled a film likely based on this book: The Final Girl Support Group - By Grady Hendrix

- - - - -

I refrained from including certain sources.

First off only focusing on Somerton's work.

Secondly not including anything that might be visible enough to not require amplifying their voice (I cannot speak for all of those I have found links to, but journalism is frequently a thankless job).

Thirdly any source that is of a nature that is antithetical to the very existence of the queer community, such as the right-leaning source that didn't make it into Somerton's video, but Harry was able to identify as a source he had considered using.

If you feel I have missed a mentioned source--or you know of a source from material that was not covered in Harry's video--please do not hesitate to reblog with added details.

- - - - -

Please share this information far and wide, and please add to it if you find more material that can be positively identified and linked to the creator/writer.

[slxtarchive]

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 … you’ve never been eaten out and matt’s never tried…so firsts all around

ᥫ᭡ … you and matt had been hanging out in your room for the past hour. you had just gotten home and he decided to stay over for a bit.

you were watching a show that had a tiny sex scene in it.

“it cannot be that good.” your jaw was dropped as the actress was screaming.

matt laughed at your comment. “that guys ego is definitely high if he’s getting a reaction like that.

“yeah, like she’s practically screaming and shouting. although, who am i to judge. i wouldn’t know.” you shrugged. “but i mean if she’s screaming that loud at being eaten out, imagine how good the sex is.”

unfortunately that comment you made had matt fantasizing about how it would be to eat a girl out and it was odd because he saw you as the girl.

he was fidgeting with his shorts as he felt himself harden at his thoughts. he decided to try to ignore it until you asked him an interesting question.

“had a girl ever screamed like that when you had given her head? i’m curious.” you popped a popcorn in your mouth.

he hesitated. “u-uhh, i’ve never really…” he didn’t finish his sentence. you gulped.

“really?” you asked in shock. “sorry, i just…i’d just thought that you have.”

“no..have you ever..you know..” he didn’t want to say anything else.

“ever…” you were waiting for him to ask.

“been eaten out.” he blurted. his boner making things worse.

“oh! um no i haven’t. i’ve like imagined it but nope, never happened to me.” the movie was the least of both of your worries now that you were both thinking of the same topic.

matt couldn’t help but imagine how you’d be in that situation. someone’s head in between your thighs — preferably his head.

“all quiet now.. have i made things awkward.” you pretended to wince.

“oh, no sorry i was just thinking… i kinda wanna know how to. like how to eat a girl out, it’d be good to have some experience i guess.” he confessed.

“uh huh…” you nodded slowly. “maybe…you can practice? on me.”

his eyes widened at your proposal. “you don’t think it would be a little weird?”

“no, im just gonna tell you what feels good and then we’ll both get what we want! given you make me cum, duh.” you laughed.

keep it cool. you thought.

“are you sure?” matt asked again, not wanting for this to be something you’d regret in the near future.

you nodded and that’s how you got to the position in which you were leaned against the headboard waiting for matt to take your underwear off.

“go ahead.” you reassured him as he toyed with your waistband.

“okay.” he whispered pulling your panties down slowly.

the suspense of the situation had you aroused. you were excited but at the same time nervous. you kept telling yourself, he’s your best friend, it’s okay. he won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.

your pussy and matt were face to face. he gulped a little intimated because he wanted to be good at it.

“sooo i just, go right in?” he asked pursing his lips.

“i guess so… maybe idk, foreplay? or wait is this considered foreplay?” you asked confused.

“i don’t- im not sure.” he said, unable to tear his eyes away from your center.

“okay, so maybe like use your fingers first?” you knew it was seconds away from being awkward.

as you were about to just say forget it you felt matt’s finger ghost over your leaky hole. he gathered some of your arousal and lathered it over your clit. he then continued to stimulate your clit. your legs bucked up at the sensation.

“am i doing okay?” he whispered, the only thing illuminating his face was the sunset lamp in the corner of your room.

“y-yeah.” you moaned slightly, as he continued to stimulate you. you looked down at him, his fluffy hair and his beautiful eyes. the sight alone had you wanting to just-

your thoughts couldn’t even complete because you felt matt’s hot tongue on you. you let out a deep breath as you leaned back and closed your eyes at the pleasure.

his tongue flicked over your clit as he looked up at you for reassurance that he was making you feel good. while matt was taking his time, his thoughts were elsewhere enjoying the way you tasted. in seconds he was devouring you, addicted to the way you tasted.

he licked a long stripe over your center pulling your thighs toward him. he sucked on your puffy clit. “r-right there. fuck—” your eyes tightly shut.

“you taste so fucking good…” matt muttered against you. he was consuming you. it was as if he lost all control in himself. he couldn’t get enough. “tell me how good i’m doing.”

you nodded quickly. “you’re doing s-so good.” you threaded your hands through his brunette hair. yes you had fantasized about this situation — not with matt specifically but this situation for sure.

matt’s ego boosted as a spurt of whimpers escaped you as he entered his middle finger in you. he pumped it in and out whilst continuing his previous work on your clit. he had been doing so good, you were on the verge of cumming.

matt could tell too — by the way your thighs were starting to close around his head and shake. he didn’t know how he had lived without the taste of you on his tongue. he didn’t ever want to stop. he wanted to do this everyday of his life.

you tried to blurt out the words but you struggled; sensitive to how fast he was flicking your clit. he looked up to see your struggle and grinned against you.

“go on, cum on my tongue. i wanna taste it.” he begged. matt needed to taste you. he enjoyed seeing you writhing underneath him. the way you were struggling to grapple onto reality.

you nodded finally feeling your body seize up as your orgasm washed over you like a big wave. you were tugging on matt’s hair trying to get him away from your sensitive pussy but your orgasm made him want to push you further.

you had begun to feel so sensitive you tried to push his head away as much as you could while whining. “f-fuck — sensitive matt.” you begged and he finally pulled away.

your chest was heaving up and down. you had started to slow your breathing and opened your eyes. matt with your shiny substance drooled and covering his mouth and chin. he had a smug grin on his face symbolizing he was definitely pleased with himself.

“please tell me you’ll let me do that again.” he licked his lips.

you took another deep breath and combed through his hair with your hand. “how could i not?”

© slxtarchive

[et6rnalsun]

SHE DONT WANT NO PUPPY, SHE WANT A BIG DAWG

matt is actually so, so strong. more than it seems.

he always manages to amaze you with the way he lifts you up and takes you into his arms with an ease that would leave anyone speechless. and it does. he makes it seem as if you have no body weight at all, as if you are a feather that he lifts with the minimum effort of two damn fingers. his muscular arms are like chains around your waist, holding you close to him as he walks you wherever his brain decides, making you stop being the one who commands your body completely.

what shocks you the most, however, is how he does it out of the blue; no matter the context you two are in.

you were just talking to his brothers, leaning on their kitchen counter while a bowl of fresh grapes sat in front of you, slowly emptying with each one you ate. there was a look of amusement on your face as chris interrupted you to throw a gratuitous insult at nick for making a pretty stupid comment. how could frozen grapes be good? chris judged him for his taste, nick yelled at him, and matt sneakily walked behind you while rolling his eyes at all the chaos they were making for fruits.

you would have liked to just stand there and watch, but matt's arms snaking up behind you and lifting your bare feet completely off the floor prevented you from doing so. the two of them ignored the way you were being carried away, ignored your giggles, and most of all ignored the shrill scream you then let out when matt playfully slapped your ass when the two of you were out of sight — behind the kitchen door.

“matt!” you couldn't help but whine, hitting his back as you squirmed just slightly to escape him, feeling the sting.

he chuckled, tightening his grip. one hand was still on your ass, while the other was holding you on his shoulder to not let you fall. as soon as you were in his room, he closed the door with his foot as he dropped you onto his bed, following right after. “shh” he shushed you, positioning himself on top of you while using his elbows to keep himself at a higher level, meeting your eyes with an amused smirk.

"did you prefer to listen to them argue?" he then asked, watching you feign indecision before shaking your head, letting your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer. "as i thought" he was beyond satisfied. “but, you have to stop takin’ me like that,” you huffed peulously, your lips naturally positioned in a small pout.

but you knew your words fell on deaf ears as soon as you saw him rummaging through the drawer where you knew he kept condoms, and you simply sighed as you took the opportunity to run your manicured nails over his much more evident biceps.