#daredevil & dared...elektra

[vertigoartgore]

2022's Daredevil Vol.7 #1 (LGY : Daredevil #649) variant cover by cover artist Dan Panosian. Source

[twilight-deviant]

could you elaborate on Vanessa/Elektra? 👀👀👀

Hah! I appreciate you zeroing in on that brief mention from this long post. xD 💕

Before I get in the weeds of my own thoughts, you'd probably be interested to know about the Punisher Max series. (Off-label Marvel comic with a more mature rating that goes hard on vulgarity and violence. Not really my thing.) In it, Elektra is Fisk's bodyguard, but she is also having an affair with his wife, Vanessa. So yeah, in one Marvel-adjacent universe out there, Vanessa/Elektra is already canon.

[Punisher Max #18]

There you go. 👍 Okay anyway...

Most of my thoughts on Vanessa/Elektra exist before S3, I think, but maybe this is a good time to update them. So no secret, I ship Fisk/Matt, but I still adore their canon relationships: Fisk/Vanessa and Matt/Elektra. I guess part of me felt guilty taking their guys, but it really is such a goooood "pair the spares" opportunity. Because I think what Fisk/Matt and the two canon ships have in common is a representation of two morally gray people, but one is dark gray while the other is light gray. (Again, before S3 Vanessa.) For any of the relationships to work, there is compromise of the lighter person bending and the darker person trying to be someone they can accept.

And idk, it felt like the concessions Vanessa made for Fisk could be made for Elektra as well. (And I will rave at length on the many similarities between on-screen Fisk and Elektra.) What's interesting is that Vanessa seems more willing to bend (don't laugh) for Fisk than Matt does for Elektra. Fisk/Vanessa is about Vanessa descending into a darker space, while Matt/Elektra is Matt making her better. He has problems accepting Elektra's true nature (pretending he does but always trying to change it) where Vanessa... honestly might not?

I think Vanessa would come closer to accepting Elektra as-is. Any attempts she did make to control her might come in the form of bringing order to the chaos. In the way she's levelheaded when Fisk is being erratic. It's also ever-present in Elektra's character that what she wants most is for someone to understand her, and why she is so upset when she thought Matt was that person and he "fails." But I think Vanessa could make strides in understanding Elektra and even explaining it back to her. She has such amazing and poetic insight into people and humanity. I think about 1x08 when she listens to the story of how Fisk killed his father, and then she rationalizes it for him and uses this new knowledge to understand him better and tell him what to do. Elektra would worship at that same treatment.

So there's that side, what Vanessa could be for Elektra. And I believe the flipside is where I update the ship to include S3 on. (Born Again spoilers.)

I think about the moment in Matt/Elektra's history, in 2x05 when she wants/needs Matt to kill Sweeney. It's everything to her, a test she's certain he'll pass. But he doesn't because that's not who Matt is.

Vanessa though...

Based on 3x12 and BA 1x08, she is clearly willing to get her hands dirty for the sake of the relationship. To be with Fisk and even just understand him, she will kill. Actually! Fisk's decision in 3x12 was to discredit Ray but leave him alive. It was Vanessa who made the decision to go further, darker. (Even though it was not the right choice.) That says something about her, that Vanessa isn't who Fisk thought she was and not even who Vanessa thought herself to be. There is a darkness in her. She could succeed for Elektra where Matt failed her. And Elektra would be there for her, no judgment or conditions. (Because despite everything, I do think Fisk still likes putting her on a pedestal, believe Vanessa is something she no longer is.) With Elektra, Vanessa can go as far as she wants and do as she wants.

They would feed into exactly what the other wants and fill all those desires like puzzle pieces. Note: what they "want" from a relationship. Not need, no. I don't think it would be entirely good for them. Matt is the good influence Elektra needs, and Fisk commits the darkest acts Vanessa still avoids, keeping her from total descent. (Even in BA, she thinks she can rule through bribery instead of violence.) Vanessa/Elektra ship would remove the "safety rails" they have from their canon relationships. So there's that to keep in mind.

Not saying it's a foregone conclusion they would succumb to a mindless tragic end, of course. I think they're just as capable of avoiding the full downward spiral "no line we won't cross" ending. But it does almost entirely depend on Vanessa keeping calculated control between them. I think they could be great/horrible together.

Alexa, play "The World is Not Enough" by Garbage.

Not sure where a life together would lead them. They could very well use Elektra's money and tour the globe, looking at art and attending sophisticated parties. Or Vanessa continues her taste for power as Queenpin, with a very loyal and intimate assassin helping her attain and maintain that power. (How she chose to use Dex in S3, but now it's Elektra and they makeout sometimes.) All good things, all good things.

[farfromstrange]

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.” 

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

“How would you know?” you counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[clawsandthunder]

Claws and Thunder: The Evolution of Wolverine and Storm (aka RoLo) Part 1: The Secret Lovers

There are some couples in the Marvel Universe who demand attention - big, dramatic, headline-worthy pairings that crash onto the page with the force of a summer blockbuster. Their love stories dominate splash panels and front covers, all fire and fireworks. Think Gambit and Rogue. Peter Parker (aka Spider-Man) and Mary Jane Watson. Daredevil and Elektra.

And then… there’s Wolverine and Storm.

Logan and Ororo never needed the spotlight. Their connection has always lived in the quiet moments - the stolen glances, the brushed fingertips, the steady presence of two warriors who understood each other in a way no one else could. For those of us who’ve shipped them for years, we weren’t just imagining it. We were reading between the lines. Seeing the unsaid. Feeling the slow, smoldering tension that always crackled beneath the surface.

Their love story was never loud. It was something more enduring. Like a candle flickering in a lighthouse during a hurricane - quiet, resilient, and often overlooked. But make no mistake: this isn’t some side plot or narrative footnote. This is a love that has spanned decades, timelines, and alternate realities. It’s layered. It’s complicated. It’s a slow burn that not only refuses to go out - it simmers and grows into an inferno of passion, desire, and unbridled heat.

And then came the moment - years after we first dared to hope - when our suspicions were finally confirmed. That magnetic pull between Marvel’s Ultimate Bad Boy and the Weather Goddess? It wasn’t just headcanon.

It was canon.

Secret Lovers for Years

Because for a long time, that’s exactly what they were. On-again, off-again. Lovers without labels. A kiss here, a late-night confession there. You might blink and miss it until you catch the way Logan looks at her like she’s the one thing anchoring him to himself. Or the way Ororo lets her walls fall away around him, allowing herself to just be. That’s when you realize: this isn’t casual. It never was.

Their connection had been teased for years - implied in glances, in quiet camaraderie, even a few flirtatious exchanges back in the Claremont era. But in the early 2000s, we finally got confirmation: Logan and Ororo had been sleeping together. Not as a one-time mistake. Not a “we got drunk at Harry’s” kind of accident. But as something real. Recurring. Familiar. Intimate in a way that goes far beyond just the physical.

And true to Logan and Ororo form, it was private. Unspoken. But deeply, undeniably felt.

This wasn’t a relationship announced in the War Room or flaunted over morning coffee with the team. It was theirs. And that’s always been a cornerstone of their dynamic - they don’t owe anyone else an explanation. Theirs is a love that simmers rather than explodes. And maybe that’s what makes it so compelling.

We’ve seen them as comrades. Confidantes. Co-leaders. We’ve watched them rescue each other - emotionally and physically - more times than we can count. But it’s those small, in-between moments that tell the real story. The glances across a battlefield. The comfort of a hand on a shoulder. The quiet understanding between two people who have seen the worst of the world… and still find peace in each other.

Because when Wolverine lets someone in, it means something. And when Storm lets someone see her vulnerability? It means everything.

In Part 2, we’ll dive deeper into the evolution of RoLo—from secret lovers to public partners. How their bond grew stronger, how the quiet turned into something impossible to ignore, and what happened when the “secret” wasn’t so secret anymore.

But for now, let’s raise a glass to the quiet, complicated, and criminally underrated romance that’s always been there, simmering just beneath the surface.

Secret lovers? From maybe to confirmed. But destined soulmates? Always. And absolutely.

[ghostlymarauder]

I'm finally watching all the episodes of dd: born again and I'm on episode 4 and WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

Frank and Matt's scene ran a train over me and didn't even dare to say sorry, because oh my fucking God. Matt asking Frank if he's a victim is sooooo wrong but omg AND FRANK TELLING HIM TO SAY FOGGY’S NAME????? I CAN'T WITH THESE TWO.

The only question I have is when in the everloving fuck Frank found out Matt was Daredevil, because I don't remember that happening in Daredevil season 2, but I might have to rewatch to make sure.

I still don't know how I feel about Matt and Heather mostly because I'm still recovering from Elektra's death, and that's something I wish they'd mention (just like I'm hoping they bring up sister Maggie) (or Melvin, what happened to Melvin? I know he's not really related to Matt in any other way but the suit BUT I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH HIM)

Also, coming from someone who really thought one of the most bizarre things Wilson Fisk ever did on the show was ravishing Anatoly's head with the car door, I cannot explain what I felt when I realized he didn't kill Adam but rather has him prisoner. Like, that does not fucking compare to anything Fisk has ever done, and I love it because my thing with Fisk is that I've been able to feel some level of empathy for him—Not anymore, WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE KEEPING HIM IN A CELL AND EAT DINNER IN FRONT OF HIM YOU SICK BASTARD

[dyns33]

Truth and Dare(devil)

My favorite cute idiot, Matt Murdock x reader 

Y/N and Matthew had been friends for years.

They had met in college, thanks to Foggy who loved talking to everyone, and whom Y/N had found both funny and friendly. The future lawyer had then invited her to meet his roommate, best friend and, if all went well, avocado at law.

Right away, it had been obvious between Y/N and Matt.

They got along perfectly well, two gentle, empathetic humans, wanting others to be happy, being caring, and awfully stupid.

Foggy often made fun of the two saying they were like twins or soulmates.

Matt considered himself very lucky to have two such wonderful friends, and he didn't care what his roommate might say.

After graduation, they kept in touch, calling each other often and meeting regularly at the bar whenever they had time.

Their friendship was still the same, and that was why Matt felt he had to confess to Y/N that he was Daredevil, after all his other friends found out, that he nearly died several times, and the danger being there even for those who didn't know.

It was difficult, she was afraid for him of course, she asked him a lot of questions, but since she knew Matt very well, Y/N knew that he wouldn't stop even if she begged him.

They had known each other for years, she accepted him as he was, and there was no reason for there to be any resentment or secrecy between them.

Or almost.

     "There is still a secret between us."

Karen looked at Matthew for a long time, who had obviously had too much to drink, displaying a big smile as he pointed his beer at Y/N, while Foggy got up to go to the bathroom.

     "Which one ?" asked Y/N, curious, not seeing what he was talking about.

     "You know. Of course you know. Marci's party."

     "I need more details."

     "Marci's party ! Truth or dare."

     "Truth or… Oh, no. Matt, no, not that again."

     "What ? What ?!" Karen said shaking her friend's leg.

     "Y/N ! Y/N here didn't honestly answer a question during the game and she always refused to tell me the answer."

     "It's been over ten years."

     "Exactly ! Tell me. Tell me your secret."

     "What was the question ?"

     “Who is hrt crush." Matt repeated proudly, finishing his drink.

The evening at Marci's had been complicated. They didn't remember everything, Foggy threw up in a closet after kissing a girl, Matt fell asleep in the bathroom, and Y/N didn't really have fun, because of this stupid question.

     "I should have taken dare."

     "But you took truth !" sneered Matt. "And what did you answer ? 'Yes, there is someone, but it's nothing, it's not mutual, I don't want to talk about it.' And, I don't care who it was, but you seemed so sad. Because they didn't like you. I want to know who that idiot was to tell you that they didn't deserve you, and that you had no reason to be afraid to talk to us. To talk to me."

     "Matty..."

     "Y/N."

He continued to smile proudly, his eyes focused on her chest, showing that he wouldn't give up, and he smiled even more when she sighed.

     "Fine. You're right, it's been ten years, so I can tell you."

     "I can't wait to find out." Karen whispered.

     "It was you, Matt."

The smile froze then, becoming strained, before starting to fade. Karen's was accompanied by a small cry of surprise.

     "No way !"

     "Yes. From the first day, when I met him. it was hell, he flirted with all the girls, then there was Elektra, then more girls. Foggy asked me all the time if it was not too hard."

     "Foggy ?" Matt wondered, coming out of his torpor for a moment. "Foggy knew about it."

     "Of course, everyone knew. You were the only one who didn't know, it was painful. Why do you think they asked me that question ? I was so ashamed. But that's okay, it's in the past."

     "What is the past ?" Foggy asked, finally finding his place, completely not noticing the expressions on his friends' faces.

     "My crush for Matt."

     "Oh, that ? Did you tell him ? Shit, I wanted to tell him at your wedding."

     "You are not funny."

     "I am extremely funny, thank you, I am the comic element of our group, in addition to being the most handsome and the most intelligent."

Matthew then listened, still hearing that sadness he had heard years ago, at Marci's party, as Y/N answered without answering that stupid question, avoiding looking at him.

She had said that was in the past. Speaking of this evening.

But was this the case for her feelings ?

Her heart was beating fast, like every time they were in the same room, and now Matt only heard that, not concentrating on Karen's laughter, or Foggy's gentle teasing, or Y/N's soft voice.

When it was late, he offered to walk her home.

     "Given your condition, it is rather me who should accompany you." she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

     "I'm fine, I haven't had that much to drink. I'll sleep on the couch, if you're afraid I won't find my way in the dark, jumping from roof to roof."

     "Haha. Now that you've said that, you're definitely sleeping on my couch. Come on."

He let her take his arm and lead him to her apartment, even though it was absolutely unnecessary.

Before, the gesture would have been natural. Welcome. Matt had never asked himself the question, he liked that Y/N touched him. He liked having her near him. He... He loved her. A lot.

     "Truth or Dare ?" he said as they waited to cross a street.

     "Matt..."

    "Do you want to start ? Alright. Truth for me."

     "I don't feel like playing."

     "I'm sorry... It's just... I had a crush in college too. I guess. I never wanted to admit it, because she was someone I loved very much, who made me happy, and since I always scare away the people I love, I think I was scared and always preferred not to change anything between us, to make sure I didn't lose her. But tonight, she said she had a crush too. On me."

Y/N stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, letting go of his arm and letting him walk alone. He stopped a few meters away, still listening to her heart beating faster and faster.

     "... Truth."

     "You still love me ?" he asked almost shyly. "You love me, despite everything you know about me, everything I've done ? Everything I've done to you ?"

     "... You already know the answer."

     "I didn't even think you didn't just consider me a big brother until tonight. Foggy must think I'm an oblivious idiot."

     "No, you're wrong, the whole campus thought you were an oblivious idiot. No big deal."

     "You're still avoiding to answer." he noted, continuing to turn his back on her. Because he was scared, because maybe he was wrong, and he wasn't sure he knew her answer.

He heard her heart move closer to him, and he tried not to tremble as she wrapped her arms around his chest to hug him, pressing her face to his back.

     "Is it bad if I still love you ?" she whispered, very quietly, but knowing he could hear her.

     "Only because it proves that we are two idiots who have wasted a lot of time."

     "I don't think so. I had a great friend until now, and now I have... I have... I don't know what people call it these days."

     "Luck ?"

     "No, I think they say date, or thing."

     "A thing ? I'm a thing ?"

     "A wonderful thing." Y/N scoffed. "A great thing. An incredible thi..."

Grabbing her hands for her to let go, Matt turned to kiss her, making her stop talking nonsense. This made her laugh, while totally disrupting her heartbeat. The most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

     "No more secrets ?" he asked between two kisses.

     "I promise. You'll still sleep on the couch tonight."

     "Of course."

Matt slept on the couch. For eight minutes. Then Y/N came to get him, because he wasn't wrong, they had already wasted a lot of time, and they weren't that stupid.

[scratchpad-sagas]

Thoughts on Daredevil: Born Again episode 4 "Sic Semper Systema"

I know I'm SUPER late to the party here, so, here's my review of Born Again, episode 4! My thoughts on 5-8 are coming very soon, ideally on or before this Tuesday (as of April 12th), I just have to condense a bunch of random scribbles into more legible work! Overall though, Born Again has left me pleasantly surprised, and I have LOTS to say about last week's episode, “Isle of Joy”! So, without further adieu… spoiler warning for “Sic Semper Systema”!!! Read on if you dare!!

Ok, I definitely underestimated “Sic Semper Systema”. A majority of the episode didn’t leave me with any noteworthy thoughts, but that climax sure did! For the most part, it all seemed like filler fluff, however, I am concerned about whatever project Fisk has planned for that port area. BB keeping up the work her uncle championed in life makes me happy, but my god does that Blake kid grind my gears! He’s the most… honest-sounding idiot I’ve ever seen! Either he’s extremely clever for putting on such a dumbass act, or he’s in WAY over his head. Both possibilities end in him getting involved in some messed up activities… yikes. Can’t tell if that’s good or bad. My hope is that his blind ignorance gets eviscerated and he changes sides, but that’s not looking very likely.

As for the subplot with Matt and the Fiddle Faddle guy, I don’t know what exactly was trying to be conveyed there. Currently, I struggle to sympathize with him; I’ve chatted with others who’ve seen the episode, and while opinions are curiously similar, the scene did a poor job telling its part of the story. I think that was an attempt at showing us just how unfairly balanced “the system” is against the little guy… how everyday people are constantly being steamrolled by a biased institution tangled in red tape and endless bureaucracy. The thing is, to me, the writing barely did that, if at all. Given the EXACT same elements, a few small changes to the script could have flipped that around! I can’t get behind ungrateful anger like that, but I haven’t been in this guy’s shoes before, so I don’t have room to criticize. Still, I’d love to hear others’ takes on this bit of the episode!

Okay. Now, onto the crown jewel, the conclusion to Matt’s investigation at the site of Hector’s murder… the reveal of Frank Castle.

Man, I’ve got a LOT to unpack here! I FUCKING loved the climax of this episode, and I think it culminated in the best emotional payoff I could have asked for. Since the moment the opening credits rolled on “Heaven’s Half Hour”, I’ve been waiting for something to give: Matt suffered a horrific loss that night at Josie’s, and it’s not been very clear how well he’s handled that. Of course, it’s impossible to assume very much here, not only did he lose his oldest, closest friend, but the true north to his own moral compass! With Karen shipped off to California and Foggy gone (as well as Father Lantom and Elektra), Matthew “living embodiment of a ‘tragic backstory’” Murdock is pretty much alone. He’s hung up his horns to honor the memory of Foggy, and, as far as we’ve seen, stopped punching bags at Fogwell’s…

With how much Matt was keeping trapped inside, I knew there was only so much more misery he could take. Hector Ayala’s trial was a good distraction, but when he was killed, things started turning south. Then, Matt found someone I didn’t expect! Although we saw someone shoot Hector while wearing Punisher-themed armor, I didn’t believe it was <him> for a second. Murdering the White Tiger doesn’t match The Punisher’s MO, so for more than a few reasons, I’m glad Matt encountered Frank when he did.

For the short time he’s on screen, Frank ends up being a driving force in Matt’s emotional resolution and that’s the beauty of his cameo! For those less familiar with The Punisher, at first glance, you don’t give him that much credit. Being the masculine, gun-toting icon he is, I don’t think it’s too far off base to say people associate him with the same stereotype – a soulless, unfeeling machine of a man who keeps his feelings to himself. Given that, the general audience probably wouldn’t expect him to be so important, but when he makes his appearance, Frank doesn’t pull ANY punches! He digs deep, forcing Matt to take an honest look at himself in a way few other people could. In his own Frank Castle way, he fully admits to knowing what Matt is suffering through – the guilt, the shame, standing idle and feeling it eat at you… – and I think any lesser writing team might not have included that. For all intents and purposes, the Born Again team are making both a sequel AND an original work; that means, among other things, they know they need to appeal to a wider audience. It would have been so much easier for them to put Frank’s cameo anywhere else, and honestly, I probably wouldn’t have thought much of it, but they didn’t. The choice to put Frank where they did proves that the new set of creatives behind Born Again know what they’re doing, and that alone does more for my expectations than words can tell!

That’s the biggest reason why I LOVE this scene, but there’s so much more to it than that. In fact, two lines in particular stood out to me, and they live in my head rent-free to this day. Initially, while the two vigilantes were having their spicy back ‘n forth – seriously, that was chemistry gold, Jon and Charlie worked some acting magic right there – Matt mentioned being “of service”, and Frank’s reply about being “down range” got me thinking. After discussing the scene with my mom (who I watch the show with), we both came to different conclusions about what he meant, and I’d love to hear what others think! Personally, I think what Frank meant by being down range was a reference to his military service – the thing that kickstarted his career as the Punisher. He doesn’t need Matt to tell him to be of service, because he *has* been! He did his time, he served his country! “Look what it got me!” It got him neck deep in tragedy, PTSD and the stink of everyone else’s corrupted bullshit. It got him painted as a soulless killing machine, so no, he doesn’t want some punk in a Halloween costume telling him to be of service.

The other line that stuck with me was Matt’s speech about Foggy, how he was the kindest soul he’d ever met, and that guys like he or Frank could try for years and never match that kind of decency… one of my biggest fears concerning Born Again was that they wouldn’t be able to mirror how human the original show could be, and I mean that in a very specific way. For all its crime and blood and violence, there was always purpose, Daredevil was skilled at showcasing the results – Matt missing work thanks to occasionally severe vigilante injuries, Foggy fighting with Matt because of all the lying and secrecy (and Matt being openly upset about it, on the couch and crying), Claire’s conversations with “Mike”... there were SO many times in the OG Netflix series when I felt the strongest need to speak to the characters as though they were real people, to just… take them by the hands, or by the shoulders, and tell them the things they need to hear. I found myself wanting to stop Matt from depreciating himself, to tell Karen that she is SO smart, to comfort Frank and to smack Nelson and Murdock upside their heads (communication!! Talk. To. Each. Other. Honestly!!)

I anticipated a lack of that kind of depth in Born Again, and I was pleasantly surprised. The moment Matt moved to leave Frank’s hideaway, I felt that need again. I wanted to take him by the face and tell him that he already is as good a person as Foggy was. Kindness takes countless forms, and Matt’s willingness to go out and use his skills for good is just one of many! He sacrifices so much of his own life, and actively puts himself in harm’s way to save others from the same, yet he still thinks of himself as a terrible human being… it touches my heart, and not a lot of other media has been able to do that so viscerally.

That’s all for my big takeaways from episode 4. I just really enjoyed seeing Frank again, how well done that cameo was, and his bit with Matt. I’m super happy to know Frank pretty much denied any involvement with that weird Punisher tattoo fan-cult thing… the way they’re appropriating and altering his symbol kinda freaks me out, especially with what it's seemingly symbolizing for them. After that part was over, man, neither of them held back! Matt got snappy and Frank threw it right back at him! But in the end, despite operating so differently, Frank realized exactly what Matt was going through and I think that was as close to real therapy as Matt’s gonna get… which isn’t much, but hey, at least it helped. I think.

Real talk though, aside from the meat of the scene, Frank’s whole bit during “Sic Semper Systema” was super interesting! I wonder what he’s been up to since we last saw him during The Punisher s2. If the massive evidence wall at the back of his hideout was anything to go by, I’d say he’s been busy with a little bit more than the typical vigilante crime fight. Seriously, there were photos and maps and shit covering that ENTIRE wall, what the hell has he gotten into? The small arsenal might have also been a red flag, but, being honest, it’s Frank freaking Castle – I’d be more concerned if he wasn’t armed and dangerous (agAIN!! [where are my Marvel Rivals players at?]). Frank is also looking kinda scruffy, and unless he’s going for a new style, that usually means either a long time has passed, or he hasn’t had a chance to get some self-care in. Or both, knowing him.

I’d be curious as to why Frank is holing up in some abandoned building, but whether or not he IS up to something serious, he’s not the kind of vigilante to use a mask. He’s definitely wanted, but I hope he’s not in much more danger than usual.

Speaking of Frank’s hideout! How did Matt know where he was? My guess is either he already knew, or that whole sequence of him traveling to Frank had a purpose. Was that Born Again’s way of telling us Matt was tracking down The Punisher with his senses? I’m not sure, but, if he did know about his location, I SUPER want to know how that happened! And I’d love to know how Frank came to know about Matt = Daredevil! As far as I can recall, there was no obvious moment in the OG Netflix series when that was made clear to Frank, so I’m 90% sure it happened off-screen. Seeing Frank realize that the scrawny blind lawyer defending him during his trial is also the horny dude in red?? That’s gotta be a good one to see.

Hm… I hope he got to see Karen before she moved across the country…

April 12th, 2025

[itsnotaproblem-itsapassion]

When they announced that Daredevil would be back but not Élodie Yung’s Elektra, I was so sad.

Now after seeing that horrible first episode, I’m really glad she’s not and hoping she’ll never be. Don’t you dare touch my love, Disney.

Also, what’s with the weird CGI-glossy fight scene between DD and Bullseye? Felt cheap and unrealistic and so far from the original’s quality.

(Also, take back that shitass opening title and give us the original for Christ’s sake).

[marveldcnerdys]

Bullseye: Marvel’s Deadliest Marksman

Introduction

Bullseye is one of Marvel Comics' most lethal and enigmatic villains, known for his unparalleled accuracy and deadly skillset. As a longtime nemesis of Daredevil, he has cemented his status as one of the most dangerous assassins in the Marvel Universe. His ability to turn any object into a deadly projectile, combined with his sadistic nature, makes him a unique and terrifying adversary.

Origin and Background

Bullseye’s real name has never been definitively confirmed, though various aliases such as Lester and Benjamin Poindexter have been used in different iterations of the character. His backstory has been explored in several comics, often portraying him as a child with a disturbed mind and a penchant for violence. A gifted marksman from a young age, he eventually found himself recruited by the U.S. government and later became a mercenary and assassin for hire.

Powers and Abilities

Unlike many Marvel characters, Bullseye does not possess superhuman abilities. However, his physical and mental skills are so refined that they make him a near-superhuman opponent:

Perfect Aim: Bullseye’s defining ability is his extraordinary precision. He can use everyday objects like playing cards, pencils, or paper clips as lethal weapons.

Enhanced Reflexes and Agility: His physical conditioning allows him to react swiftly, making him a formidable hand-to-hand combatant.

Master Martial Artist: He has been trained in various combat techniques, allowing him to stand toe-to-toe with some of Marvel’s greatest fighters, including Daredevil and Elektra.

Psychotic Resilience: His sheer willpower and mental instability make him impervious to pain and moral reasoning, making him a ruthless killer.

Major Storylines

Bullseye has played a pivotal role in some of the most dramatic Daredevil story arcs, solidifying his place as a top-tier villain.

Daredevil: The Man Without Fear – Bullseye’s rivalry with Daredevil began here, where he emerged as a deadly assassin for the Kingpin.

The Death of Elektra – One of his most infamous acts was the brutal murder of Elektra, Daredevil’s love interest, in Daredevil #181.

Punisher vs. Bullseye – Bullseye’s deadly nature often brings him into conflict with other vigilantes, including the Punisher, resulting in violent and intense battles.

Dark Reign: Hawkeye – During Norman Osborn’s reign, Bullseye takes on the identity of Hawkeye, showcasing his deadly precision in a new role.

Shadowland – Bullseye faces off against a more ruthless Daredevil in a climactic confrontation, leading to a shocking end.

Psychological Profile

Bullseye is more than just a skilled assassin—he is a complete psychopath. He finds pleasure in killing, often mocking his victims before delivering the fatal blow. His lack of empathy and moral compass makes him unpredictable and incredibly dangerous. Unlike many villains who seek power or revenge, Bullseye kills for the sheer thrill of it.

Adaptations in Other Media

Bullseye has appeared in various Marvel adaptations across different media:

Live-Action: He was portrayed by Colin Farrell in Daredevil (2003) and later by Wilson Bethel in Daredevil (Netflix Series, Season 3).

Animated Series: He has been featured in multiple animated shows, often clashing with Daredevil and the Punisher.

Video Games: Bullseye appears in numerous Marvel games, including Marvel’s Spider-Man, Marvel Ultimate Alliance, and LEGO Marvel Super Heroes.

Conclusion

Bullseye remains one of Marvel’s most fearsome villains, a true nightmare for any hero who dares to stand in his way. His ability to turn anything into a weapon, coupled with his sadistic personality, ensures that he will remain an enduring and terrifying presence in the Marvel Universe for years to come. Whether in comics, television, or video games, Bullseye’s reputation as the ultimate marksman is undisputed.

[theblackxsky]

The hot shower water ran down her skin, stinging in some areas. She wouldn’t dare scrub at the areas that hurt and instead focused on her boyfriend who stood behind her. The water was finally fading from pink to clear as it ran. Her mind began to wander, thinking of how long they could hide out there for. A part of her wanted to leave anyways and show him around one of the places she went to right after college. A small part of London was her sanctuary for a long time. But that group would notice her the second she goes anywhere that’s out in the open. Even if there were swarms of people crowding the streets she’s sure they’d have someone out there constantly watching. And although they were partners in all of this she felt guilty for dragging the only person she really cared for into the fire. Especially in a place they were going to have to hide and stay low. It’s times like this where she played with the idea of dropping it all, heading somewhere knew and being like everyone else. They could vacation anywhere safe, explore the world together. With the constant flow of money through her business they would be able to. But she didn’t know if she could live without training and fighting. Even if she wasn’t the most peaceful and warm person she believed in helping others, getting revenge for those who can’t do it themselves.

With her inner battle clouding her thoughts she let out a sigh and put her hand on her boyfriends cheek. “Have you ever considered not doing this anymore?” She spoke softly, removing her hand to lather them in soap. Her bones ached from even the smallest movements as she tried to gently clean the dry blood off his skin. “The whole vigilante thing. Sometimes I just want to be able to go on a peaceful vacation and do whatever I want without worrying about what evil bastard is creeping around.” As she said it out loud she thought about the innocent lives they could be risking if they stopped everything all together. And Elektra knew how passionate Matthew was about being Daredevil. It was all like an addiction to the both of them, fighting evil. She wished she could think as selfishly as she used to but it just wasn’t possible now. No matter where they went there were going to be people who needed their help. And she hated when he’d go off on his own and she’d be out worrying wether he’d get back or not. No one’s safety could compare to his in her mind and if that meant risking others, she’d do it.

@darexjustice

[hithertoundreamtof23]

BTHB Masterlist

*For info on prompts and fic requests, see my intro post. (In order of oldest to most recent)

"It's all my fault"- The Poison of Grief

Fandom: Doctor Strange

Summary: A fix-it for the awful finale that was What…if? Season 2.

Spinal Injury- Passing the Knife

Fandom: Doctor Strange

Summary: Stephen (literally) crawls to safety after getting blasted in the back.

Depression- Out of the Pit of Despair

Fandom: Daredevil (TV)

Summary: Matt Murdock deals with his grief after Elektra's passing, causing him to spiral into Catholic guilt and existential crisis

Good Intentions, Bad Results- Someone Always Gets Punished

Fandom: Doctor Strange, Spider-Man, MCU

Summary: Stephen Strange introspection of No Way Home, featuring some time gaps and deleted scenes.

Don't you dare pity me- The Grief Stayed with Him

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man (Webb)

Summary: Andrew's Peter reflects on what to do after Gwen's death.

Lacerations- Thanos is Mercy

Fandom: Doctor Strange, MCU

Summary: Thanos believes it's time to leave his mark on Stephen… permanently.

Can't Go Home- An Ocean in the Sun

Fandom: Doctor Strange, Deadpool and Wolverine (2024)

Summary: A Stephen Strange variant finds himself face-to-face with Cassandra Nova. (Gap filler based on the name-drop in Deadpool and Wolverine). 

Punctured Lung- A Hole in Lung

Fandom: Doctor Strange

Summary: Stephen Strange suffers from a punctured lung. Cue America Chavez panicking.

Taunting- Strumming My Pain With His Fingers

Fandom: Daredevil, Daredevil Born Again

Summary: Matt makes a mistake and gets captured by Muse, who decides to use his blood for his next art piece. Cut to Matt suffering and thinking he's alone (spoiler- he's not)

"Get Well Soon" Gift - Of the Same Vine

Fandom: Daredevil, Daredevil Born Again

Summary: Karen and Matt battle with their own grief over Foggy, and end up battling each other.

[garlic-sauc3]

cant believe everybody is so obsessed with earth-65 murderdock when there are so many other fun versions of matt to enjoy, such as: dare the terminator (assassin woman who is strongly implied to be girlfriends with elektra)(earth-9602), mattea murdock aka the daredevil drummer of philly (punk drummer, shes badass)(earth-138), daredevil noir (noir detective style daredevil where the female bullseye is the femme fatale)(earth-90215), etc;

like there are so many underrated versions of matt, man

[macchiatosdumptruck]

Okay, I'm curious. How do you feel about Daredevil?

*gets out book*

WELL.

I quite enjoy the character, but tbh I think it's a damn shame that his most well known arcs are all written by Frank m*ller 🤢

Frank Miller meet me in the back with a steel chair I dare you.

I really enjoyed the first season of the Netflix show , and also really enjoyed their version of Punisher. I find it really amusing that the TMNT were based off his Miller run lmao.

Elektra deserves better. And so do all of his girlfriends, (Miller...)

I started reading her volume four, 2014 solo run and then got distracted, but I should really finish it.

I guess Matt got his secret identity exposed a few years ago. Rip. I was out of most marvel at that time lol.

I really like Charlie as Matt, and I think maybe I should actually watch the Netflix show again. At least the first season.

It's a shame that Ben Affleck wants to play a superhero so bad and yet every time he does they get done so dirty.

Somewhat neutral, leaning positive.

[cleabellanov]

A (very) different take on "I wanna be your slave" by Måneskin

Do you ever listen to music and it just…hits different?

When listening to “I wanna be your slave”  we suddenly thought of a very specific lawyer.

You probably know the song, and if you don’t, that’s fine, just hear this out for a sec.

Only the second verse in: “I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters”. Wait, what was that? Heartbeat. That’s a really important theme in the Daredevil series, and Matt has used his heightened senses to track people’s heartbeats more than once. Moving on a few verses forward: “I love you since this morning, not just for aesthetic”. Now, we all know what an aesthetic is, and how it generally refers to people’s appreciation of beautiful things. But Matt can’t exactly see the beautiful things, so that’s not the reason that he loves someone. Speaking of, right the next verse is the daring: “I wanna touch your body, so fuck!ng electric”. Sounds familiar to me! Electric, Elektra, did that make you think of any love interests?

The next section is nothing like our character…I mean, obviously. Until we meet another two beauties. First is “I wanna be your sinner, wanna be a preacher”. It’s not the meaning of the song, we know that, but if we choose to talk about this perspective, it’s in theme with “Lawyer by day, vigilante by night.”. Two statuses opposite of one another, but existing in one person. Alright, maybe we’re taking it too far, but drama loves us here.  Second, we hear : “ ‘Cause baby I’m your David and you’re my Goliath.” I’m your David. In the Bible, David was a young boy who, despite his physical weakness, managed to win the fight against Goliath: a fierce soldier. Why? Because he had God by his side. Again, this sounds familiar when talking about seasons 1 and 2, when we see him apparently helpless in front of bigger, stronger men, but still persevering.

Now we finally get to the chorus, which could not be more specific than it is (keeping this perspective in mind) : “ Because I’m the devil who’s searching for redemption, and I’m a lawyer who’s searching for redemption”. The terms vary, but the first two lines are what really lit the match here: the mention of the lawyer and the devil in the same chorus.  Maybe you don’t hear it, but we think it’s amazing. Plus, it is paired with redemption, which can also mean salvation from sin. To quote Matt Murdock himself; “Then why did He put the Devil in me? Why do I feel it in my heart, and in my soul, clawing to be left out, if it is not all part of God’s plan?” Because of course, Matthew never wants to  ( and doesn’t ) completely let his dark side out, hence the search for salvation...from himself. And I believe that would make him wonder, maybe rarely, but still wonder, which one of the two he is: the slave or the master.

[keycomicbooks]

Assassins Collector's Set Edition

#Assassins Collector's Set Edition, written by #DanChichester and illustrated by #ScottMcDaniel, featured two main characters, #Catsai and #DaretheTerminator. Despite their enmity, they team up to take on the Big Question and his gang. Near the end of the #DCvsMarvel #crossover event in 1996, #AmalgamComics released a series of one-shot comic books combining characters from the Marvel Universe with characters from the #DCUniverse. #Daredevil and #Deathstroke's daughter, Ravager are merged to create Dare. While #Catwoman and #Elektra are merged to create Catsai. Amalgam Comics Collector's Set Edition https://www.rarecomicbooks.fashionablewebs.com/Assassins.html @rarecomicbooks Website Link In Bio Page If Applicable. SAVE ON SHIPPING COST - NOW AVAILABLE FOR LOCAL PICK UP IN DELTONA, FLORIDA #Amalgam #AmalgamComics #RareComics #KeyComicBooks

[neuroant]

Daredevil

I was blind to your radioactive waste

Looking for justice in an imperfect world

I fought by your side

But I couldn’t delay the kingpin

Getting in the way of us

A love toxic

A love blind

I fought

To die unknown

In this imperfect place

A hero

I doubt it

Is it wrong to dare

Is it wrong to care

Love thy lost I lost the will

To see past echos

Locating you

Was the hardest thing to do

My elektra

My complex

Seeking bullseyes in lost eyes

Where I met your demise

Because I couldn’t see through your lies

Are you seeing red?

That is just my disguise