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farfromstrange · 6 months

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.”

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

“How would you know?” you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?”

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him.

“Don’t call me that,” you growl.

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out.

“Published by Columbia University.”

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in.

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his.

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins.

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur.

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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thepenguinandthefiend · 6 months

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My F/Os

Since I've decided to become a self-ship blog now, here's a list of my f/os. There will likely be more added later.

Romantic F/Os:

Zatanna Zatara (DC comics) {no sharing} Johanna Mason (Hunger Games) {no sharing} Desire (The Sandman) {no sharing} Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics) {no sharing} Bucky Barnes (MCU) {sharing iffy} Illyana Rasputin (X-Men) {no sharing} Bill Potts (Doctor Who) {sharing ok} Dean Winchester (Supernatural) {no sharing} Mazikeen (Lucifer) {sharing iffy} Remy LeBeau (X-Men) {sharing iffy} Gareth Ritter (Brain Dead) {no sharing} Vanessa Morales (In the Heights) {sharing iffy} Faith Lehane (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) {sharing ok} Elsa Bloodstone (Marvel Comics) {no sharing} Boodikka (Green Lantern) {sharing ok} Felicity Smoak (Arrow) {sharing iffy} Lena Luthor (Supergirl) {sharing iffy} Emilia Rothschild (Jack of All Trades) {sharing ok} Shotzi (WWE) {no sharing} Finn Balor (WWE) {no sharing} Abadon (AEW) {no sharing} Tulip O'Hare (Preacher) {sharing ok} Queen Emeraldas (Galaxy Express 999) {sharing ok} Dr. Kimiyo Hoshi (DC Comics) {sharing iffy} Darby Allin (AEW) {no sharing} Jenny Green (Dead Boy Detectives) {sharing iffy} Bleez (Green Lantern) {sharing ok} Klaus Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) {no sharing} Harley Quinn (DC Comics) {sharing iffy} Poison Ivy {sharing iffy}

Queer-Platonic F/Os:

America Chavez (Young Avengers) Ella Lopez (Lucifer) Finnick Odair (Hunger Games) Hartley Rathaway (Flash/DC comics) Kate Bishop (Young Avengers) Monica Rambeau (Marvel Comics/MCU) Larissa Duan (Check, Please) Roxie Richter (Scott Pilgrim) Shvaughn Erin (Legion of Superheroes) Bling Mag (Repo: the Genetic Opera) Drew McIntyre (WWE) Yelena Belova (Marvel Comics) Ianto Jones (Torchwood) Benny Lafitte (Supernatural) Carla (In the Heights)

Platonic F/Os:

Kon-El (DC comics) Eliot Waugh (The Magicians) Jonathan Crane (DC comics) Wallace Wells (Scott Pilgrim) Ragdoll (Secret Six) Yukio Okumura (Blue Exorcist) Winn Schott Jr. (Supergirl) Edward Nygma (Gotham) William Poindexter (Check, Please) Jaysen Caulfield (Icebreaker) Onomatopoeia (DC comics) Topher Brink (Dollhouse) Danhausen (AEW) Roy Harper (DC comics/Arrowverse) Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice: the Musical)

Familial F/Os:

Alfred Pennyworth (DC comics) [grandfather] The Master (Doctor Who) [father] Wanda Maximoff (Marvel comics) [mother] Ursula (The Little Mermaid) [mother] Queen of Hearts (Alice in Wonderland) [mother] Bruce Wayne (DC comics) [father] Pietro Maximoff (Marvel comics) [uncle] Lorna Dane (Marvel comics) [aunt] Erik Lensher (Marvel comics) [grandfather] John Constantine (DC comics/Arrowverse) [older brother] Leon Kennedy (Resident Evil) [older brother] Leonard Snart (DC comics/Arrowverse) [older brother] Lisa Snart (DC comics/Arrowverse) [older sister] Kent Parson (Check, Please) [older brother] Dick Grayson (DC comics) [older brother] Jason Todd (DC comics) [older brother] Enjolras (Les Miserables) [twin brother] Tim Drake (DC comics) [younger brother] Damian Wayne (DC comics) [younger brother] Stephanie Brown (DC comics) [younger sister] Cassandra Cain (DC comics) [younger sister] Duke Thomas (DC comics) [younger brother] Billy Kaplan (Young Avengers) [younger brother] Tommy Shepherd (Young Avengers) [younger brother] Spike (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) [adopted brother] Dirk Gently (Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency) [cousin] Graham Miller (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) [cousin] Percy de Rolo (Vox Machina) [cousin] Luna Maximoff (Marvel comics) [cousin] 10K (Z-Nation) [son] Lonnie Machin (DC comics) [son] Andrew Wells (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) [adopted son] Giovanni Zatara (DC Comics) [father-in-law] Piotr Rasputin (X-Men) [brother-in-law] Teddy Altman (Young Avengers) [brother-in-law] Sam Winchester (Supernatural) [brother-in-law] Adam Milligan (Supernatural) [brother-in-law] Dream (Sandman) [brother-in-law] Death (Sandman) [sister-in-law] Delirium (Sandman) [sister-in-law] Despair (Sandman) [sister-in-law] Destiny (Sandman) [brother-in-law] The Prodigal (Sandman) [brother-in-law] Luther Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) [brother-in-law] Diego Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) [brother-in-law] Allison Hargreeves (Umbrella Acadmy) [sister-in-law] Five Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) [brother-in-law] Ben Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) [brother-in-law] Viktor Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy) [brother-in-law/best friend]

Pet F/Os:

Lockheed (X-Men) Dex-Starr (DC comics) Cheshire Cat (Alice in Wonderland)

#self ship #selfship community #my f/os

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zezah-xiomara-citrine · 11 months

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*** while this dream is tame compared to my others, a typical Zezah dream will usually come with a trigger warning or two. Except a lot of fights, body horror, psychotic breaks, fornication, all that good stuff. ***

Just had a dream about fighting a fairy goddess over a plot of land on the beach. The dream was in the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time graphics. Fairy was in really high-definition graphics which made her kind of scary. I wanted to make out with the great fairy in that game since I was like 8 years old so there's that. This fairy was more like… um… that quiet nerdy girl you crush on at the library, but she is not really a nerd but a escaped mental patient who stole someone's glasses.

Anyway, normal things proceeds. I talk my usual trash to demoralize my opponent then move in to strike.

Phase one was kinda easy. I just hit her with a rock and punched her a few times. Body slam, body slam, kicks and some sand in the eyes. I honestly love fairies to death so I was sad, but my polycue really wanted that plot of beach so I had to do what I needed to do. Phase 2 she got pissed. Went full Storm X-Man eliminate weather which on me 😶 summoned a damn hurricane and a bunch of lighting and fire and a whole lot of nasty. Me being who I am, jumped right in...

Tried wrestling her and she channeled electricity through her body and grew cacactus spikes while we were grappling and flying around in her maelstrom. That shit kinda hurt so I let go and decided to go find a rocket launcher first. Went to go heal (have sex) and no one I'm with had time for me. Everyone was with someone else and I was just kinda left by myself. After fighting the damn goddess of nature, naturally, I was kinda upset.

So, I became the best Elektra Abundance-Evangelista I could be and was petty to the max at a restaurant they where all at. I had my prescription of super estrogen filled and juiced up. Became hot, Hopped on the table, was as sultry as possible. Visibly made everyone aroused and intimidated at the same time 👠👠👠 unlocked true dummy mommy status and influence.

Side note, I need to draw that dress in the morning 💪🏾❤️👠

Realizing I have gained the ultimate power I went back to fight (and maybe seduce) the fairy but I woke up and now im mad because now do I not only have some new psychological baggage I should comb through – I NEED TO KICK THAT DAMN FAIRY'S ASS!!!

#dream journal #crazy #Lgbt #transgender #i need a therapist

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loveneverfades · 2 years

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Tiger Striped Cat and White Cat - Spike x Julia

Art by Srinitybeast

Spike: There once was a tiger striped cat. This cat died a million deaths, revived and lived a million lives, and he was owned by various people who he didn't really care for. The cat wasn't afraid to die. Then one day the cat became a stray cat, which meant he was free. He met a white female cat, and the two of them spent their days together happily. Well, years passed, and the white cat grew weak and died of old age. The tiger striped cat cried a million times, and then he died too. Except this time, he didn't come back to life.

Spike: Years ago, back when I was much younger, I was afraid of nothing. I had not the slightest fear of death. I was ready to die anytime. But then I met a special woman. She made me want to go on living. For the first time, I was afraid of death. A feeling I’d never had before. Elektra: Where is she now? Spike: She went away.

#cowboy bebop #spike x julia #julia cowboy bebop #spike spiegel #bebop #see you space cowboy #カウボーイビバップ #スパイク·スピーゲル #スパイク

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honeysucklepink · 5 years

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To the person who responded to my fic “Category Is...” with the following:

“there aint no white bitches up in ballroom, not now, not ever and especially not tomorrow bitch.”

I read your comment and I have to admit, it shook me up a bit. But I wanted to address this issue. First, upfront: I am a bi/pan non-binary gal, in a cishet-appearing marriage, and I am from Mississippi. So, cis-appearing white privilege AND from the Most Racist State on Earth? Yep, I’m already at a disadvantage even attempting to write in this culture. But give me a minute.

I am Generation X. I grew up with MTV and AIDS, Madonna’s “Vogue” and RuPaul’s “Supermodel of the World.” I was fortunate to live in a unique college town, with a school district that didn’t run away from integration like most of the counties surrounding us did (look up “segregation academies” for an eye-opener), and an art house theatre hangout for us misfit kids. There I watched movies by John Waters and Spike Lee, Lynch and Tarantino. I wore fishnets to Rocky Horror at midnight and a lace bustier to Truth or Dare. I had crushes on all of Madonna’s backup dancers...ALL of them. So I knew I was different. It took me years, YEARS to come to terms that I wasn’t straight, and more to realize the binary was bullshit. I am HYPER aware of issues related to race, representation, and privilege. I educated myself. I was lucky to find the parts of social media that weren’t run by 4chan. I followed women of color...black, Latina, Native. I followed queer people, trans people. I listened, and I amplified their voices the best I could...and can. It’s an ongoing thing.

I also read last week that a trans woman of color nearly got thrown out of Stonewall...fucking STONEWALL, for speaking out and protesting the commercialization and gentrification of Pride. I read an Atlantic headline (I refused to give it the clicks) saying that “hey the fight is over we won,” and I’m like “HUH?” When queer people can still get fired, refused housing, when trans women of color get murdered every fucking day? Trans women of color started the goddamn movement! Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera threw the first bricks. The Houses of LaBeija, Xtravaganza, Aviance are legendary in ballroom. I know this.

So why did I put a white kid in a house? It came down to the prompt first of all, and the character the second. I don’t know if you found my fic because you were looking for Pose fic and stumbled across this, but I should explain my primary fandom is Glee, particularly Kurt and Blaine (“Klaine”). Both are produced by Ryan Murphy. I love Pose so much, so when we had a Klaine fic gift exchange last summer I got sent the Pose prompt. Trust me my immediate thought was “how am I gonna put Kurt’s pale butt in this world?” Kurt is not only white, he is blindingly so...for fuck’s sake one of his canon nicknames in high school was “Porcelain” (a canon fact I decided to carry over). He is also, as his dad Burt Hummel would say “REALLY gay...sings like Diana Ross and dresses like he owns a magic chocolate factory.” But I couldn’t put him in Stan’s corporate world; Kurt would never fit in there. And the white cismale gay world is hardly depicted in Pose.

The other option was yes, putting him in the ballroom world, and in a house. So I did, and took painstaking care to a) do all the research I could, and b) find a way to justify why he would be there. And it came down to House of Abundance. When I saw Kurt, I saw him as one of Elektra’s children; cold, aloof, poised, fierce. Someone with theatricality, but who could cut you with a glance. Someone who has had to put up walls for protection, but when the walls come down there is a warm heart. But someone who knows that even in the ballroom world he is an anomaly, an outsider. Someone who has to constantly prove that he belongs...somewhere. Other houses point out his white privilege; Elektra uses it to her advantage. And in the current canon season of Pose, Elektra has started a new house and added a white queen, who says herself when invited “ain’t no white queens in ballroom.”

Which brings us to Blaine...which is a touchy subject in the Glee fandom in case you didn’t know. Darren Criss is half-Filipino. It was never confirmed whether he was “white” on the show. Some wrote him as white (and they were accused of “whitewashing” Blaine). Others wrote him as Pinoy, because the actor is. Criss himself has said he knows he is “white-passing,” and Murphy has never confirmed one way or the other. I wrote him as Pinoy, partly to be sure there wasn’t another white kid in ballroom, but also because of the dad angle, and I honestly was a little inspired by another Ryan Murphy role...Modesto Cunanan, Andrew’s father, in Assassination of Gianni Versace.

Ultimately however, it comes down to this; Glee and Pose are both fictional worlds. Pose is more rooted in a historical, legitimate culture, but the story is still an AU, an “alternate universe.” Would Kurt ever be in a house in real life? I don’t know. But I write Kurt and Blaine fic. I was asked to put them in the Pose world, and I did the best I could. I have educated and reeducated myself on sexuality, gender, ballroom, the lives of all who live on the LGBTQ+ spectrum. And I know I will die never having learned everything or even coming close to erasing my privilege. I can only invite you to read the entire story that I put my heart into, and the care I took with canon characters like Blanca and Pray. If you read this far, thank you for listening.

ETA: then I realized you don’t have an account, you are most likely a troll (as a friend said most “megaaatrons” she sees in social media are white girls), and your comment contained abuse, so I reported it as spam. But this I’m leaving up, cause I worked hard on it.

#ao3 #archive of our own #representation #category is #why do I respond to trolls?#they aren't worth the oxygen

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d2071art · 2 years

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hey, what do you think about this pathetic Spike x Julia nonsense?

Oh boy. I do happen to have some thoughts, yes.

The most important one is this. Cowboy Bebop is such a pure postmodern masterpiece that the director himself says that it up to the viewer to decide, if Spike lives, dies or sleeps. It is all just a matter of interpretation, of each fan's believes, preferences etc.

That what makes Cowboy Bebop and its fandom so brilliant: anything goes in this cosmic dare, the sky is one's imagination.

Or one’s own limitations, as I recently discovered watching a petty holy war over Spike Spiegel's pairings. You know, that absurd one where a couple of so called fans goes around social media and insults every person who doesn't think Spike x Julia is the only true pairing in Cowboy Bebop.

I sure do know this compulsive need to be right, to swing the sword, to feel just and / or insulted. I've been there, believe me. In some cases I am still there (and that's exactly why I will probably never watch Amazon's version of Silmarillion).

But (luckily) there is a bunch of other things I know - besides that need.

I know that safe, friendly and inclusive community which welcomes different people and different opinions is a priceless gift.

I know that it is never okay to insult people and to push my point of view down other fans throats.

And I know will support all the fans who happen to appreciate Cowboy Bebop for what it is - a thing that unites us and inspires us, that feeds our imagination and our creativity. Not a pathetic excuse for bullying.

So please, go and do your things, guys. Write, draw, compose, make jokes, be nasty.

I know I will. 😏

#ask me anything #cowboy bebop #see you space cowboy #spike x faye #spike x elektra #spike x jet #spike x andy #spike x vicious #spike x lobster

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softiescully · 2 years

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i actually had no idea ppl were shipping matt and frank but i can see why 😭 (esp when he had matt chained up 🫣) i personally don’t ship them but that’s mainly bc i love karen and frank together <3 who are your top ships? (in general too hehe) -🍯

oh LMAO i meant daredevil/the punisher like both of those shows…(people do ship matt and frank but i was asking just generally sksksksks) i love karen and frank together!!! (definitely in my top ships) they have me in a chokehold for real…i like matt and foggy together but also like matt and elektra (doomed/tragic love. they got me)

top ships in general are mulder and scully (the x-files) booth and bones (bones) kate and anthony (bridgerton) spike and buffy (buffy the vampire slayer) what abt u??? 💘

#we’re gonna be besties if you’re not careful #🍯#ask #anon

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roses-for-julia · 3 years

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Damn Spike. So picky. 🤣

(From the story that inspired The Tale of the Tiger Striped Cat.)

#cowboy bebop #spike spiegel #julia cowboy bebop #spike x julia #faye valentine #elektra ovirowa #katerina solensan #stella #muriel

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 7 years

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Rise Up

Chapter Twenty

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader | Word Count: 5021 Warnings: Swearing, fights, a little smexy.

Song: My Hero by The Foo Fighters

You woke with a start to the cadence of slow beeps monitoring your heart, the scent of antiseptic, and the mutter of Bruce as he puttered around. His heart was the only one you could find besides your own, and you turned your head his direction, sending a wave of pain through your face.

“Shit!” You grabbed your cheek only to have your ribs grind together. “Double shit!” you wheezed and caused Bruce to chuckle.

“Welcome back, your majesty.”

“Bite me, Bruce,” you grumbled, sitting up slowly.

His hands were quick to find your elbows and help you to the edge of the bed. “You’re healing at an advanced rate. According to all reports, your broken ribs are down to mere fractures, and your orbital bone and cheek are more like deep bone bruises than the cracks of shattered glass they were when you got on the jet.”

“How long have I been out? What happened? Steven!?” you gasped, trying to lurch from the bed and nearly landing on the floor.

“Hey! Hey! Easy! Everyone’s fine. Everyone’s safe. You don’t remember what happened?”

You shook your head slowly. “I remember Steven doing something foolish, me getting smacked into Tony, and smelling Steve’s blood. Then the ljå was dead, and the roof was coming down on us.”

“So… the part where you screamed filthy things and called upon your fallen sisters, Thor, Odin, and Loki to lend you their strength while your eyes glowed and you kicked that thing’s ass by ripping out its throat before riding its falling corpse to the ground… is a blank?”

“What?” You blinked at him. “How do you know what happened?”

“Tony records everything. Once Wanda let me know about… Elektra, the Hulk insisted we come home, much to Laura’s relief I’m sure. And, just so you know, the big guy? He’s none too happy about sitting this one out.”

You gave his cheek a gentle pat. “I’ll happily play around of dodge-and-roll with him once everything stops throbbing.”

There was a moment of silence before Bruce nodded. “He says he doesn’t know what that is, but he’ll take it.”

“It’s a game I played with my sisters. He’ll like it. Promise.”

He hummed softly before sitting beside you. “So? You gonna own up to what glowing eyes and memory loss mean? You didn’t seem surprised by it.”

“I’m surprised Heimdall didn’t spill the beans. Nosy guardian revealed all my other secrets,” you grumbled.

“He would only grin and mutter about you being a special sort of Valkyrie.”

With a sigh, you heaved yourself off the bed. “How long has it been?”

“The flight from China, plus a good six hours since you got home. Steve was here for most of it, but I kicked him out about twenty minutes ago. He stunk.” Bruce wrinkled up his nose.

“Well, he didn’t get very far. I can hear them all down the hall in a conference room, along with…” you cocked your head to the side, “Ross! What the fuck is he doing back here?”

“He showed up with an order for Daredevil. Of course, Murdock was with you, so we simply denied everything. I had Susan jump into his room, clear it out, and hide his stuff in the barn. Smitty managed to get a text out to Clint and Tony gave him an airlift out the back of the jet. He’s with Hemmi as far as I know.”

“Okay, so why is Ross still here?” you asked.

“Professional courtesy, he said. He insisted on staying until the Queen had recovered enough to assure him herself she would be fine, along with demanding to know what you all were doing in China. Heimdall has been taking every opportunity to sit and sharpen his sword while looming and glaring. Tony finds it hilarious. Natasha has joined in and started cleaning her weapons. Bucky, too. Sam’s just wandering around with a permanent scowl, and Vision is keeping an eye on Wanda. She’s been a little… twitchy since he arrived.”

“Well, I guess I should let him pay his respects so he can get the hell out of here.” You turned to leave only to stop and gasp when your ribs pulled.

“You want a shot of something before you do that?” he asked, amusement in his tone.

“Can you just numb it up? They’re going to be fine in another couple more hours, but breathing kind of hurts right now.”

He chuckled but nodded and moved away to his workstation. “This is something I’ve been working on for Steve and Bucky. It’s an analgesic cream, penetrates deep, and numbs nerve endings. It’s super-powered,” he muttered as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “On anyone else, it would cause them to lose all feeling and mobility of the area, but for you bunch, it should be right up your alley.”

“You speaking from experience there, Brucey-bear?” you teased as you pulled your leather shirt up out of the way for him to swipe the cream over your ribcage.

“Was like being injected with novocaine,” he grumbled.

You snickered, then sighed when the relief was nearly instant. “Oh… that’s good stuff.”

“It should absorb fully,” he continued to mutter as he applied a small dab to your cheek and began to smooth it out, “but I’d appreciate any feedback you may have — odd sensations, tingling, more than the normal level of numbness. You actually make a good test subject as you’ve used the other stuff for regular people and know what it should do. So… thanks for being my guinea pig!”

“I’ve been reduced to lab rat status. Great,” you huffed but smiled, more than willing to assist.

“And a damn fine job you’re doing.”

You gave him a swat in the arm as he pulled his gloves off. “I plan on having a shower. Long and hot. With much excessive soap use to get the grunge off and out of my hair. That going to be a problem?”

“Should all be absorbed in the next ten minutes, but if it does wash off, let me know.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” you said, leaning in to hug him.

He gave a stiff, one armed pat to your back. “Anytime.”

“What?” you asked, pulling away.

“Uh…” Easily felt heat filled his face. “You’re a little… under-underdressed.”

Your hands flew to your chest only to sigh. “What? I swim in less clothing than this!” The leather top was no different than a camisole to your mind.

“Things… um, gape!” he squeaked when you leaned toward him.

It made you laugh. “Alright, alright. You got an extra shirt I can borrow?”

He was quick to scramble over to a drawer in his desk and toss one your way. Dragging it over your head, you felt the slightly thicker coating on the front and grinned at him. “Which one is this?”

“Melting Rubix cube,” he grumbled. Bruce had a penchant for science shirts or nerd wear as Nat affectionately called it. “It’s my favourite, so try not to get it bloody.”

“No promises,” you called over your shoulder. You hadn’t punched Ross last time. This time you weren’t so sure you could contain yourself.

“(Y/N)!” he barked as he followed you down the hall. “C’mon!”

A soft giggle welled in your chest, but you bit it back as you sauntered onward. He jogged a few steps until he could match your pace. The halls were deathly quiet for what essentially amounted to midday. It was odd and made the hair on your neck rise with concern, but there were no shouted alarms, no quickened heartbeats, only silence and the occasional sharp intake of breath.

Steve’s heart remained steadfast, calm, if marginally faster than normal, and it was it you focused on. If he wasn’t reacting with spikes and jumps, then things should be okay.

Rounding the corner you and Bruce both came to a halt when you found the reason no one was working was that nearly every person in the compound had gathered outside the walls of the glassed-in conference room to watch the fight happening on the screen within.

Around the table were your teammates in their preferred positions. Ross stood, arms crossed and mouth gaping, staring at the screen you could hear but not see. A couple of his henchmen were gathered behind him, and two more stood just beyond the open door.

Slowly, you began to weave your way through the sea of people, shushing them when they made to speak, working forward until you could lean against the open doorway, crossing both arms and legs. The battle replayed in your mind with each grunt and scream, each shout of the ljå. Steve’s arrival on the field made you frown, but you continued to listen as it played out.

Bruce stood just behind your shoulder. His breathing and heart jumped around. His hands opened and closed into fists, and his muscles twitched in anticipation of each blow. Something in his scent grew wild and dangerous, and you knew the Hulk was very close to the surface, watching and longing to have been involved in the battle.

You felt bad for leaving the big green guy out, but it was for his protection. His and the worlds. A Hulk made ljå? You couldn’t even imagine it and reached back to grip Bruce’s hand. His tightened once before the fidgeting gradually slowed and eventually stopped.

The sound of your elbow connecting with Tony’s suit as you screamed in denial, drew your attention back to the screen, and though you still couldn’t see it, you could hear what happened next and worked to piece it together.

A drop, powerful and deep, sending earth exploding around you. Wind whistled, and in it, you heard the howl of the wolf and the cries of your ancestors as your power rose. The warcry of your father tore from your throat, violent and ragged, leaving you wondering how you hadn’t shredded your vocal cords with that single sound as you cursed and berated the ljå, swore and threatened it, and spewed vile curses you hadn’t even known you knew — things you would never have said in your right mind and flinched at the vulgarity. Sure you could swear like a sailor and had no qualms about bitching someone out, but that was downright nasty!

Then, that first initial step and the ground shook. Another and it tremored. A leap and the rocks seemed to creak and scream as the wave of your force blasted them.

Like Bruce had said, you called out to your sisters. To Tyra, Asta, Ingrid, Vigdís, and Brynhildr. You cried out, vowed vengeance and claimed retribution for your fallen friends. You swore it by Gungnir, Odin’s spear, that you would not stop until the last of the Sjeletyv were purged from existence. With Odin’s name you beseeched him to lend you his wisdom, to Thor you sought his strength, and from Loki, you begged his cunning. You would need all three.

The rest unfolded in much screaming, the breaking of armour, and the crashing of stone as the others tried to get Steve to retreat, only to have him refuse to leave you behind. They wouldn’t have left you there, that much you did know, only moved to the tunnel so as not to be slammed flat by the rocks falling from the ceiling, but his refusal both made your heart swell and pissed you off a little further.

He’d taken unnecessary risks — ones which could have ended far differently. As it was, you checked every one of the team, making damn sure no one had had their soul sipped before relaxing your vigil in time to hear your parting words and Vision’s translation.

A blush, pale and light, coated your cheeks at hearing yourself claim Steve like he was something you owned. You never wanted him to feel like that. That being sjelevenn was an act of possession. He wasn’t cattle to be branded and paraded around like a thing of value.

Bruce’s hand squeezed yours and let go, drawing you from your musings as you called out weakly for Steve and passed out.

“Well… that was fun. I’ve never gotten to see myself go full berserker before. Though I guess see is a relative turn,” you quipped as the volume on the video lowered.

It was like everyone’s head was on a swivel when they all jerked your direction at the same time. The two men on the door jumped guiltily for having not noticed your arrival, then took a wary step away as you straightened from the doorframe.

“My lady,” Heimdall murmured, first to his feet where he bowed deeply. “Asgard celebrates your victory. Odin has extended his congratulations through me.”

“Loki?” you asked, only to have him shake his head. “Mischief god makes mischief even when he’s not here,” you muttered. His continued incarceration with the Valkyrjur was beginning to annoy you. They were holding the son of Odin. Even though the Valkyrjur might not follow Odin for more than orders, the keeping of his son was uncalled for, rude, and a snub to the All-father’s face. Something else for you to deal with when you returned.

“Highness,” Ross muttered, turning to face you. He stiffened, then relaxed. “Are you… fit to be out of medical?”

“Not my blood… well, most of it’s not mine,” you said with a feral grin. The stiffness of your hair and pants made you wonder how bad you looked. Someone had gotten a lot of the blood off your face and hands, but some of it had crept through holes the ljå had shredded in your armour to coat your legs and stomach.

“Fine. Then how about you explain yourself?” he barked and pointed at the screen. “You claim you’re not inhuman, but that looked pretty damn inhuman to me!”

The feral smile never wavered as you stepped further into the room to stand at Tony’s back. “I’m not inhuman. What I am is a Valkyrie, a special kind of Valkyrie. One of a kind if you will.”

“You know the suspense is killing me,” Tony huffed, swivelling his chair so he could look up at you. “Just spill it! You stink like three kinds of nasty, and I’d like not to smell you anymore.”

“Rude,” you huffed but smirked down at him. “I’m a Berserker.”

“Like… run through battle naked and screaming Viking Berserker?” Clint asked, staring at you in shock.

“Did you see me get naked at any point in that battle, feathers?” you snarled at him and rolled your eyes. “Berserkers were a group of native Asgardians, the people of my father. When Asgard went to war, you wanted the Berserkers on your side. I’m sure after seeing that,” you flicked your hand at the screen, “you can make your own assumptions as to why that was. But the Berserkers throughout our history have always been male. There had never been a female born to the clan with the power… until me.”

“More secrets, (Y/N),” Steve muttered.

You turned cold and harsh eyes his direction. “I never kept this a secret. Don’t dig yourself a deeper hole, Captain. We’re already going to be having words about the stupid ass thing you did today… yesterday. Whenever!”

“You never told me about this!” he barked, rising to his feet to lean toward you over the table.

A growl, deadly and hard ripped from your throat. “Use what little brain cells weren’t frozen to think and remember, Captain! I told you that day on the roof about going full Berserker on the ljå who took out that village. Who killed that child! Call me a liar again, and you’ll regret it!”

“I didn’t call you a liar!”

“It was clearly implied!”

“Hey, how about we all just take a few deep, calming breaths-”

“Shut up, Sam!” The two of you yelled at the same time.

You turned your attention back to Ross. “As you can see, sir, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern and for stopping by, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been informed I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

“We’re not done, Highness!” Ross snapped. “How did you know about that thing? Where did it come from? Who gave you the intel?”

“I’m sorry, but we’re done.” Tony snickered as you turned to leave, only to have Ross’s men step into your path. “I just took off the head of a nine-foot monster with little more than a sword and my bare hands. You are going to want to get the fuck out of my way!”

When they didn’t move but looked to Ross for direction, you lost what little hold you had left on your temper. It was nothing more than a shove, but both went straight through the glass walls encasing the conference room. “Whoops. It appears they fell. Pity how clumsy some people are,” you muttered.

A deep, rolling chuckle spilled from Bruce, and a voice that was not his own rumbled, “Feisty girl. We fight later.”

“You got it, Hulk baby!” You sent him a wink and sauntered out without so much as a by-your-leave. At this point, you figured you’d earned a freebie for insubordination and attitude.

Anger still rippled inside you, hot and sharp, seeming to tear at your heart and soul. It was mixed with the bitter taste of fear, the flavour reawakening with the recount of Steve’s idiocy.

He’d come so close. So close to losing everything. He could have died. He could have lost his soul, and you would never have gotten another life with him.

The harsh reality of what might have been pounded down on you and your hand shook as you reached for the door knobbed. He hadn’t followed, likely staying to deal with the fallout from Ross. You were actually thankful for the reprieve, needing time to collect yourself when the first tear slipped from your eye.

You nearly fell in the door and trudged to the bath, not bothering with the light. The water came on, and you were quick to strip out of Bruce’s shirt. You hadn’t gotten blood on it, surprisingly, and even though you’d shoved two grown men out the what essentially amounted to windows, neither of them had been injured beyond their pride and a few bruises.

Once Bruce’s shirt landed beside the sink, you stepped fully clothed, boots and all, beneath the spray to slide down the wall until you could rest your head on your knees. Anger became all-consuming fear and the thoughts of what if circled relentlessly as you sat there shaking, waiting out the anguish of what could have been.

The mental image, one which was more shapes and shadows, of the ljå going after Steve, would be forever ingrained in your mind as the third time you’d nearly lost him. Lost your sjelevenn on a battlefield because you weren’t quick enough, strong enough, good enough to save him. If you weren’t blessed to be what you were, you would have lost him, right then and there, in a manner most horrid.

A sob racked your body right as the glass door swung open. “Go away, Steven.”

***

After her outburst in the conference room, he’d expected anger, rage, and likely yelling. He’d been ignoring the fluctuating heart in his chest, his own temper running hot and burning through the pain he was feeling, ignoring it as nothing more than the physical pain she had to be in still.

But seeing her curled up, looking tiny on the floor, soaked and shivering even beneath the hot spray and steam had all his indignation falling away. He shut the door and listened to her sob while twisting himself into a pretzel to get out of his suit. Once he’d shucked it down his legs, he peeled himself out of his undershirt and shorts and opened the door a second time. She didn’t even snarl, just turned her face away and leaned her temple on her knee.

“Baby,” he sighed as he knelt beside her and tried to pull her against him.

Her hand slammed into his chest, and she shoved him back. “No! No, you don’t just get to cuddle and pretend everything’s fine, Steven! You said you’d stay out of it, that you trusted me to get it done, but you didn’t! You just had to jump in like always, be the damn hero, and nearly got-” Her voice broke on a harsh sob.

“(Y/N)…” he sighed, her pain, her fear and despair seeming to tear at him, rip a gaping hole in his chest. “I did trust you. I knew you could do it.”

“Then why? Why would you do that? Why would you- when you knew! You knew what could happen! Gods!” She shoved to her feet to stand wet and dripping, leather plastered to her body and rivers of red and purple streaming from her frame to swirl down the drain before him. The colour matched the bloom of bruising around her eye and along her cheek, and he imagined it would match the explosion of the same colour across her ribs.

He surged to his feet to loom over her, better equipped to deal with anger than tears at the moment. “Because we’re better together, goddammit! Do you think I couldn’t see how every time she shrieked or screamed you lost a step? That I wouldn’t know how blind you were in that instant? Of course, I came to help you! I’ll always come to help you!”

“You damn ass! Do you know what it felt like when I caught the scent of your blood?” She slammed both palms to his chest and rocked him back. “How fucking terrified I was? Do you!?”

“Yes!” he bellowed, grabbing her by the wrists and jerking them behind her back, forcing her chest into his with the action. “You forget I can feel what you feel! I know exactly what raced through you at that moment, but you saved me!”

She struggled but his grip was unbreakable, and she snarled in frustration before kneeing him in the thigh.

Grunting, Steve swung her around and into the wall where he caged her, hands now above her head and his body a solid mass of immovable, pissed off muscle. “Watch it, sweetheart,” he growled.

“You watch it, Captain! You did a stupid thing, and I’ve every right to call you on it!”

“But you saved me!”

“I might not have! Dammit, Steven! You just don’t get it!” She bucked, wiggled, and writhed, rubbing wet leather and fucking gorgeous curves against him.

His body responded without his permission and made him even madder for being turned on and pissed off at the same time. “Then why don’t you explain it to me, (Y/N). Maybe you’d best use small words so what few brain cells I have left can understand you!”

“I can’t control it!”

He frowned. “What?”

“The power,” she sighed, seeming to deflate as her struggle ended. “The men could always turn it on or turn it off at will. I can’t. I don’t get a choice. Something happens to trigger it, and it’s like a switch flips in my brain. I disappear to be replaced by… a much more violent form of myself. I lose time, say and do things that I wouldn’t when I’m just… this. It’s me… but not me.”

“Baby,” he sighed, releasing her wrists to cup her face carefully. “It’s okay. You saved me. I’m right here.”

“But I might not have…” she whispered as tears began to trail down her cheeks again. “I could have lost you down there. Again. And this time there would have been no second chance. You would have been gone. Forever!” Her head bowed, and her forehead fell against his chest as she cried out the fear.

Steve closed his eyes and turned his face into her hair. He shifted to hold her tightly, clinging to her as the truth became blindingly bright. Did he regret rushing in to help her? No. Did he regret the pain he’d caused, the fear doing so had put in her heart? With everything he was. But he would do it again in a heartbeat.

“I couldn’t just stand back and watch. I couldn’t, not after you screamed. It was like a piece of me just… tore open. I had to help. I had to! Nothing was going to stop me from coming to you. Not even you.”

Her hands, which had drifted down to lay against his chest, curled into fists and she tapped one against his heart a few times. “You’re a stubborn, pigheaded, cantankerous old fart with a death wish, doing stupid things like jumping from planes with no parachute. I should have known rushing in to try and help kill a creature that could literally suck out your soul would be right up your alley.”

“And yet, you still love me.”

“Yeah. I should have let Heimdall drag your ass out of there,” she muttered.

“You and I both know I’d a kicked his ass if he tried.”

She snorted out a half laugh. “You would have tried.”

“Baby.” He caught her chin and lifted it up to see her gorgeous eyes. “If he were tryin’ to keep me from getting back to you, I’d a succeeded.”

A smirk twitched her lips. “I believe you would, sjelevenn.”

“So, am I forgiven?”

“Am I?” she asked. “I guess I never really explained about being a Berserker, and I was kind of snippy in the conference room.”

Steve chuckled softly at her use of snippy. He’d dragged her out of places where she’d been in a full temper and knew it could have been a lot worse. “I probably shouldn’t admit to the fact I thought your insubordination was hot.”

“Oh, really?” She smirked a wide grin. “Do tell.”

“I’d rather show,” he murmured, nudging his hips into hers.

“Why, Captain! How very unprofessional of you,” she snickered and began to slide her hands over his chest. “Did our little tiff turn you on?”

“Not so much the snarling but having you wriggling around all wet and sexy? Yeah, baby.” Most of the blood had washed down the drain, and Steve nuzzled his nose into her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “How about we get you out of these wet clothes?”

“Can’t have a proper shower with them on.”

“Definitely not,” he chuckled and caught the hem of her shirt to peel it up over her head and let it fall with a wet plop. Her faulds came next, hitting the ground with a clank before he kicked them aside. He tsked softly as he looked down, though his hands were busy brushing and massaging her beautiful breasts. “Boots in the shower? That’s just wrong.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, arching into his touch. “What are you going to do about… Captain?”

He lowered to his knees, smirk ever present, his hands slipping down her wet torso to rub gentle circles on her skin. Careful of her ribs, Steve leaned in and kissed her beside the dimple of her belly button and nipped sharp teeth into her flesh to make her gasp. “Gonna have to reprimand you for it, doll. First, you get all snippy with your superior; then there was the use of excessive force - which, by the way, Tony said is coming out of your pay to replace the glass - and now I find you abusing your uniform? You’re racking up points as a troublemaker.” The ties on her pants were well and truly swollen when he gave them a testing tug.

“Steven,” she moaned and threaded her hands through his hair.

The ties gave when he wrenched them apart with a quick jerk and began to roll the wet leather down her legs. “Yeah, baby?” he murmured, snapping the ones on her boots when her pants hung up on her knees.

Her hand closed in his hair, and she tugged until his chin lifted and breath caught at the sight of her smile. “I think you’ve forgotten who the Queen in this relationship is,” she purred and caressed his cheek.

He could only grin and shake his head. “Oh, darling. I ain’t ever gonna forget that,” Steve said as he lifted her foot and worked the first boot off. Once he had the second free, he stripped her pants down to her ankles and let her kick them aside.

The softness of her skin called to him, and he was helpless but to reach out and wrap his hands around the back of her knees. He pulled her forward, off the wall and against him so he could place tender kisses and light nips to her thighs before turning his nose to the thatch of curls between her legs. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmured as he nudged and nuzzled against her, finding her scent intoxicating as always.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you in front of the others,” she sighed and stroked her hands through his hair, her nails skating over his scalp.

“How are you feeling, dollface?” he asked, his body throbbing with need.

“Bruce numbed everything up.” She whimpered and moaned softly when he darted his tongue out to taste her.

He hummed in pleasure but pulled away to get back to his feet and reached for her braid.

“Meanie,” she pouted.

Steve chuckled. “After we get cleaned up. Stark was right. You stink, and I can’t imagine I smell any better. Besides, he’s decreed karaoke tonight, and until then we are all free to chill.”

“Chill, huh? And just what does your definition of chill include, sjelevenn?” she asked, her nimble fingers wrapping firmly around his cock.

He gently worked her braid free and tried not to groan in delight. “Spending a serious amount of time with my girl and no clothing,” he quipped, only to bite his lip when she gave a twist to her stroking. “Baby…”

“Why don’t you wash my back, and I’ll wash yours, Steven.”

“That’s not my back, doll.”

She grinned wickedly. “I know.”

He laughed and reached for the shampoo.

Next Chapter

#rise up #steve rogers #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #avengers #the avengers #avengers au #avengers fanfiction #valkyrie #fanfiction

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mirianaruggiero · 6 years

Text

100 TV CHARACTERS (not in order)

1. Brooke Penelope Davis - One Tree Hill

2. Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer - One Tree Hill

3. Jess Mariano - Gilmore Girls

4. Pacey Witter - Dawson’s Creek

5. Danny Wheeler - Baby Daddy

6. Eleanor Henstridge - The Royals

7. Brian Kinney - Queer As Folk

8. Rory Gilmore - Gilmore Girls

9. Chandler Bing - Friends

10. Robin Scherbatsky

11. Joey Tribbiani - Friends

12. Chuck Bartowski - Chuck

13. Barney Stinson - How I Met Your Mother

14. Jesse Pinkman - Breaking Bad

15. Willow Rosenberg

16. Justin Foley - 13 Reasons Why

17. Sarah Walker - Chuck

18. Josephine Potter - Dawson’s Creek

19. Tyrion Lannister - Game Of Thrones

20. Monica Geller - Friends

21. Lexie Grey - Grey’s Anatomy

22. Blair Waldorf - Gossip Girl

23. Sam Evans - Glee

24. Mark Sloan - Grey’s Anatomy

25. Margaery Tyrell - Game Of Thrones

26. Quinn Fabray - Glee

27. Jenny Humphrey - Gossip Girl

28. Izzie Stevens .- Grey’s Anatomy

29. Dustin Henders - Stranger Things

30. Alyssa - The End Of The Fucking World

31. Karen Page - Daredevil

32. Wade Kinsella - Hart Of Dixie

33. Frank Castle - The Punisher

34. Eva Cudicini - I Cesaroni

35. Matt Murdock - Daredevil

36. Lemon Breeland - Hart Of Dixie

37. Jessica Jones - Jessica Jones

38. Cleo Sertori - H2o

39. Finn Nelson - My Mad Fat Diary

40. Elektra Natchios

41. Lily Tucker-Pritchett - Modern Family

42. Phoebe Buffay - Friends

43. Denver - La Casa De Papel

44. Joe Pritchett - Modern Family

45. Nathan Young - Misfits

46. Jasper Frost - The Royals

47. Phil Dunphy - Modern Family

48. Emmett Honeycutt - Queer As Folk

49. Ward Meachum - Iron Fist

50. Chloe - My Mad Fat Diary

51. Emily Thorne - Revenge

52. Nick Miller - New Girl

53. Isaac Lahey - Teen Wolf

54. Nicky Nichols - Orange Is The New Black

55. Killian Jones - Once Upon A Time

56. Nairobi - La Casa De Papel

57. Edoardo Incanti - SKAM Italia

58. Spencer Hastings - Pretty Little Liars

59. Poussey Washington - Orange Is The New Black

60. Lucas Scott - One Tree Hill

61. Jessica Day - New Girl

62. Perry Cox -Scrubs

63. Ted Mosby - How I Met Your Mother

64. Penetrator Chris - SKAM

65. Josh - Younger

66. Jack Pearson - This Is Us

67. Lorelai Gilmore - Gilmore Girls

68. Katherine Pierce - The Vampire Diaries

69. Caitlin Snow - The Flash

70. Seth Cohen - The O.C.

71. Helena Henstridge - The Royals

72. Damon Salvatore - The Vampire Diaries

73. Chris Keller - One Tree Hill

74. Steve Harrington - Stranger Things

75. Stiles Stilinski - Teen Wolf

76. Noora Saetre - SKAM

77. Jordan Sullivan - Scrubs

78. Emily Gilmore - Gilmore Girls

79. Nancy Wheeler - Stranger Things

80. James Cook - Skins

81. Isak - SKAM

82. Nolan Ross - Revenge

83. Effy Stonem - Skins

84. Will Byers - Stranger Things

85. Maritza Ramos - Orange Is The New Black

86. Bernadette - The Big Bang Theory

87. Sutton Brady - The Bold Type

88. Lily Aldrin - How I Met Your Mother

89. Spike - Buffy

90. Simon Lewis - Shadowhunters

91. Leopold Fitz - Agent’s Of SHIELD

92. Barry Allen - The Flash

93. Tate Langdon - American Horror Story

94. Sheldon Cooper - The Big Bang Theory

95. Steve Rogers - Marvel Cinematic Universe

96. Luna Lovegood - Harry Potter

97. Finnick Odair - Hunger Games

98. Hermione Granger - Harry Potter

99. Peeta Mellark - Hunger Games

100. Peter Parker - Marvel Cinematic Universe

+ BONUS

a. Aria Mongomery - Pretty Little Liars

b. Clint Barton - Marvel Cinematic Universe

c. Malia Hale - Teen Wolf

d. Nathan Scott - One Tree Hill

e. Wren Kingston - Pretty Little Liars

f. Archie - My Mad Fat Diary

g. Summer Roberts - The O.C.

h. Emma Swan - Once Upon A Time

i. Luke Danes - GIlmore Girls

j. Blaine Anderson - Glee

k.Haley Dunphy - Modern Family

l. Matty Mckibben

m. Savannah Monroe - Hellcats

n. Jack Porter - Revenge

o. April Kepner - Grey’s Anatomy

p. Rachel Berry - Glee

q. Jay Halstead - Chicago PD

r. Elena Gilbert - The Vampire Diaries

s. Peter Hale - Teen Wolf

t. Bay Kennish - Switched At Birth

u. Elijah Mikaelson - The Originals

v. Brittany Pierce - Glee

w. Neal Caffrey - White Collar

x. John Casey - Chuck

y. Farkle Minkus - Girl Meets World

z. Bob Kelso and JD - Scrubs

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d2071art · 2 years

Note

ahh I don't think I've ever seen another Spike x Electra shipper! I honestly love their dynamic, regardless of relationship status ^^ I've got to ask though, have you seen Mission Impossible 5? There's one fight scene near the end with Ilsa and Ethan that completely reminds me of Spike and Electra lmao

Well, let's hug desperately. I think Spike x Elektra is the best pairing in Cowboy Bebop, but I'm so tired of sitting in this rare pairing ghetto that I stick to Spike x Faye (my second favorite pairing)

.... Aaaand now I have to watch Mission Impossible 5. But before I do I'll just leave this here

#ask me anything #cowboy bebop #spike spiegel #elektra ovirowa #fan art #OTP

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roses-for-julia · 3 years

Photo

Tiger Striped Cat Parallels

Look at Spike’s smile when he talks about the white cat!

#cowboy bebop #knockin' on heaven's door #spike x julia #spike spiegel #julia cowboy bebop #jet black #elektra ovirowa

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 7 years

Text

Rise Up

Chapter Ten

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader | Word Count:3989 Warnings: painful memories of blood and battle and death, swearing

Song: Porcelain by Marianas Trench

You scrubbed your hand over your mouth, forcing back the bile rising up your throat.

“(Y/N),” Tony’s hand settled in the fur of your cloak. “We need to know everything. How the Valkyrie fought them. How you destroyed them. Everything.”

“Tony, I…” You wiped your mouth a second time, fighting down the urge to be sick. The smell of death was thick and with it came memories of battles, of bloodshed, of the screams of dying Valkyrie and Pegasi. “I can’t…”

“Tony,” Steve warned, apparently feeling the wild beating of your heart.

“Shut it, Capscicle,” he huffed. “We’ve all been there, done that, bled on the t-shirt. We need to know this shit, and she’s the only one who can tell us!”

“I can’t,” you gasped softly, the grip you had on your sword tightening like it was a lifeline. It kept you present in the here and now when the wave of unrelenting sorrow tried to swamp you. “Not now.” Not when you felt like you were drowning in death and swimming through a fog of memories.

“Hey, we’ve all seen our share of death. You’re going to need to suck it up and speak, your highness,” he grumbled, his grip tightening on your shoulder.

The snarky remark and use of your title snapped what little control you had left. “You want me to speak? You want me to talk about it, Tony? You want to compare your years of experience to mine? To the centuries of battle I have living in my head? What do you want to know first? How they took us unawares?” you asked as you turned on him. “How they slaughtered hundreds of my sisters before we managed to fight them back? Would you like to know what it sounds like when a Valkyrie loses her soul? When a Pegasus screams as his insides are torn out? Or how about what it feels like to slog your way through blood and body parts?”

“Baby.” Steve reached out to you, but you jerked away from his hands.

“I could tell you what it smells like when you light dozens of pyres to burn the bodies of your fallen sisters. How the scent of burning flesh… lingers on the air with the smoke. You can scrub your skin raw, bathe a dozen times and that smell just won’t… won’t come out!”

“Sweetheart… that’s enough.” Steve stepped toward you, arms out as if approaching a wild creature.

You had no idea how wild you looked, how desperate, and frantic, and close to breaking you appeared. All you knew was the pain of losing thousands of sisters in those months of unrelenting battle. “Not enough,” you said with a shake of your head. “Never enough. I wasn’t enough. I watched them fall. I watched the Sjeletyv reach out,” you reached out toward Tony, curled your hand into a crone’s claw, and jerked it back as if shredding flesh from bone, “and rip the very life out of my companions. And then they turned… oh, gods… they turned four of my sisters, and I still don’t know how. And they walked uncontested into camp… and killed a dozen of us… before I… before… before I…” You dropped the sword in your hand like it burned you, and lifted shaking metal-clad fingers to your mouth. “I killed them… I killed them all. I killed them… and the Sjeletyv screamed…”

Steve lurched toward you, but you were already running. You couldn’t escape the smell. Every step laced with the screams of the dying. The blood once soaking your hands seemed to drip from the ends of your fingers and burn your skin. Even as you ran, you rubbed at them, scratched at your flesh. It wasn’t there, you knew there was no bright red viscous liquid on your hands, but you could feel it, still, as if it was only yesterday you’d taken your sword to the necks of your soulless sisters.

When you’d told Matty she wasn’t his Elektra anymore; you hadn’t been lying. You’d been speaking from experience.

You hit the stairwell door at a dead run, barrelling through to almost fall up the stairs. The scent of blood filled your lungs. Smoke wanted to choke you. It was all in your head, but that didn’t make it any less real.

Your legs burned as you took the stairs three at a time. You needed out. Out of the building. Out of the stench. Out under the stars where the wind could dry the tears from your face, and you could stand beneath Máni’s light and pretend Freyja was watching over you still.

Slamming through the door, you stumbled and fell to your knees, breaking down under the weight of your regrets. The sobs shook you, and every face of every one of the fallen flashed through your mind. The ones who’d looked at you in fear as they fell beneath the claws of the Sjeletyv. The ones who’d cried out for you to save them when you couldn’t. When you were helpless to reach them in time.

And the four who’d looked at you with black eyes. With dead eyes. With no recognition.

Your hands closed on your temples, on the metal of your helm and you wrenched it from your head to chuck it across the roof. The wind hit your face, stole your breath, but drove away the scent of death with crisp, clean, fall air.

You covered your face with your hands as the pain grew bigger, and bigger, and bigger until you lifted your head and screamed out in anguish.

“Baby…” Steve’s arms wrapped around you as he settled to the ground behind you, knees spread to cradle your hips and pull you back into his chest.

“I killed them… I killed them, Steve…” The memory poured through you like fire, scalding you with the shame. “I killed them… I was the only one who could.”

He rocked you back and forth in a soothing action. His arms were tight, hands warm. He tucked his chin over your heavy fur collar. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You did what you had to do.”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. So many died, Steve. We weren’t ready. We weren’t prepared. I was their leader, and I was… I was… helpless!”

“You can’t blame yourself. You didn’t know what you were walking into.”

“It was bad, Stevie… it was so bad…”

As your shaking slowed, he shifted your positions to pull you into his lap and tug your cloak up around his shoulders.

His hands began to brush up and down your back. “You want to talk about it?”

With a sigh, you rested your head on his shoulder. “We went in five-hundred strong, more than I ever thought we’d need, but when an army attacks an entire world one can never be too careful. We were the elite of Asgard, Odin’s chosen force, and when we flew over, the Pegasi spreading shadows over the land… people cheered. Then… cheers turned to screams of terror when the Sjeletyv appeared. They didn’t look like humans, Steve. They walked on these long, thin legs, balancing on their toes and the knuckles of these insanely long arms…” You shuddered, the memory sending a tendril of fear streaking up your spine. “Their armour was dark, an oily blue-black, covered in spikes, and they moved across the ground like… like hyenas, in this strange loping gate. But it wasn’t until we landed that we realized just how deadly they were. They would stand up, almost nine feet tall with a six-foot reach, three-inch claws curved and serrated shredded armour like it was paper thin…”

You paused as the memories pulled you back. “I remember Helga… she fell first. A Sjeletyv soldier just tore out her throat. It was so fast, and it… it screeched this god awful sound, but I didn’t understand right away what it was doing when it lowered its head over her body until I saw it… her soul, Steven… her soul… it just… it just… vanished and she was gone. It was like a piece of myself felt her die, felt her soul die with her. Then others were falling… and we were losing. Us! The Valkryjur were losing!”

Your hand crept up around his neck as your burrowed closer, the horror pouring out and fresh tears falling down your face. “I don’t remember much more from that first battle but the killing. Killing and killing and killing, until I was covered in blood and slogging through body parts. We sent the Pegasi off the field. The creatures were just too much for them, but they wouldn’t listen and harassed them from the air.” You turned your face to Steve’s throat, inhaling his scent to clear the strongest of the memories from sucking you back into that place. “The sound, though… gods, Steven… the sound they made when they died… I can’t unhear it; I can’t unsee their grey and white bodies falling from the sky to crash to the ground in broken limbs and shredded feathers.

Sky-Bjorn, he refused to leave my side, and I think staying on the ground probably saved his life. He was better with his feet than any Pegasi since him, and could put a hoof through a skull with such precision it would pop. He took claws to his wings more than once to save me. When they finally retreated, when I finally got a chance to look at my forces… there was a hundred of us left and half as many Pegasi.”

“Jesus!” he swore softly and tightened his hold.

“More came. Almost the entire Valkyrjur descended on that world to fight them back. They barely let us rest, barely let us honour our dead. If it weren’t for the Pegasi and the smell of them, we’d have been overrun on more than one occasion.” The rawness of your throat and the strain of every word was taking its toll, but now that you’d started, you couldn’t stop. “We’d managed to turn the tide on them, had figured out how to protect ourselves from their soul stealing ways when the first Ijå appeared. It was different, more humanoid than the others. It walked through the ranks with a smile and such an air of confidence it rattled that of my Valkyrie. The power of it, Steve, was immense, but it didn’t come for us. It went for the village. It went for the people we were protecting. By the time I got through its bodyguard…” a sob caught in your throat, “It had killed fifty people and was holding a little girl by the back of the neck. It smiled at me. Smiled as she screamed for me to save her. Smiled when it nicked her… nicked her cheek and sucked… sucked her soul out of an opening no bigger than a paper cut.”

“Baby… baby, stop,” he whispered, clutching you to him as the heartbroken sob shook your body.

“They said… they said I went, full berserker… that I screamed down the heavens and took its head off with nothing but my mother’s gauntlet, but I don’t… I don’t remember. I remember cradling the body of that child. Of coming too with her in my arms and her dead eyes looking back, and I knew, I knew, she was gone. Not dead, but gone,” you whispered harshly. “No rest for her young soul. Just oblivion. Just death.”

“Where was Thor in all this? Where was Loki? Odin? Any of them?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I wouldn’t let them come. The Pegasi could travel between worlds without the Bifröst, but the Asgardian troops couldn’t. By that point I knew we couldn’t let even one of those creatures live, couldn’t let them get to the Bifröst should it open, and I had no idea if they could take Thor or Loki or any of their souls. I couldn’t risk it! And when they turned my sisters…” You shook your head again and snuffled, using Tove’s cloak to wipe your cheeks. “Asta, Ingrid, Brynhildr, and Vigdís had been missing for five weeks when the four of them walked into camp. They looked rough, beaten and bloody. They said all the right things. They’d been captured, tortured for information, and managed to escape, but something seemed off, and that’s when I realized they had no heartbeats. When Tyra reached for her sword… all hell broke loose, and a contingent of Sjeletyv came out of the dark. The four cut Tyra down, cut down another ten before I managed to get over the shield wall. I took out Asta’s legs to get to her head, put a shield through Ingrid’s throat. Someone else put nine arrows in Vigdís, dropping her long enough for me to take off her head, but Brynhildr, Brynhildr was good, and I was tired. She fought me back, fought me down. I ended up catching her sword on my cloak, took a hard blow to the ribs, a fist to the face, and I went to a knee. I saw my death in her eyes, but I heard Tove’s voice in my ear, reminding me I was destined for more and found some strength somewhere to fight Brynhildr back and win. And then… and then the Sjeletyv… screamed angry we’d killed their new fighters.”

His grip had grown progressively tighter with your recitation. “Fuck… holy fuck…”

“By the next morning, it was clear the world was lost. We’d failed. There was no one left to protect, and we hadn’t saved a single person. The Sjeletyv had killed everything that moved. Everything that drew breath was dead or like them. Odin ordered us home, and he opened the Bifröst long enough to scorch the world. Five-thousand Valkyrie and their steeds set foot on that world. Fifteen-hundred of us came home with twelve-hundred Pegasi.”

He was shaking by the time you finished, both anger and fear clouding his scent. “What life was this?” he finally managed to force out.

“First… first life,” you whispered, holding him that much tighter. “We met a few years later.”

“Oh… god…” His tears soaked into your hair. “You could have died. You could have died, and we’d never have met.”

“I could have, but I didn’t.” You felt cold, frozen right to the bones. Not even his warmth was enough to take the chill from you.

He rocked and held you. Rocked and stroked your spine. “We need to find out more about this Hand.”

“We will.” You shivered and hunched further into his body. “If Elektra wants to play the innocent victim, then let her. She’ll be more likely to say something she shouldn’t. If she’s here for the Hounds… we’ll know soon enough.”

He set you back to free his arm from your cloak and cup your cheek. “I’m so sorry, min vakre skjoldpike. So sorry you went through that.”

You sighed and leaned into his touch. “We’ve all seen stuff, Steve. My stuff is just… different.”

“Still, you don’t need to be dredging up all this because Tony’s an impatient ass,” he growled, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“Wasn’t Tony’s fault. They were already surfacing thanks to the smell.”

“Smell?”

“You can’t smell her? She smells like death!” You sat up further to stare at him in shock.

“Couldn’t smell a thing other than whatever perfume she uses. It wasn’t disgusting, but it wasn’t my favourite either,” he said, lowering his head to trace his nose along your jaw. “Not like this scent. You always smell amazing.”

“Steve,” you sighed, tilting your head to give him better access.

“You’re so cold, baby. Let me take you to bed and warm you up. See if I can’t help push those memories back for you,” he murmured, lips skimming your skin with every word.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, doll face. I can get you warm. Are you hungry at all, baby? Want something to eat first?”

“I can’t… well… maybe?” Your hand played with the hair at his nape while the other stroked over the cotton of his shirt, finding you were a little hungry after all.

He rocked up on his knees, his arm going beneath your thighs to lift you to his chest. “Then let’s go inside. I’ll take you to the kitchen and make you something. You can have a hot chocolate while I fix you a sandwich.”

“With marshmallows?” you asked, pouting a little and batting your lashes.

A chuckle rumbled his chest. “Yeah, baby. You can have marshmallows.”

“Lots of marshmallows?”

He smirked against your ear and kissed your cheek while you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Yes, I will fill your cup half full of marshmallows. I know how you are.”

“What? I like marshmallows!”

“You’d probably like it if I filled the mug full of marshmallows and poured the hot chocolate over the top, so it filled in all the crevices.”

You pulled back to look at him. ��Can you do that?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Only if you want to spend the night on a sugar high.”

It took a little finessing, but you wiggled yourself around until you could wrap your legs around his hips. “Would that be so bad if I got to expend my energy with you… Captain?”

Both of his hands went to the thin fabric of your pants and squeezed tightly on your ass. He pressed you back into the door and stroked the tip of his nose over your cheek to bump and nudge against yours. “Not at all, doll. Not at all.”

“Steve…” you sighed against his lips. Hot breath warmed your cold flesh, and tender kisses lifted your bruised heart. His hair was silky soft when you carded your fingers through it, being careful of you talons over his scalp.

“Let’s satisfy your appetite, then we can satisfy mine,” he purred.

His teeth caught and worked over your lower lip, making you shiver with need. Your legs tightened on his hips, forcing him closer until the weight of him made it hard to breathe. A tug had your lip free of his teeth, letting you dive into his mouth, kiss him with every drop of love you held inside you for the man who was your heart and soul.

He wrenched away to gasp for air when the kiss seemed to last for hours. His panting breath washed over your lips, and you had to touch his, see for yourself just how plump and swollen and bruised they’d become. He nipped the tips of your fingers, rumbles of pleasure echoing in his chest as if he were a jungle cat, purring for his mate.

“I love the way you smell in this cloak. It adds a layer of feral to you as if you’ve taken a part of the wolf into your own body and become a wild thing wrapped in its fur.” Steve tucked his nose in along your pulse, the fur sliding away from your skin to be replaced by the heat of his breath and the softness of his lips. “When Loki draped it over you and set the helmet on your head like a crown… fuck! I wanted to kneel at your feet and howl to the heavens. Mine! My woman. My Valkyrie Queen. Min vakre skjoldpike! All mine. Then you crossed blades and fire erupted…” He stopped to sink his teeth into your pulse and hold there while the pounding of his heart escalated, thudding hard against your chest.

You moaned and stretched your throat out. “Harder, sjelevenn.”

He complied, working his teeth into your skin. There would be a bruise, a nice one, which would last for a few hours and throb deliciously, reminding you just who you belonged to. He rolled his hips forward, sending the thickness of jeans along with the rigid length of his growing erection right into your sensitive core.

“You looked like something out of Norse legends. An angry goddess. A mythical queen. Fuck it was hot!” he snarled, tilting your body harder into his. “Why the cloak, though? Doesn’t it get in the way?”

Only Steve could multitask in such a fashion. He was breathing hot and heavy against your throat, his teeth returning over and over to what felt like one hell of a hickey, but he could still ask the questions running rampant in his brain when most men’s thoughts would have gone south and stayed there.

“It’s… impenetrable. No blade can cut it,” you gasped, clinging to him and rocking your hips into his in rolling a rhythm.

“Baby, baby… don’t…” he groaned, the sound pained. “Damnit! I’m not taking you on the roof when there is a perfectly good bed right down the stairs!”

“You… started it!”

He dragged you from the door. “Then I guess I should end it.”

You pouted and refused to unwrap your legs. “Big meanie.” The swat to your behind had the exact opposite effect it was intended to as you hummed appreciatively and melted into Steve. “Do it again, Stevie. I wike it.”

“Don’t start, frisky kitten,” he grumbled, but damn if he didn’t give you a second swat to the other ass cheek.

“Only for you, Captain,” you purred, nipping his ear, clinging like a spider monkey when he tried to peel you from him. “Nuh uh. I want a ride, and I happen to like this position.”

Steve shook his head, but only jacked you higher with an arm of steel beneath your buttocks. “You’re a cheeky dame,” he continued to mutter as he took quick strides across the roof and bent to retrieve the helmet you’d chucked.

The world tilted, and you giggled, wild and giddy when it righted.

“You alright there, doll face?” he chuckled, plunking the helmet back on your head.

“Yeah. Yeah, I really am.” It felt as if a weight had lifted, one heavy with old guilt and shame. It was less fresh. Muted. Like the old wound had finally closed. “Thank you, sjelevenn,” you whispered, cupping his face. “You’re so good to me, Steve.”

“Always. I love you, (Y/N). I’ll love you forever.”

Tears, again, burned your eyes but these were not of sorrow. As you held him close, lightly tracing his features with your fingers so they would translate to your mind’s eye, you murmured, “Hvis alle stjernene i himmelen var min kjærlighet til deg, de ville fortsatt være en kort.”

“Sweetheart, you slay me.” He rested his forehead gently against yours. “You sound so damn sexy, and my heart kind of flutters when you do that. Tell me what you said?”

“If all the stars in the heavens were my love for you, they would still be one short.”

He gave a shuddering breath and held you like you were glass, precious and fragile. A treasure. His most valuable one. “You say shit like that, and my heart just falls into your hands, baby doll.”

“That’s good, Steve because mine already beats in your chest.”

“Everything I feel with you is so… big. I just can’t with you sometimes.”

“Are you saying I make you speechless, Steven? You? Captain America at a loss for words? I’m shook!” you teased, patting his cheek.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, heading toward the door, “you leave me speechless on a regular basis. And half the time I’m speechless because I’m distracted watching your ass.”

You burst out laughing as he made his way inside the compound. “Well, Cap. You make me a hot chocolate with tons of marshmallows, and you can do more than simply watch my ass.”

“Deal!” he crowed and raced down the stairs.

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