#the catholic guilt and angst is getting to me

[flowerandblood]

Death and Resurrection

The Gate of Salvation Universe Oneshot

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, sexual tension, anxiety, doubts related to faith, religious guilt, breaking celibacy ]

[ description: When the Pope decides, after drawing inspiration from TV series, that they will go on a date, she knows that she cannot refuse. However, it turns out that their adventure ends differently than they both expected and a boundary is crossed from which there is no return. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

This oneshot is the events that take place a few months after The Gate of Salvation and The Songs of Songs. It can be read as a oneshot, but at the same time it is a complement to the entire series.

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

"Where are we going?" She asked apprehensively − they had never gone underground together before, the cramped, dark corridor beneath the Papal Residence through which he led her while holding her hand smelled of centuries-old dampness.

His attire also made her uneasy − he was dressed all in a white tracksuit, a hood over his head and sunglasses with white frames on his nose.

He wore this outfit whenever he wanted to get away somewhere.

"We're going on a date." He communicated softly, as if he was just explaining to her what they were going to have for breakfast. She shook her head, looking back in horror, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

"Please, Holy Father. We can't." She mumbled helplessly, knowing that usually when he came up with an idea it was difficult to dissuade him from it.

She thought with horror that it was because of a TV series they had recently watched. He insisted that she show him the blockbusters she loved as a child on her laptop, so she decided to show him The Office for fun. She turned on a random episode and the main characters in it went on a date, leaving him bewildered.

She thought he would be disgusted by the jokes and humor in this series, but he was intrigued by something completely different.

"What's so great about dating? What's the point of it? Why can't they just meet up and talk about what's important to them?" He asked with a frustration that surprised her.

She realised that his years in the church and convent had completely disconnected him from the life he could have lived as a teenager.

She wasn't sure how she should explain this.

"It's true, however, you can't be serious all your life. Sometimes, as we are doing now, a couple feels like watching a film and just being together. It's pleasant then, for example, to go to eat ice cream, to take a walk in the park, to have shared memories, shared moments." She muttered, feeling embarrassed that her explanation was childish and that he certainly thought she was silly.

He, however, only pressed his lips together at her words, as if something in her words troubled him, his fingers beginning to play with the fabric of her dress covering her knees, trailing over her bare skin after a moment.

"Would you like to experience something like this?" He asked as if unwillingly, tense.

She knew she couldn't ask that of him.

What they were doing was too much anyway, and they both knew it.

She smiled at that thought, squeezing his fingers in hers.

"No, Holy Father. You give me more than I would dare to ask. I am happy and fulfilled." She said softly. His gaze lifted to her as if to see if she was telling the truth − his arm finally embraced her and drew her close, her cheek pressed lightly against his chest.

She was sure he'd forgotten about it, but he'd clearly taken her words so personally that he couldn't get over it.

"I had it all planned out. We’ll blend in with the crowd, have an ice creams, walk around the Vatican and come back. After this we can kiss if you want." He added after a moment, as if he thought that might be part of her ideal image of the event.

She swallowed loudly at the thought, feeling at once terror, discomfort and warmth in her heart, love for him, gratitude at how much he cared, how much he wanted to give her everything she could possibly need in his mind.

She pressed her lips together at the thought that when they stepped outside he hadn't let go of her hand − he intertwined their fingers together as they headed quickly down the main street between the cramped tenements, looking around.

"It should be somewhere in there. I checked on the map." He said excitedly, like a little boy pulling her behind him towards a café that held a huge fridge outside, where you could actually order ice cream.

She looked around as they got closer, afraid that by some miracle even though no one knew what he looked like, someone would connect the dots, someone would recognise him.

As if he always had to wear that bloody white tracksuit.

"Good evening." The girl standing at the counter greeted them, waiting for their order.

"Good evening. We'd like five scoops of ice cream in two different cones, please. What flavours do you want?"

"Five? That's too many, we won't eat it all." She muttered surprised, looking at him in disbelief. He turned towards her, his eyes hidden behind his glasses, all she saw was that he furrowed his brow.

"No? Are you sure?" He asked with disappointment, from which she scratched her cheek.

"I mean…if you are sure you can eat that much then, take it. I'll stick with two."

Holy Father seemed displeased, however, he cheered up when he saw the size of his cone with scoops in cream, vanilla, strawberry, toffee and blueberry. She watched with amusement as he struggled to eat with a plastic spoon what had started to run down the waffle into the bottom of his cone, herself taking her ice cream from the seller.

"How is it? Do you like it?" She asked with a laugh, seeing him lick his fingers, all sticky from the berry cream.

"Very much. It's delicious. What should we do now?" He asked, looking around, eating and at the same time trying not to stain his snowy white tracksuit.

"Let's just stroll."

They moved ahead arm in arm, looking around the evening skyline of the Vatican, focusing only on the food and this surprisingly pleasant moment.

"Have you done this before? Dating and all?" He asked reluctantly, as if the thought that she might have done it with another man before him made him uncomfortable. She looked at him indulgently, trying to hide a smile of amusement.

"Not really. I haven't had the opportunity. I have never been as close to anyone as I have been to you, Holy Father."

"Aemond."

"Pardon?"

He shrugged his shoulders, taking a bit of strawberry ice cream into his mouth.

"That's my name. I won't mind if you use it when we're alone." He muttered, visibly tense, as if what he'd said, the fact that he'd exposed himself to her terrified him.

She smiled involuntarily at his words, embarrassed.

"Very well."

After a few minutes, she could clearly see that the portion he'd ordered for himself had outgrown him − he was eating slower and slower, and it occurred to her that he'd gone pale when she'd long since finished eating her ice cream. He wanted to share his portion with her, but she shook her head.

"I can't fit any more. But if you don't have the strength to eat it, don't force yourself." She muttered, seeing him sigh heavily.

"Wasting food is a sin." He mumbled and continued eating, apparently trying not to think about the discomfort in his stomach.

It wasn't even a few seconds after he had squeezed the last bit of cone into himself when he vomited the entire contents of his stomach into one of the bins.

She ran up to him quickly, horrified, stroking his back, taking from his face the glasses that had rolled down his nose so they wouldn't fall right into his puke.

"Oh dear. Are you okay?" She asked tenderly, at the same time unable to hold back a smile of pity thinking that she had warned him after all.

He was like a little child.

When they returned back to his residence by the same route they had fled he wanted to go back to his room, although he usually insisted that she let him sleep in her bed.

"Let's go to my place. I don't want you to spend the night alone when you're feeling unwell." She said softly, grasping his fingers. He pulled down the hood from his head, all pale, fatigue in his eye.

"I ruined everything."

Though reluctantly, he followed her as she began to pull him towards her room. After he had brushed his teeth and brought himself to order, he lay on the bed without strength − he watched indifferently as she changed into her pyjamas, closing his eyes, as he always did when she revealed her naked flesh.

She was touched by how much respect he had for her, how important it was for him to treat her body with proper reverence.

She lay down beside him, turning off the lamp beforehand, his face immediately snuggled against her soft breasts.

"Do you love me?"

She froze and swallowed loudly, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad under his cheek, her hand that had been stroking his hair stopped in mid-motion.

"I love you. You are the love of my life."

She pressed her lips together when she heard him gasp, an indication that he was crying but didn't want her to see it. It took him a moment to get more out of himself, her lips placing warm, reassuring kisses on his head.

"Forgive me for not being able to give you what you need."

"You give it to me."

"You know what I mean. Sometimes I wonder…" He began and hesitated, swallowing heavily, as if afraid to say his words aloud.

"…I wonder what would happen if I left, if I married you. I imagine we would have had children, a house with a garden. That we would have had a dog. That we would pray in the evening and then make love and it wouldn't be a sin."

She shuddered at his words, feeling a drop of cold sweat run down her back, her body tensed, all hot.

"− I − you would not forgive me for that −" She muttered helplessly. She felt him rise up on his elbow, his lips parted in an accelerated breath, his cheeks swollen from tears.

"− for what? −"

"− that I have destroyed your life − pulled you away from God and your destiny −" She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling a warm tear fall from the corner of her eyes onto the pillow under her head.

He looked at her with a gaze filled with pain, breathing heavily, playing with the fabric of her shirt between his fingers.

"− but it is in your presence that I feel his presence most strongly − as if he were in the room with us −"

"− the devil takes the form of angels −" She mumbled wearily, letting the air out loudly, feeling that her throat was squeezed with pain.

Was this the moment?

The moment when she would have to say farewell to him, do the right thing?

"I have deceived you for too long. Forgive me. I will give my official notice tomorrow."

He looked at her dully, as if he didn't understand what she had just said, his breath stuck in his throat.

"− you said you love me −"

"− I do −"

"− that you won't leave me alone −"

"− I won't leave, not in my prayers − but I'm destroying your life, pulling you away from what matters −"

"− is it because of this stupid date? − I regret ever taking you there −" He hissed, as if he was furious at his idea and the woman who sold them ice cream.

"− no, of course not − Holy Father −"

"− Aemond −" He growled.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing hard, the first time she had seen him like this − his jaw clenched, his nostrils twitching in accelerated, anxious breathing, his gaze dark and cold.

She didn't recognise him.

"− don't you remember what I said to you when I first met you? − there is no greater sinner in the world than me − because I am eternally, eternally thirsty −" He said slowly and carefully, like a predator who was just slowly preparing to lash out at its prey.

"− do you think you know what I desire? − what I really need? − I'll show you −" He said lowly, not even giving her time to reply − his lips immediately clung to hers in an aggressive, impatient kiss that took her breath away, a startled, muffled squeal escaping from her throat.

She felt his body pressed her back against the bed as his hips began to rub his hard manhood hidden under the material of his sweatpants to the spot between her thighs making her shake with a strong, wonderful shiver of pleasure.

"− mghm −" She mumbled out, clenching her fingers in his hair as she felt his slick tongue invade deep into her throat, licking her with its tip − she was panting into his mouth, shocked, involuntarily responding by rocking her hips to his movements.

"− undress −" He breathed out, rising up on his knees, pulling the material of his sweatshirt over his head with a quick, impatient swipe of his hands − she stared at him with wide eyes, feeling her insides clench greedily around nothing at the sight of his bare chest.

Her trembling fingers quickly rose to the buttons of her shirt, undoing it one by one, exposing her skin piece after piece. She shuddered and moaned, surprised, as his hands pushed the material aside, revealing her breasts and stomach.

His lips parted in desire at the sight − his hand tentatively rose higher, running gently over her bare flesh, kneading and massaging her breast between his fingers.

For the first time he was looking at her naked body, at what he was doing, and she felt like she was going to die of desire. It seemed to her that everything that happened next was like a dream − his swollen lips that clung to hers, their panting as they impatiently slid every piece of their clothing off each other, when at last his bare skin pressed against hers.

"− Aemond −" She gasped out into his mouth, feeling his thick length rubbing against her achingly swollen folds, their hands trailing blindly over their naked, sweaty bodies, pressing into their exposed skin as if to melt them into one.

"− fuck − so warm − so soft − like silk −" He murmured, sliding his lips down to her jaw, neck and shoulders, leaving wet, sticky trails behind − her body arched back with her innocent, surprised whine as his mouth finally pressed down around her puffy, hard nipple and began to suck on it.

"− yes − God, yes −" She mumbled, involuntarily spreading her legs in front of him − she heard his grunt of delight as he moved his hips back in a soft motion so that a moment later she could feel the fat, leaking head of his cock begin to push against her slick opening.

She guided him with the movement of her body to where he should slide in, only to hear his sigh of delight a moment later as he thrust deeply into her with an impatient, desperate push of his hips.

"− yes − yes, yes, yes −" She panted, tilting her head back with her eyes closed, digging her fingers into the hot skin of his buttocks, startling him as she threw her legs around his waist, crossing them over his back.

Nothing but grunts and noises of pleasure left his throat as, with his lips pressed against her nipple, he pounded into her again and again with deep, greedy, fast thrusts, from which their bodies slapped against each other again and again with loud, sticky splats.

For the first time in her life, she was experiencing something so animal and spiritual at the same time − him deep inside her, stretching her tight, fleshy walls apart, doing what was natural to man, what Adam had done to Eve back in Eden.

"− forgive me − I −" He breathed out at last, as if with each successive brutal thrust of his hips he understood that there would be no turning back from this, that they had crossed a line after which nothing would be the same again, that he would take her for himself in every sense of the word.

"− inside me − please, inside me −" She mumbled helplessly, thinking only of the fact that she craved his seed inside her, that she could be his lover, his whore, bear his children if it meant spending her life by his side.

By the side of the man she loved.

She reached her peak with a sweet little moan of relief at the thought, at the image of herself and him, holding their children in their arms. She heard him gasp loudly at her words and closed his eyes, panting heavily as she suddenly felt something hot and sticky squirt out of him deep inside her.

"− f-fuck − fuck, oh, God −" He mumbled out, rocking his hips inside her with a loud click of their shared wetness for a moment longer, his mouth wide open, his eyes closed, as if he wanted to remember this moment forever.

After a moment, he looked at her − there was a calmness in his eyes and some kind of certainty, as if he already knew what was right.

"− marry me −"

[dirtytransmasc]

Alicent and Aegon are so Virgin Mary and Jesus coded, in a sick and twisted way that it barely makes sense, but at the same time just... does.

a mother and her child born damned from the start, yet she loved him to her core, accepting her fate, accepting she would lose him and then herself.

she carried him, birthed him, raised him, loved him, devoted her very being to him... she lost him, grieved him, lost her mind in his absence. the gods her only respite, yet, when she needed them most, when she needed them to protect her son, her baby, her reason for being, where were they?

[farfromstrange]

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.” 

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

“How would you know?” you counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[helaelaemond]

Lost Absolution Pt3 - Osferth x reader

Pairing: Osferth x reader

Word count: 3.4k

Fic summary: Osferth thinks of you during morning prayer, and sneaks into your room to find your scent while you're gone. He chases his pleasure, guilty though it makes him, and you watch him find his pleasure. Can be read as standalone piece. Masturbation, mutual masturbation, solo dry humping, mentions of oral and fingering.

Content warning(s): Religious guilt, historically inaccurate representation of Saxon Christianity and Roman Catholic traditions, angst

Rating: Explicit

Part 1 / Part 2

Tag list: @sylasthegrim / @myfandomprompts / @arcielee / @babyblue711 / @troublesomesnitch

Masterlist

You walk with Osferth to morning prayer. You prefer to pray later, but he likes to start his day with it in the little chapel on the estate. There is ice on the ground, and you insist on holding his arm to keep him steady.

"You're still healing, lean on me," you tell him with a quiet laugh. In the courtyards, your fellow servants bustle about their business and pay you no mind. In your concentration, keeping focus on the pathway, you miss how Osferth looks down at you with longing.

"I am well, lady," he replies softly.

You smile up at him. He's so tall. "And you shall stay that way, so long as you do not fall. Careful-"

He puts the weight on his foot wrong on a little patch of ice, and it throws off his balance. With a strangled noise of surprise, he clutches onto your arm and shoulder. It's impossible to stop him from falling, but you greatly reduce the speed with which it happens - your feet are firmly planted on solid ground, and you manage to ease him, more than drop him, to the ground.

"Osferth!" you laugh. You lean over him as you grasp his arm and waist, doing your best to keep him safe. "Are you alright?"

His cheeks flush from the cold, from the embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to forgive," you assure him warmly. "Are you in pain?"

He shakes his head and bites his lip. Casting his eyes down, he tries to get up, but winces.

"Let me help."

For a heartbeat, it looks like he is going to protest. But when you squeeze the hand you hold, and you smile so kindly, he nods. With your help, he gets back on his feet. The light is gone from his eyes, though, and he won't look at you. When you try to take his hand again, he clasps them both behind his back.

"Your wound, is it-?" Without thinking, your hand goes to his stomach to feel his dressings. The touch makes him flinch. Osferth's sudden change in demeanour makes you swallow. "Forgive me."

His expression is pained. "There is nothing to forgive, lady."

During the weeks that he has grown healthier and stronger, you have repeatedly asked him to use your name and not a title to which you have no claim. Usually, you are both laughing when the topic is raised, but you don't feel like laughing now. Quietly, you ask, "won't you use my name?"

He bites his pretty lip and looks down. His brows furrow like he's concentrating, and unreadable expressions flicker across his face. How difficult he can be to read sometimes, you lament. He won't let you in, not really. There is something holding him back.

"Not today, lady."

"Alright." Tentatively, you take his arm again. The expression he wears would make any passer-by think you were marching him to the gates of Hell, so uncomfortable is he now. He is all stiff and icy, but perhaps it is the pain. You'll have to examine him later.

At the door of the chapel, you let go of his arm and turn to him. "I'll return for you when the bell rings."

"You are very kind," he murmurs, expression fixed on the ground. "I do not thank you enough for all that you do."

You give him a smile that he does not see. "It is why I am here, Osferth. I am here to help."

"But still. I do not thank you enough."

He gives you a pained smile without meeting your gaze before ducking into the chapel. You watch him go inside, and as the door closes, you turn back to your work with an ache in your chest.

There is no one else in the chapel this morning. That is not unusual - many different worshippers come in at different times, and most of the estate is made up of servants who are busy at this hour. So Osferth has the little hall to himself. He approaches the altar, and makes the sign of the cross.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

There is a small wooden statue of the Mother to the left of the altar, and Osferth fixes his eyes upon it as he clasps his hands in prayer, and sinks to his knees in front of the pew.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum."

The words roll off his tongue without thinking. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.

His forehead drops onto his clasped hands and he groans softly. The feeling of your hand on his waist will not go away. It had been a soft pressure to hold him safe, yet it had felt like... like... like you were holding him for something else. When you had bent over him, your hair had tickled his face and he caught the smell of rosemary in it. Yes, that's what you use to oil it sometimes, rosemary. That scent haunts his nights.

How good it would feel to bless your womb with his child, to bury himself in you and find his completion with his nose buried in your fresh-smelling hair-

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus-"

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now.

Osferth swallows and fixes his eyes on the statue again. "Nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

You wore a green dress today, green like moss in spring. Osferth loves that colour on you. It makes him think of warmer days. The collar is high and there are laces across your neck against the winter chill, and he stares at the Mother until she resembles you. At her throat, he sees those laces, and he can feel himself untying them to touch the skin underneath. How warm you must be compared to December.

Just the thought of the skin at your throat makes the blood rush between his thighs. The breath he takes in is shaky. "Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus..."

Three more Hail Marys are spoken softly by the time he is hard, and his mind is foggy. Rosemary. Spring. Moss. Hail Mary, full of grace. Rosemary, spring, moss. The Lord is with you. The slope of your neck, the shadows of your collarbones. Blessed are you among women.

Blessed are you among women.

When he had been sick, you had worked over his bare torso and touched his flaming skin with a soothing hand. Most memories of that time have faded with the healing of his body, but fragments remain. Your fingers ghosting over his heart, carefully applying pressure. Your strong grip at his hip to turn him slightly and fit bandages around his back and stomach.

Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.

From the precipice of death you had pulled him, yet closer to it he now returns. For this is purgatory, surely, to desire you like this. To need you.

"Forgive me, Lord," he sighs quietly. "Help me, please. I'm... w-weak. Please."

Even as tears begin to spill down his cheeks, the vision of you returns to his mind. In his mind, you take him into your arms and stroke his hair. You hold him close and comfort him. He grips his hands tighter together and closes his eyes as if this will help. Breaths quicken, but whether that is from anguish or arousal, he doesn't know.

The vision of you slips your dress off and you cradle him in your lap. He weeps, and you run your fingers through his hair as you soothe him. Osferth is allowed to weep, and he is comforted with a hand behind his head, and a nipple in his mouth. He suckles on you in his mind and whimpers.

His knees begin to hurt. The floor of the chapel is cold stone, and he gasps as reality comes crashing around him. "Forgive me, Lord, please. I do not mean to have these thoughts, I-"

This place is not for him right now. He cannot be in the house of God whilst his mind is plagued with such unholy thoughts of you. Ice be damned. He hurries out of the sanctuary, and back to the hall he has been afforded for his healing. It's still early and there are few people around, but still, he wraps his cloak tightly around him. No one needs to see him in such a state.

As expected, you are not here when he returns. He approaches the little antechamber you are using during your time as his helper, and he peeks in. It's only to make sure you're not here, of course, but...

It's wrong, what he does, he knows this. But he doesn't care enough to stop. Your bed is unmade, and the blankets are crumpled towards the bottom of it. At the top, the single soft pillow is folded in half, and the shift you wear to sleep is thrown across it.

Don't do it. Don't come any closer.

Osferth swallows. There are butterflies in his stomach as the visions of being in your lap come rushing back. Rosemary. Spring. Moss.

He glances around, but no one will come. The hall is private, for his use only, and yours. Finan often strides in like he owns it, but it is too early in the morning for him. You are not due back at the chapel until the bell is rung and that is another half hour away at least. You won't be back.

Osferth is in your room, and he is alone.

His feet slowly carry him across the room to your bed. The butterflies make him float, and before he can stop himself, he has reached out and taken your night shift into his hands. Bringing it up to his nose, he inhales deeply. Eyes closing, he lets the smell of you wash over him. God, it's better than he thought.

It takes the strength from him. He sits down on the edge of your bed. Against the linen, his mouth opens, and he runs his tongue along it as if to catch a taste. All it does is dry out his mouth. But it's something. It's something tangible about you. If he doesn't think about it, then he doesn't need to register what's happening.

He can just live in the moment, and forget about it later. As if it never happened.

Hands turn into fists in the fabric as he presses it to his face. There are different smells at different places of the garment. Along the neckline is that rosemary. It must have dripped down your scalp and neck and onto the linen. His eyes roll back into his head as he thinks of the journey it got to take. He envies the oil.

It has anointed you in places he will never touch.

Control is ebbing away from the once pious man. Further down your night shift he goes, below where it would cover your waist. With new vigour, he runs it under his nose until he catches a sweetly sour scent that makes his mouth water. Inhaling deeply, he feels his mouth pool with saliva. That smell, that fucking smell. He wants to taste it on you so desperately-

"Oh, Lord."

Osferth squeezes his hand around the fabric where your smell clings faintly, and pulling it away again, he licks his fingers for the ghost of your taste. Nothing. Perhaps he will find your undergarments and suck them in his mouth until your taste is as familiar as bread and ale.

He fumbles with his leather harness that has a cross embossed onto it, and he casts it aside. With it goes the cross around his neck. There is nothing holy left here.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now,"

It is to your pillow that he now turns. On it, the smell of rosemary is much stronger, and he moans into it. In the privacy of his solitude, Osferth moans your name. Tears of absolute need leak from his pretty eyes.

"My sweet lady, lady, lady."

Using the strength you have nurtured back into him, Osferth climbs atop your bed and presses the pillow into his face. He inhales as desperately as a drowning man until you are in his veins and he will never get you out. Rosemary fills his mind, moss and spring, laces at your throat. The vision of himself in your lap morphs into something else now. He lies on his stomach with his face buried into your pillow, and he cannot stop his hips from grinding down against the mattress.

In his mind, you are below him. You're on your stomach, too, and he fills you from behind. You mewl softly as his cock fills you perfectly, like he was made for you.

Blessed are you amongst women.

With you, Osferth is most blessed. In reality, his clothes are rough and grinding against the bed hurts, but he is not in reality now. He moans into your pillow that he imagines is your hair. You moan back so sweetly it almost feels true.

Into your pillow he whimpers your name. The movement of his desperate hips still only so he can push his breeches down. His hard cock springs free and it's flushed and leaking. He can't bring himself to look at it. Instead, he covers it with your pillow. Onto his stomach he returns, this time with it between him and the bed. How easy it is to think of this dry softness as you.

There is an ache in his stomach and back as he fucks your pillow desperately. He grinds against it as he would grind against you. His chest tightens as he thinks of you. How fucking wet you would be for him if he treated you right. He bites his lip as he thinks about spreading your legs and pressing his tongue there, sliding it up and down and letting it slip inside you, if that's what you liked.

He's never even kissed a woman. But he's seen the act, although it never much interested him. He never wanted it until he met you. Now, it's all he can think about. What do you look like between your legs? Pink like a summer rose, perhaps? Or dark like fine wine, rich and generous? He doesn't care. He wants every version of you.

His thrusts get more desperate as his thoughts carry him away. Once he's made you come on his tongue and long fingers, he'll push you onto your stomach and fill you from behind like this, like he's fucking your pillow. He'll ask you to turn your head towards him so he can kiss you and see your expression, and whisper in your ear how beautiful you are. Surely you'd say something sweet in return.

You're so good to him. You take care of him.

Let Osferth take care of you. He wants to be so good to you. So good.

He cries out your name again. All reason has left him, all sensibility.

So when the door creaks open behind him, he barely has the sense to glance over his shoulder and look at who it is. When he sees it's you, he's sure it's just his imagination. Moss green. Laces at your throat.

You see him on his stomach atop your bed, your pillow under his hips. You watch as he grinds against it, eyes half closed, forehead sweaty. It sends bolts of heat between your legs. You're lost for words, and lost to need.

"Osferth?"

When you call his name, he whimpers again. His hips keep moving. "My lady!"

You're frozen in the doorway. Even if you had wanted to, you can't make yourself move forward, lest it break the spell over you both.

When you pull up your skirts and expose yourself to him, he is sure he has died and gone to heaven. When you bury your fingers into your folds, he whines your name. It's the first time you've heard him use it.

"Yes, Osferth."

He is utterly lost. He's never been aroused like this, never been driven so mad with need, so plagued with visions. Straining his head to watch you makes his neck begin to ache, but it doesn't matter because you are rubbing circles between your thighs and grinding down against your hand and your face is split with frustration and delight and he knows how you feel and-

"Oh! Oh, Lord, my God-!" Osferth moans. Tears leak down his cheeks.

"Yes, yes! Fuck, Osferth, I-"

"Oh, oh! Yes, oh-!"

He comes with a guttural noise that sends you spiralling, too. He jerks against your pillow again and again as he rides his high with green in his eyes and rosemary in his nose. Spring, he has hopes for spring. Pleasure washes over you both in powerful waves. For Osferth, this means curling up on the bed and panting, eyes closed at the intensity of it.

For you, it means leaning against the doorway and letting your knees give out. Your skirts fall back into place as you slide down to sit on the floor, breathless.

Osferth is turned away from you. A few minutes pass, and your heart begins to return to a steady pace along with your breathing. From the sounds of it, he is coming back down, too. "Osferth?"

If he hears you, he ignores you. You watch as he sits up - still facing away from you - and sorts out his clothes. You didn't get to see his nakedness, and you still haven't. God, you want to. You've dreamed about sliding his cock into you hand and mouth, and how good it would be to see what you so long for. But no, he hides himself, turns himself away.

"Osferth, please look at me."

He turns to you as he walks around the bed to pick up his cross and harness, but he doesn't meet your eye, let alone speak. You're in the doorway, though, and he'll have to acknowledge you at some point. Slowly, he puts the leather garment back on, and there is a certain solemnity in the way he puts his cross necklace around his neck. With it in place, he finally looks in your direction. There is a spot over your shoulder that he fixes his gaze upon.

"Forgive me, lady."

"You said my name for the first time."

He licks his lips and looks down as he clasps his dirty hands behind his back. Perhaps in another life, he'd let you lick them clean. "I did. For that, I am sorry."

"For that?" you echo.

"And for... for everything else."

You push yourself to your feet and walk over to him. He side-steps to prevent you from grasping him with your outstretched hands. It makes you want to cry. "Please don't apologise for anything. Just... let me hold you. Hold me. Please."

"I can't."

"Please."

Osferth's eyes are red. "I can't. Please, forgive me."

"Do you love me?"

The directness of your question catches him, and finally, with round, shining eyes, he meets your gaze. He looks wounded. "I... I don't know if that is of consequence."

Before you can even think about what you're doing, you touch his cheek with the hand you found completion with. He turns his head slightly and catches your damp fingers on his lips. His eyes close as a moan almost too quiet to hear escapes him. You move closer to him. "It's of consequence to me."

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "You deserve a man better than me."

"I want no man but you."

He hangs his head. "I will not damn you."

There is no chance to argue before he has left your room. You sit on the bed he has left rumpled. You press your night shift to your nose, and smell rosemary there. No matter how hard you try, you cannot catch his scent. He's not here. It's like he never was.

[blackshadowswriter]

Always Here┃Matt Murdock

Summary: Even the Devil got nightmares sometimes. Luckily, you would always be there for him to pick up the pieces. Tysm to @cioemyr for the request! 🖤

Words: 1875

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, nightmares, dreams about losing a loved one, Matt's Catholic guilt that you have to slap out of him (not literally ofc, boi is traumatized)

AN: Guess who finally sat down and wrote out requests from months ago. I'm sorry it took so long, but it's here now! It is a little shorter than what I usually write, but I had to rewrite this several times, so this is the best I got.

That night, you awoke to a heartbroken plea from the Devil, echoing through the darkness.

When your eyes first shot open, darting around in the dark space of the bedroom, you couldn't remember what had awakened you for a few seconds.

Until Matt twisted in the sheets besides you with a shaken cry of "Foggy!"

You were shooting upright in a heartbeat, scooting closer to Matt's side of the bed and calling his name softly. Usually, you wouldn't have to move too far to find Matt in the bed since he normally spooned you like a giant, Devil-sized koala bear. However, tonight, it seemed that he had writhed away from you, plagued by the tortures of his mind.

This wasn't the first time Matt had been trapped in a nightmare, so you knew what to do. When he was like this, touching his hypersensitive skin was a great way for you to get decked in the face, courtesy of Matt's unfailing but rather violent reflexes, the first of which was to lash out at whoever touched him. It was something you couldn't exactly blame him for, especially when his nightmares usually involved being attacked or losing someone to an attack. This time, you were guessing that said someone was Foggy.

Instead of trying to touch any other part of his twisting body, you gently brought your hands up to his hair, carding through the damp strands slowly, hoping he could sense it was your touch. For a moment, Matt's body locked up at the new sensory detail, his anguished movements stilling to something a little more controlled—twitches running along the broad, muscular plane of his body.

Seeing him calm ever so slightly, you incorporated your voice.

"Matt," you called softly. "It's alright. You're okay."

In the faint illumination of the neon lights, spilling through his windows from that godawful billboard across the street, you could see Matt's face, shining with sweat and something you suspected were tears, contort in agony as his body shuddered again in his nightmare.

"It's just me, Matty," you continued, keeping your voice sweet and soft, knowing you didn't have to speak loud for his sensitive ears to pick up on it. You could only hope your voice was cutting through the fog of his dream-addled mind. "Come on, wake up, honey, you're safe here."

With a gasp, Matt's eyes flew open, and he bolted upright, clawing at the sheets, dark eyes darting around the room as if looking for a nonexistent enemy that he could not see. He tried to stagger out of bed, probably trying to go fight an invisible battle in his boxers.

"Hey, hey, hey, Matt!" you called, reaching out to gently catch his wrist. His head snapped towards you at the touch, but you weren't alarmed. You could never be afraid of Matt, and you knew that his erratic behavior was due to the fact that he usually had trouble orienting himself when waking up, especially from a terrible dream.

You said your name aloud, hoping the familiar word would break Matt out of his haze. "It's me, Matt. You're at home. You're safe. I'm safe. We're both safe, remember?"

Slowly, Matt relaxed in your hand, tension seeping out of his tightly wound form like blood washed away. He whispered your name in a shattered voice that sounded so vulnerable, so broken that your heart ached for him.

"Yeah, I'm here, Matt," you assured him quietly, dropping your hand down from his wrist to lightly entwine in his fingers. He clung to yours as though it were a lifeline in the whirlpool of his drowning mind. His body sagged back down into the bed and fell against you limply, no energy left in him. You caught his heavy weight as best as you could, gently shifting him until he could lay his head against your chest where you knew the sound of your steady heartbeat would comfort him.

"I got you," you murmured, adjusting the two of you so that you said with your back against the headboard and Matt's comforting weight across your front.

He kept his head over your heart for a few moments, breathing deep but shaky breaths before turning his face to bury it in your neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be," you said firmly. "Don't be sorry."

"I woke you up—"

"And I would gladly wake up a hundred times whenever you need me." You ran your hand through his sweat-slick hair, gently scratching that spot near his neck that made him purr. "The same way you wake up for me when I need you."

A shudder ran through his body, and you pretended like you didn't feel the hot, wet tears sliding down your neck for Matt's sake—the man was somehow convince that crying meant bothering you, and it had taken you months to assure him that no, Mathew, crying is normal, and I am very much fine, stop with the Catholic guilt.

"Tell me about it?" you asked softly. "If you want?"

You felt the warm air from his slow exhale skate across your collarbone and waited patiently for him to speak. If he didn't want to talk about what he had dreamt about, you weren't going to push him, the same way he had never pressed you for more details than you wanted to share on your own nightmares. But if he did need to talk, you were going chase out the stupid voice in his head telling him he deserved to suffer in solitude and make sure that Matt knew he could talk to you.

Eventually, Matt seemed to have found his voice. "Foggy," he croaked. "I dreamt about Foggy." He drew in a terse, shaky breath and pressed his face against the soft skin of your neck, taking in your comforting scent for a few moments. "He got—hurt, and it was my fault."

"I'm sure it wasn't—" you started to say, but Matt shook his head firmly, his hand fisting in your shirt.

"It was," he said hoarsely. "I wasn't fast enough—wasn't good enough to save him. They took him, and I couldn't do anything about it."

Silently, you took in his words while your fingers absently stroked the nape of his neck. You didn't bother to ask who "they" was, knowing the many enemies that hounded Matt's subconsciousness. It could have been any one of them, and who it was didn't really matter right now—only that Foggy had been hurt, and Matt blamed himself.

Of course, it was entirely possible that, in his dream, something he had done had either directly or indirectly caused whatever had happened to Foggy. However, it was equally likely that Matt had had nothing to do with it and simply blamed himself like he did with so many other things that were not his fault.

Without knowing exactly what had transpired (and Matt didn't seem too keen to share details), you were fumbling in the dark, unsure of how to reassure Matt.

You settled for the safest option. "It was just a dream," you soothed Matt, brushing your lips over his sweaty forehead. "Foggy is okay."

"I don't know that." Matt stiffened suddenly as if just realizing something. "I don't know that," he repeated, moving to sit up. "God, I need to go check on him—I need to make sure he's okay—"

You shushed Matt gently, tugging him back into your arms. "Foggy is okay," you reiterated quietly. "He sent me a meme about penguins at 2 in the morning, just 30 minutes ago. He's definitely okay," you told him in amusement.

Slowly, Matt sank back into your arms, apparently reassured by his best friend's rather irritating tendency to text you the most irrelevant things in the middle of the night. You resumed the pace of your fingers in his hair, and after a few moments, Matt went so quiet and still that you almost thought he had fallen asleep.

Until he shifted slightly and turned his face up to press a kiss against your jaw. "I love you," he rasped. "I love you so much. Thank you for...for putting up with this—putting up with me. I don't deserve you."

Oh, Matthew. My sweet, wonderful, dear, idiotic boyfriend.

You slid your hand underneath Matt's jaw and tilted his face up towards yours until you could take his tormented expression, face twisted with guilt. Even without hearing him speak a single word more, you could already hear the self-beratement running through his head.

"Matt," you said slowly, "I want you to listen very carefully to me. I know you can do that. So I want you to open those bat ears of yours and listen to me, okay?"

He cocked his head to the side slightly, evidently bewildered, but Matt humored you and nodded, licking his lips slowly.

"I do not put up with you," you said firmly. Matt's brows scrunched together (adorable, your distracted brain input), confusion blooming on his face as you continued. "I put up with my shitty coworker who hits on me every day. I put up with that ridiculously enormous rat that lurks outside your apartment and hisses at me every goddamn morning. I put up with the grumpy old woman who comes in every day to my work with an attitude dating back to 500 B.C."

You paused to watch the slight twitch of amusement on Matt's lips, glad you could cheer him up even that little.

"But," you said in the voice you used to take to your childhood dog when it misbehaved, "I do not put up with you. I take care of you when you need me to, the same way you take care of me when I need you to. Do you know why I do it?"

Matt let out a hoarse laugh. "That's what I've been wondering ever since you came into my life, sweetheart," he murmured in that self-depreciating tone you hated.

"Because I love you, Matthew Michael Murdock," you said sternly, smirking at the way he grimaced at the last part.

You just got middle named, Murdock.

You tilted your head down and kissed him softly, reveling in the way Matt sighed against your lips, practically turning into putty in your arms. "I love you, Matt. And when people love each other, this is what they do. You don't like the fact I get up in the middle of the night for you? Too fucking bad because I'm going to do it anyways. I fucking love you, Matthew, you hear me?"

"I hear you," he murmured. "And I love you too. This has to be the most aggressive declaration of love I've ever heard though."

You kissed him again. "Someone has to knock some sense into that Catholic-guilt-riddled brain of yours."

Matt huffed out a laugh against your lips, bringing his hand up to cup the side of your face. "You do it rather well," he decided. "I love you so much, sweetheart."

Kissing his hair, you nudged Matt and scooted the two of you down into the sheets until you both were more or less back in the same position you had fallen asleep him: Matt curled around you like your Devil-shaped teddy bear.

With a sleepy, content sigh, Matt nuzzled into your neck again, lips brushing over your pulse point gently. "I love you, sweetheart," he whispered again.

"I love you, Matt," you said quietly, reaching your fingers up to stroke his hair. "And I'll always be here for you, I promise."

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AN: I'm on a roll with these Matt fics, the brain juices are finally flowing! I have so much I wanna write now even if it puts me so behind on my homework. Oh well 😬

If you enjoy, please remember to like, comment, and reblog!🖤

My Matt Murdock Masterlist

[19emma75]

my fav frerard fics

Ok so here’s my grank fic rec list!! I’ve put links to each fic on ao3 for easy access + most if not all have nsfw/explicit elements so be warned!! I’ve written afew tags next to each one so u get an idea but no spoilers ok here we gooo

⭐️ = fav of all time/must read

- The Best Part of My Day by pixie_revolver - office co-workers au

- ⭐️pinkish by antspaul - kid fic, fake relationship to lovers

- Black Market Blood by autoschediastic - short vamp!gee/human!frank

- ⭐️The Mess We've Made by ViciousVenin - pencey era frank, strangers to lovers, angst with happy ending

- Life as a Process by ViciousVenin - fav vamp!gee fic, college roommates au

- Happy Together by MorningGloryxxx - focus on mental health/lgbt themes/addiction, eventual happy ending

- A Splitting Of The Mind by Shoved2agree - yall already know, cw for heavy mental health focus

- Unwanted Thoughts by ViciousVenin - touring, pining, friends to lovers

- Skin of the Canvas by sinsense - art school/nude model au

- ⭐️Unholyverse trilogy by Bexless - holy grail of fics, priest!gee, demons, stigmata (you've probably already read this ik)

- ⭐️The Anatomy of a Fall by novembersmith - supernatural, high school au

- ''that was easy'' by metaleaterz - 'the staples fic', they just work at staples and its cute ok

- another superstition by metaleaterz - friends to lovers houseflipping au

- ⭐️Crossed Out by Haze - time travel and blood magic!! so incredible it should be made into a tv show umbrella academy style

- ⭐️In a Column of Lights by xobarriers - entomologist!gee/director!frank, SO wholesome and sweet and lovely

- Did You Miss Me? Cause I Missed You by LiberXI - wholesome/funny/smutty friends to lovers college au

- ⭐️Nothing Above Nothing Below by LiberXI - pencey era strangers to lovers with a supernatural twist, LOVE the writing style sm

- You Will Leave a Mark by brooklinegirl - short but intense pencey era strangers to lovers

- rough ‘round the edges by starryfrens - sick fic with gee as frank’s caregiver, heavy and heartwarming

- Living on a prayer by beforethesungoesdown, Kitoko_kun - priest x priest with expected amounts of catholic guilt and pining

- Before The Second Show by CharredLips - sweet + fluffy bullets era mutual pining

- ⭐️Wishing You Were a Ghost by pixie_revolver - “right person wrong time”, angst with happy ending, heartbreaking but amazing

- ⭐️Kinktober 2023 by insusurro - all parts set in the same universe, surprisingly heartwarming for the subject matter, great characterisation

- ⭐️Moth to Flame (or Whatever) by onceuponamoon - insanely perfect florist au

- Companion by onceuponamoon - workplace au (carer/office worker)

- Buy Handmade + Bread and Butter by jjtaylor - adorable artist/baker au

- ⭐️Paris!Verse trilogy by vesna - artist gerard/record label owner frank, INSANELY good characterisation, so beautiful and emotional

- Time Travel ‘verse by ladyfoxxx - funpoison/frankghoul/rrr time travel shenanigans, amazing and kind of heartbreaking

- Christmas Miracle by insusurro - wholesome and festive teacher au

- Choosing My Confessions series by pixie_revolver - kinky/wholesome priest au

- a constant record of disillusion by drapnel - non au realistic pre-bullets to post-summer sonic ‘04, heavy so read tags

- All Through The Night by LiberXI - bullets era meet cute

- ⭐️The Horror That I’m In by pixie_revolver - paramour estate, paranormal activity, frank goes through the horrors, angst with happy ending

updating periodically so keep an eye out <3

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

moon song - m. murdock

a/n: oh boy. uh. thanks for all the love on my last fic, so i decided to give you an incredibly angsty fic. this one is for all my male readers but honestly i want everyone to read it so. as always, reblogs, feedback and comments are always appreciated! warnings: internalized homophobia, cursing, infidelity, angst, hurt/no comfort, casual homophobia (teasing not anything insane) catholic guilt and symbolism, bisexual karen page, i'm not an elektra anti, making out, alcohol to cope, reader has a lot of coming out moments word count: 3.4k summary: you hate that elektra and matt are getting married. will you convince him not to go through with it? can you? pairing: matt murdock x male!reader now playing: moon song - phoebe bridgers "and if i could give you the moon/i would give you the moon/you are sick/ and you're married/and you might be dying/but you're holding me like water in your hands"

You’re in Josie’s when they realize. It’s like any other night, Foggy to your left, Karen to your right, as you watch Matt and Elektra play pool together. You take another swig of your whiskey, and tap your fingers on the glass, desperately attempting to try and listen to what Karen and Foggy were laughing about.

Two more weeks. That’s all you have to do.

In two weeks, Matt and Elektra will be married, and that’ll be that. They’ll live forever in their New York penthouse, fighting criminals and having beautiful children. That is their fate, and you’ll give your best man speech at their wedding.

All will be well, and you can bury your feelings deep down under alcohol and other women. No one will ever know what you really think of the happy couple.

You’re happy when Matt beats her at pool and they head back over to your table, where they absolutely hang over each other.

“We’re gonna head out.” Elektra says, a slightly drunken smile on her face. Matt hums and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Meeting with the florist tomorrow.” Matt tells you all.

“I’m going to grab another drink,” You announce, and look at them. “One for the road?” Matt smiles at you, and for a moment, you think he must know.

“I’ll come grab one with you.” He turns to Elektra to ask if she wants one, but she shakes her head.

“I have to finish this one.”

So, you and Matt head over to the bar, his hand on your arm. You wonder if he knows.

“You seem distracted,” he tells you, and you figure you’re caught.

“Just working on my best man speech. It’s all up here.” You tap your forehead. You order two shots for the pair of you and take them quickly with your best friend. “Getting excited?”

“Yeah, it’s just kind of crazy. I’m nervous, is all.. And she seems to be totally fine with the whole thing.”

You bite back a bitter comment about both of their commitment issues.

“I think she’s just as nervous as you are.”

“I can hear heartbeats. Trust me, she’s not.”

“But you’re in love with her, right?”

If you weren’t so drunk, maybe you would catch his moment of hesitation.

“Yeah.”

“Then what more do you need?”

“You’d marry someone just because you’re in love with her? That’s all you need?”

Not just someone. You know who you’d marry.

“That’s all I need, Matty. You think too much. Have another shot.” He laughs at this and pats your shoulder.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Says you, I’m a bachelor, still.”

“So am I—For the next two weeks.”

“And yet,” a voice says behind you, “You’re still accounted for.” Elektra says, approaching the pair of you at the bar.

You both turn to her. You’re drunk enough so you don’t tense.

She hands Matt his jacket, and they link arms. Jealousy fills your mouth, and it tastes like venom.

“Elektra.” You smile and nod to her.

She says your name before adding, “Have a goodnight.”

“Goodnight.. Get home safe, Matt.” You say, smiling at them as they leave.

You turn back to the bar, where your smile falters. You take a seat, resting your head in your hands. You’re not drunk. That’s not what this is. When you look up, Josie is there and hands you another whiskey on ice and sends you this knowing wink.

Your face burns, and you nurse your drink. What did she know about your life? You only spent every Friday and sometimes Saturdays here. You sit there in your pity for a while, thinking about it all. You’ll plan a vacation for when they get home from their honeymoon. You’ll fuck someone you’ll never see again and by the time you get back home, you’ll be over it.

You’ll be the godfather to their first child; Matt will be the best man at your own wedding. You’ll live the rest of your life with this deep dark secret that no one, not even your best friend, will ever know.

Except, you forget that Karen and Foggy are in the bar too. They slide into the seats next to you and just look at you for a while.

“I might be tipsy, and I might not have super senses, but I can tell you’re looking at me. What is it?” You finally pick your head up and look at them.

“I figured it out.” Karen says.

You’re too drunk for this.

“Figured what out, Miss Page?” You ask.

“Me too,” Foggy adds. “And to think, you almost had us.”

“What?”

“The bachelor life. The one-night stands. The constant rotating door of girlfriends because you can’t have the one you actually want.” She continues.

You feel sick. How did they know?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You say, as neutrally as possible but it comes out defensive.

Then Foggy says it.

“You’re in love with Elektra.”

And you stop. They think they have you. Then, you start laughing. Like a crazy person, like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. God, it’s so dumb. You’re just that good at hiding it.

“Nice try, guys.”

“We saw the way you were looking at her while they were playing pool! That’s why you’ve been acting so weird since they got engaged.” Foggy reasons. You know what it looks like.

You took another sip.

“That’s because I’m not in love with her,” Elektra is intelligent, beautiful, and funny. Anyone would be lucky to have her, you’re sure. But you hate that she’s happy for another reason. “It’s because I’m in love with Matt.”

• • •

You’re nineteen years old. You work at a pizza place between semesters, with Matt often coming to visit you. You’re best friends, and he likes to come in, grab a slice and a diet coke, have you take your break with him, and then leave.

One day, he’s late to do this routine and an older coworker says to you, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Your face burns.

“He’s not my boyfriend, asshole! I’m not gay, I wouldn’t ever dream of it!” You had said, a story you’ve told others and yourself so many times that it doesn’t feel like a lie anymore.

Matt walks in a few minutes later.

The truth is, if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve had feelings for Matt for a long time. Ever since you met him at church one Sunday, you’ve felt this need to be closer to him, to be with him all the time.

You knew what it was then, just like you know now. And just like now, you hated yourself for it.

But it got worse over the years, in a way that you just couldn’t push down like you had done for so many other people.

You became a nurse and when Matt became Daredevil, he used this fact to his advantage. And for a long time before this, you were able to keep how you felt about him at bay. You were able to just be his best friend, and nothing more.

But he crawled into your window one night, drunk on pain and whimpered as he asked you to stitch him up. By the time you were done, he laid there half naked on your couch, and your hands were covered in his blood.

You felt guilty for wanting him while he lay there, wounded. But in another way, you felt baptized, relieved that you were allowing yourself to accept a truth that you had denied for so many years.

And it got worse from there.

After admitting to yourself that you had feelings for him, it became prevalent that there was no going back.

You stopped by the office for lunch this one time and you walked into his office to see him lounging casually at his desk, tie half undone, sleeves rolled up, and hair slightly disheveled. You scolded yourself for being so into him.

And then he got back together with Elektra.

For a while, you figured this was a good thing. A great thing, even. Matt would date Elektra and you could move on, maybe admit to yourself that you liked guys and start dating more of them.

And it worked, for a little bit. It was easier to not love him when he was around Elektra because of how obviously happy he was with her.

Then they got engaged.

You were so angry at yourself for letting it happen, so angry at yourself for not saying anything, angry at him for not noticing, angry at him for not wanting you.

So, you started to date other girls.

And this is how you lived for so long, dating women you didn’t like in favor of burying the immense love you felt for your best friend. Until last week, when you broke up with your girlfriend because you just couldn’t take it anymore.

There would be no telling Matt, sure, but there would be no telling anyone how in love with him you were, there would just be you, coming out and dating men that eased the longing for him.

Until that night at the bar, when Foggy and Karen catch you in this vulnerable state.

They walk you home from the bar that night, as you slip into a drunker and drunker mind. You won’t remember anything after that confession in the morning.

Karen hands you your pajamas and a glass of water. She helps you into bed and holds you as you cry.

“Will he ever know how much I love him?” You ask, drunk and in a different pain Matt was in that night you stitched him up.

Karen shushes you gently and tells you she’ll call you in the morning.

You don’t remember saying that in the morning. All you know is that you’ve made an immeasurably stupid mistake by telling them.

• • •

On Monday, you have off because you worked a 12-hour shift the night before.

Foggy sends you a text asking you to bring them dinner while they work on some cases.

You oblige, ready to push down your feelings until the next time you’re drunk.

But when you get there, you don’t see Matt. You assume he’s in another room, grabbing coffee. You hold up their dinner.

“Hey guys, I brought Chinese.” You tell them, sitting at the table after handing them the bag. You lean back in your seat, keeping your cool.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’re in love with Matt?”

You snap back up.

“I’m sorry, can you be a little more discrete, considering the man has super hearing?!”

Karen rolls her eyes.

“He’s not here. He left a little while ago to go pick up his tux.”

Your jaw clenches, jealousy sewing the hinges shut.

“I didn’t even realize you were into guys.”  Foggy says.

“That was intentional. I never really.. developed feelings for any other guys. Matt is just..” You look down at the chopsticks you’ve been twirling in your fingers. “I just see him and there’s nothing I want more than to just have him, nothing more than to just beg him to want me.”

Karen and Foggy both know the feeling.

Because it’s no secret that Matt is this alluring force of nature especially when it comes to his charisma and determination. Everyone either wants him or wants to be him, and its why Elektra is so perfect for him. They’re similar people.

And who are you? Some nurse who can’t even admit when he’s got it bad for his friend.

“You should tell him before the wedding.”

You scoff at the idea.

“And ruin our friendship? Ruin his wedding day? I’d rather see him happy and oblivious than lose him completely.”

But Karen and Foggy know you well and can see how this is starting to wear on you. You’re losing yourself grieving something that could never have been.  

“You owe it to him and to yourself.”

“I don’t. I know you guys’ care, and I appreciate it. But there isn’t anything to do. Matt and Elektra are going to get married because they love each other and that’ll be that.” You tell them. “Matt won’t ever know how I feel, and I’ve made peace with that. He wouldn’t want me and I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“But how do you know—” Karen starts, but you cut her off.

“Matt’s never expressed any interest in men, and to my knowledge he’s never been with any.”

Then, Foggy says something that haunts you.

“That’s what we thought about you before Friday.”

And it rattles within you, all throughout your body and your brain.

It stays with you throughout the night, and into the next day.

You can’t get it out of your head.

Maybe you could tell him. Just tell him and add on if he doesn’t feel the same, to forget you ever said anything.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself hope.

You lay in bed that night and fall asleep thinking about it. About if he’ll say yes, if he’ll kiss you like you wanted him to.

You spend days with this thought, with it rattling around. One day you wake up and are greeted by your calendar and see that the wedding is the next day.

You’re sick with nausea at the thought and realize how horrible of an idea it would be to tell him.

You pretty much spend all day, sick, staring at your suit and thinking about how horrible it would be to watch Matt get married to someone who isn’t you. In the church where you met. Not even knowing how much you want him.

You contemplate your options.

You could go to Elektra, beg her to call off the wedding and let you have him.

You could fake being sick, leave the country and block his number.

You could tell Matt the truth.

You opt to call Karen.

“I don’t know what to do.” You say, this vulnerability in your voice that you wouldn’t show normally.

“Oh..” She says your name softly. “Do you love him?” She asks.

“Karen..”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. You know I do.”

“Then tell him that.”

“What if he wants nothing to do with that?”

“Then at least you know.”

And then you ask her the real question that terrifies you.

“What if he does?”

“What?”

“What if he wants me like I want him? What do I do then?”

She wants to ask you, who cares? If Matt wants you just as desperately as you want him, what matters after that? But she felt this way towards Matt Murdock once, so she knows how horrible it is. And she’s fallen in love with women she can’t have before, so she understands.

“Then let yourself be happy.” Is her answer.

• • •

The day of the wedding comes.

You think you might be more nervous than either of them.

You sit with Foggy and Matt in the basement of the church, sipping a whiskey. Matt has his scotch, and Foggy has his rum. The lot of you have rather distinguished tastes.

Matt looks so fucking good. Your heart races. Foggy sees your nervous look and finishes his drink, clearing his throat.

“I’m gonna go check in with Marci and see how everything’s going so far. We have to be up there in ten.” He reminds you. He turns and leaves.

You’re with Matt, alone in your feelings. He’s fixing his cuffs and tilts his head towards you.

“Why is your heart racing?” He grins. “I’m the one getting married.” You say nothing. You take another sip of your drink.

“You’re reading it all wrong.” You tell him. And that isn’t a lie. You’re on the verge of saying it.

“Whatever,” He chuckles. “Help me with my bowtie, please?” He hands you the untied bowtie and you take it. You take it and step towards him.

Your hands are shaking as you wrap the bowtie around his neck and tie it, with this gentleness reserved for only those who truly know you. You can feel his breath against your skin. It’s enough to make you lose your mind. Your fingers fumble with his bowtie, and when you’re done, you straighten it out a bit. He looks really good. He’s yet to close his suit jacket and put on his glasses, but he will soon.

“Matt..” You say softly. “You know I feel about you, right?”

He pauses.

“You’re my best friend.” He hums. “Of course, I do.”

Your hands rest on his shoulders. Your fingers twitch.

“No, It’s more than that.” You tell him. “I love yo—” You’re unable to finish your confession.

Because Matt is kissing you, his hands on your sides, and pushing you against the church basement wall. You melt into the kiss, your hands going up to cup his chin. You feel this swell inside of you, like your prayers have been answered.

Kissing this man you love; you’ve never felt closer to God.

He deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue between your lips and pressing his body against yours, ruining your perfectly unwrinkled suit.

He kisses you for a few moments more.

Then, he pulls away, but you bring him back for another one by his collar, and he happily obliges. Your hand goes up to the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. Then, he pulls away again.

“That was…”

He stands breathless before you.

“I know.” He finishes.

“What happens now?”

He has this confused look on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do we do next?” To you, it’s so obvious. He should go find Elektra, call everything off, figure out what it would look like to be in a relationship with you. He should say I love you back.

“I’m going to go upstairs and get married.” He says, like it should be the obvious answer.

“What? But you just—”

“I know what I did, but… I can’t…”

“You can’t? You just did.” You defend.

He grabs his glasses where he set them on the coffee table earlier.

“I’m sorry, but we just.. We can’t.”

“No! Not we, there is no we, right now, You can’t! I have been waiting for that for years and you kiss me like that, and you decide you can’t?” You spit out.

He nods.

“You’re right.” For a moment, you live in a world where you’ve convinced him. “There is no we.” He says and turns to the door to leave. You follow him, and before he can open the door, you’re grabbing him, turning him around. Your lips are against his as if to beg him to change his mind. He lets you think you’ve convinced him.

When he pulls away from the kiss, you whisper it out.

“I love you.” You say. “Please, don’t…”

He wants you to ask him not to get married. You won’t. He’d say no anyways.

He steps away from you, buttons up his suit jacket, fixes his bowtie and puts on his glasses.

“Come on, we have to go.” He tells you. He turns and steps out, grabbing his cane on the way.

He leaves you longing for more.

He might not ever give it to you, you realize.

The ceremony is beautiful, and these two will be happy together. It kills you. You watch your best friend get married after kissing him, and something in you is breaking all the while. You were wrong.  You should have told him earlier, you should have gotten over your fears, you should have kissed him so long ago.

You book a flight to the Bahamas for two weeks and take off work or as much time as you can. You just can’t watch the happy newlyweds. It’ll break you even more than it already is.

But at least you and Matt are still friends, right? That’s what this was all about? Keeping him in your life, even if it meant not having him in the way you wanted? You’re willing to give up your happiness if it means he’ll stay in your life.

You’re frustrated, too, especially because the kiss did nothing to deter your attraction, it just makes you want him in such a way that makes you sick.

You’re in love with Matt Murdock and he knows it.

It’s a shame his wife doesn’t.

[admirxation]

hello! could you recommend some leon x reader fics? I love your fics and the fics you reblog, so I was wondering if there was anything you would like to recommend. sorry to bother 😭😋

Hey there anon, thank you so much for the support and thank you so much for this ask, it's time to show some fics that I cannot stop thinking about. also dw about bothering me i love having asks <3

Just wanted to note that I also have a tag 'admirxation fic recs' if you're ever looking for some more recommendations and of course I reblog like mad with fics I love.

This isn't everything but I feel like it's a good handful to get yourself into. I will warn these recs are NSFW but if you're aware of my writing you know I literally nonstop thinking about smut haha.

some oneshots I recommend:

Pretty Owner by @elfven-blog -> smut 18+, hybrid puppy leon. AHHHH the hybrid craze has me in a chokehold like omfg, but i gotta say this is my all time favourite oneshot if you're looking for some hybrid fun.

step-dad oneshot by @chrosllo -> if you're a follower of my blog you know dark content is not a shy topic here, if you're looking for some stepcest, somno action this is where to go, I was blushing so goddamn hard when reading this.

Like Lovers Do by @dollfacefantasy -> 18+ public sex, with a friends with benefits vibe to it. hehehehehe i was kicking my feet blushing with every word

Pieces of a whole by @xoxostarlet -> 18+, older Leon and hooker reader (imagine the film pretty woman... but sexier and better) hehehehe i loved it, duh, the hooker fantasy is honestly such a turn on like im clawing at the bars of my enclosure HELP.

Heavenly creatures by @porcelainseashore -> 18+ Leon and catholic school girl. I read this one recently, and it does have a lot of religious imagery as well as catholic guilt, as someone who is an ex catholic i really resonated with the way it was written, it was such a weird experience like i was sitting there like i was here for a horny time now im having an existential crisis lmao. but it's a must read, their writing has a beautiful quality to it.

Teachers Pet by @d10nyx -> darker teacher x student relationship (power imbalance going on). If you're into the older Leon fics this is a yummy treat that I am not embarrassed to admit that I actually reread many times because it makes me feel all happy and good hehehehehe

Multipart series I recommend:

Should've been a son by @rigorwhoring -> this involves smut, noncon, incest (daddy daughter relationship), police corruption. If you're into dead dove this defo itches a certain scratch and this series left me on the edge of my seat at all times, it is also complete so if you wanna binge this series, go straight for it it's a really good read.

Into the Ether by @porcelainseashore -> 18+ with smut, angst, blood drinking, if you're really into vampires this is amazing. It is still being updated, but I would recommend getting straight into it, the updates are frequent and ah it deserves so much more love.

All the damn vampires by @elfven-blog -> we see a theme with my vampire obsession (my profile is literally astarion we are not shocked lmao). this series is a little slower in getting published (honey, I wait patiently for this series to return), but the writing in this is top tier.

Creepy re2 Leon, rpd Captain's Daughter reader by @valslullaby -> 18+, non-con, mommy kink, cannibalism. this one is another darker concept but ooooo does this writer have a way of connecting me with every word I LOVED IT SO MUCH AFFJKOYESGKUEWGJHRWA

[importantgalaxyrunaway]

Better than the devil. (Matt Murdock x reader) part 2

read part one here (tPLEASE COMMENT AND REBLOG I WORKED REALLY HARD IN THIS ONE)

warnings: a little spicy at the end, very much implied smut at the end. Lots of angst. SO MUCH CATHOLIC GUILT. Guilt in general. Negative self talk. I tried my best wrote a lot more than normal. LOTS OF FLUFF TOO!!!, such cute interactions with the child.

note 📝: italics are Matt’s thoughts Might do a part 3 but I’ll do some one shots before hand. Have lots of ideas will post a poll. Let me know if ya wanna be tagged in Matt Murdock fics

@schneeflocky

Matt finally stirs with his wife in his arms. Maybe it was the fact it was now morning or perhaps indulgence on sounds the city was emitting this morning. The chaos, the carnage he could hear it all. The “blip” had blown everything apart and now society was scrambling to put itself back together the night after they returned. But then he feels her weight on him, like an anchor to the real world and his senses. Her soft sleeping heartbeat flutters and her skin…her skin was like honey. Her scent was intoxicatingly good. He breathed in her lavender smell. His fingers skate over her silk nightgown. He smiles to himself remembering how he had bought it for her. It was his favorite fabric, he loved feeling and loving her in it. She used to tease him by wearing it when she wanted his attention begging for his touch. Trying not to wake her, he shifts her body slightly off of his own and stands up walking to their bedroom. There he changes from his work suit to causal clothes (in the gif)

he walks back to her and stokes his hair. And a sudden pang of guilt washes over him, he could still smell her salty tears from the last night. Right now there was nothing stopping him from being engulfed in an ocean of catholic guilt.

he had left her. He had knocked her up and left her like some deadbeat. It was like he had used her for her body. No one deserves that let alone the woman he married. The woman he loved. Who had been through so much pain with him on his account. All the nights were she’d patched him up from practically the brink of death. Were her scent and touch were some of the only things grounding him from a volume of guilt and dispear. From overwhelming all the sounds and sense. Her delicate kiss and featherlight fingers keep him sane in those dark days where he almost lost sight of everything. This was the woman he said he would never leave. Vowed it to god on their wedding. No, She deserves much better than him. Better than the devil.

Now even Matt knew that the blip wasn’t his fault, there was nothing stopping the inevitable, but its catholic guilt and there no stopping it. Besides, he also left the city and the danguorus streets. God knows what Fisk did while he was gone. He clenched his fist and the mere thought. The devil clawing to get out of him. He needed to get back on the streets tonight. But then….he heard it a small body the pads of her feet halting to a stopped when she saw him. Her small but mighty heartbeat pounding.

“who are you? Get away from my mommy!” He was surprised at the fearlessness and authority in her squeaky voice. But mostly he was stunned. He tried to speak but it was as if his mouth dried up. He couldn’t believe it…he was a father? He had made her? She was so big he had missed so much. Another pang of guilt racked his body. God, she had to grow up without a father for the first years of her life.

“why are you staring at me like that?” She questioned. Of course he wasn’t Staring but he was facing her general direction and his thousand yard stare seemed to be unsettling. Sensing her slight discomfort he quickly grabbed his red glasses and put them on as not to scare her. Finally his body felt as if it was not cemented. And finally y/n woke up, stretched and yawned and her eyes fell upon the sight in front of her.

“angel it’s okay, i know him. He’s not here to hurt us” She says quickly and it puts her at ease. Matt can sense her shoulder untenseing and her heartbeat returning to normal. Y/n sighs “what are you doing up?” She kisses Matt’s still numb with shock body on the cheek. walking towards the kitchen that’s near the living room area so they can still talk.

her hands make a motion and cover her ears. She makes a face of discomfort. “City’s- loud today. More than normal, it hurts.”

his wife made a sympathetic nod as if this is not the first time she’s heard something like this.

“ok, I’m going to make all of us some banana pancakes and I promise angel I will explain everything” she says makeing the batter “oh and Mathew dear, you don’t have to wear those glasses this is your own home and she should get used to it”

suddenly realization struck Matt like a harpoon. And he find his voice. He snaps his fingers to make himself wake up out of this trance. He takes of his glasses tentivily.

“wait…you can hear the city?” He crouched down next to angel. “Does she have my sense?”

“she does. I…haven’t explained it to her fully yet but she knows she different than other kids”

a wave of emotions washed over him like tidal wave in a storm. He could barely even believe he was a father and now this. Concern, hope, protectiveness, guilt. But what beamed the most inside of him was pride. Intense pride. And he beams. She was like him, she could hear the city, feel the things he felt. From every heels on the pavement to every whiff of purfume that would hit him like a brick wall rather than a ‘pleasant smell’. He worried of course about it. But wasn’t this more than he could possibly have hoped for? He wasn’t alone. He puts her hand on his chest and his on hers.

“can you hear my heartbeat?” He says shakily. You can tell he’s fighting back tears

“mhm. It’s strong!”

“I-i can hear yours too. It’s small but it’s powerful.”

they sit the for a while , him crouching to meet her level hand on each others hearts in unison. His strong steady and hearty. The heart of a fighter. Hers quick and small, like a butterfly beating its wings. Listening to their heartbeats in chorus. As father and daughter. The moment is so beautiful he doesn’t want to break it but eventually withdrawals his hand and stands up. The girl looked at him quizzically and then ran to her room to play with her toys till breakfast is ready.

“you never told me” he walks towards where she is frying at the stove and hugs her from behind. She squeals slightly as he does this surprised. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist. “I’m sorry I left you ” he purrs into her ear. Nuzzling and nipping at her neck then pressing featherlight kisses all down her collarbone. Stopping for a moment to inhale her lavender scent. She flips the final pancake off the stove and turns it off. She turns around to face him and put her arms around his neck. Her livly met his unseeing ones and she wished for just about the millionth time he could see, just so he could stare into his eyes and for once have them meet hers back. His hazel eyes were so damn pretty and it always pissed her off that he hid them from the world. Not that he didn’t look good in his signature red glasses, oh no he was beautiful but to her it was sad he had to hide. His fluffy hair looked magnificent and she couldn’t help admire him. He ruffles his hair and goes to the table were she calls for angel and serves them all a healthy stack of pancakes. As they sit down eating their pancakes angel finally breaks the silence.

“so……who is he”

she takes a deep breath ready to plunge into the conversation “he’s your father”

“I thought you said dad was gone?”

“yes well, I thought that too. They are calling it a blip. Half of the universe seems to have mysteriously disappeared and then reappeared five years later. Your dad was one of them”

“oh” is all the little girl manages trying to wrap her head around the idea

“it’s confusing but the important part is he’s back and we’re going to be a family”

the little girl beams at her new found father. I hold Mathew’s hand and pat it reassuringly. The atmosphere feels like it’s ten pounds lighter and calmer.

“also, angel” matt starts as if testing saying her name “im not exactly normal. And neither are you . that’s a good thing. When I was a kid a truck with chemicals hit me in my eyes. And that’s why I can’t make eye contact with you. I’m blind sweetie.”

“you can’t see me?” Her eyes widening as if she’s never thought of the mere idea of blindness. Her tone astonished.

“no but you see, just like you i can hear everything in the city. Actually i can hear and feel and smell much more than you can. Even though i lost my sight my other senses were heightened. I can “see” in my own way”

“you aren’t blind but you still have some of your father’s abilities” y/n added

she nods taking in all the information. They realized it was a lot for a little girl but they didn’t want to talk down to her. She was smart and they knew that. There he had told her everything….well not everything.

——————/————/—————-/.——

As long as he could he would never tell her about the devil in him. The fact that he was balancing daredevil and being a father terrified him, all Fisk would see was a potential weakness. The day still haunted him to this day when he had kidnapped his wife and hurt her just to prove a point to him. He still felt guilty when his hands slid over her ridges, scars and burns from where he had hurt her. Everytime the guilt hurt him more than a gunshot. As he leaped across buildings listening for screams and cries he thought about this. A lot more crime had come after the blip, people who were devastated for losing their family’s or desperate because their jobs. He had been more busy in these days than he had ever before as daredevil. He had already stopped, an armed robbery, a kidnapping of a little girl, and prevented a woman about to be attacked by a man with a knife and done many others. He had sustained more cuts than bargained for, including a long gash across his side. Maybe it was the fact that it had been five years. The world had moved on without him. Crime was rampant in Hell’s Kitchen more than ever before. He couldnt continue not with dried blood caked all over his suit. Not with multiple gashes and cuts and bruises across his body. He made his way across the rooftops jumping back to his house. He slide in through the window. He listened to their hearts. Angels was slow and steady she was clearly fast asleep he could also tell by her little breathe. She was having a good dream. But y/n’s was up pacing the room her heartbeat quick, he could tell she was worried for him. She spot him on the windowsill instead and pulls him into her arms.

“oh! Matt” her voice gasps full of love and concern but mainly sorrow. she pulls him in for a tight hug in his weak form. “Look at you” she steps back to fully take in his appearance. He was caked in blood from head to toe. Weither it was his or someone else’s she didn’t know. He was exuasted, hair disheveled taking off his mask. She silently prayed that it was someone else’s blood on him. Glancing over at the clock, it was 3:30 am.

”sweetheart I’m sorry I-“ but he stumbles forward and you catch him barely before he hits the ground. “Ugh” he groans.

you practically drag him to the shower. She peels off his suit, stripping him down naked and turn on the shower. The lukewarm water is soothing on his skin as he sits down on the bench in the shower. A blush across his cheeks now that you decided to strip him down completely. My body heats up seeing him naked, even beat up he somehow manages to look like a Greek god. Or maybe a handsome devil would be more fitting.

“We’ve been married for 6 years and I can still make you blush, that’s says something” she jokes as she scrubs the caked blood off of him. It going down the drain in a stream of red. He is clearly out of it. Overstimulated, overwhelmed. Hes just sits there in a trance as she cleans him up.

“it’s worse than I thought” he whispers

“it’s Hell’s Kitchen of course it’s bad”

“no the blip created a power vacuum they’re back, all of them.”

he groans and leans his head back. She gently washes his hair and analyses his cuts. The water cascading across his heavenly body. His expression is pained.

I can hear them, all of them, the people I couldn’t. they’re screaming in my ears and I can’t drown it out. I’ve failed them. I’ve failed them all. I can’t do it all, I’m only one person there are dozens of them crying. Crying out for me. I’ll never be able to stop them it’ll never be enough to stop them. I’m a failure, I don’t deserve happiness. I especially don’t deserve her and angel. She could do so much better than the devil. I’m a f—

his thought loop round and round like a carousel at fair. The only thing that grounded him was her touch in his hair. A soft gentle anchor to life.

“Matt” she said sweetly her voice dripping in that honey tone that made his knees weak though he’d never admit it. And tone seems to shift in the room. “My Love, your clean now. Are you alright?”

I love her so much. I want to feel her every inch of her. I want her grounding me to earth. Her body on mine. I can tell her heartbeat picking up and her body temperature rising. She feels the same. I could listen to her voice all day. God, i love her.

there are still more days than often when he wonder ‘what did he ever do to deserve her’ and though he doesn’t know it she thinks the same.

he pulls her in for a kiss by her wrist. The kiss is hungry and desperate, full of lust and passion. But there is the signature taste of gentleness in there. When you finally break up from the long kiss, he pulls you onto his lap and and trails soft but rough kisses down her neck.

“I’m going to take you up on your offer from kitchen” he pants out with that signature devilish smirk that he always has before he takes you to bed.

“I’m all yours matty” you smile with a glint a mischief in your eyes. You know how much that nickname affects him especially when you said it in that sugary voice that you did now. He swallowed back a deep groan and kisses you eagerly to silence it.

there was no dening it, the road would be hard ahead but the two of you would go into it together. You would get through this together.

[socialistmary]

Pairing: Reader x Joel Miller

Warning: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI, smut with very little plot, age gap (Joel's in his 50s & Reader's in her late 20s), cheating, delicious catholic guilt, afab!reader, pet names (no use of Y/N), no outbreak!AU, unprotected sex (no one said adults are responsible, but you should be), p in v steamy car sex, bit of angst?, very minimally proofread, sorry about that bby

Summary: fun times after Sunday service, forgive me mum, pastor Craig (😉);

Word count: 2.2k

Author's Note: this is part of my 'Devil on my back' series, where lovely Reader is a lonely little married Christian woman; not really sure where this sits on the timeline yet, will see when more parts come out. 👁️👄👁️🌸✨ in the meantime, lemme know what you think and if there's anything you'd like to see in this series (or outside of it), i am very easily influenced

That dainty golden cross nestled just over your cleavage sparkled and shone in the sun, almost blinding Joel with every thrust upwards into your wet pussy, squelching sounds of your bodies meshing together, filthy and delicious, almost enough to drive him over the edge.

He wasn’t entirely sure how you got here today, in the back of his truck after a particularly boring Sunday service, tits spilled out of your dress, panties pushed to the side as you grind deeper onto his cock, mouth slack and eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, riding him for all he’s got. Christ, he hadn’t been to church in ages.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought, reaching out to take a pebbled nipple into his mouth, and relishing in the way you arched your back into him, leaning further into his touch. Just last night he’d decided to take a break from you and your good girl charms, finding it increasingly difficult to justify all the attention he’d been giving you.

“Joel,” he heard you whisper in your raspy, fucked out voice, followed by a loud squeal as his palm came down with a loud SMACK! on your right ass cheek, thick fingers digging into the skin hard enough to feel but not hard enough to leave bruises Dax might question later at home.

You felt him shift underneath you, feet planted firmly on the floor of his truck, left hand moving up to the grab handle, mouth releasing your nipple with a pop and a string of saliva, the sight of which had your face blushing and your pussy throbbing around his cock.

“Hold on, baby,” you heard him say, and before you could think about it, Joel was slamming himself into you, hard and deep, cock barely out of your pussy with each thrust, hips rolling into yours at an angle that had you screaming with white-hot pleasure. He smiled up at you, brown eyes half-lidded and pupils blown, still thrusting with unrelenting fervour. He groaned and sucked a breath of air into his mouth as he felt your wet pussy contracting around him, juices dripping further down, mixing into his pubic hair and making for a downright pornographic image he was sure to file away in the dark corners of his mind and remember for a long time.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he coaxed, hand leaving its place on your hip to brush the hair off your wet and sticky forehead. You didn’t even realise your eyes were so tightly closed until you opened them, glancing down to see Joel looking better than you’ve ever seen him, hair dishevelled and tanned skin glistening with sweat. “Good girl, that’s it,” he whispered, voice roughed up, eyes cloudy and glossed over with desire.

You were the picture-perfect modern Stepford wife as you stepped into church that Sunday morning, hair done up, modest summer dress chosen for the occasion, and golden cross resting daintily on your chest. A far cry from the scene Joel had in front of him now, and which made his insides swell with pride at being the one who gets to ruin you this way. His good little Christian girl, a drooling, moaning mess on top of him. Joel groaned, strong arms digging into your middle to bring you even closer, face pressing in the curves of your breasts, peppering soft kisses over your burning skin. You still smelled faintly of the coffee you had that morning, and the sweet and tangy blueberry muffins you had baked for church. Soothing and smooth, and so fucking tempting at the same time.  

He could feel you were close, pussy clenching around his cock, moans getting more breathless and needier with each hard thrust.

“Joel…” he heard you say again in a heady voice, heavy with desire, that he’d never heard from you before. It made him want to lose control, to grab you by the meat of your hips and fuck you into oblivion, until you only remembered his name. Somehow, surprising himself, he managed to slow down, smiling when he heard you whine softly in disapproval. “Please…”

“‘Please’ what, darlin’? Use your words, pretty girl,” he teased in a slightly condescending tone, rolling his hips slowly and deeply into yours, thick cock brushing that soft spongy area inside you with every thrust, leaving you unable to form words coherently. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, greedily drinking in the smell of your skin, sun lotion and blueberry muffins, with a thick layer of just the most unbiblical sex, that selfishly made him hope Dax would happen about to see what’s going on.

But this really wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d really promised himself last night that he’d stay off you in some way, try to see you a little less often, leave for work only after you finished your daily morning coffee on the porch – hell, anything – just to get this sweet cunt and angel face out of his head, and get one good night’s sleep. Wasn’t really helping how you had also started to seep into his waking thoughts with your clothes on, and in really mundane scenarios too. Most of all, he found he really wished you spent the night in his arms sometimes.

“Please make me cum, Joel.”

That was all he needed to hear. He grabbed your thighs with both hands and shifted slightly upwards to get in a steadier position, not missing the way your face scrunched up in the cutest way at the feeling of his cock dragging inside your sopping pussy. You were a sight, skin flushed red, lips puffy and swollen, and your up-do now sprawled across your shoulders, golden cross stuck to the warm skin of your neck in an upwards position that made all of this just so ironic. He swallowed hard before looking deeply into eyes and rising a warm hand to your face, which you leaned onto in such a familiar way, a thousand tiny aches filled his lower belly, travelling up.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as Joel’s thumb travelled lightly across your cheek, moving towards your mouth and across your bottom lip, sending a wave of warmth through your body. You lean further in, breath mingling with his, air charged with electricity.

When your lips finally meet, your kiss is slower, more tender than either of you expected, seemingly a dance of vulnerability and desire. Joel’s lips are gentle yet possessive, exploring yours with a deepening hunger that mirrors your own longing for him.

Your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, grabbing into his hair and pulling him closer, your body instinctively pressing further against his, all this friction eliciting a load groan from each of you. Joel left hand grabs your thigh roughly, causing a new hot flash of arousal to flow through your core, his other hand interrupting your kiss. He doesn’t have to say anything before you take his thumb into your mouth, sucking softly and running your tongue around it, looking into his eyes with that fucked-out look you know he loves.

You release his thumb with a pop! and lick your lips at the loss, savouring the way he’s looking at you right now, like you’re some sort of goddess, intense and unwavering, with a sense of awe, reverence, and a hint of uncertainty.

Joel can barely control himself from snapping his hips into yours and taking you fast and hard across your threshold. Instead, he gazed into your eyes more lovingly than you ever remember him doing and placed a strong hand flat across your chest, gently lowering you back until your shoulders are pressed to the driver’s seat. One knee on each side of him, you watch Joel suck in a sharp breath. This new angle, dress ridden up above your hips to give him a better view of your glistening pussy, fat cock inside and stretching you out, the head of it nudging that soft spongy place inside of you that makes you see stars, and he can tell.

“Joel, I can’t –“

“Shh…” he cuts you off with a gentle whisper. “Have I ever left you hanging, darlin’?” he starts rolling his hips into your own, smiling to himself, seeing your eyes defocus and your pouty lips form a most delicious “o”. Your moans are sweet and quiet, always trying to keep the volume down when he fucks you somewhere outside. So considerate, he thinks to himself, running his tongue over the same thumb that was just in your mouth, before bringing it down where your bodies meet and running slow, tight circles around your clit, all the while starting to pump his cock in and out of your sopping hole.

By this point, you’re a heady, moaning mess on top of him, skin sleek and shiny with sweat, face beautifully contorted in pleasure, your fingers pressing against your lips in a self-soothing, agonizingly charming little gesture. Joel can feel your cunt tightening around him with every push upwards, and waves of arousal pooling out of you to coat his cock with every stroke downwards.

He knows you’re close, he can feel you starting to grind a little harder into him, mouth open and panting, your tits bouncing slightly in his dazed face as you mindlessly try to chase your orgasm. He’ll help you through, and he’ll help himself too. Joel grabs your hips hard, lifting you off his cock and dragging you back down with ardour, revelling in your loud, breathless moans and the way your pussy has him in a vice-like grip, sucking him back in, dripping and squelching with your cum as you let him fuck into you like a man starved.

“FUCK, Joel!” you cry out in a hushed whisper, feeling that coil inside you snap and your insides pulsing around his cock. You stand up a little straighter with him still inside and grab his face with both hands to kiss him deeply, taking control of all movement between the two of you. Too surprised to fight back for it, Joel leans into your kiss, hands kneading the soft skin of your hips, fingers digging in firmly, no longer that worried about leaving visible marks.

You smile sweetly against his soft lips and Joel could swear he felt his hear skip a beat. The tenderness of your touch, the warmth of your embrace, this is why he can’t stay away from you. Joel moans a little louder when you start grinding down on him in a particularly delicious way, hands flying from your hips to your tits, kneading and pinching and alternating wet kisses between your hardened nipples. “Just like that, baby – fuck,” he pants, going to loudly slap both your ass cheeks, fingertips grabbing firmly to spread you even further apart on his cock. He loses it when he feels your warm breath on the shell of his ear, softly moaning, coming undone on top of him. Joel snaps his hips upwards, thrusting in and out of you at a pace you’re somehow always surprised by, his face buried in your neck, showering you with sloppy open mouthed kisses, nibbling the little golden necklace and feeling sinfully proud of himself.

You can feel his movements becoming more erratic underneath you, hips snapping up hard, fast, and haphazardly to meet yours. “Fuck, sweetheart, always takin’ me so well,” Joel groans breathlessly, thrusting his hips upwards a few more times, before his hot, sticky cum is filling your pussy, some of it spilling out and around his cock. A minute later, when he feels your soft arms going around him in an embrace, nimble fingers playing through his wet and sticky hair, he lifts his face towards yours to capture your lips in a gentle kiss.

***

The air inside Joel’s truck was heavy with the remnants of your hot, steamy fucking, alongside a thick atmosphere of unspoken feelings that never seemed to weigh as much as it did now. You and Joel sat side by side, still catching your breaths and trying to regain your composure.

Your heart felt like a battlefield, torn between the exhilaration you felt with Joel and the deep guilt and shame you felt for betraying your wedding vows and Dax. Oh, Dax, you worried, hand going automatically to smooth down your hair and dress. You knew this couldn’t continue and yet you somehow always ended up in the same place, not even sure exactly what triggered all these intimate moments between you.

Joel swallowed hard. He could tell you were just running around in your brain guilt tripping yourself over what had happened yet again, and he remembered with a sigh this was one of the reasons he’d decided to get out of your way initially. And no matter how hard he tried to resist, he found himself drawn back to you every time. Your entire being was intoxicating to him, and as much as he tried to be the voice of reason and protect you from the consequences of your actions, he couldn’t that easily deny his own desire and longing for you.

You broke the silence first, voice trembling slightly as you spoke. “I should go,” you said, eyes turning towards Joel’s, searching for some form of reassurance.

He nodded, knuckles turning white from the grip he had on the steering wheel. “Yeah, you should,” he replied softly, hoping either one of you would gather the strength to walk out first and stay the hell out of the other’s way.

[theetherealbloom]

NOTRE DAME - CH. 1

Chapter 1: At Least I’m Looking Down

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. In a city of darkness, will their connection illuminate a path to salvation or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, friends-to-lovers, Religion, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT,

Word Count: 8K

A/N: Hiya! Yep, I love Matt Murdock too! Lowkey took a small break from writing since I was getting overwhelmed with life ;-; I was inspired to try writing about Matt by these lovely authors @courtforshort15 and @bellaxgiornata <3 Am I writing two fic series at the same time? YEP. It’s going to be a very busy summer for me :>

Song: notre dame by Paris Paloma

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dividers @/saradika-graphics

HELL’S KITCHEN, CLINTON CHURCH – NIGHT

As you diligently clean the hallowed halls of Clinton Church, your sweeping broom becomes a rhythm that lulls you into introspection. Memories flicker like shadows, teasing your mind, fragments of a past shrouded in mystery.

Amidst the dimly lit corridor, a whisper of a recollection dances on the edge of your consciousness. A stormy night, with rain and gunshots mingling with thunder. But the details remain elusive, like shards of a shattered mirror reflecting only fragments of truth.

With each stroke of the cloth, another piece of memory surfaces. An explosion of blinding light, a surge of energy, and a sensation of weightlessness. You were suspended in time, caught in a transformative moment that forever changed you.

Heart racing, you struggle to grasp the images. A younger version of yourself, eyes wide with wonder and fear amidst the chaos. But who were you before that night? What led you to that pivotal moment?

Memories slip through your fingers like grains of sand, but faint impressions remain. Faces and voices haunt you, leaving you with a longing for answers. Father Lantom, a guiding presence of solace, and Sister Maggie, a beacon of compassion within the church walls.

As you continue your tasks, the fragments fade once more, leaving unanswered questions lingering in your mind. But you find solace in the belief that one day, the scattered memories will converge, revealing the truth you seek.

Amidst the quiet diligence of your cleaning, a gentle tapping sound breaks through the stillness, drawing your attention. Your gaze shifts, and you find yourself captivated by the sight of Matt Murdock gracefully making his way toward the confessional booth. The name alone carries a weight, one that has reached your ears through the whispers of Father Lantom and Sister Maggie. With each step he takes, every subtle reaction and the enigmatic aura surrounding him stirs a sense of intrigue within you, casting a shadow of suspicion upon his every move.

With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you choose to remain silent, your steps light as you retreat to the elevated vantage point. Hidden amongst the shadows, you observe him in the sanctuary below, your gaze fixed upon his approach to the confessional booth.

The murmurs of conversation, muffled by the confessional's veil, reach your ears as fragmented whispers. Though you cannot discern the words, you recognize the timbre of his voice, the weight of his confessions, as if they bear the burdens of a lifetime. In the quiet solitude of the rafters, you witness the profound moments of vulnerability shared within the confessional. In these moments, you feel a kinship, a shared understanding of the weight he carries upon his shoulders.

As you observe from the rafters, his confession comes to an end, and he exits the confessional booth. There's a subtle shift in the air as he stands still, as if he senses your presence lingering, watching him. A sudden jolt of realization runs through you. Did he just sense your presence? The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and a chill creeps up your spine. A moment of panic washes over you as you question whether your hidden position has been compromised.

You gather your thoughts and focus your mind, honing your ability to manipulate perception. With a quick burst of mental energy, you conjure an illusion that makes you disappear from sight, creating a diversionary tactic, a mirage that distorts the surroundings. The sound of a gust of wind sweeps through the rafters, rustling the shadows and masking any traces of your presence. You now vanish from Matt's limited perception.

Confusion etches itself on Matt's face as he stands there, his heightened senses attuned to the shifting atmosphere. He tries to make sense of what just happened, relying on his remaining senses to decipher the situation. Was it merely a trick of the wind? Or something else entirely?

Matt's head tilts slightly as if trying to catch any lingering sounds or vibrations, but the absence of visual confirmation hampers his ability to comprehend. His brow furrows as he ponders the inexplicable occurrence. Though he cannot see, he can't shake the feeling that someone was there, observing him. The mystery of the vanished presence lingers in his thoughts, leaving him with an air of intrigue and a touch of frustration.

Meanwhile, you retreat further into the shadows, holding your breath as you watch his perplexed demeanor. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the faint sounds of the church. As you observe him from your hidden vantage point, your heart races with a mix of adrenaline and uncertainty.

As Matthew turns towards the grand church doors, the rhythmic tapping of his cane reverberates through the hallowed halls, a somber melody that fades into the distance. Curiosity guides your gaze, and you find yourself peering through the nearby glass window, watching his silhouette as he gracefully walks into the embrace of the night.

A familiar voice, Father Lantom's gentle call, interrupts your reverie, and you reappear as your illusory form dissipates like a shimmering mirage. His eyes meet yours, holding a knowing glimmer, and you offer a sheepish smile in response. "Can you please come down from there?" he requests, a tone of warmth and concern lacing his words. "We could use your help in preparing dinner for the children."

Your sheepish smile widens, accompanied by a nod of affirmation. "Of course, Father Lantom. I'll be right down." As you descend from your hidden perch, you find yourself walking beside Father Lantom towards St. Agnes, the orphanage that holds pieces of Matthew's past. The curiosity that has been brewing within you finally finds its voice, and you can't help but inquire about the enigmatic young man who had just left the church.

"Father Lantom," you begin, your tone gentle yet inquisitive, "I couldn't help but notice that Matthew, he... he was one of the orphans here at St. Agnes, wasn't he?" You glance at the revered priest, hoping to glean some insights into Matthew's formative years.

Father Lantom's eyes reflect a mixture of fondness and understanding as he nods. "Yes, my dear. Matthew was indeed a resident of St. Agnes. He came to us with a quiet resilience, a determination to rise above the challenges life had presented him. Despite his circumstances, he displayed remarkable intelligence, compassion, and a sense of justice that would shape his path in profound ways."

You listen intently, absorbing the fragments of Matthew's past that Father Lantom is willing to share. The mention of his resilience and his unwavering commitment to justice only deepens your intrigue, strengthening the connection you feel towards the man who has become a subject of fascination in your life.

As you enter the bustling kitchen of St. Agnes, the aroma of warm food fills the air, and the sound of utensils clinking against pots and pans accompanies your every step. Sister Maggie and the other sisters are busy at work, their movements synchronized and efficient.

You join their silent dance, preparing the ingredients with care and precision. Sister Catherine, a gentle and nurturing presence, works alongside you, her kind eyes filled with compassion for the children in their care. Together, you create a symphony of flavors, each dish infused with love and warmth.

After the satisfying meal is served and the children's laughter echoes through the dining hall, Sister Maggie beckons you to a quiet corner. Her eyes carry a touch of concern as she shares her worries about one particular child who has been plagued by nightmares, struggling to find solace in sleep.

"Dear one," Sister Maggie begins, her voice a soothing balm, "we've noticed that little Sarah, who recently arrived at the orphanage, has been having trouble sleeping. Her nightmares have left her restless and weary. We've tried our best to comfort her, but I believe your presence and your unique abilities might offer her a measure of peace."

You feel a surge of empathy for the young girl, your heart yearning to alleviate her pain. With a gentle nod, you agree to assist Sister Maggie, grateful for the opportunity to extend your kindness and offer a glimmer of hope to someone in need.

Together, you and Sister Maggie make your way to the children's dormitory, where soft sobs and hushed whispers fill the air. The dimly lit room casts elongated shadows across the beds, a tangible manifestation of the children's fears.

Drawing upon your own experiences and the innate power that courses through your veins, you sit beside Sarah's bed, your presence a comforting presence in the darkness. With a gentle touch, you reach out, intertwining your fingers with hers. A soft glow emanates from your touch, casting a warm light that dispels the shadows.

At that moment, you become a conduit of solace and tranquility, soothing Sarah's troubled mind. Through the power of empathy and your own inner strength, you weave a tapestry of soothing images and peaceful dreams, gently guiding Sarah into a restful slumber.

As you withdraw your hand, a sense of fulfillment washes over you. Sister Maggie, who has been silently observing, offers a grateful smile, her appreciation evident in her eyes. It is in these moments of compassion and connection that your powers find their true purpose – to bring comfort and healing to those who need it most.

Once the turmoil has subsided, you and Sister Maggie quietly make your way out, seeking solace in a peaceful evening walk. The gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead as you and Sister Maggie stroll side by side. The moon casts a soft glow upon the grounds of St. Agnes, creating an ethereal atmosphere. In the quietude of the night, you find a moment to share your thoughts with Sister Maggie, a confidante and wise presence within the church walls.

"You know, Sister Maggie," you begin, your voice carrying a sense of wonder, "ever since I arrived here, I've been listening to the prayers and expressions of gratitude that echo within these sacred walls. Lately, I've noticed a recurring theme—a cascade of thanks directed towards a mysterious figure, someone in a black suit. It's as if this person has been saving lives, responding to desperate pleas for help."

Sister Maggie's eyes glimmer with a knowing twinkle, her response carefully chosen. "The workings of divine providence are often veiled, my dear. The Lord's angels can manifest in unexpected forms, cloaked in darkness yet bearing light. It is not for us to decipher their true nature, but rather to trust in the goodness they bring."

Her words leave you with a mixture of intrigue and curiosity. The identity of the man in the black suit remains shrouded in mystery, and Sister Maggie's cryptic response does little to quell your wonder. As you part ways and make your way back to the rafters, your mind dances with possibilities, eager to uncover the truth behind the enigmatic savior who has captured the hearts and prayers of those he has touched.

HELL’S KITCHEN, CLINTON CHURCH – MORNING

With eager anticipation, you gather your belongings, ready to embark on your journey to the community center nestled in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. Tuesdays and Thursdays hold a special place in your schedule, as they are dedicated to community outreach and engagement, allowing you to make a positive impact on the lives of those around you. As your footsteps echo through the corridors, a sense of purpose fills the air.

Passing by Father Lantom, who is immersed in the task of lighting candles, you offer him a warm smile and bid your farewell with cheerful words. "Goodbye, Father!" you chirp, the excitement evident in your voice. In response, Father Lantom's caring gaze meets yours, and he gently reminds you, "Be sure to return before darkness falls, my dear." His words carry a hint of concern, a reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows of the city you aim to uplift.

The bustling and busy streets of the city fill your ears as you make your way to the community center. People walk hurriedly, their footsteps echoing on the pavement, their urgent movements revealing the importance of their destinations. The city's energy envelopes you, blending with your own sense of purpose.

As you reach your destination, the community center comes into view. Its vibrant exterior stands out amidst the surrounding buildings, offering a haven of support and care. The sound of laughter and chatter emanates from within, a symphony of voices that lifts your spirits.

Stepping inside, you are greeted by Maria, an experienced social worker, and a familiar face. Her warm smile instantly puts you at ease, and you exchange pleasantries.

"Hey there! Good to see you," Maria says, her voice filled with genuine warmth.

You return her smile, grateful for the camaraderie and support that Maria provides. As you settle into the familiar rhythm of your work, you can't help but overhear snippets of conversation around you. The topic of discussion revolves around the Russian mobs that have been causing fear in the community.

"It's been the talk of the town lately," Maria says, her tone tinged with concern. "The Russian mobs are causing chaos and everyone in the community is scared out of their minds."

Your heart sinks, knowing all too well the impact such criminal activities can have on the lives of those you serve. "I've been hearing similar stories," you reply, your voice laced with empathy. "It's really tough to see how much it affects the people we work with, you know?"

Maria nods in agreement, her eyes reflecting shared worry. Together, you exchange stories and observations, discussing the challenges faced by the community in the face of these criminal elements. Amidst your conversation, you notice a group of elderly residents gathered in a corner, engaged in their own hushed discussion. Curiosity piques your interest, and you discreetly listen in.

"Did you hear about the masked vigilante?" an elderly man whispers, his voice filled with awe. “He's like a shadow in the night. Creeping up on those Russian thugs and striking fear into their hearts." Other elderly voices join in, sharing their own accounts and opinions of this mysterious figure who prowls the streets of Hell's Kitchen, delivering his own brand of justice.

Intrigued by their tales, you find yourself captivated by the notion of a dark avenger fighting for justice. The stories resonate with the underlying frustration you feel toward the criminals plaguing the community. As you continue your work as a social worker, the whispers of the elderly and the legends of the masked vigilante linger in your thoughts. Deep within, a flicker of admiration ignites, acknowledging the complexity of his methods and the results he achieves.

As you carry out your duties at the community center, a familiar face catches your attention amidst the bustling chaos. It's Claire Temple, a compassionate nurse known for her dedication to healing and her involvement in the community. She offers a warm smile, acknowledging your presence, and you find a moment to exchange greetings.

"Hey there! Long day?" you ask, attempting to strike up a conversation.

Claire nods, her eyes reflecting a hint of exhaustion. "Yeah, you know how it goes. But it's worth it. How about you? How's the community center?"

You smile, leaning in slightly. "Busy as ever. The Russian mobs have been causing a lot of fear in the neighborhood lately. It's disheartening to witness the toll it takes on the people we work with."

Claire's expression turns somber as she glances around. "I've seen some of it at the hospital too. It's a tough situation."

As the conversation comes to a natural pause, you feel the urge to express your concern. "Hey, Claire, everything alright? You seem a bit off. Is there something on your mind?"

She hesitates for a moment before offering a reassuring smile. "Nah, just a rough night. But I'll be okay. Thanks for asking."

You nod, not fully convinced, but respecting her choice to keep things to herself. "Alright, just remember, I'm here if you ever need to talk. Take care, okay?"

As you turn to leave, a thought crosses your mind. "Oh, by the way, Claire, why don't I come over to your place later? We can bring some snacks and wine, and have a little girls' night. It might be nice to unwind after everything that's happened."

Claire's eyes light up, a grateful smile playing on her lips. "That would be great. My place could use some company. Come on over."

Hours pass by as you diligently work at the community center, engrossed in the needs of those you serve. Time slips away from you, and before you realize it, nightfall has arrived. With a sense of urgency, you gather your belongings, eager to honor your commitment to Claire.

As you rush through the dimly lit streets, your phone buzzes with a notification. Glancing at the screen, you see a message from Father Lantom. It's a relief to know that he's aware of your whereabouts and won't be worried. You send a quick reply, assuring him that you're on your way to Claire's apartment and that everything is fine. The gesture brings a small sense of comfort, knowing that you have someone looking out for you.

As you approach the apartment building, your footsteps quicken with a touch of anxiety. You had also texted Claire that you would be running late. You can't help but worry that you may have kept Claire waiting for too long. Your delay was unavoidable, as you had to make a quick stop to pick up a bottle of wine for the evening. With the wine safely tucked in your bag, you take a deep breath and push open the door to the building.

As you reach the landing of the stairs, a shocking sight greets your eyes. A man in a grey suit lies unconscious, blood trickling from a wound on his head. A fire extinguisher rests beside him on the ground, a jarring juxtaposition to the serene surroundings.

Your heart skips a beat, and your mind races to make sense of the scene before you. Panic sets in as you instinctively realize the gravity of the situation. Without conscious thought, your powers surge, causing your form to flicker and vanish from sight. In an instant, you become invisible, your presence hidden from prying eyes. It's an unintentional reaction, triggered by the shock and uncertainty that grips you. It's as if your very being seeks to protect itself from the unknown dangers that surround you.

In the hushed atmosphere, you strain your ears, capturing faint murmurs drifting from above the stairs. Slowly, your gaze lifts to find Claire, her expression filled with disbelief and uncertainty. "What do we do now?" she whispers, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and confusion.

Before you can fully process her words, another voice interjects, the urgency palpable in its tone. "There's someone else... one floor up, watching us. Oh, no. He's young. He's scared." The words hang in the air, and your eyes widen as you spot Santino, a young man you've assisted with tutoring on multiple occasions.

Without hesitation, you witness Claire lean over, her concern evident as she calls out, "Santino?" However, the young man doesn't respond. Instead, he swiftly retreats from view, disappearing back into the safety of his own apartment.

Intrigued and compelled to uncover the truth, you make a silent decision to ascend the stairs cautiously, keeping your footsteps light and your senses sharp. As you ascend, you observe Claire engaged in conversation, her voice carrying a tinge of familiarity. "He's the one who found you in the alley," she reveals, her words drawing your attention.

Step by step, you ascend further, your eyes scanning the surroundings. And then, in the dimly lit corridor, you spot a figure clad in sleek black attire. A mask conceals the upper portion of his face, leaving only his mouth and stubble. It dawns on you that this is the vigilante everyone has been talking about.

"He's seen my face, too?" he questions Claire, a mix of curiosity and concern in his voice. Without missing a beat, she affirms his inquiry, her voice carrying a weight of truth. "Yeah."

The Masked Man lets out a weary sigh, his voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and determination. "Claire, go upstairs and find him. We're going to need help carrying Detective Foster to the roof," he instructs, his words laced with urgency. As he pushes himself off the wall, a grimace of pain crosses his face, his hand clutching his side. It's at that moment that you truly take in his appearance—completely battered, bloodied, and bruised.

You remain invisible, carefully observing his movements as he slowly approaches your position. Swiftly, you sidestep to give him room, ensuring not to impede his path. Claire, perplexed by the situation, breaks the silence with a mixture of concern and confusion. "What the hell are we going to the roof for?" she questions, her voice tinged with apprehension.

The vigilante, his steps weakened but resolute, begins his descent down the stairs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Less chance of someone in the building hearing him scream," he replies, his words carrying the weight of the dangerous reality they find themselves in.

You trail behind them, ascending to the rooftop, silently observing their actions. Your gaze fixes upon the Masked Man as he deftly ties the wrists of Detective Foster with a piece of rope, suspending him from the bars of a metal ladder. As he secures the rope, his attention turns to Claire, seeking information. "You find anything?" he inquires, his voice a mix of urgency and determination.

Claire's eyes shift to the cracked phone in her hands, a hint of frustration evident in her expression. "You smashed the hell out of it with that extinguisher," she remarks, the weight of the damaged device lingering between them. In the brief pause that follows, you take the opportunity to discreetly move across the rooftop, perching on the ledge as you listen to their conversation unfold.

"He had a badge," Claire continues, her voice tinged with uncertainty. The Masked Man remains silent, his thoughts concealed behind the mask that shields his face. Claire presses on, her voice filled with doubt, "What if you're wrong?" Without missing a beat, he retorts, his conviction unwavering, "I'm not."

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him hobble toward your position. Invisible, your powers working in tandem to conceal every scent, heartbeat, and sound, you remain undetected. In the midst of their exchange, you hear Claire's voice echo through the night air, laden with a sense of unease. "This is way past what I signed up for."

With a slight shift to the side, you create space for the vigilante as he leans against the ledge beside you. The moonlight casts a dim glow upon his features as he poses a question to Claire, his voice tinged with curiosity. "What exactly do you think that was?"

Claire takes a few measured steps toward him, her voice laced with a mix of frustration and determination. "I found a man who needed help, so I helped him," she asserts, her gaze unwavering. The Masked Man responds with a hint of skepticism, "Oh, yeah? That simple?"

With a pause that carries the weight of unspoken tension, Claire walks closer to him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Do you really want to get into this in front of him?" she questions, a flicker of concern crossing her face. He responds with his firm voice, "He's out." Their attention briefly shifts to the suspended figure, and Claire suggests, "Maybe he's faking."

He then tilts his head for a moment, focusing his hearing on the man’s heartbeat before lifting his head again and shaking his head. "He's not," he concludes, the certainty evident in his tone. Claire points at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Okay, that right there, that's what I'm talking about," she retorts, her finger emphasizing her point. 

As the Masked Man slowly removes his gloves, Claire presses on, her voice filled with a mix of astonishment and exasperation. "I find a guy in a dumpster, and he turns out to be some kind of blind vigilante who can do all of this... this really weird shit," she gestures emphatically, trying to find the right words to capture the extraordinary abilities she has witnessed. "Like smelling cologne through walls and sensing whether someone's unconscious or faking it. And on top of that, he can take an unbelievable amount of punishment without one damn complaint."

He responds with a charismatic shrug and a knowing smile. "The last part's the Catholicism," he quips, a touch of humor in his tone, revealing a glimpse of his own understanding of the role faith plays in his resilience.

Oh, God. As the words sink in, your heart skips a beat, and you feel a surge of mixed emotions coursing through your veins. It's him. It's Matthew Murdock. The realization hits you like a tidal wave, threatening to shatter the fragile balance you've managed to maintain. For a brief moment, doubt and uncertainty cloud your thoughts, and your powers waver, almost revealing your presence.

In the midst of this inner turmoil, you notice a subtle shift in the Masked Man's demeanor. His heightened senses catch a hint of your scent in the air, an unfamiliar yet strangely familiar aroma. Confusion flickers across his face, and instinctively, he turns his head to the right, as if searching for the source of the elusive presence that has caught his attention.

You hold your breath, frozen in the realization that Matthew, the man you've admired and been drawn to, is standing just inches away from you. The connection between you feels tangible, like an invisible thread linking your fates. But for now, you remain hidden, concealing yourself in the shadows, grappling with the overwhelming revelation that threatens to unravel the carefully constructed walls around your heart.

Claire, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, breaks the silence with concern etched on her face. "What is it? Did you sense something?"

You see Matthew's brow furrow behind the mask slightly as he tilts his head around, his heightened senses still on alert. "I'm not sure... I thought I detected someone else's presence, but... never mind.”

Claire's frustration is evident as she lets out a sigh, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "So, what? I'm supposed to take it on faith that I'm on the right side of this?" She points to the man unconscious behind her. Matthew lifts his chin, steady and determined. "You don't carry a masked man bleeding to death into your apartment on faith. You knew which side you're on the moment you found me."

Claire takes a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze briefly shifting towards the unconscious man tied to the ladder. Matthew's question lingers in the air, and she turns to face him, her expression filled with a mix of determination and compassion.

"I'm a nurse. I work in the ER at Metro-General," she begins, her voice steady. “A few weeks ago, cops bring in three men. Said they were robbing tourists, beating them up pretty bad. Apparently, a man with a black mask took issue with their activities and decided to step in. I counted nine broken bones between them.”

There's a brief pause before Claire continues, her voice carrying a touch of vulnerability. “A few days after that, EMTs and my friend who’s a social worker brought in a 19-year-old waitress, said… some guy she knew waited for her after work in the parking lot, attacked her… tried to drag her in the alley. She said she screamed and screamed, and a man in a black mask heard her… and he saved her life.”

Matthew remains silent, his unseeing eyes fixed on Claire as she continues to voice her thoughts. The weight of her words hang in the air, the struggle between belief and doubt palpable in her expression. She gestures towards the unconscious and wounded man, frustration evident in her voice.

“So, yeah, word’s getting around.” Claire says, her voice tinged with a mix of skepticism and hope. "And I want to believe in it. I really do. But this?" She points to the man tied to the ladder, emphasizing the severity of the situation. Matthew, his masked face hiding half of his features, takes a moment, the silence pregnant with unspoken emotions. He licks his lips, a nervous gesture, before finally responding. "I know you're afraid," he says, his voice steady and determined. He takes a step closer, "But you can't let fear control you. If you do... these men, they win."

The tension between them is palpable, an undeniable connection tinged with both attraction and uncertainty. Sensing the weight of the moment, you turn your body away, facing the view of Hell's Kitchen. Swinging your legs gently, you take in the cityscape that never sleeps, the distant sound of sirens piercing the night. It's a moment of anticipation, waiting for Foster to regain consciousness.

APARTMENT ROOFTOP – NIGHT

Half an hour passes in tense silence as Matthew senses Detective Foster beginning to regain consciousness. Claire swiftly covers her face with a piece of white cloth, a makeshift mask to conceal her identity. Matthew turns to her, his voice low and commanding.

"Don't say anything, Claire," he advises, his tone firm yet measured. "Let me handle the interrogation." Claire nods, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and determination.

You move away from the ledge, positioning yourself a few feet behind them. The weight of the imminent violence hangs in the air, a familiar presence that you've encountered before. Your powers shimmer, rendering you invisible, your senses heightened and ready for the events about to unfold.

Detective Foster's eyelids flutter as he gradually awakens, disoriented and dazed. His gaze shifts, and as his vision clears, he realizes he is restrained and surrounded. His eyes settle on the imposing figure of the Masked Man and another presence standing just behind him, invisible to his senses.

Matthew takes a calculated step forward, his presence radiating intimidation and menace. The air around him seems to thicken with an invisible weight, amplifying the aura of fear he effortlessly commands. His voice lowers, taking on a deeper, more menacing tone as he addresses Detective Foster.

“Here’s how this is gonna work.” ​​Matthew asserts, his words laced with an unmistakable intensity. “I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re gonna answer them. If you’re lying to me… trust that I will know…” he warns, a predatory growl resonating beneath his words. “And I will be unhappy.”

The atmosphere on the rooftop becomes electric, charged with an unspoken understanding of the power imbalance at play. Detective Foster remains silent, his eyes darting nervously between Matthew and the concealed figure standing behind him. The weight of the situation hangs heavily in the air, anticipation building as Matthew prepares to extract the information he seeks.

With a calculated intensity, Matthew initiates his interrogation, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Where's the boy?" he demands, his tone leaving no room for ambiguity. Foster, attempting to maintain a facade of defiance, nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders and utters a blatant falsehood. "He's dead," he states, his voice laced with false conviction.

But Matthew, honed by years of honing his senses and instincts, instantly detects the deception. Without hesitation, his fist swiftly connects with Foster's head, the force of the blow causing him to cough out blood and reel from the impact. A mix of pain and realization flashes across Foster's face as he comprehends the gravity of the situation.

"This is what unhappy looks like. Where’s the boy?" Matthew asserts, his voice dripping with cold determination. The message is clear: the consequences of deceit will be met with swift and punishing retribution. At that moment, the power dynamic between captor and captive crystallizes, leaving no doubt that Matthew holds the upper hand.

Foster wheezes, his voice strained, as he tries to maintain a defiant front. "Why do you care? If he's not dead yet, he will be," he retorts, a hint of malicious satisfaction in his tone. Matthew refuses to be deterred, pressing forward with his interrogation. "Why did you take him?" he demands, his voice low and intense. Foster responds with an unsettling nonchalance, "Figured you'd come running."

Matthew's jaw tightens as he struggles to contain his anger and frustration. "And after I was dead?" he probes further, his voice laced with a mix of desperation and determination. Foster's expression remains indifferent as he casually replies, "Sell the kid, like all the others."

The weight of Foster's callous admission hangs heavily in the air, a chilling testament to the depths of his depravity. Matthew's control slips, fueled by a surge of righteous anger. With a swift and forceful blow, he strikes Foster once again, unable to tolerate the man's unrepentant guiltlessness.

Foster groans in pain, his facade momentarily crumbling under the weight of the assault. Through gritted teeth, he manages to utter, "I was telling the truth on that one," his words laced with a twisted mix of sincerity and indifference. Matt's frustration grows, his fist clenches as he deepens his voice into a growl, "I know."

Foster, unfazed by the gravity of the situation, chuckles audaciously. "We got you good, didn't we?" he taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. Matt refuses to be provoked, his focus unwavering. "Who do you sell the children to?" he demands, his tone hard and unwavering.

Bleeding from his mouth, Foster nonchalantly shrugs, a chilling indifference in his demeanor. "I don't know. Whoever has the money," he replies, his words devoid of remorse. Matt's gaze intensifies as he leans closer, his voice low and dangerous, "Where's the boy?"

With a smirk, Foster taunts, relishing in the power dynamic of their exchange. "So you find him. So what? We'll take another. Kill me, somebody takes my place. Long as people are buying, we'll be selling," he states with a derisive shake of his head. "Nothing you do tonight will change that."

Frustration boils within Matt, his injured form visible through his labored breathing. Foster cruelly points out his condition, mocking his endurance. "But go ahead. Keep hitting me. Let's see who drops first," he challenges, a twisted glimmer of defiance in his eyes.

As the intensity of the interrogation grows and the urgency to obtain crucial information mounts, you recognize the need to take direct action. With determination in your eyes, you swiftly move to Foster's side, reaching out to grasp his wrist which is still tightly bound.

Drawing upon your powers, you tap into the depths of fear and horror, channeling them into a potent projection aimed directly at Foster's fragile psyche. With a surge of energy, you unleash a chilling manifestation of his worst fears, tailored specifically to exploit his vulnerabilities and force him to confront his darkest demons.

Foster's eyes widen in terror as the illusion takes hold, his screams of agony piercing the air. He thrashes against his restraints, desperately trying to escape the relentless torment of his own mind. Matthew and Claire, taken aback by the sudden eruption of fear and chaos, are momentarily frozen in confusion, unsure of what is transpiring before them.

To their amazement, Foster's torment continues unabated, despite their static presence. It becomes evident to them that there is an external force at play, something beyond their understanding. Foster's screams pierce the air, growing more desperate with each passing moment.

Suddenly, Foster's pleas for mercy are stifled as Matt's gloved hand forcefully covers his mouth, silencing his cries. His eyes dart around in confusion, searching for the source of his torment. His nose begins to bleed, a visceral manifestation of the sheer terror gripping his being.

Matt's grip tightens, a mixture of determination and concern etched across his face. He senses a force at work, but the identity and motives of this mysterious presence remain elusive. Uncertainty fills the air, mingling with the intensity of the moment. 

And then, as your strength wanes, you can no longer maintain your hold on Foster. He pants heavily, clearly in psychological and physical pain. Sensing an opportunity to intensify the interrogation, Matthew seizes the moment, grabs Foster's collar, and menacingly states, "You're right... what you said before. I kill you, somebody takes your place, but they'll end up back here just like you, and sooner or later, one of you is gonna tell me what I need to know."

Matthew swiftly reaches for one of the ladder rails, pulling out a small knife and cutting the rope that restrains Foster. With a firm grip, he carries Foster to the edge of the rooftop, half of his body hovering over the precipice. His baritone voice deepens as he emphasizes, "This is important." Foster groans, and Matthew shushes him, whispering, "Shh! Listen, I need you to understand why I'm hurting you. It's not just about the boy. I'm doing this because I enjoy it." Matthew then pulls Foster up, fully leaning his body over the edge, and from your vantage point, you observe the unfolding events while trying to catch your breath.

Foster's desperate pleas of "No, no, no!" fill the air as Matthew whispers, "Where is he?" With no response from Foster, Matthew's anger erupts, his voice booming, "Where is he?" After one final menacing shove over the ledge, Foster gives up the location, gasping, "Underneath Troika restaurant. Eleventh and 44th."

Matthew pulls Foster back up and away from the edge, ensuring his safety. Once Foster is on his feet, he chuckles mockingly, taunting, "They'll be waiting for you. If you're lucky, they'll kill you before they start on the boy. It would be a shame for you to witness what they do to him." Matthew grabs Foster by the shoulder and forcefully pushes him off the rooftop. Claire shrieks in shock as she watches the man plummet, a loud crash resonating as he lands in a dumpster below.

"It's all right. He landed in the dumpster you pulled me out of," Matthew pants out, his strength waning. Claire's voice trembles with concern as she asks, "Is he dead?" Matthew tilts his head, listening for Foster's heartbeat, and shrugs, "He'll live."

As Claire gazes over the ledge, Matthew hobbles away, urging her, "You need to gather your things and leave. Don't disclose your destination to anyone." Matthew retrieves the remaining rope hanging from the ladder, while Claire turns to find him walking away. "What?" she questions, perplexed. Matthew grunts in response, "If he wakes up, he'll be back... and he won't be alone next time." He cuts the rope in half using the small knife and tosses it to the ground. Claire lifts up her cloth, expressing relief, "But he didn't see my face."

"That was just for effect, to scare him. He knew you were lying when you answered your door," Matthew explains, groaning in pain. Claire moves to assist him, but he raises his hand, signaling her to stop. "Do you have a place you can go?" he asks. Claire sighs, contemplating, "Well, there is one... but I'm not sure if she has enough room. I'm currently cat-sitting for a woman I work with within the hospital. Her brother is sick. She's in Oklahoma."

"What's the address?" Matt asks, his breath strained. Claire looks at him with confusion and asks, "Why?" Matthew replies, his voice wavering, "I'm thinking if I'm thinking if I make it through the night, I may need some help getting patched up," Matthew says with a pained expression. Claire sighs, understanding the gravity of the situation, and replies, "Tenth and 54th. Apartment 412, um, in the building above the liquor store."

Matthew senses her worry and reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Thank you, Claire," he says sincerely, his gratitude evident in his tired form. He takes a few steps away before Claire speaks up once more, her voice filled with doubt, "I don't believe you. What you said. I don't believe you enjoy this."

As you materialize on the floor, panting and visibly exhausted, Claire's concern immediately takes over. She swiftly turns around and rushes to your side, her voice filled with worry as she calls out your name, "I thought you were... How? Were you here all along? What is going on?"

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you manage to respond, your voice slightly strained, "I have powers. Abilities that allow me to... do things others can't." Claire looks at you skeptically, clearly grappling with the strangeness of the situation. You decide to bring up the recent alien invasion attempt as a reference point, hoping to put things into perspective. "You know the giant hole in the sky? The alien invaders that attacked New York? Well, I was sort of involved in that. It's been a wild ride."

Claire's expression shifts from skepticism to a mix of disbelief and awe. "Okay," she says slowly, processing the information. "So, let me get this straight. You have powers, there is a blind vigilante, and now we're here on a rooftop dealing with dangerous criminals. This is officially the weirdest night I've ever had."

You nod in agreement, acknowledging the surreal nature of the situation. "Believe me, Claire, it's just as strange for me. But right now, I need to leave. I need to go and help him rescue the boy."

Claire's curiosity takes hold, and she looks at you intently. "You were the one who made Foster lose it, weren't you? Why he suddenly started screaming at nothing?"

You nod again, confirming her observation. "Yes, it was me. I had to do whatever it took to get the information we needed. Foster was involved in something dangerous, and the boy's life is at stake."

There's a moment of silence between the two of you, as the weight of the situation sinks in. Then, Claire's voice softens, and she asks, "Do you know who Mike is? I mean, really know him?"

You hesitate for a moment, thinking about your complicated connection to ‘Mike’ who was actually Matthew. "Kind of. Not really. We have a history, but he doesn't know me, and for now, I think it's best to keep it that way."

Claire absorbs your response, her expression filled with understanding. After a brief pause, she looks at you with a mix of concern and determination. "You're going to go help him, aren't you? Mike. You're risking everything for him."

You meet her gaze and offer a determined nod. "Yes, I am. I have a feeling he's caught up in something bigger than all of us, and I can't ignore that. I have to try to help him."

Claire's worry is evident as she says, "You better come back in one piece. I don’t know how I would explain all of this to Maria."

You give her a faint smile, appreciating her concern and support. "I'll do my best, Claire."

TROIKA RESTAURANT, UNDERGROUND – NIGHT

Your heart pounds in your chest as you step into the dimly lit hallway, ready to aid Matthew Murdock with your unique abilities. The air crackles with anticipation as you tap into the depths of your power, the energy coursing through your veins.

As you move forward, the sounds of scuffling feet and strained grunts fill the air, echoing off the walls. Shadows dance and flicker, creating an eerie ambiance that heightens the tension. Your presence is a secret, known only to yourself.

With a single thought, your surroundings come alive. Illusions spring forth, perfectly replicating the masked vigilante in every detail. The mobsters' attention is captured by these illusory duplicates, drawing their attacks away from Matthew. They strike at empty air, their frustration growing with each missed blow.

Your illusions become more intricate, weaving a web of confusion and fear. Illusory weapons materialize in your hands, gleaming with a phantom menace. The mobsters' eyes widen in terror as they face the illusion of imminent danger, hesitating for a crucial moment.

The hallway transforms into a maze of illusory constructs. Shadows twist and contort, creating false barriers that impede the mobsters' progress. Their footsteps falter, their balance disrupted by the ethereal obstacles you've conjured. The line between reality and illusion blurs in their minds, feeding their growing sense of unease.

Their swings and strikes meet nothing but empty space, frustration mounting with each failed attempt to land a blow. Illusory wounds appear on their bodies, and illusory blood stains their clothes. Cries of pain mingled with shouts of anger, chaos reigning in the narrow corridor.

Amidst the whirlwind of illusions, Matthew moves with grace and purpose, his senses honed to perfection. He leaps and dodges, striking with pinpoint accuracy, his relentless determination evident in every calculated move. The mobsters find themselves increasingly overwhelmed, their confidence eroded by the uncertainty that surrounds them.

And then, in a fleeting moment, Matthew turns, carrying the boy in his arms. His heightened senses catch a hint of your presence—the faintest scent, the echo of a heartbeat—before it dissipates into the night. There's a flicker of realization in his posture, an unspoken acknowledgment of your contribution to the fight.

With a final surge of strength, Matthew pushes forward while carrying the young boy. Your illusions continue to distract and disorient the remaining mobsters, allowing him to navigate through the chaos with unwavering focus. As the hallway fight reaches its climax, the mobsters are left reeling, their resolve shattered. You watch from the shadows, your breath steady but your heart still racing. The moment of triumph is shared, even if only for a brief instant, before you fade back into the anonymity that cloaks your true nature.

Matthew's focus shifts back to the task at hand, carrying the boy to safety. Yet, a sense of intrigue lingers within him. He feels your ghost, supporting him, but your identity remains a mystery. As he carries the boy, he silently vows to uncover the truth behind his mysterious ally once this mission is complete.

With the boy safe in his arms, Matthew continues his swift retreat, leaving behind the hallway and the echoes of your combined efforts. The enigmatic presence of your illusion powers remains a secret, for now, your aid in the fight is a silent testament to your unwavering support.

END NOTES:

I’m… IDK WHAT THIS ISSSSSS :D

YES. This is my take on the whole “guardian angel” role bcs it’s fun!

If you are confused with the reader’s back story dw I already have that sorted out.

HNGGG YES IM WRITING TWO SERIES. IN THE MIDDLE OF FINALS WEEK SHUSH. IM FINE =D

Okayyyy I hope you enjoyed T^T <3

- Grace

TAGLIST:

[lenaboskow]

the gay!eddie storyline, and how it should go

this is gonna be a long one, so read under the cut

abc has the potential to do the most groundbreaking thing since 4/4/24, and that is a properly fleshed out, tear inducing catholic deconstruction coupled with a sexuality crisis leading to eddie realizing he's gay and in love with buck (with mention of how he still loved shannon, just not in the way he wanted to)

before i go into this, let me set the record straight (ha) and say that while eddie doesn't necessarily need to realize his feelings yet, i believe that he's the type of person to not let himself even think about his sexuality until it's staring him down in the form of being in love with his best friend.

anyways

they've already lain the groundwork. the fact that he ran at every given chance from shannon, even moved within driving distance of her and never picked up contact until chris' needs required it. the fact that he panicked at the idea of being a ready made family with ana, even admitting that he was in the relationship for chris and that he had hoped he would learn to love ana. the fact that he was most definitely in one long panic attack the entirety of 7x05.

why did he ask marisol to move in off screen? why did he ask her to move in after we'd only gotten two mentions of her the entire season (both in relation to her helping with chris)? i think he was overcompensating again. trying to fill that motherly role, and as he said in 7x01, he's a nester. he nests.

though, if you ask me, he's a very bad nester unless it's with buck.

furthermore, why did finding out marisol flunked out of nun school send him into a panic? you could argue that it's strictly catholic guilt, and that may be true, but to me it seemed like the catholic guilt was only the top layer.

eddie's never had a problem with being with a woman pre-maritally. when he was with shannon, he was still fully immersed in his family's catholicsm, so if this was a problem he was going to have, you would think that it would appear then, right? so what's the difference between when he was in el paso with shannon, and now with marisol?

he's had eight years to figure himself out. well, not completely, but he's getting there.

i think eddie has been on the verge of figuring out his feelings for buck, and that's what made him panic and ask marisol to move in. if marisol is living with him, then when buck is over for weekly movie nights or what have you, marisol will be there as a buffer. he doesn't understand why he's feeling the way he is, but with marisol around, the chances of him being alone with buck are fewer, and the chances of having to address the feelings are even less so.

so now, he's unpacking marisol's boxes, and he sees the picture. and freaks out. because here is the very thing he was trying to avoid. and now it's living in his house.

but, why does he only panic when it comes to sleeping with marisol? because it makes him think of the one thing he hasn't allowed himself to. and that's buck.

this fact coupled with buck just starting to question his sexuality is what's going to push eddie over the edge. sure, he's going to be the most supportive best friend he can be, but in the back of his mind he's going to wonder why he gets a sick feeling in his stomach as he watches buck and tommy dance, as he watches them flirt on scene where air ops was called, as he watches them interact at the grant-nash barbecue buck invited him to.

eddie runs. he doesn't face things until it hits him in the face, and even then sometimes he still ignores it. when he does face it, it's going to hit him all at once, and he'll probably panic and probably run to hen and karen's house, and there will be lots of tears. and angst. and i can't wait

tag: @eddiediazismyhusband

[maddiebuckettebuckley]

casual (is it casual now?)

eddie/tommy angst | 1.1k words | read on ao3

summary: literally just the bucktommy kiss if it had been eddie instead, because lou said it was almost eddie and the show said eddie catholic guilt real and I said oh bet?

Eddie slides Tommy a beer across the table and cracks one open for himself. Despite still feeling the burn of the whiskey from the karaoke bar in his stomach, he takes a swig. “Man, I have to remember to invite Buck next week. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but he’s a big trivia buff.”

Tommy hums good-naturedly. “Maybe that way we’d actually break our ten-point record.” He grabs the beer and taps his fingers against the side without taking a drink. “Hey, what’s the deal with you two, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Eddie cocks his head slightly, not entirely understanding the question. “Me and Buck?”

“You talk about each other all the time, and your kid is obsessed with him. His name must have come up a dozen times the other day.”

Eddie shrugs. What is there to say about Buck? He’s Buck. He’s worked his way into every aspect of Eddie’s life, and somehow, unexpectedly, became Eddie’s favorite person in the world, after Chris. Not that he would ever tell him. His head’s big enough as it is.

“We’re like family, I guess. The whole 118 is more than a house. We’re all family.”

“Hah. I noticed.” Tommy’s voice is colored with something like bitterness. Not harsh, though. More… sad. Wistful, maybe. “Wasn’t like that when I was there.”

“Really? How so?” Without meaning to, Eddie inches closer.

Tommy lets out a puff of air and shakes his head slightly. “The whole… culture was different. Very macho. Regressive. Not that different from serving, honestly.”

That Eddie can understand. His team was close, but it was a completely different world than the 118. The jokes were sharper, aimed to hurt as often as not. The conversations shallower. Sometimes it almost felt like they didn’t want to get too close in case someone didn’t make it out. Maybe they had the right idea; he had almost died trying to get them all home. Not that he learns from his mistakes, since he knows from experience he’d stop at nothing to fight for any of his new family. It scares him if he lets it. How much he cares about all of them.

“I get it,” Eddie says, taking another swig of his beer. “You’d fit right in there now, though. The way you threw in with us in that storm.” He whistles. “Pretty fuckin’ cool.”

A small smile appears on Tommy’s face that Eddie finds difficult to read. Could be the whiskey. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“You wouldn’t get sick of me, seeing me every day?” Tommy asks. He sets down his beer, still untouched, next to Eddie on the table, and Eddie suddenly becomes aware that he’s well within touching distance. He’d barely even have to reach out his hand.

“’Course not. Anyone would be an improvement over Buck.” Why did he say that? He doesn’t think that. But it makes Tommy laugh again. Which makes Eddie smile, even as his stomach turns from the casual cruelty of the joke.

“You’re pretty cool yourself, you know.” The calm intensity of Tommy’s eye contact is setting off alarm bells in the back of Eddie’s mind. He tries to ignore them, because something about it feels nice, like the gaze itself is casting a warm glow over him.

“Oh, am I?” Eddie replies, raising an eyebrow.

“In my book, at least. Whatever that counts for.” Impossibly, Tommy has gotten even closer, so that there’s almost no space between them at all. The alarm bells get louder, more intense, and Eddie can feel his heartbeat throughout his body.

“Definitely counts for something.” Eddie’s words come out quiet. He kind of can’t breathe.

But he doesn’t back away. He doesn’t break eye contact. Even when Tommy closes the distance completely, when his hand is under Eddie’s chin pulling it ever so slightly upwards so that their mouths meet.

Eddie’s swept away in it. The warmth, the strength of his hand, the hint of vanilla vodka still on his lips. It all makes him dizzy, twists up his head so he forgets, well, everything. Just for a moment. And he leans into the kiss until their bodies are pressed flush against each other and his hand finds its way into Tommy’s hair and—

“Shit.” Eddie pulls away abruptly, breathless. The man — the man — in front of him stares back. Kindly, questioning. And they’re the only two people in the room, but Eddie has never been more sure he’s being watched. Panic starts to migrate from the tips of his fingers wrapped in Tommy’s T-shirt and hair, all the way up into Eddie’s chest and settles there. He takes one step back, then another. The look on Tommy’s face as he does is unbearable, so he turns away, balling his hands into fists that will leave purple crescents in his palms. “I’m not… I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“It’s actually getting pretty serious. We’re moving in together soon.” Eddie winces at the lie. He hasn’t even asked her yet.

“Eddie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” A gentle hand on his shoulder tells him that Tommy’s stepped closer. Instinctively, Eddie shrugs it off. And instantly feels sick.

Don’t be a fucking coward. Look him in the face, at least.

He turns to face Tommy, who looks — hurt. Worse, he looks like he’s trying not to look hurt. Eddie swallows, trying to keep down the panic as it crawls up his throat.

“Nah man, it’s on me. I shouldn’t have… I should’ve told you sooner.” Eddie scrubs a hand over his eyes. His skin itches like it’s covered with grime. His fingers twitch like they’re searching for rosary beads. “I think you should probably go. It’s getting late.”

Tommy nods, then opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something. Closes it again.

Eddie walks him to the door, trying to come up with any words that would make this less awful, but when he tries to think there’s only a dark static filling his head with noise.

With one foot outside, Tommy hesitates, lingering in the doorframe.

“Listen, Eddie. I really am sorry for the misunderstanding. But I hope you know that you can call me if you ever need to talk. I’ve been where—” He cuts himself off. Holds eye contact with Eddie for a moment. Sighs. “I’m still here for you, if you need anything.”

Eddie nods lamely. A part of him needs to delete Tommy’s number. A part of him wants to pull him back inside. He’s not even sure what for. “Thanks, Tommy.”

The door clicks shut with Tommy behind it and Eddie slides down the wood paneling to the floor, dropping his head between his knees as a heavy sob escapes his mouth.

[amberlynnmurdock]

Blind Faith

Chapter 8: Forgiveness

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: "So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets," Matthew 7:12.

Warnings: making out, angst, Matt's Catholic guilt and lack of accountability lol

Tags: @starry-night-20 @sumsytee @queerqueenlynn @mattmurdocksstarlight @marvelcinematiquniverse

Also, Ao3 link for anyone interested <3

Hell’s Kitchen 11 PM

It wasn’t right to keep coming to you at night, as Mike, when as your boss, everything had fallen apart. 

Matt fought with himself mentally ever since that night he last was with you—kissing your knee and giving you the space you needed. I shouldn’t be here anyway, he had told himself. Then why did he find himself crouched on his roof again, sensing with his hearing the path to your apartment? Why was he pacing back and forth on his roof, a tug of war between right and wrong, to make a decision? 

The whole thing was screwed up, he thought. He was pretending to be two different people with you: it wasn’t fair. As Matt Murdock, he had yelled at you and hurt your feelings. Of course, he wasn’t happy with himself. He let his feelings for you, as Mike, get the best of him. How was he supposed to react to hearing you’d put yourself in danger? 

God, the thought of you in that apartment complex, by yourself, with no weapon but that cheap can of mace you had on you the night he first met you. Something else echoed in Matt’s mind, that one night you’d taunted him with the willingness of throwing yourself in danger. “I’d walk into the depths of this city alone and in nothing but a sundress and wait for you to come to find me.” Matt shook his head at the memory, feeling his blood boil at the thought of you in danger, and him being absent. 

He was mad at the situation, mad at how he reacted, mad at himself. It felt really, really wrong, to ignore you in the office but still keep seeing you at night.

But if he stopped seeing you, even until things got better at the office, it might be suspicious. Especially since the two of you had fallen into a routine over the last few weeks. He wanted to apologize, to hold you and tell you the only reason he got upset was because the thought of you getting hurt made him nauseated, sick…but he can’t. Not as Mike. Not as your savior. He could only apologize to you as Matt, something he knew he had to do sooner than later.

Matt did find himself on your roof, soon enough. 

He waited for a few moments. You were in your room, wearing a soft hoodie and shorts. Your friends were just on their way out, but not before making sure you wanted to stay in. 

“Are you sure?” One of them whined. Matt listened closely to your breathing. 

“Yeah, I’ve got to study. Seriously,” You gently argued. You were half lying, Matt could tell. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. 

“All right well, leave the kitchen light on for when we come back,” another one of them said. 

“Will do. Be safe,” you told your friends. 

Matt waited and tightened the mask on his face. He listened as your friends made their way down the elevator, onto the streets. Then, he heard you shuffle back inside your room. You slipped on your shoes and headed for the rooftop access. 

Matt waited for you by the door, head down. When he was immediately hit with your overwhelming sweet scent, he knew there was no turning back now. 

“Studying, huh?” Matt teased. 

He heard you sigh, not lightheartedly. Tiredly. 

“How can you hear that? I wasn’t lying to them,” you argued. “Not entirely.”

You stood in front of him, arms crossed. Matt gently uncrossed your arms, pulled you in, and held you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathing in your sweet scent reminded him of the day he yelled at you. Well, it was always on his mind, but this transported him back to that moment. Not only was the sound of your heart banging in your chest overtaking his hearing, but it was everything else in how you reacted that became obvious to his senses: your nervous sweat, your voice quivering. The more he thought of it, the more guilty he felt. The more it became obvious he had to apologize and ask for your forgiveness. He’d get on his knees right now if he could. 

Why was he here? What was he doing to you? 

“What is it?” He suddenly heard you ask him against his chest. You stayed there for a moment until you pulled back, arms still around him. 

“Something’s bothering you,” Matt spoke softly. It’s bothering me, too. But maybe if I can talk to you like this, as Mike, I can understand. 

“Yeah…” you trailed off. “I don’t know. Do you wanna hear about it?” 

“Tell me.” 

You sighed, again, and ran a hand through your hair. 

“Well, I’m not sure you’ll be too happy either,” you began. “The other night, I was out with my friends. I wasn’t really in the mood, but I haven’t gone out in a while. It was at a Cathedral turned bar. You’d hate it—sacrilegious and whatnot. Anyway, I left to get fresh air and happened to be on the street of one of our client’s houses. I thought I’d be helping, taking pictures for her of her terrible, criminal-run apartment. But my one boss, Matt, got so mad at me,” you explained, defeated. “I’ve never been talked to like that by anyone.” 

Matt tried not to react when you said his real name. 

“Did he say why he was upset?” 

“I put myself in danger, he said. Sure, that might be true, but I did it because I wanted to help.” 

“His anger must have come from a place of wanting you to be safe,” Matt echoed his thoughts from earlier. “Maybe the very thought of you in danger is too much to bear.” 

“Well, that’s on me,” you argued, “if I want to do something risky.” 

“Your risks can affect others too, you know,” Matt replied. 

“It’s not like I mean anything to him—I’m just his summer legal assistant.” 

Oh, sweetheart. You are much more to me than that. 

“You don’t know that,” Matt whispered. 

“You wouldn’t have done the same thing I did?” You questioned. 

“I would’ve,” Matt answered truthfully, “but it’s different. You’re a young woman, who barely has experience defending herself.” 

“Well, we all start somewhere, don’t we?”

Matt ignored you. “I’m happy you are safe. You should let people know your whereabouts next time.” 

“I have the phone you gave me,” you argued. “I would’ve called you if anything had gone wrong.” 

“I—“ Matt struggled with his words, “I know. Still. Please,” Matt begged, reaching his fingertips to your jaw, “I need you to be safe.” 

You cursed under your breath, you were tired of hearing the same sentiments from everyone. 

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Matt asked. 

“I guess I just hope he can forgive me,” you confessed. “I think that’s what’s bothering me. The guilt. I thought… he could be a mentor or something for me. But I feel like it’s ruined now.” 

“If his anger came from a place of wanting you to be safe, I am sure he feels guilty for the way he handled it,” Matt said in a strained voice. “He will forgive you.”  

“I hope you’re right.” 

Matt found your lips, pressing a light kiss on you. You slowly pulled back, feeling his lips detach from yours. 

“I am,” he whispered. 

Truthfully, it wasn’t about Matt forgiving you—it was more if you would be willing to forgive him. 

⣿⣿⣿⣿

You woke up slowly, then all at once. You had that strange feeling you got when your dream slowly fizzled into reality—it took you a moment to realize the startling beeping came from your phone alarm. 6:30 AM. Well, you didn’t want to admit it, but you knew there was no avoiding going in early for work this morning. And that meant possibly sharing the office space with Matt. 

It’s been a couple of days since he scolded you for taking pictures at Ms. Cruz’s apartment. You tried avoiding him at the office during this time, walking quickly past him when you had to, dropping his files off on his desk before he arrived, or shortly after he left…Karen told you she talked to him and said he would be apologizing, but that hasn’t come yet. You wondered if it ever would. Not that you really needed it; you just wanted things to go back to how they were. 

On your way to work, you took your time walking up the blocks of Hell’s Kitchen—you passed a bodega and went inside to grab some coffee for the office and some snacks as well: mini donuts and pastries. The old man at the counter smiled graciously at you as you dropped the change into his tip bucket. Small things like this made you feel better about heading into work. 

As predicted, you were the first person to arrive at 7:30 AM. You locked the door as you usually did and began to unpack what you bought from the bodega. You placed the box of donuts and pastries in the middle of the kitchen counter and began to refill the coffee machine. Walking to your desk, you booted up your laptop as you waited for the coffee to brew. 

Then came a knock. 

You looked up with feline reflexes and saw Matt’s silhouette in the window. His head was low as he waited for you to open up for him. After a deep breath, you walked over to let him inside.

“Good morning,” you greeted in a weaker voice than you anticipated. 

Matt pressed his lips together, in an attempt to grin. “Morning.” 

You shut the door, not locking it. 

You stood by for a moment, your hand on your opposite elbow, Matt’s back to you. You watched as he undid his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. He pulled his cane apart and felt for his jacket pocket, slipping it inside. He paused for a moment.

“How are you?” He asked turning his head. You could see his eyes peek from behind his dark red glasses. You moved your eyes to the floor. 

“Good,” you lied, “how are you?” 

“I’m all right,” he answered. “You got more coffee?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It should be done in a bit.” 

“Okay,” Matt breathed. He placed a hand on the door frame of his office and kept his other at his waist. Suddenly, everything in the office felt tense, like you were standing in the middle of an invisible fog. You didn’t need to see it to feel it. And frankly, Matt probably didn’t either. His head was low like he was thinking of what to say. 

“When it’s done,” he began, “would you come into my office? So I can talk to you?” 

“Yeah,” you replied as lightly as you could. Hopeful. “That's fine.” 

You wanted the coffee machine to hurry up from that point on. You poured two cups of coffee—black—and entered Matt’s office, shutting the door behind you. You placed a cup in front of him, to his surprise. 

“It’s black,” you told him with a small smile. He smiled in return, moving it to the side. 

“Thank you.” 

Your cup burned in your hands, so you placed it on his desk as well. 

Matt said your name, ever so softly. You’ve never heard his voice like this. He’s spoken to you kindly before—but not softly. 

“I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier this week. I know it was unprofessional. And I know it hurt you, for me to lose my temper like that,” Matt began. He shifted behind his desk and fiddled with his tie like it was too tight around his neck. 

“I want you to know that it came from a place of wanting to keep you safe. This firm has seen the worst of Wilson Fisk. I know Karen told you about Mrs. Cardenas. And while Fisk may not have his power anymore, there’s still evil in every corner of this city. I was more upset about me not knowing you were there. And I couldn’t bare to think of what could’ve happened if anything went wrong, and I wasn’t—none of us knew,” Matt pleaded, fingers interlocked. He sighed, at the mention of what could’ve gone wrong, like the thought of it actually pained him. You felt guilty, to an extent. He was right in some ways. 

“I understand, Matt,” you spoke softly, “I know I should’ve called someone. Like I said, I wasn’t planning on doing it. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. But now I know better, to consult with you or Karen or Foggy.” 

“Honestly, I… can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. But, please, next time, let us know. That’s all. I really… really can’t fathom if… if…” 

“I know,” you finished his thought for him. “I get it. Thank you for talking to me about it, Matt. I really appreciate it.” 

“And… I hope you can forgive me, for how I reacted. It wasn’t right. I know that,” Matt shook his head, sort of defeated. 

“Of course, I do—as long as you forgive me for going behind everyone’s back.” 

Matt held out his hand in response. You hesitated and then shook it. His hand felt surprisingly soft but strong. It was cold. He slowly retreated his hand. He smiled warmly and slid the coffee cup back in front of him. Then, a worried expression fell on his face again. 

“Your arm,” he mentioned, “I remember Karen said it was bruised. Is it okay now?” 

You’d almost forgotten about your tattoo-like bruise. It was beginning to fade, changing from blue and purple to green and yellow. It didn’t hurt anymore. 

“Oh,” you said, “yeah, it’s getting better. It doesn’t hurt.” 

“Good,” Matt nodded. 

You sat up from the chair and began to walk out, but Matt’s voice stopped you again. 

“I’m sorry,” Matt said again, “just so you know that I really regret speaking to you that way.”

You exhaled, truly feeling like a weight had been lifted off your chest. “It’s really okay, Matt. I’m just glad we can move forward.” 

He smiled and turned his attention to his Orbit reader. 

The rest of the morning went by better than you could imagine. It didn’t have to be said that Matt apologized—it was a clear indication that things were fine when Foggy and Karen noticed you going back and forth to Matt’s office, with questions about his cases and offering help on any writing. 

Things became even more solidified that all was well when Matt left a gift on your desk for you at the end of the day: a brand new leather-bound legal notepad. The color red. 

⣿⣿⣿⣿ 11:30 PM 

Now that you felt everything in your professional life was fine again, you easily fell into the warmth and excitement of seeing Mike at night. For a little, it was hard to push those things aside but walking up the steps to the rooftop access, you felt as light as a feather. 

There he was, your creature of the night, stalking the roof with his hands behind his back, dressed all in black. His face was half covered, a comfort you’ve grown used to, a feeling you knew would be hard to detach from, if you ever had to. He smiled when you entered into his graces. You grabbed him by his jaw and kissed him, hard. 

“You seem in a better mood,” Mike smiled against your kiss. You ignored him and kissed him more. 

“I am,” you affirmed, running your hands along the length of his torso. “How about you, Catholic guilt?” 

Mike laughed, and you felt the vibrations in his chest. He snaked his arms around your waist and held you against him. You moved your head so your neck was exposed. Mike ran the tip of his nose along the side of your neck, peppering kisses along the way. He stopped when he reached your ear, gently tugging it with his teeth. 

“I can never be in a bad mood when I’m with you,” he murmured in your ear. You shivered against him.

“You sure you don’t say this to all the girls you’ve saved before?” You smirked. “Our meetings have started much later lately.”

Mike growled in your ear as he held you even tighter, the joke of him being with anyone else other than you triggering him. “You’re my first stop, my last, and my only,” he said in a husky tone. He kissed your neck and pulled your hair to guide your lips to his. He kissed you and slid his tongue into your mouth. You graciously accepted. He was kissing you like he’s never kissed you before. He ran his fingers through your hair and rested his hands on the small of your back. 

“Mike,” you pulled back, breathlessly, “you know what I was thinking recently? And by recently, I mean, just moments before this?” 

“What, sweetheart?” 

“Sometimes, well, frequently, I really worry about you. I know you’ve been doing this a while, but now I feel like I have a hand in this fight. I…I’m attached to you. I feel safe with you. I worry about you.”

Mike’s jaw clenched as you spoke. Did you upset him, in some way? By being honest? 

“I know you say you worry about me and want me to be safe, but that goes both ways now. You know what I mean?” You continued, reaching up to run your finger over his bottom lip. Mike seemed to melt at the touch, unclenching his jaw. 

“Yeah,” he answered softly, “I know.” 

“I just thought you should know that now.” 

“Forgive me,” he answered almost instantly, taking your hand from his face and holding it. “For making you feel that way.” 

You looked at him confused. He kissed your knuckles.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you said breathlessly. 

Oh, but only if you knew what there was. 

[bbglewis]

bestie thoughts on all seb ships (rank them please 🥺🥺🥺)

OKAY THEN

1. Sewis- without question. it's the soulmatism. the parallels. the unabashed love for one another. its the LORE. it's the "one single thread of gold tied me to you"

2. Martian- the PLOT. the dynamics. the angst. the reconciliation. i will never shut up

3. Sebson- maybe an unpopular opinion but GODDAMN IT they were fucking okay. it's the feral behaviour of the early 2010s. the flirting. it's SOLAR FLARE

4. Sebchal - okay catholic(Ferrari) guilt. it's the themes. the potential. the star crossed lovers of it all for me.

5. Sebmarkson- Yeah. That's it.

6. Sebcedes- bc it's fucking funny

to me the rest are just... there

• Simi- see I get it but it's so meh

•Sebdan- better platonic

•Smick- REALLY REALLY depends on the way it's written, otherwise it's better platonic/familial

•Vettonso- it's batshit crazy 😭😭

•Seb/Michael - again, it REALLY DEPENDS on how it's done or it's WEIRD

[jo-harrington]

Genesis (An As Above, So Below Story)

**This can be read in tandem with As Above, So Below as it contains spoilers. The scene with Eddie at the end is a direct lead in to Heaven.**

Summary: In the beginning, there was darkness...

Word Count: 4.5k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!OC (The Knight)

Warnings/Themes: Angst, Fluff, Meet Cute, Origin Story, Minor Gore, Not Great Parents, Religious Elements, Supernatural Elements, Fate vs Free Will

OC is of European/Italian-American descent on her father's side and her mother's side can be left up to interpretation. She is loosely Roman Catholic. I will not be giving her a name, or any major physical descriptors if I can help it but her cultural identity is integral to the larger story.

Note: Damn, so I was just doing an outline for the final chapter of AASB (we are quite a ways away) and this came to me...almost 5k later here we are. If you are reading the series, you might notice some of this popping up again at some point. Thanks to @deathbecomesthem for another set of eyes and enabling me to write something that made my heart ache.

This series is not for the faint of heart, nor is it something that was written with a general audience in mind. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

"'What is life for?' he asks himself. 'What is my life for?'"  ― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

March 1983

It was a good day.

It made you nervous by lunch.

Well, nervous wasn't the right word for it.

Guilty.

Rightfully so; Nonna would ask how your day was once you were home and if you had anything to say other than something bad or something guilt-ridden, you'd get an earful. And you didn’t mind it so much coming from her, it’s when Mom started butting in that made things complicated.

You couldn’t stand them fighting anymore.

So you prayed for something bad. Well…just something not good.

One of the nuns being in a nasty mood and giving you a pop quiz, one of the boys from Holy Cross making fun of you when you got on the bus home, a nasty customer during your shift at Food Town, even skinning your knees on the walk home after work.

But no. It was a perfect day. Even old Fortunata on 23rd noticed you walking home and brought out a plate of scaliddi because your birthday had just passed and she knew they were your favorite.

She even asked you if you wanted to come in for espresso and you declined around the hand that pinched your cheek.

It might have been strange to anyone else but to you it was normal. You had a handful of friends at school, sure, but your main entourage consisted of all the little Italian ladies who’d worked at the factory and went to bingo with your Nonna.

Which meant Nonna was talking about you during Bingo again.

You invited her over for coffee and pastries after mass on Sunday instead, so she would let you go, and silently apologized to Nonna that you’d have company instead of getting to watch reruns of Dark Shadows together.

Her secret, shameful indulgence. And yours.

By the time you made it home, it was dark. Streetlights flickered on but you paid them no mind. You'd made this walk a thousand times before safely, and you'd do it again.

Even the shadowy figure sitting on the porch steps didn't make you pause.

"It's been a while," you greeted awkwardly, Mary Janes scuffing the sidewalk as you climbed the steps. You held out the plate to him as you passed. "Scaliddi?"

"I don't eat," he shook his head.

"There's always a first time," you joked.

"Your father is home."

That caused you to freeze.

"Oh?"

"He's hurt."

"Oh."

"You don't seem upset."

"Am I supposed to be?" you shrugged. "He always comes back with cuts and bruises...and then he heals. And then he leaves again. Off to save the world."

"Not this time," Gabriel shook his head. You frowned; that didn't sound right. You shoved your key in the lock, ready to go inside and see just what he meant. You turned to look at him as you shut the door, uncaring of the words he said next. "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

"Shut up," you rolled your eyes and closed the door on him. Locking the deadbolt although you knew that wouldn't do much if he really wanted to come in.

You let yourself into Nonna's flat and heard distant voices at the back. They stopped as you shut the door; Nonna softly called your name and then shuffled down the hall.

You'd never seen her look so weary in your entire life, and it only got worse the closer she got to you.

Deep lines of worry carved into her face, eyes sorrowful, hands wringing over each other. Hands that had a rosary wound around them.

She immediately reached out and grabbed your backpack and Fortunata's plate and set them down on the plastic-covered French Provincial couch that was the centerpiece of her front room. And then she turned back to you and cupped your face. Her lips pursed and she took a breath as though she had something to say...but she exhaled shakily and shook her head, denying herself the chance.

"You ok Nonnie?" you whispered.

There were tears in her eyes and she forced a smile.

"Of course I'm ok, you're home safe," she told you softly. Her hands shook as she squeezed your cheeks and then took one of yours. She tugged you along down the hall behind her, like she had a million other times growing up. "But we have company. Vieni."

It's tense in the kitchen.

You're slumped in your usual seat, Nonna's seat beside you intermittently empty as she bounces between the table and the stove--stirring and slicing, scooping and serving--and across from you is your father looking...dead. Truly. He looks like he's barely clinging to life, covered in cuts and bruises, one eye so bloodshot you can't see any white, with his right arm in a sling, hand bandaged, missing two fingers.

You're struggling between staring at him and avoiding him altogether.

Beside him, in the chair your mother usually sits in when she's home--you're sure she fled once she saw you had a visitor--sits a stern man in a black cassock. Father Alexander Jinette, one of the Order's contacts within the Clergy. He's calm and charismatic and acts like he knows everything.

He doesn't, you already asked a few curious questions to test his faith and got some bullshit answers in response. But you figured he'd also be testing yours so it was only fair.

Jinette spent the last hour eating homemade bread and telling you how the next few decades of your life will go.

"We'll get you to Rome immediately," he explained. "The Knights have already been called. You'll take your oath and then...let fate take you. You'll probably start where your father left off in Lisbon."

"What about what I want to do?" you asked. "What about school?"

"What about it?" he shrugged distastefully. "What you want doesn't matter; school doesn't matter. You've already learned everything you need to know. Already reading about...Monstrumology and demonology...the Bible? No? You don't need...math. Your studies will be a little more practical from now on. On-the-job training, if you would."

He was the only one in the room that laughed; like he wasn't joking about your life...or your inevitable death.

On and on he went. Explaining how missions work. How often you'd get to come home to rest. How long your father's recovery would take and when he would be back in the fray.

"You, of course, won't see each other," he explained as Nonna handed him a plate. "The temptation to...prioritize one another over innocents...you understand."

"She does," your father answered for you. "She was born for this."

Your eyes darted back to him, feeling a burning sense of...confusion, betrayal...you couldn't pinpoint it exactly. You felt everything and nothing, all at the same time. You were numb.

Nonna slid plates in front of the two of you then sat down with one herself. You snatched a fork off the table and then began to dig into the heap of pasta and chicken when Jinette cleared his throat.

Your eyes slid to him again and he raised a brow in question, then folded his hands in front of him in prayer. Nonna followed suit and your father did the best he could...considering...and you...

"I need a minute," you muttered and pushed yourself to your feet. You darted out of the kitchen, ignoring your father calling after you, and went out to the back yard.

You could hear the distant sounds of the Metra a few blocks away, kids playing further down the alley, and thunderous footsteps down the back stairs following you.

"I just needed air," you defend yourself as your father joins you outside. "I think I'm allow--"

"That was embarrassing," he scolded you immediately. "Don't you realize that?" You round on him and stare incredulously; for a man who looked like he was about to keel over just moments ago, he certainly got his second wind fast when you didn't obey your new master.

"It hasn't even been 5 minutes!" You scoffed. “What if I just needed to smoke. Or had to take a shit?”

“This is not how I raised you—”

“You’re right, because you didn’t raise me.”

You watch the words strike him as hard as if you’d just walked up to him and slapped him.

It felt good.

And all at once, the overwhelming numbness disappeared and you were filled with acute clarity. All the feelings...over a decade of confusion, anger, sorrow, loneliness, and resentment...overcame you.

It was an out of body experience and in hindsight, you should have gone easy on him given his injuries...but when had he ever thought of going easy on you? For as long as you could remember, as soon as he'd made this...legacy...known to you, he'd beaten the devil into you one wicked word, dismissive glance, and denial of "normalcy" at a time.

And now he would have to face its resurgence.

I don't understand why you think you have a right to tell me--expect me--to just nod my head and accept any of this shit. How dare you bring that guy into our home and let him boss me around?

His jaw clenched and he rolled his eyes and scoffed intermittently between your words.

You got to live your life before Papa died. Now you're sending me out there to die before I've even gotten a chance to live. That's what this is...you know that right? It's a death sentence.

He tried to talk over you, tried to say you were being childish, that you didn't know what you were talking about. That this was precisely why you had to go. To grow up.

It'll kill Nonnie if I go. Kill her if she has to stay here alone with mom. They hate each other; don't you know that? Hate each other because of you. Mom hates me...because of you.

Of course it was your mother's perfect timing to pull into the driveway as those words echoed down the block.

Your shoulders heaved as you caught your breath and she stared at you and your father with tired eyes as she slid out of the drivers seat and slammed the door shut behind her.

“Thought you’d be gone by now,” she muttered.

“Nonna made dinner,” you explained.

“Of course she did.”

“Tell your daughter,” your father hissed at her, coming up behind you and landing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “That she’s acting childishly.”

“She’s a child. What do you expect?”

"Well," he spun you to face him now, knowing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with her. "It's time for you to grow up. No more tantrums. No time for teenage rebellion. This is it; it's up to you now. The fate of the entirety of our family rests in your hands.

"You need to make a sacrifice, for all of us. In the end...you'll get your reward. We all will."

"Hasn't my entire life been sacrifice?" You bat his hand away from you. "A sacrifice that I never chose. This was never my choice, dad. I shouldn't be...I shouldn't have been born to be a means to an end. To be your free ticket to heaven."

You watch the emotions morph on his face and you swear you feel the ground beneath you shake just the slightest bit, as though he debated letting it split open to swallow you whole. You might have preferred that. Instead he took his anger out the human way.

"Free? You want to talk about free?" He lunged and grabbed your face, forcing you to look at his wounded arm. "You want to talk about sacrifice? Let's see what happens when the darkness takes its pound of flesh from you. Let's see what you do when you're staring down the jaws of a monster that only means to kill you. I'll be laughing when you come to regret your words. When you face your own mortality."

"Some father," you spit at him. "Laughing. Guess when that time comes I'll just die."

It was strange, deciding what pieces of your life were a necessity and what could stay behind.

Everything seemed necessary.

Clothes, books, tapes, the abundance of protective tchotchkes that your father had sent you over the years, the little stuffed bunny that you and Nonna had won playing the quarter game at the carnival a few years ago.

Your mother had sent you in to pack.

She'd gotten between you and your father, snapping about "what the neighbors would think." She made sure to emphasize that there would be no dinner until you were ready to go.

Then she slapped the keys to the car in your hand and sent you inside. Alone. So she and your father could talk.

"Probably asking if she could leave now," you sniffed. "No obligation to stay anymore."

But Nonna needed help. As much as they were always at each others throats, you knew they couldn't do it alone. Either of them.

"It's not like you're never coming back," you rationalized. "Mom can just...take one for the team...again...until you're back."

But what if...what if you never made it back?

Your father had been doing this for 16 years and this was the first time you'd seen with injuries like this. He could heal himself, for God's sake. If Jinette and the Order wanted to send you to face...whatever had caused his injuries...with no experience outside of a book and some fucking around in the garage with a knife and a crucifix...

You could play the tough, angry, annoyed act all you wanted but...you were afraid. This shouldn't have been your fight.

It was entirely unfair.

But this was your punishment. To fit whatever you needed for the foreseeable future into a duffel bag so you could go and...be a hero?

"Be a pawn," you collapsed on your bed and hugged a pillow to your chest. "Be a sword."

You didn't want to. You didn't want to. Didn't WANT TO. DIDN'T WANT TO. YOU DIDN'T WANT--

"So what do I want then?" You rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

Who were you? What would your life look like if this wasn't waiting for you?

No one had ever given you the chance to find that out.

No career aptitude tests, no sessions with a guidance counselor, no college applications. You'd floated the idea of taking classes at the community college by your dad last time he'd been in town and he said he'd think about it; did he know that this was waiting just months in the future?

You were doubtful he even knew you had a job at the grocery store or a drivers license. Your mother had caved after months of you begging both times. Nonna just turned a blind eye; whatever made you happy, after all.

Mom...

You glanced over at the keys on your nightstand. You may have had a bit of a temper tantrum and just stormed into your room when you came inside, so the keys had...come with you.

The car was just in the driveway. Papa's dirt brown Mercury Marquis that he'd gotten because he would rather drive than take trains or planes for missions close to home. After he died...well, Nonna certainly didn't drive and your parents had their own cars, so it just sat...rotting in the garage unless your mother wanted a joyride that was a little more rough and tumble than her Sierra could handle.

You'd heard her talking on the phone once, about street racing on Lower Wacker. And how the Marquis could actually go pretty fast when it wanted to.

You wondered what that was like. Your experience driving had only been within the stop-and-go streets of your neighborhood. You'd never even driven on the highway before.

You'd never...lived before.

No concerts, no parties, no field trips, no dates, no first kiss. What did it feel like to go to Disneyland? Or...or see the Statue of Liberty? Or even a drive in movie? You'd never even been outside of the greater Chicago area before. Not even a drive up to Wisconsin for the Renaissance Fair.

You acted before you had the chance to rationalize it, before you had the chance to come up with a plan. Suddenly the things that were a necessity were clear as day and you threw them one after another into your duffel bag.

Clothes and this book but not that one and that shoe box full of cassettes at the bottom of your closet. Your wallet and the little rubber-banded wad of cash in your underwear drawer that you saved from your paychecks instead of putting it in the bank. And, after everything else, the little black cord from Nonna's old mourning robes that now hung from the headboard of your bed.

So she would always be with you.

You snatched the keys from your nightstand and rushed over to the window. You opened it as silently as you could and threw the bag out, then followed it. The slight drop wasn't bad; you maybe pulled a muscle on landing. It wasn't like the movies made it seem.

But that also might have just been what you got for skipping gym one too many times.

You were sure you'd see the light on the back porch turn on when you stuck the key in the ignition and the Marquis ROARED to life.

Or when you forgot to open the gate before you backed out of the driveway and it CLANGED as the bumper smashed into it.

But as soon as your foot hit the gas, it didn't matter.

You looked in the rearview mirror once as you made it to the end of the alley. No one was running after you, no lights turning on spontaneously. No shouting.

Only a familar-shaped shadowy figure that stood unassumingly in front of the still-swinging gate.

March 1984

You were tired.

It was glorious.

It was tedious.

A year on the run, a year of everything you never thought you’d be able to have. And you’d taken it for yourself, greedily. Contentedly.

Driving and dancing and camping and talking and becoming. Becoming the you that you’d otherwise never get to be if you had followed the path fate had set for you.

Any adventure that you could only have imagined a year ago…suddenly became your reality. You didn’t need permission to be happy, if that’s what you wanted.

Just because you didn’t need permission though, didn’t mean you just got to have happiness.

Any time you decided you could settle, take a break from constantly pressing down on the gas pedal of life, someone would pop up. Gabriel, mostly. Your father, once. And the jobs you’d just taken or the apartments you’d just paid for would get left in the dust so you could avoid their confrontation.

Which is why you were in Indiana. You’d honestly tried to avoid the tri-state area once you left Chicago. It was too close to home, too easy to find. Too easy to be tempted to go back. But you needed to get through Indiana to get to your next destination.

Wherever that might be.

It was a torrential downpour when you exited the highway and soared down dark, suburban streets to your next pit stop. A roadside motel off Route 69 according to your probably-outdated road map. Maybe there’d be a diner or something nearby. Otherwise you could sleep in the car and find breakfast come morning; wouldn’t be the first time.

It was getting tiresome.

You were tired of being anybody; you wanted to be somebody again.

You thought that you’d find out who you were taking on this adventure but in truth…you already knew.

You had been your father’s safety net. Nonna’s best friend, her treasure. Your mother’s burden. You were so incredibly resilient and strong. A whisper with the capability to become a scream. Misunderstood by the simple lack of an attempt to understand. You were brave and adventurous. Crafty and cunning.

Not beautiful but…purposeful.

You had a purpose here on earth and you knew deep down it wasn’t what fate expected of you. What everyone expected of you. You knew because of the way your soul sung when you first backed out of your driveway.

But you were alone. Alone and tired, which brought desperation.

It was a dark cloud that filled you. Consumed your being. You wondered, more than once, if that cloud had been there all along. Desperation led you to running away in the first place and had kept you going ever since.

Only now the dark cloud of desperation made you want to go home to find some light again.

And you knew you couldn’t do that.

The flickering motel sign was a beacon of hope in the dark, and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

The manager, an old man rivaling Methuselah, didn't cease his newspaper reading as you ran into the office from the rain to ask for a room. You questioned whether he had heard you when he blindly reached behind him for a key.

"Number 4," he announced and then held his hand out for his payment. You fumbled with your wallet for a second as he explained the check-out time, the free coffee at 6am, and that the vending machine and coin washer were both unapologetically broken.

"Do you need a wake up call?" he said as he stuffed your cash in the register.

"No."

"Hmm, good," he dismissed you with a wave of his hand. An unspoken fuck off then.

You were about to turn and head to your room when you paused and asked, "can I have the want ads?"

He sighed heavily but peeled the pages apart and handed you the requested pages blindly.

"Don't stay in Hawkins too long," he said sagely. "Or you're liable to get stuck here." Then he waved you off once again.

You stepped back out into the rain and fumbled with the room key and the newspaper, only for a flash of lightning to bring your attention to a structure across the street.

A dirt parking lot with all of 5 cars in it and a one story house-turned-bar with a few faint neon signs in the windows.

Better than nothing.

You shoved your key and wallet back in your pocket and then used the newspaper page as a cover as you darted across the street.

The Hideout was nothing to write home about. A handful of mismatched tables and chairs with a few sleepy drunks sipping on beers and throwing back handfuls of peanuts from bowls on the tables. The bar itself was small and sticky, and the bartender was too.

"Can you make a cherry coke?" you asked. He sniffed judgmentally but nevertheless dug out a dusty bottle of grenadine from behind the bar. He grunted something about no cherries, and you didn't know if you were just that thirsty or grateful for a place to sit that wasn't your car, but it was still the best cherry coke you'd ever had.

Thank God for your ability to heal; it was probably going to shut your body down otherwise.

There's a commotion and in the dark corner of what probably used to be the living room, a group of boys start making some noise. There's a "stage" made up of two-by-fours that creaks as they get a drum kit set up and they'd unplugged a Coors neon sign to get power to their amps.

There was no countdown; they just got to playing.

A loud and unrelenting sound that even had you bobbing your head a little. They weren't great but it wasn't the beloved mess of tapes you'd been cycling through for the past year; it was new and it made you feel something. The four of them shot smiles at each other between bouts of concentration signified by closed eyes and tongues caught between teeth.

Your eyes met with one of them; the lead singer...or...guitar player? Or so you thought; hard to tell since they'd eliminated one of their only sources of light. Long hair and long noodley limbs, and ripped jeans and too much...just too much.

But he was cute and he noticed you.

It made your chest hurt a little.

That was enough to get you to turn around and try to ignore him.

You'd met your share of cute road boys who kissed too hard and fumbled too much and didn't ask for a phone number you couldn't give them anyway. You didn't need a wink and small talk and all of that. You needed...

...you needed a place to stay.

You turned around on the shaky stool and tested your luck by asking the bartender for a pen. He passed one over along with another cherry coke and you got to searching the damp classifieds to the cacophonous background.

You let one sigh after another as you read each ad in depth and found each one not to be good enough. A house for sale? No. A babysitting job for triplets? No. You hated little kids. There was an apartment over the deli that might be promising. And a job stocking shelves at the grocery store. You had plenty of experience with that.

You did another cursory search of the paper before looking back to the bartender.

"Hey," you asked tentatively. "What's this town again?"

"Hawkins," came a voice behind you. "You're in Hawkins."

You spun on the seat to face the source.

Noodle boy.

He fidgeted where he stood, fingers flitting at his sides nervously. When he was up on the "stage" he had the unwarranted confidence of a rockstar but here he was...

"Do you like cheese fries?" he blurted out, then wrenched his eyes shut.

You let out a blasting honk of a laugh, and then clapped your hands over your mouth to snicker at him.

He was adorable.

You made to apologize for your laughter, but you were hit with...feelings. His feelings. And yours.

Weariness and hope and adrenaline and attraction and amusement and embarrassment and comfort and discomfort and safety and hunger...

And. And. And.

"S-sorry," you sobered yourself and tried to ignore the feelings. "I didn't mean to laugh, that was just..."

"Out of left field?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah I kind of just blurt out the first thing to come to mind sometimes. Usually bullshit."

It was endless.

The mix of feelings danced with each other in the space between you.

It felt warm, and after a jaunt in the rain...the warmth felt good.

"Bullshit is good sometimes," you told him with a smile.

"Great, because I'm full of it." You laughed again and so did he. "I'm Eddie."

The feelings were light.

Eddie was light.

And in that moment, you let him shine into the dark parts of you.

“I told you. You don't love someone because of their looks or their clothes or their car. You love them because they sing a song only your heart can understand.”  ― L.J. Smith