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farfromstrange · 6 months

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.”

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

“How would you know?” you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?”

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him.

“Don’t call me that,” you growl.

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out.

“Published by Columbia University.”

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in.

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his.

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins.

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur.

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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probablyasocialecologist · 6 months

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In a conversation with Civil Eats, lead author Jason Hawes, a Ph.D. student at the University of Michigan, said this his team compiled “the largest data set that we know of” on urban farming. It included 73 urban farms, community gardens, and individual garden sites in Europe and the United States. At each of those sites, the research team worked with farmers and gardeners to collect data on the infrastructure, daily supplies used, irrigation, harvest amounts, and social goods. That data was then used to calculate the carbon emissions embodied in the production of food at each site and those emissions were compared to carbon emissions of the same foods produced at “conventional” farms. Overall, they found greenhouse gas emissions were six times higher at the urban sites—and that’s the conclusion the study led with. But not only is 73 a tiny number compared to the data that exists on conventional production agriculture, said Omanjana Goswami, an interdisciplinary scientist at the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), but lumping community gardens in with urban farms set up for commercial production and then comparing that to a rural system that has been highly tuned and financed for commercial production for centuries doesn’t make sense. “It’s almost like comparing apples to oranges,” she said. “The community garden is not set up to maximize production.” In fact, the sample set was heavily tilted toward community and individual gardens and away from urban farms. In New York City, for example, the only U.S. city represented, seven community gardens run by AmeriCorps were included. Brooklyn Grange’s massive rooftop farms—which on a few acres produce more than 100,000 pounds of produce for markets, wholesale buyers, CSAs, and the city’s largest convention center each year—were not. And what the study found was that when the small group of urban farms were disaggregated from the gardens, those farms were “statistically indistinguishable from conventional farms” on emissions. Aside from one high-emission outlier, the urban farms were carbon-competitive.

#farming #climate change #urban agriculture #urban farming

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palms-upturned · 6 months

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For US unions like the UAW — which has thousands of members in weapons factories making the bombs, missiles, and aircraft used by Israel, as well in university departments doing research linked to the Israeli military — the Palestinian trade union call to action is particularly relevant. When the UAW’s national leadership came out in support of a cease-fire on December 1, they also voted to establish a “Divestment and Just Transition Working Group.” The stated purpose of the working group is to study the UAW’s own economic ties to Israel and explore ways to convert war-related industries to production for peaceful purposes while ensuring a just transition for weapons workers.

Members of UAW Labor for Palestine say they have started making visits to a Colt factory in Connecticut, which holds a contract to supply rifles to the Israeli military, to talk with their fellow union members about Palestine, a cease-fire, and a just transition. They want to see the union’s leadership support such organizing activity.

“If UAW leaders decided to, they could, tomorrow, form a national organizing campaign to educate and mobilize rank-and-file towards the UAW’s own ceasefire and just transition call,” UAW Labor for Palestine members said in a statement. “They could hold weapons shop town halls in every region; they could connect their small cadre of volunteer organizers — like us — to the people we are so keen to organize with; they could even send some of their staff to help with this work.”

On January 21, the membership of UAW Local 551, which represents 4,600 autoworkers at Ford’s Chicago Assembly Plant (who were part of last year’s historic stand-up strike) endorsed the Palestinian trade unions’ call to not cooperate in the production and transportation of arms for Israel. Ten days later, UAW Locals 2865 and 5810, representing around forty-seven thousand academic workers at the University of California, passed a measure urging the union’s national leaders to ensure that the envisioned Divestment and Just Transition Working Group “has the needed resources to execute its mission, and that Palestinian, Arab and Muslim workers whose communities are disproportionately affected by U.S.-backed wars are well-represented on the committee.”

Members of UAW Locals 2865 and 5810 at UC Santa Cruz’s Astronomy Department have pledged to withhold any labor that supports militarism and to refuse research collaboration with military institutions and arms companies. In December, unionized academic workers from multiple universities formed Researchers Against War (RAW) to expose and cut ties between their research and warfare, and to organize in their labs and departments for more transparency about where the funding for their work comes from and more control over what their labor is used for. RAW, which was formed after a series of discussions by union members first convened by US Labor Against Racism and War last fall, hosted a national teach-in and planning meeting on February 12.

Meanwhile, public sector workers in New York City have begun their own campaign to divest their pension money from Israel. On January 25, rank-and-file members of AFSCME District Council (DC) 37 launched a petition calling on the New York City Employees’ Retirement System to divest the $115 million it holds in Israeli securities. The investments include $30 million in bonds that directly fund the Israeli military and its activities. “As rank-and-file members of DC 37 who contribute to and benefit from the New York City Employees’ Retirement System and care about the lives of working people everywhere, we refuse to support the Israeli government and the corporations that extract profit from the killing of innocent civilians,” the petition states.

In an election year when President Joe Biden and other Democratic candidates will depend heavily on organized labor for donations and especially get-out-the-vote efforts, rank and filers are also trying to push their unions to exert leverage on the president by getting him to firmly stand against the ongoing massacre in Gaza. NEA members with Educators for Palestine are calling on their union’s leaders to withdraw their support for Biden’s reelection campaign until he stops “sending military funding, equipment, and intelligence to Israel,” marching from AFT headquarters to NEA headquarters in Washington, DC on February 10 to assert their demand. Similarly, after the UAW International Executive Board endorsed Biden last month — a decision that sparked intense division within the union — UAW Labor for Palestine is demanding the endorsement be revoked “until [Biden] calls for a permanent ceasefire and stops sending weapons to Israel.”

#palestine #free palestine #labor #union strong #recommend reading the whole article bc as the author points out #us labor has had a long history of collaborating with israel and imperialist projects in general #pressure to stop the genocide is not going to come from union leadership #it’s coming from rank and files who are organizing their own initiatives and putting the heat on their leadership #uaw’s divestment and just transition group is intriguing to me bc it sets a precedent to pressure other machinist unions to follow #and bc part of their efforts involves building solidarity with palestine among rank and files nationwide

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graceofagodswrath · 11 months

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Ok ok ok your "Humans of Transformers franchise are space orcs" rant is out of this world.

I detest with passion when humans are reduced to pets and plot devices when instead the story could be about two alien species finding one another equally amazing/terrifying for their own respective reasons.

Here is my question: do humans and Cybertronians see how eerily similar they are? They have love of music, familial relationships, similar urban infrastructure, societal structure, financial systems, competitive entertainment, organized societies and war, colonialism, recreational intercourse, marriage...

Not to mention, why was it never addressed how similar both species look: bipedal, waists, noses, cheekbones, 5 fingers, chins, facial expressions and sense of aesthetics and beauty? Sure, humans have hair but in rather strategic places.

Veins and wires, blood and energon, metal and flesh, nanobytes and blood cells, Sparks and brain impulses, sexual organs...

Imagine Autobots arrive on Earth for the first time expecting some primitive cave-dwellers, only to encounter a less advanced mini-version of Cybertronian cities (New York, Singapore, London, Rome, Tokyo, Rio, Dubai...) and societies running on scientific, artistic and philosophical development which has no right existing on the ruthless, all-organic planet such as Earth is. Societes run by creatures who 4.000.000 (the duration of their war) years ago were hanging from the trees btw.

Autobots would be terrified.

Lemme make sure this response saves this time, cause it took me a minute to answer cause my first deleted and I had so much written I got unbelievably angry and refused to even look at the tumblr app.

But here we are.

So, this is EXACTLY what I have been thinking about for who k owe how long. It’s also the intro to this wack as fuck universe idea I’ve had in my head a while, and have kinda hinted at in my other works, but I’ve never gone into detail about.

And I still won’t.

Anyways, yes. It’s crazy that we backlit humans so much when any other sentient species is about. Transformers, TMNT, etc (I’m on a one track mind, feel free to jot down any other fandoms I can’t think of). The main theme of these stories? HUMANS SUCK. And that is severely unfair. People want to cry about how much our generation doesn’t give a shit anymore. Have you SEEN the media we feed kids???

That’s why I live Humans are Space Orcs so much. It really puts into perspective how unique and batshit our species is.

So, onto the Transformers vs humans concepts. The ONLY reason (forgoing technoism and general hate towards organics) cybertronians don’t see humanity as an imminent threat, or one in general, is because of size. WE BE SMALL AF. Can’t blame them, I get it. We do the same. Insects? Fuck them mfs.

But have you seen a botfly or tick burrow into your skin? The infection that comes form that? Have you seen ants jump a small animal as a colony and absolutely shred it? Or a spider only biting you, and the horror the venom causes (recluses and huntsman’s specifically). We have a good fucking reason for disliking these mfs.

But transformers? These are organic experiences. Worst they go through are rust infections, spark death, the works. They are not at risk the same way we are. That is why they view organics as small and inconsequential. They have no idea how hard we fight to simply stay alive.

And now the similarities. It’s understandable that they wouldn’t immediately recognize the physical, cultural, and psychological similarities between our species. Transformers are an incredibly diverse race, like any other. But specifically in physical form. Your average cybertronian holds a similar appearance to your average human. We tend to have the same features, just with different names. Eyes, noses, faceplates, ears, two arms, two legs. Sure that’s average for them too. But they are unique because of the fact that they have two forms. Vehicle mode. Their mode decides what they’re second mode looks like, which can create extreme diversity is appearance. Small, large, many limbed or not.

So the immediate similarities probably wouldn’t jump out to them in an odd way. There’s also the idea that because they’re so spread out in the universe, they’ve seen other organic races that are also similar. Pairs of every body part could be the common denominator among species.

That goes culturally too. War, love, music, government, politics, it’s all a natural form of sentient evolution. Another common denominator. It’s how it’s done that makes it unique. And the similarities between human and cybertronian culture is uncomfortably familiar.

I think that’s why cybertronians are seen being closest with humans rather than other species in the shows and comics (obviously because the audience is human and they need relation to characters but shhhh forget that for a sec). This is where the theories start.

Let’s say cybertronians begin to recognize the weird similarities between our species. The really, really weird stuff. The itty bitty details. Like:

- how we also mainstream kissing on the lips as the top tier romantic gesture.

- use verbal tone and cues for our language.

- have intensely complicated interpersonal relationships in the exact same manner.

- suffer from extreme mental health issues like depression, anxiety, PTSD (I totally headcannon that forms of adhd, autism, and ocd exist in cybertronian society, have y’all not seen my boy rodimus prime??)

- will also destroy each other in the name of our gods, until we have a common enemy.

That’s just the basics I could come up with. The only time I actually saw a moment where a transformer genuinely take a moment to realize that humans can be a threat, was in transformers prime. Episode 6 of beast wars (I think, correct me if wrong), where Miko beats the ever loving fuck out of an insecticon (I think) and upon Megatron hearing this, just goes blank Kubrick stare for a hot second. Man had an ugly realization that did not fit in with anything he had experienced his whole life.

AND THEY NEVER FUCKING ADDRESSED IT EVER AGAIN. Sick of this shit. Could’ve had the most badass character development, where the humans actually proved useful and did something (it would have fit Milo’s character so perfectly too) and scared the utter shit out of the transformers. BUT NO. They continue to be annoying as fuck.

One thing I loved about TF Prime was that it canonically turned Unicron into Earth. And humans came from the earth. Which relates humans beings and cybertronians so hard. Cousins Fr. We are the cybertronian equivalent of organics, and transformers the inorganic equivalent of humans. The individuality, the chaos, the culture, it clicks. There is so much material to really go into it.

But they never do. Don’t get me wrong, I love Transformers lord and just discovering more without humans being involved. We’re just annoying af at this point. But there is so much u tapped potential in transformers actually taking the chance to LEARN about us. But we’re just friends (pets) to these mfs.

That’s why I love TF Earthspark so far. Transformers ingrained into human culture because they’re not from Cybertron, and cybertronians having to adapt to human culture because they have no where else to go. Granted, it’s a kids show. There’s only so much they can do. But I’m excited for where it’ll lead. It really shows how much of threat and ally humans are, and how we are just as diverse as cybertronians.

I need to write another fic about cybertronians meeting humans their size from our world tho. Need to continue my old piece. Would give me so much life. Y’all help motivate me, college draining my ass.

#shower thoughts #humans are crazy #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humans are weird #Transformers #transformers prime #transformers earthspark #rant

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reportwire · 2 years

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‘An Extraordinarily Hostile Move’: New School Threatens to Withhold Pay in Adjunct Strike

Nearly 1,800 part-time faculty members at the New School, who have been on strike since November 16 for better pay and working conditions, remained out of work and on the picket lines on Wednesday even as the university said it would start withholding their pay. Meanwhile, the university, which faces a threatened lawsuit by angry parents, has demanded that all full-time faculty members, many of…

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#Dwight A. McBride #Greenwich Village #New York City #Parsons School of Design #Paulo L. dos Santos #Renée T. White #The New School #Tokumbo Shobowale #United Auto Workers #University of California system

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helaelaemond · 10 months

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TIPS FOR WRITING IN AN ENGLISH UNIVERSITY SETTING from someone who’s been through it!

This post is written with fanfic in mind, specifically about Michael Gavey as a Maths student at the University of Oxford.

University structure

At Oxford, you are there typically for three years. You’re not usually referred to as “first year”, “second year” or “third year/final year” as nouns, and are more likely to describe yourself as being “in my first year” etc. The only exception is your first few weeks at uni when you’re known as a fresher. Your first week in your first year is known as “freshers week”, and its lots of social activities around the uni and beyond.

OXFORD IS NOT A CAMPUS UNI. University housing and buildings are scattered around the city of Oxford, and so using terms like “on campus” are not applicable.

Term starts in early October, and most exams are wrapped up by June.

Housing

Oxford is one of four English universities that use the college system (the others being Cambridge - also called ‘The Other Place’ - Durham, and York) and for the sake of simplicity, you can think of this as a replacement term for ‘dorm’ (a term not typically used). You can find a list of all the colleges on the university’s website.

Within the college building, there are usually single rooms with en-suites, but some rooms have to share a communal bathroom.

University students do NOT have roommates - no one shares a bedroom. There are also some room types in a flat-like set up, with a cluster of a few rooms (2-8 typically) and a shared kitchen. This is less common at Oxford.

Students sometimes stay in university-provided accommodation for the duration of their studies, whilst some choose to live in private accommodation from their second year onwards. If they do this, they are still associated with their college, and by default their college does not change. Private accommodation usually means a regular house shared with a few other people - this is standard across all universities in the UK, not just Oxford.

Classes

Generally speaking, subjects that don’t require lab work have a pretty simple weekly structure of one lecture and one seminar per module. Lectures are observed silently, and seminars are for discussions. Even the boldest or more socially unaware individuals do not interrupt lectures (in my four years, I never ever experienced anyone interrupting or asking a question, and so if you’re going to write Michael doing that, be aware it is a huge taboo unless the lecturer has asked for participation). Students usually take 2-3 different modules per semester, and during the academic year, there are two semesters across three terms.

Reading week is a week of usually in late October/early November where there are no classes for a week and it is a time for self-study.

Most modules have at least one assignment (what Americans would call a term paper) due before the Christmas break in December, and then at least one exam after the break ends in January. Some modules on some courses have other assignments or contributors to grades (like group presentations) but this isn’t all that common. It is very rare for things like “extra credit” to be earned, if at all.

Unless reading a combined degree (like Politics and Economics), you only take one subject. There is nothing like a “major” and “minor”. When doing a combined degree, you take half your modules on one degree, and half your modules on the other, so it’s an even 50/50. You cannot choose any subject to do a combined degree for, and they are pre-set courses determined by the university. For example, you couldn’t do a combined degree of Maths and Geography just because you wanted to.

You don’t talk about what course you’re studying, you say what course you’re reading (which is why Michael says he’s “reading Maths” not studying it).

University culture

Nightclubbing isn’t much of a thing in Oxford. If you want a uni with great nightlife you go to Birmingham, Nottingham, Sheffield, Newcastle, London - not Oxford or Cambridge. Instead, students are much more likely to spend time in one of the dozens of pubs in Oxford. College parties (I.e university accommodation parties) don’t tend to be much of a thing either unless they’re organised by the social events committees in those colleges.

Elitism is an enormous problem at Oxford. For example, in 2015, 45% of all freshers were from private schools, while only less than 7% of children in the UK are privately educated. Classism is an issue that is so unbelievably rampant in places like Oxford that I can’t even begin to explain. But like many forms of prejudice in the UK, it’s rarely overt. It comes in the forms of exclusion from social activities (think a working class student not being able to go on a ski trip with course mates), social rules only familiar to the rich being the order of the day (having the right type of suit for a formal dinner).

Oxford is a place where lifelong connections are made that spill into entertainment, business, and (most worryingly) politics, but best believe that if you’re not from the right background, those connections are not yours to make. In fact, the likelihood of you even know they’re going on in the shadows is high.

Obviously, classism and elitism are themes of Saltburn, but please don’t take them too seriously, as it’s crucial to remember that the writer/director grew up in these very private inner circles of elites. As such, her spin is wildly… wild. She’s an incredibly unreliable source for basing any kind of opinion about these issues on.

That’s all I can think of right now! I highly encourage other people who have been through English universities to add on with advice you think you would helpful to writers 😁🫶

And if you’ve got any specific questions, let me know and I’ll help if I can!

#Michael Gavey x reader #Michael Gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #Michael Gavey x oc

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hanjisunglover · 7 months

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002. 𝟗 𝐌𝐌 - 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

001. <- 002. -> 003.

warnings: reader here is talking about her suicide thoughts so, if this trigger you do not read it.

words count: 2k

When you were a child, people always thought that maybe you could be a heroine.

You're not sure why, it's maybe the way that you always think of another compromise between two sides, or the way that you smile even if it hurts. You, never really get it. With powers, or without, you can't imagine yourself sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, looking at the city as if it were yours. Because New York was never yours.

You get up here, but it never felt right. You like the view, but you never loved it. It's the same when you just accept your fate and your don't go over that, you adapt yourself easily - pretty much all over the places.

At university, at work, with your family, with your friends. Everywhere, you seems to adapt, and sometimes this is good enough to make you survive. Because that's how you are, jumping around in places and surviving in every situation.

Or at least that what you do.

You can't imagine yourself as a hero, and not even an antihero, or a villain if that could interest someone. You are just, you. In your easy life, that started to be all chaotic and full of too many people that try to change it.

Like Han Jisung.

You are walking down the hall, your mind all around the places because after you left from home the same morning, Minho wasn't there in front of the gate of your house. He's calling sick, but he's never sick. His immune system it's the icon of health. But you didn't asked any questions about it, you just stayed there texting back with a light pout.

[ minho 07:50am ] too early to pout like that bunny.

His text makes you chuckle lightly, he knows you so well that he pictured you pouting like a baby because he's not there with you. You don't know that Deadpool it's on top of a skyscraper, moving his legs on the edge with his phone in his hand, your figure right down the street. He knows that you're doing because he's watching you from afar, but.. you don't know that.

And that breaks minho's heart a little, cause he's so scared of telling you who he really is, that he decide to just lie for your own good, if people that are against him knows that he cares about someone that much that he cares about you - that would put you in too much danger.

As you walk inside the University Minho sigh deeply, knowing that inside there he can't actually protect you like he should. That would be too crazy, getting inside the classes just to follow you in his costume, he would have too many attentions. Even if he likes it, he likes only your attention.

Minho stops when he hear a whistle from behind, he glance as with his hand he gets ready to grab his gun from the holster, "hey hey go easy Deady," the voice behind makes him groan in annoyance, "how many times I need to tell you to not call me like that."

Spider-man walk beside him with a toast in his mouth, the mask lightly up as his blue electric costume get in the older's visual, "how many times I need to tell you that I do not care?"

Deadpool roll his eyes, his arms crossed against his chest as he notice his friend with a bag pack, "so, you go in this university?"

"good try Deady, but I gotta go," Jisung says faking his flattering with a smirk, finishing his toast and putting on his jacket, before swinging away with his cobwebs.

You're walking down the hall, your headphones on with some noisy music that could describe perfectly your morning, when you noticed that today, it's exactly six months that your father is in jail. Your mind it's blurry, you can't actually figure out why he did it. Why he started to sell drugs right in the shop, right under your nose, and you never noticed. You never noticed because his smile was always the same, and the money never increased that much to shock you, you never thought that could happened to you; to your mother and your grandmother. You barely can have a conversation with them, without your eyes to tear up or your angry to cover your gentle tone that you have with them. Something changed in you that day. It's hard to say what, to say why, it's just happened. You started to enter in your room from the window at night, almost like an inspected visitor in your own apartment, Your mother always down on the couch, a blanket over her body to rest the poor hours of break from her two jobs, your grandmother always look at the little window in the living room. She doesn't do the crosswords week anymore, and you're too tired to fight about it, you're too tired to do more of the things. You're slowly drowning.

You're too inside your mind that you don't notice that you bump into a boy, you quickly turn almost tripping in your own feet. "God are you okay?" You asks with your eyes wide open.

Jisung immediately grabs your shoulders to steady himself, and his face is flushed red from embarrassment and adrenaline from the sudden movement. "Oh no, no, it's alright." he chuckles and smiles at you. "You're quite nimble for a clumsy girl, hm?"

"am I?" You chuckles as you blush a little when his hands moves his hands away from your shoulders. His shoulders relax, and he recognized you right away. Even if he save a lot of people during his work-day, he remembers you like a sunny day. He remember your bright smile that you gave to him as he left with his cobwebs and a smile hidden by his mask. That made him feel, so alive, so happy for what he does and his little work. Is not that little, but he's not confident yet.

"yeah, yeah you looks like it." He grin lightly.

Your eyes try to catch a single sign of awkwardness, but his whole vibe it's so friendly that makes you feel like you should talk to him more than you wish, "Did we ever met before?"

Jisung shakes his head, blushing as he try so hard to not get out his big secret, he's not that good to keep them. "I don't think so, I would definitely remember a pretty girl like you."

You can hear your best friend calling you from the end of the hall, in the class that you are supposed to be, because your lesson start in exactly two minutes. "well, I'm gonna see you around..?"

"Jisung, call me Jisung," he says softly with a light smile, he moves his hand close to yours, you hold it really quick before walking away with speedy steps, "I'll see you around Jisung!"

You're sitting at the edge. Looking down at the view of the city, why everything looks and seems so small for you? New York City is one of the biggest city that you ever see, you're moving your feet against the edge of the Manhattan bridge in the middle of the night. You feel that city suffocating you, getting around your neck and squeeze it in a slow, making you suffering and desiring to just escape from there. Escape from New York, for your father, from your life.

But at the same time you feel guilty to imagining yourself taking that plane, leaving your mother, your grandmother, Minho. You can't think about your life without imagining Minho in it, you feel him so close in your bones that is the only no-suffocating emotion that you feel. His voice, his touch, makes you feel loved.

You blush at the thought of the guy, shaking your head lightly as you sigh deeply. You don't understand why you feel and what you feel about him, you never complained his attentions or his sarcastic comments. He was there for you when you dad tried to call you from the prison, he was there when your grandma got back home, he was still there after sawing your crying face from the horrible fight with your mother. He never judged you, he just grabbed the clothes on the floor in your room with a light smile and he just said "let me clean you up."

He was there. And honestly, right now you just want to go. You just want to run away, to hide, to feel your feelings and just escape from that reality that hurts more than you can imagine. A big sigh escape your lips as you look down again, the jump seems an easy escape. The only chance.

"hey blondie," a blue electric suit sits right next to you, "are you getting ready for a big jump?" You squirm surprised as she turn to the side, a Spiderman's mask shows to you.

He sounds friendly even if he's talking about something that deep to you, you feel the adrenaline through your veins just to talk about that, "I- maybe?"

His head tilts a little, you can imagine a confused face on him, even if you don't know who is actually under the mask. Could be anyone to you. "maybe? so I should stay here."

"no I think, I think you can actually go."

"do you like the view?" Spiderman murmurs as your eyes land down, on the busy streets, the people walking, the loud chaos of Manhattan. "no, I hate it."

"Jeez me too," He giggle, and that sounds makes you turn in his direction, he's still looking at you. "really? but.. 're Spiderman."

You chuckles, as his hand moves really close to your thigh, just in case you move too close to the edge to fall. "and? and Spiderman can't like the city that he's from?"

"no I mean, you protect this city." His confused voice still running around your thoughts, "protecting the city, and liking the city, are two different things for me sweetheart." You nods lightly with a chuckle, 'cause you can feel the meaning. Is the same for you, you don't like the city but you're still here; for your mother, your grandma, and maybe you're starting to accept even the fact that you want to stay for Minho too.

"can I show you something?" Spiderman talks lightly, almost like a whisper that is really hard to hear, you turn your head to him and you nod lightly confused.

Suddenly you're in his arms. Swinging around the city. You scream as you hold yourself on his body, his arm is around your waist, "Oh my god!"

"you are a natural," Jisung chuckles when he swings between the skyscrapers, his strong arm holding your waist as you try not to scream every time his webs drop you dead weight among the city lights. "this is my favourite way to see the city."

Looking down to the streets, you feels your stomach drop, the beautiful scenario shows in front of your eyes. "oddio.. Oddio!" Every time you get flustered, or even scared, you talk in Italian for stressful moments. Jisung laugh loudly when he hears your really loud screams, "what was that angel?"

His talks are right against your ear, making you blush and feels butterflies all over your stomach, you should say something but in a couple seconds of silence he puts you down right in front of the little pizza place of your parents, you can feel that he really doesn't want to let you go and his arm slowly moves away form your wait. "well I, I should go."

"Spiderman I- can I ask you a favor?"

He stops before he could move or step away from you, his eyes are over you as you can see from the movements of the mask how happy he looks, "yes?"

Your eyes are filling with needs, you want revenge. "Can you, go over Deadpool? he did.. something to me and my family. we - I need revenge for that. I want him in jail."

TAGLIST -@binnies-binna @ihrtlix @yeahsspider @p0eticjust1c3 @manuosorioh @hanjsquokka @boi-bi-ahaha @im-sinking-in-mud @weareapackofstrays @dprkbyn @cupidcures @i2nsstuff @xtegannoelx @lyramundana @catiuskaa @kpopsstuffs @xxstrayland @tiapatito202278ok

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nesnejwritings · 10 months

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protective ( miguel o'hara )

miguel o'hara x spider!reader slight use of y/n

warnings - description of injuries, sprinkle of angst and fluff

summary - when he's just a bit overprotective word count - 2,554

The rooftop felt like a battleground, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. The city below buzzed with life, oblivious to the emotional storm playing out between you and Miguel O'Hara. The cool night air held a hint of electricity, mirroring the sparks flying in the argument that unfolded.

Miguel's stern gaze met yours, his expression a mixture of frustration and genuine concern. Your own eyes, filled with determination and a touch of defiance, locked onto his. It started with a simple disagreement, a clash of ideologies, but beneath the surface, there were layers of unspoken emotions, each word carrying the weight of a shared history and a growing connection.

"You can't keep doing this, Miguel," your voice cut through the night air, and you could feel the emotions bubbling within you, a mix of frustration and a longing for understanding. "I can handle myself, you know."

Miguel's jaw tightened, a silent plea in his eyes. "This is dangerous, and I can't just stand by and watch you get hurt. You don't understand the risks involved."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and you scoffed, a spark of defiance igniting within you. "I understand the risks perfectly well. I've been doing this long before you decided to swing into my universe. I don't need you to play the overprotective hero."

The rooftop seemed to shrink as the argument intensified. Every word exchanged was a volley in a battle neither of you wanted to lose. Miguel's frustration, born from genuine care, clashed with your need for independence. The emotional undercurrents simmered beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

"I'm not doing this to annoy you, Y/N. I care about you, and I can't help but worry," Miguel admitted, his voice softer now, the edges of his frustration giving way to vulnerability.

Your eyes narrowed, your own emotions bubbling to the surface. "I get it, Miguel. But I can't have someone constantly watching over me, controlling every move I make. I need space, room to breathe."

The words hung between you like a challenge, a declaration of independence that clashed with Miguel's innate desire to protect. The rooftop felt like a battleground for more than just words; it was a clash of emotions, a struggle to find common ground.

Before he could respond, you turned on your heel, the air around you shimmering with the manifestation of a portal. The decision to leave was made in a moment of defiance, a desperate attempt to break free from the emotional turmoil. You leaped into the portal, the echoes of your argument still ringing in the air.

Your dimension’s New York City sprawled below, a dazzling labyrinth of lights as you swung effortlessly between buildings. The malevolent laughter of the Sinister Six reverberated through the night, signaling the beginning of a battle that would test the limits of your spider-hero abilities.

Rhino, a behemoth of brute force encased in impenetrable armor, charged through the streets with reckless abandon. The sheer impact of his charge sent shockwaves through the ground, creating a seismic battlefield. Attempting to evade his path, you executed a nimble somersault, but the miscalculation led to a direct collision. The impact rattled your bones, the shock absorbed by the advanced technology of your suit, but the aftermath left you with a persistent ache, a testament to the sheer force of Rhino's charge.

Electro, crackling with volatile energy, cast an eerie glow across the city. Bolts of lightning crackled through the air, and despite your acrobatic dodges, one found its mark. The searing jolt surged through your nervous system, momentarily paralyzing your muscles. Each twitch of your limbs felt like a struggle against the lingering effects of Electro's electrifying onslaught. The air was charged with the scent of ozone as you pressed on, determination overshadowing the lingering discomfort.

Green Goblin's aerial acrobatics brought chaos to the skies. Pumpkin bombs detonated in vibrant bursts, creating chaotic shockwaves. Attempting to evade the explosions, you found yourself caught in the concussive force of one. The impact sent you spiraling through the air, resulting in a harsh collision with a building. The blunt force trauma reverberated through your shoulder, a sharp pain flaring up as you grappled with the dizziness from the impact.

The mechanical precision of Doctor Octopus's tentacles presented a relentless challenge. With each strike, your reflexes were put to the test. A miscalculated evasion resulted in a laceration across your side as one of the metallic appendages slashed through your suit. Blood welled from the wound, staining the fabric and adding an additional layer of urgency to the battle. The pain, both sharp and throbbing, became a constant reminder of the ongoing struggle.

Vulture's aerial assaults were a relentless dance in the night sky. His talons sliced through the air with deadly accuracy, and despite your nimble evasions, a glancing blow left a series of shallow but stinging cuts across your forearm. The pain served as a stark reminder of the ever-present danger, and the persistent ache only fueled your determination to prevail.

The symphony of chaos reached its crescendo as the Sinister Six's coordinated attacks intensified. Rhino's charges became more unpredictable, Electro's lightning strikes more relentless, and Green Goblin's aerial bombardment more calculated. Doctor Octopus's tentacles lashed out with increased ferocity, and Vulture's talons sought vulnerable points with a newfound precision.

Despite the relentless onslaught, you pressed on with a resilience born from the responsibility of being a hero. Your suit, adorned with tears and scorch marks, bore witness to the intense battle. Each injury sustained became a testament to the unyielding spirit that defined a spider-hero. As you swung through the cityscape, dodging attacks and countering with acrobatic finesse, the adrenaline-fueled dance continued.

In the midst of the chaos, LYLA's voice echoed through your earpiece, "Y/N, emergency transport initiated."

A blinding light enveloped you, and the sounds of battle faded. The world spun, and for a moment, all you could see were flashes of E-928's Nueva York. The pain lingered, a constant reminder of the intense battle you had just endured.

The dimly lit room in Miguel's apartment felt like a sanctuary, a brief respite from the chaos. The pain from the injuries sustained in the fight throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil that lingered.

Barely conscious, you found yourself on the living room floor, the room spinning. The portal's residual energy still crackled in the air as you struggled to sit up. Miguel's urgent voice cut through the haze, a distant echo that seemed to reach you from a world away.

"Y/N? What happened?"

You tried to speak, but the words came out as a hoarse whisper. Miguel rushed to your side, his hands gentle as he helped you sit up. The injuries from the battle were evident, but beneath the physical pain, there was a rawness, an emotional vulnerability that lingered in the air.

The rooftop argument, the Sinister Six's onslaught, and the whirlwind transition between universes all converged in this moment. The unspoken emotions that had fueled your movements in the fight were now laid bare, a complex tapestry woven with threads of frustration, longing, and a shared history.

The dimly lit room in Miguel's apartment offered a brief respite from the chaos. As Miguel tended to your injuries, the room filled with a quiet intensity. The sounds of the city outside seemed distant, as if the world had paused to give you both a moment to navigate the complexities of your connection.

Miguel worked diligently, his hands moving with a careful precision. The soft glow of the apartment's lights highlighted the concern etched into his features. The rawness of the emotional exchange on the rooftop lingered, creating a charged atmosphere that neither of you could easily dispel.

Silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken words. You watched Miguel's focused expression, his eyes reflecting a mixture of regret and understanding. It was a tender moment, a tableau of vulnerability that marked a turning point in your relationship.

"I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand," Miguel finally spoke, breaking the quiet. "I just worry about you, Y/N. You mean a lot to me."

You met his gaze, recognizing the sincerity in his eyes. "I know you worry, Miguel. But I need you to trust me. I can't have someone always trying to protect me. I need room to be my own hero."

Miguel nodded, his expression a blend of understanding and regret. "I'll try to give you that space. I just... I can't bear the thought of losing you."

His admission pulled at your heartstrings, and you reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm not going anywhere, Miguel. We'll figure this out."

As the night wore on, the apartment became a sanctuary where both physical and emotional wounds were tended to. The conversation shifted to lighter topics, an unspoken agreement to leave the intensity of the rooftop argument behind.

The dim light of the apartment cast a warm glow, creating an intimate setting that seemed to encourage the unfolding of unspoken emotions. The city outside continued its rhythmic hum, a backdrop to the nuanced dance of emotions within the room.

Miguel fetched a first aid kit, and you shared stories from your respective universes, finding solace in the familiarity of each other's experiences. The wounds on your shoulder and side were carefully cleaned and bandaged, the physical act of healing mirroring the emotional mending taking place.

In the quiet lull between conversations, Miguel's gaze lingered on you. There was a depth to his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the uncharted territory your relationship had entered. It was a delicate dance, an exploration of emotions that left both of you vulnerable yet strangely connected.

The city outside gradually transitioned from the vibrant lights of night to the muted hues of predawn. The air in the apartment shifted, carrying with it the promise of a new day and the potential for a transformed understanding between you and Miguel.

As dawn approached, Miguel stood and stretched, a yawn escaping him. "You should get some rest," he suggested, a genuine concern evident in his voice.

You nodded, realizing the toll the night had taken on your body. The events, from the rooftop argument to the intense battle against the Sinister Six, had left you physically and emotionally drained. The makeshift bed Miguel arranged on the couch offered a welcome respite.

As you settled into a restless sleep, the events of the night played out in fragmented dreams. Images of swinging between buildings, the Sinister Six's menacing laughter, and Miguel's concerned gaze blended together, creating a surreal dreamscape.

In the quiet of the apartment, Miguel remained vigilant. He couldn't shake the worry that lingered, the weight of the responsibility he felt for your safety. Restlessly, he paced the room, glancing at the sleeping form on the couch with a mix of concern and something deeper, an unspoken acknowledgment of the emotions that lingered between you.

The sun began to cast its warm glow through the apartment's windows, signaling the arrival of a new day. The city outside came alive with the sounds of waking life. Miguel took a moment to watch the sunrise, the hues of orange and pink painting the sky.

As you stirred from your sleep, Miguel turned to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "How are you feeling?" he asked, genuine concern etched on his face.

You stretched, wincing slightly from the residual soreness. "Better, considering the night I've had. Thanks for taking care of me, Miguel."

His gaze softened, and he sat beside you. "Always," he replied, a simple word laden with unspoken promises.

The morning unfolded with a quiet ease. Miguel prepared a simple breakfast, and you shared a meal that felt oddly intimate, a continuation of the uncharted emotional territory you both found yourselves navigating.

As the day progressed, the initial awkwardness between you and Miguel began to dissipate. The rooftop argument, the intense battle, and the subsequent healing had forged a deeper connection, a shared understanding that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

Miguel took you on a tour of the mirrored universe's Nueva York, pointing out landmarks and sharing anecdotes. The city, bathed in the morning light, felt like a canvas ready to be explored. The unspoken tensions of the previous night slowly gave way to a newfound camaraderie, a blend of shared experiences and a mutual respect for each other's strengths and vulnerabilities.

In the afternoon, you found yourselves on another rooftop, the cityscape sprawling below. The air was charged with a different energy, one that spoke of second chances and the resilience of connections that refused to be easily severed.

"I'm sorry for being overbearing," Miguel admitted, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I just... I can't help but worry about you. It's a part of who I am."

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I appreciate your concern, Miguel. I know it comes from a good place. But we need to find a balance, a middle ground where I can be my own hero, and you can still be there for me."

He met your gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. The city sprawled beneath, a living, breathing entity that seemed to reflect the evolving dynamics of your relationship.

As the day turned to evening, you and Miguel found yourselves back in the apartment. The unspoken tension from the previous night had been replaced with a sense of ease. Miguel, ever the attentive host, prepared a simple dinner, and you shared a meal that felt more like a celebration of newfound understanding.

The evening unfolded with laughter and shared stories. The weight of unspoken emotions had lifted, leaving behind a sense of acceptance and a willingness to embrace the complexities of your connection. Miguel's overprotective tendencies were still there, but tempered with a newfound awareness of your need for independence.

As night fell, Miguel accompanied you to the portal that would take you back to your universe. Nueva York glittered below, a testament to the resilience of both the city and the connections forged within it.

"I'll see you around, Miguel," you said, a soft smile playing on your lips.

He nodded, his gaze lingering. "Take care, Y/N. And remember, I'm here if you need me."

With a final wave, you stepped through the portal, leaving behind E-928 and the complexities of the night that had brought you to Miguel's doorstep. The familiar sights of your own universe greeted you, and you swung through the city with a newfound sense of balance.

Back in Miguel's apartment, he stood alone, watching the portal close. The echoes of your laughter and the shared moments lingered in the air. The uncharted territory of emotions had been navigated, and the connection between you and Miguel, though complex, remained unbroken.

The city outside continued its rhythmic hum, a backdrop to the ever-unfolding stories of heroes and the bonds that tied them together. In the quiet of his apartment, Miguel O'Hara, the Spider-Man of the mirrored universe, knew that some connections were too strong to be easily untangled, and that the threads of friendship and something more would continue to weave their way through the tapestry of his life.

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

#across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv #spiderman 2099

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reasonsforhope · 3 months

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"New York City officials have agreed to restore more than $111 million in funding to libraries and cultural institutions, the City Council announced Thursday [June 27, 2024].

The agreement is a victory for residents and organizations who had been pushing back for months against budget cuts in the nation’s largest city and one of the world’s foremost cultural capitals.

In November, the city announced it would cut the budget of the New York Public libraries by $58.3 million in fiscal year 2025, and slash the budget for other cultural institutions, including the Bronx Zoo and Carnegie Hall, by $53 million. The new deal reverses those cuts, and is set to be finalized in a City Council vote Sunday...

“Our arts and cultural institutions and libraries are foundational pillars of our city, and New Yorkers depend on their services every day,” said New York City Council Speaker Adrienne Adams, thanking the mayor’s administration for reaching the deal. “The Council has consistently championed funding restorations for these institutions as a top priority, and we’re proud to reach an agreement with Mayor Adams and the administration to successfully secure these critical investments for them in the city budget.”

The news was received with collective approval from New York institutions that had been forced to cut hours and public access due to lack of funding.

“The Museum of the City of New York is delighted to learn of the restoration of cuts to the cultural sector,” the museum’s president Stephanie Hill Wilchfort told CNN in a statement.

“This support makes it possible for MCNY to be open seven days a week, starting on July 1,” said Wilchfort, who serves as Executive Vice Chair of the Cultural Institutions Group, a coalition of 34 non-profit organizations such as the city’s museums, gardens, and arts centers. “As such, the Museum’s exhibitions exploring history, popular culture, and art will be open to the public on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for the first time since the pandemic. City support also allows the Museum to operate as a cooling center, open at no charge to anyone who seeks relief from warm weather.”

The city’s three public library systems — New York, Queens, and Brooklyn — issued a joint statement thanking the administration, the city council and New York residents, who overwhelmingly supported the campaign to restore library budgets. More than 174,000 people sent letters to City Hall in support of the “No Cuts to Libraries!” campaign since the cuts were announced in November [2023].

“This funding will allow us to resume seven-day service, a priority for many New Yorkers,” the libraries said in a statement shared with CNN. “We expect that service to begin in the coming weeks, bringing our branches back to the same hours of operation prior to the November 2023 cuts. The funding also allows us to continue universal six-day service, which New Yorkers have enjoyed for nearly a decade.”

-via CNN, June 28, 2024

#new york #nyc #libraries #public libraries #budget cuts #united states #us politics #books #good news #hope

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karolamurdock · 1 year

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SpiderWoman 2099 Pt.2

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!Reader

Sinopsis: The year is 2106. By day, you work as the head of the Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology division at Alchemax. By night, you are the one and only Spider-Woman, fighting tirelessly to protect New York from the tyrannical clutches of crime and delinquency. Your days are spent in an ordinary, organized routine: it's just you, the only barrier between your city and oblivion, dealing with the violence and pain that comes with being a superhero.

Everything is just normal. Then your dead husband appears in front of you, talking about alternate universes, spider societies and canonical disasters, and you discover that all your sorrows, losses and failures were possibly always meant to happen.

What the fuck.

Notes: I had to look for tutorials to learn how to tag, but I made it. (っ◕‿◕)っ ♥ If you want to be tagged, just tell me in the comments. Enjoy.

Warnings: Angst, mild violence. English is not my first lenguague.

Word count: 3.3K

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Or at least that was your intention, for his speed and dexterity quickly became apparent when your claws hit nothing but air.

Spider-Ben shouted something, but you couldn't hear it over the roar in your ears. Anger surged through you, flooding your body faster than your own mind could process it. Adrenaline, noradrenaline, and cortisol; your nervous system activated your fight-or-flight response so quickly it made your head spin.

You spun quickly to throw a small grenade that opened at his feet with a loud twip! Soon, Spider-Ben was completely enveloped in golden webbing, your own organic formula, just a feet away from the Paralyzed Goblin.

You felt the impostor's hand on your shoulder and shook it off with a powerful kick. The man flew, somersaulted, and landed crouched on the pavement, his claws unsheathed as he glared at you.

You ran, throwing your nets at two streetlights behind him to propel yourself again, and landed hard against his forearms, locked in front of his face. You somersaulted in the air, and the man recovered quickly, landing two quick punches that you dodged by ducking, taking advantage of your smaller stature, and stepping into his guard to land a punch to his jaw.

You almost flinched, hurting his face, but the man gave you no time to regret your attacks. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed you by the throat and threw you over a vehicle across the street.

The air escaped your lungs with the hard landing. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a silver flash and instinctively turned away from the fist digging into the car window.

Your attention was briefly drawn to the anomalous watch on the impostor's wrist, and an impromptu plan began to form in your mind.

You stood up quickly. You raised your leg and delivered a kick that he quickly blocked with his arm. Your other leg came up and the knee to his stomach knocked him back a few steps, forcing him to duck to meet the hook to the stomach that you threw his way.

You wrapped your legs around his shoulders and slammed into him with your elbows as he grabbed you around the waist, tightened his grip, and lifted you into the air, slamming your back against the top of the vehicle. You coughed and almost shuddered at the feeling of your ribs cracking under the pressure.

Your hand shot out: and grabbing his forearm with both hands, you stood up, digging your claws into his arm and ripping the metal band that held the device fastened to his wrist.

The watch fell, open in your expectant palms. At his roar of protest, you delivered a hard headbutt to his nose, taking advantage of his brief recoil to aim your nets at a nearby building and escape with a powerful leap.

You tore through the air like a bullet, dodging buildings, antennas and drones as you alternately glided and swung between buildings. The fake Spider-Man followed you, matching your speed and showing an impressive agility in dodging the shots from your webs.

"Stop!" He shouted, and you were surprised to hear his voice closer than you expected. "You don't know what you're messing with!"

Your eyes landed on a familiar tower in the distance, and your swing gained more height as you prepared to climb the Alchemax building. If you could reach your office, you might be able to use the lock system to catch the intruder: you might even be able to use your spider drones, small robots the size of your fingernail, loaded with a substance analogous to your venom, which had hypnotic and sedative effects. You had not yet tested it on an enhanced being. However, if this individual possessed abilities similar to yours (as you were able to prove during the brief period of your pursuit), you were willing to give it a chance

A few feet from your office window, a red whip was wrapped around your ankle. You tried, in vain, to dig your claws into the rafters below your window, but the man tugged at his webs and managed to pull you abruptly away from the building.

The light of dawn peeked from behind the towering buildings. The man's suit glowed blue and his claws flashing, the tips of his curls dyed orange in the light of the new day, and as you fell and the world cracked around you, you wondered, distantly, if the Goblin' blast had actually reached you. If your body was still limp against the dirty street, and you were dead and this was really what heaven felt like.

Or in your case, hell. Though the only fire was the one burning in his red orbs, and you were deaf to the cries of the helpless because of your buzzing ears. Perhaps the wind stole the sound, or you were falling so fast that your eardrums never registered the voices of those you could not save.

You couldn't even save your own husband.

You failed to save Miguel.

That's why it was hard for you to understand why the hole in your world opened up under the tempestuous figure of your husband. What was he doing with his face, with his body, with his voice.

He even had the same accent. His rich voice, tripping over the "r"s and rolling them on his tongue like graceful fingers on the strings of a guitarrón, vibrating in his chest and lulling you to sleep as you rested against his naked form. With every sweet murmur he would open the doors of Conchata's kitchen for you. With his accent, he would welcome you to his world, to the beautiful corners of his childhood.

That voice, now screaming behind your back, overcame your wandering imagination: how it sounded when it growled at you as it evaded the shots of your nets. How it sounded when it called you Mi amor.

You closed your eyes, recoiling from the dreamlike vision, and threw a net onto a balcony behind you, slowing the impact of your fall to finally land rolling hard against the roof of a building

You shook off the impact with a grunt. Your fingers wrapped around the watch, and you heard, before you saw him, the man landing crouched behind your back.

"Stop." You warned, shaking the watch in your hands.

"I know you must be confused." He began, and you felt the soothing tone of his words as you watched the shadow on the ground of his outstretched hands. "It will be easier for both of us if you allow me to explain."

You felt the burning sting of tears, and clenched your fists as you exhaled a shaky breath. How dare he...

Your mask receded, the technology shrinking to reveal your low bun; the locks escaping their confines to frame your contracted face.

How could he know...

How long it took you to stop making dinner for two. How hard it was to get used to not seeing his chanclas in the driveway. To not listening to soccer games on the TV every Sunday. To stop waiting for his arms around your waist while you worked in your apartment office. His coffee and brown sugar flavored kisses, his rough hands, the smell of cologne and shaving cream on your pillow.

After him... you slowly began to distance yourself from the family. You stopped attending backyard barbecues with los tíos. Missed calls from Conchata piled up on your voicemail. You spend every Christmas alone, in your lab, with only a snow globe hologram on the corner of your desk.

What would this... anomalous being that so easily wore the face of your best friend know? Your best confidant. The man who made you laugh, who carried tampons and painkillers in his briefcase one week out of every month. Your lab partner, your most brilliant colleague. The madman who shared your wry sense of humor.

"It's too soon." You whispered to his calm face. Staring at his pale features, his blue lips and glassy eyes. "We haven't even had time to start a family, my love."

You thought about your future plans. Your prestigious positions at Alchemax had afforded you a spacious, three-bedroom apartment, a few blocks from your workplace, and with excellent access to schools and hospitals. You thought about how you would have adjusted the months of your maternity leave: how happy Miguel would have been to name his son after his brother Gabriel. Would he have had his chocolate curls, his tanned complexion, his strong jaw?

Or would she have been like you? A daddy's girl, with bright eyes and untamed waves? Would she have shared your love for science? Would she have watched her own little biome grow in a glass bowl by her window? Or would she have played soccer with her dad, while you cheered from the stands in the distance?

The metal of the clock creaked under the powerful grip of your claws. You watched, eyes bright with unshed tears, the man's alert posture, his hands clenched into fists and his muscles contracted, ready to continue his contest.

Then, suddenly, the man became as silent and motionless as a stone.

The faint glow of morning broke through over your head, and in its light, Miguel saw your face for the first time. He beheld your stony expression: your tight lips, your rosy face and your red eyes, and his hands fell limply at his sides as all his resolve crumbled like fine sand under the slow fluttering of your wet eyelashes.

His knees gave way, and the man fell under the powerful spell of your gaze. The seconds dragged on, and he remained so; motionless and silent before your hoodless figure, illuminated by the morning sun, unable to look away from your stormy expression.

"Miguel O'Hara is dead." You said, and it was easy to hear the pain deeply rooted in your words. "He died in a sabotaged experiment at the hands of his own employer: his DNA was damaged beyond repair."

And Miguel heard your words, and saw himself as in a broken mirror, distorted by misfortune, and shrank from what he saw.

"And you appear before me, bearing his face, through an atypical portal with the intention of 'capturing' the creature I subdued on my own, claiming to be Spider-Man from another universe."

Sparks landed on your fingers, and a beep sounded from the watch clenched between your claws.

"How convenient." You growled.

"I know you." He finally said, one of his hands outstretched, but it seemed to waver between the watch and your face. "Long ago... I knew you. And your memory remains in my mind like an old dream."

"How can I believe you?" you asked. In the distance, the horizon turned blue, and you considered your present circumstances, superior to the dream of your senses.

"Your name is (Y/N) (L/N). You studied at a school for gifted young people, where you graduated with honors. Soon after you went into genetic engineering, and got a good position at Alchemax after impressing Tyler Stone with your degree thesis on germline gene therapy. " He told you. You gritted your teeth at the generic information. Your academic and professional history was public knowledge.

You opened your mouth, but he continued, "On your first day at Alchemax, you arrived three hours early because you miscalculated the distances and wanted to make a good first impression. No one was there. You sat with the guard in the lobby until your colleagues started arriving, two hours later."

You froze, and looked at him with your mouth still open as he continued, "From then on, you sit on your couch and watch nature documentaries to make time before you leave, because even though you can estimate time well now, you can't break the habit of getting up too early before work."

"You like the smell of damp soil. You always open the windows, ever so slightly, to let the cold air come in and flood your living room with the scent of petrichor."

"Wait." You erupted, your heart beating erratically in your chest.

"You brush your hair in the shower, because you say that your conditioner works better that way and you get rid of knots easier."

"How do you know that?" you snapped, feeling a treacherous blush creep up your neck and over your ears.

His words poured out like water from a broken dam. His voice avalanched, and his accent thickened, "You enjoy cursing in Spanish, but you don't do it because you think it makes you look unprofessional in front of your colleagues."

"You have your mother's eyes, and your father's skin tone. Your birthdays make you feel melancholic, and you enjoy Christmas but are sad when it's over. You sleep with a very cold room temperature so you can cover yourself with more blankets."

"Enough!" you scream, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your ears with your hands. The clock pressed against your temple, the beeping vibrating against your sweaty skin. "I won't listen to your lies! I was there... Miguel died in my arms. You can't be…"

"I know it's hard to understand." He whispered, and his husky voice sounded thick and diffident. "Why I am here...escapes my comprehension. This dimension remained hidden from my radar until the anomaly attack tonight."

The man ducked his head, exhaled a shaky sigh, and looked at you, and you finally met his stormy gaze head-on.

"But... if you could allow me to show you, you will understand that this situation is as unusual for me as it is for you. "

Perhaps it happened that a shadow of prescience clouded your judgment. For gradually you found yourself letting down your guard and allowing his tall, impetuous figure to approach you, with slow, premeditated steps, as if approaching a wounded animal.

"Lyla." He said, when he finally was standing just inches from your rigid figure.

The watch in your hand came to life with a slight uncertain flicker:

"For one solid moment I thought you would let me be reduced to pieces." An AI appeared over your shoulder, her plush arms crossed in front of her chest and her rose-colored glasses glinting with disappointment.

She turned to look at you, and you managed to see her doing a double take that would have been comical had it not been interrupted by the man:

"Help me, please." He said. The AI seemed to catch his stern tone, because she nodded softly and, with a flutter of vaporous hands, opened a hexagonal door into the space in front of you.

Colors, again, swirled in bright reds, oranges, yellows, and purples. The loose pebbles on the ceiling rattled, and you jumped when you felt the man's soft hand touch yours.

Instinctively, you gripped his wrist tightly. The man looked at your firm grip, but didn't flinch at the claws that grazed the inside of his wrist. Instead, he allowed you to cling to him as he carried you through the hole in your dimension.

As you stepped through the portal, you wondered if the colorful pulses rippling before your eyes were remnants of a vast infinite fractal, a mosaic of distinct pocket universes separated by an inflationary ocean that would swallow you up like night swallows the sun. Or would your physical form then be absorbed, never to be observed again, your immaterial silhouette trapped in an event horizon, vulnerable to the gravitational pull of universes larger and heavier than yours?

It didn't happen. You appeared on a sprawling metallic surface, inside what appeared to be an office, very... similar to your own at Alchemax.

"Lyla. Do the thing." He called. And you watched as the room around you was replaced by a dark pulse that left you standing in the middle of an empty space.

A drop of light fell from the air, and slowed its descent right in front of your face. "Here... lies everything."

The drop fell to the ground, and formed a hexagonal sling that illuminated the space in a trace that diverged in several directions, like the leaves of a Ficus Elastica. And then it disappeared, replaced by a... spider web woven over the ceiling, above the floors and covering everything around you.

"All of us... all of our lives come together here. In this complex web." His irises reflected red light as he spoke, "It's what we call the Arachno-Humanoid Poly Multiverse."

You spun on your feet, immersed in the grandeur of the scene before your eyes.

"So, it's true... the universes are superimposed one on top of the other." You said, and he nodded.

"And those universes are what shape reality."

He caught your gaze, lost in a mirror of unfolding events at the center of one of the nodes, and continued:

"That's where our destinies converge. These nodes...are the canonical events. Events that are part of all our histories, that bind our worlds together."

You contemplated the anomalous figure of the masked hero depicted on the grid. So strange, yet so familiar, with their arms wrapped around an inert male figure against the concrete.

"My job is to protect the multiverse from threats like the Green Goblin, who challenge the integrity of what keeps our realities whole."

You closed your eyes, looking away from the kaleidoscope of images around you, but behind your eyelids impertinent images played. You saw yourself, your face furrowed with despair as you watched your husband fading away. You remembered the cold as the dreary rain fell on your dark figure on the roof of the church where Tyler Stone's body was guarded. Finally you opened them again with a new stern frown. You thought, tried to reason, and considered your ideas again, dissociating your feelings with the grace of one versed in the ways of the scientific method.

That means... there are different versions of you in different quantum branches. And they are constantly creating new unfoldings of you: "I don't understand. Would this mean that it is not each version of yourself that shares the same common past, but the unique version of each of the Spider People? A similar origin, but one that has a different future ahead of it."

You ran your hands over your face, and cupped your lips with your fingers as you murmured to yourself, "And yet, the subsequent histories in each of the branches coexist simultaneously in the sprawling thread of webs that connect them."

"Observation changes the observed." You imagined his voice, his lips pressed against your ear and his warm body pressed against yours.

You clenched your fists at the phantom vision and contemplated the scrutinizing gaze of the man beside you.

"How long have you known all this?" you finally asked.

"A few years." He replied curtly.

"And this artifact allows you to jump between dimensions?" you pointed out, waving the poor, misshapen watch between your fingers.

"It's a gizmo." He corrected you. And he held out his hands as you dropped the battered device into his palms.

He squared his shoulders. You looked at him, erect in all his majestic height, his face mostly stoic, except for his tight lips, for that melancholy dip at the corners of his mouth; sad as greatness. And finally you heard him:

"My name is Miguel O'Hara, and I am the Spider-Man of universe 928. I have dedicated myself to protecting the fragile fabric of reality, safeguarding the integrity of the nodes that connect our worlds and offering my life in exchange for the fate of the multiverse."

"I come from a different reality. I met you in a world where you were not Spider-Woman... And in that world, just as in yours, I loved you, and you loved me."

Her hands caressed the covered skin of your arms, and descended to brush your stiff hands, your long claws, your empty palms.

"And in that world... I lost you."

@alicefallsintotherabbithole @digipaw2-0 @sunshowernaps

#marvel #spider man: across the spider verse #miguel o'hara x oc #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #oscar isaac #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #across the spiderverse #atvs #into the spider verse

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