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porcelainseashore · 8 months ago

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Heavenly Creatures

Pairing: Altar Boy! Leon Kennedy x Catholic School Girl! Reader

Summary: Growing up in a conservative, Catholic community, you and Leon were kept apart as kids for your own good. However, a fateful encounter at church many years later causes you to question those boundaries.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Smut, porn with plot, unprotected p in v, oral (m & f receiving), rimming (f receiving), semi-public sex (church), Catholicism, religious imagery & symbolism, temptation, guilt, shaming, name-calling, growing up, smoking, swearing, romance, fluff, secret relationship.

Author's Note: Leon and Reader are in senior high and 18 when smut happens. No guarantee that you won’t burn in hell after reading this 🔥😂

Special thanks to AliBelleRosetta for being my sounding board + shadesoflsk & Cameron for your helpful feedback.

Title from Heavenly Creatures by Wolf Alice.

AO3 Link

Snake. Devil. Satan’s spawn.

Those were the names you had grown accustomed to as a child. You didn’t know why you were called them, instead of the one your parents had given you. You were too little to understand. All you knew was that you were made to feel different. Maybe you were really an anomaly from the rest after all.

Instead of being quiet and shy, you were loud and boisterous. It was natural for you, seeing as you were going through your tomboy phase, which was the exact reason your parents had stuck to when they received complaints about your behavior. They laughed it off, while others reined their daughters in, forcing them into perfect Sunday dresses, braided hair adorned with pastel ribbons and clean, black Mary Jane shoes. Good enough to fit into a pretty gift box with wrapping paper. But you would tear it all down, before anyone could lay a finger on you.

Growing up in a place where other children were told to shun you was difficult at first. But then, you learnt to play by yourself and relish in the power of make believe. You climbed trees, rolled in the mud and ran through the forest fending off imaginary monsters. Sometimes, when you bumped into other groups of boys who threw stones and made fun of you, you fought back, further earning the title of crazy witch! Who needed these idiots anyway? You were your own best company.

One day, you sat in your disheveled, cream cotton dress, swinging your legs from a tree in your front lawn as usual. It overlooked the suburban neighborhood street, giving you a bird’s eye view of your surroundings. You noticed a family of three strolling along the sidewalk, though the couple gave you a disapproving look as they walked past, and whispered to their little, adolescent boy. They thought they were being so discreet, but you could hear every single word they were saying.

“Don’t pay attention to her. She’s bad news.”

Regardless of this remark, the boy gave in to his curiosity and as he peered up, you held his wide-eyed gaze. His irises were azure in color, glowing as it caught the early dusk light from different angles, shifting across a stunning spectrum of bluish, iridescent hues. You were captivated by them, and as you continued staring, his cheeks turned rosy red, though it seemed like he could not break away from you either. That moment was abruptly cut short, as his father smacked the back of his head, chiding his son for disobeying him.

“Come along now, Leon.” The older man wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, turning him away from your direction.

Leon. So, that was his name. As you watched them turn the corner at the end of the street and head off, you wondered if and when you’d see him again.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Leon had heard the stories passed around about you. His parents had often commented about your family as being one of those ‘weird, hippy types’. Frankly, this didn’t scare him, but rather, it fascinated him. They made you appear like something he had read in a book about myths and legends, and he wanted to see if it was real.

The next time he went out to play in the field, he walked by your place again on purpose, even though it would have been the longer route. As he had predicted, you were up in the tree again, lounging across its branches with your eyes closed, like a slithery snake basking in the sun. Your dress was stained with grass and dirt, and your feet were soiled and filthy. Twigs poked out haphazardly from your knotted, messy hair.

You looked like a creature of sorts, alright, he thought.

He inched towards the base of the tree trunk gingerly, trying not to stir the sleeping beast. But as he got closer, he accidentally stepped into a pile of dead leaves, which crunched underfoot.

You roused from your slumber then, rubbing your eyes as you stretched your arms out with a lazy yawn. He flinched when you looked downwards at him, as if you might strike out, but you just smiled and said, “Hi.”

He was confused then. From the descriptions of you, he had expected you to breathe fire and gnash your teeth at him fiercely, but you were just a normal girl. He gave you a puzzled look, nodding as he greeted you with a stutter, “Hi… I-I’m, uh, Leon.”

“I know.” You grinned.

“You do?” He looked astounded, as if you’d conducted some dark ritual to find out.

You picked up on this and teased him, wiggling your fingers as you mouthed, “Magic…”

He laughed, relaxing his stiff shoulders and asking you for your name. He’d only known you until now as that girl, or one of those nicknames people gave you out of spite.

You introduced yourself and offered him a half-eaten apple you had munched on before napping on the tree. He hesitated at first, regarding it as if it were a forbidden fruit, but eventually he reached out for it. Gratefully, he bit in, savoring the flavorful burst of its juicy flesh.

“Do you go to church?” He asked suddenly, out of the blue.

Shielding your eyes from the afternoon sun with your hand, you squinted at him. “Yeah, why?”

“Oh.” He paused, considering his next words, though he blurted out with unfiltered honesty, “Well, my dad said that demons can’t enter hallowed ground.”

“I’m not a demon,” you huffed indignantly.

“No, you aren’t,” he agreed, waving his hands in the air apologetically, trying to salvage the situation. “I think you’re nice, actually.” His face was warm and pink again.

“I think you’re nice too.”

And it continued on like this. Some days, he’d pop over to visit and speak with you from below the tree, when he was sure no one was watching. Until a day came where he wasn’t as careful, and was spotted by a concerned neighbor, who ratted him out to his parents.

You were sad that he wasn’t allowed to see you again, but you’d grown used to being alone for most of your childhood, so you tried to put it behind you and move on, unaware that he’d often look out for you at each week’s Sunday Mass.

━━━━━━━━━━━

A number of years passed, and you filled out into your own body. You were in your senior year of an all-girls Catholic high school, and had recently turned 18. Reaching womanhood also meant that you became acutely aware of the changes in the way society treated you now, as compared to the opposite sex. Heads turned as you stalked around with one of the more unruly cliques in your school. Instead of being name-called after otherworldly creatures, you were reduced to bitch, slut, or whore.

People hated what they couldn’t understand or control. You’d been giving the nuns a hard time by asking controversial questions about the biblical text you were meant to study and recite blindly. Detention was nothing new to you and your friends, whom you’d been caught smoking cigarettes together with on school grounds. You were a rebel at heart, and the rest of the law-abiding community wanted to crush that and make you conform.

Leon, on the other hand, had been going to the all-boys school next door, which shared a brother school relationship with yours. He was in the same year and age as you, though being a man meant he had the privilege of getting away with certain things you couldn’t. Even there, your name wasn’t safe from being circulated around the rumor mill. You were the subject of boys’ locker room talk. They associated you with the ‘bad girl’ crowd, highlighting your love for reading banned books and boasting about supposed sexual escapades with you.

“She’ll do favors,” they said, making vulgar gestures by moving their fist back and forth in front of their mouth, while poking their tongue against their cheek.

Leon slammed his locker door shut and stormed off. It made him uncomfortable that they gossiped about you that way, but he was even more ashamed of the fact that he made no effort to stand up for you. He hardly knew you, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that what they were doing was finding a scapegoat to blame. That, unfortunately, time and time again, happened to be you.

Most of the students there were sexually active anyway, but no one had complained about them. As long as one kept things on the down-low and upheld a certain moralistic façade, they were considered as ‘innocent’, ‘pure’, or ‘normal’ even. For one, he was pretty sure that his father was having an affair with the church choir mistress, but that seemed to go overlooked.

Everyone’s such hypocrites, he pondered, frowning in distaste. Including himself. Although he liked to think that he was brave and courageous, in actuality, he was afraid of rocking the boat. Fitting in was more important, just as his parents had taught him from a young age. It was the side of him that he hated the most, but could not get rid of.

Gathering his belongings, he left school and hurried off. He’d been requested last-minute to serve at Mass that evening, as one of the other altar boys had fallen ill. At church, he exchanged his school uniform for the standard black cassock and white surplice, before starting with the Introductory Rites.

You, on the other hand, had been singled out along with a bunch of other troublesome girls to attend Evening Mass with the Mother Superior that day. It was just your luck that you had to devote an hour of your time to a set of outdated rituals and prayers, with the aim of reflecting upon your sins. The most frustrating part of this exercise was that all of you were placed in the front row pews, so there was no chance of daydreaming or dozing off in front of the priest. You’d never been much of a believer, but sometimes you did speculate if God was watching your every move from above.

As you stood up for the entrance procession, which signaled the start of Mass, a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes passed by. You’d recognize that anywhere, but it was a wonder how you hadn’t realized that he was serving as an altar boy all this while. Maybe your Mass timings hadn’t aligned? Or maybe you just never paid much attention in church. You’d only seen him here and there when he attended Mass with his family as part of the congregation, but you ignored him back then, because you didn’t want to remember the feeling of losing the closest thing you had to a friend in your pre-teen days.

When Leon turned around to face the congregation for the greeting, he gulped as he saw you, standing almost directly in front of him as both of you made the Sign of the Cross. Speak of the devil, he muttered internally, before chastising himself for unintentionally insulting you and shook that thought away.

You gave him a coy smile as he scampered off to where he was meant to be stationed. For the first time in a while, you took the chance to admire his chiseled features and how much he had grown. He had always been attractive, but he was no longer the little boy you used to know, and instead now a fine, young man, in an even finer religious attire. Puberty did him good, you mused.

All at once, a mischievous plan flashed across your mind as you plotted how to win his attention. It would be an entertaining way to pass the time in this mundane institution. Viewing the school uniform as yet another means for the authorities to curb people’s freedom and creative expression, you had a habit of violating the dress code by making minor adjustments to it. Whether it was shortening the hem of your skirt or wearing below the ankle socks, you went for it. And today was no exception.

You waited until it was time to be seated before attempting to catch his gaze. Within a few minutes, he sneaked a peek your way and you stifled a laugh. Bingo. As you continued looking straight at him, you stretched your legs out cautiously, so as not to alert the Mother Superior, who sat beside you, to your antics. His eyes widened and flickered, as you showed off their length, rotating your ankles in small circles languidly. The other altar boys started to take note and whispered in hushed tones amongst themselves. But you only had eyes for Leon, scrutinizing him like a hawk, as you bared your teeth with a sly grin plastered across your face.

It was only a matter of time before the Mother Superior rapped you on the legs with a thin, wooden cane she carried around for doling out such punishments. The other girls in your row giggled as you returned your legs to a respectable position, disregarding the smarting pain that had accompanied the blow.

It was worth it, you reasoned, spotting Leon’s lopsided smile, as he turned away to hide his blush.

This soon carried on like an unspoken game between you and Leon. You’d attend Mass whenever he was serving as an altar boy, and he’d look out for you, exchanging glances like a secret code shared between the two of you. A sense of thrill arose within him each time, as to what you’d try next. If only he knew what you were capable of.

At some point, you grew bolder. During the Holy Communion, where Leon had been helping the priest to hold the patina under the chins of those who received the Sacred host, you made sure once again to make eye contact with him the whole way through. Your mouth was slightly agape, as you extended your tongue, clasping your hands together in a pious prayer position. When the priest placed the host in your mouth, you swallowed it suggestively, licking your upper lip for a finishing touch. Leon nearly stumbled over backwards as his face turned bright red like a tomato. The last thing he heard was your silvery laughter, and you returned to your seat as if nothing had happened. You had ensnared him now.

When Mass ended, you slipped him a note, asking him to meet you at the confessional when everyone else had been ushered out. You knelt in the penitent compartment, waiting for him to arrive, confident that he would show up. A few minutes later, you heard someone enter the booth where the priest usually sat.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began. Through the latticed screen, you could just about make out Leon’s face as he chuckled.

“What are you playing at?”

“You tell me,” you challenged, testing the waters. “I haven’t received any complaints.”

“Well, I have a question,” he mentioned quietly. “Do you still remember when we hung out back then? At the tree.”

There was pang in your heart, as you recalled your childhood memories. “Of course, you were the only one who bothered to speak to me.”

You pursed your lips before taking the plunge. “I really appreciated that.”

There was a momentary pause, as he took your words in. “I wish they didn’t separate us.”

“It isn’t too late to start over.” It was humiliating how eager you sounded. No matter how much you tried to repress it, you yearned to rekindle that connection you had with him once.

“Listen, I like you,” he admitted, sighing heavily. “But, I can’t go public with this. My parents-”

“Who says it has to be public?” You retorted defensively.

His heartfelt confession emboldened you, yet a part of you felt dejected that this was the best option he could offer. However, you didn’t want to concede without giving it a shot.

He made a noise which sounded like he was in disbelief. “You mean-”

“Shall I come over and show you?” You interrupted, already getting up before he could answer.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “I-I’d like that, I guess.”

Exiting your compartment, you stepped out and swiftly went over to where he was, closing the door behind you. It was crammed and stuffy in this tiny box with two people, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Giving him a once-over, it struck you that he was still in his altar boy attire and perhaps what you were about to do was wrong on so many levels, but you brushed those thoughts aside.

“Um-”

Before he could speak any further, you ran your hands up along his chest and planted your lips onto his, soft and pillowy in texture. He let out a low moan, easing into your embrace as he kissed back, holding onto the back of your head for better leverage. His tongue grazed across your lips and you parted them in response, allowing it to slip inside as you tasted each other. Grabbing the collar of his cassock, you pressed your bodies together heatedly. You sucked on his tongue, eliciting another moan from his throat, as you shuffled him around, pushing his back against the wooden wall with a loud thud. Both of you had lost yourselves in a whirlwind of kisses, oblivious to the outside world and the ruckus you were making.

However, it was hard to ignore the hymn that was being sung when the next Mass started. Leon froze, before pulling away hastily. His mouth was red and swollen, and a pearly string of saliva connected it with yours.

“Shit, we lost track of time,” he panted.

If you didn’t want to be seen, you’d need to remain where you were until the Mass ended. In other words, both of you were trapped here for at least another hour.

Not being one to let such matters ruin the vibe, you responded, “That’s not a problem for me.” Trailing a lone finger down Leon’s body seductively, you let it come to rest above the growing bulge in his cassock.

“Are you serious?” He breathed, as you cupped your hand around it, palming him through his clothes.

“You got a better idea?” You murmured in his ear, squeezing his erection a little as you continued rubbing against it.

“Don’t get me wrong, it feels amazing.” His voice was strained as he spoke. “But, it’s just…”

“Catholic guilt?” You teased.

“Yeah, probably.” He nodded sheepishly.

“Well, maybe if we get you out of this thing.” You gestured to his attire. “You might relax into it more.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed, tugging the surplice over his head and discarding it to the ground. “Though it never really goes away, does it?”

You shrugged, shaking your head. “I still get it, but it’s less of an issue now.” It made you follow up with a question of your own. “Does that mean I’m a bad person?”

His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You're doing it again.”

“Hm?”

“Guilt,” he indicated. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway.” You tried to deflect the topic, knowing the rumors that people spread about you. Leon had probably heard it all. “At least there’s still hope for you.”

“Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me yet.” You winked, removing the sash from his cassock as he unbuttoned the rest of it, revealing a plain white shirt and a pair of shorts underneath.

He snickered as you clucked your tongue at the sight. “What did you expect me to do? Go Commando?”

“Would’ve been hot,” you pointed out.

Leon had always been perceptive. From your interactions, he began to suspect that sometimes you relied on lighthearted banter as a way to mask your nervousness and other underlying emotions.

Nestling his fingers under your chin, he turned you towards him. “You sure about this?”

“Mm hm.” It was sweet of him to check in. Most guys never offered you the same courtesy. “Been thinking about it since Communion,” you added brazenly.

He snorted as you gave him a quick peck on the lips. Working your way down, you kissed his clothed body, pulling the waistband of his underwear and shorts to his ankles. Kneeling before him, you reached for his cock, smearing beads of his precum carelessly along his velvety skin, while you pumped his hot shaft slowly.

He inhaled sharply, snapping his eyes shut, as he tilted his head back in pleasure. In the background, you could hear the priest’s sermon droning on.

With a smug smile, you warned, “Do me a favor and try to keep it down, will you?”

Before he had a chance to react, you filled your mouth with his cock, sliding all the way down its hardened length.

“Jesus,” he groaned.

Instantly, you released it with a pop and tutted in mock disappointment, “Taking the Lord’s name in vain?”

“We’re so going to hell for this,” he laughed faintly, tangling his hands in your hair.

“Ah-” He gasped again, as you held onto the base of his cock, lifting it to flatten your tongue on its underside. Slathering it with saliva, you took his balls into your wet mouth, one at a time, sucking on them delectably. “Fuck!”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” You joked.

“Not if you keep doing what you’re doing, angel.”

Angel. That was a new one. You’d never been called that before, but you liked the sound of it.

Wrapping your lips around his cock, you started a steady rhythm, bobbing your head up and down his shaft. Each time you came up, you flicked your tongue at the tip, licking it as you stared up at him. His eyes flew open, gazing at you with lust and arousal while you sucked him off more vigorously.

Sliding his cock in deeper, you allowed it to hit the back of your throat, causing you to make a guttural noise. Clenching his fist, he bit down hard on his knuckles to stop himself from crying out. If this was hell, he’d stay right here with you. He couldn’t think straight anymore, as he bucked his hips forward in response.

Grabbing his ass, your fingernails left crescent shaped indents on his skin, as you let him fuck your mouth to chase his high. Tears lined your eyelashes and sweat poured down your brow. It had gotten incredibly hot and humid in this enclosed space. But his muted moans only served to turn you on even more. You wondered how perverse and trashy you looked in this position, though Leon could only mumble the opposite in his feverish state.

Soon, he tensed and quivered while hissing through gritted teeth, “God, I’m gonna cum.”

Lady Luck appeared to be on your side, as the congregation were in the middle of singing another hymn, which inadvertently muffled whatever sounds were coming from the confessional. He struggled to hold in his groans as you felt a thick, salty load of his cum wash up against your throat. You choked a bit before swallowing it whole.

Collapsing backwards, you leaned against the cool surface of the seat behind you, wiping the edges of your mouth. Tucking his spent dick back under his clothes, he sank down beside you, kissing you gently and tasting himself on your lips.

“You ok?” He brushed his thumb along your cheek.

You nodded silently and smiled, contemplating if there would be a future to what you had with him now.

“I ruined you,” he jested, showering you with kisses along your jawline.

“As if.” You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew it was the truth.

And, just like he had read your mind, he uttered the magic words, “So, when will I see you again?”

━━━━━━━━━━━

Since the encounter at the confessional, you continued your clandestine meetings with Leon, just like back in the old days, except both of you were now wiser in covering your tracks. In public, you pretended not to know each other, yet shared furtive, longing glances when you were in the same vicinity. Sometimes, he would make an excuse to brush past you, his touch ghosting across the curve of your spine, your shoulders, the back of your hand to the tip of your pinkie finger. Away from prying eyes, you hooked up passionately, damning each other further to hell. How many levels were there again? You’d lost count.

You enjoyed the moments spent with him. The aftercare and cuddling. The long talks into the night. You understood each other somehow, it wasn’t like this with other people. So, if the Day of Judgment arrived, why would God not sympathize with you both?

Despite that, neither of you had put a label on where you stood with each other. How did this secret relationship work? If you were found out, would he ditch you like before? Would you be thrown under the bus, so that he could be purified again? It wasn’t long until insecurity reared its ugly head, gnawing at you from within.

Leon sensed something was off as you lay in his arms, naked while he spooned you in the back seat of his car, parked along a desolate dirt path near the forest. You had that pensive look on your face, like you were in a world of your own, one where he couldn’t enter.

Pulling you close to him, he kissed the top of your shoulder, coaxing you out of your reverie. “Wanna talk about it?”

You hummed noncommittally. After a long pause, you asked, “Are you embarrassed by me?”

He was caught off-guard by the question and his breathing stilled. “No,” he argued. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m just tired of hiding,” you sighed. “It’s like I’m making you do something bad.”

There was a brief ache in his chest, as guilt swelled up like a wave. Coward, an inner voice spat.

Carding his fingers through your hair, he pressed his lips against the temple of your head. “You make me feel like the best version of myself.”

“Hm.” You pinched your lips together, wanting to believe him, but you weren’t convinced.

He observed this, but decided not to press the issue any further, knowing that you needed action, not words.

She’ll be your downfall. A surly voice piped up within him, like fire and brimstone. He shook it off, ignoring the moral tug-of-war that had occurred once he made that statement, as he vowed to prove himself to you in the coming days.

━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you’d agreed to meet was in church, after the very last Mass of the day. He was serving as an altar boy again, and you were intrigued as to whether he had planned to reenact the entire confessional scene or switch it up with something new, like making you go through the Stations of the Cross while fucking you. You giggled at the idea, only to be shushed by a fellow parishioner, whom you had disturbed in meditative prayer.

When Mass ended and everyone except yourself had left the nave, you waited patiently for him in the pews. After a while, you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned around to face Leon, who had changed into his casual clothes. As you got to your feet, he cupped the sides of your face in his hands, closing the distance, and bringing your lips to meet his in a fervent kiss. You were slightly taken aback by his initiation, since he was usually the shyer one out of the two of you.

Claiming your hand in his, he led you to the front, where the altar stood before the austere crucifix that hung from the wall. He smirked, noticing the look of shock and incredulity on your face, as it gradually began to dawn on you what he had in mind. However, he was anxious too, you could tell from the way his hand was trembling. He was sealing his fate, and you were both going down together. Nothing could bring you back after this ultimate act of blasphemy.

At the foot of the altar, he caressed his lips against yours. “I guess God is our witness now.”

Leaning in, you found yourselves consumed in a lip lock, which deepened with each passing second as you helped each other out of your clothes, kicking them off unceremoniously to the side. He spun you around, bending you forward against the smooth, marble top of the altar. The cold surface caused your nipples to harden and goosebumps to form on your skin. You shivered as he spread your legs wider apart and knelt down, holding your thighs as he licked a firm stripe along your silken folds.

As he continued to lap at the sensitive flesh, he brought a hand towards your clit, stroking it softly with his middle finger. You jerked from the sensation, whimpering as he alternated between thrusting his tongue into your heat and suckling it with his lips. There was a slight pressure as you felt one of his fingers sliding into your pussy, already soaked with arousal. At the same time, his tongue trailed up towards your rim, teasing it with long, flat licks.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, gripping the edge of the altar, as an electrifying tingle coursed through your veins.

There was a playful smack on your ass. “Forgotten the Third Commandment already?” Leon scolded.

“Huh?”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain,” he mimicked your tone from when you had teased him at the confessional.

“Ugh,” you whined. “I’m sure this is the least of our concerns.”

You felt his hot breath against your asshole before he dipped his tongue in lightly. Simultaneously, he pumped your pussy, pushing in another finger and stretching you out, before his tongue went back to circling around your rim, inciting a string of moans from your mouth.

“Feeling good?”

“Mm, yes,” you replied hoarsely. “But when are you going to fuck me?”

He coughed out a laugh at your bluntness, before imparting a piece of unsolicited advice. “Patience is a virtue.”

You groaned at his quip. “Really, Leon? Are you-”

He interrupted rudely, pressing his hand on your back as he entered you, burying his cock deep into your cunt. You nearly screamed in ecstasy as he pounded his hips against your ass repeatedly, already setting a brutal pace from the beginning. Maybe you should’ve been careful of what you wished for.

“What was that again?” He taunted.

You growled, clenching your jaw as you felt his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoed across the space. Your mind fogged up in an insatiable haze as you pushed back rhythmically against his thrusting, allowing him to penetrate you further, and taking pleasure in how his head brushed against your cervix with each stroke.

“So close,” you rasped, your core tightening as if it was about to burst.

At this, he pulled away briefly, flipping you over as he lifted you onto the altar top. He had a bruising grip around your thighs, which you wrapped around his waist instinctively, interlocking your ankles behind his back to draw him closer. Bewitched, he took a moment to drink in the divine sight of your flushed, moist body, supple and wanting in his arms, before kissing you sloppily on the mouth. Pressing his forehead against yours, he asserted, “You don’t know what you do to me, angel.”

With that, he rutted into you relentlessly, your breasts bouncing as you clung to the back of his neck, crying out in rapture. When you finally snapped, a glimmer from the gold cross necklace he wore daily flashed before your eyes. You looped your index finger around it, tugging at it as you peered up at the bleeding face of Christ looking down at you ominously from the crucifix. The last remains of the day’s light filtered through the stained glass behind him, casting a kaleidoscope of mottled colors across your bodies, the altar and the stone floor, like a disease.

You realized you had tempted Leon beyond salvation. But in spite of it, he had followed you willingly. This was the proof he had wanted to show you. You were the angel he would desecrate everything for. He’d cut your wings off so you’d be his and stay.

His cock throbbed with desire as he rode you through your orgasm. As he neared the edge, he pulled out, finishing himself off. Nuzzling his face into your neck, he murmured a mixture of curses and professions against your skin, while spurting hot white cum over the mound of your pussy. Holding onto the marbled structure for support, he bent over you, placing tender kisses on your eyes and your lips.

It seemed as if he had turned his back on God and worshiped you now. But instead of a guilty conscience, you felt nothing but love. Silently, both of you cleaned up and got dressed. He delicately reattached the butterfly clip that had come loose in your hair, while you wiped away the lipstick that had smudged onto his face. There would be no signs of what had transpired, except he had another surprise lined up for you.

Upon exiting the church doors, Leon took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, as you walked out onto the street together. You were his - he’d show you off to the whole damn world without shame.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fluff #religious au #church au #resident evil #fic: heavenly creatures #porcelainscribbles

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pearlessance · 4 months ago

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Locked Doors - Idle Threats [ii]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — You leave your front door unlocked. The devil invites himself in.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt

SERIES MASTERLIST

[crossposted to AO3]

In truth, Joel is glad to be rid of you.

Not because he didn’t enjoy himself, but because he’d enjoyed the night with you too much. The two of you had fallen into an easy, respectful energy for the remainder of your watch.

Joel discovers you’re quite funny when he isn’t the butt of all your jokes. And he knows you’re beautiful, painfully so—but when you smile at him, truly smile, it lights up your whole face and ignites a warmth inside him he can’t explain, that he doesn’t even want to think about.

So, yeah, it’s a bit of a relief when the next two watchmen take over and you go your separate ways. Joel sleeps real heavy that night, more relaxed than he’s been since he set foot in Jackson.

Until Tommy knocks on his door that afternoon, that is. The moment Joel opens it his brother asks, “What the hell did you do to her last night?”

Joel feels his anxiety spike. Tommy knows him better than anyone else, and he’s not sure why he thought your tryst in the tree blind would ever be kept secret. And he knows he shouldn’t lie, but he’s too embarrassed, too afraid of his brother’s judgment. So he shrugs and says, “We…had a conversation.”

“Conversation?” Tommy laughs and shakes his head, pushing into Joel's house. He sits at the kitchen table beside Ellie, who’s shoveling a bite of scrambled eggs into her mouth. “Nah. Nah, I don’t believe that.”

Hesitantly, Joel asks, “Why not?”

“That girl has been a pain in my ass every single day. Someone has a complaint about her, or she’s hollerin’ about something or other. Never does as she’s told—fights Maria and I on everything.”

You listened to him real well last night. Joel resists the smirk that tugs on his lips.

Tommy continues. “So, I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when she comes knockin’ this morning asking Maria if she can take the rest of Mike’s shifts. After she threw a big tantrum about having to cover one of them.”

No. No. Joel’s mouth goes dry.

He can’t spend another night with you. He can’t. He’s not strong enough.

Ellie’s brows furrow together as she looks between the two brothers. “Who?”

“Strawberry scone,” Joel supplies with a casual wave of his hand.

“Oh, my future wife,” Ellie corrects. Then she turns to Tommy with a scowl. “Be nice when you talk about her.”

“She ain’t nice,” he counters.

Joel remembers how nice you’d been, begging him for mercy, begging for his hands, his mouth, his cock. How nice it sounded when you apologized to him, using that warm, wet tongue of yours as a weapon. He swallows. “We just talked. That’s all.”

Tommy eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t push the subject and Joel’s grateful for it. Instead, he says, “Yeah, well—maybe y'all can have a conversation about her giving Maria a break. She’s been back from that run for a month and she still won’t even talk to her. Maria’s tried, but she pretends she can’t hear or see her. Like she’s invisible.”

Ellie chuckles but quiets herself with another bite of eggs when Joel turns and scowls at her.

It’s a valid concern, Joel thinks. Maria and Tommy have been good to the people of Jackson, have been good to you. Given you a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, the protection of monitored walls. All in exchange for a little physical labor.

Joel doesn’t know what happened on that run for Maria’s barbecue flavored chips, but he understands being angry. Complete and total silent treatment is a bit harsh, however. And for weeks at a time? It’s childish, absurd—bratty. He gives his brother a reassuring nod. “I’ll…see what I can do.”

Tommy thanks him, steals a forkful of Ellie’s eggs, and bolts out of the door as she yells after him.

Once he’s gone and the noise has quieted, the panic begins to set in.

He can’t be in there with you for another night. Joel knows he has to do something, find someone to cover his watch. Maybe Bonnie will be willing to switch him for a day or two. Just until Mike returns, until Joel can control his errant desires.

“I’ve got some stuff to get done today,” he tells Ellie.

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, just…don’t go far,” he says, evading her question. “And don’t go alone, either. Stay with Dina.”

He half expects her to make some witty remark, but she must see something in him that stops her. Ellie nods slowly and asks, “Everything okay?”

No, it wasn’t. Not even close. But there’s no subtle way to explain his turmoil, no words to make her understand that Joel was currently at odds with himself and his morals. That perhaps he’d damned himself, damned you, all for a single night of perfect bliss. So he shrugs and says, “Fine.”

Bonnie’s house is a short walk from his. And when she opens the door, Joel can see her son lying on the couch in the living room. His cheeks are red and he’s got his thumb in his mouth, staring off into space. He can’t be older than four, and Joel begins to feel guilty before he can even say a word. “Joel? Everything alright?”

God, what was with people and that question today? Joel looks away from the little boy on the couch and instead at his mother, who has the same blonde curls.

He has to ask, doesn’t he? He has to. This is about more than just his peace of mind. It’s about your safety. Safety from him. And you deserve that, after all. Being a brat doesn’t mean you deserve to be preyed upon by an older man.

So, Joel swallows and forces the words out. “Hey, Bonnie. I was just wondering if maybe you could switch with me tonight. I’ll take your watch today if you’ll take the night shift.”

Please say yes. Please say yes.

Her green eyes soften, and Joel knows the answer before she speaks. “Oh, I…I’m sorry, Joel. It’s just that Sammy is sick, and…and I feel bad enough being gone all afternoon, you know? And I don’t want to leave him during the night. You can understand, right?”

He nods quickly, not wanting to make more of a scene than he already has. “No, yeah, of course. Completely. I’m sorry I asked.”

They say their goodbyes, and Bonnie suggests that he ask Greg instead.

But that thought unnerves him even more than being alone with you himself.

Greg is older than Joel by almost ten years, pushing sixty-five. And he doesn’t think he’s that type of guy—but Joel didn’t think he was that type of guy until he’d been left alone with you, either.

Maybe he’s wrong, though. Maybe Greg has more morality. Maybe he’s not as bad a man as Joel. Maybe he has more resistance to the forbidden fruit.

Maybe you’re safer with him.

It’s because of that particular thought Joel winds up on Greg’s porch.

And Greg gives him that same sympathetic look Bonnie did, and Joel’s back to square one. “I’ll ask around, though,” Greg says. “See if anyone else is willing.”

Joel thanks him, and busies himself in the stables, in the armory, in anything that keeps his hands busy and his thoughts far from you. He sends a prayer to whatever god may exist, hoping Greg will find him and let him know someone is interested in his shift. Not that Joel would be deserving of forgiveness nor a favor— especially from anyone worth praying to—but it doesn’t hurt to try.

Nightfall comes too soon and eventually, he decides that maybe it’s better to seek out the source of the problem. To tear out the rot by the roots.

You answer the door after the second knock. You’re leaning against the frame, wearing those jeans again—that dark wash denim that’s skin tight, a gentle stitch of gold down the seam of the pockets.

Joel wonders where you found them, wonders how it’s possible that he’s been reduced to finding so much sex appeal in a pair of jeans, for Christ’s sake. Your black t-shirt is cut into a low V shape, and your breasts are pushed up because of your bra, providing him with a view so tempting it hurts.

“I hear you’re trying to get rid of me,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “If you didn’t like me, the least you could do is say so. Kinda shitty I had to find out from Greg, of all people.” You turn away from him and walk inside, leaving the door wide open.

It’s an invitation. But Joel hesitates, because he knows, he knows what happens when he’s alone with you. Knows just how far he’ll go, how much he wants it. He’s not sure if it’s desire or shame or excitement that coils around his spine, gripping tight.

But it’s rude, isn’t it, to refuse? It’s not like you’re doing anything to tempt him apart from existing. Joel can handle that, can’t he? He’ll just explain himself. Have a quick five minute conversation about why he needs to avoid you at all costs, why you cannot—cannot—be on watch duty with him for another day.

And then he’ll leave. Wipe his hands clean of the guilt, the sin, of you.

Joel walks inside and closes the door behind him. “You need to tell Maria you can’t be on watch tonight,” he says.

Your house is small but cozy, more personalized than the other homes in Jackson. Cluttered with things you no doubt picked up on some of your runs—framed photos of landscapes, whimsically shaped, half-burned candles, a crinkled and slightly water damaged band poster that reads The Bravery. The kitchen on his left is quaint, the counters occupied by stacks of old, worn books. There’s an old vase with a faded picture of a cat sitting on the stove, filled with mismatched utensils. A small, square table sits in the corner with two upholstered chairs and in front of one of them, a leather-bound journal sits with a pen beside it.

Joel suddenly, more than anything else, wants to know what’s in that journal. Thinks about sneaking in late at night to flip through it. It’s well loved, and he knows even from several feet away that inside of it is you. The parts you don’t share with others, the parts he desperately wants to unearth.

“And why would I do that?” You follow his gaze and casually move to close the journal. You wrap the leather cord around it twice, pick up the pen, and toss both into an inconspicuous drawer.

“Because I said so,” Joel says sharply. He’s standing by the front door still, and his skin prickles as you close the distance. And for good measure, he adds, “Because you’re not feeling well. You’re sick.”

You’re standing so close now he can feel the heat of your skin, beckoning to him, pulling him in. You’re so magnetic that he doesn’t pull away when you grab his hand and place his palm against the side of your neck. “Does it feel like I have a fever?”

Feverish? No. Warm, soft, addictive? Yes. Joel can feel your pulse beneath his hand, strong and steady. He can feel himself losing the battle already. He pulls his hand away and closes it into a fist behind his back. “Stop,” he says. “We can’t do this.”

You snort but turn away to give him some much needed space. “You can’t, you mean.”

He steps forward on instinct and freezes. He can’t bring himself to retreat, but he has the strength still to keep from going to you, from seeking you out just to feel you in his hands. That has to be enough. Joel knows he needs to say what he has to say and leave, before his resistance withers into nothing. “People are already starting to talk.”

“People,” you mock. “You mean your brother?” When he doesn’t deny it, you continue. “Let me guess—he said something this morning, asking about what we did all because I said I would pick up a couple of extra shifts.”

Joel doesn’t mention the other things Tommy said, about you being a pain in his ass. Joel can relate to it. “He also said you’ve been blatantly ignoring Maria.”

“No fucking shit I’ve been ignoring her,” you snap. But your eyes widen as Joel’s whole body tightens, seeing the mistake.

But he isn’t here for that. He’s not. If you’re going to be a foul-mouthed brat, so be it. It’s not his place to discipline you. It can’t be. “You need to give her a break. Maria’s done right by all of us.”

“Why? Because you said so?” You laugh, and it’s a sick, maniacal sound that grates against his nerves. So different than the soft airy giggles he’d heard last night. “Cut the shit and be honest with yourself, Joel. You want me to be nice to Maria so you don’t have to hear Tommy bitch about me anymore and you want me off watch duty with you because you’re afraid of me.”

“Afraid? Of a little girl?” Joel thinks you're joking at first. But you’re not laughing anymore, and when he realizes you’re serious he lets out a long sigh of frustration. It releases the tension in his shoulders just enough to keep him from losing it. “You think you know everything, but you don’t.”

“Well I’m not wrong,” you say, brows raised.

It’s the attitude that gets to him, the contempt. Joel can’t stand it. He wants to take you by the throat and force you up against the wall. But he doesn’t, using the last of his patience to keep his feet planted firmly on the welcome mat.

“It was so good,” you say, the cadence of your voice lowering to a near whisper. There’s a warmth in your eyes that makes his chest ache. “I know you felt it too. You can’t tell me you didn’t. And even if you did, I wouldn’t believe you. I don’t believe you, Joel.”

The sound of his name in your mouth is nearly his undoing. It’s so pretty, you’re so pretty. Joel swallows hard, suddenly aware that for all he defiled yesterday, he’s never kissed you. Not truly.

He’s kissed your forehead, your cheek, has tasted your skin and the wetness between your thighs. But he’s never once tasted the inside of your mouth or felt your tongue against his.

Joel clenches his teeth.

He can’t. He shouldn’t.

But he has to. Good fucking God, he has to.

Joel reaches you in two strides. Your eyes widen in fear, but the moment he places his hands on either side of your face you’re melting, becoming pliable material for him to manipulate. Joel tilts your head up and leans down, crushing his mouth to yours.

You’re gripping his brown leather jacket, trying to keep your balance. But he’s crowding you, forcing himself into your space, into your mouth, pressing himself against you as if every inch of separation pains him.

Joel thinks you taste like bad decisions, like pomegranate seeds and glowing apple slices, like poisonous peach pits, like something so tempting it’s forbidden for good reason. He bites in anyway, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it out. You moan at the deviation from heaven, and he grabs a fistful of your ass and drags you impossibly closer as a low growl leaves his throat.

He knows you can feel his cock through his jeans, pressing hard against your belly, but Joel does his very best to ignore it as he licks every soft part of you. He wants to remember this, to savor it, because he promises himself it’ll be the last time he ever takes advantage of you.

When he pulls away, Joel’s gasping for air like he’s never been kissed before. Like this is his first time, like you’re his first. It’s certainly the only time it’s ever been like this, heavy and weighted, hot and desperate and sacrilegious.

Your eyes are glassy and beautiful as you look up at him, fingers still clutched in his jacket. “You’re afraid of me, Joel,” you repeat, snaking a hand between you and rubbing his cock, squeezing softly over the denim. “You’re afraid of how good this feels because you’ve never been able to hold onto anything good in your entire life.”

And, distracted by the soft feel of your mouth, by your hand, he’s able to listen. To rid himself of guilt, of shame, truly hearing you. Joel silently wonders if you’ve been the conductor of this mess all along, if you’ve somehow seen behind the scenes, if you are, impossibly, the one who’s manipulated him. Because how else would you be able to rip those razor-sharp truths out of him? Truths he’s never faced, truths he’s never planned to.

“It slips through your fingers every time, like smoke,” you say.

Joel can’t pull himself away, can’t reestablish that distance he so carelessly erased. You feel too good, touching him, sighing softly between words as if he were the one touching you.

“And so you’ll push me away, so far that you can forget whatever it is you feel for me. And it’ll work. For a little while, anyway.” You rise to your tiptoes, swollen lips a breath away from his ear. “But one day you’ll be laying in bed with some lovely, soft spoken, age-appropriate woman, and you’ll look over at her and you’ll imagine me in her place. And I think you’ll miss bossing me around, and teaching me how to behave for you, and how good it feels to be inside of me.” His cock throbs in his jeans, and he feels you smile against his skin. “I think you’ll miss me real bad, Joel Miller.”

The picture you paint is a dreary one, and it leaves Joel cold. Even colder when you finally step back and he can’t feel the warmth of your skin anymore, the heat of your breath. But he doesn’t say that, because this feels like a goodbye—the goodbye he came here for. Joel steels himself, pushing that God-forsaken image far from his brain. “Tell Maria you’re sick,” he orders.

And then he’s leaving, and it hurts to slam the door behind him, but he does it.

For the first time in days, Joel feels a drop of redemption trickle back into his bloodstream.

Thankfully, you don’t show up to the tree blind to relieve Greg and Bonnie. But no one else does either, and Joel knows that you never even attempted to speak to Maria. A last-ditch effort at defiance.

When they ask about you, he lies easily and says, “She’s running a little behind. Go on home, you’ll probably pass her on the way.”

And they do as he suggests, leaving Joel in the tree blind alone with his thoughts.

It’s almost as dangerous as being alone with you, because your words echo in his brain. I think you’ll miss me real bad, Joel Miller.

He will. He does. Already, he misses the way your body feels against his. He misses the taste of your soft tongue. He misses your sweet laughter and carefree demeanor. He misses the innocence in your eyes when you look up at him like he has all the answers. Joel wants to give them to you, wants to take care of you. Wants to make you feel good, to protect you, to keep you safe.

But you’re right. Goddamnit, you’re right. He is afraid of you. Terrified, in fact—because it could so easily turn into more than just physical need, more than just sinful desire. That one day you spoke into existence could come and he’d miss more than how it feels to be inside you, he’ll just miss you.

Joel knows how dangerous that is. It’s bad enough he’s gotta worry about Tommy and Ellie. Why would he want to add another name to that list? Another person he’d die for, another person he’d kill for.

It’s no good. He’s no good.

Joel feels the ghost of your mouth against his and can’t resist pressing his knuckles to his lips, hoping to cement your DNA there so he can keep the lingering taste of you forever.

But if not him, who else will take care of you? It’s dangerous outside these walls.

It’s only then he remembers his conversation with Tommy and Maria, who wouldn’t let Joel be on watch alone. Yet they let you go on runs alone, and often.

The realization has his blood boiling.

Because if not him, then who? Some other, older man? Someone capable of enduring your fury, your foolishness, of knowing when to have a heavy hand and when to touch you softly? No.

Fuck no.

By the time his shift is over and the next two patrolmen come to relieve him, Joel knows right where he’s headed. They ask him where you went, if you ever showed up—and he covers for you. Saying, “I cut her loose early so she could get some sleep.”

At first, he’s not sure why there’s an innate desire within him to lie for you, to keep you safe from ridicule or consequence.

But as he’s walking to that white house on the corner of the street, Joel realizes that it’s because he doesn’t want anyone else to punish you—ever.

That’s his job.

And, Christ, does he have plans for you.

Joel freezes a second before he bangs his fist against the door. The night is quiet and cold. The air is still. And, through the thin walls, he can hear you.

Can hear those sweet, soft moans. It’s faint, but it’s there. And Joel knows because those cute little sounds are forever embedded in his memory.

All the blood in his brain rushes south at the image his mind produces. He can almost see you; sprawled out on your bed, legs parted with your hand between your thighs. He wonders what you’re thinking about and selfishly hopes it’s him.

His hand shakes as he lowers it and reaches for the doorknob. You wouldn’t be so stupid, would you?

The question is quickly answered when he twists the handle and encounters no resistance. Joel suddenly thinks of a quote his old, southern pastor once told him when he was a kid. Fittingly enough, he’d used it in a sermon about abstinence.

Temptation is the devil looking through the keyhole. Yielding is opening the door and inviting him in.

But what is Joel to do when the devil leaves the door unlocked and wide open with a bratty little girl on the other side of it? How is he supposed to resist the forbidden fruit knowing just how sweet it tastes?

He just can’t help himself.

Joel eases his way inside, carefully closing the door behind him. He shrugs off his jacket and flannel, laying it over the back of the worn leather couch as if he belongs here. Your house is dark, but he’s able to follow the sound of your whimpering down the hallway. He pushes your bedroom door open as silently as he can—and what he finds is somehow a million times better than what he’d imagined.

You’re sitting in the center of your bed, straddling a pillow that’s folded in half between your legs. You’re facing the doorway, head tilted back and eyes closed in euphoria. Joel can see everything from here. The curtain over the window is open, the moonlight casting a purplish hue over your soft skin.

His whole body tenses up as he watches you, eyes stuck on the wet spot between your legs. Joel almost doesn’t believe you’re real, nearly convinces himself you’re some sort of backlit, demonic little thing. Sent to him by the devil himself to ensure his damnation. As if it somehow wasn’t already a guaranteed thing, because Joel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life, watching you desperately try to get yourself off.

You tilt your hips back and forth, moaning at the friction. The sounds you make are so beautiful, and Joel is thankful at this moment that you have little consideration for others. Because you’re moaning and whimpering loud enough that you don’t hear the wooden floor creak beneath his feet as he closes the space.

In a sick, sinister way, Joel enjoys the fact that he’s watching you, so close he could reach out and touch you, and you have no idea. Pretty, stupid little girl. Joel is a bad man, you know. Real bad. And he could do whatever he wanted to you right now. Could cover your mouth with his hand so you can’t scream, could force you to your knees and have his way with you.

You let out a sweet sounding gasp, and Joel knows you’re close, nearly there. He would bet your clit is throbbing against your pillow, pussy just aching to be filled.

More than anything, more than teaching you how dangerous it is to leave your doors unlocked in the dead of night, Joel wants to help you. Wants to make you feel good. Wants to show you that yeah, one day he may be lying next to another woman thinking of you, but he will be the only man to ever satisfy your sadistic cravings. No one will ever be able to touch you again and make you feel as good as he does.

He wraps his hand around your ankle and squeezes, anticipating the terrified cry you make in response. Joel holds tight, wrapping the other hand around your calf and pulling you to the edge of the bed.

But not before you reach behind, pulling a serrated sawback knife from beneath the sheets. It’s clutched tight between your fingers as you hold it towards him. Your frightened eyes soften as recognition comes. He can hear your breathing settle, but your chest is still heaving. He doesn’t think you notice as his hands begin to slide up your legs, over the softness of your thighs. “Joel? What are you doing? Did you break into my house?”

There isn’t a single trace of alarm in your voice anymore, even though you’re still pointing that knife at him. “Didn’t have to,” he says, completely unfocused on the point of the weapon. Joel leans forward, running his hands over the swell of your hips, your ribs. He takes both breasts in his hands, unable to hold back the groan at the heavy feel of them.

“I thought,” you swallow hard, inhaling a ragged breath. “I thought…you said—”

“I know what I said.” Joel takes the knife from your hand with ease and lays it on the battered nightstand. And the second he’s no longer under threat, he forces your back against the mattress and crawls between your legs, pulling them up over his hips.

He pushes his hard cock against you, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare, sensitive skin. He watches the way you immediately soak the fabric, evidence of your near-release. You prop yourself up on your elbows, brows knitted together, the cutest little pout on your lips. “Wait,” you say, and he does. “I just…I don’t understand.”

Joel sees the concern etched on your face and thinks you’ve never looked so vulnerable in front of him as your eyes search for an explanation. He doesn’t have one that makes sense, that justifies his being here, justifies his hands as they roam freely over your skin. He pushes his hand through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. “You don’t have anyone to take care of you,” he mutters. “I’m gonna keep you safe, baby. Real safe.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” you argue. “I can keep myself safe just fine.” He twists his hand in your hair, pulling lightly. His free hand comes between you, and Joel forces you to watch as he runs his thumb through your folds, spreading you open.

He doesn’t reply to your proclamation because he doesn’t believe it and he doesn’t think you do, either. He speaks as he circles your clit with the pad of his thumb softly. “But I gotta keep you safe from me, too, sweetheart. Can’t let an old man touch you like this. You’re just a little girl.”

Your back arches, pushing against his hand. You’re grinding against his cock over his jeans, and Joel can feel himself leaking at the warmth of you. You breathe his name, begging for more, begging for him like he knew you would.

Joel slides his thumb down further, smirking at the groan you let out as he pushes it inside you. “Precious little thing,” he whispers to himself. He switches his thumb for his middle finger, turning his hand palm up so he can press hard on that sweet spot inside of you. Your legs immediately start to tremble around him, and Joel smiles to himself knowing he’s barely touched you and already he’s accomplished what he set out to do. “I know, baby,” he says. “No one else can make you feel this good, huh? Not that pillow, not your hands, no other man but me.”

He releases his hold on your hair, letting you relax against the mattress. Your spine is still arched at the base, allowing him easy access to where you want him most. When he slips another thick finger inside of you, your hands clutch the sheets and your pleading gets a whole lot more convincing. “Joel, please—please just… mmm, Oh, God—”

Even though they burn his throat, Joel forces the words out before he loses the courage. “This is the last time, pretty girl. The last time I’ll ever touch you, okay? I promise. Gotta keep you safe…startin’ tomorrow.”

He almost wonders if you heard him, so lost in your satisfaction as he fucks you with his fingers. But then you lean forward, pulling eagerly at his leather belt, and he hears you say, “Liar.”

Joel knows you don’t believe him, but it’s true. He just needs to get it out of his system—to be inside of you knowing it’s the last time so he can savor it properly. To memorize it so he never forgets. He watches, enraptured, as you unbuckle his belt. Your hands are so much smaller than his, trembling lightly as you pull his cock out. He chuckles darkly as you lick your lips and hurry to line him up at your entrance. His middle and index fingers are still buried deep inside of you, hooked upwards right where you need him. “You want it now, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you say so quickly he laughs. “Please, Joel, please.”

With his free hand, he knocks yours away and presses his tip into you between his fingers. “Right now, huh? So fuckin’ needy, can’t wait one more minute. Just wanna be so full’a me you’re beggin’ for it, s’that it?”

He inches in further, leaving his fingers inside of you, watching the glorious stretch it makes, relishing in the whine you let out in response.

“Wait,” you say, fear laced in your voice as you realize his intent. Joel does—giving you the option to deny him, to say no. But you don’t. Of course you don’t. Instead, when your pretty eyes meet his dark gaze, something heated and curious appears on your face.

Joel sinks into you further, even as you toss your head back and force the air from your lungs in a ragged exhale. He knows it must feel so full —because he can feel every inch of you, squeezing him like a vice.

“It hurts,” you hiss, wincing. “Joel, I can’t—!”

“Yeah you can, baby,” he encourages. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Joel pulls back out slowly, cock glistening with your slick. “You say it hurts but this pretty pussy is just cryin’ for me, little girl.” When he pushes in again, stretching you slowly, he lets out a low groan at the feeling and doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in.

“Oh my God,” you whine, hooking your legs around his back. “It’s too much.”

“Is it?” Joel mocks, rocking his hips slowly. He can feel your body react immediately—walls fluttering around him with every movement. You’re a trembling, moaning mess, making an even bigger one all over the dark hair above his cock.

A single tear falls from the corner of your eye, and Joel leans forward to kiss it away. He presses his lips to your forehead and gently strokes the side of your face with his free hand. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I…it’s just,” you pause to let out an elated sigh as he thrusts in deep. “If this is the last time you—ohh, God, Joel—please, you’re gonna make me—”

“I know, little girl, I know,” he says. Joel thrusts his hips forward hard—once, twice, until your legs are shaking so bad he knows you’re one stroke away from combustion. And then he pulls his cock out of you, lips curling into a smirk at the whine you give in protest. “S’okay, baby, don't cry,” he promises, dropping to his knees and pulling you to the edge of the bed. “Wanna taste it, sweetheart.”

His mouth is bliss when he puts it on you, licking long, gentle strokes through your heat with his soft tongue. He uses both hands to spread your legs wide, holding you still even as you squirm, and his chest rumbles in satisfaction as he drinks you in. Joel wraps his lips around your clit and focuses his efforts there. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he groans against you as you tangle your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face as if you can’t get enough.

Joel understands. He really, really does. Because even when your body pulls tight and you moan his name over and over, soaking his facial hair, his chin, his mouth—it’s not enough. He wants more, wants you impossibly closer, wants to hear nothing but your moans for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t stop until your muscles begin to relax and your breathing slows. He releases your clit from between his lips and you shudder as he licks through your folds, devouring any trace of your orgasm left behind. The urge to praise your behavior rises in him, wanting to tell you how good you’re being, how perfect.

But this—tonight—is about Joel. It’s a selfish act, his taking you. It’s for his memory, for his satisfaction. Which is why, when he crawls back over you, Joel rests his calloused hand against your neck and crushes his mouth to yours. You open up immediately, giving him an all access pass to your tongue, moaning at his reverence. You taste so fucking sweet, and Joel knows just how easy it would be to find obsession in kissing you.

With his free hand, he reaches down and pushes his jeans off the rest of the way, the metal belt buckle clanging to the floor. He pulls away for only a second to grip the back of his shirt collar and pull it over his head, discarding it quickly.

And then he’s turning you over, grabbing your hips, and forcing them up. The sight of you with your face against the mattress and your arms braced in front of you, the enticing slope of your spine, your glistening, needy pussy—it’s almost too much. Joel’s cock throbs painfully, desperate to be inside of you. He runs his hands over the perfect globes of your ass, spreading you open. “You’re so pretty, baby. The cutest little girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, and your whimpering in response to his compliments is so cute it warms his heart.

You arch back for him, and Joel can’t resist his grin. You’re just so eager.

He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip between your cheeks, watching it slide down your pussy until it reaches your clit. He lets out a sigh of relief as he pushes back into you, can’t resist leaning over and pressing sweet kisses to your spine. He won’t last long—not like this, buried so deep inside you there’s no end of you or beginning of him.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says. Joel’s thrusts are punishing and relentless. He slams into you, holding you down against the mattress with one hand and using the other to paw at your ass, pulling you back onto him every time he retreats. “This what you wanted? Hm? Wanted to be bent over and fucked like a whore, huh?”

“Yes,” you choke out. “It feels so good, Joel—fuck—”

His hips still. He fists his hand in your hair and pulls you up, back against his chest. His mouth is at your temple as he asks, “What was that?”

“I’m sorry—don't stop, don’t stop, please,” you beg. The words are desolate and frantic, but there’s a knowing, arrogant smirk on your face.

You’re playing him, Joel suddenly realizes. Playing into his games to get what you want—you clever, bratty little girl. His palms twitch with the urge to force you into true submission instead of whatever this forgery of it is.

But he can’t do that in a single night. And so Joel decides to give you exactly what you want instead.

He wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing lightly as he presses your head to his shoulder. He uses the other to reach down and stroke your clit in soft circles, thrusting up into you all the while. “Aw, baby,” he tuts. “Look at you. You’re so fuckin’ easy. Doin’ whatever I want you to. Lettin’ me fuck you however I want.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God—Joel I’m gonna—!”

Joel thrusts harder, circles your clit faster. Arousal pools low in his belly at the delicious way you say his name. “Give it to me, baby. Yeah, there you go. Mmhm, thaaaat’s it.” You squeeze him hard, and Joel has to close his eyes to hold himself back.

Your moans are music to his ears, pretty little sounds that urge him on. His hand doesn’t stop, his hips don’t slow, and his mouth never quiets, filthy words sending you to immeasurable heights.

“Pussy was fuckin’ made for me. It’s soakin’ me so good. This what you like? Hm? Like to be fucked real rough, treated like a fuckin’ slut. That’s what makes it all wet, baby? Don’t you worry. I’ll give you everything you need, exactly what you’re beggin’ me for.” Joel feels your muscles go slack, but his hand on your neck only tightens, holding you upright. He doesn’t stop even as your hands fly to his between your legs, pulling at his wrist, needing reprieve.

“Joel, oh my God, please—I’m finished, I’m finished—!”

He presses your clit harder, fucks you deeper. “Ain’t this what you wanted? Didn’t want me to stop. Real sensitive, isn’t it?” His tone is so mocking, so mean. “Gonna fuck you till it hurts, pretty girl.”

You’re writhing in his hands, the cutest little tremors rocking through you. “It does, it does, Joel, please, it hurts so bad,” you cry. He kisses your tears away, savoring the taste of saltwater on his tongue.

“Tell me who’s pussy this is,” he whispers in your ear. “Tell me baby, who’s pretty pussy is it? Huh?”

No answer comes right away. You’re too fucked out, fucked stupid, thoughts emptying out of your head. But Joel is there, right at the precipice, and he has to hear it before he follows you.

“C’mon little girl, use your words. Tell me,” he gently urges.

“Yours! It’s yours, I swear, Joel, fuck, fuck—!”

He pulls out of you just in time to spill his come onto your back, his cock sliding against your ass. Joel feels satisfaction down to his bones, knows that it’ll be easier to resist you now that he’s succumbed to his indulgences.

But as the euphoria fades, the guilt slowly starts to seep in. Joel lays you gently against the mattress, chest heaving.

“Don’t move,” he says. And then he’s leaving your room, picking up his flannel from the back of the couch. When he returns, he wipes away the mess he made, cleans up the lingering wetness between your legs.

While you climb up the bed and slide your shaky limbs beneath the thick comforter, Joel starts to pull his clothes back on. When he’s dressed in his boxers and t-shirt you ask, “Joel? Can you…can you stay? Just for a little bit?”

Your voice is so timid, so mousy, as if you’re embarrassed to even ask. He’s never heard you like this before. It tugs on his heartstrings, makes him feel the beginnings of exactly what he’s been trying so hard to avoid.

That feeling chokes him, makes him feel covered in sin. Because you’re so young. So young that Joel should know better. He does know better. He’s just really, really bad at resisting temptation. Astronomically bad, in fact. And he doesn’t want to hurt you—truly, he doesn’t. Despite all he’s done and all he’s said, Joel has your best interest in mind. And he has no place there.

But, fuck, he wishes he did.

Words don’t come easily to him. They never have. Especially when he has so much to say. “‘Course,” is all he manages.

Joel climbs in bed next to you, shoulders relaxing for what feels like the first time in a very long time as he pulls you close. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, rests his cheek against the top of your head. He’s so warm, like a big cocoon of heat and safety.

The silence stretches on. And he thinks you may have fallen asleep already. But before you do, he says into the dark, “I didn’t mean it, you know. All the…the stuff I said. I don’t think you’re…”

You lift your head, turning those spellbinding eyes on him. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it certainly isn’t for you to give him an award-winning smile and say, “Good to know Joel Miller doesn’t think I’m an actual whore. If he did, whatever would I do?”

He doesn’t pick up on your sarcasm right away. And you must see something on his face that’s real amusing—because you burst into a fit of girlish giggles and Joel can’t help but mirror your grin.

“I’m kidding,” you say. And then you lean up and press a chaste kiss to his jaw. “Goodnight, Joel. You can let yourself out when you’re ready.”

He waits until you fall asleep, until your breathing evens out and you turn away from him on your side. Joel gathers his things quietly and leaves through the front door.

This time, he locks it up tight.

[part one] [part three]

#joel miller #ao3 fanfic #joel miller smut #ao3 writer #joel tlou #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller self insert #joel miller fanfic #age difference #smut #idle threats #pearlessance

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secretmellowblog · 8 months ago

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Les Mis Hidden Name Meanings: “Fantine” (posting here because it got popular on TikTok)

Every character in Les Mis has a name with a deeper symbolic meaning— here’s a video I made for the official @barricadescon TikTok about the meaning behind “Fantine!”

Transcript and Digressions I left out of the video, under the cut:

Every charcater’s name in Les Mis is either a pun, a reference to a historical/mythological figure, or had some deep symbolic meaning — and sometimes it’s all of them at on.

The name “Fantine” comes from the french word “enfantine” or “childike, infant-like.” Her name basically means “Baby.” And obviously this speaks to her innocence and niavetee. But also “baby” is kind of,.,, well it sounds more like an informal term of endearment than an actual legal name?

And that’s because– Plot twist– Fantine isn’t her legal name! What is her legal name? She doesn’t have one.

And the reason she doesn’t have one is directly tied to political turmoil of the era she was born into.

Fantine grew up an orphan living on the streets, without a family without parents. Hugo tells us the origin of her name:

“she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. (...)She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained.”

This moment is adapted beautifully in the Manga adaptation by Takahiro Arai, which I recommend to anyone who loves Les mis, manga, or any combination of those things.

But now let’s talk about the Directory.

To wildly oversimplifly a lot of complex history: Before the French Revolution, the Catholic Church’s records of baptismal ceremonies were often used as a registry of people’s legal names. During the French Revolution, the Revolutionary government– including the Directory– put in place a series of policies we now call “dechristianization,” where they attempted to dismantle the power of Catholic church.

Fantine was born during the age of these dechristianization policies. So she was never baptised, her baptismal name was never recorded, so she has no recorded legal or family name. She’s slipped through the cracks of the legal system, and ended up completely anonymous.

It sets Fantine up as this anonymous child of the Revolution– a stand in for everyone who was left behind when the Revolution was left behind, and kings were restored to the throne.

Fantine’s namelessness is meant to show atomized . How she has NO support system. She has nothing to connect her to other people, nothing to connect her to a support system.

Finally, the way Fantine tends to “slip through the cracks” is something that follows her throughout her life. When she’s fired from her job at a factory, Maroy Madeleine never learns of it– Fantine has this tendency to overlooked and forgotten. She is born anonymous and she dies anonymous. At the end of the story, she is buried in an unmarked grave, with not even the name “Fantine” on her headstone.

It ties into novel’s questions about which people we consider worth remembering, whose lives are worth being records.

And obviously Fantine is not the only character in Les Mis whose name has a deeper symbolic meaning. If you have any other Les Mis character names you’d like to explain, leave their name in the comments below.

Thank you for watching!

From the description of the original tiktok, here are some things that were left out of the video for time:

How this all relates to Cosette’s name(s)

Fantine’s nickname “The Blonde,” and how this relates to the way she’s dehumanized by Tholomyes

How the 2018 Bbc series fundamentally misunderstands Fantine’s character, and how one sign of this is that they give her a full legal first and last name

How Fantine’s name shows up/is revealed is significant parts of the story (like when Valjean reveals her signature on a letter to Thenardier, allowing him to take Cosette away)

How Fantine’s inability to write ties into the way it’s difficult for her to record her own story

How some of Valjean’s last words are revealing Fantine’s name to Cosette

Thanks again for reading!

#les mis #les miserables #Fantine #:3 #tiktok #barricades con

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shadesoflsk · 9 months ago

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MOONTALK

pairing: Leon Kennedy x GN Reader.

summary: After retiring, Leon often has nightmares about his past. Talking under the moon's gaze seems to help.

warnings: Smut MDNI, just oral (m receiving), angst to fluff to smut hehe, mentions of death, violence, and alcohol, catholic symbolism, dad bod leon hehe (x2) subby leon, reader is called spouse.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: Hello! This is very simple since I'm trying to get better at writing smut for gender neutral readers :) There's not enough content and while I improve at writing the whole sex scene I shall bring you this! (I'm open to suggestions or constructive criticism.) As always, I hope you're having a good week!

The starry night is chosen to be Leon’s witness in the middle of his stolen slumber.

It’s a common occurrence, part of himself longs for the pain-filled activity since it serves as a reminder of his own life. Night terrors scare him more than his anxiety. The first one clings to his soul and threatens him with an inability to wake up. Helpless to his own mind, he prefers to be fully awake.

However, his brain isn’t his friend. Even when awake and aware of his surroundings, his mind would recreate scenarios he has lived before. Blood dripping and sticking to his combat boots, the smell of the iron-ish liquid filling his nostrils painfully making its home in Leon’s head, messing up with his perception of the world and himself.

Somewhere in that messed up path, he had found you.

He didn’t intend to, it wasn’t in his plans to. He had locked his heart and thrown the key somewhere in the sea of his failures.

A feeling of regret brimmed in Leon’s soul. How could his name be attached to yours if the sole mention of Leon Scott Kennedy brought memories of hell on Earth? A former rookie cop, ready to risk his life on duty turned into the government's best weapon. He’s made peace with that, ever since his mission in San Francisco his life has gotten significantly better.

But that doesn’t mean it has stopped hurting.

He once heard Jesus presented his left cheek to be slapped. In the past, he’d have imagined the mere thought of being that naive was ridiculous.

“You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.”

Now, that passage has been planted in his heart like a thorn that wouldn't go away no matter how much he pinched the skin. But rather than being a bothersome feeling, it shaped him into the man he is now.

He would never be Jesus, he knows that much. Ever since he was a kid, his connection to religion was always dangling between trust and distrust; faith and doubt. Fear crossed his juvenile and innocent expression whenever he came across a statue of the people’s lord and savior.

God bad, Jesus good. People good and bad. The Old Testament was the backbone for Leon’s hatred towards God. If this supernatural being ‘loved’ his people, why would he punish them?

Sins are ambiguous. Killing is bad. But if he had killed creatures that were no longer humans, is he a sinner without redemption?

He’s still coming around that last statement. Were they really no longer humans?

That’s why he prefers the New Testament. A fresh start, a new life being born. Jesus wouldn’t judge him for the man that he was and is.

And just like him, he turned his left cheek in a mission in San Francisco years ago, when he ended Maria’s life. Bitter and revengeful for killing her father, the woman made it her mission to murder Leon. But ultimately (and ironically) she ceased to exist in Leon’s arms.

‘Revenge’ was met with a ‘Now you can be with your dad again.’ Merciful, he had granted her a last moment of peace.

The soundless night heightens Leon’s senses. As he tries to brush off his worries, some footsteps break the unnerving silence that Leon is in. His ears focus on the soft pace that he easily identifies as yours.

Recognition turned into monotone and monotone into mundane. And don’t get him wrong, God he loves feeling he has finally found his home.

Leon’s arms are resting on the balcony railway, blue eyes focused on the starry night.

“You should be sleeping.” He flatly says without turning to face you. Not out of apathy but guilt. Not being next to you has woken you up.

“Can’t sleep without my husband.”

Sensing you approaching, he opts to tease, trying to divert your attention somewhere else. “Wouldn’t be my dear spouse if you weren’t clingy.”

“I’m not clingy.” But you wouldn’t allow Leon’s usual antics. You know them by heart, lighthearted jokes instead of facing reality. “I’m just worried,”

“You worry too much.”

“But I’m always right.”

A sigh.

Teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

“It’s hard to sleep sometimes.” The phrase is not directed at you, but a response to his own thoughts. For him, safe and sound sleep is a blessing he’s not lucky enough to receive.

“I know.” And then again, your reply isn’t about yourself. A feeble smile appears on your face out of empathy and partial understanding. Standing next to him, your elbows rest on the balcony railway, the chill air sending goosebumps through your skin. “Did you dream about something?”

Leon’s eyebrows knit in concentration as he mull over her question. When he tries recalling his past moment of slumber he is met with the usual gruesome scenario and the same gut-wrenching screams.

“Same old tale.” He exhales. In the past he would have had a glass of whiskey in his hand, tilting the content to one side as he gazed over the starry sky. But he made a promise, and as much as his past comes back to haunt him, he’d keep it.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Why I don't believe you?”

He brings a calloused hand to his mouth as he registers your words. Under the moonlight, his expression gives away his exhausted state, a hint of darkness around his eyes, a permanent faint frown.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yet here I am asking.” It’s not until now that you notice Leon’s shirtless torso. Most of his scars are turning a light white color while his bruises are changing their hues. His body is not the same from a few years ago. His abdomen no longer shows off his chiseled abs but a slightly round and soft belly.

“Feels like I’m walking in circles.” He finally answers with his eyes closed. His restless mind can’t give him a break. Unable to completely live in peace, he finds himself pondering about his own humanity.

“The past is always clearer at night.” With an expression akin to resignation, he looks at you. “And the past tells me I’m a monster.”

The faint sound of the clock could be heard even when they were both gazing into the sky and letting their thoughts be consumed by the chill night. It reaches the dreaded ‘Devil’s hour,’ 3 AM.

“You aren’t a monster.” And it is the truth. While Leon is a complex man, it is not a difficult task to unravel and search through the layers he has covered himself in. His heart beats for the nation and therefore its citizens.

“If I’m not a monster then what am I?” He replies, his face growing somber. “If what I’ve done isn’t destruction what is it?”

“Salvation.”

It is far from salvation. It’s selfish to even think that way.

Sadly, Leon was the designated pawn to complete the job nobody wants to do.

Sadly, Leon is no more than a victim in the web of despair and destruction.

“Salvation.” He scoffs, a sharp ironic demonstration that your words weren’t the best. “I used to fight while the innocents kept falling at my feet.”

A glimpse of a past self appears in front of you. Chaos and loathing unfurls.

It’s been years since you last saw the man who used to drown himself in the deadly burning liquid. However, the alcohol no longer filled the empty spaces in his body and soul.

Truthfully speaking, nobody can fix or heal anyone. But you gladly took the role of being Leon’s partner in life. Not only romantically speaking. Silently, you made a home in Leon’s heart and he was too comfortable with you to ask you to leave him.

“You didn’t do it in the first place.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The government did.”

“But I was just another bullet in a gun.” He replies softly, his gaze drifting forward. Even after all of these years, he couldn’t completely shake off the guilt that kept haunting him. “Another man with his finger on the trigger… I was just a man with a gun.”

“And you’re also a man with a heart.” You respond immediately, not giving him a chance to continue his venom-filled words toward himself.

“If you were the demon you think you are, these late-night thoughts wouldn’t be haunting you as they do. You wouldn’t be mourning every soul even after all these years.” Your words bring a sense of comfort amidst the internal battle that is occurring inside him. The weight of his burden has always been more bearable with you.

“You think I’m that much of a saint?” A faint smile tug at Leon’s lip. A troubled expression on his face tells you he is still not believing your words. Or perhaps, he feels like he shouldn’t believe you.

“I don’t think you’re a saint. Humans are much more than black or white, good or bad. We are gray.”

Your statement is true. Humans are far from being one-dimensional beings. The balance has always been there and he knows it. When he was a child and religion was still an important part of his life, he remembers when Jesus protected Mary Magdalene.

‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’

Leon had stained his hands with blood and gore, but he had also saved countless lives when the odds were against him.

“God… I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” He laughs, finally bringing you closer to him with his arm around your waist.

“No, you’re just human.” You reply, admiring the view your balcony provides, you think about the endless possibilities in life. If you hadn't met Leon, where would you be? And if Leon hadn't met you? How his life would look right now?

Universe works in mysterious ways, if you hadn't been in the right place at the right time, you wouldn't have your soulmate next to you.

A comfortable silence sets in as Leon finally relaxes and gives his mind a break. There were days and nights in which his brain was weak, but that doesn’t mean he hasn't gotten better.

“I would do laundry and taxes with you in every timeline.” You break the silence with a quote from a movie both of you had watched and Leon being the moviegoer he is, you know he’ll recognize it.

“That's not how the line goes, you silly.”

Bingo.

“Then enlighten me, Mr. I know every movie by heart.”

“It is ‘in another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.’” He states matter-of-factly which gains a laugh from you. But in a way, you’re used to his antics and almost nerdy personality only you get to see.

But your words mixed with the ones from the movie hold a glimmer of truth. Even in a timeline in which he wasn’t an agent and just a regular citizen, you’d have fallen for him. Because his past doesn’t make him the man he is now.

In another life, you’d love him over and over again.

“But I’d do all those things in this life and even in the afterlife.”

His eyes fall on you, the glimmer in them now being obvious. Just a few words from his love would pull him out from his depressive nights.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“I’m just amazing like that.” You wrap your arms around Leon's neck while his hands rested on your middle section. “Now hug me because I’m fucking freezing.”

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Laughing, he pulls you closer in a tight embrace. “I’d hate for you to catch a cold. Besides… I need my cuddling partner every night.”

As both of you move out of the balcony and away from the cold wind of the night. Leon’s hands move painfully obvious to your rear. After his late thoughts, he only wants to feel you close to him.

“I don’t think you want to cuddle.” You remark the obvious. Leon just chuckles, nodding.

“Aside from being the perfect partner you’re also a mind reader?”

You step in your bedroom. Place that has been witness to Leon’s most vulnerable moments, from the times in which he'd come back from a mission to the ones in which both of you would get lost in each other's bodies.

His sanctuary, your heaven.

You smile at him as you motion him to sit down on the bed. Both of your eyes are locked in a gaze that says what you are feeling, love. No matter how hard his or your days could be, both of you could always come back to a partner that takes care of them. No matter the situation.

As he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, you lean closer and press a kiss to his forehead, to his nose, to his cheek, and lastly to his lips. This last one lingers more than the others, sweet and slow, like how you want to treat him tonight.

“I love you.” You whisper as you pull back from the kiss, your thumb grazing over his stubbled jaw.

“Love you more.” He responds with the same tenderness you have brought him. After saying his words, his hands traveled to where your hips were, attempting to pull you closer.

“Nuh-uh. Tonight’s about you, sir.” You have your mind set that this night is going to be all about the perfect husband you have in front of you.

With that, your lips once again found their home but this time it was on Leon’s neck.

With your lips giving some attention to Leon’s sensitive skin, you treat him like he was fragile porcelain.

After a few moments, you slowly lower yourself until you're between his thighs. Another reminder of how much his body has changed, his thighs were fuller and bit less toned than before.

He has seen you like this before, on your knees and with the sweetest of looks but dear God it gets better every day.

You press your cheek against Leon’s inner thigh, your hand rubbing the flesh that is still covered with his sweatpants. He was no longer an active agent therefore he had gained some weight which you completely love. He blames the alcohol he used to drink so much and the lack of high-impact exercise. But you always reassure him that you love him nonetheless.

Your hand creeps to his clothed crotch, you gently trace along the bulge that has already formed. Leon’s breath is starting to get heavier but nothing too scandalous, for now.

“I haven’t even touched properly and you’re already this hard.” You are trying to be gentle, but there’s something about having control over him even when you’re on your knees that just prompts you to tease him a hit.

“Might as well cum in the spot, don’t you think? Bet you’re already imagining me pulling down your boxers and stroking your cock.” The face Leon was making could send you straight to heaven.

“You’re the devil…” Leon tries, he tries to gather himself by making a joke. But his high-pitched speech comes out pathetic. A rebuttal? More like a whine.

“What? My handsome husband can’t handle the spice? I expected better.” The praise seems to hit a spot somewhere in his body because the way his hips just bucked and sought the friction of your hand was contradictory to his previous words.

“Please…” And after that whimper, you no longer want to tease the man. Especially tonight in which he deserves the best.

“Ok, ok. I gotcha…” You murmur, wasting no more time and pulling his sweatpants down. A wet spot is already formed in his gray boxers. Then again, more teasing words flood your mind but you brush them off.

With a gentle kiss on his inner thigh, your fingers hook around the fabric and slide it down. His dick springs forward, and as always, it makes your mouth water. It’s the same image as always, slightly curved lenght with veins you had memorized by now and a reddish tip that tells you how bothered and pent-up he’s been.

Marriage has always been depicted as a boring and monotonous lifestyle, in which you get bored of your spouse after a couple of years. In a sense, you understand where they come from. However, Leon and you always made sure to keep things interesting, and as corny as it sounds, both of you try to make the other fall in love again.

You press a kiss on his tip, holding back a laugh as you know how sensitive he must be. The slightest touch has him gripping the bedsheets.

“You’re teasing.” He says as his lips form a pout. His calloused hands flatten on top of your hair

“Am I?” You give his shaft a few kitten licks, not breaking eye contact while doing so.

Finally, your shenanigans are followed by your lips wrapping around his tip, sucking the area. That gains a whimper out of Leon, the ones you’re so used to.

When you first met the stoic agent, you wouldn’t have thought that he’d be so vocal in bed. Even when he was supposed to be on top, he’d let the most beautiful moans against your ears. asking for permission to continue, asking for permission to fill you up.

For a moment, your lips continue sucking off his tip. Your saliva coating the area and sloppily making out with the head of his dick. Your fingers wrap around the base of it, almost overwhelming Leon with the amount of attention he is receiving.

“Ah — Fuck…” His eyes roll back as you finally take him whole. The previous ministrations long forgotten as your mouth and part of your throat surround his sensitive cock.

You bob your head, slowly at first, controlling your breath as Leon involuntarily thrusts his hips making his tip hit the back of your throat. You place your hand on Leon’s thigh, to motion him to stand still.

“Shit — sorry, sorry…” His voice gets slightly higher, now his previous words turn into pleas or straight-up moans. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth as your tongue runs on the underside of his cock.

“Too good for me…” He’s reduced to just babbles and whines, his knuckles turn white as keeps on gripping the bedsheets, an awful attempt to drown more moans. As you continuously bob your head, Leon could feel his high coming.

Unconsciously and given his dazed out state, he brings his leg to your shoulder. You were completely focused on him and this simple action made your concentration break a bit. He’s putty in your hands, his brain no longer functioning whenever you are in control.

You’d edge him, you’d definitely tease him for that. But now, you just continue sucking him off with the inner side of his thigh brushing against your cheek.

“I’m gonna — Fuck…” It’s not a warning, but a comment, a needy announcement. As much as he denies it, there’s not a better image than seeing you covered with his cum, or watching you swallow it whole. It made him feel a sense of pride, knowing that his spouse is the one making him come undone.

And as your tongue runs along a vein, he couldn’t contain it any longer. With a high pitched whine and throwing his head back, he spills down your throat.

The warm liquid fills your mouth and some of it drips from the corner of your lips.

You stay still for a moment, collecting every last drop of Leon’s cum. When you feel Leon’s hand on your shoulder —the one that doesn’t have his leg on it— you know he was asking you for a break.

Pulling out with a pop, you gently move his leg for him to rest.

For a few seconds, you just massage your jaw as Leon tries to recover. Heavy breaths fill the dark room, allowing you to relax once again.

“You good?” You ask as you are sitting down on the floor.

“Yeah — Just… give me a second.” He laughs, closing his eyes. A loving smile forms on his face.

You laugh too, getting up from the floor, you admire the scene Leon provides you: All of his body exposed to you, his sweatpants and boxers pooling at his ankles, and his fucked out expression.

Heaven.

After a minute or so, Leon composes himself.

“I’ll make sure to wake up every night if this is the treatment I get.”

“Next time I will just tie you up to the bed.”

“Oh? I like the sound of that.”

Laughing, you slap his naked chest as he pulls you closer. Nights like this are a reminder of his humanity and his right to love and to be loved. The past can never be changed or forgotten, but he can learn from it.

💬shadesoflsk: Comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated.

author's note 2: I just had to mention eeaao! It's one of my favorite movies and I know Leon would love it. Sorry if it was too sappy of me but then again... I'm always like that.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #resident evil #resident evil x reader

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the-muppet-joker · 5 months ago

Note

could you elaborate on your choices for the 4 horsemen for the ponies? i’m deeply curious about your wisdom and insight

Very well.

Famine = Luna

Both are black horses

When Nightmare Moon takes over, there is no sun. Crops cannot grow under these conditions. Her reign is a reign of famine and no harvest.

Additionally, in the episode Cutie Re-Mark, it is shown that under Nightmare Moon's domain, Timberwolves roam free. While they are not directly tied to famine, they have symbolism regarding Harvest as they are known to howl at the first zap apple and attack those who try to harvest them if they are nearby, hindering people's ability to gather fruit.

War = Cadance

Naturally, a pony red with the blood of those slain in war is generally not marketable to little girls, who are unfamiliar with bloodlust and afraid of violence. They settled for a close second: pink.

She is the princess of love. Are you familiar with the phrase "all is fair in love and war?" Wars are acts of passion and bloodshed. Passion? Blood? Both symbolically related to the Heart. And what is her cutie mark as well as the sacred object that gives power to her kingdom? The Crystal Heart.

The Crystal Kingdom, Cadance's kingdom, is frequently under threat of was throughout the series. Queen Crysalis and the Changelings. Sombra. Again, in the episode Cutie Re-Mark, we see a timeline im which Sombra had won. And what is the state of Equestria? A mirror fucking image of how other countries in real life are affected by war. We literally have soldiers Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash and we see Apple Jack working tirelessly to ship out apple mush to feed soldiers for the war effort. This parallel is so clear and frankly I could go on.

Conquest = Celestia

Yes I know the image says strife. I wanted the pictures to be in a consistant style and they used the word strife but it says conquest in the Bible. Anyways, they are both white horses.

I mean. Do I need to spell it out? Celestia is an imperialist. She spreads her and her nation's influence and ideology as far as she is able. Cadance is installed as the leader of the Crystal Empire under her direction. They have conflict with the changelings, so they promote a leader more sympathetic to their nation. The school of friendship? Teaching other species the way to act and behave? Are non-ponies unfamiliar with friendship? Propoganda. And she is the Princess of the Sun. THE SUN. NEVER. SETS. ON. EQUESTRIA'S. EMPIRE. Sound familiar?

Do not make an enemy of Celestia or you will be punished and then brainwashed into submission. Luna? The moon. Discord? Stone. Sombra? Tirek? The list goes on. Again, I feel this is a clear parallel that needs little explanation.

Death = Twilight Sparkle

Indeed this is the most subtle connection. After all, she is not even close to the right color. She is purple! No relation to death whatsoever........ right? WRONG. In the Catholic faith, the calandar is divided into different seasons with associated colors. Purple is the color of death and mourning; priests will exclusively wear purple robes for mass during Lent to symbolize Christ's suffering and death on the cross.

Twilight has a very important role as she and her friends are the bearers of the elements of harmony, with Twilight in the lead. The power of this clearly escalates throughout the series, as the mane six progress from turning Discord to stone to completely destroying Sombra after he is initially resurrected. We watch them become a force that could take away anyone's life force, Twilight especially. And let's not forget the form the elements later take. The tree of harmony. Reminiscent of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, from which humanity committed its first sin and thus were kicked out of Eden, gaining the ability to die.

Twilight will outlive all of her friends. As an allicorn, she is immortal. We see in the last episode that she is in her prime while all of her friends are elderly. How can one be a Princess of Friendship if she sees all her friends to the ends of their lives like a benevolent Reaper? After so many years of standing at the deathbeds of loved ones, she will feel detatched from others. A Princess of Death.

And yes Flurryheart is the fifth Princess but she is a clear allagory for the Antichrist so I did not include her

#my little pony #anti my little pony #catholic musings #catholicism

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farfromstrange · 8 months ago

Text

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

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