#vampire charlie cox

[yellenabelova]

Interview With the Vampire 1.03 // Daredevil: Born Again 1.08

[farfromstrange]

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.” 

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

“How would you know?” you counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[andyspideyy]

It's a Blonde thing.🥰

The vibe here is so similar y'all....😋❤️.

They are so much Klaroline and Steroline Coded 😉♥️👀

Anyone else agrees !!!!

[fulesthefirst]

Daredevil (2015-2018) || Interview with the Vampire (2022-)

Catholic Guilt Boys™ being Catholic and feeling guilty.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Vacancy

Henry x Reader (Eat Locals)

Words: 3025

Summary: Henry’s affection for humans has always confused the other vampires in the region. When there is a vacancy among the eight, Vanessa brings forward his girlfriend in the hopes of turning her into one of them. 

Notes: I’m obviously changing the story of the movie, but I thought this would be a fun experiment. I wanted to do something a little angstier with Henry, and this was so enjoyable. I hope you guys like it too. Happy Halloween! 

-

You memorized the way the sun felt on your skin as it set. The warmth. The color it turned the sky. It was beautiful. But you’d already said your goodbyes to daylight. 

You made your way back into the house, making sure the curtain on the door was closed. Up the stairs, you saw him pacing back and forth by the stairwell, running his hand through his hair and nervously fidgeting with his suit jacket. A smile teased your face. 

“Perhaps we have time for you to de-stress before you have to leave.” You said, climbing the stairs with a suggestive smirk. You reached the top and put your hands on his chest, smoothing out his vest. It was the purple one- your favorite. Henry took your face in his hands and kissed you sweetly, but went no further. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time, darling.” He gave you an apologetic smile. “I’m expected in less than two hours and I prefer-”

“To be punctual, I know.” You sighed. “I just hate to see you agitated like this. Surely they can’t all be that bad.” 

He chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” He exhaled deeply. “It’s just a painful process, filling a position. Finding a poor soul that’s willing. Turning them.” 

“I’m sure everything will turn out exactly the way it’s meant to.” Your lips pressed into a thin smile, holding back a secret. He twisted a lock of your hair around his finger. 

“I hope you’re right.” You could tell the smile he gave you was forced, but you knew that his troubles would be soothed soon enough. He finished packing his things and with a final kiss, went out into the night. 

You waited for his car to vanish to pull out your cell phone. 

“Is he gone?” Asked the voice on the other end. 

You took a deep, hopeful breath. 

“I’m ready.” 

-

The place of the meeting was decided. A small cottage along the cliffside that had long since been abandoned by its owner. Most people in the nearby town thought it was haunted so they steered clear. It was perfect to assure them a peaceful and productive meeting. At least, that’s what Henry hoped for. 

He, as usual, was the first to arrive. He walked along the cliffs, listening to the endless waves crashing beneath him. The ocean, like him, was eternal. It stretched on into the horizon, steady and sure. Henry looked up at the stars and thought of you. Somehow, in the vastness of his life, he found you. You. In all his years, he’d never felt more at home than he did in your embrace. But he knew his feelings were dangerous. He’d seen enough loss to know how this would turn out. 

So he counted his blessings while he could. 

His secret. That’s what you were to them. The thing they just couldn’t figure out. And he was keen to keep it that way. 

Henry forced you to the back of his mind and went inside. 

It was silent, save for the old boards creaking under his feet. It reminded him of one of those old books he’d read to you- you always liked scary stories around Halloween. The creepy house, the unexpecting victims. Only, Henry knew exactly what awaited him here. 

The Duke was dead. One of his oldest friends, which, of course, was saying a lot. But that didn’t change the fact that he was gone. Killed by one of his own people in an attempt for his territory. It had ripped a rift in their group. Peter wanted to go to war. He didn’t even like The Duke. He just liked violence for the sake of violence. 

Luckily, everyone listened to Henry and Vanessa. They would dispose of the traitors and then they would fill The Duke’s seat when it was finished. That was nearly two months ago. His assassins proved more crafty than they anticipated, but with the promise of The Duke’s territory, Peter was more than happy to take them out. 

Now they just had to fill the vacancy. 

Henry sat at the table and waited. 

You were at the bus stop. You figured it was a better place to be picked up. If Henry stopped back at home, you didn’t want him to see her pulling up. It would ruin everything. But she was late and you were bloody freezing. 

“Are you lost, lass?” A man asked behind you, making you jump. He leaned against the building in shadow, concealing everything but his perfectly tailored suit. “I don’t think there’s any running this time of night.” 

You tilted your head in confusion. 

He motioned to the sign over your head for the bus. 

“Oh, no,” you laughed nervously, “my friend’s picking me up.”

“Odd place.” He stepped forward. He had sharp features, red hair, and eyes that felt like they’d freeze you in place. “It’s dangerous for a pretty woman to be out here in the dark, don’t you think?” 

“Maybe I’m not as helpless as I look.” You tried to sound intimidating, but under his cold stare, you just sounded frightened. 

He chuckled, tossing aside the glowing cigarette in his hand. “Maybe not.” 

Gathering up your courage- and maybe a little stupidity- you held your head high and pushed your shoulders back. 

“Listen, can I help you, or do you do this to every woman you come across on a dark platform?”

The man simply smiled. 

Headlights pulled up beside you, attached to a black car with the window rolled down. 

“Are you ready?” Vanessa asked. 

You nodded, turning back to the man at the stop. 

He was gone. 

“Everything alright, love?” Vanessa turned down the music on her stereo. “Because, if you’re having second thoughts-”

“I’m not,” you said quickly. Holding your bag close to your chest, you found your feet unable to move. You just stood there, staring at her. “I’m not.” 

Vanessa gave you a small smile. “Don’t be afraid, Y/N. Think of it as going home.” 

The tension in you eased, but only a little. You gave her a short nod and forced yourself to move. 

Vanessa turned the music back up. 

-

The others trickled in as they usually did. Alice with her innocent look of the crocheting grandmother. Henry always found it ironic that she was probably the brutalist of them all. Well, maybe not Peter. Angel was next. Then Seba. 

Seba was the newest of the group. He was voted in after a rather tense night of evading the British Army. Peter had originally opposed, but after the kid helped them escape, everyone agreed to enter him amongst their ranks. 

Henry remembered that night with an ache in his unbeating heart. He remembered how he thought he’d never see you again and how you would never know what happened to him. He remembered being terrified of leaving you alone in this world. You didn’t have anyone else, just like him. 

“How’s it going?” Sebastian asked, still giving his wary looks towards Alice and her knitting needles. Even after a year, he was still quite skittish about all of this. 

Henry gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “How have you been? Are you settling into your territory?” 

Seba shrugged. “No complaints yet.” 

“I find it’s harder for them to complain when they’re dead,” Alice said, not looking up from her knitting. 

“If we could kill anyone who bitched and moaned about something, we wouldn’t be sticking to our quotas, now would we?” Angel teased. 

Seba swallowed. Taking after Henry, he didn’t feed off of humans- well, unless they were freaky cannibals like the Thatchers. He didn’t have as many qualms to getting rid of them. 

Peter arrived next with his usual air of frustrating arrogance. 

“Vanessa’s on her way,” he said, taking his seat at the table. “Looks like she’s picked a pretty one.” 

Henry turned away. 

“So, what are the other orders of business we can make up before she gets here?” Seba asked, trying to lighten the clean tension between everyone. 

“I thought you told him we take these meetings seriously,” Chen said. “We only meet every fifty years.”

“I know, I know.” Henry gave Sebastian an exasperated look. “Sebastian, please.” He held up his hands. “Sorry. Just thought you all seem so intense and all.” 

“Immortality is intense,” Peter snarled. 

Angel grinned. “So is feeling the blood drain out of your victim as they slowly stop shaking.”

Everyone slowly turned and looked at her. 

“What?” 

Alice patted her hand. “That’s nice, dear.” 

Outside, the familiar rumbling of an engine signaled Vanessa’s arrival. Henry glanced around the room, at the two empty seats across from him. One for Vanessa and the other… 

Damn the Council and their rules. 

He ran a hand down his face and reminded himself that, in a few short hours, he’d be back home with you, wrapping your sleeping form in his arms until you woke for work. 

Only, he didn’t have to wait that long. 

“Sorry I’m late everyone,” Vanessa announced, her bright smile lighting up the room- at least for Henry. It was often he was able to see his friend. “But I had to pick up our new friend.” 

If Henry’s heart could have stopped twice, it would have. 

You stepped into the room. 

Time stopped. 

Time, that wretched, meaningless thing to him, suddenly meant everything. Everything around him froze and all he could see was that first time you smiled at him. 

You avoided his eye, choosing instead to glance around the table. The man from the bus stop was there, grinning at you with the same predatory look as before, his eyes blazing more than his fiery hair. The others were all like Henry described them. Chen, Alice, Sebastian, Angel- they all watched you with a deep curiosity and even a little hunger. 

“Hello,” you managed to greet, sounding weaker than you would have liked. 

Henry stood up so quickly, that his chair fell over. 

“No,” he said. 

Everyone turned to him. 

“Is that your vote already?” Angel asked. 

“There isn’t going to be a vote.” His eyes finally met yours. They flared in the dark, circles of light that always seemed to stare right through you. “It isn’t her.” 

“Henry, dear, let’s talk about this-” Vanessa said. 

“You knew?” He snapped. 

She clamped her mouth shut. 

You stepped towards him. “Henry-”

“Don’t.” His voice turned into a growl, like that of a scared animal. “You need to leave, now.”

You had expected this. You knew he would fight it. But you also knew he didn’t have much of a choice. 

Slowly, you shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere, Henry.” 

As you stared each other down, the rest of the group sat in awaiting silence. 

Then, Peter started to laugh. It was a harsh sound. Cruel. He looked at the pain in Henry’s face and enjoyed it. 

“Oh, what a sad, stupid sap you are, Henry,” he said. “So this is why you don’t feed on humans? Because you’re shagging one?” 

“Very classy, Peter,” Vanessa scolded. 

He ignored her. “I can’t say I blame you. She’s certainly got the stuff, even for a human.” His eyes raked over you tauntingly. 

Henry’s fists clenched at his sides and he resisted the urge to leap across the table. 

“Henry,” Angel said, “is that true?”

The panic was clear on his face, enough to answer her question. 

“Oh dear,” Alice said. 

“Damnit, Henry.” Angel shook her head. 

“I thought you were the smart one,” Chen added. 

“I say we start the vote then,” Peter laughed. “This is going to be fun.” 

“Let me talk to her first,” Henry pleaded. 

“Why, so you can convince her to run along home?” Peter shook his head. “I’d rather watch you squirm now.”

“Let him talk to her,” Vanessa said. 

You shot her a look. 

She laid a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Give him some time.” 

Henry was across the room in seconds. He took hold of your arm and yanked you into the other room, slamming the door shut behind him. 

You’d seen him angry before. When he found out about a vampire killing in his territory, when Peter tried to take more than he was allowed when the darkness of the world just wouldn’t end. 

This wasn’t that. This was a silent, seething frustration. More than that, it was pure fear. The strongest person you knew and he was desperately afraid. 

“Before you say anything,” you started, trying not to shrink under his hard stare, “I wanted to tell you.” 

“That does very little to help your case, Y/N,” he said. His voice was too calm. 

“I knew that you would stop me before I could even leave the house, so I went to Vanessa and-”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He took a shaking breath. “Do you know what this means?” 

You nodded slowly. “Either you vote to turn me…”

“Or they’ll kill you.” Henry pulled a chair in front of the door and sat down. His shoulders slumped forward, weighed down by a decision that was now his to make. 

You had already made your choice. 

“Henry,” you whispered gently, kneeling in front of him. “This is what I want.” 

“How?” His voice cracked. “How can you be so willing to throw away your life? How can you be so willing to become a-”

You laid a hand on his cheek. “You are not a monster, Henry.” 

He leaned into your touch in spite of himself. 

“And a life with you is far from thrown away.” You smiled and leaned up to kiss him. He didn’t pull away, instead, his lips against yours were sure and sweet. 

“Please don’t do this,” he said, forehead pressed against yours. 

“Are you afraid you won’t feel the same way about me?” 

That was your biggest fear in all of this. Not the bite, not the death or the blood. You were terrified he wouldn't love you when you weren’t human anymore. 

Henry pulled away. 

“How can you think that?” Henry wrapped his arms around you, cradling the back of your head in his hand. “Y/N, I will love you until the cliffs crumble to nothing. Until time itself runs out, and then after.” He kissed your forehead. “I promise you, it isn’t that.” 

“Then what, Henry?” You asked. “I don’t have anyone to stay for. I don’t have a life outside of this. I only have you and Vanessa. The human world has rejected me. Maybe if I had more time…” You bit your lip to stop yourself. 

He saw right through it. He always did. 

“What do you mean?” Henry moved his hands to cup your face, his eyes searching yours. “What do you mean, if you had more time?”

“I’m sick, love.” It barely came out as a whisper, unable to admit it to yourself, let alone to him. 

His heart broke right before your eyes. 

“Why did you tell me?” He cried. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” Blinking back tears, you gave him a small smile. 

Henry laughed humorlessly. “So you do this instead?” 

“I suppose it isn’t the soundest logic.” 

A lightness returned between you and he wrapped you in an embrace, memorizing the feeling of your heartbeat pressed against his chest. 

“Does this mean you accept?” You asked. 

“I don’t accept any of this, darling,” he said sadly. “But I won’t stop you.” Pulling away again, all of the love and devotion in his gaze made your chest ache. “Are you sure you’re ready to spend forever with me?”

You ran your fingers through his hair. “More sure of anything in my life.” 

He took a breath and stood, lifting you with him. 

You opened the door. 

The two of you returned to the table, you sitting in the empty chair between Henry and Vanessa. 

Vanessa gave you an encouraging nod. 

“The Council won’t like this,” Chen said. 

“The Council won’t care,” Vanessa argued. “As long as there’s eight of us, they don’t need to know where the last one came from, or how much she knew before she turned.”

Peter clapped slowly, staring at you from across the table. 

“So Henry gets to keep his little lover forever, hm?” 

“Peter, dear, don’t be petty,” Vanessa said. 

“Why should we vote for her?” He asked. “What couldn’t she possibly bring to us?”

“What reason do you have not to?” Angel asked. “Other than being a prick?” 

He opened his mouth to argue, but Henry stopped him. 

“Peter,” he begged, “please.” 

Peter, in a moment of generosity so rare for him, stopped talking. 

“Alright,” Vanessa said, standing. “I suppose that means we should vote.” 

Henry took your hand.

“All those in favor of Y/N joining us?” She raised a hand. 

Henry closed his eyes and raised his hand. 

Sebastian followed, leaning over to you. “It’ll be nice to have someone newer than me. I say yay.” 

Then Angel. 

Then Alice.

Chen. 

All eyes were on Peter. 

The red-haired vampire glowered. 

A beat. 

Henry’s hold tightened.

“Fine,” Peter said. He raised his hand. 

Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief. “All those opposed?”

The room remained still. 

“Excellent.” She turned to you. “Welcome to the family, dear.” Vanessa glanced over at Henry. “I suppose you should do the honors, eh Henry?” 

Peter laughed. “This ought to be good.”

“I’ll do it,” Henry said, almost defiantly. 

He stood, gently urging you up with him. Henry took everything in one more time, from your warmth to the color in your cheeks. But you were right. 

All you had was each other. 

“Are you ready?” He asked. 

You smiled and pulled him in by his tie for one more kiss. 

Angel whistled. 

Henry parted from you but kept you as close as possible. He tilted your head to the side. He leaned in. 

“I love you,” he whispered against your neck. 

You tangled your fingers in his hair. “I love you too, Henry. Forever.” 

You closed your eyes as his teeth sunk in. 

[moonflower91]

I’m watching Eat Locals (2017), a movie about vampires featuring vampire Charlie Cox and umm

I may write something on this. Like I’m thinking a Henry x his bubbly wife, kinda thing, where his wife insists they have to get married every handful of years to keep it legal and holy so they’ve been married like 30 different times and he’s like “sure sweetheart, if it makes you happy”

Like a real 😠 😒 x ☺️🌸 kinda deal.

If anyone is interested in reading, lemme know!

[yarrystyleeza]

Never ending cycle!

Pictures credits to mattspunshingbag on tiktok

[nika-neangel16]

I'm daredevil.

[1988-fiend]

Whhhhhaaaaaattttt?!!!! 🤣🤣🤣🤣

please no one disturb me I am doing important research on wikipedia dot com today

[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [PREVIEW]

Main Masterlist

PREVIEW.

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Warnings: (additional tags to be added/changed) Dead Dove Do Not Eat, religious imagery & symbolism, vampirism, Dark!Matt, blood consumption, corruption kink, SMUT (18+), pain kink, blood play, ANGST, canon typical violence, physical assault, allusions to sexual assault, hunter and prey vibes, allusions to stalking (possibly full-on), scent kink, marking, blasphemy, no happy ending

Summary: Over the past centuries, nothing could have stopped Matt Murdock from wanting, craving, everything, even what he could not have; money, power, and sex, among other more materialistic things, but nothing has him in quite a chokehold like the insatiable hunger for blood he was cursed with the night he died. Nothing could have stopped him from getting what he wants until one day in March, you enter his life.

Matt has stolen, beaten and killed without care, but corrupting a child of God is a line he dares not cross. You, a nun. It’s unthinkable. The part of him that longs for the life he was torn out of—the boy still riding the waves of Catholicism, that Matt Murdock—would rather see him impaled on a wooden stake than allow him to take your blood. Your blood, your innocence, and all that you are; the aroma of rosemary and sanctity that surrounds you is a siren’s call that draws him inevitably closer. The same walls of Clinton Church that house you would incinerate him, and he still wants you. He wants you, but he can’t have you.

Devoting yourself to the church saved you from the abyss, but it may also lead to your eternal corruption at the hands of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Matt Murdock. A vampire. Soon, you find yourself not only on the verge of losing your innocence to this angel of the night but your life, too, and your world drastically changes for what you realize might be worse than death itself.

(18+ MINORS DNI!)

A/n: I’m back, back, BACK again! Vampire!Matt brainrot is real, and this idea was so dark in my head and kind of ironic, really, I had to put it out there for you. I will be doing my research on Catholicism religiously (pun intended) to make this as accurate as possible, but it’s still an alternate universe and I like making up my own rules. Everything I write is my personal playground, and I invite you to join me for this steamy piece of angst. So far, this is only a concept, but I will get to writing it as soon as I can! The idea is there, and I’ve got some things planned out already. So, if you’re curious, do stick around!

AESTHETIC.

Matt.

You.

RELEASE DATE: TBD!

(If you want to be tagged to know when I release it, as always, feel free to let me know. I don’t bite. Well, only sometimes.)

[fulesthefirst]

Daredevil (2015-2018) || Interview with the Vampire (2022-)

Catholic Guilt Boys™ being Catholic and feeling guilty.

Part 3 (Part 2) (Part 1)

[anika-ann]

Look who's finally reading 🙈

Not gonna lie, I was worried about reading this one, because it's a world completely foreign to me, but my, was I silly. One, it's not like I was about to read about vampire for the first time in my life. TWO AND MORE IMPORTANT, like come on. It's you. I should have known I'd be sucked right in ✨

I mean it. I adore the atmosphere int his, the vivid images and the biting

Even as he scolded you, all you could think about was how fucking close his lips were to your skin; and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to get closer or farther away from it.

Closer. Definitely, definitely closer 🥹

Where you were desperate, needy and giving in, he was now intense; almost controlling as he took over, one hand slipping to the back of your neck, lowering, pushing you down until the scent of wildflowers erupted around you as you hit the ground, the starry skies embracing you from above.

This is just an extraordinary description and live for it 💕

“No.” He said firmly, grabbing your other wrist, pinning your hands above your head with ease as he laid above you, his face a mere inches from yours. “If I’m to claim you, right here, you’re gonna lay there and take what I’m giving you and you’re gonna be a good fucking girl and obey, you hear me. Can you do that, huh? Just once?”

Why that not me???? 😭🔥🔥 so UNFAIR!

“Don’t worry,” Henry said, smirking. “The dawn will find you in my arms, draga mea*; but not here.”

Speaking of why not me 🥹🥹

Thank you so much for letting me enter this exquisite world for a few moments 💕✨ Also thank you for the wonderful number of biting and you KNOW what foreign languages and lovely petnames do to me damn you, so rude😭

noctuary · henry x reader

noctuary (n.)

the record of a single night's events, thoughts, or dreams

summary: you're a young vampire, turned against your will and abandoned by your sire. henry has taken you in, and while you're thankful for his mentorship, there's a certain kind of tension building between the two of you

pairing: henry x reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. swearing. mentions of blood (duh), one dead fox (sorry), horny vampires, smut, lots of biting (not sorry), kisses, sucking, marking, oral (f rec), filthy kiss, p in v, outdoor sex, you name it sugar

a/n: so I love different vampire myths/lore and obviously, I had to make up a few things for this fic to work. most of my inspiration came from the vampire: the masquerade ttrpg/video games series which I ADORE and uh, this was a lot of fun to write! so there's quite a bit of plot to this. ...oops? Also, some spoilers for the horribly dumb but still somehow entertaining movie that is eat locals.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics.

The world felt inky black under the thick canopy of the trees, broken occasionally by the moonlight shining through a few patches, but you found your way easily, your eyes adjusting to the dark. The air was warm, heavy and damp with summer and the scent of flowers and grass hanging all around.

You’ve been walking for an hour or two now, heading deeper into the woods to clear your thoughts. You weren’t sure if it was working.

But you needed a little space.

The past few months have been hard, to say the least. You remembered walking home late one night, lost in your thoughts - and then, your next memory was waking up on the side of an abandoned road, curled up in pain as your whole body was wrecked by cramps, shivers and the deepest, most ferocious hunger that you have ever felt in your life.

It was sheer luck that Henry and Sebastian found you, dragging you with them, fleeing the impending dawn as you fell in and out of consciousness, too weak to struggle.

You could still recall that hunger, fighting to take over you until you felt the metallic taste of blood pooling on your tongue - that sinister-sweet, dark pleasure filling you, a single drop falling from the corner of your mouth and the crimson shadow that Henry covered over his wrist.

Even though he wasn’t your sire, a bond formed between you two.

A strong one.

One that was hard to ignore, even now as you tried to get as far away from him as possible, making your way through the undergrowth.

It’s not that you weren’t thankful. Without their help, you surely wouldn’t have made it through that first night. But it was hard to take it all in. The fact that vampires exist felt like the plot to a terrible movie, and whether you liked it or not, it was your reality now.

It was demanding getting used to your new life, both physically and mentally. To control your hunger, no matter how strong ancient instincts were gnawing at your bones. To keep to the darkness.

To play by the rules.

The Council graciously spared your life under the sole condition that Henry was now responsible for you.

Teaching you. Guiding you. Guarding and providing for you until you’re fit to receive your own territory. And your own place among the new Eight.

And you were grateful for his mentorship, truly. But he was - how could you put it?

Overbearing.

Of course, there was much to learn - from the history of what you’ve become, to your new-found abilities, and Henry took his time explaining it all. But he was always with you, shadowing your every move. On some nights, he allowed you outside, teaching you how to feed, how to blend in with the shadows. But most of the time he saw it best if you stayed inside, where you could be kept safe despite you frequently voicing your disagreement.

It was patronizing, and it was driving you insane. The fact that he saved your life was already enough to make you feel indebted to him for eternity - even if you’ve thanked him numerous times, and he never mentioned or taunted you with it. But it was there, hanging thickly in the air between you.

Just a few days back, you were out hunting, crouching together in the shadows on the outskirts of the forest. Motionless, you waited for something, anything, to cross your path.

You swallowed thickly at the memory of Henry’s body pressed tightly to yours, his breath fanning your face. Vaguely, you were aware of him talking, the low whisper in your ear sending shivers through your very core.

Then, a low chuckle, a smirk on his face when he realized you didn’t hear a single word of what he was saying. Even as he scolded you, all you could think about was how fucking close his lips were to your skin; and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to get closer or farther away from it.

Nevertheless, all that close proximity wasn’t doing you any favors. You felt tense, all your frustration pent-up and ready to burst. More and more often you caught yourself looking at Henry, your gaze lingering over him: his face, his lips, his beard, down his neck before you caught yourself and turned abruptly away.

You’d sit there, frozen in silent horror, begging all higher powers that this be no more than a passing infatuation.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Yet sometimes, just sometimes, when you couldn’t bear it anymore and let your eyes wander to him again, you’d catch him staring right back at you. His expression unreadable, umber eyes darkening as he focused intently on you. Like a deer caught in the headlights, you’d gape back at him, fleeing the room with the lamest excuse tumbling out of your mouth.

Then, you’d close the door on yourself, laying in bed in the dark, thoughts racing as you wondered about the taste of his lips, or how that beard would feel against the soft skin of your thighs.

At sunset, Henry woke you from an uneasy sleep, to let you know he was going out for the night. Except this time, he wasn’t taking you along.

“Seba will keep you company.” he said, already halfway out the door when you snorted indignantly, muttering under your breath. He stopped, turning back slowly.

“What was that?”  he asked, voice low and eyes flashing dangerously in the dusklight.

“Nothing.” you replied, and made sure it sounded as venomous as possible.

Henry took a step back into the room, towering over you.

“Good.” he said, and while he sounded calm, there was an underlying threat in his tone that made it crystal clear he was not up for your bullshit tonight. “I have something to take care of. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You could take me with you.”

God, you sounded so pathetic.

“This doesn’t concern you.” he said, leaving no room for argument. In a second, he turned his back on you, a whisper of a pain making room in your chest at how easy it was for him to be so dismissive of you. A sharp contrast to the yearning that seemed to burn every inch of your being, and you had to bite your tongue to not beg him to stay.

He looked back from the doorway, giving you one last warning.

“I’d better find you here when I’m back.”

Fuck him.

He was barely out of the house and you managed to convince Sebastian that you felt tired and wanted to be alone. You hoped Henry wouldn’t bite his head off for being naive enough to believe that lie.

Just to be sure, you waited a little before climbing out the window and made your way towards the woods. The cool night air, and the hike through the forest helped take your mind off of things at least. Not completely, of course, but it was nice.

It felt of freedom, even if there was a life to the forest; one the daylight would never let you see. Several hedgehogs crossed your path, hurrying on their way and you scared off an owl when a twig snapped under your boots.

Eventually, you reached your destination - a small creek cutting the forest in two, opening up the night sky. There was much more light here - the full moon rising high, illuminating the trees and breaking into a myriad pieces on the surface of the water.

You sat down on the riverbank, taking it all in. The clouds were clearing in the gentle wind, revealing the stars to you. Absent-mindedly, you pick up a small stone and throw it in the water. The splash scares up some critter hiding at the other bank and the leaves rustle under its paws as it scurries away.

For a few minutes, you just sit there, listening to the trickle of the stream and the occasional cricket chirping in the distance.

And then, you sense him, his presence looming behind you.

You’re not sure how far he was following behind because god damn it, you didn’t notice a thing. In fact, you’re pretty certain you only noticed him now because the bastard let you and that realization stirs up some old anger in you.

“What do you want?” you spat, refusing to spare him even a glance as you threw another stone.

“‘S nice to see you, too.”

“Go away.”

Another splash. He doesn’t move a muscle, of course - you’re in no position to order him around. It reminds you that you have no say in this game, no power. Instead of bickering, he simply sits down next to you, much to your surprise.

“I found a dead fox in the bushes. Was that you?”

You turn to him with a cold glare. “I’m not proud of it, y’know.”

Henry just chuckled. “Yeah, you’ll get used to it.”

You couldn’t help it. You were hungry, and taking what you needed from humans was not something you were ready to do. Pretty sure it wasn’t something you’d ever be ready for. At least there was no judgment from Henry for that. He was a firm believer that even as a vampire, one could still have standards - something he encouraged while mentoring you, too.

His voice dropped lower.

“I just want you to understand-”

“It’s fine.” you interrupted, throwing yet another stone. The words were venom on your tongue, except this time, you didn’t mean it. It just hurt.

Henry scoffed. “Can you stop being a brat for five minutes?”

“You don’t have to explain. I don’t care.”

Splash.

“But I do.”

“Don’t.” You raised your hand, ready to hurl another rock when he caught your wrist.

He wasn’t causing you any pain, just held on firmly when you struggled. You expected him to get angry. To yell. But when you looked over, ready to stare him down, to bicker until fucking dawn; there was something else in his eyes instead. Something soft, and caring - and it scared you.

With a huff, you tore your hand from his grasp. But you shut up.

Henry took a deep, uneasy breath.

“It happened only a few months before we found you, when there were still Eight of us. We met one night, to discuss some official matters. It was supposed to go all smoothly, far enough from town at a rural farmhouse.”

He snorted at the memory. “You’d think a handful of ancient vampires would know better, but we weren’t careful enough. I guess the past centuries made us a little too comfortable. A group of soldiers overwhelmed us.”

An awkward silence settled slowly, causing you to swallow against a sudden dryness in your throat. Never in your wildest dreams could you guess that something like this was behind his caution and sheltering. There were precautions to being a vampire, sure and the rules and quotas were in place to protect you, but still.

“A lot of my friends were killed that night.” He continued. “Only three of us survived - and Seba.”

“That was the night you met Sebastian?” you asked, incredulous.

“Yeah.” Henry looked over to you with concern. “Did he tell you about all this?”

“Just mentioned something in passing, once. Then panicked and refused to say anything else when I tried asking about it.”

“That sounds like him alright, yeah.”

“But what happened exactly?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it just as quickly, shaking his head. “One night, I will tell you. But I can’t, not now.”

He shifted closer, leaning in; you could almost feel his skin touching yours. If you tilted your head, just slightly-

“I- I can’t let that happen again. I couldn’t bear it. I can’t.”

You could practically hear your heart breaking over the pleading in his voice. “Henry…”

And there it was again. That gaze that seemed to see right through all the walls you’ve built, baring all your deepest desires. He was so close, impossibly close, his breath on the air, a whisper like a breeze.

 “I can’t lose you.”

You moved before you could think. Just an inch forward, pressing your lips over his. His breath hitched and you braced yourself for inevitable disappointment; for refusal. You weren’t ready for the soft moan in the back of his throat, giving himself to you.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this, îngeraș*.” he muttered before slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you didn’t even try to resist him, almost high on his taste.

Where you were desperate, needy and giving in, he was now intense; almost controlling as he took over, one hand slipping to the back of your neck, lowering, pushing you down until the scent of wildflowers erupted around you as you hit the ground, the starry skies embracing you from above.

Panting heavily, Henry pulled away briefly only to look at you, eyes glowing in the dark before he practically attacked your clothes, stripping you of your shirt, your own hands busy with his belt, tearing off his coat, getting rid of anything that could come in your way.

He looked absolutely gorgeous; better than anything you could have ever imagined: his body bathed in the moonlight, muscles glistening with sweat. Your eyes dropped to his neck, then lower, down his chest, following that sweet happy trail and you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself anymore, reaching out - only for him to catch your wrists again.

“Not yet,” he taunted, kissing the inside of your wrists half-apologetically. “I know you’ve been waiting for this, angel, but I’m gonna make you earn it.”

You choked on a sound, opening your mouth to protest but he interrupted you.

“That’s right,” he added, amusement evident in his voice at your shocked expression. “You think I couldn’t hear you? Panting and writhing and whispering my name in the other room as you touched yourself?”

You could feel heat creeping across your face, half in embarrassment, half in defiance as you tried to wrestle your hand free.

“Fuck, Henry, just let me touch you-”

“No.” He said firmly, grabbing your other wrist, pinning your hands above your head with ease as he laid above you, his face a mere inches from yours. “If I’m to claim you, right here, you’re gonna lay there and take what I’m giving you and you’re gonna be a good fucking girl and obey, you hear me. Can you do that, huh? Just once?”

You smirked. “Make me.”

The growl he let out was carnal, fangs flashing before he bit down on your neck. You moaned at the feeling of his teeth sinking into your flesh, just shy from breaking skin but enough to leave a deep mark, a final claim to make you his.

He grinded his hips against yours, his hard cock pressing to your thighs and you practically whimpered, wanting to feel him inside you.

“You’re mine.” he whispered, pressing kisses over his mark, “mine.”

Then, a trail of open mouthed kisses leading to your collarbone, your breasts, and he brought your hands down with his, fingers intertwined with yours to keep you in your place. You were a squirming, whimpering mess as he toyed with your nipples, fangs barely scraping your skin before he took them in his mouth, suckling on them, coaxing the most delicious sounds from you.

You clenched around nothing, needy and craving more as you tried to get some friction, grinding against him. One last lick, his eyes closed as he hummed in appreciation, his tongue slowly sliding over the soft skin of your breasts.

He was hunger itself, feral on the scent of your arousal as he slid lower, leaving small bites all over your stomach and sides, and you moaned louder and louder each time his fangs sinked into your flesh, practically crying with need.

And fuck, if it didn’t feel good to know you had this affect on him, the power to make him drop to his knees and worship every inch of your body with his mouth, his breath damp against your skin.

“Henry, please.”

One last bite, harder than the others, a low growl warning you to let him take what he needs, craves, wants. He squeezed your hands before finally letting go, laying flat on his stomach between your legs, eyes glowing with a fire like the stars above.

“Beautiful angel.” he said, arms wrapping around your thighs, holding you close, keeping you in place as he finally devoured you, dragging his tongue up between your folds, and you almost sobbed, lost in the pleasure.

Your hands scrambled until you found purchase in his hair, shamelessly guiding his movements as you rocked against him, your clit throbbing as he nipped and sucked on it. It felt like you could come any second, your whole body trembling with the force of it when he pulled away.

He wanted to give you more.

His beard was glistening with your arousal, and he made a half hearted attempt to wipe it away, only to reconsider, sucking his fingers greedily for every last drop. When he climbed over you, you couldn’t contain it anymore and reached out to cradle his face, pulling him in for a filthy kiss. He obliged happily, letting you get a taste of yourself.

He didn’t bother to warn you before he thrusted inside you, and fuck, it knocked the air right out of you, a choked sound in the back of your throat he swallowed readily. He filled you up completely, fitting so perfectly that there was no question he was made for you; born for you eons ago for this moment to make you lose yourself in him, his body, his yearning, his love.

He started rocking his hips, his eyes drawn to where your bodies met, watching his cock disappear in you, filling you with pleasure. He was drunk on your moans and the way his name hung on your lips, the way your hands looked for purchase so frantically, grabbing for his shoulders.

Panting, he picked up his pace, pounding into you harder, faster, deeper with each stroke, hissing, cursing softly under his breath when you dragged your nails down his back but fuck if he didn’t love it. It didn’t take long to get you close; the way you clenched around him, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming feeling of your whole body overcome with pleasure drove him over the edge too, the two of you cumming together, the clearing next to the creek loud with your grunts and moans.

Henry barely kept himself from collapsing over you, too greedy to pull out just yet, and you didn’t mind. You were high on euphoria, dizzy with pleasure, your hands lazily caressing his skin.

“We have to go.” he eventually said, softly, in-between featherlight kisses that he peppered along your neck.

He was right, you had to get back before sunrise.

“I want to stay like this forever.” you replied, the words tumbling out of you before you even realized.

“Don’t worry,” Henry said, smirking. “The dawn will find you in my arms, draga mea*; but not here.”

*îngeraș [romanian]: little angel

*draga mea [romanian]: my darling

@itwasthereaminuteago @munsonownsmyass 😘

[bigassbowlingballhead]

i just found what looks like a TERRIBLE movie staring Freema Agyeman, Tony Curran, and Charlie Cox. about vampires??? that have? machine guns??? in london????

it looks so so so bad but the poster is sick

[moonflower91]

Hello, Darling

part 1

Eat Local (2017), Henry x OC wife

After being married to the same man for as long as she had, Ila caught the scent of him right away. The crisp night air, rich with scents of rot and new life, of smoke and fresh grass, blood and sweat...none of it could mask that scent of his. She'd been walking through the forest, hunting for a quick snack before returning to her little rented room two towns over, when that gorgeous scent crossed her path. She'd frozen, eyes flashing as she took in her surroundings, half expecting to see him standing a ways off, waving at her cheekily when he won their game of hide and seek. 

Truly, it was amazing how her husbands scent had never changed--not from the time they were human children rolling around in the muck, to the time they had their last wedding back in the 1990s.

Soft, fresh and somehow smelling of the spices they once used in their food. 

He smelled of home, he always had done.

But, Henry was nowhere close, his scent strong, but still easily masked once more when a breeze drifted through the branches. Still, she had been his wife for over six hundred years. Ila found his hide away half an hour later, in some adorable farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't his, that she knew. Human smells hung thick in the air, and a truck sat in the drive, alongside the car that smelled of a professional cleaning job. One was Henry's rented car, the other belonged to the farm's owners. 

Ah, she realized. Right on schedule, fifty years on and another meeting ensues. 

Nonetheless, Ila's feet carried her right to the door, Henry's scent growing stronger with each step. 

She hasn’t realized how much she missed him until he was just beyond the door. But being married for so long and so often necessitated a certain amount of time spent apart every so often. God knows she could use a little break from him every half century or so. Just a few years between, nothing substantial.

This last five or so years had seen her taking a tour of their old country, exploring the forests and foothills of Romania, remembering a time long past when she and her family had travelled together.

When she pushed the door open, that gorgeous scent of his greeted her like a welcome friend. And that sweet, smiling face which never failed to make her long dead heart swell with happiness. They had been together for so long, and somehow he loved her the same as he had when they'd married at fifteen. He had begged his parents to be allowed to marry her, even though her mother and father came from less than favorable stock. He was the youngest son of seven, and it had been far easier to convince them than it would have been had he been the eldest. Her parents, on the other hand, had just been happy to see her married at all. 

When Henry had been turned against his will, he had not wanted to be apart from her, and one summer night, he'd turned her in a haze of bloodlust. 

“Hello, darling.” She beamed at him, quickly bouncing inside from the cold, although it didn't bother her. Still, there is something about standing in just a jumper and jeans outside when its hovering just above freezing that makes one want to be indoors. Distantly, she thanked god that old myth about being invited in was just that, a myth.

He didn’t appear shocked to see her, but neither was he unhappy, reaching out towards her with that same soft smile of his. Just like her, he had probably caught her scent in the air and knew she would come, awaiting her as he always did when her need for travel took her far from his arms. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” He greeted, accepting her happily into his arms and lap. She wrapped an arm around his neck, the other resting against his chest as she beamed happily at him. “I didn’t expect you quite so soon.”

“Well I wasn’t going to come during your meeting. You know Peter and me don’t get on.” She grimaced at the thought of the ancient creature, absently fixing the collar of his coat. 

“Peter doesn’t get on with anyone.”

“And I wanted a moment alone with my husband.” She continued, smoothing his coat, running her fingers up his neck to just beneath his ear. 

“Oh did you now?” He smirked, the hand curled around her hip cheekily stroking up her side.

“You know, this reminds me of our third wedding. Only you and me, abandoned cottage, dead of night. Only we were wearing far fewer clothes. And there is no cowering priest here, I imagine.”

Henry groaned, rolling his head backwards as though long suffering. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, love.”

��Who says I can’t finish it?” she smirked, pressing herself closer. But whatever fires she was tempted to stroke to life were prematurely guttered by another vampire's arrival. 

“Me.” A low voice sounded from the opened doorway.

“Duke. Always a pleasure.” Truly, he was the head of their counsel, and the vampire Henry answered to directly. Truly, it was Peter who was meant to be the Duke's right hand, being the second eldest of the Eight, but Peter had a wretched attitude and so Henry held that distinct honor instead. Ila supposed that was a right sore spot for Peter, but she was very proud of her husband.

She had no place among The Eight, the masters of eight distinct territories throughout Europe, and thus she had no right to remain and sit in on their meeting. But the Duke had known her long enough to know she was no real threat to any of the matters discussed. And, she was Henry's wife and he trusted Henry implicitly.

“Same to you, Ila. Though this meeting is a private affair. Counsel business and all that.”

“You would put a poor woman out of a house after she’s just been reunited with her husband?”

"Now, now, Ila my dear." Henry murmured softly, pulling her just a little tighter to his side.

The Duke's movement into the room shifted the air just so, and Ila's nose wrinkled. Blood was one thing, but the smell of decay and cleaning solution was quite another. "What is that stench?"

"Owners enjoy killing and bloodshed and violence more than most vampires." Henry replied, rolling his cigarette between his deft fingers. 

"Children?" Ila asked immediately, shifting to look at her husband. She had been a mother in her human life, and drew a hard line against humans who enjoyed harming the youngest and most vulnerable. Had he confirmed her question, none would stop her from going downstairs and tearing the captive owners apart, limb by limb. 

But Henry shook his head. "Migrants. Homeless. Anyone they come across, really." Well, in that case, Ila was more than happy to let the others have a meal once adjourning. 

"You do pick your hosts carefully. Anyway, Duke, if it is all the same to you, I'll step out of the room when the meeting commences."

"Very well, but that is only because I didn't make it to your last wedding."

"Yes, you were very much missed."

True to her word, when the last member of their council arrived, Ila retreated to the adjoining sitting room, idly flicking through one of their hosts books. Good lord, the things humans enjoy reading about these days. 

But when she heard Henry softly say her name, her ears perked up she tilted her head to listen better. Henry would not say her name and draw her attention unless he wished for her to listen.

"You think we wouldn't find out, Thomas." Duke growled. 

"About what?" 

"He's been overfeeding." It was Henry this time, his voice soft, but she could hear the disdain and disgust in his soft tone. 

"Sixteen above his quota this year already. And the less said about last year, the better."

"No, that's a lie!"

"And not only has he been overfeeding, he's been taking them young." The Duke rarely revealed his anger, and when he did, he shook the earth, even as he spoke quietly and measured. Ila stilled, disgust and horror welling within her as she processed the Duke's accusation towards their youngest and newest counsel member. It was a general law amongst the vampire community that children were forbidden stock. To harm something so innocent and helpless for one's own sustenance was a sin amongst them. In ancient times, it had been different, but time, it seemed changed even the immortals. 

Chen walked through the sitting area, causing her eyes to flicker up to him. He was quick and silent as a cat, shotgun in hand, and without hesitation, he pushed the door open into the kitchen, and shot and incapacitated Thomas.

"If you don't kill him, I will." She whispered, knowing those in the other room could hear her. True, Thomas had broken the Law, but he was still a Council member, still powerful, still respected. 

"Don't worry, darling." Henry murmured back, breaking a chair leg off while Thomas struggled against Chen and Angel. "Done and dusted."

—————-

"Getting tossed down the basement stairs is too good for that fuck." Ila murmured, head tilting as Henry brushed the remains of Thomas off his hands.

"Indeed, love." Like Ila, he despised unnecessary killing, but the slaughter of children struck a particular cord in them both. In their human days, they welcomed a pair of boys into their lives after a handful of fruitless years. Their sons had been a blessing for them both, who had begun to think they were just an unlucky pair destined to never have a child, let alone two. Ila's mother, god damn her, had been particularly vicious and despite pressure from Henry's family and Ila's, the two had not let the wretched woman near their sons once they were born. Even Ila's father had been allowed to hold them once or twice. 

By the time Henry was turned, their boys were half grown. He had stayed away for nearly a year after, following them in the darkness, hiding in the woods, under rocks, even resorting to burying himself in the dirt in the daytime when he had to, just to make sure nothing harmed them. But one night, when the ache of longing was at it's sharpest, he'd snuck back into their camp, his keen eyes finding her form easily. Curled up she was, and his still heart broke to see that even after so long, not knowing if he'd died hunting or had simply abandoned her, she slept with one of his shirts tucked under her chin. 

He had only wanted to touch her hair, to look at her, to breath her in before he disappeared into the night, but he had underestimated just how her smell would strike him with his heightened senses.

A primal instinct surged within him, and in a red haze, he realized he'd reached out and pinned her--his own wife--down onto her sleeping pallet, his hand clenched around her delicate little neck as his fangs elongated. It was only her frightened wheeze of his name that stopped him from draining her.

But he was young then, and he was on her before she could utter a shriek, his teeth plunging into her neck, drinking from her greedily as she clenched her hands at his shoulder. It was only later, when she told him, the bite had felt...good.  

He'd drunk down more than half of her, and only lived because he had stopped and left just enough to keep her heart beating and allow her to turn.

That night, after she'd roused enough to drink down a whole deer, the two of them ran away into the night, away from their family, away from their sons. The blood on the blanket had left them to believe she'd been taken in the night by some monster, and it wasn't exactly wrong. It had just been her husband who'd taken her. It had hurt them to leave them, but given that he'd nearly killed his wife, he could not risk his boys coming to harm from their hungry mother. Ila would not forgive herself if she'd hurt their children, and would likely stake him if he risked it.

Silently, they kept watch over their sons, their children and their children after.

"So there is a vacancy then?" Ila asked as Henry shut the door, slamming it for good measure. 

"Aye. Vanessa is bringing him, nine generations of pure blood. Hard not to accept."

"I hope he's accepted. Nessa is a pretty good judge of character."

Indeed, when the funny little human arrived at the farmhouse, Ila immediately took a shine to him. He was talkative, approachable, even friendly to the eerie group he found himself surrounded by. Lord knows they needed fresh blood to stay in the loop of todays modern vampire. Last she had checked, Henry's territory's population was steadily growing, but unfortunately for them, babies were making babies. The baby vampires needed careful maintenance if their kind were to stay in the shadows unbothered.

He introduced himself as Sebastian, a gypsy boy from an orphanage, not knowing just how rare and valuable his blood was. He had no idea how respected he would be, if he turned. 

"I'm Henry. I also hail from the east." He and Sebastian shook hands, with the latter immediately withdrawing with a hiss. Sebastian played it off easily enough, and turned his eyes to Ila, standing just behind Henry with a bright, warm smile on her lovely face. 

"I'm Ila, just here to observe. I'm Henry's wife. I also hail from the east."

"Oh no kiddin'! How long you been married then?"

"This last time, it'll be about 22 years. I day we're due for another one soon enough, especially now that I'm back from abroad. Keep things legal and godly, and all that." Truly, she didn't care much about the godly bit. Legal, yes, but aside from that, Ila just loved a good wedding party, and after six hundred years, she'd gotten very good at planning them. 

The human frowned confusedly, but the female vampire just smiled warmly at him. Eh, he figured, smiling awkwardly back, so what if she's a little simple, she seems friendly enough.

Ila stood back against the wall, resting her hand against her husbands chest from behind him, watching their human newcomer with curiosity. Now that talk of quotas was at an end and the child murderer was properly disposed of, there was no objection to her presence. Either Sebastian was accepted and turned, or he was rejected and disposed of. She hoped he was accepted, he really was a funny little human.

But when he sat down on the chair with the leg broken off, he seemed to be properly and sufficiently annoyed enough to try to leave, despite multiple attempts to make him stay. Pressing a soft kiss to the hand that rested against his chest, Henry stood and soundlessly walked around the table to block Sebastian's exit. He held the door firmly shut, even as Sebastian quietly turned around to take Angel's proffered seat. 

Although clearly unnerved, the Romani boy sat back on Angel's vacant chair.

"Vanessa has spoken very highly of you. She says you come from good stock.” The Duke continued, causing the Romani boy to scoff. 

"You're joking, aint ya? I am Romani from an orphanage." Sebastian protested, an awkward smile pulling at his lips.

"That's alright. My mother was a right bitch, my father a slave to the drink. My husband and me slept out under the open sky most nights. But he kept our children fed and warm, kept me safe, kept our vardo moving."

“You got kids?” Sebastian spluttered, eyes wide.

“Aye, now I’ve got great grandchildren. My one grandson looks just like my younger boy. Our genes are strong, eh Henry?” Henry only smiled softly at his wife. "My point is, I'm a nothing from nothing but you, my dear Romani kin, are certainly something." Sebastian only regarded her that same way again, softly, almost pitying for surely the young woman going on about having great grandchildren was a little touched in the head.

"Look, you've caught me on a bad week. I'm tapped out. Normally I am the man to see, but..." Sebastian trailed off, that easy smile returning to his lips as he tried to talk his way out the door as politely as he could.

"He is a good talker." Ila murmured softly to her husband in Romanian. "Could sell water to a fish."

"That will work for us." He murmured back to her.

"Honest, I mean look, it sounds brilliant and all that. Whatever it is. Save the whales, or praise the lord or whatever." Henry frowned confusedly at the young man across from him. "So no offense, and all that, seriously. Thanks though." As he moved to tap out his cigarette, he unintentionally blew smoke towards little old Alice.

And caused her to sneeze, her face contorting in her annoyance, her fangs flashing in the dim light. Nevertheless, Sebastian saw it, stumbling back in horror.

"You didn't tell him?" The Duke accused Vanessa softly, annoyance curling in his words.

"I thought we'd break it to him gently." She replied sheepishly.

In the background Sebastian was still going on in a half frenzied ramble about how Alice was a zombie monster, how he needed to leave.

Ila frowned, this all sounding mildly familiar to her. It took her a moment to recall--cold farm house, frightened human, annoyed vampires...well, all she needed was a wedding gown and this was like her wedding in 1798. Spring wedding, in their country cottage, two of their wedding guests had brought their own meals. The mess that caused at the end of the night had made it so she had not permitted any more humans being brought as food to another one of her parties.

But other than that, it had been beautiful night.

"Tonight, we must become Eight." Vanessa told Sebastian gently, pulling her out of her memories.

"Maybe I'm miscounting, but I counted eight of you already. Whatchu need me for?"

"Oh!" Ila exclaimed, shaking her head, her hair brushing over her shoulders. "Not me, sweetie. Like I said, I'm only observing."

"Well you can have it back, really I don't mind."

"But I do." Henry spoke up, his eyes hardening. There have been disputes over elected counsel members in the past, and he was just as happy that Ila stay out of the line of fire all together. It wasn't that Ila was disliked among the more senior members of their breed, but the implication of favoritism for becoming the Eighth as well as being the wife of a current member was too much to risk. Anyway, it wasn't as though Ila coveted the position.

"Now, now darling. He meant no offence and none was given." she ran her hand across his back, hoping to calm his carefully hidden temper.

"A vote is before us. All in favor."

One by one, each member cast their vote as aye. Except, of course, for Peter. The pouty little man was more hurt at Thomas' betrayal and execution than anything else, and voted against Sebastian because of it. 

"For being over a thousand years old, he sounds like an angry child." She murmured in Romanian once more. 

"Oh, so shut up Ila, I have half a mind to toss you out. You've no say in these proceedings." Peter spat from his place by the window. Damn, she thought. She'd forgotten he understood Romanian. 

It was too bad, she really liked the young Romani boy.

[yarrystyleeza]

New wallpaper specially for my beloved Henry! It didn't turn out as I intended but it's still good I guess. and yeah it's just soft but the quality is good! Might make another one for him later! 🤍✨

Who do you think I should do next time? 🤍✨

Tagging @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment and @bellaxgiornata since they are my Eat Locals moots! 🤍

[deniable-masterpiece]

REAL, oh theres plenty more feet id lick and suck 🫡

ALSO SEND THEM EDITS 🍡

Like Charlie Cox- would suck his big toes as Matthew Murdock and as that vampire he played

ALSO HERE SLUTTTTT (lovingly) some of them are fake and some are real ones he posted, these are just the recent ones i looked at lmao

i have more but tumblr is gay and won’t let me just search my photo library for the tom album🤧