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farfromstrange · 2 months

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

-> Main Masterlist

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

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

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

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

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

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

Read Me On AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know me, but I know you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours sincerely,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How come you’re not scared then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another minute it is then.”

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

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

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

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

“I was considering not to.”

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

“How would you know?” you counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch. “What?”

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, it would.”

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

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

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

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still came,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

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

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

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?”

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

“I’m not on the record yet.”

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

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

He’s amused. You’re amusing him.

“Don’t call me that,” you growl.

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

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

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

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

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

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

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

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out.

“Published by Columbia University.”

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

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

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

Session 1.

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

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

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

“And what happened the year you died?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

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

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

“Like I am the demon.”

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not,” you cut in.

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

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

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

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

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

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

“And where is she now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his.

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

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins.

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

“I couldn’t stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matthew,” you moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about you,” you murmur.

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bite me again,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke out, “Yours.”

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

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

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

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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darqx · 6 months

Text

Some BP/HH/General asks

That mood when you want to share all the things but also want to keep it under wraps for the actual thing haha! Thanks very much anon!

As for your questions, I can't actually be specific cos there's no definitive number I have in mind for either. Basically there are a number of sectors (you can consider them their equivalent of countries - they have less than what we do though), and a number of species of demon of which I've designed about seven of. The ones I've shown before are these guys (and do you think I could find this pic again? No, I had to recreate it cos for the life of me I couldn't remember what ask I'd previously stuck it in lol):

One day when i have enough species and stuff out there I want to make a proper field guide \o/

Thank you very much for the interest! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ I would actually love to for BP, but before I jump the gun there I have to get the comic out first lol. That being said I have made mini-games before featuring the HH versions and some other characs alas they are all lost at the moment to the sands of Flash becoming obsolete 😩

Me and Gato do still collab sometimes (and send each other Xmas presents)! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

I have been working on one off and on for a while actually! Hopefully I'll have some pages to post next year or so*, I've been doing a bit of thumbnailing recently :D

*that is the plan but i also don't know where people find the time to do anything with a full time job lol.

Hullo! Glad you are enjoying the snippets of BP I've got here and there :D Here is an older ref on Izm back when i first got the idea (at that time i didn't really plan to do anything with it, it was just an AU. Now it's my main project haha. Anyway the ref is a little bit out of date in that regard.)

I used to have a "field guide" which was also made quite a while ago, unfortunately the death of Flash kinda killed it. Here's a screenshot of some relevant info from it though.

That's an interesting one as it's questionable how sentient souls are after removal 🤔 In my mind its only form is the smoke light, it can "see" to some degree and MIGHT be able to talk (but in a very no one can hear them sort of way, a la i have no mouth and i must scream. So i guess it can think "aloud"). The more time passes the less sentience it has.

It could try, though it wouldn't really get anywhere if it's in Rire's collection. He might just eat it lol.

.D: Good with kids, will be fine in all aspects.

Izm: The fun dad however needs a partner that knows what they're doing to ensure the child safety during shenanigans.

Marcus and Zeke: Also would be good parents though might be more helicopter out of protectiveness/worry when first starting out.

Ren: Geek parent very good for homework help. Some Asian parent tendencies eg "ah see, i told you not to do that right? Now you see what happened."

They are similar to our known society for this! So basically, there are some good families out there (eg Zeke - who is a demon - is from a pretty average loving family), and there are some bad families out there who only care about power or having an heir or whatever.

HH Rire is a human. I differentiate between him and Demon Rire because they are two different characters...even though they are also technically the same character lol. You can consider them as alternate universe iterations of a base "Rire" concept.

I actually half jested this in an old comic lol

I am sorry to inform you that a HH webcomic doesn't actually exist 😅 I did a lot of art, animations and one shots (such as the HHJ comics) with them, but nothing actually planned or serialised or anything. Whatever's currently on my DA or here is basically what exists.

Bringing this image back cos it's relevant lol.

You spelled it correct there though! XD

#answer dump #battle priest #hh au #sz #hedonehigh #long post

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subliminalbo · 8 months

Text

Internal Affairs #1: The Rookie

By the third week, Lydia’s revulsion was turning into arousal. By the third month, she struggled to remember the assignment at all.

I’m a cop, she reminded herself before rolling her hips, sliding down the john’s cock until it was pressed deep up inside her pussy. A soft moan staggered from Lydia’s lips. Again, I am a cop. Hips roll, cock deep, soft moan. I am a cop. Repeat until the john was satisfied.

It was all part of establishing her cover. Nobody would believe Lydia’s work if she didn’t do the work. Why couldn’t she enjoy it too?

I am a cop.

But she wasn’t a cop. Not really. It had once been Lydia’s dream. When she was eleven, two officers visited her class. The man looked like any other cop on the eleven o’clock news: wide shoulders, short cropped hair, carrying all that “fuck your civil rights” privilege with pride. Most of the boys stared at the gun on his hip, waiting for the little shit brave enough to ask, “Have you killed anybody?”

But it was the female cop that Lydia couldn’t take her eyes off of. She respected the children, spoke to them like people. Not like her partner who addressed the class like he was facing a courtroom. She didn’t look like any woman cop that Lydia had ever seen either. She was tall, and a statuesque beauty made her all the more intimidating. The boys only saw the man and the gun, but Lydia saw the looks between the two. How the man would turn to his partner before giving an answer. He only did it a couple of times, but it was enough for Lydia to know who was really incharge. No one had told her a woman could have that kind of power.

But Lydia’s dream of carrying a badge didn’t make it past high school. She ultimately chose a criminal justice degree at Carpenter State University over the police academy. She never expected that it was less of a path to a future, and more of a strange, meandering way back to her dream.

I am a

“...mindless whore,” the john said as she rode him.

Lydia stared down into his eyes. His face twisted between embarrassing expressions as he fought back the inevitable orgasm. The way he grunted his words, it surprised Lydia that the john could even try to talk dirty to her, most of his mental bandwidth allocated to holding out as long as he could. Lydia wasn’t cheap and she only took one shot for each service rendered. Every John wanted it to count.

“Is that how you like it?” Lydia playfully responded. “Young, dumb, blonde bimbos without a thought in their heads?”

The john grunted something back that a generous listener might say sounded like, “Yeah.”

“I am a mindless whore,” Lydia bit her lip. “My mind is just a wet hole aching to be filled by its Master’s cock.”

“Fuck,” the John gasped. “Say it again.”

“I am a mindless whore.”

“Again,” he pleaded.

“I am a mindless whore!”

“Again!”

I am a mindless whore.

Lydia had been applying to law schools when her professor approached her with the opportunity.

Lydia,

I was hoping you could set some time aside in your calendar to meet with a friend of mine from RPD. I think you’ll find it educational. If you’re interested, shoot me over some dates and I’ll set up the meet.

Best,

Dr. Bloom

Lydia met with the friend from RPD the next week in Dr. Bloom’s office. Lieutenant Barbara Keyes sat across from her at Dr. Bloom’s desk. Dr. Bloom briefly introduced Barbara then excused himself to let the two of them talk. Barbara wanted the meeting to feel informal. “Call me Barbara,” she quickly said when Lydia referred to her by her title. But the location betrayed the intention. Not a lot of people knew that Lieutenant Keyes was there.

Lydia did her best Sam Spade, studying the woman across the desk. Mid-thirties to early forties, no ring on her finger. More likely a divorcee than a spinster. A married to the job kind of cop, she figured. But most important was the confidence–Lydia realized as she watched Barbara speak that she carried herself with the same confidence that had first caught her eye all those years ago in her sixth grade glass.

They chatted for a moment about Lydia’s education, Barbara’s background, and quickly found a comfortable place where they were just talking like old friends until Barbara said, “So Charlie tells me you’re his best student."

“Best,” Lydia laughed. “I don’t know about best–”

“I do,” Barbara cut her off. “I’ve known Charlie a long time and I trust his judgment.”

Lydia sighed, considering her next move, then decided that it was best to just cut through all the bullshit. “So is this a job interview?” she asked.

Barbara sat straight, unmoved by Lydia’s candor. “Lydia, I work in IAD. Do you know what that is?”

“Internal Affairs,” Lydia blinked.

“Unfortunately, I find myself in the position of trusting absolutely no one in the Romero Police Department, which means when it comes to recruits I need to look in unorthodox places.”

“Like Carpenter State,” Lydia said.

“That’s correct.” Barbara nodded. “Now, on top of my position in IAD, I’m also the deputy director of the RPD sex work task force. Since the task force formed two years ago, we’ve managed to clean up much of the areas around Carpenter State, which is a point of emphasis for the commissioner. That being said, River City remains frustratingly impenetrable.”

“I don’t understand,” Lydia said. “So is this a job interview…to go undercover?”

“I need young, female cops,” Barbara said. “But more specifically, I need young, female cops who don’t look like cops.”

Barbara was right. It was unorthodox, even downright unethical. But it was hard for Lydia not to admire the risk she was taking. Barbara Keyes was the kind of woman who valued education over brute force, that’s why she’d turned to Carpenter State for new recruits. And Lydia understood her reasoning too–her dream of becoming a cop came to an abrupt end in high school after a highly public, sweeping police corruption case in Romero upended the department. It had shaken Lydia’s faith in justice, but she couldn’t totally let those values go. If anyone else had come to her with this offer, asked her to play the role of a prostitute as an inexperienced, secret cop? She wouldn’t have just turned them down. She would have blown the fucking whistle. But Barbara was different. Lydia couldn’t stop seeing that cop from sixth grade. For some reason she wanted to do what Barbara asked of her. She had no choice but to accept.

I am a mindless whore.

Lydia always came with the john. That was what made her one of the most popular and expensive whores in River City. She’d been trained that way. She’d been trained that way because it made her a good cop. A good whore was a good cop. But she always seemed to forget about that when she was on top of them, bracing herself against the headboard as her body rocked from the most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced. It was always better when she was with a john.

They’d leave the money on the small table by the door and before they exited, Lydia would always offer something to keep them thinking about her.

“Your cock felt so good,” she said, dreamy eyes selling the illusion that this fuck was anything more than a transaction. “Next time I’d even let you cum inside my pussy.”

“You do that?” the john smiled.

“Well,” Lydia pondered as if she wasn’t reading a script. “I’d have to charge an extra five grand. Secret menu, you know? High premium for the risky stuff. But it’s worth it for my favorite.”

The john melted as she batted her eyelashes. They never had that kind of money, but goddamn they would fuck anyone over for that opportunity.

Lydia worked tirelessly through the night. Fucking, sucking, even occasionally offering her shoulder to cry on. She didn’t stop until she saw the pale blue light of the morning sky through the hotel room’s yellowing curtains. She took a quick shower, collected the evening’s take into a fat envelope, then flipped through her phone’s camera roll.

The johns blurred together until they became one universal face. The only way she remembered them was by the pictures. She insisted on snapping a photo of every john’s ID before taking them to the hotel. “For security,” she would innocently say.

Nobody had been busted by Lydia yet, so why should they suspect that it was anything more than a safety precaution? The johns liked Lydia and they wanted her to feel safe. But truthfully the IDs were part of the operation, one of the few things that actually made her feel like she was a cop. Barbara had been frustratingly vague on the details of her job, but Lydia knew that she was looking for somebody. Many of the johns were cops, and given Barbara’s role at IAD, Lydia assumed that she was trying to catch one of her own. But who?

She never recognized the faces. And try as hard as she could, she couldn’t match the names to them. They were right there next to the pictures, but something made it impossible for her to think of them as anything other than, “john.” The blue-eyed john, the brown-eyed john, the john with the scar next to his lip. Lydia selected the photos from her roll, a dozen for this night, and forwarded them in an email before deleting them from her phone forever.

Why had she done that? The details of her night’s work were better off with someone who understood it. No reason to burden herself with that knowledge anymore.

Before she could finish dressing, the room's phone rang. She was reluctant to pick it up, but the mechanical sound of the old fashioned landline phone drew her toward it. Something is wrong, she thought. I shouldn’t answer this.

It rang again, and she was powerless. Lydia lifted the receiver from its cradle and pressed it to her ear.

I am a cop.

“Good morning, Lydia,” the voice on the line said.

I am a cop.

“Good morning,” she slowly replied.

I am a

“I trust the evening was productive.”

I am a

“Yes…” she breathed.

I am

“And the IDs?”

I am

“I forwarded them to your email,” she said.

“Good,” the voice said. “And the night’s take?”

“Twenty-four grand.”

I am a mindless whore.

“That’s very good, Lydia,” the voice replied. “You know where to drop it off.”

Everything Lydia believed she was evaporated at the tinny sound of the telephone’s ring. By the time she heard the voice speak, that Lydia was already gone, replaced with the mindless whore she’d been trained to be. And she was one of the best in River City. She couldn’t fight that truth no matter how hard she tried to lie to herself. It felt too good.

“Tell me what you are, Lydia,” the voice commanded.

“I am a mindless whore,” Lydia said without hesitation. Speaking it out loud now drove her to the edge of another orgasm.

“That’s right,” the voice said, “And that’s all you’ll ever be.”

#hypnokink #hypno story #mind control #hypnomanip #brainwashed

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misseligon · 25 days

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HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY TO THE HELL TO PAY PILOT!!

God, a whole year just went by??? Doesn't feel real honestly... I didn't expect to jump from just 15 subscribers on youtube to 739 in just a year! A lot has happened over the year. I graduated from college and got my Bachelor's Degree, I got to see my mom's side of the family for the first time in my life. And my peepee brain was busy taking a half year hiatus whilst also hyper fixating on a lot of different crap.

I got to brainstorm more what I want for Hell to Pay. Ik you guys were asking for a full animated series but i'm gonna be honest here... the pilot was written and animated all by me, and I had my online and college friends help voice act the pilot for a final. I don't really intend to continue the series animated-wise because that requires a bigger team and a budget and I... don't have the latter.

I've always wanted to continue the story as a webcomic b/c I have an easier time getting the story out at a faster pace compared to another 40-minute animatic episode that'll take another half year to get done... and trust me if I continued at that pace I think Hell to Pay would be incomplete by the time I turn 80 years old and keel over.

Unfortunately for my little baby project's first birthday, I don't exactly have much to give here, since i've been extremely busy storyboarding and drawing concepts for the next episode. But for you guys I can give you the synopsis of the first 5-ish episodes!

BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO SUMMONING

In his second day in the afterlife, Profundus has to learn the ways of haunting in order to make a living not only from the three demons whom he met yesterday, but 10 more demons who Mollis brought in for extra help. Meeting new faces, witnessing more traumatic ways how to torture the living, Profundus finds out that being summoned by the living could bring him closer to finding his home universe and locate his wife Honey. But what happens if the first time he's summoned he gets trapped by a group of demon-worshipping college students?

CE N'EST PAS UN TRAVAIL

Profundus needs to find a job on top of his haunting duties in order to make a much more stable living, starting from rock bottom. After failing to find a suitable job from his "friends", he's offered a job as a still-life model from a self-proclaimed "Dadaist" named Clades. Upon hearing the demoness' name, Infortunii and co. warn of how infamous and dangerous Clades can be. Can Profundus quit his job on time before Clades and her followers lead Profundus into certain death?

PRISONER OF THE BODY

Attending classes on spells for newly deceased demons, Mollis teaches the easiest lesson for demons, possession. Concocting a plan to find a way into his universe and get a chance to speak to Honey one last time, Profundus plans to possess a mortal and meet up with Honey as said mortal. But plans go awry once Profundus accidentally kills the body of the man he was possessing and is trapped inside his body. Can the gang help pull Profundus out of this predicament?

BOX BITCH

Having no choice, Infortunii has to let an old acquaintance move in with her and Profundus after Box Bitch's landlord kicks them out (Fyi, their name is not actually Box Bitch, that's Infortunii's unaffectionate nickname for them). Times get tough when Box Bitch becomes an unbearable roommate and troubles both demons living under her roof, but tension rises once Box Bitch brings up that Infortunii used to be the life of a party, now she's a sanitized wet blanket, which easily ticks her off. What happened to Infortunii that soured her relationship with an old friend?

-SPOILER EPISODE, ONCE REVEALED POST BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO SUMMONING-

FALLEN

News riles up in the afterlife, an angel has been banished from Caelestia and has fallen down to Damnatio! Taken in by Mollis and into safety, the fallen angel introduces herself as Lapis. Seeing her as the closest thing to a holy being, Profundus tries to bond with Lapis, claiming both have common ground in this hellish afterlife. Selfish motives aside, could Profundus and co. help and protect a struggling Lapis adjust in the afterlife?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hell to Pay as a series is planned to have 4 seasons/books. The first season/book is planned to have 33 chapters, idk how long it'll take to finish the first book, but a few years is definitely the most realistic expectation.

Thank you guys so much again for all your support and dedication! I'd like to thank all my friends and partners who made this whole project become a reality, and I hope to see you guys again soon! Check back on my tumblr for more future news about Hell to Pay! See you guys real soon!

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

#hell to pay #hell to pay pilot #webtoon #webcomic #hell to pay webcomic

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fairycosmos · 6 months

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can I just say you seem to have it way more together than me at 25. I have a career I guess but it’s not what I wanted. I fell into it basically and also have no college/university degree, no prospects or friendship even since I self isolate and smoke weed literally 24/7 and just consume a load of various medias lol. just so you know you’re killing it in my eyes especially while processing all you are and continuing to be so soft hearted and empathetic to others. you’re a great person from just the glimpse I get to see of you. I am a long time follower and I love to see your presence on my dash

we sound very alike actually lol i never thought i'd be doing what i'm doing either + didn't go to uni + feel quite isolated in general and use various media to cope........i'm very glad i have a job and at least some friends / connections but yeah we sound like we'd totally be on the same wavelength in a lot of ways.......it's a lonely difficult world at the best of times fr. also thank you so much for the kind words and for being a sweetheart <3 i got that weird prickly feeling in my nose reading this like i was going to cry but in a good way. i try really hard and i really appreciate you for taking the time to keep up with me and like me as i am on here. sending you the biggest hug ever <3 plz feel free to message me any time if you want to chat or vent or just talk ab your day. mwah x

#anon

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dropintomanga · 18 days

Text

My Mother Saved Me

I got to spend some time with my mother yesterday for an early Mother's Day celebration in New York City. Before then, I was in deep thought about something that happened to me about 23 years ago. It's something I haven't really talked about and it involved my mom to a huge degree.

I was once hospitalized because of my mental health issues and if it weren't for my mom, I think my life would not be where it is right now for the better.

When I first got my diagnosis of clinical depression at the age of 17-18, I leaned into a bit too hard. Or more like I wanted to not do anything at all. One time at the first university I went to, I talked to a counselor and told them I heard voices. I mention this right now because now that I think about it, I don't think I was really hearing them. I think it was just thoughts instead of voices.

But I leaned into the "hearing voices" motif a bit too hard. In 2001, a year after my diagnosis, I tried switching colleges and still felt out of it. I felt so depressed that I decided to get voluntarily hospitalized. I don't know why I did it, but I was so worried I would kill myself. So off I went into a hospital. There I was surrounded by people much worse than me mentally. It also led to a pseudo-revelation - I don't think I really had it that bad because I was actually optimistic during my time. I eventually was discharged after about a week as my mom fought to get me out with determination.

I thanked my mom yesterday for what she did in 2001. But the story didn't end there. I found out that my mom fought hard because she personally saw what the hospital unit I was staying with was like. She saw the number of people with SMI (serious mental illness) and felt that I really shouldn't be there. My mom told me she was horrified. She even told me that the doctors above were saying I was writing stuff that I wanted to kill/hurt others when that wasn't true. My mom never believed what they said. She was worried that doctors would drug me and force me into bad treatment solutions. She said she signed a release form saying she would take full responsibility for me if things went south (spoiler alert: they didn't, even though I did have a close call).

As some of you who follow this blog know, I've been more critical about what constitutes as mental health care. I've been listening to perspectives from people with mental health conditions who get hospitalized and end up worse after. People who are supposed to help didn't/couldn't do their jobs. We got a hotline number, great. But a lot of people don't know the full truth about how broken the mental health system really is behind closed doors.

And I think about the statement "It's okay to not be okay." I dislike that statement because if that were the case, then we wouldn't be throwing a lot of the mentally ill into jails, prisons, and/or the streets. Certain mental issues (bipolar disorder/schizophrenia/psychosis/etc.) sadly are ignored.

I could have been one of those people if it weren't for my mom. I know I stressed her a lot and feel like I haven't done enough. But she has seen how much I've grown mentally over the last few years. I strongly have been questioning my own response to my circumstances decades ago as a mental illness. I don't want to pretend that ignoring trauma/vulnerability/dependency is going to make me stronger. My mom has noticed this.

I have a lot of empathy and good amount of compassion from my experiences, but I believe some of it came from my mother. I noticed how many friends she has and how she's helped various people over the years.

I know some of you have all kinds of thoughts about Mother's Day, but for me, I'm lucky to have the mother that I have. Someone who allowed me to be myself, stuck with me through my bullshit, and saved a naive version of me who didn't know that they needed to be saved.

I hope you all have someone like that in your life because even as we get older and wiser (I'll use recent events of My Hero Academia as an example), we're still all children deep inside who need maternal love of some kind to truly make us flourish. Mothers are the real heroes we truly need.

#Mother's Day #mental health #depression #self-reflection #mental illness #mothers

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bestfriend491 · 1 year

Note

could you maybe do some angst like reader feels neglected and leaves okoye but some time later she’s at a club or something and okoye sees her and can go fluff or smut or more angst idk i’m bad at this LMAO

Want Me Back | Part 1.

Okoye x Female Reader

Summary: You haven't been happy in a long time, and Okoye just can't seem to understand that she's the problem.

Word Count: 3.1k

Angst, Hurt

Warnings: None

The door to you and Okoye’s shared home opened, and Okoye’s figure appeared in the dark. She wore her Dora Milaje uniform perfectly and her face looked unbothered. Maybe even satisfied. She didn’t look too tired considering the time. Overall she looked very put together, much like she always did.

You, on the other hand, looked completely out of order. You wore the most mismatched pieces of clothing that you owned, your hair was in no shape to go out in public, and overall, your face was still puffy from the tears that you had shed only minutes before her arrival. You looked like the day had really run you over.

“My love.”

“Y/n,” she greeted you back blandly as she saw you sitting in the dark with a lit candle.

You noted that down. She had all of the options in the world and she called you by your name, like any other person. Not; my love. Not; sthandwa sam. Not even a casual; darling. She had greeted you like the two of you were just some housemates that occasionally indulged in small talk. You weren’t surprised by her lack of affection nor were you surprised when she completely dodged you to go and undress and take a bath, not stopping to give you even a peck on the cheek. That’s how it had been for the past few months.

You would be in a state of disaster as she came home from her General Duties and she would be all calm, and happy. She wouldn’t bother to ask you about why you looked so defeated or worried.

Then you’d get into bed and she’d barely touch you, and she surely wouldn’t do anything to help you in achieving your goals.

Like that exact moment, where you were still in the chair studying for a test that you had at your university for your degree in teaching. The same test that she had promised to leave work early just to help you study for. It was 02:02 a.m and your head was killing you. A side effect from the illness that you had gotten from one of the kids at the school you worked at earlier in the week.

Okoye didn’t care about the work you were constantly putting in, though. To you, it felt like all you were to her was a lousy assistant teacher who had no real purpose. She never said it like that but that is exactly how she made it look.

Before her dream of becoming the General of the Adored Ones had come true, you sacrificed every extra minute of your freetime training with her, whether you were working or not. You supported her even when she felt like she couldn’t do it and when she was struggling to cope, you took a deep breath and kept helping, reassuring her that she could do it. You did this because it was her dream and you loved her so therefore it was your dream too.

Unfortunately, she didn’t apply the same logic to your job. You wanted so badly to become a good teacher, and to enlighten young minds with the magic of knowledge, but she never helped you in trying to achieve these dreams. She didn’t visit the school you worked at. She wouldn’t know a thing about your field of work even though it was all you talked about, and she never even tried to make things easier for you.

Instead, she did what suited her. Like turning on the light in the house when you had clearly wanted them off, hence the lit candle.

“Okoye!” you whined loudly, rubbing your temples as you closed your eyes to shield them from the light.

She looked at you, confused. “What?”

“My head hurts and I need the lights off to focus.” You replied standing up to switch them off.

She shrugged and gave a pathetic “Sorry.” like usual. You rolled your eyes.

“How was I supposed to know?” She asked with an agitated voice, as if you were the problem.

What you really wanted to say to that was. ‘I’ve told you countless times! YOU JUST DON’T CARE!’

“I sent you a message.” is what you ended up saying definitively.

For extra measure, you sat back down, took out one of your beads, and navigated yourself to a chat log from earlier in the day, because you were definitely going to stoop low tonight.

You began to read. “‘Sthandwa sam, I have a really bad headache today. Please don’t open the blinds or turn the lights on when you come back to help me study later.’”

You then asked.“Does that jog your memory?”

She nodded, guilt creeping up on her face, but her pride still consumed much of her expression, which only made you more irritated. Again she shrugged like it was nothing, and although you usually left your annoyed statements there, today you just weren't having it. You turned to her as you sat down, ready to let her have it, but stopping yourself to make sure that you worded it all correctly.

“You said you’d be here to help me study before dinner, Okoye.”

“Time got ahead of me. Important things came up.”

“So I'm not important?!” you asked, actually curious to know, because she didn’t treat you like you were. She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes at you, her favourite combination to show her annoyance for you lately.

“I didn’t SAY THAT!”

“YOU IMPLIED IT.” you froze at your own words, your breath hitching for a second.

Your eyes grew watery as you spoke but you were determined to finish speaking your mind. “I really needed your help earlier and you know I’m not feeling well and I have the exam tomor-” you were cut off by her approaching you and putting her hand up to stop you from talking.

You stared at her, bewildered by her action, and you were quick to swat her hand away.

“I’m sorry, but can we talk about this tomorrow? Work was extremely tiring today.” She explained to you. Like you didn’t know how that felt. Like you hadn’t just done a full day of school starting from the crack of dawn only to go to work and not rest your sick body until early evening, where you skipped dinner to study up until that very moment.

“I’m busy tomorrow.” you spat out at her, shifting your head to get further away from her.

“Oh, your exam. Right.” She came even closer to you. Again, prompting you to move back, nearly falling off of your chair.

You could feel yourself melting under the charm, breaking under the pressure of her sudden remembrance. It was SO performative. But you were so hooked.

Her hand grazed your arm, rising to come up to your chin, where she held your face up and smiled at you.

“Why don’t we go on a date tomorrow? I have a day off and we can celebrate right after your exam.” She suggested, changing the subject like she always did. Looking at you like she hadn’t just dismissed your clear frustration with her again.

You looked at her, hoping that maybe she was joking. There was no way that she was actually asking you to go out on a date.

Firstly, you had the most important exam of your life that morning and you wouldn’t want to be distracted by the prospect of her taking you out on a date.

Secondly, you were still sick, and you weren’t keen on leaving home when you were sick.

Thirdly, you still had work. Which would mean rushing to leave to get home after a long day just so that she could avoid confronting your problems for an entire dinner. That would be yet another mission that you’d have to get through..

All of those reasons were completely reasonable enough for you to decline and tell her to try another time, but the prospect of it being her first day off in 3 months, and her not spending enough time with you already felt so tempting.

You grumbled, “Fine.”

She kissed you gently at that, a satisfied grin plastered on her lips for the night as she went to go to sleep.

You let a tear slip, but quickly wiped it away and got back to work.

THE NEXT DAY

You woke up to feel the presence of your so-called 'lover' on the other side of the bed. Getting up and out of the bed, you couldn't be bothered to look at her, or even plant a kiss on her head. You couldn’t handle seeing her.

She had abandoned you the day before, just like she had the day before that one, and every other day previous to that. And to add insult to injury, she thought a date would fix it.

Now you’d spent the rest of the night crying instead of studying, while she peacefully slept, never getting up to make sure that you ended up going to sleep.

Your mind was only consumed with your relationship problems, and how she was constantly rushing over your feelings and ignoring you when you called her out on it.

This was not good. You had an exam to get ready for, and there wouldn’t be any questions about your broken relationship on there.

You stood up and went to the bathroom to get ready, hearing the rustling of the sheets. She would wake up soon. It was nearing the sixth hour of the day, and she’d need to go to training.

You hated yourself for knowing her schedule by heart. She would not be able to say the same thing about you. She probably didn’t even know where you worked, if you thought about it closely enough.

You sighed at the thought. Okoye had really been disappointing you lately.

You had asked her so nicely to come home and help you study for the most important test of your career so far. For the test that would determine if you could ever become a permanent teacher at the school of your dreams, and she had bailed on you.

You were really reaching your breaking point, and you weren’t sure how much more you could take.

30 minutes later, you were already in a rush to get to campus. Your exam only started at 08:00 but you were paranoid and needed to get out of the house anyway.

Before you left, you looked at Okoye who had just gotten up.

“Don’t forget about our date today.”

“I won’t.” she grumbled.

You glared at her. “I mean it, Okoye. I wouldn’t miss this date if I were you.” you got a confused look from her on your way out.

As you walked towards Wakanda University, your mind raced again. It tried its best to recall all of the answers that you had struggled to answer the night before. You arrived at your exam venue 45 minutes early, and decided to study a few more topics in more detail.

As you sat, looking down at the holographic-type computer that held your exam behind a big blue button, you said one last hopeless prayer. “Bast don’t fail me now.”

9 hours later…

“Umwe, remember to tell your mother to come and see me by the end of the week.” Anze, the teacher that you assisted, said to one of her students as the kids packed up for the day.

It was the first sentence that you had actually paid attention to in the last 3 hours, mostly because she said it in Hausa, rather than Wakandan or English. She knew that Umwe spoke Hausa more than English and Wakandan at home, so sometimes she struggled.

You loved seeing how much effort Anze put into every student. You wanted to be like her some day. She was only slightly older than you, so you related to her a lot more than other teachers that you had assisted in the past.

A stream of loud yells came towards you as the students left, “Bye Ms. Y/l/n!” you smiled and waved at them and stood up to organise the classroom before you left.

Anze had seen your face the whole day, and she knew about your exam so she was worried that something bad had happened.

“Is everything okay?” she asked as she approached the back of the room where you were. “How did it go?”

“It was fine. I think I have a shot. I’m just a bit… apprehensive.”

“Is it Okoye again?” you turned your head to the side, raising an eyebrow.

“When is it not?”

Immediately, she came towards you and gave you a hug, allowing you to have a quick breakdown in her arms. It wasn’t the first time you had cried about Okoye to her, but the two of you were close now, so she knew not to ask until you said something.

You detached yourself from her body and wiped your face, pulling yourself together again. “Thank you. I needed that.”

She crossed her arms at you. “You can’t keep letting her do what she wants, Y/n. You’re going places, and she needs to know that she either needs to go with you or stay behind. She can’t keep pretending that she’s coming with you while she secretly stays behind. She gets the best of both worlds and you get the best of nothing.”

“I know. I’m going to tell her that. I just need the right time. Maybe she’ll finally change.”

“Hm” she scoffed, “Y/n. I love dreaming too. But sometimes, you have to wake up.”

You nodded shamefully. She was right. You needed to wake up. And you needed to do it now. She had nearly ruined your shot at acing the exam, and although in the end it went well, who could promise you that it would the next time.

“I’ll talk to her.” you said. She eyed you down. “I promise. This time I’m going to talk and make her listen.” you crossed your fingers to show her how serious you were and she smiled at you, hugging you once again before letting you go early to get ready for your date.

You didn’t need to leave early to get all dressed up for your date in the first place, because in true Okoye fashion, she was late. You checked the time over and over again as the seconds came and went, soon becoming minutes and then hours.

By ten o’clock you were completely fed up. You had skipped dinner thinking that you would go to a nice restaurant. But now you were heartbroken and hungry. Anger consumed your thoughts as you stood up, went to the mirror to look at yourself once more and see your beautiful reflection. You finally saw it.

You were a catch, and if Okoye couldn’t see that. That was her own fault, not yours.

Your journey to the palace was short and brisk. Your formal attire didn’t stop you from walking at a fast pace and in no more than 15 minutes after the mirror moment, you were walking frantically around the palace, looking for Okoye.

Luckily, for once something went your way, as you were quick to find her. She stood in her stationery position in front of Shuri’s lab.

You felt even luckier seeing as she was the only one there. You supposed Shuri was still in the lab, but the walls were soundproof when needed, so Okoye would just have to pray that Shuri had turned that setting on, because things were about to get heated.

“OKOYE!” You started out strong, not fearing the confrontation anymore. She looked in your direction- surprised.

“My love, what are you doing here?"

You didn’t dignify that with a response, rolling your eyes."You were supposed to come home and pick me up to go on our date."

Her face morphed into one of realisation. On ‘o’ shape formed on her lips. Then she gave you her signature pity smile.

"Things changed. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you."

You scoffed, " Of course you did."

She was moved by this, as she backed her head and scrunched her eyebrows together.

“My love, it’s just a date. Why are you so angry? I said that I forgot, how is that not enough for you?”

"It’s not just the DATE! “ you yelled, breathing to calm down. “It’s you not helping me with anything. I helped you become the General and you have never returned the favour. You think my job is less important than yours. You become the General of the Dora Milaje and now my dreams no longer matter."

"You're making a scene!" she whispered. “ NOBODY IS HERE!” you responded.,

“Shuri and A- you know what? Can we do this outside at least?”

“No! We’re gonna do this right here, so that anyone that is passing can hear me for once!.” you could feel yourself getting emotional again.

“YOU DON’T MAKE ME FEEL GOOD, OKOYE!” you really let yourself scream.

“I have been in competition with your job for YOUR LOVE for years, and the sad part is that I helped you get the damn position!”

With her not saying anything you continued, “I have been fooling myself trying to tell myself that you care about me, but you don’t, and everyone except me has seen it apparently.”

She looked at you, wanting to say something but not being able to. Tears came to her face as she saw where the conversation was heading.

“Y/n, please.” she began. She tried to take you into her arms. You were quick to push her away. More tears fell.

"Bast, Okoye. Stop with the tears already!" You insisted; becoming less receptive to her antics.

“I won’t keep doing this if you won’t change. You can either support me like a partner or I can leave.”

She looked down, not saying anything as you stared in disbelief.

One tear escaped as you turned, "I guess I have my answer. I’ll get my stuff in the morning.”

You left Okoye there, wiping her tears away, just as a shocked Shuri and Ayo came out of the lab; having heard it all.

Just a little something . I hope you enjoyed.

Now, I need to know:

#general okoye #okoye one shot #black panther okoye #okoye x reader #okoye x fem reader #okoye imagine #okoye angst #black panther #dora milaje #midnight angels #black panther2 #black panther character x reader #wakanda forever #black panther wakanda forvever #okoye

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transboykirito · 15 days

Text

stepping back/semi-hiatus

hey guys, i’m gonna be stepping back from the sao fandom (not forever, i’ll answer asks and probably pop back in here and there to share my thoughts when new things come out) — i love you all, i love the connections and friends i’ve met and made here!! but this is what i think is best for me and my mental health right now

this fandom has been one of the biggest defining aspects of my life since i was 15 until now and i’m beyond grateful for the memories, experiences, and people i’ve come to know and love and cherish. i really joined the fandom when a friend of mine asked if i wanted to co-moderate a roleplay blog here on tumblr. i said yes, and that blog became my baby. getting to pretend to be asuna for a brief moment was exciting and challenging, and funnily enough, that’s part of my job now!

that friend then took her own life. i try not to talk about it a lot, i don’t like thinking about it, but she asked me to keep running the blog because it was her pride and joy too. having to leave that blog to escape vile hatred from my ex fiancé killed me, i still hold so many regrets for abandoning something she’d worked so hard on, but that hard decision was necessary or i would have joined her.

i made this blog later on and it became my new favourite blog. i loved meeting people, sharing our ideas, creating a community. i loved spicy micheal, i still cherish him as such a defining representation of this blog and community. i’ll never ever forget how perfect that brief stretch of time here felt.

i was also hurt significantly here, by someone i considered (and, somehow, still consider) family, a brother to me exactly the same way as my brother and step-brothers. then, when i was still recovering from that hurt, his followers harassed me. that harassment has lasted three years and shows absolutely no signs of stopping, even if it’s lessened in quantity in recent days.

but, i don’t want to focus on that. truthfully, that’s not even the main reason why i’m stepping back. i’m simply more interested in other things now — attack on titan, mostly — and i’ve found my motivation to write and edit sao is… like wading through concrete. i’ve promised to finish my fics, but it’s a long and arduous process to actually do when i hate everything i write because the process of making it is so draining for me. and it’s good, ultimately, that i finally have inspiration for something else!! i’m excited to see where my writing goes now, how it evolves, and how i can discover new facets of myself as a writer.

i joined this fandom as a shy 15 year old who was struggling with my gender and sexuality, isolated in homeschool, feeling completely hopeless about my future, and unsure of who i wanted to be. i’m now 20, i’m on t (tentatively because of health issues), i have an incredible girlfriend, i dropped out of highschool but i’m about to start university (business and law!! two degrees!!), i have a job that i absolutely love that i wake up feeling so so incredibly lucky and grateful for the ability to do, and i’ve never been more certain of my plan for my life.

i love this fandom. i love everyone i’ve ever met here, whether we’re still in contact or if we both found new interests and fell out of touch. you’ve all made the last six years a beautifully chaotic, defining period of my life. i’m going to hold these memories dear to my heart forever.

i’ll still be around!! still answering asks and sharing my thoughts when there’s content, or when i can update fics, or when i cosplay — again, sao is part of my job, i’ll always be around to some capacity lol — but for now, i’ll just be a little (or a lot) more quiet. i’ve already stepped back a lot, so this is kind of the same as that.

if you wanna see me more (for some reason) my main blog is @drivemysoul and my attack on titan blog is @meeksjaeger <3 if not, i’ll still be here from time to time when you wanna chat and share thoughts!! i’ll miss you guys <3 we’ll chat when we can.

love love love,

— taylor

ps here’s a missy

#personal #not sao #long post

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mysecretdsmpblog · 3 months

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(Same anon as before, I just don't want to bother my friends that's why I'm not gonna rb it as of now) I do just want to talk about the hc cause it's such a better look then just possession (it's kinda bland imo) q!phil has quite resontly gotten out of some really traumatic events and has lost access to a space he considered safe. He's just a little guy who wants to be safe ;^;

I think possession arcs can definitely be interesting, but I do love giving characters unique or more underexplored reasons for those experiences.

It's definitely reasonable that Phil has been through some pretty intense trauma, probably all throughout his life. If we consider Hardcore as his internal mindspace (and thus not really his backstory but rather his innerworld), then we really don't know anything about him before the island. What kind of person was he? What did he go through?

DID in itself is a revealing disorder, in that by having it you must have experienced repeated trauma in early childhood, and have at least one alter develop during that time. What kind of trauma varies a lot between people, but just knowing that alone paints a pretty grim picture.

If you want to consider why I picture Ender is coming to the front now, most people with DID are covert most of the time (as in, you will not notice that they have it). During times of trauma or excess stress, this can become more overt and thus more obvious that the person has this disorder.

However we contextualize the world reset into lore terms, that's a pretty stressful situation. He doesn't have a house (security), and he doesn't have any of his stuff.

Ender is a pretty material person inherently. It was probably his job to some degree to keep ahold of their things, and to steal to get what they needed. The loss of their things is a trigger for him to specifically front more often, and Phil denying using/keeping Ender's things reads as a sort of attack. Thus, fight!

Rose is gone and unable to help. For DID q!Phil, she's gone dormant from the stress of keeping Phil protected and safe all the time. She'll be back, but not right now. This only adds to the stress for both Ender and Phil, who are caught in an endless loop of 'an Evil God is attacking me' and 'Why is Phil trying to exorcise me, rude, I am going to take it out on what he loves most.'

Because I write Phil having DID and, like many people with the disorder, he doesn't know he has it. For some Lore I've Made Up Reasons, Ender doesn't know that Phil doesn't know. Thus, fight!

It'll be interesting to see how I can incorporate the upcoming lore into this universe, but I am also willing to ignore canon if things get a little demonization-y (e.g. if Ender tries to kill the kids or something equally inexcusably violent, it toes the line between nuanced perspective of disorders and furthering the stigmatization of disorders).

#qsmp philza #qsmp philza did #qsmp headcanons #qsmp

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cerastes · 1 year

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Very glad to hear you enjoyed your time with Engage! I heard a spicy take that I wanted your thoughts on - I've heard people expressing that Alear is almost like a more tolerable version of Corrin, with some even calling them straight up better written.

Yeah, again, the narrative isn't the best, but I'm fundamentally a gameplay-over-narrative kind of guy when perusing non-VN video games, and the technical love that Engage is imbued with needs to be acknowledged.

Well, I don't know if that's actually all that spicy of a take because, wonderful design aside, Corrin isn't all that well-written, honestly. Fates was... Very weird. Somehow it had (accounting for Conquest here) some of the actual no-holds-barred best gameplay Fire Emblem has ever seen, and I say that as someone that has played all the games and has grown up with the franchise, and yet, and fucking yet, at the same time, had the actual worst writing in the game and the most weird fucking uncomfortable mechanics and subsystems in the franchise, easily... The Fucking Babyrealms!!! What was that about!!! And dragging units from your roster into your room to pet them??? What in the actual hell is going on here dog hgwgh4ug4 in some other universe at least some thirty degrees to the left of ours, Fire Emblem evolved into a franchise where inviting units from the roster into the main character's room to vore them became a groundbreaking, fan favorite mechanic.

Corrin... Look, again, I love F!Corrin's design for absolutely no Christian or pure reason, and the memes can be fun, but Corrin is in no way written in any way I want to remember. Alear honestly grew on me in the way a dumb dog grows on you: I still don't mesh with Mika Pikazo's work, it's just a design philosophy I don't particularly like for the most part, so in terms of appearance, I don't really care for Alear, but they are not hideous looking either, just a stern but polite "yes, I don't like this" and I move on, and when it comes to writing, they are nothing special, and yet, in a way, I believe they embody what I said before: They don't push the ceiling in any way, but they bring up the lower floor.

They are not annoying at all! Alear is not frustrating. Alear is not annoying. They are not unlikable. They even have scenes where I really like them, to be honest! This is one of the few protagonists that outright says "Prepare to die" to an enemy that has wronged them severely! If you ask me, do you like Alear, Drimo? To be honest, I do, they are not a favorite, but I do like the fact that they are no-nonsense when it comes to hostility: You wrong Alear or those they love? They Will Kill You And They Will Voice Their Intent To Do So. Alear tells Nelucce as much: "Prepare to die." And it doesn't detract from their heroism! Their status as a physical deity is also really cool, because I love that, and the fact that they are chill as hell about it and willing to go panorama-viewing with Rosado or straight up partying with Pandreo? Pretty cool!

So, in every way, yeah, I agree, Alear is a better written Corrin, which is... Not a big feat! Corrin is just not well written, man, what can I say! But comparisons aside, it's true, Alear may be basic, but they are Trails Of Cold Steel-style 'basic', like my beautiful baby boy Rean: They may not be the most well crafted of characters, but 1) they do a good job at what they gotta do and 2) are a natural result of their surrounding cast, among which they fit their role perfectly.

#Fire Emblem #alear

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foxbirdy · 1 year

Note

Help, I'm kinda stupid (bad brain disease and chronic illness shit) and scared but I really am wanting to do field work shit. I'm almost graduated from college but feel like I learned pretty much nothing and don't feel like I'm employable at all. I am highly motivated but I just like, don't know what the future holds!! How do you be a person with a job? How do you do the difficult things you do?

Hello ♥️ before I get into this I must give a disclaimer: I am by no means an expert! I am just some guy. I can share what I've had smacked into me over the course of my adult life, but it's definitely not gospel. Take anything I say about my own lived experience with a grain of salt, because it might not necessarily be true for you! Ok. Disclaimer over, let's get into it:

1 - Anon, you are not stupid. If you almost have a degree, you are killing it! I cannot even tell you how many people I know in field work who hated getting their undergrad with the passion of a thousand suns, and scraped through it by the skin of their teeth! I know lots of people who don't have degrees at all, and have no intention of getting one! Be proud that you almost have your degree.

2 - I do not have my degree! I am still working on it. I have a couple semesters to go. Everything I have done has been in the context of being a student, or someone with some college coursework and some practical experience. My brain is also not designed for the higher education system! The ADHD that makes me miserable in university work (understimulated, unfulfilled, unfocused) is also what makes me thrive in the field (performs best in high-stress environments, prefers novelty to routine, settled by working with my hands and body, excellent multitasker, intense focus on physical project work). Do not equate your ability to be a model college student with your employability.

3 - You already have the chiefest qualification required for fieldwork, which is that you are highly motivated! I've said this before, phrased differently, but the quality that most opportunities are looking for in a candidate is sheer audacity. The willingness to do crazy shit. The belief that you can do anything if you try hard. They need someone who's motivated enough (or unhinged enough) to say things like: "Yes, I will sleep on the ground. Yes, I will eat weird food. Yes, I will hike into work every day, hauling gear. Yes, I will not go crazy if I can't access the internet for weeks at a time. No, I will not turn homicidal if I'm working, eating, and sleeping with the same eight people for months. No, I've never driven a truck and trailer, but I will learn how. No, I don't have that certification, but I will get it. No, I've never used that software, but I will figure it out." If you can a) endure difficulty with enthusiasm, and b) not be phased by unknowns, you are more than halfway there.

4 - Put yourself out there! Drag yourself out of your comfort zone, within reason. Apply to things you think you have no chance of getting! Apply to things that scare you a little! Do research. Figure out what you want to do, and start where you can. Ask for help - it will make you connections! The worst that anyone can say to you is "no," and that isn't so bad. Sometimes it's easy, and sometimes you have to work at a coffee shop for a few months in-between jobs. Sometimes you'll have to wait for weeks to get more information on travel, and sometimes you have to pack your bags and get in your car within 72 hours. Go with the water cycle, move with the ups and downs. Be confident, be adaptable, have audacity, and nail your resume to the door of anything that looks cool. Godspeed and good luck out there!

#i believe that you will figure it out 🫡#asks #anonymous #dirtbag tag #beckett.txt

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mbrainspaz · 10 months

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I'm at my wits end. The boss has hired two rich high school boys to stop me from working overtime. I haven't trained the second one yet but it sounds like I'm going to end up doing it because he's worked two days and the 'manager' hasn't bothered to show him how to lead a horse yet. High school boy no.1 is killing me. Every day I give him a task list and he just doesn't do it. I get back from my mandated break and ask him if he did anything and he's just like :) "No." The audacity of a straight cis white boy! First I told the 'manager' and he said 'yeah, I've had the same problem.' He did nothing about it as far as I can tell. He has zero backbone when it comes to confronting anybody so that wasn't surprising. I had a Talk with the boy and he seemed remorseful but continued to do a shitty job. So I told the corporate boss. She said she'd handle it ("And you still absolutely may NOT work ANY overtime! PEASANT!""I'm sure high school boy will give the horses water and food on time despite habitually failing to do that!"). You know what she did? She showed up an hour late, told the kid to drink water, and left again. e_o AAaaah?!

So I'm like—'this is why I need to work overtime, because shit isn't getting done.' And she's like, 'No :)' 'he's just a kid.'

NO SHIT?! YOU HIRED HIM THOUGH. He's not doing the job we need done.

And NOBODY CARES!

the audacity.

Can you imagine if I'd tried that as a 19 year old 'girl' at my first big barn job? Hell, I made maybe one mistake in the whole summer and that manager grilled me within an inch of my life. I gave one horse not enough hay, one time. He treated me like shit for the rest of the summer. This kid—rich boy—we stopped asking him to do hay for the horses because he was so intentionally incompetent We were like 'please give them more hay'

and he was like 'no :)'

f*ck

I asked him to clean all of 6 paddocks today and gave him 2 hours to do it. This time last year I was cleaning all 20 a day by myself in 2 hours. I think he cleaned maybe 2. GUESS WHO GETS TO CLEAN THE OTHER 18 ALONE IN 115 DEGREE HEAT TOMORROW?! Because nobody else is going to f*cking do it apparently.

Honestly I should just not. I should just stop working too. What the hell are they gonna do about it? Fire me for being the only person who's shown up for my shift on time and gotten chores done reliably all summer? Fire the only person who communicates with every part of the team and the clients? The only one who actually cares if the business is doing ok? You know they would! It's so stupid and universally ironic you KNOW it would happen to me.

They've already disciplined me repeatedly for trying too hard and caring too much.

And like yeah no sh*t the kid doesn't want to do actual work. The truck his parents bought him is worth more than the cumulative earnings I've made in this industry in the last 5 years. He's just doing this job because his mommy made him. After high school they'll get him a white collar job where he gets to 'manage money' for 100+K and he'll gleefully brag about what a hard worker he is because he had a job shoveling shit once and 'actually those jobs aren't so bad and poor people complain too much because really they deserve to suffer if they can't hack the system' like he did.

ugh. My whole life I'm going to live at the whims of utterly incompetent people who are richer, dumber, and meaner than me. I called my rich uncle for advice the other day and he said "you know really workers are only really productive for 40-60% of the workday." I LAUGHED MANIACALLY while actively doing the work of at least 2 people.

"average business person works 40-60% of the day" factoid actualy just statistical error. average business person works 0 hours per day. Texan Peasant, who lives at work & works for 200% of every day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

#life of a texan peasant #ffs #worker's rights #bad management #rant #poverty wages #corporate american hellscape #incompetence #business business business #i hate everything

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instituteslosttapes · 4 months

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S̵̲͒t̸͇͊̍a̶͓͗͆͜t̶̢͙͌e̶̦͝m̸̖̽̚ĕ̸̟̞n̷̞̣̂̚t̵͍̮̓ ̸̘̚#̸̱͘1̴̨̏0̴̢̓9̷̡̤̓̕5̸̧̔͝8̶̭͈̈́

Tw:

*bugs

*things crawling under skin

Statement of Abigail Hersh. Regarding her time working with Associate Professor Alessio Giordano in the summer of 2014. Original statement given the 19th of January, 2014. Audio Recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus institute, London.

Statement begins

I was never a squeamish child, or a squeamish adult for that matter. Things like dirt, bugs, mold, hell even death never bothered me. As a child I used to keep track of all the roadkill I would see on the side of the road, sometimes I would even walk through the woods in the hopes of finding a decaying animal so that I could take its bones home and add them to my small collection that I had stashed in my closet so my mother wouldn’t find them. I would scour the shelves at my local library for books on taxidermy, embalming, all of the things that a well adjusted child such as myself would be interested in.

I started working with Professor Giordano in 2014 after completing my undergraduate degree in anthropology. I was excited to work with them, you see, my university was one of the few with a Dermestid lab on site and I had always wanted to see them work up close, so when Professor Giordano offered me a temporary position in their lab for the summer I couldn’t pass it up. Now, I wish I had though. My job was simple, I was to keep track of what the Dermestids currently had in their tank and make sure that I swapped them out with something else so that the Dermestids didn’t start to eat the bones. It was easy, and fascinating. I didn’t see a lot of Professor Giordano while I worked there, which I didn’t think was that odd. I had never seen much of Professor Giordano even when I was taking one of their classes. You see it was online and they had only ever reached out to me in email. I saw Professor Giordano once, but never saw their face. They had directed me to where I was going to be working and instructed me on a few things all with their back turned to me. Which wasn’t that much of a red flag, I have anxiety too and sometimes it's hard for me to make eye contact with people so I just assumed that they were extremely socially awkward which didn’t bother me.

I only saw Professor Giordano a few times after that, it was usually in passing when I was coming in to start my shift and they would quickly shuffle into their office at the back of the lab and shut the door behind them. The work was actually quite boring, I would spend most of my time scrolling on my phone or applying for Master programs on my computer, occasionally taking breaks to watch the Dermestids work. They are fascinating creatures, they will eat all of the skin, meat, muscles and tendons left on bones until they are perfectly clean and ready to be bleached. The job was fine, I liked it and it was a good way to make a little bit of money and I didn’t really get any grief from Professor Giordano for being on my phone or things like that. So many people would have killed to have the type of job I did, even my friends told me so. I wish one of them had gotten it instead of me. I know that sounds awful to say but If you had seen what I had you would understand! You would get why I would have rather had it been anyone but me.

Professor Giordano had sent me home early one day, they said that they had an emergency to attend to and that they couldn’t leave me alone in the lab so I had to pack up my things and go home. They looked like they were in a rush so I tried my best to get all of my things together quickly and get out of there… It wasn't until later that I realized I had left my laptop behind and I had to go back and get it. I was working on my application for my masters degree and the deadline was for that next morning so I had no choice but to hope that the doors were still unlocked and I would be able to go back and get it. I went back as soon as I had noticed it was missing, by then it was almost five o’clock and most of the staff had left the buildings already. I went directly to the lab, there were still some of the other professors there so I didn’t really rouse any suspicions as I walked towards the Demestrids lab. It was dark in there when I finally got there, and at first I didn’t think that the door would be unlocked but I tried it, and to my surprise it was so I went inside and that's when I saw it. I saw Professor Giordano, at least… what I thought was Professor Giordano, it- it looked like them, but it couldn’t have actually been them. P-people don’t… People don’t look like that. They were missing an eye and there were holes and- and abscesses all over their face and I swear to God that I could see something moving under their skin. I tried to speak, I tried to ask them if they were okay, if they needed help or needed me to call for an ambulance but they didn’t say anything. They opened their mouth and a thousand of those… those beetles poured out of their mouth and began to come towards me.

Before I knew it they were scuttling up my legs, under my clothing and I could feel them biting me. I screamed and thrashed as Professor Giordano or… or whatever they were started coming towards me. Limbs jerking and body twitching as if they were controlled by something other than themselves. Almost like they were possessed. I think at some point I passed out, because when I woke up I was alone again, Professor Giordano wasn’t there and when I looked at myself I was completely unharmed… There were no bugs and the beetles in the lab were still in their dedicated cases. I grabbed my laptop and ran out of there. I never went back.

I'm sorry about the blood… I just can’t stop scratching.

Statement ends

We attempted to contact Ms. Hersh for a follow up statement but were unsuccessful. We did confirm however that an Alessio Giordano did indeed work at the state university in the years which Ms. Hersh attended, but is no longer employed there and we can’t find any other trace of them since then. It appears as if they have disappeared.

Recording ends.

#the magnus archives #tma podcast #original statement #original character #the corruption

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Text

Dual Natur (Tommy Shelby x female! OC)

Summery: Life in Birmingham is hard for every unfortunate soul that lives in it, but it is especially difficult for women. And if that woman has noan of her own and no family to call her own than life is difficult in even more convoluted ways. If that woman is fair of face than she has little choice to become a whore. Minerva knows this and tired of constant unwanted attentions she, hatches a plan. A plan that if done right will ensure her an honorable job with decent wages and if undone will most likely get her killed. But she is willing to try anything to avoid prostitution.

One day, Minerva Griffin made a point to show herself leaving her home, moving out and leaving it for someone else. So that her brother, Byron Griffin can come and stay. Byron Griffin who is a scrawny lad, but eager to work with a funny girlish way about him. .

Note: this was originally meant to be a reader insert series but I got carried away with choosing names. I chose Byron for the male persona and then the rest just came poring down. But if you want to, you can read it as a reader insert. I didn't include much of any physical depictions. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility

Chapter 2: the boy, the horse and the grave he dug

Once finally alone in my small rental room, I felt a pressure I hadn't noticed lift off of me. I leaned against my door and the old damned thing whines. I slide down and sit there, my muddy dress pooling around me. I felt tired, exhausted, scared but most of all exited.

The moment I thought of the words that had earlier left my mouth my heart begins to race like a wild Dutch warmblood. I had set in motion a dangerous plan that I hadn't even completely thought through. Was it perhaps desperation? Or was it my devilish Irish blood singing to me? Who knows. My mama always said I was good as gold, then again she never saw me ride wild bucking stalions bareback. Nor did she ever see me wrestling in horseshit with my brothers. My father, who did see me do all that, and often helped me get away with it, always shook his head and would say "Minerva, you devil child, you'll drive me to an early grave. Or a bloody divorce if you keep coming home covered in mud." My brothers, bless their soul in heaven, used to laugh and say we were all seven brothers.

Won't be a bad idea. To be their seventh brother.

I sigh and gather my resolve, pushing myself off the ground and poured myself a glass of water. I sit down on the old creaky chair and try to gather my wits about me. Tonight is going to be a long and exhausting night.

"Think minerva, think. Make a list. You're good at those. Make a list of the things to do." I tell myself. I look around to find a piece of paper and a pencil to write down the list. I find an old, small pencil I had laying around but no paper. So, I resort to pick up an old book. A copy of Lord Byron's poetry that belonged to my second oldest brother, Elliot, who had always been the scholar of the family. He had been studying literature and poetry in a prominent university before the war. And now he'll never finish his degree. He'll never sing me those poetries. And I will never again hear him rant about the genius that was Jane Austen's Emma. I would never be able to throw a pillow at him and yell for him to shut up so I could take an afternoon nap.

I open the last page of the book, an empty page where I can write down my list. "First things first. What I need. Men's clothes, a hair cut, an acceptable identity. I'll probably make that based on my brothers. Then I need to throw away my feminine things, just in case anyone would come inside. The men's clothes I can purchase from...the Chinese. yes." I roll the old pencil in my hands as I rack my brain for more details. If I really want this to work than everything has to be flawless. Thanks mother, for my obsession with planning and making lists, you'll save my ass in this a great deal. "I'll have to throw away, or sell. Yes, sell away some of my belongings. Most of them. A man has no use for skirts and heels. And no hair pins."

I suddenly recall my hair. In the past two years, I've had neglected my hair that was once in the latest fashion of the time, was now longer and has lost its style. I should cut it short. In men's style? Ideally. But who would do it for me? Too risky to go to anyone with it. I'll just cut it with scissors as short as I can.

But what if I need a pass as a woman? Public baths and washrooms. I can't always pass as a man. I'll keep it short enough to hide under a hat. A peaked cap. But long enough to still pass as a woman when needed.

With the thought of playing both a woman and a man, like a double agent, excitement and thrill bubbled through me and gave me a full body shiver. I giggled, for the first time in two years. I giggled with pure joy and thrill. Like when as a young girl, me and my brothers would take the horses out without permission. Would ride young stallions that haven't been broken yet. I felt like I was scheming another prank with my brothers.

Once satisfied with all the planning, I quickly got to work. Seperating all my arguably few belongings into two piles. Those to keep and those to discard.

The pile of to keep items was small. It included two items I would never throw away. Whatever risk it may bring me.

My father's pocket watch, the only thing that reached home from France. It wasn't all that cheap but by no means something so expensive that would raise eyebrows. Inside it, there was an engraving, done sloppily and sharply by yours truly as a young girl days before my father departed. "Father, you make me completely and perfectly incandescently happy." I had taken the quote from Elliot's copy of pride and prejudice. It was all done in haste and secrecy, meant as a surprise to my father. I wish I had seen his face as he'd seen it.

Second item on the pile was my violin. That was risky to own. It was definitely expensive with intricate designs. It had my initials carved on it. I could never get rid of it. Never. A gift from my mother once my teacher deemed me proficient enough at the instrument. I used to play at family functions and tea parties. I used to play to cheer up my mother while the men were away. I hadn't played since last I played at their graves.

The rest of the pile, were little nicknaks, each from one of my brothers. A fountain pen that didn't write anymore belonging to my eldest brother Christopher who was my father's secretary and kept the books of our horse training business. and the Lord Byron's poetry book from Elliot. On the early pages I could read his hand writing where he had taken notes, third was the weirdest item I owned. A pair of riding gloves, black with silver buttons and blue ribbons around the wrists, they once belinged to Joseph, my third oldest brother, he had them decorated with ribbons so I, the girl, could wear them easily every time I missed him or wished to go riding with him.

Then came Oscar, the fourth eldest brother, the casanova, the ladies man, the socialite. The man who singlehandedly would repopulate London given the chance. I thought the slew of bastards and broken hearts would be the only thing he would leave behind for me and mother once he went to France. But no, he left something more. He left me his tie and a matching handkerchief from his most expensive suit. They were shiny and a rich Navy blue with a sort of peacock feathers patterns on it. He used to wear it with an emerald decoration that was gifted to him from on of his lady conquests. I used to call her the victory number 56 as a joke. He was the only one we had a body to bury of. We buried him in his best suit but not his best tie, I hold that to my heart and cry when I miss his improper jokes or his drunken snickers.

The gift left by Robert, my fifth brother was by far the most jarring. He had been estranged from the family. After a rather nasty fight with our mother, something about our grandfather looking down on us or something, I had been to young to remember that. Nevertheless, he had walked out on us for most of the years and only made up once war started. They came together all sons and father to live one month happily before going all to war. God knows what he had done, where he had been, with whome he had associated himself while away. I only know the night before his departure he hid a loaded gun along with a handful of bullets hidden inside a bunny doll for me. I no longer had the bunny, but the gun I kept.

There must have been a reason why he thought perhaps I may need it. And I will take his judgement to heart. Because in the last month that he came home to use, I learned he was the smartest, most perceptive man in all of London.

The final nicknak junk that was on the pile, was a flask. A men's booz flask belonging to Liam. The last brother. He had just turned eighteen when he got on the train. Just turned a man. His face still held that boyish roundness, that softness in the eyes. And they told me, he had become a tunller just like Christopher and my father. And I had wept, wept that he had not returned to me. Not even his lifeless husk for me to cry over.

Reminiscence over and done with, I placed one single green set of feminine clothes and placed the rest on the get rid of pile. "Maybe I'll add one more. A casual one too." I tell myself. And place another set, floral and colorful, on the pile as well. Everything else must be throne out. Sold off and replaced with simpler, manlyer items.

No skirts or blouses, no little jewelry that I had allowed myself, no hair pins that were The only joy I allowed myself. No little tapity shoes, with little bows on them and no feminine sheer socks. Nothing.

Minerva Griffin was gone. She had gone to the country to live with relatives. She was, is, effectively dead and done with.

Thinking of a profile for the fictional character of Byron I drank more tea. I need to be prepared. Best lies are the once as close to the truth. Byron William Griffin, age... Eighteen, or nineteen. From the country. Father and brothers dead and here to find work to send money home. Is good with horses and... That should be enough for now. Decent enough with numbers and what not.

-------------------

I left earlier than ever, the sun barely out but I was already up and leaving towards the Chinese. To both sell away and buy.

It was easier than I thought, in a place like Birmingham, with a few well woven lies I manage to change my entire life. "I need them for a relative." I said. "He's a young man, still a boy." I said.

Everything I own now lies in an old used military duffle bag I bought off of a drunk man desperate for more gin. And all that I no longer own, sits in a pawnshop traded for a total of ten pounds.

Ten pounds and seven shillings. That's a lot of money for this kind of place. I can rent a room near the factories and if I live sensibly and modestly, I won't have money troubles for quite some time.

I try to ignore the nagging voice that says there was once a time I bought a pair of shoes twice this much. But it's been over two years and those shoes were the first things I sold away. So what does it even matter.

Getting a hair cut was harder than I thought. Getting it short enough to pass as a guy with unkept hair, making sure it could be both feminine and masculine. Leading a double life would be hard. But with any and all difficulties, I took sewing scissors and in essence, brutalized my hair beyond recognition.

------------------------------------------------

It was barely noon and all unfortunate souls of Small heath factory workers were busy as any day with taxing jobs, shedding blood sweat and a slew of slurs and getting paid for it.

There was no exceptions in Charlie Strong's yard. He worked hard and he worked his men harders. Curly, fussed over every little thing in his stable and muttered furiously under his breath.

On the other side of the yard, at a dingy old table out in the shaded open sat John and Arthur Shelby, enjoying an undisturbed drink of whiskey.

They were mid laugh over some dirty joke John had said about some woman, when some fool had the audacity to open the gates to the yard and walk in.

He was a young boy, a brat of no more than eighteen. He was short and a bit lanky. Small in all accounts. Hell, even his face was distinctly unmanly. High cheeks, round jaw. He looked more like a girl or something. And he walked slowly, asured but respectful. His head held high and showed a tuft of messy hair peaking out of his dark brown peaked cap. He was new. Neither John nor Arthur had met the boy befoe. And with subtle side glancee, they confirmed it.

He didn't look threatening. He was smaller than John and they doubted a lad that looked like a dry branch would be able to do anything.

"Who're ye?" Arthur asked. Looking as menacing as ever. In fact just to make sure, he did his best to be even more intimidating than any other day.

***

"Name's Byron Griffin." I said exactly as I had rehearsed all night and all hours of early morning.

"Byron Griffin?" Hollard a voice from on the other side of the yard. And once I turned my head I saw Mr. Curly practically running at me. For a brief moment I worried he might run me over.

"So you're here." This was Mr. Charlie Strong himself. Walking slow but with long strong military like trides. Meaning business.

"Yes sir." I courtly said. Best way to earn points with old men was manners and respect. That was universal between all classes.

"Your cousin said you coming here for work." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. But one that prompted explanations and brief introduction.

"Yes sir. Minerva Griffin's my cousin. She left to stay with my mom and I came here for work."

"There no work at ye own place?" He asked.

"None that would make a nineteenth year old work." I lied. This was tricky. There no reason for them not to give me a job, there no reason why they would pass up an able bodied young man at any job.

I internally prayed to God that they would buy my blatant lie.

"You worked with horses before?" Mr Strong asked leaning against a large tool.

"Yes. Me father was a horse trainer. Me and me brothers, we... We always helped around. Learned the tricks of the trade. "

He nodded, his eyes still narrow and sharp like a hound waiting for a small sign he should rip me apart and spit out my bones. Slowly he pointed to Mr. curly and without taking his eyes off of me said "Take him to the stables Curly. See if he really does know the....tricks of the trade." He dragged the last words as if he didn't believe me. I would have been insulted if anyone treated me like this in London. And if I was Minerva Griffin. But I'm not. I'm Byron Griffin, a nineteen year old from the country. I have nothing to my name here, other than an alleged cousin.

"Of course." I courtly reply. I truly have not much to contribute to the conversation. These men here are my only chance of proper employment that could use my knowledge, without me resorting to prostitution, that by all accounts is still on the table if this goes wrong.

Mr. Curly walked fast and frantic towards the large wooden building I assume to be an attempt of the stables. It was by no means the stable of my father's business. It wasn't by no means fancy and highclass but it was still much better than what ever this is.

I don't make a comment, as it would be very impolite but I subtly make a note that if this works I would have to start some renovation plan.

"Say, lad. You said you worked with horses. What breed you like best, eh? " his question seems innocent but even his horse like skittishness, could not overshadow his subtle wisdom that seemed burried deep under stutters and nerves.

"I may say this 'cause of meself but I prefer colored ponies. mix blood. They're always stronger. " I smile a little. To witch he nodded approvingly. I suppose that ment I had said the right thing.

"You mixed lad? " he tilts his head as he opens the door to the stables that give me nightmares.

"Irish father. Originally from Glasgow. British mother from London." I answer honestly. Best lies are always closest to the truth. Easier to remember.

"How'd ye end up in the country then?"

"Me dad didn't agree with his family's ways. They were IRA and me mother, left the altar for me dad. They started from nothing in the country with one mule. Then they had twenty horses... "

"Twenty horses? " I nod and he seems to take in the thoughts of that many horses in as a wonder far out of reach. "What happened to them?"

"The war ." I said. And refused to say any more. I walk forward to check the horses kept there and do my best to pass whatever test they have in mind.

"This one's mouth seems bruised from the bit. Sometimes jokies pull to hard. I suggest putting Vaseline or olive oil to reduce friction. I'm sure you already were thinking of it."

Mr. Curly turns his entirely large body around to look at me and it's obvious he has to bend his neck quite a lot to actually be fully facing me. "Trot is a two-beat gait for the horse – true or false?"

"True." I say. Tilting my head to the side and pat the horse's body and check it's muscles and hoof. More as a show of my skill than a habit.

"And what saddle do you prefer?" He asked.

"I've worked with all saddles and each have their own use. But I prefer english saddle... To be honest, if it wasn't bad for the horse's back in the long term I would have gone bareback only." He only humms in response.

Without prompt, just to showcase my skills, I casually begin to medically examine the large black horse. Name bones and muscle, say one or two tidbits about some breeds I simply liked.

And then I picked up the foot to check the horse shoes. "That's not good."

This instantly peaks Mr. Curly's attention and he too bends to see what had shocked me.

"This is bad. Very bad. " I say again.

" what? What you see?" He demands to know.

"Look here, it's an abscess. See how soft and squishy it became? It's full of infection. full if puss. I'm surprised he can walk." I press the bottom of the hoof and watch as it goes in a bit.

"Oh no. It's bad. So bad. Very. Bad. No good. He has a race coming soon. I... I gotta tell Tommy. I have to tell Tommy. How, how did this happen? It's no good. No good at all." Mr. Curly, became frantic and panicky much like the way he was the night before. He was shaking and his arms flew around.

"My guess is that the problem started while shoe changing. Could a pebble have gone in there and made a wound?" I try to say, but he's already running out of the stable yelling for a Tommy.

Thomas Shelby I assume.

I take another look at the hoof and try to remember the process of hoof restoration, and changing horse shoes.

"The fuck yer doing?" I hear him before I see him. He grabbed me before I can let go of the hoof and he practically lifted me up and slammed me against the wall. And only then I manage to look at the eyes of Arthur Shelby.

Behind him I vaugly see the other men plus a new one huddling around the hoof. Mr. Curly fretting still like a terrified horse, Mr. Strong seemed swearing at an absent member and his shit work and a new man, Tommy Shelby I persumed was attentively checking the horse. But soon enough, my vision is blocked by the younger looking man - John Shelby - I persumed and he places his razor cap at my face.

I feel the cold sharpness of the small razor at my cheak. A small pressure, stinging and the wetbess of my blood sliding across my face. I try to move away to no avail.

"Don't fucking move laddy less you want me to blind you for good." John Shelby snarles at me.

Fear and panic clench my stomach in ways I have never felt before. I must have been a bit slow to panic, either due to shock and being unprepared or simply because I have lost the emotional depth to appropriately react. Considering I am thinking about this, I would say option two. But now that I have some time to look at my.... Assailants? Captors? In the eye, I feel the impending doom of my mutilation or murder. My stomach turns and twist and I feel my legs grow cold and limp. I pray to God I may not faint.

I do as John Shelby said, and stand as still as I can. I try to rein in my breath so not even a hitch would cost me my eyes. Seeing as how I am practically dangling midair by a very lethal veteran man who happens to be in a gang, I have no other choice to resign myself to my fate. Not like I can do anything.

Note to self, get a blade for myself if I survived this mess.

"Put him down boys." I hear the handsome Birmingham accent drawl of Mr. Tommy Shelby. He was not as tall and menacing as his first brother Arthur nor did he radiated vigor and violent vitality like his younger brother John. Yet, with each step he takes towards me I feel the blistering cold of winter seep into my bones. Like taking a bath in freezing ocean water. His face, calm and controlled resembled the brewing of storm clouds.

"Curly here, " he points towards Mr. Curly who is now being calmed down by Mr. Strong. "He tells me you came here for a job as his assistance and in once casual inspection found that my horse has a bad hoof."

I nod once. They have let me go, I am now speaking with Tommy Shelby. I am in presence of the devil himself. I very rarely get tongue tied, that is a skill learned from spending days in high society parties. But now... Now, words seem to fail me and my voice chokes in on itself.

"Come here, come here." He says. His voice calm but his Strong hand that grabbed into my collar vibrated with barely contained violence.

He pulled me and I let out a yelp of shock. "Ok. Ok. No need to pull. Jesus Christ,I'm not fighting ye." I let out in frustration. I bend by the horse and pick up the hoof again. "See here." I push again into the abscess and watch as my finger goes slightly in. "I suspect the problem comes from under the horseshoe. It was done wrong and something must've injured the hoof. A crack maybe."

"Fuck." He let's go of me and let's out a slew of slurs that will put sailors to shame. "Curly, call Reggie and tell him he's a dead man. He fucked up my horse and I'm gonna fuck him up."

"Tommy, we can't find anyone new soon enough to fix this." Arthur Shelby says from where he stands hands now holding a flask.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. " the youngest Shelby brother seems to be even more vibrantly violent now. Which is never good. No man should look that gleeful with the impending mutilation looming over.

My mama said I was good as gold. And my father said I was a devil child. And I'm sure he was more right that my mother because in one instant my devilish Irish blood sings a nasty songs in my veins.

And once again I open my mouth to dig myself a whole. "I can fix it." Fuck me and my mouth that never shuts up.

"What you say?" The icy blues of Tommy Shelby pierce my own eyes like a hail of bullets.

"I... I am young but I've worked with horses plenty. I've fixed hoofs and changed horseshoe before. There won't be any races for this one for some time and that's nothing anyone can fix but I can fix him."

"Explain." He ordered. His voice carrying such a comand you'd think it was his god given right to boss everyone around. Like he was a young arrogant god amongs mere mortals. A king with his slaves. Well, that was Tommy Shelby. He isn't the boogy man of adults for nothing.

"Well, we have to take off the horseshoe, chip away the hoof until we can find were the abscess is, empty it and then find where and what is lodged in it. I suspect a pebble or a nail. Maybe a metal share based on the state of the yard."

"State of the yard? The fuck you mean by that?" Mr. Strong snaps, but by the looks of it he doesn't seem very angry at me.

"Well this is a yard, and near factories. There are metal shards bound to be laying around. It is a possibility that one could have been lodged in there." I explain trying not to further insupt the man's working place.

Tommy Shelby regarded me with a calculating stared, smoking deep and hard as his eyes held mine in search of something I hoped he found and dreaded to find. Finally seemingly satisfied with what he did or did not find he nods once.

"Alright. Mr...? "

"Byron, Mr Shelby. I'm Byron Griffin." I introduce.

"Alright, Mr. Byron Griffin. You will fix my horse's foot. If I am satisfied with the job you've done, you'll have a permanent employment here with a payment we will discuss at the time of your employment. If you fail me, Mr. Griffin. You will die. " He says as if he's talking about what he had for dinner. His voice, despite his ominous words was soft, calculated and all business. There was a sickly pleasantness to it that made me wish for death.

This man was dangerous. And not for the same reasons as his brothers or the drunks in the streets. This man will be my undoing.

And I have dug myself a whole so deep, I may not be able to climb out of it.

"I'll start immediately, Mr. Shelby." I say with a respectful bow of my head.

I keep my head down until they leave and only dare to look up once the door is shut behind me. There I see myself alone with Mr. Curly, who is bringing out a familiar tool box out for me.

"Be gentle with him, alright. He's an energetic one. Hell get over exited." The large Duck draft in shape of a man says.

"I'll be as gentle as I can. He won't notice a thing. I promise." I comoly to the wishes of a man who's gentleness reminded me of Robert's innate tenderness for animals.

I set to work, ignoring the beginnings of hunger, anxiety of failure and the swinging swords of Damocles. Or the swinging razor of Shelby in this case.

"It's a long way out of this grave. A hell of me own making." I mutter.

#tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy Shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #polly gray #michael gray #finn shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #dual nature #sadattemptofawriter

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