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pastafossa · 2 years

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“It’s... Really Yellow?” (Matt Murdock x f!Reader, Fanfic)

Ok so in honor of ALLLLLL the good Charlie news today and us getting a little more of him in the red and yellow suit in the trailers, I’ve decided to finally pull this little drabble out of my folders and finish it since I’ve gotten some requests about what The Red Thread!Reader’s reaction would be to Matt’s new suit. You do NOT have to have read TRT to get this, it’s just a nice bonus (and for those who DO read it, just know this is set *waves* in their future).

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Rating: Mildly NSFW at best. There’s some suggestive stuff, lots of innuendo, but no sex or anything.

Summary: Foggy needs you to help him convince Matt that red and reflective yellow are ridiculous colors to wear as a stealthy Devil. Unfortunately for Foggy, Matt knows exactly how to convince you otherwise.

Wordcount: 2,942

Warnings: innuendo, language, Matt turning the Devil voice on you, bad use of puns, Matt’s ability to look good in literally anything

“Look at me,” Foggy said fiercely, pointing at your eyes and then his. “You can’t forget what we talked about when he shows up. Ok?”

You scoffed where you’d leaned up against the humming a.c. unit, relaxing on the rooftop as you both waited. At least it was the rooftop of your and Matt’s building. There were far less things to worry about up here. “Of course I’m not going to forget. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good. Because it’s—I don’t know how you missed it last night—”

“I told you. I was asleep when he came in, and he had to leave early this morning for that case.” You rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “I knew he was going to pick up the new suit last night, and I tried to stay up but passed out on the couch. Woke up in bed when he kissed me bye before work. I figured he could just show me tonight when he was done with his patrol.”

“Yeah, see, that’s my point,” he said quickly, absently shaking out one foot. He was probably trying to keep himself awake. It wasn’t often you both tried to stay up for the moment Matt came back from his circuit around the Kitchen. There had to be at least one person who kept normal human hours. “It should have woken you up. You wanna know why? Because it’s—”

“It’s yellow, I know. You’ve said.”

“Yellow!” Foggy thundered, flinging his hands up towards the sky in an apparent show of outrage. “Yellow and red, ketchup and mustard! How is this stealthy unless you’re disguised as a hot dog? He’s-he’s reflective! This is anti-stealth, and he already gets into too much shit when he is stealthy! He should have woken you up like a yellow disco ball or a mustard torch!”

“What even is a mustard torch?” you mused.

“A mustard torch is what he is now,” Foggy groaned, reaching up to scrub at his face. “It’s absolutely ridiculous. ‘Why not black?’ I asked. Do you know what he said? He just blinked at me like he was shocked and said, ‘but I’ve already done black twice, Foggy.’ That’s what he said!”

“I mean… he has, though, so...”

“Listen to me.” Foggy tapped his temple, trying to psych you up. “No getting distracted. He’ll try it. He’ll use every trick he has on you. You’ve seen him in court. And you are our only tiebreaker. Karen’s staying out of it, Jess just mocks every suit he wears, and Spider-kid is too innocent to bring into this. You need to hold the line. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him about the hot dog colors. I need reconfirmation you’re with me on this. We need to be a united front.”

And granted, you hadn’t actually seen the suit yet since Matt had only gotten it last night and despite your best efforts, you’d unfortunately fallen asleep before he’d gotten back. But from what Foggy had said, it did sound… a little silly. It was red and yellow—and not just yellow, but apparently a reflective, gleaming yellow. Matt wasn’t exactly the best judge of color, obviously, but surely even he’d realize that painting himself like a reflective road marker would make the whole sneaky devil thing a whole lot more difficult. This was smug. It was cocky. It was…

Alright, so maybe it was just like him, but still. That was what you were here for. You’d be able to tell him he’d gone a little over the line again.

“Trust me,” you told Foggy firmly, nodding your head. You even widened your stance and crossed your arms, determined to stand strong. “I’m on your side.”

“Thank you! We can teamwork this, ok? So he comes, you see it, you point out the obvious, we get him a can of spray paint or something. Literally, any other color as long as it’s dark. I’d take fucking dark blue at this point, I’d take grey, anything but that ridiculous—”

The sudden burst of warmth inside your chest was the only warning you had before you felt the rush of a breeze overhead.

Years ago you might have ducked, but you’d gotten used to it by now, and instead, you barely blinked as Matt’s acrobatic leap carried him over you. The second he'd passed you, he twisted in the air, the movement transitioning into a smooth roll as he hit the ground. The rise to his feet was just as smooth, just as clean, the finish progressing in one fluid motion as he spun to face you before standing still to await your judgement.

“Theatrics!” Foggy barked, poking Matt’s arm. “That’s cheating, and you know it.”

“She needs to get the full effect,” Matt said defensively as Foggy poked him again, and…

Oh, you thought, your eyes sweeping down.

It had been a while since you’d seen him in anything like his first Devil suit, but you remembered fondly the way all that tough leather and strange fabric had drawn your attention to his broad shoulders, the powerful thickness of his thighs, and the endless breadth of his chest. This new suit looked much like the last in shape and in form despite a few obvious and less obvious changes—and if anyone besides Matt would know, it’d be you, since you’d stripped him out of that old suit often enough. And goddamn if you weren’t being reminded once again that Matt Murdock was always a five-course meal no matter what he chose to wear.

Your five-course meal.

“You are literally the color of a highlighter, that’s the only effect she… hey. Hey! Look at me!”

You darted your eyes guiltily back over to Foggy, breathing a little more quickly. “Yup, looking at you. I am focused.”

“The yellow!” he said quickly, jabbing urgently at Matt’s mask. “Remember what we talked about. Ok? Stay strong.”

Matt hummed. “Have you been tampering with the witness, Foggy?”

“It’s called preparing the witness. I’m not about to let you pull your Devil mind tricks on her.”

Right.

The yellow.

You could look at him and think about just the yellow.

Matt fixed his attention once more on you when he sensed your gaze return. And ok, so the mask was different. The dark, opaque eye lenses of the mask seemed an almost liquid-black in the low light, endless pools of shadow that saw right through you, saw into you beneath skin and bone, fathomless eyes made all the more startling when set within the gleaming, burnished gold of the full helmet. Because it was gold, not yellow, but gold: rich, rough as if weather-beaten, and luxuriously, dangerously warm, and yes, maybe also abso-fucking-lutely reflective, it was true. It would draw attention, maybe too much. But it… it wasn’t as bad as you’d thought, was it? Somehow, it still managed to look dangerous, like something belonging to a wild, untamed thing that you just wanted so foolishly to touch—

No, no, you needed to focus.

Matt parted his lips the slightest bit, drawing the air in across his tongue on a slow inhale. He swallowed, once, as if savoring the taste. And then…

The corner of his mouth tilted up in a smirk.

“Stop it with the sniffing and tasting thing,” Foggy snapped. “Seriously, she’s not gonna fall for that.”

Matt let his head gradually tilt, his chin tucking down. You knew that look. It was the look of a predator, the motion confident and dripping with intent, with knowledge of what was around him. It was how he hunted, how he hunted you, and your heart skipped a beat on instinct, a reaction far beyond your control. He opened his mouth bit by bit, drawing your attention to his full lips, to the curl of his tongue as he shaped the word.

“Don’t you dare, Murdock!” Foggy bellowed.

“Sweetheart,” Matt purred, his smooth voice nothing but warm smoke and a low, throaty hunger.

“Shit,” you groaned as your knees went weak, your body flooding with heat. It was that voice, damn him: that rasping Devil voice you always swore you could feel drag along your skin like a physical thing, like torn strands of silk, like the burning brush of his mouth and the heat of a flame. When combined with that familiar silhouette and the smooth motions of his body, there was little hope of resisting. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“The color!” Foggy shouted, throwing his hand in front of Matt’s face as if it would break the spell Matt had cast on you just now, cast on you months ago, years ago. “It’s fucking yellow! Focus, woman!”

“I, um… it is… yellow.” You swallowed hard as Matt dragged his tongue across his lips, trailing his fingers smoothly along the billy clubs at his hip. In fact, the rhythm his fingertips took up looked more than familiar enough to have certain parts of your body clenching. “It’s… it is… yellow, and that might be… attention-grabbing. Which is… not a good thing.”

“I think she needs to see the back,” Matt said abruptly.

“Don’t even think about it!” Foggy thundered. “I’ll throw you off this goddamn roof, I don't give a shit about your training!”

“Sweetheart,” Matt crooned. “Would you like to see the back?”

“She would not!”

Fuck.

“...Yes,” you whispered because the only thing as good as Matt’s front was his back, and you’d never seen his ass look like anything less than a five-star masterpiece that belonged in art museums across the world. “Yes, Jesus, let me see.”

“No-ooo,” Foggy moaned, dropping his face into his hands in defeat as Matt pointedly began his gradual spin, showing off his outline with a smug grin. “Jesus, woman. You’re selling your soul for an ass?”

“But it’s his ass,” you mumbled because it was. Matt had the best goddamn ass you’d seen in your life, and that glorious roundness was now cradled deliciously in tight red leather. And maybe Foggy was right. The yellow pattern along the side of Matt’s thighs was a little obvious, but it also brought out just how much muscle was packed on those thighs of his.

You needed him to get over here.

“Does no one see how obvious the yellow is? Am I the only person—”

“D, come here and let me touch your ass,” you whispered.

“I’m absolutely shocked at how scandalous this trial has become.” Matt shook his head as he finished his spin, doing his best to sound at least mildly dismayed, his mouth the mouth of a poor chaste soul who had definitely not fucked you on a church rooftop last month. “And how would your husband feel about that? I see that ring.”

“You two are literally the worst. You cannot be flirting over the ketchup-and-mustard suit. You cannot.”

“Can and am. As for how my husband would feel, he’s given me a free pass for the Devil since Daredevil saves the city on a regular basis,” you said breathlessly as you fixated on the breadth of Matt’s chest. Yeah, you could get used to the yellow. It was a lot but he’d find a way to make it work. “He’s known about my crush on the Devil for ages. So come over here and let me grope the evidence before I rule in your favor.”

Matt let out a playful growl and ran at you, catching you around the waist and throwing you up over his shoulder with ease as you shrieked before bursting into laughter. Matt quickly spun, slapping you once on the ass and making you squirm as he grinned at Foggy and you pointedly began to run your hands curiously over the suit. “Sorry, counselor,” Matt sighed. “Sounds like the verdict’s been rendered in my favor. Better luck next time.”

“You only won because you cheated!” Foggy groaned as Matt sauntered backwards towards the rooftop door. Hopefully Foggy thought that stumble was because Matt had misstepped, and not because you had, in fact, begun to grope hungrily at Matt’s ass. He couldn’t blame you. It was right there. “This was not a fair trial, and I object!”

“Objection denied. No cheating needed,” Matt snorted. “You should have known better than to put my wife on the stand.”

“I’m a weak woman when it comes to my husband’s ass and chest, especially when paired with the Devil head tilt,” you agreed. “I have not hidden this. I acknowledge my flaws.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were this weak,” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms.

Matt spun, slapping your ass again as you shrugged at Foggy, somewhat difficult considering you were still lazily draped over Matt’s shoulder, but you did your best. It wasn’t like you minded, after all. You had a great view of Matt’s ass from here. “Sorry, Foggy. I’ll make it up to you, but I gotta side with D on this one. I rule in favor of these ass-ets.”

“Oh,” Matt sighed, as Foggy made a retching sound. “Now I’ll really have to punish you, because that was a crime.”

“How many more years will I get if I slap your ass right now as an additional crime?”

“A lifetime sentence, Mrs. Murdock. I’d advise you to think very carefully before acting.”

You pretended to think about it for all of about point-five seconds. “Done.”

Smack!

His chest rumbled against your legs as a heated shudder rolled up his body beneath you, a motion easy to track with you draped over his shoulder, with your gaze fixed firmly on the line of him. And you’d gotten him good. The texture was a little different than the last Devil suit, but you still got a nice, loud sound of it, even if nothing would compare to bare, unobstructed skin.

He tilted his head very, very carefully, his lips brushing against your side. “You’re going to pay for that one when I get you inside, sweetheart,” he murmured, so quietly you knew it was just for you.

You were counting on it.

Foggy rolled his eyes as Matt wrenched open the rooftop door, and you threw Foggy a salute. “Despite my utter betrayal, I want you to know I love you, can’t wait to see that movie tomorrow. Use the other door on your way out, we’ll be locking this one.”

“Mustard-lover!” he threw at you, as you dropped your head to blatantly watch Matt’s ass again, the door shutting behind you both.

The second you were inside, Matt set you down carefully. Then he turned and stepped into you, herding you back with the broad line of his body. You gave in happily, ceding ground as he prowled forward until your back hit the wall, a shiver of anticipation running through you.

This never got old.

Your breath caught when he dipped his head, tilting it as he listened to the sound of your body, his tongue darting against his lips as he tasted you on the air, and you swallowed down an eager moan. He swayed in closer then, tempting you, inching closer until his mouth hovered over yours. Only then did his arms rise so he could brace his hands on either side of you, caging you in. Just like that, you were trapped, the Devil looming over you in heated shades of red and gold, rich lust and glorious indulgence. “Mm, now, sweetheart, I have one very important question before we start.”

Fuck, there was that voice again, nice and low. You couldn’t resist reaching out to touch him again, sliding your hands boldly up from his waist to fan out across his chest. “Uh huh?”

“Suit on,” he purred, his lips feathering against yours with each sinful world, “or suit off?”

“Suit definitely on,” you hummed, sliding your arms around him to drag your nails down the line of his back. “Someone’s gotta break it in, right?”

He threw you a feral grin, then, the low huff of his laugh rolling rich across your skin. “Did I ever tell you I love you?”

“Every day, D. Every beautiful day.”

-x-

“Ok, but is it… how yellow is it, really?”

“I mean, you’re not mustard-colored like Foggy says. More gold. But let’s just say if you polish that helmet too much, you might cause a car accident. That shit is really reflective now that I think about it.”

“Hm. I may have to change that in the future.”

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queen-ofthe-pumpkinpatch · 5 years

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The Reluctant Countess: Chapter Three

Also available to read on Fictionpress if you prefer that format.

Story Summary: When another plague outbreak arrives on the shores of the Black Sea in 1667, wealthy merchant’s daughter Rosalind is forced to flee her comfortable life for the relative safety of a remote village in the Carpathian Mountains. But she soon finds the humble village harbors a sinister secret and a haunted past.

A “Beauty and the Beast”-inspired vampire story, rated T for some violence. (The romance itself is going to be rated PG.)

<<Previous Chapter

The interminable journey through the winding, narrow, craggy mountain roads culminated in an anticlimax. The village of Vseník appeared to be no more than a collection of farmsteads and muddy roads clustered in a hidden valley. It was still early in the day, and there was a hazy alpine mist descending from the tops of the pines. As their wagon slowly approached, Faruk tried to keep their spirits up.

“At least your aunt and uncle’s house cannot be hard to find,” he said reasonably; “it must be one of those communities where everyone knows everyone else.”

Rosalind sighed deeply. “I suppose. But that might also mean they’re not keen on outsiders.”

“You are not an outsider. Your father was born here, and your only living relations are here.”

She bit her lip, watching his serene profile with some apprehension. “It’s not me that I’m concerned about. They may see you as an enemy.”

Faruk shrugged. “Yes, my nation has a history of invading these lands, but it has been decades since there has been any bloodshed between us. The Empire has established a treaty with the nobles of this region—autonomy in exchange for tribute. There will be no need for any unpleasantness.”

“Small towns have long memories.”

“Rosalind. Please do not worry about me. I am perfectly capable of tact and diplomacy in the face of rudeness. I strongly suggest that you follow my lead in that respect.”

She absorbed this statement in sullen silence. It was difficult for her to passively accept ill treatment, for herself or for someone she considered a friend. But Faruk raised his eyebrows at her until she nodded with a grudging sigh.

“I’ll try to follow your example, Faruk.”

His dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “Patience will come with age,” he said, to which she rolled her eyes.

As their wagon rolled into the village square—which consisted of a tiny marketplace, a cistern where women were washing laundry, and an incongruously immense church—the townsfolk froze and stared.

Children gaped with open mouths. The butcher paused with a meat cleaver halfway to a leg of lamb. A turnip tumbled out of the grocer’s numb hand. The stooped, ancient priest squinted quizzically at the newcomers, unsure if he was seeing a supernatural phenomenon.

Faruk broke the silence, and with it the trance they were all in. “Good morning, folks. Pardon the disturbance, but I wonder if you could give us some direction. We are looking for the blacksmith and his wife—”

Before he could finish the rest of his genteel greeting, the small crowd jolted back to life. Mothers ushered their children away, hiding them behind their skirts. Storefronts and shutters were slammed shut.

Rosalind noticed that on the heavy wooden doors of all the farmsteads and stores, strange amulets and charms were strung up—and, curiously enough, bulbs of garlic.

Superstitious and fearful people, she thought, frowning.

The only remaining citizen in the deserted village square was a vagabond in shabby clothes, who limped forward to speak to them. Even from several yards’ distance, Rosalind could smell stale beer on his breath.

“You’ll be looking for the blacksmith?” he inquired of them. “He’s over yonder.”

And then pointed to the churchyard.

Rosalind’s heart sank. Her father had had no contact with his birthplace for decades and couldn’t have known that her uncle was already dead.

“I would say, God rest his soul,” continued the man with an unpleasant chuckle, “but we all know it’s the devil that’s stuck with him now.”

Rosalind jumped to her feet, indignant despite Faruk’s cautioning hand on her elbow. She had never met her aunt and uncle, but hearing her only family slandered struck a nerve. “That’s a horrible thing to say about a dead man.”

The vagabond shrugged an apology. “I take it you didn’t know him personally, then. His wife still lives at the forge, last farmstead on the left.”

Faruk gave Rosalind a warning glare and motioned for her to sit back down in the wagon. “Thank you, my good fellow,” he said in an artificially cheery tone. “We’ll be on our way.”

“I would take care if I were you folks,” the vagabond called after them. “Our Lord and Master has a great distaste for outsiders. And He’s not a man I’d want to cross.”

Rosalind tore her eyes away from his crooked grin and tried not to shudder.

The mist was beginning to dissipate, like a veil being lifted, and she saw a dark shape solidifying to the west of them. Perched on the cliffside above the village was a castle of weathered stone. A steep, treacherous staircase carved into the face of the cliff zigzagged up to meet it—narrow and slippery enough to deter an invading army. Through the gloom she could make out tattered banners rippling from the battlements, and vacant eye-like windows peering down at them with disdain.

She nudged Faruk. “Look. What a fortress to oversee such a tiny village. It doesn’t make much sense.”

“Abandoned, I imagine,” he said. “A remnant of more prosperous times. You would be surprised how many glorious kingdoms have vanished through the ages because of war or famine.”

Abandoned, yes. Rosalind shook herself. Surely no one could still live in such an unreachable place, in such grandeur and decay.

It must have been an illusion, a reflection of the rising sun, but in the closest tower window she could have sworn she saw a pinprick of light.

They came to a dark and dingy little farmstead with a thin ribbon of smoke rising from its chimney. Like all the buildings along the main road, there was a wreath of garlic bulbs hanging from the wooden door. Faruk brushed it aside to knock.

A middle-aged woman peered around the door with narrow, suspicious eyes.

“Yes? What do you want?”

Faruk seemed to lose his nerve in the face of questioning. Rosalind stepped forward.

“Aunt Ioana, my name is Rosalind. I am the daughter of your brother, Cezar. He sent us here from Constanta because you are the only family I have left now.”

Ioana opened the door wider to study the strangers, stern and silent for a long moment.

“He—he sent us with a letter that should explain the situation,” Faruk added, drawing out a folded piece of parchment from his cloak.

“Hmm. It is Cezar’s handwriting,” Ioana muttered at first glance.

As Ioana read the letter from her brother, Rosalind studied her aunt for the first time. The wispy strands of hair escaping from her kerchief were mostly gray, and her hands clutching the parchment were bony and red from lye. Rosalind looked for any family resemblance in her face, but it was difficult to tell with how worn and tired Ioana appeared—as if her features had been flattened and the colors drained away.

But then Ioana’s eyes flicked back up with a shrewd, sharp intensity that Rosalind did recognize. She fidgeted under her aunt’s scrutiny, acutely conscious of her soft white hands that betrayed her lack of physical labor.

“You’ve got his nose,” Ioana finally said in a flat voice, as if that settled things.

“I do?” Unconsciously, Rosalind reached up to touch her slightly hooked nose.

“I’m not one to turn away blood.” Ioana sighed. “You can stay.”

Rosalind swallowed hard. “Thank you, Aunt Ioana.”

The two women glanced sidelong at Faruk, who had been tactfully quiet for some minutes. Rosalind squirmed at the thought of how foreign and out of place he must seem to her aunt, with his saffron-colored turban and his moustaches that curled at the ends. His Romanian grammar and accent were, however, without reproach even to the most fastidious native speaker.

“My good lady, I know you must have concerns about another mouth to feed,” he said in a sympathetic tone, “but I can make myself useful to you. These bones are not so old that they cannot chop wood or shear sheep or whatever must be done.”

Ioana pursed her lips skeptically.

“He knows how to make candles, too,” Rosalind threw in helpfully. She decided it would be fruitless to mention Faruk’s expertise as a scholar of the natural sciences.

Ioana ushered the two of them inside the house with a terse gesture. “Well, there’s no sense in the three of us standing outside in the cold.”

Rosalind and Faruk exchanged wordless shrugs behind her back as she shut the door behind them. Evidently this was the warmest welcome they could expect from her aunt, but at least she was giving them shelter, albeit grudgingly.

The next day, her aunt shook her awake before dawn. Still groggy, and somewhat resentful of the birds already beginning to chirp, Rosalind fed the horse and the chickens while Ioana set a pot of porridge to simmer over the fire.

“It’ll be done when we return from church,” she said. “Haven’t you got anything to cover your head?”

Rosalind was too sleepy to protest that it was not a Sunday and she was not accustomed to daily mass, so she murmured drearily, “I packed my things in such haste, aunt, I’m sorry.”

In the city, it was fashionable and perfectly acceptable for young women to wear their hair loose and flowing as she did, but in these more remote rural areas, it seemed to be frowned upon. Or perhaps it was simply impractical.

Her aunt loaned her a scarf to tie back her dark, untamable curls and marched her along the stone path. The cool breeze and brisk walk made Rosalind alert enough to absorb her surroundings. A silvery mist lay over the valley, all of its buildings but silhouettes in the greyish pre-dawn light.

“It seems rather a large church for such a small village,” she remarked. Indeed, the bell tower was the most prominent landmark for miles, and judging by its narrow Gothic windows and weather-stained bricks, it was hundreds of years old.

“It wasn’t always a small village,” Ioana replied shortly.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, it was a town once.”

Rosalind squinted at the distant hills, still shrouded in mist and gloom, but couldn’t distinguish any ruins except the castle.

“Really? What happened to it, then?”

Her aunt, several paces ahead, whirled around and said sharply, “Lord, you’re full of questions this morning.”

“I…I’m sorry, I was only curious.”

“You’ll soon find that around these parts, folks learn only what they need to know, and seek no more than that. It’s all that fancy book-learning that’s turned your head, and mark my words, no good will come of it. It certainly won’t help you here.”

Rosalind was not the sort to meekly bite her tongue, but she knew how foolish it would be to challenge or offend the relative she now depended upon. Still, the words nettled her. They walked the rest of the way to church in thorny silence.

Inside, the congregation was taking their seats in a reverent hush. Perhaps the feeble candlelight casting harsh shadows did not help, but Rosalind was struck with how grim the church’s interior was.

She was used to seeing images of the Four Evangelists behind the altar in a church, but the carved stone figures on horseback supporting the pillars of this church were far more grisly. They were not difficult to recognize. War carried a battered shield and battle-ax, Famine’s ribs protruded through his garments, Pestilence was covered in oozing sores, and Death grinned menacingly at the congregation, a scythe in his bony hand.

She shivered at the apocalyptic imagery. Fear and death seemed to be a preoccupation for this community, even in their house of worship.

The strange carvings, however, were nothing compared with the images on the stained glass windows.

The most ornate windows drew her eye irresistibly to the west-facing wall, to a triptych of scenes. On the left, a nobleman in medieval armor held a sword aloft, a cross and a dragon emblazoned on his shield. His right hand was a bloody stump, evidently a battle wound. On the right, a noblewoman attended a poor sickbed, despite the patient’s unsightly pox. There were halos around the heads of these people, and Rosalind surmised they must be local patron saints.

The center window, however, did not seem to belong in a church at all. It showed a crowd of peasants with outstretched, beseeching hands, approaching a shadowed figure with gleaming red eyes. The silhouette had no details, no face.

Had these people turned to a dark, sinister power in a moment of desperation? It didn’t make sense to her.

Her aunt nudged her to keep walking forward until they found an empty pew. Rosalind genuflected shakily. How did this congregation even concentrate on prayer with all this gruesome imagery surrounding them?

Her mind wandered during the entirety of mass. She mumbled through the prayers and hymns, trying to keep her eyes off the statues and stained glass windows. It was not until she came forward for communion, and saw the serene faces gazing back from the pews, that it occurred to her that this village was mostly immune to the macabre. This was everyday life to them. It only bothered her because she wasn’t used to it.

How am I ever going to get used to it? This is never going to feel like home to me, she thought bleakly.

She met a few curious pairs of eyes as they filed out of the church. Strangers must be a rare sight to them indeed.

On the way home, the awkward silence between Rosalind and her aunt remained unbroken, and they drifted apart on the path. The churchyard on her left was marked by a rotting wooden fence. Though it was only September, the trees in the field had mostly shed their brown leaves.

Even after the crowd had dispersed, she still felt eyes on the back of her head. In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed a shadow passing over the churchyard.

“Hello? Is someone there?” she called out. Her throat was dry and the words came out meeker than she intended. She shook herself and continued on her way. It was most likely a stray cat or a squirrel foraging among the weeds.

She heard leaves crunching underfoot, even when her footsteps halted.

It wasn’t just a vague feeling anymore: Rosalind was certain someone was watching her.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. Her voice carried far in the still morning air. She took a few steps into the churchyard, toward the dark silhouette she had seen disappear among the graves. If it was a nosy neighbor, she would rather confront them and dispel the uncertainty.

The headstones were very old here, overgrown with brambles and weeds. In the feeble light of the rising sun, she realized that the moss-covered headstones stretched on and on, over several hills in the distance. So many graves for such a small village—it was almost breathtaking.

What happened here, she wondered? On many of the stones nearby, she could only make out the winged death’s-heads and the year: 1351.

She heard a twig snap, a rustle behind a monument, and rushed toward it, eager to end this sneaking and secrecy but beginning to feel childishly unnerved. It was a heavy stone monument, presumably for a parishioner of wealth and influence, and she could only just make out the epitaph:

Here lies the remains of Count Igor, Last of the house of Dragomir. Born 1324. Died 1352. Lord, show your favor upon your servant.

She thought she heard a hoarse whisper—but no, it was only a faint breeze stirring the dead leaves on the stone. On the iron gate across the monument, spiked to deter grave-robbers, the bars were wrenched apart in the middle as if some unstoppable force inside had burst forth.

She shook herself. There was surely a natural explanation. The way the iron had rusted and corroded over the centuries had probably only made it appear ghoulishly deliberate.

Her aunt’s sharp voice cut suddenly through the silent churchyard.

“Rosalind? What are you doing over there? Best not to linger in this place.”

Rosalind had no trouble obeying. But as she left the darkened yard with a shudder, the sharp pains in her abdomen returned. For a moment, they were so acute that she couldn’t conceal it. She put a hand on the fence to steady herself and breathed as slowly as she could.

It was strange, she thought, that even though she had felt the familiar pains for a week now, there was still no bleeding to show for it. “Are you ill, Rosalind?” her aunt asked, keeping a wary distance.

“No,” she said quickly, forcing herself to straighten and catch up with her aunt’s brisk strides. “I’m fine. Just my monthly courses.”

“Well, you’ll get no holiday for that, I’m afraid.” The words themselves were dismissive, but her aunt’s hard face softened just a fraction, and she put a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll make you some willow bark tea when we get home. It can do wonders for the aches.”

Rosalind managed a half-smile. She had never known her mother, had been cared for by male guardians all her life, and while they had done their best, she had to admit—it was unexpectedly nice, this understanding from another woman.

Once inside the farmhouse, her aunt set a steaming cup of tea on the table between them. Rosalind cupped it with grateful, clammy hands. The first few sips spread the warmth through her limbs.

“Thank you, Aunt Ioana.”

Her aunt’s hard line of a mouth twitched ever so slightly at the corner. “I was lucky to go through the change early in life, but I still remember those pains, clear as day. The world of men doesn’t spare a thought for the pain of women. It’s just background noise to them.”

There was a moment of silence between them, and for once it was neither tense nor cold. Rosalind was beginning to wonder if her aunt was just as eager for female sympathy as she was. After all, she’d had no daughters to teach and protect, no sisters to confide in. Perhaps Ioana was so guarded out of habit, out of necessity—perhaps they two could find some common ground one day.

Ioana cleared her throat. “It’s good we have a moment alone together, Rosalind. I need to talk to you about something.”

She frowned, troubled by the sudden mood shift. “What is it?”

“I know what you must think of me, of Vseník,” Ioana began with a weary sigh. “You’re used to a much different life. You grew up in a big city, you’re educated, you’ve met people from all corners of the world.”

She hesitated, and Rosalind felt her cheeks burning—her aunt was accusing her of snobbery, and she couldn’t entirely deny the justice in that.

She mumbled, shamefaced, “Aunt Ioana, I don’t think less of—”

“Listen to me. There are things you must know about living here if you will be staying indefinitely. No doubt our customs seem strange and even nonsensical to you, but we have our reasons, and I need you to respect them, even if you disagree.”

Ioana’s tone was not angry, but there was a note of urgency in it which gave Rosalind pause.

“Such as?” she asked carefully.

“Poking around the cemetery before daylight is…unwise. I don’t want to see you in there again. Especially before the sun is up. The church is the safest place before the sun is up.”

To Rosalind, it sounded like a morbid superstition arising from a community that was all too accustomed to death—but still, she suppressed a smile and conceded that this would be easy enough to follow. “Aunt, I’ve no intention of going there again. I only wandered in because I thought someone was watching us. I must have imagined it.”

She tried to ignore the way her aunt’s eyebrows contracted with worry.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to avoid?” Rosalind continued in an airy tone, as if they were merely discussing her list of chores.

“Going into these woods without protection is also unwise. The Count has forbidden his subjects from setting foot in there, for our own protection.”

Rosalind nodded. No doubt the nobility wanted to deter poachers on their land. “This would be the same Count who lives in that castle? It looks abandoned to me.”

Ioana’s eyes flashed in annoyance. “It appears that way, but he inhabits it still. And we must respect his law, for he protects us from outside dangers.”

Rosalind didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t entirely contain her skepticism.

“How does he protect you without any guards or soldiers?” she asked. “How would he even know what’s going on in the valley when he’s tucked away in his castle?”

In a voice so low that Rosalind strained to catch it, Ioana murmured, “The dead travel fast.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry?” Rosalind was nonplussed. Her aunt seemed an otherwise practical, sensible person; it was disheartening to see she had fallen prey to the superstitions and fears of her community all the same.

Ioana’s gaze was sharp and steady, and she did not tremble with fear. To her, this was a practical matter of daily life, not the mystical folktale Rosalind heard it as.

“The Count does not need soldiers or spies. He travels on the wings of the wind, watches from the shadows. He has guarded us from earthly invaders and the terrors of the night, and in return we keep our distance, as he commands. So as I said, wandering into a graveyard in darkness is…unwise.”

These people all actually think their ruler is some kind of dark entity, Rosalind realized with sinking dread.

#my fiction #vampire fiction #historical fiction #whew this chapter got long #idk how that happened

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