Now I Feel Like Im Wrapped Up In That Warm Blanket With A Matt To Scare All My Worries Away With A Forehead

Now I feel like I’m wrapped up in that warm blanket with a Matt to scare all my worries away with a forehead kiss🥹

make amends

pairing: matt murdock x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: t+ (mugging, assault, canon-typical injury)

word count: 4,344

one-sentence synopsis: matt isn't there in time to stop you from getting hurt, but he has all the time left in the world to help ease your pain.

author's note: sweet matt....... i will manifest daredevil season 4 with my own fucking bare hands if i have to

read on ao3!

You’re still trembling by the time you arrive home.

You aren’t really entirely sure what to do first. For a while, you just stand inside the front door with it locked firmly behind you, doing nothing at all. It’s not until you hear a scrape in the hallway outside your apartment door that you jump, your heart skyrocketing into your throat in an instinctive, automatic fear response. Your terror is bubbling just under the surface, waiting for the moment of your collapse.

It could have been worse. You keep trying to tell yourself that mentally: it could have been so much worse.

The mugger found you walking home alone— even though you only had to walk two blocks from your bus stop to your building, even though you’ve walked it a million times before. Cornered in the darkness at the mouth of an alley you’d been passing by, you only had a moment to hope that Matt would be nearby, that somebody would hear, that this wasn’t really going to happen right now.

You had real fear, fear that you would actually lose your life at this person’s hands. You’ve been stolen from before, and even mugged twice, but this time was different. You’d watch this mugger brandish a knife, and your heart had galloped up into your throat, all thought and logic leaving you.

When the mugger had demanded you turn over your things, you hadn’t been able to make your body move fast enough. They had grabbed you, yanked you forward, knife held tight against the bones in your collar. The blade scraped your skin, and you’d cried out, and they’d grabbed for the bag you were carrying without hesitation.

You let it go, unthinking, and tried to throw a punch to fight them off, just like Matt taught you. You caught them under the chin, and they’d grabbed you up by the throat, tight under your jaw, before they shoved you back against the nearest wall. You could feel your skin split, scratched up on the brick, and your head hit the stone.

Though you lash out again, the blow you land doesn’t do much. You split your knuckles, and they kick your arm back. Finally, you covered your face, and they’d— sprinted away, taking up your bag and running with it.

For a while, you’d just sat there, shaking, trying to think. The only things left in your coat pocket were your keys and your phone, which, thank fuck, at least you had that much. Your wallet and your umbrella and the groceries you just got and the gift you had for Matt and the book you’re reading and— and all your things, your daily necessities, were in the bag, and that’s fucking gone, but you’re alive and you can get home.

You’d shoved upwards, then, and though you wanted to run, you’d only managed to shamble home. It was like your brain and body weren’t processing it properly.

When you’re home, though, and you’ve been standing stock-still for a while, and you finally hear that noise in the hallway, you jump. You end up snatching the nearest chair and wedging it up under the doorknob, just for the extra layer of protection the furniture affords.

It’s over. It’s over, and done, and it could have been so much worse, and there’s nothing you can do right now.

Your trembling becomes a full-body shaking, a teeth-chattering, constant shiver that feels like it’s leaking down into your bones. Your breath starts coming fast of its own accord, hyperventilation in a delayed panic response. Your heart thunders in your chest, its movement so fast it practically feels still.

Your phone rings. You hear the sound before you understand it, the sharp ringing before you actually think to reach for your pocket. You pull it up and out and see Matt’s face on the screen.

Matt.

He sees so much worse on a daily basis. He gets hurt all the time. He wasn’t there to save you when you needed him. He—

He’s calling again, when you didn’t answer the first one in time. You do manage to make yourself move, this time, reaching to swipe to answer, bringing the phone up to your ear. Your hand is shaking so badly the edge of the plastic keeps connecting with the corner of your jaw.

“Hey, (Y/N),” Matt says in a rush the second you pick up. “What’s happening? I started heading towards your place and I can hear your heart, are you okay? Is something happening?”

You shake your head. You don’t know why you are, or what it’s in answer to. He doesn’t know you’re doing it; he’s not even here, and he couldn’t see you if he was, even though he’d probably tease you anyway, say he could hear your hair or your muscles or something like that—

Matt repeats your name, and you try to focus, your mind bleary and constantly drifting as it tries desperately not to think about what just happened.

“Sorry,” you say softly. Your voice sounds strange, even to your own ears.

There’s a beat, and then Matt’s bewildered, concerned voice asks, “What’re you sorry for?”

“I should’ve—” you start to say, then exhale in a gust. You’re standing in the middle of your living room, and that’s where you sit, kneeling right there on the floor. You curl into yourself, pushing your knees into your chest, wanting to feel the solid gravity, the earth beneath you. Your eyes are finally burning over. Your voice breaks when you tell him, “I should’ve tried harder, I should’ve fought— I didn’t fight, I didn’t, I just gave up—”

“What are you talking about? What happened?” Matt demands again, a frantic edge starting to leak into his voice.

You’re turning yourself over to the rising hysteria in you, unable to fight it back now that Matt’s talking to you and you have no choice to acknowledge what’s happened. Your mind is whirling, struggling to process your terrified emotions. “Someone— Someone stopped me and took my stuff—”

“Where are you?” Matt asks. You can hear his breathing shift, changing into a heavier, steadier pace. He’s running, you realize.

“Home,” you whisper. You press the phone tight against your cheek and your ear, feeling the heat blazing off of it just for something to feel. “Matt, I need— I need—”

You can’t manage to get your plea out, begging cut off as your cries start to take you over in earnest, becoming full panicked sobs. Matt says something on the line, but you can’t hear him over the rush of blood in your ears.

You have this foreboding feeling that you just can’t shake, like you’re still being followed, like it’s somehow not over, and it’s making you feel frenzied, deranged, your body only now responding to a threat that’s long gone. You don’t know when you drop the phone; you only realize that you’re not holding it, that you’re holding onto your own hair instead, head bowed into your arms, trying to keep yourself together in one piece.

When Matt comes, it isn’t through the front door. You don’t know if he tried it and gave up or not, belatedly remembering the chair you’d wedged there— but, either way, he gets in anyway. He eases open the window in your living room, and then he’s kneeling next to you, his hand finding the center of your back.

You exhale all at once in a shuddering punch that bursts out of you. You try to say his name, to say, “Matt, I’m sorry,” but it doesn’t come out as anything more than incoherent sounds in the midst of your tears.

Matt just sits down on the floor and pulls you into his arms. You cling to him with numb fingers hooked in the joints of his Daredevil armor, and he doesn’t stop rubbing your back, clutching you close to his front. He’s taken his cowl off, the helmet abandoned nearby, one of the sharp horns leaving a small scratch on your floor.

You stare at that tiny scratch as you struggle to get a grip on yourself. Matt’s presence is helping in leagues, but you’re so far into your frenzy that it takes a while to come back out of it.

You make yourself focus on the even sweeps of Matt’s soft touch as he strokes your back; on the strong hold of his arms around you, keeping you safe; on the press of his lips to your hairline where he keeps murmuring reassuring echoes of the same thing; on the slowing thud of your own heart as you come back into yourself in fragmented pieces.

His hand moves to grip the back of your head, his cheek dragging along yours when he starts to pull back. Your heart kicks up, panic seizing you again, but Matt shushes you.

“I’m not going anywhere, it’s okay,” Matt tells you. “I can smell blood. Is it yours?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Matt’s hold tightens, and you tell him, voice breaking once more, “I’m sorry—”

“No, no,” Matt cuts you off. He kisses your hair, says, “No, don’t be sorry. Don’t. Just— What happened?”

“I don’t know, I just— I got mugged, I think,” you tell him, embarrassed and terrified and hurt and upset, starting to fall apart. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t thinking, I— I should— I should’ve fought b—”

“I should’ve been there,” Matt says firmly, his tone inviting no argument. “(Y/N), I am— I am so sorry—”

“Matt,” you start to interrupt him. You want to tell him not to be sorry, that he can’t be everywhere at once, that it was over so quickly he couldn’t have done anything.

You can’t make the words come. You just start to dissolve again, repeating, “Matt,” and he kisses your temple hard, letting his forehead drag along yours. The physical touch of him is grounding you, grounding him. He won’t stop touching you, hard presses to make sure you’re still here and alive and okay.

Matt reaches and lifts your hand. You can see him as he’s taking stock of you, cataloguing your injuries through touch and scent, tasting your blood in the air, hearing the tiny noises you make when his gloved fingertips brush an injury.

He removes one glove, then gently touches the edge of your split knuckles. You wince, and he brings the back of your hand to his mouth, kissing it softly.

“I’ll fix it,” Matt tells you.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting him to do, but it’s not for him to start pulling his glove on and separating himself from you. He’s moving to pick his horns back up; your breathing quickens instinctively, fear gripping your lungs all over again.

He must hear the changes in your body, because he pauses, head tilted to the side a bit before he inclines back towards you.

“What’s wrong?” he asks you. Without waiting for an answer, he’s already saying, “I’ll call Claire, she can come while I’m gone and help you w—”

“No,” you finally get yourself to say. Matt’s brow furrows, frustration and confusion striking across his face. “Matt, n— No—”

“Would you rather I call Foggy?” he asks. “Or Karen? They would—”

“Don’t leave,” you beg him. You can’t stop the shattering of your voice as you speak. “Matt, please— Please don’t leave, I can’t— I can’t—”

The words won’t come out of your mouth before your breath is catching up in your throat again, choking off your next breaths. You fold into yourself again, trembling; Matt reaches for you, pulls you back into his lap. His hands have their gloves back on, the leather rough on your skin. You can’t bring yourself to let him go, clinging to him tightly, chest rattling apart.

Matt readjusts, leaning back against the coffee table behind himself so he can take your weight without tipping, focusing on you. His face comes back down to meet yours, cheek brushing yours, his hair soft against your skin.

“You’re okay,” Matt murmurs, voice soft. “Just breathe with me. I’m not going anywhere, you’re okay. In and out. Come on, in and out.”

You have to focus, and it takes pretty much all of your concentration to do it, but you start to steady and calm and slow again. There’s obvious tension roped through every muscle in his body, coiled and ready to spring into action to take down your attacker the second you give the word, but you can’t get yourself to give the word.

You barely saw them; you don’t know anything useful. All you know is that you were terrified, and hurt, and you needed Matt, and now he’s here. You don’t think you can let him go, not even for him to get revenge for you—

—or for himself, you realize, seeing how terrified he is, how angry he is, churning just beneath his surface as he struggles to keep the reins on himself. He grapples to hold his grip, determined not to make this worse for you than it already is by losing control of his emotions, but it’s— it’s fucking hard. You, you, are the person he loves most on this planet— and he dedicates himself daily to protecting people— and when you needed him, he wasn’t there, and you got hurt.

He can’t stop thinking about everything that could have happened. The things he witnesses on a daily basis are just— atrocities. If you were one of those people, he doesn’t think he could take it. If you had been unlucky enough to be one of those poor nameless, faceless fuckers that he’s not fast enough to save, one of those countless people who weigh on his soul, but more, worse, a million times worse, because none of them were you.

None of them are the reason he comes home at all, some days. None of them are the ones who take care of him when he’s hurt, and doesn’t think he needs help healing. None of them are his home, his heart, the person who consumes his every breath and still he wants to give them more.

None of them are you, and he couldn’t take it if it was. He couldn’t.

Matt’s hold on you is nearly tight enough to bruise, but you want it that way. You’d even ask him to hold you even tighter, if you didn’t know it would start to hurt your blossoming injuries.

“Matt,” comes out of your mouth, broken and harsh, jagged in your throat, catching on your tongue. “Matt—”

“I know,” he replies. You can feel it, goosebumps rising all over your arms. He does know, in his bones, coursing through his blood— he knows, what it feels like to hurt like this. It’s stabbing him in the chest, too, the pain of knowing you’re feeling what he tries so hard to protect you from. “I know. I know.”

When you can breathe again, Matt holding you and stroking your back while you press your face to his hard armor and cry until you’re exhausted and empty, you slump against him, letting him hold you up.

“Let me help,” Matt asks, voice low near your ear. Your hands shake, and he hurries to say, “No, I’m not leaving. Just—” He shifts, says, “Here,” and starts helping you to stand.

You let him guide you, assisting you in rising to your feet before he drops to scoop you up into his arms fully. You protest, about to argue that you’re not hurt so badly you can’t walk, but the look on Matt’s face stops you. It doesn’t matter if you can walk; right now, he wants to protect you, and take care of you— and you want to be protected, and cared for.

“You’re okay,” Matt repeats occasionally, when he hears your heart jump or your breath catch. “I got you. You’re okay.”

He doesn’t put you down until you’re in your bedroom with him. He lays you down in bed, then pauses a moment beside you, stroking your hair back from your face. His eyes settle somewhere near your throat as he listens— you don’t know to what.

After a beat, he straightens up and tells you, “I’ll be right back,” then adds before you can protest or even begin to feel the encroaching spike of panic, “I’m just getting the first aid kit. I’ll be one minute.”

He kisses the center of your palm, then vanishes from the room, moving impossibly quickly in his haste. You gather the covers around you, tugging them up, heedless of the fact that you’re still in the clothes you’d been wearing outside, shoes still on. You just want to be wrapped up, comforted, safe, protected.

When Matt returns, he’s shucked off most of his Daredevil armor, leaving him bare-chested and plain-faced, dark red armor covering only his legs now. He sets the first aid kit and a bowl on the side table before he returns his focus to you.

His hands find your hip, then skate up until he’s able to search out the edge of the covers. As he works, he doesn’t speak, though you can see from his expression that he appears to be seething with rage. You can feel it, working its way through his teeth into yours, metal-scrape-sharp, surging through you in jags.

“Here,” Matt murmurs, his tone with you easy even as his words come out hard. “Let me—”

He tugs the covers back, and his fingers drift down to your ankles. When he finds your boots on, still laced up, he nimbly unknots them, tugging them loose. One is removed, then the next; his bare hands, rough though they are, are soft and gentle as he removes one article of clothing from you at a time. He sets them aside in strips, a neat pile on the floor.

His hands seek out your wounds when he has you lying bare on top of the covers. He tilts his head, listening to the swell of your blood as it pools under your skin. He can taste in the air the places your blood rises and breaks the surface, beading with a heavy metal tang in the back of his throat.

You watch his face while he works, unable to look away. It’s so comforting, the familiar expressions that spread as he thinks. His eyes are so warm; you can see your own injuries and his hands reflected in them in the street lights from outside. You hadn’t even managed to turn a light on when you got here, and Matt hasn’t thought of it. Instead, you take comfort in the near-darkness, letting Matt envelop you in it.

He finds first the wound at the back of your head. A frown works its way onto his face, twisting down the corners of his pretty mouth in such a way that makes him seem both impossibly melancholy and incredibly enraged at the same time.

“Will you turn over for me?” Matt asks, his voice soft, low.

His hand finds your shoulder, and he helps you shift to turn onto your side, letting him see the back of your head. He brings the basin of warm water close; you can feel the heat and steam get nearer to your bare skin.

The corner of a warm, damp washcloth meets the very edge of the mark at the back of your head, and you flinch at the unexpected touch.

“I’m sorry,” Matt murmurs.

You close your eyes, saying, “It’s okay,” so low it’s little more than a whisper.

Matt’s fingers stroke through your hair before he takes hold of your shoulder. His other hand drifts up to start gently cleaning again, his touch even more delicate as he endeavors not to hurt you any further.

“No,” he tells you. “It’s not okay.”

Your eyes open again, and you stare at the darkness of the wall opposite, letting your vision swim in the shadows. The backs of them burn, your nose prickling; you take in a shaky breath, willing the tears not to fall.

They well up and start to spill anyways. Your hand drifts up to swipe at your face, but Matt can feel the pull of your muscles, can smell the salt in the air.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” you whisper back. “I’m sorry, I’m just—” You don’t know what you mean to say. You don’t know what you’re feeling, really. “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” you repeat, your voice breaking.

“Don’t be sorry,” Matt says. He finishes cleaning the small injury at the back of your head, helps ease you into sitting up. His fingers drift up to graze your jaw before continuing up to cup your cheek. He hesitates, frowning, then lets his touch skim back down.

You can feel him exploring the swelling of the place just beneath your chin, below the strike of your jaw, where the mugger had grabbed you and forced you up against the wall.

Matt’s brow furrows and creases, his face crumpling as he tries to keep a hold of his emotions. You can feel your own composure splintering again, too, what you had managed to build back up so quickly falling to shreds.

“I should do— something,” Matt says, hands shaking. He traces down to the thin cut left behind by the blade, at the center of your throat, faint over your jugular. His breathing becomes something careful, measured. He keeps moving, hands skimming down over the scrapes cut into the backs of your arms and your calves, and further, the bruise where your arm was kicked, the bloody split skin of your knuckles where you’d landed the few punches you’d managed to throw at all.

He takes stock of you and your injuries before bringing the washcloth to your skin again. In tiny sweeps, he clears the blood away, removes any infinitesimal trace of dirt or germ or grit. Your arms come next, his face focused down.

As he works, barely keeping himself in check, he tells you again, “I should do something.”

“What would you do?” you ask him, voice shuddering a little. You’re not sure what to expect in response.

“I…” Matt starts, then stops. He has an answer ready, you can tell that much, but he’s considering whether or not it’s true— whether or not he wants to tell you about it. After a beat, he decides on honesty, violent though it is, confessing, “I’ll kill him.”

“Matt,” you breathe.

“He cut your throat,” Matt bites out, his jaw so tight you can see a muscle jumping in it as he’s trying to get a grip. “He could— He could have killed you. He w— One— If he had gone one inch deeper, right here,” he says, his fingertip against your pulse where it rabbits in your throat, “You would be d— You would— You would have died. I would have found you in that fucking alley—”

“Matt,” you repeat, voice breaking again.

“No,” he says quickly, then, “Fuck, no, I’m sorry, I fucking— I shouldn’t have said that, I don’t— Fuck,” he cuts out again. He draws his hands to his lap, tight around the washcloth as he wrings pink water out into the bowl again.

He reaches back out to take your hand in his. Gentle between his calloused fingers, he leads your hand down into the water, guiding it until your knuckles are submerged.

“I’m sorry,” Matt repeats to you. “That— I’m sorry.”

“I was so scared,” you admit to him tearfully. His thumb strokes along the back of your head, his head dropping in so he can press his forehead to yours, letting you breathe his air, letting you ground yourself in him. Your other hand flies up to grip his hair hard, threading at the back of his head, hanging on. A sob comes up and you confess, “Matt, I was so— I was so scared, I didn’t— I should have fought back and I know you’ve taught me better but I couldn’t think and I just let him do that and he could have killed me, you’re right, I don— You’re right, I just— I couldn’t—”

“Hey, shh.” Matt takes the dish of water away, setting it aside on the nightstand so it won’t spill. When he returns to you, he takes your wet hand in his, heedless of the water, guiding you up so he can press his lips to the center of your palm. Buried in your touch, he tells you, “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should’ve—”

“No,” Matt cuts you off. “This is not your fault.”

You can hear the knife’s edge under his words, and you tell him, “It’s not yours, either,” voice vibrating just under the edge of noise.

Matt’s eyes prick with water, red starting to shoot through the feather-fine veins at the corners. You drag yourself in closer to him, and he wraps both arms around you, holding you tight in his strong grip.

You bury your face in Matt’s throat, and he kisses your temple in a hard press.

“Please don’t go,” you beg him, unable to stop yourself. “Please, d— Don’t.”

Matt reaches up to cup the back of your head in his hand, letting you be enveloped entirely by him, held close, embraced so fully you just fold into him.

“I won’t,” he promises you, and you believe him. He won’t— for now, anyway. He kisses the space beside your eye, your cheek, your jaw. You close your eyes and ignore the sting of pain when he does it; it feels better than it did before, better than when you were still alone. You’d rather have it this way, him here with you, holding you, keeping you safe, a protector who is as prepared to kill for you with his bare hands as he is ready to hold you close in those same hands and never let you go.

-

requests used:

"hello my dear heart I have thoughts and dark machinations that must be released into your inbox: im thinking thoughts of matt murdock and y/n being hurt physically by some random crime and just so down emotionally and matt coming to the house/apartment and having to try look after you and not leave you while wrestling with his need to find who hurt you. help me I need support I need matt cleaning wounds and hugging and his rage just under the surface" (@hellomrreaper)

Are You Okay? | Matt Murdock x Reader

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader (gender neutral)

Masterlist

Summary: Sometimes, all you need to hear is one question and one person to make your shitty day not so shitty anymore.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, fear of failure, not proofread (I put Grammarly over that bitch, but that's it), no y/n

A/n: I wrote this in an hour because I'm stressed as fuck and my state of mind is so complicated right now, I didn't know how else to explain it. Also, why is statistics such a bitch to study? And what do I care about fucking behaviorism? I'm already done with Freud and Piaget and those get on my last nerve already, I don't need Bandura to add to my emotional despair, but oh well, here we are. This is completely self-indulgent and I channeled what's happening in my school life into this one, so if it doesn't fit with the American school system, I'm sorry, but I didn't want to research.

Word Count: 2.7k

You’ve been locked in your room for the majority of the past week, the study notes of the past semester strewn around you, and you swore at the beginning of the week that you would revise every last note at least once. In the end, you panicked more than you studied, but you managed to summarize about half of your notes, which should fill you with glee, but as you stare down at your stack of cards, you’re filled with dread and the purest form of self-hatred. What did you do the entire week that you only got so far? You left your room once, but it was a short walk around the block to air your head, with still many hours of the day left to spare. You swore you would get everything you needed to be done, and you swore to yourself that the next five weeks of exam season were going to be your bitch, but looking at the calendar now you realize, those five weeks still lay ahead of you and you are not even nearly done with everything you swore you would get done. 

Your head screams, “Failure!” And you’re starting to think that maybe your head is right. Maybe you are lazy and that is why your grades have been dropping or your teachers are disappointed or you just can’t seem to get the information into your thick skull even though someone once told you, “You can do it!” You figure that was a lie too. There is no way you can manage to ace all your upcoming tests and the final exams, and part of you is starting to fear you might not be able to graduate. There is too much in your head, too much stress, and too much performance anxiety, but as you look around yourself you don’t realize why you’re so stressed - in your head, it appears as if you spent the entire week playing video games and did the bare minimum, and not even that did you manage. You really don’t understand how you can be stressed and not even halfway done with all of your schoolwork. You’re stressed about being stressed, and you’re stressed about studying so you try to study, but your head blacks out and the day suddenly doesn’t have enough hours for you to think about yourself and the work you have to do, so you just sit back and stare at an empty page in the hopes the words will come out and you can just memorize all of the fucking information on your study notes. You don’t want to be the best, you’ve given up on that, but you want to pass, you need to pass because damn, you want to get out, you want to move on and get out and get on with life, but the load keeps getting bigger and your grades keep swindling. How can the load get bigger when you haven’t left your room in a week, and how did you not manage to finish revising all of your notes even though you definitely had the time and the means? You don’t understand and at this point, you have resorted to watching trash tv to keep your mind from reeling, but even that seems not enough anymore. You can’t eat without upsetting your stomach and the thought of going back to class the next day, having to study more and revise more, and the end moves closer and closer, but never close enough, and the entire pile of documents, anxiety, and stress starts to bury you alive. You can’t remember a second you allowed yourself to properly breathe, to stop your thoughts from racing and focusing on something else. You can’t remember a time you allowed yourself a step away from studying or procrastinating and freeing your head so you can get back to work with newfound energy. All of that seems so… impossible now. You want to pass, but your head keeps telling you that you won’t. You won’t pass. You will fail and everyone will hate you because you will be the only one. You’re scared, you’re terrified even and you can’t do this anymore. You want out of your body, out of your mind, and out of this life just for a second, just until the worst is over and everything has resolved itself. 

You know that’s not possible. 

Your friends are emotionally unavailable, busy with themselves, mostly, and your family is as annoying as ever. No one’s asked about you, most of them have dodged your messages or answered with a clear, “Sorry, we can’t.” It feels as if no one can help you out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself, so you decide to sit in it and wait for the dirt to swallow you. 

Your skin tingles, you’re tired and there is this overwhelming urge to cry. You miss being touched, you miss being taken care of, but there is no time and you just can’t ask. The one person you can ask is across campus and has no idea what’s going on because you told him you’d need the week to study, so he told you he’d leave you alone until then. It’s Sunday now. He hasn’t called or texted and you’re starting to wonder if he’s sick of you as you are of yourself. 

Before the thoughts can turn any darker, and they have gotten significantly darker, there is a knock on your door. You probably smell disgusting, your room is a mess and you should have opened a window, but it’s significantly colder outside today, there is snow and you just hate the way everything but your blanket and the new episodes of America’s Next Top Model make you feel. You’ve driven yourself so far into loneliness, you’re starting to believe that this is actually just who you’re supposed to be. 

You get off the makeshift seating area among your study notes off the floor and walk to the door. You don’t bother checking who’s outside. If it is a murderer, at least you can miss your exams and not feel guilty, and the general heavy pain that drags your soul down to your feet and keeps it there would finally go away. 

Seeing Matt Murdock’s face at your door doesn’t surprise you, you simply step aside and let him in. doesn’t say anything, simply taps his can forward until he can find his way into your room. His nostrils flare, but either he doesn’t smell the bucket of untouched fries and garlic sauce on the counter and how you haven’t showered in four days or he’s being respectful about it. You kind of wish he would just flat-out tell you that you smell and probably look like shit, not that he could judge, but he could probably sense with the way everything feels like a mess around him, that would make your guilt and pain so much worse but at least you could feel something else for a change. You’d be hurt, but it would be a different kind of hurt, one that could distract you from the demons gnawing at your heart. 

“You want a drink?” you ask, your voice hoarse from both the lack and the overuse of sleep as a coping mechanism. 

He stands lost in the room, or maybe he’s waiting, you’re not sure. You get a beer for him from the fridge, but instead of drinking it, he takes it and places it back down on the counter. 

You stare at him, a little confused, and maybe your pride is also a little hurt that he would turn down your nice gesture. 

“Are you okay?”

The question confuses you, at first, and you’re not quite sure how to process it. Those three words sound so foreign, the week you’ve been through suddenly feeling like years without him, and as he’s standing before you now, his question awakening something in you, unscrewing the lid and popping the cork, you realize just how much you have missed him. How you have missed this. How you have missed being acknowledged and asked about, even if it was just a simple, “Are you okay?” 

It finally settles in and the question makes you feel a lot of things at once, but none of them are simple, and none of them you can explain, but you know how they make you feel and they definitely answer his question with something he can feel in the way you tense up. 

You bite your lip. “No,” you admit silently, although it feels wrong to say it because why are you not okay? You should be. You have to be.

But Matt isn’t like that. 

“Do you need a hug?” he asks. 

Fuck him, you think. He’s read you better than you could have read yourself. 

You nod again. “Yes.”

“Okay, c’mere.”

As it turns out, a hug is exactly what you needed and half of the uneasiness you have been feeling must have been a serious case of touch starvation.

He opens his arms and allows you to take the first step, and you do. You step forward to lazily drape your arms around him, but he soon wraps you up tightly in his and squeezes you in the way he knows you need. The physical decompression, his fresh smell, the sound of his heartbeat, and his hands roaming your back open the flood gates, and seconds after you are crying heavily into his chest. You unload all of the stress and all of the anxiety, clinging to him for dear life, but he doesn’t mind. He lets you cry, sob and whimper until you’re too weak to stand and even then he only carries you over to your couch and sits down with you in his lap, still holding you like you are a fragile little thing (which you are, now that you think of it) and he refuses to even think about letting you go. 

He kisses your head. You’re still shaking, but there are no more tears to cry. “Why didn’t you call?” he asks you. 

His voice sounds so soft and it makes you whimper again, wiping your eyes on his already wet shirt. “Why didn’t you call?” you bite back. 

“Because you said you wanted to study. I didn’t want to interrupt you, sweetheart. I know how caught up you get and I wanted to give you space. If I had known-”

You can’t help it. You are safe from the world in his arms so you allow yourself to voice the one thought that has been keeping you on edge, “I’m going to fail, Matty.”

He holds your face away from his, feeling your contorted features and the stress wrinkles on your forehead. “What?” 

You only then realize he took off his glasses and you can see his brown eyes perfectly like that. That only makes you shake harder because he cares so damn much and you never have needed him more than you do now.

“I’m going to fail,” you say again, “because I’m useless and dumb and I can’t get anything right. I can’t even get anything done. I’m such a failure and I am going to fail every goddamn test and I am going to fail my finals and I’m-”

Matt shushes you again by taking you in his arms, and a new wave of tears rattles you. “You are not going to fail,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. “You’re not a failure, you’re not dumb and you are not useless. You made it this far. You passed all of your previous classes. You’re almost there, sweetheart,” he says, “so you are not going to fail now.”

“But what if I am?”

“Everything can happen, but you are not going to fail. I know you and that is not what you do.”

“I barely got anything done this week. I swore I’d study, but-”

“How much do you have left?”

You sniffle and look behind you. God, your floor is a mess. “A lot,” you admit. 

“Too much for one day?”

“Probably,” you break off with another sob. He keeps your head upright though. Instead of shushing you, he gets up, kneels on the floor, and touches your study notes. He can’t read them, they’re not in Braille, but he can smell the different highlighters you have used and he can separate the topics accordingly. “It’s the stack on the right, isn’t it?” 

You rub your eyes. “Yes.”

“And that’s what?”

“Statistics, behaviorism and, um… I don’t know, cognitive development, maybe. I can’t remember. God!” Thinking about it makes you nauseous. “I can’t even remember, Matt. I am so going to fail!”

He shakes his head, pursing his lips to shush you softly. His hand motions for you to join him on the floor. With some struggle, he finds the stack you’ve been talking about. He hands it to you. 

“You’re going to take these and spread them out,” he tells you, “While I take care of those you’ve already summarized, alright?”

You stammer, “What?”

“We’re gonna start with statistics. You are going to go through your notes at your speed while you tell me about them, and I’m gonna rub your back while you do. If you need a break,” he says, “We’re gonna take a break. If you wanna stop, we stop. And if you want me to stay until you’re done with both topics, I’ll stay for the boring behaviorism stuff, too.”

Somehow his readiness to help you without even knowing what he, ever the law student, is helping you with makes you cry even harder. He understands you in a way nobody can, and he never pressures you, not even when it comes to your classes. He knows you torture yourself enough and Matt being Matt, he can’t have you being sad. 

He stays true to his promise. He sits behind you, rubbing your back as you go over your notes, summarize them and tell him about them. Statistics are the bane of your existence, but psychology relies on them, so you’re forced to relive the worst module of your life. But with him by your side, telling you every so often, “You are doing such a good job,” and, “I know you can do it, baby,” it’s a lot easier. 

At around eight, your stomach growls, but you are long done with the statistics part and have decided, with some of Matt’s encouraging words, that there is still time tomorrow to get done with behaviorism and then when you’re done with both, he told you, he’d help you memorize. He hasn’t decided how yet, but he is determined and as the sun goes down and you lay in his arms, freshly showered and shaven on your bed, you can’t help but stare at his beautiful face. You would have lost your mind without him, you don’t doubt that, and he somehow always knows when to come and what to do. He knows when you feel down and when you need space. He knows you better than you know yourself and that is something no one but Matt Murdock has ever accomplished. 

Without him, you are pretty sure you would maybe not have failed your classes but you would have failed at life. Your mind would have failed you and you would have drowned. But with him, you’re a little more alive. 

“I love you,” you tell him sometime after he forced you to eat proper dinner, and he gently smiles against your hair. 

“I love you,” he says. “And you are going to do great, I just know it.”

“You have so much faith in me.”

“Well, one of us has to. Besides,” he flips you over so that he can hover over you, his brown hair falling from his face into yours and you giggle at his antics, “I am a good catholic boy. If I didn’t have faith in the divine, where would I be?”

His words leave you gasping, but nothing can match up to the force and passion he kisses you with. Psychology and messy room long forgotten, you melt into his touch and let his hands and lips speak a language only the two of you understand, and they always manage to pull you out of any hole with a symphony that has become your favorite music.

“Well, one of us has to. Besides,” he flips you over so that he can hover over you, his brown hair falling from his face into yours and you giggle at his antics, “I am a good catholic boy. If I didn’t have faith in the divine, where would I be?”

His words leave you gasping, but nothing can match up to the force and passion he kisses you with. Psychology and messy room long forgotten, you melt into his touch and let his hands and lips speak a language only the two of you understand, and they always manage to pull you out of any hole with a symphony that has become your favorite music.

Show Me How You Sin

pairing: Priest!Matt x AFAB!Virgin!Reader

words: 3.5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! umm haha everything? blasphemy, heavy desecration of religion, virgin reader, oral (f receiving), guided masturbation, soft!dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, reader is in 20’s

synopsis: Father Matthew leads you through your confession and first orgasm

A/N: haha hey! don’t read this is sacrilegious themes offend you!

REBLOGS/COMMENTS/FEEDBACK/LIKES ARE VERY MUCH WELCOMED HEHE

DO NOT REPOST, STEAL, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK. YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION. I’LL SMITE YOU.

he has to know how good he looks, right?

honey, he’s blind.

your mother gives you a quick side eye partnered with a smirk as you mumble to each other from the pew, relishing in the sight in front of you.

black garments cling to Father Murdock’s body in just the right way as he preaches about something you’ve probably heard many times before. your focus is purely on the way his hands rest against the wooden pulpit, veins visible under the dim light, and you can’t help the way your thoughts wander.

his fingers tap into the wood as he emphasizes some point, …your Heavenly Father will also forgive you, practically teasing you to imagine the way they would feel against the inside of your thigh, pressing into the soft flesh as your dress rides up with his touch.

the vasculature of his hands becomes more prominent as he grips onto the pulpit, and you have to swallow away the question of what his hands would look like wrapped around your throat while your lips release sweet moans.

your cheeks flush as you watch the way his tongue darts from the corner of his mouth and wets his lip, the voice catching in your throat as you swear you saw him smirk. you could’ve sworn he caught you; the way you crossed your legs and clenched your thighs together to relieve some of the ache from your core, the way your bottom lip was lodged between your teeth to stifle any moan that threatened to slip, the way your own fingers grabbed onto your sides as you crossed your arms around your body to hold yourself together.

don’t be ridiculous, he’s blind.

a sea of bodies rises from the pews, indicating the end of service. you deflate like a balloon, comfortable disappearing into the crowd and looking forward to relieving your… stress… in the comfort of your own bedroom.

you know it’s wrong, he’s a priest! I have hid thy promise in my heart, that I might not sin against thee. he’s MY priest… but it feels so good to reach that sweet spot when you rub your clothed cunt against the pillow in just the right way, unknowing of what happens after the buildup, wishing it was some part of the man who lead your prayers to help you discover what comes next.

your cheeks burn from embarrassment as you stand, only to find remnants of your arousal and sweat on the pew below.

“Hi.” The voice catches you off guard, causing you to trip over the aisle carpet.

“Careful, there.” His smile is charming as two large hands catch your falling body, the touch lingering on your waist for a second too long.

“S-sorry, Father.” It’s barely a whisper, but he catches your apology, clearly noting the way your heartbeat thunders in your chest.

He can tell you’re blushing by the way your cheeks and ears grow warmer, your skin already slightly damp from the debauchery he had very much noticed before.

His ear turns towards your parents ever so slightly, noticing the quiet laugh your mother is trying to hush- she must be embarrassed or- nervous?

“No need to apologize. I just wanted to see how you all were doing? It’s rare I get a moment to talk to everyone around here!” His smile is radiant as he addresses your family, your breath faltering as he moves his hand to the small of your back.

“Good! We’re all great! Home from college from now,” your mother winks at you, “just enjoying all the ways the Lord has been blessing us!” She’s overly excited as she relishes in the priest’s attention.

“Amen to that.”

Electricity flows from Father Matthew’s fingertips as he lightly grazes the seam of your dress. Your vision seems to blur at the foreign touch, only to be spewed on by the throbbing ache from between your thighs. The conversation is incoherent, your only train of thought telling your body to relax. breathe in, breathe out.

“I’m glad to hear it, it was nice speaking with you!” You take his words as your cue to leave but are halted as your parents take a few steps away.

“Actually,” the way he says your name nearly stops your heart entirely. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in confession?” His lip is upturned in a seasoned smile, one you had recognized before.

“I- um,”

“There’s no pressure, of course. I could just always use the extra practice. Not many people come around anymore, if you can believe that!” You swear you could see the crinkles form around his eye through the red glasses, and you sigh as his hand finally leaves your back.

“Sure. I’m, uh, definitely guilty of that.” As quickly as you relaxed at the absence of his touch, another part of you craved it.

He senses your hesitation, his attuned ears catching the way you crane your neck to scout your parents, only to hide a smile as he can hear your hands flap, shooing away your parents.

“You first,” he motions towards the confessional, vacant gaze trained towards your figure, disappearing into the confines of secrecy.

The wooden bench chills the backside of your thighs as you sit. The silhouette of your priest altered through the grated partition causes your heartbeat to quicken, and you’re suddenly on trial for your sins.

“Bless me, Father Murdock, for I have sinned…” He catches the shakiness in your voice, and the mention of his name causes him to shift his legs in his private section.

“It’s been…” You have to think of how long you had been away at college to remember the last time you’d repeated the phrase. “Four months since my last confession.”

“I’m glad you’re here now.”

“Thank you, Father Murdock-”

“Matthew. You can call me Matthew, if you’d like.” Your cheeks flush at the invitation and he notices, of course he does. Father Matthew… If only he knew how many times that name left your lips in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I, um… I have been struggling lately, Father Matthew.” The weighted confession leaves your mouth causing the crotch of his pants to grow tighter in unholy temptation.

“I have these feelings,” you clear your throat.

“Feelings?”

“Yes. Feelings that sometimes, well,” You’re unsure of how much you’re willing to tell. Granted, the guilt had been eating you alive, but a part of you enjoyed it- enjoyed it the way you enjoyed the feel of him pressing into your back.

“Sometimes they actually turn physical and…” he can tell you’re nervous by the way your cheeks warm and you cross your legs, clenching your thighs together in the process.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed or nervous, God honors your honesty, and so do I.” His voice is calm, almost too calm, and eases you into your repentance.

“When do these feelings typically happen?“ he already knew the answer; it was as if he was baiting you, perhaps he was.

He could sense the way you purposefully rubbed your clothed core against the pews while the congregation stood- the hymns hiding the breathy moans that left your lips when you barely rocked forward. He felt the way your lips threatened to wrap around his finger when he placed the bread on your tongue, his attuned ears catching the shakiness of your prayer. He could smell your arousal through the wooden partition as you contemplated your answer.

“They happen often, Father. And I don’t understand them. I’m ashamed, I think.”

“Shame is a heavy burden, but the burden Christ gives us is-“

“Light.” you speak at the same time.

“Exactly. Good girl” Matt catches the breath that becomes lodged in your throat, your pulse beating rapidly as you brush the hair from your face, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. He wants nothing more than to press his lips to the spot behind your ear, helping you to create pretty sounds.

“Tell me, what makes you ashamed of these feelings?” You’re caught off guard at his sultry tone.

“They happen when I do unholy things” Your confession falls on sensitive ears.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Unholy things like…” You don’t even realize your eyes are closed as your fingers caress your thighs, your lower lip hiding a moan as your fingertips brush the hem of your cotton panties. What are you doing?

“Like what you’re doing right now?” Matt noticed the way your concentration had adjusted, and he could sense the pad of your fingertips rub against the thicker seam- your breath falters and your body tenses as you’re caught. His cock throbs in the confinement of his pants.

“None of us are without sin. But I am interested in something.” His voice is raspy.

“Why don’t you show me how you sin?” you feel faint but gasp audibly at his proposal, your core throbbing at the thought.

“Father… I don’t… I”

“Your heavenly father has already forgiven you. May I?” He leans his head closer to the partition, eager to sense your response. You whimper at the thought of pleasuring yourself, fully confessing and at the mercy of the priest, and your fingers brush against your warm cunt, causing you to whisper a moan as you graze the bundle of nerves.

“That’s it, so obedient.” he clears his throat. “Do that again for me.”

The pad of your fingertips press into your clit and your eyes flutter shut.

“Good girl,” He notes the way you moan at the praise. “Tell me, how do you feel?”

“I feel, I feel dirty.” You do. You really, really do. But you also feel really, really good.

“Dirty is an interesting word to use… tell me where your hands are.”

“They’re on my thighs, Father.” He waits for a moment as he listens for the sound of your soft skin being kneaded, but he finds something else entirely.

“Angel, lying defeats the purpose of confession. Where are your hands?” It’s condescending and almost threatening, and you realize where you’re sitting and who you’re talking to.

It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. But neither of you are willing to stop.

“They’re on my… my…”

“Your pussy?” He growls as he finally palms his hard length while imagining your innocent body responding to his games.

“Yes.” You’re fully clothed but feel naked- exposed.

“Good girl. There’s no shame in pleasure. After all, God created it. Are your thighs spread open?” He knew the answer. He could practically taste the way you coated the booth.

“Yes.”

“I want to ask you something, is that alright?“

“Yes.”

“Have you ever tasted yourself before?” Your stomach lurches at the thought.

“No.”

“Such a shame.” You swear you hear him tsk in disapproval. “Would you like to?”

“Y-yes.”

The curtain of your booth is pulled away quickly, equally catching you off guard. You hadn’t even heard him remove himself from his side, and you certainly weren’t expecting to see the flushed face of your priest as your legs were spread wide open for anyone to see. Truthfully, though, you didn’t care if anyone saw. You were unable to form any other thought, fully surrendering to the desires of your flesh, whatever that meant.

It’s silent for a moment as he stands in front of you, his head turning to perceive your already wrecked state. Heavy breaths fill the small space as anticipation grows. Your back sinks against the hardwood, causing your thighs to spread even further, your clothed pussy peeking out from under your dress in silent invitation. Matt accepts gladly, wishing he could watch the way your eyes grew in size as he lowered himself in front of you.

His hands, the ones you had fantasized about so many times before, shakily greet your calves, the fingers gently teasing against the skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He smirks at the way you moan at the minimal touch, only then wondering how much you had been denying yourself.

“Angel,” his lips press into the inside of your knee. “Have you sinned like this before? With another person?”

You shake your head in response, and Matt can tell the answer by the way your arousal seeps from your panties, but you quickly correct yourself.

“N-no Father Matthew.”

“Such a good girl.” He places another kiss on the opposite knee.

“Oh, Christ!” You exhale as his hands travel further towards your core, his fingers dancing against your thighs, kisses littering wherever he touches. He smiles at your reactions.

Teeth lightly nip at the delicate flesh, and he inhales deeply as his nose practically nudges against where you crave him the most. He sighs into you, his warm breath against your sobbing pussy causing you to moan.

“So responsive,” his thumb traces the inside seam of your white cotton underwear, threatening to please you. “May I?” He faces you, desperately trying to find your eyes.

“Yes.” You whisper, giving permission to something you’re not even sure he’s asking.

The heel of your foot, the hardness of a pew, the softness of a pillow, the texture of a stuffed animal was nothing compared to the way Matt’s thumb caressed your throbbing clit through your panties. You jolted, nearly hitting your head, at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Oh!” His fingers grabbed onto the plump flesh of your thighs just as they held onto the pew, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your bundle of nerves.

“F-father,” You call for him, failing to catch the amusement plastered on his face.

“Hm? How does this feel, sweetheart? You can’t form words to express how you were feeling.

“Good. S-so good. Thank you.” He moans at your gratitude, his member throbbing consequently. His fingers hook into the elastic, patience leaving his body as he desperately needs to taste you.

“Angel, let me make you feel good.” He pleads with a kiss to your panty-cladded cunt. An open mouth moan against your core causes you to reach for him as he denies himself the pleasure of lapping up your taste. “Please, will you let me make you feel good?”

You aren’t sure how it can feel much better than this, but you oblige with ease.

“Please, Father Matthew. Please make me feel good.”

Your underwear fall to your ankles with haste, the air against your wet pussy causing you to shiver. Matt shivers as your arousal floods the tiny space, taunting him to devour you.

“Sweetheart, you tell me if you’d like me to stop, okay?” His fingers find your hand and wrap around your wrist as you give your silent consent.

His warm breath greets you first as you sharply inhale, this will be fun, and he teases you with the flat of his tongue pressing against the entirety of your pussy.

“H-help.” Had he heard you correctly?

“Help? Is everything okay? Would you like me to stop?” His brows furrowed in concern and he loosened his grip.

“No!” You practically shout, the echo hurting his ear slightly. “No! Please. I just… I’ve never felt this and I…” You’re embarrassed to admit you aren’t sure how to feel.

“Relax, angel. I promise I’m going to take care of you, ” He places a small kiss on your thighs. “In your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore,” he quotes scripture before placing his lips to your clit. You relax into the feeling, unsure of whether it was the familiarity of the words or the satiation of your flesh.

The tip of his tongue runs through your wet folds, sucking lightly to taste every drop, before flicking and circling against your swollen clit. Your moans cause his cock to throb against his thigh as he relishes in your sweetness.

“Fuck,” The profanities surprise you as they’re murmured from below. “Taste so fuckin’ delicious, sweetheart.” Your cheeks flush at the compliment.

“So fuckin’ sweet, just like an angel. My little angel,” His lips wrap around your sensitive bundle of nerves and he sucks lightly, the sound of spit audible to anyone who could pass by. He’s surprised by the way you respond and throw your hands against his head before quickly pulling back in regret.

“It’s okay,” he coos from below. “You can touch me.” You burn with temptation at his invitation and sink back into the wooden frame at an awkward angle, your fingers gently caressing the side of his head.

“Oh, Father.” You attempt to stifle your moan by catching part of your dress in your mouth, but he stops you before it passes your lips.

“Don’t be shy, kitten.” An outreached hand reaches to cup your face, his heart softening at the way you nuzzle into his touch. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking pleasure. Do you need me to help you?” you nod your head against his palm and he grabs your thighs, pulling you closer against him

“There you go, such a good girl. Just like that.” Your head falls back as he laps up your arousal from your leaking hole and places kitten licks against your clit, your moans falling freely.

“God,” you whimper, “that feels so good. I-I like that.”

He continues his ministrations, applying a steady pressure to your sensitive clit as your fingers grip into his hair and your hips lightly rut into him. He growls against your movements, and a wet spot grows visible against his trousers.

“That's it princess,” He moans into you. “Show me what you like. Show me how you like it.” you adjust your hips and lightly grind against his tongue. His grip onto you tightens, surely leaving bruises in return, as he encourages you to grow confident in your motions.

“Please please please” unsure of what you’re asking for as your thrusts grow quicker and more erratic. Matt mumbles a prayer and hums against your clit, causing you to force his face to press into you even more.

“Do that again, please.” you beg for more of the new sensations, his hums vibrating against your most sensitive area. He obliges with haste, silently praying and eager for a taste of your release.

An unfamiliar sensation bubbles within as your priest devours your pleasure. If the idea of the holiest man you knew moaning against your virgin cunt wasn’t enough to bring you to an orgasm, the sounds of your slick and his drool mixing and coating your clit was enough to do so.

“Father, what’s happening?” Your eyes attempt to open, but your lashes flutter at the pleasure. Your chest heaves as Matt brings you to the edge of your first orgasm.

“Just as the Father has washed you from iniquity, let this feeling wash over you, angel.” You’re sure you’ve reached Heaven. Your entire body tenses as you cling onto Matt, holding him against your clit as your orgasm washes over you in waves.

“Oh fuck! Oh Christ!” The muscles in your thighs tremble as they involuntarily close around the priest’s head; he moans as the sweetness of your taste and smell floods his senses. Your body shakes with pleasure and your abs contract with each wash of euphoria.

Your arousal drips from you like honey from a honeycomb, and Matt collects it with the tip of his tongue and spreads it over your clit before sucking gently, causing you to jolt from overstimulation.

“Ouch!” You flinch, “It hurts, Father.”

“If we are to share his glory, we must also share his suffering.” He recites the verse into your sopping cunt with a last lick, savoring your first sin. You’re surprised as he reaches for your face and brings you forward, your lips pressing into one another with a gentle kiss.

You moan into him, embarrassed that you’re enjoying the simple intimacy and the taste of you. He returns the pleasantry, his tongue tracing your swollen bottom lip before breathing into you a final time; his heart mirrors you at the slight ache.

His lips trail kisses from your face to your neck, stopping at your core while his fingers dip between your folds for good measure, before disappearing behind his lips. He continues his trail of kisses down the length of your legs before pulling your panties in their proper position.

Your legs groan as you finally stand at your full height and marvel at the sight below you. The priest's robes had been abandoned long ago, and he looked oddly human as he knelt below you. Your hand reaches towards him, reaching to hold his face, and he leans into your tender touch. He places an intimate kiss on your palm before standing, awkwardly adjusting the erection in his pants.

“I, um, I can-” He smiles at your offer.

“No, you don’t have to. It’s okay, angel. You did enough today.” You blush at his words, wishing you could run from the impending separation.

You’re surprised as he places a kiss to your forehead before running his hands against your figure, straightening the hem of your dress with precision and a kind smile, the sheen of your arousal still evident on his lip. You return the favor by gingerly adjusting the red tinted glasses and brushing a piece of his hair from his forehead. Your thumb rubs against his lips before disappearing into your mouth.

“Will I see you next Sunday?” He breaks the tender moment.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good girl.”

This series has captured my heart and I’m not ready to let it go😭 Plz continue writing more beautiful works like this<3

Creature Comforts - Chapter 7 Final

Creature Comforts Masterlist

A/N: I apologize for this being late. I had no idea how I was going to finish it. Maybe, in my mind, I didn't want to finish it. But I'm so glad that I decided to write this. I have gained some amazing new friends and mutuals because of this fic, and I will forever be grateful. As always, my ASKS and inbox are open.

Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and liked the story. I appreciate you!

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of smut, but nothing too graphic.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

You woke up on your bed to a pounding headache. Rubbing your eyes, you noted the darkness still outside your bedroom window. You groaned feeling your sore legs and your aching back.

“Do you need something, sweetness?” his voice carried to you softly. You turned around to find him lying next to you in bed.

“Loki?” you asked surprised. He smiled at you as he lay there on his stomach, his head resting on top of his arms. His hair was a mess, spread out over the pillows. “How long was I out this time?” you asked, admiring his skin under the dim light in your room.

“Two hours. Roughly.”

“What happened? Where’s Chris?” You asked alarmed as you tried to sit up from your bed. Your back protested and your hips stabbed you with pain. Loki sat up with you and pushed you gently back down.

“Gently, Liesl. You don’t want to go back to the infirmary, do you?”

“W-was I in the infirmary?”

“I carried you down there while I dragged his sorry ass with my seidr. I would’ve preferred to let the rat bleed out in the balcony while I tended to you, but I couldn’t risk him escaping.”

“Is he…”

“Dead? No. Frozen as a popsicle. On his way to The Raft.” You nodded your head in understanding. “Rogers thought the best thing to do with him would be to freeze him like they did with Barnes all those years ago. The rest of the team came back to blood and glass all over the carpets and a broken television. I think they had bets on whether or not you had stabbed me.” He joked. You laughed at the thought as your bodies got closer the more you talked with each other.  “I don’t think Stark is too happy about it. Especially the blood stains on the carpet.”

“I can’t believe Chris took the serum. Do you think there’ll be more like him out there? What else did Steve say? Or Bucky? What did Bruce-”

“Shh,” Loki said as he put his fingers on your lips. “I don’t want to hear you talk about other men, while I’m in bed with you.”

You blushed as you realized where the two of you were. “What are you doing in my bed?” you asked.

Loki momentarily looked at you. A puzzled expression broke out on his face. “You’re right. I apologize. I should leave.” Loki moved to get up.

“No, no, no.” you reached for him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back into bed. “Stay. Please.” You pulled him closer to you in bed and wrapped his arms over your waist, while you tucked your arms in between you. A spontaneous smile broke out on his face as he finally held you close.

When he laid you down on your bed earlier, he debated internally on whether he should stay and watch over you. Or to let you go and rest. He watched you for a lengthy amount of time until he gave in to his urges and laid there with you on your bed. He didn’t dare touch you though. He still didn’t know where the two of you stood in the relationship. Now he got to hold you close. His thumb rubbing circles on the small of your back.

You both laid there, your faces so close to each other. You reached up and soothed his furrowed brow. You traced your fingers down to the tip of his nose then down to his soft pink lips. Loki pursed his lips slightly, giving your finger a small kiss. 

“Are you comfortable?” he whispered. You nodded your head, your noses barely kissing. All he would have to do is move just a tiny bit closer, and he would finally have your lips on his. But he needed to do something first. “I’m sorry, Liesl. For everything.”

“I forgive you.”

“I mean it. I really am sorry, my love. About the misunderstanding. About ignoring you. About Chris hurting you.”

“I know. Just…don’t do it again. Promise me you’ll talk to me, instead of ignoring me. Even though we might not end up together, I’d still like to be your friend.” You whispered softly. You didn’t want to assume that he wanted to be in a relationship with you. Ever since you saw him with someone else, it just broke your confidence about being with him.

“Is that what you want? To remain friends?” Loki asked soberly. You both lay there quietly. Afraid of the thoughts going on inside your heads. “Tell me, darling. Honesty, remember. Talking goes both ways.”

You started fidgeting with the top button on his shirt, your fingers needed something to play with as you tried to confess your feelings. “I would like to be more.” You said sheepishly, averting your eyes from his gaze, focusing on his button instead. “I didn’t know you back then. I thought that when you started noticing me, that I was just going to be another conquest to you. But ever since you took care of me at the hospital, and helped with my recovery. I’ve grown fond of…you…and our time together. Then, seeing you with another person earlier today, it hurt.”

“I’m so sorry, my dear. You will never know how much I regret doing that. I’m sorry I broke your trust in me. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts. When I heard what you said about your ex, I thought you were talking about me. In my head, it made sense that no one would really want to be with me.  I would like to be more too. If you’d still like to try.”

“Hmm.” You hesitantly agreed. “It did make me realize that I didn’t want to stay friends anymore. But I also couldn’t trust you not to do something hurtful like that if we get into an argument. You know me Loki, at least I hope you do. You know that I don’t like the drama, the angst. I just want things to be easy, comfortable.”

“I do know you, darling. That’s why I pursued you a long time ago. I saw you, cozy and relaxed. You were content to just let your light shine through. I wanted to be part of that. And what better way to crash into your life than to make you blush at every chance I get. I loved seeing you uncomfortable, so to speak. I loved it when I made you squirm or blush. When I hear your breath hitch. Or when you close your eyes relishing something I’ve done.”

By now, your fingers have moved from the buttons on his shirt to the warmth of the skin on his collar bone. You traced the muscles of his neck, feeling the vibrations as he spoke.

“Liesl?” He called you, wanting your attention.

“Hmm?” You were hypnotized by his voice.

“You can’t imagine how good that feels?” He closed his eyes, savoring your touch. Neither of you speaking, neither of you wanting to break the enchanting silence surrounding you. Both of you content to just have each other in your arms. Relieved that the night hadn’t gone worse and that you were both now finally speaking about what you wanted from each other.

“Why did you do it?” You asked, the question popping into your head, uncensored.

“Do what?”

“Save him from throwing him over the balcony.” You said sheepishly. Loki laughed.

“Did you want me to?”

“No! Maybe. No. Definitely, no.” Loki laughed harder. His body shaking the bed. “I guess I was just curious as to what you were thinking. I knew that if you had gone through with it, you wouldn't have forgiven yourself afterward.”

“Hmm.” Loki contemplated for a moment before he answered. He was grateful that you knew enough about him to understand that, yes, he would never forgive himself afterward. “I was so angry at him for what he had done to you. I was so angry at myself for what I had done to you. I suppose I wanted him to hurt the way I was. I wanted to throw my problems out the window, as they say.”

“What stopped you?”

“You. Your voice pulled me from my wrath like gravity. I felt your lips beckon me on my skin. The heat from your embrace warmed my body. Just – like – the sun.” He pulled you flush against him. His nose ran along your cheek, as his hands gripped you from behind.

“How are your legs?” Loki asked in a soft whisper.

“They’re ok. See?” you answered in an equally hushed tone as you lifted your leg over his waist and trapped him in between you. You winced slightly, trying to hide the ache in your thighs. Loki stifled a giggle, turning his head down towards the pillow.

“I’m not sure how to react to your teasing. Is this what it feels like every time I came on to you?” He asked blushing.

“Oh no! You’re much worse. You’ve had centuries to perfect it. You’re more disarming.”

“How am I worse? If you recall, you’re the one that kissed me first.” Loki almost shrieked.

“I did, didn’t I?” you laughed.

“Yes, you did!” Loki tightened his grip around you. “I also recall me saying, that if you wanted another one, you’d have to get up from that chair.”

“And I did. Didn’t I?” you said smiling.

“Yes. You did.” Loki breathed as he reached behind your head. You felt his cool breath tickle your lips just before they latched onto yours.

It wasn’t a peck this time. It was a lingering heat that finally exploded as you two kissed. You heard the crinkling of his lips as he opened them to invite you further in. The sharp sound sent an echo throughout the nerves of your body, energizing them. He sucked on your upper lip as you bit down on his lower one, making him moan.

Loki’s hands explored you. The curves of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs. He squeezed enthusiastically and you grimaced slightly at the pain.

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” He asked panicked. You only giggled in response.

“I’m fine.”

“Yes. You said that too, then collapsed on me.”

“It’s been a tiring day.”

“I’m sorry I added to it.” You looked him in the eyes and you could see his genuine sincerity. “You have to know Liesl, I never meant for any of that to happen. I was just running on autopilot. Then the thing with Chris happened and it all went to hell…”

“Shh. It’s ok. I understand. Will you come to me though, the next time something like this happens? I don’t want to have to fight off other people just to keep your attention.” You smiled.

“I promise. Again, I’m sorry, love.” He gave you a slightly less heated kiss on your lips. “Will you fight other people for me though? That might be something I’d like to watch?” he said playfully.

“Would you really put some unsuspecting victim in harm’s way, my way, just to prove your point?”

“You’re right. No one can best you.”

“Damn straight!”

“To the victor goes the spoils.”

You pulled his shirt collar to bring his lips closer to you and said, “Hmm. Spoil me again.”

The next day, you had walked out with Loki trailing behind you. He hadn’t left your room all night, wanting to stay by you in case you needed something. Needless to say, neither of you slept. The break of dawn shone through your window to signal the both of you to get up from the dream-like state you were both in. The night hadn’t gone further than heated touches and filthy promises to ravage each other when you finally healed. ‘Motivation,’ Loki said to speed up your recovery.

You walked with your hand on the walls for support. His arm wrapped behind you ready to catch you in case you fell. When you walked out to the common area you seized up. Most of the team was sitting around the dining room table eating their version of breakfast. But what really caught your attention was the rest of the common room. Damage from the previous night made the room seem like a horror movie come to life.

Blood was everywhere, uncleaned and untouched.  A dark pool of it resting right by the bar area and trailed outside towards the balcony. The television hanging by the lone chord from the wall had dropped onto the glass shelves below it.  Loki looked timidly toward you.

“There she is,” Bruce said noticing you walk out.

“Careful there’s glass there on the carpet,” Steve said pointing down. Loki picked you up, bridal style, and carried you over the broken glass towards the team eating in the breakfast nook.

“Edelweiss, the next time you decide to throw a party and invite your evil exes for a duel, remind me to cover the walls with tarp. Dexter Morgan style.” Tony said, downing two painkillers with his black coffee. Steve and Loki just looked at him, tilting their heads, not understanding the references. Tony might as well be speaking tongues to them.

“I promise.” You rolled your eyes in agreement. Loki sat you down next to Natasha. He kissed your head and asked, “Coffee?” You nodded your head and said, “Please.”

Nat gave you her famous half-smirk. She pointed her cereal spoon between you and Loki who was at the kitchen counter making you your cup of coffee. You returned her smile and nodded your head. She narrowed her eyes at him and nodded her head in acceptance. Then she held up one finger and gave you a serious look as she raised her eyebrow. Then she motioned cutting her neck with her thumb. You patted her hand gently and shook your head, thanking her for her protectiveness.

“Are they telepathic?” Thor whispered to Sam as he watched your interactions.

“All women are, Thor,” Sam whispered back. “All women are.”

In the following weeks, Loki took it upon himself to be your personal trainer. It was both distracting and productive.

Productive because he would make it fun and use his charms to motivate you. He would dance with you across the gym floor. Or he would follow you up the stair machine in the gym, laughing as he stalked behind you. “Come on, darling. Two more flights and I can give you that foot massage afterward.” He would smirk.

Distracting because that massage would always lead to something more. “Well, if I massage your feet, I might as well do your calves and thighs,” he reasoned.

He would then proceed to your back, then your shoulders. Pretty soon your whole body would be covered in oil and Loki would soothe and relax every nerve and tension you had. His expert hands knew every inch of your body by now, and he knew exactly how to elicit the most primal moans out of your lips.

“Are you comfortable, dear heart?” He asked in a low quiet voice, trailing his strong fingers down your spine. You hummed in response - the most intelligent thing you could say after he does one of these sessions with you. And he would always do these sessions with you.

As heated and passionate as these massages were, it never got to be more than that – a body massage. He didn’t want to hurt you any further by taking you in an uncomfortable position for an extended amount of time. Norns, did he fantasize about taking you for an extended amount of time. But he wanted you to be yourself again. The celestial force that pulled him in. The warmth, the light that only you could shine.

So you both waited until you and your body were in shape. He knew it wouldn’t be forever. And by the time you would be ready, he knew exactly how to wound you up and make you blush. He would push your limits the only way he knew how and when he’s extracted the most beautiful pleasure out of your body, his hands would already know just how to make you a creature of comfort.

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peter, won’t you be the one i really need?

description. you gift peter a new camera for christmas, but what will be his gift to you?

pairing. tasm!peter parker x reader

genre. fluff, friends to lovers

warnings. slight insecurity

author’s notes. favorite spider-man <3 and im aware there wouldn’t be spider-man themed wrapping paper at the time of this fic but i dont care bc he deserves to have his face on presents. also they kinda make out lol

Peter curiously eyed the box in his hands. There was a noticeable weight to it as he held it. Peter stared at the horribly wrapped present, laughing to himself when he sees the Christmas Spider-Man themed paper. Images of you struggling to wrap a box floated through his mind. He could picture you groaning in your room after failing to replicate the tutorials you found on YouTube.

Your laugh joined his with an embarrassed explanation. “I, uh, I saw it at the store last week. I thought of you. I know it’s kinda stupid.”

“It’s perfect.” His head tilted to side and then up to you, a gaze filled with such intense curiosity that it plagued your thoughts. Peter’s intrigue came out in a whisper, giving the box a test shake near his ear. “What is it?”

Your chapped lips pursed, and your heart felt like it would explode out of your chest. He could hear that, couldn’t he? What if wasn’t the kind he wants? Maybe the lens was bad? Too long? Too short? Too heavy and impractical to carry around for long periods of time? “Uh, open it.”

The sound of ripping and crinkling filled Peter’s bedroom as he tore open your hard work. He tried to be careful, but even then his inhuman strength was just too much for the Spider-Mans (Spider-Men?) swinging through snowflakes. He opened the box, pulling out and examining the new item in his hands.

“I was gonna give it to during Christmas, uh, obviously,”—you nervously laughed—“but then Flash broke your camera, so I thought it’d be a better time to give it to you now and I finally scraped up enough money to buy it and I’m sorry if it’s not the kind you wanted and—“

“I love it. Thank you. But this is a little early. I haven’t gotten you anything yet.”

“Oh, no it’s fine. You don’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I do. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

“Look, Parker, it’s a gift. I wanted you to have it. Don’t worry about it—what are you doing?”

Your eyes trailed towards your gift. Peter was looking through its lens with great focus.

“Testing out my gift.” The corners of his lips curled as he stared at the shot of you he just took.

“On me?” You scoffed. “That’s a waste. Delete that.”

Peter frowned. “Nothing is a waste with you.”

“Shut up.” You snorted.

“No, seriously.” Peter’s face suddenly became serious, and it reminded you of how he got after Uncle Ben had died. You never liked him like that. “You’ve never seen yourself the way I do.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not that great.”

“No.” His gaze was so intense, but you could never look away from him when he looked at you so earnestly. “You’re amazing.”

Your voice felt so small. “Is that… is that how you see me?”

He nodded.

When did he get so close to you?

You gulped at the close proximity. You always preferred your own space, but this closeness felt addictive—like all the air in the room had suddenly dissipated and all you could do was grab onto the person closest to you for oxygen.

Peter was always gangly, but he seemed so small in front of your eyes. His typically caramel eyes that gleamed honey on his best days were almost black. “Can I?”

“Please.”

Peter Parker tasted like peppermint. Maybe candy cane? You weren’t sure who closed the gap first, being too dazed to really care anyway. His lips were so soft, and you figured you have Aunt May to thank for that. She had always reminded him to put on chapstick, especially when it got cold like now in December, so that his lips wouldn’t crack like they sometimes did. You knew how painful those could get. Maybe it’s just a habit now.

Your fingers gripped onto the nape of his neck, tugging his hair, and you could feel him shudder against you. Your grip tightened, and so did his on your hips. Peter stepped back until his legs hit his bed. He sat down, pulling you into his lap with ease. You melt into his embrace and his warm lips, and you wonder how a kiss could ever feel this good.

He pulled away, and your hands tried to bring him closer again. But you had forgotten how much stronger he was than you. His whisper against your lips was rushed, desperate even. “Can you do that again?”

You met him again eagerly, fingers tightening their grip. You were sure he could hear the heavy pounding of your heart, but you knew that he wouldn’t care because he seemed just as needy as you were if not more. His tongue prodded your mouth hesitantly before swiping over your lips. They parted, and you felt his clumsiness. He was a good kisser nonetheless.

“Was that my Christmas present?” you asked after you pulled away for air.

He let out a breathy laugh, the one that made your heart flutter all the time. “I can be your present.”

“I mean, I still have like, an entire roll of that wrapping paper left. You can wrap yourself and surprise me.”

“I don’t think that’d be much of a surprise.”

“It’s okay. I’m not too bad of an actor.”

“How about I just… kiss you again?”

“I’m okay with that.”

Peter Parker tasted like candy canes.