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A Red Widow

a/n i’ve been teasing this fic for like a year oops, decided that if i kept coddling it it’d never get done so with very cursory editing i snapped and decided to post it, i could give it a part 2 as it was originally going to be longer but i decided that my original idea was too long for a one-shot 

i’m scared to post this, part of the reason i didn’t want to post it is bc i felt too close to it,, throwing it out like a grenade and then logging off for the night 

Summary: former black widow reader and matt, what can i say,, this is all about trauma lmao

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y/n’s POV

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Before the blip. Tangier, Morocco. 

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Nothing is enough to distract me from my goal, my mission. Not even the irritating humidity and the way it makes my suit cling to my skin. I’m going to need Yelena’s help pealing out of this suit when this all over. 

“The target is passing.” Yelena’s voice rings through my ear piece, snapping me out of my thoughts. I adjust my grip on my weapon as I press my body further into the corner of the roof. “Are you in position, младенец вдова?” 

Leaning forward, I frown at the nickname. “Baby widow? Seriously? I think I’m old enough for us to retire that nickname.” 

“You don’t like малиновый цвет either.” 

The nickname is almost enough to make me move from my position. Even though my black stealth suit completely covers my arms, the red scar that exists on the back of my left wrist begs for my attention. The mark has been there for practically as long as I can remember, and is the reason Yelena often tries calling me crimson.

 I roll my eyes, leaning forward as the sound of footsteps echo around me. My mark is almost here. “I’m in position.” My finger is poised on the trigger. “They’re almost in my line of--” 

My back hits the gravel of the roof so quickly I can’t even register how it happened. My rifle lands a few feet behind me and my assailant is standing over me. Great--our target has friends.

For support, I press my hands into the gravel. Creating momentum, I push myself upwards with all the strength in my body. My legs strike my attacker and I land in a crouched position. The person that attacked me is surprised, but not ruined. He lunges for me. I duck and strike the way I’ve been trained to. The attacker is persistent and I don’t have time for this. If I miss my mark... 

No. I won’t. I let my assailant attempt to grab me. Instead, I latch onto his wrist, yanking him forward. I rotate his arm with all my strength, not stopping until I hear the sound of bone cracking. He winces and swings at me with his good arm. I kick him in the ribs. He stumbles. 

“Y/n?”

Yelena. Has our target already passed? “Give me a second.”

“Do you need backup?” 

The man kicks his leg forward, almost knocking me off balance. I spin, dragging him down by pulling on his broken arm. He lets out a low sound as he tries to use his size to his advantage. The man towers over me, so when he throws his weight at my center, I stumble slightly. He takes advantage, swinging his leg around my foreleg. 

I fall onto my back. The man places his foot on my chest. Twisting to get on my side, I slam my heel into the back of his knee. The man’s leg buckles. With my other leg, I kick him down. I jump upwards before checking to see where he’s landed. I run towards my rifle, raising it on my shoulder the second my hand is on the cold metal. I can’t shoot my attacker because the noise could alert my target. 

The stranger must know that because the moment he’s on his feet, he lunges towards me. I dodge at the last second, slamming part of my rifle into his temple. He grabs the end of the weapon, jabbing my rib with it in a way that makes me want to double over in pain. The man then throws the weapon behind him. I angle myself to the left, reaching for his broken arm. The man tries to punch me again, but I duck, moving one arm upwards. I wrap my arm around his neck and place a hand beneath his jaw. He tries one last kick of his legs, but it’s already over. I turn his head to the left as sharply as possible, snapping his neck. 

He slumps, his legs going slack. I release him, letting his body fall limp onto the concrete. I run towards the rifle and get back to my position in record time. “I’m my own backup.” 

“No, you’re ridiculous.” 

Rolling my eyes again, I find my target in my scope. Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger. And like always, my bullet finds my target perfectly. “The target is neutralized.” 

“Alright, now come to the rendev--” My legs give out as pain rips through my body. My rifle falls as a pathetic sound falls from my lips. “Y/n?” 

I’ve been shot. I crawl across the roof, ignoring the insatiable burning in my shoulder. Once I’m behind the apex of the roof, I slump against its wall. A shaky hand reaches forward, grazing where the pain is at its worst. My fingers come back bloody. 

Yelena. I have to warn Yelena. “They have--they have people.” 

“Did something happen?” My throat feels so dry and my limbs have become so heavy. “Y//n? Where are you?” 

This wound puts me out of commission. My body knows what needs to be done. “Don’t come.” 

My hand moves without me telling it to. I reach into the compartment on the thigh of my suit, pulling out a knife. My hand begins to move up, towards my throat. The edge of my blade presses into the side of my neck. I close my eyes, letting my hand fall prey to instinct. 

Something strong clamps around my wrist. My eyes open in frustration as I try to free my arm. “No. Y/n, don’t do this. You’re fine--you’re going to be fine.” Yelena’s grip on me is insatiable, but my instinct is stronger. I continue to struggle against her. “Y/n, you’re not stronger than me.” 

Pain rips through my shoulder as I try to hit her with my free arm. She catches the punch effortlessly. “Y/n, y/n, please.” 

Everything in me wants to listen to her. I always want to listen to her. But I can’t. My body won’t let me. My leg kicks outwards in hopes of knocking her off of me. Yelena is faster than me, she always has been. She turns her leg and forces me to the ground in one move. 

Yelena pins me down, ignoring the way that I struggle. My body won’t stop until the self termination protocol is completed. I kick her in the stomach. Yelena frowns, shifting so that she can pin down my leg. I take that as an opportunity to strike her forearm. The hand that’s still clinging to my knife twists in Yelena’s grasp. I blindly jab it in Yelena’s direction. She grabs my forearm and presses it into the ground with all her strength. 

“Trained you a little too well.” She sighs as I continue to struggle against her. Yelena frowns, eyeing my wounded shoulder. “I’m sorry about this.” 

She moves, placing one hand on the injury. I grit my teeth to prevent myself from screaming out in pain. Yelena then leans over, reaching for a case I’ve never seen. I continue to struggle despite the burning of my shoulder. My body is listening to a source outside of myself. Yelena holds a vile of something red above me.

I take a deep breath, relaxing for a moment before pulling my legs upwards. I push myself upwards with all my strength, knocking Yelena off of me. I run a few feet away from her, holding knife back up to my neck. Yelena is on me in a second, forcing me to turn around by grabbing my injured shoulder. I thrust my knife forward, cutting into Yelena’s arm. She lets out a pained noise and my stomach knots, but this is beyond me. I’m injured, my termination protocol is in motion. Yelena tries to kick my legs out beneath me and I try to twist her injured arm. She turns, grabbing my hurt arm and using it to give her the momentum she needs to flip me onto my back. 

Yelena places a foot on my chest and cracks something over my head. I bend my arm, attempting to cut my neck again. Red powder floats in the air, falling over me as my blade reaches my skin. The powder dissipates and I have the will to let my arm fall slack.

What just happened? I-I fought Yelena. I cut her--I hurt her because she didn’t want me to hurt myself. As I lie there panting, Yelena removes the foot from my chest. She takes the knife from my weakly curled fingers. I let her. She wordlessly bends down, grabbing my leg and turning my thigh outwards. I wince when I feel the sting of the blade cutting through my skin. Yelena touches the wound and a moment later, she holds something out in front of me. 

“Tracker.” I blink dumbly, sitting up slowly. What just happened? At least I’m with Yelena, and I trust her with all that I am. “You want to know what just happened?” She lets out a breath, casually moving to sit crosslegged right in front of me. “You want to know why your self termination protocol stopped before you hurt yourself?” I nod. “That red powder--it freed you from the control of the red room.” No. That has to be some kind of joke or fluke. That’s impossible. “Now, come on.” 

“Where are we going?” 

“We need to send a package to Natasha.”

Natasha. Our Natasha. 

----

Hell’s Kitchen, New York. 

Present day. 

Post Blip.  

----

The strangest part of life is the way that things change. Whether you want them to or not, whether you hold onto the past with all your strength or you attempt to push it away with all you have, you are not in control of that change. Things change by their own will, or by the will of the universe, I guess. 

I think about this every time I do this. The widow uniform still fits, even after all these years. Don’t do this. It’s not your responsibility. My hands feel fragile as I adjust my braided ponytail. Braiding my own hair before going out like this feels wrong. It reminds me of how much has changed. 

Natasha. Yelena. I haven’t seen them since the blip. I haven’t heard from them since the blip. I’m not sure I want to hear from Yelena again, but it would be a relief to know that she’s alive. And Natasha--I’d do anything to make her proud. Five years. For five years she made sure I had a safe place to sleep and that I always had enough to eat. She made me believe I could do anything. Natasha got me the paperwork I needed to start over as a normal person. She made Tony create school transcripts so that I could go to college and do something with my life. 

Don’t think about this now. You can think about it after. 

Turning from the mirror, I pace away from my bedroom mirror and approach the fire escape window. Taking a last look around my room, I sigh, pulling my mask over my face again. Another thing that’s different. When I was a widow, there were rarely masks. We knew we wouldn’t be seen by anyone that would survive and we had no other identities. Now, though, I have another version of myself to keep separate from this. 

I shut the window behind me before throwing myself over the railing of my fire escape. I let myself drop two floors before swinging onto a lower level of the fire escape. Here, I can better make out the people beneath me. They walk around, happy to be lost in their own world. But things aren’t safe here, that’s part of the appeal of living in the city. I can try to be the kind of person Natasha would be proud of. Like that can make up for what you said to her before she left. 

Sighing, I push down the negative thoughts like the poison they are. One day I’ll be reunited with Natasha, and she’ll see that I did good things, and she’ll be proud of me. And she’ll forgive me.

I jump down another floor. And then another. Soon enough, I’m on the sidewalk. There aren’t a bunch of people out at this hour, which I guess is a good thing. I walk down the streets, disappearing into an alley that I’ve stopped crimes in before. 

Pulling myself onto a closed dumpster, I use it as a starting point to make it easier to throw my body onto the ladder of this building’s fire escape. I make my way upwards. I don’t stop until I’m high enough to blend into the night. To observe without being seen.

Someone’s approaching the alley. I hold my position, crouching a little further into the shadows. The person is alone, and walking with methodical patience. “I know you’re here.” My fingers ghost the pocket of my suit, preparing to pull out a throwing knife at a moment’s notice. “You’re not going to make me guess, are you?”

I swallow once, my body tensing even though I know no threat is near. I’ve run into this self-thought vigilante a number of times. I’m not exactly in the business of working with others, but I can’t exactly pretend to be unaware of the other masked person fighting in the same alleyways as me. It’s like sharing an office space, except our paperwork is crimefighting and instead of small talk he grills me about my intentions.

“Not behind the dumpster, because you like the arial advantage.” It wouldn’t be a big deal to respond. Some of our interactions have bordered on friendly, or as friendly as one can be to a stranger they only know through vigilante activities. “Not on the left fire escape because that’s still a residential building and you like to keep away from civilians.” I’m not in the mood for interactions tonight. The days have been harder than normal, and I don’t trust myself to be the person I want to be. I can feel myself being pulled somewhere dark, and the less people that witness that the better. “You’re on the fire escape of the building to the right of me.” He walks forward until he’s right beneath me. “I know you’re above me.” 

Rolling my eyes, I grip the railing a little tighter, and not out of fear of losing balance. “I’m not in the mood for company tonight.” I’m being much shorter than usual, which is a fact he’ll pick up on. I need to add something lighthearted so that I can get left alone a little faster. “This is Hell’s Kitchen, I’m pretty sure you can find another alley to virtuously lurk in.” 

“Virtuously lurk?” Normally, I’d make fun of him for making fun of me. Tonight isn’t normal. Not after what happened this morning. The flash back came out of nowhere and still lingers in me, a phantom desperate to take form. “You don’t want company, but what about a job?” 

“You pay now?” 

He tilts his head upwards, the corner of his lips turning upwards slightly. “It’s more of a community service opportunity. Which is, as I understand it, why you do what you do, Crimson Widow.” There’s something about the way he says my alter ego name, like there’s a joke he knows about that I don’t. “This involves teenage girls. Hurt and scared teenage girls, they won’t respond well to a man that seems violent, and they won’t be trusting.” 

Hurt and scared teenage girls that don’t trust men. Guilt prods at that thing in my stomach that’s always asking: what would Natasha want me to do? I sigh, standing so that I can drop down. Before I know it, I’m on the top of the dumpster just like I was in the beginning. I slide off of it easily, landing right in front of the devil himself. 

“I was right.” 

He’s feeling easy going tonight. Or maybe he just feels the need to compensate for my unusual dryness. “Aren’t you always?” 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate my victories.”  

I roll my eyes. “That’s a particular mind set.” Crossing my arms in front of me, I watch him cautiously. Just because he’s given me no reason to be wary of him doesn’t mean I’m letting my guard down. “That paired with the way you analyze things makes me wonder...does your day job involve you being a detective or something?” 

He almost smiles, or at least I think he almost smiles. “Or something.” 

I inhale, dismissing the partial kinship that something in me is desperate to cling to. “You said something about teenage girls in trouble?” 

“Does that mean you’re trusting me?”

That word seems to be everywhere. “It means...you said something and I’m saying something in response to that. Which is how all conversations work, so I guess it just means that we’re having a conversation.” He’s quiet, but something about his body language tells me that my sarcasm isn’t as off putting as it should be. At moments like this, I find myself wishing that I could see his face. The fact that I care in any capacity makes me a little more wary of his presence. “You are aware that if this is some kind of trap, I’m capable of crushing your windpipe so quickly you won’t even have time to realize you’re suffocating let alone time to stop me, right?”

The corner of his mouth turns upwards. “You’re that sure you could take me?” 

His voice is lower than it was earlier, more assured. I hold my ground, angling my chin upwards. I nod once, desperate and unwilling to break eye contact. “I’ve taken on scarier things.” 

“So will you help?”

The less involved I am with other people when I’m this version of myself, the better. But there are children, little girls who are suffering in ways similar to the way I did. “As long as that’s the only question you ask me.”

I’m not sure if I like the fact that my tension doesn’t dissipate as we walk together. I should be content that the walls I’m building are standing, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel relieved by the silence. Walking without speaking, preparing for a secret fight in the night. It’s too familiar. Too close to what it was like to be a widow.

Daredevil turns with no warning. A part of me wants to ask questions. To ask how he knows about these types of situations and what made him think to ask me for help. His claim was logical, young girls in these situations won’t exactly want to trust him. They’re going to see his capacity for violence and they’ll already be wary of men. They’re likely to see my violence, too, but they’ll be more likely to listen to me. And I’ll know how to approach them. But does he have reason to believe that I’ve had experience with this kind of thing?

The longer we walk, the more unnerved I feel. It’s not the situation--though I am at a tactful disadvantage, considering I’m following a man I don’t know that well blindly--but the lack of...I don’t know. Natasha. Her absence, her unexplained silence, it’s starting to suffocate me. Could she still be mad about our fight? And Yelena--I sent her away. I told her I don’t want to see her, and I don’t, not after what she did to me. But that doesn’t mean my heart knows to let her go. 

Five years. They could have disappeared with half of the universe. They could be back now, feeling completely displaced. Yelena freed me so that I could do what I want. Natasha helped me find a place in the modern world. Would this disappoint them? I’m trying to do something good--I’m trying to fight for the good, but would this disappoint them?

I’m still wearing the widow suit. I’m still staining my hands with blood. I’ve yet to consciously kill, and I’m not even sure if I’m okay with that. To take a life by choice, is that really so much different from killing because of Dreykov?

Something hard strikes the back of my legs. I stumble back, just barely managing to regain my momentum to turn my fall into a kick. My assailant is thrown off, but they recover quickly, moving to punch me. I catch their fist, twisting their arm until I hear something pop. I then flip them onto their back, the way I’ve done hundreds of other times. 

I turn around. Daredevil is fighting off another attacker. He throws the man off of him and into a shipping container. The man is preparing to charge, I grab his arm before he can get more than a few steps away. He tries dismissing me by delivering a swift kick to my ribs. Yelena’s kicked me harder than that in training--this man is weak. I twist his arm, forcing him to bend down enough for me to deliver a swift kick to his chest. The man lunges for my leg, I twist before he can grab me, using the momentum to flip him onto his back.

“You’re welcome.” 

“I was fine.”

“Tell that to your bloody no--” I’m forced onto the ground at a speed so fast my instincts don’t register the fact that someone touched me, let alone threw me. The explosive sound of a gunshot cuts through the air. A bullet hits the spot where I was just standing.

The bullet came from above the nearest shipping container. How did I not notice the other person’s presence before Daredevil? And more importantly--how did he move fast enough to tackle me before I could notice? Living a relatively normal life must be weakening me.

I inhale as calmly as possible, the last thing he needs to know is how much he’s surprised me. It’s been a long time since someone overpowered me. That’s a fact I wish I could keep secret, but something about the way he’s still on me, hands keeping my wrists pinned above my head, tells me he must know. His body is pressed against mine, steady and hard in case instinct takes over my senses. 

“How--” One of his hands moves down in order to cover the lower side of my face. It takes him a moment to truly cover my mouth.

It’s clear that he wants me to be quiet. I get it, the person with the gun is still above us. They have the advantage I rely on most--arial. The seconds pass us in pure silence. He doesn’t move. I focus on the sounds around us instead of the feeling of his weight and the warmth of his body on me. Or at the very least, I’m trying to.

When two full minutes pass, and there is only silence, I realize that the only way we’re going to be productive is by devising some kind of plan. I gesture with a nod of my head that he should shift off of me. Daredevil doesn’t react. I try being a little less subtle, but he doesn’t move until I turn my head. Which is something he can feel because of where his hand is placed.

Wait...

Daredevil’s hand moves off of my face. I stay silent, shifting my free hand forward. He doesn’t react until my hand is near his face. He moves to catch my wrist and I let him. I don’t--I don’t think he can see. How did I not notice that before? How can he do all the things he does without being able to see anything?

After a moment, he releases my hand. I move slowly, as unthreateningly as possible. And then I grab his shoulder, squeezing it once. He takes the hint, shifting off of me as quietly as possible. Okay--our silent understanding is a good first step. 

I keep my hand on his arm as I sit up. Our target is above us. I need to level the playing field. Squeezing his arm once more to signal that I’m about to move, I push myself into a standing position. Creeping forward, I make it to the side of one of the shipping containers. Without making a noise, I climb onto the lowest shipping container. I swing my body upwards, climbing until I’m right below the shipping container that the gunshot came from. 

Crouching down, I let my vision adjust to the darkness. I can see the outline of someone large, a rifle hoisted onto their shoulder. In true spider fashion, I pull myself onto the same shipping container. They remain unaware of me, just like I planned. I grab the man by his forearm, throwing him back. 

He panics, his fingers searching for the trigger of his rifle. One kick to his stomach and that’s no longer an option. The man loosens his grip on the rifle, I lunge for it. My assailant grabs my shoulder, rotating my arm at an unnatural angle. He tries flipping me, but I’m faster, hooking a leg behind his knee. He stumbles, adjusts his hold on his rifle, and slams the base of it against my head. I won’t let the pain stop me. I grab the weapon, yanking it forward to the man’s surprise. I push it back, forcing him to stumble. My leg comes out, sweeping forward and forcing the man to fall off of the container.

I’m still holding his rifle. I haven’t touched a gun since...well, since Natasha thought shooting practice would be a good way to get me to open up to her again. It worked in the moment, but holding this feels so much different. It’s similar to the types of weapons the widows used. The part of me that’s better wants to throw the weapon as far as possible. To have it away from me. 

But the part of me that’s all muscle memory, the part of me that will always be hardwired for violence knows what letting go of the weapon would mean. The second you let go of a gun, you’re inviting someone to use it on you. 

“Still up there?” 

My hand ghosts the weapon, my finger inclines towards the trigger. I want it gone. I want this rifle in the ocean. Footsteps appear out of nowhere. In a single motion, I turn and expertly hoist the rifle onto my shoulder. My finger finds the trigger with the ease of the trained killer that I am. 

Daredevil raises his hands, open and clear. “Just me.” My mind blurs the words into memories of the past. Time looses its linear quality. Before, after. Now, then. Am I really safe here? Is this now or then? 

“It’s okay.” His voice is steady. Assured and solid. “You can set the gun down, Crimson.” The nickname is familiar, but not in the way the rest of this situation is. I inhale, fingers unwilling to let go of the weapon. “Just set it down.” 

I don’t know why, but I trust him. Swallowing once, I find the strength to ease my pointer finger off of the trigger. I take a step forward, lifting the gun off of my shoulder. Something in the distance bangs. I don’t know what it is, but I know that it’s the sound of violence. A high pitched scream echoes around me. I turn on instinct, adjusting the weapon back into place. I find the trigger with no effort. 

“Don’t.” My body is running on something else. Pure instinct and adrenaline rush through my body as I pull the trigger. 

Daredevil is fast, but it’s already over. I shot the gun. He tries to tackle me, and i’m still lost to that bad part of myself. I jab at him with the hilt of the gun. He catches it easily. Indignation pulses through me, memories of Yelena and Natasha telling me to push myself ring in my ears. You were meant to be my greatest creation, but you are a disappointment, y/n. Dreykov’s voice floods all of my senses as I strike again. Harder and more brutal than before.  

Daredevil staggers back after I hit him in the nose, but he doesn’t let go of me. It doesn’t matter how much I thrash, how much I kick and claw at him. He holds on, and he...he doesn’t try to hit me back. He blocks the punches as best as he can without letting go of my waist, but he makes no move to incapacitate me. 

The confusion makes me want to fight even harder, but something else in me is tired, and it feels safe enough to take over. When my thrashing calms down, Daredevil reaches forward, taking the gun. I squeeze it until he places a hand over mine. He takes the rifle, and I let him place it to the side.

I’m panting and only some of it has to do with physical exertion. He’s still holding me down, but I’m okay with it now. “I’m--I’m sorry.” Swallowing once, I try to expel all of my thoughts. “Sometimes I’m not myself.” The honesty claws itself out of my throat.

His lips part like he’s going to say something, but all I can focus on is the blood trailing down his face. Guilt twists my stomach. I did that to him. My hand moves upwards instinctually, towards the gash on his lip. I stop when I’m halfway there...something’s shifted. And he knows that too, he’s moving, but he’s not going to be fast enough. 

I know what I heard. Someone is preparing to shoot at us. I twist my body, throwing him off of the top of the shipping container. His body lands with a heavy thud at the same time a gunshot goes off. I stay on my stomach for a long minute. When nothing else happens, I jump to my feet, landing in a crouched position. 

As silently as possible, I move from one storage crate to the next, heading in the direction of the shooter until I’m behind him. The advantage of surprise is needed. A part of me is surprised that Daredevil hasn’t come back. He doesn’t seem the type to stay put. So he’s either fighting someone or I threw him off of me a little too hard. Okay--focus, by getting rid of these threats, I’m helping him. 

He was patient with me when I was out of control. Sure, I had a gun in my hand and got in a few good hits, but when he caught me by surprise we both realized that he has the ability to overpower me. Okay, there’s a chance he already thought that, but I didn’t. I thought he’d be a worthy opponent, but that if I made up my mind to beat him I’d be able to do it without issue. Yelena and Natasha could take him, and I’m supposed to be as good as them if not better. Dreykov designed me that way. 

But that’s not the point. The point is he could have stopped me. He could have hurt me to save himself the energy and physical pain. It would have been easier to fight back, more efficient. But all he did was restrain me until I was no longer a risk. He’s a better person than I thought. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’m not leaving him here.

The second man with a rifle is easier to take down. I don’t have another episode. A third assailant appears and I get rid of them just as swiftly. Daredevil has yet to appear. I climb to the top of a shipping crate and make my way back to where we were. Jumping off of the same crate I threw Daredevil off of, I land about three feet from where I suspect his body of having landed. He’s not there...that’s a good thing, right? It means he got up. Or that he got taken. 

The sound of something slamming into the metal of the shipping crate behind me jars me out of my sense of peace. The fight’s not over. I brace myself, turning the corner as another ‘bang’ sound erupts. I’m ready to attack, but when I see what’s happening, I’m surprised enough to stall. 

Daredevil is attacking another man in all black. And he’s spending a lot more time making sure the person he’s fighting will be out of commission than I did. With a final punch, he lets his opponent slump to the ground. Okay--so no guns, but beating someone within an inch of their life is perfectly acceptable. What an odd moral line he lives on. Still, I’m jealous that he knows where he stands on these kinds of things. 

“What?”

I feel my posture straighten. “Nothing.” 

He walks away from the unconscious stranger easily. He paces past me and towards the front of the shipping crate. I watch as he works on breaking off the lock on the crate.

“Mind if I...” He’s confused enough to pause. I grab the lock, and with two firm tugs, it breaks off. Being biologically modified has its perks. I let the rusting metal fall at our feet. “Don’t ask.”

Disgruntled squeals interrupt us. I pull on the door to the crate until it creaks open. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to what’s cowering in the dark, but once I do a wave of nausea runs through me. Girls, children, are cowering, huddled together in a way that’s much too familiar. 

My eyes land on a girl whose wide eyes make me feel like I’m watching a ghost. “H-how old are you?”

She blinks, shying into the crowd of taller girls. “Nine.” 

Something in my stomach spikes. 

“Get out of here.” His voice is authoritative, unflinching. The youngest looking girl winces. “Now.” 

I make a point of standing between them. The girls that are paralyzed in their fear watch me as the rest of them try to disappear into the back of the crate. Stepping forward as gently as possible, I approach them. They’re untrusting, and I get that. 

“You’re okay now.” I hold my hands out in front of me. “It’s over--and I know you don’t believe me right now, but it is.” I take another step forward. “You’re going to be safe, but the sooner you’re out of here the better. So go, and I promise you’ll be okay.” 

The girls are understandably hesitant. But then a girl who can’t be more than 14 steps forward. And then another girl follows her. The rest join in, spilling out of the crate and disappearing from the docks. The farther they get from here, the better. I stand to the side as they flee, my nails digging into my palms. This is a good thing. I did a good thing. 

Even when they’re all gone, I still don’t feel what I thought I would. I’m just as directionless as before. I don’t feel the guidance of either of my sisters. The haunting feeling that I may never know who I am without them settles in my bones. I unclench my hands, forcing myself to look at my palms.

Blood coats my fingers again. I wonder if something happens frequently enough if there’s still a point in using tenses. My hands were bloody; my hands are bloody; my hands will be bloody. If it’s promised to happen again, was I ever really free of its stain?

The fighting is done. At least it is for now. Tonight was not particularly hard, in the physical sense. I’ve attacked people more prepared for someone of my skill level. I’ve attacked people with more dangerous weapons. I’ve been more violent, more brutal. But the people that lay near me, still breathing but broken, something about them sits with me incorrectly. They are a rib out of place in the chest.

Wow. I’m not making any sense, not even to myself. I look at my hands again, the blood of my knuckles has combined itself with the blood of those I hurt. I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for them, but grief still burrows itself into me.

These men were hurting girls. Children. There was a time in which I was the frightened little girl, forced into a shipping crate with other frightened girls. Back then, all I had wanted was for it to be over. All I had wanted was for some kind of savior to break through the metal and fight off the monsters so that I could be anywhere else.

Tonight I was that savior for those girls. I should feel better. I did something good. Natasha...she’d smile at me if she was here. She’d look at me and tell me that I did good. That should make me feel content, more focused, like there’s some kind of direction I know to move in.

But it doesn’t. All I feel is her absence. I even feel the loss of Yelena, and I’m the one that told her to stay away. My fingers curl inwards, nails digging into the palms of my hands.

“That was efficient.” His voice is a reminder of why I can’t lose it here, on the abandoned side of the shipping docks.

Turning enough to look at him, I force myself to take a deep breath. A patient breath. There was something almost awkward about the way he said that. “You wanted my help.” I helped. I should feel better. “And I played by your rules. No one died.” The final word feels off. “I won’t apologize for my efficiency.”

He’s still, watching me like he sees right through me. The part of me that clings to a life beyond bloody hands wants to shrink away. To vanish until it’s morning. With daylight comes the promise of normality. The day will let me shed this mission suit and replace it with the business casual wear of an intern of a law firm. I like that version of me better...she’s whole.

“No apologies necessary.” I blink, fighting the urge to turn even more. He’s closer than I realized. “I’m just curious.”

Of course. That’s the problem with team ups or even just temporary mutual existence. The other person always wants to ask questions, and I can never offer them answers. I’m a former black widow assassin isn’t the kind of phrase that just rolls off the tongue. Especially not in front of him.

The devil of Hell’s Kitchen, someone that everyone here knows to fear, and yet he doesn’t...he doesn’t kill. If he knew all the blood that stains me, if he knew about all the red in my ledger...

“And I’m just reminding you that my one stipulation to this was no questions.”

I knew this was a bad idea. Even when we just happen to run into each other he expresses too much interest in who I am. Why I can do the things I can do. I know that he feels like he’s protecting his neighborhood by making sure that I don’t have any ill tensions. The false sense of security is a good thing, it means that we can both co-exist in peace. But tonight I’m not in the mood to play coy and skirt around the words I won’t say, revealing just enough to appease him. I’m also not in the mood to draw a line in the sand and make him think I’m a threat. He’s proven that he’s capable of overpowering me with the element of surprise, but surely I’d be able to defend myself and escape if I needed to. He’d be a worthy opponent, but not an unbeatable one. But maybe I don’t want to beat him. Maybe I don’t want to fight anymore. Maybe I just want to put my widow suit on the top shelf of my apartment’s closet and never look at it again.

We should part ways. The bad guys have been taken care of. The girls have been freed, the way I could have been years ago. There’s no reason for both of us to still be here. There’s no reason fro him to be less than an arm’s length away. And yet, we both stay still.

“You’re normally more open to friendly conversation.” The words snap me back to reality. I’ve been playing too close to a line I can’t cross. The last time I trusted someone, I learned to never do risk that again.

I force my hands to ease at my side. “We’re friends now?”

“I don’t take down human trafficking rings with just anyone.” He’s joking. He’s just trying to ease me into our normal dynamic. But the words still strike me in the heart. Memories of the day I got Natasha back and the day I stopped seeing Yelena as my protector wash through me, a torrid, unforgiving current.

It’s been years now. Years of silence. I haven’t seen Nat since she told me what she was planning to do with the Avengers. I haven’t seen Yelena since she told me the truth of the day I became a true widow. The end of the red room was the first and last familial moment I got. “For the record, neither do I.”

“And I’ve never taken anything down that fast.” He pauses, testing the waters. “If you were always around, I’d have time to pick up a hobby.”

He’s trying to appeal to my usual attitude. I have to give him something. It’s not his fault that the memories are hitting me more frequently than usual. And if I don’t seem at least somewhat stable, he’ll start thinking I’m planning something. He may start seeing me as some kind of threat. “Is the mysterious day job followed by nights of crime fighting not fulfilling enough?”

“The day job isn’t as interesting as you’re making it seem.” There’s an easiness to his words. He’s taking my attempt to act normal.

I shift on my heels, almost relaxing. “I wouldn’t know because you won’t tell me what it is.”

“And you won’t tell me how you learned to...be so efficient.” He’s referencing the way I fight. I can’t blame him for pressing this issue so much. A random girl shows up in his city, his neighborhood, with brutal skills and strength that would better suit someone twice her size. Of course he feels the need to ask questions.

I inhale, wondering what my next move is. I could remind him that the less we know about the other, the better. That I know not to ask questions as long as he does the same. But the thing is, I don’t want to. Maybe it’s because he’s faceless. Maybe it’s because when I wear this suit I don’t feel like I’m me anymore. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired of pretending my past isn’t tearing into me more and more with each passing day.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s a family thing?” The honesty threatens to leave my throat raw. I’m treading on a dangerous line. “That I learned everything I know from my sisters?”

He tilts his head slightly, exposing the side of his jaw--which is something I shouldn’t be as aware of as I am. “So an entire family of people like you? Fighting for the good?”

I don’t have it in me to think about the way he says that. The words are stomach twisting enough. Fighting for the good. Is that even a fair thing to say now? Natasha certainly started fighting for the good. I don’t know where Yelena is. And I--I’m just trying to make up for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been forced to do.

“What if we weren’t always doing that?” My throat burns, the way it often did when I would tell Natasha about the memories. When I would tell her about being a ghost in my own body. “Fighting for the good?”

I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Dropping my head, I prepare to step back. To disappear in the shadows in the way I’m used to. He starts to move. To his credit, he’s faster than a normal person, so he does manage to place a hand on my shoulder, but not before my fingers wrap around his wrist. It’s his move next. I’m tense, expecting some kind of attack.

“I would say that you’re doing that now.” I watch him, he stays quiet. When nothing else is said...when nothing else is done, I find it in me to unclench my fingers and let my hand fall to my side. He still doesn’t move. “And that counts for something.” 

Does it really? I guess it does if someone like him thinks so. Swallowing back the thought, I feel my body tense. Don’t think of him like that. If I think he’s good, I’ll find myself trusting him. “If--” A scream cuts me off. A high pitched, child-like scream. 

The sound resonates in my chest and pulses through my bones. It cuts through all of my common sense and appeals to an instinct embedded deep in me. I take off, pushing past Daredevil. His hand extends outwards, but I’m no longer the version of myself capable of weakness. I pivot, forcing him to just barely miss me.

I make it to the source of the screaming in record time. Another man in all black...and a girl. The girl that spoke to me. She’s thrashing against him, the light of the moon catching her red hair. Her fear, her resistance, the look behind her eye. I’m with Natasha all over again. 

I rip his arm off of the girl with a ferocity I haven’t felt in years. Something snaps, likely his bone. The man grunts. His good arm makes contact with my lower jaw. I step back instinctually before round kicking him in the throat. The man chokes, the sound is a lot more gratifying than I thought it’d be. 

The man comes close to stumbling, but at the last second he lunges with all his force. I dodge, throwing my weight left. His hand remains clenched, like he doesn’t care about grabbing me. I don’t realize why until I feel it...a knife cutting through skin and flesh and striking bone.

I wince, hand moving to my side. My attacker grins, blood coating his cracked lips. He will not have the satisfaction of my pain or victory. I grab his broken arm, twisting the appendage at an angle so unnatural I’d be nauseated in any other setting. 

His groan of pain brings me no anguish, no guilt. “What?” He’s panting. He knows what’s coming. I yank the knife out of my side before raising it to his eye line. “Surprised I didn’t say ‘ouch’?”

He inhales sharply. “I can feel your youth.” What does age matter when you’ve been training to be a killer since the age of 5? “Do you know what the problem is with young people?” My fingers squeeze the knife harder. The man shifts, I dig the point of the blade into his throat. The familiar sting of a knife wound takes over my senses. He stabbed me again. Where did he get the second knife? “Pride--that’s the problem with the idealistic youth.”

I bite back my pain, forcing myself to fight against the way the edges of my vision blurs. The knife in my hand is pried from me. I barely register the sound of metal falling to the ground. He’s trying to slip from my grasp. I knee him with all my force. The man nearly escapes, but I’m more determined than ever.

He reaches forward, but I’m ready for that. I knee him in the stomach, again and again until he’s forced to his knees. He’s holding his hands up in defense, but I’m nowhere near done with him. I punch and I kick and I scratch even though it’s beneath me. Any form of inflicting pain. Any method of attack. Russian curses fall from my lips. My fists ache. There will never be enough harm to cause.

The man coughs, blood splattering onto the fabric of my widow suit. I rip the knife out of my side and throw it to the ground. “I’d rather hear your neck snap.” One of my hands grips his jaw and the other holds his head in place. It’d be so easy to end it now. 

Something touches my shoulder. My head snaps to the left. “Don’t.” There’s an understood urgency in Daredevil’s voice. I’m surprised I stopped myself from attacking him on instinct. “He’s done.” I don’t care if he’s done. I’m not. “He’s done and so are you.” 

“Because you said so?” 

“Because I know what you’re feeling.” Like he could ever know. This guilt and urge to do better and be better. It’s suffocating. “The adrenaline, the justice turned into blood lust.” I want to scream. I should end it. I’ve done it before...I’ve killed more than I’ll ever really know.

I grind my teeth together when I notice the shifting of the man’s head. Wait--he’s not moving by his own will. My hands are shaking. Why are they shaking? “He doesn’t--” The words are acid in my throat. “He doesn’t deserve it.” 

The hand on my shoulder becomes a little more assured. “No, he doesn’t.” Daredevil lets the words hang there. “But you do.” The man’s face is starting to blur. All of my vision is starting to blur. My body feels wrong...I don’t know how to be in control of myself for as long as I have been. “You’re not a killer, and you deserve better than letting him make you one.” 

I laugh, or maybe I choke on a sob, or maybe I do both at the same time. “You really don’t know me.” My grip on the man’s jaw tightens. Finish it. Terminate your target. “You don’t know what they made me do. Who they made me be.” 

“What matters is who you are now.” His voice is harsh enough to cut through the wave of uncertainty I’m drowning in. What’s real and what’s false is still unknown, but I know that he’s here. “Let him go, Crimson.” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Why should he get to live? Why should his entire species get to thrive when all they do is hurt people? Break little girls and turn them into monsters? I can still see the hollow look in Natasha’s eyes after I came back from my first mission. I can feel Yelena patching up my scraped knees after training. I can hear her telling me to trust the men that wanted me to lay on the operating table. 

My hand moves off the man’s jaw. My fist makes contact with his lower jaw. The punch is weak and pathetic but I don’t care. I hit him again and again. The blows lack structure and efficiency. I keep going, my body scared of what would happen if I stopped. 

“Okay,” Daredevil catches my wrist before I can hit the stranger again. I push against him numbly. “You’ve done enough.”

 I don’t care. I don’t care. There will never be an enough. “It’s not fair.” He says nothing. I’m too aware of how pathetic I am. My entire body is shaking, practically seething. I’m coated in blood and sweat and I gave up on keeping tears from falling from my eyes. “It’s not fair--she-she was just a kid.” 

Exhaustion takes hold of me with no warning. I find myself struggling to not let my knees buckle. I stumble away from the criminal. The girl is gone now, but I can still see her. The terrified fear behind her eyes and the way the moonlight caught her red bob. She was Natasha. The ground feels less stable, like it’s trying to open up and swallow me whole. I take a sharp breath as my knees give out. 

I never feel the scrape of gravel. Something strong latches onto my arms. Daredevil. He’s holding onto me, keeping me up. Normally, something like this would have my skin crawling with vulnerability. But now I just extend my hand gently squeezing his arm in a silent understanding. I move to a sitting position, pulling my knees upwards loosely once I’m given the space to. A part of me wants him to leave me here, to rust like the shipping containers surrounding us.

"And what were you?” 

His voice is easy stone--not rough or callus, yet not soft either. He’s speaking to me with a smooth firmness characterized by a distant enough gentleness to ease me. I blink, the words washing something over me. “What?” My voice is coarse, the kind of thing rough enough to scrape skin and leave it bleeding.

I can make out the stiff line of his lip in the dark. “What you’re showing is more than empathy. She might have been a kid, but so were you.” 

Swallowing, I stare at him for much longer than I’ve ever let myself. I know he can’t see me, but the strange sensation that he’s aware of my blatant analysis still cuts through me. There are a lot of things I don’t let myself think about. Easier that way, Yelena once said when we were still programmed killers, sometimes I wish they’d make us forget, like the Winter Soldier. Natasha didn’t like thinking about things either...she was strong and strong people leave weaknesses like that behind. And if they have to think about it, they don’t do it while extremely vulnerable to someone who is little more than a stranger. 

I wipe my hands on the fabric of my stealth suit. “Well I’m not one anymore.” The words are muttered, sharper than they should be as I push myself to stand. Without checking to see if he’s stood, I turn. “I need to--I um I’m gonna--” Nausea spikes in my stomach, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather running through me. “I need to go.”

He lets me walk away. I move to jump onto a shipping container the way I normally would, but my body caves forward before I can. Falling to my knees, palms scrapping against the ground, I find myself thinking how much weaker I must be becoming. 

“You pulled a knife out of yourself to attack someone.” A part of me is upset that he didn’t leave before my collapse. My pride is deeply, deeply wounded. “Which was resourceful, but not the best self preservation tactic.” 

Something in me wants to laugh. Self preservation was the last thing the Red Room cared about. There was always another widow, another stolen girl to replace you. It’s strange to think about that now, as I struggle not to pant. My eyes don’t seem to want to stay open. Daredevil crouches towards me, one hand slowly extending towards me in the dark. He’s treating me akin to the way one would treat a wounded dog found in an alley. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

I should push him away. There’s nothing to be gained from this. "I’m fine.” That’s not something I’m completely sure of. I wasn’t trained to heal, I was trained to kill myself if I was put out of commission. “There’s no reason to go soft on me.” 

He ignores my joke, moving his hand until he finds my cheek. “You’re cold.” 

It takes me a moment to force out the words, “It’s November.” 

Daredevil’s hand doesn’t move. My eyes flutter shut. “Crimson.” I barely manage to squint my eyes open. “Stay awake.” His voice feels farther now than ever. “Open your eyes.” 

I manage to just barely listen. I see him for a brief moment before everything fades to black. 

⋆｡°✩ yesimwriting's masterlist⋆｡°✩

Below the cut is a full list of all my work :) (updated 10-10-23)

*pls limit interactions if you’re a pro ED/ana acc :)*

SCREAM 1996

Final Girl 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 

Chapter 5

Chapter 6 

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9 

Chapter 10

To be continued.

Final Girl fic-verse:

First Impressions 

Sick Day

———————

Final Girl fic-verse blurbs:

Drunk Y/N 

Stu saying the L word

Billy saying the L word

Little Rituals  

Time of Need

Talking about Y/N

Stu’s thoughts about Y/N and POV

Gingerbread

Billy Loomis x S/O with Panic attacks 

Stu waiting for Y/N and Casual Intimacy

 Billy and Stu with S/O who cries a lot 

Billy and Stu Scaring Guys Away

People noticing their friendship 

Driving with Stu 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SCREAM VI 

Ethan Landry 

One of Them

Ask about Ethan 

Noticing they like Y/N

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LAST OF US 

Joel Miller

First Rule

What Follows

Y/N gets hit on - Protective Joel 

Purpose 

Pulling Away

Pulling Away similar story

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

STAR WARS 

Anakin 

More Than This 

Promise

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AMERICAN HORROR STORY 

Tate Langdon 

Modern day fic

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DC TITANS 

Jason Todd

Resurgence 

Slow Nights

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ELVIS THE MOVIE

Business Practical

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

STRANGER THINGS 

Steve Harrington

Movie Club

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Times Have Changed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DAREDEVIL

48 Hours

Chapter 1

A Red Widow

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SPIDER-MAN 

This Time it’s Different 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

TASM Peter 

Domestic Assertiveness 

Hobbie Brown 

Ask about Hobbie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

YOU

Bloodroot in the Suburbs 

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Babysitter 

Chapter 2: Kill Habits, Not people 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SIX OF CROWS SERIES:

Searing Starlight

Searing Starlight Chapter 1

Searing Starlight Chapter 2

Searing Starlight Chapter 3

To be continued.

—————-

Kaz Brekker:

Blurb series: The Promise of Rain (i define a blurb series' as a series with shorter chapters where each chapter correlates but can technically be read as a stand alone)

The Promise of Rain (blurb 1).

The Promise of Rain (blurb 2).

The Promise of Rain (blurb 3)

To be continued.

—————

Falling Angels:

Falling Angels Chapter 1

Falling Angels Chapter 2

To be continued.

———

Anastasia (Prologue) 

Bookworm reader 

A Knife in the Back

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SHADOW AND BONE:

The Darkling:

Solace (part 1)

Solace (part 2).

———————

To Be Alone (smut).

Solutions

All the Good Dreams (might be getting a part 2)

—————

The Needs of Pain (part 1)_

The Needs of Pain (part 2, smut).

—————-

Corridor Moments

darkling x shy! reader HC

Comforting the darkling HC

Playing Vices

Darkling x anxious! Reader

Kirigan x Soft Girls/Similar personality 

Crossing Lines 

Darkling x Pregnant! Reader 

Possessive/Breeding 

Nikolai Lantsov:

Tranquility.

Handmaid reader x nikolai. childhood best friends to 

lovers fic

Enemies to lovers Nikolai HC (i'm thinking of making a series based on this

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SHADOW AND BONE X SIX OF CROWS:

The Problem With Light Chapter One

To be continued.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RED QUEEN:

Maven Calore:

Dying Starlight

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)

the tension??! I actually have to catch my breath right now-

Yours with a Kiss

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem reader

Word count: 5,800

Summary: Things with Matt are still pretty new, but that doesn't stop the rush you feel everytime he's near, and he absolutely takes advantage.

Trigger warning: just more Matt Murdock fluff, guys.

Written for this request

Masterlist

This thing with him is still…new.

Like, extremely new. 

Barely-acknowledged-feelings-but-maybe-this-could-be-something new.

There have been a few instances of hand holding, a few soft kisses pressed to your mouth, a few strokes of calloused fingers down your cheek. Matt knows you’re a little nervous, a little shy. Given the fact that there’s a tiny bit of an age gap and that he’s technically your boss, Matt is almost as hesitant as you are to push things full steam ahead, even though feelings have been admitted and found reciprocal.

But you notice the way he almost seems to track your movement when you’re near. You notice the way his head tilts in your direction even if you’re not the one who is speaking. You notice the way his body is usually angled towards yours if you’re in the room, as if he’s putting himself completely on display for you to do with what you wish.

Matt Murdock is the most intense man you’ve ever met, despite his easy and charming smile, and the way he always seems so in tune with you is intimidating, nerve-wracking, and thrilling.

He is exceedingly careful with you, as if you’re the most precious thing to him, as if he’s nervous he’ll scare you off. You appreciate the tenderness in which he treats you, a nice change from the other men you’ve dated who always ask for more than you’re willing to give, and quicker than you’re willing to give it. Matt makes you feel like he’s got all the time in the world to get to know you, like he’s got all the time in the world to ease into this thing with you, and the slow burn is more intimate than anything else you’ve ever felt before. 

He is willing to take his time, to make sure things are done right, and it means more than you’ll ever know how to articulate. This man has managed work his way under your skin, sliding in so effortlessly as if he’s always been there.

It's only been a few months since Nelson, Murdock & Page brought you on as a junior investigator, and you report mostly up to Karen. She is ruthless in her search for the truth, and she runs you all over Hell's Kitchen, eager to bring you into the journey of whatever story she's chasing next.

It's Karen that has you at the office early Monday morning, a hundred things ready for you to do to start off the week. A job like yours doesn't typically rest during the weekend, new parts of the story popping up at anytime, regardless of day or time, but she does her best to give you some sort of a work-life balance.

The door is unlocked when you arrive, so you step inside, closing it quietly behind you, unwilling to disturb the silence. You walk over to your desk and set your things down, about to turn around and walk towards the small break room when your phone beeps, signifying that you’ve received an email.

You take your phone out of your purse, reading through the email that Karen has just forwarded your way. She’s asked you to meet her at The Bulletin in an hour or so, hoping that the two of you can hunt down a few things with Ellison’s help. You had been expecting a full day at the office, but it’s not a big deal, and this case Karen has been following might just be a large one, depending on what you dig up. 

“Good morning.”

The voice startles you, despite knowing the fact that someone was bound to be in the office with you seeing as how the door was unlocked. You glance up from where you had been typing out a response to Karen’s email, unsurprised to see that it's Matt standing there, two cups of coffee in his hands.

“Hey,” you respond with a shy smile, setting your phone down on the desk once you hit send. He’s got his typical work suit on, though he’s not wearing the suit jacket, and the sleeves are already pushed up to his elbows. The man looks so effortlessly attractive, it’s ridiculous. 

“Coffee?” He takes a few steps forward, extending his arm out for you, your fingers brushing lightly against his. “I heard someone come in, so I figured I’d pour another cup.”

“Thank you,” you say before you take a small sip, the liquid burning your tongue slightly as you swallow. The coffee is sweeter than you had been expecting it, and you tilt your head curiously. You’re the only one in the office who doesn’t take it black. “How did you know to put cream in it? How did you know it was me who came in?”

Matt takes a sip of his own coffee, smiling as he lowers the mug back down. “Wishful thinking,” he says, and your heart briefly stutters. His smile widens, as if he knows the effect he has on you, and the look on his face doesn’t make things easier on you this morning. “That, and I heard your phone go off. You’re the only one I know who actually has a message tone rather than leaving it on vibrate. Myself excluded, of course.”

You let out a quiet laugh, leaning against your desk. You glance at the fading bruise on his jawline curiously as your eyes flitt over his face. “Old habit, I guess. I tend to get super wrapped up in things and get lost inside my head. The vibration doesn’t always get through to me, so the sound helps.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he says, stepping closer still, so that he’s only within a few feet now. He drums his fingers lightly on his mug, and your eyes drift down to the hand that had so easily held yours last week when he walked you home from work. “I can’t count how many times I’ve had to call your name more than three times to get you to look up.”

Your cheeks flush briefly at the teasing. “Well, consider yourself lucky that your employee is so invested in their work that they are almost immune to distractions.”

“Almost immune?” He asks with a smirk. “What sorts of things manage to get through the fog?”

Your ass. 

“That’s none of your business, Mr. Murdock,” you tell him, raising your chin in an act of fake defiance, thought you're completely unwilling to share that specific detail with him. The look is lost on him, you know, but it doesn't stop your body from following through with the motion. “It’s classified.”

His smile is absolutely wicked, and it sends a brief flash of hunger down through your skin, but you push it brutally away. “I’m sure I’ll get it out of you at some point.”

"You're welcome to try."

"I think you'll find I'm rather gifted at pulling all sorts of information out of people," he says matter of factly, expression still teasing, though it has some sort of sharp and self-deprecating edge to it. It's almost feels as if he's laughing at some sort of joke only he's privy to at the moment. "Consider yourself warned."

You’re not quite sure how to reply, mouth opening and closing awkwardly with nothing witty or charming to say, so when your phone beeps with a text message, you clear your throat and readily welcome the distraction.

It seems to knock Matt back into more of a professional mode, because his flirtatious smile mellows back into something softer. “Karen blowing up your phone again?”

You let out a sigh, one that is honestly more amused than anything. Karen was certainly up and at 'em this morning, which is absolutely unsurprising. Her sheer tenacity often demands a lot from you mentally, but you can't think of any other woman you'd rather be working for in this business. “Yeah,” you answer, typing out another quick reply. “I had five emails from her by 5am this morning. Does she ever sleep, do you know?”

Matt snorts into his coffee. “I think our entire office gets a total amount of ten hours of sleep a night collectively.”

The firm works long hours, full of early mornings that gradually fade into late evenings, and while your own work leads you on a chase over the island of Manhattan, you've never felt more at home than in this specific office suite in Hell's Kitchen. 

You tilt your head in thought. “Foggy strikes me as the type of person who has a semi-normal sleep schedule.”

Matt shakes his head, the expression on his face amused and unsympathetic for his friend. “Not with an infant at home.”

You throw your head back in an abrupt laugh, quickly retracting your statement and readily agreeing with him. “True enough. I think she’s teething, too. Can’t imagine that’s fun at the moment.”

“Hence the upgrade in the coffee machine.”

“Do I want to know what kind of machine you were using before you switched over?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him. Your eyes flicker over to the doorway to the break room before landing back on the mug that’s in your hands. You take another large sip and place it down on your desk.

“Probably not.”

“Well then my caffeine addiction salutes you,” you say, absentmindedly picking up the folder of documents Karen had requested you bring to your meeting with Ellison. You'd left it on your desk Friday afternoon. “I’m going to need all the coffee available the next few days.”

“Busy week ahead?” He asks casually, leaning into the wall behind him, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding on to his coffee cup. You force yourself to look away from the way his obviously well-toned body stretches in front of you, the long line of his form both sleek and somehow dangerous, which you find to be a devastating combination. Matt’s eyebrows raise slightly, as if he knows somehow where your thoughts have gone, so you snap your eyes towards the folder in your hand.

"Yeah, Karen has something she’s hunted down and needs my help on. She mentioned needing to get a few quotes from an outside source later this week, in addition to meeting up with Jessica for the information she’s gathered," you say, picking up another file and briefly glancing through a few papers. The images in the file, paired with the notes written in Karen’s flawless handwriting, are curious to you, and you tilt a specific page to the side to get a better look.

“I don’t envy you having to work with Jessica for the next few days,” Matt tells you with a laugh, and despite your focus being elsewhere, you hear the way his voice has changed lightly into something that sounds oddly fond of the woman who has been mentioned. The tone is interesting to you, having witnessed more than one of their spats.

“Nah,” you say with a shrug, still mildly distracted by the file in your hands. “As long as you promise a steady supply of liquor, she isn’t too bad. She managed to pull a few things up for us, which might cut down our work by a decent amount, and Karen said she–FUCK!” 

A thin slice of red trickles down your finger, accompanied by a sharp and sudden sting. 

Matt looks immediately alarmed, body pushing off of the wall he had been leaning against and stepping the rest of the way towards you. "What happened?"

"Paper cut," you hiss out, throwing the files onto your desk as you examine your pointer finger, careful not to get blood on them. "Nothing major, but these fuckers always hurt like hell, don't they?"

He seems to relax, though his face still shows more concern than warranted for the situation. He puts his coffee cup on your desk, hand immediately reaching out for yours. "Cold water should help, it might reduce the sting."

"I think it's fine," you reply in disagreement, reaching for a tissue to wipe off the blood. It's stopped sooner than it started, but it still leaves a dull ache behind. 

Damn it. That fucker will be a nuisance all day.

He's not deterred, and the reaction to your tiny amount of pain is almost amusing in how sweet it is. His palm remains outstretched and facing upwards, waiting on you to place your hand in his, and you easily give in as you take in the expectant look on his face. He's not backing down on this one, you're aware. 

He grabs your hand by the wrist and pulls you gently behind him into the small break room that really only houses an old fridge, a sink, and the coffee station. He’s not using his cane, which is unsurprising, given the way he has the office’s floorplan mapped out expertly by now, so you allow him to lead for once.

You humor him as he turns on the faucet and checks the temperature before he slides your hand under the water. “This isn’t necessary,” you say with a laugh. “It’s just a tiny cut.”

"Nothing wrong with rinsing it with soap and water," he says, sending you a quick grin, dimple flashing in his cheek. You're an absolute sucker for that smile. "Can never be too careful."

You can't tell if his being serious, or if he's just messing with you. You glance down at the finger that's currently under the water with amusement, internally laughing when you notice he's already put soap on the finger. "I could have cleaned it myself."

There's an entirely too innocent shrug of his shoulders. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

“Maybe you don’t need an excuse to hold my hand,” you counter, and though you say it in amusement, you can’t help the way your own words cause your face to flush. 

The look on his face looks oddly satisfied. “Is that so?”

“It’s definitely so.”

“Good to know,” is all he says as he shuts off the water. He hands you a paper towel to dry off your finger and you watch as he opens the cabinet to his left, reaching in and grabbing the box of bandaids. He runs a light finger over it, no doubt confirming he’s pulled out the right box by reading the label that’s been printed in braille for him, before he opens it and takes out a bandaid.

“This is some A+ doctor treatment you’re giving me for such a tiny cut,” you say, taking the bandaid from him and unwrapping it. He takes the trash from you and puts it in the bin by the door. “Do all of your other coworkers get the same treatment?”

“Foggy and Karen can take care of themselves,” he tells you, walking the few feet back over to you. 

You let out a mock gasp, eyes widening in fake indignation. “Are you implying I can’t take care of myself?”

He laughs, shaking his head, red glasses glinting in the bright lights overhead. “I’m implying that maybe I like the idea of being the one to take care of you.”

The phrase, so innocently and matter-of-factly said, causes you to falter briefly as you finish wrapping the bandage around your finger. “Well,” you begin slowly, eyeing the way he is standing closer than he had been just a minute prior, “part of me wants to object again and tell you I am more than capable of taking care of myself. But the other part of me is okay with you having that…specific feeling towards me.”

A shit-eating grin settles across his face at the comment. “So you’re telling me that you’re okay with me holding your hand whenever I want to, and you’re okay with me wanting to make sure you’re safe and happy?"

You roll your eyes fondly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” he says, running his hand down your arm. His fingers leave goosebumps in their wake. “I’m bound to get some ideas with you telling me these things.”

“Well if those ideas have anything to do with taking me to dinner sometime, then I’d say go for it.”

Matt’s mouth parts in another laugh, throwing his head lightly back, and you find yourself grinning widely along with him. “That can certainly be arranged. Any specific requests?”

“Requests? In terms of…?”

“Anything. Anything you want.”

You hmmm quietly, tapping your finger against your chin as if in deep thought. You take a step back from him, running your eyes along the length of his body. “You have to greet me with a kiss.”

He smirks, leaning against the counter. “I was already planning on it.”

You find yourself blushing, but continue. “And I want you to take me somewhere you enjoy. Not somewhere that you think might impress me, or somewhere you think I’m expecting for a first date. Somewhere that means something to you that you want to share with me.”

He reaches out and grabs one of your hands in his, running a thumb over the inside of your wrist that has no business being as intimate as it is. “I can do that. Anything else?”

The words are out before you can take them back, the idea landing in your head in one second, leaving your mouth the next. “You have to tell me what you’re thinking.”

This request causes his eyebrows to rise on his forehead, and the thumb he has on your skin pauses. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” you say, clearing your throat and trying to recover from the way you had just blurted out the sentence, “that I want to know what’s going on inside your head.”

He looks vaguely amused, and his ministrations on your wrist continues. “You may not like what’s in there.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you tell him simply with a shrug, deciding it's too late to go back now. “Doesn’t have to be anything deep, just…share how you’re feeling, I guess? I can always tell there’s more you want to say than what you actually say, so maybe…let some of that filter go.”

“And is this only for dinner?” He questions, head tilting to the side as if in contemplation. “Or starting now?”

Despite the fact that it had been your request to know what was going on in his head, you suddenly feel shy, and you find yourself fidgeting with the bracelet on your wrist, shifting your weight from side to side. “Now, maybe? What are you thinking about right now?” 

There’s a short bout of silence, as he tilts his head at you, and you take in the way his breathing has stuttered slightly, a small flush on his own cheeks. 

“I’m thinking about how I like having you this close to me,” he eventually answers, and you note the way his tone has softened slightly, no longer as flirtatious but every bit as happy. 

Your breath catches briefly, but you recover with a quick shake of your head. 

“You…could come closer,” you tell him after a moment. You take another deep breath to steady yourself, observing the way the temperature in the room seems to have increased by a few degrees. Everything suddenly feels so hot. “If you want.”

His wide smile returns, and it almost sends a shock to the system. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm with a nod, angling your body so that it’s a little more aligned with his. “If that’s what you want.”

Matt doesn’t say anything, but instead takes it as an opportunity to push you lightly towards the wall, encouraging you to take small steps back until your back is pressed against it. He’s close, but not in a way that feels suffocating. The heat radiating off of him burns, and yet you can’t help but feel like you want to burn right there along with him.

“I’ve thought about you like this,” he admits with a sigh, one arm rising and bending so that he’s leaning over you, elbow and forearm resting against the wall above your head. “I’ve thought about this a lot, actually.”

“About me at your mercy?” You tease, watching in fascination as the beautiful flush rises in his cheeks. You’re not quite sure if it’s from the teasing words, or if he feels just as affected as you at the close proximity of your bodies. You hope it's both, longing to know it's not just you that has trouble thinking when he's near.

“No,” he says, before he laughs abruptly. “Well, yes, I have thought about that. But that’s not what I meant. I’ve thought about you pressed against me like this. I’ve thought about you maybe letting me kiss you like this.”

You swallow, hand suddenly reaching out to grasp his tie as if to settle yourself, ignoring the way your finger lets out a quiet, dull throb as it comes into contact with the fabric through the bandaid. “And how–how would you–”

“How would I kiss you?”

You're rooted to the spot, mouth suddenly too dry to really say anything, so you just nod shakily. You watch with rapt attention as he removes his red glasses, wide eyes trailing over the face that is now fully exposed to you. You’ve seen him without his glasses a few times now, but never this close, and the sight is one you know you’ll never get tired of seeing. 

This was not how you had imagined your Monday morning going, but you’ll be damned if you don't take advantage of it.

“Hmm,” he voices underneath his breath, appearing thoughtful, transferring his glasses to the hand that’s resting on the wall above you. “I think…I think I’d start with this.” His fingers reach up and trail lightly over your cheekbone before he hooks a piece of hair over your ear. You shiver, and the slight movement causes his lips to twitch into a small smile. 

“I think I’d want to touch every inch of skin that you’d let me,” he whispers, the sound floating down to your ears in a caress as soft as fingers. “And I’d start with this beautiful face of yours.”

“How can you possibly know I’m–”

“I don't need to see you to know that, sweetheart,” Matt interrupts you gently, and the term of endearment settles warmly across your skin. “Where was I?” The question is asked rhetorically, so you don’t say anything, simply waiting with bated breath as the pads of his fingers continue to stroke over your cheek. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can’t help but sigh at the touch.

His hand moves softly down from your face until it’s cupping your jaw, tilting your head up towards his, the angle perfect for him to lean down and press his lips to yours, but he keeps his mouth hovering over yours for a second. You try to nudge forward, wanting his lips on yours more than anything, but he pulls back enough so that you’d have to rise on to your tip toes to put your mouth on his. He chuckles quietly.

“I think I get the point, Matt,” you say breathlessly, and if it were anyone else, you might be ashamed of how quickly you’ve lost control of yourself.

Another quiet laugh escapes him. “Greedy, are we?” He leans down again and rubs his nose over the tip of yours, and you can’t help the way your other hand reaches up and slides into his hair at the back of his neck. 

“So are you.”

He takes a step forward so that now he’s completely pressed against you, no space left between your bodies. He is firm where you are soft, and the difference is intoxicating. “Yes, I am.”

And with that, his mouth is finally on yours. 

The pressure is light, almost light enough that you’d think he wasn’t actually kissing you if it weren’t for the heat that he was pressing on your lips. He doesn’t move for a steady moment, simply allowing you both to enjoy the way it feels to be so close and leaning into each other. The hand resting on your jaw slides down so that it’s gently cradling your throat. If it were anyone else, you’d probably jerk away, nervous to have someone holding such a delicate part of you in their grasp.

But Matt isn’t anyone else, he is the man you’re pretty sure you’re in love with, and you trust him with every square inch of your body he wishes to touch. 

The pressure on your lips increases, and you feel his mouth move against yours, gently coaxing it open. You follow his lead, allowing him to pull a lip slowly between his teeth, biting down lightly. Gasping, your grip on his tie tightens, and he takes advantage of the way your mouth has opened to let the sound out. He slides his tongue against yours for a brief moment, giving you a slight taste of the pure havoc he could wreak upon other parts of your body should you let him, before he pulls away.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing just as heavily as you, much to your satisfaction. He sounds just as wrecked as you are at the moment. 

“Is this still okay?” he asks quietly after a moment, the hand that had been cradling your throat coming back up to cup your cheek, the fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You nod, unable to form words with him so close to you, and his mouth remains just a few inches away from yours. Your heart is pounding in your throat, and you haven’t quite managed yet to catch your breath.

With a small smile, one that seems far too knowing, he leans back in, no doubt feeling the way your skin is burning beneath his touch.

The door to the office suddenly opens, but when your head pulls away and instinctively turns to look and greet whoever is walking through the door, Matt’s finger and thumb on your chin quickly draws you back so that you’re still facing him. 

“It’s probably just Foggy,” he whispers, face still close enough to yours to feel his breath lightly caress your skin. Sure enough, there’s a loud exaggerated sigh before loud footsteps head down the small hallway, the door to Foggy’s office down the hall closing quietly without a word.

“How did you–”

His thumb moves from your cheek to brush lightly over your bottom lip, and you feel your cheeks flush again. “He called and said he would be here around 8am to work on the Erickson case. We have a conference call in a few minutes.”

“Ah,” you say, eyes flitting across his handsome face, admiring the way the morning sunlight makes his brown eyes look almost green. “That makes sense.”  

There’s a look on Matt’s face that somehow manages to be a mixture of amused and heated. His fingers trail down your neck an down to your chest, running over your collar bone, before they journey back upwards, grasping your jaw again. You watch him the whole time, your body thrumming with an energy you don’t think you’ve ever felt before.

“How’s that for telling you what I’m thinking?” He asks, leaning forward again to brush his lips down your cheek. “Is this what you wanted?”

You huff out a quiet laugh. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting you to turn it into a moment where you kiss me breathless in the office, but I’m not going to complain.”

“And if I want to do it again?” He tilts your head to the side and does the same to your other cheek. “Would you let me?”

You gulp, hand tightening around the tie that’s still in your grasp. “I think I’d let you do whatever you wanted at this point.”

His expression darkens, but certainly not in a way that suggests anger. Instead, Matt almost looks like he’s two seconds away from hiking up your skirt, lifting you off your feet, and pinning you to the wall while he has his way with you.

Which…you'd totally be okay with.

“What a good girl,” he whispers, and the phrase sends another shock of blistering heat straight down your body. 

The words, paired with the look on his face, are unlike anything you’ve experienced with him before, and it seems to open up a whole new part of Matthew Murdock that you’re suddenly very eager and willing to explore.

You’ve been introduced to sweet Matthew. Wickedly smart Matthew. Gentle Matthew. But dark and hungry Matthew is a whole new ball game. You’ve loved taking your time with him, loved the way he seems to handle you with such affection and care and soft consideration, but you know that when you both finally reach the point of no return, you’ll be completely blown away and taken apart by the man in front of you.

His lips are on yours again, still a gentle press despite the sharp look of longing on his face, and you know you’ll never tire of the way they feel when they’re pressed against you.

“Matt,” Foggy’s voice rings out through the office, almost effectively ruining the moment, which is probably a good thing with the way you currently want to tear off Matt’s clothes just to feel his skin pressed to yours. You turn your head and see that the other man has walked into the break room's  line of sight, standing there with his hands on his hips as he takes in Matt pressing you into the wall. He flashes you a brief smile before rolling his eyes at his friend.

“Take your lips off of your girl and bring your shit into my office. We should run through a few things before we hop on that call.”

The comment causes your cheeks to flood, and you find yourself liking the sound of them, more and more with each passing millisecond.

Matt’s girl.

You don't really care about the rest of his sentence, to be honest, too hung up on those two specific words.

“Be right there, Fog.”

Foggy groans, and you can’t help but giggle despite the fact that he’s interrupted a very nice moment with Matt. “I was super nice and didn’t say anything when I walked in. Time to repay that kindness and do you fucking job.”

Matt laughs, still unaware of the words that are echoing in your head. Surely he must be able to feel the way your heart is pounding with him still so close to you. “One minute. I’ll be there in one minute.”

You see Foggy throw up his hands in exasperation before he turns and walks back into his office. Once the door is shut, your head turns and your eyes drift back up to Matt. The hunger has left his face, and has been replaced by the look of adoration he so often has when he’s focused on you. Sweet and gentle Matt is back, and you can’t help but smile.

“I’ve got to go, sweetheart,” he says, putting his glasses back on and taking a small step back, arm no longer resting against the wall. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “We’ll be done in an hour or so. Will you still be here?”

You shake your head with a light, regretful sigh. “No, Karen needs me down at The Bulletin to look through some things with Ellison this morning. But we’re all doing happy hour later, right?”

He nods with a smile of his own, the laugh lines you love so much becoming clearer on his face. “I’ll see you later, then.” He squeezes your hand gently, turning to walk down towards his partner’s office.

You’re not quite sure what drives you to reach back out to him, but you do it anyway, using his tie to yank him into you. All you know is that you’re not quite ready for him to leave you, needing just a few more moments of his full attention and lips on yours. Matt turns with a light gasp, mouth parted in shock.

“What–”

Before he can finish his question, you pull his head down towards yours, standing up on your tip toes to meet him halfway. His shock only lasts for a second before he’s returning the kiss with another flare of sharp heat, his arms wrapping themselves around you seemingly without thought. Whereas the previous kisses had been slow and sweet and soothing, this one is full of fire.

You break away almost as quickly as you had pulled him in, shifting your weight back down fully onto your feet, hand still wrapped around his tie. He lets out a startled laugh.

“What was that?”

“Your girl," is all you say. It’s not a question, because you’re not asking if you are, in fact, his girl; you’re telling him you are.

Matt doesn’t need an explanation for what you’re referring to, his mouth splitting into a wide smile that’s so blinding it almost hurts. He doesn’t hesitate when he opens his mouth in reply.

“My girl,” he confirms, and your heart can’t help but skip a beat. “I think I could be okay with that.”

You let out a gasp of mock indignation. “You think?” 

“I’m still a bit undecided,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders that tries to appear nonchalant but fails. “It really just depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you kiss me like that again,” Matt tells you with a smirk that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

With a fond roll of your eyes, you pull him back into you again, hand still wrapped around his tie, the other on the back of his head. His lips are almost on yours when Foggy’s frustrated growl reverberates through the office.

“Matt! I’m about to fire you if you don’t get your ass in here right. this. second!”

"We are equal partners in this Foggy," Matt responds, voice carrying easily, his attention still never wavering from your. "You can't fire me."

"I slept for all of thirty minutes last night," the other man snaps, and you can't help but giggle at the tired frustration in his voice. "You do not want to mess with me right now."

The man still leaning against you hesitates for a brief moment before he continues his descent towards you anyway, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that could very easily lead to more if either one of you had the time, before laughing and pulling away. He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off.

"MATT!"

With one last grin and peck on your lips, Matt turns around and walks away. “Coming!”

You're left staring after him, hand reaching up to brush the ghost of his kiss that he left behind. With an utterly lovesick sigh that you can't hold back, you walk back towards your desk, sweeping up your purse and files into your arms, ready to make your way towards where you're meeting up with Karen. 

You glance briefly at Foggy's office door, already missing the dark haired man inside, knowing that you'd willingly suffer a lifelong series of sharp and stinging paper cuts if it meant you'd always end up with his lips on yours. 

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.

The Angel of Hell's Kitchen

Summary: The office assistant for Nelson, Murdock & Page worries when her secret passion is discovered by her coworkers, but the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen shows her how much she’s loved for who she is.

Pairing: Matt Murdock X Reader, Franklin ‘Foggy’ Nelson X Marci Stahl

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: I’m excited to share this one-shot with you because it’s my first time writing for Matt Murdock! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

The Angel of Hell’s Kitchen (Fanfiction Masterlist)

“Past due…past due…ah, a first notice!” Foggy glanced up from the stack of letters in his hands and grinned. “It’s always nice to have some variety, isn’t it?”

“Things’ll start looking up for us soon, Foggy,” (Y/N) promised, her happy mood unaffected by her friend and employer’s typical over-worrying; as the one and only office assistant of Nelson, Murdock & Page, she was allowed to indulge in her personal love of organizing and that morning, she was hard at work manually in-putting their next three weeks of appointments, consultations and court dates into their online calendar. “‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. They toil not, neither do they spin-’”

“‘And I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’” (Y/N) looked up in surprise as Matt finished quoting the Bible verse, his brows rising in surprise over the rims of his red-tinted glasses. “Matthew 6:28. I never knew you were Catholic, Miss (Y/L/N).”

She chuckled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Counselor Murdock, but I’m just a simple theatre nerd. It’s a verse used in the play Lilies of the Field, based off that 1960’s film starring Sidney Poitier. I played one of the nuns back when I was a sophomore in college; the habit was pretty uncomfortable to wear and my German accent was atrocious, but it was still a fun experience.”

Weiterlesen

hey elle i was wondering if you can do a oneshot of matt and fem! reader and age takes matt shopping with her and she tries on some new clothes and matt is just being very handsy. thank you❤️

Yes omg this is so cute and also makes my heart race??

Pairing: Matt x fem!reader

Warnings: Mostly fluff + intimate touching

Summary: You go shopping for a new dress, and... Matt decides to join. 

“What even is a summer solstice party?” you demanded, tearing through the bottom drawer of your dresser to no avail. “And why don’t I have any fancy summer dresses?”

“Don’t you have that nice silky one?” Matt said, leaning against the doorframe and listening to the ruckus as you emptied your entire closet onto the bedroom floor. “You know, the one that hangs low in the back?”

“It’s midnight blue. More wintry looking, you know?” You paused and gave him a look. “You just like it because the back dips low.”

“Does it matter? I don’t think anyone is going to care if you’re not wearing vibrant yellow.”

“‘Does it matter?’” you repeated. “Yes, Matthew, it matters! I have a reputation at stake! The entire office is going to be there and I promise you that every single one of my coworkers will be expecting me to fit the summer theme because they’re all absolutely insane. Remember last Christmas? They practically had a laughing fit because I apparently had the audacity to show up in a normal sweater instead of one of those dumb ugly sweaters.”

“I think I have an orange tie somewhere in the back of my closet. At least, according to Foggy, it’s a ‘Lorax-as-shit-tie’.” He lifted his fingers in air quotes. “You could sling it over your shoulder and call it a summer sash.”

“Brilliant, Matt. You really missed your calling in fashion design,” you said dryly. “Yeah. This isn’t working. I’m going to have to make a run before the mall closes. What time is it?”

Matt’s hand ran over his watch. “Almost five.”

“Perfect. I’ll head to Columbus Circle.” You spun around, looking for your keys. “What’re you going to be up to this evening? Will you still be here when I get back?”

“I’m not going out tonight.”

“You’re not?” You appraised him suspiciously. “Why? You didn’t get injured last night, did you?”

“No. I just have a scheduling conflict.”

“A scheduling conflict with your deviling.” You crossed your arms. “I don’t buy it.”

He caught your arm and pulled you in closely. “I was thinking of going shopping tonight. Columbus Circle seems like a good place to go.”

Your mouth drifted open slightly. “You want to join me?”

“Well, it’s just a coincidence that you were planning on shopping tonight, but I suppose we could go together, if that’s what you want,” he said, giving you a teasing peck on the cheek. “It’s been awhile since I’ve gone out with you.”

“It’ll be boring, I’m warning you. There’s a reason every mall has a couple couches in the center where there’s always a few stray men on their phones.”

“I want to come with you. I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“I miss being out in the city with you,” he amended.

“I mean, I’d love to have you,” you said, bemused. “As long as you’re sure you want to come.”

Thirty minutes later, you had a better idea of why Matt had wanted to join you. You emerged from the changing room in a pastel orange slip dress, twirling for him as though he could see it. 

“Is this one okay?” you asked, ruffling the material for added effect. 

“How would I know?”

You gave him an indignant look. “Well, I assumed you were paying close attention to the wavelengths propagating from my twirl.”

The corners of Matt’s lips were lifted upwards in a smirk. Before you could blink, he was suddenly behind you and slipping his hands around your waist. 

“Feels good,” he said, and then he slid his hands down lower. “I approve. And as for the wavelengths, they’re... wavy.”

“Wavy? That’s all I get for a compliment?”

“Mm. I like the material. It’s soft, smooth.” He squeezed you and you gasped, glancing around surreptitiously. 

“No one’s around,” he assured you. “You should try on that other dress. The one with the lace trim.”

“It doesn’t exactly look appropriate for a work party.”

“Exactly." 

You rolled your eyes and returned to the changing room, giving him one last look before closing the door. He was seated on the bench, completely at ease and relaxed despite the atrocious pop music playing in the background and the baby wailing in its mother’s arms not fifty feet away. Surely the mall had to be painful for him. How could it not? You couldn’t imagine what it must sound and smell like; the constant cacophony of everyday life, all condensed within one building. 

Well. Doubtlessly he could use something else to listen to other than that crying child. 

“This goes way, way too low,” you said under your breath, grinning in spite of yourself at the way Matt was almost undoubtedly cocking his head to listen to you. “Definitely not appropriate for work.” You played with the strings on the dress, then smoothed out the fabric over your hips. It was almost painful not being able to see Matt’s reaction. You repeated the motion, drawing your hands out slowly as you passed them over every part of the dress, shaping it over your body. “Shit, did they mean for the dip in the back to go all the way—”

“Need some help?” Matt’s voice came from the other side of the door. Like a moth to light. 

“No,” you said, sighing dramatically. “It’s just taking me longer than expected. The dress has a thin, loopy back, and it’s all exposed, so I’m trying to tie the knot, but I keep slipping.” You actually had quite a firm handle on the knot and had already tied it. Whether Matt could tell was unknown. 

“Unlock the door and I’ll help.”

“Thank you, but I’m all set,” you said, holding back your laughter as you saw the shadow of his feet pace slightly on the other side. “I’ll just... I’ll try on the more work-appropriate dress. Besides, it must be boring for you to have to endure me coming out after each change, since you can’t actually see each dress, so I’ll spare you the trouble and just take this off now—”

His voice was a growl, guttural and low. “Let me in, sweetheart, before I kick down the door.”

There’s my devil. You popped open the lock, smiling weakly. “Ta-da.”

The door closed behind Matt as he entered, dropping the cane against the wall immediately and pushing your back into the mirror. He braced himself on either side of you, hands against the wall. You took a couple of shallow breaths; there was something about the way his jaw was tense, and the way the muscles in his lower arms were taut, that made your heart skip. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, moving his hands from the wall to gently push you down onto the seat. “Mind if I... feel your dress?”

He never fails to check in first. You smiled at him, warm love for everything about Matt Murdock palpitating in your chest. 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to buy it if I wasn’t sure it felt nice, right?” you said, your voice coming out in a squeak; your composure was completely shattered by the strong and blazing aura rippling off of him. 

His hands traced the back of the dress and then up your shoulders again, feeling every bit of the fabric and where the dress clung to your body; then they moved to your breasts, lightly assessing the cowl fold of the neckline at the end as though that had been his intention all along. 

“I think you should buy it,” he decided. 

“Oh, really? And what am I supposed to wear to the work party?”

“This one.” Without turning his body he plucked the third dress from the hook behind him, feeling the shape of the dress. “It’ll fit.”

“Show-off.”

“Only for you.” He brushed his hand against your arm again. “I’ll be waiting out here.” 

Sure enough, you came out from the changing room one last time to see him sitting placidly on the bench, rolling the cane back and forth in his fingers. He was the image of innocence as he stood up and inclined his head towards you. “Ready?”

“Unfortunately for my wallet, yes.”

He kept up the charade until you were in line, with people watching. You lifted up both dresses, admiring them — both were, you had to admit, very beautiful — when Matt’s hand suddenly slipped up your shirt and grabbed at your hips. 

“Matt!” You fought back a laugh and swatted his hand away. “People are watching!”

“Good. They’ll know you’re mine.”

“And there are children around. We’re going to traumatize them if you keep that up.” 

He lifted both hands, a mocking smirk on his face. “Alright.” And then he leaned in to whisper in your ear, his hand curving around the back of your neck. Goosebumps ran up your arms. “But I have something planned for when we get home.”

Castle in the Sky

Summary: You try sparring with Matt because he wants you to learn self-defense. A minor bump to the head, as it turns out, opens up many doors.

Pairing: Matt x f!reader

Warnings: Hit to the head, some physical intimacy (but no smut)

A/N: Haven't written in months because I've been working on a writing project of my own but here I am again!! I'm absolutely THRILLED to see the new photos of Born Again and I'm also dying to watch Kin season 2 (haven't been able to watch it yet unfortunately).

"Matt, I know it probably pains you to hear this, but I'm seriously going to be a waste of your time."

"You could never be a waste of my time."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but really, I don't think you understand just how bad this is going to go."

"It'll go fine. Just give it a shot." Matt was in a tee and shorts, an excited energy in the way he beckoned you forward. Training, he called it. Self-defense lessons.

It sounded more like a painful exercise to you.

"Besides," you continued. "Let's say I was walking down the street and some malicious guy approached me with a knife and was all, Give me your money or I'll kill you—"

Matt scowled. "If that ever happens, I'll kill him first."

"In that situation," you pressed on, "I guarantee that I would freeze. Any punches or flying kicks or whatever that you have tried to teach me would be sitting uselessly in the recesses of my mind. I'd be scared or disbelieving and I wouldn't even move. Really."

"It wouldn't hurt to try learning, sweetheart."

You sighed. "I'll try, for your sake, but don't think that I don't see through your motivations."

"My motivations?"

"You just want to kick my ass and then laugh as I succumb to your ninja skills."

"It might possibly be a contributing factor."

You gave him a light push. "Alright, then. So you really think you can teach me something?"

"Sure. Anyone can learn." Matt quickly pushed the sofa backwards and faced you, suddenly appearing much more imposing than he did when... well, when he wasn't about to spar with you. You lifted up your hands uncertainly, trying to mimic the boxing pose you'd seen him take on in Fogwell's.

"Okay. That's your first mistake," Matt said, stepping forward to grab your wrists and adjust them.

"How did I already screw up? I only lifted my hands."

"When you're assuming a defensive stance, you don't want to keep your hands that low. It's better to keep them up a bit higher to protect your ribs and face."

He moved your hands upward. "Good. You've got your thumbs right."

"See, I know what I'm doing," you said dryly. "Next time I get attacked on the street they'll be intimidated by my correct thumb placement."

"And you'll be grateful that your thumbs aren't broken after you throw a punch. I learned that the hard way." Matt paused for a moment. "I made the mistake of putting my thumb out. Stick didn't tell me. He said he thought it'd be a good way for the lesson to stick if there was a physical reminder."

"Bastard. Now I want to learn how to fight." You lifted up your fists. "Because if I ever get the chance to meet Stick, I assure you that he will be very familiar with my fists."

"I appreciate that support, but if that ever happens, I very vehemently would recommend against that." Matt held out his hands. "Attack me. I want to see what your fighting style is."

"You mean my fighting style or lack thereof?"

"Just go for it." Matt stood there confidently, his hands crossed in front of him casually and his eyes trained on your collarbone.

"I don't want to hurt you," you said uncertainly. "I mean, I know how dumb that sounds, because you're freaking Daredevil, but it feels wrong to just... throw a fist at you."

Matt only laughed. "Sweetheart, you won't hurt me."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Um." You considered your hands, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Don't judge me, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Tentatively you sent a fist towards the left side of his abdomen. You expected him to just sidestep it, especially since it was a slow-moving punch — you didn't have the heart to put all of your strength into it, no matter what he said — but instead he blocked your arm, braced his other arm against your own, and forced you to twist around until your back was against his front and his arm was around your neck. "Come on, sweetheart, you can do better than that."

He was taunting you, and it worked. "Fine," you said, and you tossed your elbow back with the intention of slamming it into him, but it hardly did anything at all; he took the blow as though you'd thrown a marshmallow at him.

"Go for the groin," he advised.

"Don't have to tell me twice," you said, lifting up your knee with the intention to nail him, but he took the opportunity to sweep your other leg out from under you. You fell to the floor, groaning. "I thought you wanted me to try getting you in the groin?"

"And I wanted to show you how that makes it easy for an assailant to knock you down. One foot on the ground is a surefire way to have zero feet on the ground."

"Come on, you kick all the time — flying kicks, spinning kicks, twirly-whirly kicks—"

"I don't do twirly-whirly kicks. And you can go for the groin, occasionally, but only when the timing is right and you won't get knocked down."

"I promise you that if I somehow manage to get in a fight with someone, the last thing I'll be doing is analyzing whether or not the timing is right for a groin kick, Matt."

"Okay. Try a heel palm strike." He took your arm and guided you through the movement, flexing your wrist and showing you how to pull your arm back quickly. "And go for the nose, or throat, if you can. That's effective. The ears are a good target, too. It's disorienting, even for someone who doesn't rely on their hearing to move around."

You gave him a look. "Please tell me that you don't get your ears boxed on a regular basis."

"Only twice." Matt kept going before you could say anything else. "There's several escapes I want to show you, in case you're ever being held against your will."

He proceeded to demonstrate to you the different ways you could free yourself, whether you were held in a headlock or your hands were tied; for his sake you tried to do as best as you could, though you felt fairly certain that each time you "freed" yourself, it was Matt letting you go, so you could experience the maneuver fully.

"Now get down," he said.

"On the floor?"

"For escaping while mounted. Lie on the floor, on your back."

"Why do I feel like you have ulterior motives?" you asked, smirking at him as you obeyed. He climbed on top of you and grabbed both of your wrists with a devious glint in his eyes.

"Never said I wouldn't enjoy myself," he said. He locked his legs around your waist and grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them to the floor. "So, if you ever find yourself in a position like this — God forbid — then what you're going to do is—"

"Panic and wait for the devilishly handsome Daredevil to show up and rescue this damsel in distress?" At Matt's expression, you backpedaled. "I'm kidding. Kidding. I'll fight back."

"Even though your wrists are pinned, your hands themselves are still free. Try to grab my wrist with your left hand."

You tugged, and Matt allowed you to pull your hand over so that you had your left hand securely locked around his wrist. "And what if my assailant is too strong and I can't do this?"

"Odds are that no matter how strong they are, if you can start kicking with your legs, spit in their face, or scream — anything to distract them — they're not going to be 100% focused on your one left wrist. They'll be contending with your flailing legs."

"Okay," you said doubtfully. "So I just grab your wrist... then—"

"Put your foot on my hip, push, and pull at my wrist simultaneously."

"But you've locked yourself around me," you said, struggling fruitlessly. "How am I supposed to move my legs?"

"Roll onto your hip. It'll create space. And if you can, reach up and grab the ear of the assailant, then pull them to the side."

"I'm not testing the ear move on you," you said firmly. "Nope."

"I second that," he admitted. "But try the hip roll."

To your surprise, it actually worked. And this time, you felt the natural shifting of your bodies, so that you could even slightly believe that it would work on your assailant no matter how big or strong they were. You rehearsed the move with Matt several times, swapping out which hand you used to reach up to him.

"Okay. Again, and faster. Real-time, if you can. And at the end, I want you to roll out all the way, and get out from under me," Matt said.

"Okay," you said, feeling that things wouldn't bode too well for you if Matt was going to put an ounce of effort in, but you got back in position. He grabbed both of your wrists, this time digging his knees painfully into your ribs, just enough for it to hurt without doing any real harm. You gasped, struggling for breath, and lunged forward to loosen yourself slightly, trying to roll over to no avail.

"Try again," Matt said, and you did, spontaneously leaning upwards as you jerked to the left and reached for his wrist. Once you had it, you pulled as hard as you could, pushing your knee against him. You could feel him yielding a bit, going easy on you — which slightly pissed you off even though you knew you'd have no chance against him otherwise — but at the same time it was still exhilarating.

Finally you freed yourself, and rolled out to the left and onto your knees, just as Matt followed through with your shove and lunged to block you.

"Keep going," he urged. "Get back on your feet."

You obeyed, adhering to his commands as he gave them, and it really was like a waltz once you got into the rhythm, dodging and learning to recognize which hand motions meant what.

"Now try dodging a new type of punch," he said, as a way of warning. "I'll be coming from this side over here."

"Which way do I go? To the left?"

"Right. And be ready, because this time I'm going to fight back more."

You weren't quite sure how it happened, though. The sweep of his arm, as you put all your weight to the left, resulted in you losing your balance and toppling over the follow-through of his leg, your arms to the side and unable to get forward quickly enough to brace yourself as your head made a beeline for the edge of the coffee table.

The impact it made felt as though someone had hammered a nail into the top of your forehead. You yelped, hand now free so that it could jump to the spot of impact.

Matt's reaction was visceral; like a TSA agent oddly eager to frisk, he had his hands out and seeking the exact spot where your forehead currently felt like the site of an excavation. "Dammit, I'm sorry — are you okay?"

"I'm okay. Sorry. I didn't think that would happen."

"Why'd you go left?"

"You told me to go left."

"No, I said right."

You snorted despite yourself, closing your eyes against the ebbs of pain. "I interpreted 'right' as 'correct'. My bad."

"No, it's my bad, I should have—"

"Not your fault at all," you managed, brushing at your head. You expected blood, but it was dry. "Just a bump. I should have seen that coming."

"You probably have a concussion." Matt's tone was strangled, his left hand cupping the back of your head while his right grazed the bump. "I could call Claire, and have her come over—"

"Uh, no." The thought of having Matt's practically on-call nurse drop everything she was doing to come help you was mortifying. "I don't even think I have a concussion. Ask me my name. Bet I can ace any question you've got." Physically you pulled his hand away from your head. "Matt, really. It's okay."

"You're trying to mollify me."

"You're too worried," you said playfully. "It'll take more than a little bump to take me out. If you can get sliced up by the Yakuza, I think I can handle a love tap from the coffee table."

"That wasn't a love tap. I could hear the impact on your skull. And I can feel the heat already from the bruise forming."

"See, we don't need Claire. I'll never need to go to a hospital again with you around." You patted at your head and ignored the accompanying stab of pain that would otherwise have made you flinch if Matt wasn't there to detect it. "Can we go through the move again?"

"No."

"But you were the one who wanted me to learn in the first place."

"We'll go to Fogwell's another time," he said. "Someplace with floor mats and no sharp coffee table edges."

You rolled your eyes, but you could already see that his mind wasn't going to budge. He sat in a crouch, his head still tilted towards you as though he couldn't help keeping a constant monitor on your head, and it struck you, with the position he was currently in, how easy it would be to knock him over.

"Cow tipping!" you hollered at him, diving forward and throwing all of your weight against his side; from his crouched position on the tips of his feet, there was nowhere to go but sideways, and for one delicious microsecond, Matt Murdock, the same man you had seen balance precariously on fire escapes and jump nimbly from roof to roof, was forced to fumble his arms out in time to catch himself as he fell to his left. You leapt atop him, straddling his chest with your knees.

"You took down a blind man who was trying to help you," he mocked. "Shame on you. Were you faking the head pain, too?"

"I'm not that devious," you said. "Say mercy and I'll let you go."

Matt tipped his head back against the floor, his eyes reflecting the evening sunlight as it came out from behind the clouds. Without seeming to notice, his hands crept up the outside of your thighs, making goosebumps prickle on your skin. "You think that I need your acquiescence in order to get up?"

You leaned forward, pressing your hands against his shoulders. The muscles tensed under your fingertips, the biceps under your thumbs ready to spring into action at any moment. "As far as I'm concerned, right now I've conquered you, and if anyone were to see us then I think they'd agree with me."

"It's touching to see how much this means for you," he said. "I'll let you enjoy your victory for a bit longer."

"And then?"

"And then I get to win." His voice was lower, reminiscent of the devil, and your stomach dropped. Still you could feel the muscles poised under your hands, and you could feel your blood rising into your cheeks as his own hands crept lower.

You egged him on. "You can try," you said. "I'm warning you, though, that I could beat you whenever I want, easily. I just like to pretend I'm not as strong as I actually am. Wouldn't want to hurt the ego of Daredevil."

"Of course. How thoughtful of you, sweetheart."

"Yeah, you know me."

"I'm guessing that was you who took down the trafficking ring a few nights ago, then? Left all those men unconscious in the alley?"

"Uh, obviously." You leaned in closer. "That's why you've got to play nice, Murdock. If I get mad, I might just go all Hulkish on you and you'll be begging for my mercy—"

Quickly enough that you jumped, startled, Matt rolled out from underneath you with even more ease than you would have expected, and with a swift grab of your wrists, he pinned you down beneath him, just like earlier when you sparred.

"You were saying?" he asked, grinning. Immediately you tried the move that had worked on him previously — he definitely was going easy on you earlier, then — but this time he blocked it. You scowled, and tried again; once more it yielded nothing.

"You're not getting up until you make some amendments to what you were saying, Y/N."

"Well, let me clarify," you began, and Matt's lips lifted upwards as he began to smirk.

Nope. He's not getting any satisfaction yet.

"I'm currently giving you the impression that you've won," you continued, and his expression shifted, as though he were trying not to laugh. "It's an important part of keeping your ego up, of course. Every so often I like to give you these little nuggets of delusion."

"Nuggets of delusion," Matt repeated.

"Sure. I'm selective with them. But when I feel like you need a bit of a self-esteem boost, then bam, you've got it. So right now, I'm giving you a nugget. It's all part of my strategy." You lay beneath him, the floor hard on your back, as he seemed to mull over what his response was going to be.

Instead, he simply took your wrists and moved them above your head, where he pinned both to the floor with his left hand and then moved his right hand down to your throat.

"What?" you managed. "You don't like delusion nuggets?"

"I want you to admit you're lying."

"But you already know I'm lying."

"I want the verbal confession."

"I confess to nothing," you said stubbornly, your heart picking up as his thumb brushed over the center of your throat.

"Try again, sweetheart. And remember that I know where you're most ticklish."

"Uh... you are by far the strongest man I've ever met and I could never compare to you?"

"And what else?"

"I love you?" you said, your voice higher than usual, because damn, Matt leaning directly above you was distracting.

"Better." He released your wrists and pulled you up into him.

You buried your head into his chest, sighing. "Can't believe you just tackled a concussed person to the floor."

"That was not a tackle. That was... one percent effort. Even half a percent." He paused a moment. "And you said the bump wasn't anything to be concerned about."

"Mm. Did I lie?" you asked him, kissing his hand.

"No," he admitted. "But I still don't trust you."

"You shouldn't. Because the next time you're tying your shoes, or cleaning out underneath the oven or something, I'm totally going to cow tip you again."

"Seriously? 'Cow tipping'? Did you make that up?"

"For a guy who knows everything, I'm appalled you don't know what cow tipping is."

"Please tell me you've never actually shoved a real cow over."

"You really do think poorly of me," you said, stretching. "Just you wait, Murdock. When you least expect it, you shall be cow tipped again. Just you wait."

hands off | matt murdock

matt murdock x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

warnings: ADULT CONTENT MINORS DNI (mutual masturbation, mxf intercourse, dirty talk) swearing, established relationship

a/n: okay. OKAY! okay. be gentle with this one because it’s my first matt fic!!! also, i saw this video on tik tok about ppl doing this game thing, but idk who posted it first and i don’t have the videos, but that’s where the dies comes from. also this is literally just smut, don’t even look at me ITS BEEN A LONG WEEK. okay bye. literally posting this and running away to sleep bc i am afraid BYE.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Sooo? You like it?” You keep to your side of the couch as Matt brings the glass up to his mouth for a second time. He hums, swallowing and licking his lips, and you have to bite down on your own to control yourself.

Asshole.

“It’s…”

“What?”

“Sweet.” His voice rumbles. You think you should have tied yourself down or something, because there’s no way you can win this stupid bet if he was going to keep teasing you like this. He wasn’t even doing anything, really. Everything he did seemed to turn you on in some way or the other, especially now, as the alcohol starts to kick in, warmth spreading through your face, flowing all the way down.

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#100 with Matt for the kisses pls bc I need all of the Matt kisses to mend my heart after that jealousy prompt (and it could kind of lead into this 😝) 🥰x

I was so desperate to connect them together but we need so much writing to be able to get from here to there. SO instead, I decided to give this heartbreaking ask a part 2 and give it a happier ending!! I hope that makes up for how mean I’ve been 💀 happy valentine’s day babes!! @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce

Send me a kiss prompt ✨

#100 - “it’s always been you” kisses

Your eyes peeled open slowly, your mind fuzzy and your heart calm. You went to move, only to realise that you weren’t alone in your bed. That’s when it all started to come back to you.

Last night, Matt showed up at your door, beaten and bruised and barely able to stand. He was leaning against your door frame when you opened up, his mask in his hand and his arm around his middle. The only words on his lips were “I’m sorry”.

You brought him in, tended to his injuries and helped him get cleaned up. Your heart ached in your chest the entire time. You loved him so much but couldn’t have him. He was very clear; he’d told you that he lost his feelings for you and he didn’t believe he could come back from that. He broke your heart to a million little pieces but it wasn’t enough to make you hate him.

You couldn’t hate him, you couldn’t move on from him, you couldn’t love anyone but him.

You gently turned your head to look at him, his eyes closed and eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

He looked peaceful, angelic, despite the bruises on his cheeks and temples and the stitches by his eyebrow. His arm was around you, even though you tried very hard to stay as far away from him as possible while you slept.

You could feel your heart expand in your chest, your eyes welling up with tears the longer you looked at him.

I love you

I love you and I wish you still loved me too

Your breath caught in your throat as you turned over, suppressing your sobs as you faced away from Matt.

You couldn’t stop the crying, you couldn’t stop the pain. It consumed you.

Too afraid you’d wake him up, you pushed yourself off the bed, stifling your sobs as you got up.

“Are you okay?” He asked you, his voice thick with sleep, “you’re crying.”

“No, no,” you lied, even though you knew he’d see right through it, “I just had a bad dream.”

“I know when you’re lying,” he sighed, sitting up in bed as you turned around to face him, wiping the tears from your eyes with your sleeves.

“Why wont you love me?” You asked him, your voice low and sad, breaking his heart in his chest.

“What?” He asked softly, his chest feeling like it was caving in on itself.

“You must know how important you are to me,” you whispered, your fingers pulling at a loose thread on your sleeve, your eyes cast down, “you know how I feel about you. And you act so unaffected by all of it like I never meant anything to you. Why am I not good enough for you?”

Within the next second, Matt was off the bed and in front of you, his palms against your cheeks, his fingers wiping your tears away. Pain was etched across his beautiful face, his eyes sadder than you had ever seen them. He was distraught.

“I was trying to protect you,” he whispered, his thumbs caressing your cheeks softly, “I wanted to keep you out of harm’s way. And the only way I knew how to do that for sure was to push you away from me. It wasn’t fair to you. I hurt you far worse than I thought.”

You stayed quiet, your fingers curling around the fabric of his t-shirt at his chest, your eyes staring at your fingers, processing what he was saying.

“I never stopped loving you, ever,” he said, nudging your head up to face him, “it was hurting me too. To not be able to hold you, talk to you, tell you I love you more than anything and hear you say it back. I just would have never forgiven myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

“But something did happen to me because of you,” you told him, “I was in pain. It hurt to hear you say you didn’t want me anymore. It hurt to believe it.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, pushing his forehead against yours, “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you so much.”

He dropped his hand to cradle your jaw in his palm, his lips almost touching yours, “it’s always been you.”

Not another word needed to be said. Your lips met in a kiss that felt like ice meeting molten lava. It was passionate, deep, hard and soft at the same time. You held each other close, too afraid that if you let go, the other would disappear.

“I will never stop loving you. I can’t.”

This Is A Code F (fic; matt murdock x reader; rated T)

this is fluffy nonsense but wheezy sick devil is an idea I’ve had for a bit now and finally delivered. May it be an appropriate apology for the angst in TRT rn.

Ship: Matt Murdock x Reader Rating: T. Some swearing and some nude shenanigans but nothing major.

Summary:

You’ve never seen Matt get the flu before, but despite Foggy’s warnings, you’re not all that worried. Matt’s sick. How difficult could it be to look after him?

Really difficult, as it turns out, because Matt Murdock does not do anything by halves, whether it’s attacking mobsters or feverishly perching on the banister like a wheezing gargoyle.

Time to get the cough syrup. 

Wordcount: 4,507

Warnings for this chapter: language, nudity, sickness. You know what you’re in for. This is true love, in sickness and in health. Let’s do this.

You’d never actually seen Matt get sick.

It never seemed to matter how busy he was or how many sick people he was around. He never hesitated, either, to care for you when you were sick. Regardless of your level of contagion, you could count on him to be nearby, hovering and eager to provide whatever hot soup, warm tea, and sick-day cuddling you needed. At this point, you were pretty sure he used some sort of secret meditation trick to turn his antibodies into miniature Hulks. His body laughed in the face of the common cold, turned its nose up at the stomach flu, likely because it got stabbed on the weekly and anything less seemed a bit underwhelming in comparison.

That was why you knew something was off when you woke to find Matt standing beside the bed, swaying and soaked in sweat.

“Matt?” you asked warily, furrowing your brow.

He shivered, swinging his head back and forth. It was a clear attempt to orient, and an attempt that didn’t seem to do him much good based on the way he almost stumbled as he stepped away from the bed.

Matt didn’t stumble. Not unless he was hurt.

“Matt, Matt!” You scrambled out from under the blankets and over to his side of the bed, already rolling through a list of possible injuries—another gunshot to the head, hit by a car, internal bleeding, bitten by a diseased raccoon while defending a citizen, picked a fight with a Much Larger Bad Dude. You’d learned by now never to rule anything out when it came to Matt. Had he slipped up yesterday, gotten hit maybe? He had been unusually tired last night, but ‘tired’ was more of a default state for Matt than an outlier, and you had a feeling he slept standing up more times than he’d admit, using his red shades as cover while he catnapped.

It would be just your luck if he’d added another head injury to the mix.

“Matt, hey, you ok?”

“Don’t… feel right,” he said thickly, sounding so congested you probably could have walked him past the fish market without so much as a wrinkled nose. He took another uneven step towards the doorway. “Need… Just need… tea. ‘M fine.”

You quickly threw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for him. “Matt, wait, you’re gonna hit the—”

“Fine,” he slurred insistently, before promptly running into the doorframe.

That was the start of your morning, and it only got worse from there.

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Lingering | Matt Murdock x Reader

Pairing: Matt Murdock x reader (no y/n)

Wordcount: 1.2k

Warnings: literally like none. Just a bunch of fluff and Matt taking care of you. This is entirely self indulgent.

Summary: You've been worked to the bone and slept a total of 3 hours, so Matt takes care of you during your burnout.

A/N: there will be a smutty part 2 to this 😌 This was made for ezra and i bc we're tired. Enjoy!

"Sweetheart," Matt whispers, knuckles brushing across your cheek as he pulls you back into consciousness as gently as possible. You had been working on his couch for hours on end, laptop screen now dimmed where it lay on your lap, forgotten as you slip in and out of sleep. His touch stirs you, dreams fading out into the background only to be replaced by the pleasant feeling of Matt’s touch.

Your eyes finally blink open enough that you can focus on him, smiling softly at the sight of your boyfriend kneeling in front of you, his hands warm on your cheeks. The billboard outside his window glows brighter now that the sun has dipped behind the skyline, reds and purples dancing across Matt’s face and you can’t help but wonder how he gets prettier each time you see him.

Then again, maybe it’s the lack of sleep getting to you, because the first words out of your mouth are “you look like a skittle, Matty.” He huffs out a laugh, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone, wiping away the tear that falls from the corner of your eye “care to explain?” You shake your head and lean further into his touch, fighting back against the urge to let your eyes slip shut again. “The candy, Matt. They come in rainbow colors, and the light outside is making your face purple. Need I say more?”

“No, I guess not,” Matt muses quietly, grin dimpling his cheeks, brushing back the hair that sticks to the side of your mouth from where you had leaned into your hand.

His touch drop from your face to take the laptop and move it to the coffee table, then gripping your waist so he can pull you to the edge of the couch. Your thighs press to his sides and you can feel each breath he takes, steady and a bit faster than your own sleepy breathing. “Sorry I fell asleep, I was trying to wait until you got home,” you mumble, leaning forward to place your forehead on his shoulder, cursing under your breath when your head thumps harder against him than anticipated. Damn your heavy head and sleep-deprived reflexes.

Matt hums in acknowledgment, tapping your arms until you get the gist and raise them to wrap around his shoulders. “You should’ve gone to bed sweetheart, especially if you’re this tired. Mind telling me how many hours you got last night?” He knows he has you when your breath hitches, face pressing further into his neck. You don’t want him to know just how late you had been up the night before while he was out deviling, finishing your notes for the day while you waited until you eventually passed out.

But you know that he’s just concerned, so you press a kiss to the junction of his neck and jaw in hopes that he won’t scold you when you tell him. “About three hours,” you whisper, stifling an obnoxiously timed yawn that almost seems like the universe picking Matt’s side. He sighs quietly, though there’s no real agitation behind it, just concern “let's get you to bed, then.” This time there’s no need for a tap before you wrap your legs around his hips, clinging to him as his hands slide under your thighs to lift.

Matt stands with no sign of strain, even as he holds your weight in his arms and carries you across the living room and into his bedroom, bending over to ease you onto the edge of the bed. The exhaustion that had seeped into your bones weighs heavier the second Matt steps back to rummage through the drawer that keeps your t-shirts, hands moving across each article of clothing to feel the fabric. He picks the one softest against his fingertips and plucks it from its spot, moving back to stand in front of you. He quickly picks up on the way that you’re swaying, eyelids moving slower with each passing second “c’mon angel, let’s at least change out of your clothes.”

Your stomach flutters with affection at the use of angel, a dopey smile finding its way on your lips. Matt reserved that name for you, the highest of praise coming from the catholic himself, love and adoration seeping through the two syllables. He loved listening to the way it made your heart leap to your throat, mapping the mental image of your blissed expression that his senses piece together, tucking it away for later examination.

Matt leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, placing the sleep shirt to the side so he could tug the one currently on you over your head, tossing it into the corner. You take the time to shimmy off your pants while he unfolds the replacement, placing it on top of your hair and tugging it down, placing yet another kiss to the tip of your nose the second the collar passes.

“Can you stay for a bit before you go out, Matty?” you speak in a hushed tone, letting your boyfriend maneuver your arms into the holes, limbs too tired to do much other than grab at him.

“Of course I can- lets get you under the blankets, baby,” Matt presses against your shoulder until you lay back, eyes already closing while he tugs the silk comforter up to your chest. There’s an attempt to open your gaze one more time so you can catch a glimpse of him to admire in all your sleep deprived glory before inevitably collapsing back into the arms of slumber, but you sorely underestimate the intensity of your fatigue, eyelids only twitching with the attempt.

Matt sheds his work clothes, head tilted just slightly to listen to the sound of you, breathing slowing until it evens out completely. The bed dips under his weight as he slides in beside you, reaching around to pull your body flush against his chest. Matt always needs to feel you in one way or another, needed to feel the heat of your form against his, smooth skin pressed to the marred flesh of his chest. You’d trace the scars late at night when it was just the two of you, curving your finger along them like his body was a canvas and you were the mastermind behind the art.

Your lips part, slow intakes of breath filling your lungs. “I love you so much,” you murmur against his neck, drifting away and leaving him to follow.

Matt holds you tighter “I love you too, sweetheart.”

—

Sometime around midnight is when you wake up again, hand thumping on the mattress beside you but finding no sign of Matt, only a lingering heat left behind from where he had laid next to you. You know he would probably resort to smothering you with a pillow if you attempted to stay up for him, so you decide against it, instead dragging his pillow to your chest and inhaling his scent, letting it envelop you as you close your eyes once again.

Somewhere on a rooftop, a few buildings away, Matt is listening to your breathing, pausing only momentarily to ensure that you get the rest you need before continuing on with his patrol. Slinking in and out of the shadows as fast as possible so he can get home to you.

Lie Detector

Pairing: Matt x f!reader

Summary: Matt thinks that you can't successfully lie to him. The only way to settle the dispute is to challenge one another to a bet, but trying to deceive a human lie detector isn't quite as easy as you'd expect.

A/N: Finally on summer break and I've had time to do some writing. I'm really drawn to a reader/matt dynamic that's super competitive, so... here we are, with yet another "game". Hope it's alright!

Sometimes, having a lie detector as a boyfriend sucked.

You realized this early on, when all of the sudden the white lies that you told habitually in order to protect others' feelings crumbled into a big dust cloud of useless whenever Matt heard them.

Last week at supper, for instance. Matt had cooked a beautiful meal — homemade rolls, oven-roasted vegetables, and your favorite pasta — and it was all delicious. Except for one experimental vegetable thrown in that you were... less fond of, to say the least.

But of course he asked you if you liked it, of course he did.

"It's incredible," you told him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "The pasta is cooked perfectly. Also, homemade rolls? I mean, these can't even compare to the local bakeries. It's all really good, Matt."

"And the... new vegetable?" he asked, taking a bite.

Shit.

You sat stock still for half a second, your mind whirring. Fortunately, you'd gotten better at dodging situations where typically you would just save yourself with a white lie, but with Matt, there was rarely a safe way out of a question.

"It's got such a unique flavor!" you said warmly. Truth. "I don't think I've ever had it before. Where'd you get the recipe?"

"Foggy's sister. It is unique," he agreed. "You like the taste?"

Damn it. Something told you that Matt suspected you didn't like it; why else would he be so persistent about asking? "It's so unexpected," you hedged. "You cooked it really well."

Which was also a truth. The texture was good, at least; Matt had roasted it perfectly. It was the flavor you were less keen on, and you had to fight the urge to drink water after every bite.

Matt's lips turned upwards. "Sweetheart, you don't have to choke it down for me."

From there, everything unraveled. "I love it," you tried to say, but Matt's eyebrows were raising and you yourself could feel that your heart was speeding up. "Really! I love it, it's fantastic—"

You loaded your fork with it, preparing to take a large bite out of a manic desire to ensure Matt didn't find out the truth, but he deftly reached forward and grabbed your wrist. "Lost cause, Y/N." His thumb grazed your wrist, as though to match the sensation of your pulse to what he could hear.

You reluctantly put the fork down. "Come on, Matt, stop reading me for once! You cooked a beautiful supper and I want you to know how much I appreciate it—"

"You can appreciate it while letting me know you don't like a certain type of food. I promise my ego isn't dependent on a single vegetable."

"But I feel bad!" you protested. "And with anyone else, I would have just lied and said it's amazing, but with you, I have to be a schmuck about it!"

"You're not a schmuck."

"Matt, I'm a schmuck." You pointed at yourself. "Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad schmuck. Plus, it's unfair. I'm sure you lie to me all the time, and I probably just don't even notice it. Like last week, when I asked you if I have a nice voice to listen to and you told me that me that it's music to your ears, or some crap like that."

"It is music to my ears."

"I call bullshit. Unless by 'music' you meant death metal or country."

"So start lying to me," Matt said, his fingers absently moving up your forearm. "If you're able to control your nervousness when you do it."

"Is that a challenge? I'm sensing a challenge."

Matt was smiling now, and it wasn't his charming smile, it was what you thought of as his shit-eating grin. "Aw, let's not call it a challenge. I know how upset you get when you lose."

"That's it." You slapped his hand away from your arm. "Prepare to be lied to. Constantly. And if I succeed, and you don't notice that I've lied to you, then you have to..." You thought for a moment. "You'll have to wear your Daredevil suit to Foggy's when we have dinner with him and Karen on Sunday night."

Matt's smile dropped instantly. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Um, obviously because it would be hilarious seeing you uncomfortable, and Foggy and Karen would take some awesome pictures of you?"

He grit his teeth as though contemplating. "Fine. And if I win, and I notice every lie, you can go through all of the old archives sitting in Karen's filing cabinet at Nelson and Murdock and make copies so that they can all be organized by legal topic as well as by date."

"What? How is that fair? That's hours of my time!"

"I thought you said you were confident that you'd win?"

"Well. Yeah." You leaned over to playfully shove at him. "Okay, then. I'm in."

"But if you actually are apprehensive about this bet, then we don't have to do the challenge. I won't hold it against you."

Bold way to throw down the gauntlet, Matt. There was no backing out now. "Nope. Deal accepted," you said, and stood up to clear the plates. "Oh, and by the way, I don't get 'upset' when I lose. I'm a fantastic loser."

"Lie," Matt said, almost lazily.

Damn.

That was how it began. Of course, together you enumerated more rules, both printed and in braille, and posted them on the fridge.

Rule Number One: A lie had to be the subject of whatever you were talking about. It couldn't be a throw-away comment unrelated to the conversation itself, nor could it be anything so minor that it didn't even matter. It was forbidden to, for example, tell Matt about your day and say green shirt when you were actually referring to a blue shirt and count that as a lie. It had to stand on its own, loud and proud.

Rule Number Two: You had forty-eight hours to complete the challenge. Which, admittedly, didn't give you a lot of time. Matt was on his guard every time you opened your mouth, which meant you'd have to be strategic about this, if you wanted to win.

Rule Number Three: The lie had to be delivered in heartbeat earshot. That meant you couldn't lie to him through text messages or a long distance phone call.

Rule Number Four: If Matt falsely accused you of lying more than twice, then you won. You argued this rule in as a safeguard; otherwise, he could call out your lies on whims without any consequences.

And, finally, Rule Number Five: A lie had an expiration on it of ten seconds. If Matt didn't name the lie within ten seconds of you delivering it, then you won. You had even argued for more time, but it was Matt who had told you, with a particularly cocky wave of his hand, that he'd sense it within that time.

Several times you had tried lying to him since the start of the challenge. Each time, he'd sniffed it out immediately — almost instinctively, even — so that it was almost embarrassing at how readable you were.

"You heading out tonight for patrol?" you asked him when you emerged from the shower that night, wearing only a tee of Matt's and a towel around your head.

"Only for a bit. I've got to catch up on some paperwork this evening."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No, it's just prep for my opening next Wednesday." Matt tilted back in his chair, stretching with a restlessness that told you he'd much prefer to be out on the rooftops than reading through paperwork.

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," you said, and then added the lie: "I'll go do some reading, then."

Matt didn't hesitate. "What're you really going to be doing?"

You scrunched your nose at him, irritated. "And I thought I was so nonchalant. My heart is a traitor. Slow down, you." You slapped at your upper chest and lied again. "I actually wanted to do some online shopping. I need a new pair of sunglasses."

"No, you don't."

You released a dramatic exhale. "Fine! I'm going to journal a bit."

Matt listened for a moment, and then nodded, clearly placated. "I'll come say bye before I head out."

And then you even thought that you might get him when he came back, because it was past two in the morning and he'd taken a faster shower than usual — an indication he was anxious to get to bed —but when he crawled under the covers, apparently he was still on guard.

"Come in closer," you whispered, half-asleep yourself despite your hope of lying to him. "I meant to stay up for you, but I fell asleep."

Which wasn't true, even though you did often stay up for him. Tonight you had slipped into bed and fell asleep almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.

But Matt caught it; his hand nudged at your arm to acknowledge the lie. "Even this late, you're still trying to win the bet?"

Loopholes in the rules were hard to find, you realized. Matt seemed to appreciate your attempts to bypass them the next day — in fact, the closest you came to successfully lying was that morning, when you had about thirty-two hours left in the challenge. You had left to pick up bread for breakfast, and had just stepped out onto the street when you put your plan into action and dialed Matt's number.

Because technically, here on the street, right below the apartment, Matt could still hear your heartbeat, if he sought it out. But you hoped that if you were talking with him over the phone, then he wouldn't pay attention, and that he'd be distracted by the background fuzz of the call.

"Hey," you said, walking slowly down the sidewalk; you didn't want to be accused of leaving the earshot radius. "I just got a text from Foggy. He asked if I could bring that book I was telling him about the other day to dinner tomorrow night. Is it still on my dresser or did I return it to the library? I can't remember."

It was a clever lie, you thought. You had told Foggy about the book, and he did text you about bringing it to dinner. You did, however, specifically remember leaving the book on the dresser and not bringing it to the library the other day. It wasn't violating Rule Number One, either, because the question you asked Matt pertained directly to the lie.

There was a brief noise on the other end of the line as Matt presumably cocked his head, sweeping his senses out for a book on your dresser. In your head, you counted down the time. Ten... nine... eight... seven... six...

"The thick one?"

"Yeah."

Four... three... two...

"Lie," he said suddenly, and you could hear the smile on his face. "Nice try. Almost got me on that one."

"Crap," you said, sighing and adjusting your jacket as you picked up the pace, crossing the street after taking a quick glance left and right.

"If the lie hadn't been about a book, I wouldn't have thought to listen to your heart," he continued. "You care too much about your books to not know whether you've returned one to the library or not."

"Crap," you said again, but this time it was because the convenience store was closed; you'd have to go a couple blocks further to the larger supermarket. "Matt, I'm going to take a few minutes longer. The store's not open until nine."

Matt was quiet for a moment. "If that was a lie, that doesn't count. I can't hear your heartbeat from here."

"Nope. It's the truth. Anything else you want me to pick up while I'm at the grocery store? Ibuprofen, Advil, ice packs?"

Matt answered, but you didn't hear; an idea was formulating in your mind. "Sorry?" you said after a moment, picking up your pace as rain began to fall.

"Just more tea, I think."

"On it. See you in a bit," you said, and hung up.

Rule Number Four, you realized, was your ticket to winning. If you could get Matt to call you out on a lie when you weren't lying — and if you could get him to do it three times — you'd win.

So, the trick was to get your heart rate going at precisely the right moment. You left the grocery store with bread, tea, and a large espresso from the café next door.

And, miraculously, it worked. You walked in, your heart already feeling a bit more spry since you downed much, much more caffeine in the span of five minutes than you typically had over the course of an entire day, announced to Matt that the grocery store had been strangely busy today, and—

"Lie," he said, almost without even paying attention.

"Ha!" you said triumphantly, setting the bread down on the counter. "Wrong, Murdock!"

His brow furrowed. "What?" You could see him reaching out with his senses now, seeking what his mistake was, and...

"Espresso," he said, so quietly and forlornly that you laughed. "Damn. Your heart is racing."

"Brilliant, right? The grocery store really was packed." You waved the bread at him. "I'm starving. Can we make French toast with this?"

"Yeah. And don't get too happy yet, sweetheart. You haven't won yet."

"And there's the key word: yet," you reminded him.

Matt was on guard after that, so you waited the rest of the day before trying again; too often, and each effort would be futile. You could tell he was listening with far more diligence every time you spoke, and while it was slightly unnerving knowing that your heart rate was under constant scrutiny, it was worth it. Matt felt threatened that you would win. Even if you didn't end up winning the bet, that gave you enough pleasure to make the entire game worthwhile no matter what happened.

Step Two was getting Matt to watch a horror movie. You were a bit limited in your options, since Netflix didn't have many scary movies with audio descriptions available, but you agreed on one eventually and started it only once the sun had set.

And you waited. Waited, with Matt's arm wrapped around you, watching the movie and letting yourself get absorbed in it, because you were relying on your own natural adrenal responses to secure you the next false lie through Rule Number Four.

Fortunately, it was actually terrifying, so it didn't take much effort for you to feel a chill genuinely running up your spine.

"A door slowly creaks open," the audio description narrated. "The bathroom mirror suddenly swivels open. Standing in the reflection is a dark figure."

You physically jumped — thank you, jump scare — and seized the opportunity as your heart beat doubtlessly spiked. "Matt, I found some fan fiction that people posted online about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. And I read it. Every last bit."

Matt's confusion was so palpable that you had to bite back a laugh. He reached over for the remote and paused the movie, his head tilted. "This feels against the rules."

"And yet, it's not," you said, rubbing his arm. "So, was that a lie? Or not? I'll give you a solid ten seconds starting now to answer."

"You can't just say something insane at the very moment your heart rate jumps from a movie!"

"Tick, tock."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again — you'd make a good lawyer."

"Aw. Thank you. Five. Four. Three."

"Come on!"

"Two. One."

"Lie," he decided, his jaw tight. "And for your sake, I truly hope it's a lie, because there better not be people writing fan fiction about me—"

"Sadly, it's the truth, Matt. Both that people have written it and that... I've..." You trailed off at the look on Matt's face. "Uh, that I might've possibly glanced over some of it."

"Please tell me there's not much of it."

"Um... well, there's a fair amount. People are fascinated by real life vigilantes, I guess. If you wanted you could always sue them for defamation."

"Sue? Sue as Daredevil? Show up to court wearing the suit?"

"Better yet, hire Nelson and Murdock as your lawyers, and you can switch back and forth during the trial between your lawyer suit and Daredevil suit, playing both roles. It'd be hilarious, like a real-life Mrs. Doubtfire moment."

"You find all this so amusing, don't you?" Matt tipped you back, his hands against the back of the sofa and caging you in. Goosebumps pricked up your arms as you glanced at his forearms; he'd rolled up his sleeves, and you could see the toned muscle in the dim lighting.

"Not at all," you said, your voice a bit higher.

"Lie," he breathed out, and leaned in to kiss you.

The next day passed, with every hour sliding by and bringing you nearer to the end of the bet. Once again you didn't dare press your luck, and chose to instead act naturally. The following morning and midday passed without only one or two halfhearted attempts to lie. ("Matt, did you hear that Captain America is starting up his own jazz band and he's going to be doing a world tour?" "Yeah, I did, right after the news segment announcing Black Panther's new clothing line of lingerie that he's founded.")

The loophole of Rule Number Four, however, was proving to be no longer viable as your winning method. Matt caught on to every truth that was meant to make him accidentally call you out on lying. In desperation you even did fifty jumping jacks to raise your heart rate, to Matt's amusement, but he had somehow latched onto the subtle difference between a heart rate raised by the adrenaline of exertion as opposed to the adrenaline of a lie.

So — you'd have to brainstorm instead.

With only about an hour to go until the bet ended, you set your alarm on your phone to go off just three minutes shy of the actual forty-eight hour mark.

The only challenge now was making sure Matt didn't check his own watch between now and the alarm.

"Time's almost up," he said, with the audacity to smirk at you, catching your arm as you went by him towards the bedroom. "Where are you headed?"

"To get something presentable on for supper," you said, gesturing down at your outfit.

"Karen and Foggy wouldn't mind if you showed up wearing that."

"I love you, Matt, but I look like a clown right now. I wish you could see the color combinations I've got going on. Think blue raspberry slushie dumped on top of black raspberry ice cream."

"Well, if you're changing, then what should I wear?" he said, mockery edging his voice. "That plaid shirt you got me? A white top? Or a sweatshirt? Y'know, since I won't be wearing the Daredevil suit, of course."

"Don't speak too soon. We still have a few minutes left." The bet still had five minutes, in fact; but the alarm would go off on your phone in two minutes. On a sudden whim you wrapped your arms around him, loosely holding your hands together around his neck as though you were about to slow dance together. Matt's hands naturally went to your waist, fingers grazing your hip bones. "If, in the extremely unlikely case that I do lose, you should wear your loose-fitted button-down from your birthday last year."

"Is that too fancy?"

"I don't think so. I'll be wearing a sundress. It's casual enough."

Matt spun you around, backing you into the wall. His eyes were intense, unblinking. "I know you're trying to keep my attention off of you. It's not going to work. I know you too well."

"Maybe you know less about me than you think," you challenged him.

"I doubt it."

"You'd be surprised, Matt. I've got secrets and ways of keeping them."

"Want to play that game, love? Because I can play that game." He tilted up your chin with his left hand. "That mosquito bite on your neck is still itching you, even if you've resisted scratching at it. You've still got the taste of mint in the back of your throat from when you brushed your teeth a few hours ago." His hand left your chin and brushed at your temple. "You got dehydrated this morning and had a headache, but it's gone away now. And your blush is practically a heat lamp right now, getting hotter with every second."

"Point taken," you muttered, but Matt wasn't finished.

"Down here," he continued, his hand now trailing down to your lower arm, "there's a bit of residue from the jam you got on your forearm during breakfast."

"I washed it off!"

"And I can still smell it." Matt lightly let go of you. "I could continue, if you'd like."

And then — your phone buzzed out a loud jingle, jolting both of you simultaneously. You fumbled in your pocket for your phone, shutting off the alarm. "Shit."

"Time's up," Matt said, with far too much pleasure in his voice. "I'm looking forward to spending a day at the office with you. Maybe we go in on the weekend?"

"Saturday I'm free," you said, as casually as you could possibly muster. "On Sunday I'm visiting a friend."

Which was a complete lie.

And Matt...

Didn't notice.

"We'll go in early," he said. "I had to go in this weekend anyway to get work done."

"Mm," you said, counting down the ten seconds in your head. "And I'm assuming you wanted me to help organize the files so that you wouldn't have to go into the office alone this weekend? This was all a ploy to get some company?"

"Of course. What kind of weekend would it be if I didn't get to spend it with my favorite person?"

"Foggy will take offense to that."

"Well, maybe I'll invite him too. And Karen. We can have a whole work-weekend at Nelson and—"

"Yes!" you shouted, so loudly that Matt tensed, as though scanning the room for a threat. "Get your suit on, Matt!" Without waiting for his answer you strode to the closet and pulled out the familiar red suit and mask. "A certain swindled devil now needs to make his appearance at a certain dinner party tonight."

Matt's expression was baffled. "But I won."

"Check your watch."

His fingers immediately felt for his watch, and then his face dropped. "You set the alarm early."

"And then proceeded to successfully lie about visiting a friend on Sunday. Oh, I can't wait to see Karen and Foggy's reaction when you arrive on the fire escape, dressed to the vigilante nines—"

"I can't believe you."

"Me either," you admitted. "I was getting nervous towards the end."

"I can't believe you," Matt repeated. "You're going to pay, sweetheart. That was playing dirty."

"Enjoy your retribution sometime else," you told him, tossing the mask over. He caught it, plucking it from the air without turning his head in the slightest. "We've got a dinner party to go to."

And maybe you'd still go into the office that weekend to help him out, you decided, a bit of guilt still stirring inside you, because he did just want you to be there with him, keeping him company.

After all, having a lie detector for a boyfriend really wasn't so bad.

Neighbor Pt. 6

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: On a random midnight, she comes to Matt's apartment to feel less lonely. Matt lets her in.

Words: just under 3k!

Genres: FLUFF with a dash of angst because of course... they are just two lost souls confiding in the other <3

A/N: I sort of had trouble with this chapter but she's finally here lol. This picks up from Pt. 5... hope you like it!!!

Part 5

Matt felt rejuvenated the next morning. 

Maybe it wasn’t stress he had been feeling the past few weeks… maybe it was something else, something he hadn’t felt in a while. Something that made him need sweet relief that throwing punches and taking hits couldn’t provide. He needed something more sensual—intimate. Something else to get his anxiety and frustration out. Even if it was a brush of contact. Something as simple as a touch. 

Yeah, it had been a while since he’d felt that. And it felt so good to listen to her like that… despite how wrong it was. That was until she said his name out loud. Matt pondered the question all morning as he lay in bed waiting for his alarm to go off. What did it mean? Did she like him like that? What should he do next?

  Nothing, he decided. It was wrong he knew she felt that way about him… it was wrong he continued to listen to her. It was wrong of him to think he could ever make her happy when he leads the life he leads. But God, did it feel so good to think that for a moment—just a moment—it might be possible. 

He rolls out of bed as soon as he hears his automated alarm go off. Wake up, wake up! Matt slams the alarm with his fist, harder than he intended to. He sits for a moment on the edge of his bed, feeling achy all over. Other people in the apartment are waking up right now, too. Downstairs, someone turns their stove on and begins to cook bacon. Another apartment opens its windows to the cool winter air. And her—she’s awake now, too. She turned her TV on to the news.

“Daredevil took down an armed robbery and saved an old woman at the corner bodega…“ 

Matt tunes it out immediately. 

It was strange to hear news about himself playing in her apartment. It made him uncomfortable. There he was, imagining a future with her and playing with the idea of being intimate with her, all the while having one of the biggest secrets ever. 

After a hot shower and brewing coffee, Matt was just about to be on his way out. He heard her shuffling behind her door, slipping her boots on, and zipping up her coat. They always walked out at the same time, an unspoken ritual. Maybe it was safer to keep it like this, Matt thought. Maybe this was as far as they’d ever go. 

Matt took a deep breath as he stepped out, unsurprisingly at the same time as she did. Matt heard her heart rate quicken as she saw him. 

“G’morning, Matt,” she said softly, as casually as she could.

“Morning,” he smiled. Act natural. “Sleep well?” 

She paused, ever so slightly, and locked her door. “I did, better than I normally do. You?”

“Same,” Matt answered, picking up on her hesitation. Maybe he should leave the conversation at this, not push anything further. From the way she was speaking quietly to her slight quiver, Matt knew she was nervous. He didn’t want to make her feel that way. 

“I hope you have a good day, Matt,” she smiled, walking ahead of him down the stairs. Before Matt could give a response, she was already out the door. Matt slowly followed behind, somehow feeling guilty about it all over again. 

She weighed heavy on his mind all day—did he do something wrong unknowingly? All of this was confusing—he heard her say his name at her most intimate, and this morning she seemed to want to avoid him altogether. What happened?

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong. 

***

Matt walked up the steps to his apartment slowly, one hand using his cane to guide himself, the other holding onto the rail. He passed the floors of the other apartments. They were all so loud to him. Fran had the TV on a bit higher than usual. Someone’s dog was barking begging to be fed. Another was on the phone having a heated conversation with an in-law. All day, Matt was consumed by conversations he wished not to be part of. Sounds he wished he could drown out and turn off.

Finally, he reached the floor of his apartment—and hers. He liked that he shared this floor with only her. He paused at the top of the steps and pressed his fingertips against the wall. She was inside, home already from work. From the sound of her soft breathing and very still movement, Matt knew she was sleeping. A part of him melted inside. Tired from a long day of work himself, he walked as quietly as he could to his apartment and opened the door slowly to avoid making any sound.

He wasted no time changing into his Daredevil gear and waiting on his roof.

***

Matt felt accomplished when he arrived back on his rooftop after a night out as Daredevil. He stopped another robbery and saved an old couple’s bodega. He saved an old man from being mugged. He saved a young girl and her mother from an abusive ex-boyfriend. 

Entering his apartment, he stripped himself of his Daredevil gear and locked it away in his old trunk. He paused, hand still on the locked trunk that held his most detrimental secret. This trunk used to belong to his father. He pushed it inside the closet and closed the door. He made a sign of the cross and stalked off to the bathroom. 

It was shortly past midnight. After washing off in the shower, Matt changed into sweatpants. He lay in bed and shut his eyes. His thoughts always drifted to the same thing: was there more to this life, than just keeping a secret? 

After reciting a prayer and just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a gentle knocking on his door. His eyes shot open and his senses were fully engaged in the source of the sound. More knocks came. It was her. She shivered under her cardigan and shifted in her slippers from foot to foot, anxiously. Was something wrong? Why was she at his door so late?

Matt threw on a shirt quickly and walked over to open his door. Just as she was about to turn around and retreat to her apartment, thinking this is stupid, Matt opened his door. She stood there with her arms tucked around her frame and shivered from the cold in the hallway.

“Hi,” she said in a tired voice, “I’m sorry, Matt. I know it’s late. But I heard your shower go off and assumed you were awake and—God, I realize how creepy that sounds that I heard your water running so I knew you were awake—never mind. I’ve spoken too much,” she rambled nervously, shivering from the cold in the hallway. Matt was surprised by her presence; he wasn’t upset at all. He welcomed her sudden appearance but couldn’t help but wonder why she was there. 

Not to mention her apologizing for hearing his water running, and assuming he was awake. After all the things he’s heard her do through her apartment… Matt was in no place to judge (not that he would, anyway).

“It's okay,” Matt whispered her name. “I was awake. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, and Matt didn’t have to listen to her heartbeat to know she was lying. It was in her voice, her mannerisms. The way she answered quickly without really considering his question. “I just—“ and she was shivering so much.

“You can come in,” Matt opened the door wider. “It’s cold in the hall.” 

“Okay,” she stepped inside his apartment and away from him as he shut his large, old door. Matt locked it and turned around to smile at her. It was then Matt realized he forgot to put his glasses on. 

“I’m sorry, let me get my glasses on,” Matt said sheepishly, reaching for them on the side table. 

“It’s okay,” she said, “you don’t have to put them on.” She paused, looking at his handsome face in the low glow of his apartment. He wasn’t hard to look at at all—from his warm hazel eyes to his plump lips. 

“Are you sure you won’t be uncomfortable?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” she answered. “I’m barging in on your place—you don’t have to sacrifice your comfort for mine.” 

He smiled at that and then offered her to take a seat on his couch. He allowed her a moment to get a sense of her surroundings—she’d never been in his apartment before. Her heartbeat was steady. She looked around his living room and squinted at the windows when the large screen across the street flashed bright purple and pink lights. 

“Wow,” she said, looking back at his dark apartment. “Those are bright.”

“So I’ve heard,” Matt said lightly with a warm smile. “Do you want any water?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

She curled up on the corner of his brown leather couch, tucking her feet in underneath her legs. She was still shivering. Matt offered her the blanket that lay on it and she took it gracefully. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said sheepishly wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, “truthfully, I couldn’t sleep and I could use a friend to talk to.”

A friend? Matt’s heart jumped at this. She considered him a friend. 

“I’m glad you came,” Matt replied. 

“On Christmas, you told me that any time I felt lonely, I could come by. So… this is one of those times.”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded. “Felt lonely tonight?”

“Not anymore,” she sighed, pleasantly, like his presence alone was enough to cure whatever it was she was feeling. “I took a long nap after work to avoid it and woke up feeling worse than I did before. Like a harrowing, deep hole in my chest.” 

Matt knew that feeling all too well—a hole he’d been trying to fill since he was 11. It occurred to him in that moment Matt hardly knew anything about her. Where she came from, what her story was. She knew bits and pieces of him but he didn’t know anything more than that she lived alone and worked at a bookstore. 

“I understand,” Matt said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe another time,” she said, pushing the matter away. “I just wanted to get my mind off it.”

Matt was happy she was comfortable enough to come to him this late at night for nothing more than just another person to talk to. He could be that person for her—he wanted to be that person for her. 

“I didn’t know you had hazel eyes,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t hide them as much as you do behind those red glasses.” 

Matt blushed—unfamiliar with this feeling in his chest, like a bubbling warmth spread over that harrowing hole she was talking about just moments ago. “Oh,” he said. “People can get uncomfortable when they see my eyes.”

“Then screw them,” she said defiantly. “Like I said…you shouldn’t sacrifice your comfort for theirs.” 

“Thank you,” Matt replied. “For understanding that part.” 

“Were you—“

“Born blind?” Matt had finished this question so many times, that it became a habit to interject whenever anyone began to ask it. “No. It was an accident when I was a kid.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind,” Matt shrugged. He wanted to open up to her, as much as he could—without revealing his biggest secret of all. “I saw an old man crossing the street. A large truck with chemical containers was coming down the block at the same time. I pushed the old man out of the way. The truck lost control, and swerved to avoid hitting us. Well, it did bump me a little, and all the chemicals fell over, leaking everywhere. Some of it got in my eyes and—“

“That was it,” she finished his sentence. “Wow.” 

“That was it,” Matt repeated. His gaze fell on the carpet. He sat at the opposite end of the couch. 

“So, little Matt was a hero?” He could hear the smile in her voice when she said this. Matt chuckled. 

“I did what anyone else would have.”

“How many adults were there, do you remember?”

“It was on a random corner in Hell’s Kitchen. Plenty of people were walking around.”

“So, you did what anyone else would have avoided.”

Matt blushed, looked away from the general direction he was looking in. It felt different to be called a hero when it was coming from her lips. 

“Sure,” he finally said. “We can go with that.”

“Do you…” her voice trailed off, unsure how to phrase her next question without sounding offensive. 

“You can ask me anything,” Matt assured her. “You know a lot about me that some of my closest friends don’t know. Nothing’s off the table.”

“Do you miss having sight? That’s probably a silly question. Do you remember the last thing you saw?”

“The sky,” Matt answered, a flash of blue appearing in his mind. “That was the last thing I saw. And I do miss having sight,” Matt took a deep breath. “But there are other ways to see.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “How do you see in other ways?”

What a loaded question, he thought. 

“Touch, for one. I can get a sense of something when I touch it. Smell—easy to distinguish what’s on my plate. I still know what a majority of things look like.”

“But not people,” she stated. 

“Not people,” Matt affirmed. “But there’s a way for me to paint a picture in my mind.”

“How? A person describes what they look like?”

“Descriptions help,” Matt answered, “but touching their face helps a hell of a lot more.” 

She was silent for a moment, understanding his answers and pondering them. She wondered what he would think of her if he could see. Matt felt as if she was wondering that very thought.

“Do you want to touch my face?” She asked in a hesitant voice. “Or I can describe to you what I look like.”

Matt felt his heart grow in his chest. How could he answer that question, without revealing his true feelings for her right then and there? It had been months of being her neighbor that he hoped and prayed he could cross that threshold with her. Hell, it was a miracle she was in his apartment at that moment. 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Matt finally said, shifting in his seat. 

“I am,” she whispered, leaning forward. “Come here.”

Matt moved closer to her on his couch until his left knee was touching her right. When he sat close enough to her, she grabbed his hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist to guide him. 

Starting with her hair, she gently brushed his fingers through it. It was soft. Every thread of her hair felt like water slipping gently through his fingers. Matt held his breath as his fingers grazed her neck. He had to close his eyes for this part. Matt gently placed his hand on the side of her neck, feeling how soft her skin felt on his fingertips. Like Braille, he ran his fingers ever so lightly on her skin, goosebumps following his touch. 

He moved his hand to the side of her face, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. He gently ran his thumb over her brown bone, smoothing it out. Then he traced his thumb under her eye in a sweeping motion. His gaze fell on her chin. He traced the pad of his thumb down the bridge of her nose, stopping at her cupid’s bow. She gently let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Matt gently let out a breath too. He took his other hand and cupped the other side of her face in his palm, feeling her cheeks heat against him. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a steady boom boom, boom boom, he had come to memorize to help him fall asleep. He caressed her chin with his thumb and traced her jawline before slowly running his hand down the length of her neck, retreating to his thigh. 

“Beautiful,” Matt whispered. It was all he could say. 

“Matt…” she uttered his name, trailing off, losing her words. Her heart felt like a cement block in her chest. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to touch her again. She reached for his hand and placed it on her face, desperate to feel how gently he held her again, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

She turns her head into his hand and kisses his palm. Matt moves his fingers to the back of her head and guides her lips to his, a kiss that should’ve happened a long time ago. Her lips molded to his, the taste of her bringing him back to life, filling that empty hole in his chest again. He hoped it had the same effect on her. Her hand moved to hold his face, a plan to not break the kiss. A plan that didn’t matter if it worked or not, because Matt wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. He wasn’t going to let go of her. 

When she eventually did pull back, he only wanted more. 

“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly, “for letting me in.” 

Letting her into his apartment, or letting her into his heart—both answers were suitable. 

Eventually, she did go back to her apartment, for reasons they didn’t need to say out loud. But it would be a while until they brought up this night again. 

______________________________________________________________

TAGS: @mattmurdocksstarlight @yentroucnagol @danzer8705 @allllium @i-marvel-bitch @babygrlmurdock @writtenbyred @uncle-eggy @marvelcinematiquniverse @sweetbee0108

Unicorns Need Love Too | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Your hormones make existing a living hell sometimes. Thankfully, Matt is there to help

Warnings: Fluff, self-indulgent, suggestive language, heavy allusions to smut (MINORS DNI), attempt at humor, not proof-read

Word Count: 2k

A/n: This is a brain fart because I, myself, have a pimple in the middle of my forehead and I feel like a fucking unicorn. I don't even know if it's any good. Just have at it & enjoy!

The few weeks leading up to your period are always the most chaotic and the most draining, but over the years, you have gotten used to only having a few days out of four weeks every month where you feel somewhat normal.

The days between ovulation and the actual start of a new period are probably the worst though—together with the week of hell that follows, of course.

Matt loves it when you ovulate. Your boyfriend’s heightened senses make it possible for him to smell the change in your pheromones, and they drive him borderline insane. It doesn’t help that you always seem to need him more than air when you’re in that fertile window of your cycle, and even though you’re not interested in having a family, he always has to fill you to the brim until you’re overflowing with his cum. Alone the thought of that makes his cock painfully hard.

Unfortunately, though, your body’s desperate need for pleasure isn’t the only side of you that comes out during that week. Every month, Matt discovers something new about you. Every month, he finds something new to love, and he finds strange quirks of yours that may seem odd to him at first, but he still adores them as much as he adores the rest of you.

 “Why does it smell like a chemical plant here?” He pokes his head into the bathroom, his chiseled body dressed in the red leather of his Daredevil suit, minus the cowl and his gloves. 

You turn to him from the sink. Your eyes roam over his body before they land on his face, meeting his unfocused gaze. “It’s my skincare,” you answer.

What did he think you were doing? Building a chemical weapon? Cooking meth? He would have been able to smell that much more clearly than your skincare products.

“What are you using?” Matt asks, leaning against the doorframe in all his glory as he slides those beautifully thick fingers of his into his leather gloves.

Your eyebrow quips. “Salicylic acid. Why?”

The way he looks at you, forehead slightly wrinkled as he frowns, reminds you of a concerned parent when their child has found a sharp object to play with. 

“That smells dangerous.”

You shrug, continuing to rub the solution into your skin. “It pulls the gunk out of my pores.”

“And that works?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says. His expression remains wary. “Just don’t inhale it.” 

“Matt, this isn’t the first time I’ve used it. I’ve had acne since I was a teenager,” you remind him.

A small smile plays on his lips, mirroring yours. “I know. Just want you to be careful, that's all.”

You put the tube down, turning your whole body to him. “I have never heard of death by skincare,” you say, “but I’ll be careful. Promise.”

The answer, albeit a bit sarcastic, satisfies him. Matt fastens his gloves with a happy little nod. “Thank you. I’ll, uh, be back in a few hours,” he says, coming over to press a kiss to the top of your head, his hand cradling the back of it. “Don’t wait up. You’re drained.”

You open your mouth to protest, “I can wait for you.”

“Not at this point of your cycle. You’re going to be cranky tomorrow.”

You’re aware that Matt knows your body inside and out. He knows you better than you could ever know yourself. He can sense things that even you can’t pick up on. At first, it was something you had to get used to, but you have grown accustomed to his heightened senses and the perks they bring with them. 

Tipping your chin in his direction, you retort, “I’m not sure if I should take offense to that.”

“Don’t,” Matt says nonchalantly. “If I had an organ lose its shit every month because it wants to be fertilized, putting you through the works to prepare you for it, and then cause me to bleed and cramp uncontrollably for a week straight as revenge when I refuse to let a myriad of sperm play tag you’re it inside me, I’d get cranky too.”

That description sounds almost too perfect. You lean forward to capture his plump lips in another passionate kiss. “Fair point. Be safe, please.”

“Always.”

“That’s a lie,” you say. 

“I promise, I’ll be safe.”

“That’s better.”

He strokes his thumb over your cheekbone. “Love you,” he says, and he kisses you one last time.

Whenever he goes out at night, Matt kisses you as if you are never going to see him again. It’s a possibility you have often cried over. You’ve obsessed over everything that could go wrong. 

He has had way too many close calls for you to take anything he does for granted, and when he kisses you like that, like he is afraid of losing you as well, you at least know that he will try his everything to make it back to you in one piece—even if it’s a mangled piece. 

“I love you too,” you murmur. 

That’s another thing about his kisses: they have the ability to render you speechless.

A slight gust of wind brushes through your hair when the door to the rooftop exit opens, and when you open your eyes, Matt is gone. The living room is lulled in darkness. 10:13 pm. You start counting down the hours, praying once again to all Gods above that he will be okay tonight.

• • •

When Matt comes home a few hours later, he finds you passed out on your shared bed, your limbs tangled in the silk sheets that smell of him and you, and even more you.

He isn’t injured, more ramped up with adrenaline than anything, but he doesn’t want to disturb your peaceful slumber, so he settles down on the couch instead. It doesn’t take long for the night to crash into him, and he collapses. He doesn’t even have it in him to make it back to bed.

You wake up in a cold sweat when your alarm goes off the next morning, but the open bedroom door and Matt’s snoring figure on the couch tell you that he is alive and well. That’s a good sign. If he’s asleep and not injured, you have nothing to worry about. 

That is what you think until you see your reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

Matt wakes to the sound of a loud groan. Suddenly awake and alert, he takes a look around the apartment. Nothing is out of place, except—you’re missing. 

He gets up and knocks on the bathroom door. It’s locked. “Sweetheart,” he calls out softly. “You okay in there? Can you open the door?”

“No,” you reply. Your voice is slightly muffled through the wood, but he can still hear your labored breathing and your elevated heartbeat loud and clear.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I look hideous.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “I don’t know if you‘ve heard, but I’m blind.”

You groan again, more defeated this time. You seem to plop down on the edge of the bathtub. “Oh, shut up!” you snap. “This is as much a visual as it is a textural issue.”

“As in what? You’ve grown fur and a tail overnight?” Matt can’t help but muse a little. “Because even if you turned into a wolf or a worm, I would still love you. You know that.”

“Matt, this isn’t funny. My acne is escalating.”

Now you sound sad, and he starts feeling bad. 

He touches his palm against the door. “But you used those acids last night,” his words land much softer. “I thought they were supposed to help with your acne.”

“Apparently fucking not ‘cause my fertile window is pretty much still wide open, and I think I felt myself ovulate this morning.”

“Oh. Well, it’s just some pimples, sweetheart. It’s not the end of the world.”

Matt realizes too late that he may have chosen his words poorly. You take a deep breath, and for a moment he believes you’re just going to say, but then you shout at him, “EASY OF YOU TO SAY, MISTER I-ALWAYS-HAVE-FLAWLESS-SKIN!”

He winces, dropping his forehead next to his palm. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. What can I do?” he asks. “Get you a paper bag?”

You must have smoke coming out of your ears by now. “Matthew Michael Murdock, I swear to God–”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m just trying to cheer you up.” He knocks again. “Can you please let me in? I want to hug you. You sound sad.”

A pregnant pause follows. The silence settles deep into his bones. He can still hear your heartbeat, but he can’t judge what you’re thinking. Then, he hears your bare feet pat against the floor. The lock clicks, and you finally open the door. 

“I look like the last fucking unicorn, Matt,” you say. “I’m an endangered species.”

Matt’s arms find your waist, and he pulls you against him. You don’t protest. “You don’t feel like a unicorn. You don’t even have the body of a horse.”

The beginning of a smile that was growing on your face vanishes within seconds, and you stare up at him. He can feel your gaze burning through his skull, a look of utter astonishment on your face. That is how he imagines you, anyway. 

“Just a pimple on your forehead,” he adds because he realizes his words are failing to get his point across in all possible ways.

You bury your face in his chest. “Oh, fuck off!”

“What? Pimples are natural and nothing to be ashamed of, especially not when your body is full of hormones that are making your day a living hell.”

“I feel ashamed because I look like a very fucking ugly unicorn!”

“You’re not ugly,” he insists, patiently so, knowing that this is just another side of you that comes out when you’re overwhelmed by the sheer force of your hormonal cycle. “If anything,” Matt says, “you’re a cute unicorn.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m a pissed-off unicorn who’s ovulating, which makes her sad and horny with a fucking stuffed and inflamed pore on her freaking forehead!”

“I can do something about the horniness, but I can’t make the pimple go away. I’m sorry.”

“UGH!” For a moment, he thinks you’re going to hit his chest with your balled fist, but instead, you tangle your fingers in his shirt.

He rubs his large hand along your spine. “Come here.” Almost naturally, his nose buries itself in your hair. “Do you have those patch thingies you always use when you break out?” he asks. 

“I ran out,” you say. 

“Should I get them for you on my way home from work?”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he says.

Your smile is unmistakable. “I want the heart-shaped ones.”

“Because they make you feel cute?”

“Yeah.”

Matt chuckles anew. “Okay. I’ll get you those.”

“Thank you.” Sniff.

He tilts his head to the side. “Did you just sniff me?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” you shamelessly admit as you suck in a breath again, inhaling his distinctive scent. “You smell good.”

“I didn’t even shower last night. I passed out on the couch.”

“Oh God, that makes it worse!” You shove him away. “I’m getting turned on by the smell of your sweat.”

His giggles turn into laughter. “How about I shower first and then you can sniff me again?” Matt opens his arms as if he just made an offer you couldn’t possibly refuse. 

But you can. Because Matt showering and washing the scent of danger off his beautiful skin is the last thing you want, and if your body is satisfied, maybe the storm in your mind will finally calm down, too. 

You stop him. “No. Don’t shower.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No,” you say. “You said you can help me with my horniness, right? That was part of the deal?”

The brown of his irises gets overtaken by the black of his pupils. “I did say that, didn’t I?” 

“Uh-huh. So, no shower. And I could really use a hand. Or two. And quite possibly your cock, too.”

Matt smirks. “Anything you want, sweetheart,” he purrs. “I’m all yours.”

You’re about to kiss him when you realize, “The unicorn pimple–”

“Don’t care. I've heard somewhere that unicorns need love too.” He cradles your face in his hands. “And I intend to do that shamelessly for the next hour and a half.”

The bathroom door falls closed behind the two of you as he uses his strength to guide you back inside, and a kiss is all it takes for you to shut up and surrender yourself to him completely.

Unicorn pimple be damned!

Tag List: @littlenerdyravenclaw @yarrystyleeza @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @thatonegamefish @norestfortheshelbywicked @mattkinsella @itwasthereaminuteago @linamarr @gpenguin666 @acharliecoxedfan

A Matter of Opinion

Pairing: Matt Murdock x femReader

Word Count: 2,800

Summary: A tale of disagreements, egging each other on, and a general disregard of the other’s opinion.

Trigger warning: So much fluff it might as well be cotton candy

Masterlist

Keep reading

This is so good oh my gosh!! I love the sassy main character and Daredevils reaction!! If you ever want to write more for this, please feel free to tag me in it!!

THE DEVIL'S GAME

MATT MURDOCK X VIGILANTE!READER

Summary - Seeking retribution, you find yourself wandering into Hell's Kitchen, only to become ensnared by the Daredevil himself.

Warnings - 18+, broken bones, blood, flirty shit, vaguely suggestive

Word Count - 2.9k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t your neighborhood.  

But you hadn’t thought twice about it before leaving the comfort of your home, abandoning Queens to fulfill a dream of paltry retribution.  

Any other night and you might have considered the consequences of crossing into the Kitchen, but tonight your judgment had been clouded by an opportunity to finally lay your hands on the slippery brute that had gotten under your skin as of late.  

And, by the time you realized that you had willingly traipsed into the Devil’s Realm, it had been far too late.  

Farlin Costain was a particularly skilled pick-pocket, renowned amongst his fellow New York gutter rats—including petty thieves, drug dealers, and the likes—for his stealth and cunning. Typically, you wouldn’t have bothered with someone so low on the food chain, leaving him for some smaller vigilante to handle.  

Unfortunately for Costain, he made a costly mistake when he had made a target of your sweet, innocent roommate last week. And while you once wouldn’t have spared Costain so much as a second glance, you now had every intention of making him regret the very day he was born.  

“C’mon Farly! Already giving up?” You sang, patronizing him as you pressed your foot down harder against his breastbone. “I thought you wanted to play! Remember?”  

Word spread like wildfire that you were looking for Costain as every back-alley criminal in New York gossiped about what he must’ve done to catch your eye. Because of this, it only took a few days for Costain to catch wind that you were on his trail—and, being an absolute moron, he spent an entire drunken night in Scruffy Duffy’s Saloon bragging to friends and strangers alike that, should you find him, he could easily take you in a fight.  

Alas, the bartender at Duffy’s—an old informant of yours—was glad to send you a text detailing Costain’s visit. The pieces fell into place quickly after that, and soon you found out that the asshole was staying in a shitty mid-rise apartment just down the street from the bar.  

He hadn’t heard you when you skillfully leapt from the neighboring building, landing atop his apartment to spy him and a few of his cut-purse buddies passing a joint. As soon as you stepped into the light, his friends scurried like roaches, darting for the door to the stairwell.  

None of them were particularly recognizable, and since your vendetta wasn’t with them, you gladly let them escape.  

But not Costain.  

“Fucking cunt!” Costain wheezed beneath your weight, writhing on the gravel that lined the rooftop and spitting blood on your shiny black boots. You grimaced—disgusting.  

“Is that the best you’ve got? Blood can be cleaned up—but it’s gonna take weeks for your nose to heal. Do you really want your friends to find out that you couldn’t take me? That you couldn’t even get a hit in?” You continued to chastise him, head cocking to the side as you examined the blood still gushing from his now crooked nose.  

To Farlin’s credit, he had tried to fight back, having pulled a switchblade out as soon as you made a move for him. Unfortunately for him, the stealth needed to swipe wallets and watches was as far as his combat skills seemed to go, and it had taken you less than a few seconds to send the blade tumbling over the edge of the rooftop, clanking on the sidewalk below.  

But what Costain lacked in skill, he certainly made up for in spirit.  

“I can’t fucking breathe!” He rasped; his throat still raw from all the screaming he’d done after the nauseating crunch of his nasal bones. Thrashing beneath you, he lifted his hands to your ankle and began clawing and hitting and scratching, desperately trying to pry your foot off of his chest. “Get off!”  

You didn’t so much as flinch as his fists whirled at your calf, nor did you relieve any of the pressure you were applying to his breast. Instead, you pressed even harder, giving him a wicked grin.  

“You’re left-handed, aren’t you?” You mused, noting the slight weakness of the punches coming from his right. “Are you ambidextrous?”  

Gasping, Costain’s eyes lit with fury as a strangled sound ripped from his throat, growling at you.  

“I’ll take that as a no,” You hummed, your cheshire grin growing wider now. “They say that anyone can learn, y’know. How to use both hands.”  

Crouching down, you forced more of your weight onto him as you leaned over his face, your loose hair grazing his cheek. The fury in his eyes had already extinguished, replaced with an icy fear. His arms began to fall limp at his sides, his body too oxygen deprived to keep fighting you.  

“If you wanna learn,” you droned, tracing a single digit along the curve of his plump, blue lips, “then I’d be glad to give you some encouragement.”  

Faster than light, you slid your weight off his chest, rising above him. Farlin heaved at the loss of pressure, miserably trying to fill his aching lungs with air.  

Too delirious to fight back, he didn’t even notice when you lunged for his wrist, grabbing hold and hastily yanking him to his feet. You pressed your other hand right above his elbow, giving it all your force as you snapped his arm at the joint, the bones splintering and giving a deeply satisfying CRUNCH!  

Farlin had filled his greedy lungs with just enough oxygen to let out a gnarly scream as the pain washed over him like a tidal wave, sending him crumbling to his knees in front of you.  

“Damn, my bad,” you huffed, frowning at the sight of him, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched his right arm. “I was supposed to break the left one, wasn’t I? I can be such a ditz sometimes, huh? But no worries—I can fix this!”  

You went to reach for his left arm, taking far too much pleasure in the terror that ignited in his glossy eyes, but the adrenaline now pumping in his veins gave him an edge. Using his newfound chemical courage to try and scramble away from your assault, he managed to just barely evade the quick swipe of your hand, only to then fall backwards onto his ass.  

You snorted a laugh at him—useless.  

Too terrified to try and make a second attempt at escape, Costain only looked up at you with pleading eyes, silently begging you to leave him alone. You considered it for a second—just one—scrounging deep within yourself for even a trace of pity for the thief.  

Unfortunately, you came up empty-handed, as you often did when dealing with trash like Costain.  

You went for his left arm a second time, but as soon as you took a single step, something stopped you.  

No—scratch that—not something, but someone.  

A muscular arm wrapped around your middle, trapping your arms at your sides. You went to make your escape, but before you could tense even a single muscle, another arm wrapped around your throat—not applying pressure, not yet, but effectively trapping you and leaving you incredibly vulnerable.  

“I think he’s had enough for one night,” a luscious voice spoke in your ear, the warmth of their breath grazing along your neck, “Don’t you?”  

You were as still as a doe in headlights, carefully flicking your gaze down to the arms wrapping around you. Noticing the all-black sleeves that covered them, you sunk your teeth into your cheek. As far as you could tell from your current position, there was nothing discernable about the mystery man holding you hostage.  

“Not at all,” you admitted to him, cunning as ever. “I was just getting started.”  

The man gave a disapproving grunt. “You’ve already terrified him. He can hardly breathe,” he pointed out as if you weren’t aware of the heaving mess lying on the ground in front of you.  

“Even better,” you quipped, trying not to flinch when the arm around your waist suddenly tightened. “I like it when they’re afraid.”  

His breath caressed your skin again as he scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t care what kind of sadistic game you like to play with these men, but keep it your own borough, got it? I’ve heard about what you’ve done in Queens—and my neighborhood isn’t open to being your new playground.”  

The declaration gave you pause. Your breath caught in your throat as you suddenly remembered where you were and whose territory you had crossed into and made a mess in. His neighborhood– 

Fuck—you swallowed, only to find that your mouth had gone dry—he’s the fucking Daredevil.  

Costain seemed to put the pieces together at the same time as you. And, while still weeping over his shattered nose and broken arm, decided to crawl towards the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, hiding behind him and deciding to take his chances with him over you.  

Fucking coward.  

“I didn’t realize the Devil kept tabs on the rest of us,” you teased, trying to settle the pounding of your heart as you grappled with the dangerous fact that the Daredevil knew who you were. “You never bother coming to the annual vigilante sleepovers.”  

He hummed, but there was no hint of amusement. “I only keep tabs on the one's worth knowing about—and you have been making quite a mess. Last I heard, you were leaving innocent men mangled and bloody on every street corner from Queens to Brooklyn.”  

Irritation warmed your veins, blood thrumming in your ears as you howled, “Innocent?!” You gave a dry laugh, “The men I deal with are far from innocent, Devil-boy! The man you just saved is a fucking thief! And last I checked, you and I are supposed to be on the same team!”  

“We aren’t even playing the same game, sweetheart.” Daredevil corrected, the endearment slipping from his tongue sounding more like an insult than anything else. “He’s a petty thief. If your only interest was in keeping the streets clean, then you could’ve easily taken him down and left him on the doorstep of the nearest police station.”  

You cut your eyes, slumping in his hold. “And where’s the fun in that?”  

“You really are hopeless,” He snorted, unimpressed. “One broken arm is more than enough retribution for a pick-pocket. Swear you won’t touch him, and I’ll let you go.”  

“Or I could break your arm instead,” you suggested coyly, either in an attempt to flirt with or distract him.  

You tried to wiggle your arms at your sides, assessing just how much you were able to move. His own muscled arm rested just above your elbows, leaving some limited motion in your wrists and forearms. You wouldn’t be able to do much with it—nothing spectacular—but maybe…  

“If you thought you were strong enough to do that then you would’ve tried it already.” He countered.  

“Well, physical strength isn’t the only way out of a sticky situation, Devil-boy,” you reminded him. “But I’m more than confident that I could kick your ass.”  

The hold around your neck suddenly grew taut, his forearm lightly pressing against your windpipe in a subtle reminder that he was much stronger than you. “With a single move,” he purred, “I could snap your neck. Your life is in my hands.”  

Your pulse throbbed, but you didn’t panic, even as every instinct you had was screaming at you to give in—to stop antagonizing him and vow to never lay another hand on Costain again.  

But you were never very good at listening to that little voice in your head that told you what to do.  

Taking a hefty bet on your life, you used what limited motion you had in your arms to wiggle them back and slide them around his hips. You felt his muscles tense, readying himself to fight you or choke you or something, but juvenile laughter was already spilling from your lips as you brazenly cupped his backside in your palms.  

“My life might be in your hands,” you declared through a fit of giggles, “but your ass is in mine!”  

Your confidence grew when you realized that he hadn’t yet choked you out for your insolence—too stunned to react at all—and so you took full advantage of his inability to move without releasing you. Using your newfound grip on him, you shoved his crotch against your ass, grinding back against him just enough to catch him further off-guard.  

An involuntary groan slipped his lips at the rough contact, his voice gloriously low and hoarse and absolutely to die for.  

Daredevil figured you would try to fight back, but he had been expecting something along the lines of hand-to-hand combat—and not once had he considered that your preferred method of fighting would be grinding your ass against his dick.  

Shocked, unprepared, and a little horny, Daredevil took a step back to try and put space between your body’s, his grip turning lax as his blood rushed south. You took advantage of his single moment of weakness, managing to slip from his grasp with some ease now.  

“See?” You boasted, holding your arms out dramatically as you stood in front of him, finally face to face. “I told you physical strength wasn’t the only way out.”  

Daredevil was quick to regain his composure, and when you noticed a muscle feather in his jaw, you had the good sense to move swiftly into a ready position—just in case the Devil wanted to dance.  

But he made no move towards you, even as your fists lifted in his direction. He stayed where he was, clicking his tongue as he said, “You fight dirty.”  

A smirk played on your lips. “You don’t know the half of it. But don’t worry, I’m just as much a masochist as I am a sadist,” you teased, blatantly admiring the appearance of his toned muscles beneath the tight-fitting black shirt he wore, “so we can take turns, if you want.”  

He laughed, actually laughed. “Never gonna happen.”  

You stuck your bottom lip out, pouting at him, but he didn’t react.  

“Why not? Looks to me like you enjoyed having me touch you,” you spared a glance to the now sizable bulge in his dark jeans. “Tell you what, Devil-boy, let me break his other arm and I’ll consider taking care of that for you.”  

Costain gave a pathetic whimper at that, as if he too could sense the growing tension in the air and worried that Daredevil might be willing to sell-out in favor of getting off.  

Ignoring his whining, Daredevil took a step closer to you, and then another. Your body reacted, muscles growing taut as you prepared yourself to strike him. But, when he halted less than a couple of inches from you, you felt as if your bones had all but turned to jelly.  

He smelled of expensive cologne and cheap coffee, and even with the black mask covering the entire upper half of his face, you had no doubt that he was impossibly handsome. Your heart thrummed wildly in your chest, and as if he could hear it, he gave you a satisfied grin.  

“Your mouth is as filthy as your techniques,” he rebuked, though a hint of amusement and intrigue laced his tone. “Tell you what,” Daredevil mimicked you, “you’re gonna get out of my neighborhood—now. And, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stick to your side of the city from now on.” His breath fanned against your cheeks, and a warmth suddenly crept up your neck. “Got it?”  

“And if I don’t?” You felt incredibly small beneath his impressive height, having bent your neck to look up at him.  

The Devil seemed to stare down at you—no, he seemed to stare through you, though his eyes remained entirely hidden beneath the mask. You wondered what color they were, if they were as pretty as the rest of him, and how they might look rolling into the back of his head as you straddled his waist—but your fantasies were cut short as he stretched an arm towards you and roughly caught your jaw in his hand.  

You grunted at the unexpected contact, the sound making his grin grow wider. His nails scraped lightly against your cheek as you tried to jerk away from the touch, but it was a futile attempt. “If you don’t,” he muttered, leaning in closer as his tongue glided across his lips, enticing you further, “then I’ll make sure that you regret it.”  

A bit breathless, you tried your best to sound unaffected, only for the slight wobble in your voice to give you away, “Sounds like a challenge.”  

His head tilted to the side, as if he were watching you, listening to the erratic pounding in your chest and the sound of blood rushing your veins. For a heartbeat you let your gaze fall to his chiseled jaw, to his mouth, calculating the risk of leaning in and catching his pouty bottom lip between your teeth.  

“It’s not,” he assured you, his voice thick and gruff. “It’s a promise.”  

You stifled a hiss as he released your jaw from his grip. He didn’t spare another word before turning away, the gravel crunching beneath his clunky combat boots as he went straight to Costain, heaving the thief off the ground by his non-broken arm.  

If it were anyone else stealing away your target, you likely would’ve cut them down right alongside Costain. 

But it hadn’t been just anyone—it was the Devil.  

Dumbstruck and more than mildly infatuated with the alluring Daredevil, you knew that tonight would be the first of many visits to Hell’s Kitchen. 

my brain is rotting because i've written 44+k words in a single month because i decided to rewrite infinitely you and while taking a small break from working on it i created this garbage fire of a matt murdock one shot.

thanks for reading

Have i become a matt murdock simp? Only 3 episodes in and I think so😵💫😵💫💫

pov: you're mrs. murdock

So I had one of my guy friends send me a couple songs for a playlist I was making and one was from daredevil and I just started watching and finally got to the part where the song is and I think he's trying to tell me something😶😶😶

Red Windows - Matt Murdock X Reader (Soulmate AU)

Another Day writing your Soulmate thesis for work, nothing else. That's what you thought. When the Morning dawns and a Devil ends up in your apartment, the same song stuck in both of your heads - what could go wrong? When your Soulmate ends up being a vigilante, the answer is easy to find: everything.

Set in a world, where even after Electra's Death and Daredevils partial hearing loss, Nelson & Murdock & Page are still together and never departed. This is partially due to my own stupidity and confusing the lore, but also simply because of I love the plotline but goddamn, I just want them to stay together.

Proof Read? Yeah, no.

Warnings: None. This does say Matt Murdock X Reader,can however also be seen in a platonic way. Also, maybe like Part 1? Idk, not sure tbf. Hate the ending, but here goes nothing. No use of Y/N or any placeholder

Soulmates. A thing everyone was talking about, sometimes singing so their Soulmate could hear it. Talking to someone else, one didn't know, someone far away, somewhere on this world. Or universe you guessed, considering the recent outing of a bunch of aliens, gods and more. Someone had to be their Soulmate, you guessed.

A lot of people thought Soulmates meant something romantic and were disappointed whenever they found out it was usually a platonic relationship. You should know. After all, you were studying philosophy with a focus on Soulmates. It was a topic that had interested you for a long time now and the older you had gotten, the more you had been fascinated by the mechanics of Soulmates and what the existence of these even implied. You would have preferred to go into the science field of things, however, since progress has been stagnating it was cut out of a lot of universities. So philosophy it was.

You had turned 29 a while ago, yet, had never heard your soulmate sing. Maybe whoever it was just wasn't that into it? Sometimes you sang a little tune to them, to this day to no avail. You were currently working on a thesis about Soulmates and the indications of the inevitability of future and choices and consequences, barely being able to write down all the rapidly passing thoughts on your sheet, when your best friend barged in. "It's Break Time for you and for me. Pack your things. We have an hour and I will not stand being in this office building for longer than five more minutes!"

You laughed slightly, grabbing your stuff and leaving the building right after them. They didn't wait until they started rambling to you, but you were content to listen. "So I met this girl yesterday, she was like, really cute. Short hair, ripped jeans, a flannel? Undeniably incredible taste in fashion. Also, the way she verbally decimated those guys? Absolute slay. The Guys were like trying to hit on a girl or something and wouldn't leave her alone, a real shame to be honest. She was really cute, asked her out." You smiled "That's nice, what did she say?" "That she already has a girlfriend. God, why must all the good Partners always be taken? It's so unfair!" You smiled lightly "Wouldn't know about it" Your friend gasped. "Exactly! I can't understand it, how no one sees you and wants to go out with you! Like, none of the good ones that is. I would totally try." You laughed. "Oh I would as well" "Dating yourself?" You looked at her "not my point, but totally yes."

The Break was over faster than you expected, but the work even longer. You sighed, when you looked at the clock, finally being allowed to get off. You closed your Laptop and said goodbye to the man behind the counter, who had just arrived and wished him a good and peaceful workday. Hell's Kitchen hasn't been the same for a while now, after Daredevil disappeared, the crime rate skyrocketed again, and a lot more Mutants were involved in it as well. You guessed because they didn't feel like they fit in, you couldn't blame them. The glass doors swung close behind you, the cool air of the evening of approaching fall nearly sending shivers down your spine, only nearly though. You fished out you phone and earphones out of your pocket, plugging them in and putting only one on. It was way too dangerous to walk around nearly deaf. You resumed the playlist you were listening, enjoying the song that came next, one of your all time favourites.

Take me to a light show before we go

Chemicals inside us line our bones

Your steps echoed through the street, the dark orange sky darkening slowly but surely fading into blue. The Bus station wasn't far away, and since your workplace didn't provide you with a parking spot, you took the bus. It roughly took the same time anyways.

Everybody's wasted, on their phones

Digits on the dancefloor, then our clothes

Next to the bus station there was a bakery, which you went to all the time while waiting for your bus. It wouldn't arrive for another 15 minutes, plenty enough time to buy yourself whatever you wanted. You usually opted for the same, but sometimes you felt like switching it up, like today. You asked for your order, waiting for the kind cashier to pack it.

Even if it blinds us

I'm reaching for the light within the fever

I'm reaching for your hand

You payed the cashier, taking your order and going back to the bus station.

The space between our fingers

Sparks, I feel them linger on

The bus arrived and after scanning your monthly ticket you sat down, thanking your work for not letting you get off in the middle of rush hour. The drive was quiet and you arrived home safely, deciding to get out of your work clothes and make yourself comfortable. You relaxed a bit, before deciding to head to bed, humming the melody of the song stuck in your head.

Next time let it go

Break my skin, Red Windows

So I'll know

.................…⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

It wasn't morning when you woke up, and it wasn't your alarm that woke you. The crashing of a window, heavy breathing and pained groans. Despite yourself, you stood up after you heard another crash - glass, maybe your table or a glass you just hadn't put in your dishwasher yet. You armed yourself with the first thing you could find - a belt - and stalked to your living room. The man had stopped trashing around, leaning heavily on a counter, shattered glass on the floor. He was still panting, but definitely trying to hide it. It was Daredevil. Daredevil stood in your apartment. Sure. yeah. Just a normal Tuesday Night. Not to mentioned he was supposedly gone.

You didn't know what came over you, but the only thing your brain was able to scamper together was a breathy "Hi" to the Vigilante. A pained smile graced his features "Hey." You stood there for a second, before remembering that he was leaning on a counter, just shattered a glass and was probably in a lot of pain. "Oh my god, wait, let me-" You vanished to get the Frist aid kit from the bathroom, returning to him in a matter of two minutes. You never thought you'd really have to use it, you didn't really expect a crime fighting Devil to appear injured in your living room. You hadn't seen any blood in the darkness, but you were sure to turn the lights on to take care of the man.

"Alright, just sit in the couch and I'll prepare... I don't know, what do you have? Bulletwounds? Were you stabbed, slashed?" The man laughed slightly but didn't move an inch. "Do you even know how to treat wounds?" "No, but that doesn't mean you can't guide me, you must me very well versed in this field." He still didn't move. "You gonna come over here?" He hesitated but pushed himself off the counter and waddled towards you, totally not noticing the couch and swaying harshly against it. He cursed under his breath and felt along the backside until he found the seating part. "Damn, you must be really out of it, not seeing the couch like that." He chuckled nervously. "Yeah, rough night" "Did you get hit in the head?" "No" Phew, thank god. One least thing to worry about. "Okay, could you like, get rid of the suit?" "Want to see a Vigilante naked so you can give it to the press?", He joked, you laughed. "No, but maybe I want to be able to keep a secret just for myself"

He got rid of the suit, wearing a thin black shirt and pants underneath, they reminded you of those that ice-skaters wore while training sometimes. His left leg was soaked, and not in sweat or water - in blood. You bunched the thin Leggings over the injury and came face to face with a red leg and a white structure, that looked way too much like a bone to be anything else, exiting his skin. "Fuck." "Yeah" "You walked with that?" "I did more with that then walk." "And you're human? Not just Thor in disguise or something?" "Pretty sur einem, yes" "That's wild. Okay, anything else?" I got shot and stabbed in the side, don't know how they got through the suit." "Alright, alright. Yeah, sure, we can.. we can work something out. I think" He laughed again, a charming laugh, you noted. "What do I do?" "Is the bullet still inside?" You pulled him forward from his leaning position, pulling up his shirt and seeing a matching hole in the back. "No" "Okay, that's good. Now you'll have to-"

You got more comfortable with him guiding you, knowing and feeling that he knew what he was doing. Sometimes he needed to help you a bit and in the end, you were done and he was still lying on your couch, his pantleg was still bunched up and his shirt was off - it had just been easier than him needing to hold it up while also guiding and helping you. While he was putting his shirt back on and sipping on some water you had brought him, you were already cleaning up the mess. You couldn't help yourself humming that song, calming yourself down why you did so, passing by Daredevil to clean the table and floor, the couch was something to worry about later. You weren't gonna throw an injured man off of your couch just to clean his blood. "My Soulmate sings that song all the time." You looked up from the puddle of blood, mixed with water and bleach you were scrubbing at and observed the man. He had a small smile on the lips that were visible. "Your Soulmate?" He nodded "Yes, she keeps singing this song, always at the same time on weekdays. I guess she gets off of work then." "Why are you telling me this? I could use this against you." "Doubt it. You would've called an ambulance or police if you would go against me" "Maybe I'm building trust to betray you."

"Why do you want me to distrust you so badly?" You stayed silent. "It's not about me", you started after a while, "it's about you. You need to be careful. Not all are as friendly as I am" "That, I only know too well." Silence. "My Soulmate doesn't sing. Never." "Never?" "No. Not even humming. Or jingles, absolutely nothing. I heard him once, back a few years ago. He was drunk, singing something very badly. He was practically screaming." "That must have been exhausting." "It wasn't. I was absolutely ecstatic. I had heard him for the first and only time that night, while he hears me on a daily basis. Sometimes I wonder if I am bothering him, because he doesn't sing at all, or if he died. I just hope he is a good man." "I am sure he is." Before Silence could settle in again, you spoke up "When your Soulmate sings Red Windows a lot, it shouldn't be hard to find them. Only round about 200 people listened to the original on YouTube, where it came from. 200 people in the entire world, shouldn't be hard to find. Not only that, but some of these probably don't even like the song." "Could you play it for me?" You were startled. "What?" "I couldn't find the song. Could you play it for me?" "Uhh" you stood up, washed your hands thoroughly with soap and got your Phone. "Sure." You typed in the name of the song, letting it play and setting the phone down on a clean surface.

In Time let it show

Feel that scarlet Undertow

As it flows

You hummed with the song, swaying a bit to the beat and going back to cleaning. The stranger on your couch watched you.

Even if our bodies start to burn

And our passion starts to turn

I don't want our night, the night, tonight to end

So

Daredevil shifted on the couch, getting up while mainly using his uninjured leg and grabbing another cloth to help you clean the blood, sitting on the floor instead of kneeling like you were.

Next time let it go,

Break my skin, Red Windows

To my soul

So I'll know.

He grabbed your wrist mid-cleaning. "You should go to bed. This is my mess, I'll clean it. You have work tomorrow, so you should definitely get enough sleep" "But you need to rest as well" "I've had worse, you should really go to sleep. I will sleep in a bit as well." "You can stay as long as you need to. And you need to rest. Leave the cleaning to me." "Of course."

After waking up, you understood that that was a stupid request from you, seeing that he cleared the shattered glass, and that every surface was clean - the Couch still had some stains but it was mostly clean. There was breakfast on the table and a man, back turned to you, helmet off, sitting and eating. "Good Morning. I see you didn't rest like I told you." "And you did" He didn't turn his head and you didn't look at his face, when he pulled his mask over his head again, hiding his black hair. "Don't you have work to attend as well?" "I.. I do." "Then you should take a cab to work and get a coworker or friend to help you." You sat down and started to eat - scrambled egg with bacon pieces mixed together with some herb you had lying around. You didn't know what it was, your mother had brought it over when you had moved - but he seemed to know. "Shame about your window" You looked at the pieces of cloth and wood (where did he get that stuff from anyways?) covering the busted window. "Yeah, that's not gonna sit well with my wallet, I'm afraid. A shame, indeed" After the Breakfast was finished, and he was back in his superhero suit, he looked back, before walking out the fire escape. "Go to a Lawyer named Matt Murdock, he will help you" "Don't think I have money, big guy" "He doesn't take money. He takes whatever you are willing to give"

And just like that, you sat at work, sitting over a half-finished sentence in your thesis and pondering about this being a dream. The Fact you had been so unfazed probably was a sign of - no. You didn't believe you'd think his, and that this was the reason that convinced you, that it had all happened. You don't even remember what you did with the belt you were holding, it seemed like a big blurr, the moment you had seen him. You clearly remembered patching him up and all that, but God damn did you want to tell someone. And tell someone you did. Your new lawyer for a case that wasn't even a case. You didn't even know why exactly you looked him up and called him, but oh well.

"Matt Murdock, Attorney at Law. What is the reason for your call?" You gave him your name, hesitating before continuing. "This may sound weird, but Daredevil crashed into my window yesterday evening and told me to call you to get that situation sorted out." The Lawyer chuckled. A familiar voice, a familiar chuckle, you realised. It was slightly different, but you couldn't shake the feeling as if you were talking to Daredevil again. Stupid Vigilante crashing into your window and your mind. You desired emotional compensation, even though he had no negative effect on you. The Lawyer chuckling was having a lot more negative impact on your mood. Of course he wouldn't take you seriously. "Do you happen to have insurance?" You nodded, then sighed, remembering you were on the phone. "Yes, but I don't think it covers crashed window because of a Vigilante type of Damage" Another laugh "Come in with your contract and I'll see what I can do" "What about Payment?" "You don't need to pay me, if you have no money. I am only here to help" Damn. So it really was whatever you were ready to give, sure.

Since a Memory is locked in tight

Even in our dreams we'd never find

Any hidden Details, not one sign

Not even your dial tone, if not mine

Making your way to the lawyer's office, your trusty Google Maps as your guide, you silently sing the song to yourself. You took off one of your earphones when you reached the building,riding the elevator a few levels up to the designated one. There was a door with a metal tag on it. In bold, pretending letters it read Nelson & Murdock & Page. You knocked beside the tag.

But I heard it in surround sound

In a private space between that only we found

Like a feeling we can't shake

They are watching through the keyholes

Wishing they could be this close

When a blonde woman opened the door, you completely took off your headphones, stopping your music effectively. She seemed surprised. "Didn't think we'd get someone today, come on in!" You entered, slightly confused. "Uhm, I called earlier, and I was told to come in whenever I can in business hours." The Woman nodded. "Who did you speak with?" "I think it was uh... A man, Murdock, I think?" She lit up. "Ah, yes, let me just check with him really quick!" She disappeared in one of the doors, the one to the left, and reappeared a few second later. "Sorry I didn't think of you, I was on break so Matt took your call, if you could wait a minute, he will call you in." You thanked her and sat down on one of the free chairs.

You were singing under your breath, just loud enough for your ears only, when you heard you name being called by a very familiar voice, a man standing in the door that was previously unoccupied, a small, smug smile on his lips. You stood up, noticing his red tainted glasses. Unusual, you noted. "Good Day, Mister Murdock, thank you for seeing me" "I just want to help, come on in." You followed him into his office, noticing how he kept one of his hands on a surface at all times, making his way to sit at his table, a bunch of thick books laying in one corner, and - you noticed - Sheets of Paper with bumps on them. Braille. You sat down at the chair in front of the desk, while he set up a recorder. "Would it be alright if I record the conversation?" "Yes, of course." "Okay good. Then, let's start." He pressed play. "Please state your name and the reason you are here." You gave him your name again, before elaborating "Yesterday night or this morning, i didn't look at the clock, but I had already gone to bed, I was woken up by a crashing sound. I went to investigate and found the Vigilante Daredevil had crashed through my window, severely injured. I helped him and just before I went to bed he told me to call this office." "About your insurance?" "Yes." "Okay, do you happen to have the contract with you?" You affirmed once again. "What kind of contract?" "It's an Appartment I had to take because of my workplace, so it's an insurance contract with them, they pay for round-about normal insurance. Don't think those cover Superhero or Vigilante Damages"

You ended up reading the entire thing to him, not even understanding half of the stuff you were reading. He did though, obviously. You ended up staying well past opening hours, tomorrow was your free day so it was fine for you - and apparently also for the lawyer. Karen Page had left around half an hour ago, so you volunteered to find the kitchen and make some coffee and a small snack, while he worked through some of his Texts in Braille, saying something to the recorder from time to time to keep it on his mind. Quietly singing the song to yourself while searching in the small kitchen for the coffee beans.

Next time, let it go,

You found the coffe beans and put them in the grinder, positioning the first cup underneath and letting the coffee run.

Break my skin, Red Windows

After that one was done, you did the same with the second cup. Bringing the two cups back, you stopped singing under your breath right in front of the office. You opened the door with your elbow and sat down the two cups p, settling back into the chair.

"You really like that song" You didn't think he'd heard you, so you were slightly surprised. "Oh, sorry if I was too loud" Matt Murdock smiled "It doesn't really matter how loud you are, it's a good song, I've heard it on loop thelastfew days" Oh, so he already knew the song, weird coincidence, considering how unknown it was. "I have been too, it's a wonderful song." "Well, I didn't really have a choice, but definitely better than other songs I had to listen to." He didn't have a choice? "Has your Soulmate been singing it?" He didn't answer, instead sipping on his coffee, giving you a fairly cheeky smile and focusing back on his work. A few Minutes passed, when you heard him hum. You heard him hum twice.

One was in you head and the other was, well, right in front of you. You were baffled. "What?" He stopped, his eyes shielded behind the red glasses, still looking straight ahead. He gave a questioning hum. "Uh... Sorry, i just had a thought" "About us being Soulmates?" You faltered. "What? How did you know?" "Because I knew since you came in. He went to take of his red glasses, unfocused eyes looking in your direction, but feeling like they still looked past you. "I didn't want to rush, but I admit, it was a pleasant discovery." "Huh".

You eyes fell to the red tainted glasses, like Red Windows.

To my soul