there's gotta be some butterflies somewhere ▸ college!matt murdock x reader
[ao3]
summary: Matt Murdock has been gently falling in love with you—much to his subconcious dismay—not knowing that an awareness in full force would come in silly conversation, lazy afternoon drinks, and a quiet unravelling. AKA the teaching to flirt gone wrong right fic | gn!reader warning: none really! alcohol consumption, but no one is even tipsy where it counts. this is just some fluff. maybe a lil bit of sexual tension. enjoy! wc: 10,166
“Hey! Matt—perfect timing—how do you flirt?”
Matthew Murdock hadn’t even been spared a welcoming moment of grace before your question was thrown at him across the room with all the swiftness of a swan on the water. It wasn’t unusual to find you in the dorm he and Foggy shared, courtesy of both proximity—your own room located just on the other side of the building—and preferred company. Matt knew you had been there, of course, before he’d even opened the door. He hadn’t been focusing or particularly honed in searching for what, or who, exactly lied beyond the threshold, but it was easy enough to catch a breathy waft of your shampoo in the air. Feel the lingering recent heat and faint oils of your hand on the doorknob.
What was a surprise though, was your choice of greeting. It was clear, as Matt slipped into the room and closed the door with a quiet ‘click’, that he had arrived smack-dab in the midst of a hearty conversation. And one, at that, you and Foggy exhibited no hesitation or problem immediately lassoing him into, dragging him headfirst despite the lack of context. Not that it was hard to pick up, based on the subject matter. He could basically taste it in the air; the anticipation, an excitement of a heated exchange. This wasn’t an argument—those always made themselves apparent in the cortisol that usually passed in a wave, normally bitter over his tongue. He could only wait, leaning his cane against the wall now that he didn’t need it, before taking the careful, measured steps to his bed, to see what such thrill he’d be joining.
Bewilderment tugged the corners of his lips up in tandem with his amused chuckle, and Matt collapsed onto his bed with a light bounce and a groan of relief. He’d just come back from Torts, and it had been especially draining that day. In reference to arguments, a debate that had started with a fellow classmate had quickly devolved into one, and he was still feeling a lingering tension. But now he was here, done with classes for the day, in his bed, surrounded by his friends, the invitation of alcohol in the air, and more than happy to let his brain be distracted by a subject that in no way ascertained the law.
“How…do I flirt?” Matt shaped the question slowly. Not opposed to answering, just simply trying to get a feel for what he was expected to contribute. “Like, with people?” Mirth floated into the space alongside his words as he laid back, stretching out onto the twin mattress. It was old, worn. It didn’t take someone with his heightened senses to feel the springs daring to poke at him, but he did find familiarity in the smell of his sheets. The unscented laundry detergent he used, and the newly formed faint layer of his clean sweat. He took a deep breath, tilting his head a fraction of a direction as he picked up on something else, something distinctly…you. Matt’s smile widened a bit, and he tried to ignore the flutter of his heart at the realization that you, at one point, had been on these sheets. His sheets.
“No, with puppies and dinosaurs. Yes with people!” Matt could practically hear Foggy’s eye roll from across the room, the fondness that licked the corners of and betrayed the annoyance he exaggerated.
“Thank you for the clarification.” Matt felt something cool touch the back of his hand, and he accepted the offering as he turned his palm up and let his fingers close around the cold metal of a can. Condensation wet his skin, and a droplet rolled down his wrist. He shivered, darting his tongue out to catch a small taste of the beer that sat awaiting for him, as Foggy retreated back to his spot. “For a moment there, I thought maybe you’d wanted advice on how to breach the barrier that is inter-species relationships. To which, might I put on the record, I don’t think I can ethically condone.”
Matt laughed at the sound of Foggy’s sigh and your soft giggle, breath disturbing the air currents in the room, and he sat back up. He took another moment, sorting through the sensory interference he would always be met with, to better map out the room. Foggy seemed to be across from him, on his own bed. By the dip of it—the concentration of his center of balance—cross-legged and on the edge. Matt swiveled gently, casting his head to the side until he found the shape of you. Along his way, he’d noticed the other open cans in the room—more drinks, all empty—and the displacement of the wooden chair that usually resided at his desk. But it wasn’t long before he found it, the warmth of your body seeping into the grain and causing notes of oak and resin to bloom against the back of his throat. You’d dragged it closer to Foggy’s bed, nearly midway between the two frames, and you sat with arms wrapped around one leg propped up on the seat. He heard the drag of skin on denim; the circles you were absentmindedly drawing along your calf. He could probably reach out and graze your arm, if he leant forward. If he’d wanted too. Though, he didn't know why he would. He cracked open his can instead.
“Questioning Foggy on his attraction to non-humanoid mammals aside,” You began, trying to pivot back to what was clearly the important discussion at hand.
Foggy interjected: “Not attracted to puppies or dinosaurs, by the way!”
“I don’t know,” Matt mused teasingly, bringing his brows together in false thought and taking a sip of his drink. He would answer the question, but he also wouldn’t miss the opportunity to poke some fun. “You were pretty passionate in the way you talked about the Deinonychus the other night.”
“Okay, okay,” Foggy stammered, “First of all, dinosaurs are cool! Secondly, I just think Deinonychus are underrated. Velociraptors steal all the spotlight and that’s totally unfair. And lastly, not all dinos are mammals—I need to clear the air on that one.” You raised your hands in a surrendering apology, and by the pleased hum Matt heard from Foggy’s chest, it was one he dutifully accepted.
“Now that that’s been established,” You breathed out a sigh of preparation, and Matt took note of the creak of the chair as you shifted to angle yourself more toward him. “Matt,”
“Yes?” He offered you an airy grin, hoping it landed as he canted his head in your general direction. There was that heart skip again, the thrum inside his chest more prominent than it needed to be as he registered the hitch in your breath. He swallowed down a swell of satisfaction he couldn’t quite categorize, having long since been ignoring exactly what he felt when it came to you. He would dwell on it later. When he would be alone. And in more of a position to argue some sense back into himself.
You cleared your throat gently, clearly trying to move on without anyone clocking your reaction, the action smooth and almost imperceptible. “Me and Foggy were just having the most riveting—” You emphasized the word, pouring what might as well could have been a visible manifestation of your curiosity into it— “conversation on the different psychological factors that go into successfully flirting with another human being. It landed quickly along the lines of mutuality. Interest, compatibility, attraction—you know. Naturally…”
“Naturally, you two started debating which of you had the best ways to flirt with people.” Matt finished, understanding now the line of thought that led his two friends here. The result of what he was sure started from a bout of boredom as a simple theory now dissolved into the bare bones of a couple of twenty-something year olds throwing pick-up lines and gestures at the wall to try and figure out the definitive and theoretical way they stuck.
“Way to play catch-up, Murdock.” Foggy grinned, clapping his hands as he rubbed them together. “Now, what’cha got? How do you play your game, man?”
Matt let out a sigh, leaning back slightly and placing his hands on his thighs before bringing one up to gesture mildly in the air, spinning his wrist in a circle. “Let me know what you’ve got already. Wouldn’t want to supply any repeat tips and tricks.”
An excited noise escaped Foggy, eager to share. “My tried and true is the powerful compliment, humor one-two punch.” His voice edged with a warm air of pride, his intonation shifting like the glide of a bow on a string. “As you both know, I am the funniest man on the planet—”
“Clearly,”
“—and what better way to have people feel comfortable around you than to get them to smile! Truly smile too. Not just, one of those polite ‘I’m doing this to get out of conversation’ smiles. I joke around, ease the tension, throw in a lil’ bit of sarcasm, be real, and that’s when I slip in small compliments. Nothing fishing, just using what’s in front of me. And I read what might come out of it from there.”
“You truly are a lover,” You stifled a laugh behind your palm, reaching out to tap Foggy lightly on his arm and he swatted you away playfully. “Tell me, why do you want to be a lawyer again? Surely, you’re gonna be wasting all that kindheartedness when you inevitably become a blood-thirsty shark like the rest of us.”
“Au contraire, my dear friend,” He shut his eyes and took a dramatic breath, outstretching his arm like he was performing a sonnet. “Who will all the gentlefolk come flocking too when all the other jerk guys just wanna find someone to get their dick wet?” He jabbed a thumb against his chest. “Me. Long game, comrades. Nothing helps you more than a good, genuine, reputation.”
Matt snorted. “Don’t you…also just wanna get your dick wet?”
“Not all the time, but yes. I do it with class, though! Everybody loves class!”
“You are very classy indeed, Mr. Nelson,” You agreed, rocking forward in your chair and letting your leg fall to the ground as you adjusted in your seat and picked up your drink from beside you on the floor. “With a reputation that already precedes you.”
It was true that Foggy had a reputation. He was kind and trustworthy, and effortlessly became known as someone dependable. He had a way of worming fondly into people’s lives, and even the ones that found him annoying couldn’t help but to indulge him. And that reputation, as far as Matt could tell, also extended into the bedroom. He admired that about Foggy, the ease that seemed to emanate from his friend no matter the task. Often, Matt would try to ride his coattails, take a page out of the Book of Foggy Nelson and just…be. It certainly worked for Foggy more than it did for him, and Matt was sure not living with the burden of enhanced senses helped a ton. It was far easier to relax and enjoy the little things, he thought, when one wasn’t constantly confronted with the harsh reality that surrounded them.
Matt took advantage of the natural break and let a few more sips of his drink glide down his throat. The beer was cheap, but it did its job. Past the metal tang of the aluminum can, ignoring the faint whispers of processing chemicals, Matt welcomed the burst of yeast and gentle sting of the malt. He also had a reputation, if he pondered on it. He would have had one, even if he hadn’t started contributing. Most people across campus didn't know him, but knew of him as the blind man studying to become a defense attorney. Not only did he stick out already as one of the few people with a disability going to Columbia, but he had an act in public. Matt was smart, confident. But he was also quiet and tended to keep to himself—which was already leagues better than the fistfights he would get into at Saint Agnes. Together, that seemed to give him an allure that he quickly came to learn he couldn't escape so he might as well make use of it. Give people something else to categorize him by. More often than not, too many people would proposition him with pity, or expect him to be shy or helpless. He liked proving them wrong.
Matt turned to you, settling comfortably into the conversation as his body began to slack into the safety of his surroundings, the small beckoning idea of a buzz awaiting him if he had a couple more drinks coaxing him further into ease. “And you?”
He waited for your reply, noting how you hesitated, mouth opening and shutting before you eventually brought up your drink to let out a soft hum around your sip. “I don’t flirt with people that often, but,” Hesitation seemed to lace your voice, as Matt adjusted his sunglasses. They didn’t need to be pushed up, but he did it anyway, unconscious in the nervous habit of his. He wouldn’t admit—didn’t quite understand why he would have to—the clip of hesitation he also seemed to share. “Like I was telling Fog, most of what I do is uh, visual, I suppose.”
He hadn’t been searching for it, but now there was a faint lick of cortisol that passed by him. Not the byproduct of an argument, but of anxiety. It rolled past him in a trepid lap, light, but there. But as he sorted through your feedback—your heart, your breathing—he quickly relaxed into the realization that you didn’t seem to want to tiptoe around a response that Matt might be excluded from; it was just a silent, unconscious, murmur of apology. Matt pressed his lips into a thin smile, and let out a soft chuckle before nodding to you to continue.
“I’m not as bold or exciting as either of you, so I tend to just smile a lot, narrow my focus. Usually what works for me is to let whoever it is catch me staring, because I tend to check them out a lot during conversation. I’m not great with lines, and I rarely work up the nerve to approach anyone, so I rely on the other party and their interest. It works when I want it to, though, y’know. Builds a lot of tension before ever actually touching.” You laugh, a mildly embarrassed sound, but otherwise content. “I’m trying to change up my style, though!”
“You didn’t tell me that part,” Foggy pointed an accusing finger in your direction. “You’re trying to change your game? The audacity—we’re having a competition here!”
You sank against your seat, another bark of laughter bubbling forward. “Yeah, well I mean,” Matt perched on the edge of the mattress, his curiosity piqued as he tilted his head, ear pointed in your direction. Your heart had sped up when you’d sent another glance his way. “Just staring—no matter how seductively—at people wouldn’t work with everyone, you know. Some people miss those social cues, some people need something more direct, some people can’t…”
“See?” Matt offered in a gentle tease, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
Foggy made a loud noise of acknowledgement, bouncing on his bed and giggling out your name. Matt wondered how many beers he had already with an amused smirk, guessing that most of the empty cans he sensed earlier were his. “You’d sure be screwed if you ever tried flirting with Matt, huh?”
“Yeah,” you replied quietly. There was an undercurrent of naivety in your voice, but also something laced deeper, swimming around vowels in circles. Something Matt didn’t hear from you often…something he could dangerously mistake for longing. He swallowed hard as he tracked the air around you grow warmer. He grasped at understanding, but between there only being a few sips left of his drink—it going through him fast, his last meal hours ago at that point—the dismissive way you laughed with Foggy, and his own roadblock he hadn’t even begun to try and maneuver, he fell just out of reach. “Yeah, I would be, huh.”
Somewhere, lazily, in the back of his mind, Matt wondered if you ever had tried to flirt with him. He knew it was a selfish thought, one borne from that bundle of complicated feelings he tended to ignore and push aside—but he couldn't help but to let it flicker in the forefront of his mind. He had to admit, Matt hadn't yet had the luxury of watching you flirt with anyone, or lead them back to your dorm room, but if your go-to heavily leant on the visual perception of the person talking to you…well. He wouldn't have picked up on it if in those first few weeks he knew you, you'd tried. He could imagine it, your slow realization that if you were interested in him in any way at all, you'd have to step out of your comfort zone further than you were used to.
But he's known you for months now. Months, that if you had wanted to breach the boundaries of friendship, that you've had to gather the nerve and tell him. Months, where you, him, and Foggy had fallen into a comfortable side-by-side step. Surely, if you had wanted to be with him, you would have said something by now. Surely, if you had wanted to do anything, you would have done it by now.
A voice in the back of his head, languid and mocking, cackled such a cruel ‘told you so’ that it fluttered down his spine until it curled and took root sour and heavy in his gut. But then Matt shuddered sharply. He didn't even know what he was thinking, and his brows twitched and jaw ticked as he finished off his beer, letting the last drops of the drink embolden him to shove whatever…that was back away.
“You've heard our plays,” Matt gravitated to the present, guided by Foggy's voice tugging him back. It didn't seem like the other man seemed to catch anything different with you at all. Or him, for that matter. “Matt? Your turn.”
Matt contemplated for a moment, a sudden shyness threatening the tip of his tongue. Which seemed silly, considering he’d know for at least the last few minutes that he would share eventually. He brushed away that trepidation along the back side of his teeth. “I don’t know,” he began breezily, elongating his syllables and playing up his performance with a sharp inhale. “What works for me might not help either of you.”
“Yes, yes,” Foggy waved his hands in the air dismissively, “You’ve got the whole blind-wounded-puppy act you can weaponize. Which is such a scam, by the by. Not to mention,” He turned to you like he was about to divulge some well-kept secret. "He's hot.” You let out a strangled laugh and Matt grinned. “You really have an unfair advantage between the three of us, y’know.”
“Aw, Foggy,” Matt dipped his head, “I’m sure you’re plenty attractive.”
“Nobody said I wasn’t!” He clapped his hands together. “Now, dazzle us with your ultimate game! Sometimes it has to take more than being hot to pull.”
“Yeah,” You urged, “What’s the real secret, Murdock?”
Matt went quiet for a moment before answering. The topic now seemed strangely…vulnerable. “Touch.” His lips briefly followed the curve of his shrug. Simple. Short. “A little goes a long way, but I uh, I utilize it more than most.”
He wondered for a moment if he would share just how much touch was…everything for him. How it guided him, oriented him. How his bare skin against another's sent shivers down his spine and blossomed heat so strong, sometimes, with his sensitivity, it felt like he was burning. How he craved touch constantly, desperately, even outside the prospect of sex; how in a way, with it, he could see—feel, fully. But he wouldn’t; it teetered too close to a truth he hadn’t yet found the courage to share.
He continued, “Not to mention, I also get away with it, more than most.” He tapped his sunglasses gently, tilting into the weight of the focus that was the attention on him. “But yeah, I can get pretty far by just dropping my voice a little lower, smiling—” He raised his empty can in your direction—“and turning a brush of a hand into my fingers dragging up an arm. Genuine interest. Nothing special. Just the oldest trick in the book, really. Hasn’t failed me yet.”
“Damn,” Foggy heaved out a sigh and flopped back onto his bed. “Damn. Should’ve known flirting would be too easy for you.” Matt clicked his tongue, a small part of him relishing in the unserious-ness that was Foggy’s over-exaggerated anguish.
And while his best friend flailed on his bed, Matt took notice of your silence. The corners of his smile dropped just slightly as he began to study you once again. He didn’t make it obvious, sitting forward and placid, but he tuned himself until he could find what he was looking for, past the wind outside the window, the scuffling of feet down the hall, past whoever was blasting music three floors down, until…there. Your heart was still beating faster than it normally did, and Matt came to the conclusion that it probably hadn’t slowed down since he first picked it up. And your breathing came in stutters too, soft, quick, heavy puffs of air that betrayed how you tried to calm yourself down. Your hands fidgeted, with the hem of your shirt this time rather than your jeans. And if he focused a little more, charting where the air ebbed and flowed around the shape of you, narrowing the direction the sound your lazy blinks came from, Matt quickly came to the realization: You were looking directly at him.
But he couldn’t know that for sure. He could only guess. The finite details of the face sometimes were lost to him, only becoming clearer the closer he was. The quieter it was. But here, now, Matt was only an arms reach away. And the three of you had fallen into a comfortable silence following the end of your conversation; only the hum of the outside remained, muffled behind doors and windows, and easily able to be shut out. Matt didn’t know for sure, even as his hands grew clammy and his tongue darted out to quickly pass over his lips.
Just to hear your heartbeat spiking the moment he did.
You were staring at him.
And all of a sudden, all those complicated feelings Matt did so well in shoving away—locking them behind the bars and doors in his mind, finding it much easier to ignore what threatened the status quo than to admit that he felt them in the first place—came crashing down on him in full force, unraveling before him in a large, messy, discordant pile.
Distantly, past the roar in his ears, Matt heard someone calling out to him. But they would have to wait, as his eyebrows drew together and his mouth fell open in a shock that rattled through his body. He…didn't know how to make sense of this, this wave that bodily passed over him. Out of why he wanted the scent of you on his sheets. Why it was always you he searched for first when meeting up with you and Foggy. Why he so often fought the urge to reach out, to touch you, hold your hand or press against you. Why, out of all times, after you'd admitted what you did when you were attracted to someone, you'd be staring at him now. Until there it came, dawning on him, that it had happened somewhere in the past few months, Matt had been battering down his desire, his want, to be more with you. Selfishness and fear and guilt twisting steadfast and steady; the only way he got rid of it being to stamp it back down in the hopes he would forget. Forget and move on.
But if he balked in the face of overstepping—succeeding in managing to convince himself so thoroughly that you weren’t what he wanted—he couldn't stop the thought that maybe, you felt the same way. That maybe, you were doing the same thing. Trapped on that same precipice with him, dancing on the tightrope that was the edge of that cliff. Hopping between the firm, solid ground that stood for familiarity and comfort beneath you, all while hopelessly staring at the plunge that represented the more, the leap that begged and plead and taunted for the both of you to take that dive.
Thrumming in his head, and pulsing through his veins, Matt couldn't—didn't have the resolve, the strength, to pretend anymore. And as he inhaled a wavering breath, wild and on the brink of desperation, he forced himself to freeze.
“—Matt?” Came your voice, cutting through the wildfire in his mind, the concern in your tone hesitant and soft. “You okay?”
He summoned the control over himself he typically had, shoving this maelstrom back once more—this time, it was too strong to pretend it didn't exist, and had no intention of being locked up again, but he could wrangle it well enough behind enough barriers to summon a terse smile and ground himself in the empty aluminum can he held, now in both hands. He hoped you didn't notice the way his grip was bound to leave an indention.
“Yeah,” he scoffed, hearing Foggy sit back up with a grunt. His whole life, Matt was told lying was a sin. But it didn't take him long to realize that he held looser standards in comparison to the nuns that raised him. It came easy. Natural. “I'm good. Why wouldn't I be?”
“You…” Puzzlement dripped thick and cautious from your words. “You went somewhere. Just now.”
He twitched. You had been watching him, after all. “Just thought of something, that's all. No big deal.”
Except it was a big deal. It was a huge deal. Because Matt felt his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He fought against the instinct of his body wanting to jump up and pull you closer to him. The words he kept trapped in his throat that were just waiting for the right moment of weakness to slip in through.
“Oh,” And to Matt's horror, you sounded oh-so-utterly unconvinced. “Okay.”
Another silence swept the room, but this time, there were flickers of a rising tension no one knew how to navigate.
Matt cleared his throat. “Can I get another drink?”
“Yeah!” He heard Foggy scramble around, the joints of his bedframe squeaking as he twisted to reach for another can. “Yeah‐ shit.”
“Are we out?”
“We're out.” He relayed, disappointment heaving with a sigh. “Unless you want some of that moonshine Paulie jimmied up for us. Think I still have that somewhere in this mini-fridge.”
“No, thank you.” Matt pushed out the words quickly, and you snorted at the memory. Matt took one damn sip of the thing and nearly coughed up a lung. And if he were to be more dramatic about it, probably could have died on the spot. It burned, worse than any alcohol had, proof so strong that his tongue couldn't take it. He'd felt like his taste buds had been chemically shorn off for days.
Then came rustling of the sheets across from him. Clumsy steps on the floorboards. Foggy had stood. He had stood, and was making his way toward the door, a breeze of air rustling Matt's pant leg as Foggy walked by. His own tremor of anxiety rolled through him. Foggy couldn’t go now. Not when Matt had been so rudely confronted by emotions he’d beaten down for months. Not when thoughts he’d ignored were now forefront, tumultuous and angry and rioting. Not when now, on a random Thursday evening, Matt Murdock was pretty sure he just realized he might not want to just be friends with you anymore—that he wanted more. But he didn’t know how to navigate more, didn’t think he was allowed to want more.
“Where- where are you going?” Matt's voice stuttered, even though he realized very quickly he already knew the answer. And the number of people that would be left in the room.
“Just gonna run to the store and get us another six-pack,” He replied flippantly, fishing his wallet out from the backpack he left discarded by the door. “I trust you two to behave, and not plot against me upon my return.” He gave no chance to allow argument to stay, a man seemingly on a mission, fueled by the desire to honor his best friend's request. “Be right back!”
Matt flinched when the door shut. It wasn’t slammed, or mishandled in any way, but the environment now seemed harsher—he knew it wasn’t. He knew in the way his heart beat in his chest, in the lump that started to form at the base of his throat. Matt knew that the only reason his awareness kicked into overdrive, sensitivity heightened nearly out of his control, was because he was now alone with you.
Time seemed slow in the silence that began to stretch. It wasn’t an awkward quiet, not just yet, and he supposed you were the one that saved it from becoming such.
Sharp, his head jerked toward the sound of you moving. The legs of his desk chair scraped gently against the wood floor as you shuffled with it closer to him, closing the proximity now that the two of you were alone. He opened his mouth to say something, before closing it again, not even knowing what words would come out if he tried. He waited, listened, as you settled just across from him, positioning the chair so the space allowed you ample room to kick back. He felt a weight on the corner of his bed, a dip in the mattress, the ‘whoosh’ of you moving through the air. You crossed your legs, resting them just a foot away on the bed next to him as you laid back in your seat.
“Here. About three inches in front of your right hand, slightly to your left,” you offered kindly, leaning forward as Matt slowly followed your instructions until he felt another can. Your drink. Still chilly, but warmed from its home in your hands. A little less than half full. “You look like you need it.”
He thought about not taking it, and his hesitation showed for a brief moment. Then the pads of his fingers grazed your knuckles and it took everything in him not to jolt, the textures of your skin, the cool metal, and wet condensation enough to make him feel something akin to a static shock. He played it off by grasping the can, gulping hard as he felt every millisecond of the contact that was your fingers sliding past his as you pressed your drink into his hand. The exchange was brief. So brief, a normal person probably wouldn’t even have called it anything. But to him, to Matt, it was. He still felt it, the lingering charge dancing around his fingers as you settled back into your seat with a small groan. He offered you a gentle smile in return, a quiet ‘thanks’ working its way past his lips. Or at least he thinks it was quiet. Matt sat there, mentally groping for his baseline once again, hindered by the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears.
And if Matt hadn’t already believed in God, he would have now, because it had to be the grace of Him that allowed you to miss the way Matt had faltered, nearly making a mistake that probably would have cost him the last shreds of the control he was still desperately trying to cling onto. You had begun to lean back and stretch, your eyes closed and arms over your face when he’d raised your can to take a sip. It had been at that moment, that Matt had nearly lost, the struggling wisps of his common sense stopping his action mid-motion. He was holding your drink. And if he drank from it too…it wouldn’t just be the beer he would taste.
He bit the inside of his lip, swallowing down the angry attack of a groan that bubbled and continued to build pressure behind the swell of his chest. He would be a fool to ignore it now, the agonizing way he yearned for something he had labelled as unattainable for so long. It was unconsciously masochistic, the way he sucked in a shaky breath with the can so close to his mouth. It wasn’t on purpose, at least he didn’t think it was, but the effect was all the same: and that was to say, nearly devastating. Behind the beer, layered underneath, ghosting down the back of his throat, was the hint of you. Beeswax and artificial coconut and something clean and kind of undescribably…sweet. Matt felt his chin hit his chest as he let his head fall forward, his eyes screwing shut against the wave of lightheadedness that rendered him useless for a few seconds.
“Matt?”
He lifted his head.
“Yeah?”
He heard the joints of his desk chair creak as you shifted, the jostle of movement on his bed. “You sure you’re okay?”
He’d already lied to you once, and had a feeling you had caught him on it. It was risky, if he did it again. Especially if you were already suspecting. But Matt only had moments to figure out how to answer, knowing he couldn’t very well respond with something along the lines of the truth. There might be a sliver of hope in him, very well clinging onto the notion that you might be holding yourself back as well, but he wasn’t sure he could risk it. Risk telling you right now. No matter how much he wanted to open his mouth and let it all come pouring out. He wouldn’t. Not until he knew more, until he could tell for sure. And well, if you also happened to have feelings for him, you were hiding it a hell of a lot better than he felt he was.
“Long day,” He sighed, something deep and needed. “Just glad to be here, now.”
And he was. He truly was. Despite his panic, despite this revelation that Matt can only compare to it being the closest he could ever get to a blaring neon sign flashing before his eyes—the memory of blinding billboards flickering in his mind—Matt knew that if it came to it, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Be with anyone else.
“Hey,” You said with a grin, knocking your knee into his, “me too. Here, with you, y’know.” He breathed out, trying to hide the flutter in his stomach.
“And here I thought you only dealt with me because I'm part of the Foggy Nelson Package Deal.”
“I would never turn down a Matt Murdock exclusive, I’ll have you know! Those are far too rare to pass up.”
Matt laughed, short, but timbre low and genuine as his shoulders shook. “Well, he is a very busy man, I suppose.”
“Mhm,” You agreed, the sound of your hum floating like a melody already worming root between Matt’s ears. “Have to take advantage when I can get it.”
“Yeah?” Matt’s voice was a murmur. “And what advantage are you looking to take right now?”
Matt knew he shouldn’t have asked. The regret had begun to curl as soon as the words took form, but instinct had them follow through, quiet and playful. There was comfort in the banter you usually shared with him, and for those brief moments, he almost forgot how much his mind was threatening to break down before you, because it reminded him that it was, in fact, only you. You, who’s been his friend since his first week of being a 1L. You, who—alongside Foggy—has been one of the few people to treat him unbiasedly, as a person. You, who has suffered with him late night studying, mid-day lunch dates, and early morning hangovers all the same. You, with your patience, and kindness, and caring. And that regret didn’t form because he didn’t want to stray from that, it formed because he was scared of how badly he wanted all of it and more.
“Well,” your voice dipped into something softer, hesitant but smooth around the edges again like the glide of a warm knife through butter. This was something you wanted to ask, but struggled with admitting. “You know how we were just talking about flirting, and stuff?”
Matt stiffened. “Yeah. Why?”
“I uh,” You shifted again, and Matt tracked as you sat up in the chair, retracting your legs from his bed and planting your socked feet on the floor. “Figured, now that Fog’s out for a few minutes, it would be less embarrassing to ask you this.”
“Ask…what?”
“How do you do it, exactly?” He could hear you steel yourself a little. Still shy, but he could imagine that since you’ve already started, you decided to just roll with it, finding a quiet confidence as you continued. “The touching, when you flirt, I mean. I can picture it, picture you, um, how too, in theory. I just. In practice? I’m not sure if I…I don’t know if…I don’t typically…”
Matt felt his mouth go dry as you gestured wildly in the air. You knew he couldn’t see it, but you also didn’t know he could hear it, feel it, as you shook out your nerves, your frustration. He knew what was coming, what you might ask of him, and suddenly, his refusal to take a sip from your drink felt like a slap in the face. Something so incredibly diminutive in comparison to what this was going to become. A true test of his limits, of his strength, of his desire.
And Matt knew. He knew it before you even asked. He knew because his resolve had already begun to crumble and he didn’t even bother to try and save his last line of defense, to bother to try and even listen to the gasping breath of his superego’s last plea that tried to save him from tipping over into something he wouldn’t be able to come back from.
Matt knew he wouldn’t say no.
“Could you show me?” You had pushed the words out quickly, tentative, and clearly beating your own self to the punch before you could give yourself the chance to take them back.
Matt was measured as he leant forward, and he tried to ignore the way his hand shook as he slowly lowered the can of beer in his hand to the ground to rest next to his empty one. Continuing the motion, operating on adrenaline and the nerves ricocheting beneath his skin, he stood up in one fluid line.
And sealing the nail in this hand-crafted coffin of his, Matt let out a steadying breath before pulling his bottom lip slightly between his teeth and tilting his chin toward you. If he subjected himself to torture simply because you asked him to touch you, at least he’d have willing submitted with his official acceptance with all the hedonism that his feelings for you entailed.
“Come here.”
You were less sure as you stood to match him, but you did it without hesitation, chair sliding back with a quiet scuff as you did. You settled, shifting your balance indecisively foot to foot a little less than two feet away from him. Matt knew he’d been closer to you in the past—sitting next to you in lecture halls, your hand on his elbow as he let you guide him through busy hallways—but something about this, about now, the distance between the two of you was charged; buzzing with lightning, your bodies two opposite ends of a magnet resisting the pull.
“Where are you?” Matt threw out the question not necessarily just for him to orient, but for him to be put at ease. If you stepped closer, if you truly wanted to do this…He wanted to give you a chance to back away; an out if you wanted it. The both of you could laugh, and agree that this would be a silly practice, and he could tell you that you’d be perfectly fine trying it out on your own and not to stress it. That whoever you decided deserved your smile, your touch, would be a fool to turn you down.
Instead, you stepped forward, shuffling ever so gently against the wood floor, and he felt the lightest amount of pressure against the sleeve of his henley as your fingers pressed against his forearm, the word you pushed through the space between small but firm. “Here,”
Adrenaline picked up in the air, sugar and savor as it shuddered through him. There was no fear or resistance Matt could find, nothing that tinged it bitter or sour or metallic. Just pure, unadulterated, anticipation. He sensed you looking up at him as he poked through the air until his fingers caught against your wrist. He didn’t grab you, he just simply held his knuckles there, moving in microscopic drags against your skin across your pulse. Matt had to suppress a shiver, feeling your heartbeat flutter and reverberate down his hand and spiral to where it matched his own.
“Do you want me to just show you,” He began, voice low and exploratory, “or should I tell you what I tend to do?”
“I think, because I’m the one trying to learn here,” Matt craned his head to listen closer, an unconscious sway toward the stutter in your chest nothing to stop your sentence from finishing, “That you should walk me through how to.”
“Oh.” Instinct had him locking his jaw, his masseter flexing as he struggled to contain the wash of heat that lazily began as a curl just behind his brow and started to unfurl in length down the expanse of his spine—and teasing its ability to travel further south if he let it. He had prepared as much as he hastily did for something like this. But that was when it would be him—his fingers, his hands, his palms, his control. Matt had a plan, albeit knowing how sloppy his execution was bound to be, but it was a plan nonetheless. A plan that he could reference to keep his knees from buckling beneath him and his soul in his body. But that plan would get thrown out the window if he surrendered that control to your fingers, your hands, your touch. He didn’t know how to prepare—didn’t know if he could, with something so sudden like this—he would be nothing but open and vulnerable before you, puppet to your every whim. He should insist, stick to his plan. You’d still get an example, he might keep his dignity. But God could forgive him later, for how he would feel this for hours, for days. Let it creep into his dreams and linger in subconscious; he was done lying to himself. He wanted you to touch him. “Okay.”
He let you move then, you turning your wrist until your fingers found idleness against the cuff of his sleeve. You pulled the material between them, stroking and pulling at the fabric gently as you let your knuckles graze against his skin with every shift. “So,” there was an amusement in your voice, a giddy lilt that told Matt you were enjoying this, a disbelief being proved wrong in the making. “What do I do first?”
Matt swallowed hard, it taking everything in him to not tell you how you were already leaving a ghostly brand against the vulnerable skin of his wrist. “You’ve already got step one,” he decided instead to go for something playful, unsure if he actually hit the mark but moving on anyway, clearing his throat. “Initial contact.”
“Check. Step two?”
“Well, if they’re not pulling away and seem to not mind, that’s when you can explore a bit more if you’d like.” Matt wasn’t sure where the boldness that kept his voice steady was coming from, but he recited a silent ‘thank you’ to whoever’d hear it in the back of his mind. “I usually lean in more, we’re usually talking—start trailing up.”
“Explore,” You seemed to test the taste of the word as you repeated it quietly. And this is where Matt discovered that his luck must have run out. That even through the layer of his shirt, the trail your fingers began to trek up his arm left a slow, steady, blazing line of fire. Your touch was gentle and light, but to him, the cotton of his sleeve rubbed rough against his skin before being soothed by the heat of your fingertips. You dragged and paused, started and stopped, experimenting with tracing shapes and circles, alternated in using the soft scrape of your nails. Matt hadn’t been wrong when he made the earlier allegory to torture. It was a test of his patience, of his will, to lock his body in place and let you slowly pick him apart like the threads unraveling from the delicate weave of a tapestry until you seemed to pause, inert, at the apex of his shoulder.
Here, he might have had two layers—courtesy of the plain white tee of his undershirt—but the damage had already been done. The ghost of you had already begun to dance the expanse of your trail, and he couldn’t help but to shiver, feeling the frame of his sunglasses fall down his nose as he committed the feeling to memory.
“Now what?” And Matt found solace in the fact that you sounded as breathless as he felt, your voice dipping into a register he’d never heard before. He wanted to ask you to keep talking to him, he wanted to listen to you more, let your tone enchant and lull him however you wanted. Instead, he replied to you, doing his best to offer the guidance you sought.
“T-told you,” he breathed, “Oldest trick in the book. I just…do what feels right. Go from there.”
“Right.”
Matt was a fool. If he thought your touch before burned, icy-hot and leaving him pliant and craving as you went, he now blazed. He couldn’t tell where your breathing stopped and his began. He didn’t know if he heard the echo of your heart, or if his just beat in double time. Everything melted, melded together as you played with the collar of his shirt, toying with it for just a few seconds before the dare of your thumb took its first slow, speculative swipe against the sensitive ridge of his clavicle. He couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped him, the twitch of his body, and embarrassment warmed his face hot enough that he knew it had to show.
It only got worse when you nudged the chain of his necklace, resting the weight of your hand against him as you picked it up between thumb and forefinger. His necklace, the one that hung a delicate silver cross that hid just further beneath his shirt; the one he’d worn for as long as he could remember. His necklace, that represented his faith, his father’s memory, what he lived for—him—that you were now tracing gently, quietly, and with a weighted reverence against his skin. When you dropped it, letting it fall softly with a quiet, nearly imperceptible ‘clink’ against him, your hand had warmed the metal, leaving the trace of you on something so special to him, Matt knew he was doomed.
He had barely noticed when you moved even closer, thumb returning to its previous ministrations, until he felt the blaze of your other hand lay tenderly just above his breast. The weight of your palm seeped into him, and surprisingly, gave him a sense of grounding rather than further the wreck he was becoming as he leant into it, feeling the beat of him reverberating against your touch.
You drew a longer line against his skin, exploring further with your tracing like you were trying to refine a sketch. “Your heart’s going pretty fast,”
“Yeah.” He licked his lips before pressing them tight to try and contain the ragged breath that raged just behind them. He swallowed hard, and in response, felt the deft touch of your thumb graze against the vulnerable hollow of his throat, dragging down over his neck and between his collar bones. His neck. A weak point. A place he was supposed to protect, not let others touch. But in spite of that, the devious stirrings of a moan stitching itself together rested just underneath the surface, just waiting for the dare of you to do it again. “Yeah, it is. Isn’t it.”
If only you could see the way his eyelids fluttered, but Matt knew that the sight wouldn’t be what pulled the context together for you. He’d already given you enough of that puzzle, coaxed and dragged willingly from him as you held a power he was too weak to fight against. It should have been embarrassing—was embarrassing—how easily he fell apart before you, chest heaving with every breath, the flush that crept from the round of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. This wasn’t…there couldn’t be a world in which he reacted like this for you, and you still kept your feet planted in the realm of normality. To Matt, the boundary of friendship had already been passed, the second, the moment he let you slip in past his defense and leave your invisible mark against something he valued and protected. You had to realize that too, as you held him, that this was no longer within the parameters of teaching a friend to flirt. Not as Matt struggled to stay upright. Not when it was only your touch now that kept him from falling like putty against you. Not when you held the power to wreck him so instrumentally, so thoroughly.
However still, Matt couldn’t fully exclude the possibility that you didn’t understand exactly what you possessed. That maybe, he was letting himself delude too far, indulge too deeply in what he had been refusing for the past few months. That he was in such a state of overwhelm, it clouded him, his judgement, in the fancy of chasing, grasping at a pleasure that he’d disallowed himself for so long.
Despite himself, Matt continued to push those boundaries, his control lapsing him momentarily as he couldn’t help but to steady himself, shaking hands finding purchase against the dip of your waist. His fingers twitching against your shirt, resisting the urge to curl against the fabric and hold onto you like the lifeline you currently were. He couldn’t stop the noise that time, a breathy sigh that rumbled up from the very bottom of him to escape his throat as his head fell forward to accommodate the weight of it. And you didn’t stop him. Didn’t move uncomfortably, or shove him away as he settled against you, and disbelief pulled his features up like strings to his smile as Matt began to navigate this deluge.
“Matt,”
Your voice was shaky, but roared with an unbidden fervor that made his knees weak and heart stutter beneath your palm.
“Yes?”
“Say this wasn’t pretend. Say this was me, actually doing this with you now,” You breathed out the words, short and trembling, as if you were rationing your breath just enough to grant them sound. “Would you let me kiss you?”
And oh, the noise that sounded in Matt’s mind; the rush of blood, the drum of his heart, the heat of you and the cadence of breath—your sincerity. How it melded and came together in a grand crescendo much like an orchestra finding its tuning. That moment in which every player could forgo the all-consuming of their nerves, for they were about to move as one, blanketed by calm, and conducted in the tempest of symphony. A mantra of yesyesyes raced through his very veins at a speed he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Matt knew he was speaking, quiet, so quiet, that if his whisper had been uttered anywhere other than the space shared between you, it would have been lost to the nothingness. “Is it?” Want, need, pouring from the chalice of his soul as the words tumbled out. “Is this pretend?”
It only took one word. One simple word to reduce Matthew Murdock to a yearning, eager, mess of a man. Desperation clawed, catching like a hook around his ribs as he fully let his tether to you solidify the new influence that you would forever have, dictating within him to his very bones.
“...No.”
Your name trembled on his tongue like a soft-spoken prayer along his very breath. “Please,” His voice ran ragged and rough like he’d just ran a marathon just to simply get to you. His hands fisted into your shirt, holding you tighter as he pulled you closer—as close as he could get without the faculty of you destroying him before he could get what he wanted. After. Then it could. After, he’d let you do whatever you pleased to him. “Kiss me, please.”
Matt barely had time to register the brush of you against his nose, the wisp of your breath on his face, before both your hands had curled against his collar and tugged him to you, closing the distance in one swift, accomplished move. His lips crashed against yours in the final wave that dragged him under. He gasped into it, not realizing just how much his sensitivity had spiked until the sunburst of stimulation clouded his mind with static, rendering him weak and vulnerable and subject only to how you made him feel. It was an overwhelm he’d provoke for eternity if it meant he could feel this again, the pleasure that crackled and weaved as it razed over his skin, capturing every nerve-ending willing prisoner with a spark that burned bright and hot. It raised gooseflesh upon its wake, consuming every inch of his skin bit by bit until no part of him was left untouched and unaffected by you; a physical marker of the reaction only you could pull forth as his entire body shuddered, shivered against you as he sought out to delve deeper—finding the path to salvation in the rhythm of the both of you moving as one.
The rest of the world grew fuzzy and indistinct as you kissed him, nothing more paramount than how you responded before him. He took it all in, trembling against the softness of your lips and the syrupy-sweet intoxicating scent of your hedonistic satisfaction. Somewhere, cutting through the brazen interference, Matt felt your thumb slide against the column of his neck again and this time he let the eager moan he’d been suppressing slip through the cracks, adjusting his grip on your waist until his hands slid up to cradle high against your ribs as he pressed it into you, his mouth falling slack as you swallowed the sound of him down, and you took the opening as invitation to just barely ghost the tip of your tongue against his bottom lip. And there it was again, beeswax and coconut, beer and warmth.
Matt grew dizzy as he opened up for you, the soft contented sigh you made as you licked into his mouth echoing in his memory, and the little gasp that melted into the breathy little sound he pulled from you as he shared in your indulgence whispered wicked-sharp nothings, looping in the forefront of his mind as he welcomed, swallowed the taste of you to coat his throat. He leant into your hands when they left his shirt to cradle the sides of his face, fingers brushing against his temple and swiping under the lobe of his ears, the added touch spurring him to deepen the kiss even further, funneling forward until you gently broke away from him. Instinctively, a whine escaped him, wanton and betraying as he chased after your lips, not prepared for the sudden stop, and you let him capture you once more around the shape of a breathless giggle, slow and lethargic before you parted to breathe.
You hovered there, millimeters apart as the both of you shared the same air, panting into the same space as hearts thundered and chests heaved. Matt felt you stroke the arm of his sunglasses before a shaky hand adjusted them, pushing them back up to comfortably sit on the bridge of his nose. When coherent thoughts wanted to float back to him, he wanted to tell you he wouldn’t mind if you ever wanted to take them off instead.
“Well,” you began, out of breath, clearing your throat lightly, “didn’t think this was gonna happen today.”
A bark of laughter tumbled from Matt’s gut, where butterflies still fluttered airily around. “There’s no way.” He accused, one of his hands drifting up to hook under the side of your jaw. You hummed innocently as he let his thumb stagger from the corner of your lips and trace the bottom curve of your cheek. “You- you asked to flirt with me and I’m to believe it wasn’t premeditated?”
“In my defense, it wasn’t supposed to happen today.” You murmured, a bashful flush of your own pulsing another layer to the heat beneath your skin. “I’d just wanted to put some feelers out. See if you…felt the same way. Help me work up the courage to do it for real to you another time. It’s not my fault that you responded like that!” Your hands slid back down to lace around his shoulders. “Literally, what else was I supposed to do when you started gasping and blushing and—and I was barely touching you, Matt. You destroyed my resolve in record time.”
He laughed again at the genuine incredulity in your voice, the steadiness that held truth to your statement. “Yeah, well, I think I have you beat.” He dipped forward until his forehead bumped gently to yours. He could almost feel your eyelashes flutter against his skin as you closed your eyes again. “You’d already ruined me before even doing anything.”
Matt didn’t think he would ever be prepared when you kissed him. Or maybe he would just have to kiss you again and again until he could be prepared no matter when. But even the sweet, quick way you chastely brushed against his lips rolled out another shiver of content, slow and molten and more than welcome.
Sharing more than smiles and space now, your arms dropped from Matt’s shoulders and one of your hands grabbed his own. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like my legs are gonna give out.”
“Mm. Same.”
“Bed?” You mumbled, tugging him in the direction of his mattress as you swayed toward it.
“Right- right now?” Playfully, Matt twitched his brows together as a lazy tease spread its grin across his lips. “That’ll sure beat telling him in words if Fog comes back to find us under the covers—”
“You wish, Murdock,” You let out an amused groan as you dragged Matt with you back down to his bed, the both of you collapsing against the silk in a tangle of giggles and bone-deep warmth.
The both of you rolled to your backs, shifting up until you were situated comfortably on the bed. It was less of a cuddle and more of a presence. Two people who were just now feeling the ease, the lightness; basking in the memory of what just happened. Two people, sharing the same space, and needing a moment—just a moment—to begin navigating this new territory that was now there to explore. Matt fidgeted at your side before you realized he was searching around for your hand. Matt felt you turn your head to study his profile as he laced his fingers with yours, the weight of your gaze raking over him with a fondness he felt he didn’t deserve, but couldn’t even dare to think about a world where he lost it.
“So, my method totally wins, right?”
“As long as you only flirt with me for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s a deal I’m more than happy to make.”
