steady your hands ▸ matt murdock x reader
[ao3]
summary: by no means were you the best at patching Matt up after nights as Daredevil left him with its predictable marks, but you damn sure tried your hardest. Not that it mattered, when Matt would rather risk an ugly scar than let you work in focus. | gn!reader warnings: the obligatory taking care of a vigilante and said vigilante getting handsy after patrol fic! this is all in all incredibly fluffy and one of the sillier things I've written, however there are mentions of blood, and descriptions of open wounds and sutures. you're sewing Matt up, it's inevitable. a/n: I've been sick for the past two weeks, completely out of it and haven't been able to write or be online much, so please accept a simpler and shorter fic from me this go round! wc: 3,760
The smell of antiseptic still lingered, but you and Matt had fallen into routine within the warmth of his apartment, blanketed under the weary calm and cover of night. Suture in hand, you weren't exactly a stranger to stitching up the man before you anymore, but neither were you a nurse, or medically trained in any capacity outside of prescribing over the counter pain medication you now bought in bulk and the occasional bandage administration to paper cuts and small scrapes.
You pride yourself in being a decent sewist, learning basic mending skills throughout your years for the small tears and such, but cotton or denim was still in a far different ballpark than living, feeling, skin and muscle. Why Matt had trusted you to not only learn the skill, but offer himself and his many, many, lacerations up to be your trial-by-fire was beyond you. Perhaps it had been because the first time the Devil had come back from a patrol with a cut just slightly too deep, you'd steadied your nerves and offered to try.
Perhaps it was because you've since found a comfort and normality in tending to Matt's wounds with a gentle loving hand, delivering fond chastisements and relishing in shared purrs of satisfaction with the blood you washed away and pain you abated. Perhaps, it was simply because he trusted you; the current that harbored something as fragile as shared vulnerability offering safe passage to feel entirely free to breezily waft between your two souls, shaped by admissions of love and proclamations to stay.
But even with that being said—and especially now, with Matt still feeling the loss of the substantial armor the Daredevil suit provided until Melvin would be let out on parole—some things never changed. Years of inconsistent practice still hadn't fully steadied your hand, and even the sturdy fabric of military cargo pants would be weak to stop the slash of any blade determined enough.
“Could've been worse,” Matt mused, biting back the wince that wanted to hiss through his teeth as you deftly pushed the sharp tip of the needle through the next segment you were working on, head bowed in focus and an apologetic grimace you weren't entirely sure if he could register pursing your lips. You hummed in agreement. “Could’ve cut deeper. Or in a more inconvenient place.”
“Think your thigh’s pretty inconvenient, D,” you scoffed airly, taking a quick break between stitches as you tried to roll away some of the tension in your shoulders. “Y’know. Walking, leaping across rooftops, and such.”
“I know how to move to not tear stitches.” His statement was simple, edged with a little cocky lilt that pulled your gaze away from your work only to meet the curl of a smirk pointed in your direction. “I can feel the tension of the thread; if it’ll be close to snapping.”
“We both sure as hell know that doesn’t stop you from popping these things anyway.” Amusement gleamed in the pointed look you threw at him, a chuckle escaping under your breath. “Sometimes I wonder if you like the pain. Or if you just like being stabbed.”
“Not in inconvenient places.” Matt hummed, pushing out a measured breath as he shifted under your steady hold on his leg. You felt his hand, large and warm against you, rise to curl his fingers against your waist. You recognized the action, thinking nothing of it as Matt used the motion to ground himself. It was then that you took the moment to adjust yourself under the direct lamplight you’d maneuvered, leaning into his palm to respond to the touch and blinking down to scrutinize your work.
Currently sitting in the open space between Matt’s legs—lack of distraction a hearty testament to your will and dedication to your mission—you studied the progress you’d made so far. The wound was about three inches long, and had gashed, thankfully, not too deep, across the top of his left thigh. Thanks to the towel-prepped pillow under his leg, and the merciful miss of any major vessels, steadily applied pressure kept the bleeding to a minimum as you worked. You’d have loved to have an anesthetic to numb the area, something more than a hastily taken dose of ibuprofen, but you quickly came to the realization that Matt’s unbelievable display of willpower and penchant for tanking blows that would bring anyone else to tears would unfortunately just have to do that night. You stared at the stitches, noting the tiny little knots that weren’t the cleanest, but were consistent and even. And you could be satisfied with that. Your gaze swept over his blood stained skin, where the slash had split the edges open, where it strained against the way you were steadily closing it up, and the inch and a half you still had to go. You frowned, wishing both that you could work faster, more efficiently, if only to spare Matt the feeling, and damning whatever thug had managed to be quick enough to catch him in the first place. At least you could take comfort in knowing the Devil had probably made them regret it.
“Maybe I’m biased, but I think needing stitches anywhere is inconvenient." You tapped his thigh with your index lightly, the signal to him that you were about to start again. He nodded, spotting the action out of the corner of your eye, and you felt his fingers nudge at the fabric of your sleep shirt until careful curling had gently coaxed the hem up far enough for him to grab, and he could press against your bare skin right as you held yourself steady enough to pierce skin once more. You waited until the shiver the feel of his hand caused and ran through you ebbed. “Enlighten me, please. I’d love to see how our definitions differ.”
“I can work easily with anything on my arms,” came his reply, voice as steady as the thumb that began to caress your side, almost a distant hum. The affection threatened to steal your attention, lazy swaths that teased the faculty of your hand, and you steeled yourself in preparation to ignore it until you finished your job. You didn’t miss the way his touch faltered; his body tensing in response to the needle just for a moment before he relaxed into you again. “Away from the joints and big muscles important for movement is always nice.”
“So…only your arms.” You quip playfully, snipping off the thread as you tied up another knot just to begin again. You’d found an easy rhythm now, and rhythm eased the momentary guilt you felt for the pain that came with each pass through. “Sounds about right.” It was difficult to resist the urge to swat at him when you caught his clunky attempt at rolling his eyes, fondness rising comforting and easy in your chest like a thick curl of smoke twisting into a pleasant fog around your head as you scoffed at the action. “But yeah, it could've been bad tonight. Like where your important organs are.”
“Or worse, my ass.”
You quirked an eyebrow, laughing softly to yourself. “Has anyone ever tried to stab you in the ass?”
“No. But if they had, you’d be stitching it up.”
“Oh no,” you deadpanned, letting sarcasm drip heavy from your tongue as amusement spread wide in the smile on your face. “Whatever will I do? Forced to berate you for getting hurt while staring at your godly ass.”
Matt’s chuckle was full and easy, echoing warm in the air. “You're joking now, but when it happens, you won't be able to grab it for a couple of weeks.”
“You’ve got two cheeks for a reason, Matthew.” Although, a mournful sigh parted your lips at the hypothetical thought. “Unless they get both, which would simply be targeted. Jealousy, probably. Besides, why are you dooming yourself to future ass stabbings? If you manifest them, I’ll be sad. So sad.”
He just laughs, shaking slightly as he tries to keep the action from jostling his body too much. He finds comfort in touching you instead, his hand drawing forward under your shirt to lay flat against your stomach and finding no hesitation in starting the careful ministrations of fingers gently dragging across the plane of your abdomen, tracing the way you bent between him in concentration. Your breath hitched in your chest as the familiar ebb of warmth blossomed under his fingertips, dancing in jovial little waves as it seeped deep enough to reach bone. You paused, if only for a moment, torn between wanting to shift your attention to the source and not wanting to risk the efficiency you’d found.
And Matt hadn’t meant too, he really hadn’t. That first touch was instinct, something normal and seeking. Over the counter stuff only did so much, only softened the edges. Though it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. Pain he was used to, could compartmentalize and shove to the muddied background until it was okay to react—typically when the dust settled. It wasn’t the pain, it was what it felt like. The lack of any anesthetic left him bare to the sharp sterile metal of the needle that felt too foreign in his body, too smooth. The tiny fibres of thread that tugged their way through tissue and nerve with each glide of your hand. And while your knots were pristine, secure things, they still pulled uncomfortably once they were secure. But really, when it came to it, Matt was used to being stitched up. He’d endured more than enough to tune out the experience, however unpleasant, as long as it was a superficial suture. When he reached for you, it was simply for comfort and with no other motive.
But then he felt the shiver that skittered oh-so-subtly under your skin. Heard the way the air stilled in your lungs for just a split second. Getting stitched up was routine and boring and he already had his work arounds to minimize discomfort. He was allowed to have some fun, if fun meant that even after the years you’ve spent with him, he could still softly—and perhaps slightly selfishly—command your attention. Even when you were literally putting him back together.
If only you’d caught the mischievous way his face had lit up.
Matt flipped his hand, knuckles dragging down across you until he brushed the top of your leg and he settled there for a moment, palm holding you firmly in a mirror of your own hold on him. Although yours was to keep a consistent canvas of skin and muscle to aid both you and him. He contested in his steady affection.
“Someone’s handsy tonight,” the statement came out as a tease, something light and simple, an acknowledgment to how you haven't exactly been impervious to the glide of craving fingers against your skin. But you didn’t think anything of it. You knew Matt, and it was within the normal realm of possibility he’d just needed some extra comfort. You also knew more than most his thighs were on the more sensitive side, and you didn’t doubt having another focus—a positive feeling to contrast—was a healthy diversion to the otherwise ache. You’re always glad to offer. Except, as you glanced over to spot a small smile curving his lips, you admittedly were letting his touch breach your focus a bit more than you’d like, your motions with the suture slowing just enough for you to know you weren't working as well as you could be.
“Long night. Missed you,” Matt pushed out with an air of drama billowing around the shape of his words. “Hurts a little.”
“I know.” You muttered sympathetically, reaching over to carefully dab some more gauze against a trickle of blood. Luckily, you were in the homestretch, and Matt shared in the relief that rolled off you, sweetening the air against his tongue, as you estimated that you'd only need to do about three more stitches. “Almost done, though.”
A soft content noise bubbled from his chest as he moved again, fingers dancing as his hand snaked back under your shirt and around to your back. At first it was nothing, almost so light you didn’t feel it as his fingers began to follow the curve of your back. But then the touch grew firmer. He tried to venture further. Matt shifted. And your peripheral caught his movement before he could lean forward any closer.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” There was humor in your voice but a furrow in your brow as you halted him with the joint of your wrist against his chest, twisting your hand to try and avoid contaminating your attempt to keep both your hands and his thigh clean. Although he wasn’t as close as he wanted, Matt was still able to splay his hand fully against your back.
Instead of a response, his smile split wider. “Am I distracting you?”
The word ‘yes’ instinctively shaped around your tongue, playful and not without warrant, thinking about how he’d steadily been etching a path around any part of you he could reach and the defense of the focus that had combated the best it could, but had started to thinly wane over the last few minutes. But then you turned your head to look at him, tying off another knot, and that’s when the guise shattered. As you saw the tilt of his head and mirth in his eyes, and you swore he tried to meet your gaze—landing somewhere around the bridge of your nose—as his nails gently raked down the line of your spine. He flashed an innocent smile as you involuntarily shuddered against the feeling, a burst of sparks fluttering in your stomach. You shot him a glare, knowing it was no use to lie, but you could settle with stealing just the tiniest bit of satisfaction from him as you bit back a smile. “No.”
You knew the rumble that shook through him well enough to know he wasted no time recognizing your bluff, and despite your best efforts, Matt finished sitting up. His shoulder bumped into yours before his chest came perpendicular to your side, and your huff of annoyance wasn’t without its fondness. You, however, were still weak when it came to a quiet proximity. And even though he now shadowed half your work area, and limited the range of motion in your left arm, you couldn’t find the heart in you to shove him back. If Matt wanted to be clingy, that was fine by you. If he wanted to press against you until your heart raced and your hands shook, then it would be his scar.
And he seemed to sense that resolution, a victorious little hum reaching your ears, melodic and instinctual in its sensing as his other hand joined the fray. This one found your front again, warm palm holding against your ribs as you blew out a puff of air and went to go start again. But you couldn’t even get there, stuttering before you even began, as teasing fingers began to prance, inch their way up toward your chest.
You stalled, and if the grin you wouldn’t bring yourself to bear full witness too had any merit, you knew Matt felt the way your heart began to hammer, the way your skin grew warmer. There was a quiet moment of testing, calloused fingertips eagerly tracing the tail end of your breastbone, goading, begging for a response.
“You,” you began, grateful the needle hadn’t been anywhere close to him as your grip faltered, “need to stop.”
“I’m only distracting myself from the pain,” he mumbled absent-mindedly, no attempt to hide the bullshit guile you could smell from a mile away and hear from even further.
“You’re distracting me and you know it!” And frustration wanted to tarnish your words, if only because you were so close to your goal, but it had no real bite around the breathless way you were trying hard not to focus on the slide of his touch going up until he could lay his palm flat across the middle of your chest. “C’mon Matt, I’m almost done, let me make the last few pretty.”
“They don’t have to be,” Matt muttered around a cheeky chuckle. “Not like I can see them.”
“Well I do. And I’ll be damned if you’re the reason I don’t get a nice new straight scar to kiss.” You sighed, gently placing down the needle and needle driver on clean gauze before your hand slid to join Matt’s. Amusement cocked his head as you twined your fingers with his before guiding him away from you. “Two stitches left. Stop distracting me.” You brushed your lips against his knuckles, kissing over bruises and scars, before letting him fall away. “And for God’s sake and mine, please keep your hands to yourself.”
Matt had seemed content enough as his head fell to your shoulder. His cheek rested against you and his eyes fluttered shut. He let out a languid sigh, one that stirred the tiny hairs on the back of your neck and washed over you as if a gentle breeze, and you waited until your body adjusted to his weight, fixing the light now that he cast a shadow, to begin again. The both of you were quiet as you finished up, and a triumphant little noise pleasantly soothed your throat as you admired the resulting line of stitches. Your soft touch with a warm washcloth wiped away the blood that remained, and you were swift and efficient as you taped fresh gauze over the wound. And now that you were finished, you indulged in letting your eyes rove across the man in front of you, allowing a lazy stroke of your hand to his upper thigh, giving his leg a chaste squeeze with a newly acquired peace of mind.
With a sigh, you relaxed into him. And for a moment, it was just the two of you and his apartment, quiet hearts and shared breaths. You felt the curve of Matt’s smile tug wide against your shoulder before you saw it, and a playful peck quickly turned into lingering kisses that once again heated your skin and bloomed a tingling pleasure in their wake, passing, dragging up the line of your clavicle until you dropped your head against his, obstructing the line to his objective.
“Matt.”
“What?” He burrowed his face past you, pressing against the cloth of your shirt to plant another kiss. Even muffled, there was no hiding the grin that reached his eyes and echoed in his cadence. “My hands are behaving.” But he betrayed his word even as he spoke—even though your work was done and you wouldn’t once again mind him—his arms lacing around your waist and holding you tightly.
You shifted, twisting your torso until you could face him better. There was no reason now that you couldn’t enjoy this, and as you pulled your head away, your eyes swept over Matt’s face. The calm that seeped easy into his features, smoothing out lines and cradling the way he began to relax. Your gaze passed by the dotted red of a blossoming bruise along the stubble on his jaw, tracing the shape of his lips and following their path up until you could study and map the crinkles beside his closed eyes.
“Thank you.” The expression was low, soft, and full of an adoration that made your heart like the wings of a bird taking flight flutter in your chest.
“Of course.” You raised a hand to comb through his messy hair, letting your fingers run along his scalp in slow drags, searching to relieve any tension they could find, and letting the quiet noise of approval that Matt gave you as he leant into it—eyelids fluttering—fill you to the brim with a bliss that was your own special vigilante brew of domestic. “Someone has to make sure you’re in fighting shape so you don’t get stabbed in the ass.”
“Still on that, huh?”
“You spoke the possibility into existence!” He laughed, and the sound reverberated deep and solid and warm around you as he pulled you closer. “Can’t believe you’d even utter the words. You’ve doomed us both to suffer. Don’t think the Daredevil suit has that much armor back there Matt—mobility’s sake and all or something. It can happen!”
“Promise I’ll try really hard to keep my butt safe from any sharp weapons. Not predicting any ass stabbings for the foreseeable future.”
“Good.”
“May I kiss you now?”
“You may.”
And it was all utters of relief, giggles and love, pressing lips around smiles and sighs as you let a sleepy affection guide your touch as your hands fell from his hair to cradle his face. You stared at him again for another moment, your head fondly tipping against him before you reluctantly pulled back, but not before awarding one last kiss, letting your body dip in exaggeration as you gathered up your suture kit.
“Come on,” you said softly, shimmying out of his hold. “Let’s get you sleeping before you get any bright ideas.”
Matt collapsed back onto the couch with a playful reluctance, his body relaxing into the cushions, and casting his head to follow your general direction as you skirted around to properly wash up and put your materials away. “Joke’s on you, I have zero light perception.”
You snorted. “It’s on you if you don’t think I won’t condemn you to a bedtime of blanket fortress between us if you don’t take it easy on your leg for at least a day or two.”
“Ouch.” You stifled a laugh when you saw him drop his head to the back of the couch and frown. “Now that would hurt more than getting stabbed in the ass.”
“Think about it. Do you really want to share a bed with no cuddles? The power’s entirely in your hands,” you teased as you padded over to the kitchen, running the water in the sink, its steady thrum filling the air and creating a rhythm you quickly followed. You threw a grin his way as he groaned, standing up slowly and testing his weight before he met your expression with a forced pout betrayed by the loving twinkle in his eyes. “Go. I’ll meet you in bed.”
And without a doubt, Matt held you extra tight that night.
