idealism sits in prison

mostly just writing & writing updates eleanor/ellie, she/her, queer, 19

[daring-the-devil]

my fic requests are open!

i’m taking requests for x reader fics. i’m just getting into it and i’m still figuring it out and i’m definitely excited to do more! i mainly want to write for matt murdock but i have a few other characters/fandoms i’ll write for in my guidelines (see below!). i may end up cross-posting some of these on my ao3 as well!

my tumblr masterlist is here, but if you want to be updated on fics as i post them, follow my library @ellie-writes-fics and turn on post notifications. 

main characters i write for:

matt murdock

frank castle

bucky barnes

peter parker (TASM or MCU)

sam wilson

daisy johnson

steve rogers

dinah madani

natasha romanoff

din djarin

steve harrington

robin buckley

eddie munson

fandoms i write for:

the MCU (including the TV shows that used to be on netflix)

stranger things

live-action star wars

general guidelines:

what i’m most interested in writing:

hurt/comfort

fluff

angst

what i won’t write:

non-con/dub-con

dark!fics

dd/lg or age-play relationships

incest (even if the characters are not blood-related)

anything hateful towards any particular group of people

in general, i will be refusing to answer requests that i am not comfortable writing

additional suggestions

you’re more than welcome to request specific pronouns for the reader! in general, i try to remain gender-neutral with pronouns and avoid the use of the Y/N or Y/L/N name tags, but if you would something different, do not hesitate to specify. this is a safe space for queer people (i myself am queer!) so i’ll change my usual writing style if that will help you feel more comfortable with what i write for your request! 💜

also, if you want to suggest a song for me to use as a prompt, go ahead! idk if anyone will do this but i love writing fics inspired by music and i’m totally down to write for a song of your choice lol

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 12

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell's Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1000 words)

I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE 😭😭 i posted an account update last weekend with some information about why i've been gone. i'm pretty much completely finished with this story, so i'll be posting updates more frequently until it's done.

author's note: you and matt have a conversation about his night job...all cards on the table. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns.

warnings: some strong language, description of blood/injuries

read part 11 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~

“I’m sorry,” Matt says. 

You can’t help it—you fall back, boneless, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “Matt, you—you’re Daredevil?”

The words feel strange in your mouth, almost as strange as it is to see your boyfriend wearing the suit of the vigilante who saved your life. You pinch yourself, just to confirm you’re not dreaming, and the realization that you’re not feels like a crushing weight on your chest. 

“Holy shit,” you manage. “Holy shit.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. His voice, his face, the suit. You feel sick. “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry. I—fuck.”

He sounds broken, upset, just like how you feel inside. 

“Who else knows?” you ask, keeping your eyes trained on the floor. 

“Sweetheart—”

“Matt,” you say, louder, clenching your fists. “Who else knows that you’re Daredevil?”

He sighs, drops his chin to his chest. “Foggy. Karen. A couple other people. No more than ten.” He makes a wounded, pathetic sound that’s something like a laugh but isn’t. “Hell, a lot of the people who find out end up dying, so. Not like I like being open about it.”

Guilt twists in your stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t,” Matt says. He doesn’t move to touch you, take your hand, anything like that. The distance between the two of you feels like an ocean, not a simple three feet. “You—I was going to tell you.”

“When, Matt?” You peel off your gloves and toss them into the pile of trash sitting next to you. Your stomach turns as you look at the bloody mess. It’s Matt’s blood, your boyfriend’s blood, because he was out risking his life for the city in a fucking mask. 

“I don’t know,” he says. And despite everything, it almost sounds like he’s telling the truth. 

Not that you really know what that sounds like, given…all of this. 

Still, you figure you’d give getting an explanation out of him your best shot. What more damage could be done, right?

“How did you…?” You trail off, waving your hand in his general direction. “How can you do all of this? What happened to you?”

Matt licks his lips, eyes sliding shut. “I told you about how I went blind, right?”

He did—one night about three weeks into your relationship, over drinks on the very couch he’s leaning against right now. You recall Matt telling you how he saved a guy, the chemical spill that happened during the accident, waking up in the hospital completely blind. 

“Well, with my sight gone, the rest of my senses, they—they became enhanced, I guess,” he says, gesturing to his face. “My hearing, sense of smell, even touch—all of it. You smell like coffee all the time, even after you shower. Especially your hands. Did you know that?”

You stare at him, subconsciously playing with your fingers as he says it. “I—I didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “It’s nice. Especially with that hand cream you use. It shouldn’t work but it does.”

There’s a lump in your throat, but even when you swallow, it doesn’t go away. You force yourself to speak around it. “That doesn’t explain how you’re basically a fucking ninja. Super senses don’t do that.”

“How would you know?”

“It doesn’t make sense!”

Matt laughs, and you can’t help but smile at the sound. “I know. And—and if you give me the chance, I’ll explain everything. But…” At this, he trails off, and your smile slips as his does. “I need to know if you’ll be okay with this. With me.”

There’s something in his voice when he says it—if you’ll be okay with this. Like you won’t be. Like he’s used to people not being okay with him. To be totally honest, you’d understand if they weren’t. This man is constantly putting his life in danger for others and, to be frank, you really don’t know how you feel about that. You care about Matt. You care about him a lot. Seeing him hurt like this? Even if your relationship does recover from this, it’s going to be hard seeing him like that every fucking day. 

Hell, you’ve only been with him like this for all of ten minutes, and already you’re worried your heart is going to give out. 

Worst of all, you can’t even feel angry with him, because, fuck, you understand why he didn’t tell you, don’t you? A secret like this, with his job—if it got out, it would ruin his life. Foggy’s life too, and Karen’s. And everyone else they helped, probably. 

Why the fuck would he rush to tell you, someone he’s only been dating for a couple of months? 

Despite everything…you get it. You can’t help but get it. 

You take a deep, steadying breath, and the sound of it makes Matt’s head twitch. “Can I have some time to think about it?” you ask in a small voice.

“Of course,” he says. 

Silently, you finish patching him up to the best of his abilities, and once you’re all done, you help him to his feet. You keep your distance as he gets dressed, pulling on clothes that you keep for him at your apartment. He doesn’t have his glasses, but aside from that, he looks like himself again. His civilian self, anyway. More like your boyfriend as less like the vigilante who prowls the streets of Hell’s Kitchen like a rather flexible bloodhound. You stand back to let him get to the front door. It makes sense now, you suppose, how he’s so good at memorizing layouts. 

“Call me when you’re ready to talk,” he says, not turning his face away from the door. “And if you never are, that’s okay too.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly. You want to say more, but the words don’t come. 

Matt nods, and then he’s slipping out the door, leaving you alone again. 

part 13

taglist (closed!)

@your-not-invisible-to-me @hellskitchens-whore @l-a-y-n-i-e @a-girl-called-herby @u23r2p4m @dyzlks @lucypaulette @father4giveme @feliciab1990 @aramora @does-existance-exist @flaskofheads @thegreengoop @urlocalgeek @abbyhaslongshorts @shadybeef @amaryllisblue @ashtasticperson @niallsvirgosun @swinginmusicalfunnydragon @ravenclawbitch426 @addicted2spidey @almosttoopizza @queentorresstuff @romanoff-queen

[daring-the-devil]

uh

hello, hi, i am so very sorry that i disappeared.

long story short, i wasn't able to write anything for the longest time (my life flipped on its head in the beginning of november), but now that it's the new year, i figured i'd try to get back into the swing of things! i started antidepressants a couple months ago and they've been working great so far but i'm still struggling to work out how to get back into doing things i love, like writing fanfics.

i'll try to post something soon. i love you all, and to everyone who has joined me recently—hi!!! i'm so happy you're here ❤️ and to everyone who has stuck around—thank you. it means more to me than you will ever know ❤️❤️

[silent-silver1]

I'm so glad you're back!!! I thought you would never come back😭

I hope you're doing well 💗

[daring-the-devil]

HELLO DARLING 😭😭 i'm definitely doing better than i was before!! i hope you're doing well too ❤️❤️

[daring-the-devil]

uh

hello, hi, i am so very sorry that i disappeared.

long story short, i wasn't able to write anything for the longest time (my life flipped on its head in the beginning of november), but now that it's the new year, i figured i'd try to get back into the swing of things! i started antidepressants a couple months ago and they've been working great so far but i'm still struggling to work out how to get back into doing things i love, like writing fanfics.

i'll try to post something soon. i love you all, and to everyone who has joined me recently—hi!!! i'm so happy you're here ❤️ and to everyone who has stuck around—thank you. it means more to me than you will ever know ❤️❤️

[daring-the-devil]

my fucking midterms y'all 😭😭 i did manage to get some writing done today (for a couple of different things) so fingers crossed i get my shit together and post them this weekend

[daring-the-devil]

account update!

hey friends!!

i’ve decided to enable tips on here. i’m currently unable to work as i’m absolutely swamped with school and i’ve been struggling with my mental health lately, so anything helps. there’s absolutely zero pressure to send me anything, but i figured it would maybe be a way for me to make a little money as an unemployed college student.

i might also start taking fic commissions sometime within the next couple of months. i’m still working out the details and it probably won’t happen until november/december/january, but i’m throwing that option out there if anyone is interested in commissioning a fic from me.

thank you for all of your support and love on this account!! it means the world to me and i hope to get back to posting more consistently soon 💜

[daring-the-devil]

ughhh so i won’t be able to finish large black coffee before the end of october because my professors are ~the worst~ when it comes to workloads 😭😭 hoping to get another part posted this week, though! we’re nearing the end so i want to make sure it’s good 💪

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 11

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell's Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1600 words)

author's note: holy shit, we're back, babey!! thus begins the third and final arc of this series. picking up right where the last part ended, you try to keep daredevil from dying in your living room. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, description of blood/injuries

read part 10 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~

For a moment, all you can do is stand there and stare at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as he bleeds out all over your living room floor. He’s still breathing, his bloodied lips parted slightly, which is good. Because that means he’s still alive. 

Then—

“Holy fucking shit,” you manage, rushing towards him. You press two shaking fingers to his neck—pulse is slow. You don’t have any medical training, but you’re pretty sure that’s not a good sign. And, well, you know what it means when his heart stops beating altogether. 

“Why the fuck would you come here?” you ask, even though you know you’re not getting an answer out of him. You’ve only met this guy a couple of times, and yet here he is, dying in your apartment. 

Great. This is great. 

No, you correct yourself firmly. He’s not going to die here. Not if you can help it. 

“No hospital, probably,” you mutter, forcing yourself to your feet. Fuck it—you’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. Paying mind to the body on your floor, you haul ass to get it. 

You stop by the hallway closet on your way back, carelessly pulling out a stack of towels. Once you’re back with Daredevil, you maneuver him so that he’s laying on a couple of the towels, keeping the spreading pool of blood from getting much worse. Because fuck this, you’re not losing your security deposit because of an adrenaline junkie in fetish gear. 

You slide a wadded-up towel under his head for a cushion. Your fingers brush against the horns protruding from his helmet and you can’t fight back a shiver. It’s odd—every other time you’ve been around him, he’s been a sort of intimidating figure, the horns catching the light, giving him the appearance of some twisted avenging angel. 

Here, on your floor, he looks like a man in a suit. Like a superhero. But you have a feeling in your gut that he’s just a regular man. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you say as you begin to work at the various zippers and buckles on his suit to take the top part of it off. It takes you a minute, but you end up succeeding, having to roll him a little to get the top of the suit off and out of the way, leaving him in the black compression shirt he’d been wearing underneath. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s jacked, but you don’t have time to sit back and appreciate the fact. Instead, you turn your attention to the gaping wound in his side. 

The armor probably prevents anything major from happening, but apparently whoever had attacked Daredevil tonight had gotten lucky, because there’s what looks like a nice, fresh gash in his skin. You’ve watched enough crime dramas to know that it’s probably a bullet wound. From what you can tell, though, there’s no bullet actually in there. 

A graze, then. Hopefully you won’t kill him trying to clean it. 

You rush to the kitchen and wash your hands before pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. The last thing you want is for him to get an infection because you patched him up with ice cream residue on your fingers. 

You don’t have anything you could use to stitch him up (not that you’d be able to even if you did), so you settle for cleaning him up to the best of your abilities. His stomach rises and falls under your hands as you pull his shirt up and start wiping the blood from his skin with a wet towel, exposing the fine patchwork of bruises and scars, old and new, that mottle his pale skin. Thankfully, the graze seems to be the worst of it all, so you figure you can ignore the smaller things while you work on this. 

You press gauze to the wound and apply pressure, remembering when you’d had to help a coworker patch up a knife injury at an old job. Apply pressure, keep it there, stop the bleeding. That’s step one. 

“Please don’t die,” you mutter quietly. “Please, please, please do not die.”

You have enough problems as it is, working at the cafe. You really do not need a dead man in your apartment. 

It doesn’t look like he has many injuries on his legs—at least, none that you think he would be in any danger of bleeding out from—so you let him keep some dignity by leaving his pants on. God, imagine him waking up and finding himself with no pants on in your apartment when you’re practically a stranger. You’d rather not put him in that position if you can help it. 

Something—a hand—latches onto your wrist. It takes everything in you not to scream. Instead, you look down and find Daredevil’s chest heaving for air, his mouth opening and closing. You still can’t see his eyes, thanks to the mask still being there, but you know he’s awake now. 

Good. Still not dead.

“What—?” he chokes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say, trying for soothing. You bring your free hand to his where it’s still holding onto you, squeezing his fingers. “You’re at my apartment. You just…you just showed up. You’re hurt. It’s okay. I’m taking care of you.”

He says nothing for a few moments, still heaving for breath. You find yourself wishing he wasn’t wearing the mask, if only so you can see his expression. Right now, all you’ve got is his mouth, and he’s looking a little like a dying fish, so you can’t really use that as any indication for how he’s actually doing. 

(But you’ve come to understand that he’s a dramatic little shit, so maybe you can.)

Once it becomes clear that he’s not planning on talking anytime soon, you gently tap him on the chest. “Hey, Big D. I need my hand back. If I don’t patch you up, you’re going to bleed out. We don’t want that, right?”

He waits a second before responding, his voice hoarse. “No, I guess not.”

You find yourself smiling in relief. “Okay.”

His hand slips from yours, landing next to your leg where you’re kneeled next to him, his fingertips brushing your leg. You suck in a breath at his touch, gentle and somehow familiar. It’s oddly comforting, even with his blood all over your hands. You try to hold onto the good feeling as you carry on. 

It takes a few more minutes, but eventually, the bleeding slows and stops, letting you patch it up with more gauze and some medical tape before securing it all with the biggest band aid you have in your kit. You take care of the smaller cuts once you’re done, and then finally, you sit back on your heels, arms draped over your knees. 

“Should be good to go,” you say, wiping your forehead with your sleeve. He hasn’t said a word in the last five minutes, hasn’t moved since he dropped his hand to touch your leg. If not for the occasional twitch under your hands, you’d think he’d fallen back unconscious. “I need to take your helmet off to check for head injuries.”

At that, he sits up—way too quickly, judging by the hiss he lets out through gritted teeth. You gasp and lurch forward, guiding him so he’s sitting upright against the side of your couch, head lolling forward onto his chest. 

“Stupid ass, why would you do that?” you ask, pressing your hand to the large band aid. “If you have a concussion—”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he says insistently. 

“Well, I don’t know if I should believe you,” you say. 

“You should.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t you trust me?”

You cross your arms. “Y’know what? Not really.”

He freezes. 

“First, I think you’re going to kill me even though you saved my life seconds before,” you say, thinking back to when he’d saved you from the guys attacking you behind the cafe. “And then you show up on my rooftop—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know—I haven’t been clear with you—”

“And now you’re here, in my apartment, because you came to me instead of someone with actual medical training,” you say, waving your hands. “Why? More importantly: why me, out of everyone you’ve helped over the years?”

He swallows, tongue darting out to run over his lips, and the distracted part of you inside follows the motion with your eyes almost unintentionally. 

“I trust you,” he says after a few moments. 

“I see that,” you say, and his mouth twitches. “But I don’t know if I should trust you.” You shift so you’re sitting a few feet away from him, legs crossed, elbows braced on your knees. You still have your bloody gloves on, so you try to keep them away from your face. “Just give me something, man. Please.”

You can’t help but feel a little guilty about it, goading him into taking his mask off. This guy has been protecting his identity from the public for years now. Why the fuck would he give it up to you?

But before you can backtrack or apologize, he’s reaching up and undoing the clasps of his helmet. He pulls it off. 

And it feels like you’ve been shot in the chest. Because staring at you vacantly, leaning against your couch as he tries not to bleed out, is your boyfriend.

Matt Murdock.

part 12

taglist (closed!)

@your-not-invisible-to-me @hellskitchens-whore @l-a-y-n-i-e @a-girl-called-herby @u23r2p4m @dyzlks @lucypaulette @father4giveme @feliciab1990 @aramora @does-existance-exist @flaskofheads @thegreengoop @urlocalgeek @abbyhaslongshorts @shadybeef @amaryllisblue @ashtasticperson @niallsvirgosun @swinginmusicalfunnydragon @ravenclawbitch426 @addicted2spidey @almosttoopizza @queentorresstuff @romanoff-queen

[your-not-invisible-to-me]

The HOLD this series has on me omg

[daring-the-devil]

HSJDHDHSJS i’m so glad you like it!!!

[daring-the-devil]

Omg hey ur back I'm glad!! I'm about to go read the new chapter and I'm pumped for it!

Ahhhhh hi!!! Thank you so muchhhh 🥺🥺🥺

[daring-the-devil]

I BINGED ALL OF LARGE BLACK COFFEE AND HOLY FUCK THATS ALL I CAN SAY

H oL Y F u C K

AGDGHDHDGSHS THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭😭😭 SO HAPPY YOU ENJOYED IT!!!

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 11

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell's Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1600 words)

author's note: holy shit, we're back, babey!! thus begins the third and final arc of this series. picking up right where the last part ended, you try to keep daredevil from dying in your living room. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, description of blood/injuries

read part 10 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~

For a moment, all you can do is stand there and stare at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as he bleeds out all over your living room floor. He’s still breathing, his bloodied lips parted slightly, which is good. Because that means he’s still alive. 

Then—

“Holy fucking shit,” you manage, rushing towards him. You press two shaking fingers to his neck—pulse is slow. You don’t have any medical training, but you’re pretty sure that’s not a good sign. And, well, you know what it means when his heart stops beating altogether. 

“Why the fuck would you come here?” you ask, even though you know you’re not getting an answer out of him. You’ve only met this guy a couple of times, and yet here he is, dying in your apartment. 

Great. This is great. 

No, you correct yourself firmly. He’s not going to die here. Not if you can help it. 

“No hospital, probably,” you mutter, forcing yourself to your feet. Fuck it—you’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. Paying mind to the body on your floor, you haul ass to get it. 

You stop by the hallway closet on your way back, carelessly pulling out a stack of towels. Once you’re back with Daredevil, you maneuver him so that he’s laying on a couple of the towels, keeping the spreading pool of blood from getting much worse. Because fuck this, you’re not losing your security deposit because of an adrenaline junkie in fetish gear. 

You slide a wadded-up towel under his head for a cushion. Your fingers brush against the horns protruding from his helmet and you can’t fight back a shiver. It’s odd—every other time you’ve been around him, he’s been a sort of intimidating figure, the horns catching the light, giving him the appearance of some twisted avenging angel. 

Here, on your floor, he looks like a man in a suit. Like a superhero. But you have a feeling in your gut that he’s just a regular man. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you say as you begin to work at the various zippers and buckles on his suit to take the top part of it off. It takes you a minute, but you end up succeeding, having to roll him a little to get the top of the suit off and out of the way, leaving him in the black compression shirt he’d been wearing underneath. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s jacked, but you don’t have time to sit back and appreciate the fact. Instead, you turn your attention to the gaping wound in his side. 

The armor probably prevents anything major from happening, but apparently whoever had attacked Daredevil tonight had gotten lucky, because there’s what looks like a nice, fresh gash in his skin. You’ve watched enough crime dramas to know that it’s probably a bullet wound. From what you can tell, though, there’s no bullet actually in there. 

A graze, then. Hopefully you won’t kill him trying to clean it. 

You rush to the kitchen and wash your hands before pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. The last thing you want is for him to get an infection because you patched him up with ice cream residue on your fingers. 

You don’t have anything you could use to stitch him up (not that you’d be able to even if you did), so you settle for cleaning him up to the best of your abilities. His stomach rises and falls under your hands as you pull his shirt up and start wiping the blood from his skin with a wet towel, exposing the fine patchwork of bruises and scars, old and new, that mottle his pale skin. Thankfully, the graze seems to be the worst of it all, so you figure you can ignore the smaller things while you work on this. 

You press gauze to the wound and apply pressure, remembering when you’d had to help a coworker patch up a knife injury at an old job. Apply pressure, keep it there, stop the bleeding. That’s step one. 

“Please don’t die,” you mutter quietly. “Please, please, please do not die.”

You have enough problems as it is, working at the cafe. You really do not need a dead man in your apartment. 

It doesn’t look like he has many injuries on his legs—at least, none that you think he would be in any danger of bleeding out from—so you let him keep some dignity by leaving his pants on. God, imagine him waking up and finding himself with no pants on in your apartment when you’re practically a stranger. You’d rather not put him in that position if you can help it. 

Something—a hand—latches onto your wrist. It takes everything in you not to scream. Instead, you look down and find Daredevil’s chest heaving for air, his mouth opening and closing. You still can’t see his eyes, thanks to the mask still being there, but you know he’s awake now. 

Good. Still not dead.

“What—?” he chokes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say, trying for soothing. You bring your free hand to his where it’s still holding onto you, squeezing his fingers. “You’re at my apartment. You just…you just showed up. You’re hurt. It’s okay. I’m taking care of you.”

He says nothing for a few moments, still heaving for breath. You find yourself wishing he wasn’t wearing the mask, if only so you can see his expression. Right now, all you’ve got is his mouth, and he’s looking a little like a dying fish, so you can’t really use that as any indication for how he’s actually doing. 

(But you’ve come to understand that he’s a dramatic little shit, so maybe you can.)

Once it becomes clear that he’s not planning on talking anytime soon, you gently tap him on the chest. “Hey, Big D. I need my hand back. If I don’t patch you up, you’re going to bleed out. We don’t want that, right?”

He waits a second before responding, his voice hoarse. “No, I guess not.”

You find yourself smiling in relief. “Okay.”

His hand slips from yours, landing next to your leg where you’re kneeled next to him, his fingertips brushing your leg. You suck in a breath at his touch, gentle and somehow familiar. It’s oddly comforting, even with his blood all over your hands. You try to hold onto the good feeling as you carry on. 

It takes a few more minutes, but eventually, the bleeding slows and stops, letting you patch it up with more gauze and some medical tape before securing it all with the biggest band aid you have in your kit. You take care of the smaller cuts once you’re done, and then finally, you sit back on your heels, arms draped over your knees. 

“Should be good to go,” you say, wiping your forehead with your sleeve. He hasn’t said a word in the last five minutes, hasn’t moved since he dropped his hand to touch your leg. If not for the occasional twitch under your hands, you’d think he’d fallen back unconscious. “I need to take your helmet off to check for head injuries.”

At that, he sits up—way too quickly, judging by the hiss he lets out through gritted teeth. You gasp and lurch forward, guiding him so he’s sitting upright against the side of your couch, head lolling forward onto his chest. 

“Stupid ass, why would you do that?” you ask, pressing your hand to the large band aid. “If you have a concussion—”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he says insistently. 

“Well, I don’t know if I should believe you,” you say. 

“You should.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t you trust me?”

You cross your arms. “Y’know what? Not really.”

He freezes. 

“First, I think you’re going to kill me even though you saved my life seconds before,” you say, thinking back to when he’d saved you from the guys attacking you behind the cafe. “And then you show up on my rooftop—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know—I haven’t been clear with you—”

“And now you’re here, in my apartment, because you came to me instead of someone with actual medical training,” you say, waving your hands. “Why? More importantly: why me, out of everyone you’ve helped over the years?”

He swallows, tongue darting out to run over his lips, and the distracted part of you inside follows the motion with your eyes almost unintentionally. 

“I trust you,” he says after a few moments. 

“I see that,” you say, and his mouth twitches. “But I don’t know if I should trust you.” You shift so you’re sitting a few feet away from him, legs crossed, elbows braced on your knees. You still have your bloody gloves on, so you try to keep them away from your face. “Just give me something, man. Please.”

You can’t help but feel a little guilty about it, goading him into taking his mask off. This guy has been protecting his identity from the public for years now. Why the fuck would he give it up to you?

But before you can backtrack or apologize, he’s reaching up and undoing the clasps of his helmet. He pulls it off. 

And it feels like you’ve been shot in the chest. Because staring at you vacantly, leaning against your couch as he tries not to bleed out, is your boyfriend.

Matt Murdock.

part 12

taglist (closed!)

@your-not-invisible-to-me @hellskitchens-whore @l-a-y-n-i-e @a-girl-called-herby @u23r2p4m @dyzlks @lucypaulette @father4giveme @feliciab1990 @aramora @does-existance-exist @flaskofheads @thegreengoop @urlocalgeek @abbyhaslongshorts @shadybeef @amaryllisblue @ashtasticperson @niallsvirgosun @swinginmusicalfunnydragon @ravenclawbitch426 @addicted2spidey @almosttoopizza @queentorresstuff @romanoff-queen

[silent-silver1]

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I'VE WAITED FOR THIS, AND I'M SCREAMING CAUSE NOW Y/N KNOWS THAT DAREDEVIL IS MATT OML, ILYSM 💗💗

[daring-the-devil]

WGEHDHHDHDHDH I KNOW ITS BEEN LIKE A MONTH SINCE I LAST UPDATED 😭😭 THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!!!!

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 11

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell's Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1600 words)

author's note: holy shit, we're back, babey!! thus begins the third and final arc of this series. picking up right where the last part ended, you try to keep daredevil from dying in your living room. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, description of blood/injuries

read part 10 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~

For a moment, all you can do is stand there and stare at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as he bleeds out all over your living room floor. He’s still breathing, his bloodied lips parted slightly, which is good. Because that means he’s still alive. 

Then—

“Holy fucking shit,” you manage, rushing towards him. You press two shaking fingers to his neck—pulse is slow. You don’t have any medical training, but you’re pretty sure that’s not a good sign. And, well, you know what it means when his heart stops beating altogether. 

“Why the fuck would you come here?” you ask, even though you know you’re not getting an answer out of him. You’ve only met this guy a couple of times, and yet here he is, dying in your apartment. 

Great. This is great. 

No, you correct yourself firmly. He’s not going to die here. Not if you can help it. 

“No hospital, probably,” you mutter, forcing yourself to your feet. Fuck it—you’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. Paying mind to the body on your floor, you haul ass to get it. 

You stop by the hallway closet on your way back, carelessly pulling out a stack of towels. Once you’re back with Daredevil, you maneuver him so that he’s laying on a couple of the towels, keeping the spreading pool of blood from getting much worse. Because fuck this, you’re not losing your security deposit because of an adrenaline junkie in fetish gear. 

You slide a wadded-up towel under his head for a cushion. Your fingers brush against the horns protruding from his helmet and you can’t fight back a shiver. It’s odd—every other time you’ve been around him, he’s been a sort of intimidating figure, the horns catching the light, giving him the appearance of some twisted avenging angel. 

Here, on your floor, he looks like a man in a suit. Like a superhero. But you have a feeling in your gut that he’s just a regular man. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you say as you begin to work at the various zippers and buckles on his suit to take the top part of it off. It takes you a minute, but you end up succeeding, having to roll him a little to get the top of the suit off and out of the way, leaving him in the black compression shirt he’d been wearing underneath. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s jacked, but you don’t have time to sit back and appreciate the fact. Instead, you turn your attention to the gaping wound in his side. 

The armor probably prevents anything major from happening, but apparently whoever had attacked Daredevil tonight had gotten lucky, because there’s what looks like a nice, fresh gash in his skin. You’ve watched enough crime dramas to know that it’s probably a bullet wound. From what you can tell, though, there’s no bullet actually in there. 

A graze, then. Hopefully you won’t kill him trying to clean it. 

You rush to the kitchen and wash your hands before pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. The last thing you want is for him to get an infection because you patched him up with ice cream residue on your fingers. 

You don’t have anything you could use to stitch him up (not that you’d be able to even if you did), so you settle for cleaning him up to the best of your abilities. His stomach rises and falls under your hands as you pull his shirt up and start wiping the blood from his skin with a wet towel, exposing the fine patchwork of bruises and scars, old and new, that mottle his pale skin. Thankfully, the graze seems to be the worst of it all, so you figure you can ignore the smaller things while you work on this. 

You press gauze to the wound and apply pressure, remembering when you’d had to help a coworker patch up a knife injury at an old job. Apply pressure, keep it there, stop the bleeding. That’s step one. 

“Please don’t die,” you mutter quietly. “Please, please, please do not die.”

You have enough problems as it is, working at the cafe. You really do not need a dead man in your apartment. 

It doesn’t look like he has many injuries on his legs—at least, none that you think he would be in any danger of bleeding out from—so you let him keep some dignity by leaving his pants on. God, imagine him waking up and finding himself with no pants on in your apartment when you’re practically a stranger. You’d rather not put him in that position if you can help it. 

Something—a hand—latches onto your wrist. It takes everything in you not to scream. Instead, you look down and find Daredevil’s chest heaving for air, his mouth opening and closing. You still can’t see his eyes, thanks to the mask still being there, but you know he’s awake now. 

Good. Still not dead.

“What—?” he chokes out. 

“It’s okay,” you say, trying for soothing. You bring your free hand to his where it’s still holding onto you, squeezing his fingers. “You’re at my apartment. You just…you just showed up. You’re hurt. It’s okay. I’m taking care of you.”

He says nothing for a few moments, still heaving for breath. You find yourself wishing he wasn’t wearing the mask, if only so you can see his expression. Right now, all you’ve got is his mouth, and he’s looking a little like a dying fish, so you can’t really use that as any indication for how he’s actually doing. 

(But you’ve come to understand that he’s a dramatic little shit, so maybe you can.)

Once it becomes clear that he’s not planning on talking anytime soon, you gently tap him on the chest. “Hey, Big D. I need my hand back. If I don’t patch you up, you’re going to bleed out. We don’t want that, right?”

He waits a second before responding, his voice hoarse. “No, I guess not.”

You find yourself smiling in relief. “Okay.”

His hand slips from yours, landing next to your leg where you’re kneeled next to him, his fingertips brushing your leg. You suck in a breath at his touch, gentle and somehow familiar. It’s oddly comforting, even with his blood all over your hands. You try to hold onto the good feeling as you carry on. 

It takes a few more minutes, but eventually, the bleeding slows and stops, letting you patch it up with more gauze and some medical tape before securing it all with the biggest band aid you have in your kit. You take care of the smaller cuts once you’re done, and then finally, you sit back on your heels, arms draped over your knees. 

“Should be good to go,” you say, wiping your forehead with your sleeve. He hasn’t said a word in the last five minutes, hasn’t moved since he dropped his hand to touch your leg. If not for the occasional twitch under your hands, you’d think he’d fallen back unconscious. “I need to take your helmet off to check for head injuries.”

At that, he sits up—way too quickly, judging by the hiss he lets out through gritted teeth. You gasp and lurch forward, guiding him so he’s sitting upright against the side of your couch, head lolling forward onto his chest. 

“Stupid ass, why would you do that?” you ask, pressing your hand to the large band aid. “If you have a concussion—”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he says insistently. 

“Well, I don’t know if I should believe you,” you say. 

“You should.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t you trust me?”

You cross your arms. “Y’know what? Not really.”

He freezes. 

“First, I think you’re going to kill me even though you saved my life seconds before,” you say, thinking back to when he’d saved you from the guys attacking you behind the cafe. “And then you show up on my rooftop—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know—I haven’t been clear with you—”

“And now you’re here, in my apartment, because you came to me instead of someone with actual medical training,” you say, waving your hands. “Why? More importantly: why me, out of everyone you’ve helped over the years?”

He swallows, tongue darting out to run over his lips, and the distracted part of you inside follows the motion with your eyes almost unintentionally. 

“I trust you,” he says after a few moments. 

“I see that,” you say, and his mouth twitches. “But I don’t know if I should trust you.” You shift so you’re sitting a few feet away from him, legs crossed, elbows braced on your knees. You still have your bloody gloves on, so you try to keep them away from your face. “Just give me something, man. Please.”

You can’t help but feel a little guilty about it, goading him into taking his mask off. This guy has been protecting his identity from the public for years now. Why the fuck would he give it up to you?

But before you can backtrack or apologize, he’s reaching up and undoing the clasps of his helmet. He pulls it off. 

And it feels like you’ve been shot in the chest. Because staring at you vacantly, leaning against your couch as he tries not to bleed out, is your boyfriend.

Matt Murdock.

part 12

taglist (closed!)

@your-not-invisible-to-me @hellskitchens-whore @l-a-y-n-i-e @a-girl-called-herby @u23r2p4m @dyzlks @lucypaulette @father4giveme @feliciab1990 @aramora @does-existance-exist @flaskofheads @thegreengoop @urlocalgeek @abbyhaslongshorts @shadybeef @amaryllisblue @ashtasticperson @niallsvirgosun @swinginmusicalfunnydragon @ravenclawbitch426 @addicted2spidey @almosttoopizza @queentorresstuff @romanoff-queen

[daring-the-devil]

little update!

hi friends!! there’s going to be a little longer of a wait for the next part of large black coffee because i’ve just started school again and i want to ease myself into the year before i work on anything major. the series will hopefully be finished before the end of october but i can’t say for sure. 

thank you to everyone who’s been keeping up with my series! and thank you so much for waiting (whether patiently or not). love you all <33

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 10

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell’s Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1800 words)

author’s note: part 10!! we have reached the end of ARC 2 of this series! more info will be available for the next parts  in my reblog of this post. in this one, you start to wonder a little bit about your relationship with matt and the future steps you plan to take. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, a scene with food/eating, brief descriptions of injuries

read part 9 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~ 

It takes a little time, but eventually, all of the bruises decorating Matt’s skin fade away completely, though your worries never do. Still, you do your best to move on from it, settling back into the comfortable pattern of your relationship. It doesn’t feel as shiny or new anymore now that you’ve been together for a couple of months, but that might be your favorite part about it—you have someone to fall back on, just as Matt can fall back on you. 

Keep reading

[what-the-heckin-heck]

I maybe, possibly, just binge read this entire series until this most recent part and holy cow was it so amazing like woah I’m sitting on the edge of my seat.

I might’ve screamed at my phone when I noticed that this was the most recent update but we won’t talk about that

But seriously, I’m absolutely hooked by this masterpiece of a series and I’m now eagerly waiting for the new part to come out

[daring-the-devil]

i’ll cry!! i will literally cry!!! i’m so happy you’re liking the series so far 🥹💕

[daring-the-devil]

it’s 4am and i’m coming out of having a fever (yikes!) so i really should be back in bed but the responses to my recent writing pieces 🥹🥹 y’all making me cry fr!! love you all sm <3

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 10

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell’s Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1800 words)

author’s note: part 10!! we have reached the end of ARC 2 of this series! more info will be available for the next parts  in my reblog of this post. in this one, you start to wonder a little bit about your relationship with matt and the future steps you plan to take. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, a scene with food/eating, brief descriptions of injuries

read part 9 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~ 

It takes a little time, but eventually, all of the bruises decorating Matt’s skin fade away completely, though your worries never do. Still, you do your best to move on from it, settling back into the comfortable pattern of your relationship. It doesn’t feel as shiny or new anymore now that you’ve been together for a couple of months, but that might be your favorite part about it—you have someone to fall back on, just as Matt can fall back on you. 

Keep reading

[hellskitchenswhore]

OH! Fuck. MATT! Goddamn it. Well…. There goes that secret. I really can’t wait to see how the readers going to take it! Especially since love is on the table! (But be fair though, who could resist that precious little marshmallow lawyer boy?)

[daring-the-devil]

matt really is irresistible huh 😭😭 i’m so stressed thinking about the upcoming parts but it’s fine!! i’m fine 😀 thank you so much for reading!! 

[daring-the-devil]

large black coffee - 10

You own and operate a new specialty cafe in Hell’s Kitchen. One day, a blind lawyer walks through the door, and the trajectory of your life is changed for good. (~1800 words)

author’s note: part 10!! we have reached the end of ARC 2 of this series! more info will be available for the next parts  in my reblog of this post. in this one, you start to wonder a little bit about your relationship with matt and the future steps you plan to take. this takes place post-season 3 of daredevil, so there will be spoilers for the entire show in this series!

fic note: no use of y/n or gendered pronouns

warnings: some strong language, a scene with food/eating, brief descriptions of injuries

read part 9 here | start at the beginning | series masterlist | request guidelines

~*~*~ 

It takes a little time, but eventually, all of the bruises decorating Matt’s skin fade away completely, though your worries never do. Still, you do your best to move on from it, settling back into the comfortable pattern of your relationship. It doesn’t feel as shiny or new anymore now that you’ve been together for a couple of months, but that might be your favorite part about it—you have someone to fall back on, just as Matt can fall back on you. 

Keep reading

[silent-silver1]

I’m shocked I love it sm :0

@daring-the-devil marry me?💍🧎🏻‍♀️

[daring-the-devil]

you’re literally the sweetest!!!! 😭💜💍