Would you ever come home to me? (do you think that you could?)
And it's my whole heart, deemed and delivered a crime - series masterlist here
pairing: matt murdock x reader (gender neutral, no use of y/n)
length: 1.7k
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort
warnings: pre relationship, childhood friends to fucked up pining, homesickness, uuuh that's it ?
a/n: finally finally a daredevil fic everyone clap
Matthew thinks, just for a moment as the door of Nelson & Murdock opens, that maybe the world is tipping on its axis. As he hears your footsteps, smells the waft of bluebells and fresh rain, he thinks that maybe life is spinning backwards.
But it's just you, walking into the office and clicking your tongue in that thoughtful way that you do. He hears it distantly, Foggy's voice greeting you, introducing himself and welcoming you in. He hears you respond, somewhere vague and far off - hears your smooth, low voice as you speak.
But all he can do is grip the doorway of his office, the breath freezing in his lungs, as he spirals.
"I'm looking for legal counsel," you say crisply. "I've heard this is the place to go."
"Of course it is," Foggy says kindly. "Whatever it is, we'd be happy to help -"
"It depends on the case," Matt says abruptly, causing Foggy to look at him in bewilderment and you with mild amusement. "We'll have to, uh, take a look at what you're offering us."
"I can pay well, if that's your concern," you respond easily, and Matt's grip on his doorframe tightens.
"No, that's - that's not a concern at all," Foggy laughs politely. "We're - please, we're happy to hear your case and help you out. Matt?" Matt stays silent for a moment, the world shaking around him as he takes a breath.
"Of course," he says stiffly.
"Great!" Foggy steps around you. "Unfortunately, I'm on my way out, but my partner here will take great care of you - right, Matt?" he grits out pointedly. You fix him with a charming smile.
"Oh, I'm sure he will. I'll see you around, Mr. Nelson." When you walk towards Matt's office, then, all he can do is move stiffly to the side and let you sit, Foggy narrowing his eyes at the scene briefly before he leaves.
"Please don't touch anything," Matt says abruptly as you run your finger along the edge of his desk. You lift both of your hands in surrender at his words and sit down, instead, watching as he moves awkwardly to sit opposite you.
"It's been a while," you say gently. "…How have you been, Matty?"
"What are you doing here?" he asks, like he's waiting for the catch - like he's waiting for you to disappear.
"Am I not allowed to come home?" is your response, and you watch the way his fists clench as they rest on his thighs.
"This'll be easier if we don't lie to each other," he says pointedly. You stare at him.
"I've never lied to you, Matty," you offer softly. "You would know that."
"You've -" he falters. "Yea. You've never lied. But you've…" he gestures with his hands.
"I'm just visiting," you offer - like there's some kind of solace in your impermanence. "You don't have to worry, I'm only here for my show."
"You have an exhibition?" he asks.
"Mhm. Paintings, mostly," you confirm.
"In Hell's Kitchen," he presses.
"Should it not be?" you ask. Matthew huffs in that frustrated way of his, rolling his shoulders back.
"Just - what are you doing here?" he pushes.
"Am I not allowed to come home?" you repeat, much to his obvious annoyance.
"What are you doing here?" Matthew asks briskly. "In my office."
"I told you, I'm looking for a lawyer," you respond easily. "I've been having some… issues, lately."
"Issues?" Matt echoes, but something pricks at the back of his neck, something sort of freezes in his lungs at the idea of you being in trouble.
"I had a few of my works stolen a couple months back," you explain briskly, your tone clipped with annoyance. "The gallery was sloppy with security. I don't want that to happen again."
"Oh - I'm not drafting a contract for you," Matthew laughs, his breath coming out in a huff of disbelief.
"I don't need you to write a contract for me," you say impatiently. "Just read through this one and… make some adjustments for me." He rolls his shoulders back again in frustration as you rifle through your bag and slap a file down onto his desk.
"You don't even have to take me on a client right now. Just… look at it. Think about it before you turn me away," you continue as you stand. He presses his lips together and leans back in his chair as you head to the door of his office.
"Do you really think you get to do this?" His tone is sharp, piercing enough to make you pause as you reach for the doorknob.
"Do what?"
"Come back here like this just to - to what?" he gestures. "Cause some chaos? Make sure I can't sleep?" You turn to look at Matt for a long moment, and the hard stare on his face makes your shoulders slump just the slightest bit. It's almost unnoticeable, the way that your breath catches and your hand grips onto the doorframe. But he catches it - he always does, and the subtle little tilt of his head in response has you clearing your throat.
"I came to you because you're the best lawyer I know," you say quietly. "I'm not here to kick your ass, Matty, I just…"
"Wanted to come home," he finishes for you, and there's something about hearing your own words echoed back to you that makes you crumble a bit where you stand.
"Don't worry about it," you say softly, your voice gentle in a way that makes him flinch - makes him think of when you were younger and kinder. When both of you were, he thinks a bit bitterly. "Just… do what you think is best."
"You know, some people would consider this breaking and entering," you say tiredly as a shadow flickers through the corner of your studio. Matthew purses his lips in displeasure and cocks his head to the side as he takes in the reek of oil paints, your footsteps echoing on the concrete floor.
Those are the words that you leave him with, and Matthew hears them echo through his head over and over and over, an endless memory of who the two of you used to be.
"Are you sleeping here?" he asks abruptly.
"Uh, I booked a hotel for while I'm here," you say vaguely. He huffs in displeasure.
"Then why are you camping out here?" he pushes, and you sit up on the granite counter of the little kitchenette.
"I'm just trying to finish everything before the show. You know, a little last-minute cramming, that's all," you offer passively, watching as Matt walks around the space and takes everything in. "What are you doing here?"
"Am I not allowed to come see you?" he asks in a clipped tone. You slouch down a bit.
"Okay," you sigh, and he shoots a self-satisfied smirk your way.
"Not so fun when it's the other way around," he points out, and you press your lips together as he stops and stands in front of the large canvas that you'd been working on.
"It's dry," you point out softly, and that's all that Matthew needs to reach his hand out and run his fingers over the grooves and swipes of paint.
"What is it?" he asks as he maps it out with his touch, and you hum in thought.
"It's… biblical. Nothing you'd like," you offer dully, and Matt presses his lips together knowingly.
"It ever is," he says flatly, stepping away from the canvas as you watch. There's something about the way that Matthew prowls around the rented studio space, like he's trying to figure out some kind of secret - like he's trying to strip away your soul.
"What are you doing here?" he asks once more - but it's different this time, soft and kind in the way that he used to be with you. It cracks something in you, makes you feel small again as you sit on the counter.
"I just wanted to come home," you murmur, but it's enough to make him freeze, something lurching in his heart at hearing you finally admit it.
"You never wanted to before," Matt says stiffly, and you sink down a little further.
"Not true," you mutter, as if you could somehow be small enough that he wouldn't notice the way that your heart is caving in on itself. "I always wanted to. I just never could."
"Why?" is his only response, the question firm and cutting.
"I missed it too much," you offer in response, and it has Matt's shoulders dropping with a sort of defeat. Something sort of statics through the air between the two of you, years of words unsaid pricking at the back of your throats as Matt hangs his head - like he's trying to stop himself from saying something he can't take back, something kind, something gentle.
"I read the contract," he offers instead, and you straighten a bit. "It's already pretty harsh. You really think you can get a gallery to agree to that?"
"I think I can get anyone to do anything," you shoot back, and he scoffs.
"That's your problem, isn't it?" Matt says, and your lips twitch in a pleased sort of smile at the familiar glare on his face. "Just… just - come by the office tomorrow morning. We'll sort it out."
"Ok, Matty," you say softly, and he looks a bit like you've shot him as he moves swiftly to the door.
"How long are you staying?" he asks as he reaches for the door handle, and you sigh a bit contemplatively - a bit tiredly.
"Until my work here's done, I guess," you offer vaguely, and while he opens his mouth to respond, he ends up snapping it shut again and swinging the door open instead.
"Tomorrow, then," he offers briskly, his only goodbye as he disappears from sight.
"Ok," you say gently, your voice echoing through the now-empty studio. "Tomorrow, then."
warnings: swearing, mentions of injuries, i can’t think of anything else? literally fluff and some flirting
synopsis: you can’t quite understand how no one realized matt was daredevil. he can’t understand how you did.
a/n: hello, loves! this is the first matt fic i’ve written in like…3 years?? a fic for him was the very first fic i posted here, believe it or not. i’ve always thought it was so silly that the people closest to matt never recognized his voice or the bottom half of his face when they encounter him as daredevil, so this is my ode to that. i’ve overthought this one for too long so before i hate it completely, i’ll share it with you!!! enjoy your time with matty and let me know what you think <333
————
Foggy is trying to make a call. He can’t look at you because if he does, he’ll laugh, so instead he’s put himself in the corner, nose pressed to drywall. That only makes you and Karen laugh harder.
He spins around and holds his pointer finger up over his lips, mouthing shush. His shoulders shake as he chuckles to himself. Karen keels over and knocks her head against yours, causing you both to groan in pain and clutch your foreheads, though this quickly morphs into more giggles.
Foggy hangs up the phone and stumbles your way. “Dumbasses,” he mumbles, and then his foot catches on a wire running to the desktop computer and he falls; he just manages to catch himself on his hands and knees.
Karen chokes on a laugh and begins to cough. “Shit, Kare!” you cry, patting her back a little too hard.
“F-Foggy, are you alright?” Karen asks. You blink away tears and try to focus on his form. Your stomach hurts from cackling, and aside from Foggy busting his ass, you can’t even remember what set you off. It’s that kind of laughter.
The doorbell tinkles and Matt steps into the office. You’re rubbing your teary eyes when you hear him fold his cane up with a snap snap click. He sets a hand on his hip and shifts his weight onto that same side.
“What’s going on in here?” he questions, tone accusatory.
Oh yeah, you think, all the drifting pieces in your mind clicking back together in one swift motion. You and Karen had been making fun of Matt and all his silly mannerisms. Foggy was arguing with you about the latest season of Doctor Who and along the way, Matt had come up.
“There’s an episode of Doctor Who,” you’d explained to Karen, “where Sarah Jane and Rose are laughing about the Doctor’s quirks because he’s always done the same shit with his companions, like hugging the TARDIS or making a face when he concentrates.”
Karen seems to be on the same wavelength as you, shouting, “Look! He’s doing the sassy mom arm!” You snort. Karen practically sobs into your shoulder.
Matt turns his head towards Foggy, asking the million dollar question with an arch of his brows. Foggy raises his hands in surrender, looking from you to his best friend.
“Hey!” you cry, “You’re the one that brought it up!”
“You were making fun of me, Mr. Nelson?”
Foggy backs away, giving you a glare that says snitch. “I may have contributed, but they took it to this level! I don’t know what’s wrong with them!”
Matt places a second hand on his hip and he looks so much like a disappointed mother that you can’t help chuckling one last time. It’s like being busted for having fun with your siblings and your parents think you’re fighting instead.
Your hand falls to your stomach and you begin to rub at the ache there. Karen rises to her feet beside you. “I need some air,” she says, something in her voice that tells you she might break at even the slightest not-really-all-that-funny thing. She grabs Foggy’s elbow and drags him along with her, mumbling something about getting everyone coffee.
Now alone, Matt turns his head towards you and raises his brow.
“You know,” he says your name, “I’m not sure I should still take you out to dinner tonight after you’ve been picking on me with our coworkers.”
One corner of his lips ticks up just barely.
Matt hears the way you cross your arms over your chest, your blouse made of silk, or something akin to it. He hears your hair scratch against your skin when you shake your head at him.
“We were just talking about how sassy you can be,” you say, matter-of-factly.
He pulls back, shifts his weight onto one foot again and gently places his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, what?”
You exhale a laugh. “You know, just the way you always look like an unhappy stay-at-home mom whose kids are up to no good. You put that hand on your hip and tell us to get back to work.”
“I do not,” he scoffs.
You stand, straightening your skirt and walking the short distance to the kitchenette to place your empty mug in the sink. You choose to ignore his denialist approach.
“Mrs. Santiago called this morning and asked to move her appointment with you to Friday. Said her baby niece had a recital she just couldn’t miss. And Mr. Ritter called about the complex on third? I took a message and left the note on your desk.”
Matt blinks, whiplashed. “Uh, thank you. But—”
“I’m gonna walk down and mail these,” you tuck a pile of envelopes under your arm, “but I shouldn’t be long.” You make for the door, a grin stretching across your lips.
Matt raises an arm in your direction, a similar smile on his face and a blush forming on his neck. “This conversation isn’t over!” he shouts. He listens to you giggle until you’ve cleared the hall and started down the stairs.
————
You’ve known something was up with Matt Murdock for months. You’re one to mind your own business, not wiggle your way into the details of someone else’s life, but you’d have to completely lack basic observational skills to not notice the aura he drags alongside himself.
When Karen put the “Page” in Nelson, Murdock & Page, they realized they no longer had someone to complete paralegal duties or manage the office. You met Karen shortly after she moved to Hell’s Kitchen, sharing a customer service job with her for a short time. She was venting to you over the phone one day, rambling about not receiving enough applicants—and the ones they did get, well they didn’t meet the credentials (and that’s considering the low bar Matt and Foggy set to begin with). You joked that you could do it, that it would probably be much more fun than your past nine-to-fives, and that was it.
You were right—even when the workload is a bit overwhelming and you’re moments from cutting the phone line, the three of them make it worth it. You love your little found family. You’re not ashamed to admit that you’ve always found Matt attractive either. Maybe it’s partially why you’ve noticed when he has bruises on his neck and forearms, or maybe it’s just that noticing things like that feels like common sense to you. He might play it off with everyone else, say it’s from boxing or a vigorous one-night stand, but none of it ever adds up quite right.
You never told Foggy or Karen about the morning he came in and you noticed the way his gait was off, like it was painful for him to walk normally. When your eyes blew wide because there was a thin line of blood seeping through the thick white fabric of his shirt. “Matt? You’re bleeding,” you’d said. You drowned out his excuses, focusing only on stretching butterfly strips across his skin, forcing a tube of Neosporin into his hands. Afterwards, while you were cleaning up, you had tried to think of actual reasons he’d be getting injured so often.
The thought rose to the forefront of your mind like it had been there for ages, eagerly waiting for you to give it attention.
Maybe he’s a vigilante.
That’s silly, you’d told yourself. That’s just what’s all over the news, so that’s probably where the idea came from. But it didn’t feel like a joke, not the longer you sat with it. It felt like something you'd already known. Your body showed no signs of surprise.
But it’s really none of your business, is it?
Now, you listen to the soft click your heels make as you walk along the pavement. You’ve always liked that sound. As a young girl, it made you feel so grown up and professional.
Matt is supposed to meet you at this cute little dessert bar a few blocks from your place. Your veins buzz with excitement as you think about the alcoholic milkshake in your future, but also because you like spending time with him, even if tonight it’s mainly to catch up on some case-related stuff. It’s nice to be alone with him every now and then.
You’re glad you wore your coat tonight with the way the gentle breeze nips at your exposed calves. You keep a close watch on your surroundings, not only for your safety, but because you enjoy seeing people do human things. Sometimes you need to remember that it still happens.
There’s a huge line outside a steakhouse, so you cut down a short alleyway, one you’ve gone down hundreds of times, to get to your destination. The businesses on either side of you have hung string lights at the front of the gap, so the further you go into the alley, the darker it gets, right up until you make your way out of it.
Halfway through, at the darkest part, you trip over something hard. You stumble, scraping your palm against brick when you reach out to catch yourself. The sound the object makes when it rolls across the ground tells you it’s metal. You fumble for your phone, wanting to shine a light on it and figure out what the hell it is.
There’s a thud and a scratch and when your light flicks on, nothings there. Well, someone is there, but that’s not what you heard. Your gaze locks on a familiar mask. You’ve seen Daredevil on the news before, but you’ve never crossed paths with him. In fact, this is only your second encounter with someone “super.” Spider-man helped you pick up your things one night when some asshole bumped into you and kept on going. This guy, though you know he is no danger to you, feels more intimidating than Spider-man did.
“Are you okay?” his voice grabs your attention as you shove your phone back in your bag and begin looking at your palm.
“Yeah,” you manage. “No blood, just some dirt. What the hell was that thing I tripped on?”
He taps his thigh. You squint. “What even is that? A baton? Are you also in the colorguard?”
The man laughs. It’s a warm sound. Almost familiar.
“The technical name is a billy club. But yeah, baton works too.”
“How did it end up down here, waiting for me to bust my ass?” There’s that laugh again.
“Must’ve fallen out of the holster. I didn’t realize it was loose until…”
“Until I almost broke my neck.”
“That seems a little exaggerated.”
You stay silent for a moment and study him. His hands are on his hips, clad in the same red fabric as the rest of him. Though maybe fabric is too gentle of a word. Armor is probably more like it. The lenses on his mask glint in the light from between the storefronts. You feel like you should be questioning why he didn’t just make his escape, why he’s entertaining a conversation with you. You opt for a different approach.
“How come you’re out here? This is a pretty safe part of the city. Unless there’s something I don’t know about.”
“No, you’re right. It’s just uh, a busy night. Sometimes I sit and keep watch, make sure everything’s as it should be, y’know?”
“Like a gargoyle?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You sit up there,” you pause and point vaguely towards the sky, “and keep watch, like a gargoyle.”
He laughs a third time. “I suppose you could say that.”
A chill runs through your body. Maybe it’s not a chill. It’s more like recognition. I know that laugh, you think. You decide to drag this on, give yourself a moment to listen even closer. You smile at him, but don’t supply any more words. You glance down at your watch.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks, and then you know. It’s Matt.
You know his voice, god, you feel stupid! You should’ve realized it the moment he spoke. He might be using that silly little deep Batman-like twinge, but without a doubt, that’s Matt Murdock.
“Hm?” You decide to humor him. “Oh, yeah. Right now actually. I’m getting dinner with a friend. Don’t wanna be late. I’d hate to be that person, you know?”
You leave the alleyway without giving him time to answer. You wonder if he knows that you know. If you’ll be able to keep it together during dinner with him—assuming he gets there soon, heeding your warning.
But if you’re really honest with yourself, you just want to know if you’re the first one to figure it out. If not, well that’s just not as fun, but you’ll definitely be proud of yourself and still hand his ass to him for as long as you both shall live.
————
Dinner goes well. It might be a little demented, but you’re in a better mood after crossing paths with Daredevil. It helps you understand Matt more, makes conversation with him easier. Other than a sweaty brow, there’s nothing on his face showing that he understood your discovery, or alluding to the fact that he’d been out moments before he sat down at the table with you.
You fill up a mug with coffee, adding a little cream and then leaning up against the window sill in the office. You’re the first one there today, Karen having called to say she’d overslept, Foggy having stayed the night at Marci’s…which always means he’ll be late the next day. As for Matt, you can only assume he went back out after he left you at your doorstep last night.
Your heels click against the hardwoods as you walk towards your desk, firing up the monitor and getting your email pulled up. You switch on a couple of the fans, hoping they’ll keep it from getting sweltering in here so early in the day. There might be an A/C unit in the office, but if you look at it wrong you’ll be paying for it. Literally.
You decide to straighten up a little, picking up here and there, tying up cords so no one trips. You’ve settled down, nursing your second cup of coffee and responding to a few inquiring emails when you hear the familiar tap tap of Matt’s cane coming down the hall. The door rattles a little in its frame when he shuts it behind him.
“Good morning,” Matt says.
“Morning,” you respond. “Coffee’s on.”
You glance up, eyes dragging over his form. His dress pants hug his thighs almost unfairly, causing your mind to draw up images of thick, corded muscle. You blink. He folds up his cane and sets it on the table beside the door. There’s a small bruise on the bridge of his nose. You only notice it when he fidgets with his glasses, which sit lower as if to hide it. Or because positioning them directly over the bruise hurts.
A comment he made recently about fast hands flickers through your thoughts. It makes you smile.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he says, startling you. Did he hear you grin?
“Hm?” You sign off an email and click send. “I’m hopped up on coffee.”
Matt breathes his laughter into his mug. “Should I be worried?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” you chuckle.
You both stay silent for a few minutes, you tapping away at the last of your emails, Matt drinking all of his coffee in one go and immediately filling it back up. You update the firm’s shared calendar with changes to the appointment log and add notes regarding the things clients wish to stress during their visits and who might be the best fit to work with them.
You’re lazily looking at the weather when you hear a grunt from Matt. He’s bent over the table, one hand on his keyboard, the other on his hip.
“You okay, Matt?”
He inclines his head toward you but doesn’t fully face you. “Hm? Yeah, just uh…”
You don’t know what compels you to say the words that next leave your mouth, but you don’t regret them once they’re out either. The look on Matt’s face is priceless.
“Late night with the devil?”
Matt hears the smile in your voice, the change in your heartbeat, and he knows you know.
At that moment, Foggy comes in the door with a glazed donut in his mouth. He holds it open for Karen, who gracefully balances two boxes of donuts in one hand and her hefty purse in the other.
Matt is still reeling when you say, “Are those the sharing size, Ms. Page? Or are you gonna house twenty-four, sorry, twenty-three, donuts all by yourself? Not that I’d blame you, or judge you for doing so.”
Karen laughs lightly. “Any other day, I’d keep them to myself. But you’re more than welcome to however many you like.” You compliment her cute skirt and then she parts to fire up her laptop and pull out some of the folding chairs. You’re drawing a finger through the air, vaguely imitating a claw machine as you choose a donut. It nearly falls out of your hand when you’re pulled out into the hall. “Matt!”
He pins you up against the far wall in the hallway outside the office and says your name, a stern lilt to his voice, a weird smile on his face like he’s on the verge of…something?
You lift your arm around where his hand is planted on your waist to take a bite of your donut. You know what you’ve done, and frankly, you find it quite funny. You smile into your treat.
He says your name again like you’re in trouble. “Wh-why—what do you know?” he asks you.
“I don’t know, Matthew, what do I know?”
He smiles without the glee and huffs a laugh at you. “I really…could we not play the sarcasm game? Why did you say that to me?”
You take another bite of donut and pat him on the cheek. He is mere inches from your face.
“Maybe because that voice isn’t as unrecognizable as you think, Mr. Murdock.”
You watch as his mouth falls open just slightly, like he’s fumbling for the right words. His arms have shifted so that they now rest on the wall either side of you. You finish off your donut, waiting for him to do whatever it is he’s going to do.
“Last night you…you just knew it was me because of my voice?”
“Mhm. We’re together five, sometimes six, days a week. I hear you talk more than I hear myself think, Matt. It took a minute, but you laughed and I recognized it.”
His brows rise and then fall back down, knitting together. He’s kind of touched that his laugh was the thing to do it for you. But he’s still in shock. “No one’s ever recognized me before.”
A smile spreads across your face. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m pretty proud of myself, actually.”
Matt can’t help himself, he laughs. “You’re funny,” he says, before going quiet for a moment. You wait for him to start up again. “Are you sure you’re not just fucking with me? D-did Foggy or Karen tell you? Just my voice—I don’t get it.”
“If it weren’t for your voice, I still would’ve figured it out. I can see the entire bottom half of your face, you do realize that?”
He doesn’t say anything. You’ve stumped him.
You begin to move away, attempting to flatten yourself and slither between him and the wall. He grabs hold of your wrist.
“You…I—”
The door opens. “What’s going on out here you two?” Foggy projects his voice, but his tone lacks seriousness. That is, until he sees Matt gripping your wrist. His eyebrows shoot up. You take your bottom lip between your teeth.
“I’m in trouble,” you say, darting back inside the office. The group of you gathers around the little lobby.
“Why were you interrogating her?” Foggy asks, crossing his arms. Karen crosses her arms too.
Matt clears his throat. “Um…it’s nothing, I—”
Your gaze flicks back and forth between Karen and Foggy’s. “I figured out that Matt is Daredevil and he’s being weird about it.”
Foggy guffaws. “You what?”
“She said it was my laugh,” Matt pipes up. “That she recognized my voice. We ran into each other and she’s claiming that’s all it took.”
“Jesus,” Karen laughs. She says your name, a smile on her face. “He’s probably mad because he and Foggy practically broke up when Foggy found out.”
“Okay, well that’s—” Matt says.
“He was being a dick.” Foggy states. “He deserved it, trust me.”
“Did you guys kiss and make up?” you ask, giggling to yourself. That comment starts a little spat between the boys, but it quickly shifts so that Karen and Foggy are openly arguing about Matt being a pain in the ass and complaining about how he chose (or failed) to reveal his identity to them. You take the chance and slip away.
Your hands close around your empty coffee mug and you pad back to the kitchenette. Matt’s on you though, not letting up that easily, apparently.
He leans against the doorway as you prepare another cup for yourself. “It’s just mind-boggling to me that my laugh gave me away,” he says. “And if I’m honest, that’s kind of an intimate thing to recognize, wouldn’t you say?” He says your name.
You snort into your coffee. “Are you trying to flirt with me right now, Mr. Murdock?”
“Rather I’m just implying that you pay quite a bit of attention to me. You know, since you’ve memorized my laughter and all.”
“Oh, like I have a crush on you or something?”
“You could say that. Is that, in fact, what’s happening here?”
“Don't flatter yourself, Matty.”
He catches your waist gently on your way out of the small room. “So, if I were to ask you out to dinner, you’d say no?”
“We just had dinner together, Matt. You’d have to clarify. Would this be a romantic dinner, in contrast to our usual work-related dinners?”
He puts one hand on his hip and your eyes light up. “You’re right. That’s an error on my part. Would you like to go out for a romantic dinner?”
“Sure, Matty. But only if you’ll put the suit on for me after.”
————
note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!
kuroo knows that better than anyone—knows that this is entirely unreasonable and entirely spur of the moment and entirely something he should not do—but you're standing in the kitchen, covered in flour, and the words seem to fall from his lips as if they were always meant to be there.
"marry me," he says, and he means it just as he did when he asked you yesterday as he kissed you goodbye, and just as he did the day before when you tripped down the stairs, and just as he would tomorrow if you said no.
but this time, as laughter spills from your lips, messy dough coating your cheeks, something stirs in him. something that he wouldn't find yesterday and won't find tomorrow and something that feels like hope, and delirium and you—and he thinks, if only for a second, that stupid isn't even the word for it.
"you're asking right now?" you raise a brow, motioning your fingers around your mess of a kitchen, and a silly little smile draws across his cheeks.
"i am."
"i'm covered in flour," you say.
and he grins, "yeah, and you should marry me."
you shake your head, pulling your lips together, and you give him that look you always do; the 'maybe when we're older and smarter and a little less prone to divorce' look that he's grown to dread.
because, yes, this is stupid—incredibly so—but he's twenty-one and he's pretty sure he's never going to get much smarter than this and you share a bed every night without killing each other, so, really, why not?
he holds his hand in the air, waiting to insist on asking you again tomorrow, but you laugh—soft and bright and something that aches like home—and a little okay rolls off your lips.
"what?" his fingers stutter in front of him, voice tugging at the back of his throat, and you laugh.
"i said okay."
"you're kidding," he says, a little too dumbfounded for his own good.
"now why would i do that?" you reply, a little tease catching your breath.
(oh, you must be trying to kill him now.)
"because i asked you to marry me."
"you did."
"and you said yes." a breath spills from your throat—happy little laughter swirling between you.
"i did."
and he doesn't know whether to scream, or cry, or maybe throw up, but he does know that you just agreed to marry him, so all three sound like a solid approach.
"i'm in love with you," he says, hands reaching for floured cheeks.
"well i would hope so."
and he rolls his eyes, pulling you in—lips meeting yours with a clash of flour and warmth and a breath of anything but regret—and he's sure that he'd be stupid every day of his life if it meant being with you.
hi this is for @neoheros and @coophi's summer writing challenge and i am nervous and scared and about to sob into my hands but i wanted to throw a lil smth in there for fun <3 this is such a lovely idea i'm so glad i got to participate :)
if he’s honest, he doesn’t remember exactly what happened, it’s not much more than a blur of you—the color of your hair, the sound of your voice, your shaky fingers raising around his arm. he got angry, he wanted to punch the guy, he did punch the guy, and then he was being pulled away from the party and into his own apartment, just a few doors down.
you’d stumbled for his keys, reaching a hand into his back pocket where you knew he kept them, and he’d watched—a little pathetically holding his hand while he waited—and let you unlock the door for him.
and then you’d tugged him inside, told him to sit on his kitchen counter, and went rooting around in his freezer.
and now, his mind is still a little blurry, but you’re standing in front of him and cradling his hand in a bag of frozen peas, and you’re shaking your head at him and mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like a scolding.
and he hates that you look so pretty right now, that, when you’re being drenched in the yellow light of his apartment, when the moonlight can’t even reach you from his blinds, when your brows are creased together and you’re biting at your lip like you’re holding back things that are much worse than what you’ve already been saying (and unfortunately for him, he hasn’t really been listening to those things, so he’s sure he’s making things much worse for himself).
but you look pretty. despite everything, despite the way you sigh when you look at him, despite the fact that you’re his best friend.
“iwa,” you say, tone a little sharp. he snaps back then, gaze finding yours, and he realizes that the way you were biting your lip before wasn’t to stop yourself from saying something worse, but to hold back a smile.
and oh, you’re awful at that.
“are you even listening to me?” you ask, and you sound upset, but then you’re smiling up at him and he isn’t ignorant to the way your fingers twine around his. if he asked, he’s sure you’d say you’re just testing to make sure they don’t hurt. he’s not sure he’d believe you now.
“no,” he replies, “no, i wasn’t.”
you roll your eyes and sigh at him, but you also bow your head towards him until your hair just barely brushes his hand, and he realizes something awful as his fingers curl towards you, as they bend to your will and as he bends to your beck and call—as he wishes to curl his fingers around the curve of your jaw and rise of your cheeks.
he likes you, in the worst, most inconvenient way, he likes you.
and at the time, he hadn’t known why he punched the guy, had only known that the way he was looking at you and the way he kept pushing you to come with him had made iwaizumi angry.
and maybe he should’ve known when you looked so pretty, should’ve known when you smiled at him and he felt the way his own lips tugged upwards in an automatic reply, should’ve known when he texted you first thing when he was out of his classes and should’ve known when he couldn’t be with someone else without thinking of you.
he’s stupid, irredeemably so, but he likes you.
“i don’t know why i try with you,” you say with another little sigh as you bring your head back up, hands still never leaving his.
(he knows it’s for the damn frozen peas, he chooses to think otherwise).
“you know,” you begin, turning his hand in your palm, watching the way bruises bloom over his knuckles. “i could’ve handled it.”
he doesn’t speak, but he raises a brow at you, a little amused smirk pressing creases into his cheeks. you meet his gaze with a little roll of your eyes.
“okay, okay, no. i wouldn’t have handled it. stop looking at me like that.” he laughs at that one, and he doesn’t miss the way you smile at him. “but you didn’t have to do it.”
“and i did it anyway.”
“but you didn’t have to.”
and iwaizumi, irredeemably stupid, irredeemably head over heels for you, knows he didn’t have to punch the guy. he knows well enough that he could’ve just told him to back off, that he’s done it before, that he could’ve dragged you away and thrown some choice words back at him.
so he shrugs, a terrible blush collecting at the tips of his ears that makes him want to press the frozen peas there instead of his throbbing hand, and just looks at you.
“i didn’t like the way he was talking to you. that’s all.”
there’s a little silence that follows his breath, and, for a moment, he’s sure that there’s something you want to say, something on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite let escape your lips. instead of saying anything though, you look down towards his hand, trace your finger over the knuckles and drag with it the cold water that’s melted onto his hand. you press one of your fingers into the bruises and he winces, hissing a little at the pressure.
“stupid,” you mumble.
“the other guy’s worse than me,” he says, and you laugh again, a weak little thing—hardly more than a rush of breath past your lips.
“i don’t think the other guy is holding peas to his hand right now.”
“good thing i’m not either. that’s what i have you for.” you narrow your eyes at him, leaning forward to swat his arm with the back your hand, but he catches it with his left hand before you ever make contact. “and i’m pretty sure i broke his nose.”
“you definitely did,” you say, a little lighter, a little laughter mixing with the syllables.
and then there’s another bit of silence that chases after your laughter, another moment of your fingers tracing patterns against his skin, of your eyes flitting over his face like you’re looking for something that even he couldn’t find.
he likes you—too much, so much that right now, he can only think about kissing you, can only think about bringing his hand to your jaw and guiding your lips to his. he wants to kiss you as badly as he wants to breathe, wants to kiss you as badly as he wants the throbbing in his hand to stop, wants to kiss you as badly as he wants to listen to your laugh and watch the curve of your smile.
“hey-”
he doesn’t finish the sentence, because next thing he knows you’re leaning up to him, abandoning the frozen peas to instead cradle his face in your hands. they’re cold against his skin, but they’re you and you’re sweet and gentle and suddenly your lips are on his and you’re kissing him for the first time.
and he’s being surrounded by everything that’s you, the smell of your citrus shampoo and your honey perfume, the taste of your mint chapstick on his lips, the feeling of your fingertips across his cheekbones and his along his jaw.
you go to pull away and he raises his left hand to your cheek, pulling you back into him because hell if he’s going to let this end early. he feels the way you laugh into him, feels the pull of your smile against his lips and god he’s going to fall for you.
when you do pull away, when he moves so his forehead is leaned against yours, so he can feel the fanning of your breath against his skin, he hears you whisper.
“you didn’t have to punch him,” you say, and when he goes to protest, you kiss him again, just for a moment to shut him up, “but thank you anyway.”
and then you kiss him for a third time, and iwaizumi decides he’d punch as many guys as needed just to feel this again.
(he doesn’t have to, you’ll kiss him as many times as he allows).
reblogs and interactions are super appreciated! ❤︎
"i fucked your wife"/"i'm having sex with your wife"/"i'm cucking you": comedy
"i'm helping your wife with household chores"/"i'm taking your wife out to a nice dinner and show after she's had a long day at work"/"i'm bonding with your children over family gatherings": peak comedy
hopelessly, mindlessly, stupidly in love with you—and it took this little coffee shop to realize that.
he knew he liked you before—knew your smile was pretty and your laugh was bright and there was something about you that he couldn’t quite get over—but now, as you sit beside him, if you told him you put the stars in the sky he’d probably believe you.
“you’re kidding,” you say, elbows on the table, swirling your mug between your fingers. “there’s no way you’re on the top bunk.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you just—“ you hum, tilting your head to the side. “you strike me as a bottom bunk kinda guy.”
“a bottom bunk kinda guy?” he looks hurt—betrayed even.
“yeah, you know.” he doesn’t. “you just look like you’d be on the bottom bunk.”
and he laughs, “that’s definitely an insult.”
“now i never said that. i just think it’d suit you.”
he opens his mouth to respond, but at the twist of his features, you laugh. it’s warm and pretty and something so much like home that it makes him want to rip the sheets right off that top bunk just to hear it again.
“you’re funny ‘tsumu, you know that?” you draw your mug towards your lips, painting your cheeks in steam and if his mind wasn’t so drawn in by the sound of your voice, he’d ask if he could kiss you.
“so i’ve been told,” he muses.
“oh really, by who? all the other girls you take out?”
“yep,” he grins. “every one of ‘em.”
you eye him, a devilish little smile drawing across your face.
“do you tell all of them that you sleep in a bunk bed?”
and he can’t contain his laughter anymore—soft breaths spilling from his lips. “only the ones i like.”
“oh, so you like me?” you hum.
and maybe it’s the whisper of your voice or the hum of the air or the swirling scent of this coffee shop—but atsumu wants to tell you that ‘like’ isn’t quite the word. that maybe there’s something more to this and something more to you—and maybe he wants to hold your hand and walk you home and let him see his stupid little bunk bed because he knows it’d make you laugh.
but he bites his cheeks and holds his tongue, pretty white teeth flashing with the pull of his lips.
you blink sleepily at atsumu. he bashfully smiles at you, a soft pink hue dusting his cheeks.
you rub your eyes, “huh?”
atsumu bounces on his feet. “i lost my keys.”
“so?” you yawn.
he looks at you, “so i wanna crash here for the night.”
you blink at him. he blinks back. you stare at him, then blink again. he hides his face in his hoodie.
“why here?” you ask, voice laced with curiosity.
“because,” he trails off. he looks away from you, biting the inside of his cheek. his brows furrow as he thinks of an answer.
and you lean towards him, “because…?”
and he takes a step back, “you know.”
your brows quirk in confusion. atsumu groans, rubbing the back of his neck.
“‘cause you’re the only one who hasn’t banned me from stayin’ at their place,” he mumbles.
you snort, “‘samu banned you?”
atsumu’s face turns a bright shade of red. he waves his hands in front of his face, sputtering nonsense like ‘samu didn’t deserve me there to begin with’ or ‘like i wanted to go stay with him anyway’.
you take a step to the side, gently beckoning atsumu to enter your apartment.
he quickly takes his shoes off. “ya got any food?”
“for you?” you grab his cheeks, playfully squishing then together. “never.”
(you can see why his brother doesn’t want him in his place anymore, if the way he hungrily looks at your fridge is any indication of the hell osamu had to go through).
“so mean.” he whines, gently rubbing his cheeks.
that doesn’t stop him from grabbing a banana from your fruit bowl. you sigh when he reaches out for an apple.
“‘tsumu.”
his head whips in your direction. you laugh when you see his cheeks puffed out, a small smile on his face as he bites the apple. he makes a small noise of acknowledgment.
and you smile at him, “if you eat all my food i’ll kick you out.”
and he frowns, quickly sticking his tongue out at you.
so you laugh, tugging at his sleeve. you drag him to your couch. his gaze flickers from it to you, a disgusted look makes its way to his face.
“‘m not sleepin’ in that.” he deadpans.
“hey!” you cross your arms.
“look at it!” he points at your couch. “that’s gonna break my back!”
and you give him a look. “it won’t.”
so he shakes his head. “maybe to you it won’t!”
(you’re starting to really envy osamu right about now).
“you’re gonna sleep on that damn couch, atsumu.” you glare at him.
so he glares back, “like hell you’re makin’ me sleep there.”
and maybe that’s when you should’ve realized you’d find yourself with atsumu laying in your bed, soft snores leaving his lips as he turns to his side.
you turn your head to look at him. a small smile makes its way to your lips when you see how peaceful he looks.
a yawn escapes your mouth, drowsiness finally kicking in again. you blearily blink, gently patting atsumu’s head.
and when you wake up next morning, with a sleepy atsumu clinging to your side, nuzzling his face into your neck, you can’t help but entertain the idea that atsumu should lose his keys more often.
"c'mon, pretty, just give me the number," the man before you presses. glancing around the gym, you look for something—anything to come to your rescue, but you seem to have no such luck.
of course, you groan inwardly. the one time you decide to show up early to the gym, and not even thirty minutes in, some creep simply can't leave you alone. it's the last time you try to be productive, you think, no more going to the gym at the crack of dawn.
"i can't," you say, voice stiff and body even stiffer, tensing when he presses his face closer to yours.
"why? got a boyfriend or something? that's what they all seem to say—"
"as a matter of fact, they do have a boyfriend," a voice calls from behind you. an arm wraps around your waist, strong and muscular. despite the obvious sweatiness of the person behind you, the spicy smell of cologne wafts over you—it smells rather expensive. "is there an issue?"
the man before you quickly moves back, his face dropping as he glances the figure behind you up and down. if his face tells you anything about the mysterious stranger, along with the feel of the muscly arm clinging to your body, you figure your savior's got a rather large build.
"n-nah, man it's not like that," he stutters, amusing you greatly. "i-i...i was just making small talk," he mutters.
"oh! that's good," the voice behind you exclaims, and you can hear a smile just through the way he talks. it's contagious, really. you can't help the grin on your own lips, a small chuckle bubbling up in your throat as the man in front of you slowly inches away. "thought we were gonna have a problem."
"no problems here," he mutters. "well, i'll uh... i'll be on the other side, just working out," he chuckles nervously.
"you do that! let me know if you need a spotter," the cheery voice calls. once the cause of your distress is successfully across the gym, you feel yourself get turned—and the sight before you makes you freeze. "are you okay? sorry if i made you uncomfortable, he seemed like he was bothering you. i can leave if that would make you feel better. or i can walk you to your car! oh, i'm bokuto, by the way!" he grins after he says his name, and it steals your breath. he's utterly gorgeous. "bokuto koutaro," he points to himself with his thumb.
"uhh...hello, bokuto koutaro," you mumble. "thank you for helping me out back there. he wouldn't take no for an answer," you roll your eyes. he beams at you, instantly easing your conscience. his physique seems to add up to the guess you'd made earlier—bulky and rippling in muscle, and you have to force yourself not to check him out and focus on his face instead. his hair is slightly damp with sweat, some strands sticking up while others lay flat and frame his face, but his eyes allure you the most. they're a sweet honey, tainted with flecks of gold, and they're bright, like two suns gleam before you.
"great! nice to meet you..." he trails off, smiling at you expectantly. grinning back softly, you offer your hand.
"y/l/n," you say warmly. "y/l/n y/n." his smile stretches considerably larger across his face as he grips your hand firmly. his palm is rough and incredibly callused, but it's warm and sturdy and somehow feels so much like home. it feels almost like it should be home.
"i'll call you y/n! since i am your boyfriend and all," he winks. chuckling, you nod, playing along.
"well, i guess i'm gonna have to call you koutaro, then. since you know, you are my boyfriend and all," you murmur. his arm is still wrapped around your waist, and you can faintly make out the soft circles his thumb rubs into your hip. without thinking, you shuffle closer, and he seems like he doesn't mind too much. in fact, he seems like he doesn't mind at all—what with the soft blush dusting his cheeks and all.
"so, since i'm your boyfriend," he starts. you hum, encouraging him to continue. "i think the number that guy was talking about belongs in my phone," he says with a cheeky wink. grinning, you pretend to ponder it for a moment.
"hmm. i suppose boyfriends do need numbers," you agree.
"oh, yes," he nods.
"how else would they text me the address of our date?" you question. he laughs, and it's a sound you find you want to hear every day, even if it's just your first time experiencing it.
"or the time," he adds. "don't forget the time! it's important."
"oh, i could never," you assure. and as you exchange numbers with bokuto koutaro, your gym savior and supposed boyfriend, you can't help but think fate really works its wonders in the most peculiar of ways. perhaps being productive at the gym has its own set of perks—even at the crack of dawn.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOKUTO MY LOVE. THE FIRST COMFORT CHARACTER/HAIKYUU FAVORITE I HAD. I LOVE YOU <3
you pull his hoodie on as you pad into the room, dotting a kiss on Fukunaga’s cheek. He just hums through the toothbrush as he continues to brush. There’s a fleck of dried, white gunk stuck to the corner of his mouth. It’d be so easy to just wipe away-
but that wouldn’t be any fun.
You catch his cheek with another kiss and he leans into the contact, eyes half closed. He looks so blissful, still caught under the blanket of sleep. Perfect- he doesn’t suspect a thing. Your tongue darts out to catch the spot, extra spit rolling down his cheek, and his eyes shoot open with surprise. For a moment, you think he’s mad, but then he snorts, hard enough to spray mint scented foam across the bathroom mirror as he dips away.
“You’re gross.” He smiles around his toothbrush, trying to grab for you as you skirt around him.
“You liked it last night!” you laugh.
When he finally spits, wiping your saliva and his from his lips, Fukunaga pounces. Before you can even relax, he’s quick to grab you and pull you in, your back against his chest and his arms locked around your waist. You’re already squirming, ducking and kicking as you try to escape his revenge.
“Okay, spit kink,” he says before running his tongue up your neck, all the way to your forehead. You screech, trying to escape the onslaught of his tongue as he runs it over your entire face.
“Stop it!”
“You started it!” he laughs, finally letting you go. You stumble back into his arms, furiously wiping your face and neck on his shirt like a wet dog. He just accepts it.
“You didn’t answer my question!” you huff with a fake annoyance. “Are we getting dinner tonight or not?
“I’m having dinner with my parents.” he turns on the sink and cups his hands under the spout. After a moment, he splashes the mirror, attempting to wash away the mess he made, but just ends up pooling water on the counter.
“Oh, that’s okay, don’t worry about it.” you shrug as you peel the hand towel off of the wall. He takes it wordlessly, dabbing up his spill. “We can just meet tomorrow instead.”
“Or-” he tosses the towel to the side, eyes following the streaks still pouring down the mirror. “-you could come with.”
Oh.
“They want to meet you.”
Oh.
“Oh.” you don’t mean to say it out loud. Honestly, you were surprised his parents even knew about you; the relationship was on its first legs, both of you dancing along on relatively undefined terms. “Are you sure?”
Fukunaga chuckles, shutting off the faucet and then turning to face you. There’s a bemused tilt to his head, as if he doesn’t understand what’s going on. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because meeting your parents is serious,” you twist on the balls of your feet, socks sliding against the tile.
“I guess so.”
“And that means we’re serious.”
“Well, good.” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze, “I wanna be serious. I really like you.”
The air feels heavier now, weighted by your silence. For once, neither of you joke to fill the void. There’s a discomfort in his face now, settling into the crease of his brow. Vulnerability, especially in these beginning stages, can be so frightening, so unstable-
But, despite the growing anxiety, he doesn’t rush you. He busies himself with tiny tasks around the room- rearranging the toothbrushes, wiping away the bits of dust that collect in the grout. He’s always patient with you, always so kind.
He loves you. He’s not ready to say it yet, but you know it’s true.
And, despite how terrifying a realization it is, you love him too.
“Should I bring something? Bottle of wine? Fruit?” you finally ask. His face immediately lights up, a crumbling smirk pulling at the sides of his mouth.
“No! Just bring yourself.” he says, “I’ll pick you up at 4?”
You scoff, “4? That’s so early.”
He just smiles wider. “We’re eating with old people- they eat early.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, then, without warning, sticks his tongue directly into your ear, slobber dripping along the shell down to the lobe. With a scoff, you pull away.
“Shohei, get serious.” you scold, but there’s no bite to your words.
With that in mind, we’re all gonna remember that JKR is a terf who has literally been cited by legislators engaged in legislation that actively harms trans people, and we’re not gonna give her any more money.
That means not streaming the new show on Netflix, because regardless of how much influence she has on the production, she gets paid for it.
We’re gonna make the show flop. We’re gonna show Warner Brothers that we don’t forget (of course, how would we forget, it isn’t as if she’s stopped), and that their business association with terfs is no longer profitable.
It is NOT like Lovecraft, because Lovecraft is very dead and his works are in the public domain. By consuming Lovecraft media, you are not giving any money to old Howard.
reblogging this again to say some googling led to the tentative conclusion that the new remake will be on HBO max, which is owned by WarnerMedia. Netflix hasn’t hosted anything Harry Potter since early 2020, presumably because Warner is trying to direct the hp audience to their own streaming service.
She actively funds anti-trans causes and is basically the spokesperson for UK terfism and quite honestly her influence probably was related to the recent UK anti-trans laws. Part of the reason she’s so powerful is because she has money. Cut off her money supply. Please boycott her.
origamiaround
stormborns
dailybridgerton
areudirty
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
pixelskylines
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
izzy806
gracieabrams
