clarke, they/them, in my 20s, if I'm not telling a story, I'm thinking of one
Hello all! Clarke's my internet name, and welcome to the writing blog I'm reviving after years of desertion :D As of late, I primarily have been writing x Reader fics, mainly in the Daredevil fandom. But I'm also a general superhero enjoyer, infamous among friends for my ability to make even the fluffiest things angsty, and have a weakness for deeply nuanced and incredibly flawed, human characters.
my asks are open! feel free to send in some questions, thoughts, or headcanons! Come chat!
WRITING FOR: Matt Murdock - as the fixation requires ofc. However, the door is always open for some of my other favorite characters if/when the inspiration wants to strike!
latest fic: 'and minutes take longer to break'
warning: while not everything i write has mature content, this blog is 18+ and i'd appreciate it if minors dni! thank you!
and minutes take longer to break ▸ matt murdock x reader
[ao3]
summary: when Daredevil calls you in the middle of the night, you're suddenly confronted with two things: how much it hurt to keep hiding from Matt, and how dangerously close you were to slipping fully into a place that would only keep fueling that hurt. | gn!reader
warnings: hurt/comfort, moderate to mild depictions of a Reader with depression, brief descriptions of assault and abduction, the obligatory sprinkle of guilt from both parties
wc: 8,137
Matt had handed you the burner for emergencies.
It’s what he kept on him when he was out on patrol, he’d explained. You remember when he presented it to you, hesitant and quiet and with the full weight of the reality of the situation he had put you in. It had only been three days since you had been abducted. Only three days since Daredevil had found the building you and the other hostages were being kept in. Only three days since Matt had revealed himself to you.
You didn’t really know who had done it, and you didn’t really care—some mob wannabes trying to make a name for themselves in Hell’s Kitchen. A plot to try and scrounge up some recognition to their names. And you, unfortunately enough, had been just one random victim in the series of snatch-and-grabs they’d committed, nothing but a pawn in their lack-luster fear-mongering campaign. It had been cliché enough that now, you only felt embarrassment and anger rise hot at the memory; it snagged in your chest, something sharp and cruel. They’d dragged you into an alley on your walk home. They’d hit you so hard and fast, you’d been too disoriented to fight back. They’d gagged and blindfolded you so quickly, the triumph of you catching a finger between your teeth had been short lived; smothered by the taste of dirty cloth and the screams that couldn’t bother to travel just a few feet further to the open street.
Their wild success hadn’t been enough to grant them any sort of notability, however. Confidence bred the cockiness that could make even the mighty sloppy, and they were little more than a couple of performers scavenging for the spotlight. You don’t think you had been tied up for longer than two hours before you had been blinking rapidly against the pitch black when the lights suddenly cut, and you were curling up as small as you could when the bullets started ricocheting. There was a cruel humor—and an irony—to be found in how quickly the fight was over. In the number of bodies dropped, bloodied and unconscious, by one man. In how their names would be lost, mocked in tomorrow's headlines. In the moment that was you gazing up to find Daredevil stopped before you. You hadn’t understood just then why he had seemed to freeze, fumbling around the ties that bound you, a shakiness joining the swiftness and dexterity he’d displayed with the others. Why it was only you he had breathed a desperate apology against your ear.
That answer had sought you out in the shape of Matt Murdock waiting for you at Precinct 15, finding him standing in the lobby just as you had finished giving your statement. He shouldn't have known. You weren’t going to make any calls until you were safe in your apartment.
There had been no made-up reason, miracle, or passing coincidence. Just him telling you he’d explain after he’d walked you home.
He did.
Neither you or Matt has brought it up since—the conversation that hung above your heads like an axe waiting to slice through the fog. It had been as if the both of you were clinging onto the last pieces of the world you knew before that night as if they were the vessels that carried the calm before the storm. The understanding the both of you shared, that once you had the time, sifted through that numbness and processed the full weight of his admission, your relationship to Matt would be forever, irrevocably changed.
Instead, the closest it had come to it had been when the night you had shakily given the burner back to him after adding your number as a contact, questions sitting heavy and leaden on your tongue. You'd filed away the thought to ask him who the other two numbers were until you could wrangle the threat of angry disbelief into something less jagged. It was the first time he'd referenced Daredevil since he saved you that night. You had stared at the number now saved in your phone on the screen blankly.
“Memorize it,” Matt had said, “So if I call, you know it's me.”
“You mean, if Daredevil calls?”
There had been a silence that hung heavy. Neither of you had wanted to breach the subject just yet. Three days. Apparently, too soon. “With any luck, I shouldn't have to call at all. I'm doing this more for you. In case you need me. Need…him.”
You know you should have been angry at the insinuation. The one that laughed: What would the Devil need you for? The one that painted you as just a helpless person in his life that would always be haunted by the fact that in the end, you had recently been someone that needed to be saved. That the reminder clawed in the shadowy corners of your mind—you might always be someone who would need to be saved.
Instead, you had accepted it with a nod of your head and despite the lump in your throat. Again classifying your racing thoughts as just another emotion to be added to the building pressure behind the dam you'd constructed in a protective haste. Except, you weren’t quite sure who it protected more: you or him.
For the next couple of days, you seemed to float through a hazy reenactment of your life; present, but detached. You couldn’t focus as properly as you’d like, so you clung to routine, to normality. Work, sleep, the occasional drinks out with friends. It was easier to ignore wondering if Foggy or Karen knew if you followed it up with something that’d go down burning far hotter. Easier to try to forget the phantom feel of rope on your wrists under the hot stream from the showerhead. Easier to pretend Matt had ever said anything if you show up to visit the office with coffees and a smile. It was a mockery of what had once been your normal, but it kept you upright enough to ignore the way you trembled still from the anxiety that twitched, raging, just beneath your skin.
It wasn't learning that Matt was Daredevil that hurt. Truthfully, the reveal had made a calming sort of sense. It had almost felt akin to something like relief. Understanding. There had always been little things Matt had done as a blind man that you weren’t quite ever able to explain. You've spotted him catching things before they fell, zoning out of conversations like he was hearing things nobody else could, or even a confidence and grace in his navigation that you'd always felt shouldn't extend so far outside of his home or work—not to mention the bruises, the cuts. The disappearing acts. You wondered now, in hindsight, if there was a world in which you could have pieced it together yourself. But you hadn't wanted to dwell on that, because in this world you hadn't perceived them as a questioning series of coincidences, but rather as the small habits and quirks that made Matt…well, Matt. The thought of attributing a tendency for vigilantism to the man you had known for so long wasn’t a thought that had naturally crossed your mind. At least, not consciously. It had to have been there, somewhere, considering the lack of surprise that had you handling the news with more grace than you’d expected. In this world of villains and heroes, gangs and gods, Daredevil was…one of the good ones. You didn’t think it was in you to fault Matt for that choice.
What had hurt was knowing that Daredevil had at least been publicly operating for the last three years. What had hurt, was knowing that by whatever circumstance had led him to adopt that mantle, he carried that burden in secret. What had hurt was the realization that Matt might not have found you capable enough—trusted you enough to let you know.
At the start, you had brushed it off. An insane thought untouched by logical sense. You’d rationalised, at first, how dangerous it all has been. You’ve only been held captive during the one event. Beaten and thrown around. Bruised and scared. You’ve only witnessed the brutal efficiency of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen with your own eyes just that once. Sure, you’ve read the papers, seen the video clips—but actually becoming one of the people you’ve read about, heard reports from…it changed the situation. There was a raw sort of understanding now in just how risky and targeting being a vigilante was. How much he had done. All the stories. All the rumours. Daredevil had enemies. Powerful enemies. And it made sense that the less you knew, the less likely you’d be targeted.
But the reasoning hadn’t mattered, now that you thought about it. You’d pulled the short end of the stick by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’d been a target regardless. That logic was flawed.
You’re not quite sure when the haze had snapped, unable to pinpoint when that feeling of unease started to take hold in your gut. Or when the familiar whisperings of a questionable mind began to offer their cruel words and false comforts once more. Sometimes it crept in the corners of your apartment, hidden behind curtains and behind furniture. Other times, you felt it crawling, etched into your bones so strongly no matter how much you clawed and itched, it wouldn’t go away. It was a plague. One you knew all too well, one you’ve suffered before. One you always fell prey too without warning. Without mercy. It took hold of you now, those talons, and you couldn’t find it in you to make it let go.
Your phone had rang ten past midnight, on the night that dam would break.
It was then that you had woken up, instinct dousing you with a solemn alertness that ripped the very feeling of drowsiness away before it could even protest. You weren’t sure how you knew, you just had. You’d only blinked once, staring at the number that flashed contactless on your screen. An anxiety threatened to chew at your chest at the realization that something had to be wrong for you to be on the receiving end. He shouldn’t need to call you. He told you that. He shouldn’t need you. You’d answered with no hesitation despite the uncertainty that made you tense.
And what you heard on the other end abandoned the prospect of sleep as if you hadn’t just been in bed just moments before. There had been no words to greet you. No preamble. Just the sound of distant laboring breaths, wet with pain.
You had wanted to panic, heartbeat rising of its own accord as all of a sudden this was real. You'd been ripped from the smog that wafted with you through your lifeline of routine. You weren't trying to pretend what happened to you didn't. And you certainly hadn't tried to forget that Matt was Daredevil. But suddenly, that awareness that seemed to otherwise escape you came hurtling toward you like the rampage of the Minotaur. You weren't floating in the simulative safety of that in-between anymore. Panicking wouldn't do anyone favors. That could be saved for later. For when it was safe. For when you were alone.
You had to stop yourself from calling out his name when a few more moments passed with nothing but a pained groan, broken and crackling over the line. You didn't know the procedure for something like this, it hadn't been something you and Matt talked about. You weren’t sure what you should be doing, so instead you let your body act on its own accord as you'd whispered a shaky ‘hello?’ into the phone.
“Need help,” After what had felt like far too long, Matt's voice had reached your ear, rough and low and weak. A pure type of urgency had seized you into a momentary stillness. Your mind raced with possibilities you weren’t sure if you were ready to face. “Had to- had to jump.”
Autopilot and adrenaline had you shoving feet into shoes, your eyes wildly searching in the low light of the night for your apartment keys and jacket. You needed to get to him. There wasn't a world in which you heard the cryptic brokenness in which he spoke and wouldn't raze the earth to the core to get to him. It hadn't mattered that you were unprepared and ill-equipped. It hadn't mattered that alarm bells had begun to ring, a ghostly whisper saying: this shouldn't be you.
You had tried your best to keep your voice steady for him, push what comfort you might be able to offer in lieu of your presence, not knowing the state he could be in.
What control you had over that however had failed when he took too long to reply. You had already flown out of your apartment building, skipping stairs as you held your phone tight to your ear, searching for anything. After two full minutes of silence, fear gripped you hard enough to have you hissing his name as quietly as you could manage, trying the hardest you could to grab his attention again.
For a few more minutes, all you could hear was your pounding heart and the ragged, distant moans of unfiltered, exhausted pain. You kept trying to speak to him as you picked a direction to move, wholly ready to switch up and book it wherever you needed to go, soft murmurs of assurances devolving into desperate pleas the longer the wait became between legible words.
Eventually, Matt had stuttered an approximate location to you, and you had to push down the flood of relief that had wanted to breach. It was too big an allowance, too hopeful before you even fully understood what was going on. He went back to murmuring again, fading in and out in intelligible sounds and hoarse gasps. As you ran, you told him to breathe. To stay awake. To wait for you.
It wasn’t until you saw him that you hung up the call. You’d been turning down alleys, ducking in and out of view for the last five minutes. He hadn’t given you an exact location, but you worked diligently with what you were given. You’d stumbled across where he had been first, finding blood and shattered glass from a window three stories above you. You couldn’t help but to linger in that area longer than you should have, your mind cobbling together a what-could-have-happened as you took in the faint smell of smoke, and a window frame—broken around the shape of a body—before you continued. It was easier to navigate then; every few feet you found another fragment of glass, or a small drop of blood. Paired with Matt’s breathing over the phone, his whispers now a more conscious direction, it hadn’t taken much longer. You had only paused for a few breaths, the reality settling in when Daredevil had lain before you, a dark red shadow among the black, sprawled on the slab of asphalt and the brick wall he had dragged himself up against. He slurred out your name as you dropped to your knees by his side.
Your hands had shook even as you tried to check him over the best you could, not that you got very far. It had seemed too surreal, this vigilante before you. The one whose name echoed in low warnings by those who feared him, celebrated in a toast by those he’s saved. But you could ignore the rough material of that red and black suit that had probably saved him. Ignore the wine-red lenses and devil horns on the cowl that tried its hardest to tilt in your direction. Because beneath them was the lower half of a face that you knew all too well—a man you recognized. Now that you knew, it was so clear. Indisputably him.
Matt had started to speak, and it had been instinct to shush him. Part of you hadn’t wanted to hear anything he might say, because now wasn’t the time for details. An irrational part of you was worried that a couple more words might hurt him more than he already was, in spite of the fact that you had just been begging him to keep talking to you over a near twenty-minute call. But really, you think it was the part of you that had already known what was bound to be voiced out loud eventually.
And Matt Murdock had never learned when he should’ve kept his mouth shut until it was too late.
Your voice had gone distant and stiff as you’d tried not to let emotion choke you, as you tried to ignore the grim celebration forming in your mind. You weren’t the one that mattered then. You weren’t the one that needed help. It was tough, helping Matt to his feet. He wasn’t completely out of it, but it was more often than not that every step the two of you took with your arms around him—doing your best to hold him upright while you navigated through dirty backstreets and shaded alleys—felt all too uncomfortably like dragging dead weight. You hadn’t meant for the shuffle back to your apartment to be silent. But it was easier to pretend it was the heave of your lungs and the burning in your thighs that captured your focus, rather than the sentence that had carved a harsh cavern to home the words that echoed inside your mind, twining their hands with that cold little voice in your head that keened in the triumph of being right.
“I’m sorry for waking you up,” The memory of his voice played on loop with every inch of ground you covered, every turn you made under the cover of night, every duck and press against walls to keep from being seen, right up to the threshold of your apartment door. “I…didn’t mean to call.”
Matt fidgeted on the couch after the both of you had burst, exhausted, into the silence that blanketed your apartment. It wasn’t something subtle that you could easily miss. He twitched, shifting, as if it was the prospect of staying still that caused the needles to prick under his skin. He opened and closed his mouth to speak words that he couldn’t summon. You couldn’t blame his nerves. Didn’t. Because you knew Matt. And you knew what he looked like when guilt twisted sour in his chest and when it swept heavy over his face.
He sat in wait as you skirted around the place, gathering a hand towel and the scattered remnants of your barely used first aid kit. Matt had tried to tell you he was fine, but the words died on his tongue when he registered how fast your heart was still beating. How a dissipating fear and lingering bitterness of adrenaline still rolled off your skin in unpredictable waves. He would let you do it, if only to let you feel better. Have something for your nerves to focus on; a goal, a mission.
You rounded the corner of the couch with your supplies just as Matt reached up to unlatch his helmet. It was clear that the relief for him had almost been instantaneous, the cool circulating air in your apartment an oasis to the throbbing warmth in his skull, head hot and hair sweaty from the exertion he used that night. You moved slowly, then, breath hitching in your chest. It felt silly; you knew. You knew, yet you couldn’t help it when your eyes drifted from Matt’s face to linger where he’d gently placed the Daredevil cowl on the cushion next to him, and back up. Allowing yourself a moment—just a moment—you studied the scene in front of you. Matt was here. He was alive. He was in better shape than you could hope for considering the juxtaposition to how you found him, shaky and disoriented. He was on your couch. He was probably tired and sore.
He called you for help, even if he hadn’t meant to.
The reminder lashed sharp like a whip at your heart, and you grimaced as you shook your head, tearing your eyes away from the man in front of you. Instead, you placed down the first-aid kit by your side and took an antsy step forward. You weren’t quite sure what exactly Matt could do, what he had the ability to perceive, but you snatched the solace you found in the fact that you did truly believe he was blind. You hoped that hid the shame that built a pressure in your chest and caught in your throat, as you extended your arms out to him, unable to cast your gaze in the direction of his face. He wouldn’t dare tell you that it didn’t.
“I’ve got, um,” You cleared your throat, cheeks warming as your voice came out shakier than you’d hope. “A clean towel, glass of water, and some pain meds if you want them. Just in front of you, about—”
Matt cut you off, one of his hands reaching out to grab your wrist with an unerring accuracy you weren’t used to. Bewilderment momentarily seized you, as wide eyes glanced up to where his head was slightly downcast and to the side. “Thank you,” He offered in the quiet, slipping away to grasp around the glass and accept your other offerings. You let them glide from your hands to his, and then quickly retreated to fold your arms against your chest. Unsure yet just what to do, feeling awkward and of no use, you chewed on the inside of your lip while you frustratingly couldn’t come up with anything but to watch.
It almost amazed you, the fluidity in which he moved. You could tell, even with the muscles that must be stiff, the pain that had to be settling as a dull ache, and the exhaustion that had to be overtaking his body. And all he had done was sit up, shifting against the couch with a small groan, and shake a few pills into his palm. But he’d capped the bottle again so quickly. Swallowed them down with a gulp of water as if the action was smoother than silk. A part of you recognized that this was a familiar practice, something he’s probably done a thousand times before. You began to look away, releasing a breath you didn’t notice you’d been holding when you heard a sharp inhale. You caught the tail end of Matt’s wince as he held the towel to his head, and you weren’t sure what force exactly had you surging forward and dropping a knee onto the couch beside him.
“I’m okay,” He said with a grunt, though he let you pull his arm away to find the problem after a moment of hesitancy that was so brief, you almost hadn’t clocked it. “Just a piece of glass. Must’ve got trapped under somehow.” You nodded sharply, and an instinct had you carding through his hair, fingers gently pushing strands away before a hesitation made you freeze.
You felt it before you could understand why, muscles tensing and your jaw locking. A fragile breath escaped through your nose and your hands began to shake, your mind succumbing to the racing thoughts that forced themselves back to the forefront of your focus. He said he was okay. He doesn’t need you taking care of him. You barely even see any blood.
Frustration roared in your ears, a raze of something frigid that seized you so suddenly, you couldn’t anticipate it—couldn’t even shoulder it until you had the security of being alone again. Instead it had to confront you here, in this moment, not even sparing a shred of imperceptible mercy in the face of him. You couldn’t gauge how long you’d been stalled; it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. But a few seconds was far more than enough.
“Hey,” You jolted at the sound of Matt’s voice, head sharply turning to look at him with a shuddering breath. “You don’t have to grab it, I can—”
A fire suddenly roared in your chest, burning hot, and bright, and dangerous. It rose so quickly, you weren’t even thinking as you snapped, pushing away Matt’s arm with an unnecessary force, a hiss gritting out through your teeth. Of course he could do it. He didn’t need you to help him. He hadn’t even wanted your help. Stop it.
“Damn it Matt, I can do this!”
The anger stayed steady, then. Seeping through the cracks as it pooled viscous and heavy. He might not have needed you, but this was something you were capable of. He might not have wanted to be in your apartment right now, but you could offer it. Offer him this. And he would accept it, whether he liked it or not. Or else you would…or else you wouldn’t know what to do, feeling the shake in your hands that rattled deep enough to reach past your bones and settle somewhere deeper.
Matt stayed silent as you worked after he nodded to you, inhaling a delicate breath. Like if he stirred too much, he’d only do more damage. An autopilot took over then, as you sifted through his hair again. It was the type of silence that bore an uncomfortable weight that laid heavy and suffocating over the both of you. You immediately ignored how there was a part of you that wished the circumstances were different. That wished you could lean into this intimacy, make it have a different meaning. Let your fingers explore without the worry that something might hurt the both of you during the act. Instead you were precise, and almost clinically so, as you grabbed a pair of tweezers, pulling out the offending sliver of glass—a shard no bigger than half a pinkynail. You go to sit back on your heel, but Matt stops you, a gentle touch from a gloved hand pressing against your forearm.
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is thick and soft and trepid. “There’s one more. A little further back. If you could…” He tilted his head forward, dropping his chin slightly. “Please.”
He only told you out of courtesy, the voice in your head spat. Convenience. You were already there. He’d made it clear just a few minutes ago that he could’ve handled it. But you wouldn't leave him to take care of it just to spite him. You couldn’t find that bite in you. You wanted to help him. You wanted him to feel like you could. You wanted to prove you could be useful.
Or you’d just be someone he accidentally called.
With a sigh, you gently ran your fingertips over the side of his head, probing carefully for another sharp edge. You ignored the way you saw Matt’s mouth fall silently open. Ignored the miniscule tilt into your hand. Efficient in grabbing the second sliver—one smaller than the last—you folded up the napkin that held the glass carefully before tossing it to the small trash bin you’d pulled over before sitting down.
There was a moment, a few seconds, where neither of you said a word. Where you stared at the hand that was still pressed so easily against you, the thumb and forefinger that had traveled to hold your elbow lightly as you’d worked, and still hadn’t gone. You stared, until the rough drag of the fabric on your skin brought you back to focus.
“Is there anything else I need to check out? Are you bleeding at all anywhere? Any broken bones?”
“No, uh,” Matt shook his head slowly. “I’ve got a mild concussion, I can tell that much. A few bruised ribs, but I’ve dealt much with worse.”
“You jumped from a third floor window.” You stated with a deadpan incredulity.
“Suit took most of the impact.” He shifted again, groaning, sitting up closer to you. You had to fight back the involuntary twitch that wanted to lean away despite the blazing heat of him that radiated that specific type of comfort you could only find when you were around Matt. That same comfort that was now on your couch, somehow able to parse through this identity, and tentatively envelop the space despite being hidden beneath body armor and kevlar weave. “And again. I’ve survived much worse.”
Your gaze then cast to your lap, a bitter flare of feeling childish and small; and a reminder of your outburst twisted in your gut and your words passed your lips in a murmur tinged at the edges with regret. “And you’ve got someone better to call, when you’re dealing with worse?”
His silence for a few seconds was deafening, the answer hanging in the air like a taunt. Matt sucked in a deep shaky breath. “I didn’t mean—”
“I…don’t really want to hear it,” you pushed out quickly, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise under your skin that gave way to a feeling that left you vulnerable and uncomfortable in front of him. “I’m glad you’re only mildly hurt. That you’re okay. And I just hope the next time, God forbid it’s something more serious, you don’t…accidently dial me instead, or whatever the hell happened. Reach someone that’s used to this! Or-or knows what to do.” Your breaths were wild as you twisted around, pushing back gauze and bandages you had pulled out in case back into the kit. “Anyone else would probably be better than me, so it’s good you have them—”
Your name stilled you as Matt interrupted sternly. Your throat bobbed as you looked at him, a gulp working despite how dry your mouth suddenly felt. “Can you grab some of those alcohol wipes?”
You blinked. “What?”
“There’s a small cut. Here,” He swiveled his head until you could see the other side of his face, a scrape in a thin line that jutted up from his jaw. It was tiny. It wouldn’t scar. It wasn’t even bleeding anymore, the few drops that had broken skin already clotted into a freshly formed scab. “Could you get it for me?”
Heat rose to your face as a scowl threatened to take shape. “What is this, a joke?”
“No.” He stated firmly, a surety to his tone that carried even as it reached you. Your chest hitched when he grabbed your hand again, guiding it to his face and prompting you to take hold. “Just need you to know there is something you can do,” His words echo the plea that fell upon him earlier before he added, softer, “Besides what you’ve already done.”
Not knowing what to say to that, how to respond to the rawness in his voice—the apology that sang a quiet, mournful tune—you sucked in a breath.
“C'mon,” he muttered in a soft sigh, encouraging, shutting his eyes and offering himself up in a moment that seemed strangely vulnerable irrespective of the threatening charge in the air. “Don't want it getting infected, right?”
Despite yourself, you couldn't help the dry scoff that tumbled from your throat, and it wasn’t only you that noted the hint of amusement that crept in silently. You did what he wanted, reaching back for your kit. You didn’t make a sound when you took his chin carefully into your hand, or when you guided him firmly with your movements to better see him in the light. You didn't make a sound as you shifted closer, leaning over him, or when you saw his nose twitch the moment you opened a package of alcohol wipes and had to fight back a soft chuckle. You didn't make a sound when you gently traced the few scrapes that were raised in thin little marks, and a resolute understanding seemed to settle over you. You knew as your eyes flitted across the skin of his cheeks, scanning dutifully over his jaw and down his neck as Matt seemed to rumble underneath you, that this was something for him just as much as it was for you. A need to know you wouldn't deny the affection if he offered. A need to know that you wouldn’t outright shun him.
A need to know that you weren't so mad at him, he couldn't fix it.
And deep down, you knew he could. Because it wasn't only him you were upset with, knowing the contempt you held toward yourself idled just as evenly. But in this moment, you could almost forget that you were even upset in the first place; in a moment that almost seemed familiar despite the new presentation. Like you could see yourself cleaning up and unwinding with Daredevil on another night like this. A lighter night. An easier one. You bit the inside of your cheek as you pulled away, finding nothing else you could use to excuse your proximity and finally put your supplies to rest. Some of the war that raged in your mind had seemed to lessen just then; the part of you that doubted Matt's trust in you relinquishing in the face of the fact that he had just freely left you his control in the weight of his head against your palm and bared himself malleable to the direction of your touch. But that then only left you further confused. If trust hadn’t been the issue…
“I know you want to say something.” You felt it as Matt broached the silence, blinking blindly against the tension. Words holding enough weight that the thought of having this conversation pitted heavy in your stomach. “Hesitation catches, like…like wind getting blown into a pipe with an end blocked off.”
“And you can hear that?” You reply, your voice feeling small as it rattled from your throat. There was so much about him you didn’t know.
“I hear a lot of things.”
You swallowed thickly, nodding your head as you curled against yourself. “Right.”
“Do you…” Matt hung his head, lips pursing before a deep sigh parted them. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Of course you did. He knew you did. It hurt, how much you did. But you weren't even sure how you would start, how you could even begin to unravel the pain that had done nothing but snowball into something sharp and malicious. Let him know about the downward spiral you've only just barely kept—by the skin of your fingertips torn raw—from slipping down completely. Words like fault and blame and who to attribute them too bounced around much like the ricochet you hid from just earlier that week. And that's what you were doing. Hiding. You were hiding behind the false guise of safety. Of deflection.
You made a small sound, aiming for something non-committal as if it were that easy to convince yourself. “If you want to shower, I’ve probably got some of your clothes in my laundry around here somewhere.” You replied instead, casting your gaze down and picking at your pants.
“Please,”
“If not, I think you’re good to go home. Or actually, you can crash on the couch. Because, concussion stuff, right? I should…watch you, or something. At least for a little bit.” You stand automatically, focus drifting to whatever you can use to distract. “I’m gonna go get some extra sheets—”
“Don’t do this. I don’t think I can do it again if you end this before I can…” He stood to match you, and the action stopped you in your tracks as your eyes flickered over him. He was still wearing the Devil suit, but this wasn’t the Mask lurking in the shadows or playing with prey, an imposing figure meant to make you feel scared. He was still wearing the suit, but as you turned to face him, all you could see in his hunched shoulders and gloss in his eyes was the man you knew—all you could see was Matt. “Please, can we talk? Or just let me. Anything, just,” His hands came up to rub anxiously against the back of his neck as he wrung them. “You don’t deserve how much happened, what I’ve put on you this past week. Not with how little I’ve explained. And-and you have every right to be angry, or hate me—”
“I don’t hate you, Matt.” The words ghosted past your lips, pushed out fast and without thought. The realization dawned on you with them: you truly didn’t. You don’t know if you ever could. And you could see the visible relief that washed over him, the stiffness in his posture softening just enough to tell you that he might be convinced by your words, but maybe not just yet of his own. “I’m just upset. And confused. And…overwhelmed.”
“I know.” Matt’s voice was soft. So soft. Tapering at the edges with a broken kind of gentleness. Like a shaky hand trying to piece together the shards of a broken plate. “I’m sorry. I should have done more to make sure you were actually okay. That’s on me.”
You shook your head, unconsciously gravitating toward him despite the way your arms were protectively wrapped tight around your torso. “It isn’t all on you.” Matt’s head tilted in your direction, his head canting to the side, and you watched as his eyes darted around the space as if searching hard enough meant he could make up for not being able to see you. “I didn’t want to talk about it either. It’s been easier to avoid confronting you.” You gnawed at your lip, shuddering. “It’s just that…It’s like part of me wants to keep hurting.”
Like tar, the silence grew thick with your admission, and of all the things you wished you'd see reflected in Matt's face, it wasn’t this. The agreement mirrored in front of you in the downward draw of his brows and the frown that tugged the corners of his eyes and lips alike. You hated it.
“Me too.”
A sigh filled your lungs, heavy and load-bearing. There was a falter in your movements as you studied Matt, watching him as he waited for you. There was a familiar plea etched into his features alongside the betraying sorrow that gleamed in the wet shine that made his dark unfocused eyes catch the light. Without words, you were certain you knew what was running through his mind, because for all you were feeling—the uncertainty, the worthlessness, the vortex that was replaying what you should have done over and over until you couldn’t believe the ache was this capable of continuing—you knew the same thing echoed stronger, deeper, in the very man that stood across from you now.
You were angry and hurt, but so was he. And you’d robbed him already of a chance to make the both of you feel better, having brushed off his attempt to comfort you, to explain, the first night he came to you after being recovered. It had been your reluctance to admit the overwhelm you were under that shut that door. The defense you’d begun to put up no doubt had discouraged Matt to press any further, and most likely lent itself another contribution to the vicious cycle that raged now around you both.
“I have a friend. A nurse. She’s who I call when I’m dealing with worse.” His voice broached the quiet not with trepidation, but in a firm caution nonetheless. “And you were right. I’d meant to call Foggy earlier.”
Your lip trembled as you nodded and you bit it to try and get it to stop. Despite your gut knowing you weren’t the only one who knew of his identity, it was still different to hear it admitted. But you also had to ask, your implication carrying out the meaning of the question. “Karen too?”
You saw as he swallowed hardly. “Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Not anyone who matters.” There was a resolute bitterness within that statement, a bite to his words directed at someone clearly not you, but you weren’t in the place to dive for it. Not now. “I have the order of numbers in the burner memorized, but,” Matt let out a frustrated huff, taking a step forward in your direction. “The fall hurt more than I thought it would, and even after getting away, I was still dizzy and couldn’t think straight. My thumb slipped.”
You stood there, torn between appreciating his honesty and wishing he would shut up and stop talking. In reality, an overlap of the two curled like a duet, dance partners moving in time with the melody of your distant anguish.
“But just because I didn’t mean for it to be you to pick up,” Matt said your name with the same conviction that had him surging forward to close the distance between you. He didn’t touch you, not yet, but you could tell he wanted to. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate that you did. You did. And you helped me. You got me here, I’m okay, you did more than I could’ve asked for, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught against the lump in your throat, and you usually found a giddiness with the way your heart reflexively stuttered at the endearment, but right now, it only felt weak and underserved. “That’s not saying much, considering I barely did anything.”
That broke his resolve as he shook his head, pursing his lips as he grabbed the sides of your arms. “You did everything that you could have, even when you didn’t have too. I’m glad it was you. I’m happy that it was. I’m happy I’m here.” That awarded him an admonishment of disbelief. You couldn’t help it. But it only seemed to bolster him further, Matt’s head dipping closer to yours as if he were trying to silently command your focus to be on him and only him. “I would never—never—try to purposefully imply that you wouldn’t be someone I go to for help, okay?”
“Purposefully or not,” you breathed out, swaying against his hold and contemplating leaning away. You knew he’d let you. Especially when the memory of you even giving your number to the Devil flashed in the front of your mind. “You still did.”
You watched as his jaw clenched—the contours of his face seeming sharper in these moments the both of you were flayed bare—before he reeled that tension in to hold onto somewhere else. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry and I just- I’m here now and I want to make it better. Tell me how I can make it better. I need- I can’t…”
Matt’s voice tapered off as syllables broke, crumbling like grains of sand sifting through your fingertips. And he quickly followed, his hold against you shifting from something trying to offer you comfort to seeking his own, his vacillation marking you aware of the permission he was still asking. You felt him tense reflexively as you slid from his grasp, and you shared in the subsequent shudder that raced through him as you used the clearance to then wrap your arms around his torso and hold him close enough to let you close your eyes against the feel of the armor over his chest. It was rough, and smelled faintly of sweat, gunpowder, and the city, but his warmth, something familiar, something so distinctly Matt still permeated through. A tremor shook him lightly, vibrating under your hold, and you felt him release a shaky breath against where he buried his head in your shoulder. Distantly, you wondered if he knew of the tears that began to well up in the corners of your eyes. When you were in a better place to ask him about it, he’d tell you he did.
Matt wrapped his arms around you to hold you back like he was afraid this solace, this relief would slip away from him. But you wouldn’t do that, not as you lifted a hand to hold against the back of his neck. Not when he sighed against you, sinking into the touch like he was just told the air was safe to breathe again. And maybe it was, as you found yourself pulling deep drags into your lungs, letting this comfort wash away some of the pain as it eased over the both of you like swaths of watercolor bleeding onto the wet paper.
You clung onto that feeling, letting it lighten the weight in your chest enough for you to let out an airy chuckle, slowly drawing circles at the nape of his neck. “Y’know, this suit isn’t the best material to be wearing for a hug.”
Matt rumbled against you, a soft laugh of his own coming out hot through the fabric of your shirt. “Maybe not. I’ll see if I can bring you around somehow when I ask for a few upgrades.” You quirk an eyebrow as you pull your head back, and Matt follows, meeting your gaze with a grin. It melted your guard and you couldn’t help but to match it. “It’s gotta stop the bullets though. Non-negotiable.”
“Of course. Because that’s a completely normal requirement to ask for when a scary broody vigilante goes too…whoever they go to to make them a superhero suit.”
“You think I’m scary?” He teased, taking advantage of the ease of tension no longer prompting caution to be laced with every word.
“Notice how you ignored that other adjective?” You lingered where you watched as his smile grew to playfully reach his eyes.
“Don’t think I caught that one,” Matt hummed innocently. “Must be the concussion.”
“Mhm,” You let out a deep huff as you untangled your arms from around him, and you rolled your eyes as you heard a surprised protesting whine squeak from his throat. In consolation, you awarded him a couple of pats against the firm material over his chest, the action doubling as an embellishment to your words. “See if that’s true, hearing loss is a very serious symptom, so all the more reason for you to shed this thing and get into comfier clothes for me to keep an eye on you in.” Then, softer, not wanting to ruin this moment of something that felt almost normal you found, “We can talk after breakfast and some sleep, Matt.”
There was a brief flash of something unsure over his face before it disappeared just as fast as it came, and Matt’s smile dropped to something less wide, but to something that carried a bittersweet understanding. A quiet ‘Okay’ had passed his lips so gently, you almost hadn’t heard it as you stepped away from him to follow through with your earlier intention of grabbing clothes, blankets, and a towel. Except now the air wasn't charged with something trepid and unsure. It instead wafted around you with something daunting—but not overwhelmingly so—and humming alongside it, the lazy promise of hope.
There was reluctance in the feeling of those claws retracting. Not fully—they still lingered, sharp points ready to pounce, a graze across the whispering of thoughts that threatened again to swell and overwhelm. But they seemed to quiet as you watched Matt come out of your bathroom dressed in soft sleep clothes you’ve stolen away over the years, and wordlessly tuck the Daredevil suit into a dark corner. As he pressed his palm gently to the small of your back in thanks right as you were finishing adjusting the pillows and blankets you laid out for him. As exhaustion crept past the nerves and fears and your blinks grew languid and sleepy as you left him behind to slip under the covers in your own bed.
And as you drifted off, you knew it would be useless to try and search for what you were used to with Matt anymore. That it would take time for you to understand just how much he was Daredevil as Daredevil was him. That you wanted to understand. That with the morning, with the apologies and admissions and explanations, the hurt was going to be the price to pay in order to begin navigating this new normal you sought to feel. The new normal you’d already caught a glimpse of in bated breaths and first aid. That was how you knew it was possible, how you knew before conscious thought could even catch up, that how you were feeling right now was only the rocky crossroads you were caught between. And that Matt was right there, despite the whispers of his own, walking it with you.
matt murdock who craves physical affection like the lack of it would simply cut him deep and right to the bone
who will grab your hand just to kiss every finger, your palm, hold his lips against your wrist just to feel your heart beat beneath them
who loves it when you let him lay his head in your lap in the quiet moments in the middle of a long week, eyes closed as he nuzzles into your shirt and your fingers run mindlessly against his scalp
who sighs when you trace your fingers over his skin so tenderly, and he greedily lets the warmth of your attention seep into him like every time might be the last
who, when without, would impatiently be waiting until he could touch you again, knowing that just the simplicity of his skin against yours would soothe away any lingering stress or self-doubt or anxiety even if only in those moments
who won't ever come home or leave without a kiss somewhere—lips, forehead, temple, cheek—because he treats them as little reminders of something he's lucky to have. little goodbyes before he goes and something to look forward to when coming back
who would happily hold you curled up in bed, arms tight around you as you're laying drowsily on his chest and the both of you could fall asleep, soothed by the rhythms of your breathing syncing together as one
who can't help but to be touching you in some way, miniscule or not, when together. whether it's a hand on the small of your back, or pressing a thigh to yours when sitting next to each other, or even idly hooking a finger in your clothes or a pinky looping around yours when you graze hands
matt murdock, who takes a long time before he accepts that he can ask to touch and be touched, that he doesn't need to earn it or be better. that wants nothing but to love and be loved
it's this sunrise, and those brown eyes ▸ matt murdock x reader
[ao3]
summary: Matt was used to waking up alone. And now that he no longer did, his getting unused to it was only proving that he might just need you to consume every part of his life he'd never thought he'd have. | afab!reader
warnings: matt spilling some kinks in this one, dry humping (the entire premise for this fic!), this is just domestic soft boy matt fluff w/ a dash of softcore smut
wc: 6,253
and as per request, tagging @reisspiecess Hope you enjoy!
Matt was still blinking against the lingering edges of sleep as he leant against the bedroom doorframe, the awareness of the morning in his apartment stitching itself together around him in the taste of sugar and flour and the smell of home.
It had confused him, at first, waking up alone. When the initial rousing of his consciousness began to stir to life with his senses, his first instinct was to lean into you. His thoughts hadn’t been put together enough yet to register the weight missing from the mattress, or the lack of the contact his skin had grown so used to feeling, operating under the assumption of it being there for him. Languid and sleepy, he had pressed his face deeper into the pillowcase to drag in a long breath while his arm groped around mindlessly for whatever part of you he could touch.
It wasn’t until his fingertips had met nothing but the soft silk sheet that an involuntary frown twitched the set of his brows and corners of his mouth. He couldn’t help the cruel swoop of dread that tickled in the depths of his chest and took advantage of the careful consideration he lacked in the early moments of waking—the taut string of tension that had been longing to snap at him in the back of his mind—until he let his palm spread flat against the bed. He searched for you there, first in the moments where he felt the lingering heat of you under his hand, cooling but present, like you hadn’t been out of bed too long. Then with the command of his focus, casting his hearing out through a drowsy haze until he heard the gentle putter of your feet against the kitchen floor. The soft clinking of utensils against a porcelain bowl. The steady, relaxed, easy thrum of your heartbeat.
To say it had been only relief that had pulsed through his veins just then would be an insult toward the love he shared with you. A thrum of satisfaction had braided itself together, rumbling out in the quiet groan that escaped Matt when he stretched and in the surprise he felt at the twitch from between his legs. It was easy getting up after that, a hand running through his hair as he silently slipped to the bathroom when your back was turned. And it was easy to lounge back and pay attention as he settled near the bedroom again, letting the panel of the sliding door ground him as he yielded to the thoughts that crossed his mind in an anticipating familiarity.
Getting out of bed before Matt Murdock was usually the challenge you faced often. A sliding scale that ranged from being trapped in an assortment of limbs; Matt unable to let go of you, even in a state of unconsciousness, forever seeking the comfort of knowing he was holding you close to him, to not even having a chance to sneak away before he was yawning at the first miniscule shift in the bed and hearing the way your breathing signalled to him that you were awake. It was almost unfair, the advantage he had over you. How he could so easily sneak out—and in—bed without so much as brushing your awareness; how more often than not, he’d played this exact role for you, letting you rouse to the smell of coffee or bacon as he prepared a meal to share, already dressed and ready for the day.
But this time, you have done it. The stars had aligned for you that morning with only a single arm slung across your waist, and a Matt Murdock that had been so thoroughly exhausted from the night before, that in your careful ministrations, was too lost in the clutches of sleep to pick up on the way you lifted him off of you, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The way you shimmied from under the covers without shifting them enough to drag too knowingly against his skin. Or the way you’d stared down at him as he slept, a gentle fondness in your eyes matching in the way your heart had spiked momentarily in that picture of his peace. You had fought the temptation to trace the curve of his cheek, knowing the touch would be the simplest way to fast track your plans to derailment. So instead, giddy and determined, you’d set forth to the kitchen.
Matt never thought he would have this; quiet, simple mornings that didn’t bear the weight of loneliness. He was all too used to rising easily, alone, and after an unfit rest to the sharp edges of the city—his only greeting the rumbling of car engines and honking of horns, the electric buzz of the neon sign right outside his window, and the underlying silence of it all that had always felt too empty. Too heavy. But now he had you, and the presence you brought into his apartment, his life. You had clothes in his dresser. An extra pair of shoes by his front door. He’d just lingered by your toothbrush when he used his. He bought things now, little things like your favorite tea or a few more plates or another hoodie of his for you to wear when your favorite was out in the wash. A small accumulation that with each further purchase cemented the mark you were leaving on him—whether you knew it or not. There was an expectancy now, that he quickly came to crave. Waking up with you in his arms. Coming home to you on his couch, in his bed. It was dangerous, how fast having you in his life became not only something he wanted, but needed. And he felt that now in this moment, in watching you cook for him, a gesture so domestic, so selfless. Unconditional and thoughtless.
Matt took a moment to think, realizing that he didn’t think anyone had ever…done this for him. Cooked a meal not out of necessity, or obligation, but simply because they wanted something to share with him in. Because they wanted to do something nice. And now here you were, in his apartment, using his food, his kitchenware. You woke up in his bed that you’d decided to stay in. You…chose him. He stood there, taking in the way you guided a sharp blade through fresh fruit, whisked milk in with flour and baking powder, hefted the skillet up onto the burner. All with a gentle ease and with familiarity as you floated on light feet through his kitchen like it was yours. Something in his gut curled tight and protective, and a wash of heat sent an excited shiver through him, his chest hitching on a breath caught in his throat and the sudden awareness in his boxers.
And that desire was so new, even now, even when he had time to get used to it. Matt parted his lips as if to drink it in, as if swallowing the taste of butter sizzling against cast iron and the pleasant heat that carried your ease in the air could quell how he felt although he knew damn well it would make it worse. It was when your gaze had locked onto him, finally spotting him in his wait across the room—an excited skip of your heart that had you humming contently to yourself—that his inhibitions wisped away and he wanted nothing more than to indulge in that new desire. One that didn’t race through him, furious and untamed, that wanted to pant into your mouth, strip the both of you as fast as he could, and not stop until the both of you were spent; needy and ravenous. No, this desire was slower. Sweeter. It dripped through him at a honeying pace, warming him from head to toe as he set forth to meet you in the kitchen. It cradled the swell of his heart and licked contentment down his spine, and he knew then that this morning would be something to take his time with.
Anticipation like this was new, a flutter in his stomach and a haze of security clouding his mind. And distantly, Matt realized he felt safe enough to welcome the bearing of you to consume him, to feed the fire that had his blood rushing through him, a gentle flood of invigorating overwhelm that began to thrum under his skin so insistent that he knew he needed you close to him if only in not wanting to find out what it felt like if he didn’t listen to his body's call.
You were expecting it, when Matt came up behind you, but it did nothing to stop the trickle of content that enveloped you whole as he started to settle. You let out another quiet hum as his arms wrapped warm and steadying around your waist. As you leant into the familiar comfort of the warmth of him against your back as the blaze of his body heat enveloped you in the press of his chest. You shared in his deep sigh as his chin slid against you, the soft scrape of his stubble well met and welcomed before he slotted his head upon your shoulder, fitting as if he had always been meant to be there.
Matt shuddered at the contact, feeling comforted and safe and whole. It reverberated through him, and he inhaled in preparation for another sigh, deep and steady and against your shirt only to be reminded that you were in fact, wearing his shirt; one that he’d pulled off his very back just the night before, and the same one that you’d picked up off the floor and slid on just as you were climbing back into bed. And that surged another roar of consistent, throbbing want through him, a soft gratification blossoming inside as he charted just how the scent of him had seeped from the fabric into your skin throughout the night, mingling with your own and creating something that now had the unique, innate ability to render him pliant and willing to give, to take, and to share.
It was natural at this point to predict his movements—knowing him—as you felt Matt’s head lift from you. You had already begun to meet him, willing to grant what he was seeking and turning your head over your shoulder to where he was already leaning in. The press of his lips were soft, and he kissed you with a sleepy slowness that almost made you think he had been testing if you were even real or a vivid dream. And upon greeting the former, chasing after the sensation as if he had been stunned by you, rendered shocked like he couldn’t believe he had you to hold.
Your voice was a murmur of quiet admiration as you spoke against him, a smile curving beside the shape of him. “Good morning,”
You let yourself brush against him again before the spatula in your hand demanded your attention back to the food in front of you. But Matt had been so quick, you barely registered his movement as an arm left your waist and two of his fingers were pressed against your jaw, lingering for a moment before gently guiding your face back toward him with a precise slowness and a firm pressure.
This kiss was lazy as he moved with you again. Different. There was barely time for the surprised giggle that bubbled from the shape of your throat before you met him in stride and you dove with him deeper. Determined, and insistent.
He kissed you then with the indulgence of a man of whom, if you hadn’t known any better, you’d think he’d gone without—kissing with a fervor that immediately keyed you in to his unspoken intent, and with an essence of a hunger that whispered at the edges, low and tempting yet interestingly docile. And with it, an intensity that made it very clear he was of no interest in the food you were preparing. The arm he still rested around your waist shifted down until his hand found your hip, dipping under the hem of your shirt to feel your skin under the weight of his palm, his fingers sliding against the waistband of your underwear playfully before stilling his hold into something chaste and content and stable.
“Good morning.” Matt breathed back, a pleased noise passing through the shape of his growing smile, voice low and still slightly rough from its early morning disuse, and like he hadn’t just made your knees go weak as your jaw hung open from the unexpected—but far from unwanted—affection. You rolled your eyes as Matt let you go back to cooking, the weight of his head yet again finding its home in your shoulder as he pressed his face against the crook of your neck. He adapted quickly to the sway of your body, relaxing into you as you flipped a pancake before leaning back against him.
Matt knew you felt it as he licked his lips, unable to help it, nor the way he teased himself on the taste of your skin, pulling you in alongside the faintness of the soap you used to wash your face and the juice of a fresh cut strawberry. The building pleasure in him reveled in the shiver he felt roll gradually through you, the easy reciprocation in your response, silent but inviting as you rolled your head further to allow him room. “What’re you making?” The question came out in a comfortable hum as he graciously accepted the space to press a proper kiss to your neck.
You chuckled, letting out a short breath at the sensation. “Like you even need to ask.”
“Tell me. Please.” And he truly had wanted you too. The thought of you vocalizing your plans, giving detail to how you were going to surprise him, only leant itself to the growing need that ballooned in his chest and instigating another twitch of his cock between his thighs. He was half hard now on nothing but the thought of how you’ve permeated into the crevices of his life and how he wanted nothing more than to keep finding you in his clothes. To keep you sharing in his space. To have you mix with him so intrinsically that he wouldn’t know where he began and you ended. “Wanna hear you.”
Your breath faltered at that, the earnestness of his voice that trickled out of his inflection and into your bones, swirling through you until it stirred up a lazy heat that brought a flush to rise just under your skin. “Well, there’s a strawberry compote staying chilled in the fridge. And I’ve got a bowl…bowl of pancake batter that—Matt,” You breathed out his name at his blatant show, dragging his cheek slowly against the juncture where your neck met shoulder as he pressed more of his scent into you. And your reaction had been immediate, the knowledge of what he was doing skyrocketed you forward until you nearly met him on the same page of this book. It was almost embarrassing in how fast your own want gathered to match his, this unhurried desire that seemed almost electric as it emanated from him in waves and introduced itself in the curling heat it nurtured in your core.
“Keep going,” Matt sighed again as his other hand mirrored his grasp on your hip, holding you tight. It took you a moment, eyes fluttering as his lips brushed just above your shoulder blade and you felt his breath, hot and eager, against your skin.
“I…just started cooking. The skillet’s on the stove. Was gonna…was gonna set the table for us to-to—” You lost your words as a gasp hitched on a soft moan when Matt pulled your hips back to meet his. You felt him then, hard and burning against you, the thin fabric of the sleep clothes the both of you wore doing nothing to mitigate the shape of him as he pressed into your ass. He didn’t move, didn’t shift or grind in search of any friction just yet. It was as if he was just showing you, wanting you to know in a silent display just what you were doing to him. What you have done simply, it seems, by just existing. “You’re not wondering when it’ll be time to eat, are you?”
“Nope.” Your head fell forward as he nuzzled against the back of your neck. “That pancake’s nearly done. Can I turn the burner off?”
“Yes.”
The curve of his smile at the nape of your neck grew wide and sappy.
Matt was swift as a flick of his wrist had him reaching out to turn off the gas, his hand back on you before you knew it to guide you with him as he pulled you along, sidestepping until the both of you were away from the stove. You placed the spatula down with a clatter against the counter before you turned under the grasp of his palms, gulping down a rising anticipation as you came to face him for the first time that morning.
The early morning sun might have been diffused through the cloudy stained glass panes of the apartment windows, but it was bright enough as it filtered in to more than light your surroundings when you had begun to gather ingredients earlier. And it was bright enough now, the red-orange beams of the dawn having turned into a pale, muted golden glow as you blinked up at the man in front of you. Matt was all gentle lines and sleep-tousled. His features hung slack and relaxed, hair messy and fluffy from bed, and his eyes…Matt hadn’t put on his glasses, and you were met with the sight of his unfocused gaze slowly mapping the shape of your face. There was a weighted reverence behind the action, behind the lazy droop of his lids and pupils blown so wide it almost obscured the beautiful warm brown of his irises.
You couldn’t help it when you raised a hand to cradle the side of his face, fulfilling the want you had to do it since you’d woken up, passing a thumb over the apple of his cheek. His smile drew wider then, the corners of his lips lifting and the crinkles besides his eyes deepening as he stared at you ardently, leaning into your touch. Your breath caught, wanting to savor this sight in subconscious knowledge. Because Matt was smiling at you like you’d hung the moon; all tenderness and love and utterly unguarded in a way you knew he didn’t give up easily. And you’d be damned if you didn’t try to commit it to memory.
Matt wasn’t hiding his intention any longer as he kissed you again. And he found you easily, mouth moulding to his in a rhythm that crooned both of familiarity and something new. Something yet to be explored. Matt made it obvious with how slow he set the pace, gentle and shy, like he was discovering you for the first time.
And in a way he was, Matt thought. You were different like this, open and relaxed and more than willing to let him have this. He could taste it as his tongue swiped over your bottom lip, searching for more and finding the sweet notes of anticipation, the lazy draw of satisfaction as you let him in. You moved with him like a gradual stream, kissing him tenderly as you cupped his face in both hands.
“Wanna tell me what’s got you like this?” You spoke gingerly when Matt pulled away, leaning his forehead to yours as you both shared in the same air. “Good dream?”
“Mm, no,” He shook his head once before pressing forward again. He kissed now with a yearning insistence. “You.”
“Me?” You couldn’t help but to laugh between each pass of his lips, Matt swallowing half the sound away with him as he shifted, hips pinning you to the counter as he took the moment of opportunity.
“Mhm. You.” He stated again. Like the explanation was that simple. To him, it was. “You’re here. And you want me, this. Want me despite everything. The late nights, the stress, Daredevil. You want me, and-and you were cooking for me, and,” A groan tore from his throat, but it wasn’t from frustration. More of a culmination of emotion he never thought he’d be granted. A mercy he thought he’d never see. You were the one to lean forward and kiss him that time as you met the sound with a conviction unique only to you, an equally vulnerable reply to his fragile admission. Matt’s hands left your hips to travel down, leisurely gliding over the curve of your ass until he landed firmly against the backs of your thighs. He hummed into your mouth, index tapping quickly to indicate what he was asking. “And I…want you too.”
You hopped at his signal, the motion helping as he grabbed you just enough to slide you onto the kitchen counter. It was natural instinct and blooming arousal that had you parting your legs before he could even ask, and Matt glided himself neatly into place within the room you gave him, hand curling under your knee to tug you closer until you sat precariously on the edge of the countertop, held up between the hand you shot down to balance your weight, and the firm solidity of the man in front of you.
There was a restrained desperation to him now, as you melted into his touch, his kiss. And with the gentle scrape of your nails at the base of his skull, you chased the way he whined into you with a pass over his tongue, the sensation enough to stir a quiet moan from your chest, and you hadn’t expected Matt’s reaction to be an involuntary buck of his hips. Except he wasn’t quite in the right position, sucking in a sharp breath between his teeth as his cock caught more of the hard surface of the counter than you.
“Here,” And you tried to shimmy further forward, tilting down the best you could and spreading your legs wider. Matt adjusted with you, hiking your leg up higher and holding you tight against the blaze of him that so deliciously threatened to burn.
Your head fell back at the first tentative roll of his hips against you, and Matt took advantage of the access, stealing his lips away to move against your neck as he pressed a wet kiss to the column of your throat. He’d moaned then too, a soft thing that vibrated against your skin and it shot straight south, feeling the throb between your legs grow stronger, hotter, as Matt kept consistent pressure when he dragged back down. He tested again as you fisted a hand against the strands of his hair, and in response, he pulled skin between his lips, coaxing a mark to bloom on the underside of your jaw as he ground against you harder.
The layers between you now seemed almost inconsequential; the silk of his boxers just as thin as the fabric of your underwear. Especially with the gathering wetness between the both of you; the sight that was the growing patch of precome leaking dark against it. But it served a purpose, offering a dizzying friction in the drag and clash of material. The heat was electrifying, and Matt couldn’t help but to grin as you shared in the offer to quell this new ache.
It was when Matt found an unhurried rhythm that you both dove in fully. He’d paused just before, pulling his face up to kiss you gently, reverently. And you mirrored him until his motions became a steady thrusting; a slow sinful drag acted with every intention to have you feel all of him as the kiss became needy and bruising. And you did, the full size of him rutting up against you firm enough to press enough pressure to your clit with every pass. A pulsing relief flooded through Matt as he moved, a giddiness riding alongside the pleasure as he gathered your shirt in his hands, bunching the fabric tightly in his grip as he moved to steady himself along your waist.
At first you’d tugged on it too, thinking he had wanted it off and more than happy to indulge. But Matt protested quickly, mumbling between kisses. “Want it on,” The glide of his hips was measured and controlled as he rocked up into you. “You smell like me. Wanna keep it that way.”
He was helpless against the need that burned through him, the feel of you against him, the way your hand shot up to cling, squeezing against his bicep. He licked into your mouth, unashamedly reaching to drag out as many moans and delicious sounds from you as he could. He glutted on them, high off the achievement of having you like this, off knowing that you didn’t mind at all that your very existence, your choice to stay, your choice to love him, could spur him so easily into an all-consuming desire to claim and protect.
“Oh god,” you pressed your cheek against the side of his head when Matt dipped back to your shoulder. He needed to taste you, drag you into his throat until it was all he could breathe in. You couldn’t help but to try and grind against him, attempting to meet his hips with yours when his tongue swiped hot and slow and filthy at the base of your neck, and Matt’s eyes fluttered shut as he worked it over in his mouth, clean skin and clean sweat. Him and you. But even coasting off the friction and the moans, it still wasn’t enough. And Matt found himself panting out soft little noises into you as he rocked faster, one of his hands leaving your side to cradle the back of your neck, trying to pull you closer.
He knew it wasn’t any use, that the only way to feel you any closer than he already was—your legs had wrapped around him some bit ago, ankles crossed and heels digging into the flesh of his ass as you tried to help guide his movements, your chests flush, and hands roaming to map every inch of skin you could feasibly encounter—was to be inside of you. But he wanted to drag this out as long as possible, make it feel good for as long as he could. So he instead opted to catch the collar of your shirt between his teeth, biting down on the fabric as he lapped with his tongue, drawing in the taste that was you blending with him after you had the night to soak into it. It was something heady and intoxicating, his copper and cinnamon and your quiet savor. If this were another time, if he didn’t want to last in this experience—if he let a different side of him loose and he were to be needier, rougher—he would have caught skin instead, biting to leave a mark, a claim that he could then soothe and admire under his touch.
Both of you shared in the broken moan that rang out across the apartment, and Matt shoved his face back against your neck if only to hear the rush of your blood, to feel the thrum of your life beat beneath your skin against his. He mouthed at your pulsepoint then, letting his teeth graze against the delicate skin before nipping lightly and delighting in the way you scrabbled for purchase against him. That was when he encouraged you to do the same, presenting the fact that he wanted nothing more than to have you mix with him until he couldn’t differentiate the nuances anymore. In wanting you to know that you have all of him, as much as you give him all of you.
Matt’s touch was soft as he slowed down, and you hadn’t known what he wanted until he slid his hand over yours. You watched as he pulled back, letting him move you how he wanted as the blush against the pale skin of his face grew deeper. “Want you…need you too…” He gave your hand a gentle squeeze where he held it, before coaxing the spread of your fingers to rest against the column of his neck. “You have me.”
A profoundness struck you from the heavens then, strong and consuming only in a way that was reminiscent to you of a mortal devotion to a higher power; an awe, a disbelief in which the both of you experienced. Matt in his pledge to you, this display of intimacy, this trust he gave in you wholly and explicitly.
Your mouth parted in the admiration that ravaged through you, and in a quiet voice, you urged Matt to slow further until the movement between you nearly stopped. You held him in your hand for a moment, considering the vulnerability laid bare against your palm, before your fingers traced around the line of his throat. They dragged over his skin in no rush, feeling in the prickle of his scruff and the heat that flushed warm and flooding just underneath. Matt rolled against you in such a slow grind you could barely feel him shifting, focusing more on the pressure that pleasured you both. His breath hitched in his chest when your fingertips found his pulse, pressing down until you could feel the beat of him, his heart fluttering erratically under your touch.
Trusting in Matt’s anchor to you, you pulled him in with both your hands. And when your lips met his, you hoped it came across as you poured your thanks, your love, your soul into him, sighing deeply and breathing him in like you could trap a part of him inside you if you kissed him hard enough, held him tight enough. Your fingers danced along the line of his jaw, before you tightened your grip mildly.
“I have you,” you whispered against his mouth, thumb dragging over his bottom lip as you swallowed heavily. “Want you too, Matt. As long as you'll have me.”
And Matt couldn't think straight, thoughts trapped under the security you blanketed over him. He couldn't tell if he replied to you, if the words worked past his tongue or if they were overshadowed by the feel of your firm kiss at the base of his throat, sound hitching out of him broken and ragged. And you continued to pull him apart as your every touch pressed brands against his very being, and he shuddered against you. He wanted this. He didn't deserve it, but you thought he did, and you gave it to him anyway. And Matt would never find it in him to turn down such a gift. Not with you. And if this was what it took for him to allow himself to give in to something so pure, then he'd indulge with you even at—despite—the cost his other life took from you. Because you've more than proven willing to stay with him through it all, and Matt couldn't understand who could have possibly spared him this grace, but he hoped his gratitude echoed in his overwhelm, in the way you buried your face against him, answering in his silent prayer as you reciprocated, marking him as equally yours.
Helpless little sounds tumbled from Matt, springing from and rumbling in his chest as you worked your way against him. Your nails dragged down his bare chest slowly as you pressed your cheek against his shoulder. It was easy there, to breathe hot against him, to respond in how he arched into you in earnest as you begun to kiss up the delicateness of his neck, swipe your hand over his ribs as you sucked little lovebites, tenderly trace the scar on his waist as you pulled back to look at him in a weighted bliss.
He slurred your name out in a whine, his hips stuttering as the time you’ve spent here worked him to a point where he desperately wanted more stimulation. You knew he could come like this if he wanted too, grinding over clothes and kissing slow, and in the back of your mind you thought maybe he would. But his ministrations came to a close as he panted over you, and the flat of his hand pressed firm against your back, helping you sit up and slide you back until you more comfortably sat upon the counter.
You made a noise of gentle confusion, a smile quirking your lips as you waited patiently for Matt to make what he was planning known to you, taking the moment of pause as a chance to drag your fingertips down the side of his face. His eyes were shut as he leant into the touch, nuzzling against your hand and turning his head to press a kiss against your knuckles as they slid close enough to his mouth. A comfortability sustained then, and you giggled at the easy smile that spread over his lips.
“This is bad, you know,” He began, his voice nothing but teasing and adoration. “Next thing I know, you’ll just be reading a book on the couch and I’m gonna want to bury my face between your thighs.”
“I’m not so sure I see what’s wrong with that,” You laughed easily, lacing your arms around Matt’s shoulders and tugging him close enough for you to capture his lips again.
“No surface in this place will be sacred.” He said, almost solemnly, sharing in your humor as he kissed you back. “You think me stopping you from making breakfast is bad, wait until it’s laundry. Or cleaning. Or making the bed—”
“Matt,” You sighed deeply, content, as your fingers lazily scratched at the back of his skull. Matt keened into the touch, lips parting on a silent moan. “What do you need, baby?”
“Need you.” He admitted earnestly and without hesitation, tilting into you. “Need to be in you. Need to feel it. Need you in our bed.”
Your heart flipped, expectancy coming easier now that this first wave from him was ebbing. Puzzle pieces were clicking in your head, and elation had you feeling light and airy inside. “Our bed?” You poke, the shape of the word alongside its meaning made you feel like you were floating and loved and wanted.
“Our bed,” he repeated, a hint of hesitation to his tone as a sheepish grin split his face, and he grinded himself against the inside of your thigh as if for emphasis. “Our kitchen. Our apartment.” He slid his arms around you, holding your waist loosely as he hung his head in front of you. This moment felt like the two of you were stripped bare, more naked than if you even lost your clothes. It was an ask long in the making, and somehow, the realization that he was ready had hit among you cooking breakfast for him in his shirt. The realization that a lifetime of this domesticity could be his. That Matt didn’t have to choose. Didn’t have to give up a part of him. Didn’t have to pretend. Because you knew all of him, loved all of him. And you didn’t run. You weren’t afraid. And he could find salvation in you waiting up for him with pain meds and a first aid kit just as easily as you offered your heartbeat, patience and time. Matt stood expectantly, sightless eyes searching back and forth over the map he had of your face, waiting. “If you want it.”
“Of course I do.” You had barely finished the statement before Matt was stealing your breath in another kiss. You suddenly felt yourself go weightless, and you were happy you had already been hanging on as he easily lifted you from the counter, your legs wrapping around his torso as his grip held you comfortably, fingers pressing into your thighs.
“Yeah?” And you’ve never felt so happy that Matt didn’t need to see to navigate as you held his face in your palms, peppering kisses over the shape of his grin as you nodded your head as enthusiastically as you could, breathing a longing ‘yes’ into his skin as you distantly saw the both of you pass through the doorway to the bedroom in your peripheral. “Good. Because getting my tongue in you sounds exactly like the best way to officially celebrate, now that I’m thinking of it.”
Matt had joined you in breakfast, after. After he’d been satisfied with the amount of devotion he’d breathed into your skin. After he’d committed how every inch of you, every breath, every touch responded to him in each one of his senses to memory. After he let himself fall apart against and inside you, pressing as close as he could possibly be without having the ability to become one. After letting the world around him fade away until the both of you were all that remained in quiet reverence under the feel of the radiant early morning sun. He’d joined you in breakfast, easy smiles and contentment filling the air as he flipped pancakes, as you set the table, and as you both sat down together in this life he shared.
a lovely commenter made me aware that there's a considerable lack of matt whimpering in this fic, and for that I truly apologize. but don't worry, atonement is already in the works!
summary: you and matt are best friends. best friends who sometimes hook up together - but that's besides the point.
HEAVY ON THE YEARNING
18+ mdni - blowjob, reader doesn't have sex with matt in this one skskks
baby's first proper smut fic, please be kind <3
w.c.: 4.3k+
a/n: this one is especially for a beloved mootie of mine, you know who you are, and i hope you know i love you more than anything <3
taglist: @ace-degenerate-13 @lina-murdock @lambmurdock @vigilantekisser @nohugsallowed @moth-murdock @writing-not-crying @angelmurdock @bex-or-rebekah @cloudmurdock @marvlettes @that1weirdweebgirl @obsessedwithfakeguys @thychuvaluswife @silkenmurdock (wanna be added to the taglist? reply in the comments!)
main masterlist
You knew Matt Murdock was a tease.
Whether it be in study groups — where he'd raise questions against your argument just to hear you squirm, and get all passionate, before flashing you that charming smirk.
Whether it be during late night trips to a shitty diner with Foggy — stealing fries off your plate just to watch you whine, before kissing away your pout and getting you extra fries.
Whether it be in bed — edging you till you clawed at his back, crying out his name in frustration, before making you cum hard enough that you were sure you blacked out for a few seconds.
The point is, he was an utter tease.
And your best friend — who you fucked with every once in a while, casual — but that was neither here nor there.
But you weren't quiet sure if he was teasing you right now.
Or if your brain was just being overridden by your pent up sexual frustration.
Probably the latter.
You were both supposed to be studying — and from the looks of it, Matt seemed focused enough — like a good little student, playing with a random pen as he listened to the lecture slides on his earphones, nodding his head along.
You, on the other hand, were quiet the opposite of the 'ideal student' — that's to say you were trying not to let your thoughts wander towards your best friend. Again.
The desk was small — very small — your thigh was pressed up against his; your skin touching the soft fabric of his sweats, you could still feel the warmth of him through it — and God, you were getting absolutely no learning done.
Could he tell?
Your heart thudded at the thought, flashes of warm hands trailing up your body, soft lips on your neck, a hitched moan of —
You shook your head, taking in a shuddering breath as you tried to focus on the words in front of you.
That's when Matt shifted, letting out a soft groan, stretching his hands up — and God, when his shirt rode up you couldn't help but stare, the small amount of hair pointing downwards—
Stop it, you chastised yourself, painstakingly turning your gaze away from him — making sure to curse your doctors in your head, it was all their fault you've been this pent up and horny. Here's to hoping that your pillows are always warm.
The company is a separate legal entity, distinct from its members and directors…
Your eyes dart back up to him.
Pathetic — you were pathetic about him.
He made you a love-sick fool.
But you can't help but feel the fondness root itself deeper in your chest, your heart giving a sickening lurch as you stared foolishly at him.
Messy hair, pink lips, dark glasses framing his face.
Best friends. Casual. Of course. This was normal.
"Are you even trying to read that book?"
You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of his voice.
Damn him and his stupid charming smirk.
Tease.
"I don't have to try to read," you quip back, rubbing at your cheek as you turn your head back towards the text book.
"Funny," he murmured, a smug grin on his face.
You want to kiss it off his pretty pink lips.
"Shut up, Murdock," you spit out, your lip stinging as you bite down on it.
"No, I'm being serious," he murmurs, shifting somehow closer — the heat of him was suffocating as he turned to you, taking out his earphone smoothly, an eyebrow quirked up.
"What?"
"You should really be studying, sweetheart. We have an exam coming up," he smirked, hand 'innocently' brushing against your upper thigh, the touch made you shiver, eyes shutting of their own accord. Fuck.
He seemed to revel in it, leaning in closer — his breath warm against your neck as he leaned down, hand then surely coming to rest on your thigh, index finger moving in a steady up and down motion — fucking tease.
"How much did you finish revising?" he questioned smugly, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your neck, you bit back a whimper at the contact, fists clenching and unclenching on your lap uselessly, willing and failing to calm down. You open your eyes with a shuddering breath, finding him 'looking' up at you, pink lips pulled up into a shit eating grin, hair already a mess, black lenses glinting in the little sunlight pouring into the cramped dorm room.
Beautiful — Matt Murdock is beautiful.
"Matty, you know I can't—"
He stops you with a searing kiss to your lips, the hand on your thigh tightening its grip whilst the other went to your neck — pulling you closer, closer, closer, closer.
Eventually, the both of you pull away, a clicking sound as you separate, chests heaving.
A beat passes, then another.
You realize your eyes are still closed, and your head feels like it's filled with cotton.
And that's when he all but pulls you towards him, a startled gasp leaving you as your eyes open wide in surprise.
It's a bit of an awkward maneuver — one you both can't help but chuckle about as he sits you on his lap — as soon as you're seated and his arms are around you.
Your eyes are fixated downwards, biting your lower lip, heart thudding in your chest hard enough that you wonder if he feels it too — you're nervous, Matt Murdock makes you nervous — you feel one of his big hands travel up to play with the hem of your shorts; feeling the stitching there.
"Sweetheart."
You feel a pang in your chest at the nick name, "yeah?"
His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head up as he leans in for a kiss once again — this one far more gentle in its nature — a lazy passing of your mouths as his hand travels to the back of your neck, just resting there, tracing random shapes.
In moments like these, you can't help but feel it in your chest — a burning, white hot feeling of pain, of ache — like a tendered bruise you'd not been aware of till it hurt; you wanted to feel it, you wanted to drown in this ache.
You wanted to feel it till you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't be anything other than this ache.
You wanted to tell Matt of its existence — to tell him about it like a child, crying and hurting, asking him to kiss it better.
A softness with nowhere to go.
It felt as if he were the Sun — warm and gentle, passionate and fierce.
You could stare at him forever, even if he's so bright and loving that it burns you from the inside out.
Does he feel it too?
—
Matt can feel everything about you.
He feels like a veouyer — a creep, really — every time he lets himself listen to you.
The uneven thud of your heart around him.
The hitched breaths hidden under snarky comments.
The scent of your pheromones mixed with your sunscreen, clean sweat, and apricot perfume.
God, he'd drown himself in it — in you.
He knew himself to be a selfish asshole, letting you in over and over.
Naming it casual, to try and drive you away every time.
But… you stayed, didn't you?
Chasing after him, soaring high in the sky.
Hearing, and feeling you fall in… in love with him should be soothing, instead — for him — it takes on the color of murder.
He believes it's because you're the good one between the both of you.
More profound, and beautiful in your emotions.
Easier and quicker to perish.
Maybe this why he wanted you. Needed you.
He'd grown alone and cold with his pain — listening to the world beyond writhing in agony.
He'd let you follow in his wake — let you fall for him, knowing the devil he hides and restrains within himself.
So, he melts your wings instead, he doesn't think of his emotions neither does he force you to think about yours — he does this… not to hurt you, nor to lead you to destruction — but rather, because he knows you belong to the water.
To kindness, and love.
And he wants to ask you, if in that water if you'll still be willing to let yourself be brushed with the pattern of dappled sunlight.
So, instead of pulling away, he only brings you closer, closer, closer, closer.
Till all he can do is feel you, till all his thoughts revolve around you — obsessively, incessantly — a maddening hunger that suffocates him further.
Instead, he tastes you, the fruity lip gloss, and the mango you'd had that morning.
God, you're beautiful.
"Matt," you whisper, breath tickling his lips, and he cherished the closeness — tasting you like you were the finest of wines, reveling in your taste — he leaned in once again only to be stopped by you leaning down to press kisses on his neck.
He could feel the hot traces you left behind, a soft sound leaving his parted lips as his eyes fluttered shut.
He lets himself get lost in you.
Lets the molten heat consume him.
Lets you kiss him over and over, a softness to it that can never forget.
He loved you like Adam loved Eve — he bit into the apple because the woman he loved told him to, no matter that God declared it a sin.
Trust and love called sin.
Maybe this was a sin too, Matt loving you like this - ruining your soul and hurting your heart.
Maybe this was a sin too, you loving him like this - giving your wings, and holding him close.
But, what does heaven have that he can't find when he's with you.
So, he chooses to wrap his arm around you back, black glasses knocked askew, hair somehow messier than before, lips pink and slick.
Both of you feel the snug pressure of the way your thighs bracket his.
The hot ridge of his cock is impossible to ignore as you shift just a little, chasing your own want.
"Should we?" his voice is rough and shaky, so unlike the composed boy you've always seen, it was so very rare to see him like this.
The few times you had were ingrained in your mind. Flashes of it scalding, as you thought back to then.
"Yeah, yeah," you murmur softly, pulling him in for another kiss, hands tangling in his unruly hair.
He let out a muffled sound, hands coming up to latch around your thighs as he picked you up, somehow navigating the way towards his bed expertly.
Placing you softly on the bed, his big hands moving to rest under your loose tee-shirt. Between kisses you somehow manage to ask a muffled, "Can I?", hands tugging at his shirt.
He nods desperately, smoothly taking off his shirt and the glasses along with it, before leaning down to kiss you again — somehow more desperate than before, hungrier, and hot, mouths sliding against each other, panting breaths and soft noises.
As you separate to breathe, his head resting on your forehead, you can't help but stare at the exposed skin, lean abs and a broad chest; a silver cross glinting against the skin of his chest attached to a black chord.
You can't help but look at him in awe, drinking in the sight of him like a dying man finding an oasis.
His eyes — God, his eyes — brown, and green, a chaotic blend of life and freedom — and it dawns on you with a rush, that you love him.
You love Matt Murdock.
With you heart, mind, and soul — your heart may stop beating, your mind may forget, but the soul remains forever, the love flowing from it like a bleeding wound.
You love him like the stubborn hope that clings to grief. A choiceless thing that kills you over and over.
You're not going to survive loving him.
Like Icarus flying to close to the Sun.
He's the Sun for your eternal longing.
Every life you've lived and dreamed to live stays fragmented in you like a kaleidoscope, and every time you look at him, and the Sun hits those broken pieces, they rearrange to color him in a mess of purples, pinks, blues, and reds. And, your world tilts off its axis and fixes itself to be around him, once again.
"What?"
The grin on his face is sweet — sweet like the morning dew on grass, sweet like the warmth you felt running around in the summer heat as a kid, sweet like the wind in your hair and love in your chest.
The realization of this affection is a new hell.
"Nothing," you whisper, shaking your head, hand coming up to touch his cheek, he melts into it, an amused grin remaining on his face.
"Matty?"
He lets out a questioning hum, eyes closed as he seems to relish in your soft touches.
Could he feel your chest hurting, and aching? Could he hear the words lodged into your throat, ready to spill out at the slightest crack in will? Could he tell that you wanted this — him — forever?
A home with warm lights, and laughter. A home where you spend lazy mornings and cozy nights together. He is home.
I love you, Matt Murdock.
"Wanna make you feel good, Matty."
His eyes open, unseeing gaze landing somewhere over your shoulder, lips immediately pulling into a frown.
You almost giggled at how puppy like he looked.
"Well, I can't really have sex right now, Matty. Medical stuff," you clarify, a shy smile on your lips.
Though that was true, you just wanted to devote yourself to him.
Fall to your knees, and worship him.
Heart, mind, and soul — all dedicated to him.
To keep him with you in your devotion if not in your life.
You wanted your love to be strong enough — faithful enough — to encompass an eternity of faith to not a God, but to Matt, into a moment of time. Proof that this moment of time can accommodate an eternity in it as well.
Love is the proof that a moment spent with him is an eternity lived.
A kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth.
Then, another one to your jaw.
Before these kisses trail to your ear, a soft one pressed right under it.
"You don't have to, sweetheart," it is murmured so softly, so lovingly, so acceptingly — you almost crumble right there on his twin sized mattress, with stupidly soft silk sheets that smell like him.
The lamp on the bed side table makes him glow, like a Sun. Hair like a halo, eyes like a forest, lips like petals of roses. Your Sun.
The star you'd die without.
"I want to, Matty," you find yourself answering, hand coming to rest over his heart. It was thumping steadily beneath your hand. You felt warm.
He chose not to answer, instead leaning in to press his lips to yours.
Sweet, soft, gentle, kind.
Like the Sun greeting the sky every morning.
Like the strong wind dancing with the trees.
And perhaps, it was because you were so overcome with love in that moment, or maybe you just realized this then but always knew deep down in you — his were the only lips you want for the rest of forever.
—
The next few moments feel like a blur and a forever — all twisted and laced together.
Matt shifting to lay down, you leaning over him.
You'd been in awe. You were still in awe.
God, he looked beautiful.
He is your pain. Devastating, and all encompassing.
Divine and everything you'd ever prayed for.
You started at his lips, pressing soft, barely there kisses against them, hands lazily moving across his broad chest and to the back of his neck — deepening the kiss.
His hands were gentle even as they squeezed your hips, soft sighs leaving him every time you broke away from a kiss.
Slowly, your kisses trailed to his neck — pressing just under his ear — as your hand traveled down to grind steadily against the hard outline of his cock through his sweats.
His chest hitched on a bitten back groan of your name, back arching just a bit, his hands clutching onto you.
"'s okay Matty, you don't have to be quiet," you murmur affectionately, voice muffled against his chest, pressing kisses to his sensitive nipples — which only seemed to wind him up more, "I wanna hear you, sweetheart."
He let out a startled gasp as you pressed an affectionate bite on his sternum.
He couldn't help when his hips bucked up into your hand, the feeling of your lips on all the spots that drove him wild, combined with the feeling of the delicious friction and pressure your hand provided from over his sweats was amazing. He could feel the heat bury under his skin — white, hot flashes of it seemed to linger all over his skin as he gasped out your name again.
He could feel the growing wet patch on his boxers, as you slowly trailed lower, pressing kisses down his stomach, leaving your scent all over him.
He knew he'd feel you even after you left eventually. It made him want to get on his knees and beg for you to stay… just stay.
Your hand eventually went to trace the edge of the sweatpants resting low on his hips, eyes lowering to see a mole — right on his hip — a kiss from an angel as they said, you lowered yourself to press a soft kiss to it, then to the skin next to it, and another, and another.
"What're you doing?"
He sounded breathless, one of his hands coming down to tangle in your hair, affectionately playing with it. God, how could you not love him?
"You have a mole, Matty," you answer, pressing a kiss to his Apollo's belt, then your chin came to rest on it, as you looked up at him, "On your left hip. It's cute."
"Cute, huh?" he questioned, a teasing grin on his face. You felt your cheeks heat up at that, burying your face in his stomach, pressing a kiss there while you're at it.
"Aw, c'mon sweetheart, don't hide," he murmurs, and you think you're insane, delusional even — because for a second as he pets your hair you can't help but think he's maybe, just maybe, feeling what you are.
"Shut up, Matty," your whisper is muffled against his skin, before you're moving again, hand coming up to rub at the hardened outline of his cock, just the right amount of pressure for him to feel good.
He let out a startled hiss, head throwing back against his pillow, eyes screwing shut at the sudden rush of pleasure lighting him up from inside out.
"Can I—"
"Yeah, yeah," his hisses out, one of his hands gripping his silk sheets, the other still tangled in your hair.
You make a quick work of lowering his sweatpants and boxers, and God, you'll never get used to seeing him like.
You affectionately nuzzle against one of his thighs, dragging one of your fingers slowly up from the base to the tip, applying barely any pressure — it drew out a quiet moan from him that he once again tried, and failed, to bite back.
You could tell he was still tense. He'd always been a giver, through and through.
"Matty."
"Yeah?"
He sounded a little more than breathless as he answered, one of his hands still clenching and unclenching by his side.
"Calm down," you murmur softly, pressing soft kisses on his thigh, "let me make you feel good, I want to."
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he answered, a heavy sigh leaving his lips as he tries to relax.
Well, you could help with the relaxing.
You moved your hand up to the tip, circling the wetness of his precum around the head. He groaned at the sensation — the feeling of your breath so close to him, your scent and his mixed in the air. God, he could die happy like this. With you so close to him.
You dip your head lower, pressing fleeting kisses to the base, before dragging your tongue up and giving a few kitten licks to his head. He lets out a loud groan when you finally — finally — wrap your lips around him properly, taking him into your mouth deeply, and then you look up at him through your lashes, and God.
He looks like a painting, unreal and divine.
Pink lips parted on an 'O', hair messy and unruly, head thrown back as his eyes flutter. You can see the vein pop up on his neck and forehead at the sheer restraint he's trying to keep — trying not to fuck up into your mouth.
And you knew then, with a surety you've never felt in your life, that he was the muse. For the brushstrokes, and the words. For the painters and the poets.
How could he not be? It was as if you were seeing — feeling — the loveliness you've only ever read in books, seen in the eyes of an oil painting.
You sink down further, gagging a bit as he hits the back of your throat — his hand in your hair tightened, as he panted at the rush of pleasure he was feeling a broken 'sweetheart' leaving him.
You give an experimental suck, before dragging your mouth back up an obscene noise following. His eyes roll back as you work him with you mouth, trying to take him deeper and deeper with each bob of your head, using your tongue to cradle him.
"Sweetheart," the rasp in his voice is desperate, as he tries his best not to fuck up into your mouth — but fails, unseeing eyes screwed shut as sweat dots his temple.
You pull back just enough to whisper a quick — "I got you," — before taking the head of him back into your mouth, giving it a firm suck, whilst your hands grip at his base setting a continuous rhythm. He lets out a soft pant at that, his thighs shaking as his grip on your hair tightens.
Eventually, you take the whole of him in your mouth again, as you hollow your cheeks, "So—" his chest heaves, hitched moans and breaths leaving him, "so close, sweetheart."
His hand tightens almost painfully in your hair, and you don't even seem to feel it, all of it numbed with the high of knowing you're the reason he feels so good.
You maintained the constant motions, up and back.
"Oh God! Christ! Fuck—" his voice breaks off, as you somehow try to take him deeper, a long suck.
"Sweetheart — Oh fuck — gonna come," he warns in a rush, breaths panting, and chest heaving, his hand on your hair loosens giving you the chance to pull away, but you don't — doubling down instead, and as you feel him twitch in your mouth, you pull away just slightly, his body goes taut like a wound up bowstring.
Then, with a long groan, his hips finally lift, spilling into your mouth — salty and bitter against your tongue. He's shaking and whimpering your name over and over like a broken record as you work him through it, until his pretty noises turn from pleasurable to clearly overstimulated.
You release him gently, pressing a few kisses on your way back up. Matt's arms weakly wrap around you, pulling you to rest on top of him, he looks utterly spent and dazed. Hair sweaty as his chest heaves, cheeks all flushed — clearly trying to bring himself down. Your hand runs through his hair, cradling his face with your other hand — tenderly rubbing at his cheek, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
A part of you hopes that he's too dazed to remember the tender gesture.
"You okay, Matty?"
He nods tiredly, trying to gather you closer to him somehow.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?" the question is pressed into your temple, an affectionate smatter of kisses pressed along your cheek and face.
"All okay," you murmur, suddenly shy as you bury your face in his chest.
He lets out an affectionate huff, nosing against your hair gently, big hands rubbing your back. You feel content like this… happy even.
Your foolish heart — a masochist and a dreamer — can't help but imagine… imagine, how it'd be to say those three words. Aloud.
And you realize something you hadn't before.
You feel it everywhere. This… this love.
You feel it in your chest, taking root in it, and slowly moving about. It seems to fill every gap in your body — every empty space, filled with the love you carry for him.
Intertwining with your soul.
Until all you feel is the warmth of his light — burning you from the inside out.
Matt's arms shake as he braces to get up, but you stop him, a soft noise of protest as your hand clutches at his wrist — the thud of his pulse is comforting under your finger.
"Don't go," the words are whispered more than said.
"Gotta clean us up, sweetheart, get you a snack and some water too," his words are simple. Logical, really. The gentle caress of his hand on your cheek makes you want to lean in closer to him.
"Later," you murmur petulantly, leg tangling with his, eyes fluttering shut as he moves your hair away from your face.
He obliges, laying back down and pulling you back into his arms. Pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple.
You should be leaving now. You shouldn't have asked him to stay, or to clean up later.
But you can't bring yourself to regret it.
It feels good, being held like this.
It feels good, being close to him.
You want to feel good for a bit, before you both are snapped out of this haze.
You both know you shouldn't sleep here — in Matt's cramped dorm room bed, circled in the warmth of his arms.
But, he rubs your back.
And, you let your eyes fall shut.
Matt knows he shouldn't say it.
But, "I love you."
And, you let yourself smile.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not really used to going out often with others, is what I’m saying. Sorry.”
“‘Sorry’?” he repeats, teasing. It seems like all he wants to do is parrot you. “Hey. We’re your friends, aren’t we?”
or: nelson, murdock & page’s new secretary is a little bit of an anxious insomniac
You know it’s not a very nice thing to say, but you’re grateful Nelson, Murdock & Page isn’t doing too well financially.
There’s no other way they would’ve agreed to hire you otherwise. A two-way street—like you’d been desperate for anything that paid, the firm was drowning in paperwork and overdue errands ever since Karen moved up to partner. With it up for grabs, you’d jumped on it and found, pleasantly surprised, that you actually like the work.
Days often go like this: you come in, start with the files, answer calls. By midmorning, it’s likely evolved into doing more than just manning the phones. You run errands, keep everyone fed (mostly Matt), and very occasionally manage their dry cleaning (mostly Foggy).
Foggy calls you “kid” affectionately, even though you're only vaguely younger than him. Karen brings you leftover takeout and, upon finding out what you majored in for undergrad, supplies you with carefully curated readings and pirated links. And as for Matt—well. He’s no less friendly, but he’s a little harder to figure out. Still, like the work, you take to them quicker than you expect.
There’s always something to do, and you’re good at being busy.
So, you stay late more often than you should. It’s not like there’s anything waiting for you at home.
-
Foggy’s the first one to bring it up.
“You know we can’t afford to pay you overtime, right?” He’s tossing a baseball in the middle of the hall, eyeing you over the curve of it. “Like I’m sorry, but I think we gotta take care of the mold problem first.”
“I’m not gonna report you to the Department of Labor, Fog.” You roll your eyes. “I’m just really, really, really bored.”
“Liar. You're telling me you enjoy reading this stuff?”
“You're the one who studied seven years to be a lawyer.”
Foggy wrinkles his nose. “Well, I was in it for the money.”
“Ohh.” You nod, jabbing your thumb towards the big patch of mold on the ceiling. “Clearly that’s going very well.”
Foggy pulls a face at you, scoffing and waving a dismissive hand before walking off. Smiling idly, you blow him a raspberry right back.
You’re not bored. But it’s not a lie either. Ennui isn’t something you actively resist—it’s just something you're immersed in, similar to the way you sink into your constant bad luck. But there are things that mollify its dullness. For one, you like the way the office feels after everyone else has gone home, the low hum of the city drifting up through the windows, the soft, dusty shuffle of your papers.
And if you’re honest, you like that Matt stays too.
Again, you’ve found him harder to figure out, or perhaps there’s just something about him that elicits your shyness. Either is of no issue to both of you. Late at night, it’s often quiet, just the two of you in companionable silence. Your pen scratches against paper and his low voice dictates things into a recorder. You like it best this way, when you’re simply across from each other. Alone but not alone.
But, you suppose you don’t mind it either when he coaxes you into conversation.
“Not going home yet?” he asks, thumbing his braille watch for the time. Nine thirty. “You know, I think you're the only person to actually prefer this over free shots.”
You nibble on the cap of your highlighter. “You're here, too.”
“Well, Foggy kinda scares me when he's drunk.”
You snort. “That's fair, I guess. He's rowdy enough as it is.”
Matt huffs a laugh. “You haven’t seen anything. Karen’s the worst one out of all of us.”
“Jesus, I’d like to see that,” you say blithely, thinking of Karen’s pretty face, eyes bright and cheeks burning high with splotches of red. Un ange passe; a second ticks by, then two.
Then three realizations suddenly strike you: one, that you’re shamelessly staring at Matt. Has he always been this handsome? It must be the orange light from the lamp. Two, that you’re grateful he can’t see you’re staring. Three, that Two is an objectively horrible thing to think.
You cringe, but before you’ve cloistered yourself back into work, he asks, “So why don’t you?”
You blink. “Why don’t I what?”
“Join them.”
“...Um, to drink?”
“Sure. Yeah. See Karen drunk. Or dinner in general — you never join us.”
The question suddenly feels more targeted than he lets on, and you shift in your seat, laughing nervously.
“Well, should I?”
“Yeah.” The motion of Matt’s fingertips across the embossed lines is hypnotic. “You break Foggy’s heart every time you ditch.” He smiles impishly, all faux innocence. “What, you too good for Josie’s?”
“No!” You swallow. “It’s not that. I guess I…” How do you say this? Fiddling with your pen, you let out another nervous laugh. You’ve got to stop doing that, it’s ditzy and unprofessional. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t feel really… Um, I don’t wanna intrude.”
He tilts his head. “Intrude?”
“Yeah.” You wave your hands around, anxious to change the subject. “You guys are friends. It’s not really— We’re just coworkers, you know?”
Shit.
You’re doing it again. You’re going to lose him.
“I mean,” you add quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not really used to going out often with others, is what I’m saying. Sorry.”
Contrary to what you expect, Matt’s smiling.
“‘Sorry’?” he repeats, teasing. It seems like all he wants to do is parrot you. “Hey. We’re your friends, aren’t we?”
Are they? You’ve hoped as such. Foggy and Karen—and Matt—they’re nice people, nice to you. But who says they see you as a friend? Lesser assumptions have hurt you more.
“Right.” You clear your throat. “Right, yeah. If you say so.”
“What, aren't we?”
“You are, you are.” Your tongue feels like lead, dumb and big and heavy in your mouth. “Of course you guys are. Don't worry about it.”
Your heart is pounding in your chest. You’re not a child that needs to have their hand held, so why are you getting so worked up about this?
Matt fills the silence with subdued taps of his foot.
“For what it’s worth,” he says finally, evenly, “I think it’s nice having you around.”
“Ah.”
Your face is suddenly so hot. You’re not sure what brought about this weird sort of sentimentality from Matt. It’s so out of nowhere. He’s playing at something you can’t see clearly yet, but then what could you possibly say? It’s not like you’re poised to decline this grace he’s offering.
“Okay,” you mumble. “Thank you.”
“Friends, then.”
“Yup. Friends.”
Eager for it to be over, you turn back to your papers. The squeak of the marker, a line of words burning fluorescent yellow. You squint and try to focus only on the words on the paper, and only that.
The determination of whether a relationship is intimate is made on a case-by-case basis…
Neither of you speak again for the rest of the night.
-
Nights often go like this: Foggy’s first to leave, then Karen. Then Matt. He leaves a little earlier than you, which is to say already late, and you wonder what it is he does after work.
During the nights the three of them don’t go out, does he cook for himself, you wonder? Does he eat at all? Does he fall asleep right away, or stay up late the way you do, restless and uneasy?
I think it’s nice having you around.
These are trivial thoughts. You don’t like dwelling on them. It’s not your business at all.
-
At first, you think the drip drip drip is merely your imagination. Foggy and Karen are out at court, so the office is quiet for the day. Your brain is always conjuring phantom sounds when things are going too well, when it’s just you and your stack of papers and the buzz of the fluorescent overheads.
But the drip becomes a steady trickle. Then a spurt. Then a resounding, triumphant HISS. You jump out of your chair and across the floor just in time to see the sink in the break room cough once, gurgle, then explode in a spray of rusty water across the counter.
“Shit!” you yelp, rushing forward. Your hands slap uselessly at the faucet handles, the nozzle—but the pressure is everywhere, like the sink is possessed. Within seconds, your blouse is soaked through and plastered to your skin.
“Everything alright in there?” Matt’s voice floats in from his office. It’s too calm, considering you’re battling New York plumbing in the kitchenette.
“No!” you shriek, hair dripping water in your eyes. “Absolutely not!”
Tap tap tap, the approaching sound of his cane, over the wet rush of water.
Freeing your hands, you duck and narrowly avoid the direct spray, shuffling to kick the sink cabinet open. Matt’s voice comes from behind you, just as you’ve jimmied the main valves closed. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the damn sink— Fucking Christ!” You stand up and your wet sneakers squelch. Sneakers in the office, a horrible pairing to the blouse-and-skirt ensemble. You usually justify it by the fact that you’re sitting behind the desk more often than not anyway, but given the state you’re in, you can help but think this is karmic retribution of some sort.
Matt’s mouth twitches as you groan dramatically, wringing out your sleeve. “Please tell me Foggy has a cousin in plumbing… The man has cousins in everything.”
“He’s pretty handy himself. You okay?”
You look down at yourself. Jesus. And of course you picked today out of all days to wear white. As it is, your clothes are now completely see-through, and this time you feel a little less guilty about being grateful that Matt can’t see you.
“I look like I jumped in the Hudson. Oh, step back a little, Matt. The puddle’s spreading.”
Matt’s still for a second in that way he sometimes is. That birdlike tilt. Then, quick as it came, he snaps out of it and scampers off completely, leaving you blinking and a little stunned.
You hear the heavy sound of a drawer being pulled open, and before you know it, he’s returned, handing you a folded gray shirt. “Here.”
You peer at it curiously. “What’s this?”
“You should change. You might catch a cold.”
“You… keep shirts in your desk?”
“Yeah, I have spares.” He waves his hand around dismissively, prompting you to take it. “For emergencies.”
“Emergencies.”
His mouth curves into a small, unreadable smile. “Yeah. Like the sink exploding, for example.”
You accept it reluctantly, muttering a thanks, and retreat into the building’s shared bathroom to change.
The shirt is far too big on you, collar sliding wide against your neck and shoulders. You tug at the big sleeves, debating if you should roll them up. It smells… No, you smell like Matt, clean and woody, faintly starchy. It has Columbia University on it with a little blue lion, and you wonder when he’s last worn it himself. Frowning at the mirror, you tuck in the too-long back and try not to think too hard about why Matt Murdock of all people has a rotation of his spare shirts hidden away at the office like a Boy Scout.
By the time you emerge, the office is loud again. Familiar voices, hurried footsteps. The lull of the quiet spell broken. Just how long had you been in there? When you step back in, Foggy’s already on the wet floor under the sink, swearing in long, inventive strings. Karen, thank God, has a spare towel you can dry the rest of yourself off with.
Matt’s seated nearby with an expression of patient amusement, and you—still dripping faintly, rubbing your hair—collapse into your chair with a sigh.
-
“We are now officially banning you from the coffee machine.”
“Come on, Fog.” You try to make pleading hands at him, who’s hassling Karen for her so-designated ‘horrible coffee.’ The three of you are wasting time in the breakroom. “She’s from Vermont.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I dunno. So she must make okay coffee?”
“First of all, hello stereotype? And second, she makes straight-up gasoline.” He turns to Karen. “How, Kare? Next thing we know the Army’s going to invade the office to get these oil reserves.”
“Well, if Jesus turned water into wine…”
Foggy all but shoves the paper cup into your face. “Here. Taste it. Taste it and weep.”
You scowl at him and sip, looking back up at him through your lashes. Beside you, Karen’s chewing at her lip trying not to laugh, awaiting your verdict.
You swallow without flinching.
With an affected grin, you turn to Karen, who’s now shoving an emphatic middle finger in Foggy's face.
“See, I told you so!”
“Right, I don’t know what he's talking about, Kare. I like your coffee.”
You don’t, it’s the vilest thing you’ve ever tasted, but you keep sipping at it all the same.
-
There’s a reason you don’t like going to your apartment much. It’s too much work getting out once you've settled too deeply, and you know what comes after. The difficulty getting out of bed. The gray lowness of it all. The only thing keeping you going is the promise of routine, that you’re expected to be somewhere at a certain time.
But for the next few hours, sleep refuses to come.
You toss and you turn. Restlessness is the more natural state to you. The sheets feel grainy, wet, even if you know they objectively aren’t. And your walls look blue even if they’re really cream-white. Blue and green and kind of gray, and closing in by the minute.
So you go on a walk.
Nobody’s out at this hour, and if you make it back to your apartment in thirty minutes, you can still get a good four hours of sleep in.
You’re also a little bit of a romantic. Which is to say you don’t mind the squalor of the streets as long as it’s just rained like it has now, and the streetlights are making the puddles look like golden coins on the asphalt.
But something’s got to give.
It’s on your way back that you realize there are footsteps pacing you. Not too close, not too far, but they echo. You’re being followed.
Is this it?
You live in New York. You chose to go out at this time. Given these, you suppose you can’t say it wasn’t your fault.
It’s a generationally stupid decision. It’s been drilled into you from countless seminars, talks—never confront, always run. But you’ve never claimed to be a genius, and really, you don’t want to run. What else is there to do?
“If you’re going to rob me, I don’t have any money,” you call into the dark. Across the cool sharpness of the air, your voice carries effortlessly, giving you the impression of having more confidence than you really own. You can nearly smell the bitter spike oozing through your skin, the sweat of your palms. “I don’t have a phone, either.”
True to self, you’re brash just up until your knees go weak.
“Relax.”
There’s a metallic clank from above, like a boot on a fire escape. A whisper of movement, then a shape detaches from the roofline—nearly black, the outline of a horned cowl cutting the air.
Your body floods with relief: the thing you feared has a costume, and therefore a code.
Daredevil settles into the space on the opposite side of the street, a silhouette against the wet brick. He doesn’t come down, nor produce rope or web or flashlights or… whatever it is he does (you’re not that sure).
You suck in a breath. “Jesus. You scared me.”
His head tilts, a gesture so familiar it gives you pause. You can’t see his face, but his voice, rough and guttural, comes down low through the damp air.
“What are you doing outside this late?”
You wonder if he's putting on airs, or if that's his real voice.
“What are you doing outside this late?”
“It’s my job.”
“Well, I’m doing okay,” you call out. “You can move on to the people really getting mugged.” Your nose is stinging, and you make a paltry shooing gesture with your hands. “Go, okay? Go on.”
Again that head tilt. Where have you seen that before? It’s the gesture of a cat sizing someone up. He gives an easy shrug. “Block's doing alright.”
“Idiot,” you mutter under your breath.
The corner of his mouth might twitch beneath the mask—you can't tell very well—and he angles his head toward the street ahead. “You’re asking to be mugged. Consider it a preventative measure.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your help,” you grumble. “No offense, but you’re in BDSM clothes. It’s really not helping your case.”
“It’s a suit.”
“A BDSM suit. You ever tried tying someone up with your, um”—you gesture at your thighs vaguely—“batons?”
“Sure. Once or twice.”
“My point exactly,” you say accusingly. “Besides, how do I even know you’re the real Daredevil? How do I know you’re not, like… an impostor preying on poor girls?”
“Is that how you see yourself? A poor girl?”
“You’re harassing me, so yeah.”
He breaks into pleased laughter, holding both hands up in surrender. “Trust me, if I meant you harm, you wouldn’t have known I was here at all.”
Christ. Freak. Potential psycho. Run now.
“Thank you. Very reassuring…” You clear your throat, eyeing him warily. You suppose there’s nothing much you can do. The Daredevil you know wouldn’t actually hurt you, and you’re sure he would leave if you earnestly tell him to.
This is what makes up your mind, in the end. If he is a crazed psycho, you’re done for anyway. If he isn’t, you might as well take advantage of it.
You swallow. “...Fine. Walk me home, then.”
That seems to placate him, shutting him up for a little while. Your sneakers squeak as you start forward, hands jammed in your pockets, shoulders hunched against the leftover drizzle. And as good as his word, Daredevil follows, close enough that you still hear the thumping of his boots, and far enough that you don’t feel crowded.
For the rest of the walk, conversation comes less stilted than one would expect. You suspect more and more that the gruffness is simply a mask, just another layer to his horned cowl. He isn’t much of a talker, but you coax enough out of him to learn he’s been doing this for a while. Hell’s Kitchen isn’t that big, so he’s expanded his patrol range up to a few blocks around all sides. You ask if he has powers and he deflects. You confess, sheepishly, that you have trouble sleeping. This is an admission you’re willing to let go, since if he’s out here too, he must be suffering from something similar.
For someone so wary, you find yourself almost eloquent as you converse with a stranger. You’re likely to never see him again.
A few paces to your porch, you stop. You’ve filled up your quota for stupid decisions for tonight, you can at least not let a stranger — horned or otherwise — know exactly where you live.
“Okay, this is me.” Turning to him, you tip your head back to get a good look up to where he is on a low rooftop. “So, you’re welcome I didn’t pepper-spray you, I guess.”
This time, you’re sure he smiles.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
Then he turns, melts back into the dark, and is gone before you’ve even turned on your heels.
You climb the stairs with the cold still itching at your nose. And when you finally collapse onto your bed, among soft sheets and cream walls, you sleep like a baby.
-
100% COTTON
MACHINE WASH COLD
TURN GARMENT INSIDE OUT
NON-CHLORINE BLEACH
TUMBLE DRY LOW
DO NOT IRON DECORATION
DO NOT DRY CLEAN
Newly dried, you fold Matt’s shirt as neatly as possible, and tuck it in your bag.
-
You and Matt fall into an easy rhythm. Foggy and Karen are lovely, but subconsciously you’ve already bisected the workday into pre- and post-8 PM, and it’s this latter bubble of solitude you find yourself looking forward to.
But even you aren’t resistant to the call of sleep, especially where it shouldn’t be. It’s late again and you’ve lost track of time entirely, only realizing you’ve fallen asleep on your desk when you feel the warm weight of Matt’s hand on your shoulder. Giving you the gentlest shake.
“Hey,” he’s saying. “Do you want to move to the couch?”
His voice is so low the words barely register.
“Good morning,” you croak automatically, voice hoarse with sleep, giving way to a luxuriant yawn. Dried spit cracks at the corner of your mouth when you grin at him dopily, the salty, mildly fatty smell of it minimally embarrassing. You scratch away at it, chastened as you look up at him. In your foggy state he looks impossibly tall and broad and warm, like some immovable pillar you’ve only just noticed is towering above you. “...Time is it?”
“Three-forty.”
You jolt upright, nearly knocking your pen cup over. “Three-forty?! AM?!”
“Good morning to you, too.”
Groaning, you rub the crick in your nape, trying to work at the stiff muscle. Blinking the last dregs of sleep from your eyes, the world slowly comes back to you. Matt seems to have changed into a t-shirt, one from his spare stash most likely, hair a little mussed, his face a little flushed like he's been somewhere windblown.
“What are you still doing here?”
“I just finished up.” He flashes you a sheepish smile and gestures to the sagging couch before his desk. “Sorry. I didn’t wanna wake you. But I figured you’d appreciate not waking up with a sore neck.”
You huff a laugh, mortified. You’re blinking harder to clear your vision. “S’okay. Thanks, Matty. I’m— Well, maybe I’m gonna go now, too, actually."
You start fixing your things up, the room still swimming mildly in your vision, when the silence is suddenly broken by a sonorous growl from your stomach. You freeze.
Matt tips his head, like a hound catching a scent, his mouth twitching with a smile.
“Sorry,” you mutter, wincing. “Was it that loud?”
He chuckles softly, not unkind. “Pretty loud.” Shouldering his bag, he turns to you all casually. “Want to come get breakfast?”
You blink at him. Breakfast? Before the sun’s up? In your rumpled clothes?
Why not?
You turn to him, meaning to say sure with a simpering smile. But before you can answer, you’re met with a better view of his face, gaze catching on something dark and wet behind his ear. Your stomach drops.
“Oh, Matt.” You’re already crossing the space between you before you can stop yourself. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?”
“Here. Here.” Your hand hovers near his temple, close enough to see the thick, dark streak trickling from his ear. “Jesus, what happened? Does it hurt?”
“No—” His voice is sharp. With you so close, there’s no space for him to flinch exactly, but you feel the invisible wall there like you’ve brushed too close to something private. “No, I— Don’t worry. My ears just get sensitive when it’s cold.”
“Oh.” You clamp your mouth shut, fumbling in your bag for your handkerchief. As you rummage, your heart kicks at seeing his shirt still in your bag, taking up space.
You mean to return it, you really do. But, every time you’ve tried, something stops you — a phone call, an errand, Foggy needing something.
Excuses, all of them.
You find the handkerchief and wad it up, pressing it into his hand. You guide it up gently. “Here. Just hold that.”
Matt’s hand closes obediently around it, but his expression is unreadable. Caught between discomfort and a faint amusement at your fussing, maybe.
Unwittingly, the tension makes you shiver, and you glance around, catching sight of the open window letting in a faint draft. Cursing under your breath, you dart over and slam it closed with a sharp clatter. “Was this open the whole time?”
Matt tilts his head. “I… don’t know. Didn’t really see,” he reminds you lightly.
His smile’s too easy, too careful, it makes you want to claw your eyes out.
“God.” You drag a hand down your face. “I should’ve noticed that. I’m sorry, Matt, it’s really my fault. Do you want to wash that off? Maybe we shouldn’t go out, it’s cold and all, that might get worse… Jesus, Matt, I’m really sorry, I should’ve—”
…been better, should’ve stopped slacking off, should’ve taken better care of—
“Hey.” He places a hand on your arm to steady you. He’s so calm, so warm. How is he so warm? “It’s fine. It happens.”
You glance back at him uneasily, your eyes flicking from his bleeding ear to his shirt to the newly-closed window. You can’t see how it’s not your fault, letting the cold in like that.
As if sensing your disquiet, Matt leans in closer, a playful pout on his lips—an unknowing mirror to your more earnest one.
“Are we still on for breakfast?”
Had he been working that whole time?
He must be hungry.
You nod once, slinging your own bag over your shoulder. When you speak, your voice comes out thinner than you’d like.
“Breakfast. Yeah. Okay.”
-
The diner is dipped in sepia, and the booths are sticky. Matt has folded his cane against the wall. With his faded t-shirt and your wrinkled office wear, the two of you seem adorably mismatched. Out of the crisp button-downs, his face looks winsome, boyish—except for the blood still faintly crusted at his ear.
You’re trying very hard not to stare.
He orders quickly: black coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, toast. It’s a bigger meal than you expect he’d get, especially since you barely see him eat.
You get: pancakes with butter and syrup, a hash brown, and two strips of bacon stolen from Matt’s plate.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten, pale gray bleeding into the edges of the night. You watch Matt’s fork poke into the eggs, the yolk spilling yellow onto the tines, across his plate.
“You’re staring,” he says mildly.
You jerk your gaze away. You keep forgetting he can tell these things. Does that make you a bad person? “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. “What are you thinking about?”
You. Always you.
“Nothing,” you lie, stabbing and tearing at your pancakes. “Just tired. Seems I’ll pass out anywhere but my bed.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you were pretty cozy. Trouble sleeping?”
“Something like that.” You’re not sure you should tell him the extent of it. You swallow your bite of pancake, suddenly self-conscious. “Been going on a while.”
For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The diner is nearly empty except for a man at the counter nursing coffee and a tired waitress refilling sugar dispensers.
“Can I ask you something?” Matt says eventually.
You tense. “Sure.”
“Is that why you stay so late at the office?”
It’s the second time someone’s asked you something like this, but coming from Matt, it feels different.
“Guess so,” you deflect. But Matt has a penchant for doing that, staying silent as if to prod you to add more. You sigh, pushing hash around your plate. “I don’t know. I guess I just… don’t like being home.”
“Why not?”
You don’t know how to explain it, in a way he will understand, at least. The heavy cotton weight of your apartment with its claustrophobic walls, the particular flavor of confusion your mind gets fuzzy with, just from being alone with your own thoughts.
“It’s just easier,” you say finally. “Being busy, I mean. Having something to do.”
Matt is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, it’s casual, almost absentminded with that easy smile of his. “Well, if I have anything to say about it, I don’t think you’ll run out of things to do anytime soon.”
You can’t help but huff a laugh. You peer up at him curiously; the morning sun is much higher now, pink and golden, throwing light across Matt’s face. It opens him up, brightens him.
It’s all the same restlessness between you, the same inability to sit still.
You steal another piece of his bacon. It’s a nice breakfast, you decide. You don’t mind being in Matt’s company.
FINALLY read still now you believe in me somehow and fuuuuccckkk you’re just so fucking good at this oh my god i need to be exploded RIGHT NOW!
so sorry ml, i somehow never posted this from drafts??
hfjdasgfs i ADORE you, you know that??? welcome back to the wonderful game of 'how your heart will be ripped out this week' and buckle in bc boy do have plans :D
had a dnd session last night, so the blame for any upcoming angst can solely be put on my lovely dm who very kindly is tearing my lil guys life apart in every place it matters!
